Complicity

By Jurgen von Stuka

Sandy is a young, very conservative museum curator who is well known for her family's philanthropies. However, away from the office, she is also a bonafide, closet sub, a masochist of the first magnitude. She wants to try almost everything kinky, but conscious and social restraints, and her concerns about propriety keep her in an endless circle of auto bondage and intense, erotic dreams.

Even at work, she daydreams about being a captive English woman spirited away from home by fierce and sexy Vikings and kept in perpetual chains and subjugation.

At night, she has recurring fantasies of being a helpless Roman slave, subjected to the most arousing forms of debasement. She envisions the life of a youthful princess held in constant bondage by a handsome desert prince. She yearns for something substantive, more solid...something lasting that will bring her fantasies closer to reality.

When she discovers that she can actually experience some of her dreams while safe and secure in her own residence, the possibilities become nearly endless. Her husband, Jim, is the facilitator. His deviously demented inventions and restraint creations set the scenes for Sandy to reach realistic physical and emotional peaks she never even dreamed about.

The arrival of Sandy's sister, Meg, with her voluptuous girl friend, Remmy, changes the dynamic and provides Jim, the hubby, with a seemingly endless line of sexy young women who seek erotic fulfillment 24/7. No scene, no scenario in erotic novels, bondage equipment catalogues, S&M magazines or videos is missed. They try everything. Jim builds it, they experiment with it. They tie and chain and suspend every limb, flog every body part and plug every body aperture. They do themselves, each other and then try triples and duos. They use common household items, like the bathtub, as objects of orgasmic stimulation, torment and restraint.

In the end, just when it seems like everyone has finally worn out their physical and mental capabilities implementing the last of their fantasies, Sandy comes up with the plan to end all plans. She and Jim decide that, despite the hazards, they will attempt to fulfill Sandy's ultimate dream. Does she get her wish or....perhaps even more than she wished for?

The conclusion may surprise you...or make you wish you were Sandy.

• Language: English
• Publisher: Pink Flamingo Media LLC
• Release date: Jan 18, 2013
• ISBN: 9781937831790

Book preview

Preface

Have you ever wished that one of your dreams would actually come true? Have you wondered if there might be another place where the things you wished for were reality?

As both an observer and participant in the BDSM scene for more than thirty years, I remain astonished at the range of variations our minds create as we try to find new applications for old fantasies. The fulfillment of dreams is certainly one venue.

This story admittedly has a very thin plot: a young woman has erotic dreams that, once discovered by her boy friend, seem to fit in with her real life experiences.

Sandy is a sub, a masochist of the first magnitude. She wants to try almost everything, but conscious and social restraints, (no pun here), keep her in an endless circle of auto bondage and stimulating dreams. When she discovers that she can actually experience some of her dream fantasies while safe and secure in her own residence, the possibilities become nearly endless.

Enhancing this seemingly ideal situation is an extended visit by her sister, Meg, and her lesbian partner, Remmy. All three women happily unite in a continuum of erotic indulgences.

Bottom line: if you seek a complex plot and in-depth characters, this is not your book. But, if you want enjoyably close exposure to day-to-day erotic experiences, this is the place for you. Nothing ponderous here about who did what to whom and why. No tangled motives, no difficult-to-grasp situations. If you seek literary distractions based on non-consensual BDSM, you have come to the wrong place. Everyone in this story is totally committed and willing to try almost anything. And therein lies the fun and pleasure of it all. Being bound in rope or chains is only fun and enjoyable if you desire it. If you do not wish to be someone else's bottom, you should not open that door. The uninitiated among the general population who, on the politically correct side, feign distaste and condemnation for B&D are, as is often discovered, those same people who secretly indulge in the very practices they claim to condemn.

In Complicity everyone participates because they want to. What a shame that the doublespeak detractors of such behavior can't behave the same way.

