Stories Hub / NonConsent/Reluctance / A Marriage of Convenience

A Marriage of Convenience

by Ildana 08/16/12

Hi, readers! This is my first attempt at a submission here. This will be a multi-part story, otherwise it would be really long. It starts a little slow and will build with time... but hey, the long, slow tease is the best! Amirite? ;) I welcome and value feedback. Enjoy!

* * * *

Sara came to in a most unbecoming position.

The first thought that impinged on her consciousness was that her shoulders and knees ached, a sort of half-numb griping of joints held in an unnatural position. The tips of her fingers and toes twitched, pins and needles stinging as sensation came back to her extremities.

Her head was killing her.

It wasn't for several minutes that her brain began pulling the scattered puzzle pieces into order.

Sara realized that she was upright, sitting on her knees, ankles tied and hands bound at the wrist. Her hands were loosely clasped together, a mockery of prayer, hanging in front of her face.

Naked. She was naked!

Adrenaline poured through her system, icy and clear. Confusion and fatigue slithered away under its chill touch, and Sara rapidly began to think through the pain.

What was going on?

Why was she like this?

Where was she?

No immediate answers were forthcoming, so Sara rewound her tape a little more.

Her last few memories were hazy.

A party? A club.

Dance music had pounded, pulling her heartbeat into sync. The darkness there was a living thing, glistening with the sweat and breath of dozens of writhing bodies under strobing lights.

Her body had twisted and spun, glancing off the flesh of strangers as she danced, brain buzzing, her skin hot and slick to the touch.

A drink had been pressed into her hand, which she laughingly guzzled. She had been so thirsty.

Hands grasped her hips from behind, pulling her close, moving her into rhythm with a new dancer. Closing her eyes, she had let herself be swept into his lead.

Anonymous pleasure of contact with someone she'd never meet again.

Uninhibited catharsis.

The stranger had held her close while he spun the world around them. It had felt so good.

* * * *

That night, she had been celebrating her last evening as a single female.

Well, mostly her friends had celebrated. She had wondered, partly, whether she was making the biggest mistake of her life. The other part of her had been wondering whether she could escape the squealing women guzzling mixed drinks from penis-shaped straws without being missed. It seemed pretty unlikely.

Sara was a 25 year old virgin. As such, her friends considered it their duty to gleefully rectify her ignorance. Sex had been the topic all evening. It had been sharing notes on toys, and lamentations about the inadequacies of men, and whispered confessions about how frequently they shaved their upper thighs.

So excruciatingly dull. Horrifying? Not to mention. If she had to hear anything more about Jenna's husband and how much he liked to reprise and act out fantasy movies in sex-play, she really might end up committing a homicide and locking herself up in therapy.

They didn't get it. Her friends didn't understand that she wasn't completely ignorant about sex; she just wasn't interested. She had been on a few dates, engaged in some awkward fencing with tongues, let a few paws slip up her shirt. She had not been stirred during these excursions into the dating scene; the guys were like eager puppies, and it was boring and crude.

Sara privately questioned what right she had to be getting married when she didn't give a damn about things like what underwear would please her man, but she said nothing and sucked on her Cosmopolitan, letting conversation wash. Her fiance seemed content with her the way she was. Then again, Sara's engagement had been more like a business transaction than a pronouncement of feeling—a fact she had carefully concealed from her friends and family when she announced her good news and intentions to elope. Johann's request, of course, but one she was happy enough to oblige. He was a successful businessman and an aspiring major-league politician. Also... big, ostentatious weddings sucked.

Their entire relationship seemed to play out like a game of chess, or maybe a string of favours. She expected the sex to be no different. I'll dutifully spread my legs for you on this Thursday at 10 pm after our appearance together at your fundraiser. You give me an allowance for being your devoted wife in front of the camera and let me go about my business otherwise.

Distasteful, but eminently doable for the big payoff. No more questions about why she never brought a boyfriend home, or whether she might be gay. Room and board, security money towards retirement, and someone to have dinner with that maybe someday she might actually really feel something for. Arranged marriages worked for people in the Indian culture, after all. Why should she be any different, as long as she had no prospects of her own?

The evening dragged on with games, giggling, and copious amounts of alcohol. Sara had already had so much to drink she was beginning to feel sleepy.

