1 comments/ 16684 views/ 1 favorites The Borrowing Part Two By: anneski THE BORROWER Why do I do what I do? Because I can, that's the simple answer. Some people only dream of what they want to do. Me? I just do it. Oh, it requires careful planning to be sure. I mean, if you want to abduct an attractive young woman, drug her, take her to a deserted warehouse, truss her up and cut her clothes off and then fuck her in your own, special way, you need to know what you're doing. You need to have plans, contingency plans, and you've got to take it seriously, otherwise the game won't work. It doesn't matter that she knows you and it's a game for consenting adults. You have to be convincing. But above all, you have to have style. Anyway, I'm not bragging, just explaining. Letting you in on a few little game secrets, if you like. I'm not overly worried about telling you; it might not work for you and your partner. Everyone has their own particular likes and dislikes. So there she is, all flustered, hurrying across the car park after I've called her. Very attractive as she always is, dressed in a well-tailored, figure-hugging jacket and skirt, smart patent leather shoes, sheer stockings (I'm sure they were stockings rather than tights, and later investigations prove my instincts right… I have a feel for these things). Of course she's flustered; I've just told her that her pride and joy – her lovely new BMW– has been vandalised. So never mind the natural gloom in the office car park, she doesn't clock my features and realise that it's me because she's in a hurry to see if her precious car's all right. Why should she study me anyway? I'm just a security guard. Anyway; how did she know I wasn't a real security guard? You can pick those uniforms up very cheaply from special work wear stockists. Maybe even buy one from an ex-security guard, no questions asked. And if, like me, you can modify your voice a bit, although she's suspecting something for our game at some point, this takes her completely by surprise. She really didn't know it was me! So after she's pushed past me, it's so easy to get the aerosol out and spray her with it, right across the nose, before she even gets a chance to look round. Out like a light. Then, I deftly catch her before she falls, find her car keys (easy this time, because she was already holding them), then put her into her car, collect her bags and files and put them on the back seat, get into the driving set myself and off we go. I lose the hat, nobody notices as we drive out, and even if they did, all they see is their colleague, sitting upright in the passenger seat next to me, safely strapped in. Of course they don't notice she's unconscious, she's wearing the dark glasses I provided her with. All part of the game. So, there she is, duly trussed up, the ropes holding her arms in front of her suspended from a cross beam in the warehouse. Nice, empty, well-lit industrial unit. I've rented it for years now. Little industrial estate on the edge of town. Most of the units in this part are empty. But it's fine for games like this. Just drive the car in, close the doors, and there we go. I sometimes even brew a cup of tea of coffee before I get started, and we won't be disturbed. Some people just don't understand. They think being sexually adventurous means keeping the light on. It was – is – quite wonderful to watch her wake up. Of course, she's blindfolded now, with a rather useful adhesive fabric (a bit expensive, but eminently suitable for the job), so she can't see me and I –alas – can't see her eyes open. I figure it takes her about 30 or 40 seconds of disorientation as the drug wears off for her to realise that something's not right. Then she realises it's me. Or does she have a nagging pang of uncertainty? What if it's not me? What if she's really been abducted by some maniac? She tests the ropes, straining her arms up, making her breasts push against the material of her jacket and silky blouse, cranes her swan-like neck up to get some idea of perspective, the pearl necklace she's wearing moving seductively as she moves. Have to do something about that later. Jewellery can be so distracting. It gets in the way. Some women even hide behind it. She's a clever one, I realised that a long time ago. That's what attracted me to her as much as her beauty. She stamps one of her feet to gauge noise reaction, to determine where she is. She's playing the game well. She cocks her head slightly to listen. I feel aroused as she does so. She looks so sweet, almost innocent. Just like the first time we played. Was that really fifteen years ago now since she first let me 'borrow' her? Must be – it says so in the diary and the diary can't lie. Now she calls out. I could answer, but I'm too fascinated to watch what she does yet. I could creep up close and whisper "Hello" back, but it won't work as well as what I've got planned. Keep the edge. Crank up the tension. Makes the orgasm so much better. Now she shouts louder. Soon time to make my presence known… but let's wait, just a bit longer. I check the cameras. Yes, they're rolling. Good shots from two angles. Should edit nicely together later, mix of long shot and close-up. She'll love it as much as I will. It adds an extra dimension to see yourself the way your partner has seen you. Now to let her know I'm here. No words, nothing drastic. Just a gentle caress of my fingertip on her cheek… She screams. She literally leaps away from me in the opposite direction, but the ropes snap her back. Good reaction. Maybe I really did make her jump! And then I hear a trickling sound and notice a few splashes of yellow liquid on the concrete floor by her legs. This doesn't happen