The Dancer from Babylon (Conclave 1) | legs hand tied, slave | free bondage stories

It's hard to explain to outsiders about the Conclave. The physical setup is unimpressive: 100 or so little white cottages, arranged in a square, out in a cornfield in the middle of nowhere. During most of the year the cottages stand empty. But for two weeks each summer it comes alive as people from our little Midwestern town gather there to socialize, gossip, and enjoy amateur entertainment. For people who live there year round it's not much different from their regular socializing. What makes it neat is that people who've moved away make it a point to come back then, so you get to catch up with everyone and see old friends, even if they've moved away. It's Brigadoon crossed with an extended family reunion.

One year, as things worked out, I was occupying the Matthew's cottage all by my lonesome. Aunt Gertrude was having her cataracts removed, so Mom had gone to stay with her. Dad was in Kansas at a reunion of his war buddies. None of my brothers and sisters could make it back, so it fell to me, Grant Matthews, to open the family cottage and entertain callers.

This was not a huge burden. All I had to do was sit on the screened porch and offer iced tea to anyone who wandered by. (No alcohol was allowed on the grounds, so I had to keep my beers hidden.) In the course of a hot summer week I entertained a few kids home from college, like me, but most people who dropped in for a chat were folks from my parents' generation. Like Ethyl Lambert, AKA the Bible Lady.

You might say Mrs. Lambert was devout, but that was like calling the Pope a "religious figure." She always carried a Bible, and she could slip Jesus into any conversation, be it hog prices or a football game. Every morning she conducted a Bible study class, and she attended every sermon by every visiting preacher. Based on these facts, you've probably formed a mental impression of her age and looks. You're wrong. Mrs. Lambert was a dance instructor, and proud of her legs, so she always wore shorts. Short shorts, like Mary Ann on Gilligan's Island. Her ass was big too, from dancing, I suppose. As were her boobs, although I suppose dancing doesn't apply there. She usually wore a tight T-shirt so it was hard to miss her boobs. Anyway, the point is she was a very good-looking woman for someone in her 40's. When I grew old enough to be aware of the contradictions in her persona I wondered if she dressed that way to attract men to her Bible classes. If so, it didn't work, because the only people who came to her lessons were white-haired women with nothing else to do. Eventually I concluded she was like most people: a complicated mix of opposites.

Tuesday evening I was sitting on the porch, bored out of my mind, watching moths flutter against the screen. I was thinking about turning off the lights and going to bed when Ethyl Lambert came ambling along and joined me on the porch swing. The inevitable tight shorts were red tonight, accessorized with red socks and red earrings. It was a nicely coordinated package. She wasn't tall, but when she crossed her legs about a mile of tanned muscular thigh flashed by.

I hadn't seen her since last summer's Conclave, so the first thing I said was, "Sorry about Wayne." I was referring to her late husband, who'd been killed in an accident at the grain elevator last fall.

"It's the Lord's will," she said automatically. "I guess Jesus needed him more than I did."

She didn't seem too upset. Based on comments from my parents, I got the impression that she and Wayne hadn't gotten along that well.

I assumed she'd come to see Mom and Dad, since she played bridge with them, but even after I'd explained the situation, Mrs. Lambert stayed. She asked routine, mildly patronizing questions about school and girlfriends. I told her I was dating a Phi Lambda, but Melissa was off in Europe for the summer, alas. Mrs. Lambert seemed strangely elated by this news. She sat close beside me on the swing, and kept touching my arm or knee, and batting her eyelashes. If she hadn't been a 45-year-old widow I'd have sworn she was flirting with me. Not that I mind flirting. It was just strange, doing it with someone who was always trying to lure me into a Bible lesson.

Trying to keep the conversation on a safe subject, I asked about that morning's lesson.

"We're reading Exodus. The part about the Hebrews' suffering under Pharaoh. You know, Grant, God really inspired those Old Testament scribes to write. The scripture is so vivid I've been having dreams about it."

"Dreams?"

