I am packing for our weekend together, and having difficulty deciding how much of our toybox to take. It’s a short weekend break, I’m travelling light and I simply haven’t got that much space after putting all the clothes, shoes & other things I need. Ours is, right now, a long distance relationship, and every second we spend together needs to be used well, so I’m packing light and trying to keep things simple.
Handcuffs are easy. I had a clear out; ditched the tacky fluffy handcuffs and the cheap plastic ones, leaving us with only a solid steel pair. They weren’t perfect, but a few evenings spent cleaning, oiling, filing and polishing turned them into something I was happy to lock you up in. I surprised you with them, naturally. It’s always more fun to catch you unawares. In the case of those handcuffs, it was after your work Christmas party.
I’d told you I was driving, and stayed sober, while you joined your colleagues in drinking cocktails by the pitcher. I had mineral water with lemon, and chatted to a couple of other non-drinkers for a few hours, all the while aware of the hunk of looped metal in my pocket, wrapped in a handkerchief to muffle any clinking. By the time we came to leave, you were fairly tipsy, and leaning against me as we walked out the venue and down the damp street outside. I could smell the rum on your lips and the perfume rising off you as we walked. I steered you into an empty side street, cluttered with abandoned kebab boxes, so there was no-one to watch as I stopped suddenly, pushed you into the space between a couple of bins and pinned your arms behind your back. The alcohol slowed your reactions so you didn’t realise what I was doing, and it was so much easier than I’d thought to simply hold your wrists with one hand and grab the cuffs from my jacket with the other hand. You’d twisted in my arms, turning to me with confusion and surprise written on your face. I didn’t want you to fall, so I held you tightly as you struggled, and was rewarded with a close-up of your face as you realised what I’d done.
I kissed you hard, then stepped back, draped my jacket round your shoulders, put my arm around waist and walked you back out the alley and down the street. I had a hard grip on you, partly to stop you falling, but mostly so I could enjoy the sight of you, horny, handcuffed and soaking wet at being locked up in public. The metal around your wrists was hidden by my jacket and to anyone else we would have looked innocuous enough, but I was close enough to hear your breathing coming fast and shallow, see your face flushing, eyes unfocused, and watch your nipples harden until they were clearly showing through your satin dress. I walked you to the hotel, taking a firm grip of the cuffs so I could slow you down as we walked across the foyer; for some reason you didn’t want to linger under the gaze of the receptionists. The room we’d booked was on the nineteenth floor, and the lift took a minute or so to get us up there. Once the doors closed I put one hand to your throat and pressed you firmly back against the wall. You were drunk and chained and we were alone, so I took advantage of the moment to kiss you savagely, invading you with my tongue and marking you with my fingernails as I held you. You whimpered, and opened your legs.
I wrap the cuffs carefully and pack them in my case. I find the keys in your top drawer, next to your vibrators. One goes on the chain round my neck, and I stash the spare in my toilet bag.
I consider packing the leather collar I bought you. Last New Year we had a break from parties and fireworks to be together in the little stone cottage I hired, out among the fields and the woods and the snow. I stoked up the fire and made the place warm before I padlocked the collar around your neck and told you, with a kiss, what you would have to do. I saw in this year sitting by a roaring fire, while you served me single malt on a silver tray. You were shaved and oiled, wearing only your heels and the black leather collar with your eyes downcast. I took the whisky and sat back in the huge leather chair enjoying the sight of you kneeling in the firelight, eyes closed, lips parted and a slight glistening between your thighs betraying your feelings at being reduced to a naked servant. Once the bells had sounded, and the new year had begun, I snapped on your leash and pulled you to me. You tasted of wine and lust.
In the end, it took two days for you to earn your freedom. Along the way I made you earn your orgasms, your clothes and my cock, and you loved every minute.
I’ve lifted the collar to my mouth. I can still smell your perfume on it, overpowering the leather. I’m tempted to pack it for a moment, but then decide it’s probably better kept at home. Locking it on you is a wonderful way of putting you in your place, but this weekend promises to be fairly hectic. I’ll save it for a time when we have quiet and privacy again. I coil it carefully and put it back in the toybox.
Next thing for consideration is the gag. It’s a black ballgag which fills your mouth in a most satisfying manner. You have a lovely mouth; it’s witty, erudite, sarcastic and frequently filthy, with beautiful lips you know exactly how to accentuate with that deep red lipstick that I love. Your mouth… it tells me your problems, gives me ideas, tells me gossip and can pout in a most fetching manner. It kisses me hard and soft, and you can use it to put the hairs on the back of my neck up with a few well chosen words, whispered from millimetres away. All arguments for leaving the gag at home. I put it to one side; I’ll need to consider it.
I never used to see the point in the theatre but your tastes are rubbing off on me, and we’re off to see the Shakespeare play you wanted. Personally I’ve avoided any mention of the man since I left school, but your enthusiasm seems to be rubbing off on me, even though I still suspect you’re mainly in it for the fit young actors in tight tights and codpieces. You asked me to book tickets for Friday evening, and I think your plan was for us to get all dressed up, enjoy the performance and pretend we’re proper grown-ups for a few hours.