Chapter One

The Vikings

From his command position in the stern of the vessel, Magnar divided his time and attention among three things: Lonad, his navigator with his mysterious sliver of metal that pivoted and swung on its sharpened pin, always pointing towards the frigid regions; Balmuth, the steerer, nearly always at the rudder; and Sandra, his latest English captive, bound, gagged and chained by her long, elegant neck to a deck ring at his feet.

Sandra was a fine trophy to bring home, but Magnar's crew was still restive from the quick and easy, one-sided battle on the island coast and he caught some men casting jealous glances his way, staring at this dark-haired, full-breasted prize with the chain around her neck and the leather thongs cutting into the fine, pale skin of her wrists and ankles. She twisted and tossed about on the hard wooden deck of the single-masted long ship, making strange sounds from behind her rawhide gag that cruelly split her red mouth. She knew what this man from the distant shores of icy Northland was going to do to her and she felt a mixture of fear and longing. She feared the coming life as his slave in a foreign place and she longed for what she hoped would be continuous bondage, always chained or tied, always offered as a sexual gift to strangers, always available to a man with a whip or a cane.

She knew the stories handed down by the village elders and imagined the combination of pain and excitement she would soon feel with her bound arms embracing the harsh, weathered thickness of the old ceremonial mast erected on the outskirts of the small Viking village. They would gag her with the tattered remnants of her own remaining underwear and tie her cruelly to the old mast: arms and legs roped and pulled around the rough, hard surface with its deep carvings and old, discolored paintings. It would be an unpleasant position to endure. She fantasized that it would be as though she was engaging in sex with the painted cravings on the pole. Throughout the sea voyage, she experienced, with increasing anxiety the daily training sessions inflicted upon her by this long-haired, bearded giant. She endured the multiple cuts and bruises that rose swollen from her fair skin as the brutal lash criss-crossed her soft back and buttocks. She only tacitly resisted, thrashing about while the ship's crew took their turns at teasing her and she secretly longed for more of the rigorous beatings inflicted while she was bound with her hands high over her head and toes a few feet off the deck, her ankles tied to keep her from kicking. Accepting more than resisting her fate, she writhed and struggled hopelessly against the bindings that now held her, her naked breasts and belly pressed to the rough and splintered surface of the deck at Magnar's booted feet. She knew that a worse fate awaited her once she was carried ashore and chained to the slave pole, high on a fjord cliff, above the swirling mists and icy waters.

Few slaves ever escaped from the Vikings, but Sandra knew by heart the thrilling tales of one woman who, it was said, had been a captured slave and then was mysteriously released by the Norseman Prince after several months of bondage, endless sex and servitude in his village. It had been something of a trade, the town myth went, with the dark and bearded royal from the North landing near the settlement, bringing his slave up the beach and tying her to a leafless tree, then raiding the town and taking away three of the youngest women. As they were led back to the ship, their eyes covered with long strips of cloth torn from their garments, mouths stuffed with the small fabric bags full of salty sand, and their wrists and arms tightly bound behind them, they passed the returned slave. They could not see her, but they heard her moans and whimperings as they passed. She was tied naked, suspended by her hands from the branch high overhead, swinging in the strong north wind. She made only small, pitiful sounds, but the many new and old stripes on her legs, breasts, back and belly provided ample evidence of the trials she had suffered. It was said that she had pleasured her Viking Master so well that he had eventually agreed to return her to her home. And so, the involuntary, one-sided trade was made and three village virgins were substituted for her.

That was a year or more ago and now it was Sandra who was the new captive and it was she who was headed, she knew, towards a fate that she dreaded, but also, in her mind, had sought ever since she saw the bound woman in the tree.

"Perhaps that might be me," she thought. Perhaps he'll tie me and ravage me and whip me when he feels like it. Perhaps, I can serve as his slave and he as my master. Sandra had dared to dream of this future. Now it was the present.

The digital alarm clock on the table next to the bed went off with an endless electronic bleating and Sandy opened her eyes and slowly climbed out of the vivid and so realistic dream. Unconsciously, she rubbed her rope-bruised wrists and wondered if it was, in fact, only a dream.

