If one is good...

Crosby hefted the last coil of silver garland. The tree was already full to overflowing, but that was Cynthia for you. Why one string of lights when three were better? She stood there, hand on hip, wearing only her "holiday" panties. Garish red and white striped things with tacky green trim. She tossed the blue ornament a couple of times, trying to find the perfect spot. Unfortunately there were no spots, perfect of otherwise. Crosby sighed. He allowed her her little eccentricities.

He hefted the coil again, glanced at Cynthia, noticed how her chrome steel collar reflected the brightly decorated tree. Next week it would be three years. Three years since the night she'd knelt naked at his feet, three years being his slave, his property. She had pulled her long, dark hair out of the way for him, bowed her head slightly. The collar was a simple strip of steel bent into a loop. He had to pry it apart to get it around her neck, then press it back together to get the ends to meet. The ends were simple lap joints, drilled and tapped. He had dipped the set screw in glue, threaded it in, drilled out the end making it impossible to remove. It fit snug. He could barely get a finger under it. But it made it possible for her to wear other, fancier collars over it at his whim.

Crosby hefted the coil of garland again. He found the tag end, pulled it out, tugged on it. Tugged harder. Harder still.

"Take off your panties."

Never questioning, ever obedient, Cynthia didn't hesitate. She pulled them down over her hips, bent and stepped out of them.

"Put them in your mouth."

Cynthia wadded them up, opened her mouth, and stuffed them in. Stuffed was the operative word. These were bikinis, not the tiny thong she usually wore. Her cheeks bulged a bit, but she managed to get them completely in. Striped cloth framed by two rows of white teeth.

Crosby shook out the garland. He wrapped it around Cynthia's head, wedging it between her teeth. He did this three times. He had a thing for threes. He knotted the garland, then wrapped it higher, above her nose, over her eyes. He worked his way down wrapping around her neck, around her shoulders, across her chest. He hefted her left tit.

She had nice tits. They were big, but not overly large. At 33 they drooped a bit and he'd contemplated a boob job, but he liked them that way. They provided more opportunities for creative bondage. Now he would simply wrap them.

He held up her tit, wrapped the garland around the base, pulled it tight, wrapped again, pulled it tighter still, wrapped it a third time. Her tit went from saggy to round. He wrapped the other. Now they stood out - firm, globes of flesh.

He drew her arms behind her back, wrapped the garland around her elbows, pulled. Pulled until her elbows touched. This was something they had worked on, her flexibility. That and keeping her ass stretched to more easily accommodate him. But that's another story.

He finished wrapping her shoulders, wrapped his way down to her wrists, then continued to coil the garland around her body below her tits, trapping her arms. He worked down around her waist and thighs, down around her legs, around her ankles. Whoever made the garland must have had this in mind because there was just enough to finish wrapping her ankles and make a knot.

Crosby took a step back. He looked at the chair. There were two more coils of garland, one silver, one gold. There was a box of ornaments, including the blue one Cynthia had been toying with. He picked it up. Tossed it. He set it aside and grabbed the box of hangers, those ubiquitous little wire things that somehow go missing every year. Like socks in the laundry, you never come out with the same number you went in with.

He took the box to the kitchen, retrieved the sharpening stone from the junk draw. The metal was soft and it took only a couple of strokes to fashion the end into a perfect point.

He hung the blue ornament from Cynthia's right tit. She grunted as he pierced her skin. If he could have gotten his hand under the garland and between her legs he'd have found her already wet. Cynthia was into pain. Not serious pain. Not peel the skin off with a bullwhip pain. But she definitely had a bit of masochism in her. Crosby wasn't a sadist, wasn't into pain, but she was a good little subbie and if she liked the endorphin rush, well, he'd provide it. Last year for her birthday he had pierced her back with fish hooks, ran them on either side of her spine from her shoulders down to her saddle. He laced them together with bright red ribbon. She wore a backless top to her party. It was quite the hit.

He mounted two more ornaments on her right tit, placed three on the left. He pinched bits of flesh here and there, stabbed the thin wires through, worked his way from her shoulders down to her belly. He stepped behind and mounted three in each of her ass cheeks.

Crosby picked up the second coil of garland, the gold one, wrapped it around her head until it was completely covered, then wound it around her body, again knotting it at her ankles.

He did this a third time with the last coil. There were more ornaments left, so he hung them on the garland - all of them. So many that you almost couldn't see the shiny silver and gold beneath.

He finished with a string of lights, three strings actually, working them under the decorations until there was nothing to be seen of the garland and, of course, nothing to be seen of Cynthia.

He plugged it in, killed the lights. Why even bother with a tree, he thought.

Crosby opened the liquor cabinet, pulled out a bottle and glass. He poured a drink and stepped over to the stereo, tapped a button, and the room was filled with festive Christmas music.

He settled in his chair, took a sip. All was right with the world. He had his pretty decorated tree, nice music. Maybe he'd just relax and have a drink ... or three.

23.12.12