CW: discussion of guns

He knew I hadn’t been sleeping well. While I was making dinner he was back in my office. I was unsure what he was doing until bedtime rolled around and he escorted me there instead of upstairs. He’d outfitted the crate to be comfortable, bulking up the usual matting at the bottom, putting in my pillow, filling up what we laughingly referred to as my ‘hamster bottle’, folding blankets into it.
“Get undressed, little girl. Can’t be in your cage clothed, I don’t want you to get into bad habits,” he said. I did, laying my clothes from the day over my desk.
“Get in your crate, little girl,” he said. I crawled in, sat down and lowered my head as he dropped the top down, locking that with the padlocks. Crouching and locking the side door on me too.
“Comfy? Warm enough?” he asked.
“Yes,” I sighed.
Because the crate was a liminal space, a place that put me pretty instantly into a subspace kind of mindset he was right to think this would be more relaxing than the bedroom. More likely to lead to sleep than my usual tossing and turning. I got a little nervous though– we never slept apart. Even though I was already soothed just being locked up, I’d be sad to be left alone overnight if he went upstairs. I could have cried watching him get undressed, pull out more blankets and settle into the couch. So we’d still be sleeping together; me locked up on the floor, him only a few yards away on my couch. It felt strange to be in the crate without a gag, or mask or handcuffs but it was my happy little private space regardless.
I settled in and relaxed back, tucking my blanket around me. Reaching out with fingers and toes in the dark to reassure myself of the bars around me. I’d been laying quietly for at least half an hour. Eyes bright-wide awake and staring into the darkness of my office. Focusing, I could hear him breathing deeply on the couch. During insomniac nights I’d often listen to his breathing and try to match his sleeping pace. Trick my own body into sleeping as deeply as he did. I began trying to match his pace, the cycle almost too wide for me to mimic. Picturing his chest rising and falling. For about another forty or fifty minutes I did this but sleep still escaped me.
I must have drifted off because I startled awake. Confused as to where I was because the moonlight was coming from the wrong direction. Then I remembered I was down in my crate, we were in my office, not upstairs. I tried to stretch out but of course my knees knocked into the bars, my elbows into the top bars and my back felt tight and crunched together. Feeling that sort of underwhelming panic of being restrained. Almost even the fear of pain or cramps. I remembered how scared I sometimes got trying a new thing- like the first time I’d been blindfolded. Now I could breathe through practically anything. Sink away into nothing. I could use that practically any time now that I was stressed out, or upset about something. How it taught me to self-soothe.
The thought of ‘masturbation?’ crossed the skin of my mind rapidly and winged away again. Orgasms did put me to sleep pretty effectively. They always had and they still did. Masturbation was certainly less effective than getting it from him, but right now ‘good enough’ seemed ‘good enough’. Sometimes if I was tossing and turning in bed he’d turn to me and touch me saying “where’s your off button little girl?” and get me off and I’d be able to fall asleep pretty quickly after that. But he was far away, and I wasn’t going to wake him up just because I couldn’t sleep. Unlike being in bed together, where I couldn’t possibly have masturbated without him waking or noticing, I could do it pretty sneakily tonight, being apart. The only other issue was, because he’d rather supply orgasms than force me to do it myself, was that I had to do it very carefully. Masturbating wasn’t an out-and-out no, exactly. He was just hurt if I didn’t go to him. As he put it, his hands and tongue were my free use. If I needed to come I’d go to him and he’d get that job done.
He’d rather playfully begun a few rules so as to curtail any possibility of my even being tempted to not just go to him when I was hungry. We always slept together, we went to bed and woke up at the same time. He made sure he was available. If I went into his office, if I called to him from the kitchen and said, “I’m horny” he’d chuckle and deliver. If he had to delay it was never for long. He locked all the sex toys, even my own, just the masturbatory things in with all the other sex toys in the crate in his office. At first I brattily thought, “that’s fine, I prefer it acoustic anyway”. And then the nail rule came into play. He made mention that he liked when I wore my nails long. That he liked them almond shaped. Of course I obliged; I liked to wear them long myself. Further, I tended to like dressing and pleasing him in that way. Wearing the colors he liked, wearing high heels, wearing subtle, jewelry-style cuffs. He started making monthly nail appointments for me once I found a salon I liked. I didn’t really think much of it– this was regular behavior on his part. He liked doing those little caretaking things for me. It clicked to me once watching the tech shaping my nails though that this was another way to ensure I wouldn’t masturbate. It made me too tender to touch myself when my nails were long. I giggled while still sitting at the tech’s table at my man’s sideways trickery.
