You remember first meeting this man and his wife. He is a past acquaintance of your boyfriend, someone out of contact for many a year. It was some inexplicable coincidence that they met again, and you remember some vague explanation about changes at work that brought the two men together again.
The four of you had gone out together a few times, to a wine bar, an up-market restaurant, a jazz club. The man’s wife is slender and artificially blonde and undoubtedly beautiful, a woman who evidently puts considerable effort into her appearance and enjoys, even revels, in the apparently effortless ability to turn the heads of every man in the room. When the men’s attention was elsewhere, you and the wife had discussed everything: workouts and Pilates, clothes and makeup, and the problems and peccadilloes of men, past and present. She is good company, the wife, and you can see the boyfriend politely not expressing an interest in her, not turning his head when she enters the room - unlike every other male in the place.
It was at the jazz club that you finally become aware of the man's interest in you. It was a whispered conversation outside the cloakrooms, a chance encounter in the corridor; you returning from the ladies and him apparently on his way to the gents. Somehow the talk turns to sex, and he explains without embarrassment his desire to control, to dominate, in sexual relations, to force himself upon the object of his desire.
As you stood close, face to face, you suddenly became aware of his proximity, his heat. You wanted so much to reach out and touch him then, nerving yourself, you found yourself actually doing it. And, amazingly, your questing hand was intercepted by his.
"Not here," he said, "Not now. But if you really want to bend yourself to my pleasure, come here, tomorrow evening. I will wait for you."
He slipped a printed card into your hand, then pressed past you down the corridor.
As you were directed, you stand on the mat. The man stands next to you and gently asks you to face the mirror. He has stripped off his tee-shirt. This close, and out of your heels, you realize that he is bigger, more muscular than you thought, and much stronger than you, no doubt as the result of regular use of the weights and machines you can see dotted about. If he wanted, he could force you, make you do anything he wanted. You want him to try. You want him to touch you.
In front of the mirror stands a tool box, new-looking in brightly polished metal. On top of the toolbox is a blindfold in dark fabric.
The man catches and holds your glance. You have good eyes, large and bright, your best feature - so you have always thought - and you have applied a lot of mascara this evening. You realize you are staring, wondering what is going to happen.
The man studies you and your reflection in the mirror. You follow his eyes, trying to see yourself as he sees you. You have good legs - still good legs, taut thighs and muscular calves, toned by the runs you take twice a week. Your waist is perhaps not a narrow as it once was, but still shapely enough to emphasize the curves of your butt. He makes you hold your hands above your head for a few moments and watches the movement of your breasts, a little small perhaps, but still shapely and firm enough that you do not always have to wear a bra. Your nipples harden under his gaze.
You realize he is inspecting you, as if you were a purchase he intended to make or a horse he might buy. You are glad you put such care into shaving your legs and armpits, and your pussy. He tells you to spread you legs slightly and bend forward. If you still had long hair, it would have fallen over your face; the boyish crop you affect these days barely moves, but at least it shows off your slender neck.
Finally, the man directs you to stand up straight.
"Now," he says softly, still not touching you, "I'm going to blindfold you. If you keep still, I'll let you watch later."
You nod. He sweeps up the blindfold and presses it to your eyes. The world goes black. You can feel the strap behind your head. Something is placed around your wrist, a wide band that fits tightly but not painfully so. Another one is placed around your other wrist. A third band encircles your neck, a bulge - perhaps a buckle - presses against your throat.
"Kneel," comes his voice.
You do so. You expect his hand to guide you to the mat, but the touch you so desperately crave never seems to come. You realize that you are naked and blindfold, and this man has not actually touched your skin, not once. You desperately want him to.
Now on your knees, another strap is placed around one ankle. Once it is fastened, a force - still not the touch of his hand - presses the bound ankle away from the other. The other ankle is bound; now your legs are separated - as you will shortly discover - forcibly.
You gasp as something cold - it feels like metal - is suddenly pressed against the small of your back, running down the cleft in your ass cheeks. There is a click behind your head and another by your feet. There is a chink of metal at your throat, and another metallic chill brushes your nipples almost simultaneously. There are more clicks at your wrists.