And then there had been a stripper.

Sara assumed he was reasonably attractive, but she wasn't interested enough to take a serious look. In fact, she had barely looked at him at all during his routine. Bless his heart, he had taken that as a challenge. He made himself impossible to ignore.

Sara was yanked out of her chair and pulled face-to-chest with the man; he was well over six feet tall and she was a piddling 5'4". He forced her thighs apart with his knee before she caught her balance. Startled, she looked up into his face, seeing a satisfied smile on his lips and green, green eyes. He took her right hand and set it on his well-defined shoulder as he splayed his palm in the small of her back. With a quick tug, he pulled her off-balance again and caught her weight on his thigh.

That had gotten her attention.

She held on to him, her other hand pressed to the hard planes of his chest. He felt like steel sheathed in flesh, hot to the touch and lightly glazed with oil and sweat. He danced with her, was leading her motions with brute force, using his hand on her back to pull her hips towards him in erotic mimicry. The muscles of his thigh rubbed hard against the crotch of her jeans and the friction set her ablaze.

Her friends were forgotten; her vision shrank to encompass a world no larger than a piercing green gaze and his Mona Lisa smile. The man watched her with an intent, almost clinical detachment as her pleasure skyrocketed. In the mere seconds that he had her under his control, he had brought her to the throbbing brink of orgasm.

Before she could tip over the edge, he abruptly deposited her back into her chair, segueing ever-so-smoothly into a lap dance. Her friends cheered. Dazed, Sara's eyes glazed over as she realized how close she had come to cumming in front of an audience of her closest friends. Adrenaline raced through her system, pushed along by her thundering heart as she slumped in the chair.

The stripper had thawed the ice queen, and he wasn't about to let her forget it. Straddling her, he fisted his right hand into her hair, holding her helpless while he mimed making love to her mouth in exaggerated thrusts, the other ladies egging him on.

While the stripper was pretending to fuck her face, Sara had an epiphany. Under the eyes of others, caught by the hair, suddenly... Somehow, everything began to fall into place, complete in a way it hadn't been before.

She was turned on.

Really turned on.

It had been like a train wreak. Sara's eyes gravitated to the bulge in that bedazzled, banana-hammocked crotch thrusting itself into her face; she couldn't look away. She brought her hands up to stroke the pattern of downy blonde fuzz drawing a path south from his navel. Before she thought better of it, she set her hands to peel back that flimsy excuse for a garment and have a better look.

Quick as a blink, the stripper caught her hands in his own and knelt in front of her, pulling temptation out of reach. The sudden laughter of her friends brought her back to awareness, and with that realization that they were avidly watching her reaction, she felt a curious jolt of electricity run through her veins. To take the sting out of his rejection, he nuzzled her ear and met her gaze. A half-smile lurked on his lips, but his eyes were unfathomable.

A rush of feelings too complex to identify swamped her. She dropped her hands, chagrined. God, she was such a basket case.

The stripper had left, and Sara felt drained enough to want to call it a night, but the mood among the girls was supercharged. After a parting round of shots of tequila to recharge, they enthusiastically packed Sara up and went to a night club of questionable repute where the booze was cheap, the bass was heavy, and someone had managed to slip her something in her glass.

* * * *

Sara no longer worried about such trivialities as nudity. In the haze of her hangover, she was more worried that her arms were going to fall off if she couldn't put them down.

This was assuming that her skull didn't explode first. Or she died of thirst.

She glanced upwards again. Her hands were bound facing each other in thick leather cuffs attached to a chain that dangled from a hole in the ceiling. Sara was almost positive, judging by the metal collar on the hole around the chain, that there was a spooling mechanism up there that she couldn't see. Right over a king-sized bed, on which she was kneeling.

Squinting a little in the light, she examined the leather cuffs around her hands. The manacles hung tantalizingly close. The buckles were on the far side, but perhaps if she lifted herself up she could get enough slack to undo them with her teeth.

The sound of a door shutting behind her startled Sara so badly that her vision went grey and sparkly. She turned her head injudiciously fast, flinching at the stabbing pain behind her eyeballs, unable to see over her shoulder clearly. Then a mechanism ground to life, retracting the loose chain.

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