often, because women generally have excellent self-control in matters lavatorial, but yes, she's pissed her panties and now she's moaning, probably from embarrassment. But that's pure class on her part, you see? For all she knows, I might be some crazed lunatic who wants to cut her throat or really hurt her, and yet she's embarrassed about wetting herself in front of me. That takes a special kind of woman – and that's the sort I go for. Hell – that's part of the reason why I fell for her in the first place! Style. Class. That's why she appreciates me because that's what I've got and that's the way I treat her. That's why we get on so well. Now she's regained a bit of her poise, but on the downside, some of her big businesswoman arrogance. She's standing there, looking across to where she thinks I'm standing, chin up, back straight. She'd have her arms folded if I hadn't have tied them up. Probably thinks she can either negotiate with me or browbeat me. All part of the game. That's the trouble with some executive-type women. They try to be men. It doesn't work – it just makes them unattractive. And that's part of the challenge – taking them down several pegs, stripping away all the unreal façade until we get to the essential female beneath. It's both teaching them a lesson and helping them. And at no cost whatsoever. All part of the service, Ma'am. She loves that game. If ever she forgets her femininity, this is how we find it for her. Of course, disorientated or not, she's also aroused… I can see that her nipples, quite clearly erect and straining against her blouse. So that's probably confusing her for a start and breaking down the barriers. I estimate it will be under an hour before she loses the façade. In my book that doesn't make her weak – it makes her strong, because she's not afraid to admit to herself what she likes and what turns her on. I'm sure she does like her job, the money, and the power she has over other workers – especially some of the men. I've been on the receiving end of that sort of female boss attitude, many years past. Big shots in the office, but their boyfriends don't always play ball in real life. Bad night with lover boy? Take it out on the male staff! Another good reason to make some of these power-suited bitches realise exactly who they are and what their natural place is. All the same, I don't think that she's a bitch. I've known her for some years now. She's competent, intelligent, nobody's fool and certainly no doormat – I can see that much from the way she's reacting now. But for all her poise and strength, her body language – her real body language – is betraying her. The hardening nipples, the slight flush to the cheeks and the ear lobes – never forget the ear lobes. They redden and swell with blood when a woman is aroused – just like nipples, in fact, but more obvious. I wonder if she realises that herself right now? Time to make another move. Don't overplay your hand too soon. Suspense counts for a lot, patience counts for even more. Too much too soon and she'll think I'm some would-be rapist with no style. I'd hate her to think that. That I've got no style. I trace my finger gently down her left cheek, soft, delicate skin, the finger leaving a temporary white trail in its wake before the flushing redness swallows it up again. Now across her bottom lip – and that's swollen slightly too. Despite herself she's even opened her mouth a little, letting me catch a glimpse of her white, even teeth and her moist tongue. Now my finger travels down her graceful neck. She swallows as it moves down, but she says nothing, she doesn't move an inch. I feel tension growing in my groin as my own blood supply increases, and I resist the temptation to run my finger further down to her cleavage. That's not the finger's job anyway. Instead I gently run my hand through her dark, lustrous hair. It's largely been scraped back into a loose bun, but with a neat fringe and some nice dangling strands at the side of her face. A few more strands have come adrift since I 'borrowed' her and this enhances her sexuality – a nice counterpoint between the sleek, well-groomed executive and the sexual wanton that lurks beneath. I swiftly pull her hair slide away and her hair is released, falling almost gratefully across her slender shoulders. I sense she likes that feeling as it swishes across her face, and this, I decide, is the time to speak, to make her aware of the fact that I mean business and should be respected. "Shake your head!" I command, my voice raised a little above its normal conversation level. Nice and authoritative. The echo in the warehouse helps enhance it. In her disorientation, she doesn't question it; she obeys and does as she is told. Her hair swishes to and fro and I see her cheekbones and neck exposed then slightly covered by the hair. I catch a whiff of her shampoo, too – some kind of citrus smell, if I'm not mistaken, but I'm not lingering that close to her – not yet. I can sense she's angry – angry with me for making her do that with her hair and angry with herself for obeying. She knows her barriers are breaking down, so she attempts to rebuild them. Again – she's resisting – and that is part of the game. It won't work unless she plays her part to win. But losing – in her case – can be so sweet! So she tries to bargain with me. To start with her voice is a pitch higher than she'd like it, so I give her a chance to calm herself and moderate it. She's obviously used to speaking and conveying information. Probably gives presentations and makes all sorts of business deals. So she tries to be calm, firm and direct. She dismisses it all as a game and tries to make me pay attention. Offers me money