"Well, actually it's one dream, over and over. I dream I'm a Hebrew slave. I'm chained up, and the overseer is whipping me. Isn't that odd? It's so real. Do you think I could be remembering a previous life?" She put her hand on my knee at kept it there for several seconds.

I thought belief in past lives was hogwash, but I was intrigued by the flirtation, so I decided to string her along. "I think it's possible."

"I knew it!" She put a hand on my shoulder. "Say! Is there any way to recover those memories? Why, I might have seen Moses himself!"

"Sure. Guided visualization. I had a workshop in it."

"I'm so glad you're smart!" she gushed. "How does it work?"

"Well, the easiest way is to demonstrate. Let's go inside."

I opened the door from the porch to the cottage and gestured for her to enter first, partly to be polite and partly so I could oogle those shorts! That ass!

The first floor of the cottage had been built by my great-grandfather. It was one big room, with a sitting area ("the parlor") at one end and a half bath & kitchen at the other. The second floor, which was added on by my father, was the sleeping area. I ushered Mrs. Lambert into the "parlor" and shut the door and discreetly locked it. Then I went around closing the window shades. No way to be subtle about that.

"Do we require privacy?" she murmured in a husky contralto.

"Well, I want you to concentrate on those memories, so we need to eliminate distraction. Sit in this chair, please."

Mrs. Lambert obligingly planted her lovely ass in an old captain's chair.

"Take off those ear rings."

It felt odd to be giving orders to an adult, especially to one who was a friend of my parents, but she complied immediately. She handed me the red ear rings, and I put them aside. "Shoes and socks too." Mrs. Lambert obeyed. She wiggled her bare toes and smiled, apparently pleased at my initiative.

My mother kept old towels and sheets and whatnot in a rag bag. I found an old tea towel that was just the right size. "Step 1 in recovering those memories is to clear the mind. That means cutting off external stimuli." So saying, I blindfolded Mrs. Lambert with the towel. She took it calmly, and folded her hands in her lap, like a patient waiting for the dentist.

"There," I said, in an artificially jovial voice, trying to hide my excitement. "Now, tell me about your dream."

She licked her lips. "Well, I'm in the desert. It's hot. There's a pyramid in the background. There are camels and a river."

"OK. I get the picture. Where are you?"

"I'm standing with my arms around a statue of some heathen idol. My wrists are tied so I can't get away. I'm facing the statue, so my back is to the overseer. He's whipping me. The only thing I'm wearing is a loincloth, and each time he hits me my bare breasts brush against the stone."

"Interesting," I said, in an exquisitely clinical tone. It was a good thing she was blindfolded, or she would have seen my hard-on. "Do you know why he's whipping you?"

"No. I assume I've been a bad slave," she pouted. "Sometimes he whips me on the back, and sometimes he whips my bare bottom."

I took a bundle of clothesline from the pantry and cut off two pieces. "Step 2 is to get into the physicality of the dream. You store memories in your body too, you know, not just in your brain. Let's make the slave feeling more real and try to activate your somatic memory. Put your hands on the arms of the chair."

Mrs. Lambert complied, and I tied her left wrist to the chair. She didn't object, so I tied her other wrist too. I was astounded at her passivity, and my daring, and wondered which of us would chicken out first. I had fantasized about tying up my girlfriend, but never had the nerve to ask. A woman as old as the Bible Lady was obviously not my first choice as a bondage playmate. Her hands, for instance, were rough and speckled with age spots. But if she were willing to play, what the hell. She wore her curly brown hair very short, in the cut of a much younger woman. In the course of circling around I discreetly sniffed it, and smelled perfume.

I stood facing her. She made a pretty sight, tied to a chair and blindfolded. The blindfold was a brilliant tactical move on my part, as it changed her from Mrs. Ethyl Lambert, friend of my mother, socially powerful adult, into an anonymous busty female who wanted to fool around. "OK, slave. Roll the dream. What is he using to whip you?"

"A long strip of leather."

"Where?"

"All over my back and bottom."

"How do you react?"

"I plaster myself against the stone idol trying to get away. It feels cold on my breasts and legs."

