Teann Daorsa

Chapter 5 It wasn’t long, after the straitjacket incident, before the status quo between Rachel and I became completely untenable. Keeping her overnight unlocked the temptations that had been growing with each session. She was too delicious not to enjoy. Her requests for rubber encasement were always polite, tentative even. In turn, the pleasure I took from binding, wrapping, and using her lithe, rubber-clad form was addictive. There was an illicit thrill from having her wriggling in a sleep-sack, locked in a chest, while I had my way with my clients. I told myself it wasn’t a distraction, but it almost certainly was. ...

Chapter 4 As the weeks progressed, Rachel dove deeper and deeper into the kinky world I had opened for her. In our sessions we tested her limits and explored her passions. She was voracious. All the enthusiasm I had witnessed in her work as a designer was equally as evident in her desire to experiment in my playroom. She had little tolerance for pain, be that flogging, clamps, or uncomfortable bondage. That suited me, while many of my professional clients liked to be whipped, or degraded, it wasn’t something I relished. ...

Chapter 3 Rachel took to rubber like a fish to water, even surprising me with how enthusiastically she embraced it. She pleaded and cajoled me until I consented to letting her take away one of my many pairs of latex panties, and a simple bra. She later told me that she was wearing them under her regular clothes for days, and if I am any judge of her reaction, no doubt rubbing herself to orgasm in them before she slept. ...

Chapter 2 The aftermath of Rachel’s first session in my playroom involved a long, luxurious shower for both of us - separately, before you make assumptions - and a large pot of tea in our dressing gowns in my well-appointed cottage kitchen. I needed to set some very clear, very firm boundaries between us, if this new exploration wasn’t to replace or subvert the close friendship that I’d come to enjoy since she came to the village. ...

Chapter 1 I first met Rachel standing in my doorway, a bottle of wine in hand, on a hot summer evening. She declared herself my new neighbour, and everyone else in the village ‘boring old farts’ whom she wouldn’t give the time of day to. She most certainly wasn’t my neighbour, outside of a most generous definition of the term, because I’d been very particular to find a property with expansive gardens, high hedges, a driveway landscaped deliberately to discourage prying eyes, and land round about which the farmer had agreed would never be developed for houses. And yet here she was, chaotic red hair framing her face, a cherubic expression on her face, and an enthusiastic way of talking that seemed quite impossible to deflect. All of my long-practiced skills at discouraging locals and cold-callers were utterly useless in the face of her positivity, and in the end, I confess that I simply cracked and let her inside. ...

It should be noted, before we start, that Anise wouldn’t normally be seen dead on this side of town. She had standards. Against the dark alleyways and industrial buildings of the east side, her outfit stuck out like a sore thumb. That was, of course, only part of the reason for her nervousness. Squinting at the discreet business card in her hand, for what must have been the hundredth time, she tried to persuade herself that she must be in the right place. The unit number matched that on the card, but the clue she had been hoping for as to what lay inside was notably absent. The card itself was no help, simply a name and an address. No phone number, no website, no title. Nor was the hand-written message on the back, burned into her brain from reading and re-reading. ...

Braving the Elevator As she stood in the elevator, Jessica wondered if she wasn’t still a little bit drunk from last night. She was pretty sure she wouldn’t even be considering this normally. Yes, she must still be be drunk. She did have an awful lot of wine. Thankfully the painkillers were making short work of the hangover, and the unpleasant memory of the throbbing head the booze had left her with. At least she didn’t have to feel guilty about the drinking; after all everyone’s allowed a night of self-pity when they’ve just broken off a three year engagement, right? ...

Return to the Room Alex flopped down onto the bed, enjoying the feel of the hotel robe against his shower-damp skin. He always felt better when he’d had a chance to wash away the feelings of a long hard day with the clients. Thankfully the law firm he worked for treated their staff well - the hotel they were putting him up in made his own apartment feel like a squat in comparison. It was one of the oldest in the city, and the whole place radiated luxury. Every staff member there treated him like visiting royalty, which made it a pleasure to return there after an over-long day in a stuffy meeting room with his corporate clients. ...

Just a minute, I’ll be right back “Just a minute, I’ll be right back. Don’t go anywhere!” This last was accompanied by an impish grin, that I think only my wife could pull off without looking evil. Of course, I wasn’t going anywhere. I wiggled my hands against the straps a bit anyway, just to show willing. “That’s right, you’re staying right there. I just need to sort something out.” ...

Midnight, October 31st, 2007. A crossroads in rural Virginia. Morgan dropped the photo of himself, hastily taken in a gas station photo booth, into the box. His fingers were shaking, but he forced himself to keep going. He’d already had to kill a cat for this, burying the damned box was the easy part. Or so he told himself. He couldn’t tell if he felt ridiculous, or scared, or desperate. Probably all of them. Patting the dirt into place, he stood up, lit only by the headlamps of his beat up Volvo. Out here in the sticks, there was no other source of light. He didn’t know if the crossroads he’d picked would do. Didn’t know if any of this would work, or if it was just grade A bullshit peddled to him by a back-alley fortune teller. ...

I can pinpoint the moment Miss Wilson stopped being just a maths teacher to me quite clearly. It’s fixed in my mind, in a way few moments in my short life have been. I can remember the smell of the stuffy classroom, filled with sweaty teenage bodies. The droning voice of the economics teacher, talking about nothing I cared to learn. The heat of the room, oppressive and close. She came through the door of the classroom without a knock. I could see straight away that something wasn’t right. Her eyes were glassy and unfocused, looking past us, through us. Ignoring Mr Gardner’s questioned greeting, saying nothing at all. Her unsteady gait took her past me where I sat, closest to the door, like she was looking for someone, or something. A confused look on her face, as if she wasn’t quite sure how to express something. I met Mr Gardner’s gaze as the room descended into a stunned silence. ...

Jane had always known that her feet were the most important part of her sexuality. In her early life, she’d discovered the thrill of having someone else sensually massage her feet, and it awoke feelings in her that she’d hitherto only had in her late night bedroom self-exploration. A college lover skilled in the same massage, and with a passion for sucking and nibbling on her toes, had shown her that she could climax without the need for anything as mundane as a cock inside her. Feeling a tongue licking over and between her carefully painted toenails could bring her to heaven, but she knew it was the biting and nipping that sent her over the edge. That lover moved on, but even without him Jane’s obsession with sensations through her feet continued and escalated. Other lovers came and went, never quite scratching that itch Jane had come to know intimately, so instead she learned to satisfy it herself. ...

“It’s been way too long my old friend,” thought Alan, as he caressed the padded steel frame. It had been more than a month since he had been able to find time for a session. A combination of awkwardly timed shifts behind the hotel bar, and the hectic work leaving him over-tired meant that indulging his own passions was the last thing on his mind. After a while though, the itch to tie himself up became impossible to ignore. ...