Cul-de-sac Christmas

By Clayton Stillwater

westbound80@hotmail.com

Ellen went to the cul-de-sac Christmas party in a foul mood. She’d gone to great effort to arrange sleepovers for all the kids so she and Jeff could come home from the party and have the house to themselves. So what did the bastard do? Let the company send him to Atlanta to clean up someone else’s mess. He was going to be there a week. Which meant that, in addition to him missing the party, she would have to buy all the damn presents, buy and decorate the damn tree, write and mail the damn Christmas card. Bah humbug.

It was the Bishops’ turn to host the annual neighborhood gala. Since she had nothing else to do, Ellen dressed up and went. Glumly she trooped around the Bishops’ house, admiring the redone kitchen and the repainted living room. Jeff worked all the time; how come they couldn’t afford to do this? She was sick of her corny blue and yellow kitchen, and living room walls decorated with childish handprints.

Ellen knew almost everyone at the party. The exception was a bearded man. He dressed like the other suburban dads, in a sweater and nice slacks, but somehow on him it looked like a disguise, not banal reality. He seemed intelligent. And unattached. She watched him work the crowd. He didn’t touch base with anyone, and no woman seemed concerned when he spent 15 minutes talking to Marla DeVries. Intrigued, she waited until he headed for the bar, then sidled alongside.

"I’m Ellen Pearson. Who are you?"

"Gordon Jackson. Pleased to meet you." His grip was muscular.

"I haven’t seen you around here before."

"I’m house sitting for Peter and Carmen. I’m Carmen’s brother."

"Ah. That explains it. They’re in the Caribbean, aren’t they?"

"St. Johns. Some people have all the luck. Wine?"

"Please." As he refilled her glass Ellen automatically posed for him, back straight, chest out. In college she had thought of it as her toy-soldier pose: aiming her tits at the enemy. She was rewarded by seeing him glance at her chest. It was nice to flirt with someone without having to worry about Jeff swooping down to bust up her fun.

They let the crowd move them away from the bar, and ended up in a corner beside the entertainment armoire. "So what do you do?" she asked.

"Are you this inquisitorial with all strange men?"

"I have to make sure you’re not a threat to our peaceful cul-de-sac."

"Do you want to know my day job or my night job."

"Both."

"By day I maintain VPN software networks for Verizon."

"How interesting."

He rolled his eyes, as if to say, oh come off it. "By night I write pornography."

Ellen almost choked on her drink. She barely managed to keep from coughing. "That’s unusual," she said.

"It’s not really a job, in the sense that I don’t have to do it, and no one pays me to do it. But it’s something I enjoy. I write erotic fantasies and post them on the Internet for people to read."

He said this somewhat truculently, as if looking for an argument. To her surprise, Ellen found the concept intriguing. When Jeff was on the road she had poked around in what she thought of as the red-light areas of the Internet. Explicit photos did nothing for her, but she liked erotic stories. They got her imagination going into realms Jeff would never take her.

"How do you get your ideas?" she wondered.

He shrugged. "You know how they say men think about sex 80% of the time?"

"Uh huh."

"In my case it’s 90% of the time. How can I not get ideas?"

"That means you’re probably thinking about sex right now," she batted her eyelashes flirtatiously.

"As it happens, I am," Gordon smiled. "I’m working on a Christmas story."

"Does it involve a manger?"

"Hardly. It’s about an elf-girl... Well, I don’t want to get too graphic. But enough about me. What do you do?"

This was the moment Ellen dreaded. When she had to admit she was a mom. There were euphemisms she could use to make herself sound like a strategic planner or transportation mastermind, but it all came down to driving in car pools and watching basketball games and overseeing homework. Refusing to be pigeon-holed, she heard herself blurt out, "I’m an artist."

"Oh? What sort of art?"

"Multimedia conceptualism. What is vulgarly known as performance art."

"Multimedia concepts? Like what?"

