© Copyright 2005 - Pleasewrap - Used by permission
Storycodes: MF; FM+/mf; wrap; mum; chair; toys; bfold; sendep; gag; exhibition; display; public; sex; climax; cons; X
Chapter Seven - Exhibition
(Lydia moved and ground herself into me, causing me to groan and start to get excited again. She’d been on top of me a while now, and the stimulation was making me excited once again. We were approaching our third time around now, and I wondered how long this would go on.)
Our wedding day was just over two months behind us, and Lydia and I were still in the “honeymoon mode,” though Lydia swore that if she had anything to say in the matter we’d never leave it. I liked that attitude, myself, and did everything I could to support it. Though we’d been living together for almost a year before we were wed, we did what we could to keep things fresh and interesting. The biggest challenge was trying not to get too wrapped up in our work to forget what we’d learned the first time we’d drifted apart – that being with the right person was the most important thing to us.
As a result, we’d both passed up some pretty lucrative opportunities and focused on projects that kept us closer to home and limited the number of hours of overtime we had to put in. Lydia had actually been contacted by her previous employer and offered a job that she would have jumped at two years ago – partnership track, more leadership roles, bigger clients, etc. But she had politely turned them down and said “I’m happy where I’m at and getting married in a few weeks.”
I’d also had the chance to take my independent business a bit more corporate by joining a partnership with three other high quality consultants, but the decision process hadn’t been hard for me, either. While I liked the idea of more money, I didn’t like the idea of less control (inevitable in that type of arrangement) and I didn’t like putting myself in a position where I might need to choose between Lydia and my partners. I’d politely turned them down, but kept the doors open for exchanging leads and shipping work between each other.
Unfortunately, there’s just no controlling the demands that work can put upon you sometimes. After the actual honeymoon (two weeks on the Pacific coast of the US, Tahoe, and some skiing at Whistler/Blackcomb), I’d returned to a project we both knew had the potential to suck up considerable amounts of time. My most reliable client, the credit processing firm, was expanding its offerings and needed to have some adjustments made to the database and interface and I was the first one they thought of. And they needed it done yesterday. They had actually heard the message on my voice mail and decided to wait until I returned to get the project rolling, delaying their own schedule.
(The slight motion was really starting to get to me, and the vibrator on the cock ring had suddenly gone back on, causing Lydia to move with a bit more intensity. It had a clitoral stimulator and she was taking advantage of that. But recovering from a previous orgasm can take some time, which was both good and bad, so I knew it would be at least a few minutes before I’d be ready to service her again. I groaned into my gag and struggled against the wrap that held me. This was incredible and showed no signs of stopping anytime soon.)
I don’t know if you know a lot about working as an independent, but loyalty like that is gold, and you don’t throw it away for anything. So even though the deadline was far too tight for my comfort and the project goals were much more aggressive than I would have liked, I took the job. They had no problems with a higher rate (reflecting both of those factors), and I even got the option to hire up to two additional contractors to work for me at a negotiated rate rather than have them contract directly with them. So on top of loyalty, I could make money by having other people working for me on the project as well. Lydia was on-board with the decision, though she’d raised a number of concerns about the size of the project herself.
Also on the plus side, Jane had literally just relocated to our area. She’d been offered a transfer from a city she’d decided she absolutely hated, and jumped at the chance to get closer to Lydia. I’d made both her and Lydia promise that I wouldn’t be ambushed more than once every six weeks, which had been met with laughter. Lydia was between projects – she likes to take about two weeks every six to eight months and catch up on reading and technology she might have let slide while working – so she had an immediate outlet for her time without me, and that was good.
