Silky's Enslavement

Silky's Enslavement
By: The Softer Side of Passion (thesoftersideofpassion@yahoo.com)

SILKY'S ENSLAVEMENT ===================

She was nervous.

That's part of what surprised her. No one who knew her would have used the word nervous to describe her. Not her friends. Not the people she worked with. And certainly not her former lovers.

They would have told you about the woman they knew: Confident. Smart. Strong. A quiet beauty and strength that people noticed and admired. Someone who seemed to fit in everywhere, who rarely made a ruckus, but always made an impression.

She was the kind of woman that you might notice the first time you met her in the office, but as time goes on, you notice her more and more until one day you realize she's a real beauty.

She cultivated that image. She worked hard. She was reliable. She dressed nicely, with a little more style and class than her job dictated. Conservative slacks when jeans would have done. Oxford blouses when a T-shirt would have sufficed. No grubby tennis shoes for her. She wore stylish flats, and sometimes, a slight heel.

It wasn't just clothes, it was the way she held herself. Even her posture spoke of confidence. She wore often wore her raven black hair up. She liked the look of jewelry, and always wore a bracelet, or necklace. Never too much, Just that little something extra.

And people noticed. Not obviously, but over time, she developed the kind of reputation many women want - as someone classy, strong, conservative and good.

Those friends of hers would have been surprised at the other side of her. The side that yearned for some spark in her life. The kinky side she had discovered roaming the internet late at night in her apartment. The side of her that had a desire to submit herself completely to a man, not for abuse, but for love.

It was something she kept closely to herself, that sinful side. She liked being admired. Like being considered a lady. And she did not want to jeopardize that carefully cultivated image.

The image wasn't fake. She was that person. But she was more than that too. And she was afraid the people around her would not realize that you could be complex enough to be classy and trashy at the same time.

It was a problem with the men she dated as well. Most were almost too nice, treating her like a china doll. When she exposed her private lusts to them, most ran away or condemned her. And the men attracted to her submissive side? They were mostly abusive and cruel. She thought more of herself than to allow herself to take that.

So instead she roamed the nether land of the internet, and built a sexy fantasy place where she could be who she really was, but could not show the world.

She bought sexy lingerie. Corsets and gowns and lace that draped and clung to her body, and she took pictures of herself in them. Some nights, she would lay in her bed and touch herself, letting her hands caress her every curve, her tenderest parts, imagining they were the hands of a lover who loved all of her.

Some of the pictures she posted. There were sites where real people posted pictures of themselves or their wives, where people commented. Where some people even got together.

It was exciting to read so many men, and women too, who commented on her pictures. She read their comments and their e-mails and they excited her, and she would touch herself as she read, letting the excitement flow through her.

She made friends "out there." Men who loved the romantic curves of her body draped in silk and satin. Men who adored her legs in black stockings. Women too, who wanted to explore every last inch of her silky white skin.

Their excitement became her excitement. She loved this dark, secret life, and some days, she would dress sexy under her conservative work clothes, and there was a secret delight in imagining how people would react if they saw her in her corset, waist cinched in, breasts pushed forward, a sexy offering underneath.

She loved her secret life, but despite the excitement of showing her body on the internet for men to see, it somehow did not seem real to her. Where were these people who looked for her night after night? What were they like? It was all a fantasy. A delicious fantasy, but still......

She had been posting and flirting on line for a year or so, when she read the first story by someone who called himself "Passion" on the sites. He was a photographer, it seemed, and also wrote erotica.

The photography he had done for many years. The writing was newer to him. But there was something to his stories that touched her. They were tales of submission, of women who gave themselves to men, bound both physically and emotionally, for love.

Each night, when she found a new story by "Passion", she found herself wrapped up in them, excited. Her fingers could not help but touch herself and each touch was somehow more electric as she read.

Finally, she got up her nerve and sent him an e-mail. Just a short note telling him how much she loved his stories. Impulsively she attached a picture of herself. Not one of the ones she posted for the public, with a blurred face to protect her real identity, but a complete picture, laying on her bed in her black corset and stockings, her face looking at the camera, one leg up. She even signed her real name, not the nickname "Silky" she normally used on-line.

She was terrified as soon as she hit the send button. What was she doing? What would he think? She had read about weirdoes out there in cyberspace, and about liars and stalkers and sexual predators. And she had just offered a perfect stranger a ticket into her real life.

But she need not have worried. He wrote back, but it was a simple, friendly thank you for her comments. They stayed in touch; her writing notes of appreciation with each new story, him writing back.

She didn't realize it at first, but they became friends. He began to write her about how he saw beauty, not as a commodity, but as something that came from within. He believed in something he called delicious imperfection - how small things that most women thought detracted from their looks were often the thing that set off the rest of their beauty - that a small flaw just made the rest of a woman's looks stand out.

And they began to write of submission. He had once had a woman in his life who gave herself to him completely. He dressed her in corsets and stockings and heels and little else. He took her in public dressed like a tart and showed her off. He tied her outside and caressed her body causing her to orgasm from his mere touch, the excitement of her own submission driving her over the edge to orgasm again and again.

