CAMELOT FANTASIES

Male bondage, Spanking and Chastity  
 
            

MIRANDA




 
 
                                Except for its inconspicuous lock, the door at the end of the
              short hallway of Miranda's middle-class home looked perfectly
              ordinary.
                      But the windowless room beyond the locked door was a sexual
              Never-NeverLand, a fantastic reflection in a kinky Looking Glass.
              While Miranda watched, amused, the key dangling from her finger, I
              took one step inside, then another -- and stopped, staring. My
              heart was racing, my eyes wide. I had never seen anything like it
              before.
                      Two walls were mirrored, from the tiled floor to the black-
              painted ceiling. An incredible array of whips, restraints, gags,
              and harnesses hung from the peg strips which circled the room at
              waist height. Pushed into the near corner was a heavy padded
              sawhorse; the center of the room was dominated by a wooden X-frame
              solid as an oak and seven feet tall. Both the horse and the frame
              were dotted with steel eyebolts, some of which sported dangling
              chains or cuffs. All of it looked well used. None of it, as far as
              I could tell, was for show.
                      And in the opposite corner, facing it all like a queen's
              throne, was a fan-backed rattan chair with thick ruby-red
              cushions. A black riding crop rested across the seat.
                      It was a real dungeon, a dominant/submissive playground,
              tucked into a back room in a perfectly ordinary home. And this
              surprising wonderland belonged to my friend Miranda -- a woman
              whose dress and appearance wouldn't raise an eyebrow at a PTL
              meeting.
                      Whose usual dress and appearance, anyway. I turned back toward
              Miranda, my mouth suddenly dry. "This is incredible," I said. What
              my eyes were saying, I didn't know. But I was looking at her very
              differently. My mind flashed on a picture of Miranda in black
              corset on the fan-back chair, contemplating me bound naked on the
              X-frame. My **** began to swell at the thought.
                      "You approve, then?" she asked archly, her eyes sparkling.
                      There was a tension between us at that moment of a kind that
              had never surfaced before. She was at ease, self-amusedly waiting
              to see what I would do. I was uncomfortable, and tempted to hide
              behind a wisecrack. But for some reason I just swallowed, nodded,
              and said quietly, "Yeah."
                      Her next question cut to the heart of the tension. "Do you
              want to try it?"
                      I couldn't look away from her. "Yes. I -- I do."
                      She looked at me questioningly, as though I had said something
              wrong.
                      "Yes, Mistress," I amended, suddenly realizing why she was
              waiting.
                      She smiled then, a pleased smile. "Then go back to the living
              room, slave Alan, and take off all your clothes. Kneel in the
              middle of the floor, and wait there until I come for you. I have a
              few things to get ready."
                              #
 
                      I undressed, heart pounding, still not quite believing what
              was happening.
             
                      What was I getting into? How much could I trust her? Though
              I'd known Miranda for more than two years, we lived in cities five
              hundred miles apart. We had met at an education conference in
              Raleigh -- she was a testing specialist at a private college, I
              was a placement counselor at a large university. We ended up
              spending several hours together that weekend, in lecture sessions
              and on a mass expedition for Chinese food. She smoothly and firmly
              squelched my attempts to flirt with her, but even so, I had a
              wonderful time in her company.
                      When we ran into each other at another conference later that
              year, it was like finding a friend in a mob of strangers. We had
              dinner together again (only five at the table this time) and sat
              up late in the hotel bar on the last night, telling stories and
              laughing. I wrote her a few letters over the next year, and she
              called me a few times. But the tone was always friends-keeping-in-
              touch. There was no hint or thought of romance. Miranda seemed to
              be on a different wavelength, as though she didn't play that game
              at all. I confess I couldn't quite figure her out, even though I
              enjoyed her a great deal.
                      Then came the week-long counseling workshop in her home city,
              my wonder-if-we-could-get-together call, her invitation to a
              casual dinner at her house, and the free-ranging conversation that
              kept coming back to sex.
                      Somehow I had found myself telling her more about my past and
              my preferences than most of my lovers ever knew, and much more
              than Miranda was telling me. Eventually I got to my interest in
              what I knowingly called "D&S," and how it was a shame that so few
              women seemed to understand about the exchange of power and how
              much fun it could be. I was pretending a familiarity I didn't
              have, and Miranda must have known it, but she let me blather on
              for a time before calling my bluff by taking me down the hall.
                      And now here I was, kneeling naked in her living room with a
              throbbing hard-on, staring my fantasy in the face. I knew what
              most of the toys hanging in the dungeon were for. But my knowledge
              was almost entirely academic, drawn from books like Exit to Eden
              and a sampling of fem-dom ****. The games I'd played with lovers
              past had been strictly amateur. Miranda was the real article, and
              that scared me as much as it excited me.
                      Maybe it scared me because it excited me. Or excited me
              because it scared me. I didn't know how to tell the difference.
 