"In my last series I applied paint to basketballs and dribbled them on white sheets. It was a witty reference to euro-harmonism, of course."

"Of course." Gordon sipped his drink thoughtfully. "Where can I see some of your work?"

"It’s all snapped up by private collectors. I haven’t exhibited to the public for years."

Gordon nodded. "Well, I must say, you have the most exotic job of anyone I’ve met tonight. When I saw the invitation in the mail I almost threw it away, because I wouldn’t know anyone. But I was bored, so I decided to crash. I’m glad I did."

Ellen was terrified that he’d quiz her about her oeuvre. She wasn’t sure how long she could fake it, so she quickly moved the conversation to local gossip. Since Gordon didn’t know anyone, it was easy to point out her neighbors and dish up old dirt. Marla’s obsession with psychics. Rachel’s hypochondria. Lizette’s inability to keep a nanny. He listened with amusement, seemingly happy to bask in neighborhood trivia. Were pornographers really interested in such things? How should she know? The grand total of the pornographers she’d met in her life was one.

"I’m still curious about your elf-girl story," she said, when she sensed his attention wandering.

"It’s rather inchoate at this point," Gordon said. "I have an image: an attractive young woman, wearing only red panties, lying in front of a Christmas tree. She’s bound and gagged, and has a gift tag tied to her big toe."

"That’s a striking image," Ellen said. Gordon was watching her face as he spoke; she couldn’t help lowering her eyes modestly. "What happens next?"

"I’m not sure. I can see the ropes on her wrists and ankles..." He took her left hand and pinched the loose bracelet, until the metal links tightened on her wrist. "How tightly should a woman be bound?"

"The tighter the better," Ellen said. Her fingers stroked his arm.

He let go of her hand and looked at her perceptively. "Want to come back to my place and help me brainstorm?"

"Brainstorm?"

"Kick around some ideas. I know this sounds odd, and I certainly wouldn’t ask any of these suburban mopes. But you being an artist and all, maybe you can help me overcome my creative block."

"Sounds like fun," Ellen said. "I’ll get my coat."

And so they sailed out into the cold December night, footsteps echoing on the quiet cul-de-sac. The silence made Ellen nervous, so she pointed out the bike ramp the kids had made, and where they played hockey. She was woozy from the wine. She stumbled once, and Gordon casually put his arm around her waist and didn’t let go. She leaned into his side gratefully. How many years had it been since she left a party with a strange man? In her younger days she had a taste for adventure; where had it gone? This was just a little flirtation, but it energized her in a way she hadn’t felt for years. If Jeff called from Atlanta and she wasn’t home, well, tough. She had the perfect excuse: flying the family flag at the Bishops’ party.

Peter and Carmen had put up Christmas decorations before they left on vacation. There was a tree by the fireplace. Gordon helped her out of her coat and hung it neatly in a closet. He closed the drapes over the big picture window and turned up the thermostat. Unsure what to do, Ellen settled on the couch. Did he really want to talk about his story? Man, if she’d misread his intentions... She was counting on at least making out a little.

Gordon went into the kitchen. "Would you like another drink?" he called.

"No thanks," Ellen said. "I’m fine."

"Good." He reentered carrying a bundle of clothesline. "Take off your clothes."

If he’d tried to seduce her, she probably would have jumped up and run right out of the house. The thought of listening to a stranger’s fumbling sweet-talk was unbearable. Giving her a brusque order was exactly the right tone to strike. Matter of factly, Ellen removed her earrings and placed them on the coffee table. She peeled off her sweater and folded it. Off with the skirt, pantyhose, bra. She was down to her red Victoria’s Secret panties when Gordon stopped her.

"Put your hands behind your back."

Ellen obeyed, and Gordon quickly tied her wrists. Elbows. He laid her face down on the floor in front of the tree and started on her legs. He tied a piece of rope around her left ankle, then bent her leg and tied the ankle to her thigh. Gordon was obviously enjoying himself; once the leg was tied he started stroking her along the rope. He didn’t feel her up, but her cunt tingled at the nearness of his hands.

