Chapter 1: The French Bondage Maid

I hurried home to get supper ready for Jim. I had stayed late at work adding the finishing touches to my presentation. Jim did not like to be kept waiting, so I became quite stressed as I stood in the long line at the Japanese takeout. When I finally reached home I was relieved to find that Jim had not yet arrived, so I quickly set the table, laid out the sushi, and put the rest in the oven to keep warm. Then I changed out of my work clothes into some that I thought would please Jim. He never said what he liked me to wear, but by experimenting I had found that he wanted me to look like a whore. Since I was feeling sexy, I very much wanted to please him that night so I put on my French maid outfit, which had proven successful in the past. This consisted of a padded cleavage bra with a low scoop top, a short black skirt over crotchless panties, and high-heeled shoes. I applied bright red lipstick and mascara, and brushed my hair. I examined myself critically in the mirror and decided that this was the best I could do in the short time I had allowed myself.

I went downstairs and waited with growing impatience for Jim to come home. This part of my day was often frustrating. He never told me when to expect him, but he was usually in by 7 p.m. Jim liked me to be already handcuffed when he arrived. Sometimes he would take me immediately and have sex on the floor, but only when I was bound. Normally I liked to wait till I heard the garage door opening before putting on the handcuffs, but since it was late, and I was feeling very sexy, I persuaded myself, quite irrationally, that putting them on would hasten his return. So I locked my hands behind my back. I was now truly his prisoner. He had the only key, which he kept in his pocket.

While I waited I thought about my relationship with Jim. I had first met him at a bar while I was depressed over my separation from my previous boyfriend, Jason. Jason had been an intellectual, slightly effeminate, and weak. I felt I needed a change and was attracted by the raw animal strength of Jim. I wanted someone who could take charge and make decisions, and not debate every insignificant detail of every option. I desired someone who could read a menu and quickly make up their mind what to order, not someone who would agonize for half an hour over the choices.

Initially I had wanted Jim just for sex, I had no intention of falling in love. I introduced Jim to bondage, and soon it became the norm, we only had sex when I was bound and helpless. I think Jim enjoyed the power it gave him over me, both symbolic and real. One day, much to my surprise, I realized I was in love with him, and we moved in together. The bondage and the sex became more intense; I was in heaven.

I made a lot more money than Jim, and I suspect he resented me for that. I paid for all the household expenses, but I didn’t care, I could afford it.

We began to drift apart. I still loved him but I knew that he was having sex with other women. I dared not be confrontational, I had tried that once and he had beaten me. I became afraid of his anger and sought to hold on to his love by being as seductive, sexy, and compliant as I could. The costume I was wearing that evening was typical of my strategy. I hoped that he was with his drinking buddies, but if he were with a woman I hoped that my costume was the sexier.

Time passed, and Jim did not return. I feared the food would dry out so I turned the oven off. Although I was hungry, I dared not start eating before he arrived, that would make him angry.

The hours ticked by. I was feeling hungry and frustrated. I thought about the presentation I was scheduled to give at work the next day, but it was difficult to concentrate. Finally at 11 p.m. I decided to go to bed. I put the sushi in the refrigerator, a task requiring great care when in handcuffs and high heels, and walked carefully upstairs. Despite the crotchless panties, I couldn’t make pee; Jim would get upset if he found my skirt or panties wet. So I laid down on his side of the bed and tried to get to sleep.

I was awakened by the sound of Jim stumbling into the room. The light was off, but enough filtered in from the hall to see him. He took off his clothes and climbed onto the bed. He felt me there as I had intended.

“Oh, it’s you, is it?” he remarked rather obviously. He smelled of smoke, and booze and perfume. He rolled me onto my back with one hand, spread my legs with the other, and mounted me. I was already wet with anticipation. His big penis was hard and he thrust it into me. My first thought was that he hadn’t scored with his perfumed lady friend that night, and for that I was grateful. He grabbed my shoulders and pressed me down while he started to pump into me with more vigor. ‘At least he needs me for sex,’ I thought. Further thoughts, together with the pain from the handcuffs digging into my back, were swept away as my body responded to his actions. I loved this man. Soon he reached climax and pumped even more energetically into me, his lower body jerking and the whole bed jumping up and down. I responded as best as I could in my bound state and reached orgasm too. He stopped, withdrew his penis, and wordlessly rolled me over to my side of the bed. He lay down with his back to me, and appeared to go to sleep. It was always like that after we had sex.

I lay still for a while, then turned on my side towards him. I felt like I truly belonged to this man, my lover, my master. I had already forgiven him for being late. I reached forward and kissed his hairy back. No response. I snuggled up closer to him so that my nipples, which had become exposed, caressed his back, then kissed him again. “Geroff,” he mumbled thickly and jabbed an elbow back to push me away.

I thought I knew what he would like. I would suck his penis clean. With that in mind I rolled quietly off the bed, stood up, and walked around to his side of the bed. He seemed to be asleep. I stood looking at him with my heart filled with love. I could feel our love juices trickling unimpeded down my leg. I lay down near the bottom of the bed so that my head was close to his penis. I wriggled forward and I buried my face in his crotch seeking his penis with my mouth.

