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Archive-name: Bondage/likesit.txt

Archive-author: David C. Daniel

Archive-title: As She Likes It





	The following fiction is a collaboration between Myself

and Herself -- a rather pushy bottom, "but adorable", she says. 



------------------------  As She Likes It ----------------------

			     Part One



   The gag didn't hurt, exactly. But it held my face in ways

that were strange to me. Sweat was rolling down my forehead, onto

my breats and beading on my nipples as they were held unnaturally 

high in a black satin push-up bra. The bra was already soaked. I 

couldn't recall where the rest of my clothes were. I'd managed to 

retain my black silk panties and my too-high heels -- I suppose he 

liked how I looked in them.

   The bathroom was unusually large, even by Manhattan penthouse

standards. It was brilliantly white, and mannish. The only softness

I could sense was in the big white towels. I could only imagine their 

softness. I longed to dry the sweat from myself with one but that pleasure

was denied me.

   If I stayed up on my toes with my face pressed against the bathroom

door I could almost forget about the heavy leather collar locked around

my neck. The handcuffs were another matter. He had cuffed my hands behind 

me, back to back, and I stupidly tried to twist my wrists against the steel.

He had added a strap that ran from the links on the cuffs to the back of

my collar. As long as I held my wrists in the middle of my back I could

spare my self the pressure against my throat. 

   Looking back on it now I realize that a unusual wave of sexual

excitement passed through me for the first time. It intensified a few

moments later when I managed to turn my head past the chain that ran

from the collar to the heavy silver hook near the top of the door. I

wasn't ready for what I saw in the mirror.

   The red haired woman I saw looked a lot like me, except she

was trussed and humiliated -- teetering against a bathroom door in

nothing but her underwear, her buttocks gleaming under the heatlamp. 

She was beautiful and sexy and stunned. 

   My first reaction was terror. But it was diluted by the purely

sexual image reflected in that polished glass. My transformation was at

the hands of a stranger: forceful and insensitive to the fear he

produced in me. It wasn't the type of behavior I expected of an artist,

even one with the reputation that he had. I could hear the party still

going on downstairs -- all of New York's prettiest people laughing

and eating and drinking away while I pondered my fate. I wondered if

the friend I'd come with would miss me. I didn't hold much hope for

that. The last time I saw her she was deep in conversation with one

of those dark latin types she had a fetish for. I had tried stamping

on the floor but my position was such that I couldn't gain much leverage

without straining my neck. Between that and the loud music I gave up

trying to attract anyone's attention. I can admit now that I was perversly

curious about what was going to happen next. I was attracted to him,

not only by his looks but also by the mystery surrounding his life and

work. His willingness and ability to take control held my thoughts more

inescapably than my bonds.

   The gag enraged me. I didn't know how he had managed to push the large

bulb past my teeth, but it was lodged there firmly, pressing my tongue

to the back of my throat. The wide leather strap covered my lips entirely.

I had tried in vain to dislodge the thing by rubbing the strap against

the door while holding my mouth as wide open as possible. All I got for my

trouble was an aching jaw and hair in my eyes. I was trying to work my

fingers around to get at the clasp that connected the strap to the chain

between the cuffs when I heard footsteps outside the door. I held my breath

hoping another guest had come to use the bathroom. I heard the handle turn

and felt the door press me slowly back toward the wall. I anticipated

rescue, but wasn't entirely disappointed to see my captor's dark eyes

staring into mine. He entered and released the door watching as my body

weight caused it to quickly close. He smiled and looked me over.

   "You have a nice ass," he said



                     *** End Of Part One ***





                              Part Deux



[In the last installment we found our heroine hanging from a bathroom door,

 having been thoroughly trussed and placed there by our so far mysterious

 artist. Part deux will reveal how our lovely redhead came to be in such

 a predicament...]



"You have nice ass," he said.

I was surprised to find myself blushing. I turned my face away from him in

shame. I was feeling a little light-headed and more than a little scared.

"I came back to check on you," he said. "It's not often that I catch a pretty

thief in my bedroom. I've been wondering if I should call the police, or

handle this matter myself -- in my own way."

I turned my head to look at him. I wanted to see if the look in his eyes

matched the steel in his voice. It did. He reached up and unhooked the chain

on my collar from the hook on the door.

"This isn't a good place to talk."

I couldn't believe he was doing this to me -- leading me by a damn chain into

his bedroom! I was getting angry now. The sheer arrogance of this man was

too much to comprehend. I was dizzy with anger and fear and curiosity. Was

he going to hurt me? If so, how badly?

I realize now that I had only myself to blame. I knew I shouldn't have taken

my editor's suggestion: Do whatever you need to do to get some good material

on Mr. Arlan Jennel -- The Reclusive Artist, the most famous of all living

sculptors.

He didn't give interviews. He never allowed himslef to be photographed. He

never ever authorized so much as a press release about himself or his work.

No one knew where he came from, where he went to school, how much he earned

in a year, not even his age was certain.

