by Dave Potter
Exclusively for the ‘Tales of the Veils’ website
I remember well the moment that my life changed irrevocably. I received a call on my mobile from an unfamiliar number and when I answered it there was an Asian voice on the end. You know the kind I mean, one of those British Asian accents of someone who moved here pretty young, speaks English probably better than they do Urdu but has still got this weird, half-half accent. Someone like my dad in other words.
But this man was not my dad. He told me that his name was Mohammed Hassan and he wanted to talk to me and asked if he could come around one evening. I asked what it was about and he said that he would explain then but that it was nothing to worry about, more an opportunity if anything. I wondered if he was one of those dodgy “businessmen” that plague the Asian community who had heard that I’d got a bit of spare cash and so wished for me to invest in some land-buying scheme in the Kashmir. I told him that I wasn’t interested but then he said that it involved Jamila Ahmed. At that I said he could come round the next evening.
Jamila Ahmed was a girl that I went to school with. Pretty, with cute dimples in her cheeks, she was also headstrong and intelligent. We’d hung out together a lot all through high school and got pretty close. Then we’d gone to the Sixth Form college together and for a few months at the end had started dating. She was a great girl and I really liked her, both her brains and sense of humour, beautiful dark eyes and perky arse. So yeah, we’d gone out, in an Asian way of course: kissing and frolicking but that was all. Ok, so she’d once sucked me off and that had been nice, but nothing beyond that. But then, after our A-levels we’d headed off to different universities, me all the way up to Leeds to read Economics and she went to Cambridge, (yeah, she was that clever). Then we’d kind of drifted apart and the last I heard she’d had some high-powered career in the city doing something to do with internet banking. As for me, well, I was now doing well myself, set up my own business in car washes which I’d then sold and now I was into loans. All good stuff and I wished her well and occasionally wondered how she was doing but that was all.
Until Mohammed Hassan came round. He was a chubby bloke in his fifties, very Asian in dress as well as accent. I welcomed him in, didn’t even bother offering a beer knowing full well what the answer would be and instead provided some tea and sweets. He wolfed these greedily and then began.
It transpired that he was Jamila’s dad. I found myself imagining what her mum looked like, for she sure as hell hadn’t inherited a lot from him, but as I mused, he told a really unexpected tale. It was time for Jamila to get married but all the candidates that he’d provided had proved unsatisfactory. In the end he’d asked her what she wanted and she’d said that the only bloke she would be prepared to marry was me, Mohammed Usman. Wow, now that really was something I’d not foreseen, but if that was strange enough on its own, there was more. Jamila it turned out, was now living in Pakistan and wished for me to go out there and marry her. Don’t worry, Mohammed Hassan had reassured me, he’d pay everything, the ticket, accommodation, the lot. It was just that he desperately wanted to see his daughter happy and this was what she wanted. Well, what could I say? I told him of course that I wasn’t used to just accepting marriage proposals from girls be they in Pakistan or otherwise and would prefer to hear them from their own lips and he was quite understanding but just reiterated what he’d said before, adding importantly about what a good, beautiful and well-brought up girl his Jamila was and how he had made extensive checks into my background and would be proud to have such a son-in-law. I told him I’d think about it and let him know and he expressed his understanding, it being such a huge decision to make and requested that I let him know by a week on Friday as the flight to Islamabad that he had told her I would be arriving on left then. And that done, he bade me goodnight.
Well, what was I to do? My initial reaction of course was to rubbish the idea. I was happy enough with my life as it was and did not need to jet off to the old country to wed a girl whom I hadn’t seen in six years. But then doubts crept into my mind. My parents had been making some extremely strong hints about nuptials and mum had even shown me two pictures of girls whom she considered to be most suitable indeed. And if I was to get married, then why not Jammie? We knew each other well and liked each other. We understood one another, she was a laugh and she was damn cute too. Besides, if what Mohammed Hassan was saying was correct, she had asked for me which was a bit of a compliment especially considering all the guys that a highly-paid exec like her could have. No, the more I thought about it, the more I warmed to the idea. My family would be happy and I could do a lot worse in the choice of a bride. Indeed, for a couple of nights the following week I began to have dreams of being in bed with old Jammie from school. In the end I thought, why the hell not and phoned Mohammed Hassan. He met mum and dad and they approved and a week on Friday I was on that plane to Pakistan.
