by Charlie Smith

Illustration by Robert Bishop

Originally Published in Latent Image Vol. 6, No. 1, 1983

Scanned and Transcribed by guardian46w

Story Codes: Sbf, bond, naked, handcuff, straps, gag, display, caught, M/f, tease, sex, X

There she is again.  It is a quiet Sunday afternoon.  The trees shine in the hazy L.A.  sunlight, only this isn't L.A.  Just the color is the same.  It strikes him in his second story apartment in Salt Lake.  He has nothing much to do.  He should sell more artwork but he isn't feeling like work.  And there's that girl again in the yard below.  She is dressed in terri cloth shorts and a thin white blouse that billows open wonderfully.  She carries lawn shears in her hand.  Her name is Jill Belamy.  She is the wife of a guy he went to high school with.  It was accidental that they came to live in the same apartment house, a yellow Victorian house on the Avenues.

Jill bends over and begins snipping at the grass with her snippers.  She keeps her knees together and her legs very straight as she works, gently bobbing up and down.  Occasionally she pauses to stretch or shift the position of her feet.  She is doing yard work in three-inch heels.  Could there be a message here?  Has he seen husband Steve's car lately?  Might Steve be out of town?

No.  No, I am not going to jump in bed with a former classmate's wife.  Not on a hot afternoon with her long red hair spilling down her shoulders.  Not with those incredible breasts swinging free in that blouse.  No.  No way.  No sir.  still....

He sits down at his coffee table.  He stands back up.

"On, baby!" he cries aloud.  She is working in a deep bobbing motion with her legs spread a yard wide.  Her nipples nearly brush the grass.  The terry cloth shorts don't cover half of that marvelous ass.

This is torture.  She doesn't even know you're up here.  She knows! Don't do it.  Still, your laundry.  Yes, better get that laundry down.  But when he reaches the yard she is gone and the neighborhood is still once again.

From time to time, he watches her come and go, stroll down the block, walk the sleek burgundy dog.  Each Sunday seems to drowse by as hot and quiet as the last.  lt is one of these Sundays.  He is walking home, walking towards the house from his car parked out front.  He passes the high hedges guarding the entrance to the front walk and sees the kind of sight little boys dream about, but never dare hope to see: a woman naked and helplessly tied in the window of a house.  And it is Jill.  And she is.

He is shocked but looks at her.  He is in his early thirties and single.  She tries to pull away from the window but her wrists are somehow secured to the top of the tall window frame.  She can't pull back very far.  She must have been hoping she couldn't be seen in the dark window on this sunny day because she is panicked to see him gazing at her revealed and restrained body.  Her eyes look pleading over a large gag of some sort, a white ball with black spots on it.  By staring at the dim figure in the window, he can also see black straps around her body; her legs are secured together.  The young lady seems to be in quite a fix.
He does not walk to the front door of Steve and Jill Belamy's ground floor apartment.  He walks instead to the back of the house to look for Steve's Cadillac in the parking lot back there.  There is no sign of the car.  It will be madness to enter that apartment.  It is impossible not to.

As long as he is in back he tries the kitchen door.  He isn't too surprised to find it open.  Slowly he moves through the house until he reaches a short hallway leading to the front door.  Next to the door is a tall, narrow window, and in that window, silhouetted by the glow of daylight, is Jill Belamy, barefoot and naked, strapped, apprehensive, but still unsure of his presence in the house.  He eases towards her.  Her skin is slick with perspiration.  It is the heat, and perhaps she has been here for hours.  Her breath whistles in the gag.  He can see now that it is made of a simple plastic whiffle ball.  The woman is deeply involved in her situation and the sound of her breath in the gag.  She does not know he is there until his fingers gently stroke the under side of her left cheek in the damp between her thighs.  Her body jolts, the breath sucks in through the gag.  She actually squeals and tries to twist, to see who is there.  She can not.  She moans against the effort.  Looking up he can see her wrists in padded handcuffs fastened to bolts above the window frame.  Her legs are strapped together at the ankles and above the knee.  A matching belt of black patent leather constricts her waist.  Another forms a dog collar around her neck.

Without a word he stands against her and reaches around to lightly stroke her belly and breasts.  Her breath catches and rushes.  With his right hand he rolls a nipple between two fingers as his left drifts down her belly, down and further down, light fingers gliding down.  Her body trembles, shakes.  It occurs to him that everything she wears, the belts, straps, gag, and handcuffs, she might have put on herself.  She would need only to have reached up and locked her hands into the cuffs last of all.  A test might be finding the key nearby.  And there it is on the hard wood floor by her feet.

He lifts the key where she can see it.  "Drop something, Jill?"

She moans and then she is trying to say something behind the gag.

"Please?" he asks.  "Did You say please?"

"P'ease," she says again, consonants rubbed off the word.

"Please what, Mrs. Belamy?"

"P'ease...'uck m'h!"

He reaches his hands around her thighs.  They are small in his large hands.  He pushes his fingers inwards towards the hot and slippery folds of her depilated sex.

"Hmmm," he says, raising the wet fingers to his nose and then hers.

She reels in her bonds and begs him again: "'Uck m'h.  Uck m'h."

"All right.  Mrs. Belamy I will."

She strains her neck to gesture down at the floor where he has dropped the key to the handcuffs.  "Key," she tries to say.  The key.

He ignores her, loosening his slacks to bring out a cock larger than anything poor Jill has had before.  She can't see behind her.  She still expects him to free her from the window before taking her.  She is wrong.  His hands pull apart her ass cheeks.  His fingers roughly dig to reach in and open the hot flower within.  Firmly he guides and pushes the head of his cock into her, dilating her from the awkward angle, shoving up deeper and wider and deeper still until every muscle of her body is clenched in ecstasy.  The air whistles in gasps through the ball gag as he begins to work her.  Slowly pushing in and slipping back, letting her squeeze against the ridges and veins of his cock with the hot sleeve of her cunt.  She comes quickly.  Her body jerks and she moans and cries and he steadies her by wrapping powerful arms around her nude flesh.  Still she hangs in the window.

They rest.  He hasn't come and he is still erect inside her.  Slowly he begins to slide within her once more, slowly in, slowly out.  Soon her body undulates with this rhythm.  Now as he rocks her he grabs her breasts in his hands and begins to pinch and pull and knead and maul the sensitive glands, all this time fucking the woman from behind with her legs strapped tightly together.  He has a sensation, a feeling as if his soul is draining into her.  He is drained.  Hanging onto her, holding her, they each rest where they stand.  He kisses the back of her neck and licks the warm salt of her sweat.

"Goodbye, dear Jill," he whispers.  He reaches down to retrieve the silver handcuff key from the floor.  Gently he pushes it into the fingers of one handcuffed hand.  Her hand takes the key.  Her eyes are closed and she is lost in some dreamy exhaustion.  A clear drop of fluid glides down the inside of one thigh.

"Goodbye, sweet Jill," he says again, and leaves the apartment by the kitchen door.