If St George were alive today then Ms Cummings would almost certainly be high on his list of dragons to do battle with. I’ve never actually seen her breathing fire, but many a promising career in the exciting world of chartered accountancy has withered before her heated wrath. She runs the office in which I work with an iron hand and tolerates no lateness, laziness or sloppy appearance. There is no official dress code, but I once saw her fire on the spot a poor young man for the heinous crime of not wearing a tie, a felony made worse by his choice of brown rather than black shoes. And woe betide any woman who turns up not wearing a black or grey skirt suit with a white top and heels of between two and four inches.
The women in our office generally fall into one of two categories. There are those who are not comfortable with their sexuality and would live in jeans and trainers if they could. They hate wearing a skirt and tights, and anything thicker than half an inch under their heels gives them vertigo. Ms Cummings is constantly on the lookout for less than smart female attire, like the dreaded heel-less pumps or shoes kicked off under the desk. Standards must be upheld after all. The second category, to which I belong, are the ones who are more than happy to show off our femininity while at work, and with us Ms Cummings’ challenge is not making sure we’re smart and feminine, but stopping us looking like tarts in her office. She has definite ideas about how low a top can be cut, how much leg above the knee can be exposed, and how high a heel can be. I and the other ladies in our category are always playing our little game, pushing Ms Cummings’ boundaries and pushing our luck. Is it acceptable to show cleavage if it’s only visible when we’re seated and she is standing over us? How much leg is showing if the skirt hem is asymmetric, or is a pencil style with a slit at the back? And my personal favourite, is a four inch stiletto measured at the front or the back of the heel? And if it said eleven centimetre on the shoebox, then how many inches is that? Ms Cummings pulls me up constantly about my office attire, but my transgressions, while numerous, are never serious enough to warrant more than just an over-done clearing of the throat or a narrow-eyed glare. But I can often see a hint of a suppressed smile in her glare. I know she enjoys our little game, and there is a mutual respect behind the posturing.
It’s a bit of a shame that our game is coming to an end though, for I have just been promoted from the general office to work as personal assistant to Mr CEO’s general assistant, and that means I now work up on the second floor in a glass-fronted office looking down over Ms Cummings’ open plan ground floor empire. There is a lift I could use, but I prefer the stairs because that means I still get to walk through her stamping ground. I’m still not senior to her, but I’m now out of her derestriction and there’s nothing she can do about the fact that under my jacket my top has definite aspirations of pinkness, or that my skirt is short enough to present a real danger of ever-so-slightly exposed stocking tops when I sit down, or even that my shoes are blurring the boundary between just about acceptable peep-toe slingbacks and definitely unacceptable strappy sandals. I smile and give her a cheery “Good Morning” as I disturb her quiet, efficient atmosphere with the sound of my noisy heels on the hard floor. The loud ‘cop cop’ sound makes its way right through the middle of her empire and becomes even more disturbing as it climbs up the metal-edged stairs at the opposite side to the entrance.
I’m sure Ms Cummings thinks I only use the stairs to annoy her, but she’d only be partly right in that because there is another attraction of this route to my new office. Hanging around my neck on a gaudy pink lanyard is my staff ID card. My new promoted status means it now opens many a previously impassable door when I touch it against the electronic wall-mounted lock pads. It even makes the lift go straight up to my office floor. But it’s the doors, and not the lift that hold the attraction for me because they have given me the idea for some very kinky sex-play and every time I unlock one it gives me a little thrill.
oOo
My husband’s work involves travelling quite a lot and often means he is away from home for a week or more. During the weeks Dan is away we try to make Wednesday night a sex night. We started off with phone-sex, and rapidly progressed to Skype-sex. Then we got the E-Stim Box and moved on to electro-sex, and now we’re at electro-bondage-sex. While it is of course not as good as being tied up and thoroughly fucked by my husband in person, it has a certain something that is almost as rewarding and just as challenging. Sometimes more challenging.
Tonight I have a little surprise in store for Dan. Hopefully he’s going to think it’s very naughty of me and warrants grounds for some appropriate punishment. Our earlier phone conversation confirmed that he will be finished work and in his hotel room in Düsseldorf by nine o’clock, that’s in twenty minutes time. So I’m all ready. I’ve got my laptop and the E-Stim box on the bedside table and our selection of electrodes is spread out on the bed, along with Dan’s surprise. I’m showered, hair washed, nails painted and pubic patch trimmed and shaved around. I’ve learnt the hard way that stray hairs make peeling off sticky electrode pads an eye-watering experience.
