…I laid in bed, not quite awake, my mind slowly coming online after one of the most kinky dreams of my life, and that was saying something as I had been having some wild ones lately. My husband Greg had left early on another of his extended business trips, he was taking as much work as he could handle lately as we had a new home and mortgage that was truthfully just a bit intimidating.
Our new home wasn't really new at all, but turning seventy something this year, although she didn't show her years other than in the fine craftsmanship of the period, and the "dated style" that I had instantly fallen in love with. The road it was situated on was deathly quiet, our only neighbors eternally and peacefully sleeping right next door and never making a peep, their somber visitors as well no problem at all. Back when touring this home that first time; if I had believed in ghosts and things that go bump in the night, we likely wouldn't have purchased this particular one, but I was at best a skeptic, at least at one time…
It was time however to get up and get moving, and it was then that the first pangs of fear set in, my arms over my head and not moving, my bare legs likewise splayed to the edges of the mattress and immobile. Had Greg been home I might have assumed he had playfully bound me - although to date he had never asked nor offered to do so - but I clearly remembered his kiss goodbye early that morning, meaning my dream at some point after he had left, might not have been a dream at all.
…In my dream there had been a dark shadow of a man, binding my arms over my head, and my legs splayed obscenely wide so as to offer the maximum exposure to my womanly charms, I passively not doing a thing to stop him though in obvious kinky cooperation. That shadow man then did things to my bound body, magnificent things that made me struggle against my bonds seeking "release" time and again, but not necessarily escape. His friendly explorations were welcome, although torturously teasing without result for a time so as to keep me on the very edge of ecstasy, rather than mercifully taking me over the top; this man knew my body like only one man ever should…
I then wondered irrationally if some villain had broken in after Greg had left, then binding me up only to come back and have his way with me time and again once I woke - after stealing our humble and dated possessions - free to take all the time in the world with me on our secluded home's road? Would such a thief come alone, or invite some friends to share me with once he discovered our possessions were of little value? What if instead I were the sole focus of his, or their desires, I stalked and then snared in their trap and free for the taking, and who knows what else afterwards?
…Rational and deliberate thought then overtook me as I silently explored the familiar texture to my bonds… I had apparently, somehow, partially shed my own nightshirt at some point during the early morning, only to wrap my wrists up in the arm holes and through the brass bars of our antique headboard, pinning my arms uselessly over my head. Once they were twisted free I felt like a fool, my bare legs likewise knotted up in the sheets that were tucked under the heavy mattress, I left wondering at the obscene picture I would have made if another were actually in that room with me.
In the end it was just another odd foreboding experience in this new house of ours, my dream quite real to me though as I had whipped myself up into a lather during it. I found the evidence of my nocturnal excitement easily enough, and as it would be several days before my husband's scheduled return home I had no choice but to take matters into my own hands once again, although leaving my legs pinned and splayed as I did so to add to the realism. That struggling self inflicted orgasm felt wonderful, this bondage thing I had stumbled upon obviously in need of further exploration.
…Months earlier my husband and I had been in the market for a home, but our budget, and what we could actually buy with it, were at odds with each other, we for a time resigning ourselves that home ownership might not be for us at this stage of our lives… It was shortly after that when a friend of a friend told me of a charming house for sale by the owner, we had nothing else to do that rainy Saturday anyway and set an appointment to see the place; the man we spoke with was quite vague about the price though. We didn't want to waste his time, nor he ours, as we had our share of disappointments house hunting on a budget, but the man insisted we see it first and then discuss price afterwards.
Number seven Cemetery road was a misnomer, as there were no other houses presently on that road, but the magnificent nineteen fifties craftsman style home would have stood out from the "cookie cutter" houses of the day anyway, had there been any nearby. It was obviously well out of our reach financially, we came to that conclusion between ourselves without having to say as much out loud, this feeling like still another cruel tease as we sat and looked at it for a long second or two from inside our dry car. It was our desire to become homeowners, and then to fill that house with babies, in that order though.
The man selling this fine home was named Robert Remington, he early and waiting for us in the driveway, his rented fine German luxury car looking out of place time-wise in the driveway though, this house and it's finely kept yard instead with a period accurate Chevrolet in the driveway otherwise the perfect Norman Rockwell print. We made our introductions, the man as gracious as he could be, we then attempted to tell him that this place was well out of our reach, as if our ordinary little car hadn't done that for us already.
