Just an Hour

By Abe Froman

(c) 2008 All Rights Reserved

The following story is a work of fiction. It contains scenes of an adult nature, so if you are under 18, stop reading now. This story contains explicit sexual language and fantasies involving the mental and physical control of others. If you are offended by such activities, do not read any further. This is purely a fantasy. Any resemblance to any person, living or dead is purely coincidental.

Please send any comments/suggestions to me at froman.author@gmail.com. They are appreciated and warmly received.

This story may be reposted or archived provided the following conditions are met:

1) The story is not altered in any way,

2) The story contains my name and disclaimer, and

3) You do not make money from the story or use it promote any product or service.

The Bet

"One hour?" he asked.

"Yup. If I win, you have to do whatever I want for one hour. You do whatever I say; no backtalk, no hesitation, no matter what," she wasn't smiling, but she seemed calm - no big plans hidden behind her eyes as far as he could see.

"OK, but anything? Come on, that seems a bit open-ended."

"You don't have to agree. It's just a bet you can take or not."

"And if I win?"

"What do you want?"

"I want an hour too, but I know what I want you to do already." Now he was smiling.

"I'll bet you do." Even Tasha let out a smile with that one. "So? It's a bet?" She extended her hand, with a smile.

Davis smiled as he gripped her cool soft hand and shook it. "Deal." He was already undressing her with his thoughts.

Davis had met Tasha years ago in an evening writing class at the local college and despite the fact that she was a few years younger than him they struck up a lasting friendship. They found their interests in literature were similar enough to have a lot of overlap but still have room for new discoveries to be shared by each of them. Added to that, and perhaps more surprisingly, they found that they both just loved to go out and watch hockey in loud bars full of cheering fans amidst overflowing pitchers of beer.

He'd been happier to find a good friend that he would have ever admitted. He didn't lack for money but most of his nest egg had come from inheritance; as an only child with no remaining family he was essentially alone and starting over in a new city, putting some difficult years from his past behind him.

His forced independence at a young age had forced upon him self-reliance and an ability to make important decisions. He made a few mistakes over time, but he was cushioned from the worst of them by wealth, and all the other mistakes were lessons - not only on choices to avoid repeating, but also in learning to move on without regret. He was essentially alone in the world, and he had only himself to rely on.

Davis and Tasha constantly joked, laughed, and ribbed each other and there had been a lot of flirtation between them, but it had never materialized into anything, to Davis's occasional deep dismay. He never admitted it to her, but one reason he loved to enter these sports bars with her was that he was immediately seen as the luckiest damn guy in the place. Tasha wasn't just beautiful; she was striking.

She was tall, though not as tall as she seemed from a distance. She had long legs that she often displayed to great effect in miniskirts, short shorts, or wonderful dresses with tempting and dangerous slits. Glimpses caught of her stockings as she would move in a skirt or dress like that would have you thinking of her legs for days. One night, Davis nearly spit out a mouthful of Heineken when he caught sight of actual garter belts during a leg-crossing manoeuvre of hers.

Her long black gleaming hair flowed in soft arcs around the fine features of her face. She usually had a bit of red highlights added, which also served to accentuate the fuck-me red lipstick she usually wore, and wore very well, as it just popped against the almost porcelain whiteness of her skin. She was curvy too - not some skinny rail, but with full breasts and round hips and an ass that you just wanted to drop to your knees and pray to. This wasn't to say she wasn't fit - when those late playoff games drifted into spring, she would occasionally wear a midriff-baring blouse that could take his breath away. Her body was real, the kind of skin you wanted to touch as well as look at.

Tasha wasn't the kind of woman who shied away from her looks. All of her clothing seemed to hug her body close or even squeeze her a bit. She never looked like she had just thrown something together on the way out either; it was always an "outfit" and often black or in some deep rich colour. She admitted once she liked the contrast against her skin.