I’m waiting for an email to arrive from Dan. It will tell me how I am to wire myself up. Which electrodes to use and where. I’m trying to think what combination I would like best. The E-Stim box has two outputs, so the large insertable in my cunny on channel one is a no-brainer, but what to have connected to channel two? Clover clamps on my nips is a favourite, but there’s a big warning in the E-Stim manual about not going above the waist, and Dan insists we stick to this if he’s not with me. So maybe pads on my butt cheeks would be nice, or on my thighs perhaps. There are plenty of juicy possibilities.
But when the email comes, it’s a bit different and not entirely to my liking. As expected, I’m to use the large insertable, it’s actually called the Large Deviant, but it’s two inch girth with “Ripplehead Technology” is not destined to be visiting the inside of my vagina. Instead it’s to go up my bum. That doesn’t get my approval. On the plus side though, channel two is to be connected to pads on my inner thighs, as close to my labia as possible. That’s good because the electricity will flow right across my fun region. There’s an optional bonus in that I’m “allowed” to put a clover clamp on my clit, not to be an electrode but just to add a little extra pinch to things. I’ll have to think about that. While some added pinch will bring another layer of stimulating excitement, having a metal clamp short circuiting it will mean my clit will miss out on much of the electrical fun. I know Dan has given me the choice just to fluster me.
It is of course fundamental to the nature of submission that you sometimes have to do things you’re not entirely keen on. Dan isn’t here, and he won’t whip me when he gets home as punishment for disobeying his instructions, but where would be the thrill if I were to pick and choose when I obey and when I don’t. So a bucket full of conductive gel lube and much grunting and cursing later, the Ripplehead Technology is parked firmly in my rectum, the round metal base flange is nestled in my bum cleavage, and I’ve got two little wires for a tail. The pads on my thighs are a joy to stick on by comparison. So that’s me wired, now for some self-bondage. Well sort-of self-bondage.
It only takes a few moments to get some padded, leather cuffs buckled snugly around my ankles. They’re already attached to carefully pre-measured straps that go to the corner posts at the foot of our bed. Then my waist gets the bondage belt. It’s just like a regular leather belt except it’s got D-rings around it. Another pair of pre-measured straps are screwed to the underside of the bed and these just reach the rings on either side of my belt. I’ve also tied the middle of a long bootlace to the rear ring on the belt. I feed the two halves of it over the flange and between the connecting plugs of my anal visitor and then on between my labia, up either side of my clit and through the ring on the front of my belt. I heave it up tight until it makes me wince and tie it off. There’ll be no pushing my visitor out now.
I reach across to the bedside table and connect my wires to the E-Stim box. I’m allowed to give myself a little momentary shock to check the connections but nothing more. Then I open up the E-Stim program on my laptop. I can see that it is talking to The Box and I can select modes and shock levels from the computer. So far, so good. Next I open up the TeamViewer program. This allows my computer to be operated remotely through the internet. Its little blue and white window shows me a user ID number and a password it creates each time it’s run. I copy them into an email and send it to Dan as he will need them to take control. Finally on the computer I check the webcam that’s fitted above the bed in the canopy is connected and framed to show the whole bed, and me once I’m stretched out on it.
Now it’s time for Dan’s surprise. He doesn’t like me gagging myself when he’s away but I reckon a ballgag is safe enough. It’s not like you can’t breathe around them if your nose gets bunged up because you’re crying your eyes out with pleasure and pain. Even a monster two and a half inch ball like this one. It’s so big I have to really push to get it past my teeth and it’s a real jaw stretcher once it’s in. Dan won’t know whether to love it or be worried about it. Hopefully he’ll punish me for my unauthorised extra prop.
With the gag strapped in, there’s just the question of whether to clamp my clit or not. I fiddle with the clamp, trying to decide, but there was only really going to be one option. I gasp as my clit gets squeezed and quickly start strapping the cuffs around my wrists before I change my mind.
A movement on my laptop screen catches my eye. The pointer is moving. Dan has taken control. He opens a text window and starts typing.
“I’m going to look in five minutes. Make sure you’re ready by then.”
This is it then. The point of no return. I wriggle as far up the bed as my spread ankles and belt allow. I arrange my hair in a great fan on the pillow around my head and then reach my hands up to the top corners of the bed.
And it’s here that those security doors at work come into play. A wooden plank is screwed to the underside of the top of our bed. It sticks out at the sides a little and bolted to its ends are a couple of magnetic locks, just like the ones on the security doors’ frames. And fitted to each of my wrist cuffs is a carefully measured chain which ends in an iron plate, just like the one screwed to those doors. I swing the chains over the edge of the mattress and dangle the iron plates over the locks. I have to really stretch to get them close enough but soon there is the exciting metallic clank which signifies the locks have grasped their prey. I relax my straining muscles but I remain tightly stretched out on the bed. I pull and heave against the restraints just to confirm there’s no escape. Nothing gives. I’m stuck, and the delightful thrill rises inside me. I’m stretched out, wired up, gagged and about to be tortured by husband who’s not even in the same country. Modern technology at its best.
