A: The Mancipation of Martha

Black-eyed Martha was a cute kid. I knew as soon as I saw her that
she was up for it. She didn't say much, but accepted my offer of a
drink.

She held the glass in both hands as she swayed in time to the music.
The noisy club was heaving. Martha's hands shook as she sipped. She
must be on something, I thought. A vivid black tattoo -- of some wild
plant or other -- encircled her upper right arm, contrasting with her
white skin.

I watched her blinking the smoke from her eyes. What was she doing
here? She looked so young, and out of place in her black leather skirt
tight to her pale thighs.

We sat together for a few minutes. She stole furtive glances at me when
she thought I wasn't looking, but I watched every move in the mirrored
wall opposite.

I leaned toward her. "You wanna go someplace else?" I shouted above the
din.

Her eyes met mine for a moment and then she looked away, but in that
fraction of a second I saw curiosity, excitement, and a little fear --
volumes imparted from those dark pools.

Then she nodded and slid off her bar stool, picking up her leather
jacket from where it had lain behind her heels like an obedient
dog.

On her feet, Martha came up no farther than my chest. Towering over her
I imagined manhandling her compact body. The front of her sleeveless
leather waistcoat -- matching the rest of her somber outfit -- pressed
against her breasts, the top button undone.

I bent to her ear. "How old are you?" I said. I'm no child
molester.

"You're bloody cheeky." But she flashed me a grin. "I'm
twenty-two."

Like hell, I thought. She looked fifteen, but I guessed she was
nineteen or so. Young enough to exaggerate upwards, anyway.

"Let's go," I said, slipping my arm around her waist. I steered her
quickly toward the door. She brushed and bumped against me as we
threaded our way through the crowd.

As we hit the street, I sensed anticipation in her deep gulps of the
cold night air. Her gooseflesh, orange in the sodium streetlight,
looked starkly vulnerable against the tight leather's black
sheen.

"This way." I swung her round, and we set a brisk pace down the
adjacent side-street to my car.

Martha lay back in the bucket seat of my sleek two-seater, idly
scraping her shiny black nails along the web of the safety belt
crossing her chest. Her gaze darted around the chrome interior. Nothing
like a sports car for pulling the girls -- a cliche, but true. I tried
to keep my eyes on the road.

Ten minutes later we were crossing the parking lot to my apartment.
Only one floor up, so we took the stairs. Martha swayed her butt in
front of my eyes as I followed her. I drank in the vision before me,
listening to the soft swish of her thighs brushing together.

I closed the apartment door behind us, and she threw her arms round my
neck, pulling me down to fasten her hot, moist mouth on mine. And there
we stayed for what seemed like eons, exploring each other's oral
details. I felt her squirm in my hands as I traced out her contours,
the fascinating junctions between leather and flesh.

At last I reached up and dragged her arms away, stepping back from her.
She stood panting, breasts heaving against their black leather
constraint, stomach rippling beneath the tight waistcoat.

She stared unflinching into my eyes. She must be ready now, I
thought.

She watched me step toward a cupboard and open a drawer, from which I
withdrew a transparent plastic bag. Silently I held it up for her to
see.

Her eyes widened as she perceived the purpose of the contents, and she
smiled. I upended the bag, and the cords fell like dead snakes to the
floor.

"Are you up for this?" I said.

Martha nodded. With the faintest smile on her parted lips she began to
undo the buttons of her waistcoat. As each button withdrew from its
allotted oval, by turns her white flesh became more visible, until,
finally, she dropped the leather to the floor, revealing pink nipples
and rounded, unsupported breasts that rose and fell with each
breath.

Without a pause her hands went to the buttons at the side of her skirt,
which she despatched with equal alacrity.

She took a step toward me, as if inviting my approval, my caress. The
stacked shoes gave her a provocative gait, and the black leather
g-string transfixed my gaze. So narrow and so tight, it seemed likely
to cut her in half.

Displayed thus, she looked less young and innocent than I'd first
thought. Black, bobbed hair swaying just above her shoulders, the full
breasts, the flat stomach narrowing to her waist, then swelling to her
hips, her shapely butt scored by the voluptuous sweep of the
g-string.

She was ready.

I picked up one short cord from the pile, and stepped close to her. Her
sinuous movements as I took hold of her wrist convinced me I had judged
right. I twirled her round, taking the other wrist and placing it over
the first at her back. As I twined the cord around her wrists my
knuckles brushed against her buttocks, and I saw -- and felt -- the
ripple of her flesh as she clenched.

