Artisan Djinn (Part One)

[hogfan-sub]

There’s just about five hours to go before my life will, I’m almost certain, take a decisively different direction. Who am I kidding? Of course it will! Not just because this hogtie is impossible to even begin to get free from, but mainly because of the sudden presence in my life of that little lamp over there on my bookshelf. The male curse of refraction means that I couldn’t pump out another orgasm if my life depended on it. I’ve managed three this past hour, but “Mr Floppy” down there says “No more! I’m done!” So, while the creeping, disappointing sense of boredom encroaches upon my bondage, I’ll fall inelegantly to my side on this bed, stare at that lamp and reflect a while on just how downright weird this day has become!

Mike had barely said two words to me since he returned from work yesterday; I just knew that something was brewing. You don’t share your life with someone for over three years without picking up on one or two “emotional cues”. After supper, we settled down to some TV, surfing channels and settling on a crime drama. “Tie him up!” barked one of the characters. His co-home invader approached a scared looking man sat at a desk, shook out a length of rope and proceeded to pull the victim’s arms behind his back and bind his wrists. I could feel Mike’s eyes leave the screen and glance towards me.
“I suppose that’s getting you nice and hard.” Mike sniped.
“Not now, Mike,” I said lamely.
“I can see your fucking hard-on from here!”
“Fine! Yes! I absolutely want to be tied up right here and right now! Does that satisfy you?”
I hadn’t meant to sound so curt, but Mike can be a real prat about this sometimes. Little did I know that the dam was about to well and truly burst.
“Enough is enough, Bunny,” Mike said turning his attention now wholly on me, “it really is time for you to decide; me or the ropes.”
“Oh, here we go!” I sighed deeply, steeling myself for another Miken rant.
“No, Bunny, here I go, if this carries on. You talk about getting married, but before we’ve even ordered the fucking cake, I already feel like a “rope widow”.
We had spoken about this so much since we met, I really did think that the love Mike and I so deeply share could accommodate my love of rope and selfbondage. After all, I manage to put up with his bloody antique collecting that had stacked our apartment with items that I was variously not permitted to sit on, touch or otherwise engage with, lest I “spoil” their aged fragility!
Mike assertively stood up, signalling to me that he was about to pronounce a definitively discussion-ending statement.
“If I come back to this apartment one more time, to find you trussed up, chained up or whatever the hell else-upped, it’s over. No wedding. No shared apartment. The end.” So saying, Mike left the room. I just knew that he meant every word; the man I love or the rope I love. The choice was mine.

I fell asleep in the armchair that night and when I awoke Mike had already left for work. I had the day free and decided to go for a walk and do some thinking. My stroll took me passed Mike’s favourite junk-vendor, sorry, antique emporium, and as I glanced in I made an audible “Huh!” Something however slowed my pace and I looked into the bottom corner of the shop window. There, seemingly alone and disconnected from any other item on display, was a small, grubby, golden-coloured oil lamp. In that instant, an inexplicable wave of “it will all be ok” seemed to flow right through me. I just knew that I would buy that lamp. I told myself that it is probably some deep-seated aspiration to get Mike to see that if I can make an effort to take an interest in his passtime, then maybe, pardon the pun, he could cut me a bit of slack too! I bought the little lamp without a second thought. Leaving the shop, I swear that I heard a very distant, echoing little voice say, “Clean me!” I chuckled at my daft imagination and set off home.

Mike usually gets home around six pm, which gave me a good eight hours to satisfy the sudden overwhelming desire I had to get tied up. I was about to get my rope bag from the cupboard, when my eye moved to the curious lamp. I fetched a tin of metal polish and a rag and set about buffing up my purchase. No word of a lie, as I rubbed the side of the lamp, a stream of smoke began to rise up from the spout of the lamp with a gentle hiss. I instinctively hurled the lamp to the other side of the room, assuming that the metal polish had reacted badly to some ancient accelerant still clinging to the metal. The lamp landed on the floor gently on its base, almost like a poor movie effect. The smoke continued to rise and widen, when a loud”pop” revealed what I can only describe as being a classic cartoon Genie! The feet of his crossed legs even tapered into the column of smoke and there he “sat”, hovering in mid-air with his arms crossed over his pudgy midriff, grinning beneath a bejewelled cartoon turban.
“Well, thank you, Master! That was a very long session; most enjoyable, but it does feel good to be free for a while.”
Of course, I fainted. (To be continued)