She always seemed a touch out of place, cheering and yelling at the big screens, but she was enthusiastic, and she certainly knew the game. She loved the finesse of a well-placed, top-drawer goal and the hard hits and sweater tugging fights just as much as every man in the place. She had strength, self-assuredness, a take-charge attitude - he was mulling her nature over to himself once and hit upon thinking of her as all woman, but not the least bit girly. When you added together her enthusiasm, her one-of-the-guys attitude and occasional trucker-mouth, her ability to drink most men under the table with her look of pure, almost dangerous, sex appeal and she was quickly the centre of the fun any time they went out.

During the years that Davis had been friends with Tasha, he had been on dates with other women - one or two even suggested by her. He wasn't the kind of guy to have trouble with women - he was attractive, fun, even a bit funny, and while he never advertised his wealth it did allow him nice clothes and a few of the more pleasurable trappings of daily life.

Those relationships never seemed to go anywhere, however. If he was not actively comparing his date to Tasha, he was thinking about the kinds of things he'd rather been doing - things that Tasha would also happen to enjoy - or he was just frustrated with the work that small talk was compared to the effortlessness of conversations and laughter with her. His life had developed into a kind of happy partnership with her, perhaps even a happy addiction with no apparent or negative side effects.

He was in a daze, distracted by just the possibilities of that hour, should he win the bet, should his team hang on and win - they were up by a goal with mere minutes to play. In his fantasy he saw those red lips curling in a wry smile of resignation as she peeled off her clothing, once piece at a time, finally exposing the firm whiteness of her breasts to him, the soft lips of her pussy, the lithe and curving legs, as she would snuggle in between his spread thighs and make an eager meal of his cock, wrapping his shaft in those perfectly painted lips.

Her lips were pouting and just about to close on his cockhead when the groan of the crowd around him pulled him unhappily back to reality. His eyes jerked up to the screen to find the game tied. Looking over at Tasha, he found those delicious lips curled into a much more wicked smile.

Okay, okay. Play it cool, he thought to himself. I haven't lost yet, and there's still a goal between her and winning. Besides, being her plaything might be just as good!

The two teams were hammering at each other; men were going hard into the boards and getting checked hard all over the ice. It was some of the best hockey either of them had ever seen. As the play went from end to end, Davis's imagination flashed between detailed visions of Tasha's head between his legs and his between her toned thighs.

In those final seconds, with everyone in the bar on their feet, Davis knew it would happen even before it did. The surging visitors pulled their goalie, took perfect advantage of a delayed tripping call, and drove the puck into the net. He had lost.

Amidst the groans around their table, he slid down into chair, threw back the last sip of beer in his mug and smiled sheepishly at Tasha as she beamed back at him.

"I guess I'm all yours for the hour, my dear."

"Oh no, it's not that easy," she laughed. "The bet was an hour, not this hour. I've got plans to make for you, dearie."

Davis laughed, but a tinge of worry had crossed his thoughts. It took most of the next pint to get rid of the feeling completely, but when they parted at the end of the night, he was back to the lusty dream that one way or another, it seemed that he was finally going to get a taste of her. Hell, he even thought he felt her nipples slightly erect against his chest as their goodbye hug lingered.

The Hour

The unknown variety of possibilities made pondering details futile, so all he was left with was waiting for the time and place of the hour to be announced. Finally, that question was answered on Wednesday; he got home from work to find a message from her on his machine. He could hear a playful lilt in her tone, but her words were all business. "Davis, it's Tasha. I'm calling to let you know that your hour will begin on Saturday at One in the afternoon. Dress casual." She gave an address downtown; he seemed to remember the street name, but he wasn't too familiar with the area. "Don't be late!" were her final words.

After a seemingly endless week, Saturday arrived. Davis decided to treat the situation optimistically - even though he knew he lost the bet, he was still positive he would feel like a winner by the end of the day.

He arrived on time, showered and clean-shaven, dressed in faded jeans and a crisply pressed black oxford shirt un-tucked over a white t-shirt. He still wasn't getting any read on the neighbourhood and the door matching the given address was just a nondescript door on one of a row of townhouses that seemed to have been converted to offices. The street was narrow, quiet and heavily treed - even on this sunny day the shade gave an intimate sense of privacy.

One last check of his watch to confirm the time - One on the nose - and he knocked.

