Date: Thu, 02 Aug 2007 08:02:35 -0700
From: cate murray <murraycate@fastmail.fm>
Subject: Her Beautiful Capture

F/F, D/S, Bondage by Cate  (murraycate@fastmail.fm)

If anyone identifies with this story, or the feelings I am trying to convey,
I wouldlove to hear from them.


Her Beautiful Capture

By Cate


Sharing a cheap apartment building with half a dozen other women, I had
long ago perfected the art of silent masturbation, but this time I almost cried
out in sheer erotic job.. I was lying on my face in my own bed, my wrists tied
behind me, my nipples and my bush painted with the lipstick she had specified,
and with her soiled panties clenched in my teeth.

This woman came to me when I was at a low ebb, recently divorced and just
beginning to realise that all the men I met now, at work or in singles bars or
clubs, who were around my own age, or older, and were either married or had
been married and had fucked up, fucked around or fucked off. Don't get me
wrong, I would have preferred, at least at first, if it had been a man,
who rang, but then I would have been more wary and it would have stuck to being a
telephone thing only. But then, why should I supply telephone sex to a
man? - I was hardly the type. Educated, a good job, pretty particular really.
So why was I doing this? Did I think it was safer with a woman? How wrong
can you be?

The first night she rang I thought it was a wrong number. She said she was
just making initial contact, intriguing me, but I was not even sure if she knew
me, then she rang off saying she would call again the next night at eleven.
I was waiting. She rang while I was in bed.
Said, "You're wearing panties, aren't you?"
I said: "What's that got to do with you?"
She chuckled.
"There are only two types of women. Those who wear their panties in bed
and those who don't. I know which type you are."
"Do I know you?" I asked.
"You've seen me, but you don't know me. You've looked through me once
or twice. Please don't hang up yet and don't ask me who I am. I can't
tell you just yet."
"Can you... can you prove you know me?"
"Well, you're about forty two, five three or four, dark with a snooty
expression and pale skin. You're pretty."
"Go on."
"You keep an apple and a spare pair of pantyhose in your desk. You've got
a small eczema spot on your lower back, just above your ass."
Her voice was intriguing, deep and warm with a slight British accent, yet
something else as well. Australian? But mostly just American. Was she
someone in the office? Could she have seen me at the changing room at
the gym?

"Have you got a hair-band, one of those elastic things?" came her educated
voice over the phone. Three minutes later I was lying on my back with my
wrists tied together behind my back underneath me. Well, just with the
elastic hairband, but she told me I couldn't release my wrists unless
she gave her permission. And I was beginning to believe her. And she was
telling me, through the phone propped against my pillow, what she would
like to do to me. She would sit high up on my chest, on my throat, make
me surrender to her, and then she would make me eat her pussy. She sounded
as though shed said this many times before, that it was pretty banal stuff
to her, but It gave me an extraordinary feeling. I could never have
imagined a woman could make me feel like this.And just over the phone!

Once, way back when I was happily married, and pregnant with my second
child I had got off on a powerfully submissive feeling when having sex with
my husband. We had gone back to bed one January Sunday afternoon, I
was six months gone. He made love to me, and then, an hour later he
mounted and entered me again. He had never before managed to come
twice in one session and, when I thought of my position, pregnant already
and him taking possession of my body twice, I orgasmed so powerfully that
I shocked myself, screamed out in the darkening bedroom so that my
husband was terrified I had started to lose my baby. Now I felt a similar
feeling mounting in my loins and belly, coursing through my womb.

"I'd have my knees on your wrists," the voice went on. "And my fists
gripped in your hair. I'd wipe that supercilious look off you face, it would be
deep between my legs and there's nothing you could do about it. You would
be mine, got it? Completely mine!"
I think I groaned then.
"You're not to come...not until I tell you," she said.
I whimpered. Said I wouldn't...I'd try not to.
"Okay," she said. "Here's what I want you to do tomorrow...."
" Please...." I said.
"There's a scent called Oriane des Laumes - I want you to buy some."
"Sure, okay."
"It's not easy to find. I'll give you the name again when your hands are free."
"Okay. "
"I warn you, it's very expensive."
"Please...please," I begged.
"Okay, free your wrists. Now turn on your face. And you can use your hands."
I thought I heard another voice then on the line, a complaining then pleading
voice, but I was almost at the point of orgasm, so quickly I could hardly
believe it.
"Did you come?" she asked.
I groaned.
"Me too," she said.
She gave me the name of that scent again while I scrabbled for a pen. Then
she hung up.