It was weird when I got to Islamabad. Ok, so Pakistan is always kind of weird anyway, but for starters I flew alone. I’d expected – although not particularly wanted – Mohammed Hassan to tag along with me, but he hadn’t. He wouldn’t be attending the wedding it seemed, and nor would any of Jammie’s English family. Something to do with her requesting it that way and the nature of her lifestyle and where she was living. Very weird.
I was met by her cousin, a nice enough lad in that kind of “I don’t quite get cool” way that you get over there. His name was Yusuf and he booked us into a hotel for the night before we were to take the train to Quetta and then the long bus journey to their village in Balochistan. That surprised me actually, I’d always assumed that Jammie was a Kashmiri, Mirpur like virtually every other British Pakistani, but no, deepest darkest Balochistan. That evening I treated Yusuf to a meal in a nice restaurant and he told me about what to expect. Where we were going was apparently very conservative. “I’m talking full hijaab ladies and purdah,” he told me. What, like veils and staying in separate rooms I’d asked? He’d nodded. “Very much so. In my village always the ladies stay silent and live apart. We don’t see anything, even the eyes and hands are covered. Very pious.” I asked if Jammie was the same and he nodded enthusiastically, praising how she had embraced the Balochi lifestyle. I tried to imagine Jamila Ahmed in a veil, like some pious purdah woman and failed. She was so loud, outspoken and forthright. WTF! I decided to change the subject and asked just what Jammie was doing there anyway. Had her family sent her or something, to make her more Muslim like a good girl? “Oh no sir, not at all. Jamila chose to come to our village herself. She was unhappy with her life in England, very much stressing and so she is thinking to try and have a break. So her father suggested she coming to us and she did and that is that, very happy, no problem.” What? So Jammie, the bolshie little Jammie that I knew from school had chosen to cover herself in veils and live in some mediaeval shithole? No, that was too weird! Unless of course she had turned Salafi and was on some religious trip. Well, if she was, then you can fuck off if you think this marriage is still on; no way was I marrying Osama’s niece. Anyway, having got a little out of Yusuf, the subject was changed and we moved onto cricket.
Now I have to admit here that I have mixed view on hijaab and purdah and niqaabi and all that. Now I’m a Muslim but in all honest, not what you’d call a “good” one, but I’m easy-going so, you know what, each to their own and if someone wants to let Allah into their life and transform themselves into a walking black post-box, then fair play to you. But then why would you and is it because they want to or are forced to. People like Yusuf had little control of his own destiny: he was telling me that he was going into his father’s business and that was that and I guess that his sisters had even less. And that pissed me off; we should all be able to make up our minds about our destiny and I know that Jammie agrees – or at least, used to agree – with that totally. So forcing women to veil and even the idea that you do it to be modest and protect men from your harmful fitna, well, that’s just crap to me. Besides, as a man, who doesn’t like a bit of harmful fitna now and again, I spend most of my time ogling it to be honest. So, yeah, you could say that I’m pretty anti-veils and even those who do choose to be that way, well, most of them are nuts who are like some long monologue of submitting to Allah’s will and becoming a dull bore who is not allowed to think for themselves. Much like a Jehovah’s Witness, Mormon, Hare Krishna or born-again Christian for that matter. All nuts and all boring.
