HOUSEWARMING THE CRAFTSMAN

Daddy X

Tom and Ellen found the old two-story house tucked way at the top of the canyon. Just perfect for entertaining. No neighbors to hear any screams. Looking beneath a few cosmetic concerns like dust, dirt, broken windows and detritus, they came to believe it was solid and had been designed by one of the greats. Tom asked Ellen what she thought.

“Bigger than the ones you see in ordinary neighborhoods,” she said.

“Nicer too,” the agent Doris added. “In architecture school, they’d call it a Craftsman, American Arts and Crafts period. Early nineteen hundreds.”

“Just look at that banister,” said Ellen. “Those little openwork diamonds, hand-carved through the tops and bottoms of every upright post.”

“Must have been some artist to come up with that,” said Doris. “You can’t even buy that quarter-sawn oak anymore.”

“We’ll take it,” said Tom. “You say it’s available for back taxes?”

“Yes,” said the agent. “Down payment today, we’ll expedite escrow. You’ll be in by the end of next week.”

Considering Tom’s career in construction, they figured on doing most of the work themselves. Issues with the foundation and plumbing persisted, and the old coal burner had to be replaced, but the major effort would be spent on interior plaster and woodwork. Tom’s business had grown to a point where he could delegate some duties. He turned authority over to a few trusted foremen to spend more time with Ellen while they were still young enough to share their good fortune.

Hard at it one day, Tom stopped for a drink.

Ellen had taken the staircase upon herself, starting with the banister. Dressed in little khaki shorts and T-shirt, her long legs straddled the rail, one foot solid on a lower step. She ran a square of sandpaper up and down in front of her, smoothing the wood to perfection.

Feeling wiseass, Tom cracked, “A little penis envy over there?”

“What’s that?” she answered, drawn from her focus.

“You look like that’s a massive brown cock, and you’re masturbating.”

“Hah! You nasty you,” said Ellen, realizing the image she presented. “Hadn’t thought of that,” she giggled.

“Good thing it’s just us. You’re giving me a hard—”

“I can imagine what you’re thinking. Pervert.”

“Can you?” Tom teased. “What am I imagining?”

“Never know with you.”

“Did the…ahem…the equipment,” he said, “make it here yet?”

“Tom.”

“Yes?”

“What are you thinking?”

“So? What’s here?”

“I didn’t—I didn’t think we—”

“Would get the chance?”

“We have been busy,” she said.

“There’s always time for play.”

Ellen and Tom had christened the place the night they moved in, making love on an air mattress on the floor. Whenever they had the time, energy and inclination, they did all the things lovers do with each other, weaving hands, mouths, cock and cunt together, embracing that sense of togetherness every couple needs.

But they hadn’t yet had sex. Not real sex. They’d had equal exchanges of affection. They’d had sessions combining love, companionship and understanding. They’d sure fucked.

But no, not that kind of sex. Not yet.

“Stop being silly, Tom. Now you’ve got me going, you fuckstick.”

“What’s ‘got you going’ supposed to mean?”

Ellen grinned, a hint of the devil in her eyes. “Well, I already have something between my legs,” she teased, angling her torso into a pelvic curl, rubbing her pussy up and down the recently sanded banister.

In a show of purpose, Tom stepped to the room used to store equipment. He rummaged through various tools and unpacked boxes. There should be something he could use. Yes, the Velcro straps. Long shears. That’s all he’d need. This time.

Back in the living room, he told Ellen, “Let me show you a trick to get inside those little diamonds in the uprights.”

“Yeah,” she said, “rolling up the sandpaper doesn’t—”

“Well, it won’t really matter if the inside of the holes are a little darker,” said Tom. “It doesn’t have to be perfect; it’s an antique. Just rough it up so the varnish sticks.”

“Okay, show me,” she said, sitting up. One leg still over the rail.

Tom scaled a few steps. “Okay—thread this through a diamond hole here,” he said, running a Velcro strap through an oaken strut above her. “Here, hold this end.”

“Let’s see. Like this?” she said, leaning forward on the banister, concentrating on the process.

He mumbled.

“What?” she looked up. “Didn’t hear that.”