And she expressed the desire to give herself to someone that very way, but also her fears that in doing so.

He understood. "Our world does not see submission as a gift of love." He said. "It sees it as abuse. I never abused my wife. I merely loved her the way she wanted to be loved. She gave herself to me in an incredibly sexy gift and I adored her for over 20 years, until she died suddenly in a car accident five years earlier..

They wrote back and forth for six months. He would write of his work and the travels that came of it. She would write of her life, her friends and her secret desires. She took pictures of herself in her most private lingerie and sent them to him. Then she got the e-mail that spawned her nervousness.

"I'm coming to your city." It began. :I have a project there. I would like to meet you. I know that the internet is fantasy, and if you don't want to meet in person, I understand. But if you are willing...."

She quickly wrote back that she would love to, and she had been a bundle of nerves ever since. What was she doing? She was the practical one. The smart one. This was neither practical or smart. She didn't know anything about him. Not really. Not even what he looked like. He had dozens of pictures of her. She had no idea what he looked like.

"I'm 50. A lot older than you" he said. "Not quite six feet tall. Slender. I'm losing my hair I am afraid, so no tall dark and handsome for dinner I am afraid. What's left of my hair is brown with grey flecks. My eyes are green. I have a lot of smile wrinkles. I smile and laugh a lot."

She hadn't thought of smiling and laughing. But she was starting to feel more comfortable about meeting him. He put no pressure on her and their conversations turned back to things of beauty, love, lust and submission.

"What would you like to see me in?" she wrote him teasingly

"Something that's like you." He wrote back, "something classy and sexy both. But whatever you do, wear something that reflects who you are, that you feel comfortable in." She smiled at that, unsure still what that might be.

Today was the day. He arrived this afternoon and they had arranged to meet in her favorite restaurant downtown. She took the day off to pamper herself. In the morning, she treated herself to the spa. A facial. Her nails and toes done. She went shopping for something to wear after that. In the afternoon, and once she started, found it easier to find what she wanted than she had imagined, finding everything she wanted, corset, stockings, shoes and skirt, at Victoria's secret.

That afternoon, she languished in the tub, luxuriating in the steamy hot water, sipping cold red wine. She shaved, carefully and lovingly, smoothing every inch of skin to match her nickname. She took care with her makeup, and brushed her hair to a rich sheen before putting it up in an elegant bun fastened with a pearl comb her mother had given her years before.

She was surprised at how the day of preparation felt like foreplay. All this for someone she had never met? She wondered at herself. But she could not help herself.

She met him at six. She was self conscious. She was not accustomed to dressing sexy in public and wearing her new black corset as a blouse, and a slit pink and black skit, with her stockings and heels made her feel exposed. She looked down at her cleavage, held up and forward by the corset. Very exposed.

She was nervous.

When she walked into the foyer, he was there. She knew immediately by the way his eyes took her in and the way his smile grew as he caressed her with his eyes that it was him, and that he approved.

He was just as he had described himself. He was dressed nicely, in black slacks, white shirt and a grey sport coat that looked like something from the nineteen forties. He looked harder, stronger than she had imagined, but his smile that went to his eyes softened the look. "Not bad for an old guy." She said and they both laughed as he took her arm and walked her to their table.

Dinner was a pleasure. Soon she forgot her self consciousness as they talked like old friends, their conversation covering everything she could imagine talking about - fashion, computer, photography, sex, politics, art, all intermingled. It was a delightful night and she was surprised to find three hours had passed when the last cup of coffee was empty.

Afterwards, he walked her to her car. They were both quiet now and she was aware of his looking at her, taking her in. She was glad she dressed sexy. She felt exposed, but safe. She was aware of her arm curled with his as they walked.

"Thank you for meeting me." He said. "It's nice to find out you are everything I imagined. Thanks for taking the chance and for dressing so deliciously."

She took a deep breath. She knew she was about to break character again. Her friends would think her mad.

"I want you to come home with me." She said.

"You don't have to..."

"I want to. No. I need to. God help me. I need to."

"Silky..." he began, using her nickname.

"No. For years now, I wanted to know what it was like to give myself completely to a man, to be bound to him by lust and trust both. I never thought I would. But I have a chance, and I want to. Now. With you. Stay with me while you are in town. Come home with me."

He looked at her, his eyes not following her curves or peering at her cleavage, but instead, looking deep into her eyes.

"Do you understand what I am saying?" she said. "I want to fulfill everything you might desire of me. I want to pleasure you. Whatever it is you tell me to do, whatever you tell me to wear, whatever.... I'll do it."

"I...."

"Please. I truest you won't hurt me."

?I won't. Not when you've offered me such a gift."

"Then come home with me."

He nodded. He walked her to the passenger side and let her in. Then he walked around the car and got in to drive. He had a small grin on her face that excited her and made her nervous both.

"You can start by taking off your skirt."

"I don't have any panties on." She confessed.

"All the better."