At first I thought I might just tell her I had bought the perfume. (The fact that
she had called it "scent" was not lost on me.) I had no particular intention at
the moment of taking this any farther than it had already gone, although I
adored the insinuating firmness of her voice in my ear and the sheer
voluptuousness of writhing in my bonds in the warmth of my bed, waiting for
her instructions, her permission for the long shuddering release of my
pent-up desire. But I decided I had better ask around, as my caller would
certainly question me. And did I really want this to stop? She was not the
sort of woman to take no for an answer or to have her requests lightly
ignored.. Not if I wanted her to go on calling me, which, on balance, I
definitely did. But that's where I had a slight problem. Nobody seemed to
have heard of the perfume, and I had to endure the supercilious smiles and
stares of the glossily painted young women at the beauty counters in all the
stores I tried. One girl, as glassily uninterested looking as most of the
others, did direct me to an older woman who was selling some half-obsolete
cosmetics for "the older woman" in a somber alcove where beauty gave
precedece to sanitary towels, depilatory cream and thrush ointment.

Here I found was a handsome, grey-haired woman in her sixties and she told me she
had had about three or four requests for this scent in the course of her career.
"I believe it is quite sought after," she said. "By the more discerning. And
I have been intrigued by the prettiness of the women who requested it. Just
like you, you are so pretty too," she said.
"Thank you," I said, embarrassed.
This was getting me exactly nowhere, I thought, but then she said:
"One lady did return and tell me she had managed to come across this
perfume."
From under the counter somewhere she took up a well-filled black leather
purse, and after a great deal of fumbling and apologetic tut-tutting, managed
to produce a small piece of card, which appeared to be torn from a
restaurant menu, with an address still faintly written on it in pencil.
"Take it," she said. "It is definitely a younger woman's scent."
Flattered, I put the card in my purse and hurried back to the office.

By this time, of course, I was watching to see if anyone was studying me
surreptitiously. I couldn't connect the voice with anyone in the office, but the
building must have had at least a hundred women in it on three floors and,
anyway, it could have been the girl in the sandwich bar or someone in the
place where I had breakfast most mornings. My caller had never described
herself, of course, and I had gradually evolved a sort of template into which
her face would fit, a vague picture of what I thoughtshe was like. Probably a
bit like me, dark almost certainly, though probably not staggeringly pretty - if
she was, would she have time or need for this sort of thing? I sometimes
looked up quickly from my work, or turned around in the corridor, to see if I
could catch someone watching me. I may have perhaps given the
impression I was behaving a little strangely. Who would know the reason?

My secretary, a pleasant little blonde girl called Julie was hardly likely to
risk playing games with me, she was too young and anyway her voice with
its hard country twang would be hard to disguise. Mrs Stronge, nominally
my boss, was happily married with grown up children and, though the voice
might fit, was an unlikely candidate. I did not work closely with anyone in the
office as I had two major projects, which were confidential. One was
assisting a consortium of businessmen to buy a derelict property from a
cancer charity which would not have sold if it knew the consortium was a
front for a tobacco giant. The other was a surreptitious downsizing plan I
had been asked to draw up, and I was well aware that at the end of the day
my own name could well appear as an addendum to the names I provided.

