Tie-up Tuesday

The meeting has dragged on through the morning and into early afternoon. She's getting bored and drowsy, and her mind is beginning to wander. The client, Mr Haldane, is going on about something to do with architraves, but she is no longer listening. She squirms in her chair. The slick upholstery feels warm and sticky under her bare flesh where the tops of her stockings end; yet the air in the room has a penetrating chill that raises her nipples against the diaphanous fabric of her blouse. It has an effect she cannot suppress, and she feels her cheeks beginning to glow. She turns her head away, ever so slightly, so the others don't see her blush. As she does, the stiff leather of her collar chafes on her throat.

She is thankful for the large ball filling her mouth. It stifles an incipient yawn. But a frothy slaver seeps inexorably from around its edges, dribbling from her chin onto her chest, oozing between her breasts and trickling down her belly. She goes to raise her hand, forgetting for an instant that her wrists are shackled to the metal band that encircles her waist.

Haldane is still droning on about the architraves. She wonders if he even knows what they are. Behind her blindfold, she tries to visualize the expressions on the faces of her colleagues.

"We understand your concerns," Richard finally says, "and we can guarantee there won't be a problem. My associate here is the best..."

"Yes, yes," Haldane interjects. "Nevertheless, I would be more reassured being told by the woman herself."

There is a pause, brief but explicit.

"I can come back tomorrow, if that's what it takes." There is annoyance in his voice.

Although they are an arm's length apart, Kate hears Richard sigh, and she can picture his frown. Her partner has always been a stickler for protocol. But the client's wishes are paramount, and so Richard's chair squeaks as he rises. She feels his fingers on the back of her neck as he brushes aside the hair to unbuckle the strap. He pulls the crimson orb from between her jaws, and she licks the thin film of lather from her lips.

"Mr Haldane..." Her mouth feels gummy and the first words come out somewhat slurred. "We have studied the architrave issue carefully..." (She cannot, of course, see any of the men's reactions; but Andrew, in the seat beside her, clears his throat, barely holding back a snicker.) "... and we're positive we have the solution." She continues with some carefully crafted waffle, to a soft chorus of "Uh-huh" and "Uh-hum" to her left and right, while she imagines the client in his stuffed shirt nodding gravely.

Just as her amphigory begins to peter out, Richard takes over and skilfully steers the meeting to a close. He's good at that, she has to admit.

"Well then, gentlemen, lady, I look forward to seeing your next draft, in..."

"Ten days?" She straightaway regrets making it a question.

"Good," is all Haldane replies, and she must give him credit for that. Maybe she's misjudged him. Perhaps she should reassess the architraves.

The three men's chairs creak at once, and there is a sudden jerk on hers. She lifts her feet off the carpet just as Andrew (she thinks it is) swivels her seat around so she's facing towards the door. She leans forward to shift her centre of balance and raise herself onto her feet. It's a peculiar, tingly sensation as clingy leather peels away from naked skin. And she loves the tickly feel of the pleated hem caressing her thighs as her skirt falls back to its proper place. The vinyl ball presses against her lips and she parts them to accept it.

She needs time to join the men, constrained by her blindfold and hobbled by the silver chain which binds her ankles. By the time she reaches them, they are shaking hands. She can tell by the faint rustling of their coat sleeves. With her arms pinioned, she can only wiggle her fingers in a feeble good-bye wave. She hears the door close.

"That went well," Richard declares.

"And the word of the day," says Andrew, "is... architraves!"

She tries to laugh, but it hurts her jaws, and comes out through the gag as an undignified snort.

"Coffee?"

Richard says no, but she nods and offers a muffled thanks.

As Andrew goes into the kitchenette, Kate shuffles over to her desk. It is terribly difficult walking on the voluptuous carpet in heels and fetters, being sightless as well. She remembers then that her chair is across the room and rather than make the torturous return journey, she sits instead on the edge of the table. Her feet don't touch the floor, and her legs begin to swing. Her ankle chain brushes back and forth across the carpet, and in her weariness she becomes mesmerized by its gentle, swishing rhythm. One of her shoes falls off, then the other.

"Here you go."

Andrew's voice and the rich aroma haul her partway back to reality. He places the mug on the desktop beside her and loosens the strap of her gag. He doesn't take it off completely, but leaves it to hang around her neck. She's not finished with it yet. He picks up the mug again and holds it to her lips. She sips carefully, but it's impossible to avoid drooling some of the hot liquid. She yelps when it drips into her cleavage. Startled, he almost spills the scalding lot down her front.

He puts down the mug and frees her right hand.

The sizzling droplets on her chest have jolted her back to full awareness, but the caffeine is a more pleasant pick-me-up.

She breathes a heavy sigh. It must be time to get back to work. But before she can move, Andrew is behind her again. He holds the gag just touching her lips. She can taste her saliva on the vinyl ball. He pushes it into her mouth once more.

"You two go to lunch," Richard calls out from his office.

"You're not coming?"

"Too busy, another meeting. But you've both earned some time off."

"And a raise, of course."

"Don't look at me. Ask your boss."

She shakes her head vigorously. Her assistant grumbles.

"Then the least you can do is buy lunch."

She shrugs and nods, and pokes about on the carpet with her foot to locate her shoes.

"Just under the desk," Andrew tells her.