In just an instant, she was there, opening the door and leading him inside. Right there, in what looked like a kind of lobby - all white walls and black leather furniture - she told him that his hour was starting, right now. She handed him a blindfold. It felt heavy in his hands, made of thick black leather and lined with a plush black fur on the inside.

"Put it on, quickly please," she instructed with a wry smile. "I intend to get the most out of my hour."

He hesitated a moment, but with her reminder of the bet, he complies. He certainly didn't want to give her any reason to think he is not going to live up to his end of the bargain. He valued her too much as a friend, and even thought of winning the next bet. He did regret not getting more of a chance to drink in the sight of her outfit.

She was wearing thigh-high black boots, fishnet stockings, a very short and very tight skirt that shone like it might even have been some kind of rubber or something. Her curves were even more defined by a tight crimson corset, and as low cut as it was it seemed to offer her impressive breasts up like dessert on a tray. Her hair was drawn back in a long ponytail, and she wore black lace gloves up to her elbows.

With a word and a firm hand on his arm, she led him further up and into the building. Up stairs, down a hallway, and finally into a filled with the soft sounds of some ethereal music - all sounds of the city were gone.

As soon as the door clicked behind him, followed immediately by the sound of a turning lock, her voice filled his ears.

"Take off your shirt," she said, and he could hear just a touch of something out of the ordinary it her voice. Excitement? Anticipation? He couldn't tell.

He complied, but it felt very strange to be doing this blindfolded. It was dark to him but he knew it was the middle of the day; for all he knew he was being inspected in bright light. No sooner had he dropped his shirt to the floor then she spoke again.

"T-shirt too, please."

Thank god for the gym, he thought.

And so, piece-by-piece, she had him strip completely. There was another pause, with Davis fighting his own nervousness, embarrassment and insecurities, when he had to push down his boxers, but he was resolved to go through with it. He steeled himself with the thought that no matter what, having an incredibly beautiful woman want to see you naked could hardly be a bad thing. Perhaps most embarrassing was the awareness of his erection. Since he didn't have to meet her gaze, he felt that the blindfold might be working in his favour at the moment.

Standing there, stripped with his discarded clothing piled around him, he wondered what would be coming next. He was also wondering how much of his hour was left. That question in his mind, he couldn't quite decide if he actually wanted it to be fast or slow to end. Reflecting on her personality he realized that he might have never guessed any of this, but there was something inevitable about her placing herself in charge - surprise without disbelief.

Tasha's voice interrupted his daydreaming. "I'm going to be giving you some direct commands, and I'm going to putting some things on you. Keep in mind that you will be doing what I want this hour... and that includes standing still when I want you to."

He nodded, finding his tongue a bit dry at the moment. He could sense her close, feel her breath, and hear her motion. First she put something around his wrists. Soft, it felt like the blindfold a bit, and they way she tightened and buckled the bands, they seemed like leather. She followed up with the same things around his ankles. He had to take deep breaths as he could just imagine her kneeling in front of him to put them on, so close to his swaying cock, stiffly standing out from his body.

"Wrists together." She sounded so businesslike - working against the clock, he supposed. He complied, and heard and felt a click, linking the wrist cuffs together.

"Ankles next, but this time they go apart. Spread 'em," she giggled a bit with that command, and he felt his cheeks warm as he complied. Something was being fastened to the ankle cuffs, and it was forcing his legs even wider apart than he had moved them himself. He figured it was some kind of bar or dowel, as he could feel that it was secured between his ankles. It felt strange, and he wobbled a bit as he got used to balancing this way.

"Now, step back. Slowly please; I don't want you falling over."

He was sure he was a comical sight, lifting and swinging one leg at a time, until he felt himself back up against something - not a wall but perhaps a bar or padded bench, just at the level of his ass.

"That's good, just far enough." He could tell from the location of her voice that she was down on the floor, between his legs - and the sensations told him that she was securing the bar between his ankles in place.

"Arms up, please." He swung his hands up, freshened in his embarrassment, as they had been providing his manhood some cover. By the time he had them out to shoulder height, out in front of himself, Tasha clicked something else onto the cuffs - rope or something, he thought, as she was tugging his arm up even higher. Wherever the pulley or whatever was, it was high, and also a bit behind him - it was pulling his arms high and back, and with the bumper behind him, it was putting him in a rather lewd posture - his hips out forward, like he had thrust his cock out.

