The Mancipation of Martha
by Alexander Hastings

Black-eyed Martha was a cute kid. I knew as soon as I saw her that she was up for it. She didn't say much, but accepted my offer of a drink.

She held the glass in both hands as she swayed in time to the music. The noisy club was heaving. Martha's hands shook as she sipped. She must be on something, I thought. A vivid black tattoo -- of some wild plant or other -- encircled her upper right arm, contrasting with her white skin.

I watched her blinking the smoke from her eyes. What was she doing here? She looked so young, and out of place in her black leather skirt tight to her pale thighs.

We sat together for a few minutes. She stole furtive glances at me when she thought I wasn't looking, but I watched every move in the mirrored wall opposite.

I leaned toward her. "You wanna go someplace else?" I shouted above the din.

Her eyes met mine for a moment and then she looked away, but in that fraction of a second I saw curiosity, excitement, and a little fear -- volumes imparted from those dark pools.

Then she nodded and slid off her bar stool, picking up her leather jacket from where it had lain behind her heels like an obedient dog.

On her feet, Martha came up no farther than my chest. Towering over her I imagined manhandling her compact body. The front of her sleeveless leather waistcoat -- matching the rest of her somber outfit -- pressed against her
breasts, the top button undone.

I bent to her ear. "How old are you?" I said. I'm no child molester.

"You're bloody cheeky." But she flashed me a grin. "I'm twenty-two."

Like hell, I thought. She looked fifteen, but I guessed she was nineteen or so. Young enough to exaggerate upwards, anyway.

"Let's go," I said, slipping my arm around her waist. I steered her quickly toward the door. She brushed and bumped against me as we threaded our way through the crowd.

As we hit the street, I sensed anticipation in her deep gulps of the cold night air. Her gooseflesh, orange in the sodium streetlight, looked starkly vulnerable against the tight leather's black sheen.

"This way." I swung her round, and we set a brisk pace down the adjacent side-street to my car.

Martha lay back in the bucket seat of my sleek two-seater, idly scraping her shiny black nails along the web of the safety belt crossing her chest. Her gaze darted around the chrome interior. Nothing like a sports car for pulling the girls -- a cliche, but true. I tried to keep my eyes on the road.

Ten minutes later we were crossing the parking lot to my apartment. Only one floor up, so we took the stairs. Martha swayed her butt in front of my eyes as I followed her. I drank in the vision before me, listening to the soft swish of her thighs brushing together.

I closed the apartment door behind us, and she threw her arms round my neck, pulling me down to fasten her hot, moist mouth on mine. And there we stayed for what seemed like eons, exploring each other's oral details. I felt her
squirm in my hands as I traced out her contours, the fascinating junctions between leather and flesh.

At last I reached up and dragged her arms away, stepping back from her. She stood panting, breasts heaving against their black leather constraint, stomach rippling beneath the tight waistcoat.

She stared unflinching into my eyes. She must be ready now, I thought.

She watched me step toward a cupboard and open a drawer, from which I withdrew a transparent plastic bag. Silently I held it up for her to see.

Her eyes widened as she perceived the purpose of the contents, and she smiled. I upended the bag, and the cords fell like dead snakes to the floor.

"Are you up for this?" I said.

Martha nodded. With the faintest smile on her parted lips she began to undo the buttons of her waistcoat. As each button withdrew from its allotted oval, by turns her white flesh became more visible, until, finally, she dropped the
leather to the floor, revealing pink nipples and rounded, unsupported breasts that rose and fell with each breath.

Without a pause her hands went to the buttons at the side of her skirt, which she despatched with equal alacrity.

She took a step toward me, as if inviting my approval, my caress. The stacked shoes gave her a provocative gait, and the black leather g-string transfixed my gaze. So narrow and so tight, it seemed likely to cut her in half.

Displayed thus, she looked less young and innocent than I'd first thought. Black, bobbed hair swaying just above her shoulders, the full breasts, the flat stomach narrowing to her waist, then swelling to her hips, her shapely butt scored by the voluptuous sweep of the g-string.

She was ready.

I picked up one short cord from the pile, and stepped close to her. Her sinuous movements as I took hold of her wrist convinced me I had judged right. I twirled her round, taking the other wrist and placing it over the first at her back. As I twined the cord around her wrists my knuckles brushed against her buttocks, and I saw -- and felt -- the ripple of her flesh as she clenched.

