Home Coming
I came home from work (I own and run a fashionable – and highly profitable – fetish shop) to find my husband just as I left him that morning.
Not that I had any doubt about this of course. He’d have to be Harry Houdini to change his extravagantly strait circumstances in a hundred centuries, much less a day. But still it gave me a familiar charge of sadistic satisfaction to see my slave hung there so abject and helpless, and to imagine all the outrageous suffering he’d already endured for me in my absence.
He was still naked of course. And he was still bound upright to the meter-diameter pillar standing alone in the center of the foyer of our unbelievably lavish California villa. But what really got my juices flowing – like always – was the way he dangled there, with his toes
