"I mean, I just don't think I could deal with it. I like the idea, in principle, of a needle forcing its way into me, or a razor cutting me open, but I don't think I could handle it if it actually happened." "But you want to push yourself, right? To see how far you can go? How can you know unless you try it?" "Some things you just know. I prefer head trips. I just can't deal with blood." "Hmmm" *** "J's out of town this weekend, so we have the place to ourselves. Come-- I made you a present to celebrate our 12-month anniversary." I take your hand and lead you downstairs, into the den. In the middle of the room lies a plywood 4 x 8, with a flowered sheet stretched over it. The sheet is attached to the plywood by a series of staples running along the edges. A small round pillow, barely big enough for your head, rests at the head of the makeshift bed. Along the sides and top of the bed are a number of black candles, melted onto small plates. "Well, what do you think?" "What the hell is it?" "It's a bed. Or, I suppose, you could look at it as a kind of sacrificial altar, although we seem to be a bit short on virgins at the moment." "Very funny. I notice that you've ruined the new sheets we bought you barely a month ago." "Well, I didn't want you to scrape yourself. I know how you hate the sight of blood. Actually, stapling it down was no small task. I had to visit three different stores before I found a staple gun capable of driving staples all the way into plywood. Lesser guns leave the staples sticking out, so that you have to pound them in with a hammer, but this sucker drives them right in. I'll leave it by the bed-- you never know when you'll want to staple something to a sheet of plywood." "I suppose the idea is for me to take off my clothes and lie down on the bed?" "I suppose it is." I press my index finger between your lips, letting you suck it briefly before I withdraw it and press your lips together. "Ssshhh...

No more noise." While you get undressed, I light the candles, then turn out the lights. "I always think that atmosphere is so important for these sacrificial rites, don't you?" You grin back, excited, but more than a little nervous. I spread your legs apart, then uncross your arms and stretch them out, pulling you into an X shape. "Don't move." I can already feel a little tension in your shoulders. You trust me, but no trust is proof against some fears. I curl up next to you, running my hand lightly over your body. You shift slightly, but don't make a sound. As my fingers probe more insistently, I can feel you beginning to warm up and relax. You close your eyes, and begin to breathe a little faster. Without warning, my second hand tickles your armpit. You catch yourself quickly, but not before a brief giggle escapes your lips. I'm impressed, but still... "I'm so disappointed in you-- I thought you were supposed to be keeping quiet? Well, maybe a little assistance is in order." I reach behind the couch, and produce the ball gag I bought for you yesterday. I dangle it over your chest, the ball swaying back and forth in the slight depression between your breasts, the leather thongs tickling your nipples.. Leaning over you, I do my best Harrison Ford: "Do you love me?" "I love you." "Do you trust me?" "I trust you." I smile, kiss you briefly, and slip the gag into place. As I fasten it behind your head, I see a brief flash of panic in your eyes. I run my fingers through your hair, our noses almost touching, and the moment passes. This is new territory for us-- we've talked about gags, about how your motorboat imitation would work as a "safeword", but theory is one thing, and practice another. I stand up, admiring the view from above. "You look ravishing... but something's still missing." I reach behind the sofa again, and produce a blindfold. I pause to kiss each of your eyelids, then tie the blindfold in place.