But as well as all these feelings, at the same time I’ve always found veils, well, I know this might sound totally nuts, but kinda sexy. I mean, it’s the mystery factor isn’t it, but also the restriction and that; she can’t see clearly and everything. I once went out with this girl called Kelly who was an absolutely fruitcake but the best lay ever. All she wanted me to do was tie her up, gag her and then fuck her like that and it really turned me on. And in a way veils are like that. It’s the controlling and restriction, it turns me on in some perverted kind of way and I always fantasised a little when I saw a veiled woman pass by in the street, (so, as you can imagine, in Islamabad, I was fantasising quite a bit!).
The journey to Quetta was long and dull. Yusuf slept throughout most of it and I read ‘The Buddha of Suburbia’ in-between bouts of staring out of the window at the dry dusty land outside. Once there we got a bus and it was another four hours, (and late evening), before we got to the village. From the little that I could see Yusuf’s house was a traditional one, no windows on the outside, just a door opening onto the street. We entered that and I was welcomed by her Uncle Ali, a huge bearded chap and three other male cousins. There was some food waiting which I age hungrily, but no women to be seen. Then it was bedtime and I was shown to a large room with attached bathroom, (“Specially renovated for your visit, sir” Uncle Ali had declared), before drifting into a long and heavy slumber.
The next morning we had a conference, the males of the house and I. The wedding was scheduled for the day after, don’t worry, everything arranged, you’re a lucky man Mohammed Usman! Wait a minute said I, don’t I get to see my wife-to-be first? I mean, ok, I get the whole purdah thing and that but isn’t the custom that you unveil her face once just to see that you have no problem in marrying this girl? At this they looked uneasy. This is a very conservative place like I told you Yusuf had said at last. The girls here don’t unveil even to their own husbands, let alone a stranger which is what you are. Besides, didn’t you know her in England so surely you know what she looks like? That wasn’t the point though, was it. I mean, I needed to talk to my wife-to-be, to ask her why she was living in this way which, no disrespect, was rather radically different to how she had been living last time I met her. Come on, take the worst case scenario. Was the girl that you are marrying me to even Jamila? I had no proof.
At this they nodded and then withdrew to consult amongst themselves. Then they re-entered and the jury gave its verdict. “We understand you concerns, Usman, and we do realise that the Kashmiri custom is to unveil the face once. However, we follow different rules here and these cannot be flaunted. However, we have agreed that Jamila can be presented to you veiled as she would be when around mahram men. This is a concession since normally this is not allowed, you not being mahram. However, she may not speak to you as in our culture all women are silent except when alone with their husbands in the bedroom and sometimes not even then. But we will allow her to explain herself to you via letter and also to answer some questions that you may have through nodding or shaking her head.”
Can you believe this? What kind of screwed up Salafist fantasy had I walked into here? Well, whatever the case I wasn’t impressed, but at the same time I didn’t want to offend them, particularly since I knew no one else for several hundred miles and the region is known for kidnapping. Besides, this whole story of women who were so tightly controlled as to not even be able to speak or appear veiled in front of non-mahram men, well, I found it a bit of a turn on.
“But how will I know that it is her? I don’t want to sound rude but this is the biggest decision of my life after all.”
They nodded. “By asking her questions that only Jamila will know the answer to,” replied Uncle Ali.
So, an hour later, we were all in that room when another figure entered. Was it Jammie or wan’t it? Who can tell for this girl wasn’t just veiled, she was hyper-veiled! I mean, I’m not talking about some black postbox with a pair of come to bed eyes peering out from being the material but a featureless black cone of cloth with not a vague trace of human to be seen. She shuffled in silently, and then guided by Ali – she seemed uncertain of where to go, no bloody surprising as I doubted that she could see much behind all that cloth – she knelt in front of me. “Your fiancé, my beautiful niece Jamila,” announced Ali.
Beautiful niece! How would he know? He’d probably never seen her.
“Hello Jamila,” I said, unsure how to act in such a weird situation with the whole bloody family – well, the male half of it at least – watching on. “Remember me?”
The figure nodded.
“Well, I have to say that you have, err… changed since last time we met. Are you well?”