It was a tiny clothes boutique a couple of steps down from a secluded street
behind the restaurant and theatre district. There was a fine potted bay tree
outside and a couple of elegant dresses in the window, one in deep red and
the other beige with gunmetal grey stripes. And, yes, there were a few
bottles of perfume in the window, the more expensive of the well-known
makes. The young girl behind the counter, to whom I falteringly read out the
name of the fragrance, smiled and said "I shall have to ask Madame."
The bead curtains parted. Madame had once been very beautiful and had a
slight limp, but otherwise a proud erect carriage. She assisted herself with
a tall, brass capped stick, the sort of thing an old-style Russian ballet-
mistress might have used to correct a plie or a jete or to emphasise the
position of a lift. She was beautifully dressed in oiled silk and her face was
heavily made up, an extraordinary porcelain finish in pink, with startling red
lips and melancholy kohl-rimmed eyes. Yes, she looked as though she
must have been a former ballet-mistress or else the oldest and most hard-
working prostitute in the city. She reminded me of the ogres who sometimes
inhabited expensive little stores in Paris and hated selling anything to
foreigners. She spoke in strongly Russian-accented English.
"Have you three hundred dollars?"
I had thought of bringing cash, but didn't know how much. This shocked me,
but I was hardly going to walk out now, covered in embarrassment. Anyway,
my caller knew who I was, so I might as well use my credit card. The ballet-
mistress passed my card disdainfully to her assistant, then lifted a
beautifully wrapped package from a small drawer set in the counter.
"Fifteen millilitres," she said, with an icy smile.
"But that's tiny," I said.
Again the wintry smile.
"Madame will not be disappointed."

When I got back to my apartment I undressed, showered and put on a robe.
It was only a couple of hours until my call was due. I carefully unwrapped
the box, which was decorated in an elegant cream and black checkerboard
pattern with the name in a flourish of gold script on the top. The box was a
little bigger than I expected for a 15ml bottle of scent, and when I opened it I
found, wrapped around the perfume flagon, a tiny pair of cream silk panties.
At first I thought it was one of those gifts beloved of cosmetics and perfume
manufacturers (they could afford it at that price,but how would they know the
size?) Then I realised that these were used panties, with a faintly grubby
mark in the seat and as I raised them to my nostrils,a strong bitter-almond
scent of the urine and sexual secretions that stiffened the soft pad that went
between the legs. It was quite some time before I got around to testing the
perfume. I was no expert, but, from the little I dabbed on my throat and
between my breasts, the predominant notes were patchouli, ginger, mimosa
in a very deep musk. That night, as I lay bound, face down in my bed, I was
instructed that, in the morning, I must pack my own panties, the ones I was
wearing now that I would shortly be masturbating between my legs, into the
little box and bring them to the Russian woman in the boutique.
"Then I'll know you even in the dark," the voice said. "And you'll know me."

I was shamefaced handing the little package to the old Russian Madame in
the store but I summoned up the courage anyway.
"Can you tell me...? I mean, can you tell me who...?"
Again that wintry smile.
"Our clients are very discreet."

In the month that followed I was instructed to have my hair lightened. I didn't
like myself nearly blonde, at first anyway, and I was extremely self-
conscious, exciting a mixture of envy and contempt from the other women
in the office. My caller gave me the specific code number of the shade she
wanted and told me the hairdresser I was to go to. She had also asked me
my weight and told me to lose about five pounds, saying she preferred my
figure more boyish. Then, two weeks later, I was told an appointment had
been made to get my hair cut very short.
"Please," I said, "I've always had long hair."
"Your stylist will know exactly what is required"
"Please!" I said.
"Are your hands tied?"
Quite frequently she had the habit of ignoring me. Of not answering a
question. Like when I began asking her if we could meet. Between my legs
my swollen lips. The knowledge of her ownership growing firmer and firmer.
But there were no in-betweens with her. It was either yes or no.
"Your appointment is for Friday," she said.
"Yes...yes...yes," I moaned, thrashing helplessly in the bed.

I stuck it for another three weeks, then I was begging her to tell me her
intentions. Were we to meet? This was wonderful, absolutely wonderful,
but I wasn't sure I could go on without some flesh and blood contact.
"No, "she said. "It's too soon." Too soon? I was inwardly raging. She had
made me diet, have my hair tinted and cut, stay in to take her calls.
Stupidly I began to suggest, vaguely, how I might need social contact, a full
relationship, that I wasn't getting any younger. She cut off. She didn't call
again for a week. I was frantic for her voice in my ear. When she came
back, called me again, I was repentant, she forgiving. I was painted and
plucked and tied exactly as she wanted me. Delirious bondage sessions
followed over three nights. Then she told me she'd agree meet me.
"Be at your desk at nine o'clock tomorrow night. Wear your Oriane des
Laumes scent and those nice jade earrings of yours. And remember,
there's no going back from this."

