Ben Esra telefonda seni boşaltmamı ister misin?
Telefon Numaram: 00237 8000 92 32
Merhaba 7ty.club sex hikayeleri okuyucuları, derlediğimiz en büyük hikaye arşivini sizlerin beğenisine sunuyoruz.okuyup keyif almak ve sırılsıklam olmak işte tüm mesele bu.
The unmistakable sounds of a woman in the throes of orgasm were coming from the family room as I closed the front door. It did not sound like Margaret, although I had previously come home to find her vibrating herself to a climax, and, for a moment, I wondered if there was some very hot girl on girl action going on in there. But as I walked through the doorway I found Margaret fussing about in the kitchen, dressed only in hold up stockings, high heels and an open cup bra that fully displayed her magnificent bosom, watching the television on which a spread-eagled Lorelie Lee was being forced to climax by a Magic Wand wielding Chanta.
‘You’re home early,’ she said, as if watching porn with the sound turned up almost full volume, while preparing dinner practically naked, was normal.
‘I was just getting revved up,’ she said, in answer to my raised eyebrow, ‘although after what I heard from my mother today, I hardly need it.’
‘What did she say?’ I asked, wondering what Jean would have said to get Margaret so aroused that she was parading around the house almost naked.
‘I’ll tell you after we’ve eaten, just as soon as you’ve wolfed down whatever muck I’ve prepared for your dinner.’
Margaret’s skills in the kitchen were only slightly less exotic than in the bedroom, and If Nigella Lawson, whom she somewhat resembled, was only half as good in bed, then whoever her current sexual partner was would be amply satisfied. As was I. I loved Margaret’s cooking as well her wonderful body, and the scintillating mind that drove it.
‘What is for dinner,’ I said, my interest piqued, nonchalantly trying to ignoring Margaret’s extremely inviting nudity, and using the remote to turn Lorelei’s familiar hyperventilating screams down to a manageable roar.
‘Bang Bang Turkey,’ she replied, ‘from that Nigella Lawson you love so much. And I expect the full bang bang afterwards.’
‘Why wait until afterwards,’ I said, reaching out to embrace her.
‘Stop it, you sex crazed beast,’ she said, slapping my hands away, ‘you’ll ruin my dress.’
We both laughed, while she allowed me to plant a chaste kiss on her crimson lips, before scampering upstairs, her breasts and bottom jiggling delightfully, and returned wearing a low cut, knee length, black cocktail dress.
The spicy, mouth tingling, warm salad was a light, stimulating appetiser for what I was sure would turn into a long evening of hot, steamy, inventive, kinky sex for which, I thanked all the stars, Margaret had developed such an appetite. And, as if I needed any further encouragement, she reached for my hand, pulled it up underneath her dress and opened her legs, providing access to her shaved pussy. Eating with one hand and stroking her lightly with the other, I felt her nectar slickened inner lips and vaginal entrance, and wondered whether it would be polite to ask for dessert.
There was dessert, but not of the type I was expecting.
‘So,’ she said, when we had finished eating, and I had transferred more of my attention to fingering her very willing and wet pussy, ‘would you now like to hear what my mother asked me today?’
Something told me Jean had not called to ask Margaret to accompany her clothes shopping, and I nodded my head with interest.
‘She and dad would like us to give them a Kinbaku demonstration.’
I have previously mentioned our experimenting with Japanese rope bondage, and have written about it in Margaret Goes Dutch Part 2. We had both developed a strong liking for its combination of restraint, exposure, pain and eroticism, together with the visual aesthetic that I particularly enjoyed, that of Margaret naked and bound into intricate ropework contortions. Also, being a sailor, I had a natural affinity for rope and knots. It was a marriage made in heaven. I had often thought about attending a Kinbaku exhibition, and had idly fantasied about showing off my own skills with Margaret as a partner. But it had never crossed my mind that Margaret’s parents would be a willing, or suitable, audience.
I did not need to ask if they were interested in bondage, though. From what Margaret had told me about their lifestyle, her parents had decidedly kinky tastes. She had already persuaded Clarence, her father, to show me how to use the cane on her naked bottom, and Jean, her mother to allow me to practise on hers. Margaret had also told me that her father’s library contained many volumes of kinky erotica, including ‘The Story of O,’ ‘The Delta of Venus,’ the works of De Sade, ‘Fanny Hill,’ and ‘The Autobiography of a Flea,’ to mention just a few. She had discovered them when she was a student at university, and smuggled them one by one up to her bedroom where she read them, with one hand turning the page and the other strumming her clitoris. Her mother had eventually found one there, but nothing was ever said, although Margaret, her intuition and imagination alerted, had soon pieced together a lurid, highly arousing, and probably exaggerated, picture of their activities, which, she confessed early in our relationship, were her principal beylikdüzü escort masturbation fantasies.