The distraction provided the seconds Tom needed. He flipped the Velcro around one wrist, then, in a flash, the other. “Gotcha!” he said.

While Ellen hesitated, flummoxed by the abruptness of her situation, Tom stretched her bare leg down a few steps, fastening the ankle to the bottom of a lower upright.

Ellen had the idea now, arms stretched along the banister, one foot tied at a lower step, the other free leg still over the rounded rail. No chance of falling off. “Oh you fucker!” she exclaimed. “I can’t trust you?” Ellen tugged at her bonds to no avail. The foot on the stair held her balanced, crotch against the sensuous wood.

“Not when it comes to this,” he said.

No longer in a hurry, Tom backed down the steps and sat in the living room. What a lovely apparition his wife made, fastened along a banister in T-shirt and shorts, bound at three points. Her pert breasts pulled the T-shirt tight on both sides of the banister. “And one more thing,” he said.

Confusion rectified itself in Ellen’s mind. Her throat turned gravelly, warm, knowing whatever happened after this point would stray pleasingly beyond her control. Beyond what she was taught. Beyond what a respectable woman should want or need. What was right. What was wrong. Tied to a banister, without a choice. “What now?” she groaned, heated, resigned.

Tom made his way back up the staircase. He tugged Ellen’s T-shirt up to her shoulders, unsnapped her brassiere and slid it up above her breasts. It created an obscene look, one dusky-tipped cone of flesh hanging on each side of the rail, empty cups and bra strap bunched up with the shirt around her neck.

“God, you’re beautiful,” he said, crouching, fondling first the tit on his side, then tweaking the other through the banister posts.

“You always say those things when I’m tied up,” she said with a bit of nostalgia.

Nostalgia wasn’t the only sensation sweeping through Ellen’s mind and body. Tom’s caresses warmed her entire being. An involuntary press of her bothered cunt against the railing. Little pelvic tilts. A flush to her face. Those shorts that usually fit so loose, now hugged tight across her buttcheeks. When she let her entire weight down, the banister pressed uncomfortably against her crotch. Ellen found that if she held herself up a bit on the one grounded foot, the sensation could be adjusted, altered to be almost pleasant.

As it is whenever a man or woman places something between their legs.

Tom’s admiring gropes found their way along Ellen’s smooth little buttocks, fingers tickling along the center divide, pausing under the moist, unprotected area she held above the carved wood.

Ellen’s asscheeks clenched. “Oh fuck, Tom. Don’t do that. Not if you don’t mean it,” she moaned, eyes drooping.

“I mean it,” he whispered.

Back in the living room, Tom brought out an iPhone. “Wait’ll our friends see this.”

Click.

“You would do that, wouldn’t you?”

“You bet,” he said. “Just wait for the housewarming. They’ll all get an eyeful.”

Tom flashed her the photo.

“Well, what if I don’t want people seeing me like that?” Ellen asked, cheeks reddened.

“Fat chance,” he retorted. “A show-off like you? You get off on it. It’s that exhibitionist shame that turns you on.”

Raising an eyebrow, Ellen turned to Tom. “Lots of talk from a guy getting his jollies watching his horny wife tied helpless.”

“You better watch your mouth, you little slut.”

Ellen rubbed a longer swath of banister with her crotch, directing her torso up the rail then down, the subtle rhythm further antagonizing her libido. “What will Daddy do if Mommy doesn’t want to be quiet?” she asked singsong, wiggling her ass at the bottom of a curl, acting coy. “What’s the big man gonna do? With his helpless little captive brunette?” She raised the untied leg to reveal a dark spot developing on the khaki.

“Do you really want to know?” Tom replied in mock annoyance. “Or do you want a surprise?”

“Could you give me a little of…both?”

“Oh, I’m gonna give you something, all right,” Tom said, easing into the wordplay. “I’m going to run my cock up your little brown asshole.”

Ellen came right back with, “Promises, promises. You can’t even take my shorts off, not with me like this.”

His double take gave him away.

“Uh-oh,” she said. “Now I’ve done it, haven’t I?”

