Gagged

First Stroke

Chapter Two

First Stroke

The contractors were gorgeous, prompt, talented and hard-working. We got along just fine with what I am sure were activities and looks aimed, occasionally, expressly at me. For example, one carpenter, who said she was a graduate student at the university, had long pig tails and longer legs to match. She would sit on the roof peak, wiggle her booted feet until she saw me looking, then turn over and wiggle her perfect ass as well. It was all part of the show, but I enjoyed it. In the warmer weather, they adopted brief, casual attire that would have had even the local priests sneaking a second look. The roofing crew in particular was a study in nearly exposed boobs and asses, with the addition of bright orange knee protectors and torn T shirts without bras.

When the walls and floors went in, I made a point of having the carpenters leave strong hard points in floors and ceilings for additional hardware to be mounted later. Although I mentioned my plans to hang modern carriage wheel chandeliers and other heavy fixtures from the cathedral ceiling and cross beams, Jan Jones figured it out in about five minutes and got me aside one Friday evening and told me that she had a pretty good idea of what I was up to and wondered if she could help, discretely, of course. She stood there with a tight, white T shirt on with a visible, black lace bra under it. Along with skin tight jeans that showed off her lovely ass, I found the combination hard to resist. But we had a workable business relationship and any other sort of extra-curricular activity up might damage that. So I diverted my eyes elsewhere, away from the shirt front with its beckoning, hardened n*****s staring back at me.

Some time later, I asked her as we sat in the shadow of the barn, why none of the crew seemed to wear bras or at least the seemingly popular padded version that contemporary fashion seem to dictate. Her response was the laugh at my term, ‘‘contemporary fashion,’’ but she was forthcoming on the subject when two of the siding crew wandered over and sat down. It was the end of the shift and we each had a beer in hand.

“Lois,” Jan said, looking at the tall brunette sitting next to me. The girl obviously had some sort of minimal bra on under her torn T shirt, but it functioned more to reveal than obscure. “You tell the man why we hate the plastic bras.’’

“Huh?” Lois answered, slightly confused by the statement. She had missed the earlier part of the discussion.

“Tell him why women hate the foam-lined boob boosters.” Jan repeated, giggling.

“Oh,” Lois quickly picked up the discussion. “First, they are hot and why anyone would want to have their t**s roasted inside a synthetic bra cup lined with foam plastic is a mystery to me. I hate the damned things, but it’s not easy to get anything else that doesn’t cost ten times the price of the cheap-o, foam-lined versions. A really good unlined bra can cost over a hundred Euros.’’ She added. “And they are all gorgeous, (and functional), but not suited to the kind of work we do. So, the solution for most of us is what you see here. No bras and cotton shirts.”

“Does that answer your question?” Jan said, looking me in the eye.

“Oh, indeed. Yes,’’ I muttered. Living with so many women, I guess that I had probably missed this key apparel note.

At that point, the conversation shifted back to the hard points and their real function.

“Perhaps you might like me to test the support strength of these hooks and static rings,’’ Jan said to me later that Friday afternoon as the crew wrapped up for the weekend.

My first reaction was to laugh and tell her I just wanted strong hardware where I could hang various potted plants and furniture, such as hammocks and a suspended copper fireplace. She grinned and added, “and maybe a few willing female subjects now and then? And why would you want a second fireplace?’’ I looked at Lois and Kay and both were turning a bit red in the face, but they obviously knew my true purpose.

“Could be,” I said, looking into Jan’s brown eyes and seeing the glint I already knew pretty well. My gaze avoided her chest.

“Want a test subject?” she pressed, standing close enough to me so that her lightly covered n*****s were pushing against my chest.

“You volunteering?” I asked.

“Maybe. I have the weekend free and could help out. No strings attached. No pun either. Frankly, I prefer sturdy chains. And I also have always been curious about the tower the previous owners built. Have you figured out what it was for?” she asked, neatly changing the subject.

“Not a clue,” I said. “I suspect it was used as a control tower when the airport was active. Want to check it out?”

“Maybe next time,’’ she said.

“Okay, but, back to your comment about preferring chains. How do you really feel about chain, rope or, for that matter, leather?’’ I asked, pushing the line that I thought was probably already drawn because she seemed to know what this was all about. This comment however, got no reaction, so I just added: “Let’s do dinner and see what we might have in common, ok?’’ I suggested.

“Agreed.’’ Jan said. “I’ll go to town, buy some steaks, potatoes and some aubergine. I’ll pick up my toothbrush and some skin lotion, none of which I suppose you have.’’ she added, laughing.

“Skin lotion? I do have spare toothbrushes...’’ I asked.

“My wrists and ankles get easily chafed from rope and cuffs,’’ she said, turning to get into her truck. “Not sure about how it reacts to leather, but we’ll deal with that if necessary. It also makes a fine lubricant,’’ she said grinning from ear to ear.

And that is how it all began.