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Betrayal

By Toran

 

 

I hesitated, my fingers pressing on the half-circle of the handcuff that was poised to close about my free hand.� Listened to my breathing, loud in the trunk of my own car.� Outside, I could faintly hear the sounds of shoppers either returning or going to Woodfield Mall � the muffled voices and slams of car doors around me broke up the steady hum of cars racing along the Kennedy into Chicago.

I was a bastard, I thought, in those last moments when I really did have a choice, really did have the freedom to just undo what I�d done to myself, crawl back up to the front of the car and just drive off.� Back to my home, back to my job, back to a life of forty one years of doing what I was supposed to do.� Back to my wife. �

Was it too much to ask, to be happy?� To be satisfied?� How could love, real love, love that ran deep inside me, binding my flesh and blood � how could that love not have an answer for happiness?

I had her tied beneath me, not too tight � fantasy was one thing, comfort and reality another.� Were it up to me, I would have had her tied into a tight ball for which all the models on the net seemed capable, the right amount and location of rope notwithstanding.� But she was tied softly, lovingly � it was all about love, at least with her, when she agreed to let me play this way.� Concessions were a bitch, but it really wasn�t her scene and I was happy to just wrap her softly with a few ropes, just enough to satisfy my mind that I really was in control � I was the Master, she the unwilling slave, fighting to avoid being fucked but unable to get away.

Once, upon a time when we were dating, she�d loved this.� Me on top of her, fondling her roughly, gradually tying her until she was helpless and mine.� Then I would torment her, play with her, make her sing in pleasure and frustration.� Marriage had sucked the power out of that scene and anything resembling it, a slow sucking that took away the novelty, took away the sense of danger and lust, took away the magic.

Now, as I fucked her more the way she liked it, slow and dirty instead of hard and fast, I took in her comfortable and inadequately gagged lips, the way it puffed her cheeks a little, and the rope that held her hands out away from her, pointing to the corners of the bed, helpless.� It wasn�t exactly what I�d wanted to do to her, my wife, but it was good enough.� I closed my eyes, feeling her tightness around my dick, loving the feeling of helplessness beneath me as I used her flesh.� Images of her tied tighter, harder, imaginary sounds of her frightened wailing in my ears assaulted me.� She wasn�t really my wife � she was a housewife, who had left the door open, inviting me to come in and tie her, rape her, and then maybe to spirit her away to my dungeon lair and keep her there as a slave forever.

Something like that.� It�s silly what the male mind can come up with when it needs to get the flesh to that shuddering, explosive place that haunted us almost every waking moment of our lives � and then even in sleep.�

Eyes closed, her helpless beneath me � never mind that she wasn�t into it, that it had taken a lot of begging and a king�s ransom to get her like this, my wife � at least I finally had her.� And when I opened my eyes, almost to the moment when it all would be paid for, and I saw her regarding me coolly around her silly little gag, the thoughts in her head surely wondering when I would be finished �

Well, that was the start of why I was here, laying on my side in the trunk of my own car, an hour and a half away from home, naked and gagged, ready to lock the handcuffs on me that would seal the deal.� But I was still a bastard.� In my heart, once that handcuff clicked home, that would be it.� Chapter ended.� No turning back.� I would have no choice in what was to lead to me becoming an adulterer.

The internet is a marvel.� Porn of every kind available at your fingertips.� Nothing like the trip I took to the adult bookstore on the edge of town, barely a few months after I�d become legal to buy the bondage magazines I knew would be there.� I�d found my dad�s stash of Hustler years before, when I needed them as I entered puberty.� Every few issues there would be a picture spread or story of a woman being tied up.� Or a leggy Mistress towering over her bound male slave.� Both images appealed to me and it would be years later that I found out that being into both sides of bondage and sadomasochism wasn�t all that rare.� I was a switch, a term I�d always snickered at because switches were also whips that hurt like hell.

The adult bookstore of the seventies was a seedy cornucopia of dirty jack-off booths and racks of glossy magazines.� At the end of the store, perched atop a throne so every corner of the place could be seen, was the manager and his counter of dildos and handcuffs and nudey playing cards.� When I�d lingered at the bondage magazine rack, totally absorbed in the choices of bound girls wrapped in their cellophane wrappers, he�d called me over to ID me.� I got a handful of free tokens and a grin when he saw that I�d just barely made the age limit, but the movies he had playing in the row of dirty, curtained booths were vanilla, a word I�d soon learn.