"Step 3 is reenactment. Let's pretend I'm the overseer. My spies tell me Moses is planning something, so I've brought you in for questioning." In a gruff voice: "Tell me what Moses is planning!"

"I'll never betray Moses, you Egyptian pig. He is blessed by God!"

I stood behind her and buried my fingers in her curls and pulled her head back.

"We have ways of making you talk," I growled, automatically slipping into a German accent.

"I'll never talk! No matter how much you whip me!"

"All right, slave. If that's your attitude, let's plug that noisy mouth."

From the rag bag, I selected an old kitchen towel, made of thin material, and tied a knot in the middle. "Open your mouth!" I commanded. She opened her red lips obediently, and I quickly threaded the cloth through them and tied the ends behind her head. As gags go, it probably wasn't very effective. But it sure looked good. And she played along, shaking her head and growling and making MMmmMMmm noises.

I was afraid someone might see the lights on and come looking for me, so I decided to take her upstairs. I untied her wrists and made her stand. Mrs. Lambert waited quietly, head down, as I arranged her arms behind her back and tied her wrists with rope. It was just like the tie-up games I used to play with my brothers and sisters, only more erotically charged. I seized her by the upper arms and manhandled her toward the steps. She might be older, but I was bigger and stronger. "Come, insolent slave. You need your attitude adjusted."

Upstairs was perfect for what I had in mind because the rafters and beams were exposed. I positioned her in the middle of the room and untied her hands. She massaged her wrists and grumbled something reproving. I let her relax for a minute, then retied her hands in front (not so tight this time). Then I threw the end of the rope over a beam and pulled her arms up and tied the rope to a bed. Presto! I had her standing with her arms over her head, bare feet just touching the floor. She made a lovely package, what with her boobs jutting one way, her ass sticking out the other. Her T-shirt pulled out of her shorts and exposed her navel and stomach. I swear she was smiling as she chewed her gag.

"I hear you were a dancer in Babylon before you were enslaved," I hissed in her ear. "Do you still remember how to dance, slave?"

With that, I took a length of rope and whacked her across the butt. Mrs. Lambert yelped and jerked and spun in the opposite direction to protect her ass from me. But she was blindfolded, so it was simple to step around behind her and whack her again. This time I aimed at the left cheek. She yelped, and tried to dodge again.

"Lift those long legs, slave." I swatted her twice more, and finally she raised her left leg.

I swatted her again. "Now the other one." She dropped her left leg and raised the right one. I kept whipping her splendid ass, making her lift alternate legs, gradually going faster and faster as she got the rhythm. She really could dance. I mean, I'd seen her do tap at the Conclave Talent Show, but now her feet went higher than her chest. I whipped her bottom enthusiastically, forcing her into a sadomasochistic can-can.

When she began to pant, I gave her a break. Mrs. Lambert dangled from the rope, head lolling forward, breathing heavily. I untied the knot behind her neck and extracted the soggy cloth from her mouth. "Talk, slave. What is Moses planning?"

I half expected her to call off the game, but she stayed in character.

"Lay off Moses, Egyptian dog. Unless you like plagues."

"Impertinent slave. Do you want to be tortured?"

"Do your worst," she spat. "The Lord will protect me!"

Before things got any hotter, I decided to gag her more thoroughly. Partly because I'd never done it, and I wanted to take advantage of her receptivity. And partly because the cottages had no insulation and were only a few feet apart. I sure didn't want nosy Mrs. Sussman next door saying anything to Mom or Dad!

This time I methodically packed her mouth with a hand towel, stuffing it into her cheeks and immobilizing her tongue. She moaned, but submitted. To hold in the wadding I used a wide Ace bandage from the first aid kit, wrapping it around her head six or seven times (leaving the nose clear) and securing it with little metal clips. Now that was an industrial strength gag! I took her jaw in my hand and turned her head this way and that, admiring my handiwork.

The Ace bandage and the blindfold covered so much of her face that she was rendered even more anonymous.

Impulsively, I ruffled her short brown hair, which was now sweaty and disheveled. "Having a bad hair day?" I cooed.

