I'm still looking out the kitchen window, facing away from my roommate, a rush of thoughts and emotions surging through my mind and body when I hear the sound of a heavy, metal object being set down on the kitchen counter behind me. It sounds like Mitch has just put the gun down.

What's next? all my anxious voices want to know. My roommate just captured me. I'm standing in my kitchen in a thong, handcuffed. I have no idea how things got to this point so fast, I feel totally exposed, and have no idea what's coming.

Then I hear a soft clinking sound.

I'm still puzzling what this might be, wanting to turn around but too scared to defy my captor, when I feel Mitch walk up right behind me. In a flash, I see him flip something over my head and into my vision. I feel a cool, hard object press hard against my lips as his hands, holding onto the ends of a black strap, pull back firmly towards him.

"Mitch, what arrrgnnmpgmning?!"

Too late, I recognize what this object is and what's happening. As I opened my mouth to speak, the large, red rubber ball was forced in between my teeth. Under pressure from Mitch, it sinks deeply into my mouth and my words become a muffled, garbled protest.

Somehow, Mitch had my ball gag when he walked into the kitchen this morning! Not only that, he's just used it on me! I've just been fucking gagged by my roommate!

How does he even know I have a ball gag? I wonder frantically.

As I think this I feel him pulling the straps tight at the top of my neck and locking them in place. The feel of the gag is massive and overpowering. I can't even speak now. I had thought I would reason with Mitch, talk things through, find out how he felt about my underwear experiment and resolve the matter. Now, however, he's entirely in the driver's seat and I'm the helpless object of his whims. I have no idea what he's planning to do with me, but it's clear that I will be submitting without comment to whatever it is.

"Hrmnng angrmngnnm hrmphhfang?" Though I know there's no chance to articulate individual words, I simply have to protest what my roommate is doing to me. Shock, surprise, and indignation erupt into my mind and surge through my body. Does he really have to make me so helpless? What is he planning that necessitates a gag? Did my little underwear stunt merit such a ruthless payback? Most of all, I want to ask him what's going on and why he's doing it. But all this comes out as a pitiful series of moans.

"You sound surprised," Mitch says. "As if you've never been gagged before." His tone richly implies that I'm a dirty little slut. I respond with another slew of gagged noises. I'm not even sure what I'm trying to say at this point. Mostly, I'm feeling how unfair he is being, which is probably the most complex idea I can communicate at this point anyway.

Still facing away from him, I feel a sudden, sharp strike against my bare ass and a loud crack echoes around the room.


The slap on my ass catches me totally off guard and I let out a loud, high-pitched yelp.

"You love this, don't you? You little pervert," Mitch derides. I'm blushing madly and the bulge in my thong has never been tighter.

The fact is, I am starting to really enjoy this. Or at least parts of me are. In some senses, this is a total fantasy come true for me. I love being tied up and feeling out of control. I crave being objectified and humiliated in front of others. Nothing could be more exciting than being taken captive like this against my will.

As a long-time member of the kink community, I know all about consent and the importance of negotiating in advance everything that will happen in a scene. But if I'm honest, part of me feels bored and disappointed at knowing the full gamut of the experience from the start. I respect how important this is to protect all participants-both the top and the bottom-but when I fantasize in bed it's always scenarios of unplanned captivity that get me aroused without fail.

"Turn around," Mitch orders. I obey, turning to face him for the first time since being bound and gagged. I'm intensely aware of my bright red cheeks and raging erection straining at the skimpy confines of my thong. I'm also aware of my arms bound behind my back, leaving my body fully exposed and on display. He picks up his gun from the table and takes his time looking me over. I can only imagine what the red ballgag must look like, bulging between my parted lips.

"You look so..." he whistles and shakes his head slowly as his voice trails off. "You look like someone just fucked you good," he concludes. Almost against my will, I give a pitiful moan of assent, acknowledging in perhaps the most appropriate way possible that this is indeed what has just transpired. I'm breathing a little heavier than normal, intense energy—humiliation, embarrassment, anxiety, sexual arousal—surging through my body.

