Locked to a Column by PeggyShoe
Another story written for my wife at her request. I’ve said this before, but it bears repeating: The couple in these stories is not us. We share a number of traits and similarities, but they do things we’ve never done and things we’d never do. There are only a few things in this story we’ve actually tried, and it is worth remembering that this is a story, not a how-to manual. We fantasize about more than we do, and even though I aim for some realism, the story takes priority if those two ideas are in conflict.
Everything in here should be discussed with your partner before you try it. A BDSM yes/no/maybe list is a good start, but you need to talk about hard and soft limits and you need a system for communicating what’s too much tonight even if it’s not on the “no” list.
Despite the husband hardly speaking, it’s still written from his perspective. At some point I probably will write a version of this from hers, however, because this night is much more about her than him. I’m not sure either one completely understands what the other one is thinking during the events (but who does?). He doesn’t know, for example, that she had every intention of leaving his penis entirely untouched, but she got caught up in things at that moment. Most of the night was about her, and her desires. She did things he liked only if she likes them, too–or if they made him easier to manage. I don’t think he gets that, but she also isn’t quite aware of all the buttons she pressed.
Anyway, you’re hear for the sex, not my literary self-crit. Enjoy!
Locked to a Column
There is a square column at the bottom of our stairs. I was aware of it, but I’d never really noticed it. The woodwork is nice, but I’d just thought of it as a structural thing–a post to support some of the weight of upstairs. And then you locked me to it.
Perhaps I should back up. I’m writing to you at your instruction, and you know everything in here already, but you’ll be sharing this with some friends. If only I knew which friends, I could be less paranoid. But maybe next time I won’t agree to something–like saying you can tell friends about us–merely because I think you’ll never do it. At least, that’s what you told me while smiling evilly about having told people.
It was a Friday night, one of those rare ones with no kids home that have become regular play time. You called me at work and told me when I get home, I’m supposed to come into the house and take off all my clothes. You added that I was to fold them neatly and take them upstairs, then come down and wait at the bottom of the stairs for instructions. I was not to talk or do anything else, and I was to wait as long as it took until you were ready. You don’t call me like that too often, so I was excited.
I enjoy it a great deal when you make me get naked, especially when you stay covered up. Or at least, when you don’t strip right away. The stories I’ve downloaded call it “CFNM”–for “clothed female, naked male”–but I just call it hot, especially when you dress the part. But even when you just wear regular clothes, it reinforces who is in charge and who is not, and it’s weirdly vulnerable to walk around with all the tender parts exposed. And it’s clearly implied that if I’m naked, my tender parts are eligible for whatever is on your mind.
When I pulled into the driveway, your car wasn’t there, which was not what I expected. As I walked up the front steps, I debated whether I really needed to get naked quite yet, or whether I might have time for a drink. I took a look at your location on my phone, but it only showed “No location available.” Maybe it was just a temporary thing, or maybe you didn’t trust me not to follow instructions. Either way, as I unlocked the door, I decided it was better to do as you said. CFNM was usually a lot of fun, and I definitely didn’t want to face any of the punishments you’ve contrived since we started playing. Cold showers and standing on tiptoes are not a good way to spend time that could have been better spent being sexually teased and tortured.
I took my clothes off and began folding them, only noticing as I headed up the stairs that you had taped a note to the back of column at the foot of the stairs. I would not have seen it without walking partway up.
“Hello, Toy,” you wrote. “Before you do anything else, take a picture of your naked self and your folded clothes and send it to me immediately. The Ring system told my phone when you opened the door, and if it took you too long to see this note, I’ll know you disobeyed me.”
Fortunately, I had my phone in my hand, so I took a quick naked selfie and sent it to you on WhatsApp. (Sometimes the kids are on our phones, and we don’t want them stumbling onto something that will send them to therapy.)
After that, I finished reading your note.
“I’ve left some things on the bed for you. Don’t take too long to get back downstairs. I’d better find you standing there when I get home.”
I hustled up the steps and into our room. I put my clothes on a chair in the corner and looked at the bed. My chastity cage was there, no surprise. A pair of leather wrist cuffs that required padlocks–interesting. Not usually something you left for me to do. A blindfold–nice touch. And your iPad, with a sticky note that said, “Watch me.”
I unlocked the screen, and a video was waiting to be played. It was you, dressed up in your “You’d love to fuck me, but you’re my bitch and I’m your queen” outfit. I think we need a catchier name for it, but at that moment, my groin was already stirring significantly. Looking at you dressed like that is always extremely hot. You take complete charge, and you look unbearably sexy.
I pushed play.
“Hello, Toy,” you began, wielding your riding crop. “Are you ready to be domme’d out of your mind tonight?” I smiled, but on camera you frowned. “Answer me!” I looked over my shoulder. You weren’t there. This is a recording, right? I answered “Yes, Ma’am,” anyway as you started to speak again.
“You’ve already been told to stand at the bottom of the stairs and wait for me. You will do that. I know you like it more when I lock your cuffs and your cage, but tonight, you will do it for yourself. It makes me happy to frustrate you. Remember to thank me for that later. When you get downstairs, you will put the keys on the coffee table. You will also leave your phone there, then put your earbuds in, and your blindfold on. Then wait for me to arrive.
“Oh, and one more thing. Take a nice long look at me in this video. I know how much you lust for me in this outfit, but this is the last time you will see it tonight. The blindfold is not coming off.”
I gasped a little. That was so cruel.
You adopted an artificial look of sympathy on the video as you spun around and stepped back, so I could see your butt and your boots and your boobs one last time.
“Poor baby. Me all dressed up all night and you completely unable to appreciate it. Just standing there naked and not even allowed to touch it–to ‘see’ it even with your hands.” You paused, then said, “Okay, enough staring. I’ve given you far too much as it is. I’ll have to punish you for gawking at me so long. Turn this off and head downstairs. I know when you came in, and I know how long this video is, and I’d better not beat you to the bottom of the stairs. If I do, I’ll beat you at the bottoms of the stairs.” Another brief pause, and then you added, “Well, I’ll probably do that either way.” The video ended.