and jewellery – her car even. None of that interests me. I've got all of that (well, my wife has the jewellery, but you take my point). I don't get offended that she's treating me like some cheap thief – it's an understandable reaction. The best way to deal with this is to say nothing, but to make her realise what she means to me, dismiss her attempts at bargaining. I simply run my fingers through her hair, lifting it and letting the strands slip through my fingers and fall around her shoulders again. It says more than words can in this situation. She gets the message alright and snaps at me to stop it, so I put my hand under her hair and stroke the sensitive back of her neck. I know what's coming next. That's why I'm a good arm's length away and slightly behind her as I stroke her neck. She screams in anger and thrashes around, her long legs kicking out to the side, where she thinks I am standing, screaming at me, threatening me that I'll pay for this. She even resorts to swearing which, although slightly disappointing in one sense, as it diminishes her natural grace and charm, is quite sexy. Foxy lady, yes, but this vixen can bite. Except she's not going to bite me. Now is the time to play my hand – literally. I reach for the knife, where it lies on the soft cloth it is usually wrapped in, on the small trestle table next to me, next to my mug of coffee. There's still a drop left in the mug so I swiftly gulp it down before I put and end to her cursing and thrashing. She'd have got tired eventually, but it's far more effective to stop her mid-flow when she's like this. I grab her hair – hard – and yank her head back with some force, eliciting a gasp of pain from her. In almost the same movement I lay the knife's blade across her exposed throat. The feel of the cold, sharp steel, the force in my grip and the actual pressure on the knife blade convey the message very clearly indeed. I'm not to be trifled with. I'm not some chancer, some passer-by who fancies a grope. I'm serious. I've got style – a hard style. I asks her, quite calmly – chattily almost – if she can feel the knife on her throat. She babbles an affirmative, straining to move away from the blade, but with me gripping her hair, and the fist of my hand wedging her head into that position, she can't move. Next I ask her if she can feel how sharp it is. For a few seconds she doesn't answer – fear maybe or just feistiness, I'm not sure which, but when I ask a question, I expect an answer. I don't like being ignored - except when I want to be. I tilt the blade slightly, to give her some impression of how long it is. If I increase the pressure too much right now, there'll be a nasty accident, and we don't want that. But as she still won't answer, I increase the pressure slightly, feeling a thrill of excitement as her skin whitens beneath the blade. Just a fraction more and she'd never be able to say anything ever again. I hope by this very act that the message has been conveyed clearly to her. Now she answers, all in a rush, her words tumbling out as her bravado evaporates. Yes, she feels it and please, please don't hurt her. More barriers have broken down. The process is well under way now. Good. Now I need to make sure she knows just how calm, calculating and charming I really am. Shouting will only reduce to her a total wreck and she'll be unresponsive to what follows. Snarling and whispering produce a false sense of menace – hell, it makes me sound like some cheap actor only trying to be menacing. So I speak to her in my normal tone of voice, calmly, evenly and simply tell her that I could hurt her – if that was what I wanted, and that with my trusty knife, it wouldn't require too much effort on my part. Again, it's the game, you see? We're playing it well tonight. She can't nod, but she's got the message… I can see that by the involuntary tightening of her jaw muscles. I also note that she needs to swallow, so I release my grip on her hair and move the knife away from her throat, smiling as I notice a little red pressure line across her elegant white neck, like some sleek choker. It begins to fade, but the impression it has made goes deeper – far deeper – than just a transient mark on her skin. Anyway, now's the time to get down the main business, to show her – but not by sight, by feel (a far more powerful emotion) – how her barriers will crumble completely before me. I grip one of her lapels and tug her jacket forward, still noticing her nipples hard and prominent through the fabric of her blouse and the bra beneath it. With a deft flick upwards, the top button of her jacket is snipped off and plinks lightly to the floor. I see her brow furrow beneath the blindfold tape – she's not sure what has happened yet – although she feels and hears the second button being snipped off. Very easy with this knife! I smile as I hear her gasp as the third button goes and her jacket loosens and begins to gape open – now she realises I'm cutting her buttons off, stripping away her power-suited frontage. Her jacket falls open completely as the last button flies off and I let go of the lapel. Expensive jacket, I realise, as I catch a glimpse of the label. Pity almost, but she'll thank me for it later. Well, I bought it for her, anyway. Her jaw clenches and her lips tighten to thin lines as she feels me trace the knife's tip up from her jacket's lapels to her collarbone. She winces as the cold steel touches her bare flesh through her open blouse collar and then she feels me tug the knife forwards, cutting through the sheer fabric of her blouse and then to each, small, pearly button, making them fly off, one after the other, so easily separated from her blouse. The ease with which