Oh, is that all. Of course!

You breathe out a deep sigh of relief. "Is that all. I was worried it was going to be some kind of criminal act or something. Of course! Will it be the both of you?"

Mr. Patterson wrapped an arm lovingly around his wife. "No. I meant it when I said she's the only one for me. But..."

"I've been having trouble," Mrs. Patterson confesses when she sees her husband respectfully not expounding for her. "I want more children, but if I'm not feeling it well enough... It just hasn't happened for a few years now. But I...heard about this thing called bondage, and... It gets me really, really excited when I imagine it."

"But when we tried it together, I couldn't really perform like that," Mr. Patterson continues. "So we were hoping that you, maybe..."

"Say no more!" you announce, then quickly hush your voice lest you disturb any of the kids. "If it's for the sake of your happy family and children, of course I'm willing! Tie me up and do whatever else you want to me. I promise, I'm tough enough to handle anything."

Mrs. Patterson's cheeks are burning red, but she looks relieved. You all go to the master bedroom together, lock the door, and quietly make some preparations while you wait to be sure the girls are all asleep.

Mr. Patterson just steps off to the side and waits; his part won't be until his wife's body needs attention. That leaves you naked on the bed, a topless housewife kneeling over you with a long cord of rope in her hands and nothing on but one set of long, thin, white undergarments covering her waist and thighs. She looks down at you, a predatory glint shining in her eyes, visible even in the dim light. "Ready?" she asks, giving you one last chance to stop.

"Ready," you answer, your body already far too hot to let you stop now.

She lifts both your arms to the top of the bed and, with surprising dexterity, clasps the manacles around each of your wrists. They're the same chains a prisoner would be kept in, though these have had padding added to the inside for your comfort (or, more likely, for Mr. Patterson's comfort first). The chain connecting them runs around one post of the headboard. You give the cuffs an experimental tug and find, to your relief, that the wood is far too sturdy for your Strength to break.

Mrs. Patterson slides down your body, her hands tracing over your skin from your neck down to your thighs. She spins around just long enough to tie each of your ankles to a corner post at the foot of the bed, leaving only enough slack in the rope for you to move an inch or two--or just enough space for your body to shake and tremble. You tug on those, also in vain, to let her know that you are bound and completely at her mercy.

As she looks down at you, her helpless prisoner, heat flushes the housewife's face. Her eyes drink in your prone form. Then her hands join in the feast. Her fingers set themselves down on your raised right arm, feeling the smoothness of your skin and the tension of the muscles beneath it. Then they trace down into your smooth armpit, dancing over the sensitive skin there before sliding still further, over your ribs and down to your hips.

There her hands pause. She presses her palms down against your waist, feeling the curve of your body. Soon they slide lower, one on each of your sides, and slip underneath you to feel your malleable bubble-butt. Her hands squeeze. Then knead. Then squeeze harder. Her eyes dart up to meet yours, checking your reaction; and seeing you not uncomfortable, continues a little longer before sliding her hands back out.

They tease over your thighs, then back up to your navel. She stops to feel that strange hole, to push her finger in and wiggle it as you thought she would do to your pussy beneath. It's a strange place to be violated, but not unpleasant. Soon her hands proceed up further and grasp at your voluptuous chest. Here again, she begins squeezing and kneading, her face growing more and more excited the harder she toys with the tender flesh.

The hussie draws a hand back and swings forward to slap your left breast. Just before her palm connects, though, her arm tenses and the blow barely makes your tit shift. She pulled her punch. She looks up at you, and you can see an apology in her eyes. This won't do at all; she has to feel free to do as she desires.

"Were you going to start? I think I felt a breeze just there; did you blow on me?" you taunt.

First confusion, then understanding fills her eyes. Then a malicious glint. She draws back again. This time, her hand connects with a loud SMACK and your tit jiggles for several seconds from the **** of the blow. But she can probably do better.

"I think I felt something. Maybe use something harder than a feather pillow."

This elicited a frown and a pause in the treatment. You wondered if you had gone about this wrong as she slides off of you. Then she slips her last piece of clothing off, revealing her entire body, and proceeds to tie the undergarment around your head and in your mouth, effectively gagging you.

"Bad girls should just ask when they need a harder spanking," she whispers in your ear as she ties off her bloomers. Now you can't talk back, nor call it quits. It's exciting imagining what she might choose to do.

She gives your boobs a few more swats, watching mesmerized at how they bounce and ripple with each of her blows. Soon she tires of that, though, and moves her attention lower. She crawls back between your ****-open legs and puts her face right at your cunt. She breaths it in, deeply, then begins poking at it with her fingers.

The vulva, outer labia, inner. She finds each part of your anatomy, pulls it slightly from the rest, then rubs her fingers over it as though comparing the textures. She moves up to feel out your clit, too, before pushing a pair of fingers deeper inside to begin examining your moist passage. Each layer and each fold gets treated, felt, studied by her inquisitive fingers. Then she slips a third finger in, and then her fourth. She braces her thumb on the outside and pinches your flesh, feeling just how thin that wall is between her fingers.

Without warning, she starts racing her hand in and out, rubbing the roof of your tunnel with all her fingers and brushing over your clit with every stroke. Your hips buck up as far as your bindings will let them and you drop your head back, a muffled moan escaping around the gag.

"Oh? She likes that," your tormentor comments. Just as suddenly as it began, her hand stops. Then it spins, her thumb falling away as the fingers inside start looking for new, sensitive areas they can ****. Around, then back, around, then back, then... in.

Before you can realize how wide her hand is making your hole, her knuckles slip past the opening as she shoves her entire hand inside. A grunt, followed by a muffled moan, are literally pushed out of you as her hand moves deep into you. Your passage clamps down on her arm, letting you feel the entire thing as it searches deeper and deeper. Her wrist pushes in, her forearm follows, even as her fingers continue to pry your body open in search of something still further in.

Then she finds it. Her fingers brush over the tight entrance to your womb. Readjusting her posture, the hussie pushes her arm just a little further, almost down to her elbow inside you. Then her fingers fan out and begin groping around. Even one brushing over the highly sensitive flesh so deep inside you is electrifying; having all five moving is a pleasure overload. Made all the more intense when a pair of digits begin prodding at your cervix, making as though to grab onto it and pull it down. Your head goes white.

It's hard to tell how much time passes while she excavates your uterus. It could have been an hour, or it may have only been minutes that felt like an hour. Your body treats her arm like a cock, squeezing it from elbow to wrist and clamping on her fingers, **** to coax out a fluid it couldn't give. Yet the tighter you held it, the more you felt it, sending you soaring over one climax after another. And as that endless pleasure beats your consciousness apart, your body surrenders entirely and opens itself up.

Her fist pushes through your cervix and rubs that walls of your uterus, forming a visible bulge on your stomach. Feeling it, your entire body tenses, trembles, and explodes in orgasmic bliss that lasts for uncounted minutes. As that first climax fades, she slides her hand back an inch, sending your body soaring over the moon once more. As she pushes back in, the pleasure finally becomes too much and your consciousness gives out. Everything goes black, save for that white hot pleasure erupting from your womb.

Some time later, briefly, you surface just long enough to realize your belly is empty. Intense, **** moaning fills the air just above you. Your eyes focus just long enough to see Mrs. Patterson's face melting with the best orgasm of her life, her husband behind her grunting like an ogre as he fills his wife's womb.

And then you pass out again, your body pleased but unsatisfied, knowing that despite all its effort it didn't receive a single sperm.