“If your girlfriend is lying next to you in bed and starts drawing geometric shapes on your nipples . . . there’s a question coming that you are not going to want to hear, much less answer.” -- Advice from my dear departed Uncle Calvin 

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Lyndsey started drawing geometric shapes on my nipples as we lay side-by-side after making love.  

“Brad,” she whispered in a high-pitched, kind of innocent voice. “What would you think about maybe, you know, someday ...”  (pause) 

Oh, jeez, here it comes, I thought. Would I someday like to ... 

--- “move in together?” 

--- “get engaged?” 

--- “get married?” 

--- “have kids?”  

(Or all of the above, not necessarily in that order?) 

Don’t get me wrong, I really liked Lyndsey. Both in our twenties, we’d been seeing each other for three or four weeks and got along great.  

Lyndsey wasn’t a ten, if you know what I mean, but then again, clearly, neither was I. We were upper sevens, maybe eights on a good day. This was our second sex date.  

(Well, maybe number two-and-a-half; our first intimate encounter was just deep kissing and intensive hand-stuff, if you know what I mean.) 

The dates were fun and the sex was ... fine, nothing inspiring. Lyndsey seemed to be holding back, or else we just didn’t have that real compatibility "spark” to begin with.  

Anyway, I steeled myself for a question that would seek to bump our relationship up to the next level, well before I was ready to get serious. So I was a bit surprised to hear her finish that question with ... 

“... someday tie me up during sex?” 

After a brief pause. I heard myself jabber something like, “Wha abba da, uh uh duh duh huh, hmmm?” 

Lyndsey chucked. “There were syllables there, sweetie, but no actual words.” 

“Well, you kinda caught me by surprise there, Lyn.” 

I propped myself up on my arm a bit, trying to measure the seriousness in her face, but the room was too dark for that.  

And I mean dark. The power in the neighborhood had been knocked out by a brief, but strong thunderstorm that had moved through a few minutes earlier.  

At its most ferocious, Lyndsey had rolled on top of me and initiated sex. That was uncharacteristic on her part. Perhaps the “danger” of the storm sparked some excitement, some urgency in her.  

Plus, we were both a bit drunk, since I was intending to sleep over at her place, with no plans to drive home. 

And now, she was asking for bondage.  

Perhaps the anonymity of the blackness around us gave her the courage to ask for something she was a little ashamed of. Or she was unsure of how I’d take it.  

I lay back down, taking her hand in mine. I’m not an expert in this kink, having tied up exactly one lover, exactly one time in the past, with less than stellar results.  

(Turns out that girl and I had not been exactly on the same page as to specific limits and activities. So I figured Lyn and I should establish some ground rules going forward. ) 

“Okay,” I said, trying to keep it light and a little silly. “So when you say ‘tie me up,’ what kind of stuff are you talking about? Whips, chains, handcuffs, dungeons?”  

“No, hon,” she laughed. “Just some rope. And not whips; I’m not into pain. Well, not much.” (Woof!) “Just sex and maybe some stress, and ...  never mind, Brad, it’s just silly.” 

“No, no, no,” I said. “Let’s work this out. It sounds like fun.” 

She was on my left as we lay on our backs. I now took her right arm and put it under my body, then slipped my left arm under her neck, taking hold of her left wrist by her head with my left hand.  

Now she was pinned down, as if being restrained, and I could use my right hand to play with her body. 

“When I tie you up,” I asked, “is it me doing it, or someone else?” 

In the flash from one last, distant lightning strike, I could see that her eyes were closed, as if envisioning the scene.  

“You’d be someone else. You, yourself, Brad ... you’re so good and kind, I can’t imagine you actually... manhandling me.” 

(She didn’t really know me yet. I liked to think of myself as a wee bit dangerous.)  

(I mean, I wasn’t, but I liked to think I could be.) 

“Oh, yeah, I’d put you through the wringer, woman. I could imagine a man from, like, Bulgaria or Romania, a villain named, uh, Vladimir ...” 

“Sergei,” Lyndsey whispered. 

I adopted my best/worst Eastern European accent.   

“Sergei is a bad dude. He breaks into houses in the middle of the night to take money and jewelry ... and women.” 

At this point, I was moving my free hand over Lyndsey’s breasts and nipples, squeezing the former and lightly pinching the latter.  

“He sneaks into your house one night, pistol in hand. He warns you to be quiet and get out of bed. You stand there in a sheer nightie, afraid, but excited. How does he tie you up?  

“First,” my girlfriend said, “he makes me put on a blindfold, so that he can control me better. Then he makes me turn round, slowly, so he can look me over.” 

