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K R I S T E N' S C O L L E C T I O N
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Kidnapped
by Diana Carroll (d_carroll@tle.dec.com)
***
The essence of bondage is the context, that a person,
your lover, now controls you. Similarly, lying in wait
can be intensely sexual, while you wonder what is going
to happen next, and when. (M+/F, bdsm, blindfolded,
anon)
***
I was hard at work. The design, both sketches and clay
models, had to be done by the next day and I did not
want to stay late. My lover was finally interested in a
date for that evening and I was certainly ready. The
last several weeks he had been acting very odd, avoiding
me, acting surly, that kind of thing.
I suspected trouble at work; this didn't seem to be the
boredom accompanying the end of a relationship, but it
was irritating me nevertheless. And he wouldn't talk
about the problem, whatever it was. Hmm. Tie him to the
bed and tickle him till he talked? I grinned; whether or
not he said anything, the game sounded like fun.
I returned to work. Reaching for the eraser, my hand
tangled in the phone cord. The momentary hint of bondage
brought a smile to my lips, and a wetness to my groin.
Almost unconsciously, I smoothed my skirt. The
unexpected contact of hand to thigh startled me, and
then generated another smile. I didn't often wear such
skimpy outfits to work. But I was intent on celebrating
that evening, and no one would say anything to me, there
are advantages to owning the firm.
Suddenly, the phone rang. Cursing, I had told me
secretary I wanted no interruptions, I picked it up. A
distorted voice said, "You've been kidnapped"
Shit. The call had come in on my private line, the one
that did not go through my secretary's phone. Only one
person was likely to be calling me on that phone these
days. "John? Is that you? We were supposed to meet
tonight, not now, I told you how busy I'd be today."
It was John. He repeated, "You've been kidnapped. You
know the situation: anytime, anyplace, you drop what
you're doing and come with me. Now."
I did indeed know the rules. Many years, and not a few
relationships, ago, a lover and I had evolved the kidnap
game as a way to spice up our bondage lives. Either of
us, at any time, could "kidnap" the other, simply by
announcing it. The "victim" would go to the other's car
to be bound, and off we'd go. The kidnaper would drive
off to some prepared place, where a scenario had been
prepared. We'd then have an evening, or a weekend, or
even more, of delicious servitude.
One of the ironclad rules, though, was that we didn't
hurt each other. I like being tied up, and I like tying
my lovers up, but I'm not into pain. A whipping, if
that's what the game called for, was just a few strokes,
enough to tingle, but not sting more than slightly. But
locks were real locks, and while we often used Velcro
for convenience bonds, if the game called for sleeping
chained, real handcuffs were used. Neither of us had
ever escaped, and the rules do permit escapes and
turnabouts.
In fact, that was why I started a serious exercise
program; I didn't like being overpowered that easily. I
don't know if I'm as strong as John is, but he can't
easily overpower me without risking hurting me, and
that, as I said, is beyond the rules. Be that as it may,
I grew to like exercise for its own sake; even today, as
busy as I was, I found time to work out.
We always took the "no pain" rule seriously. When we
played our discreet public bondage games, we always did
it an hour or more away, to avoid any public
embarrassment. We'd keep each other minutely apprised of
our professional schedules, so that kidnappings didn't
cause problems at work.
John always seemed to walk the edge of that rule,
though. His ropes were often a bit tighter than
necessary, and his spankings a bit harder. I never
really knew what was going to happen next, and that was
both a thrill and a source of worry.
The essence of bondage is helplessness, that you are not
at all in control, that you are at the complete and
total mercy of another. But there must also be trust,
you must know that your partner won't exceed your
bounds, and I was never really sure if I could trust
John. But that, of course, meant I was really at his
mercy, which turned me on even more sometimes. Other
times, of course, it made me worry, and I had been
giving serious thought to ending the relationship.
I remembered what he had done a few months earlier.
While I was sleeping, he had broken into my house,
slipped upstairs, and quickly handcuffed me. As I
struggled awake, he kissed me, announced a kidnapping,
and slipped a hood over my head. He then led me
downstairs, out the back door, nude!, into his car, and
drove me to his house.
He was courteous to drive around to his back door, too,
something he doesn't usually do, and led me in. Of
course, I didn't know where I was; he wouldn't tell me.
He then fastened my hands high over my head to some sort
of post, and tied my legs to either side of it. My toes
could just barely touch the ground. Finally, he moved
some sort of lever, and the whole thing tilted forward
about 10 or 15 degrees. My breasts and crotch were
pressed against the post, creating a delicious pressure.
I had just enough leverage to wiggle my crotch against
the post.
John spoke. "I'd like your permission to bend the rules
a bit. I'd like to whip you rather harder than we
usually do. It's really going to hurt this time, and I'm
not going to stop after two or three strokes. I think
you'll find it's worth it, though, at least this time."
I wiggled in my bonds, trying to get loose. I couldn't,
of course. And I didn't know what to say. If I said no,
would he whip me anyway? If I said yes, could I take it?
John isn't particularly large, in fact, we're about the
same height, but I hadn't even seen the whip. And would
I really enjoy the experience? I had never found pain to
be a particular stimulus in the past. I moaned and
wiggled some more, which of course stimulated my crotch
and provoked a different sort of moan.
John said, "You don't have to explicitly agree. I'll
count to ten; if you don't demur by then, I'll proceed."
I remained silent, stilled by an agony of indecision.
Oddly enough, rather than simply counting, he activated
a metronome, a slow one, and counted with every tick.
