“Hello!” I yelled as was my habit walking into my boyfriend’s house. The front door was unlocked, but his parent’s car was gone so I thought he might be home alone since his car was in the shop. No answer, I checked the deck, but no one seemed home. It was surprising, but I guess everyone forgets to lock their front door occasionally. I was about the leave when I decided I needed a quickie potty-break before heading back out. That’s when I heard a noise.

It was coming from further back in the house. I couldn’t make it out, but I had to look, right? I mean, what would you do? No, this wasn’t a horror flick where the noise was caused by a serial killer, only to find a cat. Since they didn’t have a cat, it was just a strange sound.

I checked out two bedrooms and didn’t find anything. The door to the master bedroom was partially opened and just before I stepped in, I saw the strangest thing ever. Hooked to the ceiling and hanging down was what could have been a chin-up bar, but it wasn’t being used for chin-ups. Hooked to the bar by a short chain to a pair of leather-looking cuffs was my boyfriend’s mother, Margery. I was so stunned I just stood there looking through the doorway. She was facing away from me, so except for my initial yell, she didn’t realize I was there. A huge part of me said I should simply head out and pretend I didn’t see this. Margery and Bill, my boyfriend’s parents, could be on the front of a magazine of about average all-Americans. In fact, I would have put them in the boring category. Seriously, if you could picture the most vanilla stereotypical American couple, you would think of Mr. and Mrs. Marsh. Who the fuck knew they were into something so kinky?

I glanced around the room, not believing she was here all alone. I really loved their bedroom, what I could see of it. The room was really incredible, the centerpiece was this huge canopied-bed with these thick posts. It looked like something off or a middle-ages movie set. There was a reading nook by the back window surrounded by several shelves of books. Normally, the books would get my attention, but not this time. Margery was in the middle of the large room, just standing there. Her arms were over her head, but she was standing, not hanging. She was also naked and on the corner of the bed were what looked like a collection of sex toys.

Again, something told me it was time to leave, but I couldn’t bring myself to do so. I’m not a virgin and maybe not all that experienced, but the Internet taught me a lot and certainly about some of the kinks that were out there. Some of them were just plain gross, and right up until that moment I would have put this in that category. But there was something really sexy about Mrs. Marsh standing there as if she was waiting for something. That’s when I noticed her ankles were also cuffed and there was a bar keeping her feet apart.

I felt a little strange and then realized I was turned on. It was a familiar feeling, but one I usually got while making out with Will, my boyfriend, just before we have sex. I had this urge to stick my hand down my shorts and jill-off. I found my hand flat on my belly and about to take the plunge without even realizing it. Mrs. Marsh may have heard something because she partially turned her head and I saw she was also gagged.

I couldn’t help myself, I stepped into the bedroom, still staying out of her view. As I walked I felt my own wetness making things a lot slicker than normal within my shorts. I could tell that if I took them off, my panties would be soaked through. Just like that time my best friend Gail and I were kissing a few years back. It was supposed to be just ‘practice’ but by the time we were done ‘practicing’, we were both out of breath and wild-eyed at what we were feeling. We never acted on those feelings, but I remember how I felt later and how exciting something so forbidden could be.

I spoke for the first time, “Mrs. Marsh, I don’t ever think I have seen you looking so lovely.” She froze at my voice and struggled with the cuffs, but she was held pretty tightly. My choice of words was plain to me, in part because I have used that phrase before — most often as she came into the room dressed up for an evening out with Bill. I called her Mrs. Marsh because that is what I always called her. It was not just how I was raised, but neither she nor her husband asked me to call them anything else.

I knew she was in her mid-to-late-forties, but I have to say that from behind — she was in pretty good shape. Her butt was pretty tight and while three kids might have widened the hips a bit, they still looked damn good. I didn’t say anything else for a minute or so as I watched her struggle for release. Something in her movements really spoke to me and I felt not just turned-on but powerful.

It was an intoxicating feeling. Me, the mostly nerdish girl who loved books and hated school sports was feeling an almost overwhelming sense of power. I’d never felt anything like it. I didn’t feel the need to hurt Mrs. Marsh, I wouldn’t ever do that. But the very idea of someone totally at my mercy was unreal. I stepped up behind her, close enough to feel the heat from her body. I didn’t touch her, but I spoke soothingly, trying to calm her down a little. I could tell she was as close to freaking out as I have ever seen her. I’ve seen this lady handle a surprise dinner party when Bill brought home unexpected guests with more control than she was showing here. I was actually afraid she would hurt herself.

“It’s okay, Mrs. Marsh, I’m serious. You look absolutely amazing. So beautiful and so sexy.” I reached up and stroked her bare arms very lightly. “I would have never guessed I would ever see you like this, but I can’t help but admire you.” I lightly stroked her hair, her long blonde hair that hung loosely halfway down her back. As I inhaled I found myself enjoying her scent. I couldn’t pin it down because I don’t ever recall her wearing anything specific. I did find it as intoxicating as the feeling of power and control I was feeling.

She tried to say something, but the gag was an effective one. I put my hands on her hips and stroked the outside of them down part of her thighs. She made a slightly different noise. I don’t know what it meant, but something in the sound went right through to my core. That’s when I recognized the scent, she was excited and actually getting more excited by the second.

I couldn’t help myself and did something I remember thinking about after my ‘practice’ session with Gail. I slid my hands up and cupped Mrs. Marsh’s breasts. My arms and hands were still the only points of physical contact since I was a bit taller than her and while I was tempted to press my body against hers, I was still in new territory and I wanted to savor this time together. I recognized intellectually that things may happen in the future that will impact my relationship with her, but that felt in the far future and wasn’t an overwhelming concern. The only thing going through my brain right that second was how amazing her breasts felt.

I am an A-Cup. I will probably take after my mother and only go up to a B after having a child. Actually, for my height and body shape, I looked pretty good. A bit on the slender side, but I haven’t broken my twenties yet, so I figured I would fill out more over the next few years. While I hated sports, I did like activity, so I wasn’t a ninety-pound-weakling, but I was very slim. Mrs. Marsh’s breasts were a solid C-cup and maybe even a D. They felt so different from my own in my hands, so heavy, so solid. It was actually strange holding them and feeling their weight since my own just filled my palm. I played with them a bit and felt something I had seen on my own meager offerings, her nipples tightened up.

“I think you are enjoying this, aren’t you Mrs. Marsh? I can tell you are turned-on because your nipples just hardened against my hands. Tell me, are you?”

She didn’t say anything, not that it would have been intelligible, but I was after an acknowledgment. I squeezed her breasts harder, catching her nipples between two of my fingers. “I asked you a question, Mrs. Marsh, or may I call you Margery? Mrs. Marsh seems so formal with your tits in my hands, don’t you think?”

She nodded her head and made a sound suspiciously like a moan at my treatment of those magnificent breasts.

“I’ll take that as a yes to both questions, Margery. I know how much you hate the nickname ‘Marge’, so I won’t even think about using it. But I think calling you ‘Margery’ would certainly be more appropriate right now. Of course, once this little interlude is over, I will go back to calling you ‘Mrs. Marsh’, but I think both of us will think about this every time I say your name.”