Mr. Remington was old, but there was a sharpness to him - a certain class and distinction - and even an energy that belied his apparent age; it was as if he were a young man in an older one's body. He shook my hand after my husband's while looking me deep into my eyes with an appreciative smile, as if he were possibly interested in getting to know me better, had my husband not been standing there I assumed. It wasn't creepy so much as flattering, here was a man of some apparent means who had no doubt seen a great deal in his long life, and still there was something in my eyes that appealed to him. What would I have done to get a truly good deal on this fine home? Not that, but the fact that the thought had even occurred to me with this kind older man spoke volumes…
"Lets go inside out of the rain and I can show you my brother's house and answer any of your questions," Mr. Remington offered reasonably. I of course assumed it was no longer his brother's house, but good manners prevented me from pursuing this line of thought to its natural conclusion.
The porch was wide and dry, and so as not to make any wet footprints inside the house I removed my heels outside and entered barefoot, my husband Greg doing the same in his socks as a show of respect for this beautiful old home destined not to be ours. The inside of this home was possibly even more impressive that it's outside, it's décor and furniture like a step back in time, and also looking like it's owners would be right back in just a few minutes' time; as if they had just gone to the market together to fetch something for dinner.
Mr. Remington had removed his shoes and had placed them on a mat just inside the door himself - one he knew to be there - but our respectful outside shoe routine wasn't lost on him in the least. He had not closed the four foot wide handmade mahogany entry door he was closest to though - it an impossibly thick and heavy work of art in itself - and as the man started to tell us of how he had came into possession of this home - the former owners sleeping eternally right next door in the adjacent cemetery - the door closed firmly all on it's own as all three of us watched.
The wind wasn't blowing and none of us were within five feet of the massive door when that happened, Mr. Remington just smiled and said that things like that tend to happen in this home.
"Is this home… haunted?" I asked, not really believing in such things myself, but at the same time not being able to easily explain what I had just witnessed with my own two eyes. I felt both a little rude, and foolish for asking, the moment the words left my lips though, as the ones potentially haunting it were likely his recently departed family members, although with so many sleeping right next door even that wasn't a sure thing.
"They both built this home, some of it with their very own hands, and they absolutely loved it, as they did each other. Some part of them has to still be in here, if of course you believe in such things" Mr. Remington opined. I found myself believing it was at least possible, where my husband Greg's face suggested even more skepticism than I myself had before we had entered this place. In his defense though, his business was machines and logic controls for them, and the concept of ghosts and other such things wasn't strictly logical; where ones and zeros were. One had to BELIEVE in ghosts, where one only had to see electricity in action after the proverbial switch had been flipped to know it existed.
Anyway, the rest of the tour that day went off without a hitch, the home fully furnished like a museum, and there being no way on earth that we could possibly afford such a magnificent place. During our tour though, it occurred to me that Mr. Robert Remington was actually interviewing us, how long had we been married, any kids, questions mostly directed towards myself though and not Greg, who was understandably caught up in the magnificent details of this home. He worked on things for a living, and I think he was in awe at the "by hand" labor hours it took to make even the ornate crown moldings, or even the front door, let alone everything else that we could see. I myself was caught up in the "feel" of the home, it was way more than just a nice building, as if the previous owners were in fact somehow still here with us, and they and Mr. Remington - their earthly representative - were all interviewing us together, seeing if we were worthy of owning this home.
"So, what do you think?" Mr. Remington asked unnecessarily at the end of the tour.
Greg and I shared a look, but then he answered for both of us by saying we wouldn't change a single thing, although we also couldn't possibly afford to give him what it was worth, and that we didn't want to insult him by offering what we could.
That turned out to be the perfect answer.
"If I were to sell my brother's home to some house flipper, some investor, they would first build a huge and ugly fence between the cemetery and it, they would then rip out all of this magnificent craftsmanship and replace it with something shiny and revolting, and then sell it to somebody "we" might not like all that much. I don't really need the money, and trust me when I tell you that it's only money, you don't take it with you into the next life. I would sooner burn this place to the ground than see that happen," the man told us in total sincerity.
"This home needs a caretaker, somebody who will love it as much as they did. I could put such things into a contract of some kind, and a buyer could even sign it in good faith, but what earthly recourse would we have if the home was then defiled and modified? I would far prefer to enter into some kind of an agreement with the both of you, sealed by a simple handshake. But, I give you fair warning, if you were to have a change of heart at some point later on with this agreement, the house might not like it."
"Then it is haunted?" I asked, "or at least it could be if we were to violate our agreement with you."