"One. Two. Three. Four. Five." Still I said nothing, but
still, I struggled with the ropes and chains. "Six.
Seven. Eight. Nine." I braced myself. "Ten."
Nothing happened. Two more ticks went by, and still
nothing happened. "Thirteen. Fourteen. Fifteen." I had
just started to relax, when I heard, and then felt the
whip, exactly on the sixteenth tick. I screamed, and
pressed wildly against the post, rubbing on it. John
kept counting; on twenty, he hit me again, and again on
twenty-four and twenty-eight.
I knew when each blow was coming, and before each one
I'd try to escape, and press myself deep into the pole
to hide before he hit me again. But each of these
attempts stimulated me more; I found myself trying to
embrace the pole like a lover. Around the tenth stroke,
I felt the pole responding, John had built a vibrator
into it. My life was just a haze; all I could focus on
was the pain in my back and the pleasure in my groin. I
couldn't tell which was more intense.
Then he skipped a tick, and another, and a third. Was it
over? Suddenly, the hardest stroke of all landed, on my
buttocks instead of my back. Before I could even react,
John operated a quick release, freeing my legs and my
handcuffs from the pole. He caught me as I slumped down,
eased me to my back, attached the handcuffs to a
flooring. John then spread-eagled my legs, tied them
that way, and mounted me.
Again, there were the conflicting sensations, of the
pain of my back and rear against the floor, and John
within me. The pain subsided, John didn't, and I had one
of the most intense orgasms I'd ever had. All I wanted
to do was to hug and hold him, but my hands were
chained, and that made my thrill even greater. When we
were both spent, he lay alongside me, hugging me until I
fell asleep still bound.
-= * =-
I awoke the next morning alone in his bed, not
remembering being moved. To the side of the bed was a
bottle of champagne, a note, and a key. "Dearest. Your
turn now." A riding crop dangled from the doorknob, and
I knew he hadn't used that on me, you never forget what
one feels like, even years later. Investigating
downstairs, I found John bound to the pole, where I had
been. I ignored him while I looked at the mechanisms.
Finally, I released him from the pole, and punched him
in the stomach as hard as I could.
"John, that was a wonderful night, and if you ever do
anything like it again I'll cut your nuts off and feed
them to you for breakfast. I'll see you next month."
After watching him writhe in pain a bit longer, I tossed
the key down, helped myself to some clothes and his car,
and left. I refused to take any calls from him for four
weeks, though I did mail his car keys back.
Remembering that incident, I pondered what to say to him
this time. Thinking of it still gave me a frisson and
made me rub my legs together. "OK, John, I'll go along.
But I'm going to bring some work along; I really do have
to finish this for tomorrow."
Now it was John's turn to pause. "We'll see. I have
plans, too." I shuddered. "You will be downstairs in the
parking lot within five minutes. Move!" I heard a click
before I could reply. I put some clay and some pencils
in a sample case, grabbed it and my gym bag, and left,
telling my secretary that I was going to finish up at
home.
His red car was waiting outside. Slowly, I got in, and
closed the door.
John was ready for me. "Wrists," he said. I held out my
arms, and he fastened a cable tie around each one. I
don't know if you've ever seen a cable tie. Electricians
use them. They're narrow strips of tough plastic. One
side is ridged; it fits into a ratchet mechanism molded
into the other end. There's no way to release the
ratchet; once you loop the strip around and insert it,
you can't release it, only tighten it. Electricians
don't care; they rarely want to release their wires. If
they do, they just cut the cable tie. But these were my
hands being bound that way, and I couldn't even hope to
steal a key. Even if I had a sharp enough knife, I
probably didn't have the leverage to cut the plastic.
After braceleting my hands, John used a third tie to
bind them together, and a fourth to fasten them to my
seatbelt. I looked at him; he chuckled, buckled it, and
said, "We don't want to get pulled over again, do we?" I
blushed. A year earlier, some public spirited citizen
had notified police of an apparent kidnapping, seeing a
bound woman being pushed into a car. Despite the drawn
guns and my helplessness, for that game, he had bound my
hands behind me and pushed me into the hatch, hiking my
skirt up in the process, I persuaded the cops to lock
him in the police car (handcuffed, to stay in style with
our game!) and question us separately.
We both gave the same story; more importantly, we both
told him the same "release word". I, of course, was
blushing furiously the whole time, though I was thankful
that this was out of town, and that no one who knew me
would ever see that police report with my name. But I
got even with John for ignoring my qualms about public
exposure, I convinced the cop to release me, and to let
me put my pair of handcuffs on John in place of his. I
then drove John off, and I played the master in that
game!
Once I was bound, he drove off. His voice seemed a bit
slurred, though, and his driving rather unsteady. "John?
Have you been drinking again? I don't think you can
drive far enough in your condition."
He snarled, "Shut up!", as he pulled into the driveway
of a sleazy motel not half a mile from my office. "What
I drink is my business. And if you don't behave
yourself, I won't give you a sweater to put over your
hands when you go up to the room." I shook. For all that
I love what I do, and don't hesitate to tell prospective
lovers early on, I'm terrified of exposure. And John
would do it, too, especially because of my fear, it was
just one more aspect of him crossing the line on pain. I
started to get seriously concerned.
He parked the car and, with a knife from the glove
compartment, cut the tie holding my hands to the
seatbelt. He tossed me a sweater and headed upstairs,
leaving me to get out of the car and follow as best I
could. Surprisingly, he took my bags with him. I was
just as glad; I had to get some work done that night,
come hell or high water, and I wasn't pleased with the
leers some of the local loiterers were giving me. Small
wonder, perhaps, I was wearing a sheer, low cut blouse
and very short skirt, but it still made me nervous. I
wish I knew why he had picked this neighborhood.