My project rapidly went from “This could be tough,” to “This is utter hell.” We had an eight week window for the coding, testing, and documentation, and it easily could have been double. The database modifications alone turned out to be at least triple the estimated work due to some very suspect decisions that had been made when it was written (not by me, thankfully). Then it turned out that some of the source code wasn’t the actual production code, so time was lost as we tried to either decompile or re-write the actual code from scratch. Lawyers were suddenly getting involved, making me glad I hadn’t had a hand in that database, and then they wanted some of my time to document what was going on for the lawsuit that was being contemplated. What I’d expected to be fifty hour weeks was rapidly turning into seventy or more hours.
(Thinking about hours made me wonder how long this had actually been going on. The position was stimulating, but Lydia would hold herself still for a while to give me a chance to recover before starting mischief again. And I was in full isolation mode – blindfolded, gagged, earplugs, and mummified by an expert. Time didn’t have much meaning, just the feeling of being bound and stimulated repeatedly.)
And the worst part was that there was no way to delay. My client had a client who they’d signed a contract with. And that client had a contract with a different service company that would expire just a week after the changes were supposed to be done. If we didn’t hit the targets, we wouldn’t have time for training and my client would suddenly be on the defendant in their own lawsuit. Nobody was going to be happy with that outcome.
So instead of coding, I was suddenly doing more project management and reporting, with three additional people added to my project team. Project management is not necessarily my forte due to my temper, and trying to keep control over myself meant that I frequently got home very late, stressed, angry, and tired. Lydia did her best to take my mind off of the whole mess, but I snapped at her too much due to “spill-over” and I wasn’t paying enough attention to what was going on in her life for my own good. She and Jane spent a good amount of time together, which was good, but occasionally had me feeling left out since I often couldn’t get away to join them.
It seemed like we’d immediately gotten into exactly what I didn’t want – Lydia and I being more roommates than husband and wife or lovers. And there was no question that this was largely due to me, which made me even more pissed about the whole situation. So when Lydia’s mood changed, I was already too self-absorbed to really notice the change and it wasn’t until my project had wrapped up that I even realized something had happened.
It was “D-day” when I did. The final testing of the system that positively brutal schedules and far too many diversions had created was at last under way. And this particularly Wednesday was the ultimate test – if the scripts ran cleanly, we were home free. If they didn’t, we were looking at even more overtime and lack of sleep as we lived at the client’s offices to make it all work. I was so nervous that I had barely slept the night before and was alternatively quiet and snappish. And at the end of six hours of beating the living snot out of the database and the code, we’d come through with a grand total of four minor bugs to fix. I felt like I’d just let go of a three ton weight.
So I’d assigned the bug-fix jobs to the programmers I’d hired (it was good to be the project manager in that way) and headed for the nearest liquor store before going home early (an idea entirely supported by my client, who was on his way to start the process of getting the check to close the project out cut). Some good champagne and a little amaretto went into a bag, both of which Lydia would like. I didn’t know what we had to cook, but there was time, so I could order out if I needed to. It was celebration time.
(I thought I heard something, but in addition to the earplugs, there were pads over my ears. So even the muffled noises that frequently got through good earplugs were reduced to just about nothing. I think you could have shouted in my ear with a bull-horn and I would have had some difficulty hearing it. Lydia was picking up the pace a bit, and then the cock-ring had turned off, causing her shift ever so slightly and try even harder to restore my erection and move along to orgasm.)
On a bit of a side note, if I ever meet this “Karma” person, I’m either going to punch them in the face or have some extremely strong words for them at the very least. Why they get to play with us all is beyond me, but I’m not happy about the situation…
I’d gotten home, cleaned up the slight mess that usually resulted from the two of us working, and had changed into my pajama pants and a silk robe Lydia bought me. Dinner had been ordered and would be delivered around 5:00 (just a bit before Lydia usually got home), the champagne chilled, candles lit…
…and Lydia had come home early. Not too surprising, but I would have expected a more surprised and happy reaction. Her man was at home ready to reclaim his free time and show her the love he knew he hadn’t, and she’d only managed a slight smile. Something definitely wasn’t right. Even the idea of the delivered dinner (prime rib done just the way she’d liked) didn’t really brighten the mood.