Fantasies they remained for some years. Whatever Margaret’s parents actually did stayed a mystery until, well into married adulthood with two children of her own at high school, her mother finally told her some of the secrets that the library of erotica had hinted at. By then, of course, she was woman of the world enough not to be shocked, or worried for her mother’s physical or mental safety. Revealing to a daughter that, in the course of their sexual activities, her father left welts and bruises on her mother needed careful and appropriate timing. Jean’s confession that she enjoyed a demanding and occasionally painful physical relationship had confirmed Margaret’s intuitions, and had lead, some years later, to her encouraging us to experiment along similar lines.
All very well in the abstract, but to be asked to demonstrate our own enjoyment of unusual, kinky sexual practises in the presence of her parents, was something that needed thinking about. Which was not that easy with my finger slipping ever more easily into Margaret’s willing vagina, and her hand massaging my erection through my trousers.
‘It’s not as if I’ll be naked,’ said Margaret. ‘I’ll wear a kimono, which you can peel off as you tie the body harness, and sensible undies underneath.’
And so, with surprisingly little fuss and discussion, it was agreed that we would put on the show for them the following Saturday evening. I packed a box accordingly, with plenty of hemp rope lengths, some carabiners and various other things I thought would come in handy, but there were still nagging doubts at the back of my mind whether this was an appropriate thing to do. Okay, so we knew, courtesy of Margaret’s spying and intuition, and her mother’s later confession, that her parents enjoyed kinky sex, and they, courtesy of her disclosures to her mother, knew that we experimented with the same. It did not automatically follow, though, that we should share those experiences. I had known Clarence, Margaret’s father, for many years. I had worked for him, he had been something of a mentor, but I was not sure I was ready to disclose intimate details about his daughter’s sex life.
On the other hand, the preparations and anticipation were unquestionably arousing. Margaret seemed continually wet, and made no attempt to hide it, inviting me to insert an exploratory probe at frequent intervals, until one evening I produced a soil wetness monitor from the garden, cleaned of course, and gingerly tested her with that. Her internal condition was tropical hothouse, wet and acidic enough to blue hydrangeas.
She confessed that she was wet in the car on the way to her parent’s eastern suburbs home. ‘Thank goodness I’ve got thick pants on,’ she said, her eyes ablaze with excitement, ‘and that you’re only going to tie me up. Make the binds tight, so I’m not too comfortable, and maybe some light flogging will keep my libido under control until you get me home.’
Clarence and Jean met us at the front door. Margaret hugged and kissed them both, while I got a chaste peck on the cheek from Jean and a vigorous handshake from Clarence. Whether the prospect of seeing her daughter bound in Japanese erotic torture bondage disturbed or excited her, there was no sign on Jean’s lined, but still beautiful face. Clarence, on the other, beamed at us with a knowing smile, as if he could not wait to see his daughter struggling against an intricate rope tracery.
‘We’re both looking forward to this,’ he said, his eyes running up and down Margaret’s kimono clad figure, as if imagining what she would look like if it was removed, which was unnecessary as he had seen her in bikini either in our pool or theirs, many times. ‘Perhaps it’s not too late to teach a couple of old love birds new tricks.’
‘I doubt we could teach you anything,’ I thought, wondering if he was actually expecting to see Margaret nude, and whether he would be disappointed if she was not. Contorted and bound, even in sensible underwear, she was an exciting sight, and not one that most fathers would see their daughters in. But nude? The idea was disturbing, but also strangely arousing, as the thought of breaking sexual taboos normally are.
The family room at the rear of the house, with large picture windows overlooking the extensive garden, had been prepared for the demonstration. The curtains were drawn, an area of the floor had been cleared of furniture, and a comfortable Chesterfield placed at convenient viewing distance. The room had exposed ceilings with substantial timber cross beams. I doubled a length of rope, slung it over a beam and tested it with my weight. It would support Margaret easily, and I lashed it tight and snapped a carabiner through the loop.