Ellen wasn’t sure how hard to push. Sure, she’d been tied up helpless before, genitals exposed, fucked far beyond what she would have allowed if not restrained. Successive orgasms in more volume, in more shapes, of greater screaming intensity than she could remember. More, in fact than she would have believed possible. Being unable to shut down the gropes and manipulations exposed her sexual triggers. Manipulations of her cunt, clit, asshole and mouth. Lubricated hands. With tongues. With vibrators, dildos, nipple clamps, butt plugs and feathers. And cocks. Always cocks. And sometimes a flail. Tom had always been worthy of her trust before. Yet it didn’t stall the flurries of fear, those enticing flurries.

Tom grabbed the shears and marched to the stairs. “Yes, you little sass mouth,” he blurted in exaggerated pomposity. “Prepare to be ass-fucked, woman! On your own living room banister.”

“Oh god. Did you find the lube?”

“Lube?” he said incredulously. “What lube?”

“Come on, Tom,” she said. “Don’t dry-fuck me here. Please? Tom, don’t. I’ll be good.”

“Too fucking late,” he said. “You’ve turned me on, slut. And I’m not going through all those fucking boxes just to find your goddamn lube. Not with this hard-on you just gave me, you little cunt.” He rubbed the front of his blue jeans, further enhancing the stirrings she’d begun. “Chrissakes, look at this thing.”

“Oh!” she said. “Did Tommy’s little wifey-poo get him all hot and bothered? Won’t he let her down to do something about it? Big meanie won’t even let her have any lube.” She plumped her lower lip in a show of mock defiance.

“I’ll be the one to say when and how I fuck you,” he said, twisting his face into a phony sneer. “With lube or not.”

This was the part of the game Ellen was never quite sure of. She didn’t want to be rasp-fucked. Although she knew she could trust Tom, she couldn’t be exactly sure how far, not when he got that wound up.

And she could see how his state was becoming, not only from the bulge in his pants, but by his vacant, hypnotic stare. How healthy was he?

Ellen eyed the shears with a sensible skepticism, imagining the various things that could happen from this point. Would he cut her loose? Not a chance; it wouldn’t do to cut the Velcro. He wasn’t intending to do anything but intimidate her, she figured. She hoped.

“I can blow you if you climb the stairs,” she said, hoping to ameliorate his passion somehow. “I’ll turn my head like this and suck you off.”

“That would work for starts,” he replied, unzipping.

“Then what?”

“Already told you.”

“My ass?”

“Open your mouth,” he said. “Wide.”

“Ahhh—”

“Now just keep it open,” he said. “Like that. Keep it open. I’ll dip in and out. Don’t close down on me. I want you to keep open!”

“Ahhh…haa,” she replied, increasingly aware of forbidden pleasures building between her legs.

Tom held the base of his cock in one hand, directing the tip over Ellen’s lips, slowly tempting her, inserting it, then easing back.

Ellen couldn’t resist her own reactions. Repeated mouthy reflexes activated her greedy maw involuntarily, her grasping lips trying to close around the bulb of Tom’s jumpy cock, grabbing in vain at the velvety knob.

“Don’t close, don’t swallow,” he said. “Let the saliva build. Keep your fucking mouth open, or I’m gonna fuck your ass right now.”

“My shorts are on,” she teased. “What about that?”

He grabbed the long shears then tugged at her waistband.

Ellen felt cold steel sliding down the crack of her ass.

Snip.

The industrial scissors made short work of the tiny shorts and undies all at once. Splayed fabric opened like a book, framing the tightest, roundest, cutest buttocks a guy ever had the privilege to stick a dick between.

“Oh fuck,” she said. “My favorite work shorts!”

“Ruined now. Open your mouth.”

Ellen’s husband’s cock resumed its probe, in and out of her parted lips. The shaft pressed farther in, gently folding her tongue against the back of her throat, allowing breath, but not allowing her to close her mouth. Her sense of shame had taken over her sense of judgment. Cheeks overflowed; drooling liquids ran around the hard muscle.

