Spontaneous Combustion – ebook

Excerpt

Cuff Time by Lizbeth Dusseau, excerpt from Spontaneous Combustion

 

 

“You need some regular ‘cuff time’. In the evening when you’re alone, I want you to wear your wrist and ankle cuffs for a couple hours, if that works out with your schedule. Be sure to wear them as you’re up and about the house, not just sitting in your chair, watching TV. Get used to their weight and what they mean. You’ll let me know how they feel.

Enough for now.

The only thing I regret is not having the chance to see that mark on your ass. Slaves need to be marked from time to time. I’ll be doing it again soon. Good night, slave. Master”

 

Jeni thought about ‘cuff time’ all day – at the office, in the break room, during the drive home – ‘cuff time’ rarely far away. Thinking of the cuffs made it difficult to concentrate on work, though work got done in fits and starts, and moments of wild inspiration. Was there any piece of her life that Jack did not influence?

She went for the cuffs as soon as she arrived home that evening. Like the nipple ties that she tied to the little buds faithfully each morning, putting on the cuffs was an act of service, loyalty and obedience. She certainly didn’t need them to remind her of Jack; he was constantly with her.

That night, and every night that week, as she crossed through her front door, she immediately headed for her bedroom and his bag of kinky toys. He liked her naked, so she stripped away her clothes before the cuffs went on; and because she’d stored the dog collar in the same bag, she put that on as well. By that time of day, the nipple ties were loose, so she re-tied them, imaging that she was standing before Jack with his eyes fixed on her chest, the erect nipples, the snug collar and the rattling cuffs.

She obeyed his orders because this was what her master wanted, because it turned her on, because the act paid homage to a deep-seated place in her psyche that had been calling out to her forever. Maybe in another lifetime she’d been a devoted slave. Maybe. But this was present time. Once the symbols of her submission were in place, she looked in the full length mirror on her closet, and stared at the image of submissive female staring back at her. At first glance, she stepped back, shocked by the woman in the mirror. The collar, the cuffs, the nipples ties stood out like blinking neon, attracting the focus of her eyes. She felt as self conscious as she would have been if he’d been in the room watching the transformation. From working woman to slave. Her sexual body quickened instantly. Jack’s idea of slave had become her new identity.

She’d never pictured herself this way. If it had been up to her, she would have added a corset, maybe a garter belt and heels, or a lacy bra. Something to soften the severe look of the collar and cuffs, something more like the sexy tramp she was inside her fantasies. There was nothing pretty or fancy about how she looked; the woman before her was glaringly slavish but imperfect to her eye. She saw every physical flaw with some chagrin. The years aren’t always kind. Of course, she wouldn’t be perfect. Bodies change. A woman doesn’t reach her years without a wrinkle here or a sag there. She was toned, her body fit and that would have to good enough.

Though she couldn’t help wonder if she was beautiful to Jack this way? Did he see her flaws or did the symbols of her submission make her beautiful in his eyes? And was it beauty he saw? Or sexy? Desirable? Fucking hot? What word would he use?

Dammit! She wished she could climb inside his thoughts, poke around a bit and see what was there. Maybe there were no thoughts. Maybe he thought with his dick – and as long as it was jumping to life again, he was happy and she was perfect in his eyes.

            Did he realize what wearing his cuffs in the evening was doing to her libido, her psyche, her peace of mind? Probably not. But then, men don’t obsess on these things the way women do.

You’ll let me know how they feel, she remembered him saying.

Other than feeling embarrassingly self conscious as she stared at herself in the mirror, her body heat took a flying leap forward. But the feeling wasn’t just arousal. The vision of herself as a submissive woman was rapidly shifting. He’d transformed her. The feeling of surrender she loved so dearly deepened as she replaced the self-made image she had held in her mind with Jack’s image of slave. A new reality had set in.

As soon as she opened to the experience that first night in his cuffs, the flood of rising passion carried her to bed, where she lay down and began to play with her pussy. It did not take long. She pressed her fingers to her favorite place, that heated place to the left of her clitoris. The bud was already hard and throbbing. Her cunt warm and liquid. She was so wet that there was little traction, but that didn’t matter. The need pressed on, driving the movement of her fingers in a frenzied masturbation until her clit finally spasmed hard against her hand. Her whole pussy seemed to seize up for a moment, while a swampy mess of sex juice poured out over her fingers, and she moaned in satisfaction.

She was out of breath when the spasms subsided, and remained on the bed for a time with her crotch still rocking against her fingers until she relaxed at last.

In the quiet aftermath, she remembered the desperate moments of getting off, thinking how there was something especially pleasing about the way leather and metal clanked as her fingers worked so hard. The memory brought her back to Jack. She imagined that the man would be in the middle of every sexual act whether he was there to witness it or not.

Her mind could have spun all night long, but she needed it to rest. She needed sleep, and her mind to end its meandering monologue.