With her hands secure behind her, I turned her round and placed my open
palms on her shoulders. I began a long, stroking caress, barely
tickling her breasts, brushing the hardened nipples and ending at her
waist, tracing out the line of the g-string.

With firm pressure I slipped my fingers between her skin and the
leather. It was tight, but not so tight that it wouldn't give. I pulled
on the thongs sweeping over her hips, twisting the leather
rhythmically, so that the pressure on her pubis and between her
buttocks increased. Martha's breathing became shallower and more rapid
as her body manifested its arousal.

I let my hands follow the shape of Martha's curvaceous hips, down her
slim legs to her ankles, and I unbuckled her shoes. She stepped out of
them.

I stood up to survey her. Martha's small, beautifully proportioned body
stood before me like a finally accessible fruit, ripe for the picking.
Eyes sparkling, her gaze followed mine. She still wore a faint
smile.

"This is just the beginning," I said, running a fingertip from her
navel, up between her breasts, following the curve of her chin and
ending at her mouth. I felt a nip as she bit gently into my skin, then
I slid the finger between her lower lip and teeth, feeling the warm
wetness of her saliva. "Don't move." I withdrew the finger and stroked
her cheek, which glistened with the spit.

Martha stood stock still as I went to fetch the rest of the cords. She
did not resist as I passed a cord between her back and her already
pinioned arms. I formed a knot in the cord, and pulled it tight at her
elbows. The circlet tattoo deformed under the pressure of the cord, and
Martha gasped as her arms wrenched. She cried out as I pulled hard,
forcing her shoulders back, her chest out.

"Does it hurt?" I said, turning her round to face me.

She nodded. She did not take her eyes from mine.

"Good."

I went again to the drawer and returned. Martha's gaze followed my hand
as I held up the object I'd retrieved.

"In days of old," I said, holding the opalescent plastic device
vertically between thumb and forefinger, so that it stood up about
three inches, "women who nagged their husbands were forced to wear a
device called a _scold's bridle_."

Martha continued to stare at the object.

"It was a metal harness, fitting around the woman's head," I continued.
"There was a protruding metal plate that went into her mouth and held
her tongue down. By all accounts it was very effective."

I waved the plastic device gently in front of her face. She opened her
mouth a little as her head followed the motion of my hand.

"Not a peep was heard from a woman made to wear the scold's bridle.
This, however," I went on, "is for a slightly different purpose."

Martha gasped as I grabbed a hank of her hair in my left hand and
pulled her head back. "Open your mouth," I said.

Martha was breathing fast now. Her eyes widened and her gaze fixed on
mine as she dropped her jaw in response to my probing fingers. "Wider,"
I said, pushing the plastic bridle into her mouth. I pressed it into
place toward the back of her throat. The device had flanges at each
end, which fitted between her back teeth.

Thus was Martha's mouth forced to remain open. "Bite down on it," I
said, releasing her hair. Martha blinked several times as she tried to
close her jaws. Her breath came in a rush through her open mouth, and
she shook her head. She screwed her eyes shut, and drops of moisture
escaped from their corners, trailing tiny wet tracks down under her
chin.

I took her face in my hands, inserting my thumbs into the corners of
her mouth. I saw clearly that the bridle was correctly positioned.
Martha opened her eyes and looked at me. Her head trembled in my hands.
I looked down and saw her flesh quivering.

"Very good," I said. "The bridle will prevent you from biting." I
stroked the tip of her tongue with my forefinger. "You may have
difficulty speaking, due to the immobility of your jaw, but the bridle
allows your tongue to move freely."

I looked at her. She was still breathing rapidly. The cords binding her
arms forced her heaving breasts toward me, the nipples like succulent
pink sweets. I traced my fingers around her jutting breasts, tickling
my fingertips over those inviting rock-like protrusions. My pulse
quickened with anticipation, and I felt a welcome stiffening down
below.

I placed my hands on Martha's shoulders. "Kneel!" I commanded, pressing
her down. With sweet compliance she obeyed, instantly. Her subjugation
was complete.

In that submissive pose she watched me undress. I pulled off my shirt,
my shoes, my jeans. I faced her as I slipped down my underpants,
letting my impressively erect cock spring out and up from its erstwhile
uncomfortable confinement. Martha watched the bouncing organ approach
her, her eyes crossing as her gaze refused to turn from the darkened,
blood-gorged head aiming at her parted lips.