In response his knee jerked up hitting me in the chest. “Leave me alone bitch,” he shouted in an angry tone. “I’m trying to get some sleep.” With that he pushed me off the bed. I fell to the floor on my shoulder, being unable to save myself with my pinioned hands.

Not content with that rejection, he got up and took a length of rope from the dresser. “I’ll teach you to keep bothering me,” he muttered angrily. I felt a flash of fear, was he going to whip me? Instead he rolled me onto my front, wound the rope around my ankles several times, and then knotted it. He wound a few more turns around the rope between my ankles, cinched it tight then tied it off. I lay still without making a sound. I dared not offend him. He worked quickly; I was always amazed at how fast he was. He took the loose end of the rope and pulled my ankles up to my hands. He threaded the rope over the handcuffs and back down to my ankles. I think he then wrapped another turn or two around the ankle rope before pulling everything tight, and tying it off. “That’ll learn you, you whore,” he said in a voice that sounded angry. He then kicked me hard in the side with the back of his heel, and stepped on me to climb back into bed. I didn’t make a sound or say a word. I had learned that this would be very unwise.

I felt pain from his kick. I must have annoyed him a lot. At least he didn’t kick me in the face, he was considerate that way. I would probably have a bruise for a few days, but it didn’t matter since it would be under my clothes. I tested my bonds. They seemed quite secure. In this hogtie position, I felt a pressure in my thighs, and a more severe strain on my shoulders. I rolled onto my side to relieve the stress, and tried to go to sleep.

I spent a very uncomfortable night. I couldn’t get onto the bed, in fact I couldn’t move much at all. I dared not wake Jim. My wrists hurt from the strain of the cuffs. If I lay on my front my shoulders and thighs hurt, and if I lay on my side my arm went to sleep. My knees hurt from being bent, and I longed to straighten my legs. The carpet seemed to get harder as the night progressed. I think I managed to doze once or twice, but that was all.

Finally the alarm went off, and Jim rolled out of bed and disappeared into the bathroom. He showed no sign of releasing me. I began to get worried since I had a major presentation to make at work that day. ‘My wrists are going to be marked, but there’s nothing I can do about it now,’ I thought. As he was dressing I finally broke down and pleaded with him to release me, “Jim, love, could you undo the handcuffs now?”

“In a minute, bitch,” he replied testily and went downstairs. I dared not ask him again, that would make him very angry, and he might leave me locked up all day. I was getting frantic with anxiety. Finally he came back upstairs. Without a word he leaned down, kissed me, then unlocked the handcuffs. He went quickly back downstairs, and I heard him leave.

Somehow the kiss made up for all the pain. It showed he still loved me. I opened the left cuff and slipped my wrist out. But my right wrist remained captive and I couldn’t seem to get it free. I rolled onto my left side so that I could bring my right arm to the side. The handcuff was still locked! The bastard only undid one cuff! I started crying in frustration, I couldn’t go to work like that and I would miss my presentation.

I undid the ropes with my free hand and removed my shoes. I slowly got up, and limped to the toilet to take care of my most urgent needs. I examined the cuff locked around my right wrist. It required some kind of screw key, and I had no idea how to pick the lock. There were no files or hacksaws in the house, Jim wasn’t a handyman, and perhaps would have kept them locked up if he were. The cuff wasn’t particularly tight, and though I had never been able to escape in the past, in desperation I decided to try again. I had read that one can make hands smaller by immersing them in cold water, or by holding them above ones head to let the blood flow out. I decided to try both methods to give myself the best chance of escape. I held my right hand in ice water for ten minutes, not a pleasant experience, and made less so by watching the precious minutes tick away. Then I held my numbed hand above my head for another minute, dried it and rubbed some cooking oil into it to lubricate the skin. Grasping the cuff with my left hand I pulled very hard. The cuff slid up my hand, and though I felt it crushing my bones, I could not work my thumb joint past its unyielding embrace. In frustration I began to cry and tug even harder on the cuff. After a few minutes I realized I would never succeed, and with some difficulty pushed the cuff back onto my wrist. I had succeeded only in scraping my skin and bruising my hand. I cried some more in an attempt to relieve my feelings, then dried my tears and resigned myself to my fate.

Doing my morning toilet was clumsy with the open cuff dangling from my wrist. I didn’t want to lock it over my right wrist, Jim wouldn’t like that, so I took a bandage to secure it over the wrist without actually locking it. ‘Tonight I can lock it back onto my left wrist to be ready for him,’ I thought. I got dressed then called my boss at work. I dialed his extension and heard the recorded message of his answering machine. Making my voice as thick and ill sounding as I could, I recorded, “Hi Mike. C here. I’m feeling quite ill this morning so I don’t think I’m going to be able to make it in to work today. I’m really sorry about the Sheldon meeting. Is there any way it can be rescheduled?” Then I left my number. I felt sick to my stomach, though not in the way I had just indicated. I had worked so hard on the Sheldon project, and now that bastard had spoiled it. I begin to cry again. I couldn’t even leave the house since Mike might call, he was like that, and would expect to find me dying in bed.

