Bowling for Bondage- Amy's First Time Read online

  Bowling for Bondage

  Amy’s First Time

  Copyright © 2018 by Sam Lash

  All rights reserved. No part of this book may be reproduced in any form without permission in writing from the author. Reviewers may quote brief passages in reviews. This is a work of fiction intended for adults only. Any resemblance to persons, living or dead, or business establishments, events or locales is coincidental. All sexual situations and activities depicted within are between consenting adults eighteen years and over.

  Bowling for Bondage

  Amy’s First Time

  I get what I want because I’m pretty. It might not be right. It might not be fair. But when you are five feet five inches tall, with shoulder length straight blonde hair, big bright blue eyes, you just do. If you have a slim tight body that you keep in shape by eating right an exercising with high, firm c-cup breasts and an ass you can feel men’s eyes on when you pass, with a light even tan all over your body, you just naturally get a lot of male attention. When I go out, I don’t usually bring a lot of money. A bright smile is usually enough to get me a drink from just about any guy. I can satisfy my voracious sexual appetite with any man I pick out any time I like. It doesn’t hurt when you are in your mid ‘20s and have a good education from a state university and a little bit of spare money. The world is a kind place when you are good looking. I’d never asked too many big questions or looked too deeply at my desires because what most people seem to want in romance and sex came so easily to me. I did not know how far over my head I’d find myself that Friday night. But what happened was amazing, and it changed my life forever.

  Let’s Go Bowling

  Anyway, one early spring night a couple of years ago I made plans to go out with two of my best girlfriends and roommates. Britni and Samantha were just out of college and single like me. We made a great threesome as we were all about the same height. I’m the blonde. Britni’s the redhead, and Sam is dark haired. I don’t know how it happened, but we all seemed to cut our hair in a similar style, and when we got together to go out, I don’t mind saying that we looked h-o-t hot.

  That night, Britni wore a pair of red leather pants and a yellow top with a plunging neckline. You could see her black lace bra through the thin material. Her red shoulder-length hair was straight, like mine. Sam was wearing a short skin-tight silvery black club dress that would have been at home walking past the line at a downtown club and getting let through the red velvet ropes. Her matte-black leather knee-high go-go boots would have been great for dancing.

  We decided on the old Midtown 34 Bowl on University Avenue for a laugh. It was kitschy, and sort of old fashioned – like stepping into a time machine to the 1960’s. You walked in the door of an old strip mall, and down a flight of stairs into the basement. The desk where they rented shoes was on the left, and a little further down there was a bar. It was busy. Almost all 34 lanes were full. It smelled of floor wax and stale beer. Even though you couldn’t smoke inside anymore, there was still a faint smell of stale tobacco. We traded our driver’s licenses for silly looking red, white, and blue bowling shoes. The old grey-haired lady (who was in surprisingly good shape for her age, she must have been at least 40) was not amused with us. We could tell. We weren’t really on the prowl for boys. We weren’t interested in middle-aged guys with beer-bellies. But we did like the way they watched us, and the irritation that we caused their wives. We were (and still are) terrible bowlers.

  Thank goodness, they had automatic scoring. We figured out how to set up our names on the cartoon TV screen above the lane. We gave ourselves dumb bowling names. I was “Betty.” Sam was “Pinzilla,” and Britni was “Barney Rubble” after the Flintstones character. I walked up to the line and bent over, getting a little thrill from the idea that the old guys in the next lane were probably watching my short black leather skirt ride up over my black fishnets to show my garters. I held the ball in both hands and swung it back and forth between my legs a couple of times before letting it go. It went straight into the gutter. It lost momentum, and quit rolling about three feet from the pins. We had to get help. I pressed the red button on the automatic scoring console to get the desk.

  The tough grey lady sent out the cutest guy I’d ever seen to help us. He came out from behind a black curtain at the end of the lanes, and walked up by the side of the lane at the far end of the alley. He had tousled black hair and he wore a grey douche-bag hat back on his head. He was tall, maybe 6’ 5”, and lanky. He wasn’t old like the rest of the people in the bowling alley. He looked like he was about our age. His blue-jeans and his black t-shirt hung on him like they were on a clothes-hanger. I watched him with the feral glance of a huntress on the prowl as he balanced his way down the lane and retrieved my ball. As he handed it to me, I said, with a playful pout, “I’m sorry. I’ve been a bad girl.” Sam and Britni giggled from their chairs.

