A Mundane Tuesday Morning F/M
Posted: Tue Oct 14, 2025 4:12 pm
The first thing Matt became aware of was the cheerful, almost sarcastic chirping of a sparrow just outside the bedroom window. The second was that he couldn't move his arms. Or his legs. Or, for that matter, his jaw. Blimey.
He blinked his eyes open. The morning sun, doing its best to break through the usual cloud cover of the North of England countryside where he and his wife, Jane, lived, streamed through the blinds, painting stripes across the ceiling and his own naked body. He was spreadeagled on their king-sized bed, his wrists and ankles secured to the bedposts by surprisingly soft, bubblegum-pink Velcro cuffs and ropes. A large, silicone ball gag, also pink, filled his mouth. Right, he thought with a sense of weary resignation. It’s one of those Tuesdays.
He remembered the sequence of events. A sleepy good morning kiss, a playful suggestion from his wife that had escalated rather quickly. It had all been rather exciting. But that was a good thirty minutes ago. The initial thrill had now mellowed into a profound state of… what now? And he was absolutely gasping for a cuppa.
As if on cue, the bedroom door opened. Jane swept in. With her long brunette hair flowing and her amazing body draped in a sheer, black babydoll nightie that left very little to the imagination, she looked magnificent. A slow, hot feeling coiled in Matt's belly. He tried to say her name, which came out as a rather pathetic, "Mmmphh Jmmm!"
Jane didn't even glance at him. She walked over to the dresser, humming a jaunty tune that might have been the theme from The Archers, and picked up a hairbrush.
"Morning, darling," she said to her own reflection. "Can you believe the Hendersons from number 42 are getting another garden gnome? A fishing one this time. I saw it delivered yesterday. Utterly dreadful. It’ll clash terribly with their plastic flamingo."
Matt stared, dumbfounded. Garden gnomes? He strained against the cuffs. "Mmmph! Mmmph!" he insisted, trying to sound urgent.
Jane turned from the mirror and walked towards the bed. Relief washed over Matt. Finally.
She stopped by his right side, her gaze focused somewhere around his navel. "I was thinking of making that lasagna tonight. You know, the one from the new Jamie Oliver book. But I'm not sure we have any Parmesan left. I should have checked when I was at Tesco." As she spoke, her hand reached out and gave the Velcro cuff on his wrist a firm, business-like tug. She tested the tension of the rope, all with the detached air of someone checking if a picture frame was straight.
She moved around the bed, checking his other restraints with the same cool detachment, all while continuing her monologue. "Oh, and that reminds me, the dishwasher needs emptying," she continued, her fingers now wrapping around the cuff on his left ankle. "I know it's your turn, but I suppose you're a little… tied up at the moment." A tiny smirk played on her lips for a fraction of a second.
Finally, she came to his head, tilting his chin up to examine the pink ball gag. Her thumb brushed along the strap, and she gave it a little tug. "There. We wouldn't want this to be uncomfortable, would we?" The look in her eyes was anything but mundane. It was a flash of pure, playful dominance. She patted his chest twice. "Right then. I'm going to go sort out that dishwasher. You just… hang on."
She swept out of the room. A short while later, she was back. "Blast," she said to the room in general. "Completely out of milk. A morning without a proper brew is barely a morning at all."
Matt's eyes went wide. No. She wouldn't. This was a national crisis. He began to struggle in earnest. Jane simply glanced over at him, an eyebrow raised with mild curiosity, before turning her back and opening her wardrobe. He watched in suspended disbelief as she slipped out of the babydoll and shimmied into a pair of tight skinny jeans and a silky, cream-coloured blouse.
She grabbed her car keys. "Don't worry," she said, her voice a low purr. "I won't be long." Her hand drifted down, giving his balls a quick, playful tickle that made him buck. She leaned in close. "And if you're a good boy while I'm gone," she whispered, "I swear I'll fuck you senseless when I get back."
With a final, devastating wink, she was gone. The silence was absolute. She had actually popped to the Co-op for a pint of semi-skimmed while he was trussed up like a Christmas turkey. The sheer, calculated audacity of it was breathtakingly British. All he could do now was lie perfectly still and be a very, very good boy.
After an eternity, but in reality oy about twenty minutes or so, he heard the glorious crunch of tyres on the driveway. She was back. He listened as she put the shopping away before her footsteps finally grew closer. The door swung open. Jane stood there, holding a single red apple. She took a deliberate, noisy bite, leaning against the doorframe surveying her cuffed husband.
"Well now," she said. "Let's see if you've earned your reward."
She circled the bed slowly. "I was just thinking over our week. Tallying up the score." She arrived at his right side. "On Tuesday, you put the correct recycling bin out, even though it was the bank holiday schedule. That was very good of you." As she said "good," her free hand drifted down and gave his balls a gentle, teasing tickle.
"But," she continued, moving to the foot of the bed, "on Wednesday, you left your soggy tea bag on the side of the sink. Again. That was very, very bad." Her fingers descended on the sole of his right foot. He was ridiculously ticklish. He squirmed and twisted, a strangled laugh-groan escaping the gag.
She continued her list, alternating between promising tickles and hysterical assaults on his feet. "So, where does that leave us?" she mused. "Balanced just won't do." His heart sank. "I think you need a chance to earn an extra credit point." With a fluid grace, she began to strip.
"Licking your beautiful, dominant wife to a screaming orgasm," she stated, her voice a low, husky command, "now that would be a very, very good thing. Don't you think?" She strode to his head and, with a metallic click, unbuckled the gag.
