A mother enslaved

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Lydia Framington was a good woman. She had never, ever let a man touch her except her husband. And after Greig had died, she had been very, very careful not to put herself in any situation where she might succumb to sex. Why she had started having these feelings of wanting to be dominated Lydia didn't know.

But now she lay here roped to the headboard of the bed, the line looped around her wrists and cinched so hard her fingers were starting to turn bluish white. She tried twisting her wrists a little and winced in pain, her full lips turning down slightly at the edges.

At least, she thought, he had left on her bra and panties. There was some bit of modesty left to her. She rubbed her thighs together, feeling the slightly sexy rub of her cunt-lips against one another while her ass-cheeks slid over the bare mattress.

It had all been so strange, so bizarre. That ad in the paper, her voice cracking when she answered it, the man's cruel laugh as she entered his home clutching her purse as if her life were contained in it. And now… and now she was half-naked, her arms stretched high behind her head, her wrists bound to the wooden turrets of his bed. Lydia's eyes scanned the area as she lay there and waited for the man to come back.

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