they are removed off makes me wonder – not for the first time – whether such flimsy garments are actually designed with this in mind – to look sensual and inflame passions, then to ripped open so easily when the occasion demands. I step back for a few seconds to appraise her fine, firm cleavage, gloriously presented in a lacy, scarlet bra. It's again interesting that this powerful young executive strives so hard to hide her femininity behind a severe suit and an attitude to match, when she wears such provocative, sensual underwear. Why not a plain white cotton, functional brassiere? Why? I'll tell you why: Because she yearns to be a woman, to be feminine and to have that femininity, that sexuality, revealed, laid bare and taken advantage of. She secretly longs for someone to take her roughly, to tear her clothes away, to fuck her so hard across a desk – maybe even mid-meeting – dismissing as irrelevant whatever marketing or PR gobbledygook she's been parroting out, ignoring her excellent university qualifications and any sort of PC non-sexist attitude. But the men she works with, or meets during the course of her work won't do that. I might, but no one would expect it of me. (Well, as an aside here, that's how the wife and I got properly acquainted, years ago, during an after-hours business meeting in her office, and she loved it too. That's when I asked her to marry me. Not only did I get the girl, I got the work contract too. But I digress.) No. The men are too frightened, too cowed down by the PC Thought Police, of fear of sexual harassment lawsuits. They're even afraid to think about her as anything other than an androgynous, emotionless executive, like them. They can't be male, she can't be female, they can't behave as nature intended. It makes life difficult for them, and it makes life intolerable for her. So this is her liberation, her dreams come true. She just needs to realise it, that's all. Like I said, give it an hour…. I've already noticed her breathing changing; can almost hear her heartbeat speeding up. Those ear lobes are giving the game away again. Bright red, like flashing "Fuck Me" beacons. She is excited. No other word for it, Afraid, yes, apprehensive, certainly. But she is excited, no denying it! She's still hanging there, her jacket and blouse now open, her breasts slightly pushed together and up by the way her arms are pulled up. Nipples rock hard under that bra. They need some air. I place the knife blade under the front of her bra and make a quick upward movement. No real exertion required on my part, because this knife can cut. The bra snips in half and her breasts spill free from the cups, the cool air tightening he generous nipples even more. Oh yes, she liked that, no constriction, no restriction. Freedom. The Borrowing Part Two Next comes the skirt. It's always rather exciting to see her suck their tummy in when the knife blade works down to her skirt or trousers. Sometimes, it's almost willingly, to help me get on with the job in hand. Like now. Not that I'd be clumsy enough to cut her by mistake. I've practised over the years and I'm very, very careful. No point in ruining the mood with a stray cut at this stage of the game! The fabric of the skirt parts easily. Usually, I follow the line of the side seam, but this time, as the skirt is so smooth, I just go straight down the front. Even the waistband doesn't offer much resistance. And then it falls away and I have a clear view of her very sweet suspender belt (black and lacy, not matching the bra, interestingly enough, which indicates she's sophisticated enough to mix and match), sheer black stockings and, of course, a pair of very wet, black satin panties. The odour from her panties is an interesting – and very exciting – mix of female musk and, of course, urine. I notice she's shivering slightly now that most of her clothes have gone and she's probably very embarrassed at having her wet panties revealed. But she knows, as well as I know, that they're not that wet just because of her little accident. Oh no. More barriers giving way…. I ask her conversationally, with added concern: "Oh, did you wet yourself? Were you really that frightened?" She stammers that yes, she was very scared. She's learnt not to try my patience by keeping silent, but at this stage of the game, I think she actually wants to talk to me. She wants to participate, even though she's the passive 'victim'. I think I should have been a psychologist. Now I set about removing her jacket and blouse completely. This is where a really good knife comes into its own. Let me tell you about my knife. It's true that any sharp knife will do this job, even a kitchen knife. Back in the beginning I used a hunting/fishing knife. Good and sharp, but somewhat lacking in finesse and not wholly suitable for the full job. You have to think of these things, think them through. This knife is, I am sure, unique. I picked it up in an antiques shop on a business trip. It's very long – more of a short sword, almost – and is devilishly sharp when fully honed. The hilt interested me most – very ornate, engraved and bevelled - ideal for the purpose. Crucially, the hilt is made of wood, (teak, I think). When oiled, the wood is warm and the bevelled handle almost moulds to the flesh when gripped. Like I said, too much pressure on this knife and accidents can happen, so you need to know how to handle it properly. But let's just say I've had plenty of practice. In any case, the blade can slice through a thick jacket sleeve as though it were paper, and without too much effort on my part, especially if I follow the seams. I've soon cut the rest of her jacket from her, just holding her wrists with one