He gasped in a lungful of air. "Jane..." he rasped.
"Shhh," she whispered. "No talking. Just worshipping." She straddled his head and lowered herself down. "Now," she commanded. "Begin."
He obeyed. He felt her response, the sharp intakes of breath. He worked with a frantic intensity, his tongue a deliberate, focused instrument. She began to rock on his face, her hands gripping the bedposts above his head, her back arching into a deep curve. Her breath became a ragged series of gasps and moans, rising in pitch until they broke into sharp, keening cries. The rocking became a frantic spasm; her entire body shuddered, taut and rigid, as the climax tore through her. She threw her head back, hair whipping against the sheets, before collapsing forward in a long, shiver of exhausted pleasure. Slowly, she pushed herself up.
"Well now," she purred. "An A+ for effort. The scales have been well and truly tipped." She leaned down. "Congratulations, darling. You've been a very good boy. And I always keep my promises.... eventually."
But as he waited in triumphant relief, she stretched languidly. "My goodness, all that excitement has made me terribly thirsty. I think I'm finally going to have that coffee."
Matt’s brain short-circuited. "Coffee? Jane, no. You promised. Look at me!" His erection stood proud and demanding. "I need you to touch me. Please."
Jane’s eyes drifted downwards. "Oh, I see."
She leaned over him and, with agonizing slowness, dragged the single, sharp point of her fingernail all the way up the length of him. "There. Touched." Before he could process the exquisite cruelty, she picked up her plush white dressing gown and slipped it on. "JANE!" he yelled.
"Be a good boy and wait," she called, and walked out. A moment later, he heard the cheerful gurgle of the coffee machine.
Matt slammed his head firmly down on the pillow, then strained his neck to gaze at his twitching cock, then dropped his head once again." Fucking unbelievable!"
After a while, she returned, grinning broadly.
"My God, finally," he breathed.
"I intend to keep my promise," she said calmly. "But we’re not quite there yet." She tutted. "I've had my turn with your tongue, but I don’t need it again just yet. So there’s no reason for you to be ungagged, is there? It just seems… untidy." She expertly slipped the gag back into his mouth.
"Now, let’s revisit the list. Your sterling work earned you a bonus point, but we’re not aiming for a bare pass, are we? We’re aiming for excellence." She leaned in. "For every good behaviour, you earn a reward. Perhaps a little... direct stimulation from that powerful little friend in my nightstand drawer. Understand?" He nodded frantically. "However," her voice dropped, "for any bad behaviour, there will be consequences. Perhaps I’ll just go downstairs and listen to The Archers omnibus. Or worse, call my mother for a long chat."
She let her robe slide to the floor and walked to her chest of drawers. "Nakedness, in this context, is a sign of vulnerability," she said, selecting a formidable black lace lingerie set. "You are naked because you are the subject. I, on the other hand, am in charge. And the one in charge needs a uniform. Clothing is power, Matt."
He watched, mesmerized, as she slowly, methodically, dressed herself in the intricate armour of her sexuality: a bra, a suspender belt, and sheer, back-seamed stockings. Each click and snap of the suspenders was a tiny, decisive blow.
"You've been exceptionally patient," she announced. "Another point for the good boy." She opened the nightstand drawer and retrieved a sleek, silver vibrator. "And I believe good boys get rewards."
The low, resonant hum of the wand filled the room. She crawled up the bed, the buzzing sceptre held before her. He was trembling, on the absolute precipice. "Okay," she breathed. "You've earned this."
In that split second before contact, a shrill, digital chime cut through the air. Jane froze. "Oh, for heaven's sake," she sighed, glancing at her phone. "It's my mother. I have to take this." With a casualness that was breathtaking, she tossed the buzzing wand onto the bed between his spread legs. "Don't you go anywhere," she said with a smirk, and swept out of the room.
The vibrator began a slow, relentless crawl across the bedsheet, heading south. Panic mingled with frantic excitement. He arched his back, but exhaustion won. He had to lower himself, and misjudged. The vibrator slid directly under the cleft of his buttocks. The effect was cataclysmic. A bolt of white-hot pleasure shot through him. The wave was building, unstoppable, the final, shattering crash was a breath away...
The bedroom door clicked open. Jane took in the scene, a slow, wolfish grin spreading across her face. In two quick strides, she deftly plucked the vibrator from its hiding place, snatching it away at the last possible second. He collapsed, a shuddering, frustrated wreck.
"Oh, no you don't," she purred. "That's not on the schedule. Trying to have all the fun without me? That's a very, very bad thing."
The buzz of the vibrator died. "Tsk, tsk, tsk," she chided. "An unauthorised climax is strictly forbidden. You nearly broke the rule." Her hand stroked him once, bringing him right back to that razor's edge... and then stopped. "No," she stated simply. "You don't get that now. You were naughty. And naughty boys don't get prizes. You, my darling, are in a time-out." She settled into an armchair with a copy of Vogue.
Matt began to thrash, his legs straining against the ropes, a series of muffled, desperate grunts escaping the ball gag. He tried to shift his entire body weight, making the old bed frame groan.
Jane flipped a page in her magazine, not lifting her eyes. "Darling," she murmured casually, "if you're going to make that much noise, I hope you're at least practicing for the Olympics. Maybe the synchronised thrashing category? Though you'll need a partner. Ah, look, this season's couture is divine. Honestly, they expect me to focus on Italian leather while you sound like a distressed warthog trying to escape a particularly sticky bog." She chuckled softly to herself, still reading. "Honestly, Matt, if you want attention, you have to be quiet and still. You're simply wasting energy being such a drama queen."