 
                              #
                      Minutes dragged past, and my knees and ankles began to
              complain about the position I had assumed. Then I heard a door
              open, and the click of heels in the hallway. I turned to look, and
              found my hostess transformed into a stunning Mistress.
             
 
                      Her mane of wavy auburn hair was set off now by a studded
              black choker. Her ample breasts seemed barely confined in a
              leather halter laced only to the lower curves of her cleavage. She
              wore fingerless elbow-length gloves and gleaming studded
              wristlets. In her right hand was the crop, in the left a collar.
              Her hips were sheathed in a tight leather wrap-skirt which bared
              her beautiful thighs. Her stockings were black and sheer, her
              shoes spike-heeled with ankle straps.
                      She was, in a word, gorgeous. My ****, which had flagged a
              bit as I waited, stirred to new life. She noted, and smiled
              wickedly. "Nice," she said, looking directly at my ****. "I can
              have fun with that."
                      I found my voice. "You look fantastic, Mistress Miranda.
              Incredibly sexy."
                      "Did I give you permission to look at me, slave?"
                      My breath caught. "No, Mistress," I said, and lowered my eyes.
                      Miranda laughed. "I want you to look at me. I want you to want
              me. You can't have me, of course. But wanting is good."
                      She ordered me to crawl to her. Then, standing over me, she
              said in a low voice that chilled me, "I'm going to take you to
              that place you've been wanting to go. I'm going to teach you what
              your body can feel. I'm going to play with you, and punish you,
              and use you for my pleasure. I want more than your obedience. I
              want your surrender. Do you understand?"
                      I said I did, hoping I did. She made me kiss her shoes and her
              crop, and then placed the plain, heavy collar on my neck and
              locked it in place. Pulling me up by the collar, she whispered a
              "safe word" in my ear -- which I silently vowed not to use. Then
              she pushed me back down to hands and knees and led me to her
              dungeon.       
             
 
 
                              #
                      Miranda was in no hurry. She kept me kneeling before her
              chair, my legs spread wide and my wrists cuffed and locked
              together behind my back, while she asked me pointed questions
              about my experience and my fantasies.
             
                      All the while, she kept touching me, teasingly. She toed my
              balls with the point of her shoe, tapped my **** with the tip of
              her crop, scraped and plucked my nipples with her nails. Once she
              let me suck her middle finger, which I did eagerly. I wanted to
              make her feel good, and that was the first chance she'd given me.
                      When she'd learned everything she wanted, she rose and led me
              to the X-frame. My cuffed wrists were unhooked from each other,
              then fastened high on the wooden crosspieces. Miranda selected a
              second, larger pair of cuffs from the wall, and soon my legs were
              spread wide, my ankles locked to the foot of the frame.
                      I had never felt so sexually vulnerable. I was facing out and
              leaning back, completely helpless, completely exposed, my ****
              hard as an eighteen-year-old's and already dripping from the tip.
        
           
             "I can see I'm going to have to do something about this,"
              Miranda said, seizing my **** by the root. "You've obviously been
              thinking about **** me. You'd like that, wouldn't you?"
                      I told the truth. "Yes, Mistress."
                      She slapped the head of my **** smartly with her free hand,
              making me gasp. "Forget it. You'll be lucky if I **** you." Letting go of my  
                      ****, she walked to her collection of sexual
              toys, and returned with a small harness with several straps. "This
              should keep this greedy little **** under control."
                      A few moments later, my proud shaft was encased in a tight
              leather sheath that exposed only the head. One strap went around
              the root where she had grabbed me. Another went around my scrotum,
              while a third separated the balls. It felt as though my entire
              manhood was being squeezed in a fist. My **** throbbed, reddened.
 
            
              Already, I desperately wanted to come.
                      But Miranda had other plans. Her next choice was a length of
              rope with dozens of spring clothespins clamped to it. She gave me
              one end of the rope to hold between my teeth, and then began to
              decorate my body with the wooden clamps. She started with one on
              either side of each nipple, pinching the skin with her fingers to
              give the clip a good bite. Then she placed a clothespin directly
              on my left nipple, and I moaned -- and dropped the rope I was
              holding for her.
             
 
                      "I'm going to add to your whipping for that," she said as she
              gave me back the end of the rope and resumed her project. The
              other nipple was next, then the underside of my arms, the inside
              of my thighs, and, finally, my ****. First, she tugged out enough
              skin to attach one of the little biting monsters to each side of
              my already harnessed scrotum. I almost bit through the rope. Then
              she started on the engorged head of my ****, placing one, two,
              four, seven clothespins in a semi-circle on the narrow, sensitive
              ridge.
              