hand and manipulating the knife with the other. The blouse is easy and comes apart in a few short strokes. I notice the goose bumps forming on her soft, pale skin as the chill air reaches her exposed flesh. I've been doing this sort of thing long enough to have an instinct for when a certain move is appropriate, or what action will cause arousal in the subject. So I deliberately moved a little closer to her now, stroking her hair, caressing her jaw line and throat, slowly sliding my hand down to her breasts, gently squeezing each one, before slowly, unhurriedly cutting the remains of her bra off – first one shoulder strap, then another, then snipping each side. I can hear her breathing becoming more hurried, ragged even, seeing her body squirm and jump at my touch – but not from revulsion – from arousal. The little flushes across her back and across her breasts – just like those which occur on cuttlefish – betray her emotional state, her interest, her sexual readiness. Oh yes, she's probably still in mental and emotional turmoil, a real conflict going on inside her head now- after all, I've abducted her, tied her up and she still doesn't know my full motives although, as this is our regular kind of game, she has a pretty good idea of what to expect. And as I ponder this point, I see her brow furrow – she's remembering the first time, even though most of it's gone from her now. Like I said, I've refined my technique over the years. I don't use such a crude drug nowadays. Too dangerous and prone to causing memory loss. Of course, for some off-the-peg date rapist, that's fine – the less memory remains, the better. But for me, memory is important. I want her to remember. Hell, she wants to remember. So I use a better drug nowadays in spray form. More expensive, obviously, but quick, effective and generally harmless. "What are you thinking?" I ask her. I can see my voice startles her, and the fact that I am aware she's thinking hard about that first time is another indication of my control over her, or yet another barrier – that of her own thoughts – breaking down and yielding to me. Maybe that's why she starts to cry, I can see the tears leaking from under the blindfold. Better not cry too much – the adhesive could come away. Possibly the sharp tug on her suspender belt onto her delicate thigh as I cut through it caused her some pain. I reassure her and kiss her thigh, soothing the red mark that the belt has left. I can tell she's appreciated this by the fact that her leg muscles are relaxing. It's so sensual to cut a woman's stockings off – lovely, easy motion with the knife, the flimsy, sheer material simply falling away, parting before the blade, exposing her smooth legs. But if you think that's sensual, then try cutting off her shoes. Shoes are important to women. They express a lot about the femininity and intelligence of the wearer. Flat, lace-up beetle crushers are for frumps. Trainers can look good on most feet, if they're clean and smart enough. Glossy, patent leather shoes, with heels are the top of the range. The heels mustn't be too high, because that's just vulgar "Oooh-Sharon-let's-dance round-our-handbags" stuff. Classy shoes these, sensual to look at, showing the feet and delicate calves off to their best advantage, heels just high enough to be feminine, short enough to be no-nonsense. Little leather strap means time is taken to fasten them, rather than just slip them on, or to sit grunting, doing up laces. Style again, see? The thin leather straps snip easily and I pull the shoes off, one by one, discarding them casually. Oh yes, the shoes were expensive, but she doesn't mind now. She doesn't try to kick me in the face. She's accepted it all now. Everything must go, be destroyed, cut away – every barrier obliterated, never to be rebuilt. Well – not rebuilt before me at any rate. So now she stands, slightly on tiptoes, hopping slightly because her bare feet are touching the cold floor, painted toenails, like the fingernails. Pale pink, not crass and glossy. Classy. But still she hasn't answered my question about her memory – such as it is – of her first borrowing. So I look up from her tummy and ask her again about it. She says she doesn't know, but she's lying. Just that last little bit of arrogance, that last vestige of denial, of wanting to retain her own power, her own control over herself. Resistance to the game, sure, but still part of the game. "I thought you might be thinking that this felt a little familiar or maybe that you'd dreamt of something like this happening," I say, calmly and evenly. My calmness is penetrating her resolve; she knows I know she's lying. She almost admits it then says – too quickly – that I'm wrong. I allow myself a little humorous "Tch!", which indicates I am pretending that I'm a little disappointed in her for persisting in a lie. No matter. We'll come back to it in a few moments. The jewellery needs to go now. In one sense, far more personal than clothes, jewellery is a woman's badge of self, it portrays her persona. You've seen all those denim-jacketed and short-skirted bimbos with at least ten thick gold chains round their necks and fake watch fobs on the end of some? Cheap. No class whatsoever. It just says "Hey look at me! I can afford a lot of crap and I'm trying to make myself look more interesting, better off and attractive than I really am." I wouldn't waste my efforts trying to borrow one of them. They'd do anything for a few drinks or a snort. Quickies in the alley behind McDonald's aren't my idea of fun. I'll leave that to Wayne and Gary. So, as with most things, minimal jewellery says the most about a woman – or a man, come to that. Less is always more. So it's