All Things Considered

“‘Twas the night before Christmas
And all through the house,
Not a creature was stirring…”

As you can probably tell, not a whole lot was going on!

So yeah, it’s not exactly the Little House on the
Prairie but our home sitting squarely on the Nebraskan
high plains in a small mid-western township, is if
nothing – congenial living. OK, so it was constructed in
1926. Interesting year that. Calvin Coolidge was in the
White House, Eddie Cantor was running hot with “Bye Bye
Blackbird,” A.A. Milne had just published Winnie-the-
Pooh,” while the average US home would set you back
around $6,800 and you could pick up a used Chrysler
roadster for seventy-five bucks. Fidel Castro and Chuck
Berry were born that year too – just in case you have an
interest in such trivia.

But to get back to what I was saying ‘ it really was
Christmas Eve. Now, for those readers who have kept a
handle on things, you will be aware that I recently re-
married a very young American girl and that accordingly,
I shifted base from Australia to the tumbleweed-strewn
heart of America. Geographically we are as close to the
center of Northern USA as makes no difference.

Old enough to be Katie’s grandfather, I suppose we are
the ultimate odd-couple. Lest anyone point the finger in
my direction however, allow me to make a few
observations. I love my PSG dearly (little in-house joke
there for the few of you able to make the connection).
Together, we view our life on a remarkably even keel. A
life I may add that is not governed by social dictate or
a need to have been born in “acceptably close” time-
frames. She keeps me young, I chip-in with the recalled
images and experiences of having lived through the
fifties, sixties, seventies and eighties…earlier, if
the truth be known – though not quite, as a few have
cruelly suggested, back to the days of Caesar Augustus.

Now I realize that most of you have come here to read a
sex story and indeed sex is a shared activity
perpetuated even in this somewhat high-altitude
household. What else would you logically expect? Married
to a very attractive young girl many years my junior,
neither “Farmville” or “Twitter” were ever likely to
satisfy the libido. All of which brings us back to
Christmas Eve 2021.

“I’ve had a fantasy,” she giggled, hunched-up against
the pillows that night ‘ presumably having stacked up
all my presents under the tree ‘ I hadn’t checked yet.

“Yeah?” I replied, “You want to see me wash-up, dressed
like Lady Gaga?”

“Interesting thought,” she said, “But no, I, err… I
want you to tie me up!

I looked at her for a moment. She didn’t appear to be
under the influence of any illegal substance. This was a
new route entirely she was contemplating.

“C’mon,” I muttered, “I left my rope on the horse out
back and it’s freezing tonight.”

“I’m serious,” she giggled afresh then, reaching down
beneath her side of the bed, withdrew two scarves of
indeterminate length, dropping them delicately on the
coverlet in front of me.

I began to panic. “What the Hell?” I was thinking, “I’ve
married a street whore.” The concept gained appeal even
as I pondered it.

“So…you want I should tie you up.” I countered. Where?
To the bed? To the cat?

She indicated the bed-head behind her.

“Guess we’d better get you looking the part then,” I
sniggered, tugging her nightdress up over her knees
until those sexy little green panties of her were
clearly visible. She looked shocked but made no attempt
to address the situation either by tugging the silky
material back down or by closing up her legs totally.
After all if one is wishing to be tied up and brutally
raped, there isn’t much point is there?

Having the foresight to dislodge first the shoulders of
her nightdress that added a much needed wanton, if not
abused look to her predicament, especially given the
girl’s fully bra-less condition, I aligned her right arm
with the bed-head and using one of the scarves, tied the
wrist securely to the protruding wooden carving.

Standing back to look at my handiwork, I had to admit to
a certain racy thrill inherent in the situation. She
looked so damned vulnerable! ‘Twas the work of a few
seconds to truss up her left arm in a similar fashion.
Andromeda herself could have looked no more helpless,
shackled to that rock-face, awaiting the Kraken’s
unwelcome attentions.

Now Katie’s breasts are not what the drooling pervert
might call voluminous but rather, sedate, well-rounded
attributes that any girl would be proud to possess.
Presented thus however, forcibly more pronounced by
virtue of her restraints and having in mind also their
un-encased reality, courtesy of the sheer material with
which female night-attire is manufactured, the reader
can visualize I am sure, her simmering aspect.

Gently caressing her breasts beneath their rayon
protector, one could scarcely fail to notice both
nipples’ erect condition. Katie’s eyes were wide-open,
her breath coming in short snatches. She looked down
semi-shocked as I continued to manipulate her freely.
This had definitely been a good idea I was thinking.

Not that my wife is a slavish devotee of the “Twilight”
ethos as such, she simply has more it seems, than a
passing interest in vampirism. To put it in layman’s
terms, she has a thing about having her neck
meaningfully fanged. Leaning across therefore, I pushed
her head to one side and gently clamped my teeth upon
the area below her right ear ‘ at the exact spot where
neck and shoulder are conjoined.

I can’t say that she moaned as such but certainly I had
injected sufficient kink-factor to procure a reaction.
Her respiration noticeably increased and the smile was
pure Lucy Van Helsing.