Moving off the bed, she threw on pajama pants and a tee shirt then headed to her computer. For the next hour her mind vented every feeling and thought, until there was nothing else left to say. She read through the Word doc she entitled ‘Shackles and Cuffs’ doing a slapdash job of editing, until it was good enough. Then she opened her email:

 

“Good evening, Sir,

I’m still in my cuffs as I write…” she hesitated to mention the collar since that had not been part of his orders. “You have no idea how much your demand of me got under my skin tonight when I put them on. Magic, I think, or something very much like it. Maybe I really am made for this. I only wish you’d been here to put them on.”

There was so much more she could have said – but then that was the point of the meandering discourse she attached to the email.

“You wanted me to report how I felt wearing your cuffs…well, here’s the answer to your question, feelings, thoughts and other significant (or not so significant) ramblings. Not sure what else to say though I look forward to your response.

slave”

 

Shackles and Cuffs…

 

I never thought much about shackles, though I’ve always loved that word – shackles. Better than ‘cuffs’ which doesn’t have that Old World feeling about it that shackles do. There’s something romantic in that word that makes me think of them fondly – reason unknown. And yet, it’s not the word I’ll use today when talking about my recent experience with my master. While shackles sound romantic, cuffs is a no-nonsense kind of word. And since he’s a no nonsense kind of master, I’ll call them cuffs for now.

The name doesn’t matter, it’s what he does with them that counts.

When he first talked about putting me in cuffs, I worried that my thin wrists would slip through the bands, as they often do with most wrist restraints. He was unfazed by my concern, and I soon saw why. He already had the issue covered; these cuffs were adjustable and could fit tightly around my small wrists with no room left to slip my hands from their confining grasp. How clever of him to understand the versatility of his choice when he ordered them – must have been years ago.

He’s a practical man, cuffs for any occasion, any slave. And now me, like I’m another in a long line of submissive females taken in by his unique authoritative charm.

Let me not forget to mention the ankle cuffs of the same design as those for my wrists, these just slightly larger. I feel doubly bound with hands and feet both locked in leather. The minute I put them on, I become aware how fully tethered I could be were I to be lashed to a tree, tethered to a cross or laid out on a bed with my body spread wide, and every part of me vulnerable to the master’s plans. I’ve never wanted this. Oh, maybe in a fantasy or two or three, perhaps. But those fantasies took place in real dungeons, with dark lords, despicable brutes masquerading as country gentlemen, or urban financial warriors with enough cash to have women panting, ready to be their sexy chattel when they take a break from work and need a place to slake their pent-up lust.

But never in a real time, real life sexual relationship with a man on top and me, a lifestyle submissive below, has this cuffed and shackled reality been something that particularly turned me on. It’s never been part of my kinky DNA. At least that’s what I thought not more than a few months ago.

Now’s different. Now cuffs are part of my reality, a permanent fixture in the master’s bag of tricks. I’ve had to reconsider a lot of pet beliefs about myself since being introduced to this man.

I’ve been turned into a play toy, my body naked – yes, of course, I’m naked. Is there anything other than a naked slave? Shackled, fettered, retrained, restricted, any of the adjectives will do since all of them take me down a rung to something elemental inside myself. A place behind a door, a secret passageway, a realm so obscure in me that until this master entered my life, I never knew it existed. I’m dizzy with the splendid truth that there are still mysterious places left in me to explore.

The experience is more than I expected. The locks clatter when I move, and the weight of them is not something that I can dismiss. The look of them, the feel, the sound, the smell of them, takes me into an altered state of arousal without his saying a word.

Once fitted properly, their noisy clatter works on my mind with every rash or subtle movement, with every jiggle, with every time a heavy lock hits hard against my flesh. Heat rises inside my crotch. Desire creeps into me from every angle.

I never imagined myself shackled for sex, that something so uniquely in tune with the strange set of sexual practices that, in general, I embrace, would become a regular routine with me. I always figured that cuffs were the province of those lifestylers more driven by the symbols of their kink than I have been. Never seemed all that important to me. And yet, I know that when our first sex date was over, and I had his permission to remove the cuffs, my mind instantly rebelled. I didn’t want them gone; and for several seconds, I couldn’t fathom what my life would be like without them, their smell, the feel, the heavy, awkward weight. Damn! It is uncanny what they do to me!

In his absence tonight, I took them out of hiding according to his orders, gently fondled the stiff leather and the hardness of the steel. I drank in the pungent aroma that I love then listened as the metal clattered when I put them on. The memories of our first hours together ran through my brain, all sexually charged. They collided inside my sex where it was wet, hot, wanting. I know he’s preparing me for this next arrival, when I imagine that the sex will once again stir up more unrestrained passion. Ah, but there’s a method in this master’s madness. I know that when I put them on, I’ll feel as I did that first time, and as I did tonight, that I have arrived in the place where I belong.

Oh! Why do I make so much of them? I shake my head in wonder. They’re just a toy… END