no big effort to cut the strap of her small, gold wristwatch. It might well have sentimental value – a present, most likely – but in the game it means nothing to me. It's another personal barrier to be stripped away, so I don't hold it, I let it fall to the floor where the glass face shatters. In that very action, she learns that I may be a gentleman, but I'm not soft or sentimental. Her small pearl necklace goes next, one quick snip and the pearls scatter across the floor, tinkling and bouncing, the light catching each in a myriad of rainbow movements. By the tensing of her jaw and the pursing of her lips, I can see that the necklace meant more to her than the watch, but she's accepted the necessity of its removal. It has to be done. She can't participate unless she's been totally stripped. I return to the subject of her first borrowing. In one sense, I was as inexperienced in this as she was when she agreed to me borrowing her. I'd been following her for some time up to that afternoon when she presented me with the perfect opportunity to borrow her. Her friends simply didn't notice her go out the back of the pub they were in with that slightly older man she hung around with, the 'suit' who promised her a good time. "Talking of memories, you remember how you got drunk and passed out when you were 18 don't you? How you thought a day bunking off school drinking and messing around would be soooo cool?" I ask her, adding with a nonchalant air, "How you must have drunk more than you thought, and you woke up in some bushes, by your parents' house? You remember that now, don't you?" That startles her. That and the fact that my knife is now cutting each strap of her sodden panties. The wetness makes them stick to her, between her legs for a second or two, before they drop to the floor with a satisfyingly wet 'plop!' And now she's fully exposed, her pussy wet and open, pink and inviting. I decide against shaving her with the knife – very swift when it's this sharp, as she's partly shaved already, and access doesn't appear to be a problem. As the panties fall away, she actually squeals with delight. No pretence at aloofness or disgust now. No barriers left. No more lies. I've cut all her barriers away; I've even broken through her mental wall and into her mind, her thoughts, her very memory. I am in total control now and she knows it. I've won the game – luckily for her. She is mine. I ask her if she remembers anything about that day, fifteen years ago. She frowns, recalling all she can. No attempt is made to hide the facts from me. She knows that I am merely seeking confirmation of a fact. She admits that she woke in the bushes by her parents' house, to find herself dishevelled, her school tie missing, her blouse open, the buttons gone, ripped away. She puts it down to being drunk and falling over and muses that she never did find her school tie. I knew then that she had a spare anyway. She certainly wasn't the sort of girl to turn up at school inappropriately dressed. I allow myself a laugh, and she falls silent. I point out that she wouldn't have found her tie even if she'd looked, because I'd kept as a souvenir of the first time I borrowed her. "Borrowed?" she stammers. "What do you mean 'borrowed'?" Again, the game plan. Acting out her confusion so well. She should be on the stage. Well – maybe not. Not like this, anyway. I stroke her cheek with my knuckles as I speak, and she inadvertently turns her head into my knuckles, her lips parting slightly, responding to my touch. Now is the moment. I hold the knife handle to her lips. At first, she shies away – it must feel strange, I realise, but I press it against her lips and, as I expected, she opens her lips in obedience and, I know, interest. I feel my hardness growing as her tongue licks the bevelled handle of the knife, her lips brushing it so gently as I move it along for her, until her tongue touches cold steel and then, she smiles, as if greeting an old friend. Which, in a way, she is. And I can see by the slight cocking of her head that she's actually interested in the knife. Like I said, it isn't just any old knife and she realises this from before. But again, that's class for you. I only borrow the best. Now she runs her tongue up and down the handle's length, darting out to touch the steel blade, her cheeks, ear lobes and nipples flushing. The next stage will be easy, and has come about quicker than I anticipated. She's lost all her inhibitions now. Her barriers have gone. With the cutting away of her severe suit, her more sensual underwear and her personal jewellery, she has found her femininity, her sexuality. Cold logic and so-called reason are gone and she's almost getting into a frenzy just licking the knife. I need to assert my authority again, show her who's in charge. Ration the passion, so to speak. I pull the knife away and she strains her head and body forward, her tongue following the knife, instinctively, not relying on sight, but on smell and touch. It's like a narcotic to her. She's on a sexual high. A quick glance at her pussy confirms this. She's dripping wet. Blood engorged lips. She wants fucking, fucking hard and fucking now. But she'll have to wait – just a bit longer. I gently touch one of her nipples with the tip of the blade. Careful here – too much pressure and it will be pain. Keep it light and it's pure pleasure, all the way. By this stage they all enjoy this, and she is no exception. The mere touch of the blade on her nipples has her thrusting her pelvis towards me, an instinctive motion, not one of appeasement, or of trying to feign an interest – her body is reacting to its most basic instincts and no amount of logical thought can stop