She sensed a hand under her neck. Was Tom collecting the dribbling spittle that dripped off her chin? “Ghaa. Ghaa haagg…”

The cock’s exploration of her oral cavity became something of a reflexive challenge for Ellen. She wasn’t greedily sucking at it like she would on an ordinary day; this certainly was no ordinary day. Each time Tom’s cupped hand filled with drool and precome, she felt the touch of him, smearing the liquid between the cheeks of her spread ass, moistening her. A gently twisting fingertip slipped through the tough ring. She swayed her pelvis side to side, mashing her vulva across the top of the banister, directing it to her little bump as the soggy mound crossed and recrossed contours of the lengthwise column.

A thick middle finger explored deeper. Shoved in to the base, his big square row of knuckles forced her buttcheeks asunder, deforming the malleable globes.

“Umm…unnh,” she moaned.

“Don’t close your mouth. Don’t swallow.”

Finally satisfied that sufficient moisture existed to ease the way, Tom set his jeans aside, coated his dick with Ellen’s spittle and swung a leg over the rail behind his wife. Nestled up close to her ass, his hard, leaky cock settled lengthwise into the fleshy divide.

“Now, baby,” she moaned. “Fuck my ass now.”

“Told you I would,” said Tom, inserting his thumbs lengthwise into the crack. He spread her cheeks apart, exposing the tiny brown asterisk. “Relax,” he said.

“Relax?” replied Ellen. “Up here?”

“You’re not going anywhere,” he assured her. “Nobody’s falling.”

Before the drool and jizz could dry, Tom pressed his cock against the hard, puckered muscle, massaging her sphincter with its tip, corralling sticky moisture to the point of insertion, where it would do the most good. He forged carefully on, encouraging her. “Open, my sweet. Open yourself to me. Bear down.”

“Push,” she sobbed. “Push, baby! Into your wanton wife’s little pucker.”

Tom pushed. Inch by soppy inch, he entered her darkest regions.

Ellen’s elastic ring relaxed; her resistance gave way. “I’m ready,” she muttered.

Now accustomed to his girth, she shuffled back against him, whimpering, impaling herself deeper and deeper on his cock, now at maximum hardness and length, fully relinquishing passage through her acquiescent ring.

Tom leaned forward over her sweaty back, saliva mixed with precome lubricating the way, wagging his lower torso slowly one side to the other, inching farther and farther into his wife’s vast nether regions. He held himself above, not exerting that force, that power he had to keep in control. Not pounding her ass like a pile driver. Discipline. Discipline was needed in times like these.

Then Ellen was coming. Spouting profanities, sputtering emotive sequences reserved for lovers. No student of language could make any sense of the squeals, cries and excessive emanations echoing through the empty house. Wiggling her ass as much as her bindings allowed, Ellen forgot the meaning of demeanor, forgot the meaning of shame, forgot what it meant to be held captive without protection.

Tom followed her lead, his own orgasm welling up behind his ears then emptying into her quivering buns.

Throughout the months that followed, though Tom and Ellen looked forward to finishing the project so they could start throwing parties again, they made the best of the months spent working. It happened every now and then, sometimes several times a week. Sometimes they found themselves inspired by a tool, or a job that needed attention.

When it became necessary to replace the heavy crossbeam over the passageway from the parlor to the dining room, a small block and tackle was utilized. Sure enough—later that night—there was Ellen. Nude. Suspended, blindfolded, arms spread, hanging from the beam. Her stance divided the bulk of her weight between two short stools set a yard apart, rendering her exposed, vulnerable. Her slender torso was strung up at eye level with the very pulleys they’d employed to hoist the beam.

Ellen asked, “How long am I going to hang here?”

Never mind that Tom had unlimited access to her intimate parts. It wasn’t Ellen’s fault anymore. Ellen wasn’t protected from his touches, or anybody’s touches. It didn’t matter that she’d always craved those touches, those debaucheries that had resulted in her reputation in college. Nympho Ellen, the insa tiable slut who welcomed any and all advances from both men and women. Not her fault anymore. Out of her hands. Her hands were tied.

Tom spent much of that evening naked, rubbing up against his wife at will, kissing her, pinching nipples in clamps, teasing her unmercifully, penetrating her tender parts with fingers, tongue and various objects, eliciting moans and sighs with each caress. Later, after Ellen came down, they fucked themselves to a deep sleep, cuddled on the floor among the tools and sawdust.