                      Taking the rope from me, she stepped back to admire her
              handiwork. "Look at yourself, in the mirror," she said.
                      I saw a naked man in complete submission, his limbs spread-
              eagled and restrained, his throbbing **** tormented. I felt like I
              was tripping. The tension in my body was incredible. My blood was
              on fire. It was as though she was touching me in a hundred places
              at once, and every one of them was making me crazy with desire. My
              eyes closed, and I slipped down into the sea of sensation, leaving
              thought behind.
                      Suddenly I jumped, writhing, as an electric jolt coursed
              through me. My right nipple was suddenly burning. What was
              happening? I opened my eyes to find that Miranda had folded the
              length of rope twice over and was using it to strike the
              clothespins from my body. Her aim was true, and every time she
              knocked one free, thousands of nerve endings which had been
              temporarily overloaded suddenly came back to life shouting
              protests.
                      The last to go were the seven pins on the head of my ****. By
              the time the last dropped to the floor, I was quivering and
              hanging limply in my cuffs. Miranda stepped close and ran her
              fingertips grazingly over my skin, the touch making me jump. Then
              her hand closed around my sheathed ****, and her thumb rubbed the
              wetness oozing from the tip all over the head.
                      "You took that well," she said softly. "Maybe you'll get lucky
              after all. But first, I owe you a whipping."
 
                      Miranda released me only long enough to turn me around, toward
              the frame, so my back and bottom were exposed. I watched in the
              mirror as she selected a short, many-stranded whip, then moved
              behind me. She started with light strokes that barely warmed the
              skin, leather kisses on my thighs and ass. The strokes came faster
              and harder, until it felt like my skin was glowing. I stopped
              watching. I stopped thinking.
                      Then Miranda traded the short whip for a long, stiff leather
              paddle. The first blow from it lifted me off my heels and made me
              cry out in surprise. She gave me little time to recover, applying
              the paddle vigorously across both cheeks and the backs of my
              thighs. The weight of the paddle and the strength of her arm
              carried the shock of each explosion through my whole body. I
              moaned, grunted, and fought against my chains.
                      But the incredible thing was that it didn't hurt. I was past
              that. It was a wake-up call to my senses, a charge of pure sexual
              energy. All I was was what I was feeling, and all I was feeling
              was wave after wave of delicious intensity. I was flying.
                      After a time I couldn't measure, Miranda stepped up close
              behind me, caressed my hot ass and said in a half-whisper, "Now,
              the punishment I promised you."
                      There was a long moment to wonder. Then I heard the whistle as
              it cut the air, and I knew -- it was the crop. And when it landed,
              it felt like I was being sliced open, a line of fire burning into
              my ass cheeks. My body went rigid, and when the crop fell a second
              time I couldn't hold it all in any more, and screamed. Twice more
              the crop came down, and then Miranda drew close again, her body
              brushing against me as she traced the scarlet, swollen marks the
              crop had left.
                      She moved away again, leaving me to hang there on the wooden
              frame, breathless, shoulders aching, all resistance gone, glowing
              inside and out. Time dilated, stopped. The next touch was a hand
              spreading my ass cheeks, and another hand smearing my opening with
              a slippery gel, pushing a lubricated finger inside me.
                   
             "Now the reward you've been hoping for," she said softly.
                      I raised my head and looked sideways at the mirror, and saw
              that Miranda had shed her leather skirt. She was wearing a harness
              that was like a leather G-string, and jutting out from it was a
              long black dildo. I watched as she moved in behind me, guided the
              head to my ****, and pushed it up inside me.
             
                      It was blissful, humiliating, erotic. I was impaled,
              stretched, violated. Miranda was **** my ass, claiming
              possession of me, and all I wanted to do was open to her and give
              her whatever she wanted to take. And then she reached around my
              waist and loosed the straps on my harness, freeing my **** from
              its leather prison. She began to masturbate me, stroking my ****
              in rhythm with her reaming of my ass.
                      With everything that had gone before, I was on the edge, and
              had been for some time. Before long, my gasps and moans betrayed
              my approaching orgasm. Miranda took that cue to bury the dildo
              deep inside me, tighten her grip, and stroke my **** furiously.
              After a long few seconds, I went over the edge, crying out and
              writhing as my **** spurted long jets of come into the air.
                
 
 
                     #
                      Miranda took a Polaroid photo of me before she freed me, and
              then allowed me to shoot one of her before she changed. I took
              that photo, my memories, and the four crisscrossing red stripes
              from the riding crop home with me on the plane. I don't know when
              I'll next see my friend, or if she'll ever favor me that way
              again. But one thing is certain -- I'll never again think I know
              someone if I haven't seen what they keep, and who they are, behind
              locked doors