I touched myself softly and slowly, just trying to lull or edge myself into sleep rather than full release. But the downright habit of being in the crate got the better of me. Memories of other times being locked in here, getting fucked through the bars, leashed or teased ratched me up and made mere softness impossible. I came quickly, stifling myself by biting my lip. He was a light sleeper, and he’d be disappointed if he woke to hearing me getting myself off. Gushing onto my fingers and getting that uncomfortable stickiness between my thighs. I turned on my side and cuddled up into my blankets. Sighing, cooling down, catching my breath.
I woke up to full sunlight, hearing his knuckles rapping the bars of the crate.
“Breakfast?” he asked.
“Yes please!” I said. Feeling rested, feeling my face go bright seeing him. He smiled down at me.
“Breakfast in the kitchen or breakfast in the cage?”
“Cage please,” I said.
“Good girl.”
I heard him whistling out in the kitchen, hearing the knife on the cutting board. I had set out the banana bread I’d baked and apples for breakfast this morning. Listened to him filling up the press, whatever he was whistling sliding into another song.
Coming back in he set our dinner tray on my desk, the press steaming, a little plate for each of us. Thankful it was Saturday– we’d have the whole day together.
“Hands,” he said, crouching by the side door of the crate, his own palms out for mine. I reached through the bars and he snapped cuffs on me, restraining me to the outside wall. Lifting the top off the crate he handed through the plate. I shoved myself to one side so that he could lay it flat on the floor. Turning his back on me, sure I couldn’t escape because of the cuffs, he did up my coffee.
“Extra cream and sugar for baby today because she’s a good girl and deserves it,” he said, coming back over. Placing the mug on the top of my head I went very still, keeping my spine and neck straight to keep it balanced on my skull. I ducked slowly and smoothly so I wouldn’t lose it as he locked the top back into place. He bent back forward and uncuffed me. I considered reaching up and retrieving my coffee but waited for the command instead.
“Go ahead, eat breakfast,” he said, sitting down at my desk, rolling the chair close to me in the crate. I reached up slowly, trying to be graceful and pulled my mug off my head. Sipping coffee, smiling up at him.
“Good bread,” he said.
“It’s your favorite,” I answered. “What’s the plan for today?” I asked then. It was our usual back and forth, most days. We just more ordinarily did it while drinking coffee in the kitchen. Not while I was nude and in a crate.
“Can you see out the window from down there?” he asked.
I shook my head no, “I can see it’s sunshiney though.”
“Right you are, little girl. How about we do some outdoor activities? It’s pretty outside. Baby want to go to the range?” he asked.
He was referring to the gun range. He had always had a membership, always enjoyed shooting and finally convinced me to go a few years ago. Turned out that I really enjoyed trap shooting. So we’d go up there and shoot together. Contradictory though it sounds, it was quiet time for us. We’d play some sport, barely keeping score, taking our time. Sit on the benches and look at the woods around us. He preferred working on handgun and rifle skills so sometimes we hit several different ranges. Most often we’d do lunch or dinner out someplace afterward. Just pub food or something like. While we didn’t like most of the other people there he had a few other guys he was friendly with. And they seemed nice enough.
I know he liked being able to show me off, though he never said so. He always said he liked how I looked in boots and leggings. Liked seeing me powerful. I knew he didn’t like many of the guys. Thought they were “gun nuts” or irritating. He would always complain about how other men talked about their wives or girlfriends. Said they were hateful, didn’t appreciate their women or treat them right. A few of the other guys told me he bragged about what a good woman I was, and how happy we were together. Which was true, but I didn’t know he was boastful about it.
“That sounds very nice,” I agreed, finishing my breakfast.
“All right,” he said, getting up and coming over to me. Crouching to open the side door of the crate.
“Though you’re lovely nude I don’t think I can take you there like that. You’ll distract too many men. Go upstairs and get dressed,” he said, swatting at my backside as I crawled through the door.
“Okey-doke,” I said, running up the stairs, a little cold naked and outside the blankets.
We went up to the range, not a terribly long drive but long enough. Listening to my music, chatting about not much at all. He’d packed my shotgun but explained he wanted to go to the rifle range first, he had an optic he wanted to dial in. Not unusual. I just nodded and went back to enjoying the sunshine.
Everything was normal for a while. We were the only ones there– not surprising this early on a Saturday. We set up on a bench, pulling things out of the bag. I was just going to spot for him. I took out my spotting scope and sat up on a stool to get ready to do so.