I�d left with a stack of magazines and the pair of handcuffs that now dangled from one wrist, ready to ensnare the other.� If only I pressed the cold metal catch into the lock.

I met my wife the old fashioned way, before the internet explosion and when she said she was interested in my kinks and wanted to play along, I was in love.� The word experimental didn�t come until later, after the wedding vows and then it was more of a weapon, cutting to the quick of my love, than explanation.� Apparently, experimental meant that you could try something for a while and then leave it for good.� I was never experimental and that was the problem.

A car pulled up next to me and I tensed.� My cell lay at my side.� It hadn�t gone off.� She hadn�t called.� And I hadn�t made myself ready for Her.� Was this Her?� I almost popped the cuff then but something made me hold tight.� I strained to hear beyond the metal that was the trunk of my Taurus, strained to hear what was going on in the parking stall beside me.� The car�s engine died and relative silence followed.� The tollway still hummed somewhere out there but only the tick of the car�s engine held my attention.� Time dragged on.� It had to be a woman � men were out of their cars before the radiator fan came to a stop.� Women took considerably � longer.� Was it Her?

The door opened and I heard the click of heels and then the slam of the door closing again.� I held my breath.� If it were her, if she did use the keys that I�d sent to her to open my car, would I click the cuff closed?� I didn�t know.� I held my breath.� The clicks started again, coming around the back of my car, past the trunk.� Was it her?� I held my breath.� They seemed to pause but continue on, fading into the distance.� Then silence.� I let out my breath.� My fingers still gripped the free cuff.� I was still able to back out.� But there was more to think about.

The internet educated me.� There were communities, there were real people, like me who were naturally into this.� They weren�t out to make money off the kinks and desires of desperate lonely men.� You had to look, but they were there.� I did the chat room thing until my wife pointed out that I was flirting with adultery.� And she was right.� Guilt had wracked me and I cancelled my accounts, becoming one of a number of assholes who made contact, listened to intimate revelations, and then severed all communications to slip back into the void of anonymity.� I�d been hurt a number of times by people I had really begun to care for, only to have them stop writing, stop chatting, stop communicating completely.� Now I was one of them.

I tried to leave bondage and domination and sadism and all the things that woke me in the middle of the night with a raging hard-on � I tried to leave all those things behind me.� As my wife said, bondage was kind of psycho � how many perverts had taken how many innocent women to their deaths after raping them?� Monsters.� Was I a monster?� Yes, my fantasy was rape, hard bondage � from both sides.� A smirking, powerful Domme would do as well as a squirming, helpless young woman, where fantasy was concerned.� But that was fantasy.� Reality was a different thing altogether.� What right did a sick bastard have to take the freedom and life away from another individual?� In the name of sex.� No. I wasn�t a monster.� I was a lot of things, maybe soon to be an adulterer.� But I wasn�t a killer, wasn�t a pervert.� And I knew I wasn�t experimental.

I loved my wife and didn�t want to hurt her.� But I couldn�t just turn off the desire that I�d been born with.� She didn�t want to get counseling.� She thought our rare forays into what she thought I wanted was enough.� No amount of talking, soul-searching, whatever, did any good.� We talked about divorce but neither wanted to end our marriage.� We still loved each other in a fundamental way.

I found Her on a local page of a national BDSM personals site, long after I�d decided that I had to continue pursuing my desires, even if it meant bad things.� She was divorced and lived in Chicago.� Big cities had the scenes going, the clubs where happy couples paraded and played in relative openness.� Big cities also had its share of lonely people who had real jobs, who weren�t professional Dommes.� She was one of those � good job inside The Loop, lived along the El route in Shaumberg.� Kids, grown up and out of the house.� She wanted to dominate, to tie and bind and torment.� But she understood I was married.� She almost bolted when I told her that.� She didn�t want to be a home wrecker, didn�t want the baggage.