Chapter Two

Meeting

Sandy was, as usual, late for work, but since she was a volunteer and her family was a consistently top-drawer contributor of needed cash gifts to the museum, no one said anything to her. It had been a monumentally exhausting night for her. The moment she came home from work, checked her phone messages and made a quick salad for her dinner, Sandy plunged into her other world. The featured paraphernalia of the evening was a long coil of hemp rope that she ordered on line and was anxious to try out. Using the illustrations from a book she often read and studied, Sandy arranged all of the gear she would need, took a quick shower and began the ritual binding that would, if it worked out, encompass her entire naked body and secure her for the night. With each loop around her body, each knot tied just so, she used the doubled length of rope to create a body-enveloping net of coarse hemp. She discovered that although the book was not written for self-bondage practitioners, it did not point out that once she had wrapped her upper torso in a symmetrical pattern of rope, it would be extremely difficult to bend enough to extend the rope enclosure to below her waist. After multiple attempts to proceed further, Sandy painstakingly removed the torso rope and started once again, this time beginning with her ankles and working upward, encircling her shins and calves, then her knees, then her narrow thighs. When she got to her crotch, she again studied the book's instruction, threading the doubled rope through her legs and bringing it up the buttock divide, then wrapping it around her waist and again taking the double strands between her legs. She carefully separated the four ropes so that two were snugly inside her pussy and the other two on the outside of her lips, making a stimulating and symmetrical pattern before she finished that segment behind her back, leaving a special slip proof loop for her hands later.

Sandy then decided that perhaps a couple of self starting dildoes might help, so she hopped over to her dresser, selected two from the many in her drawers and lubricated them to her satisfaction. At times in her erotic self-disciplined life, Sandy purposely avoided using lubricants on the objects she used to penetrate her own cunt and ass. Her rationale for electing this often painful alternative was to simulate being raped by parties she imagined in her dreams or fantasies. But, in this case, she used the chosen assist from something called SlipperySlip, and thus the two automated dongs went in easily, bypassing the tight rope barriers she had already erected. Once inside, they settled in, giving her an occasional jolt on a random schedule that she was pretty sure would last, because of the recently charged batteries, intermittently, all night.

The binding of her upper torso took longer and she struggled to set the various rope segments so that she would later be able to slip her arms into them and have the ropes draw tight, holding her captive in the most pleasant fashion. As the rope patterns rose up to her chest, Sandy again consulted the book's text, seeking the options offered, based on the size of one's breasts and how much tension the subject would/could withstand. She chose the most extreme, which involved a series of rope loops around her chest, above and below her tits, with locking knots on either side of each breast and another in the center cleavage. This system put pressure on her chest, affected her breathing and squashed her more than adequate tits horizontally, forcing the nipples forward and creating a shiny, pear-shaped form for each breast. Knotting this portion of rope securely, Sandy installed the remaining rope over her shoulders and then, with great care, around her neck using a knot that would prevent the neck loops from tightening. The full-length mirror in her bedroom provided Sandy with an erotic view of her bound figure and she was already panting slightly from the full body stimulation caused by the meters and meters of hard rope wound around her figure, cutting into her cunt and forcing her tits outward with the nipples hard and pointing.

Her final moves were calculated to allow her to get into the bed, snap an external rope attached to the bottom of the steel bed frame to her rope-bound feet and connect another rope already attached to the headboard to her chest web. The other necessary move was to slip the leather discipline hood over her head, close the laces and zippers and make sure that she could breathe easily with it in place. Inside the hood was a breather's gag, which filled her mouth, but allowed air to move freely through the center of the hard rubber ball gag.

With the foot and chest retainer ropes locked in place, she tested to see how much movement she had allowed herself and was pleased to conclude that once she slipped her arms down into the torso network of rope and secured her wrists behind her, she would a have very little latitude for movement. She also knew that based on the tension and pattern of the ropes, certain movements would tighten segments of the rope in her crotch and around her breasts, eventually bringing the thrilling sexual spasms she craved.