She tossed her head and muttered something defiant.

Since we were now far beyond the realm of childhood games, I decided to see some skin. I pulled up her T-shirt, over her head and onto the rope, out of the way. Her bra didn't have shoulder straps, so removing it was just a matter of unhooking it in back. Behold! Her boobs! The skin around her neck, which had been exposed to the sun, was weathered and freckled, but her boobs were still pink and smooth. The skin was translucent, and threaded with blue veins. Big brown rings circled her nipples. I grabbed one breast in each hand and started squeezing and kneading. That really made her squeal; I was glad I'd packed her mouth so well. She moaned and jerked from side to side and shook her head as if to say no! no!, but I noticed she was careful to not pull loose. In fact, when I squeezed and twisted extra hard, to make sure the gag would silence her, she pressed her chest forward and ground her breasts into my hands.

I pinched the erect nipples between my fingers, and licked and nibbled and flicked them. Her moaning became a continuous throaty purr, with periodic high-pitched squeals as I played her chest like a musical instrument. Too bad I couldn't enter her in the Talent Show. It would be a nice change from magicians and ventriloquists and gospel singers. And now for tonight's big act: Grant Matthews playing his Ethyl-phone.

Those big tits were so damn interesting that I just had to do something special to them. First, I clamped a big pink plastic clothes pin onto her left nipple. The nip fit into the grooves on the pinchy end, nice and snug. She whimpered when it clamped. Then I tied a rubber band to it the clip. Finally, I suspended a #8 lead fishing weight from the rubber band. If I let it dangle, nothing happened, but when I picked up the weight and raised it to the level of the nipple and let it drop… Wow! I decorated the other nipple the same way, then slapped her breasts lightly and made them bob. The weights bounced and tugged and made her shriek and tremble and moan.

"Time for another spanking, rebellious slave," I growled. "And this time I don't want any padding in the way." I slid my hands into the waistband of her shorts and pulled them down. They were so tight it was like peeling her.

Under the shorts I found red thong panties. Victoria's Secret, maybe? Not what you'd expect on a Bible Lady paying an innocent social call!

I fondled her cunt through the thin cotton, then removed her panties too, leaving my visitor completely nude (unless you count the gag and blindfold). She murmured nervously when the panties came down and exposed her dark bush, and tried to cross her legs modestly. Her tanned legs were leathery to the top of her thighs, but the skin at her pelvis was white and soft and smooth.

Having seen those long muscular legs in operation, I took the precaution of loosely tying her ankles so she couldn't kick me. Then I began spanking her with my bare hand. One hand on her stomach to keep her from turning, the other hand spanking each plump buttock in turn. They rippled enticingly. Each time I spanked her she twitched, and that made her boobs jiggle, and that made the lead weights on her nipples bounce around. Boy, that made the Ethyl-phone wail! It excited me to think that people could walk by our cottage and never suspect the erotic game being played only a few feet away. I felt like a maniacal jazz player, using her helpless body for a perverted private performance.

When her pale bottom began to glow pink I gave her a break. She hung suspended in midair, trying to control her panting, since panting made her chest heave, and that made the weights tweak her nipples.

"I wonder if this training is having an effect, slave." I yanked her around to face me, and placed my right hand on her stomach, and slid it down into her bush. She'd trimmed it between the thighs, where it might show because of the short shorts, but left it thick and curly higher up. I petted her pussy, and found the gate to paradise. Talk about wet! I stroked her slit, sliding from end to end, and let a finger or two wiggle into the juicy groove. With a desperate moan, she spread her legs in welcome. Gently I began to finger-fuck her. Then I found the clit, and squeezed it between thumb and forefinger. I was in no hurry, but she clamped her legs shut and captured my hand. Before I knew it she was thrashing around like a wild animal in a trap.

Ethyl collapsed and dangled limply, huffing through her nose, chest glistening with sweat. I extracted my hand and sniffed her delightful cuntsmell and pondered my next move. I was determined to fuck her, but didn't want to do so standing up. So while she was still dazed and groggy from her orgasm, I untied the clothesline and lowered her down from the beam. Ethyl seemed to have lost the strength in her legs; she collapsed in a pile on the floor.

