Bad Day

"Tell you what. I'll let you go if you beg me to spank you."

I could see her trying to calculate her way through this new turn. Was I lying to her just to torture her some more? Or would I really let her go? But she had no choice. She had to play our game. Our game that had become real.

She had stopped crying for the most part. It wasn't working anyway. "S-Shpank me," she said.

"Okay!" I said cheerfully. And began swatting her poor welted but still beautiful ass again. Her face contorted in anguish and pain and humiliation at being tricked like this. I loved it.

I was through torturing her, for now at least. I had a rock hard erection and needed to be relieved. So I stopped spanking her and without any warning, plunged my dick into her pussy. All the way in. She grunted in outrage. But this was for my pleasure, not hers, so I pulled on the neck noose as if it were a bridle, forcing her head up. And just pounded away. I presumed she felt this was better than a spanking, anyway. So now she was being pushed into the side of the bed while I was forcing her head back and riding her like she was a pony. Whipsawing her.

This went on for a couple of minutes, and then I came. I couldn't tell if she did or not. Frankly I didn't care.

Her breathing was becoming a little ragged, so I went around to the other side of the bed and released the neck rope. She just lay there, waiting for whatever was going to happen next. My god her body was beautiful. She was not a dainty girl. She was almost husky, with well-defined muscles, a relatively slim waist that bloomed into a pleasingly round, meaty ass that helped to accentuate her strong legs.

I found the panty again and stuffed it into her mouth, and retied it behind her head. "I've got to get something from my car," I told her, and patted her nice round white ass. "I'll be right back, my dear little housewife."

When I came back in the house with my next surprise for her, I found she had gotten herself off the bed and she was standing at the top of the stairs. I don't know what she thought that would get her. She was still tied hand and foot. But it made for a nice picture, which I took with my borrowed Polaroid, my next surprise. Her expression was priceless.

I started climbing the stairs to take more shots, and she tried to get away, hopping pathetically. I got some nice pics of this pitiful escape attempt. Then I stopped her by yanking on the crotch rope. I forced her to hop over to the bed again. I made her kneel on the floor at the foot of the bed. I tied her cuffed wrists to her ankles again and then, just because I could, I pulled the crotch rope up tight again into her luscious pussy and tied it to a bedpost. Then I sat in front of her with my legs on either side of her head. "Time for a few more pictures, Ginger, then I'll let you go. Okay?"

She looked at me. She had to say yes, whether she believed I would let her go or not. She nodded. I took the panty gag out again, letting it rest on her upper chest. I brought the camera up to my eyes. "You know what to do now, don't you?" She nodded again, and then she resignedly began sucking my cock while I took some more pictures. The Polaroids floated to the floor near us, gradually developing into some more humiliating memories for her. When I was ready to come I pulled on her hair so her neck would be extended and the semen would flow down her throat. Ah, it was lovely. And really, wasn't it the logical conclusion of those bondage games we had played on all those Saturdays? There was still a bolus of cum in her mouth. I saw her start to spit it out but I stopped her by re-inserting the panty gag and cinching it tight.

"You can keep some of those," I told her, pointing to the photos as I bent down to pick up a choice one: her staring straight ahead at my cock, right before she started to suck on it, an admixture of shame and fear on her face.

I was done with her, done with all those Saturdays of being a prisoner to her pussy. Done with her emotional blackmail. I got dressed and walked over to her, still held fast to the bedpost by the crotch rope. I took the handcuff keys out of my pocket and dropped them down next to her. She would have to squirm around a while to get to them, and that crotch rope that held her to the bed would give her some trouble, maybe even a little pleasure but I was confident that she would be able to get to the keys and eventually free herself. She could keep the cuffs.

I heard her groan in anger and frustration through the panty gag as I walked away.

I didn't hear from Ginger for almost two weeks. I was in the beginning stages of an affair with Pamela. Sex with her was sweet, when it happened. Certainly nothing as kinky as what I'd had with Ginger. I bought another set of cuffs, leather this time, but I rarely got to use them. But I didn't miss that... too much.

"I need those pictures," Ginger said as soon as I picked up the phone. I was in my apartment. I had put them away, but not too far away. I wasn't seeing Pam as much as I'd like. She was dating others - something we agreed to but I wasn't too happy about. I couldn't buy a date. I had actually begun to worry that stories about my... predilections had gotten out. Maybe even Ginger had started the rumors. And with dates with Pamela getting fewer and far between, those photos were becoming increasingly important to my solitary love life. "Please," she said. She sounded so pitiful and needy. "Please," she said again. "I can't stand the thought of them being out there. I need to have them. I need them destroyed." I didn't say anything. I didn't know what to say.