Later in the day I rationalized Jim’s behavior. Perhaps he’d tried to open both cuffs but opened the left one twice by mistake. I felt better, and began to consider what I might make for supper.


Chapter 2: The Mistress

The situation with Jim became progressively worse. Although the sex was still good, he became more abusive, both verbally and physically. He usually confined his beatings to my body, but on two occasions he gave me a nasty black eye. It was becoming difficult to explain away the marks, and my coworkers were becoming suspicious of my explanations

I resolved to end the relationship. This was a very hard thing for me to do emotionally for, despite all the abuse, I was still dependent on him, and parts of me still loved him. Physically ending the relationship was going to be even harder. He had threatened to kill me on more than one occasion, and I knew that if I left he would find me and do me serious harm. I considered going to the police to have him arrested, but couldn’t be certain that they would keep him locked up until his trial and conviction. And the thought of the trial terrified me. I did not think I could face him in court, and the publicity would certainly damage my career. Even if he were convicted and sent to jail he would probably be released in a few years then he would certainly come after me; he had a nasty vindictive temperament. Changing my identity did not seem like a viable option; I would live the rest of my life in fear that he would find me, and I would have to give up my job and start over. No, the police did not seem the way. Shelters for battered women also did not seem to be the solution. He could always find me at work and trace me to where I was hiding.

Two possible solutions occurred to me. The first was to make myself so unpleasant to him that he would leave of his own accord, and the second was to kill him. I think I had been subconsciously trying the first, but was finding it did not work. I dared not be verbally abusive or even critical. That made him angry and he would beat and punish me. He didn’t seem to care if I was cold or distant to him, he didn’t seem to need my overt approval or love. I couldn’t withhold sex; he forced that on me anyway. And it was difficult to withhold other services like cooking, cleaning and washing.

I finally reached the desperate stage where it seemed that the only way out was to kill him. To preserve my career, perhaps the one thing in my life I valued at that time, I had to do it in such a way that I would not be suspected. I began to pay close attention to the TV detective and police shows that featured murders, hoping they would provide a clue as to the best way to dispose of him. I noted that some murderers were apprehended several years after the crime because of some minute detail they had overlooked or that they could not conceal. Some were convicted even without the body being found; bloodstains were judged to be evidence that a murder had been committed. I realized that I would have to plan very carefully to avoid making the same kind of mistakes.

I watched these TV shows diligently for weeks, trying both to build up enough resolve to commit a murder, and to work out a foolproof method. When I was emotionally down, or when he beat me, the thought of killing him gave me comfort, but at other times, such as when we were having sex, I realized the impossibility of actually doing the deed.

My mind was profoundly split over this. Part emphasized that murder was the worst crime, the only one punishable by death in our society, and a violation of one of God’s commandments. But another part argued that it wasn’t the first commandment, God had placed it as only number six in His list of Ten Commandments, and moreover I had a moral duty to preserve myself.

Eventually, after a particularly bad beating that caused me to miss two days of work, I reached the stage where all of me decided that killing him was the only way out. My thoughts became more concentrated on deciding on a method. I didn’t think I could physically attack him, he was too strong, and any attack, even if successful, would leave evidence of a struggle. I didn’t have any poisons or sleeping pills in the house, and felt that if I purchased some now they might be traced to me. Moreover such chemicals leave traces in the body that can be detected in an autopsy.

I finally decided to kill him with love. I made my elaborate preparations in secret, and one Friday night in the middle of March was ready and resolved. As I waited for him that evening, I tried to conceal my nervousness. I was going to need all my powers of persuasion and seduction. Instead of dressing as I normally did, as a submissive, I wanted to convey the appearance of a dominatrix and had dressed in my black leather outfit. He came home early, early for him that is, at 6:30 p.m. “Lets do something different tonight,” I greeted. “I want to give you a really great sexual experience.”

“What is it, bitch?” he replied with some hostility.

“No,” I said, “ it’s not like that. I want to give you the greatest orgasm you’ve ever had.” ‘And one that you will remember for the rest of your life,’ I added to myself.

He looked at me for a moment appraising my outfit, and then said, “OK, I’ll bite.”

I reached up and kissed him on the cheek, and said, “Tonight you are going to be a Roman.” I took off his jacket, wrapped a sheet over his shoulders, arranged the folds and fastened it with a pin. I reached under his makeshift toga and began to undo his pants. “No, no. Keep still,” I commanded as he began to move. I placed my finger on his lips to emphasize that he must be passive. “Tonight you are a Roman slave. You have fought well as a gladiator, and are to be given a reward.”

I removed his pants then led him to a stool and made him sit down. I took some rope and knelt down to tie it loosely around his ankles. As I began he said, “What are you doing, bitch?”

Again I placed my finger on his lips and said soothingly, “Remember, you are a slave, and must be bound. If you are to achieve the highest state of ecstasy, it must be something you cannot control, something you’ve never experienced before. Just relax and pretend for once that you are a slave, and have no control over the sexual experience you are about to have.” I continued to tie his ankles, and he didn’t resist further. I left about two feet of rope between his ankles so it was only token bondage.