I untied her wrists (which were purple, oops) and rolled her face down and pulled her arms behind her back. She mumbled something into her gag but I ignored it. No way I was letting her go now. Not while she was one orgasm ahead of me. Sitting on her legs to hold her down, I used the clothesline to fasten her arms behind her back. When I was done I stood up and examined my prisoner. She made a pretty picture, lying naked on the floor, hands tied behind her back, ankles hobbled, mouth gagged, eyes blindfolded. No backtalk from this girlfriend!

Grunting, she rolled over and managed to sit up. I grabbed her sides and helped her up to a bed. Perched on the edge, she mumbled again, more urgently this time. Reluctantly I undid the Ace bandage and extracted the wadding.

"Water," she gasped.

I gave her a drink. She gulped it down and licked her lips. "Kiss me!" she demanded.

I did. She was a good kisser. That tongue was really something. We fell into the bed and kissed for a long time. While doing so I removed the clothespins. She moaned when the blood rushed back into her nipples. I squeezed and fondled her breasts, and she kissed me like a wild woman.

Finally we separated. "Can I do anything for you?" she asked coyly.

I took off my pants and lay back on the bed. The angle was tricky, but she managed to squirm into position, and soon that talented tongue was comforting my rod with all her might. I tried to go down on her but she clamped her legs together and wouldn't let me in, so I just lay back and enjoyed the attention. I'd coaxed Melissa into a blow job once, but that was nothing like this. Maybe it was the situation. A naked, helpless woman desperate to please me… My personal slave slobbering over the head of my cock… I came with a spasm that made her choke.

While I was recovering she squirmed up along my body and lay at my side, face nuzzling my ear. I put an arm around her shoulder, wondering what to do with her next. Since she was so compliant, I studied the beams overhead, contemplating the possibilities for 3D erotic tortures of my cute little sex toy.

"Grant. I have a favor to ask."

"What is it?"

"I really need to pee. Could you please untie me?"

All good things must come to an end. Sadly I untied her, marveling at the intricate pattern the ropes left in her flesh. I had marked her! When the blindfold came off and our eyes met for the first time in an hour, she blushed.

"Wicked boy!" she sniffed, and traipsed off to the bathroom, bottom jiggling.

I half expected her to gather up her clothes and leave. So you can imagine my joy when she came back upstairs and sat down nude on the bed and crossed her arms behind her back. I didn't need a written invitation. Mr. Clothesline got right back in the game, and in minutes she was bound again.

When her arms were tied, I made her lie on her back. Using strips from an old T-shirt, I tied each ankle to the corresponding thigh. Ethyl brought her knees together modestly, then left them flop wide open. She looked up at me and fluttered her eyelashes. "Why Grant, what are you thinking?" she asked innocently. "This is not a ladylike pose."

I gagged her with a single strip of cloth, not because she needed it, but because I liked the way it looked. Then I knelt between her legs and guided my cock into her purplish vagina. She gasped and rolled her head. I worked it around a little, to get it lubricated, then plunged into her in one swift movement. She gasped, and clamped her thighs on me, and we began our ride to paradise.

Toward dawn, I regretfully untied my guest so she could sneak back to her own cottage while it was still dark. Lying in bed, I watched her dress. It was sad to see all those parts which had given me so much pleasure being squeezed back into their everyday packaging.

When she was ready to go, she knelt and kissed me goodbye, and ruffled my hair maternally.

"Wicked boy," she chided me. "Obviously no one has taught you to respect your elders."

"I bet you could do it. How about tonight?"

"If you'll do one thing for me."

"Anything."

"Really?"

"Anything. Just name it." I kissed her wrinkled hand.

"Come to my Bible class today."

"You're kidding."

"I'm serious."

"Do I have to?"

"Yes."

I gestured at the pile of rope on the floor. "Was this all a trick to get me into your class?"

She took my hand and put it on one breast. "The Lord works in mysterious ways," she smiled. "See you at 10."