Once more I grasped Martha's hair, entwining my fingers in her black
locks, holding her head still.

The hot wetness that gently engulfed my throbbing cock as it slid into
Martha's mouth was almost more than I could bear. The pressure of her
restrained teeth, scraping across the stretched and ultra-sensitive
skin of the bloated organ, nearly made me come right there.

Martha seemed to know this too. She froze. I held myself within her,
completely still, for a few moments. Then I felt her lips close about
me. Though she could apply no pressure with her teeth, the bridle did
not prevent her lips from moving and manipulating as I thrust my cock
full depth into her luscious mouth. Though I held myself stationary
within her, the manipulations of her lips, combined with judicious
suction, sent the most delicious tremors of pleasure searing through
me.

And then she began to use her tongue. With subtlety at first, then with
more purpose, swirling, tickling and teasing, tracing the ridge around
the organ's head, pressing into the tip, until, with an inevitable
crescendo of paroxysmal pleasure, my load erupted into her, my body
shuddering in the grip of orgasm.

I gripped Martha's hair, her mouth clamped tightly onto my cock, as the
climax subsided. I held her like that for some while, the rush of hot
breath from her nostrils washing around me. I felt a gentle pull as she
swallowed.

At last I began to withdraw my gradually softening organ, but as I did
so, I felt the tip of Martha's tongue brush its underside. The
resulting stiffening caused me to pause in my exit. The relish of that
wet caress, then firm pressure, sent fresh shivers of arousal through
me. And in time, to my astonishment, the ministrations of Martha's
magnificent mouth brought me once more to an achingly delicious
climax.

When at last I did withdraw, it was at the conclusion of delightful
satisfaction, the like of which I'd rarely experienced. Martha, still
tightly tied, with the bridle secure in her mouth, remained
subservient, obedient, compliant. It was as if every imposition on her
shackled body was what she had always desired.

I bent over her, slipping one arm round her back, and the other behind
her knees. I scooped up her diminutive form, pulling her close to my
naked body, enjoying the touch of her flesh against mine. I took a few
steps and tossed her face up onto the bed. She fell to one side, as the
bindings on her arms prevented her laying properly on her back.

But I repositioned her, straightening her legs, making sure she lay
face up, with her head and neck stretched backwards over the edge of
the bed. I stroked a hand from her upturned chin, down between her
breasts, over her flattened stomach, her navel, to the narrow leather
triangle of her g-string. Once more I followed the junctions of leather
and flesh, but this time I pulled the leather away from her body.
Impressions of Martha's tight underwear lingered on her skin -- mapping
the dark forest at her crotch.

The long caress that I then began, touching Martha in all the places
she longed to be touched, brought her, over a period of many minutes,
to a height of arousal expressed vividly in the flushed kaleidoscope of
her receptive flesh. Pink patterns of delight marched across her skin,
manifesting her anticipation and measuring her closeness to
climax.

I spread her legs, massaging the wet and hungry spaces between, until,
as her expressive body indicated, she was ready. She accepted my
hardened cock like the first meal after a fast. I felt her hot flesh
devour me, and despite her bindings and the bridle, it seemed as if she
was the one in charge, and I was the obedient submissive, forced to
offer up my constrained but willing flesh for her enjoyment.

There was an end to it, of course. I gently pried the bridle out,
released her bindings, and we fell asleep in each other's arms.

Next morning, she was gone. I awoke to find no trace of miniature
Martha, save for indentations in the bedclothes. I began to wonder if
I'd dreamed it all, and that our night of illicit passion had been the
creation of a deranged, sex-starved imagination.

But that evening, there came a knock at the door. I opened it. Martha,
in the same black leather, stood on the threshold, a black leather bag
slung over her shoulder. The strap seemed to dig into her flesh as she
walked past me into the hall, and I heard a tinkle from its dark
interior.

"What's in the bag?" I said.

She flashed a grin beneath those dark eyebrows, those wide, black eyes,
and upended the bag. With a crash of clanking steel, the bag poured
forth its stash of chains, cables and cuffs.

I stared at the pile of vicious restraints littering my floor, aware of
the stirring in my groin. "What...?" I stammered.

"Hush," said Martha, approaching me. She reached up a hand, sliding it
under my shirt and across my chest. Her hot palm moved over my
skin.

"Now it's your turn," she said. And then she began to undress me.