"Has the brainstorming begun?" she inquired.

"Yes. I’m getting some great ideas." He started tying the other leg.

"I didn’t know pornographers used models."

"Well, I usually don’t, but meeting an adventurous artist like you seemed like a great opportunity to start." He finished tying her right leg and settled back, grinning.

Ellen tested her bonds. With only four pieces of rope, she was captured. She strained and wiggled futilely. It was strangely relaxing to be so helpless. She didn’t have to spend one second thinking about what he wanted or expected. She could be passive, and in her tipsy tiredness that was fine with her.

Gordon found a tag and wrote something on it. He tied the tag to the big toe of her left foot. His hot breath tickled the sole of her foot.

He went to the kitchen, and Ellen wondered how to behave. Was she supposed to try to escape? To lie there and submit to her fate? Her experience in bondage games was nil. She experimented with working her legs. By scrunching up and then straightening out, she propelled herself forward a few inches. Doing so rubbed her breasts on the carpet. She repeated the move. The rubbing stimulated her nipples, a little.

Gordon returned with a roll of duct tape and a hand towel. He seated himself cross-legged in front of her and began wadding up the towel. She was glad to see an erection bulging in his slacks. "What’s the tape for?" Ellen asked, although she already knew. She felt her first tremor of fear. The ability to say no, to inject a tone of scorn into her voice, to declare the game over, were powerful weapons. Once she was gagged, she was really in his power.

The pornographer pulled down her jaw and methodically packed her mouth. "MMM!" she squealed. Ignoring her protests, he crammed the entire towel into her mouth, making her cheeks bulge, trapping her tongue. He sealed her mouth with strips of tape. "NWNWN!" she moaned, rubbing her cheek on the carpet, trying to loosen the tape.

"Stop that," he growled, grabbing her short blonde hair and lifting her head to make the point.

"uuumm?"

"That’s better. Here’s the situation. You are a naughty elf-girl who was a discipline problem at the North Pole. As punishment, Santa left you under my tree. I have 24 hours to do with you as I please. After I use you sexually in any way that suits my perverted nature, you will be shipped back to the North Pole. Is that clear?"

He gave her head a shake for emphasis, then let go of her hair. Ellen nodded meekly.

"Good girl. Lie here for a while and get into character. Then it’s showtime."

Well, at least being gagged relieved her of the obligation to make bright chit-chat. Gordon blindfolded her with an in-flight mask. Unable to see, Ellen lay on the floor, listening to him move about the room. It sounded like he was sitting in Peter’s club chair. She heard paper rustle. Was he taking notes? Good grief, maybe he really was serious about using her as a model. What a strange man.

Get into character? She tried to think how a disciplined elf-girl would behave. Badly, she supposed. Motivation? Resentment at working for a patriarchal pig like Santa Claus. Too much overtime in November and December. When the elf-girl tried to organize a union, Santa’s goons kidnapped her off the factory floor.

Ellen worked her legs and managed to roll over. Lying on her back hurt her tied arms, so she rolled again, and bumped into the coffee table. Wiggling and scooching, she inched into the center of the living room. She moaned plaintively, but that was just acting; she was enjoying the situation. The ropes were a kind of unrelenting caress that made her body tingle with new sensations. Sliding her pelvis along the carpet excited her bare stomach and pussy. Grunting industriously, she scooched toward the front door (or where she imagined the front door should be), "escaping" about as fast as a turtle.

She heard Gordon rise and approach her. "Well, well, well, what have we here?" he said jovially. She felt him handling the tag on her toe. "An elf-girl? And I get to keep you for 24 hours? Thanks, Santa! I must have been really good this year."

He removed her blindfold. Ellen blinked at the light. While she was struggling, Gordon had removed his clothes. His penis was as ugly and grotesque as the average guy’s. They always made her think of fleshy popsicles. No wonder most people had sex in the dark. He sat down in front of her and peeled off the tape and extracted the soggy wadding. "Santa said you’ve been bad, and I get to punish you. You can start by sucking me off, bitch."

