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Elliott's Tale 1
All stories on this web site are purely FICTIONAL. The people depicted within these stories only exist in someone's IMAGINATION. Any resemblence between anyone depicted in these stories and any real person, living or dead, is an incredible COINCIDENCE too bizarre to be believed. If you think that you or someone you know is depicted in one of these stories it's only because you're a twisted perverted little fucker who sees conspiracies and plots where none exist. You probably suspect that your own MOTHER had sex with ALIENS and COWS and stuff. Well, she didn't. It's all in your head. Now take your tranquilizers and RELAX.
Newsgroups: alt.sex.bondage
From: Elliott Slater
Subject: Story: Elliott's tale #1
The tournament begins tomorrow.
The airways have been traversed, car rented, fields located, pasta consumed.
Is sex bad before a game? New York thinks so. Preserving precious bodily
fluids, or just to psych out their opponents, they are on enforced abstinence.
Until they lose, or win it all. For me, well, I always get my own room. It
costs more, but it allows fate a fair chance to work.
Fate has responded. I'm on my back, on the bed, legs stretched and tied very
wide (motel super-jumbo-dictator-size beds...lucky my limbs are long). Wrists
crossed over my head, tied with the evocative red bandana. A single stand of
rope, cut from the curtains, pulls my bound wrists well above my head, beyond
the pillow. I cannot see where it is fastened.
I wriggle, experimentally, in my bonds. A little play in my arms, but I can
tell - one of those things that one just knows, instantly - that I cannot get
loose. I am fairly comfortable - our mutual stretching routine helps with that
and it was a turn-on as well. "For both of us", I think, as I meet her
watchful, interested eyes.
She smiles, and disappears into the overly bright and cheerful bathroom, to
perform whatever rituals womankind need perform. Old flames turn up in the
strangest places. I knew she still played, but not, I thought, well enough to
make it here. Nice that the old physical attraction is still there, no matter
the years, the miles, and the other lovers between us. We knew as soon as we
met in the lobby that the night was ours...again.
The lights dim. She's on me like a cat, all teeth and claws for a few
moments. The surprise and strength of her takes my breath and my mind away. But
in a few seconds, her lips leave mine, she pulls away, and she's rummaging in
her bag. "Toys" I think...but it's a book. A book?
She lies down in the bed, still in her tshirt and shorts. I give her my best
impression of being confused. "Still like being teased?" she asks, running a
single finger along my ribs.
"Actually, I've given that up. Just quick, wholesome, satisfying sex for me
nowadays, my dear."
She purrs, her finger tracing intricate designs. "You know it's not good for
you. Or me. Particularly with two games tomorrow."
"Luckily, I have a first round bye" I wriggle a bit, enticingly. "Besides,
studies show that women who like to tie men up are statistically..."
"Hush". She places a hand over my mouth. "I think that you need focus,
sweetie. This is Nationals, you know." She settles herself comfortably against
me, and opened the book - apparently the Norton Anthology of Dead White Males.
A teacher's edition, I suspect.
Seeing where this is leading, I struggle briefly and furiously. The bed
rattles, but it is, as we say, to No Avail. "You're no Susan Sarandon, you
know", I mention rather unkindly.
"And you're no Kevin Kostner" I neglect to point out her inaccuracy, mainly
because I didn't realize it. She settles herself along my stretched figure, and
begins to read:
"This is thy hour O Soul, thy free flight into the wordless,
Away from books, away from art, the day erased, the lesson done,
Thee fully forth emerging, silent, gazing, pondering the themes
thou lovest best,
Night, sleep, death and the stars."
I groan. "Very nice. This is worse than Vogon poetry. Why not just hit me
on the head with your heavy book and put me out of my misery?"
She glowered. "I don't know who Vogon is, but that's Whitman, as I am sure
you are aware. Beast. Now, this one is from "Leaves of Grass....."
Epilogue:
Hours pass. Poetry takes on a new meaning in my life. Eventually,
we go 4-2 and lose in the finals. I am complimented on the ferocity of my play.
Focus, indeed. And before we part, we screw like tigers in the wild.
Elliott Slater
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