One Man's Treasure
– Part One
– Part One
I thought it would be fun to release this back history story. This is Max's first real kinky experience long before Show Me, Sir ever took place. Hopefully, it can give you a little perspective on how she became who she is. Please, enjoy.
Rob Temple stared at Max Wells as she fingered the ties and handkerchiefs laid out on his bed. Just a sophomore in college, Max had more self-possessed confidence than he—even as her algebra TA—could ever claim. She was a force. As an English major, math should have been, if not a struggle, at least an unnatural state for her. But, like everything in her life, Max took one look at that obstacle and conquered it.
Made it her bitch, really.
It was what had drawn him to her instantly. That surety. That cocky swagger. It looked damned fine on a woman. Especially one as curvy and lush as Max.
He let his gaze travel every peak and valley of her body as she paced his tiny, rather bare and bland efficiency apartment bedroom, looking as out of place as a piece of fine art in...well, a rather bare and bland efficiency apartment in the cheap housing side of campus.
A fiery redhead to the core, she was a fantasy. Practically a fetish come to life. Ample breasts hidden beneath a thin, wash-worn, green tank top. Comfy sleep shorts hugged weighty hips. A fall of autumn-colored hair spilled over her milk-pale, smooth back. While built strong and sturdy—he never had to worry about breaking or hurting her—she was still so soft, a sweet handful everywhere.
And on top of all that, woman had a mouth. Sometimes sharp and scathing, ready for a debate or a dressing down—he’d seen her make tenured professors break out in a cold, yet excited sweat. In a kiss, those lips could devour; hungry and hot, they could ignite a response inside that he’d never experienced with another woman. And just the memory of her mouth going down on him, wrapped so wet and tight around his dick, brought a sweeping grin to his face and made his head a little dizzy.
For a man like him, yes, Max Wells was a dream.
“You want me to,” she hedged as she picked up a powder blue satin tie, “do what to you with these?”
She could do this.
She was made to do this.
Spunky, take-charge, take-no-crap Max was perfect for this. Of all the girls and women he’d known, she was the first and the only one Rob had ever even considered confiding this deep, secret desire to.
Because she could do this.
She could be this, for him.
She was his every dream realized.
He knew it.
He watched her bite her lip as she wrapped the long length of smooth, shiny, slightly stiff cloth around her hand. His cock twitched as she gave the material a quick tug, testing its strength.
It was happening. He could hardly believe it. He’d been imagining this scene a thousand times in the past three years. Ever since he’d seen his first quick peek in the dorm computer lab—just a pre-edited snip of some first-year film student’s trying to be avant-God-knows-what art project. But even that—just some panting, writhing, starving ex-cheerleader who smiled and hammed too much to the camera trussed up to the rarely used netball field fence—had changed him. Had sunk inside him and stayed.
God, he got hard just thinking about it and all the other videos and pictures he’d found since then.
But nothing compared to the thought of Max. Doing the same to him.
“Tie me up,” he said, tasting—testing—the words on his tongue. He smiled a bit inside. It got a little easier to say it every time. A little less awkward. A little less strange. He’d been choking on these words, swallowing and stuffing them down, for three years, two girlfriends, and three partners now. He’d waited three months before even broaching the topic with Max. It was kind of freeing to say it aloud now. Less alone. More alive. “I want you to tie me up.”
“Like Story of O, Anaïs Nin bondage stuff?” she asked, arching a disbelieving eyebrow at him.
He shrugged—she was the English lit major, not him—and nodded. Sure, if it gave her a reference point, maybe it’d make things easier. For them both.
He squirmed a bit, rolling his tense shoulders—and a tight, inner unease—back a bit. “If you want,” he added hastily, though his gut clenched at the out he was giving her. He shrugged again, as if it were nothing—just some passing fancy. “I just thought it could be—I mean, it might be—you know, fun. To try. Something different.”
She whistled low. “Definitely different,” she said as she gave the tie another tug.
Oh God, she was going to say no. She was going to leave—sneer and storm out—and he’d never see her again. In class, she’d stare and point and whisper to all the other girls about that pervy TA. He’d get reported. For having a sexual relationship with a student. A deviant, sexual relationship with a student. Oh God.
“What?” he asked her, shaken from his thoughts to blink blankly at her.
“Sure,” she repeated with a shrug. “Why not? I’m game for whatever, I guess.”
His heart stopped a beat for a second, shock and excitement muddling his mind for a moment. He cocked his head. “Are you sure?” He needed to be certain that she wanted this too.
“Sure,” she said again as she touched the other ties and things spread out in perfect, parallel lines on his bedspread. “Though you should know,” she said with a perplexed smirk, “I have no idea what I’m doing here.”
He wasn’t sure he did either. He’d hoped that she’d say yes. Had wished and dreamed and fantasized about her saying yes.
But he hadn’t actually expected her to.
His mind stalled as he tried to recall this moment in the many pornos he’d watched. That awkward moment while you figured out what to do. How to proceed. Like two virgins fumbling around for that first, tentative move. He frowned, trying to recall.
“So do I tie you up to something,” she asked, gesturing to the bed and all the cloth currently taking up valuable real estate, “or just.” She waved her hands in his general direction. “Up.”
Yeah, that would have been something to think about.
He’d always imagined, in his head—where anything was possible—elaborate scenes with cages and crosses and frames. He’d imagined impossible suspensions. And beautifully bound bodies bent and bowed in perfect contortions.