  “Yes, you have. Just put a little more on it next time, alright? I don’t want to have to keep coming back over here.”

  He seemed a little gruff, and immune to my charms. I took that as a challenge.

  We rolled the rest of our game. I broke 100 by the 9th frame, which is pretty good for me. Poor Britni rolled a 69 with lots of gutter balls. A 69! We laughed hard. Sam was somewhere in the middle. We had a great time. We had a couple of Long Island ice teas from the bar, and we were feeling pretty loose and happy. I wanted more attention from that Ballboy, though. On my last throw on the 10th frame, I decided to throw just like I did on my first throw. I walked up to the line and leaned way over, laughing, and plopped the yellow ball down on the lane. I slipped over the line, which set off a buzzer, and fell, plop, on my bottom. I felt every eye in the place land on me. I just could not stop laughing. I tried to stand up on the oily lane, and collapsed back down, tears coming out of my eyes I was laughing so hard.

  I looked up and noticed a big calloused palm. It was “Ballboy.” He took my small hand in his and easily lifted me up and off the lane. “You really are a bad girl, you know that?”

  “Sometimes. Wanna find out how bad? Do you think you can handle me?” I ran my tongue over my lips, tasting the dark red lipstick, then bit my lower lip.

  “Oh, I think I can handle you.” He said it with a nonchalance that I found attractive. Some guys would get intimidated by me. I knew that they thought I was out of their league – too pretty to pay attention to them. He sounded a lot more comfortable, and a lot more powerful than the general line of dudes I was used to.

  “You kids are a pain in the ass. You come in here, and you do stupid things like that stunt with rolling the ball from between your legs. We have to babysit you and hope you don’t wreck the equipment. So, you know what? I want to show you something. Have you ever seen the back of a bowling alley? I want to show you some delicate equipment back there so you know what we have to deal with.” This was the perfect opportunity. Once I went back behind the black curtain at the end of the walkway next to Lane 34, I’d have a chance to kiss him. Then he’d be unable to resist me, and I could take him home, maybe after his shift.

  We were done bowling. Britni and Sam said they’d see me at the bar in a few minutes. We went out often, and we had a signal in case we found a guy we might go home with. I flashed my middle finger down low, and then pointed to him with my thumb. I saw that they saw it, and they laughed, changed their shoes, and sashayed off. They wouldn’t wait for me.

  I felt a little bit awkward carrying my black 4” heels in my hand and following Ballboy down that aisle and back behind the curtain in my ridiculous rented bowling shoes. Even though I was probably less conspicuous than when I fell in the lane and made that display of myself, this time I started to
feel a little bit humiliated.

  Once we passed through the curtain, I saw the elaborate system of conveyer belts and machines that made the bowling alley work. It really was kind of amazing. I was noisy, too, with the sound of the pins being slammed on 34 busy bowling lanes. There was an old red wooden chair back there. I saw my chance and I pressed my body up against him looking up at him and pushing my face up toward his. I was sure he’d take the hint and kiss me.

  Instead, he pulled away and sat down in the chair. “Since you’ve been a pain in the ass, I’m going to give you a pain in the ass. Get over here, now!”

  Spanking

  He grabbed both my hands and snapped them into a pair of silver handcuffs he’d pulled from his back pocket before I even knew what was happening. Then he sat down, and yanked me roughly over his knee. He unzipped my black leather skirt and yanked it down over my kicking legs. Then he smacked my ass hard.

  Nobody had ever done this to me. But I felt a warm rush between my legs that told me it was a turn-on. “Hey!” I pretended to object.

  “What’s your name, Princess?”

  “Amy Larson. What’s yours?” I felt silly asking this with my bare butt sticking up in the air, feeling his hard on push into my stomach.