"You know, it took me quite a while to get out of those cuffs. And those ropes really...hurt." This both inflamed and shamed me at the same time. I didn't need to look at the pictures now. I was reliving the whole day in my mind. I could feel my heart beating faster and I was having a little trouble controlling my breath.

"You're using them, aren't you?" she said, the innuendo in her voice plain. Just the right mixture of accusation and sensuality. Mostly accusation. Even so, this conversation was stirring me. All those Saturdays I was truly beginning to miss them. "I'll use them if I have to," I told her. "If - if you're not a good little housewife."

She didn't reply for a moment. I felt like such a pervert suddenly. My growing lust now began to turn to shame and guilt for the humiliation and pain I had put her through on our final Saturday only what, three weeks ago?

"I'd be good... if you gave them to me," she said quietly. "Please," she said, like she had on our final Saturday, when I had made her beg to have me do so many things to her. I was getting quite aroused just thinking about it. And feeling as equally guilty. What a roller coaster. I didn't know how it was going to work out, if I was just going to give her the photos like a gentleman, a chastened gentleman - an abjectly apologetic gentleman - or if maybe she wanted to have a replay of our last meeting. Just... not so brutal.

"When?" I asked her.

We settled on the very next Saturday. And where? At her old house, which was still empty.

Well, I got ready for it, came the day, as if it were a real date. I hadn't meant to. I had purposely busied myself with other tasks. The uncertainty was too much. When I pulled up to the house I saw that her car was there. My heart was pumping fast again as I went up to the door and knocked, like a gentleman.

She was at the door, she'd seen me pull up. "Come on in," she said. I had the photos, all of them, in my front pocket. "You just missed Gordon."

Well, that was a surprise.

"He's in town for a few days. He's gone straight, I guess. He's doing it for the kids, he said." She started to tear up. "He's making it rough on me, the divorce, you know. The bastard." Her face twisted in anguish. "I can't let him have the kids. I know he'll start dealing again. I don't have a job right now; that's a strike against me. And - and he knows about all our Saturdays, and he's holding that over my head." Then she collapsed into my arms. God, did I feel guilty. Blackmail. Real blackmail. Like what I'd used on her. I felt like a weasel hearing that. The photos were burning a hole in my shirt pocket, those nasty disturbing photos that I couldn't help masturbating over. And here I had planned, I had hoped to put her through some of that same torture again. My little game. I put my arms around her but she put her hands on my chest and pushed herself away. She turned towards the stairs and put her hand out. I took it, and she led me to the stairs, and up them. Despite my remorse, the thought came to me that we might actually do it. But it would be real lovemaking this time. I would show her I could be a gentleman. I would try to make it up to her.

When we got upstairs she led me into the bedroom. There was the bed, still there. I rejected the visions in my mind of what I'd put her through on that bed.

She let me go of my hand and went over to the bed and sat down on it. The bed creaked a little. "He fucked me so many times on this bed," Ginger said. "Even today, no more than a few hours ago. A sort of a parting fuck. I was trying to get him to change his mind about the kids." She looked down. "I still have his cum in me," she said, her lips curling in disgust. She looked at me. "I know why you're here," she said. Then she stood abruptly, and began to take off her clothes. I watched her, fascinated. She looked at me again as she removed her necklace and ring.

I got very hard very fast. But I had learned my lesson. I wasn't going to rape her again. I couldn't bear the load of guilt I'd felt just a few minutes ago at her door. "You don't have to do this," I said huskily. "I'll make up to you. I'll give you the pictures."

She smiled then, a wicked smile. "You were very bad to me," she said, and pouted prettily. "All those Saturdays, particularly the last one." She reflexively rubbed her backside. "If you really want to make it up to me then maybe... this time... you should be the one who gets tied up." She reached under the mattress of the bed and pulled something out.

Now, what do you do when faced with a gun? Not a big gun. Like a .38. But a gun, a revolver. And it was loaded. I could see the bullets in the chamber looking back at me.

Naturally I thought about disarming her. But she stood up as my mind worked. "I guess you know I don't want to kill you," she said. "But I could certainly wound you. Have you ever been shot?"

She answered for me. "Of course you haven't. Now, think about it. Here you are in my house. An intruder...never mind an ex-lover, although that can be even more incriminating for you. You know. 'He was stalking me. He wouldn't leave me alone. Then he invaded my household and threatened me. So I had to shoot him'," and then she pointed the gun at my groin. "I regretted it," she smiled as she rehearsed her speech for the cops, "but I did what I had to do."

I think she could tell, by the expression on her face, that I believed she actually would shoot me.