Ellen blushed. For some perverse reason the humiliation, the sense of being treated like an object, was exactly what she wanted. Dutifully she squirmed across the floor and into the cove between his legs. The angle was awkward, but he didn’t help her; he just looked down aloofly as she struggled and contorted. She managed to lick his balls and the side of his penis, nuzzling her nose into his sweaty musty groin. Finally he condescended to roll her on her shoulder and hold her head up so she could get the tip in her mouth. Ellen set to work eagerly, first licking the head, then sucking him in until it bumped against the back of her mouth. Based on the jokes that went around, she knew that women were not supposed to enjoy this activity, that they were supposed to find it demeaning. She’d never understood why. Ellen enjoyed cocksucking. There was something atavistically satisfying about being silenced by a penis in her face. She liked feeling it swell up and grow hard on her tongue. And if it pleased the man....

Gordon thrust her head away. "You call that a blow job? God, you’re awful. I see why Santa sent you to me."

"I’m sorry," she cringed.

"You will address me as Master."

"I’m sorry, Master. What do you want me to do?"

Grumbling, he strode out of the room. He seemed genuinely angry. Curled on her side, Ellen reviewed her performance. She hadn’t bitten him. Was there something special he wanted? It wasn’t fair to make her guess.

Anxiety growing, she waited. Gordon returned a few minutes later. He yanked her bound legs and rolled her face down. Grumbling, he untied the knots holding her ankles to her thighs. When she straightened out her legs, blood rushed back in and they tingled unbearably. Gasping, she thrashed on the floor. Gordon slapped her legs to get the circulation going, then grabbed her arm and tugged her to her feet. His strength and sadism were intimidating.

"Where are you taking me?" she asked.

"Shut up, bitch."

Downstairs, it turned out. Peter and Carmen had a finished basement. One corner was set up as a gym. Gordon dragged her to a card table he’d placed under the chin-up bar. He put a couple of cushions from the sofa on it, then made her lie atop the pile. The point, she realized, looking up at the ceiling, was to raise her ankles to the chin-up bar. He tied them there with strips of sheet, then pulled away the cushions and card table. Viola! Ellen was hanging upside down. She was terrified she’d fall and break her neck, but Gordon had tied her securely. Somehow he’d even managed to do it so that the bindings were comfortable. Her face was at the level of his crotch.

"When I say suck my cock, I want to have my cock sucked right," he growled. He batted her in the face with his hard penis. "You need more incentive, bitch."

He tied a rope around her waist, with the long end dangling down in front, past her nose. Then he pulled it between her legs and through her cunt, and tied it to her bound wrists. This meant she could pull on the rope and stimulate herself, Ellen immediately discovered. The rope wasn’t exactly in the right place, but it was close. She discreetly tugged it back and forth, trying to get it on her clitoris.

Meanwhile, Gordon gagged her with a strip of cloth. Then he walked around behind her. Suddenly she heard a swoosh, and a long flat object slapped her across her bottom. She screamed into her gag. Another whack. Ellen struggled, which only made her swing back and forth like an obscene pinata.

Gordon whipped her mercilessly. She tried to protect her bottom with her hands, but he only held them aside (which tugged the rope deeper into her cunt, stimulating her even more). He was spanking her with a strip of molding, she realized. It must be left over from the remodeling.

Hanging upside down, clad only in brief red panties, bound and gagged, being whipped to orgasm by a strange sadist, Ellen found herself trying to catch a glimpse of the molding to see if it would work in her living room.

* * * * * *

When she came to, she was lying on the coffee table in front of the TV in the basement rec room. Gordon had tied her wrists at one end, ankles at the other. The position made her knees point outward, revealing her bare pussy. Where her panties had gone was anyone’s guess. Gordon was sitting on the couch watching CNN. When he saw she was awake, he turned off the TV.

