I want to see myself. Against the wall, next to the window, the large vanity mirror is turned down toward the bed, but I must turn my head to see it. It's hard to turn my
             head the wide leather collar about my throat is firmly anchored in place by cords stretched taut from its D-rings to the corner posts of the  headboard; and a short chain
             links the back of my collar to a crotch rope, keeping my back elegantly, though stringently, arched. My arms are pulled high over my head, my wrists handcuffed to the
             headboard,straining my slender arms and shoulders and further immobilizing my head between them - but if I try hard, I can just catch my nude reflection in the corner
             of my vision. I look beautiful. My breasts are made to stand out by the way my back is arched - my nipples soft and pink, but gradually rising to their candy-hard stiffness
             of arousal as I squirm in my bonds, murmuring through my gag and admiring my bound, naked form in the  mirror. My legs are spread wide apart in silent invitation, firmly
             anchored to either side of the bed with leather straps about my ankles, calves and thighs - a bondage of the tight. excessive redundancy that I so deeply relish. I can move
             not the least without sweet resistance. If I so much as relax the curve of my spine or lift my pelvis, the chain from the back of my crotch rope pulls my collar tighter
             though it is carefully made wide enough that it cannot choke me. I thrust my hips as best I can in this state, enjoying the collar's tug  at my throat and watching my
             soft-furred mons,  engorged and damp with passion. rise and fall in the  mirror, pinched between the cords of the crotch ropes on either side of it. I could have added a
             third rope between them: a length to split my little hillock and delve into the warm depths of my pleasure center - I wanted to - but I had resisted. That sweet invasion I
             reserved for him. I think about him; about my bold, perhaps even foolish invitation to this man I scarcely know, yet  somehow trust completely; about what he will do,
             how he will touch me, when he finds me like this. When he finds me. I feel the cold tendrils of anxiety creep about  my stomach as the question again surfaces in my
             mind: What if he doesn't come? I look at the window, the blinds turned up against prying eyes. No one even knows I'm here. what if he didn't get my message? What
             if  he doesn't understand? It's been hours - shouldn't he have been here by now? I wriggle my fingers, locked in their handcuffs between the slats of the headboard.
             I had a key. I had considered keeping it in my hand, in case something went wrong; but I decided against it. I was sure he  would come. I refused to betray the purity
            of my trust. And so I left the key in its little box and stretched my hands far above my head, straining to reach around the ornate wooden bars, and locked my hands into the
            cuffs: the point of no return. I could no longer escape - I must be rescued. I stare at the ceiling. the erotic heat of longing  burning in my loins, my nipples, my fingertips; the
            hungry pleasure of my bondage seeming not at odds  with this fear that I won't be found, but rather to be  reveling in it. My lips are sealed with broad, black  masking tape,
            and between them the thick wad of cloth  in my mouth muffles my voice to a pitiful mewing that could never be heard outside. I know I cannot free  myself, and I know
            that if he does not come for me, no one will. Yet somehow, I know he will come.