As they drove, he had her reach between her legs. She was wet with excitement and he had her touching and caressing herself. Within minutes she was grinding her hips against her hand and came with an almost overwhelming intensity.

It was nearly ten when they got to her apartment and he would not let her put her skirt on. They scurried quickly to her doorway and she hoped none of her neighbors were watching.

When they got inside, he turned and pulled her to him and kissed her, slow, deep and longingly. She felt every inch of his body pressed against him, and felt him grow harder as he pushed her against the wall. She melted to him

They kissed. How long? She did not know, but every moment was tender and passionate at the same time. At some point, he whispered "Where is your bedroom."

She took his hand and led him there. He made her stand in the center of the room as he finished undressing her. He kissed her shoulders and her neck as he undid her corset. He slipped to his knees as he undid her thigh high stockings and kissed her thighs. She trembled as he led her to the bed, her stockings in his hands.

He laid her back, then using one of the stockings, wrapped her hands together and tied them to the headboard. She did not even think of resisting.

And with the other stocking, he tied one leg spread to one side. He stood up and went to her chest of drawers and finding her stockings, used another one to spread the other leg. He took his camera off his shoulder and took her picture, then set it on the dresser. The steady click, click click every few second told her he had set it on automatic.

And now he undressed. There was little in the way of fat on him. Naked he was as slim and hard as he had looked in his clothes. His cock was hard and straight and shaved smooth.

He climbed on her and began to kiss her. Starting with her mouth and then down her neck, lingering there and over the collarbone. He kissed around her breasts, slowly kissing around the sides, closer and closer to her nipples until they ached for the feel of his lips. She felt herself straining at the ties on her arms and legs.

When his lips finally closed around the nipple of her right breast, she almost came. When his hand cupped the other breast at the same time and took the nipple between two fingers she exploded for the second time that night. She felt, rather than saw his smile.

He kept kissing, now across her chest, now down her belly. His hands slid up and down her sides. He turned now and straddled her, his hips and cock above her face while his own head kissed down the belly...

She strained to reach his cock with her own lips, Once or twice she brushed it's hard silkiness, but always he seemed just out of reach, his cock, red and swollen tantalizingly just beyond where the bindings held her. Just the sight of it, so close and unobtainable inflamed her.

And then she felt his lips between her legs and she fell back and gave into the sensation of him kissing, licking and nibbling her. She felt her passion rise, not believing she could have that much energy left, and she ground her hips into his face. Felt his tongue probe  hot and deep inside her, lick her, drive her closer, closer... closer.... Until the tide overcame her yet again and she exploded with his face burrowed in her and she fell, spent.

He untied her slowly. Kissing her wrists and her ankles as he undid each tie.

"Oh my God." She whispered. "That is what I imagined it should be like."

He smiled as he came back and lay next to her. She cuddled to her his side and felt safe with his arms around her. She idly slid her hand down his chest, to his belly, and felt his cock, still hard. "I'm glad." He said.

She let her hand touch him, feeling him, exploring him. Cupping his balls, sliding with her red fingernails up and down his shaft.

"Kiss it." He said.

She hesitated. She wasn't used to men telling her what they wanted.

"You're mine. Remember? Kiss it."

And to her surprise, she discovered that she wanted to. She wanted to serve him. To pleasure him. She had always thought of oral sex as just a blow job, but she wanted this to be something more. She wanted him to feel she was making love to him.

She remembered the sight of his cock above her earlier, and how she had wanted it then. Suddenly, she wanted it now.

She got up and kneeled between his legs on the bed. He held his cock up with her fingers so he could see, and traced up and down it slowly with the fingers on her other hand, gratified at the look on his face, rapt and excited.

She bent down and kissed it lightly on it's cock head, tasting the salty pre-cum that was there. She looked up at him as she opened her mouth and slowly slid the head between her lips, watching his eyes open wider as he watched, watching the lust in those green eyes of his and he gazed on her.

She went slowly, sliding him a little deeper into her mouth each time, feeling his hips start to move with her, feeling his hardness in her mouth, feeling him pump her face gently. Slowly. Deeper. Deeper. Until she had all of him, in and out. She felt his tension growing, felt his urgency, felt him sliding harder in and out of her lips. Not much longer, she thought.

She slid him out at the spit second that he came, gratified to watch as he shot hard, over his belly, across his chest and beyond his shoulders, his back and pelvis arching hard with each shot of cum, pleased to see how excited he had become.

Now she kissed up to those shoulders, licking the cum off his skin, until she lay on top of him, his arms wrapped around her.

"My turn to say wow." He said.

"Ummm." She was sleepy now.

"How long are you here for?" she murmured

"Two weeks."

"What's on for tomorrow?" she asked, almost asleep.

"I'll think of something. After all you're mine for two weeks. I can't waste that."

She slid into sleep, her dreams already enflamed with the possibilities.

======================================================================== ===

There is a semi-illustrated version of this story, with a picture of Silky in the background. If you would like it, simply e-mail me at thesoftersideofpassion@yahoo.com and ask.