Once we were inside, things got a lot better, at least
at first. He closed the door behind us, grabbed me, and
kissed me thoroughly. I put my bound hands around his
neck, which reminded him of the games we had planned; he
tolerated the embrace for a moment longer, then stepped
back and ordered me to strip. Again, there was a cold
note in his voice. And there was a seriously depleted
bottle of vodka on the dresser.
It's hard to undress with your hands tied, of course,
and of course I had to be graceful and sexy, that's part
of the game. (But you should have seen some of the ways
I've made him undress!) Still, I managed as best I
could. The skirt was easy, as were my panties and garter
belt; I left my heels and stockings on for a while
longer.
I unbuttoned my blouse, and unhooked my bra, it was no
accident that both of them fastened from the front!, and
looked up at him. "Slide them down your arms," he said.
I pushed them both off of my shoulders as far as I
could, and approached John. I then rubbed up against
him, using his body to push my blouse and bra strap down
my arms. He didn't just stand there, of course; he did
such a good job of caressing me that I almost forgot my
goal. But he remained clothed.
Eventually, I could go no further that way; the blouse
behind me was holding my bound arms against my stomach.
John wasn't satisfied, though, and motioned for me to
continue. I used the dresser, the bed, and sometimes
John, to first gain a bit more slack, and then push my
garments below my buttocks. By bending over, I could
lower my hands, too, and ended up with everything around
the level of my knees. I would have tried to bring the
clothing under my legs, but John stopped me; he seemed
to like seeing me doubled up.
After leaving me like that for a bit, he produced a pair
of handcuffs and fastened them above the garments.
Before removing the cable ties, though, he fastened a
homemade Velcro cuff to each ankle, and ran a loop of
chain connecting them to each other and to the
handcuffs. I was to remain bent over, it seemed.
Finally, he cut off the cable ties, and told me to
continue. I removed the blouse, and, with John's
permission, took off my shoes and flopped backwards onto
the bed. He told me to kneel; after a bit of struggling,
I managed to, with my arms ending up between my legs,
still bound to my ankles. There wasn't enough slack in
the chain to let me slip the loop around my knees
instead. Just as well, perhaps, that would certainly
have ripped the stockings.
I looked over at John. Curiously, he still hadn't
undressed; he hadn't even changed into a costume. Except
when I prompted him, he'd been quite passive. Normally,
he'd have been commenting, or teasing, or fondling.
Instead, he seemed interested only in his vodka bottle.
I knelt there silently, and looked around to see what
props he'd set up.
At the head of the bed, there was a short length of
chain, with an open padlock. The chain vanished between
the headboard and the mattress. At the foot, I saw a bar
running the full width of the bed; each end had an
adjustable strap with snap hook lying on the sheets, and
a chain dangling off the bed. It looked like a gadget
I'd built a number of years ago, to deal with motel
furniture. For that matter, I needed it when visiting
some of my lovers; they weren't well equipped for
bondage, either.
In fiction, or at my house, for that matter, the bed is
always a four-poster, which provides convenient anchor
points for ties. Motels are rarely so considerate. The
next obvious anchor points are the legs of the bed. This
one, though, was a platform bed, no legs at all. But if
you run a chain under the mattress, with a Y to connect
to both ends of that bar, you have two ideally placed
rings. You can do the same at the head of the bed, of
course, but John preferred a single chain for handcuffed
wrists, that way, he could fasten me to the bed without
ever releasing my hands, a favorite fantasy of his.
There wasn't much more to see. John had brought his toy
bag, but it was closed. Judging from the shape, there
wasn't much left in it; in particular, it was flopped
over enough that I didn't think his riding crop was
there. Just as well, in his current mood, I didn't know
if he'd remember to restrain himself enough with it.
The vodka bottle suddenly dropped to the dresser,
startling me.
John staggered over, barely keeping his feet. I said
nothing. He threw me onto my back, rather roughly, and
fastened my handcuffs to the head chain, pulling my legs
over my head. He didn't leave me that way, though, but
he also didn't tease my bottom the way I wanted him to.
Instead, he use a short chain to fasten my ankles
together, and then released the chain holding them to my
hands. Gratefully, I straightened out.
He only let me have a moment's respite, though, before
he attached the straps to the ankle cuffs, and took up
the slack. Then, and only then, did he release the
chain, and pulled the two straps taut together. Another
fantasy of his, simulating motor powered bondage. He
stopped for an instant while he grabbed my legs and
pulled my whole body down, to keep the head chain tight,
and then finished spreading my legs. He concluded by
taking a gag from his toy box, shoving it into my mouth,
and tying it there.
"Don't worry; no whips today," he said as he staggered
back to his chair. "Unless you brought some?", he asked
hopefully, glancing at my bags. I shook my head; he
looked in the bag, and scowled at me.
I wasn't reassured by the absence of whips. I've always
hated gags, even when I didn't need my mouth free to
give a release word. For one thing, they interfere with
play too much. I can't give the proper verbal responses
appropriate to whatever game we're playing, "My father's
knights will avenge me!" or whatever. Nor can I use my
mouth sexually, for both of our pleasures.
Finally, and perhaps most important, gags are dangerous.
It's just too easy to choke with a gag in, especially a
really effective one that puts you on the edge of
vomiting. If I want to use one for its symbolic value, I
just tie a scarf around John's head and mouth. It's thin
enough that he can kiss through it, and it can be pulled
down quickly enough in emergencies, often just by chin
movement.
