Free Rendezvous With a Stranger by Lizbeth Dusseau

triangle of wires in each hand, holding them tightly.   Then writhing against this lover I think the stranger wants me to cum.  
           Behind me with his hand at my neck, he presses my cheek into the fencing.   With his teeth at my ear, he nibbles as he speaks to me.   “You like this hell, slut, that’s why you can’t say no,” he utters it like an accusation, but yet, his voice is so tender I think he’s saying, “I love you.”
           He wraps a leather strap around my neck and threads it through the fence and back again, leaving my face immobilized.   Moving to my feet, he jerks each wide and then ties them as he did my neck.   He repeats the act with my wide stretched hands, and then, as though I might break free of all this, he rivets me in place with a wide strap at my back that loops around in front and bolts to the chains.  
           Returning to my ear he murmurs, “Such beauty, Ellen Laurey.   And so much peace.   How you bloom in confinement, and how perfect your ass will look when it’s thoroughly beaten.”
           I feel him clutch my flesh as though he’s going to tear it loose.   Toying with my inner labia, a sudden heaviness makes them feel as though he’s clamped them with chains.   Though I can’t see his handiwork, I know it by the ache.   I’m sure the slips of skin that bear these weights will tear free, but I’m not free to alter his plans.  
           “And this too …” I hear his voice, as he presses a ball-gag in my mouth and fastens it around my head.   “In case you’re pained so much you want to quarrel,” he explains.
           The stranger vanishes for minutes, making me think he’s left me to suffer here.   No one would find me if he abandoned me to this building, no one would ever suspect me capable of this much masochism.   Never would Robby or Isaac, or a dozen other lovers imagine that I’d be seeking to get off tethered to a fence.   Never.
           I’m alone so long I worry. Time ticks by but I have no recollection of it passing.   Perhaps it’s only minutes, or perhaps I’m suspended like this for an hour. I wait so long, I go inside myself and hide. Though I’m stretched to the four ends of my endurance, I feel infinitely small.   All the while I endure, I’m aware how my arousal builds, how I move on the fence and feel the heaviness of the weights, how they clatter at the metal before me as I try to ease this awkwardness.   Since I can move my crotch only in small increments there’s little reason to expect much stimulation and yet it comes.   The tiniest of actions stirs another deep pulse.   My crotch becomes acutely sensitive, aware of every flutter of air disturbing the enveloping calm.   My labia feels increasing pain, but the ache becomes a gentle friend, like a gentle hand rousing me with cautious fingers.  
           I wish for things, like water to quench my thirst, like the fragrance of the stranger’s crotch, or some heartily laid on leather stripes.   A lash, the crop or just his hand again.   He didn’t need this to assure how well he owns me—that I came in the first place suggests that.   Perhaps this long void is penance for my one stab at rebellion—or perhaps the stranger believes that this is what I need.
           I’m nearly delirious. With my crotch so widely open, I expect to cum without any more stimulation than this fence.   I go for the finish, allowing my cunt to fuck the metal as earnestly as this confinement allows. I feel the spasms mount easily.   One link massages my clit as I work it against the pulsing spot.   I know the edge is near and groan into the gag as I start to drift into the climax.
           But then without notice, my drifting ends.   Abruptly on me, like an arrow shot swiftly from its bow, a biting pain stings my back.   I realize my captor has returned with a lash, not the crop.   The first strike has hit its