it. I continue to use the blade's tip to excite the nipple into total, rock hard ecstasy, and then I lay the flat of the blade over it, squashing it inwards. She thrashes, she moans, she whimpers and cries. She's begging me for more. The torment is exquisite for her, how much more can she take? I have the urge to relieve myself here and now and if I was to enter her and take her, she would cling to me like a limpet, legs wrapped round me, almost dragging me into her. But that again means a loss of control, no matter how hard I fucked her. No. She has to realise that the ultimate orgasm doesn't come from mere flesh and blood; it comes from the unyielding, all-powerful knife, which is, of course, controlled by me, is an extension of me, and is me. And it is I who direct that orgasm. But more foreplay. So the knife travels across her body, sometimes the flat, sometimes the tip. And here's the skill – never once cutting her, never once drawing blood. She feels the blade, she knows how sharp it is, how easily it cut her clothes away, and she knows that I control it and could, with the slightest change in pressure, cause her great pain or far, far worse. Down her spine travels the blade, lightly, languidly and she arches her whole body, tears flowing freely down her face, head back, mouth wide open, sobbing and begging me to stop. Not because she's afraid, not because it hurts – but because her body, for so long conditioned by so-called convention, by pointless PC posturing (literally) – cannot take the sudden release of adrenalin, of sexual energy. I step back and hold the knife aloft. As she slumps down in the ropes, gasping and panting, I wipe my brow and rest my arm. Do you have any idea of how it makes your muscles ache to hold a heavy knife and maintain the correct pressure at all times? Forget working out. You want to tone your muscles to perfection, try doing this. But a word of advice – practice on a tailor's dummy first and see how well you can cope! If ever the time was right for a female to be fucked, it is now. I wrap the soft cloth cover around the knife blade three times and carefully invert the knife, so I am holding the blade towards me now. The handle protrudes free, allowing me to manipulate it between her legs, forcing them apart, rubbing hard against the sensitive, receptive lips of her pussy. The groan which escapes her is part relief, part excitement. She wants this knife handle inside her. All in good time. I work the handle backwards and forwards, smiling as I see the bevelled design glistening with her juices, thin trails of body dew attaching to it, as I work it upwards slightly towards her ready clit, lubricating both clit and handle in the process. She strains against the ropes, trying to bear down on to the handle. No sense of her being in control here, no feeling of her wanting to 'be on top', it's purely an instinctive response and it's driving her crazy. Her body has a life of its own, fuelled by its long-dormant but now liberated sexuality. That's why she's now begging, crying, pleading, her voice husky with lust, anguished pleas to touch her, to let her come, to release this tension. Enjoyable though this garrulous outpouring of passion may be, it's time for a bit of restraint. I bend down and pick up part of her shredded bra and a blouse sleeve. I exert pressure on her lower lip, forcing her mouth open to allow me to shove the wad of bra fabric into it, swiftly pulling the sleeve across her moth and tying it tight behind her head. She gags and splutters, unable to give vent to her feelings, aware, once again, that she is merely there to follow my instructions, to realise that I control what she feels. I am almost tempted to leave her there for a while and maybe have a cup of coffee – my throat is dry, because even I am getting aroused to almost intolerable levels. But if I leave her, she'll go off the boil and rationale may creep back in. I haven't had a live wire like her for ages, and the cameras are rolling, so…. +++++++++++++++++++++++++ The tidying up is quite a clinical process, and something of an anti-climax in every sense of the word. She's fast asleep now, lying on a mattress, which I have provided specially for the purpose, covered with a quilt. After all, it's cold in this warehouse; I can't just leave her to catch a chill. She hasn't got the inner passion to heat her body now. She looks so sweet, calm, composed and I feel my loins stir when I remember that she's naked beneath the quilt. Well, why don't I just fuck her now, you ask, while she's lying there, out of it, drugged again? Because it would be tacky, that's why. She won't know, and how could anything follow the exquisite pleasure of what transpired less than half an hour ago? Besides, it's not part of the game. No style to it. I have plenty of sexual tension built up inside me now, passion ready to spill out. My wife is in for a good time later on. We both are. So there I am, carefully picking up every shred of clothing, every button, every pearl, shoes as well and putting them in a black bin liner so I can burn them later. I take the tapes from the cameras through into the specially adapted back office and start to replay them on the state-of-the-art machine bought from a professional video production studio just for this purpose. Playback. Zoom. Splice. Long shot. Close Up. It's all there, all editing together easily. Some people aren't content with make-believe, even if the so-called actors do fuck each other. They only want reality, and they're prepared to pay handsomely for it. Not that I'd do anything as cheap and tacky as selling these tapes. No way. Private viewing only. Just her and me. They serve a practical