After another age, she closed the magazine. "Almost eleven," she murmured. "You've been tied up for just short of two hours now. Hardly any time at all. Remember my Ann Summers party last summer?" The memory flooded back: him, trussed up in the spare room, her sneaking in to paint his nipples with chocolate fudge paint and lick it off, leaving him sticky and desperate for hours. "You lasted almost five hours that night," she said. "So you see, my love, two hours is just the warm-up act."
With that, she swept out of the room to wander the house doing chores in her lingerie. He heard the laundry being folded, the dishwasher being unloaded. His epic crisis had become background noise for her Tuesday morning tidy-up.
When she finally returned, she looked down at him, a thoughtful expression on her face. "Your patience has earned you an opportunity," she said, and with a soft click, unbuckled the pink gag.
He gasped in a lungful of air. "Jane," he rasped, "Please... I can't take any more..."
"Shhh," she whispered. "I am prepared to offer you some... stimulation. But you will choose your words very carefully." She leaned closer. "Because I can take that privilege away at any moment. And if I do, we'll use the heavy-duty one. The black leather one we save for when I am feeling particularly strict. Do you understand me?" He swallowed hard and nodded.
"So, Matt," she whispered. "What would you like to say to your beautiful, dominant wife?"
He took a deep, steadying breath. "You look... magnificent, Jane." As he spoke, her hand began a slow, tickling assault on his groin, making it almost impossible to form a coherent sentence.
"Please," he panted, his words dissolving into raw desperation. "Even just a few... a few firm strokes. I swear I won't finish. I know that's your gift to give, and I'll respect your wishes completely. But just to feel your hand... properly... I would be so... so grateful."
Jane stilled her hand. "Well now, Matt," she said softly. "An interesting proposal." Her fingers slowly closed into a fist, encircling him with a firm, warm pressure. But she did not move. "I’m not going to do the work for you," she said. "If you want stimulation, you will thrust upwards. You will fuck my fist."
He obeyed. The friction was incredible. She controlled the pressure, driving him higher and higher. He was seconds away… and then her fingers went lax. The friction vanished. "Jane!" he cried. Her fist tightened again, just for a moment, a half-second of glorious friction, before going slack once more.
He became frantic, chasing that fleeting contact. Finally, something inside him snapped.
“Jane, damn it, let me!” he snarled, his voice cracking with sheer frustration. “Let me cum! Just bloody let me finish!” He thrashed his hips wildly, trying to force himself against her hand. “Untie me! Now! I’m serious, Jane, I want to be untied!”
Jane’s reaction was instantaneous and chilling. She removed her hand and stood up, her face a mask of profound disappointment. She didn't shout; her voice was dangerously low, cold, and utterly controlled.
"Well," she said, her hands resting calmly on her hips as she surveyed his struggling form. "That’s that. Your voice was a privilege, Matthew. Your momentary pleasure was a gift. And you have just thrown both back in my face."
He watched, horrified, as she slowly walked to the chest of drawers, her movements deliberate and elegant, ignoring his desperate whimpering. "You broke the rules," she continued, her voice gaining a hard, sharp edge. "You forgot who is in charge here, and worse, you made a demand. That is unacceptable." She retrieved the heavy-duty gag, a formidable black leather piece.
Panic, cold and absolute, washed over him. “No, Jane, no, please, I’m sorry! I didn’t mean it! I take it back! I’ll be good, I promise, please don’t put that on!” he begged, his voice dissolving into frantic, tearful pleas. He strained desperately against the ropes, the bedposts groaning a pathetic counterpoint to his terror.
Jane simply looked down at him, her expression hardening into one of deep, icy displeasure. “Too late for apologies, darling. You showed me disrespect.” A brief, one-sided struggle ensued before she forced the thick leather plug inside and buckled the straps brutally tight, cutting off his panicked cries. He lay there, panting, the taste of leather and his own defeat thick in his throat.
“That, Matthew,” she said, her voice a cold, hard line, “was a major, major bad move. You didn't just break the rules. You showed me disrespect and you demanded your freedom. So now you’ve lost everything. You lost your voice. You lost your chance at any pleasure. And most importantly,” she whispered, “you lost my trust.”
She turned from him and pulled out a long, elegant maxi dress of deep emerald silk, slipping it over her lingerie. She sat at her dressing table, her back to him, and began to do her hair and makeup, ignoring his muffled, frantic pleas. Finally, she stood, a vision of untouchable elegance. She paused at the door, her hand on the handle. She didn't turn. Her voice was flat, cold, and utterly devoid of emotion.
"Fuck you, Matt."
The door clicked shut. A moment later, he heard the deadbolt slide into place.
An hour passed, maybe more. All he could really do was lay in silence, his movement and speech weren't a option, and as he found out long ago, neither was escape.
The silence was finally broken by a sharp knock at the front door. The Ring doorbell chimed. It was Jane’s voice. "Hi Sal, just a second."
Sally? Jane’s best friend? Matt's blood ran cold.
He heard Jane’s voice again. "Oh, I've just nipped to the butchers, but you know what, the door's unlocked, just go on in. Put the kettle on, I won't be long."
No, no, no, no, no. He heard the front door open, heard Sally's cheerful voice in the hallway. She was making tea. And she was just one flight of stairs away from discovering his ultimate shame. The potential for social awkwardness was mortifying.