Some people, of course, use real gags because they need
the silence. It's impractical to really whip someone in
a city apartment without one, I suppose. But I had a
better solution to that problem. I'd recently bought an
old farmhouse, very far back from the road, to use as a
playhouse. I'd just finished having it fixed up, and I'd
been getting ready to spend a few weekends there
building some accessories, ring bolts, chains, even a
stock out behind the house where no one would ever see
the occupant.
I hadn't told John about this; my original plan had been
to kidnap him there when it was ready. But his behavior
the last few weeks had been sufficiently odd that I was
no longer certain I wanted him to know about it.
I twisted my head around to look at John. He was still
drinking vodka, and he still hadn't said anything, which
was odd; usually, always!, the kidnaper should have said
something to set the scene, even if only to heighten the
suspense. I remembered the last time we'd spent a
weekend at my house. I had tied him in more or less the
same position I was now in, and left him that way
overnight.
But of course, I had told him he was to await my
pleasure, and every now and then I'd wander back into
the room to lick him a bit. He kept trying to wiggle
free, to no avail, of course, while I'd arouse him and
then leave. Around 3 am, when I was certain he was
asleep, I crept back in, aroused him again, in both
senses of the word, and mounted him. When we were both
more than satisfied, I curled up next to him and we fell
asleep together. Around 10 a.m. or thereabouts, I
finally unchained him.
John finally tried to get up. No dice, he'd had too much
to drink, and he passed out at the table. Here I was,
nude, gagged, and bound spread-eagled to the bed, and my
captor was in a drunken stupor, probably unable to move
until morning.
As I was being chained to the bed, I had been strongly
aroused, despite my undercurrent of genuine fear. The
arousal rapidly faded, though. There is nothing
particularly stimulating in being immobilized. If a
building collapsed around you, you wouldn't be thrilled,
even if you were unhurt and certain of early rescue.
The essence of bondage is the context, that a person,
your lover, now controls you. Similarly, lying in wait
can be intensely sexual, while you wonder what is going
to happen next, and when. I wasn't wondering; I knew:
John was going to have a hangover, and it wasn't going
to happen until the next morning. And I was stuck, in a
rather uncomfortable position, until then.
For a little while, I just tried to relax; there didn't
seem to be anything I could do, I so just tried to make
the best of it. But my work kept coming back to haunt
me. Those designs had to be done or my business was in
deep trouble; reliability is the a key asset when your
competitors are perceived as being flaky or
temperamental. I considered my situation. Was there some
way to escape?
I considered my arms first, of course. Had the cuffs
been fastened too tightly for me to slip out? The right
one definitely was; in fact, it was downright
uncomfortable. The left had a bit more slack, but a few
minutes of trying didn't get me anywhere. I decided to
explore other options.
A second possibility was the chain holding my hands
above my head. Rather, the lock might be a target; it
was a fairly small, cheap one, and it might break if
pulled hard enough. But I had no leverage in that
position, not even enough to be worth trying again
later. Besides, each tug made the handcuffs cut into my
wrists.
Could I get my legs free? That seemed like the best
shot. They were only held in place by Velcro cuffs, not
steel. And they were simple, homemade cuffs, and not too
well done at that, they were some of John's first
efforts. I probably couldn't break out of good ones, the
kind where you stick the free end through a metal ring
on the other end of the strap, then fold it back on
itself before fastening it.
These were simple loops, though, he had taken 9 inch
lengths of both the hook and loop pieces, and glued them
to each other. You wrap it around the limb, with the
soft hook side inside, then overlap it and press down.
For a tie point, just use a key ring, slipped over the
Velcro before fastening it.
I started tugging, rhythmically, with my right leg, each
time pulling as hard as I could. I tried jerking it in
the direction of the fastening, Velcro releases by
moving up, and I wanted to work with it, not against it.
Gradually, I got more and more frantic, and lost my
rhythm. I'd been bound, John had put me here, and I
wasn't getting out! The struggles, and the remembrance
of who had bound me, got me more aroused. I writhed, and
tugged, to no avail, and each movement got me more
aroused. But I couldn't do anything to relieve myself;
my hands were bound, and I couldn't get enough
stimulation.
That thought aroused me even more, of course; the whole
situation was again intensely sexual. I moaned through
the gag, and tried desperately to squeeze my legs
together, to rub my thighs on each other. At that point,
I would have given up all thought of escape in exchange
for being bound on my stomach instead, with a pillow
under me to grab between my legs.
Eventually, by main force of will, I managed to relax.
My struggles had gotten me an inch or so of slack,
perhaps the chain connecting the anchor bar to the arm
chain wasn't completely taut under the mattress. Did
that offer any new possibilities? I lifted my head, as
best I could, and surveyed the situation. Gotcha! Either
from my escape attempts, or because John had bound me
incorrectly, given his state, my left leg was fastened
incorrectly. The Velcro overlap was rotated so that it
was mostly down, towards the mattress.
By carefully twisting and moving my leg from side to
side, I could tease the two halves apart. It was a slow
process, drag, up, and back, but the rhythm aroused me
again. The back movements became jerks, nominally to
apply pressure, but really because I couldn't control
myself much anymore.
Just as I was losing myself in arousal again, my leg
burst free. In delicious agony I just threw my legs
together and rolled over, rubbing my legs together,
pressing my body into the bed. This time, I achieved
release, albeit a small one. I more or less collapsed at
this point, still bound by my arms and one leg.