I reached under his toga and felt for his penis. It was, as I expected, erect and hard. I stroked it gently. His hands came forward to stop me. “No!” I said, “You mustn’t resist me. You are a slave.” I stood up and moved behind him. Lifting the sheet to one side, I pulled his hands back and began to wrap a rope around his wrists. This was the critical point.

He pulled his hands free. “I don’t like this,” he said.

“Trust me,” I said. “This is going to be really great.”

“Why should I trust you?” he replied nastily.

Ignoring this insult, I moved closer to him and squeezed his head into my breasts. “Just try it this once,” I pleaded. “I’m sure you’ll like it. And if it isn’t the greatest orgasm you’ve ever had, you can punish me for lying.”

He looked at me critically. I imagined that a flicker of malice went through his eyes as if he were deciding to punish me no matter what happened. “OK,” he finally said, “but it’d better be good. Really good.”

The game was won. I could hardly restrain my joy. But I continued as if nothing of importance had happened. I wrapped the rope loosely around his wrists, loosely because I didn’t want him to get worried and break free. “You have just killed ten Christians in the arena, and the Roman Empress is really impressed with your skill and bravery. She is attracted by your courage and your physique. She will visit you later tonight, and has given orders that you be prepared for her.”

I finished tying the rope loosely around his wrists. At this point he could easily have escaped by slipping his wrists out, but he remained passive, perhaps responding to my story, perhaps planning my punishment, I couldn’t tell. I threaded another rope crosswise over the wrist rope, wrapped it twice around, pulled it moderately tight and tied it off. He was more secure now, but could still possibly free himself.

“The Empress does not want a slave to know he is making love to a Queen, so he must be blindfolded,” I said with unintended historical confusion, and began to blindfold him.

“What are you doing, bitch? Take that fucking thing off me,” he said in a loud and angry voice, and began struggling to free his arms.

This was the critical moment; this was the act of rebellion I had been expecting. Dropping the blindfold I grabbed his exposed penis with one hand and pulled out a knife with the other. “Stop that or I’ll cut your balls off,” I shouted. He was so surprised that he stopped struggling. Now was the moment to assert my ascendancy. I knew he despised me, and had to show that I meant business. I jabbed the point of the knife into his erect penis so that it drew blood, then moved the point down to its base.

“Jesus!” he said as the pain registered.

“I’ll really do it,” I warned with a voice so full of conviction that he had no choice but to believe. “OK,” I said in a more relaxed voice, “lets take this slowly. Just do exactly as I say and things will be fine.”

“You’re really going to get it for this, you fucking whore,” he said menacingly.

“But only if it isn’t the greatest,” I replied gently.

He said nothing as I put the blindfold on. I checked to make sure he couldn’t see anything, then cinched up his wrists really tight so I knew, and he knew, that he couldn’t escape.

“Stand up,” I commanded, and he stood up slowly, defying me as much as he dared.

I removed the toga, which seemed to be getting in the way, and looked at the cut on his penis. I hadn’t meant to spill any blood, and realized it had probably not been necessary. I felt guilty and ashamed of my weakness. Was this to be the drop of blood that would convict me? The cut was small, but blood was running out. I got a paper towel and staunched the flow. “Sorry about the knife,” I apologized, “but slaves have to learn to obey.”

To assert my complete control, and provide him with a new experience, I wanted to secure his balls. I took his scrotum in my left hand and squeezed the testicles down. Then I took a nylon cord in my right hand and wrapped it around his scrotum above his balls.

“What the hell are you doing?” he asked, as if he didn’t know, and began to move away.

I gave his balls a jerk, which brought him to a stop, and said, quite unnecessarily, “Stand still, will you.” I pulled the cord tight, and tied a knot. His penis became very erect and I feared he would come. “You are not allowed to come,” I commanded. “You must wait for the Queen. She will be angry if you come before she is ready.” I waited till his erection seemed to soften slightly then pulled on the cord. “Follow me,” I commanded.

He began to shuffle forward. He didn’t really have much choice. It must have been a remarkable experience for him. To be a captive for the first time. To be afraid of what this mad woman with the knife was going to do to his genitals. To be pulled forward into the dark with his hands secured behind his back, unable to protect himself. In that situation I think I would fear being pulled down the basement steps the most. I would fear stepping into a void and falling helplessly. I wondered what it felt like, being pulled by the balls. We woman can have no directly comparable experience. But perhaps if I had my clitoris pierced…

My train of thought was interrupted when I reached the foot of the stairs. Taking pity on him, I tugged gently upwards and said, “Up the stairs to meet the Queen.” His feet felt the bottom step and he began to walk up.

“Listen up bitch,” he said, showing he had overcome his initial fear, “I don’t know what the fuck you are planning to do, but I don’t want to play any more.”

I was getting tired of the continual insults. I had never like the way he talked to me, and now was the first time I could actually do something about it. “Listen up, slave,” I replied. “You keep talking like that and I’ll have to gag you. Slaves must show respect for their Mistress.”