Whatever second thoughts I had, and I had plenty, I was back, after a quick
dinner, at my desk around eight thirty the following evening. It was possible
to work and leave the office up to eleven o'clock, but not to get in after eight
without a special pass. A middle-aged man called Joe Carey was still
working at a desk on my floor, drinking whiskey out of a paper cup. He had
a failing marriage and tried never to go home. The building opposite was
completely glass-covered and I could see another office light reflected in it,
on the floor above my own. I took the elevator up and found a woman named
Christine Ellis I knew slightly working in her office with the door open. She
seemed surprised to see me. Christine was a tall, dark haired woman, quite
pretty in a severe sort of way, I knew she had a marriage behind her and her
sexual status was somewhat vague.
"Hello," she said, dumping some files back in the cabinet, "I'm just leaving -
can I help you?"
"No," I said, "I'm going soon myself. See you soon."
Back at my desk I saw the light from her office still reflected across the
street. On impulse I picked up the phone, wondering what her voice was
like over the phone. There was no answer, and, when I glanced across the
street again the reflected light was no longer there. I expected someone,
maybe Christine, to walk into my office at any moment. The thought it could
be Christine quite excited me, but I wasn't at all sure of the voice. Then my
phone rang. It was my caller. She gave me instructions. I hesitated. Then
I said :" Okay, I'll do it."

Was I crazy, what I had agreed to do?. I was a timid person in some ways,
but I had an exhibitionistic streak and I was sometimes sexually daring.
When Bob and I were first married we were buying a house built along with
four others on an expensive site between a golf-course and a wood.
During the first hot Summer Bob and I used to make love in the back garden,
then, even more daring, in the wood. Then one night, just as Bob had
emptied himself in me, we were hit by the light of a torch from one of the
houses and, a few moments later, we were on the run, stark naked, from
our neighbours, plunging deeper and deeper into the woods. Then I turned
off the path and hid in the bushes, while Bob plunged noisily on. Three men
rushed past, breathing heavily, along the path, lights from their torches
dancing in the trees. I made my way back to the house, threw on a dress
and got the car out. I drove around to the other side of the woods, just in
time to pick Bob up.As I started to drive home, old McCulla, a retired
jeweller, walked into the road and flagged me down importantly with his
torch. I shouted at him we had seen the revellers too and were trying to cut
them off.
"Where's Bob?" McCulla asked suspiciously.
Two other grizzled neighbours were panting up the bank. I had Bob covered
with a rug on the floor in the back.
"Bob's followed them," I shrieked, "He saw their asses in his flashlight!"
"Perverts," McCulla whooped and the three of them headed off into the woods
again.
Tonight I again felt that wonderful adrenaline surge.

Of course I had known I was taking a chance when I undressed. I could
have been set up for a rape, but I knew I wouldn't back out now. I had only
barely got my clothes off, dropping my bra and panties on top of my suit on
the toilet cover , in complete darkness as I had been instructed, when I
heard the outer door click and then I was joined in the cubicle.

She had come for me at last.

She stood naked behind me, her bare breasts pressed against my back, her
thighs cupping my buttocks and I felt relief, after a brief moment of panic,
that it definitely was a "she". The faint scent of Oriane des Laumes was
unmistakable. She ran her hands up my midriff and cupped my breasts,
playing gently with the nipples. I felt the hair raise on the nape of my neck
as the hands slowly moved down over my body again, cupping my navel,
then caressing the fronts of my upper thighs, carefully avoiding my crotch at
first, although brushing lightly against my pubic hair as they passed down.
Then I was held gently about the waist with one arm, the hand caressing
my navel again, while the other hand went behind me. I could feel the back
of her hand against my ass and I knew shewas fingering herself. Then a
finger was held under my nose, placed on my lips. I could smell her, then I
sucked, tasted her juices. A stronger aroma of the faint, exciting scent I had
inhaled from her panties.

There was no doubt whatever it was my lover.

