I’ve posted here a few of the packaging experiences my wife and I have shared. However, it has occurred to me that I haven’t mentioned the first, and most significant, of these experiences. 

The first packaging experience we had together, and the first at all for my wife, was one that she initiated on St. Valentine’s Day in 1996. We had known each other for nearly three years, and we were engaged to be married later that year. For Valentine’s Day, since she had already agreed to give me her hand in marriage, she decided that the rest of her would make a lovely gift. 

On a very cold February morning, she and a friend of hers met, unbeknownst to me, in my detached garage. She arrived dressed in a coat over top a pair of tight, tattered denim shorts, a brief little top, boots, bra, and panties. With her she brought a note addressed to me, attached to a pair of scissors wrapped with ribbon and a bow, several bundles of white cotton clothesline, a scarf, a roll of packaging tape and a large cardboard box. She shed her coat and boots, leaving them with her car keys and purse in the garage. Her friend then set to the task of binding her with the clothesline, arms behind her back, legs together. 

He used all of the rope available, wrapping strands around her shoulders, ankles, knees, and snugly through her crotch. Finished, he gagged her with the scarf, knotting it between her teeth. He then placed the precious little bundle in the box and promptly sealed her inside with packaging tape. With her neatly packaged, he taped the note and scissors to the outside of the box, which she had already addressed to me. Taking a moment, he thoughtfully added a warning to the outside of the box, inscribing it with “Do not open with a knife.” 

With her gift to me now wrapped and packaged, he placed the box on a handcart already in my garage, then donned a work jacket and a pair of dark glasses he had brought with him for his charade. He had even thought to bring a clip board, complete with a delivery slip he had made on his computer. 

With that, he wheeled the package around the house and rang the doorbell. As incredible as this may sound, I truly didn’t catch on when I answered the door. I had ordered a fairly large item recently, and at first glance, I thought that the box was that item. I signed for the delivery, thinking that the delivery guy seemed familiar as he helped carry the package into his living room. By the time I noticed the decorated scissors, he was off and running, handcart in tow. I’m sure my bewilderment has been the subject of a few tales told by him. 

It didn’t take much longer for me to figure things out. I would love to tell you that I left her to wait for release in her carton, but that’s just not the case. I peeled the box open like a six-year old on Christmas. 

Inside was a nicely packaged brunette. The scissors, according to the note, were to help me “unwrap” her from her clothing. I spent quite some time that morning, carefully snipping her only clothing into useless, tiny shreds. That done, with her naked and helpless, well, I’m certain that you can imagine how the rest of the day was spent. 

Her gift was certainly exciting and erotic. More importantly, she meant every bit of the symbolism it carried. She had made a gift of herself to me. She was mine, completely owned, quite literally signed, sealed and delivered. 

That night, freed from her bonds and ready to travel home, she was faced with her other self-imposed fate. It was February, and her boots, coat, and car keys were still in my detached garage.
 
 
 

12.10.04