Getting my other leg free was rather straight forward at
this point. My toes were able to release the strap
holding my right leg, and I painfully drew my legs up. I
rolled off the bed, and pulled the arm chain out from
under the mattress, eventually reaching the anchor bar
that had held the leg straps. I was lucky, if he had
found a place on the bed to secure that chain, such as
carrying handles on the mattresses, I'd probably have
been stymied. As is, I was more or less free, though I
had an eight foot chain and a six foot bar fastened to
my cuffed hands.
I tried next to get the gag off, but that didn't work,
the knot was too tight for me to manage with my hands
still bound. No matter, the next few steps wouldn't be
strenuous. While I was trying to get loose from the bed,
I thought I was going to choke; gags can really restrict
your breathing. So I went over to John's toy bag,
looking for the key. It wasn't there; apart from a few
lengths of chain and a few locks, all I saw was another
pair of handcuffs. I did spot the key to the padlock
holding my arms to their chain; opening that let me move
around much more easily. But I was getting worried.
I had done something like this once to John. At the end
of a long vacation weekend, I had locked his hands in
front of him, but I had deliberately left the key
elsewhere. At that point, he had no choice, he had to
follow me, waiting patiently, with a jacket over his
hands, of course!, while I checked out of the motel,
loaded the car, etc. He, of course, was contemplating
the prospect of a five hour drive home, bound, without
even much ability to visit a rest area. "Now you know
why I rented this van", I said, as I urged him into the
back and blindfolded him. I drove around, then, for
about 30 minutes, while he pleaded to be released. But
all I could do was to answer, truthfully!, that I didn't
have the key. Finally, when I thought he had had enough,
I headed for a secluded campsite, where I had cached the
key. That, of course, was both reason and means to
extend our stay for a few days.
I searched the room for the key, as best I could. No
luck. I was getting desperate; John still wasn't likely
to wake up for hours, and I still had to work. And I
couldn't just leave; I was nude, and I didn't see any
reasonable way of dressing myself with my hands chained
like that. Yes, a tube top would have done, or a
strapless evening dress, or even a halter top, but I
didn't have those with me. I could, I suppose, have cut
the bra straps, and tied them behind my neck, but that
would be very difficult, too. Besides, that bra was
about as sheer as possible; I certainly couldn't go
outside wearing just it in this neighborhood.
As before, my frustration at being unable to escape the
bonds that John had put me in aroused me. This time,
though, my hands were free, so I was able to satisfy
myself. It felt good, too; there was still a lot of
unresolved tension from my time on the bed.
After all that, I realized that if the key were in the
room, it was in one of John's pockets. Slipping bound
hands into them wasn't going to be easy. At that
thought, I grinned. There was no reason to leave his
pants on while I searched them. First, though, a
precaution. I took the spare handcuffs out of the bag,
and locked his hands behind him. Then I had a better
thought, and spent a few minutes putting the anchor
chain back under the mattress. The next step was getting
John onto the bed; while I'm strong enough to drag him,
I didn't see at first how I could do so with my arms
bound.
I discovered, though, that I could get my arms around
his legs, and then up his body. Grunting, I got him to
the bed, and then on it. Finally, I got his pants off,
which is more difficult than it sounds when he's just
deadweight on the bed, and you are chained, and checked
his pockets. Fortunately, the key was there; I released
my hands immediately, and then got that gag off. Finally
free, I stretched and considered my next move.
One thought was foremost in my mind, I wanted revenge.
John had been treating me like an object, of late,
culminating in this latest indignity. Apart from the
potential risk to my business, and I knew only too well
how many breaks had gone my way, to let me get loose, he
simply shouldn't have set up that situation, where he
was more interested in the bottle than me, but kidnapped
me anyway. If he wanted to get drunk, fine, but leave me
unbound. If he wanted a shoulder to cry on, I'm always
willing to do that for my lovers. And if he wanted to
set up a scenario where he could act out his
frustrations,
I could go along with that, too. But what had happened
was unacceptable. This, on top of everything else over
the last few weeks, was quite possibly going to break up
our relationship, and I felt like getting my last licks
in. If he wanted to apologize afterwards, I might
listen, but for now, revenge!
I started by stripping him, and binding him in the same
position I'd been in. One idea was to leave him like
that, with a note next to his head: "Dear John, I got
out of this position; can you? Just like you did, I've
kept the final key on my person. Trouble is, I had to go
back to my office; I'll see you there later. Love, me."
I didn't much like that idea, though; it was too close
to breaking my rules. If he didn't spot my escape paths,
he'd be stuck there till the chambermaid came by in the
morning. In this dump, that might be a long time. And
the vodka was going to be heading for his bladder; he
was going to be awfully uncomfortable, probably to the
point of pain. What else could I do?
I decided to stick with the notion of me keeping the
key; forcing him to make his way to my office while
handcuffed had an undeniable appeal. That would mean
that I'd have to put his shirt on him; I started to do
that. Before I did, though, I wondered what would happen
if I tried to take advantage of him. I decided to find
out, and went at him with my lips and mouth. Nothing.
For all the growth, so to speak, in his crotch, I might
just as well have been licking another woman. Woman?
Hmm, I knew what I was going to do!
As I had mentioned, John was very slight of build. He
also had long hair for a man, and a clear complexion.
Could I turn him into an involuntary female
impersonator? I didn't know, but I sure could try! The
first step was to shave him. He'd brought along a razor,
of course; I plugged it in and went over his face, legs,
and armpits quite thoroughly. I didn't think his face
would remain that smooth by morning, but I decided to
postpone that problem. Next, I started dressing him in
my clothes.