She smiled wickedly again. "Reach your hands to the head of the bed," she told me. There's a paper bag between the mattress and the wall. Pull it out and empty it on the bed beside you," she said. I did so. I guess I was holding it numbly, not really believing this was happening. "Recognize anything?" she asked, inclining her head toward the spilled contents. Of course I recognized the items from the bag: handcuffs, no doubt the same ones I had used on her, and coils of rope and twine. There was even a hunting knife among the articles. She had duplicated the bondage gear I had used on her on so many Saturdays. "Well?" She said, and her face was grim.

I nodded yes, I knew the stuff from the bag.

She was capable of violence, that I knew. I had seen her spank, no, whip one of her kids once, with a belt. I knew she had even been in real fights with Gordon.

She brandished the gun again, and pointed it once more at my groin. "Okay, my little housewife," she said, giggling a little. "You're about to have a really bad day. Stand up."

I did as she ordered, my eyes never leaving the gun. "Take off your clothes," she told me. "All of them."

I didn't do anything at first. Then she cocked the trigger back. And I thought for a moment.

This was a delicate negotiation here. If I didn't believe she'd shoot, then I should rush her, take the gun away from her and then really put her through it for trying such a stunt. Or...

If I was uncertain whether she'd shoot or not, the prudent course would be to obey her, at least for now, until I could be sure I was able to overpower her without risking a gunshot wound

I decided on the prudent course.

As I started to undress I was reminded of so many other situations, movies, books, etc, titillating to me, in which a woman was forced to strip. I had rarely imagined myself in that situation. And of course I remembered making poor Ginger strip oh so many times, relishing her humiliation. From the look on Ginger's face, she was indeed delighting in turning the tables on me.

I undressed as she watched from a safe distance, and soon I was standing naked before her. I'd never felt so naked. I could feel blood pulsing into my cock. "Hey, take the watch off, too, " she said. A reminder of how I'd made her strip off even her jewelry. Now, I too was to be totally denuded. I tossed the watch on the growing pile of my clothes on the bed.

"Turn around," she said, and I did. I felt her put the cuffs into my hands.

"Put them on behind your back."

Now, once again, a critical moment. If I obeyed her and cuffed myself, I would be helpless. If I tried to do something now, with my back turned to her, I was at a definite disadvantage. She seemed to sense my cogitations. "Do it now," she said, "or I'll shoot you in the ass." I felt her press the cold barrel of the gun against my ass. "Think about how that'll feel," she said, pushing the gun barrel farther into the flesh of my ass.

Again, I took the prudent course.

I fiddled around with the cuffs, trying to do as she said. I felt her helping to click them home. The critical moment had come and gone and my chance to get out of this had passed. When the cuffs were closed around my wrists I felt a thrill of fear at knowing I was now completely at her mercy. But, I thought, she isn't going to kill me, this is the right way to end it. Let her have her way with me for once, instead of the other way around. Even let her get a little rough with me. Then I would truly be guilt free. And I knew she would probably be amateurish and even gentle.

I couldn't have been more wrong.

When she was certain my hands were securely fastened she came around in front of me, still holding the gun. Her expression had changed again, had become grim again.

In swift determined motions she lifted up my swelling cock and, picking up the knife, she put the blade under it, its serrated edge gently prickling the underside. She looked up at me, still grim. "You're in a lot of trouble," she said. "I'm not playing around here. What's that you told me on that last Saturday? 'Now it's for real'?" She pulled on my cock, the knife remaining where it was, close to the root of my member and I gasped at this menacing turn. She smiled widely now, clearly proud of herself for having pulled her little plan off. All I could do was stand there, frozen in fear that she was about to castrate me. She stroked my dick a couple of times, making it grow larger in spite of the danger, then pulled on it again, hard, forcing me closer to her. I felt the serrated points of the knife dig in just a little deeper. I started to sweat, even tremble a little. "There's a potential for a horrible "accident" here," she said. You know, kinky foreplay ends in genital mutilation? That sort of thing." She squeezed my cock then, in a sort of fond, possessive way. "And what could you say about it? You let me tie you up, didn't you?" She asked. I had to agree that I had. I nodded slowly.

Suddenly she put the knife aside, and I found that I had been holding my breath. "But that doesn't have to happen, not if you cooperate. Just know that I'm willing to do that if you get uppity, as a payback for all those torments you put me through. And even if you did go to the cops with your tale of woe, dick in hand, what might they do to me? I would tell them it was an accident. I might serve jail time but I doubt it. My word is as good as yours as to my intent. It would all be a dreadful incident and there would be trouble for me but you, my friend, would definitely be the worse for it." She squeezed and then pulled on my cock again, making me grunt involuntarily. "Do we understand each other?"

I nodded yes.