So there it was! I had labeled myself his mistress. I was no longer his slave, nor some mythical empress or queen. The universe had turned, and I, me, myself, had become his mistress. I felt a confusing rush of emotions.

“Now you listen to me you fucking whore,” he blustered. “You let me go right now.”

“OK, I warned you,” I said. We were now halfway up the stairs. I looped the cord over and around the banister and pulled it tight, forcing him to step closer to the banister. I then looped it around a baluster, back over the top and tied it off. I stood back to admire my handiwork. He was completely stuck with his balls tied to the banister. He couldn’t move up or down the stairs, he couldn’t even sit down.

He began to swear. Ignoring him I went upstairs to and found my inflatable gag. The gag was mine since I had worn it, if worn is the right word, several times, but this would be his first experience. He heard me coming back down the stairs, and began to swear again. I sat down a couple of steps above him.

“I’m getting really tired of your foul mouth,” I said. “I have a gag here.” A flashback from something I’d read, or was it an old movie, popped into my mind. “Now we can do this the easy way, or we can do it the hard way.” I paused. “The easy way is for you to open your mouth and accept the gag like a good slave.” I stopped.

“And the hard way?”

“I have my knife here, and I don’t think you want to find out what the hard way is.” I realized I didn’t have the knife at that moment, but what did it matter? I reached out and pressed the gag to his lips. “Now open up,” I commanded.

I was prepared for him to try to bite me, and was ready to snatch my hand away, but he obediently opened his mouth. I pushed the gag in and buckled it round the back of his head. The strap only just reached the buckle, his head was bigger than mine, and I had to use the last hole. Holding the gag in position, I pumped it up. He began to make noises through the gag, I knew he was in distress but didn’t feel any desire to relieve him. His penis had become soft, so I began to caress it. “The Queen likes her men hard,” I said. “It wouldn’t do to fail her,” I taunted him.

Although I had planned in a general way what I wanted to happen that evening, I hadn’t worked out all the details. I hadn’t planned to use a gag, for example, but it fitted in well with the unfolding scene. I untied the cord from the banister, and pulled him up the rest of the stairs, then guided him to the bed and made him sit down on the end. I had put a waterproof cover on top of the bed. I did not expect any blood, but there might be urine or feces.

In order to carry out the next step of my plan I needed his cooperation, I didn’t think I could handle him if he started to struggle. What I really wanted was for him to be spread-eagled on his back on the bed with his arms and legs tied to the corners. But I feared that if I undid his arms he would overpower me, so I abandoned my original plan. I tied each of his ankles to a corner of the bed spreading his legs as far as his ankle rope would permit. Next I prepared a noose. “The Queen wants you prone on the bed so she can take her pleasure,” I said as I placed the noose over his head onto his shoulders. I gently tightened the noose around his neck, and tied it with a secure knot rather than a hangman’s knot, since I didn’t want Jim to strangle himself. I pushed him back so he was lying on his bound arms, and tied the end of the noose rope to the headboard. “The rope around your neck is a noose, so if you struggle it will tighten and strangle you,” I lied. He began to make noises through his gag. “I cannot understand you,” I said like a schoolteacher lecturing an overanxious pupil, “so please don’t talk. Just do exactly as I say.” I cut the rope between his ankles. “Now move up the bed.” He wriggled a bit but did not seem to be making any progress, so I took the noose and pulled it putting pressure on his neck. This had an immediate effect: he began to make more noises and use his feet to propel himself up the bed. When his feet were completely on the bed, I took up the slack in the noose rope and retied it to the headboard, then went to the foot of the bed and tightened each ankle rope. He was now immobilized.

I retrieved the knife from the kitchen. “Now for the last step, to prepare you for the Queen,” I said. “I’m going to cut your clothes off so the queen can see your beautiful body. Now lie perfectly still if you don’t want me to cut your skin.” And with that I began to cut off his clothes. It was a little harder than I expected, perhaps the knife wasn’t that sharp, and I had to saw through certain parts.

Eventually he was nude except for the remains of shirtsleeves around his lower arms, which I couldn’t reach. I had called his body beautiful, but powerful would be a more accurate description. I was able to examine his body in detail for the first time. He didn’t work out, but you could still see muscles on his stomach. I was going to release the cord around his balls, but decided not to. They weren’t turning purple so there didn’t seem to be a circulation problem. Having sex with his balls secured would be a novel experience for us both. His penis was semi flaccid.

I had read that some ancient Romans had slowly strangled slaves to produce huge erections. I wanted to see if it would work with Jim, so I put a thin leather belt around his neck and slowly tightened it as I monitored his breathing. When his breathing had became labored and noisy I secured the belt. I watched in fascination as his penis began to rise. “Now you must wait for your Queen,” I said, and, to torment him, added maliciously, “When she arrives you must suck her nipples, and lick her cunt.”