The job was nearly done. Other than a few minor details, the major work was finally accomplished; it was high time for a celebration of sorts. Tom brought home some black leatherwork he’d designed for entertaining purposes.

Ellen asked, “What are those?”

“A couple of things I made up.”

“What for?”

“Well, I bought the braided leather stock, took some measurements, added a couple of pulleys, and put ’em together.”

“What kind of measurements?”

“Oh, nothing,” he said. “The banister. The leather. You.”

“What do you have in mind, Tom? What are you thinking?”

“Take off your clothes.”

“Now?”

“Unless you have somewhere to go…”

“So—this is the big night?”

“Wait’ll you see, honey,” he said. “You won’t believe how hot you’ll be.”

Once she’d undressed, Tom guided Ellen to the side of the stairs in the living room, having her back up against the newly finished rungs of the staircase. “Hold along the banister with your arms stretched out,” he said. “They’ll be slanted up and down.”

“Like this?” Ellen reached out to her sides along the handrail, right arm high above the other on the bias.

“That’s perfect.”

Tom wound a single leather thong around each arm along the rail, creating a spiral pattern pressed into his wife’s skin, taking care not to exert too much pressure, cutting off circulation. He continued wrapping the binding round and round her torso and staircase uprights, further supporting her weight, breasts displayed in enticing linear asymmetry. Ellen’s desire-hardened nipples poked out, pinched among crisscrossing strips of black braided cord, contrasted against her pale skin.

“Step through these loops,” he said, indicating her right leg.

“Okay.”

He spread the straps evenly along Ellen’s thigh, gathered them together in one bunch then hooked them to a pulley he’d fastened to the higher side of the banister. The mechanical affair pulled her thigh above her waist, knee rising, calf and foot dangling. Ellen’s pussy lips parted. He pulled the other leg straight out along the bottom, parallel to the stairs, tying her off to the lower struts in another pattern, thus supporting the rest of her. His wife, legs wide apart, was attached to the staircase in a classic Art Deco running pose, as if a bound Nike could take to the air in one giant leap. The doorbell rang.

“They’re here, baby.”

“Good god,” gasped Ellen. “How do I look?”

“Gorgeous, sweetheart,” he pronounced, tweaking her nipples pink. “Just wait’ll they see you.”

“Everything ready?”

“Let’s see,” Tom thought out loud, noting objects neatly assembled on the coffee table. “Plenty of food and drinks. Vibrator, remote, lube, dildos, nipple clamps, flail, condoms. Surgical gloves, for the squeamish. Yep, everything’s good. Oh, wait a minute.” He fingered Ellen’s swollen pussy, making sure droplets in her pubic hair glistened under the chandelier.

“Oh Tom,” she sighed, nearly breathless. “Let them in…please.”

Tom opened the door. “Hello, hello!” he turned back toward the house. “It’s the Watsons, dear. Bill and Janet! Welcome, folks. Here, let me take your coats. Ellen’s tied up right now.”

A well-turned-out Janet Watson floated into the parlor, captivated by her hostess’s naked body lashed to the staircase. “Ahh…” she said, “reminiscent of early Abramovic.”

“Simply lovely,” said Bill. “Happy housewarming, you two. Smells like cunt in here. Jesus, you’ve really done wonders with this place. Great living art, by the way.”

“Thanks, Bill,” said Tom. “It took lots of effort, but we think it’s worth it. Ellen’s raring to go.”

“She looks so helpless and lonely up there,” said Janet. “May I kiss her?”

“Sure, sure,” said Tom. “She won’t be alone long, so nuzzle yourself right in there. Try the wet spot. But Ellen’s far from lonely. In fact, she’s been looking forward to this since we bought the place. Can I get anyone a drink? Hors d’oeuvres?”

“Thank you,” said Bill, nodding toward Ellen. “I’ll take some of that.”

“Of course,” replied a cordial Tom. “Would you like to fondle her? Or would you rather slip her the schwanz? Condoms right there on the table. Now or later, whatever…but that’s quite the hard-on you’re sporting. Hey, look! Here come the Harpers! And there’s the Kaminskys, right behind them. This looks to be a glorious evening.”