She tied off the rope. He was starting to feel a bit silly, and more that a little exposed and helpless. He was naked, spread and stretched. He wanted to get free, to see her, to touch her. Damn, the thought, if she wanted to fuck me, let's get to it.

The sensation around his cock and balls is shockingly cold, a bit wet, and in a split second he recognises it, but he can't quite believe it. "What are you doing? Are you...?"

"Shut up. Seriously, don't talk unless I tell you to. I don't really want to have to gag you. And yes, I am, so you'd better hold still, don't you think?"

What the hell was going on? He never would have pegged her for as kinky as this had already gotten, but now she was shaving his balls? Dear god, what the fuck was going to be next? How was he going to explain this at the gym? All of a sudden, he was aching for the hour to end.

He held still, very still, as she worked. Even without seeing himself - it felt strange. There was a movement of air across his skin that was very new and cold-feeling. Despite his hesitation, he couldn't deny that he was rock hard. Sure, she'd been holding him the whole time, but it wasn't just that. She was making him look like she desired, and that feeling, the feeling of being desired so overtly was kind of arousing on its own.

"Now," she said, "You are coming along nicely. Time to get some clothes onto you again."

Clothes? He just couldn't figure this out. Man, he'd better get some inside information on future games, because payback was going to be a capital "b" Bitch.

He felt her freeing one of his ankles, then the other, and let out a sigh of relief and thanks. He was confused immediately after though, feeling her sliding something else onto him. He soon realized what it was, and became a little less thankful. She was pulling underwear up his legs - and not men's underwear. He could feel it, tight and elastic and small and lacy. Over his hairless cock and balls, the panties felt incredibly strange. They felt strained over his shaft, and the thong back was quickly pulled between his ass cheeks.

Panties weren't enough for Tasha, obviously, as next came stockings, pulled and rolled up his legs. She even fit a garter belt over his hips to hold them up.

With his legs taken care of, she re-attached the cuffs over the stockings, and the spreader bar was put back on as well. What was going on? She was dressing him in women's clothes? Even without seeing himself, he just felt kind of silly, embarrassed. Was it about humiliating him?  Weakening him?

Cursing silently in the darkness behind his blindfold, he next felt something around his waist and over his stomach. It was leather and tight, and only getting tighter. She was pulling at it, and as he felt it hug and tighten around him he realized it must be some kind of corset. Tighter and tighter and tighter she laced it, until he felt like he could barely breathe.

"Tasha, please, come on," He gasped at her with short breaths.

"Come now yourself, Davis. You lost, so you pay the price. Don't think I don't know that if I had lost I'd be dressed up like some stripper or Catholic schoolgirl blowing you right now. Besides, it's just going to get more fun."

He sighed, and begrudgingly conceded to himself that his own imagined plans had hardly been gentlemanly.

"Now, I'm going to free your arms now, and we're going to move a bit. Be a good boy, and just do what I tell you." He could hear a kind of teasing glee in her voice, and it was making him a bit nervous. She was really getting off on this, he could tell. Just as before, some silent part of him begrudgingly admitted that in itself was incredibly erotic.

She freed his wrist cuffs from each other, and for a moment, she let him move his arms, stretching his muscles, bending his elbows. It was short lived, as another terse command had him guiding his hands together behind his back. The closure and rope were back, and his arms were being pulled upward. The discomfort of it made him bend forward, more and more. With the stiff corset around his waist, his body was stiff and restricted, and soon he was bent so far forward that his upper body was horizontal.

Davis was starting to get even more worried; hard cock or not, it all just seemed like it was getting out of hand.

She had been so clinical and businesslike with him, almost voyeuristic, that his body jerked in shocked surprise when her gloved hand reached into the panties to take hold of his cock. She started to stroke him, in firm strong motions, and he could feel the intense pleasure of his erection in her grip, his sensitized cockhead wet with precum and tight against the fabric of his tight panties. She pulled them down, exposing him more, seemingly to get greater freedom of motion, as her thrusts only sped up and grew more enthusiastic.