Mitch steps toward me, placing the barrel of his weapon against my bare stomach. I'm terribly aware that he could simply pull the trigger—hardly a movement at all on his part—and launch a pellet at high speed into my exposed flesh. I really, really don't want him to, but I honestly don't know what he's doing. Is his goal to inflict pain on me? If it is, there's little I can do outside of begging him not to. I try to catch his glance as I feel the gun contact my skin, a look of panicked pleading in my eyes.

But he doesn't make eye contact with me. Instead, he brings his other hand up to my chest and pinches one of my large nipples between his thumb and forefinger. My whole body flinches as electric pleasure shoots from the tip of my nipple, down my spine to my feet and up my neck to the back of my brain. A helpless, surprised, pleasure-filled moan involuntarily escapes from me as I reel under this new shock. Now he makes eye contact, and I can only imagine the confused, surprised expression he must find there.

"You're mine now," Mitch murmurs. "You've been showing off your body all this time, but I bet you weren't thinking about what I was thinking, were you?" I try to explain everything to him, that it was just a harmless experiment, that I'll stop now and I'm sorry, but of course all I hear is a stream of gagged noises.

And I have to admit I wasn't thinking about how he was reacting. I was so focused on the excitement of being seen by him and keeping up an act of practiced nonchalance that it never occurred to me that he might be feeling or thinking something other than awkwardness and perhaps confusion. I was totally unaware of what my actions were provoking.

"At first I thought it was just innocent carelessness," Mitch continues. He still holds my nipple between his fingers, tweaking it back and forth like tuning a radio dial or wiggling a loose screw. I squirm at his touch and try to pull away, but his fingers are firmly clamped onto my sensitive bit. I beg through my gag, hoping he'll let go. "But as time wore on and your underwear got skimpier and skimpier I began to suspect it was all intentional. It puzzled me; I wasn't sure why you were doing it."

I try to interrupt him at this point with an explanation (or at least communicate to him that there is an explanation, and that I desperately want the chance to explain).

"Oh, I'm sure you want to explain, but the thing is I don't need you to." He pauses for dramatic effect, though he doesn't stop tweaking my tit and my body doesn't stop writhing under his sensual touch. "While you were out last week I walked past your room and the door was open. I glanced in and happened to see something odd."

Oh shit. This can't be going anywhere good. There's a lot of kinky, fun stuff in my room and I confess I'm not always the best at keeping it organized and out of sight. I had been to a rope practice last week and distinctly remember being sloppy about putting my rope away. Here it comes, I think to myself.

"There was a bunch of rope sticking out from one of the shelves of your bookcase." Mitch's face looks more and more triumphant, like the prosecution circling the witness, moving in for the kill. "Normally, I'd respect my roommate's privacy and let them be them. But you clearly don't care for privacy, walking naked around the apartment like you do. So I decided it was my privilege to explore. And boy, the things I found." He whistles again.

I say nothing, just continue to look him in the eye, my bare chest heaving.

"Beyond your impressive trove of toys," Mitch says, winking at me seductively, "your computer was open."

NO!! I really start to panic now. It's bad enough that he saw my rope, ball gag, and the rest. That's embarrassing, alright, but sex toys like that are at least somewhat generic. My computer, on the other hand, has lots of deeply personal stuff on it—the erotica I write, for instance, and my personal collection of bound-and-gagged art that I look at when fantasizing.

"I noticed you have an app that keeps your laptop running whenever your power cord is connected. I use it too," Mitch shrugs, giving a friendly smile, "but I never leave my door open and my laptop open when I'm gone." His smile goes devilish again. "And lo and behold, what did I see but a Google doc open about the cutest, most vulnerable sexual fantasy." My blood instantly goes cold. No ...

"You know," my roommate says, still gently tugging and tweaking my tender nipple. "I thought you were sexy from the first day you opened the door in those boxer-briefs, and I loved checking out your body. But I felt guilty about it at first, when I thought you were just being uninhibited and innocent. But when I realized that you're actually a kinky little slut playing games with me, I stopped feeling bad about it." He pulls his hand away from my chest, dragging my nipple with it. I lean towards him to alleviate the tension and pain, giving high-pitched moans to plead for release. With a final counter-clockwise twist he lets go. I moan gratefully in relief.