But she didn�t bolt.� I was honest with her and something must have struck a chord in her � her ex-husband had only wanted to fuck, didn�t care whether she wanted to try something different.� She spent a lot of time in her marriage craving what she couldn�t get.� Then she had become active in the club scene, befriended a few Dommes and realized she didn�t want to be married anymore.� Now she had a collection of slaves she played with, some even becoming close friends.� She didn�t plan on re-marrying.�

So what was I doing here?� And did I have the courage to follow through with what I wanted all my life?� My fingers hurt from tensing over the metal that would drive home my fate.� After months of planning, me backing out, finding excuses, she pulling back, waiting, I had finally decided that I would not be able to drive to a hotel in Chicagoland, check out a room, sit and watch daytime soaps while I waited for her to show up and make me helpless, all the while the clock ticked closer to the time when I would have to leave and return to my own home, early enough so that my wife thought I had only been working late.� I would have to be taken.� Even though it was an orchestrated kidnapping, once the cuffs were locked, I would not be allowed to back out.� I would be hers.� That thought sent shivers up and down my spine, tickling my very soul - a soul that was now partly mired in the darkness of my betrayal.

The procedure was simple, like a huge funnel that continually forced me to this final moment, the beginning of my submission.� Leave for work as usual but turn onto the tollway to Chicago instead.� Drive to Woodfield Mall, meca of suburban consumerism and largest mall in the Midwest, barring Mall of America.� Park my four-door Taurus in the far reaches of the parking lot, where they usually make the employees of the stores inside park.� Find a space with cars around it.� Place my keys in the glove compartment and slide into the back seat, locking all the doors first.� Pull the back seat forward, revealing the trunk compartment.� Slide into the trunk and pull the seat back into place.� Undress.� Lock the ankle cuffs on.� Slip the locking ballgag on.� Both sets of keys were also in the glove compartment.� I could get them if needed, climbing with my naked ass to the wind over the car seats.� I would be able to get dressed and drive home as if nothing happened.� This was the safety.� Until she rang my cell, telling me that she was here, in the parking lot, I would have an out.� But once the phone rang, I would slip the cuffs on.� I had mailed her the only keys to the cuffs, along with the second set of car keys.� Locking them on would pretty much seal my fate, as I would not be able to even get myself out of the trunk � the safety latch on the trunk-side of the back seat was too high up for me to get leverage with my hands behind me.� I know � I�d tried it already at home when my wife was out shopping.

Outside, the middle of the work week bustle continued.� I was part of that, in my other life, the life that was only moments in the past.� The life where you didn�t do crazy-assed things like this.� You bore down, didn�t cheat on your wife, worked things out, stayed happy.� Right.

The cell beside me went off, the Bears fight song electronically echoing through the trunk.� It rang twice then was silent.� She was here, now.� In the parking lot.� All I had to do was close the lock to the handcuffs.� I was a fucking bastard.� A fucking asshole shithead bastard.� I closed my eyes, the big ballgag very much a presence in my mouth.� My legs were tucked up against me, my ankles cuffed.� The cool spring day had made my skin chilled and the thinking I had been doing had me shivering.� My arm, the one with the handcuff locked onto the end of it was pinned underneath me and was going numb.� My other arm was wrenched around behind me, the open handcuff already wrapped around one wrist, the steel teeth waiting to grip it home.

Fucking bastard.� The crunch of asphalt gravel got louder and I knew that her car was coming, getting closer.� She was to find a space, leave her car and take mine.� I would drop her back off later today.� I was only a few moments away from that last choice.� The sound of the car outside slowed, stopped and paused.� She was just outside, probably confirming my license plate, knowing that I was inside this stupid fucking trunk, waiting for her.� The engine idled for a moment and then the car moved on.� I pressed my fingers against the metal.� Only a little more pressure and the deed would be done.

I saw my wife, smiling as she had on our marriage day and heard the click of heels outside the car getting closer.� Why?� Why couldn�t this be you, coming to get me?� The heels got closer and the next image in my head turned my stomach � my wife looked up at me, coolly.� Was I done yet?� Would I finish so I could untie her and be done with my weird kink for a while?� The heels stopped just outside the trunk and hard fingernails scratched a line along the top of the metal.

I need this.� God, I really need this.� I�ll grow old and lie on my death bed and wonder what it would have been like, wonder why I never got what I wanted.� But there was still time to back out, just back out and figure out how to control these fucking crazy urges, go back home, tail between my legs.

Keys jingled and then the door locks were penetrated.� I need this.� Please forgive me.� I need this.  Why had she betrayed me by not wanting to share this with me?  Why?

I rammed the metal home and felt the bite of the cuffs around what had, seconds before, been freedom.� Fucking bastard.� The car shook a little as the front door opened, then shifted again as the front seat was filled.� Keys found the ignition and wordlessly, we pulled out and away.

 

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