“Lydia, what’s wrong?”
She was on her way into the bedroom when I asked, and replied with a bit of anger, “It only took you a week to notice I was upset.” Then she kept going.
I followed, “Lydia? What do you mean? What’s going on?”
She was sitting at the desk and didn’t seem to want to look at me. I’d screwed up somewhere, at the very least by missing something. “Did I do something, honey?”
She lowered her head and said, “No” so quietly I could barely hear it.
“Then what is it?”
She opened “her” desk drawer (we have separate ones to keep from getting on each other’s nerves) and pulled out an envelope. She looked at it a moment, then handed it to me.
It had foreign stamps on it and was addressed to her in a hand with excellent penmanship (mine’s terrible, so I usually admire good handwriting). The return address was for an “E. Moran” at an address in Switzerland. And it was unopened.
“I don’t understand, Lydia. What is it?” I asked, sitting on the bed behind her.
“It’s from Eric, Ray.” She looked at me and waited.
I ran the name through my head over and over. In my own defense, it had been almost a year since I’d heard her nightmare story from Germany, and we didn’t discuss it at all afterward. It was a thing in her past and we had gotten over it. She was starting to look annoyed when the name finally hit home.
“That Eric? What the hell is he doing writing you?”
Now she did look annoyed. “I don’t know, Ray. I didn’t ask him to.”
I took a deep breath and worked at calming down. “I’m sorry, Lydia. Nothing’s going right at the moment, is it? Can we start this again? When did this show up?”
She calmed down and answered. “About a week ago. I almost threw it away right then, but I hung onto it. And you were so busy…”
“…that I didn’t notice.” I finished her sentence for her. “You said he was a big-wig in your old firm. Would he be the type to try to reconnect with you? Blackmail you or something?”
She grinned a bit at the suggestion. “I don’t think he’s out to blackmail me. Reconnect, maybe. But not blackmail. I can’t have anything he wants.”
“You’ve got you,” I thought to myself.
“Then open it. Maybe he’s trying to close out that incident as well.” I didn’t know what reaction that would get, but I couldn’t think why he’d be writing otherwise.
(I pulled madly against the wrap, knowing that doing so would excite me and bring me where Lydia wanted me to be more rapidly. The rocking motion it caused seemed to synchronize with Lydia’s efforts and increased the sensation and success of both our efforts.)
She sat next to me on the bed and paused, almost as though the “Evil Ray” she’d imagined that particular night might somehow leap out when she opened the letter. I didn’t push. While I hadn’t had an experience like hers, I knew that I easily could have. She was lucky that she had hers with someone who was willing to stop and not complete advantage of her helpless position and whatever desires he had. Then she opened the envelope and pulled out the letter. She held it so we both could read.“Lydia
Gavin from personnel and I happened to be talking the other day and he happened to mention your name, that you’d turned down an offer to come back, and that you were being married. I’m sorry to hear that you won’t come back since I admired your skills and composure and had recommended that promotion before you left Germany. I also wanted to congratulate you on your marriage, whether it has already happened or is soon to happen.
I also wanted the chance to fully apologize for what happened that night. While you’re right that we both made mistakes, I’ve been doing this longer than you (unless you started around the age of eight) and the larger error was mine. It is obvious that what happened scared you and hurt you. I cannot take that back, and hope that I haven’t left any lasting scars.
After talking to Gavin, I talked with a mutual friend of ours, Jenna. I’m sure you recall her from Australia, and my curiosity had gotten the better of me. She told me that you’d left us to return to an old love of yours. I hope that this is the man that you are marrying and that he understands and participates in the fetish you enjoy. Having once been in a marriage where that was not the case, I know the friction that can cause and you obviously have had enough experience to understand what you like.
