Tied In Her Own Basement

Nothing like a bit of suburban bondage fun to liven up your marriage:

Suburban basements lack character. Their atmosphere is domestic. From where she stood she could observe the washer and dryer against one wall and the shelves holding the jars of pickles and preserves at the other. If she strained her neck enough there would be Bryce’s work bench and his treasured tools. He had mentioned them: “I can make some of the stuff we’ll need.”

But the basement was cool in the heat of summer. In addition, it possessed a facility.

The post.

Drusilla was tied to the post with neat competence.

Bryce had taken a lot of time in the binding of his wife. She had helped by standing limply passive, her naked back against the wood. They had discussed her nakedness with the same polite detachment they had employed after the initial heated resentments had been set aside and they had begun their postulation of the impossible. Bryce had suggested it diffidently. With a willingness she found suspect within herself, Drusilla had agreed.

Nudity had added a quality of deliciousness to the mixtures of Drusilla’s captivity. It had provoked awareness. It had also enabled Bryce’s rope to sink intimately in her flesh and hold her doubly secure.

After the first panics had passed she had ceased to struggle for release. The rope and her skin had found an affinity against which she could not prevail. In the first few hours of fruitless rebellion against her bonds she had repeated again and again a shocked admission: “No way… ! No way… !”

She found it necessary to constantly test her impotence. The flexings and twistings caused the rope to bite in reassurance that she was indeed tied to a post in the basement of her own home and that she was truly naked and frighteningly helpless. Her situation was real, unfeigned, not contrived. She supposed the flickerings of fear arose from imaginings of discovery, of fire, of burglars! Ruefully she recognized these alarms as implicit in the validity of her plight. They, too, were a touch of spice.

Bryce had crossed her wrists behind the post and tied them there. Drusilla could not see how it was done, only feel. Several ropes made a band round her middle. They had been painstakingly cinched to weld her bottom and her back immovably to the stanchion’s vertical authority. Her ankles had been similarly treated, but one to teach side so as to separate her legs enough that her cleft was murkily visible below its black pubic thatch.

That was the totality of her bindings. Above her strictured waist there was nothing. But her shoulders were well planted against the pillar by the compulsion of her bound arms straining against the bondage of their wrists.

From Drusilla by F.E. Campbell.

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