  He didn’t answer me. He just kept on with his bare hand on my firm ass-cheeks. He would alternate between them. Then he would hit the same spot over and over again. That hurt a lot. I suspected that I was blushing red even through my tan back there. My face was flushed, too. I kept getting more and more excited. The more it hurt, the more I loved it. I’m not sure how long he kept this up. I lost track of time and focused on just the sensation of the pain coursing through me and concentrating in my sex.

  “Spread your legs,” he said. I was panting with the excitement by now, my blonde hair dangling down around my face, no doubt my hairdo was messed up now. I didn’t care. I just wanted him to keep doing what he was doing. He slipped two fingers inside of me. Finding me soaked, he slid them in and out. His fingers were long and articulate. He pressed up and against my belly. Then he pulled his fingers out and put them to my nose. “You like this, don’t you.” It was a statement.

  “Yes. Please keep going.”

  “Hmm. Why should I?”

  I had to think fast if I wanted him to start punishing me again. “Because I’ll give you a blowjob. I’ll do whatever you want. Just don’t stop.”

  “Huh.” He sounded bored. “Alright. But let’s go to the back room. I’ve got some other ideas. You are a very bad girl. And you’ve been spoiled. And now you’re going to get what you’ve secretly wanted for what I bet is a long time.”

  Could this guy read my mind? I wanted to be so dirty. I wanted him to degrade me and use me. I was getting desperate.

  He stood me up and led me by my cuffed hands to a flat black painted door, took a key out of his pocket and opened it. I was shocked by what I saw inside.

  The Bowling Alley Has a Dungeon

  I had never had the faintest clue that a place like this might be back behind the pin setting machines at a bowling alley. It was lit by bright overhead spotlights. These were directed at various pieces of equipment, all of which looked like they belonged in a medieval torture chamber. The room was not large – maybe 14’ x 14’. The concrete blocks had been painted black, but the concrete floor was left bare.

  “Give me your hands.” I did. He unlocked the handcuffs and replaced them with a pair of leather wristbands with silver D-rings on them that he’d pulled off a workbench by the door. I noticed he’d locked the door. I knew I was alone with him. My skirt and my panties were out by the chair with my heels. He leaned down and took off my bowling shoes, and then he buckled a set of leather ankle-cuffs on me that matched the ones on my wrists. There were heavy grey iron rings fixed in the middle of the concrete floor. Using white ropes, he pulled my legs apart and tied the cuffs off to them. He walked to the wall and lifted off a yellow control box. There was a whirring over my head, and I looked up to see a hook on a heavy chain lower from the ceiling. He clipped my wrist cuffs together with a blue carabineer like rock climbers use, and then hung my wrists over the hook. He put the control in reverse, and soon I was lifted to my tiptoes.

  Satisfied, he hung the control box back on the wall. He eyed my shaved sex, which was now thick and blushing with excitement, framed by my black garter and fishnets. I’d worn a sheer white blouse and left enough of the buttons undone and you could see my black lace bra underneath it. He took a blunt scissors from the bench and cut off my blouse and my bra, tossing them to the floor. What was I going to wear home? Fear started to mix with my excitement, and it made me even hotter. Then he took a red rubber ball with a black leather strip run through it, pushed my mouth open with his fingers, put the ball inside and buckled the strap behind my head.

  “So, Princess, how are you feeling now? Vulnerable? I have you completely naked. Your legs are ankles are chained to the floor as far apart as I could spread them. Your arms are chained over your head. I cut your blouse and your bra off, and your panties and skirt and heels are out in the hallway – so I’ll bet you are wondering what you’ll wear if I decide to let you out of here. You have a rubber ball-gag in your mouth. Even if you could scream, you’re in a concrete basement with only one exit behind the din of a busy bowling alley. Nobody will hear you. And I will make you scream, Amy Larson. You will scream. I’m going to blindfold you now.” He did – a thick black leather device that he buckled in place and which darkened my vision completely. “You are blindfolded, so you can’t even see which implements of torture I am about to use on you. You are in my power and at my mercy. I ask you again, do you feel vulnerable? I know that you can’t talk right now, but you can nod yes or no.”

