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of the bedposts. She watched him
fasten delicate silver manacles on slender chains around the fluted columns
then test the weight of the metal in his hands.
    “Please,” she begged. She longed for him to restrain her,
while at the same time she was flattered that he trusted her to obey him while
he carried out his designs.
    “I’ve changed my mind,” he said, letting the manacles drop
with a musical, silvery clang to dangle empty from the bedposts.
    She groaned in disappointment and he slapped the upturned
cheek of her ass.
    “No whining, my love. You’re too delicate for shackles.”
    He disappeared briefly from view, and she heard him moving
in the room behind her, but she dared not stir to turn and look. Instead, she
concentrated on how satisfying it was to offer her body like this. She slid her
feet apart, wider and wider, so the cool air of the room caressed the cleft
between her buttocks, where her deep need pulsed steadily with anticipation.
     
    He took in the sight of her bent face down over the foot of
the bed. The manacles would never do. Her soft wrists would chafe inside them,
and he wanted nothing to distract her from what he was about to do. He selected
instead two lengths of black silk, much better suited for his purpose, and
perused the bottles lining her dressing table. He wanted oil or lotion,
something without strong scent or astringent qualities. After opening and
sniffing a half dozen jars and pots he discovered a porcelain crock filled with
sweet almond oil and set it on the bed in front of Amy.
    She looked at it without comprehension, and he enjoyed her
baffled anticipation while he tied her left wrist securely to the bedpost, and
she sighed in constricted contentment. Her right hand he treated differently,
binding it loosely to the post with a slipknot and tucking the free end where
she could not reach it.
    Then within her line of sight, he stripped. Amy, he realized
by her awed expression, had never seen a nude male body.
    Her eyes raked the length of him hungrily then settled on
his jutting cock, which he proceeded to stroke, smoothing the sweet almond oil
up the shaft. “No,” she groaned. “That’s for me.”
    He reclined on the bed to stroke his shaft some more,
reveling in her hunger. “Of course it’s for you, my wanton little slut, but
good girls wait.”
    He was enjoying the anticipation, enjoying exhibiting his
lean, hard body, and if he thought about his audience on the other side of the
wall, he had to admit that he was enjoying that as well. Let John look. He
could have had Amy like this months ago if he’d been brave enough.
    When he could wait no longer he took the jar and came to
stand behind her. He anointed her rosebud liberally with the oil and slid one
slick finger in to the knuckle. She drove hungrily back on him to swallow his
entire finger. “Good girl,” he praised, and added another finger. She tensed,
and he stilled his digits until she became used to the invasion.
    Then it started. She twitched her hips, moving in a frantic
rhythm against his hand, mewling in desperation. She pulled on her bonds, and
he reached lazily, entranced by her display, to where the slipknot dangled its
pennant on her right wrist. He pulled, and her jerking arm came free. Then she
stilled for a moment, uncertain, until he spoke. “Touch yourself, Amy.”
     
    She couldn’t do it. The desire to be taken like this was her
deepest, most secret shame. That she pleasured herself, that she masturbated,
was almost equally shameful. That she would pleasure herself while he drove his
fingers into her ass—that her husband would see…she couldn’t do it.
    He bent his strong body over her, two fingers of his left
hand still moving exquisitely in her ass. His right hand covered hers, and he
spoke in her ear so softly that only she could hear. “I love you, Amy. There is
nothing you could desire that would disgust or repel or me.”
    He rubbed his hard cock against one cheek of her ass