I had purchased those fancy earphones for both of us a few years ago for an anniversary. Noise canceling deals that you could turn on and off to talk at a normal volume with someone else on the same channel. It filtered out the loud but let the quieter things, like voices or even birdsong, be heard. Once he was set up he suddenly reached over and flicked off my headset. I peered at him curiously. So everything would be near-to silence now. I’d be able to hear the muffled crak of shots, but not speaking. While I was still cocking my head and about to turn them back on he grabbed me by the scruff of the neck, lifting me from the stool. He stood as well, lifting me up higher until I was standing on tiptoes in my tactical boots. I was shocked but not particularly worried– we played rough a lot. He delighted in lifting me, putting me in a lock, and throwing me around. I liked it too, even if I squealed and said I didn’t. But he never usually did it in public. I glanced around but the parking lot was still empty. There didn’t seem to be anybody around.
He slammed me into the shooting bench, bending me over. Breasts pressed into the bench, hip bones crushed against the wooden edge. I tossed my head over my shoulder, trying to catch his face or figure out what his intentions were. But he was wearing a cap and aviators so I couldn’t read his face well at all, shadowed and his eyes covered. I couldn’t hear anything around us as my ears were still on. He snapped one cup off my ear.
“Stay where you are, little girl. Can you hear I’m serious?” he asked.
I just nodded, staying very, very still bent over the table. He went digging through our duffle bag and pulled out his grab-bag of zipties. They were for quick repairs or setting up targets. He bent in front of me, tying my wrists low down to the front of the bench. He went back around the corner and then sat down. I wriggled a little, but just to get comfortable. A little nervous, I didn’t really want anyone to see us like this. One of his hands curled possessively around the back of my thigh, giving me a little squeeze and then he went back to tinkering with his gun. I started doing deep breathing, not panicking but just feeling very exposed and in public. I’d never done anything like this. Didn’t even wear revealing clothes in public. We weren’t even the kind of people who kissed in public.
Suddenly his hand went between my legs again. Middle and index finger unerringly finding my split even through leggings. I wriggled harder now, kicking a little, spraying gravel out from underneath my toes. He reached forward again and flicked my ears back on.
“You have a safe word, baby,” he cooed, voice directly in my ears because we were still on the same channel. I bit my lip, keeping quiet. I didn’t really want him to stop. He eased down the waist of my leggings just a bit. Then I startled again, because I heard more than just my boots in the gravel. I tossed my head around, lifting myself further forward and gazing underneath the bench. There was one extra set of feet behind us. It definitely wasn’t his black boots, some kind of tac-guy sneakers.
“Oh wait!” I squeaked.
“What is it, baby?” he asked, fingers rolling soft circles on me. I still felt tender from getting myself off last night though. Very full.
“Who else is here? Wait I–”
“Just a friend. Say your safe word if you need it right now, little girl. I love you, can you take it?”
“I can take it!” I panted. If he trusted whoever else was here, I did too. He reached back forward, hands on the switch of my ears.
“If I need you to hear me I’ll turn on your ears. But I don’t. I don’t want you to hear anything. Don’t let yourself get nervous. I can hear you baby, you make noise if you need me,” he said, clicking off my ears.
“Okay,” I said, still panting. Hearing myself muffled in my own skull. He touched me soft, as though he knew I was a little swollen, a little hurt.
I was right on the edge when I opened my eyes again, looking underneath the bench, upside down, looking between my own wide spread legs to find his boots, the strangers sneakers. But there was a lot more than just that now. I gasped and kicked and was rewarded with a swift slap to my left buttock, and my leggings being tugged down further. He reached over and clicked my ears on.
“I was just telling the boys how heartbroken I was feeling. That I wasn’t a good enough man to you because you had to get your poor little self off last night,” he said, voice in my ears again. I gasped and kicked again, and was slapped once more. I truly didn’t know he’d heard me coming last night. But I must have woken him.
“T, can you grab me a couple more zip ties?” I heard him say in an aside. He stopped touching me long enough to strap an ankle to the closer side of the bench.
“Will you behave?” he asked.
“Yes!” I said breathlessly.
“Good girl. I was saying how bad that made me feel. And I thought, well, if she’s hungry, better feed her,” he finished. He went back to rubbing me and I closed my eyes. It felt so good. Of course he’d had many years to figure out exactly what I needed but he was doing a particularly good job. I was almost unaware of the audience. But then he brought me right to the edge again, my eyes flew open and I saw the shoes and ankles of the other guys. Counting up. At least six other men watching me getting jerked off over a wooden bench. I could feel myself wetting his fingers worse. Usually if he felt me gush like that he’d penetrate me. I was ashamed thinking of whoever was behind me watching me get opened up like that. How I’d helplessly start writhing on his fingers.
“Oh please, daddy, don’t make me,” I panted, falling into the babyish, sexual nickname without meaning to.