"I don't know that I can honestly answer that question for you, but if such thoughts help you to keep this home as it is, and be its proper loving caretakers…"
Robert, my husband, and I all discussed, and then shook hands on the simple deal, then surprised us by offering to hold the mortgage note for us at zero percent interest, providing we allowed him to visit us in it when he was in town. This would amount to an inspection of our new home whenever he wished, but we had nothing to hide, and zero percent interest was far better than any bank could ever offer. The terms were simple, if we missed a payment he could take the home back, or assess some penalty instead, even if it was the very last payment, but we obviously had no intentions of defaulting on any loan. Greg was a good provider, and blessed with a great many marketable skills that ensured he'd always have employment.
After our handshake deal Robert told me he had to show me something, and in the top dresser drawer of the master bedroom was a black and white picture of his brother John, and his sister in law Betty on their wedding day. Betty's likeness and my own had an uncanny similarity, as I was about the same age as she when that picture had been taken. I had to hold the picture up in the room's mirror next to my own face incredulously for confirmation, Robert saying nothing until I did so.
"I didn't mean to be rude when I first met you, but you look so much like Betty that I couldn't not stare. I hope I didn't make you uncomfortable," the kind man added.
"No, not at all," I answered. Holding the picture of Betty and John up, I also noticed the similarity between the brothers despite their age differences, but that was to be expected.
"You two weren't twins, were you?" I asked.
"No, a great many years between us, but if one were to look at our pictures growing up, which there are precious few of, we looked almost identical at the same ages" Robert confided. His brother was obviously his brother, but there was a special place in his heart for his sister in law too, that was as obvious to me as a sunrise.
"Can I keep this?" I asked, referring to the wedding picture.
"I have a copy, so it comes with the home… if you would like," Robert answered; he was rather surprised by my request though.
I walked the picture out and placed it on the mantle, both men looking, but not saying a word. That picture was staying right there, I had made that decision, and no force on earth was going to change my mind. Our own wedding picture might go on the other side, but to honor the home and its original owners that picture would remain where I had placed it, a place of honor, and also a reminder that we too would be eternally sleeping - possibly right next door - ourselves one day.
…Our first night in our new home was hectic and odd to say the least, and it felt as if we were sleeping in somebody else's home as just about none of the things in it were ours, except for our clothes and some personal effects. I still found the energy to make love when woken from a dead sleep, it was a kind of tradition in a new place for us that we almost missed out on. We were just so exhausted from the move, but this particular time Greg pinned my wrists to the bed like a barbarian, something well out of character for him, but still pretty hot. It was all over in a flesh-slapping rough few minutes, but the struggling part was something I knew I would have to do again as it really tripped my trigger. Greg had to have noticed this - even half awake - but curiously in the morning he didn't even mention our activities of the night before…
To say the home and we got off to a smashing good start would be a lie, or perhaps more accurately, we and its previous owners. In either event, there was an ever so short truce for a few days as we moved in, they apparently getting used to somebody new being there, and we eventually found the things we had "misplaced" in the strangest of places. Car keys in the refrigerator, my panties found hanging on an unused doorknob, that kind of thing. At first I had thought one of us had been sleepwalking, but then I eventually suspected John and Betty were making themselves known in subtle, and for the most part playful ways. Greg looked toward more earthly explanations though, his brain just wired more cause and effect-wise than mine.
With our move, and on a temporary trial basis, my employer allowed me to work from home, Greg setting up the things necessary to make that work in our temporary home office. That required having workmen in to bring internet cable into the home, and that required some slight modifications. It was all done in the basement wirelessly so there would be no cables laying about, nor the ugly holes associated with such things, but these were still technically "modifications."
That very next day Greg was to leave for a work trip, and to help both of us relieve stress, and to say thank you in a very special way for his efforts in setting me up so I didn't have to physically go into the office all that often, I intended to entertain him like only a loving wife can. A shower would precede this playtime, then walking into the bedroom across the hall wearing nothing at all while my husband waited in bed for me; or so went my initial plan. He knew what was coming when I had innocently suggested that I grab a shower before bed, and I thought it would be especially wonderful if he pinned me to the bed once again and got all barbarian-like with me, in this way telling him that I had really liked what he and I had done on our first night here.
I jumped into the shower and adjusted the water about as hot as I could take it, my skin pink from the hot water's assault, and I luxuriated under the hot stream as I lathered up. I loved these kinds of showers, but once covered in soap with my hair full of shampoo the magnificent stream of hot water turned ice cold in an instant, making me scream. Greg was there in a second, but with few other good choices and the hot water apparently not working, I had to finish up with an ice cold shower to get the soap and shampoo from my body. Needless to say that Greg and I didn't make love that night, my passion flushed away down the shower's drain with the cold water and soap.