Kneeling beside Katie now, I allowed my left hand to
infiltrate the upper part of her nightdress, making the
gentle descent inside, where-in either a right or left
deviation from her cleavage handed the intruder an array
of illicit curves and possibilities. I heard a gasp but
whether it was Katie’s or my own, I couldn’t rightly
nominate.

My right hand that for a few moments earlier had rested
on her exposed knee, I now slipped between her legs,
making deliberately slow progress along the inside of
her thigh. The gasp this time was definitely hers. There
is something so damned sexy about inching your way north
to a woman’s panties that when they happen to belong to
the girl you married, the arousal factor accelerates
significantly.

I’m sure that studying a new species of ant within the
crater of an active volcano would be marginally warm.
Our interaction on that bed that night exhibited a
similar thermal output. At the point I reached her
knickers (a small concession there for our European
readers), Katie began squirming most realistically. She
commenced shaking her head in true abused-heroine
fashion while her legs thrashed about as if to deter the
inbound predator. One can only imagine the
disappointment on site, had she been successful.

Little sounds were now emanating from her mouth which of
course no practiced rapist could tolerate. Thus seizing
a hold of the elastic waistband, I tugged her panties
down her legs and pulling them clear of her feet, gagged
her swiftly with the skimpy material. This time she did
look horrified. I figured it was just as well I had
never shown her my International rap-sheet.

Resuming my task I began to gently massage her outer
vaginal area, my fingers circling ever nearer that
central ingress that despite her wriggling about, acted
involuntarily as a white-hot homing beacon. Descending
further, I slipped a finger between her labia and
discovered a world of lubricated delights. Her eyes
closed momentarily and I commenced on a program of
clitoral stimulation that was only ever going to have
the one conclusion… not that long in coming either ‘
as it were.

I kissed her lovingly on the cheek, realizing
concurrently that a finger alone was never likely to
adequately seal the evening’s festivities. Removing the
gag, I positioned myself between her legs and withdrew
that which was far better equipped to play Romeo to
Katie’s gaping yet defenseless Juliet. Her eyes glazed
slightly as I entered her.

I couldn’t tell whether she was role-playing the abused
girl of her fantasies or simply lost in her raptures. I
was partly in that same Twilight Zone myself. During
this formative stage of the union, I continued to ply my
digital trade so far as her breasts were concerned. The
kissing was a shared romantic plus it should be
mentioned.

If you have never had the opportunity of full-on
intercourse with a helplessly restrained young female,
then your life is that much the poorer for it. Maybe
it’s a throw-back to the Neanderthal era, perhaps some
residual if not inherited memory of our ancestors, when
our Great, Great, Great, Great, etc, Grandmother was
dragged by the hair to the nearest cave and given the
once over by Grandpa. Who knows? Maybe he was dragged
there after Mehetabel came on heat unexpectedly.

I digress once more. Taking the liberty now of exposing
her breasts whilst I continued thrusting (at first)
gently into her, the entire aspect of our love-making
took on a wholly surreal aura. The undeniably submissive
nature that is presented by such f****d restraint is
visually multiplied by the girl’s topless plight and by
reason of her widespread legs, an inability to avoid her
sexual fate.

Small beads of sweat formed just below her hairline as
our coupling took on a rather more committed path.
Between kissing her and nuzzling those wonderful young
breasts I was reminded of just how little a man really
loses over the years when it comes to the core matrix of
life locked-up in those wonderfully enduring strands of
DNA. This is not to say that he is the CEO of any sexual
encounter ‘ far from it.

The fact is, his contribution in both materials and
work-done is minimal if the truth be known. In our case
that night however, I can tell you without a word of a
lie, what came to pass in that room was nothing less
than a shared ecstasy.

As I passed to her safekeeping my procreative front
line, she pulled her face away from me slightly and
smiled rather prettily.

“You love me don’t you?” It came across as half
statement, half question.

“Now don’t start jumping to conclusions wench,” I
muttered, trying to slip one hand down her cleavage
again as I uttered the words.

She pulled my hand out swiftly. “Be serious,” she said.
“You do love me right??”

I saw immediately the foolishness of my behavior and
held her to me.

“With all my heart sweetheart,” I assured her. “You know
me….if I see an opportunity to be flippant, I kinda
slip… badly… Forgive me.”

It was the way she forgave me that I recall so well.
With a noticeable wriggle of those California-designed
hips, she thrust her shoulders forward thus accentuating
her partial nudity, then, spreading her legs to what any
onlooker would describe as an “illegal” angle, smiled
invitingly..

This time it was r**e. Later, as I collapsed on my side
of the bed, I wondered whether I should in fact have her
charged. I guess she was lucky it was just too cold a
night to amble down to the Court House and make a
statement. Besides, we know the Sheriff well, ain’t
hardly likely he’d believe a word of it.

“But Officer… she made me tie her up!”

Just one further thing to add.

Not three weeks later, she summoned me to the bedroom
early one evening, where I found her propped up in bed,
eyes semi glazed and looking for all the world like
someone had stolen her stuffed alligator.

I looked at her vacantly.

“It turned blue,” was all she said!