"And when the guilt went away, I started really enjoying the show." As he says this, he drags a finger down my bare chest from between my nipples to my belly button. I'm starting to think I know where this is headed. Part of me panics; part of me burns with humiliation and shame; part of me surrenders; part of me flares with excitement. "You have a really nice body. Thanks for sharing all of it with me." He looks at me with pure ironic delight. "I bet you never thought I'd do more than look, huh?"

At that moment his finger drops into the hollow of my belly button. I feel its heavy weight there, where no roommate's finger has ever been. The feeling sends all kinds of thoughts and premonitions into my mind and body. The tip of Mitch's finger starts sliding in circular motions and sharp, sensitive shocks shoot through my abdomen. I protest and beg through my gag, but this merely encourages him further. The probing continues for what feels like a long time (probably a good 30 seconds to a minute); I moan and writhe and retreat to escape from his explorations, but quickly bump into the window behind me. With my body pressed against its cool surface, there is nowhere else to go.

After enjoying my pleading and moaning for a while, my roommate withdraws his finger from the dell in my abdomen. He steps back and looks me over again.

"Your sexy writing is pretty good, you know that?"

I don't think I would have anything to say to that even if I wasn't gagged.

"When I read about how your protagonist gets a thrill at being seen naked, I realized what you were doing. You've been playing out your sexual fantasies all this time!"

Guilty as charged. My "experiment" was, if I'm honest, nothing more than that—the desire to get some cheap thrills at my roommate's expense. As soon as he said it, I knew it was true, and I felt pretty bad about it. He hadn't consented to being part of my fun. I had imposed it on him.

"So I decided, right then, that if you get to play out your sexy fantasies on me, then I have every right to play out mine on you."

Oh, shit. I hadn't considered that Mitch might be kinky, too. But of course everyone has sexual fantasies. I just hadn't thought they would involve doing stuff to me. He was damn right, though—I had been using him for mine.

Payback's a bitch.

"Which is what's happening right now," Mitch informs me. "After two weeks of teasing me with your body, I've decided to make you my little slave. So I captured you," Mitch gestures to my bound, gagged form with his free hand as he says this, "and now I'm going to do whatever I like to you."

My stomach falls and my face burns, both at the same time. I still don't know what exactly he's going to do with me, but by this point I'm totally convinced it's going to be deeply humiliating. My erection feels like it's about to tear through the cloth of my thong, it's so hard.

"Speaking of which," Mitch says, motioning towards the kitchen door with his pistol, "follow me." Then he turns and leaves himself. I consider escape options for one desperate moment. Rushing for the apartment door and dashing outside seems to be the only chance of liberation. Seeking help from random strangers while bound and gagged in nothing but a thong is simply beyond what I can stomach, however. Acknowledging that I'm thoroughly beaten, I obediently follow my captor out of the kitchen.

I'm glad I put thoughts of escape out of my mind when I step into the hall and find my roommate very intentionally blocking the way to the front door. He gestures down the hall toward the bathroom and living room with a flick of his air pistol. I turn and walk ahead of him to the back of the apartment, feeling trapped and totally objectified. With my hands bound behind my back, I can feel Mitch's eyes drink up the movement of my ass and thighs as I walk.

As I make my way down the dark, warm corridor, my thoughts drift to what's ahead in the immediate future. What is my crazy roommate planning?

I have a curious and non-standard sexuality. I've never had a strong preference for men or women, nor have I ever had much of strong drive to fuck anyone. I have described myself using various terms: graysexual (i.e. low libido); kinky asexual (i.e. not interested in penetrating anyone, only kinky situations turn me on); etc. But honestly it's still something I'm figuring out. I know I'm definitely kinky and prefer to be on the submissive, receiving side of things, but I also know I don't fit neatly into any one box, and that there's still more for me to discover about myself.

At the moment, what I know for sure is that I'm helpless and about to get played with by my good-looking roommate. I don't even know his sexual orientation; there's a good chance he's gay, but then again it's possible that he's straight and is enjoying himself for other reasons. One way or the other, I'm about to find out. The large ball packing my mouth full fills my stomach with butterflies—not only am I bound, but I won't be able to verbally negotiate any of what's coming. The helplessness of it is overwhelming in a way I've never experienced before.