I then left the room and prepared to dress as a Roman Queen. I knew, of course, that Rome did not have queens, so felt that my costume need not be historically accurate. I could dress to please myself, and perhaps to impress Jim. For the first time, I realized, I had access to the key to my handcuffs. I retrieved it from Jim’s pants pocket, then went and got the handcuffs themselves. I couldn’t lock my hands in handcuffs, that seemed inappropriate for a queen, but their touch was so sexy that I had to wear them. As a compromise, I locked both cuffs on my left wrist. I then undressed, which required me to unlock the handcuffs then replace them. I put on my red corset and quickly laced it up; tight but not too tight. I checked quietly to see how Jim was doing. I could hear him breathing and his penis was standing up in full erection. I didn’t want to keep him waiting longer than necessary, but couldn’t decide on a skirt. I didn’t think a queen would go uncovered, yet a skirt didn’t seem right. I thought I should wear something that Jim could feel. I eventually decided on an impromptu chain skirt. I locked a chain around my waist, then locked a much longer chain to it at intervals so that loops hung down. I admired the effect in a mirror, and attached another loop in front for modesty. I put on my highest pair of heels to complete my wardrobe. I finished by covering myself liberally with perfume, a new fragrance. Jim would have a hard time identifying me.

As a final touch I cooled my hands in ice, then walked into the bedroom, chains jangling faintly. Jim was lying there perforce, but his penis had become disappointingly soft. I placed my icy hands on it, and heard a muffled exclamation from him. I then sat of his chest and wondered what he thought. The smell of my perfume and the touch of my chains must have surprised him. I didn’t break the spell by speaking, although he probably thought it was me, but I was not going to spoil any possible fantasy. I leant forward and caressed his face lightly with my nipples, arousing them. I then turned around and sat on his face, effectively blocking his breathing. I watched his penis and sure enough it expanded slowly into a magnificent erection. I rocked my butt on his face to give him encouragement. I then turned around and slapped his face to show that I disapproved of his lack of tonguing. Raising myself on my knees, I slowly impaled myself on his erection. I eased myself down, savoring the feeling of it sliding into me, and stopping only when I felt his captive balls pressing into my crotch. I tightened the belt around his neck one notch, checked he was still breathing, then began to rock my hips up and down. It felt magnificent. I came quickly and wonderfully. I think he came too, but his penis remained hard. I screwed around to face his feet, but the position didn’t feel quite so good, so I continued turning till I faced his head again. I beat my fists on his chest with joy, or was it a tattoo of triumph? I tightened the belt another notch and began to ride him again. I humped up and down in rhythm with the bed, trying to get the greatest bounce out of Jim’s body. I came again, and kept thrusting my hips forwards as if trying to tear his penis from his body.

Finally it was over. I lifted myself off his penis and lay down sweaty and exhausted next to him. I listened for his breathing, but all I heard was my own. I had done it! “I hope it was good for you too,” I said gently, and stroked his face.


Chapter 3: The Cleaning Lady

Although I realized the enormity of what I had done, I felt no remorse. My thoughts became entirely bent towards disposing of the evidence of my actions. I removed my fetish clothes, cleaned myself, took a shower, and dressed in old clothes. I put on some latex gloves, so as not to leave fingerprints, took out a new plastic garbage bag, and collected Jim’s pants and the remnants of his clothes.

Next I undid the ropes and put them away. The cut ankle rope went into the garbage bag. I then cleaned up Jim’s body. I noticed some blood on his penis, I hoped that he had not suffered pain from the cut during his final orgasm. I cleaned it up, then turned him over. As my nose had warned me, he had defecated, so I cleaned up the mess. I undid the ropes from his arms, and removed the remains of his shirtsleeves. All this rubbish went into the garbage bag.

I turned him on his back, deflated the gag and extracted it from his mouth, washed it and put it away. I dressed him in new pair of underpants; somehow I didn’t want to see him nude any more.

I wondered what to do with the knife. It had Jim’s blood on the end, and therefore was evidence suggesting foul play. I was not sure if I could clean it completely or if I had to throw it away. I hadn’t planned on disposing of a knife, and moreover it was a kitchen knife that I rather liked. So I decided to clean it. I rinsed it off then used soapy steel wool to scrub the end. Finally I placed it in the dishwasher.