purpose too – We're able to study each subject, review what works, what stimulates her, what doesn't do the business. I steal a look at her again and guess she'll be out for a few more hours. The Borrowing Part Two I take a swig of coffee as I come to the main event on the tape, played out on the screens in front of me. Zoom in. We need an extra close-up on this. Arousal again as I watch the crucial climax, if you'll pardon the pun. Slowly, very slowly, I inch the knife handle towards her dripping pussy. The decoration at the top of the handle teases her, moving backwards and forwards (enhance here), slides into her as she groans through her gag. She's probably pleading, but can't speak, of course (use long shot and zoom to face). Now I exert the pressure, mindful of how, if this was the blade, it would be lethal. The handle thrusts deep into her, no resistance to speak of and she screams, even through the gag, head thrown back, mouth wide open, back arched. Inexorably, I push the handle deeper, letting her sensitive lips and tissues feel every ridge of the bevels. I feel her pussy closing in tight around it as the last of the handle disappears inside and we're almost at cold steel. Now we wait for a few seconds. A second can seem a very long time when you're in that position. (Long shot and close-up intercut). I can feel her anticipation, her whole body tensed. In that moment, a frisson of pure, beginning-of-time primal understanding, mutual bonding, sexual synchronicity passes between us. It's that nanosecond before the starter's gun fires. And out I wrench it, almost completely out, then in again, full length. She screams, he bucks, she cries – she loves it! Her pussy reddens, spasms, her whole body bucks and her orgasm – the orgasm of her life erupts - juices forming a pool on the floor, even splattering on her feet. No let up though, backwards, forwards, deeper, harder, in, out… she screams, she thrashes, she howls through the gag as the handle rubs her clit into paroxysms of pleasure. She thrusts her hips in time, perfectly matching my thrusts, raw, basic sexual instinct taking over completely. And the smell! Not many human beings release their natural sexual spoor, even after the best of shags, but she does now. Does it work for me? You bet! How long can an orgasm last? I check the timer on the video. Three minutes. Now that's style. Slowly, I tone it down. To stop right away would surely kill her. So the thrusts become slower, and she begins to relax, her skin pales again and her breathing lessens. Strong heart, that's for sure. I finally withdraw the knife, my own legs wobbly as I carefully cross to the table and place the knife down on it. She sags in the ropes, her legs barely able to support her. She must be wondering what I have planned for her next. But whatever it may be, she knows the simple truth; she's been mastered and she's been liberated, all at the same time. I pick up the aerosol can and cross back to her. I untie the gag and she spits the wad of bra from her mouth, gasping, sucking in air. As her breathing calms, I gently brush her hair back from her sweaty face, stroke her flushed cheeks, and quietly whisper to her that it's all right, that she did well and that she has nothing to fear. She swallows and whispers two small words: "Thank You." It's almost with reluctance that I spray the fine, musty-smelling drug onto her nose, my last words to her giving her something to look forward to – and believe me, she will look forward to it – "Until the next time…" All that remains now is to wait until about 5-ish, dress her in the baggy, large man's T-shirt, carry her to her car, strap her into the driver's seat and we're off. Then it's home again, home again, jiggity-jig. My own car is parked outside the house and I have to get off to work soon afterwards. I figure she'll wake up within the next half hour, as she's beginning to stir slightly. I don't expect she'll go into work today. Anyway, it's a Friday – she can call in sick and have a nice long weekend. Freshen up for later. Just as I climb out of her car, making sure to place her handbag on the floor, so some teenage tealeaf doesn't make a grab for it, I lay my parting present across her lap. It's her old school tie. Neatly cut off all those years ago. I could have left her one of the photos from then, showing her, a mere 18 years old, tied up, fast asleep, blouse ripped open, bra showing. But no, she's seen them anyway. I've had the tie as a souvenir for so long now, so she can have it back. I'll keep the photos, they're always fun to look at, even if my technique was less stylish then. It's always nice to have some reminder. I have a souvenir from this time now (apart from the film, that is) – her severed skirt, safely locked in my "trophy cabinet" – a secure metal safe, souvenirs all neatly bagged and labelled by number and date. Maybe I'll leave the skirt for her after the next time. All adds to the fun. To the game. To the borrowing. Oh yes, there'll be a next time. Not for a few months yet though. You can't borrow the same person too often, it isn't as much fun for either of you if it's too frequent. Keep her guessing. She'll be pleased to see me when I get home from work. She'll be all over me after dinner when the kids have gone to bed (thank goodness for a good childminder on the days and nights we play our games) and then we can watch the films. How do you keep a marriage fresh? Play games, that's how. Don't be afraid to push the boundaries. Or to break them. She loves it, that's for sure. Why do I do it? The thrills it affords me? The sheer, sexual blast? Of course, but the real answer's far simpler. Because I can. Because I've got style.