Greg, being a logical kind of guy, expected a logical kind of reason for what had happened, and he promised to have a contractor come in to look at the water heater just as soon as he could, although he couldn't help but to find the amusing side of what had happened, his hidden smirk conveying this rather clearly. It took some time to fall asleep that night, and Greg had to get up early so I couldn't keep him up to help me, but while trying to sleep and wrap my head around what had happened several scenarios went through my mind.
The one I came back to time and again was that "I" had done something I shouldn't have in bringing a contractor into the home to run a cable wire in the basement, and as a result the home was punishing me, or had punished me. It seemed irrational, and I dared not share this with Greg for fear that he was left thinking I was losing my mind. I could test this theory, or perhaps even verify it should the contractor not find anything wrong with the water heater, but along these lines I heard Greg take his shower very early in the morning, apparently everything was working just fine now. I took my own hot shower several hours later when I woke, calling Greg on the road and telling him to cancel the repairman as the shower was perfect now.
We had a good laugh over that, at my expense obviously, but the personal lesson stuck with me, although the logical part of my own mind wanted to find some way to test this theory…
There were trunks of clothes in the walk up attic, and an old phonograph with some vintage records, and I explored everything that came with the home like so many found treasure boxes. I would be alone for a few days and had the time after my work duties were done, some of the clothes specifically just as vintage as the home. An idea came to me after trying on one of Betty's vintage dresses, it fitting me as if made for me specifically. When Greg came home from his trip I would greet him wearing one of Betty's dresses with a hot meal in the vintage oven, and a borrowed pair of her shoes, and not a thing else!
That experience was, to say the least, magnificent, he loved my new/old dress, and I loved up on him in a way that told him that I had very badly missed him. In the afterglow of that little episode we hatched a plan, we would throw a party for our friends to welcome them into our new place, and seeing how Halloween was right around the corner, and that we had an attic full of clothes both male and female, it would be a vintage 1950's costume party.
The night of the party the house came alive, the big band vintage records from the attic playing on the old phonograph, and vintage dressed ladies and gentlemen wearing jackets and fedora's danced all night long. Some of the costumes were borrowed clothes from the attic, but many found vintage clothes of their own by any means possible; the party was a total success. Everybody was very respectful of our fine home too, not one spill or mess, and our friends were extremely complimentary of our magnificent find. Betty and John's picture on the mantle saw it all, and was an obvious conversation piece. Also it was noticed that I and Betty bore more than a passing resemblance to each other, we certainly were the same dress size and general build.
Post party this was now a home, our home, although it was obvious to me now that it was one that we still shared. That night I had a wild sexual dream, in it I was in a jail cell, but not a modern jail cell like they might have at the police station. This one seemed old, almost like a medieval dungeon looking kind of place, certainly the cell in question was in a dark and closed-in area, the bars on the door iron and old looking, as was the massive lock on the door itself. The cell part was stone, cut into the rock itself, or perhaps concrete made to look like stone. If that wasn't strange enough - I was about as far away from being a criminal as humanly possible - I realized that I was nude in this dream cell, and chained, wrist and ankle, inside the cell itself.
That particular night the dream ended there - it was really just a single vivid scene that I remembered - but over the coming weeks I had that dream again and again, revisiting this place in my mind, and noticing new little details each time. The room the cell was in seemed familiar, but I couldn't place it as I was seeing it from a new angle. My dreams had another effect on me too, as did living on a mostly unused road without a clear sightline to the road itself. I had taken to doing my housework and cleaning in the nude, why dirty perfectly clean clothes while dusting and vacuuming? I reasoned. If I could be dream-imprisoned in the nude, why couldn't I work like that as well?
Greg was also taking all the work he could handle at the time, our down payment leaving us with very little in the bank and he wanted a good comfort cushion so we couldn't possibly miss a payment on our magnificent home. I didn't think Mr. Robert Remington would wish to repossess our home and kick us out on the street if we somehow missed a payment, but he had that option, and we both had fallen in love with this home of ours, making such a thing seem unfathomable. I then playfully imagined Robert coming by to check on the place unannounced while I was cleaning in the buff, or to perhaps collect a late payment personally…
When I was alone in the house I felt watched over, especially when nude, as I tried to be just as often as I could get away with it. I even did my work-work in the nude, but with a band-aid overtop of my laptop's camera so I didn't accidentally hit the wrong key and give a free show. I didn't feel stalked or anything though, just as if somebody else were watching, and he - it was almost certainly a he - was appreciative. Every now and then I would catch the glimpse of a face in a mirror as I turned quickly, attributing it at first to a trick of light, or some other worldly explanation, but just in case I sometimes called out, "Hello John," or "you startled me there John." If nobody else was there I was only harmlessly talking to myself, but if the ghostly John were actually watching over me, or just checking in on his home, I was acknowledging that I had noticed, with the further connotation that his "intrusion" was welcome.