The stockings were no problem, of course, nor was the
garter belt. I put my panties on him, then paused. One
good erection could spoil the whole effect, to say
nothing of the panties. Rummaging around in my bag, I
discovered some string. I tied this around the piece de
resistance, through his legs, and up to his waist. I
then knotted it in the back. It was very strong twine;
he would not find it easy to break. And too much arousal
would be quite painful. Breaking the rules? Maybe, but
it was up to him; if he retained his control, it
wouldn't hurt at all. Besides, I had bound him that way
before, and he had never seriously complained, the way I
always did when he stretched the rules.
The bra was easy enough, and I filled it with some of my
modeling clay. Then I got inspired and coloured in an
aureole and a nipple, the bra and blouse were sheer
enough to make that noticeable. I confess I was vain
enough to use myself as a model, though my halfhearted
attempts at making an actual casting didn't work.
Finally, I put my blouse on him, though I decided to
leave it unbuttoned; let him have the fun of trying to
close it with his hands bound. For the same reason, I
left the miniskirt off, too.
A bit of hair styling was next. I didn't want to cut his
hair, but there was no reason I couldn't put in a nice
pony tail, and a few barrettes. And I'd worn clip-on
earrings that day, which heightened the effect. Would my
heels fit on his feet? They were a tight fit, and would
be uncomfortable to walk in, but so what? I think shoes
like that are a cultural form of bondage, that society
as a whole has forced women into. It was a man's turn
now.
I finished my preparations by handcuffing him, then
spread-eagling his legs to the anchor bar. I didn't
attach the handcuffs to the arm chain, which meant that
getting loose would be much easier for him than it was
for me, but that was the whole point.
One last problem: could I wake him up earlier? I decided
it was worth a try. I pushed the blouse up away from his
midriff, and put an ice cube in his navel. I then
dressed in my gym clothes, gathered up everything else
but a single sweater, and left. Pleasant dreams, John.
As I started his car, though, a disturbing thought
struck me. I had escaped, but what would John do to get
even? Would I regret my revenge?
Driving back to the office, I asked myself this
question: why did I persist in my relationship with
John? What did he supply, to make me take such risks?
The key answer, I think, is imagination.
Did you ever see the movie "Blowup", where some
characters play an invisible tennis game? It takes a
certain kind of mindset to do that without a director
hovering over you. Not every shot is difficult, but some
are. You neither win nor lose every point. Bondage
games, at least the kind I like, are similar. You have
to know when to resist, when to give in, when to
dominate. Beyond that, you have to create an illusion,
set a scene. There's no particular trick to just tying
someone up, and sometimes that's a good thing to do.
Other times, though, you want more. Perhaps there's a
new way to tie someone up, or a good world model to keep
in mind.
John could do that. There was that whipping post, for
example, that was perfect for stimulating the victim,
even without the built-in vibrator. Or there were the
worlds he could create. Once he described a society very
similar to ours, with just a few changes. Slavery,
sexual slavery, was legal. Debtors could be repossessed.
And the whole legal structure was weighted in favour of
the banks.
You can imagine some of what comes next, of course. I
was victimized by a "mistake" by my credit card company.
We acted out my arrest, detention (with "parties" for
the staff), trial, sale, and eventual release. We kept
that story going for weeks. But he could also take the
other side. I pointed out that my lover in the scenario
might be held for contempt of court, for objecting to
the proceedings, and remanded to a municipal brothel.
Guess who the patron of that brothel was? Guess who the
judge was? This was a society with egalitarian sexual
slavery; I could have just as much fun ordering John
tied to a log as he could have leading me around on a
leash.
Not everyone can do this sort of double think. I
remember one past lover who never could come up with
much new. If I suggested, for example, that I was an
odalisque in a harem, he'd comply. He could find
appropriate costumes, and perhaps even an authentic
scholarly tract on, say, punishments of the period.
Similarly, he would act the part if I told him I was the
mistress of a Roman plantation, and he was part of my
property. But dream them up? Never. And he had a great
deal of difficulty switching roles within a scenario.
Now, though, I was concerned that the real life
relationship I had with John was broken. He had pushed
me past my breaking point, and I suspected that my
revenge had pushed him past his. With most people, that
wouldn't be a serious matter. Upsetting, yes, you never
want a relationship to end on such a note of hostility.
But John had been so unpredictable of late that real
violence seemed a possibility.
I went upstairs to my office. It was late, and the place
was almost deserted. There was one light on in the back;
luckily, it was Roger. I was almost in love with him,
even though we'd never gone out; he was by far the
brightest (and handsomest) member of my staff. But I
have rigid policies against dating my employees; if
nothing else, it can totally mess up the professional
dynamics of the company. (Besides, could you imagine a
lawsuit for sexual harassment, given my tastes? "Your
Honour, not only did she proposition my client, she tied
him up and whipped him. And she literally chained him to
the desk when he had to work overtime.")
Another reason I liked Roger, though, was that I
suspected he liked bondage as well. A few years ago,
when I gave a company costume party, he and his lover of
the time showed up, with her dressed as a barbarian
warrior, and Roger all but naked and in handcuffs. She
held a short chain leading to the cuffs; whenever he did
something she "didn't like", such as flirt with me,
she'd tug on the chain and nearly make him spill his
drink. Halfway through the party, though, they vanished;
when they reappeared, she was stripped of her brass bra
and other finery, had her hands bound behind her, and
was being led around on a leash by her barbarian captor.
