Private Passions
I hang up the phone. My husband had just called from the airport to tell me that his flight had just landed and that he’d be home in 45 minutes. As he said, “I love you” before hanging up, I could hear the excited expectation in his voice. You see, whenever one of us leaves on a business trip, the other prepares a surprise for the returning one. It was also usual for the surprised to bring back something to add to whatever the other had in mind. It is through numerous such trips to Europe and throughout the U.S. that we were able to slowly build an extensive collection of fetish wear and bondage accessories. I climb the stairs to our bedroom, located on the top floor of an anonymous town house in a Toronto suburb. To our neighbours and family, we present the plain image of a young couple of professionals. But the darkened windows of the top floor hide our private lives of intense fetish and bondage enthusiasm. I take a quick bath in the ensuite located off the bedroom. After spraying a thin veil of latex-scented perfume all over my body, I walk back into our bedroom to prepare my surprise. I open the doors of the two large antique armoires that hold our prized collection. There are several items I had previously selected laid out on the bed. I first put on a black latex catsuit with attached feet and gloves. I pull the tight latex carefully over my legs and arms, smoothing it to remove any folds or creases. I clip a length of nylon webbing to the slider located in the small of my back then use it to pull the back zip up all the way to the top of the high collar. I then put on a pair of knee-high leather boots. My gloved fingers have trouble getting a good grip on the small sliders, but I quickly close the legs of the boots. Next, teetering on the 5" heels, I take a pair of locking leather wristcuffs which I then secure to my own wrists. Two small padlocks ensure that they could not be removed without a key, which is located on my husband’s keyring. After inserting soft wax ear plugs in each ear, I pull on an inflatable hood with a built in inflatable gag. I position the breathing hoses in my nostrils and test that the air flows unimpeded in and out of my lungs. Satisfied that I am in no danger of suffocating, I insert the limp ball of the gag deep in my mouth then slowly inflate it. My breathing relaxes as I start to feel the familiar pressure build up against my tongue and cheeks. I keep squeezing the inflater bulb until the balloon forces its way to the back of my throat, blocking the flow of air down my larynx. I immediately deflate it a little to restore my breathing. I detach the bulb from its valve and reattach it to the air valve on the hood itself. With forceful squeezes on the bulb, I quickly inflate the large balloon surrounding my head. Keeping a constant “watch” over my own breathing, the same pressure that presses against the inside of my mouth starts to build all over my head. With my free hand, I feel the features of my head disappear, replaced by an expanding taut sheet of thick latex. The pressure on the outside of my face soon counter-balances the pressure of the gag against my jaw, relieving most of the pain in my stretched muscles. I detach the bulb from the air valve and throw in the general direction of the bed. Without the bulb and its pressure-release valve, it is now impossible to deflate, much less remove, the hood. With the hood fully inflated and the plugs in my ears, I am now entirely covered in black latex, deaf, mute and blind. I raise my hands above my head, waving them as I try to find the handcuffs dangling from a ceiling chain. With my arms brushing against the side of the inflated hood, I grab the cold metal as soon as my fingers bump on the open cuffs. With barely a hint of hesitation, I lock the handcuffs through the metal rings attached to my leather wrist cuffs. I prefer to distribute the tension through the wide leather, rather than have the thin metal of the handcuffs dig through my skin. Disoriented and unable to go anywhere, I savour the smell and tight feeling of the latex pressed against my entire body. My thoughts start to run free, in anticipation of what my husband would do with me once he gets home. The opened armoires and the exposed collection is a clear invitation to take advantage of my defenceless body. And with all of my senses completely obstructed, I will be unable to know what he will be about to do until it was too late. It should not take him more than another 15 minutes to get home. But the wait seems to last for ever. I start to wonder if I should not have added a vibrating dildo to my set-up to keep me entertained during the wait. But I know that the frustration only adds to my desire. By instinctive reflex, I rub my thighs against each other, trying uselessly to elicit some stimulation. I can feel my nipples harden, begging to be sucked, nibbled and twisted. Between soft and very muffled moans, I try to listen and pick up signs that my husband is in the room. He could be standing right next to me or be stuck in traffic on the 401, I cannot tell the difference. Suddenly, I feel a soft brushing sensation on my erect left nipple. It must be my husband gently passing his finger on it. I grunt with pleasure and move toward the source of the faint touch but my hands, tied above my head, prevent me from reaching him. Carefully balancing myself on my left foot, I raise my right leg, trying to find his and rub against it. Finding only empty air, I am now wondering if I have not imagined the whole thing. I resume my resigned wait, gently swaying at the end of my chain. I am soon startled by the brush of a hand against the outside of my left thigh. The hand quickly slides down my leg to my ankle. I feel a strap being wrapped around my ankle. There is a gentle tug as the ankle cuff is buckled tightly. A few seconds later, his hand grabs the inside of my right ankle. Gently, my feet are pushed apart, forcing my arms to stretch above my head. Soon, the balloon surrounding my head is wedged between my outstretched arms as my legs are spread far apart. I feel another strap wrap around my right ankle and the same tug as it is buckled like the first one. The constant force applied to the inside of my ankles, which maintains my feet about 3ft apart, can only be the result of a spreader bar. Rendered even more helpless, I only want more for him to touch me and make me come. He must be standing there, admiring his work. I can feel his eyes on my body which aches the more for it. What seems like hours (but are only several seconds) passes without anything new touches on my skin. I rock my hips back and forth while humming a low moan into the gag. I’m saying: “touch me! fuck me!” but he isn’t listening. ...