After ten minutes suspended in this agonizing limbo, he heard the front door open and close again. Jane was back. He heard her greet Sally before her footsteps started up the stairs. The bedroom door opened. She stood there, her face a mask of cool, measured disappointment. She closed the door behind her.
"Listen," she whispered, "I shouldn't have said what I said as I left. It was crude. But I'm not sorry for being angry, Matthew. You earned that, and your morning isn't going to get any easier for a while yet. "
His desperate hopes were extinguished.
"Sally is waiting for me downstairs for a brew," she stated calmly. "You'll be quiet. This is part of the lesson." She turned and walked back to the door. "Don't worry," she said, a tiny, cruel smirk on her lips. "I'll close the door properly this time. We wouldn't want her to hear you, would we?"
The door clicked firmly shut. A moment later, he heard Jane's laughter, light and carefree, drifting up from the kitchen.
After what felt like an age, he heard Jane's footsteps on the stairs again. The door opened and closed. She stood there, holding a steaming mug. "Did you enjoy your little time out? ” she quietly asked “Good. Now, about your tantrum.” She reached up and slid her black lace knickers down her stockinged legs. “You demanded release earlier" she whispered, walking towards his head. “So now, your sight will be taken away as punishment. "
She draped the lace panties over his face, the world going dark, replaced by her intimate scent.
“And since you were so desperate to feel something,” she continued, “you will be reminded of what you want. Constantly.” He felt a delicate, sheer fabric being gently stretched over his aching erection, which he assumed was one of Jane's stockings, followed by a small, hard object being slipped inside. A low, insistent buzz started, a relentless hum that promised everything and delivered nothing.
“Don’t mistake this for a reward, Matthew,” Jane’s voice was a cold, silken thread. “This is your punishment, and if my knickers have moved a millimeter when I get back, I'll order one of those cock cages from Amazon and you won't be cumming for a fucking month.Understood? "
Matt slowly nodded and grunted his compliance.
The door clicked shut, leaving him alone with the low, relentless buzz, while the cheerful sounds of friendship and coffee continued one floor below.
His own body became his enemy. An involuntary shift would change the pressure, sending him skyrocketing towards the brink, only for another twitch to pull him back at the last possible second. Again and again, the cycle repeated.
During a lull in the conversation downstairs, he arched his back in a violent, desperate spasm. The heavy oak bedframe let out a series of loud, frantic creaks, culminating in a solid THUMP.
"Goodness, what was that?" he heard Sally ask.
Jane's voice was a masterpiece of domestic annoyance. "Oh, for heaven's sake, that'll be Matt. He's decided today is the day to finally sort out all the junk in the loft. He's got his headphones on, probably listening to some dreadful history podcast. Completely oblivious. It's why he didn't answer the door earlier."
The excuse was perfect. His epic, world-ending crisis had been reduced to a mundane, domestic inconvenience.
Finally, he heard Sally’s goodbyes and the blessed roar of her car driving away. The house fell silent. The bedroom door opened. Jane stood there, a triumphant smile finally gracing her lips. She stood there for a few seconds, taking in the sight of Matt steadily humping the air, lost in his own world of erotic torment.
She sauntered up and peeled the lace panties from his face.
Enter Jane, brushing stray crumbs of a digestive biscuit off her dress.
"Let's tally the final score, shall we? Your tantrum was a major demerit. But... your silence under extreme pressure? That was exemplary. A gold star."
The relentless edging had left him on a hair-trigger. "And such excellence," she whispered, "deserves a reward."
She approached the bed and reached down, her fingers closing around him and the buzzing vibrator. She began to move, but with an agonizing, glacial slowness. While her right hand controlled his fate, her left slipped down to her own body.
He was on the brink, his whole body screaming for release. The pressure of her fingers around his cock and the vibrator was sending deep, throbbing sensations rippling though him.
With a sudden, aggressive movement, she ripped the heavy leather gag from his mouth.
Her hand quickly slipped beneath her dress and found her clit, slick and damp with excitement.
He sucked in a ragged, desperate breath. "Fuck, Jane..." he gasped.
"Shhh," she commanded, her own voice thick with pleasure. "I fucking love this, Matt," she breathed, her words a raw, possessive confession. "Tying you up. Watching you fall apart for me. This is what you were made for." She leaned in, her gaze burning. "From now on, this is what you are. My plaything. My stress relief. My sex slave. You're going to see a lot more of these ropes, tied down on my bed spreadeagle. Do you understand?"
He couldn't speak. He just nodded, a single, fervent motion.
"Good," she growled, and then her mouth was on his, a deep, bruising kiss that tasted of power and possession.
The world exploded. He cried out into her mouth as his release tore through him, a violent, shuddering wave that seemed to go on forever, coating the stocking and vibrator with his mess.
In the same instant, he felt her body clench, her own orgasm crashing over her as she muffled her cry against his lips. They clung to each other, two bodies locked in a shared, cataclysmic release.
Finally, she pulled away, her chest heaving, her lipstick smeared, her eyes hazy with pleasure. She was breathless, undone, and utterly triumphant. She stumbled off the bed, a weak, shaky laugh escaping her lips. "God," she breathed, running a hand through her hair as she staggered towards the bathroom, "That... was amazing!"
"Jane?" Matt asked, his voice a hoarse, hopeful whisper. "Are you... are you going to untie me now?"
Without turning around, she gave another weak, breathless laugh. "Darling, don't be ridiculous," she said, her voice full of spent amusement. "I haven't even decided what the fuck I'm having for lunch yet..."
And with that, she disappeared into the bathroom, the door clicking shut behind her.