After one such incident I had a new dream though, and in this one I was opening the bottom of the clothing trunk with Betty's dresses, the one in the attic, not even realizing that it had a bottom that opened. It was a secret compartment, at least in my dream it was, and in the morning I investigated and found it, tapping on the bottom and hearing a hollow sound, verifying the depth mismatch of the trunk inside and out with a convenient shoestring. I was hooked on this mystery now, on this dream connection to this house, but I didn't want to destroy the antique trunk by smashing it open either.
At this point I had to enlist Greg to help me, and this meant I had to confess the crazy dreams I had been having about jail cells and being chained up nude in them. To his credit he didn't tease me in the least, admitting that he had been having some strange ones himself, at least the times he had slept home. He wouldn't tell me any details, but he did confess that I had been in those dreams, and that they were quite raunchy and extreme. Up until this point neither Greg, nor I, were what you would consider kinky at all, although we both obviously enjoyed sex with each other, just more of the vanilla flavor as Greg was a rather tender and sweet lover. Nothing wrong with kink and hot passion, but we were both raised a bit more conservatively than that, Greg pinning my wrists to the bed that one time in the middle of the night aside. That had been a first taste of such things for me though, and it wasn't a bad one either…
Anyway, Greg helps me to carefully unload the trunk, and then to defeat the simple false bottom-floor locking mechanism, there being little hidden pins and latches that must be moved to allow the trunk's false bottom to be lifted up and out. Cash, rare coins and jewels, or who knows what goes through my head, at least as we lift the bottom clear. Hidden inside are five wide iron rings with locking mechanisms on each, two keys, one big, and one smaller. The two smallest diameter rings are linked with three links of heavy chain, the next two up, size-wize, are also chain linked, but with about ten links between, and the last ring being the largest with no chain attached, although there is a D ring on its outer surface.
We lift these heavy rings out and I realize they are also from my dreams, specifically from my dreams about the dungeon jail cell. Two are for my wrists, two for my ankles, and the last an iron collar that wasn't specifically in my dreams. Greg and I discover that the smaller key fits everything in the trunk, and as old as it all appears, it still works flawlessly. Whatever the larger key fits isn't in the trunk, and tapping on the other trunks doesn't reveal any other false bottoms. I say the iron manacles are for "my" wrists and ankles as they're apparently too small diameter wise to fit Greg, or likely any other full sized man.
There is of course only one way to be sure they actually fit me, but if I'm to keep with my dream I have to get naked first. If we had found something like this on day one we would have been appalled, or maybe even called the cops, but the incremental way these dreams and experiences have conditioned us for this makes this seem like a logical next-step progression. There isn't anything evil feeling here either, it's more a playful feeling, like these are toys, props maybe - despite being metal and very real - and the connotation is also that once on, sexy fun things will surely happen next.
Greg has a far away content look on his face, like he's remembering something wonderful, and I ask him about it. He tells me that he's dreamt about me wearing those cuffs as well, but watching another dark shadowy man putting them on me, and not him. I can tell from his tone and expression that it wasn't a bad dream, but something so kinky and wild that it surprises me all the same. The old Greg wouldn't think anybody touching me at all was anything positive, let alone chaining me up, but maybe because it's a dream, and because I'm maybe having a good time in this dream of his - I assume based on his expression - that this works for him. Robert had caught my eye, and my husband had noticed, but that apparently didn't bother him either. There is just something about this house, something playful and naughty lurking in the shadows, or for all I know, much more sinister and well hidden.
Anyway, just handling these things, these hidden adult toys - we assume - has ignited something in both of us. It's Saturday morning, it's raining outside, and here we are exploring inside our nice warm home. We have the whole morning to ourselves, some kinky props, and zero distractions…
"I dare you to put those on!" my husband challenges, lust dripping from every syllable.