The magnetic locks seem to me to be designed for self-bondage. There’s nothing to fail, no mechanism to jam, no messing about with ice cubes and string. No matter how hard I pull, the locks’ tenacious electromagnets won’t give up their iron captives. They’re totally inescapable. Until their electricity goes off of course. Ours are fed by a battery under the bed. The battery will always run flat eventually and so release is assured… eventually. Dan says if the battery is fully charged the locks will hold for eight hours. That would mean I’ll be here like this with my mouth stuffed, crotch being cut in two, clit clamped and thoroughly sodomised until five in the morning. A scary prospect indeed. Dan charges the battery before he leaves, but he never tells me how much he has charged it. It might only be quarter full, or half, or maybe filled to the brim. I won’t know until I feel the tension release on my limbs. Oh such heaven.
It’s only been a couple of minutes and already I’m wondering if the gag was a good idea. My jaw is starting to object. I stare along my arm to my distant hand, but it’s far too far away to even consider speculating about the slightest possibility of reaching the gag’s buckle. You’re a stupid, horny slut Samantha and you’re going to get your comeuppance now.
There’s more activity on the laptop. Dan’s just opened up Skype. He’s calling himself. As the connection processes I can just see myself in the webcam picture in the corner of the window. I do look spectacular with my big red ballgag and my matching red hair splayed around me on the pillow. I can even see the bootlace emerging from between my labia. Christ it feels tight.
And then my husband’s face appears. It takes a few moments for him to take in the image of me, and I can see the effect I am having by his changing expression. It seems my efforts are achieving the desired effect. He’s seen me like this before of course, but tonight I think I’ve reached new heights of slutty, submissive sexiness.
oOo
So we’ve been playing for a while now and tonight it’s particularly challenging for me. When I did the grocery shopping last weekend I apparently forgot to buy Wine Gums for Dan. The fact that I was being electrocuted every time I stopped walking doesn’t seem to have provided me with an excuse for my heinous oversight and hence the instruction to sodomise myself with an electrode that feels the size of a space-rocket. And Dan is providing punishment for my forgetfulness. He’s got The Box set on ‘Wave’ mode which gradually ramps up the shocks from nothing until they’re passing unbearable and then suddenly drops them back to zero for a few precious seconds before starting again. He’s set the cycle at about thirty seconds and the last five or six feel like my arse is being whipped from the inside. The pads on my thighs are set to mere tickles, but they’re arousing enough to allow me to cope with the tactical nuclear weapons testing going on in my behind. It’s at times like this that it’s good to be securely strapped down and helpless. If I were free to move then I doubt I could resist the urge to pull the plugs out or switch off The Box, and then I would fail in my desire to submit and obey. Secured as I am, I am spared that distraction and can get on with the only option available, that of finding a way to endure. Horniness and arousal are usually the key, and of course a gag helps too.
I can tell that Dan is both turned on and frustrated by my gag. I suppose dirty conversation is an important part of having sex remotely through the ether, and I have made that conversation rather one-sided. But his frustration comes more from not being able to judge exactly how much I am suffering through his electronic tortures. He knows The Box and roughly what numbers I can stand, but it varies a bit with each session. Usually he sets the shock level by listening to me squeal and watching me wince, but tonight I can hide my reactions by just biting down on the gag until the shock level is ridiculously high. And being the masochistic slut that I am, I have been able to deceive him into torturing me much more than he would normally. He knows this of course, but if he backs off on the power I can use my gag to make it look like nothing is happening, and so he has to crank it back up to be able to see and hear the results of his handiwork. This is perhaps rather dubious behaviour for a sexual submissive, but then I am being punished for it so I think it’s okay.
My punishment is not the electric shocks of course. They hurt like hell, but you can’t punish a masochist with pain. My real punishment is that Dan won’t let me climax. Despite the gag and my best efforts at poker face, he can tell when I’m getting close and turns everything off for a few minutes to thwart me. And I need to cum so badly now. So, so badly.
It’s during one of these orgasm denying “off” periods that I hear the knock at the door. But it’s not here, it’s in Dan’s hotel room. I watch in the Skype window as he gets up to answer it, feeling rather offended that he has presumably ordered room service while we’re playing. I can hear Dan talking to someone and then there’s a woman’s voice. I can’t make out what’s being said, but the conversation is too long for just a room service delivery. Suddenly I see the camera view of the hotel room wobble and shake as Dan’s laptop is moved. The picture pans round and I see Dan, and he has a woman with him in the room. A smartly dressed and rather beautiful woman. I know who she is too. Her name is Kendra, and it’s her company that Dan works for.