The desire to turn around and into her arms, face to face, was almost
ungovernable. She was biting lightly into the place where my neck met my
shoulder. She was still playing with me, teasing me, Then her hand took
possession of my sex, and she very gently made me ride her finger, her
mouth relaxed and wet on my neck, a faint, possessive growl coming from
her throat. I tried to stifle a groan.Then her hand was removed and she took
both my wrists gently, moving my hands back between us , and just as I
thought I was being invited to touch her sex, my wrists were crossed behind
me, I felt a loop being slipped over them.

My wrists were tied behind my back and secured to one of the supports of
the cubicle partition, or rather wound around it several times and tied,
presumably, to another support in the next cubicle so that I couldn't reach it
to try to untie the knots. I was still in complete darkness. I was crying and
I was terrified. Although I was a relatively anonymous employee so far as
most people in the office were concerned, I would certainly have had
potential enemies,but who would want to punish me as cruelly as this?

She had left, refusing to speak and I knew she had removed my clothes,
because I felt the rough touch of my suit against my back as she squeezed
past me. An hour passed, my hands going more and more numb from the
bindings on my wrists. Realising what a wild chance I had taken, I thought
about that wild night in the woods with Bob when we were chased by those
three old perverts and how bitterly this night had turned out by comparison.
Occasionally I heard sounds far off, muted, like in any building late at night.
Then, incredibly, I thought I heard a door bang, something rattling in the
corridor.

The door of the ladies' room was bumped open and the light went on. Two
startled looking Chinese women stood there with a large aluminium trolley
carrying paper tissues, cleaning materials and towels. They both wore white
coats and white cleaners' caps and released a torrent of excited Cantonese
at the sight of a naked woman with her hands tied behind her, kneeling on
the damp floor of the toilet stall. I was sure they would call security and, of
course, I had no means of identification.
"Please," I begged. "Speak English? English?"
"What you do here?" the older one, in heavy glasses, demanded.
I realised I hadn't the faintest idea how I was going to explain my situation,
yet I had to do it, either to a woman who spoke hardly any English, or to
someone in security. I took the only way out I could think of and burst into
bitter tears. I knew I had very little chance of preventing this matter going
much further but in a way I was relieved. If I had to be seen naked and
humiliated, it was preferable this way than being found by one of my
colleagues slipping in for an early morning pee.

The older woman then started making soothing, cooing noises and began
to untie my wrists, releasing another burst of Cantonese at her companion
who took off the white coat she was wearing over her sweater and jeans.
Then, after helping me on with the coat, with a final burst of instructions to
her assistant the older cleaner led me up to the ground floor and out to her
van in the covered carpark. I had no keys to get into my apartment and I
didn't know if I dared walk in looking the way I was with just a flimsy cotton
coat, no shoes and ruined makeup. The Chinese woman drove rapidly when
we reached the quieter streets. After about fifteen minutes we went up a
ramp, then, sickeningly down again and we were in an underground carpark
under an apartment block.

I was expecting a squalid room somewhere, but her apartment was small
but well furnished in that rather cold Oriental style. She let me shower and
gave me a robe and a strong dry martini. Then she went to shower herself.
I was beginning to unwind a little, though still cold and trembling with
shock. Then the phone beside me rang. After it had rung about six times
she called from the bedroom,
"Answer please"
I picked up the phone.
"Get on the bed." It was my lover's voice.
"Where the hell have you...?" I began.
"Look in the bag on the table near the door," she said.
I reached for the cloth laundry bag the Chinese woman had brought in from
the van. In it were my underwear, my suit, pantyhose and shoes.
"I...I don't understand," I said into the phone.
"Get on the bed, bitch."she said.
Then for the first time I heard her giggle.