 
           I had seen her once before, though we hadn't spoken. A raven haired beauty with soft amber eyes and a lovely  little body, she had moved into the rental house next
         door while I was away at college the previous semester. I soon learned she was single and unattached; and, being a man with a pulse, I was naturally attracted to
         her and had been hoping to see her again; but our paths never quite seemed to cross. That was to change abruptly. It was my second week home from college, and I still
         hadn't enjoyed much of my vacation. Most of it had been spent doing the accumulated chores that had  gone undone in my absence, and this day was no different. On a hot
         summer Saturday when any rational  man would have been on the beach sipping something  cold and watching bikinis bounce by, I found myself in  the attic sorting
         through boxes. I had opened the small windows at either end to get some fresh air circulating through, and was in the midst of my labors when a sound from outside drew
         my attention. The house occupied by our pretty new neighbor had a patio deck on the side facing our house, surrounded by a high wooden fence which provided it with
         privacy. Our attic window, however, was high enough and close enough that I could easily see over the fence. The sound which had drawn my notice was that of her patio
         door sliding open, and I glanced out the window just in time to see her emerge into the sunlight, her body draped in a silk robe of sapphire blue. In one hand she
         carried a bottle of what I assumed to be sun tan lotion, and in the other a tall, cold drink. I could hear the ice  tinkling against the glass as she walked. It made me
         thirsty.  She moved a patio lounge chair to face the sun, set down her drink on a low table next to it, opened her robe and, with a graceful shrug of her shoulders, let the
         blue silk fall about her ankles. She was suddenly, beautifully, naked. Her body was perfect, as though sculpted by an artist divinely inspired - the curve of
         her hips, the lift of her breasts, the arch of her spine; all cunningly proportioned in a concert of erotic loveliness. I stared in wonder as she laid her delicate, nude body on the
         lounge chair and began to apply the sun tan oil. I knew I shouldn't watch; that I should turn away and leave her the privacy she believed she had; but I couldn't. I found myself
         trapped by the vision of  her. Her hands glided over the soft contours of her flesh in slow, hypnotic strokes. It was not the quick,  mechanical movement I had seen so many
         times on the beach used by women who were preoccupied with talking or getting the perfect tan: this was a sensual  experience. Every movement of her hand was a caress,
         a lover's touch. I watched, scarcely breathing, as her hands fondled her small but shapely breasts; lingering  there long after the warm oil had brought them to a  bright, glistening
         sheen; lavishing special attention on her nipples which hardened under her touch. I followed her hands down the smooth hollow of her belly to the soft thatch of fur beneath,
         wherein her fingers vanished as she closed her eyes and arched her back, a small, soft sound escaping her parted lips. She opened her legs and applied the oil to her inner
         thighs, slowly working inward from her knees to the sweet petals of  her womanhood, finally caressing the oil into the delicate flesh of those lips. She continued these attentions
         down her legs to her  feet, her little toes; and then rolled onto her belly to oil her full, round bottom, the small of her back, and  finally, with remarkably limber movements,
         cover the whole of her back with lotion. Her task then accomplished, she folded her arms under her head and closed her  eyes; her pretty backside offered brazenly to the
         heat of  the sun; her long, sleek legs crossed at the ankles.It took me a minute to regain some semblance of self control before I could force myself back to work. I tried
         not to think about her, but it wasn't easy. Occasionally I could hear the chiming of ice in her glass as she drank from it, or the creak of the lounge chair as she moved, but I
         resisted the urge to return to the window.

         Later perhaps an hour, I heard the patio door open and close again, and, curiosity besting me, I went to look. My heart fell to see that she had gone. I felt annoyed
         with myself. I stood there for a minute, regretting my conscience, wishing that I had stolen one last look before she had retreated into the house... even entertaining a wish
         that I had gone for my camera...  I shook these thoughts from my head. What was I, a spy satellite? This wasn't some nuclear sub in validvladstoc - this was a beautiful
         woman, virtually  within arm's reach; and I was behaving like some kind of hopeless adolescent. And all the while, precious days of my vacation were slipping by. I decided
         to meet her. If random chance would not provide an opportunity, then I would go to her front door and knock. I would simply introduce myself, ask her out, and deal with this
         like a normal human being. The only problem was, I suddenly felt too ashamed to approach her. This reverie was interrupted by the sound of her patio door opening again.
         My heart leapt at the sight of her return - her lightly bronzed body still unconcealed by clothing - but my joy was immediately checked by a guilty conscience, which told
         me to get the hell away from the window. This might have developed into a serious battle of emotions, but fortunately she was carrying a mysterious bundle in her arms,
         and my curiosity broke the tie. (Actually it was a gym bag, and not at all mysterious, but my curiosity frequently made itself an ally of whatever stood at odds with my
         conscience.) I waited to see what it was. This time she walked past the chair and moved  straight to a sun-faded foam rubber exercise mat. Kneeling on the mat, she
         opened the gym bag and looked inside. It was bulky and full of dark shapes I couldn't make out, and I could hear an occasional metallic clink as she moved it. It occurred
         to me that there was a pair of binoculars in the box of camping gear on the far side of the attic, and with those I could tell what was in the bag; but here my conscience
        decisively put its foot down and the Idea was dropped. She found what she was looking for - apparently a small, black elastic band - and using this she gathered her long,
        flowing black hair together and drew it up into a pony tail. She then resumed rummaging through the bag, extracting various items and spreading them on the mat before her.