"I dare you to make me!" I challenge back, stepping out of my panties and lifting my simple sleep shirt over my head fluidly, tossing it aside. I find myself standing nude in our walk up attic - something I didn't ever anticipate happening before moving into this place - waiting and wanting him to take the next step, to take charge of me like this. It's like I'm suddenly somebody else, like something you might see in a movie, but this home is inspiring like that. I maybe half expected us to walk down to our bed first, let nature take its course in that more comfortable and familiar place with some new props to play with, but truth be told I was so boiling hot I didn't care where we did it, this as well a departure from our more vanilla couplings.
Cuffs in front of me, leg irons locked around my ankles, and I even got Greg to put the thick iron collar on me. It wasn't all that tight at all, but wide enough that if I lowered my head too much it crushed the underside of my jaw uncomfortably. The closed and locked restraints amped up my lust even further - testing the cuff's resolve like in every black and white horror movie ever - and we ended up doing it frantically on top of one of the trunks in the actual attic. It was over in just a few frantic flesh slapping minutes, but it's impossible to ride that kind of over-the-top passion for all that long. My cuffed ankles ended up behind his back, which splayed my legs fully, while also giving the feeling that we were inseparably chained together. I made no effort to remain silent either, and up in our attic I'm sure the noise traveled to our eternally sleeping neighbors right next door through the uninsulated attic walls; likely it was a good thing that it was raining and their living visitors were likely not in attendance.
A few seconds after my husband orgasmed it looked like he was instantly ashamed of what he had just done to me, as if he had been elsewhere with his insane lust had only returned after he blasted off inside of me. I was there with him though, and I loved this rougher new take-charge manliness from him, cuffs and all. Hearing the noises he's made me make he can't possibly think I'm not loving this too, but I have to also make sure that he has the proper mindset on this new him.
"I don't know what's gotten in 'us' lately sweetheart, but I like it, I like the hot passion" I tell him honestly, with a very real and warm sated smile as well. Does this imply that we had none earlier? I don't mean it that way, and fortunately he doesn't take it that way either. His face tells me that he's relieved, that this is something that he's maybe into now too, but not if I'm not. They just don't make too many guys like my Greg, he's a definite giver, not a taker, and that should of course be rewarded…
"Again?" I ask incredulously, when I feel him ever so slightly stirring while still technically inside of me. I feel his mess, and my own too, but I just love the way a real flesh and blood man feels, this way better than any toy, or even experiences fingers. I don't have but a few toys, I don't ordinarily need them, so maybe this isn't fair, although maybe if one spends enough money, the toys get a very real feeling. I haven't needed to make that kind of investment though, even with Greg traveling like he does now; as I far prefer the "I really missed you bad" greetings when he returns from an out of town job.
Anyway, a slight adjustment of my hips on the hard trunk lid and he flops out of me, and we both look in that direction and laugh. "Oh, I'm just going to have to have a chat with 'little Greg,' this just won't do" I tell him playfull. He maybe went full on barbarian on me for just a minute or two there, and while I just loved that, I also love the humor that he has at times like this. He's usually a once and done kind of man, a one trick pony, but it's also a very good trick. Girlfriends in college used to boast about guys that could go half a dozen times, but I think that was at best embellishment of the actual event, or what they wished had actually happened after a thirty second hair-trigger whoopsie.
Greg ducks under my bound legs when I raise them cooperatively, and I slink down to my knees before him like he's my ruler, kneeling in chained supplication before him. He steps the rest of the way out of his pants and just looks down at me, and I can almost see the wheels turning in his head, "what is she up to?"
To be fair, in our entire marriage I have done this for him less times that I have fingers, on one hand. It's very rare to say the least, as in I have to be very into it - either very horned up, or inebriated - and post sex I don't know that I've ever done this for him a single time, as in a cleanup thank you blow job. He's mostly flaccid and soft, and I nibble and lick on him like a cat with a warm bowl of milk. I don't know if Greg is liking this or not to be honest, but he's not exactly stopping me either. I am half doing this for myself though, I simply felt compelled to do it, to serve this magnificent man while chained before him.
I need something more than his passive participation though, I need an aggressively active partner so that I can get what I'm selfishly after here. "Maybe if I don't take very good care of you, like the best ever, maybe then you don't release me?" I breathlessly ask, the words unlike my own though, the true inspiration for such also unknown. Truthfully this comes out as much more of an offer, letting him know what was on the proverbial table in my lusted up present condition. I've just had a pretty nice big O, but quite selfishly I want like five more while wearing these restraints, although I should be feeling content instead. I had to stop what I was doing to actually speak, and the act struck me as amusing; "don't talk with your mouth full" had been drilled into us since childhood as the only proper table etiquette. I really need him to say those words back to me though, to make it clear that he's in charge, in charge of my very freedom if I fail to perform this humbling service flawlessly.