"It’s about time," he said. "I needed you to service me and you were unconscious."

"I’m sorry, Master." The last thing she remembered was yanking on her crotch-rope, tweaking her clit, as the pain in her bottom converged with the onrush of pleasure in one incredible mind-blowing orgasm. She glanced at her cunt to see if she’d damaged it. No, it appeared to be the same as always. What an amazing organ. The things it could do! Ellen let her head drop back. She’d never realized! She’d always known she was submissive. It had seemed somewhat shameful. But if being docile could produce orgasms like that...

He propped her head up on a pillow and sat on her chest, prodding her cheek with his urgent penis. Ellen obediently resumed sucking him. She was curious to see if she’d taste her own juices on his penis, but apparently he hadn’t fucked her while she was unconscious. Did that make him a gentleman? Or was he saving her cunt for later?

"Ah, that’s better," he said, although she could discern no difference in her technique. Grateful to be horizontal again, Ellen soldiered on, licking and whimpering.

She fell into a timeless routine, patiently caressing him with her tongue and lips, as his balls rested on her chest. When she peeked she saw his eyes were closed, and a contented grin played on his face. From below, his beard reminded her of pubic hair. She closed her eyes and concentrated on the tube of meat in her mouth.

Gordon came with a sudden thrust. He pitched forward, grabbed her hair with one hand, and fucked her mouth. Ellen obediently kept him in, and swallowed his cum. Merry Christmas, she thought.

He ruffled her hair like a man petting a cat and climbed off. He plopped down on the couch and put his feet up on the coffee table. "Not bad," he said. "A few more weeks of training and you’d be really hot."

"Thanks, Gordon."

He glared at her. "Call me Master, bitch."

She frowned. "This has been lovely, but I really must be going. I told the babysitter I’d be back by midnight."

Gordon chuckled. He stretched like a tiger contemplating his next meal.

"I’m still thinking about my story. Where does the protagonist keep his captive elf-girl? In the basement, of course. Out of sight, out of hearing. But he’d have to move her occasionally. There’s something I want to try with you."

"Gordon, my babysitter—"

"Oh, can it." He found the towel he’d used earlier and stuffed it in her mouth, gagging her again. Helpless to resist, Ellen could only lie there on her back as he plastered tape on her mouth and cheeks. She tried to plead with her eyes.

Gordon began untying her right wrist. "I know you’re not an artist."

Ellen froze.

"Marla DeVries told me all about you. You’re a housewife. I also know that you arranged sleepovers for your kids, and your husband is out of town. So I figure no one will miss you until 10 or 11 tomorrow. Am I correct?"

Ellen frantically shook her head no.

"Nice try." When her right arm was free, he brought it down to her side, and set about tying her wrist to the side of her thigh. Ellen didn’t know where this was going, but it was apparent she was still his captive. Damn! She figured once he’d come he’d let her go.

"Yeah, I figure I’ve got all night to play with you. It’s funny about sex. I can have a real live woman in my bed, but the real excitement is in my head. What I’m thinking about doing is more exciting than what I’m actually doing. Isn’t that strange?"

She nodded politely.

Gordon tied her left wrist to her left thigh and let her sit up. She sat on the edge of the coffee table as he freed her ankles. He made her stand up and take a few tentative steps. Ellen found she was mobile, but unable to use her hands. In theory she supposed she could make a break for it. She’d have to distract him, though, if she wanted to get more than a few steps. While she stood there debating what to do, Gordon fastened a dog collar around her neck and attached a leash, so it became moot. He eyed her nude body happily.

"What’s really great about this arrangement is that I can fuck you from the front or back," he said, patting her bare bottom. "Come on, bitch. Let me show you the master bedroom. You’ll look great, lying in a big bed with your legs tied apart and your cock-holder wide open."

Tugged by the leash, Ellen obediently trotted after her master. Bound, gagged, and horny again.

THE END