I knew I would have to explain what I was doing in his bedroom. He had walked

in on me as I was rifling through his desk like an FBI agent. He came up behind

me, threw me across his huge bed and had me handcuffed before I could say,

"First Amendment". He found the Minox camera in my purse and took great

pleaseure in pulling out the film. He also enjoyed pulling off my clothes

looking for a "wire", he said. Now he stood over me as I sat on the edge

of the bed. Without a word he reached roughly behind my neck and undid the

buckle that held that nasty gag in place. The bulb popped out from behind

my teeth with a wet plop. I was futher humiliated as a stream of saliva dripped

onto my right breast. I was sure I was going to die of embarrassment!

"Talk," was all he said.

I obeyed, telling him why I was there and making sure I apologized at least 12

times. I was hoping that contrition on my part would soften his mood. I did

the old, "let me go now and I won't tell anyone" routine. He smiled a wicked

smile. I smiled a pleading smile. I stopped smiling when he explained to me

that he had decided to punish me himself instead of burdening the judicial

system.

I knew what he had in mind and begged him to be gentle with me. I told him

that I'd had only two relationships in my whole life and to please get it

over with quickly.

He laughed, I mean he really laughed, his eyes got teary he laughed so hard.

He said something that I didn't understand then, but have since come to

understand all too well.

He said, "If I decide to fuck you it won't be before you're begging for it."

I was shocked at the way he used the word "fuck". No one had ever uttered

that word to me that way before. Nice girls don't "fuck", they "make love".

I blushed again. He smiled again. I was ashamed, but there was something

else making my cheeks red. I didn't know then what it was. But I was going

to find out soon enough.

He was standing in front of me, maybe two feet away. I was staring at the

floor.

He said, "Get on your knees."

I looked up at him, not moving. He grabbed a fistful of my hair and forced

me to kneel before him. I was staring at his belt buckle. He jerked my head

back and said, "I don't want to have to repeat myself. You can make things

very hard on yourself. It's up to you."

"Please." I said.

"Unbuckle my pants," he said.

I stared again at his belt buckle. It was a large silver affair. I looked

up at him unsure how to proceed. I couldn't help but notice the added bulk

pressing against his fly.

"I can't," I said, "my hands."

"Use your fucking teeth, Miss MacNamara."

I was shocked to hear him use my name. He must have seen it when he went

through my purse.

I decided not to make him repeat himself, besides, I had a strange urge to

do exactly what he told me. I grabbed the strap between my teeth and

pulled out from the first loop. Then I bit firmly onto the end of it

and pulled until the buckle loosened. I felt like an animal, kneeling

and using my teeth to do something I'd normally use my hands for.

His erection grew even larger while I was lossening his belt. He leaned

toward me, pressing his bulge against my face. I could feel heat coming

from it. He smelled as wonderful as he looked. My mouth actually watered!

I looked up at him. He must have seen something in my eyes. He grinned

and said, "Don't stop now."

I eagerly used my teeth to yank open the clasp of his pants and pulled until

the fly parted. His erection strained against his silk boxer shorts. His

scent filled my nostrils. It was like a drug. I had never truly enjoyed

giving a man oral sex before. Now that's all I wanted to do. My mouth

ached to suck on his cock!

I leaned against him, pressing my lips to his pulsing cock. I was afraid

to use my teeth to pull down his shorts for fear I'd hurt him. I used my

tongue instead, searching for his flesh through the small opening.

I expected him to help me with this part, but he grabbed my collar and

pulled me away from him. He had shocked me yet again. Now what?

He looked down at me, not grinning now.

"What do you want to do?" he asked.

I had to catch my breath. I was confused. Did he actually want me to say

what I was feeling? I tried to speak but couldn't.

"Do you want to suck me?"

I managed a nod.

"Say it, Miss Wordsmith. Articulate for me your present desires, in 25

words or less."

I couldn't speak. I couldn't do what he demanded. I couldn't say those

things to a complete stranger.

He pushed me away from him and pulled up his zipper.

"When you tell me what you want, you might get it. Silence will get you

nothing."

He lifted me from my knees and dropped me face down on the bed. I could

feel him unbuckling the strap that held my cuffed wrists high against my

back. I was grateful to him for removing it. I felt a little let down. Like

I had failed to please him so thoroughly that he was simply going to send

me on my way.

"I have to get back to the party. I'll leave you to think things over."

He walked to his dresser and returned with something I couldn't see. He

sat next to me on the bed and gently lifted my hair up from my neck. The

thing in his hand was a hairbrush. He was brushing my hair! Within moments

he had my waist-length locks brushed straight up from my scalp. He deftly

twirled my hair into one thick strand. I could feel him tying something

around my hair, then looping the strand over and tying something again.

He rose and said, "Get up."

I did, and he led me to a far corner of the large room. My hair felt funny

pulled up to the top of my head. Whatever he'd tied into it felt heavy.

He glanced up, and tossed the other end of what I realized was a black

nylon strap over a large hook in the ceiling. He quickly pulled out the

the slack, forcing me on tip-toe. I couldn't even look at him now. I

squeezed my eyes shut while he forced the strap between my teeth, wrapping

it around several times and knotting it at the back of my neck.

"Ciao, Miss Wordsmith. Feel free to hang around as long as you like."

I silently cursed my editor and myself.



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