With her hands secure behind her, I turned her round and placed my open palms on her shoulders. I began a long, stroking caress, barely tickling her breasts, brushing the hardened nipples and ending at her waist, tracing out
the line of the g-string.

With firm pressure I slipped my fingers between her skin and the leather. It was tight, but not so tight that it wouldn't give. I pulled on the thongs sweeping over her hips, twisting the leather rhythmically, so that the pressure on her pubis and between her buttocks increased. Martha's breathing became shallower and more rapid as her body manifested its arousal.

I let my hands follow the shape of Martha's curvaceous hips, down her slim legs to her ankles, and I unbuckled her shoes. She stepped out of them.

I stood up to survey her. Martha's small, beautifully proportioned body stood before me like a finally accessible fruit, ripe for the picking. Eyes sparkling, her gaze followed mine. She still wore a faint smile.

"This is just the beginning," I said, running a fingertip from her navel, up between her breasts, following the curve of her chin and ending at her mouth. I felt a nip as she bit gently into my skin, then I slid the finger between her lower lip and teeth, feeling the warm wetness of her saliva. "Don't move." I withdrew the finger and stroked her cheek, which glistened with the spit.

Martha stood stock still as I went to fetch the rest of the cords. She did not resist as I passed a cord between her back and her already pinioned arms. I formed a knot in the cord, and pulled it tight at her elbows. The circlet tattoo deformed under the pressure of the cord, and Martha gasped as her arms wrenched. She cried out as I pulled hard, forcing her shoulders back, her chest out.

"Does it hurt?" I said, turning her round to face me.

She nodded. She did not take her eyes from mine.

"Good."

I went again to the drawer and returned. Martha's gaze followed my hand as I held up the object I'd retrieved.

"In days of old," I said, holding the opalescent plastic device vertically between thumb and forefinger, so that it stood up about three inches, "women who nagged their husbands were forced to wear a device called a scold's bridle."

Martha continued to stare at the object.

"It was a metal harness, fitting around the woman's head," I continued. "There was a protruding metal plate that went into her mouth and held her tongue down. By all accounts it was very effective."

I waved the plastic device gently in front of her face. She opened her mouth a little as her head followed the motion of my hand.

"Not a peep was heard from a woman made to wear the scold's bridle. This, however," I went on, "is for a slightly different purpose."

Martha gasped as I grabbed a hank of her hair in my left hand and pulled her head back. "Open your mouth," I said.

Martha was breathing fast now. Her eyes widened and her gaze fixed on mine as she dropped her jaw in response to my probing fingers. "Wider," I said, pushing the plastic bridle into her mouth. I pressed it into place toward the back of her throat. The device had flanges at each end, which fitted between her back teeth.

Thus was Martha's mouth forced to remain open. "Bite down on it," I said, releasing her hair. Martha blinked several times as she tried to close her jaws. Her breath came in a rush through her open mouth, and she shook her head. She screwed her eyes shut, and drops of moisture escaped from their corners, trailing tiny wet tracks down under her chin.

I took her face in my hands, inserting my thumbs into the corners of her mouth. I saw clearly that the bridle was correctly positioned. Martha opened her eyes and looked at me. Her head trembled in my hands. I looked down and
saw her flesh quivering.

"Very good," I said. "The bridle will prevent you from biting." I stroked the tip of her tongue with my forefinger. "You may have difficulty speaking, due to the immobility of your jaw, but the bridle allows your tongue to move
freely."

I looked at her. She was still breathing rapidly. The cords binding her arms forced her heaving breasts toward me, the nipples like succulent pink sweets. I traced my fingers around her jutting breasts, tickling my fingertips over those inviting rock-like protrusions. My pulse quickened with anticipation, and I felt a welcome stiffening down below.

I placed my hands on Martha's shoulders. "Kneel!" I commanded, pressing her down. With sweet compliance she obeyed, instantly. Her subjugation was complete.

In that submissive pose she watched me undress. I pulled off my shirt, my shoes, my jeans. I faced her as I slipped down my underpants, letting my impressively erect cock spring out and up from its erstwhile uncomfortable confinement. Martha watched the bouncing organ approach her, her eyes crossing as her gaze refused to turn from the darkened, blood-gorged head aiming at her parted lips.