Hell, he didn’t even own a bed frame.
“The chair!” he said, sitting up straighter. “In the living room.” A huge, limed oak, French monstrosity that had been abandoned on the side of the street one trash day. It’d been a bitch dragging it back to his place, even with help from his friends. Thing was ugly as sin, had smelled like old cat, and weighed a ton. It’d taken three of them just to maneuver it back to his apartment.
It was perfect.
He grabbed a handful of formal wear and led Max back to his living room. He kicked the turned-over crates he used for a coffee table aside, sliding them across the thick, scratchy carpet. Carefully, he laid out the ties, draping them in neat rows according to length and width over the books and papers strewn over the cheap wood. He sat back on his haunches and stared at the quick, makeshift playspace he’d created with a satisfied smile.
He turned back to Max who just looked quizzically at him. “So you want to be tied up to the chair?” she asked. “Like, in the chair or just to it?”
Hmmm. He looked at the old, worn upholstery of the chair. The high U-shaped back. There wasn’t really anything to attach to, to wrap around or tie to. He liked the weight of the piece but, yes, there was a strategy to this that he had yet to quite work out.
The legs! “It has these thick, clawed feet,” he said, lifting the chair’s skirt. “You could tie my wrists to it.” That would work. He tried to lift the chair. It rocked, but didn’t budge an inch. Yes, that would work.
Max coughed—a bemused look on her freckled face—as she tucked a strand of her red hair back behind her ear. “Okay,” she settled on.
He sat down on the floor, settling himself at the foot of the chair. He placed each wrist at the chair’s oak legs. It was a little short; he’d have to keep his elbows bent, but it worked. “Okay,” he said, “ready?”
He watched her bite her lip as she reached for the nearest tie—paisley, thin, and short, it was a hand-me-down from his brother who’d gotten it from their father who swore it was lucky. Maybe it was.
She knelt down next to him. She reached for his wrist. Stopped. Pulling back, unsure, she cringed.
Come on. He held perfectly still, so afraid that any slight movement might scare her off. Come on, Max. He begged her silently, staring at the crown of her bent head—pleading, willing her to continue. To not stop now.
The moment her cool fingers touched his heated flesh, he felt his whole body jerk as the tension inside him cracked. Yes. She peeked up at him, her hand still wrapped around his wrist. His throat was too dry, too tense and choked, to speak, so he just nodded, encouraging her with his eyes and his body, that was hers to do what she would.
She swallowed hard and wrapped the paisley patterned polyester around his wrist once before then winding it around the chair’s hard, wooden leg. He loved the way the looped fabric looked against his skin, the stained, tea-colored tie transformed with every twist and knot. Taking this everyday, second-hand cast-off and making it special. It was like her hands—the act of her hands binding him—imbued that bit of nothing with power. With magic.
Max sat back after pulling the tie tight, a satisfied look on her face. He pulled his wrist, testing it. It tugged taut. He wasn’t using all his strength, he knew that. But, still, there was something about it that made him feel weak.
No, not weak, per se. More as if he were at will of something bigger. Something larger and more powerful than he was.
Surrender. In its truest, purest sense.
He pulled again, harder this time, as Max reached for another tie, that feeling of being selfless, will-less—free—growing inside. He closed his eyes as he felt Max bind his other wrist.
In his mind, he imagined he were becoming an extension of the chair, flesh becoming wood. He imagined the cells of his skin weaving itself into the paisley pattern of the tie. He imagined, with her every touch, he were becoming part of Max. It was transmutative. As if, in the act of giving away his freedom, he were sharing in its power.
He breathed deep as he opened his eyes, feeling the heat and pulse of his body as he gazed at Max’s bent-over form.
God, he wanted her. Needed her. He’d never needed something—anything—so much as he did right now.
“Take off your top,” he growled, his voice ragged as his back arched toward her even as his arms stayed rigidly still against the chair’s legs.
She pulled the tie tight, making him hiss at the thin cloth’s bite. “You’re not really in a position to be making demands,” she said blandly, “are you?”
He smiled. There was the Max he knew. “Do it anyway,” he said, tempering his voice to almost a cajole. “Please.”
She tossed her hair to one side as she moved to stand up. For such a small woman, she looked so tall towering over him with her fists planted on her wide, full hips. “It smacks as unfair for me to take off my clothes when you’re still fully dressed,” she pointed out. “If you get to keep your top, why should I take off mine?”
He grinned. Okay. He could work with that. “So take it off,” he said with a shrug.
She narrowed her gaze at him. “I just tied you up,” she said, “and you want me to let you go now?”
Hell no. He tipped his head, pointing his chin toward the crates. “There should be a pair of scissors on there somewhere,” he said.
A nervous laugh bubbled out as Max’s eyes widened. “You want me to,” she asked, shocked, “cut you out of your clothes.”
“If it gets you naked too,” he reasoned, “yeah.” Seeing Max Wells naked was well worth the price of a cheap T-shirt. Money was tight, sure, but the way Rob saw it he was getting the much better deal.
Max chuckled again, her eyes lighting up with amusement. “All right,” she said as she turned to grab the scissors. With her feet planted wide in front of him, her cotton-covered hips waggling cheekily, she snapped the scissors in front of his face with glee. Grinning wide, she taunted, “You sure about this?”
Read Part Two Here