The hood went on easily. She wore it so often that it was actually molded to her head's shape and thus was instantly comfortable. She closed the laces, pulling them tight until the edges of the hood met, then tied them off and pulled the zippers shut. Inside the hood, Sandy experienced a combination of fear and excitement. This feeling was, she thought, much like the kind of feeling people said they experienced when they were enclosed in a full body bag, emulating a return to the womb.

The smell of leather mixed with the faint tar-like aroma of the hemp rope were incredibly seductive and Sandy rushed the last few stages in order to get to the enjoyment that came from drifting off to sleep totally restrained in rope and leather. The double dildoes appropriately buzzed their vibes and Sandy worked up a sweat as she forced her arms down along each side until the rope loops held them tight. Her final move was to insert her hands into the fixed rope loops at the base of her spine. The size of the fixed loops was correct and once her hands were inside their grip, it would take a conscious effort on Sandy's part to free them.

At their assigned time, the house lights went out. Sandy was already immersed in her role-play with the dildoes buzzing now and then and the pleasant, secure tension of many yards of hemp rope holding every part of her figure enclosed, her limbs restrained, no longer able to respond to her commands. Sandy went through several different versions of her fantasy, but with each one, the unpredictable vibrations of the artificial pricks up her ass and cunt functioned as interrupters that, in her mind, signaled yet another stranger taking her, using her for their own sexual purposes. Her mind/body reactions to this intense game brought her the orgasms she worshipped. This was the rationale for her unusual fetish and behavior. She knew it was addictive, but she had not ever experienced anything else as intense and overwhelming. This was why she persisted in the nightly games. This was her reason for living. Nothing else really mattered.

***

She was late for work because she had spent too much time trying to cover up her bruises and scars. The mark around her neck was easily hidden by the fashionable turtleneck sweater and its long cuffs did a good job of hiding the bluish indentations on each wrist. Since it was winter, her boots sufficed to hide the marks on her ankles and lower legs and the long skirt did the same for the marks just above her knees where the rope made indentations that lasted longer than she expected them to. It was the deep impressions at the corners of her pretty mouth, the long horizontal stripes from the hood that went from her mouth to the back of her head, that she was unable to camouflage completely with make-up and a revised hairstyle. So, she spent most of her day avoiding any of her associates and certainly not meeting anyone else's curious eyes.

When Jill, her associate who helped plan for new exhibits and handled most of Sandy's schedule, asked her if there was anything wrong, Sandy said that she had slept badly and, pointing to the marks on her face, said that she had new bed linens which she didn't like and which tended to wrinkle too much.

I know what you mean, Jill said brightly. I sleep with my hand under my cheek and sometimes I get this deep pit on my skin from my rings or bracelets. I always forget to take that stuff off and in the morning there are these deep gouges in my skin.

Really? Sandy asked. She had never noticed this with Jill, so she wasn’t sure if her friend was trying to make her feel better or if maybe she was too self-conscious about her own marks.

Not to worry, Jill said. Want me to slap you around? That will get rid of one mark and leave you with another. Jill laughed.

No thanks. I know where I can get whacked if I want it, Sandy said, referring to the more or less well known fact that only a few months ago she showed up at work with a black eye. She told everyone the truth, that her girlfriend Liz's boyfriend, Stan, showed up uninvited at her apartment and punched her out of anger about Sandy's talking the woman out of their engagement. Sandy declined to file charges, but Stan insisted on giving her $10,000 and a letter of confession and apology as compensation. Sandy endorsed the check over to the museum.

As the two women walked through the second floor exhibits, taking written notes about where a new display would go, Sandy saw a man she thought she knew sitting in front of the Pell Helicopter on display as an example of modern technology and functional design. There was something about this man that drew her to him and before she even thought about it, she was standing in front of him, offering him a brochure.

Can I help you? Sandy asked, smiling her best smile and bending over slightly so that she was looking into his dark brown eyes. Subconsciously, Sandy wished she was wearing something with a low cut neck line.

Ah, no. I don't think so, he said, returning her gaze and doing the usual male thing of running his eyes quickly from