She could only eat when he fed her, or if she was
willing to kneel on the floor and eat like an animal.
Not enough to convince you? I was convinced; I
practically raped Roger right then and there. But let me
tell you about another party, at his house. This was a
conventional party; no costumes or anything. Roger has
odd decorating tastes, and, being an artist, he can
indulge in them a lot himself. He had painted a wall of
his living room to resemble the side of a barn. The
balcony became a hayloft, complete with a beam sticking
out for the lift. But the pulley wasn't just decorative;
it was obviously serviceable, not just a painted over
antique from some farm.
I was staring at it, imagining how John would look
suspended from it, when Roger walked over to me. "That's
for rolls in the hay," he said.
I looked up at him; he continued, "or other associated
games". "Games?" I replied.
"Ask Janice," he said, gesturing towards his lover.
But she was staring at John, who had just arrived, they
had been involved for a while, it seems, all unknown to
Roger or myself. And John's tastes are enough like mine
that I knew what sort of games he would have played with
Janice. We left that party early; staring at those ropes
all evening without touching them was too much for me; I
could barely wait for John to tie me up.
But all that was fantasy of a different sort; Roger was
off-limits, even though I knew he'd broken up with
Janice. I could dream of the day the firm was big enough
that I'd need a partner, but for now I needed to get to
work, after all, this contract just might do it. I sat
down to work. I figured that if John was going to do
something, it would be one or two hours later, he'd need
at least that much time to get loose and walk from the
motel. But if it took much longer than that, it probably
meant he'd just gone home to nurse his anger.
Sure enough, just about an hour after I'd started, the
phone rang. It was John. "You've had it." I tried to
reason with him. "John, let's talk about this later.
You're still drunk. Let's talk in the morning, and
tomorrow night I'll have a special surprise for you."
He wasn't buying. "Forget it, you bitch. It's war, not
play, and you're the target." Click.
I didn't know what to do. I really wanted to finish up,
and I was almost done, but would John turn violent? He
certainly sounded that way. I compromised with myself. I
wandered down to Roger's office, mostly to verify that
he was still there, and made some small talk. I just
"happened" to let him know that I'd just broken up with
John, and that John wasn't taking it well. This was
mostly to alert him, in case something untoward did
happen, that I might not mind intervention. That
settled, I went back to my office and got back to work.
I'd just finished when John showed up. How he got in, I
don't know to this day; I'm certain I had locked the
front door to the office suite. But there he was,
twirling a choke collar and leash. He did look charming
in a miniskirt, though. I didn't know if he wanted to
play or hit me with it; either way, I wasn't buying. I
decided to play it cautious. "John, I'm really not in
the mood anymore tonight. We did play a bit, and I
turned the tables on you, just like we always said could
happen."
"Forget it, bitch. You're mine, and I make the rules
now." He took a few steps forward.
I braced myself, and stood up, reviewing some karate
moves. I didn't see any way out of the situation that
wouldn't require hurting him, and that would make the
hostility permanent, even after he sobered up. I decided
to make one more try at dissuading him. "John! Leave!
Now. I'm busy, and I don't have time for this. We'll
talk tomorrow. I'd appreciate it very much if you'd
leave this instant."
I didn't work; John kept on coming. Just before I had to
move, Roger showed up in the door, startling John and
me. "Hi, folks. Am I interrupting any games?" he said
with only a small leer. John looked at him, looked up at
him, rather, and decided the odds weren't in his favour.
They weren't even if Roger hadn't been there, but I
don't think John realized that. I was confident, though,
and for whatever reason, karate lessons had never come
up in conversations with John. Be that as it may, John
backed out the door, snarling "I'll get you later" as he
left.
Roger was concerned. "You'd better flee, fast. Do you
have anywhere to go that he wouldn't know of? Don't even
go to a friend he might think of. If there's nothing
else, try a hotel, but even that's risky." I told him
about the farmhouse and said I'd be okay. He escorted me
to the parking lot, and I drove off. I didn't notice the
red car that followed me down the street, or Roger's
wild gesticulations and shouts.
At that hour, there wasn't much traffic out of town. I
was too self-absorbed to notice that there was always a
car behind me, no matter where I drove. Finally, I
pulled into my own drive, and breathed a sigh of relief.
I did see the car behind me going past, then; for some
reason, it seemed to be driving slowly. That much I
noticed, but I didn't put two and two together.
Once inside, I relaxed a bit. Odd. It would be first
time I'd slept there, but I was doing it alone. Should I
tie myself up for recreation, the way I did when I was
between lovers? While the place was by no means
finished, I did have a few toys in place. I seriously
considered it, and after I'd undressed and showered, I
toyed around for a while with some handcuffs and a
harness I'd made.
I finally took them off; I just wasn't in the mood, and
going through the motions of autoerotism for their own
sake didn't seem to make much sense. Accommodating a
lover when you're not in the mood, sure, but yourself?
Then I rethought the issue; on a night like this one, I
was all too likely to wake up horny and depressed in the
middle of the night. So I compromised, I put the harness
back on, left two pairs of handcuffs within easy reach,
and went to sleep. That was a mistake, a big one.
By the clock, I'd been asleep an hour or so when I was
awakened by the crack of a strap across my thighs. I
jerked around but was caught short, my hands were
chained to the waist ring of the harness! I tried to
kick out, but that didn't work well, either; my legs
were confined by the second pair of handcuffs. Before I
could recover, John had clipped my legs to a ring I'd
conveniently installed at the foot of the bed. It took
only a moment more for him to collar me, and attach that
to the head of the bed.