The problem with gagging someone is that you can't really kiss them on the mouth. I make do with the rest of you, sucking your fingers, and nibbling my way in along your arm. As I work my way along your upper arm, I run my fingers along the bottom of the arm, flattening a fold of skin against the board beneath you. "Hmmm..." I work my way across your breasts, and out along the other arm. Your breaths are becoming deeper, less even. I move to your feet, starting with your toes, and work my way up. Eventually, I get to your groin. I trace the very tip of my tongue along the lines of your lips, grasp a few hairs between my teeth, and tug lightly. You briefly forget yourself, shifting your legs to give you more leverage as you thrust upward to meet my tongue. Big mistake. "I'm trying to make allowances, since it's our anniversary, but I'm going to have to insist that you follow my instructions. If you don't, I'll just have to fasten you more firmly in place. Maybe a little warning will help you stay focused on the task at hand." I pick up the staple gun, and fire eight staples into the board, two next to each ankle, and two next to each wrist. From the look on your face, and the change in your breathing, I can tell that you're trying to decide whether you're in too far; whether you need to end the scene. I pause briefly, resting my head on your chest, and tracing the taut lines of your neck with my fingers. When I feel you relax a little, I resume my exploration where it left off. I withdraw abruptly, leaving you gasping around the gag, but, remarkably, not moving. I take my time getting undressed, opening the package, and rolling on a condom, watching you twitch. At last, I kneel down, driving into you in deep, slow strokes. Under normal circumstances, you could never stay this still-- you must be well motivated. Your self-control is truly impressive-- you really deserve to win this round. Sadly, however, life is not fair, and you are not fated to get off this easily. Still moving within you, I rest myself on one elbow, the other arm taking a candle from the row at the head of the bed. Holding the saucer clumsily with my left hand, I tilt the candle back and forth, building up a small pool of wax. At last, I turn the candle on its end, letting a thin dribble of molten wax pour onto your abdomen, just below the ribcage. Through the gag, I hear you yell, more in surprise and momentary rage than in pain, and am almost thrown off you by the force with which you writhe beneath me. In a moment, it's all over, and your limbs are back in their appointed places, but the damage is done.

I return the candle to its place, then withdraw from you and stand up. "I just don't know what I'm going to do with you-- you can't keep quiet even with a gag, and despite my repeated warnings, you keep flailing around like an octopus in heat. It looks like we need to take somewhat more direct measures to keep you in your place. I wonder-- how do you suppose I could fasten someone to a sheet of plywood?" I pick up the stapler, aim, and pull the trigger. A staple arcs through the air and lands a few inches short of you, bouncing off the plywood. I fire three more times, landing staples on your stomach, your breasts, your thighs. Each time, you wince when you hear the stapler, and twitch away from the staples as they bounce off your skin and fall to the board. "Well, what do you think? Am I going to have to staple you down, or do you promise to be good?" You don't dare make a sound, but nod your head up and down. "Very, very, very good?" More nodding. "No, I don't think we'd better chance it. I'm afraid I'm going to have to staple you down." I slowly run the stapler over your body, exploring, probing. I press your arms against the board, stroke your breasts back and forth. I trace the outline of your hipbone, and, pressing the stapler almost to the bone, pull the trigger once more. You cry out from reflex, then pause, confused. "Damn. Out of staples. Well, that's easily remedied." I slowly but noisily reload the stapler. Your breath is coming in gasps now, and I notice that your shoulders are quaking slightly. Looks like it's almost time to bring you down... I kneel down beside you once more, and resume my exploration of your body, using both the stapler and my free hand now, probing harder. I move to above your head, moving the candles out of the way, and start stroking your face, pulling your hair out of the way and laying it against the board in a fan emanating from your head. Abruptly, I pin your left elbow down with my knee, and grab your hand. My previous "warning shots" had served to fasten a length of nylon webbing to the board next to each wrist and ankle. I grab the closest length of webbing and, wrapping it once around your wrist, I staple the other end to the board, pinning you in place. There's a little more slack than when I tested it earlier, but it seems to be holding you OK. Moving quickly, I pin the other wrist in place. Next, I grasp your forehead with one hand, holding it steady. With the other, I repeatedly staple your hair onto the board, making it impossible for you to move your head more than an inch or two in any direction. Finally, I move down to your ankles. You've got the idea by now, and are thrashing your legs, desperately trying to keep them away from the webbing. Your movement is restricted, however, by the staples in your hair, and it's an easy job for me to catch your legs one by one and fasten them to the board. At last, you are almost totally immobile. Once more, I kneel between your legs, and slip inside you. I want to take you slowly, to nibble and pinch my way across your body, but we're both already too close to the edge. You cry out one last time, and I am moments behind you, my teeth almost drawing blood along the side of your neck. We lie still for a long time, slowly relaxing, melting into each other.