More nodding though I doubted it. Seeing her in the flesh, (well, the material), now and her request to marry me was making all the more sense. She’d been brought over to the old country on false pretences like so many girls and kept like an animal until she agreed to marriage with some village oaf. But Jammie being Jammie, wouldn’t submit to that, she couldn’t bear it forever, so she’d told them about a guy home with lots of money whom she’d marry. They, smelling cash, had agreed and she’d found a rescuer. So, would I rescue her? Hell, why not, who can resist a damsel in distress and besides, if I got to play around a bit with foxy old Jammie too… Yeah, this silent shrouded figure was making me horny.
“So you want to marry me they say? Well, I must admit I was surprised although honoured. But why, Jammie? Are you sure that it’s what you want?”
She nodded as well she might do and then a hand sneaked out from under those covers, a gloved hand bearing a letter. I took it from her. “Shall I read it now?” I asked. She nodded, so I opened the envelope and began to read:
I guess you’re sat here thinking what the hell is going on? I would be, that’s for sure. I mean, you don’t hear from me in years and the last thing you know and I was pursuing some high-flying career in the city and then you get an offer of marriage and you find me veiled up to the eyes in some strange village in the back of beyond Balochistan. I guess I owe you some explanations, particularly if you are thinking of marrying me.
Well, you were right in that I went to the city, great job doing internet banking and all was fantastic. I earned a packet and had a great time, working hard and playing hard after. I have to tell you that this girl who wants to be your wife is no longer a virgin and that period is the reason why, although I was a lot more moral than most of my mates. So that was me, my dreams achieved and all good. Well, theoretically. The fact was though, that inside I wasn’t happy. I masked it for a time with parties, work, sex and alcohol but in the end it came through. I couldn’t take it and like so many in the city, I went off with stress. I needed to get away and to relax. I tried mum and dad’s but the pressure was still there so, predictably I suppose, I hopped on a plane to Pakistan.
Most of my family are in Kashmir, so I went there first and it was relaxing, a change, but I still hadn’t found peace. So, I decided to take a travel around the country, going up to Peshawar and Swat, down to Karachi. Then I was told about my mum’s sister who married a Balochi man so I came here.
At first let me tell you, it was weird. I wasn’t even allowed in the village to begin with. They put me up in Quetta and got me kitted out in all the purdah gear. Of course I’d heard all about purdah and met plenty of the veiled girls in London who seem to think that it will give them brownie points with Allah, but I’d never lived it. Still, I thought, hey ho, why not, I’ll give it a go for a week or so, and so I did. It was hard, and weird, particularly at first. All us women are gagged here most of the time as speech is seen as sinful, and we are veiled whenever out of the bathroom, but strangely, and I can’t even think why myself, I began to like it.
Now let me tell you here and now that your Jammie has not turned religious. Do I believe in God? Probably and there’s certainly a lot of praying going on around her, but let me tell you, I am not living like this because I believe that Allah wants me to, whether He exists or not. If anything, I doubt he does; a God that creates bodies and souls do not wish to hide them so much I think. I’m not even doing it because of the local custom. Sure, for the first few days I was but after that I would have just moved on if I didn’t like it. No, the weird thing is that I actually get a bit of a kick out of being so restricted and covered, silenced and controlled. It’s probably a fetish or something. Back in London I had a brief relationship with a woman and she used to tie me up and for some reason it really turned me on and I think this is something similar. I read on the internet that dominants often have submissive fantasies and, come on, you’ve known me for years, I am pretty dominant. So here I am, living out my fantasies and everyone thinks I’m some good Muslim girl. Perfect except for one thing: good Muslim girls get married.
And the fact is, I want to marry. My time here has given me loads of opportunities to reflect on things and I do need a companion and I do need the sex. But of all my lovers, who? Strangely, I kept coming back to you. No one has ever understood me like you do and after all these years my thoughts turn to you at night. Freaky? Probably, but that’s me. I’ve never told anyone else the stuff in this letter but I know I can trust you when I write it.
