When I told Joanna I was going to be tied up at work on Friday, she gave me a look.

“No really,” I said. “I have so much going on this week. You wouldn’t believe my schedule.”

“I believe you,” she told me. “But I also believe that you’ll be tied up this weekend.”

I didn’t understand her at first. I rarely have to donate weekend hours to the office. But I didn’t say anything. Later that day, her words made more sense. I was in between meetings, and I hopped on my phone to check email. There was a note from Joanna, the subject line stating: All Tied Up. Inside the email, was a picture of rope. I actually giggled, then put a hand to my mouth. I wondered what my coworkers would think if they knew what I’d received. It wasn’t easy, but I forced myself to return to thoughts of market reports. Yet, I kept slipping up. I said “rope” when I meant “route.” I said “handcuffs” when I meant “hamstrung.” Finally, I excused myself from the boardroom and splashed water on my face. In the executive washroom, I texted Joanna.

“Her fingers wandered up and down my split, eliciting a flood of juices from me.”

“You’re destroying my concentration,” I told her.

“Good,” she replied.

I managed to make it through the rest of the afternoon without any further slips of the tongue. Then I hurried to my car and drove home, thoughts of the kinky ways Joanna and I might spend the weekend filling my mind. She definitely was thinking ahead. When I got home, I found a pair of handcuffs hanging from the front door. What would our neighbors think if they saw them? I grabbed them and hurried inside. My first instruction was written on a note on our end table. In Joanna’s neat handwriting, the words read: Take off your clothes. Put on the cuffs.

I did as the note described, hearing my mistress’s voice in my head as I kicked off my heels, pulled down my pantyhose, and shed my work attire. I wondered where she was. Had she left this note for me before going to work? Or was she somewhere in the house, waiting, maybe even watching. Once the cuffs were in place, I hesitated. What should I do next? I decided to go in search of another note. I didn’t have to look far. On the floor on the way toward our bedroom was a white piece of paper. On the paper was the solitary word: Crawl.

I crawled, all the way to the bedroom, and I could tell how wet my pussy was as I moved. We’d always played unusual games. But this was new. Joanna had tied me down once, had blindfolded me and made love to me. But she had been present for the entire scenario. I was on my own right now, alone with my thoughts, my desires, my arousal.

In the bedroom, I sucked in my breath. Joanna had gone all out. Our normal floral bedspread was gone, replaced by a shiny black comforter. The lights were dim. There was a hank of rope by the bedside table. And there was my girl — not in her usual work attire of an expensive suit and a silk tie — but in head-to-toe dominant gear. She looked like a pinup from the 1950s. She had on a tight, black dress and extremely high black heels. I had an urgent desire to kiss and lick those shoes. How strange. I’d never done anything like that before.

Joanna smirked at me, as if she could read all of my inner X-rated desires. Then she let me in on the rest of her plan. While I’d been gone, she had attached a hook to one of our walls. Now, she had me stand facing her and hold my wrists over my head. The hook worked perfectly to capture the chain. I was impressed with her planning, and so fucking turned on I couldn’t speak. I guessed my emotions were written on my face because Joanna said, “I know you’re excited, aren’t you?”

“Yes,” I whispered.

“Good,” she responded, before tickling my clit. Her knowledgeable fingers wandered up and down my split, eliciting a flood of juices from me. I found myself beating a rhythm with my ass against the wall, pushing forward to gain contact with her wriggling fingertips. Only when I was truly teetering on the brink of bliss did Joanna move aside. “Now prepare yourself for the main event,” she said.

While I watched, she lifted her dress. As soon as the hem met her waist, her secret sprang free. She was wearing one of her strap-ons. I pressed my thighs together in anticipation. Joanna came forward and teased my pussy with her synthetic cockhead. Then she speared me, as if I’d been hung on the wall by my wrists for her pleasure. As if I were a piece of art for her to use and abuse.

I closed my eyes and rolled with the sensations as they flooded through me. I loved the way my wrists felt in the chrome cuffs, adored the way Joanna’s body rutted against mine — her shimmery dress rustling and that powerful cock filling me. She had gotten me into such a state with her teasing emails and probing fingertips that my climax raced through me like wildfire. When I came, she seemed to know. She held still inside me for a beat, and then she rotated her hips so that her beautiful dick touched all my private places. I sagged with release, the cuffs barely keeping me upright. Joanna unfastened my bonds, then brought me to the bed and spread me out on the mattress.

This was where the rope came into play. She bound my wrists and my ankles, crisscrossing my body and making me feel as if I were in the center of a wonderful web. When I was entirely immobile, she explained the rest of her hedonistic plans. I definitely was going to be all tied up for the weekend.

That’s what she’d promised me and that’s what I was.

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