"Good," she said, and let go of my genitals. She picked up the coils of rope. I saw no point in resisting while she tied my ankles, then my knees, then my hips, and oh yes, another rope around my waist. Now the twine, which of course she tied to the handcuffs and then threaded through the waist rope. Like I had done to her, she pushed the twine through my legs. It tickled a bit. I imagined how I must look then, bound as I had bound her. I didn't like the feeling at all. I felt degraded and foolish standing there.

I didn't watch her encircle my cock and balls with the twine, I watched her as she did it. The she pulled the twine, hard. The pain went right through my genitals to somewhere deep in my torso, an awful deep internal gut punch. She smiled cruelly as I gasped in pain.

Then she stepped away and continued to undress. I saw, after she removed her panties, that she had shaved her pussy, the dark labia clearly visible. She didn't discard the panties with the rest of her clothes, rather she wadded them up and smiled at me. "Open up," she said, and I did. Then she stuffed them in my mouth, securing them with a length of twine dug deep into my jaws. Now grabbing again the length of twine that had become a cock leash, she looked up at me and said, "Now who's the little housewife?" That humbling little phrase certainly emphasized the reversal of our positions. Now I was a part of her fantasy.

"I'm going to have some fun, and you're going to have a really bad day," she said, repeating word for word the phrase I had used with such relish on her so many times before. She pulled on the leash to lead me nearer to the head of the bed, where I had discarded my clothes. She picked up my pants and unthreaded the belt. Yes, the same belt I had used on her. She let the buckle end trail down my torso and then rest coldly against my outstretched cock. "I'll bet you can't remember the last time you were spanked, can you?" I didn't answer, gagged as I was, and I don't think she wanted me to say anything yet anyway. "Spankings are awful, aren't they?" she smiled as she rubbed her ass suggestively, her fine round white ass. At least, from what I had seen of it, the welts and bruising were gone. I wondered briefly how fast my skin was going to heal. Just get it over with, I thought.

"But a spanking is nothing next to a whipping, with a belt. I know that," she said, and her smile disappeared. Now she touched my bound cock, and started stroking it. The resultant erection was surprisingly painful. I stole a glance down to see the flesh of my penis bulging between the coils of twine. "Oooh, you'd love to fuck me again, wouldn't you, my little housewife? You want to fuck me? You want to fuck?" she asked, almost sweetly, nodding her head as a prompt. I nodded tentatively, having no idea where this was going. Then she asked it like a serious question. "No, really. Would you rather we fucked instead of me giving you a beating?" On the last word she pulled rather hard on the cock leash, pulling my pelvis out toward her. "A beating like you gave me?" And she commenced to stroking it again, tenderly. I was getting light headed with the awful alternation between stimulation and pain. "Because we could, you know. I could forgive you and untie your cock and we could fuck like we used to," she said, gently brushing her other hand across my chest and breathing hotly into my face, all the while continuing to stroke me, "before you started your little game." And with that word she pulled hard on my cock again, pulling me against her so she had to step aside a bit or I would have fallen on her. I felt that same deep internal punch again, a dull deep pain, profound and cavernous, the kind of pain a man feels, if he is lucky, only once or twice in his whole life. The pain was so intense that my cock, even though tightly bound, began to wilt again. Ginger was aware of it. "Oh did I hurt you?" she asked, addressing my cock as if it were a third partner in this macabre game of hers. She cooed as she petted it and stroked it till it swelled again. "We mustn't hurt you too much," she told it. "It wouldn't be pleasurable for our little housewife if you got hurt too much." She made like she was going to pull on it again and I braced myself but she didn't. She looked at me and smiled so cruelly... maybe it was a mirror image of how I'd smiled at her that last (and I thought) final Saturday. She was having what I'm sure she thought of as evil, righteous fun. I felt eerily like I was no longer a real person to her. There was no sympathy in her face for me - none. My body, my pain, had become a tool for her revenge against a creep, a pervert, is how I guess she thought of me now, who had harmed her grievously. Her expression said I deserved everything that was going to happen to me. She was almost gleeful. "I'll tell you what," she said, her eyes glinting. "I'll untie your cock and we'll lie down on the bed and we'll fuck, if you," again with the cruel smile, "beg me to spank you." Before I could say anything she went on. "But if you don't beg me to spank you then I'll have to whip you." She swished the belt around carelessly and the cold metal buckle bumped against my cock. It felt like a bee sting. She saw me wince, and began stroking me again, looking up at me and smiling. "See? That's a better deal than you gave me, isn't it? Isn't it?" she said, and pulled, not as hard as the last time, on the cock leash. Well, I knew where this was headed, my own "deal" turned against me, but I also knew I had no choice in the matter. I was 90% sure I was going to take a beating no matter what I said. Yet there was the slim chance that she wasn't lying; that she would really fuck me if I said what she wanted me to say, and end, at least for a while, this torment. This uncertainty was as maddening for me as it must have been for her.