He didn't say those words back to me though, but I think the concept, the offer perhaps got his wheels turning. To be fair, this entire episode is a million miles away from tender and sweet, but these cuffs and the unique conditions that let us find them have inspired me. I'm also not very good at this oral thing to be honest, I ordinarily find it degrading, but for some reason not at that particular moment. I taste myself, I taste him as well, and he's coming around, finally. He gets hard enough to bump the back of my throat as I sound like I'm devouring an extra large hard ice cream cone that I just love, even though this is the farthest I've ever gotten with any man. I've done more recently with a silicone toy to be honest, but that was solo and inspired by who knows what just to see if I could, kind of like a challenge for myself. It's different when you're in control of the thing that's going in and out of your mouth to the point of choking on it though, as opposed to having another doing that to you with their hands on your head. It's a matter of control, something I was beginning to understand that I wanted to give up every now and then.
This time little Greg has some serious lasting ability, and once we worked out the mechanics of my legs being wrapped around him while standing, he backs me up against one of the beams with my butt in his hands and has me for a while, like until neither one of us can go any more. It was just insanely wonderful, like the best ever, and both of us were left in a sweaty mess and needing showers afterwards, which we did together, endless hot water and all…
So, sufficient to say that this house had some serious secrets, as did the two that lived there all their lives, and apparently built it too. Did Robert know of these kinds of kinky things with his departed relatives; did I dare share this with him? Maybe to the first question, it could explain the look I got from him when we first met, but "hell no" to the second, there was no reward for doing so, in the risk vs reward universe. He had given his number if we had any questions, but to date we hadn't used it. I had enclosed a very heartfelt note with our first official mortgage check thanking him for everything though, so it's not like we didn't have a path for communication, if necessary.
Another Greg trip out of town, and another dream, but this one had me searching next door for the home's original owners, the "Jonathan Remington and his wife Betty" stone easily found; I then learned that they had passed within a few weeks of each other. It was sad, but also understandable that two people so connected to each other wouldn't be able to last independently. I placed some fresh cut white roses from their own yard in the attached bronze urn and went on my way with a host of emotions, kinky sex not one of them though. There was room next to their final resting place, and I had it in my mind to inquire about purchasing that plot for later use, although hopefully much later use…
If our Halloween party had opened a door, and our making such passionate love with the gifted restraints had opened another; the simple visit next door and offered flowers opened still another. The second larger key found in the trunk opens a door, or so my dream suggests to me with whispered feminine words; a door with a surprise behind it like no other. This has to be Betty, but where was the voyeuristic John now? To know where the door is though, to learn of its exact location and secrets, I must do something to prove my sincerity to this new feminine voice, give something to get something, these words as well whispered into my ear as I slept.
This "ordeal" is straight up insanity, but a private kind of insanity with both the secluded nature of our home's location, and the time of night, and solving this minor mystery is just too tantalizing to walk away from. I can't sleep now anyway, and the moon is full and Greg is traveling for the next few days, so in my mind it's now or never. The road we live on doesn't see any traffic, and the yard secluded, so with this in mind I follow my other-worldly instructions to the letter, my promised reward to see behind the door to follow.
I walk out into the moonlight via the front door, cuffed wrist and ankle, hands in front with the collar locked on too. Overall it's an effective hobble, but I can still walk with little steps if I'm careful. I've even left the key behind on my nightstand as per my dream instructions. I have a pair of scissors with me, but other than that I'm as naked as the day I was born; there's a quasi innocence to it all really. I cut a single red rose from the front yard's bush and carefully clench it in my teeth before I walk the short distance to the cemetery next door, leaving the scissors behind on the steps. Even by moonlight I can easily find the stone I'm drawn to as I've been there before, although walking through a cemetery at night under a full moon is a bit spooky. I lay down on my back on the dewy cold grass with my head towards the Remington headstone, reaching for and looping my cuffed hand's chain around the stout urn holding the roses I had placed myself, as if this was MY final resting place… but it's obviously not. My ghostly instructions were to do this specific thing, and I've done so, and I simply stare up at the stars and wait for what's next while enjoying my delicious bondage. I close my eyes and review the steps as I remembered them, but to accidentally fall asleep like this, and then to be discovered by somber early morning visitors would be quite terrible, extraordinarily disrespectful too.