She was in the doorway, her white body stark naked. Like most Chinese
women her calves were almost too slender, but she had beautiful meaty
thighs, a narrow waist and chubby, provocative breasts. Without the heavy
spectacles her face was handsome, though hardly beautiful and her hair
hung down almost to her waist above her high and very prominent ass.
She had a beautifully rounded belly with a sweet little cup around the nave
l and, below, her pubic hair was coarse and luxuriant. She pushed me down
on the bed and then climbed up after me and straddled me. Again I caught
the scent of Oriane des Laumes.
"My lovely bitch," she said. "The bitch who ignored me when I smiled at
her."
"Please." I said.
"The bitch who didn't even see me."
There were straps and leather cuffs attached to the rails atthe top of the bed
and she expertly cinched both my wrists before leaning back to survey her
handiwork.
"I must tell you a little about myself," she said.
"Yes? Please?" I said.
"Okay. Born in Hong Kong. I came to this country with Father who was
killed in a gang war. Married, to a much older man. Inherited his property.
Started a cleaning business."
"You own this apartment?" I asked.
"I own the building," she said. "Two others as well."
"Hell," I said, "you gave me one fright."
"Later," she said, "you will eat my pussy? Right?"
I nodded.
"You will beg to be allowed to eat my pussy?"
I nodded again
"Say it, please"
"I... I will beg to be allowed eat your..p...pussy," I stammered.
She reached down and began to knead my breasts.
"You are mine now," she said. "Okay?"
"Yes," I said.
"Say it, please!"
"I am yours...now. I am yours," I said, feeling a sudden surge of desire in
my womb and between my legs, in my breasts under her insistent kneading.
"You are my beautiful capture," she said.
I nodded dumbly.
"Your English is good," I said.
"Sorry, my English is perfect. We speak mostly English in Hong Kong."
"I know, I'm sorry," I said, wincing at the quick touch of asperity in her
voice. I was in no doubt now that my owner was a very powerful lady.

She sighed and got off me. Then she stood beside the bed and took my
left leg and raised it up, attaching it with another strap on the top right-hand
bedpost. Then she went around and cinched my right leg to the other
bedpost, so that I was jack-knifed with everything on display. She fondled
my ass for a few minutes in a proprietorial sort of way, then inserted her
thumb in my pussy and at the same time seared a long fingernail into my
asshole, pressing firmly until she gained entry. I had never felt so totally at
someone else's mercy in my life and she knew it. She smiled down at me.
When she released me she went to a chest of drawers and took something
out. I thought it was a vibrator, but she inserted a needle into it.
"I forgot to tell you my name," she said. "It is Amy Wong Howe. I am now
going to tattoo my name on your ass as a symbol of my ownership."
This time she did not ask me if I agreed - it was taken for granted.
"Amy Wong Howe - That is eleven letters, so you will know how I am
getting on," she said, with a tiny laugh.
She pressed a button and the needle whined into life.

It was painful, but bearable, and she talked as she carefully delineated the
letters of her name with the ink-filled needle, her voice pleasant and
cultivated above the insistent whine of the electric motor.
"I have a large contract, several hundred buildings," she said. "About once,
maybe twice a year I try to visit each, as an ordinary cleaner. That way I see
much that is left undone. That is how I saw you, of course. I decided to
have you."
She was probably about ten years older than me, in her fifties somewhere
and her dark eyes were extremely beautiful, probably the most exquisitely
shaped eyes I had ever seen with a warm depth to their darkness.
"Now I have got you. Right?" she said.
"Right,".
"I am much too busy to go to singles bar, gay places," she said. "This might
have seemed a lot of work to get a girl, but look at all the time I would spend
chatting up people only to find we were unsuited. All the wasted nights."
"You have a point" I said, feeling another surge of desire as I remembered
our phone conversations, feeling a delicious rush of anticipation at what this
woman was going to do to me.
"Instead a few minutes on the phone and, if all goes well, fifteen minutes a
night until it is time to meet. Easy?"

I knew then that she had done this before. How many times? I
remembered when she was talking to me on the telephone I had heard, a
couple of times, another voice, someone weeping. And I knew this woman
would have exactly what she wanted and that some day I would very likely
be lying beside her in bed, possibly bound and helpless, and I would hear
her on the telephone, directing some other girl to get her hair dyed and cut
and to wear Oriane des Laumes. I would know they were lovers and that
they were masturbating together. I couldn't bear it and put the thought from
my mind.

But now she had finished putting her mark of ownershipon my tender ass.
 She had released my ankles from their bonds on the bedposts. She was sitting
astride my throat and my nostrils were filled with her powerful odour of
arousal. I was begging, begging... I was almost delirious with desire when
she finally lowered the centre of her womanhood to my beseeching lips.


The End.