So, that is why I want to marry you, but do you still want me? If not, I get it and that’s cool. The fact that you even came out here means enough to me. If you do, then even better. I’d love us to give it a go and I’d love you to try the life here for a month, me as your submissive purdah wife. After that, we can return to London, I don’t mind, unless of course you like it too much. But the chance to share my fantasy lifestyle with my fantasy man, well, which girl would not want that? And you don’t need to worry about the money either, for I still do some work for the bank from my computer here, uncle letting me sit in my room for three hours a day. That pays not only for my keep but a lot more besides so you can enjoy a stress-free holiday whilst you enter married life.
Anyway, thanks again for just coming here, remember that I do love you, more even than I did before and I wish we can make that something special.
Once finished I put the letter down, unable to believe what I had read. This was not what I had expected and yet, perversely, it somehow appealed to me. Jesus! What to do? Well, the first thing was to check the authenticity of the author. That would give me breathing space at least.
“Jammie, I need to check that this is really you knelt here before me, writing such a letter. Can I ask you some questions?”
The figure nodded.
“Right then, well… when we were at school who was our French teacher?”
The figure looked up towards her uncle and he nodded, got up, left the room and then returned with a pencil and paper. She took both and then wrote.
Fair play, correct answer, although that was something that she could have been told. I needed something more private.
“Where are the best coffees in Walthamstow?”
That was where we had chilled out when we were dating. Again she wrote:
Correct again. Shit! This was her. The writing was the same as the letter too. Then I decided to be a bit naughty.
“What is the best park in all London?”
She paused a while as if thinking and then wrote:
Wanstead Park. By Perch Pond.
By God, it was her and she was still the same. That was the place where she’d sucked me off all those years ago.
“Jamila, I’ll be honoured to make you my wife tomorrow!” I said and the whole room clapped.
The wedding was not what I’d expected. Ok, so I’ve been to enough Asian weddings not to expect a joint party, but I expected to see something of my bride, and for her to have a special wedding dress. But no, it was only at the end when the black cone was led out to me and I guided her into our new quarters which, the night before, had been her own.
I guided her to the en suite bathroom into which she disappeared, locking the door behind her. Some minutes later the Jammie that I knew from old appeared, aged a little perhaps but that had only made her more beautiful. We smiled at each other, embraced and then enjoyed our wedding night. You’d probably like to hear a lot more about that but I’m not going to tell you. Some things are private after all and besides, there’s a lot more saucy stuff to come.
The next morning we enjoyed each other as man and wife again and then it got strange. Jammie took a shower, but re-emerged naked and said that she wanted me to see her dress. “I need you to understand what is going on here,” she said and, when she had finished, I got why.
I had expected her to throw on a shalwar kameez, then some black clothes before the veil which hid her face, but no, it was much more than that. First up came something I never expected. A plug, and not inserted into where I had previously put Mr. Happy. “What the f…?”” I exclaimed.
“How do you think us Asian girls keep our virginity for so long whilst keeping our boyfriends satisfied?” she replied with a wink. “Ok, so it didn’t work long-term for me but I like it and, when I was with Kelly, well, I learnt just what fun can be had in that way! I told you I was kinky; the Salafists would be howling with anger if they knew!”
“They certainly would,” I replied, eager to see what would come next.
What came next was a black lycra catsuit. I love catsuits – well, any tight clothing – and this sure made Jammie look hot. She had always had a fine figure and age had done her no disservice. “I keep in trim by having an hour on the exercise bike every morning,” she explained, before adding, “although I shall skip this morning, I think we’ve both had enough of a workout!”
Following the catsuit came another surprise. Jammie produced a full leather hood which covered her head, leaving only two mesh-covered holes to see out of and a third hole at the mouth. It was fastened around the neck with a strap which was then secured with a padlock. “These are standard for all girls in this region,” explained my wife, “and we leave the padlocks in the bathroom so that we are never without them. That is how none of us know what the others look like; indeed, the only person who shall ever see my face is you, but then only one night per week, the night that we married which for us is a Wednesday.”