Clarence and Jean had poured themselves drinks, but Margaret and I took only small glasses of water. I did not want my manual dexterity affected by alcohol, nor to have to halt the performance part way through to allow Margaret bostancı escort to pee.
Dressed in a floral kimono, that looked the part, but was as authentically Japanese as the Innovations catalogue from which she had ordered it, Margaret had adopted her submissive persona, standing with head bowed, eyes fixed on the floor, waiting for her bondage master to take control. She played the role well; putting up just enough resistance to make it seem as if she feared the ropes, which added to the excitement.
Having laid out sufficient lengths for the programme I had in mind, I grasped the first rope, stood directly behind her and grabbed her arm in a hammerlock. Firmly holding the arm behind her back with one hand, I told her to open her mouth and grasp the rope in her teeth. Then I peeled the kimono down on one side, slipped the free arm out, hammerlocked it and then lowered the other side, so that she was exposed to the waist for the first stages of the body harness. Margaret had chosen a black sports bra, which adequately covered her breasts, but would not entirely conceal the outline of her nipples, which I knew would firm as soon as I started the chest binding.
With regular practise, in which Margaret was a very willing participant, I had become quick and proficient in the binding of a chest and body harness that trapped and separated her breasts, secured her arms behind her back and left rope ends dangling for the continuation of the lower harness.
Loosening the waist belt, I dropped the kimono to the floor, revealing the rest of Margaret, the relevant parts of which were modestly concealed by short, black lycra sports pants. Thick enough not to create a camel toe, they nevertheless lifted and firmed her already magnificent bottom, which, I noted with interest, Clarence was already sliding an admiring eye over.
Passing the ropes between her legs, knotting them at the point of contact with her clitoris and anus and pulling the tight, I fed them through the bindings at her back, and then wove them down her body, making a decorative and snug pattern over her belly and hips. I could have continued down her legs to complete the full tortoiseshell harness, but I intended to secure them in other ways, and left her standing, a contented but expectant smile on her face, so that Clarence and Jean could admire my handiwork.
‘This is the basic body harness,’ I said, pulling on the bindings to swivel her around so they could see both front and back. ‘It’s not particularly uncomfortable, unless the bindings are pulled very tight, but it looks nice, and it forms the basis for some other, more intense positions.’
They both nodded and I could see the appreciation in their eyes, which I took to mean they admired the rope skills and the visual aesthetic, rather than a belated desire to have used the harness to discipline their daughter as an unruly teenager.
‘However,’ I continued, ‘tying the arms behind the back restricts breathing, which was useful when the Japanese used these bindings for torture and interrogation, and the ropes between the legs press on sensitive areas if the harness is used for suspension.’ I glanced at Clarence and saw his eyes feasting on the knots pressed against Margaret’s crotch, where I had intentionally pulled the ropes tight so that she would feel them bite, through the protective layer of lycra.
‘The chest bindings trap and restrict the breasts,’ I said, enjoying the eroticism of the description, ‘increasing blood flow and sensitivity, which is particularly useful if the victim’ – I felt a sudden thrill as I used the word – ‘is female.’
Or perhaps the thrill was due to the decision I had suddenly taken, having seen the very keen interest that Clarence was taking in Margaret’s body.
‘To really appreciate the beauty of bound breasts though, you need to see them.’
I reached into the equipment bag and pulled out the razor sharp knife I kept handy in case I needed to free Margaret in a hurry.
I watched her eyes grow round with surprise as she realised my intention.
‘Don’t move,’ I whispered, as I slide the blade between her breasts and sliced through the material, before doing the same to the back and shoulder straps. With a theatrical flourish, I pulled the sections of bra from beneath the bindings.
There was a soft intake of breath from Jean, rather as if she had witnessed an unexpected twist in an Agatha Christie play, but I smiled as I saw Clarence’s eyes fasten onto his daughter’s expertly bound and now, fully exposed breasts.
Squeezed and uplifted by the rope bindings, they stood firm on her chest, the support of the bra unnecessary. Their skin had flushed a delightful pink, as had that of her face and neck, and her large areola and nipples were puckered and firm. Had she been topless at the beach and her father had joined us, I doubt she would have bothered to cover up. But in the context of Japanese erotic bondage, the purpose of which was to arouse both the participants and the viewers, the sudden exposure çapa escort of her breasts produced a different reaction. One I was hoping for, as it showed I still had the ability to shock her.