I lied to you though. On Friday night you’re going to be perfumed and prettified in your best clothes, ready to leave our hotel room with the expectation of an evening show followed by drinks in a bar full of theatre-goers. I’ll play along, get my good clothes on, and get myself ready for an evening out. When you’re ready to go, poised, and perfectly dressed and made up, I will grab you, force you down on the bed and use you in every way I see fit. I will tear off your clothes and fuck you everywhere I want, and you will do nothing but gasp and beg and shake and accept it. I am bigger and stronger than you are, and I will use it against you when I’ll enjoy it. I will cuff your hands behind your back, grab a fistful of your hair and force my cock between your pretty, pouting, scarlet lips and you will gag and drool and suck, just like you know you should. I want to ruin your carefully made-up look. I want to see your mascara ruined and your lipstick mixed with cum and smeared across your face. To take you from the peak of poise and sophistication, strip your clothes and your defenses from you, and leave you naked and begging to be fucked is an enormous pleasure, and one I intend to enjoy to the full.
Now that I think about it, the gag needs to come. When it’s not full of my cock, the only things I want coming out your mouth are muffled squeals and drool. I pull it out, wrap up the straps, and stow it in my case. I tuck the theatre tickets in next to it. I’ll happily lie to you, but I won’t disappoint you. I booked seats for Saturday night, not Friday.
I reach into the toybox again, feel something hard and heavy at the bottom and pull out the surgical shears. Big, solid, blunt nosed, and sharp bladed; they’ve been in there since the beginning but have only been used occasionally, usually on a particularly stubborn knot. There’s a smear of paint on the blades and it takes me a moment to remember how it got there. A few months ago I’d asked you over to help me decorate the spare bedroom; you came, changed into your paint spattered jogging bottoms and saggy old t-shirt and got to work. We spent several hours coating the walls in fifty shades of inoffensive magnolia and once it was finished I told you I’d head to the kitchen and make coffee.
Your were picking dry paint off a brush when I came up behind you, put one hand over your eyes, my other arm around your body and pulled you back against me. Your arms did that thing they always do, the momentary fight-or-flight tremble before you relax into what I’m doing with you. I guided you through to my bedroom, and made you kneel at the end of the bed. You nodded briefly and obeyed when I warned you to keep your eyes closed and stay still. The blindfold was black and silky, and left you utterly sightless once I’d tightened it. The cuffs were leather, with a soft lining, and you moaned gently as they were buckled and tightened around your wrists. Your breathing became hard and ragged, so I took a few minutes to kiss you and stroke your hair. After a few minutes you had calmed, so I helped you to your feet, gave you a hug and shackled your cuffed wrists to the spreader bar I had suspended from the new ceiling hook. You hadn’t expected that. Once there, you were stuck, and it was easy to force your legs wide open as I cuffed your ankles to the second spreader bar.
In the end you were left standing at the end of my bed, blindfolded, spread-eagled, moving this way and that as you tested your restraints. I took a moment to enjoy the view, circling you and noting the signs of arousal already visible through your clothes. You waited with bated breath, unsure what I would do. I took a certain amount of enjoyment from leaning in close to you, whispering “Hold still” and being rewarded with a shiver of fear and anticipation.
I started at your ankles, methodically cutting my way up your trouser legs with the shears. The bar held your legs apart, despite your attempts to close them. It took a quick slap to the tender part of your inner thigh to remind you that if I wanted your legs open, you were to keep them open. Kneeling in front of you, I carefully cut through the waistband of those awful trousers and pulled them away, tearing the last few threads. The familiar wet patch was forming on the front of your thin cotton knickers and I could smell you, hot and exciting. I got hard in about a second, and for a moment thought of abandoning my plan and simply fucking you here and now. Then I shook myself and started to cut your baggy t-shirt. The way you shuffled back as far as your bonds would let you was adorable. If you don’t want to suffer, my dear, you shouldn’t endure me so delightfully.
I come back to reality to find I’m holding the floggers. I ended up using both of them on you that day, both the big and the small one. I’d planned to simply cut your clothes from you, then tease you a bit but ended up spanking and flogging you red, exploring every inch of you with my hands and tongue, making you flinch with ice, surprising you with kisses, and with your vibrator… in the end we never did fuck that night. I simply wore you out, left your head spinning between the pain and the pleasure and the teasing and the anticipation and realisation. When I unbuckled you from your cuffs, you collapsed against me, burying your face in my neck, and I carefully carried you to bed. You had given me all you had, indulged my little sadistic streak and been left exhausted. It only seemed right to give something back, so I laid you down across the bed, gripped your wrists firmly, went down on my knees and gave you the orgasms you deserved.
I consider the floggers before putting them back. I’m not sure what it is, but I’m not in the mood for using them. I might regret this later, but as I said, space is at a premium.
I reach into the toybox again and pull out the rope. Last time we had this out, I wrapped you up in a basic body tie, then threw your clothes to you and announced we were off to the pub. It was fun sitting there later, listening to the rain beat on the windows, drinking dry cider, listening to the conversation around us and watching you opposite me, shifting slightly this way and that. I could see the outlines under your jeans, subtle ripples in the denim indicating where the cotton rope was clenching and squeezing you. You leant forward to take a drink and stopped with a stifled gasp. I guessed that was the crotch tie going tight. All in all, watching you kept me entertained and aroused in equal measure. When we got back home, I had your clothes off in less than a minute. Decision made.
I grab the hanked rope, and tuck it into the little space remaining in my bag. Rope, handcuffs and a ballgag; it’s a respectable little set of versatile restraints with a range of possibilities. Hogties are certainly straightforward. No floggers though; if I feel like turning your pert bum red, I’ll just need to put you over my knee and do it the old fashioned way.
I check my watch; I don’t have much time. I throw the rest of my clothes in my bag, grab my coat on the way out the apartment and hail a taxi outside.
I’m going to enjoy this weekend.
So are you.