“But what about…?”
“Don’t worry my love, you’ll be getting plenty of that, you shall see.”
After the hood came a gag, an inflatable one which Jammie inflated until her cheeks bulged and then detached the bulb. I wondered how she would eat and drink but then noticed a small hole running through the centre.
After this she put on a pair of satin gloves, thick stockings and an abayah, all in black. The abayah was of the overhead butterfly type, with loops over her fingers to keep it from riding up. She didn’t put the hood on but instead pinned a scarf around her head and then a three-layer niqaabi. All layers down, nothing could be made of her features and this was how I had seen her before and was obviously public wear. She then popped the hood of the abayah on her head and then flipped back one layer. Then, getting a pen and pad of paper. Two layers down is with women, one on my own for reading. With three down I am virtually blind, she wrote.
I looked at my wife, scarcely able to believe that the cone of black material in front of me was the same Jammie who I’d previously been fucking senseless. What was even weirder though was that she was choosing this life. I mean, come on, dressed like that was so restricting, seeing little, having to mind your clothes whatever you did and the gloves must affect motor control. “Is that it?” I asked her.
She shook her head and started to write again. This is only for female-only company. I am fully covered but you can see my gloved hands and make out of some my body shape, particularly if the wind blows against me. To demonstrate she pulled her clothes around her tight revealing her shapely thighs. It was strangely erotic. So in male company I also wear this knee-length khimar and a second pair of gloves which do not have individual fingers except for the thumbs. She pulled the khimar over her head, thereby sealing all the veils in and then put the second pair of gloves – or to be more precise, ‘mittens’ – on. They were slippery and I guessed writing would be difficult wearing them. However, perversely, again the thought that she was more covered made me hot.
“How can you do anything in all that?”
She slipped off the khimar and the mittens. I can’t easily, but that’s part of the point. For the women here it is not just a symbol of their modesty but also their helplessness. To dress like this you need servants so it shows that they are important. With these veils you can’t see into corners to check if a room is really clean or wash dishes or do any detailed work. You are a lady of leisure who needs servants to do all her jobs for her and perhaps also to guide her about when she is outside.
“But I thought only menfolk can do that, and your servants are presumably women?”
Or young girls or boys. We have a girl of nine from a poor family who guides us whenever we go visiting. It’s terribly exciting being totally at the mercy of a mere child, controlled to such an extent. I love it, the restriction and everything. I had a life where I was in control of everything, and others, but now I am like a toddler in some ways and that makes me as hot as hell. Maybe you get it, maybe not but I have to be honest with you as to how I feel.
“Strangely I do get it a bit, and seeing you so covered makes me want to strip all those layers of material off you and jump in bed again. I can’t exactly explain why but it is exciting.”
Well, I am glad that you share my fetish a little but I have to warn you, you can’t be stripping me at all. The rule here is that we only sleep uncovered once a week which is next Wednesday. However, tonight you will discover the Balochi way and I am sure that you will like it. However, for now let us share a veiled kiss.
The top of the cone leaned forward and I put my arms around it and fastened my lips to where hers should be. I felt only material with the outline of the serious gag behind it but for some reason, that kiss was one of the best I have ever experienced.
That day I spent all my time trying to find out as much as I could about the lifestyle in the village, or at least, the female lifestyle and how it affected me. Ali and the others were happy to answer my questions, thinking that I was considering settling there permanently and embracing an ultra-conservative existence, not in the least guessing that it was making me as horny as could be. I learnt that they hardly ever saw their women, some in fact, never. A friend of Ali’s named Mustafa had, apparently, elected never to see his wife’s face at all as he felt that this would be impious and he would become transfixed on her personal beauty, (or perhaps repelled by her ugliness…?), and thus unable to see her spiritual beauty. A load of bollocks if you ask me but of course it begged the question as to how; after all, this guy had fathered six kids with her.