It was now late evening, almost midnight. I dragged Jim downstairs and into the garage. I opened up my car, and stuffed him into the trunk. I dropped a sealed tarpaulin into the trunk and closed the lid. Next I put some blankets on the back seat, I didn’t want to leave any marks, and maneuvered my bicycle in. With gloved hands, I put the full garbage bag on the front seat, together with an empty garbage bag and a change of clothes. I backed the car out and drove away. To provide an alibi for my trip, in case it was needed, I drove to an all-night chemist and bought a box of condoms. I then drove to the remote wooded field I had scouted out the previous week. This was about twenty-five miles away from my house. The woods were posted with ‘No Hunting’ and ‘No Trespassing’ signs, so I believed Jim’s body had a good chance of lying undisturbed for a while. The only evidence to suggest foul play was soft tissue damage; marks on his neck, wrists, ankles and balls, plus a small cut on his penis. The neck marks would indicate strangulation, and thus would suggest murder, but if the body decomposed then surely there would be no evidence as to how he died. I parked the car on the side of the lane. The night was clear and dry so there should be no tire marks. The moon was out, so I didn’t need a light. I had brought a flashlight in case I needed it, but decided to leave it in the car. I opened the trunk and pulled Jim’s body out. I carefully closed the trunk. Even though there did not seem to be anyone around, one never knows, and it seemed best to work as quietly as possible. I dragged Jim’s body through the wood with his feet trailing behind. It was hard work, and I had to rest a couple of times. Eventually I reached the hollow I had identified, and rolled Jim into it. He lay twisted, and, for old times’ sake, I straightened him out. I didn’t want to leave any evidence of my presence, so I was wearing a hair net and gloves. I took the tarpaulin out of its bag, and draped it over the body. I anchored it down with rocks and spread some branches over it. I stood back to survey my handiwork. The scene looked peaceful and undisturbed in the moonlight; there was no obvious indication that a body was concealed nearby. I checked around to confirm that I had not inadvertently dropped anything, and picked up the tarpaulin bag. I walked back to the car. Outside the car, I took off my sneakers and jeans and sweater and dropped them into the new garbage bag along with the tarpaulin cover. I changed into my clean clothes, and drove quietly off.

On the way home I stopped at a mall and dropped the two garbage bags in a dumpster. I then drove to the train station, took out my bicycle and locked it to the bike stand. I dropped my latex gloves in a garbage can, then drove home. I opened the box of condoms, took one out and flushed it. I was too hopped up and nervous to sleep, but finally managed to snatch an hour or so before the alarm woke me at 5 a.m.

I dressed in some of Jim’s old clothing, put up my hair and covered it with a net. I didn’t really look like Jim, but I hoped that through the darkened glass at night I might pass. For this reason I wanted to be out before sunrise. I put on gloves; I didn’t want to leave fresh fingerprints in Jim’s car, and drove it to the train station. Since it was early on Saturday morning, there was hardly anyone about. I parked the car and rearranged the mirrors and the seat to the way Jim had them. I bought a parking ticket and placed on the dashboard. I went into the ladies room, changed into my own clothes, and dumped Jim’s clothes in the garbage can. I then rode home on my bicycle, stopping to get some rolls from the Shoprite supermarket.

The deed was done. I sat for a long time turning things over in my mind. Had I forgotten anything? I thought not. But now much depended on chance, how soon Jim’s body would be found. If it were found in a few days then I would be discovered, if in a few weeks, then I would probably be safe. If in a few months or a year, then I would certainly be safe.

On Sunday night, I decided to set the rest of my plan in action. I called the police. “I want to report a missing person,” I said.

“How old is the person?” the policeman asked. I realized that cases of missing children were far more urgent than those of missing adults.

“I think he’s about 30,” I said.

“How long has he been missing?”

“Since Saturday morning.”

“Do you suspect that he might be in trouble?”

“No.”

“Has he been missing before?”

“Well, he has sometimes gone somewhere without telling me, but never as long as this.”

“Well, I think the best thing is to give him another 24 hours. If he doesn’t show up by then, I’ll send someone around and we can file a missing person report.”

I went to work as usual on Monday. From work I called Jim’s work number and asked to speak to him. I was told he wasn’t there, and, on further inquiry was told he hadn’t been there all day. And no, they did not know where he was.

With this preparation completed, I called the police again in the evening. “Jim has still not shown up, and he didn’t show up at work. I’m getting really worried.”

“Try to remain calm, Ma’am, it’s probably nothing. I’ll send someone round right away and you can fill out the missing person’s report.”

About two hours later there was a knock at the door and a young policeman stood there. He was plump with youthful fat. His skin was smooth and healthy. “Is this the house that reported a missing person?” he inquired.

“Yes.”

“May I come in?”

We sat in the living room, and I answered his questions. He asked if we’d had an argument or fight and I said no. He asked if Jim had had any reason to leave, or had behaved strangely before he left. I said that everything seemed normal. I gave him a photo of Jim and he left.

On Wednesday I received a call from the policeman that Jim’s car had been found, and could he come round to see me. I agreed.

He told me that Jim’s car had been found parked at the train station. He asked if I had any idea where Jim might have been going and I said I didn’t know, he drove to work and as far as I knew didn’t normally take the train. He asked if he could look at Jim’s things. I agreed so we went upstairs and searched through Jim’s dresser. As he was looking through the drawers I suddenly remembered that I had not disposed of Jim’s wallet. It must still be in his jacket pocket in the closet downstairs. My blood ran cold with the oversight. At that moment the policeman found a black notebook that I had not seen before. If he noticed my distress, perhaps he associated it with the discovery of the notebook. He opened it to reveal some names and addresses. He asked if he could take it, and I agreed.

A few days later the policeman came round again, and wanted to ask more questions. He asked me to explain my movements on that weekend. “Why?” I asked, “Did anything happen to Jim? Am I under suspicion?”

“Not really,” he said, “but there are suspicious circumstances and we have to check all leads.”

“What suspicious circumstances?” I asked, “Are there signs of violence in the car?”