I keep walking until I reach the living room which has only one entrance/exit: the way I just came in. It's the end of the line. I stand in the middle of the room and turn around to take my next cue from my roommate-cum-captor. Mitch follows me in with his pistol pointed at my naked body, a very smug look on his face.

"Stand with your back against the radiator pole," he commands, gesturing again with the gun. These old apartments have radiative heating—basically, pipes with hot water that radiate heat into the room. They're really hot in winter when they're in use, but they're just room temperature poles in the corners of rooms during the summer. I do as I'm told, turning around so my back is against the pole. I feel my butt press up against the metal of the handcuffs, pinning my hands between my ass and the pole.

"Alright, James, you just stand there like a good little slave and I'll be back," Mitch tells me. He pauses a second, looking me over, then finishes, "If you move..."

With that he turns and heads back down the hall. And with that I'm left standing alone in the living room wondering what to do. Sure, I could try to make a break for it, do something. But I'm handcuffed and gagged, wearing nothing but a thong. What can I actually do? And what will Mitch do to me for trying something? Still, standing here doing nothing but waiting for him to come back and have his way with me is odd. After a prolonged internal debate, the rational thinker, the scaredy cat, the exhibitionist, and the captive gain the upper hand and convince me not to move at all. Other voices let me know I'm being a coward and if I submit this completely this early I'll be my roommate's slut forever. I file that away for future discussion. I stand there and wait.

It takes Mitch a good minute or two to come back, and in the meantime it's a long, slow, awkward moment with myself. I look down at my body and verify once again that I'm wearing nothing but a thong, and that I have a huge bulge down there. I don't dare move, so I stand obediently with my back touching the heating pipe, wondering how I got into this strange situation and what my roommate is planning to do with me.

After long, silent seconds tick by I hear Mitch padding down the hall. As he enters the room I see he's holding his backpack, which appears to be bulging. He stops and looks me over thoroughly, the smug smile back on his face.

"Good," he nods. "You're going to be fun."

He bends down, unzips his pack, and pulls out two lengths of rope. My rope.

"Mmmnng mrng rannngmf!"

"Yeah, I know it is," Mitch says snidely, correctly interpreting my gagged protest. "It's what tipped me off to your secret, kinky fantasies, you little slut."

I just stand there and wait for my captor to do me.

Mitch proceeds to tie me up. First, he ties my ankles to the post with one length of rope. As soon as the jute slides across my skin, a shiver goes up my whole body. I start to sink almost immediately into what some people call "rope space." Seriously, though, if you want to dominate me psychologically or emotionally, all you have to do is put rope on my body. Mitch seems to know what he's doing, too. He ties a neat Somerville Bowline around my ankles, not some clunky, collapsing square knot, or worse. Next, he loops a length around my left upper arm, pulls it across my back behind the pole, and weaves it around my right upper arm. He reverses tension by looping the leading end through the bight and pulling back the other way. This pulls my arms toward the center of my back tightly, thrusting my chest out. After Mitch ties that one off, I feel him unlock one of the cuffs on my hands. He quickly slips the cuffs around the pole (his fingers brush my bare ass as he does this) and recuffs my wrist again.

It's a minimalist approach, but I'm securely bound to the heater pipe in my own living room. My living room. I've lived here for over a year and within two weeks of moving in this upstart fresh out of college has me naked and at his mercy, tied up to the heating pipe.

How the fuck did that happen?

"You know, leaving your laptop open with your erotica right there on the screen was quite the gift," Mitch says as he surveys my bound body. "Thanks to that, I have a really good idea what makes you tick."

Dear goddess. I can't believe I did that. But what he says is true: I do write erotica and it is a reliable guide to my sexual fascinations. If he indeed read it all (which is plausible, since it's all there in the same Google Drive folder), he's as familiar with my innermost fantasies. I blush deeply, realizing he knows all the buttons to push. That's really intimate and vulnerable, knowing someone knows that kind of stuff about you. But it's a whole different level of vulnerability when that person has just tied you up naked.