He bit his lower lip, actually moaning, and he realized that he would be close to exploding if he didn't watch it - but then she stopped. She wasn't touching him any more, but he could feel his pounding pulse in his erection.

Her hands were not gone from him long. She was close, holding his shaved manhood, and his moans returned as she tightened some kind of leather straps or harness around him - his balls were individually surrounded and there was a strap tight around the base of his shaft as well. It only made him feel more erect, more on fire, more aware of every sensation and the tingling sizzle of his cockhead - but she only stretched and slapped the panties over him again - though they were stretched a bit more now.

He was just about at the breaking point he thought. He just couldn't take it any more. "Please, oh god Tasha, please?"

"Well, don't say I didn't warn you," was her only response. He opened his mouth to speak, to apologize, only to feel a rubber ball gag being jammed into his mouth. She pushed it between his teeth, and when she buckled it tight around his head, it was pulled only farther into his mouth, stretching his lips.

He was moaning, begging in muffled gurgles - what more did he have to lose now? - when he heard a kind of beeping. He stopped, and tried to figure out what it was. Some kind of alarm?

"Oh, look at that."

He felt her close once more, and through the transferred motion, he could feel her removing his blindfold.

The room was brightly lit, causing him to blink and wince. It was a minute or so at least before he could really see anything. When he was able to, he almost wished that he couldn't. All four walls around him were mirrored, so he got a full look at just how helpless ridiculous he looked. It was worse than he had imagined. It might have felt erotic at times, but in the harsh light of day he just looked silly. If that wasn't enough, he could also catch sight of at least two video cameras mounted on tripods and aimed directly at him.

There were innumerable hooks and shelves on the walls, each one seeming to hold some new kind of whip or crop or toy. He realized he was in some kind of kinky dungeon. More ominous than that was Tasha. She was dressed nearly exactly as he glimpsed upon his arrival, except that now her skirt was gone, and around her hips was strapped a rather large sized and bizarrely pink dildo - jutting out lewdly from her incredible body.

"Did you hear the alarm, Davis my dear? You know what that means? Your hour is up. You don't have to obey any more. Go ahead, do whatever you want." She laughed out loud now. His breathing was getting more rapid, and saliva was leaking out around his gag and starting to drip from his lips.

She came up close to him, kneeling down to look him right in the eye. "Didn't you hear me?" she asked mockingly, as she started to powder his cheeks with an oversized applicator, surrounding his face with a white dusty cloud. "Come on, don't you get it? The bet is over. You can do whatever you want now." Next she was roughly dragging red lipstick over his stretched lips.

She stood up slowly. "Hmmmm, I guess you want to keep going." Standing as she was, the rubber cock was right in his face - moulded as realistically as it was, complete with cockhead, veins and balls, its bright pink colour only made it more obscene.

It was inches from him as she massaged it with lube, giving it a glistening sheen.

"You know, I've always wanted to do this - and I was hoping it would be with you."

She moved behind him, ignoring the screaming gurgles he could make - mumbled sounds that only gave his drooling lips a bubbling frenzy. She took hold of his hips and with a slow firm thrust she drove forward, taking his ass full and deep.

The throbbing pain formed tears in his eyes as she continued, driving into him over and over, deeper and deeper each time. It was agony, and he felt sure she would rip him apart. With the mirrors all around him, he had little choice but to watch it unfold - watch her motion, her body tight with pleasure and excitement, watch her fuck him. All he could do was witness as she took him in a way he had never been taken before.

It was different physically, of course, but also in more ways. She wanted him and she was taking him, on her terms. The power of her desire was overwhelming. He felt like he was seeing her fantasies, witnessing the most ragged and naked core of herself living free. For him too, it was strange and new and wild - being held so completely, he couldn't do anything to resist or react. He could just experience it and feel it and have the sensations overwhelm him. The bonds even gave him something to fully strain against.

The dildo, the most prominent instrument of her sexual power over him, was a completely new sensation and was so painful at first. It still sort of ached, but there was something else growing too: something that felt good, felt new and amazing - the pressure of the toy inside him, sliding and pulsing, it felt good, like attention to some sexual organ inside him he didn't even know he had.