“Don’t make you what? I don’t ‘make’ you do anything. You’re a little darling and I like to give to you,” he said, speeding up.
“Don’t make me come in front of all of them, please… I… I’m embarrassed I–”
“Oh, now you don’t want to come? Too bad little girl, lessons need to be learned. When you need to come, what do you do?”
“Go to you, I go to you, I go to you and ask you to make me come!” I cried, trying to shy away from his fingers.
“Good girl. Come on and finish for me… We all want to see it. Make your daddy proud. Come on baby… They’ve all been waiting so patiently for it.”
I started crying tearlessly, trying to stifle myself because I couldn’t hear how loud I was being. But it felt like I was shrieking “oh no” in a loop. Even though I tried to stop it I came explosively all over his fingers. Slumping into the table, limbs going limp after being held tight through my orgasm. He eased my leggings back up, letting everything snap into place. That sticky, unclean feeling of the crotch tight up against me. Everything was quiet for a long minute. I was exhausted. For the time being beyond shame. I heard some stirring behind me– I assumed the audience was moving on, leaving us alone. Then I heard his voice.
“All right boys, one of you, doesn’t matter who, can you go ahead and cut her loose from the bench? She usually gets pretty weak after she comes but be ready to see if she’s going to break for it. One guy on her arms, but we’re going to want one guy for each leg. My woman is strong– you ought to watch her squat. So just be careful. We’re heading to the supply shed, all right?” he said, delegating, commanding. Like he would with me, but without any tenderness for them. I shivered, feeling a pocket knife against my wrist, cutting the zip ties. I stayed still. I didn’t expect any damage but blades made me nervous. I got an adrenaline spike when I was lifted off the bench. Everyone was very gentle, mostly just setting me back on my feet, hands on me like I was something hot to the touch. But still, it was more hands than had ever been on me at one time. Between six and eight, I couldn’t keep track. I’d only ever had just my own hands or his on me. I opened my eyes nervously, taking stock as I was herded toward the supply shed. I’d only ever been in here a few times. Where the target stands, bee killer and a lawn mower was kept. I snapped my hands up and covered my eyes when I saw how many guys were here. Nobody was an out-and-out stranger. But I only knew a few names. They were all guys that he had done training with or safety courses or something. Guys he referred to as trustees, or anyway “not crazy gun guys”. But at least eight. Eight men who’d all just watched me helplessly shake over a shooting bench.
“Stop being shy, little girl. Your work ain’t done so go ahead and look at me,” he said, and he sounded further away. He was deeper in the shed, I was still in the doorway, flanked by three guys. None of them were touching me, but were making sure I had no avenue of escape. I let my hands drop from my eyes, fingers still on my cheeks though, feeling them flame. He at least had his sunglasses off now, pushed back onto the crown of his head.
“Get undressed,” he said to me, with his usual fluttering-fingers gesture when he said that. I glanced around, eyes on the ground, just catching legs. He snapped his fingers at me, making me look up.
“Get undressed yourself or they’ll do it for you,” he said. Shaking, I reached for my ears and he snapped at me again. I stopped, hands going to the hem of my shirt. I must have been moving too slowly for him though. He gestured at the guys and one standing near my side, knelt and started untying my boots. I was surprised, still, at how gentle the one kneeling was. No violence in them, but definitely pent up excitement. I could feel it trying to grow in me too, but was honestly feeling shy. I’d never even been naked in front of another man, forget a group of men in a public setting! I heard my man laugh a little.
“No surprise you went for the shoes, R, I knew you liked feet,” he said, still chuckling a little, a bunch of the other guys joining him. Clearly an in-joke or something they’d had “boy’s talk” about before. The guy untying my shoes shrugged, then grinned up at me. I wanted to smile back at him but was still too shaky. I got my shirt off, at least, when a man behind me unsnapped my bra, surprising me when my breasts cartoonishly sprung free. A hand from the other side cupped me briefly and I braced myself for a hard pinch that didn’t come. I was almost relaxed when I got pushed forward, deeper into the shed, letting in more guys than just the three flanking me into the space. Now a lot of hands on me, between four and five belonging to who knows how many men tugging down my leggings. They were tight, I tried to assist by wriggling my hips. Finally my man came over, lifting me a little onto his shoulder in the fireman carry he used. I really relaxed this time because I was used to this position. Crushed into his shoulders, feet off the ground. It’s how I was moved during any play really. Especially if I was restrained. Because he liked taking away even the control of me being able to walk by myself. Boots and socks were tugged off, and presumably the same ‘foot-guy’ ran an index finger down my instep, making me shiver and shy away from the tickle. Now I was totally nude. Sort of breathing through the panic, backside feeling terribly exposed while up on his shoulders.
****