In the event that he does, I’ve a wedding present to offer to you. The photographer who gave the show on that awful day for both of us is touring in the U.S. and will be in your area in about a month. I’ve known him for years and he’s agreed to a request I had for him. First, he’ll provide you free tickets to his exhibition, which now includes some performance art. Second, if you wish, he’ll let you and your husband/fiancée model for a private session. All the prints and negatives will be yours and yours alone.
You needn’t reply to this letter. I am not proud of what happened and would have apologized in person, but understood why you avoided me. Contact the tour management company if you like and they will get you in touch with the artist.
Best wishes, and may you and your husband enjoy many happy years.
(The cock-ring kicked in just as my member was returning to truly rigid status. My hips struggled to bring us both to orgasm again, though there was little room for me to help.)
And so the letter went from being a thing of terror to being an interesting opportunity. After some debate (Lydia is still more adventurous than me), I agreed to the idea and we ended up contacting the artist. His show here was in about three weeks and, as he was traveling, we would have to make our arrangements over the phone.
Now, don’t ask me why I let Lydia do that without being more involved. Probably because she seemed so excited at the prospect of meeting him (his art really did turn her on) and the private session. And probably because if I had been involved, I knew I’d hear too much and chicken out. All I knew was that he was in town for two days and she’d apparently gotten a session and a dinner out of him, since both days ended up booked on my calendar.
When the first date arrived, Lydia asked “Ready to go make some art?” with a wicked grin on her face. I knew I was going to spend some time tied at that moment, and just hoped I’d get a chance to “pay off” the eroticism that was going to bring out. We hopped in the car and headed for the club where the show was being held, being whisked inside to meet the artist upon our arrival.
After the usual pleasantries and a quick signature on a form (it wouldn’t do to be able to charge him with a crime for something we were consenting to), he asked, “Who shall be first?”
Lydia pushed me towards him and his assistants and said, “Him. I want to watch and see how you do it. Might improve my technique.” I’d laughed and commented that if her technique improved any, she might as well just cast me in concrete as I stepped forward.
I stripped, as requested, feeling more than a bit self-conscious. Lydia did me the favor of doing the same, saying “I’ll share your fate, honey.” That made me feel better about the situation, and then the assistants had produced the wrap and started to go to work under the artist’s direction. One key difference was that their wrap was rolls about 5” long mounted on handles to make turning them around easier.
The wrapping process itself was pretty standard fare, if you call being mummified standard fare. But with two people working on it (three, actually, Lydia just had to help some), it went a lot faster. Once I was suitably immobilized, three pedestals were placed behind me, each shaped to fit a different part of my body. They had me sit on the pedestal shaped to fit a human rear-end, then swung my legs up onto the one for my feet as the other assistant lowered my shoulders and head into the appropriate position.
The final layers of wrap had been a deep green, so I looked a bit like some plant had attacked me and tucked me into a seed pod. The assistants, soon joined by my loving and mischievous wife, quickly added more of the green wrap so that I couldn’t even shift against the pedestals. Then they produced a breather gag made of deep green rubber and asked Lydia, “Should we do this now, or wait?”
Lydia didn’t need to be asked twice, and after stroking my shaft for a bit of extra fun, she’d gagged me herself and sealed it in with the green wrap as well. Then she surprised the assistants by asking for a blindfold. “I want to surprise him,” she said, and they laughed as they complied. My sight gone, I was left alone.
(It was infuriating and incredibly exciting at the same time – so close to climax and yet the amount of motion just wasn’t sufficient to bring us over the edge. I wanted so badly to let go, but just couldn’t achieve that final little bit of movement that would make it happen. It was marvelous to extend the moment, and yet I wanted so badly for the moment to arrive…)
I was alone for what I thought was a bit of a long time. I could her activity and some whispered talking, and knew that something was up. I struggled a bit against my bonds, but they were expertly applied and I wouldn’t be freeing myself. My erection faded a bit and returned to full strength, depending on whether I thought about the other people in the room or imagined what Lydia had in store for me. Then I felt hands grasping my shaft and felt them stroke it to bring me to full attention. As I realized that they weren’t Lydia’s, the cock ring was slipped on and tested. I thrashed wildly and moaned.
