The Old Party Handcuffs Trick

Here’s a bondage story classic from two decades deep in the Alt.Sex.Stories archives. It seems our heroine was receptive to the old “handcuffed at a party” trick. Sure, she threw her drink in the guy’s face, but later she followed him upstairs so he could find the key and unlock her:

“I’ll get the key.”

She sat on the edge of the bed. While John shuffled through a drawer, she stroked the light brown wool blanket that covered the bed.

Curiously, she found that the contrast between the blanket, her lightly tanned wrists, and the nickle-plated handcuffs with the light from the track lighting reflecting off of it was aesthetically pleasing. What an odd thought.

“Found it.” He knelt down and picked up her hands to take off the cuffs. She held his hands and looked into his eyes. “I’m really sorry I threw my drink in your face.”

“I’ve suffered worse.”

Angie actually began to feel guilty for hating him. He had, after all, only been playing around and she built it up into this whole big deal in her mind. Looking at him, Angie realized he was quite handsome, and his hands felt so strong and firm, yet gentle as they held hers. She leaned forward and kissed him lightly on the lips.

He didn’t move, and momentarily Angie feared that she had made a horrible mistake. Actually she had, but not the one she was thinking of, as she found out later.

He pushed her back onto the bed and laid on top of her, kissing her with a passion that only fanned the flames growing in her loins. She wanted to hold him close, press her body harder against him, but her hands were still chained. Indeed, he had hooked the chain of the
handcuffs with his left thumb and was holding her arms above her head.

He leaned to one side and with his free hand, began unbuttoning her blouse. She was panting too hard to voice the slightest protest, she was too aroused.

With her arms pinioned above her, and her body helpless under his weight, she could feel his hardness against her mound. She felt exposed, and helpless, and as he began to caress her breasts, she could swear she was about to come. She struggled and squirmed, but only
ended up rubbing herself against him harder.

Then he began to use his mouth, twirling her nipple with his tongue. She couldn’t resist any longer. Hooking her legs around behind his, she ground herself against his cock. She wanted it inside her so badly that she was determined to push it through the two intervening layers of denim. She strained her arms against the cuffs, her chest was heaving when he bit down on her nipple. Her scream echoed throughout the attic room. It was one of combined ecstasy and pain, frustration and release. Angie came hard, and it left her weak and panting.

“Oh god… John… Please… fuck me.”

“I guess you don’t hate me anymore then?”

“Oh please, don’t punish me this way.”

“How shall I punish you then?”

Angie had no idea what John had in mind, but she would do anything now that she was worked up to this peak. “Anything, just do it.”

The story after that puts me in line of that bit of old doggerel:

She offered her honor,
he honored her offer —
and all through the night
it was on her and off her!

Only, with more chains and leather.

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