He was getting the transferred high and arousal from her passionate enjoyment too. Over his gurgled moans, hers were building in intensity and volume and passion as well. She was just loving this - he could hear it, see it in the mirrors, feel it in his ass. It was impossible not to have that affect him. He felt his heart pounding in his cock.

He thought that nothing could be more embarrassing that that - than when he felt her shiver and scream and cum, just from her pure pleasure of fucking him in the ass. He also thought, or maybe just mentally begged, that it was over then too. He was wrong on both counts.

She wanted more, and she didn't even pull out of him while she let the waves of her orgasm roll and crash over her. A shiver when through her, when it was cresting, he imagined, that was transferred right into him as well.

And then, without so much as a warning, she started again. She was pushing harder now, deeper, smacking her hips right up against his ass, burying the dildo into him, rocking his entire body, making his shoulders ache and throb in rhythmically matching pain.

She found a way to reach around him, not pulling her rubber strap-on very far out of his ass, leaning over his restrained body. His cock was in her grip once more - trapped rock hard in the leather harness and held tight through the panties she'd dressed him in - but aroused and stiff in her hold nonetheless.

He felt her take him, fuck him, own him - and he felt her stroke him at the same time. He couldn't escape her passion, and the feelings he'd held towards her for so long. He couldn't resist the build-up of sensations and confusing emotions.

The cameras were rolling, the music was pounding, and when she came again, screaming even louder this time, he felt his own release undeniable - and he filled up his panties with thick cum, all while being ass-fucked by the only real friend he had.

After her own lingering pleasure, Tasha finally slid back out of him, leaving his ass feeling wide open and empty. With his cock softening, his mind clearing of the sexual adrenaline and endorphins, a colder version of reality started to sink into his thoughts. The cum in his panties was beginning to feel unpleasantly thick and wet. His arms and shoulders ached, and he felt a bit ridiculous in the panties and stockings, not to mention the makeup. His mind was also having a very hard time reconciling that he'd just had an orgasm, one of the most intense of his entire life, while being fucked in the ass.

Tasha didn't allow him to wallow for too long. She undid his wrist bondage from the suspension, allowing his arms to fall to his back, but she did not free him. She frantically unbuckled and pulled away her strap-on hardness, and peeled away the soaked thong that had been hiding beneath it.  Her fingers were frantic on him next, opening the strap and pulling out his gag.

He thought better of trying to talk, and as she slid up to him, perched on the edge of a chair with her hands reaching out to his hair, he drove his face forwards.

In a second he was back in the moment, drunk on her lust and his own desire. Her pussy was beautiful and soft and she felt like velvet on his tongue. She was dripping wet and soon his lips, chin and face were slick with her honey. He felt so manic all of a sudden, not able to get enough of her - and not being able to use his hands only made it more intense. His tongue was sliding and swirling, diving into her, curling and pulling up and out, twisting and turning around her swollen clit, travelling up and down her lips.  He wanted to feel and taste all of her.

She was moaning and screaming and urging him on, but there were times when she would close there thighs against his head and he could near nothing but his own pounding heartbeat. 

After two orgasms already, he figured it would take perhaps a bit longer to bring her to the crest, but he wanted nothing more in the world at that moment. Thoughts of his sore muscles or clothing or anything else were completely driven from his mind - the only thing that mattered was bringing extreme pleasure to his woman above him.

She rolled her hips, riding his face like a roller coaster. She lifted her ass up from the chair, and rested her feet on his shoulders, opening herself completely to his ministrations, and he responded. He slid his tongue the length of her, down and down, until the tip of his tongue was teasing the tight puckered rosebud of her ass. Judging by the sounds she emitted, his efforts were appreciated, and she reached down to hold him there a while.

Her fingers were curled in his hair, and soon enough she was guiding him back to her pussy, grinding his nose against her while his tongue dove. At last, she could hold off no longer, and she came with a rough and ragged scream, and sprayed and soaked his face with nectar. She rolled back in the chair and her legs fell, still wrapped around him, but sliding down so that the backs of her knees rested on his shoulders.

