“ ‘Twas the night before Christmas
And all through the house,
Not a creature was stirring…….
As you can probably tell, not a whole lot was going on!
So yeah, it’s not exactly the Little House on the Prairie
but our home sitting squarely on the Nebraskan high plains in a small mid-western township, is if nothing - congenial living. OK, so it was constructed in 1926. Interesting year that. Calvin Coolidge was in the White House, Eddie Cantor was running hot with “Bye Bye Blackbird,” A.A. Milne had just published Winnie-the-Pooh,” while the average US home would set you back around $6,800 and you could pick up a used Chrysler roadster for seventy-five bucks. Fidel Castro and Chuck Berry were born that year too - just in case you have an interest in such trivia.
But to get back to what I was saying – it really was
Christmas Eve. Now, for those readers who have kept a handle on things, you will be aware that I recently re-married a very young American girl and that accordingly, I shifted base from Australia to the tumbleweed-strewn heart of America. Geographically we are as close to the center of Northern USA as makes no difference.
Old enough to be Katie’s grandfather, I suppose we are the ultimate odd-couple. Lest anyone point the finger in my direction however, allow me to make a few observations. I love my PSG dearly (little in-house joke there for the few of you able to make the connection). Together, we view our life on a remarkably even keel. A life I may add that is not governed by social dictate or a need to have been born in “acceptably close” time-frames. She keeps me young, I chip-in with the recalled images and experiences of having lived through the fifties, sixties, seventies and eighties…earlier
, if the truth be known - though not quite, as a few have cruelly suggested, back to the days of Caesar Augustus.
Now I realize that most of you have come here to read a sex story and indeed sex is a shared activity perpetuated even in this somewhat high-altitude household. What else would you logically expect? Married to a very attractive young girl many years my junior, neither “Farmville” or “Twitter” were ever likely to satisfy the libido. All of which brings us back to Christmas Eve 2009.
“I’ve had a fantasy,” she giggled, hunched-up against the pillows that night – presumably having stacked up all my presents under the tree – I hadn’t checked yet.
“Yeah?” I replied, “You want to see me wash-up, dressed like Lady Gaga?”
“Interesting thought,” she said, “But no, I, er…..I want you to tie me up!
I looked at her for a moment. She didn’t appear to be under the influence of any illegal substance. This was a new route entirely she was contemplating.
“C’mon,” I muttered, “I left my rope on the horse out back and it’s freezing
“I’m serious,” she giggled afresh then, reaching down beneath her side of the bed, withdrew
two scarves of indeterminate length, dropping them delicately on the coverlet in front of me.
I began to panic. “What the Hell?” I was thinking, “I’ve married a street whore.” The concept gained appeal even as I pondered it.
“So…you want I should tie
you up.” I countered. Where? To the bed? To the cat?
She indicated the bed-head behind her.
“Guess we’d better get you looking the part then,” I sniggered, tugging her nightdress up over her knees until those sexy little green panties of her were clearly visible. She looked shocked but made no attempt to address the situation either by tugging the silky material back down or by closing up her legs totally. After all if one is wishing to be tied up and brutally raped, there isn’t much point is there?
Having the foresight to dislodge first the shoulders of her nightdress that added a much needed wanton, if not abused look to her predicament, especially given the girl’s fully bra-less condition, I aligned her right arm with the bed-head and using one of the scarves, tied the wrist securely to the protruding wooden carving.
Standing back to look at my handiwork, I had to admit to a certain racy thrill inherent in the situation. She looked so damned vulnerable! ‘Twas the work of a few seconds to truss up her left arm in a similar fashion. Andromeda herself could have looked no more helpless, shackled to that rock-face, awaiting the Kraken’s unwelcome attentions.
Now Katie’s breasts are not what the drooling pervert might call voluminous but rather, sedate, well-rounded attributes that any girl would be proud to possess. Presented thus however, forcibly more pronounced by virtue of her restraints and having in mind also their un-encased reality, courtesy of the sheer material with which female night-attire is manufactured, the reader can visualize I am sure, her simmering aspect.
Gently caressing her breasts beneath their rayon protector, one could scarcely fail to notice both nipples’ erect condition. Katie’s eyes were wide-open, her breath coming in short snatches. She looked down semi-shocked as I continued to manipulate her freely. This had definitely been a good idea I was thinking.
Not that my wife is a slavish devotee of the “Twilight” ethos as such, she simply has more it seems, than a passing interest in vampirism. To put it in layman’s terms, she has a thing about having her neck meaningfully fanged. Leaning across therefore, I pushed her head to one side and gently clamped my teeth upon the area below her right ear – at the exact spot where neck and shoulder are conjoined.
I can’t say that she moaned as such but certainly I had injected sufficient kink-factor to procure a reaction. Her respiration noticeably increased and the smile was pure Lucy Van Helsing.