Then the blindfold came off and I saw one of the assistants standing over me. She smiled and said, “Ready for the pies de resistance?” She nodded off to my left, and I turned my head. What awaited me amazed me.
Lydia knelt on a rolling cart large enough to leave considerable room between her knees and toes and the edge of the cart. She was also wrapped in deep green plastic wrap, her arms bound to her stomach like the straightjacket I had made for her. Her legs were pulled so that her feet touched her buttocks, then wrap had been applied to freeze them in that position. Only her genitalia appeared to be uncovered, and she was grinning a wicked grin.
Then I noticed that there were straps under her knees and feet. They hung loosely at the moment, but could be tightened to lift her off the floor with a miniature manual “crane” that rose about seven feet off the floor. “You’re going to love this,” she said, and then the raised her up off the cart.
(I could feel that we were just about there and worked as hard as I could to finish the job. Lydia’s muscles tensed and relaxed, squeezing me inside her and moving the process as long as well.)
She was positioned over me, then lowered slowly into place. I was inserted inside her very gently, and the final inches seemed to take forever. I nearly came at just from that experience. I mmppphhhed and moaned and thrashed as best I could, and she just laughed. Then she turned to accept the gag that the assistant near her held out and was silenced.
“It should be interesting to see how tomorrow’s photo session turns out.”
I shifted my head in some shock and stared at the artist. He was standing slightly behind me, so looking at him was difficult. He caught the look of surprise and noticed my discomfort at the same time. He moved so that I wouldn’t have to crane my neck to see him, and spoke as his assistants produced more wrap and began securing Lydia to me.
“Your wife told me that this might be a surprise to you. She volunteered the two of you for a performance piece for tonight’s show as long as nobody could recognize who you are. This particular position is a popular one at my show and she’d apparently read about it. She thought having the two of you bound together would be more than acceptable to you.”
I returned my gaze to Lydia, who was already well on her way to being fused into position. Long strips of wrap went down below the middle pedestal and all the way up to her shoulders. These had apparently been pre-cut and were going on with great speed. Even with her gag on, I could tell that she was grinning and laughing. The part of me that didn’t want to kill her for tricking me was absolutely enthralled at the idea. Now I just needed to figure out which part was bigger.
I watched as Lydia and I were transformed into what appeared to be a single being. The artist began rolling some of the putty type earplugs in his hand, and began to fit them on me. “You wouldn’t want to act like you recognized anyone here, since that might give away who you are. And the isolation enhances the effect for the subjects. You do know that I try all of these positions myself before displaying them, don’t you?”
Before placing the other plug in my ear, he said, “We’ll be installing an electrode on each of your big toes. Hold them together for three seconds as your safeword. We’ll be placing a small piece of foam there to remind you so that you don’t accidentally end your experience prematurely. There’s a similar system for your wife on one of her hands, though I doubt you could see the wires.”
And then I heard nothing more. Lydia’s blindfold went on as mine did, her eyes twinkling at me as she was hidden from view. The wrapping continued until none of my skin was exposed. I didn’t know if the cock ring went on randomly, but the small bullet it held was quite powerful and always elicited a response when it came on.
So Lydia and I sat and lay in complete isolation, focused on nothing else but trying, futilely, to escape and bring each other pleasure. As we neared another orgasm, I wondered how many more we would be able to achieve before the exhibition ended and we were released. And then climax came for Lydia as the cock ring came to life with what seemed like extra enthusiasm, which finally put me over the edge. The limited movement we had would mean that it would be some time before I would be ready again, though there was insufficient space for me to remove myself from her and sufficient stimulation that I never fully relaxed from a semi-rigid state.
All I could do was concentrate as hard as I could to keep my big toes