He lay there in the quiet aftermath, the pink ropes a comforting presence, the scent of their climax hanging in the air. A slow, deeply satisfied smile spread across his face. He was still her prisoner. And he had never felt so free.
He blinked his eyes open. The morning sun, doing its best to break through the usual cloud cover of the North of England countryside where he and his wife, Jane, lived, streamed through the blinds, painting stripes across the ceiling and his own naked body. He was spreadeagled on their king-sized bed, his wrists and ankles secured to the bedposts by surprisingly soft, bubblegum-pink Velcro cuffs and ropes. A large, silicone ball gag, also pink, filled his mouth. Right, he thought with a sense of weary resignation. It’s one of those Tuesdays.
He remembered the sequence of events. A sleepy good morning kiss, a playful suggestion from his wife that had escalated rather quickly. It had all been rather exciting. But that was a good thirty minutes ago. The initial thrill had now mellowed into a profound state of… what now? And he was absolutely gasping for a cuppa.
As if on cue, the bedroom door opened. Jane swept in. With her long brunette hair flowing and her amazing body draped in a sheer, black babydoll nightie that left very little to the imagination, she looked magnificent. A slow, hot feeling coiled in Matt's belly. He tried to say her name, which came out as a rather pathetic, "Mmmphh Jmmm!"
Jane didn't even glance at him. She walked over to the dresser, humming a jaunty tune that might have been the theme from The Archers, and picked up a hairbrush.
"Morning, darling," she said to her own reflection. "Can you believe the Hendersons from number 42 are getting another garden gnome? A fishing one this time. I saw it delivered yesterday. Utterly dreadful. It’ll clash terribly with their plastic flamingo."
Matt stared, dumbfounded. Garden gnomes? He strained against the cuffs. "Mmmph! Mmmph!" he insisted, trying to sound urgent.
Jane turned from the mirror and walked towards the bed. Relief washed over Matt. Finally.
She stopped by his right side, her gaze focused somewhere around his navel. "I was thinking of making that lasagna tonight. You know, the one from the new Jamie Oliver book. But I'm not sure we have any Parmesan left. I should have checked when I was at Tesco." As she spoke, her hand reached out and gave the Velcro cuff on his wrist a firm, business-like tug. She tested the tension of the rope, all with the detached air of someone checking if a picture frame was straight.
She moved around the bed, checking his other restraints with the same cool detachment, all while continuing her monologue. "Oh, and that reminds me, the dishwasher needs emptying," she continued, her fingers now wrapping around the cuff on his left ankle. "I know it's your turn, but I suppose you're a little… tied up at the moment." A tiny smirk played on her lips for a fraction of a second.
Finally, she came to his head, tilting his chin up to examine the pink ball gag. Her thumb brushed along the strap, and she gave it a little tug. "There. We wouldn't want this to be uncomfortable, would we?" The look in her eyes was anything but mundane. It was a flash of pure, playful dominance. She patted his chest twice. "Right then. I'm going to go sort out that dishwasher. You just… hang on."
She swept out of the room. A short while later, she was back. "Blast," she said to the room in general. "Completely out of milk. A morning without a proper brew is barely a morning at all."
Matt's eyes went wide. No. She wouldn't. This was a national crisis. He began to struggle in earnest. Jane simply glanced over at him, an eyebrow raised with mild curiosity, before turning her back and opening her wardrobe. He watched in suspended disbelief as she slipped out of the babydoll and shimmied into a pair of tight skinny jeans and a silky, cream-coloured blouse.
She grabbed her car keys. "Don't worry," she said, her voice a low purr. "I won't be long." Her hand drifted down, giving his balls a quick, playful tickle that made him buck. She leaned in close. "And if you're a good boy while I'm gone," she whispered, "I swear I'll fuck you senseless when I get back."
With a final, devastating wink, she was gone. The silence was absolute. She had actually popped to the Co-op for a pint of semi-skimmed while he was trussed up like a Christmas turkey. The sheer, calculated audacity of it was breathtakingly British. All he could do now was lie perfectly still and be a very, very good boy.
After an eternity, but in reality oy about twenty minutes or so, he heard the glorious crunch of tyres on the driveway. She was back. He listened as she put the shopping away before her footsteps finally grew closer. The door swung open. Jane stood there, holding a single red apple. She took a deliberate, noisy bite, leaning against the doorframe surveying her cuffed husband.
"Well now," she said. "Let's see if you've earned your reward."
She circled the bed slowly. "I was just thinking over our week. Tallying up the score." She arrived at his right side. "On Tuesday, you put the correct recycling bin out, even though it was the bank holiday schedule. That was very good of you." As she said "good," her free hand drifted down and gave his balls a gentle, teasing tickle.
"But," she continued, moving to the foot of the bed, "on Wednesday, you left your soggy tea bag on the side of the sink. Again. That was very, very bad." Her fingers descended on the sole of his right foot. He was ridiculously ticklish. He squirmed and twisted, a strangled laugh-groan escaping the gag.
She continued her list, alternating between promising tickles and hysterical assaults on his feet. "So, where does that leave us?" she mused. "Balanced just won't do." His heart sank. "I think you need a chance to earn an extra credit point." With a fluid grace, she began to strip.
"Licking your beautiful, dominant wife to a screaming orgasm," she stated, her voice a low, husky command, "now that would be a very, very good thing. Don't you think?" She strode to his head and, with a metallic click, unbuckled the gag.
He gasped in a lungful of air. "Jane..." he rasped.
"Shhh," she whispered. "No talking. Just worshipping." She straddled his head and lowered herself down. "Now," she commanded. "Begin."