When she recovered once more, she slide softly off of him, covered herself in a long silky black robe, and freed him of his remaining bonds in a touch that was gentle, loving and comforting.

He was so lost in the mental overflow of these experiences that his conscious mind was barely present as she told loving hold of him, freeing him from the binding corset, removing the leather harness from his cock and balls, washing his face, getting him dressed. He was even too stunned to really even take advantage of his first real opportunity to drink in the stunning sex-appeal of her outfit. She sent him on his way with a long tight hug and deep lingering kiss, telling him she had to clean up, but that she would call him soon.

He felt in a daze, like he had awoken from a long nap from which his dreams were not ready to free him. He didn't so much decide to walk home as much as he just started walking.

After

His thoughts battled each other as he walked. Like any man, he'd had the kind of subliminal indoctrination that a man had to be in charge, that a man was the sexual aggressor. Add to that, his whole life he'd thought that any man who was the recipient of anal sex - "took it in the ass" was the phrase he couldn't escape - was homosexual or some kind of prison punch line.

What was this then? This woman he'd come to idealize, idolize, had just taken him completely, like he was some caveman's prize dragged by her hair. The experience had been exciting, freeing, arousing, thrilling; even when it had been frightening Tasha's arousal had been contagious. Was that it though? Did his body respond just because she was enjoying herself? He wished it could be so, but the core of him knew it wasn't true.

It was nice, he realized, to be the one free of decisions. All he had to do was follow her instructions, do what she wanted, trust in her to be the guide take the both of them to the wonderful and exotic places she was dreaming of.

There had been something pleasurable all on its own about straining against those ropes, about being helpless and controlled before her, even about the way that toy filled up his ass and forcibly fucked him. It felt like home somehow, in some strange way. Was this the way it had always been? He realized that she was always the one suggesting where they should go. She was always the one ordering the food, convincing him to stay for one more pint. It was him on her arm, beaming with pride, every time they walked into a crowded bar as heads turned. Not because she was with him, but because he was with her. Was it true? Was he hers?

Even the bet had been her idea. Had she planned this all along? She had said something, earlier today, how she had always wanted to do this. He found himself wondering just what else she would do with him given the chance. A second later, with a blushing smile, he realized he was even happier not knowing. He wanted it to be a surprise.

It wasn't even shocking when he realized he wanted it. He wanted more of this. He wanted to be hers. He wanted to follow her orders and instructions. He wanted to be helpless at her feet or before her. He wanted he to take what she wanted of him as much as he wanted to give everything he could.

The mental image that formed out of the cloud of his thoughts was not of any specific act, but just of him on his knees before her again. He was offering himself up to her, for all time.

That image resonated throughout his whole body, and he felt his heart pound. He felt a warm glow of happiness spread across his face as the crooked smile curled his lips. He felt his flesh tingle. The air felt fresher than it ever had as he drew in a deep long breath.

His jeans strained as well as his shaft stiffened. His cockhead became sensitised once more, and he realized at last, with an embarrassed blush, that she redressed him in his street clothes over the panties, garters and stockings - not in the boxers he had worn there. He felt the sticky thickness of his previous explosions against his thickening cock.

Yes, it was embarrassing to contemplate what it might be like to be discovered like this. What he had done for her and what she had done to him, all recorded for posterity and amusement in stills and video, might be used against him in the world outside that chamber. At this moment, in his mind, they were just a wonderful record of his start at being hers.

With the realisation of the lingerie beneath his clothing, he felt like he was the keeper of a wonderful secret from those around him. It only made him harder, more aroused, which in turn made the experience of the lace stretched by his manhood more intense. He felt the garter belts with each stride.

It made him ache to be walking to meet her, rather that just to his empty home. He wanted to be right back in her control, in her care.

When he saw her then, looking every bit as sexy as a Vargas model, sitting on the hood of her car in front of his building, it was all he could not to start running to her, running to be hers again.

"Still happy to see me?" Tasha asked, while the coy smile on her lips seemed to imply she knew the answer already.

"Never happier in my life," he said.

22 - Edward Cantor                        

Just an Hour - 1