“Take off your nightgown, woman,” I tell her, still with my accent. “But slowly, as if you were stripping for your lover.” 

“Once I’m naked,” she continues, “he ties my hands together, in front of me. Not so bad, I think. I can protect myself somewhat. But then he pushes me down on the bed, pulls my hands above me and ties them to the headboard.” 

Thinking back to our lovemaking during the storm, I remembered seeing Lyn on her back, eyes closed, grabbing the bars on her headboard. At the time, I wondered why she wasn’t holding me as I pumped my cock into her.  

Now I knew.  

I threw my right leg over right leg, further pinning her down. My fingernails were slowly scratching her stomach and pelvis, for just a touch of pain. 

“I pull your legs down and tie them to the baseboard.  You’re fucking helpless now, bitch.”  

I did not feel her flinch beside me at that language. I guessed calling her foul things was okay in this context.  

“Yes, you bastard, I’m fucking helpless.” 

By now, my right hand was probing her pussy lips, which were wet from a combination of her new juices and my old ones. She was wriggling under me and dipping into the fantasy.  

“You are very wet down there, my captive cunt,” I say. “Seems you like Sergei’s hands on you. Maybe you’d like his lips on you even more.” 

At which point, I took her chin in my hand, tilted her face to mine and ravaged her mouth with mine.  

“Fuck you,” she spit out when I came up for air. “Get your fucking tongue out of my damn mouth.” 

“You won’t complain when I use my tongue on your fucking pussy, woman. I hope you like orgasms; many, many orgasms. I like my women warmed up and squirming when I fuck the hell out of them.” 

I was still in character, saying things I would never say in my own voice, my own persona. I worried again about pushing the dirty talk.  

I needn’t have been concerned.  

“Listen, you pervert bastard,” she growled, “you are never putting your diseased, limp dick in me, you fuck. I’ll kick you in the nuts. I’d die first.”  

I transferred my right hand from her pussy up to her neck at that. I closed around it firmly, but not hard.  

“That can be arranged, sweetheart. No kicking, wench. And no biting when I make you suck my dick. If I feel any teeth . . .” 

“Oh, god, put it back,” Lyn gasped. I paused, not knowing what she meant. “Your hand ... pussy ... put it back ... so close.”   

I resumed fingering her clit. Within seconds, I got results. 

“Uh, uh, gah, aah, aah, aah, AAH, FAH, FAH, FAHHHK ...”  

Lyn was cumming. Cumming hard. Harder than I had thought she was capable of. She writhed under me.  

Eventually, I released her from my hands-on “bondage” as she cooled down from her orgasmic high.  

“There were syllables there,” I kidded her. “But no actual words.” 

“Funny man,” she murmured, then paused. “Listen, I’m sorry.” 

"Sorry for what?” 

“You’re going to think I’m weird,” she fretted. “I’m not a crazy person. I don’t want to be tied up and molested all the time, it’s just a fantasy I like sometimes. I freaked you out ...” 

“I’m fine, honey,” I replied, taking her hand and placing it on my hard cock. “Does it feel like you freaked me out?” 

“No, my love, it doesn’t,” she cooed. "You poor baby. Let me take care of that for you.”  

Somewhere in the neighborhood, somebody’s emergency lights came on and we could see each other, dimly. She pulled me off of the bed and put me into a chair. Kneeling in front of my spread legs, she started fondling my member.  

“I’m not real good at it, but I will give you the longest, sloppiest blowjob I can muster, if . . .” 

“If . . .?” I asked. She looked up and smiled.  

“If  you could arrange for Sergei could break into my house one evening after I’ve retired.” 

She started kissing and licking my cock. She even gave it a spit to lube it up.   

(Damn, did I say she was a seven? Let’s go with an eight or nine.) 

“That's entirely possible,” I told her. “Let’s try next Friday night. Give me a few days to get some ... equipment ... together.”  

She said, “I’ll leave the back door open,” and then went back to massaging my member with her mouth.

“Speaking of your back door ...” I ventured, while I had the momentum.   

She looked up. She smiled, but squeezed my balls, semi-firmly.  

“No, sir. Nope. Well, we’ll talk about that another day. In the meantime, do you have any fantasies? Other than that?” 

Now, my friends, I have read all the James Bond books and seen all the movies; the dude got captured a lot, and had a lot of sex. I moved my arms between my back and the chair, as if I were tied to it.  

“I could be a daring super-spy, captured by a villainess with a very unusual, very sexual, means of interrogation.”  

Lyndsey got what I was going for.  

“Ahh. Ve haf vays of making you tahk,” she said, and went back to her task, now pushing my cock down her throat.  

Oh, yeah. Lyndsey’s a ten. Definitely a ten.