        Within moments any excuse I might have had for recovering the binoculars or sticking around had both run out, as  there was no longer any question as to the contents of
         the bag. Even had I tried to feign ignorance to myself,  no doubt could have remained when she drew out the  ball gag. Kneeling on the pale blue mat, her buttocks resting
         lightly on her ankles and her thighs parted invitingly she passed her hand slowly over her assortment of toys as though deciding where to begin. At last she took up a broad
         leather belt; black, with two rows of steel eyelets for the twin buckle posts. This she drew tight about her waist, gasping audibly at the constriction; and then picked up a
         short length of chain which resembled nothing so much as an abbreviated dog  leash with a clip at one end and a small metal ring at  the other. She used this ring to make
         a loop in the chain, through which she passed a pair of handcuffs, effectively linking the cuffs to the end of the chain locating a D-ring at the back of her belt, she passed
          the clip end of the chain down through it, drew the  chain up between her legs and clipped it to the buckle  in front. The chain was only just long enough to span this distance,
         providing a tight and pleasantly contoured crotch rope which held the cuffs securely to the small of her back. Dipping her hand once more between her thighs, she adjusted
         the position of the chain to cleave snugly between her labia, squirming  with pleasure at the sensation.

         Picking up a small pair of keys, she placed them carefully on one corner of the mat, presumably so they could be easily found when she was finished. I could see her hands
         trembling with anticipation as she turned to a collection of black leather straps laid out neatly in a row, and began to bind herself with them. The first she buckled tightly
         about her ankles, then the next about her calves just below the knees, then one above the knees, then two more lashing her upper thighs together. Leaning back on her
         elbows she raised her legs in the air and admired them, turning them slowly from side to side, bending and straightening her knees. She reminded me of a mermaid.  She
         retrieved two long belts and, making soft little mewing grunts with the effort, wrapped them tightly above and below her breasts, constricting her chest so  that she was
         reduced to short, panting breaths. Now there was only one strap remaining, and this she buckled into a short loop and left enigmatically lying on  the mat beside her.
        This done she took up a black scarf, folded it into a long strip, and bound it firmly over her eyes.Feeling her way, she picked up a ball gag of bright red  rubber and stuffed
        it into her tiny mouth, whimpering sweetly at its hard invasion and buckling it under her ponytail. Attached to the gag's steel rings on either side of her face were straps
        which she buckled under her chin and over her head, pulling them tight to seal her  mouth closed about the gag. She made a little moaning sound, relishing her inability to
        do more, then lay back and began to play with her breasts, pinching and fondling her nipples while she listened to the pleasure of her own muffled voice. Her hips began
        to buck and squirm, until she could stand no more and hastily moved to complete her bondage. Blindfolded, she had to feel about for what she needed next. Reassuring
        herself that the keys were where they should be, she then picked up the leather strap which she had earlier buckled into a loop and put it on her left arm. Then, in the
        most amazing display of self-bondage I had ever witnessed, she put her arms behind her, slid her right hand into the loop, and worked the strap up until it was above
        both her elbows, binding  them securely together. She then rolled onto her belly  and locked her wrists into the handcuffs: her bondage  was complete. She was perfectly
        Naked but for the black leather restraints which ensnared her body, her legs bound into a single, thrashing mermaid's tail, her elbows touching and her wrists handcuffed
        to that chain which slithered invasively between the soft, quivering cheeks of her ass; she was the prettiest picture of bondage I had ever seen. As she began to slowly
        undulate her hips and tug at the chain with manacled wrists, I suddenly realized that she was able to pleasure herself  by sliding the links of the chain through her wet vulva
         and over her clitoris by manipulating her otherwise immobilized wrists. I watched, rendered motionless as though bound  myself - knowing I should leave, but unable to turn