Once more I grasped Martha's hair, entwining my fingers in her black locks, holding her head still.

The hot wetness that gently engulfed my throbbing cock as it slid into Martha's mouth was almost more than I could bear. The pressure of her restrained teeth, scraping across the stretched and ultra-sensitive skin of the bloated organ, nearly made me come right there.

Martha seemed to know this too. She froze. I held myself within her, completely still, for a few moments. Then I felt her lips close about me. Though she could apply no pressure with her teeth, the bridle did not prevent her lips from moving and manipulating as I thrust my cock full depth into her luscious mouth. Though I held myself stationary within her, the manipulations of her lips, combined with judicious suction, sent the most delicious tremors of pleasure searing through me.

And then she began to use her tongue. With subtlety at first, then with more purpose, swirling, tickling and teasing, tracing the ridge around the organ's head, pressing into the tip, until, with an inevitable crescendo of paroxysmal pleasure, my load erupted into her, my body shuddering in the grip of orgasm.

I gripped Martha's hair, her mouth clamped tightly onto my cock, as the climax subsided. I held her like that for some while, the rush of hot breath from her nostrils washing around me. I felt a gentle pull as she swallowed.

At last I began to withdraw my gradually softening organ, but as I did so, I felt the tip of Martha's tongue brush its underside. The resulting stiffening caused me to pause in my exit. The relish of that wet caress, then firm pressure, sent fresh shivers of arousal through me. And in time, to my astonishment, the ministrations of Martha's magnificent mouth brought me once more to an achingly delicious climax.

When at last I did withdraw, it was at the conclusion of delightful satisfaction, the like of which I'd rarely experienced. Martha, still tightly tied, with the bridle secure in her mouth, remained subservient, obedient, compliant. It was as if every imposition on her shackled body was what she had always desired.

I bent over her, slipping one arm round her back, and the other behind her knees. I scooped up her diminutive form, pulling her close to my naked body, enjoying the touch of her flesh against mine. I took a few steps and tossed her face up onto the bed. She fell to one side, as the bindings on her arms prevented her laying properly on her back.

But I repositioned her, straightening her legs, making sure she lay face up, with her head and neck stretched backwards over the edge of the bed. I stroked a hand from her upturned chin, down between her breasts, over her
flattened stomach, her navel, to the narrow leather triangle of her g-string. Once more I followed the junctions of leather and flesh, but this time I pulled the leather away from her body. Impressions of Martha's tight underwear lingered on her skin -- mapping the dark forest at her crotch.

The long caress that I then began, touching Martha in all the places she longed to be touched, brought her, over a period of many minutes, to a height of arousal expressed vividly in the flushed kaleidoscope of her receptive flesh. Pink patterns of delight marched across her skin, manifesting her anticipation and measuring her closeness to climax.

I spread her legs, massaging the wet and hungry spaces between, until, as her expressive body indicated, she was ready. She accepted my hardened cock like the first meal after a fast. I felt her hot flesh devour me, and despite her
bindings and the bridle, it seemed as if she was the one in charge, and I was the obedient submissive, forced to offer up my constrained but willing flesh for her enjoyment.

There was an end to it, of course. I gently pried the bridle out, released her bindings, and we fell asleep in each other's arms.

Next morning, she was gone. I awoke to find no trace of miniature Martha, save for indentations in the bedclothes. I began to wonder if I'd dreamed it all, and that our night of illicit passion had been the creation of a deranged, sex-starved imagination.

But that evening, there came a knock at the door. I opened it. Martha, in the same black leather, stood on the threshold, a black leather bag slung over her shoulder. The strap seemed to dig into her flesh as she walked past me
into the hall, and I heard a tinkle from its dark interior.

"What's in the bag?" I said.

She flashed a grin beneath those dark eyebrows, those wide, black eyes, and upended the bag. With a crash of clanking steel, the bag poured forth its stash of chains, cables and cuffs.

I stared at the pile of vicious restraints littering my floor, aware of the stirring in my groin. "What...?" I stammered.

"Hush," said Martha, approaching me. She reached up a hand, sliding it under my shirt and across my chest. Her hot palm moved over my skin.

"Now it's your turn," she said. And then she began to undress me.

©2001Alexander Hastings