I suppose in most relationships, a certain amount of jealous anger might be appropriate when one’s husband has his beautiful and sexy boss in his hotel room at ten o’clock at night, but it’s not required here. And that’s because I know that Kendra is a lesbian. She and I went to school together and were best mates. We grew up and became sexually aware together. We experimented on each other and we’ve been best friends and occasional lovers ever since, a situation that didn’t change when I met Dan, and still hasn’t changed even though I’ve married him. But there’s nothing deceitful about me and Kendra. Dan knows all about us and has done since I introduced him to her. He doesn’t object to our occasional liaisons, and to be honest I think he finds them a turn-on and fancies himself in bed with both of us. Kendra of course is well aware of my submissive nature and she’s tied me to a bed, and a good number of other things too, on many occasions, but it’s still rather an uncomfortable surprise to find her looking at me right now, stretched out, gagged and wired up, all by my own hand.
For a while the two of them sit there staring at me through their laptop screen like a pair of Cheshire Cats. I can see the lust in both of their faces and I’m torn between feeling pride and outrage. They start talking about me as if I can’t hear them, describing their favourite features of my body and the things they most like to do to it. And all the time I’m lying here, helpless, unable to move and needing to orgasm like never before. The pressure of the clit clamp and the cutting tension of the crotch lace, along with the gag and my immobilised state are all very enjoyable, but they are static and constant. They arouse and create the need to climax, but they don’t stimulate enough to achieve it. I need the touch of a person, a vibrator, or electricity. And I’m getting none of them while those two meanies are just ogling me. I start to wriggle and squirm, rubbing my bottom around on the bed trying to get that lace to move and rub, but it won’t cooperate. It’s too tight to slide and it just adds to my frustration.
Kendra starts talking about my crotch lace. She points out to Dan how my belt is tight enough to indent my waist quite severely, but the lace is still pulling the belt down in the middle to form a shallow V across my tummy. She’s extrapolating the tension in the lace from that and starts explaining to Dan how it will be making me feel, not that he doesn’t know already. Going out with a crotch rope is one of Dan’s favourite torments for me. Restaurants, cinema, ten pin bowling, even dinner with his parents, I’ve experienced them all while being cleaved in two. Dan for his part starts counter explaining, telling Kendra about the invisible intruder in my bottom and how its rippled metal bulk and base flange are separated by an insulating ring in the middle so that it forms both electrodes needed for an electric circuit. He even calls it up on the E-Stim website so Kendra can see it, and her expression shows respect. And lust. It seems like torturing my poor arse is going to be high on the agenda when she and I next come together to cum together.
Inevitably Kendra decides she wants to have a go at electrocuting me. It’s a huge relief that I am going to get some action again, but it also makes me very nervous. The controls on The Box are rather coarse. On a typical setting I might not be able to feel anything until the power reaches about 28%, but by only about 35% it’s so strong as to be almost unbearable. Dan knows about this and has learned to manipulate the controls with care to keep me where he wants me, but Kendra doesn’t have that experience. Dan tries to guide her, but Kendra’s gung-ho personality soon has the straps holding my belt down to the bed getting yanked and rived at, while by body convulses at the electronic assault on my nether regions. Pulse mode, bounce mode, waterfall, milk, throb, random, she tries them all. I’ve heard that in situations of desperation human beings are capable of feats of superhuman strength. Well my superhuman strength still isn’t enough to overcome the magnetic field of those door locks. But as my husband’s employer and my occasional lover has her fun, the victory is really mine because in the middle of it all my orgasm lights up my body on the inside and I get my release. And once again my gag is my friend because they can’t hear the screaming and shouting that would normally give me away. They can see my body buck and shake from the electricity they are sending through it, but only I know that not all the bucking and shaking is down to them. The sadists call the shots, but it’s the masochistic slut who scores the victory.
Or does she? As my orgasm passes and I start to re-enter reality I realise that somewhere in the middle of it the electric shocks disappeared. And the continuing bucking and writhing and the gagged screaming, they would be down to my orgasm then. As I lie now still and exhausted, panting through my nose I realise that my secret victory is not so secret after all. I hear Kendra ask Dan if his slut of a wife just came without his permission. He replies that she did, and that she will have to pay for her unacceptable behaviour. Kendra asks how long it will be before the battery powering my locks goes flat. I look at the screen and see Dan smile and whisper into Kendra’s ear. The look on her face tells me I should prepare myself for a long night.
Somehow I don’t think I’ll be looking my coolest in the morning and perhaps I shouldn’t try to wind up poor Ms Cummings. Maybe I won’t be able to strut in sexily on a pair of five inch spikes, but will have to waddle carefully in some almost sensible shoes and big, padded panties. I might even have to take the lift to my office.