It was all possible, it transpired, due to some sort of nightgown that the women in those parts wear on the nights that isn’t their “special” night with their husbands. Of course, that also begged the question as to why have a special night, (although some folk like this Mustafa obviously chose to forego theirs), but that it turned out was down to the fact that most families here are polygamous and so one wife cannot see the other. The general idea is that the husband sleeps in the same bed with all of his wives and that only one is ever uncovered so that they can’t see one another and that on that night it is special for the wife in question. Nightly three-in-a-beds, (or four or even five-in-a-bed), sounded rather fun to me but alas, the guys I spoke to wouldn’t get drawn into it, such things being between man and wife… well, wives, obviously. But the nightgowns, well, aside from stopped the wives looking at one another, (and thus feeling jealous), were also another modesty thing. “Say someone broke into the room or entered by accident,” explained Ali. I wondered why a lock would not be sufficient and if any intruder deserved such consideration, but they were adamant and I was left wondering just what this nightgown would be like.
That night I found out. At around nine in the evening I decided to turn in and requested my black cone join me. Together we walked down the corridor to our room and then once in, I stripped whilst she watched. Then she retired to the bathroom, locked herself in and then, several minutes later, re-emerged.
Initially she did not appear very different: a black shape, vaguely human sized. But as she moved I noticed that, unlike her day costume, what she was now clad in was essentially a black sack that was closed at the feet which caused her to shuffle, not walk normally as it completely enclosed her. However, at the top her head was more distinct as the garment was fastened around the neck with a leather collar, similar to that of a dog, but adorned with a small padlock at the front. That, however, wasn’t all, for around that head was buckled a ball gag, the red ball enticingly filling the mouth opening at the front, its colour suggesting temptation, the inviting lips that it was keeping jammed open wide. Finally, her two arms were encased in sleeves but the hands at the end were in padded mittens whilst around her neck, on a string, hung an envelope. I took it, opened it and read the letter inside.
This is the traditional nightgown and here are the instructions for you. I shall always put the gown on myself in the bathroom but after that you must help me as it both blinds and immobilises me. As you can tell, I am completely enclosed in it. It has three openings: the one at the feet which I crawl in by and then fasten myself; the one at the mouth covered by the gag and a third zipped opening at my private area which you may open should you wish to make love. It is secured in place by the collar and padlock which I put on myself before putting my hands into the sleeves with mittens on the end. However, these stop me from doing anything and so I must ask you to tightly fasten the straps around my wrists and then connect them in order that I may not remove my hands from the padded mittens. Then we may sleep… or play. Custom permits you to open my crotch zip and use me as you wish when you wish. You may also remove my gag to kiss but I am only allowed to reciprocate, never to speak until next Wednesday. That is all, I love you with all my heart.
Wow! You cannot imagine how hot this was making me feel. I guided my blind wife to the bed, my dick rock hard and rubbing against her covered form. After she was lain down on her back, I took her wrists, fastened the straps tightly around them and then linked them together as if handcuffed. Then, looping her restrained arms around me, I climbed on top and began to kiss her covered face. Her breathing became heavy and distinct and, my passion rising with every second, I removed her red ball gag and viewed her lips with excitement, pursed and quivering, waiting for the kiss that they so desired. Hardly able to control myself, I unzipped her crotch and then, as my tongue searched for hers, my member thrust deep into her moist and shaven love cavern.
It was the best sex of my life, the best experience of my life, far surpassing even that of the night before. Ravishing my hidden and helpless wife, I exploded with joy and as I gagged her again and settled down to sleep I realised that I had made the right decision indeed in marrying Jammie and that after this experience, my life would never be the same again.
I looked forward to what was to come.
Copyright © 2014, Dave Potter
Editors note: The veiled outfit in the illustrations is by SC / 2029.