‘What are you doing?’ hissed Margaret softly, her mouth gaping with the embarrassing realisation that her breasts were exposed to her father, who was taking an extremely keen interest in them.
‘This was your idea, Margaret,’ I whispered, reaching for another length of rope, ‘you told me they wanted a show, and I’m going to give them one. Anyway, you can tell me to stop whenever you want.’ I did not wait for a reply, though, and knelt, quickly lashing her ankles together.
‘Kneel,’ I commanded, loud enough for Clarence and Jean to hear, judging from her silence that she did not want to tell me to stop, and spoil the evening for her parents.
There were daggers in her eyes as she knelt though, and her face was flushed with embarrassment, but she did not object as I laid her face down on the mat, pulled her ankles as far forward towards her head as I could manage, and lashed them to the bindings between her shoulders.
‘This is the Japanese version of the hogtie,’ I announced, kneeling on the mat beside Margaret. I had placed her sideways to her parents, so they could not see the confusion in her face, and, more especially, so they could appreciate the uncomfortable looking curve into which she was bent. The rope connecting her ankles to her shoulders was shorter than I had previously managed, either I had used more strength, or the combination of yoga and practise had increased Margaret’s flexibility. Her back was deeply arched, her stomach the only point of contact with the floor, and her breasts jutted beautifully under the restriction of the chest binding.
If Clarence and Jean had noticed our whispered exchange, or had any idea that the sudden exposure of Margaret’s breasts had been unilateral on my part, they did not show any sign of it. They had asked for a demonstration, and if it was, perhaps, a little more explicit than they were anticipating, it certainly looked as if Clarence, at least, was thoroughly enjoying it.
As well as exposing Margaret’s lovely engorged breasts, the position was uncomfortable; she was breathing heavily, struggling to draw air against the restriction of the arm and chest bindings, and sighing with the stress on her joints and spine. Neither parent seemed concerned however, the sight of their daughter suffering in a position still used today to subdue and torture prisoners, seemed only to arouse their appreciation, and, judging by Clarence’s face, even enjoyment. Perhaps they were both sadists, and liked watching people suffer, or was it because they were thinking of the pleasure that Kinbaku might add to their own bondage play, assuming they indulged in it.
‘As you can see, the victim,’ – there was that thrilling word again – ‘is not comfortable like that.’
Margaret was already struggling to find a position that eased the stress on her joints and back, I could see the sweat on her forehead and chest, her sighs had turned to moans and I knew that soon the discomfort would turn to pain. Some Japanese gained great pleasure from watching their submissives struggling in pain, there were porn videos graphically depicting the practise. But hurting Margaret unnecessarily was not part of the fun for either of us, and I reached forward and untied the rope to her ankles, allowing her to lower her knees and head to the floor. She whispered a thank you, and I stroked her neck and shoulders in reassurance.
For a moment, I thought of asking if she was okay to carry on. I had bared her breasts without asking permission. She might have been unhappy about it initially, but now she seemed to have accepted their exposure, possibly the struggle to find a comfortable position against the pull of the ropes was a more important consideration than the fact her parents could see her breasts. Jean seemed unconcerned, her facial expression was neutral, but I could see by his face that Clarence would have been very disappointed if she had asked to cover up now.
So I continued.
We had already agreed the positions into which I would bind her, and she knew that the Agura, another torture position, was next. Our normal bondage sessions however, were very much part of our foreplay. Margaret found the restriction, exposure and vulnerability arousing, and I took advantage of that to pleasure her, as a counterpoint to the pain, the two ultimately merging to drive her to the earth shattering orgasms she craved. This was hardly possible with her parents watching, though. I had considered some mild spanking with a leather flogger, and even some pleasurable stroking with hands and fingers. But full blown stimulation with, for example, a Magic Wand was hardly appropriate.
Nevertheless, it was thrilling to contemplate the possibility, and the excitement of binding my beautiful wife into exposed and painful positions, had generated an erection that I hoped was not too obvious through my loose fitting chinos. Judging by the enjoyment I’d seen on their faces thus far, I wondered if Clarence was equally hard, and whether Jean’s pussy was moist with the stirrings of arousal, and also wondered why I wasn’t shocked at the very idea that a married woman’s elderly parents should be turned on watching her in bondage.
Ben Esra telefonda seni boşaltmamı ister misin?
Telefon Numaram: 00237 8000 92 32