         away from this erotic performance. How could I? She  was the very incarnation of my deepest fantasies. For  years I had sought lovers who would merely accept my
         passion for bondage - who might occasionally indulge me; but now here was this woman, like a dream, playing out scenes from my most secret imaginings as though she
         had read them in my mind - how could I  hope to walk away?  Her body glistened with tanning lotion and sweat as she writhed exquisitely on that blue mat, her thighs
         squirming against each other as she worked the leash  into her vagina, manacled wrists pulling rhythmically at the chain while her buttocks clenched spasmodically and she
        began to arch her back, straining harder and  harder until her breasts came completely off the mat and her blindfolded face turned to the sky, moaning  and whimpering
        through the gag with little panting  grunts, her whole weight supported on her heaving pelvis and belly as her legs, too, came off the mat and the pitch of her voice rose to
        a stifled, keening chant, then a shriek as the sweet flood of ecstasy swept  through her in a torrent, her body vibrating like a  tuning fork as waves of hot pleasure washed
        outward from her belly, swirling through her body; lifting her, carrying her, holding her suspended on her belly in an arc of quivering passion until the fire burned itself out
         and left her, spent and exhausted, to squirm in the hard, unyielding
         restraints. She lay there for several minutes, trembling and  panting,
         recovering from her orgasm, before she moved again. Once
         her breath had again slowed to a cool  whispering
         in her nostrils she rolled onto her side, a  silver string of saliva trailing
         prettily from the bright red ball gag in her mouth, and, drawing her legs
         up under her, she squirmed and struggled her way up onto her  knees.
         From this position, without ever sitting back on her heels, she arched her
         back until her shoulders rested on the mat and her breasts pointed over
         her head, affording me a perfect view of the leash running from the belt
         buckle to where it plunged between her swollen petals at the heart of that
         soft black V' of pubic hair which divided her legs. Her fragile, trembling
         body glistened with sweat from throat to thighs, and her precious nipples
         stood stiff with passion atop her firm breasts, framed by the leather straps
         above and below them, yearning to be kissed, to be sucked and caressed
         as she pulled the steel chain deep into her tender  womanhood and thrust
         her pelvis into the air. The ecstasy was plain on her face even through the
         gag and  blindfold as she twisted her head from side to side, lurching
         and straining against her bonds, the sweat trickling off her heaving breasts
         as she gasped her muffled moans around the rubber ball which filled her
         mouth, letting the pleasure build and build until at last it burst forth with a fury and she froze, quivering, every muscle straining with rapture, not even breathing lest
         relaxing her lungs foreshorten the blaze, until, with a shuddering gasp, she crumpled to the earth and lay there, wasted; motionless except for her constricted
         bosom, sparkling wet in the light of the summer sun as it rose and fell in quick, desperate rhythm. I turned from the window, shaking, my legs weak as I
         made my way to a chair. I was dizzy, my body aching with desire. I had to sit down, to escape the vision of  her before I collapsed; but even with my eyes closed I
         could still see her: naked and bound, her bright amber eyes looking at me over her gag with the sweet purity of trust that only lovers in bondage could understand or
         express. My mind whirled, fantasy overtaking reason, dreams masquerading as logic. I felt I knew her It was  foolish. .I had never spoken to her, never even seen her
         acknowledge me; yet I felt as though I knew this woman. I saw in her passion the colors of my own  emotional pallet; understood her desires as my own. I'd
         known women who would play at bondage if I asked - fleeting, tentative experiments carried out for my benefit - but none who shared my passion like this;
         who understood the longing to bind and be bound, yearned for the pleasure of restraint as did I. She was different. We would need no words between us; no
         questions, no explanations... we could make love with an understanding of desire that transcended speech.