  I quickly nodded yes. He was right. I couldn’t speak. I was drooling uncontrollably out of the corners of my mouth. Everything he’d just said was true. What I couldn’t add was that I thought the whole situation was so hot, I felt like I might have an orgasm right there and then. I wanted something inside of me. I wanted him to hurt me, because the pain felt so good. I’d never known it could be like this. But I wanted more.

  I heard his boots on the concrete in front of me, and felt those long fingers inside of me again. “I think this excites you. I think you want the pain to continue. Am I right?”

  I nodded an enthusiastic yes, and, moaning, tried to hump my hips into his hand, but he pulled his fingers away.

  Then I felt the sweet kiss of a flogger’s heavy tails for the first time slap down across my back. I groaned. The blows kept coming, then. Every one stung. I tried to move away, but I was completely at his mercy. Then he swung the whip up between my legs – hard! I screamed, the gag blocking half the noise. He struck again, even harder. Again, I screamed (or tried to). Again and again. He walked in front of me again. I could hear his boots scuffing on the concrete. He slid his two fingers inside of me and removed them, satisfied as I pushed my hips against him in an uncontrollable heat.

  He took my blindfold off, then, saying, “This part of your punishment I want you to see.”

  He removed my gag. “This time I want to hear you scream.”

  Then, slowly and meticulously he began placing clothespins on my tight, tanned flesh. He started with the underside of my left arm. He strung the pins together with a thin, rough hemp string. I couldn’t understand why he was doing this. Soon there was a row of pins close together pinching the sensitive flesh at the side and under my breast. Then he continued the line down across the sides of my stomach to my pubic mound. The pins were painful as they dug into me. I didn’t have a lot of extra skin, and the less skin I had, the sharper the pain was. He repeated the process on my right side. By now, I was quivering with the pain. Small frightened sighs were escaping my mouth. He took a small stepladder from the wall, and stood on it to thread the strings through and eye-bolt in the ceiling. He took a thin rope and put it backward through the eye in the ceiling. He put this in my mouth and told me to hold it the
re.

  I began to understand what was happening when he picked up a bowling ball that had an eyebolt in the top of it off the floor. He tied off the rope that I held in my mouth to it. Then he brought tension into the strings that led through the clothespins and tied them off to the ball.

  “Bite hard,” he said. Oh no! I knew what he had in mind.

  He let go of the bowling ball and gave it a light push so that it swung, pendulum-like. If I released the rope from my mouth, it was going to drop to the floor. When it dropped to the floor, it was going to rip all the clothespins from my body. All at once. I looked down. It looked like a forest. I could not imagine the agony it would cause to have them all come off in an instant. I had to hold out. Maybe he would have mercy on me? I was shaking with fear and pain from the pinching all down my sides. He stood back a few feet, watching impassively. I wanted to plead, but if I tried, I’d release the rope from my teeth. I stood there quivering. My distress escaped me as a squeak from deep in my throat. He looked at his watch and walked to the bench. He returned with a straight white vibrator and put it to my center. Overwhelmed by the sensation, I let go of the rope.

  It felt like twin lines of razors had ripped my flesh apart on both sides. Completely out of control, I howled in agony. The pain pulsed through me in an unexpected crescendo before it began to fade. Then the vibrations took over. Just as I was about to climax – which was almost immediately, as if the pain drove me to orgasm – he pulled the vibrator away, leaving me gasping, looking down at the pink welts where the pins had been.

  He did not give me long to recover. I heard something heavy being dragged across the floor and he pulled a heavy black wooden table with rings set in it in front of me. He pushed it against my waist. He again took the yellow control box from the wall and let my arms down. Then he secured the wrist cuffs with carabineers to rings in the table. My legs were still tied far apart on the floor, but at least I could touch the ground with my feet and not just my toes. Then he was behind me and I felt his member slide inside of me to the root in one swift motion. He was soon ramming harder and faster than any man I’d felt up until then. He was far from the boys who had always been so careful with me – like I’d break or I was too pretty to take what I really needed, which was a harder and faster pounding. I was gasping and begging, and then I exploded in orgasm, my fingers clutching the table’s rough wood.