“No,” he said, “but we have the parking ticket so we know when he parked the car. The problem is that no train tickets were bought at that time. You’ve indicated that he drove to work, so he wouldn’t have a commuter ticket.”

“Couldn’t he have got on the train without a ticket?” I asked.

“Yes,” the policeman replied, “but we checked the conductors’ receipts and there is no record of anyone paying a fare from that station.”

‘Damn,’ I thought to myself, ‘I thought that policemen were invariably inefficient.’

“What’s the matter?” he asked.

“I’m worried,” I said. “It’s just not like Jim to be gone for so long.”

The policeman looked at me keenly, as if trying to read my mind. “Tell me what you did that weekend,” he continued. “Start when you last saw Jim.”

“Well, he got up early that Saturday. I can’t remember the time, but it was early. He didn’t say where he was going, and I didn’t like to ask him. He drove away before I got up.” The policeman was writing in his notebook. “I got up later, and I remember it was such a beautiful morning I decided to ride my bike.”

“Where did you go?’

“Oh, I didn’t go far, I never do. I stopped at Shoprite for some rolls.”

“And then?”

“As far as I can remember I spent the rest of the day in the house. Oh, I did spend some time in the yard in the afternoon tidying up.”

“Did you receive any phone calls?”

“No, I never heard from Jim again.”

“I meant did you receive any phone calls from anyone?”

“I don’t remember. I don’t remember receiving any phone calls. But it’s possible.”

“What happened Friday night?”

“Not much,” I said. I tried to blush and failed. “I made dinner then we had sex.” As soon as I said these words I knew I had made a mistake. I didn’t actually feed Jim that night. If they found his body and did an autopsy, they would discover the lack of food in his stomach and deduce that I had been lying. Perhaps they had found his body already and hadn’t told me. The policeman must have noticed my agitation, and I hoped he attributed it to my mention of sex.

“Can you tell me what happened?” he said trying to draw me out. But I wasn’t going to bite.

“About what? About the sex?”

“No,” he said. “Not particularly. Did anything happen out of the ordinary. Was he worried, did he receive a phone call, that sort of thing?”

I felt relieved; he must have bought the sex connection. “No,” I said, “I can’t remember anything out of the ordinary. He didn’t receive any phone calls, and he didn’t seem worried as far as I could tell.”

“Well,” he said, getting up, “if you hear anything let us know - as soon as possible.”

“And if you learn anything, you’ll tell me? Did you learn anything from that little black book of his?”

“No. We followed up on some of the names, but nobody could tell us anything.” As he was leaving he hesitated as if he wanted to say something, but changed his mind and walked quickly away to his patrol car.

I tried to relax. I felt like a character in Dostoyevsky. I had tried to do everything perfectly, but slipped up on the small things: no train ticket, the missing Friday night meal, and the initial failure to dispose of Jim’s wallet. Perhaps it is the fate of murderers to be tormented by the small details of their crime. I consoled myself with the thought that a whole week had elapsed and Jim’s body had not been found.

I didn’t know Jim’s family. About a week later I called his work number, explained the situation and asked how I could contact his family. They said they couldn’t give out confidential information. So I called the policeman, who said he’d take care of it. After another week, I got a call from Jim’s mother. She explained that Jim hadn’t been close; he had not had much contact with his family for the past couple of years. I asked if she would like his things.

“What kind of things?”

“Oh, nothing much, mostly clothes and oddments.”

She said, and I could tell she was close to tears, that she just wanted something to remember him by. For the first time since Jim’s death I felt guilty. I felt ashamed that I had hurt someone innocent like his mother. I invited her to come round and check through his things. She said she couldn’t bear to do that, but she would send his father.

A few days later Jim’s father came to the door. I could immediately see the family resemblance: big, burly and the same features. I invited him in. On impulse I hugged him and said how sorry I was. I said the suspense was devastating, I didn’t know if Jim was alive or dead, but as time passed began to fear more and more for his safety.

His father said, “Well Jim was a bugger sometimes, going off by his self when he lived at home. He would sometimes be gone for days, and never said where he’d been. Probably with some girlfriend I reckon.” Realizing what he’d just said, he stopped abruptly, and then tried to erase the words. “Not that he’d do that now. Growed up he has.”

“Is there anything you want? Take anything of his you like,” I offered.

He looked through Jim’s few possessions and finally selected a framed photo. “The missus ’ould want this. Yes, Jim was never one for things. Better keep these in case he returns. He’ll be wanting his clothes then I reckon.”

Over the next few weeks and months there were constant reminders of Jim. The car leasing company repossessed his car. Various credit card bills arrived, and I received a number of phone calls demanding payment. I explained the situation to them and referred them to his bank. I never found out how things were resolved, and never attempted to take possession of his bank balance, or even to find out if he had life insurance at work. I didn’t want there to be any hint that I had an interest in having him declared dead.

They never did find Jim’s body. Or if they did, they never told me. I presume that if it were found they couldn’t identify it. The only guilt I ever felt was towards his mother, and I resolved that some day I would atone for it, but when and how I could not say.