Her toes make contact with one of them, and she prods it until she identifies it as the left one. As she slides her foot into it, she feels a tension at her midsection. Andrew is unlocking the belt. Then he frees her other wrist. He pauses, his hands resting on her hips.

She knows what he wants and puts her arms behind her back. His hands slide between them and her body, inside her shirt and up her belly to her breasts. His fingers run lightly over them, squeezing the flesh and stroking the tips. She tries not to react, but cannot repress a shiver. She sucks in several quick, deep breaths, the air rasping in and bubbling out past her gag. When he is finished, he opens her blouse all the way, drawing the sides back from her chest and tucking them into the top of her skirt so they stay parted. He then steps back, and she hears the tinny ping of something small landing on the desk. She guesses it is the key, and after she's located her other shoe, she grazes her fingers across the tabletop until she finds it. She squats to release her ankles from the chain.

She stands up and Andrew taps her on both arms, a signal that she must again put her hands behind her back. Her fingers interlock so he can, without difficulty, push her bracelets together and secure the little clasp. It's a tight fit. The inner edges of the cuffs are directly attached, with no in-between links to allow flexibility. But the insides are lined with fleece, so it is snug and not painful. Still, it's constricting and uncomfortable. Which is how it's meant to be; she understands that. You must never be entirely at ease, in order that you experience your bondage to the fullest. And there is, of course, an added bonus. The enforced posture draws her shoulders backwards and pushes forward her bared bosom. It puts her on display, and she has mixed feelings about that. She's embarrassed to be exposed, but she's proud that she feels the shame, and prouder that she's strong enough to endure it.

To complete her ensemble, Andrew fastens a tether to the ring on the front of her collar. He draws the cable, which is cold and metallic, across her breasts, teasing her nipples and bringing them back to full arousal. Then she feels a sudden but gentle jerk as the leash goes taut. He leads her out of her office and through the reception area, along the corridor and into the elevator, down to the lobby and onto the street.

Emerging from air conditioned stillness into the oppressive heat of outdoors and the harsh cacophony of city traffic is like walking into a wall, and she halts, for just an instant but long enough to feel a brusque tug on her collar, urging her forward. Yet the sidewalk is congested and the pavement is uneven, so after they have taken but a few more steps, Andrew interrupts their progress to remove her blindfold. The afternoon sunlight is blinding, and he waits patiently for her eyes to adjust.

Looking down and across the street, she doesn't see many women who aren't restrained in some way. Most are bound and gagged, some alone, some with partners. An intrepid few negotiate the busy thoroughfare sightless. Their escorts lead them on tethers or guide them arm-in-arm. A pretty brunette passes by, her flushed face and waddling gait betraying the diabolically delightful effects of a well-placed crotch-rope. There are business-suited executive types going by, uniformed salesgirls and strolling window-shoppers. Those few women who are not bound regard those who are with curiosity and disapproval and envy.

A warm, gusty breeze wafts through the steel and concrete canyon, fanning the hem of her skirt and fluttering the front of her blouse. The fondle of the soft fabric as it plays across her thighs and chest begins to have its effect, and by the time they arrive at the restaurant she is panting hard through her gag.

The place is half empty, the lunchtime peak having subsided. They are greeted at the entrance by the maîtresse d' hôtel, a small, slender, dark-haired woman, with eyes that gleam like black sapphires and lips that sparkle ruby red. She wears a lavender coloured camisole trimmed with fine white lace, sheer silk stockings held up by frilly garters, a silver collar and bracelets not unlike those which adorn Kate's neck and wrists. She guides them to a table that is being cleared by a tall, athletic-looking girl. Impeccably built and impossibly blonde, the waitress is dressed in the same style lingerie though with an open bust to allow the customers a full appreciation of her charms. She is shackled hand-and-foot, the chain connecting her ankles perilously short. But she skilfully glides across the floor, and though her wrists are also cuffed, she deftly piles the surplus cutlery and glasses onto a tray.

She bows her head as she pulls back Andrew's chair. Her gesture may be simply deference, but it draws attention to a copper-coloured plaque suspended above her picturesque breasts from a black satin ribbon encircling her throat.

"My name is Julia and I will be serving you," is inscribed on the plaque in fine, floral script. She needs it, because her teeth are clenched on an outsized bit-gag. The corners of her mouth glisten, but Kate notes how she delicately sucks in a deep breath every so often to prevent drool.

The maîtresse d' taps the waitress on the shoulder and the younger woman withdraws with her tray.

"How will the lady be dining, Sir?"

Andrew considers his response for a few seconds. "Just the blindfold," he decides.

Kate is still standing next to where Andrew is sitting, but facing away from him so he can free her hands. He gives her permission to take out her gag. She unbuckles the strap and removes the red ball, dries it with a napkin, and places it on top of the folded cloth. As she takes her seat, she sweeps her skirt backwards. The sensuous thrill of plush velvet against bare thighs draws from her a little gasp of shock and pleasure.

The maîtresse retreats, as Andrew surveys the menu.

Julia soon returns with another tray bearing a basket of bread, bowls of lemon water and a red satin sash. The girl binds Kate's eyes as Andrew now studies the wine list.

"Bring me a bottle of..."

Kate doesn't catch what he orders. It has a long name, sounds foreign, pretentious and expensive.

"It's been a hard day and we deserve the best," he explains to the waitress. "The lady is paying."

She slowly nods. He's right. The lady is paying. The lady always pays. She smiles.