He obeyed. He felt her response, the sharp intakes of breath. He worked with a frantic intensity, his tongue a deliberate, focused instrument. She began to rock on his face, her hands gripping the bedposts above his head, her back arching into a deep curve. Her breath became a ragged series of gasps and moans, rising in pitch until they broke into sharp, keening cries. The rocking became a frantic spasm; her entire body shuddered, taut and rigid, as the climax tore through her. She threw her head back, hair whipping against the sheets, before collapsing forward in a long, shiver of exhausted pleasure. Slowly, she pushed herself up.
"Well now," she purred. "An A+ for effort. The scales have been well and truly tipped." She leaned down. "Congratulations, darling. You've been a very good boy. And I always keep my promises.... eventually."
But as he waited in triumphant relief, she stretched languidly. "My goodness, all that excitement has made me terribly thirsty. I think I'm finally going to have that coffee."
Matt’s brain short-circuited. "Coffee? Jane, no. You promised. Look at me!" His erection stood proud and demanding. "I need you to touch me. Please."
Jane’s eyes drifted downwards. "Oh, I see."
She leaned over him and, with agonizing slowness, dragged the single, sharp point of her fingernail all the way up the length of him. "There. Touched." Before he could process the exquisite cruelty, she picked up her plush white dressing gown and slipped it on. "JANE!" he yelled.
"Be a good boy and wait," she called, and walked out. A moment later, he heard the cheerful gurgle of the coffee machine.
Matt slammed his head firmly down on the pillow, then strained his neck to gaze at his twitching cock, then dropped his head once again." Fucking unbelievable!"
After a while, she returned, grinning broadly.
"My God, finally," he breathed.
"I intend to keep my promise," she said calmly. "But we’re not quite there yet." She tutted. "I've had my turn with your tongue, but I don’t need it again just yet. So there’s no reason for you to be ungagged, is there? It just seems… untidy." She expertly slipped the gag back into his mouth.
"Now, let’s revisit the list. Your sterling work earned you a bonus point, but we’re not aiming for a bare pass, are we? We’re aiming for excellence." She leaned in. "For every good behaviour, you earn a reward. Perhaps a little... direct stimulation from that powerful little friend in my nightstand drawer. Understand?" He nodded frantically. "However," her voice dropped, "for any bad behaviour, there will be consequences. Perhaps I’ll just go downstairs and listen to The Archers omnibus. Or worse, call my mother for a long chat."
She let her robe slide to the floor and walked to her chest of drawers. "Nakedness, in this context, is a sign of vulnerability," she said, selecting a formidable black lace lingerie set. "You are naked because you are the subject. I, on the other hand, am in charge. And the one in charge needs a uniform. Clothing is power, Matt."
He watched, mesmerized, as she slowly, methodically, dressed herself in the intricate armour of her sexuality: a bra, a suspender belt, and sheer, back-seamed stockings. Each click and snap of the suspenders was a tiny, decisive blow.
"You've been exceptionally patient," she announced. "Another point for the good boy." She opened the nightstand drawer and retrieved a sleek, silver vibrator. "And I believe good boys get rewards."
The low, resonant hum of the wand filled the room. She crawled up the bed, the buzzing sceptre held before her. He was trembling, on the absolute precipice. "Okay," she breathed. "You've earned this."
In that split second before contact, a shrill, digital chime cut through the air. Jane froze. "Oh, for heaven's sake," she sighed, glancing at her phone. "It's my mother. I have to take this." With a casualness that was breathtaking, she tossed the buzzing wand onto the bed between his spread legs. "Don't you go anywhere," she said with a smirk, and swept out of the room.
The vibrator began a slow, relentless crawl across the bedsheet, heading south. Panic mingled with frantic excitement. He arched his back, but exhaustion won. He had to lower himself, and misjudged. The vibrator slid directly under the cleft of his buttocks. The effect was cataclysmic. A bolt of white-hot pleasure shot through him. The wave was building, unstoppable, the final, shattering crash was a breath away...
The bedroom door clicked open. Jane took in the scene, a slow, wolfish grin spreading across her face. In two quick strides, she deftly plucked the vibrator from its hiding place, snatching it away at the last possible second. He collapsed, a shuddering, frustrated wreck.
"Oh, no you don't," she purred. "That's not on the schedule. Trying to have all the fun without me? That's a very, very bad thing."
The buzz of the vibrator died. "Tsk, tsk, tsk," she chided. "An unauthorised climax is strictly forbidden. You nearly broke the rule." Her hand stroked him once, bringing him right back to that razor's edge... and then stopped. "No," she stated simply. "You don't get that now. You were naughty. And naughty boys don't get prizes. You, my darling, are in a time-out." She settled into an armchair with a copy of Vogue.
Matt began to thrash, his legs straining against the ropes, a series of muffled, desperate grunts escaping the ball gag. He tried to shift his entire body weight, making the old bed frame groan.
Jane flipped a page in her magazine, not lifting her eyes. "Darling," she murmured casually, "if you're going to make that much noise, I hope you're at least practicing for the Olympics. Maybe the synchronised thrashing category? Though you'll need a partner. Ah, look, this season's couture is divine. Honestly, they expect me to focus on Italian leather while you sound like a distressed warthog trying to escape a particularly sticky bog." She chuckled softly to herself, still reading. "Honestly, Matt, if you want attention, you have to be quiet and still. You're simply wasting energy being such a drama queen."