 
                      This, I realized, was the woman for whom I had been searching all my life. And perhaps and here I hesitated, hardly daring to hope it - perhaps she was
             searching for someone like me. I shook my head, trying to scatter the images which danced like fireflies In my mind. I was too close, I
             wanted it too much. My thoughts were all passion and desire - how could I know what made sense and what was wishful thinking? I didn't really know her, what
             she wanted, how she felt. And even if I was right, how could I - I stumbled mentally, my elation suddenly overwhelmed by guilt as the realization hit me: How
             could I ever approach her after this? I had been spying, invading her privacy; everything I knew of her was  tainted by that. It was manipulative - the emotional
             equivalent of insider trading. How could I casually ask Her to dinner and pretend I hadn't seen her frenzied struggles? that I didn't know of her secret need to be
             tied and dominated; that I didn't share it? How could I look into her eyes over candlelight and not whisper words that I knew would make her heart beat faster?
             Or hold her body against me on the dance floor and not press her wrists to the small of her back, knowing she would not resist? How could I help but call to her in
             that unspoken tongue that I knew we both shared? And if she responded - came to me, bound and submissive, sharing with me that pleasure of ultimate trust - how
             could I betray that, denying what I'd known, what I'd done? And how could I ever confess? From the window I could hear the faint, distant
             mewing sound of her voice, rising once again as she  resumed her erotic struggles, filling me with an unbearable longing to go to her, to touch her, to simply
             look at her; but I resisted. The sweet lyric tune of her voice rose gradually from the long, soft moans of gentle pleasure to an upward spiraling concerto of desperate
             rhythm, her ball gag-stifled gasps of delight rushing faster and faster in my ears: a hot, voluptuous music of desire ending in a crescendo of muffled cries which
             eventually dwindled to a soft, dreamy whisper of  breath, scarcely audible above the silence. I couldn't stand it. I had to get out, away from the
             sight of her, the sound of her. I needed a cold shower, or maybe a workout - go to the gym and lift heavy objects until I was too tired to breathe. I had to get
             away before I lost my mind. I stood and walked to the stairs, determined not to further taint what might be with continued voyeurism; determined to put it from
             my mind. I was almost out the door when I heard her  voice again. I stopped. Her voice was faint, almost lost between the echoes of  my footsteps, but something
             in that sound made me stop. I told myself I was stalling, looking for an excuse  to turn back; but as much as I wanted to stay, I knew that wasn't it. Something
             was wrong. I stood  motionless, listening, and presently I heard it again: a soft little breathy sound, different from her earlier music of pleasure.
             I couldn't define it, but there was a disconcerted, almost plaintive note that I hadn't heard before. I returned to the window. She was lying on her side, halfway
             off the mat, her lovely body drenched with her own juices and sweat. Her hands were groping about behind her, and it took me only a moment to realize that
             she was looking for the keys to the handcuffs. Evidently she had kicked them in her frenzied struggles and knocked them off the mat. They weren't far - only about
             three feet away, and lying in plain sight - but she was blindfolded; and her hands couldn't move six inches from the belt at the small of her back.
           I watched her fingers play out their tiny search pattern on the wooden deck, futilely groping  for what might as well have been miles away. She
         squirmed about on her side, moving inches at a time,  plaintive little grunts escaping her prettily gagged  mouth as minutes passed and her search became
         frantic, then desperate. She was afraid, and I understood why: she lived alone. There was no one to come home and find her, no one to set her free. She
         couldn't even cry for help with that thick gag in her mouth. If she didn't free herself, no one would. She began to thrash and twist, trying to free herself
         without the keys, but her self-bondage had been far too cunning for that: all the straps were buckled in front, and she couldn't reach them. She could just touch the
         strap at her ankles, but no more. She tried to wriggle her arms back out of the elbow strap she had wriggled  into, but the strain on her shoulders had taken its toll,
         and with the handcuffs on, she couldn't get the leverage she needed. She even curled up into a ball and  tried to work the blindfold off with her knees, to no
         avail. Finally she gave up and collapsed, exhausted, whimpering softly in despair as she lie on the hard wooden deck, powerless and alone.