Kneeling beside Katie now, I allowed my left hand to infiltrate the upper part of her nightdress, making the gentle descent inside, where-in either a right or left deviation from her cleavage handed the intruder an array of illicit curves and possibilities. I heard a gasp but whether it was Katie’s or my own, I couldn’t rightly nominate. My right hand that for a few moments earlier had rested on her exposed knee, I now slipped between her legs, making deliberately slow progress along the inside of her thigh. The gasp this time was definitely hers. There is something so damned sexy about inching your way north to a woman’s panties that when they happen to belong to the girl you married, the arousal factor accelerates significantly.
I’m sure that studying a new species of ant within the crater of an active volcano would be marginally warm. Our interaction on that bed that night exhibited a similar thermal output. At the point I reached her knickers (a small concession there for our European readers), Katie began squirming most realistically. She commenced shaking her head in true abused-heroine fashion while her legs thrashed about as if to deter the inbound predator. One can only imagine the disappointment on site, had she been successful. Little sounds were now emanating from her mouth which of course no practiced rapist could tolerate. Thus seizing a hold of the elastic waistband, I tugged her panties down her legs and pulling them clear of her feet, gagged her swiftly with the skimpy material. This time she did look horrified. I figured it was just as well I had never shown her my International rap-sheet.
Resuming my task I began to gently massage her outer vaginal area, my fingers circling ever nearer that central ingress that despite her wriggling about, acted involuntarily as a white-hot homing beacon. Descending further, I slipped a finger between her labia and discovered a world of lubricated delights. Her eyes closed momentarily and I commenced on a program of clitoral stimulation that was only ever going to have the one conclusion…..not that long in coming either – as it were.
I kissed her lovingly on the cheek, realizing concurrently that a finger alone was never likely to adequately seal the evening’s festivities. Removing the gag, I positioned myself between her legs and withdrew that which was far better equipped to play Romeo to Katie’s gaping yet defenseless Juliet. Her eyes glazed slightly as I entered her. I couldn’t tell whether she was role-playing the abused girl of her fantasies or simply lost in her raptures. I was partly in that same Twilight Zone myself. During this formative stage of the union, I continued to ply my digital trade so far as her breasts were concerned. The kissing was a shared romantic plus it should be mentioned.
If you have never had the opportunity of full-on intercourse with a helplessly restrained young female, then your life is that much the poorer for it. Maybe it’s a throw-back to the Neanderthal era, perhaps some residual if not inherited memory of our ancestors, when our Great Great Great Great etc, Grandmother was dragged by the hair to the nearest cave and given the once over by Grandpa. Who knows? Maybe he was dragged there after Mehetabel came on heat unexpectedly.
I digress once more. Taking the liberty now of exposing her breasts whilst I continued thrusting (at first) gently into her, the entire aspect of our love-making took on a wholly surreal aura. The undeniably submissive nature that is presented by such forced restraint is visually multiplied by the girl’s topless plight and by reason of her widespread legs, an inability to avoid her sexual fate.
Small beads of sweat formed just below her hairline as our coupling took on a rather more committed path. Between kissing her and nuzzling those wonderful young breasts I was reminded of just how little a man really loses over the years when it comes to the core matrix of life locked-up in those wonderfully enduring strands of DNA. This is not to say that he is the CEO of any sexual encounter – far from it. The fact is, his contribution in both materials and work-done is minimal if the truth be known. In our case that night however, I can tell you without a word of a lie, what came to pass in that room was nothing less than a shared ecstasy.
As I passed to her safekeeping my procreative front line, she pulled her face away from me slightly and smiled rather prettily.
“You love me don’t you?” It came across as half statement, half question.
“Now don’t start jumping to conclusions wench,” I muttered, trying to slip one hand down her cleavage again as I uttered the words.
She pulled my hand out swiftly. “Be serious,” she said. “You do love me right??”
I saw immediately the foolishness of my behavior and held her to me.
“With all my heart sweetheart,” I assured her. “You know me….if I see an opportunity to be
flippant, I kinda slip…badly… Forgive me.”
It was the way she forgave me that I recall so well. With a noticeable wriggle of those California-designed hips, she thrust her shoulders forward thus accentuating her partial nudity, then, spreading her legs to what any onlooker would describe as an “illegal” angle, smiled invitingly..
This time it was rape. Later, as I collapsed on my side of the bed, I wondered whether I should in fact have her charged. I guess she was lucky it was just too cold a night to amble down to the Court House and make a statement. Besides, we know the Sheriff well, ain’t hardly likely he’d believe a word of it.
“But Officer…..she made me tie her up!”
Just one further thing to add.
Not three weeks later, she summoned me to the bedroom early one evening, where I found her propped up in bed, eyes semi glazed and looking for all the world like someone had stolen her stuffed alligator.
I looked at her vacantly.
“It turned blue” was all she said!
© Peter_Pan 2010
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