After another age, she closed the magazine. "Almost eleven," she murmured. "You've been tied up for just short of two hours now. Hardly any time at all. Remember my Ann Summers party last summer?" The memory flooded back: him, trussed up in the spare room, her sneaking in to paint his nipples with chocolate fudge paint and lick it off, leaving him sticky and desperate for hours. "You lasted almost five hours that night," she said. "So you see, my love, two hours is just the warm-up act."
With that, she swept out of the room to wander the house doing chores in her lingerie. He heard the laundry being folded, the dishwasher being unloaded. His epic crisis had become background noise for her Tuesday morning tidy-up.
When she finally returned, she looked down at him, a thoughtful expression on her face. "Your patience has earned you an opportunity," she said, and with a soft click, unbuckled the pink gag.
He gasped in a lungful of air. "Jane," he rasped, "Please... I can't take any more..."
"Shhh," she whispered. "I am prepared to offer you some... stimulation. But you will choose your words very carefully." She leaned closer. "Because I can take that privilege away at any moment. And if I do, we'll use the heavy-duty one. The black leather one we save for when I am feeling particularly strict. Do you understand me?" He swallowed hard and nodded.
"So, Matt," she whispered. "What would you like to say to your beautiful, dominant wife?"
He took a deep, steadying breath. "You look... magnificent, Jane." As he spoke, her hand began a slow, tickling assault on his groin, making it almost impossible to form a coherent sentence.
"Please," he panted, his words dissolving into raw desperation. "Even just a few... a few firm strokes. I swear I won't finish. I know that's your gift to give, and I'll respect your wishes completely. But just to feel your hand... properly... I would be so... so grateful."
Jane stilled her hand. "Well now, Matt," she said softly. "An interesting proposal." Her fingers slowly closed into a fist, encircling him with a firm, warm pressure. But she did not move. "I’m not going to do the work for you," she said. "If you want stimulation, you will thrust upwards. You will fuck my fist."
He obeyed. The friction was incredible. She controlled the pressure, driving him higher and higher. He was seconds away… and then her fingers went lax. The friction vanished. "Jane!" he cried. Her fist tightened again, just for a moment, a half-second of glorious friction, before going slack once more.
He became frantic, chasing that fleeting contact. Finally, something inside him snapped.
“Jane, damn it, let me!” he snarled, his voice cracking with sheer frustration. “Let me cum! Just bloody let me finish!” He thrashed his hips wildly, trying to force himself against her hand. “Untie me! Now! I’m serious, Jane, I want to be untied!”
Jane’s reaction was instantaneous and chilling. She removed her hand and stood up, her face a mask of profound disappointment. She didn't shout; her voice was dangerously low, cold, and utterly controlled.
"Well," she said, her hands resting calmly on her hips as she surveyed his struggling form. "That’s that. Your voice was a privilege, Matthew. Your momentary pleasure was a gift. And you have just thrown both back in my face."
He watched, horrified, as she slowly walked to the chest of drawers, her movements deliberate and elegant, ignoring his desperate whimpering. "You broke the rules," she continued, her voice gaining a hard, sharp edge. "You forgot who is in charge here, and worse, you made a demand. That is unacceptable." She retrieved the heavy-duty gag, a formidable black leather piece.
Panic, cold and absolute, washed over him. “No, Jane, no, please, I’m sorry! I didn’t mean it! I take it back! I’ll be good, I promise, please don’t put that on!” he begged, his voice dissolving into frantic, tearful pleas. He strained desperately against the ropes, the bedposts groaning a pathetic counterpoint to his terror.
Jane simply looked down at him, her expression hardening into one of deep, icy displeasure. “Too late for apologies, darling. You showed me disrespect.” A brief, one-sided struggle ensued before she forced the thick leather plug inside and buckled the straps brutally tight, cutting off his panicked cries. He lay there, panting, the taste of leather and his own defeat thick in his throat.
“That, Matthew,” she said, her voice a cold, hard line, “was a major, major bad move. You didn't just break the rules. You showed me disrespect and you demanded your freedom. So now you’ve lost everything. You lost your voice. You lost your chance at any pleasure. And most importantly,” she whispered, “you lost my trust.”
She turned from him and pulled out a long, elegant maxi dress of deep emerald silk, slipping it over her lingerie. She sat at her dressing table, her back to him, and began to do her hair and makeup, ignoring his muffled, frantic pleas. Finally, she stood, a vision of untouchable elegance. She paused at the door, her hand on the handle. She didn't turn. Her voice was flat, cold, and utterly devoid of emotion.
"Fuck you, Matt."
The door clicked shut. A moment later, he heard the deadbolt slide into place.
An hour passed, maybe more. All he could really do was lay in silence, his movement and speech weren't a option, and as he found out long ago, neither was escape.
The silence was finally broken by a sharp knock at the front door. The Ring doorbell chimed. It was Jane’s voice. "Hi Sal, just a second."
Sally? Jane’s best friend? Matt's blood ran cold.
He heard Jane’s voice again. "Oh, I've just nipped to the butchers, but you know what, the door's unlocked, just go on in. Put the kettle on, I won't be long."
No, no, no, no, no. He heard the front door open, heard Sally's cheerful voice in the hallway. She was making tea. And she was just one flight of stairs away from discovering his ultimate shame. The potential for social awkwardness was mortifying.
After ten minutes suspended in this agonizing limbo, he heard the front door open and close again. Jane was back. He heard her greet Sally before her footsteps started up the stairs. The bedroom door opened. She stood there, her face a mask of cool, measured disappointment. She closed the door behind her.