          I couldn't stand it. I wanted to comfort her, to take her in my arms and hold her, tell her it was all right. I wanted someone to come and rescue her; but no one
         knew she was- And suddenly it hit me. Someone did know. Someone  could save her. Someone would have to.... Me
          The stunning confusion of emotions that engulfed me at this thought was overwhelming. Heroism, trepidation, sympathy, arousal, guilt, and flavors of
         emotion too subtle to define swirled through me like a typhoon. The sight of her filled me with an erotic mixture of pity and desire, while guilt assailed me for
         taking pleasure in her situation. And though I felt a triumphant thrill, as though poised on the edge of living out a heroic fantasy, I realized with a sympathetic pang
         that she would feel no such fairy-tale elation: I had almost been stuck in a self-tie once, and could well imagine the humiliation of having to be rescued from
         self bondage by a total stranger - or worse yet, a  neighbor. She was near tears now. The sound of her staggered  breath floated up to me from her tiny naked form.
         I had to help her. I ran downstairs and out the front door, sprinting across the lawn to the side of the house where I stopped, uncertain how to proceed. The sound of
         someone clambering over the fence would be at worst terrifying to her; at least humiliating. And how would I explain my presence? That I had been watching her tie
         herself up and masturbate for half an hour? What  would I say? "Pardon me - terribly sorry, but I couldn't help noticing that you were in leather restraints. Care
         for a spot of help, then?" I needed to think: What should I say?... What should I do?... At that moment, from the other side of the fence, I
         heard a sudden, desperate thrashing which lasted briefly, then subsided into faint, muffled whimpers. I'd think of something. Scaling the fence with the stealth of a cat burglar, I
         came down on bare feet, undetected; and suddenly found myself within mere paces of my voluptuous fantasy: bound and gagged and oh, so enticingly close.
         The rich scent of her passion filled the air, and she was almost unbearably accessible - lying on her side, knees drawn up before her, arms pinned behind her
         back - I could clearly see the chain splitting the wet, swollen lips of her vagina. My mouth longed for her wetness. The key, I thought, just get the key. My stomach was
         tight with anxiety, and my heart was pounding so I wondered how she didn't hear it as I moved to her side. Kneeling behind her, I picked up the key with trembling
         hands and hesitated. She was still whimpering through her gag, and she looked so frightened and small, so weak with exhaustion and despair that I wanted to take
         her in my arms and hold her, comfort her; but I couldn't. I wished I had the words to make her feel safe, to soften the shock of my presence; but all my ideas
         sounded meaningless in my head. Maybe if I was careful, I could simply unlock the cuffs before she knew  it...
         I don't know what I expected, but at my fumbling  touch she jumped, crying out through the gag and trying to squirm away. I gently put one hand on her
         arm, whispering to her, "No, No... Hush... Hushhhh..." She quickly stopped struggling, knowing it was futile, and lay on her stomach, trembling, dreading what
         might come next. I ached for her - with desire for her body as much as with sympathy for her fear - and whispered, "No, it's all right, it's all right, see...?" and
         gently taking her hands, I unlocked the cuffs. Seemingly reassured, her trembling subsided a bit, but  not completely. She seemed to hold her breath as I
         unbuckled her elbow restraint and ball gag; then lay still for a moment, letting her arms recover from the strain of their bondage while waiting to see what I
         would do next. When finally she moved, it was cautiously, as though testing the limits of what I would permit. She rolled onto her back, one hand moving
         modestly to her pubis, the other awkwardly trying to cover her breasts as she pried the hard rubber ball out from between her lips. She took a grateful breath,
         licking her lips and working her jaw. She hesitated... She started to reach for her blindfold; but on impulse, I stayed her hand with a touch. Placing the key in her
         palm, I closed her fingers about it and lowered her hand to her breast. Then, very gently, I bent to kiss her mouth before standing and, with three steps, vaulting
         the fence.