I then feel my world spinning as if I'm drunk, but I can't move my arms; they're pinned in place. I struggle against what I assume is still the urn, but it's futile, just the rattle of my chains, and more spinning, and I snap my eyes open to nothing but darkness. I don't feel the wet grass on my naked backside, I don't see the stars or the moon either, nor hear the cricket sounds of night; just dead, dead silence. The rose stem cautiously clenched in my teeth now feels like a thick wood dowel, held in place by something that goes around my head, holding it fast like a horse's bit. I bear down on this to feel no thorns, but my own teeth leaving their own unique imprint in the hardwood.
I'm somehow vertical now, arms held over my head, in fact I'm hanging from them, my legs dangling above whatever floor is beneath me. The hobble chain feels attached to something directly below my hanging body, and my bodily gyrations cause me to further rotate about my centerline axis. My bitted attempt at speech, begging for an explanation of some kind, any kind, comes out incoherently, but eventually there is an answer; even if only in my head…
I first hear the soft steps of bare feminine feet somewhere overhead invading my dead silence, a creek of a top step that I now recognize, and another heavier set of following steps too. The click of a lightswitch and the hum of something electric accompany a single, - now illuminated - bare low wattage lamp somewhere overhead and behind me, and horrifying clarity as to my situation.
"A promise fulfilled; my end of the bargain" I heard whispered into my ear.
This is a small concrete bunker-like room, and in front of me is an iron bar door very much like the jail cell door from my dreams, with a large antique keyhole to match the antique key we had found in the trunk. In front of that is a brick wall, the mortar work sloppy and apparently hastily constructed on this side of it, but also making any escape even more impossible than my present situation suggests. In between the bricks is strapping that wraps around the bars at regular intervals, making this wall quite strong. I spin myself around in my suspension to see behind me, but this only confirms the single apparent egress before me; the one both locked and walled over.
I try to ask the hows and whys of where I seem to be, but all that comes out is some rather pathetic sounding mumbled words.
"You should really conserve your oxygen Betty, it might help you to live just a few hours longer. You don't mind if I call you that now, do you?" The voice asks. "Oh, by the way, I really like this body, it will serve me well in the decades to come, thank you for this fine gift, for taking my eternal place hanging in the dungeon…"
This is the place from my dreams, only in those it wasn't walled over, and this tells me that this room is in our basement, but walled over and unknown to us to exist. I see it all now in a burst of clarity, but too late to be any good to me now. Did the ghostly John try to warn me about this, or help draw me towards this horrible fate? I'm straining to hear more, looking for the full explanation of this place that I've paid quite dearly for. I hear a soft feminine "come hither" laughter, realizing that it's my own laughter from the other side of the wall, and then a man's words follow; "we don't have much time my love."
Is this my own husband's voice, muffled and muted through the wall, returned early from his trip, and "Betty" about to rub my nose in the fact that he's hers now too? Are they about to make passionate love in the basement, just a few feet away from me, all while I hang here and take my last few worldly breaths due to some horrific dark magic?
I hear both soft and familiar groans, and a rythmic thumping from the other side of the wall, specifically my groans, and likely my naked ass thumping up against the wall that separates the living from the soon to be un-living. I don't know how long I've been hanging here though, a few hours, or enough time for Greg to come home to what he thinks is his "needy" wife; freshly off the pill and looking to start a family. Betty was right though, the oxygen is getting scarce inside here; not eating or drinking in however many hours I've been hanging incarcerated inside here the very least of my problems.
After a good half an hour or so of thumping and groaning I hear the obvious crescendo of two lovers reaching mutual climax, this alone telling me that at least this wasn't my Greg. My once and done guy would have popped off in like two minutes if offered the opportunity to have me in the basement while pinned up against the wall.
"Why don't you go up to my bed lover, I'll be along in a minute?" I hear, offered through the wall, but the offer obviously is not intended for me.
"John eventually learned that Robert and I had something going on back in the day - we were trying to make a Remington blood relative or two on our own to one day pass this home down to - and John's out of the blue 'one last time' offer of the ultimate kinky scene left me hanging where you are now. It was most cruel of him, but so was my youthful betrayal, even with good intentions. I can't begin to tell you the horror of watching him wall me in, thinking it was an elaborate lesson and nothing more, pretty much until the end. John lost his mind right after that and passed not two weeks later by self-inflicted means, taking his walled up secret to the grave with him; and here you now are in my place to right this injustice. Pleasant dreams 'Betty,' my lover and future father to my children awaits!"
Happy Halloween!