"Listen," she whispered, "I shouldn't have said what I said as I left. It was crude. But I'm not sorry for being angry, Matthew. You earned that, and your morning isn't going to get any easier for a while yet. "
His desperate hopes were extinguished.
"Sally is waiting for me downstairs for a brew," she stated calmly. "You'll be quiet. This is part of the lesson." She turned and walked back to the door. "Don't worry," she said, a tiny, cruel smirk on her lips. "I'll close the door properly this time. We wouldn't want her to hear you, would we?"
The door clicked firmly shut. A moment later, he heard Jane's laughter, light and carefree, drifting up from the kitchen.
After what felt like an age, he heard Jane's footsteps on the stairs again. The door opened and closed. She stood there, holding a steaming mug. "Did you enjoy your little time out? ” she quietly asked “Good. Now, about your tantrum.” She reached up and slid her black lace knickers down her stockinged legs. “You demanded release earlier" she whispered, walking towards his head. “So now, your sight will be taken away as punishment. "
She draped the lace panties over his face, the world going dark, replaced by her intimate scent.
“And since you were so desperate to feel something,” she continued, “you will be reminded of what you want. Constantly.” He felt a delicate, sheer fabric being gently stretched over his aching erection, which he assumed was one of Jane's stockings, followed by a small, hard object being slipped inside. A low, insistent buzz started, a relentless hum that promised everything and delivered nothing.
“Don’t mistake this for a reward, Matthew,” Jane’s voice was a cold, silken thread. “This is your punishment, and if my knickers have moved a millimeter when I get back, I'll order one of those cock cages from Amazon and you won't be cumming for a fucking month.Understood? "
Matt slowly nodded and grunted his compliance.
The door clicked shut, leaving him alone with the low, relentless buzz, while the cheerful sounds of friendship and coffee continued one floor below.
His own body became his enemy. An involuntary shift would change the pressure, sending him skyrocketing towards the brink, only for another twitch to pull him back at the last possible second. Again and again, the cycle repeated.
During a lull in the conversation downstairs, he arched his back in a violent, desperate spasm. The heavy oak bedframe let out a series of loud, frantic creaks, culminating in a solid THUMP.
"Goodness, what was that?" he heard Sally ask.
Jane's voice was a masterpiece of domestic annoyance. "Oh, for heaven's sake, that'll be Matt. He's decided today is the day to finally sort out all the junk in the loft. He's got his headphones on, probably listening to some dreadful history podcast. Completely oblivious. It's why he didn't answer the door earlier."
The excuse was perfect. His epic, world-ending crisis had been reduced to a mundane, domestic inconvenience.
Finally, he heard Sally’s goodbyes and the blessed roar of her car driving away. The house fell silent. The bedroom door opened. Jane stood there, a triumphant smile finally gracing her lips. She stood there for a few seconds, taking in the sight of Matt steadily humping the air, lost in his own world of erotic torment.
She sauntered up and peeled the lace panties from his face.
Enter Jane, brushing stray crumbs of a digestive biscuit off her dress.
"Let's tally the final score, shall we? Your tantrum was a major demerit. But... your silence under extreme pressure? That was exemplary. A gold star."
The relentless edging had left him on a hair-trigger. "And such excellence," she whispered, "deserves a reward."
She approached the bed and reached down, her fingers closing around him and the buzzing vibrator. She began to move, but with an agonizing, glacial slowness. While her right hand controlled his fate, her left slipped down to her own body.
He was on the brink, his whole body screaming for release. The pressure of her fingers around his cock and the vibrator was sending deep, throbbing sensations rippling though him.
With a sudden, aggressive movement, she ripped the heavy leather gag from his mouth.
Her hand quickly slipped beneath her dress and found her clit, slick and damp with excitement.
He sucked in a ragged, desperate breath. "Fuck, Jane..." he gasped.
"Shhh," she commanded, her own voice thick with pleasure. "I fucking love this, Matt," she breathed, her words a raw, possessive confession. "Tying you up. Watching you fall apart for me. This is what you were made for." She leaned in, her gaze burning. "From now on, this is what you are. My plaything. My stress relief. My sex slave. You're going to see a lot more of these ropes, tied down on my bed spreadeagle. Do you understand?"
He couldn't speak. He just nodded, a single, fervent motion.
"Good," she growled, and then her mouth was on his, a deep, bruising kiss that tasted of power and possession.
The world exploded. He cried out into her mouth as his release tore through him, a violent, shuddering wave that seemed to go on forever, coating the stocking and vibrator with his mess.
In the same instant, he felt her body clench, her own orgasm crashing over her as she muffled her cry against his lips. They clung to each other, two bodies locked in a shared, cataclysmic release.
Finally, she pulled away, her chest heaving, her lipstick smeared, her eyes hazy with pleasure. She was breathless, undone, and utterly triumphant. She stumbled off the bed, a weak, shaky laugh escaping her lips. "God," she breathed, running a hand through her hair as she staggered towards the bathroom, "That... was amazing!"
"Jane?" Matt asked, his voice a hoarse, hopeful whisper. "Are you... are you going to untie me now?"
Without turning around, she gave another weak, breathless laugh. "Darling, don't be ridiculous," she said, her voice full of spent amusement. "I haven't even decided what the fuck I'm having for lunch yet..."
And with that, she disappeared into the bathroom, the door clicking shut behind her.
He lay there in the quiet aftermath, the pink ropes a comforting presence, the scent of their climax hanging in the air. A slow, deeply satisfied smile spread across his face. He was still her prisoner. And he had never felt so free.