"Nice little love nest you have," he said. "I haven't
been here before; who have you been sharing it with?"
With that, he struck me again. "Doesn't matter, though;
it's mine, now, and so are you." I was petrified.
"I haven't been with anyone else," I said, truthfully.
"This isn't even my place; it's Roger's," I added. John
just laughed. "With your name on the mailbox? With the
front door keyed the same as your house?" My heart sank
as John continued, "I don't like being lied to; you'll
regret it." He whipped me twice more as he said that,
but almost casually; I could see that he was working up
to something bigger.
"OK, John, what do you want?" I asked.
"You, of course; I already told you that. And the first
step is to mark you as all mine. Tonight, I'll bring
back some tattooing equipment, or maybe a branding iron;
for now, though, this will have to serve." With that, he
pulled out a pen and started marking my breasts with
indelible ink. He first wrote "Property of" on one side,
and his name on the other. He continued with a few
obscene phrases describing me, then rolled me over and
continued on my buttocks. Naturally, he wasn't at all
gentle about it, either.
Finally, he was done. "I'm going to look around this
place, to see what else you've got here. That bed is
entirely too comfortable for the likes of you." With
that, he vanished. I didn't even bother struggling; I
knew too well the quality of the toys I'd bought. And I
was also certain where I was spending the night. When I
heard a satisfied "Ah!", I knew he'd found it.
Have you ever considered the problem of building a jail
cell? Trying to order an authentic door and having it
delivered to a residence just doesn't work. And I'm not
a metal worker. I am, however, a decent carpenter.
Downstairs in the basement, there was a large storage
closet. I took off the door, and built my own. I started
with a stout frame of 2x4s. That would sag, though. So I
took two pieces of plywood the same size as the frame,
and cut out the middle. That gave me a rigid border to
fasten to the 2x4s. I filled in the middle with thick
dowel sticks, the kind you use for clothes rods in
closets.
I ran a 6x4 across the center for rigidity, and used it
as the anchor point for a deadbolt. Voila!, a cell door.
The inside of the cell was, of course, fully equipped
with rings, chains, etc. I left the bare cement floor
alone; it added to the air of authenticity. I did have
some foam pads cut to fit the floor for overnight use;
spending a full night on a bare cement floor could be
very unpleasant, especially in winter. Somehow, though,
I didn't think John was going to be that nice to me.
John came back upstairs. He released my legs from the
ring, only to bend them backwards and chain them to the
back of the harness. I sure wasn't going to be kicking
him. He also fastened another pair of handcuffs to my
leg cuffs before unchaining my neck and carrying me
downstairs into the cell, dropping me on the floor.
While I was still a bit stunned, he quickly moved my
right hand from the front handcuffs to the back.
Fastened like that, I was helpless; I acquiesced while
he moved my other hand. He completed the scene by
chaining my neck to a ring, and locking the cell door.
"Good night; don't go anywhere," he said as he turned
out the light and closed the basement door.
Somehow, despite my total helplessness at the hands of a
man who had been my lover only hours before, I wasn't
the least bit aroused. Eventually, somehow, I fell
asleep.
For obvious reasons, I didn't sleep well that night.
Apart from my discomfort, I was very worried about my
situation, and not just the obvious concerns. Have you
ever been bound that way, with your hands tied tightly
to your ankles? It's an exhausting position; it's even a
bit hard to breathe. And that was the danger; when
breathing becomes a struggle, eventually your chest
muscles and diaphragm become too tired to keep up their
job. Did John know that? And was I safer if he did or
didn't know?
And, oddly enough, I even worried about work. I was sure
to miss the presentation in the morning. Losing the
contract, while disappointing, would be no big deal. But
not showing up would be disastrous; with all the
temperamental "artistic" types I competed with, my
reputation for reliability was a crucial edge. Could I
explain, "sorry, I was tied up yesterday?" No, I doubted
they'd understand!
That was the way the night passed. I'd doze for a while,
then wake up and worry. I had no idea what time it was,
or even if it was morning yet; that basement was pretty
light tight. Eventually, I was awakened by a gag being
shoved into my mouth, and a hood being placed over my
head. John started to speak.
"OK, bitch, I make the rules now. Here's what your life
is going to be like from now on. First thing every
morning, you'll be punished. We'll start today with a
whipping, a real one, but I have lots more ideas, so
don't worry about being bored.
"After that, we'll see how well you can please me. Be
sure to do a good job; how satisfied I am will determine
whether you get fed that day, how tightly you'll be
bound while I'm gone, even whether or not you get to use
a toilet instead of lying in your own crap all day." He
giggled; I, perforce, was silent. I didn't even try to
moan audibly, though internally I was on the verge of
panic. In the right context, those same words, even
those same actions, for a few days, might have been a
tremendous turn-on; here, they were threats.
John continued with his schedule. "The same thing will
happen in the evening, of course. And if I'm not
interested in having you", his phrase, verbatim, "that's
obviously your fault for not interesting me enough, so
I'll have to punish you some more. Of course, some
evenings I'll be too tired to drive all the way out
here; that might even happen two or three nights in a
row. I sure hope that you were good enough the morning
before to earn an extra plate of food left next to you;
that would be an extra special treat, one I couldn't
give you very often." Again, he giggled, and I could
imagine him smirking.
When he was done talking, he unfastened my legs and neck
chain, and slapped me on the buttocks. "Up!" he
commanded, pulling on my leash. "Run!", he said as we
left the cell, pointing me towards the stairs, slapping
me again, and pulling harder. Of course, I didn't know
which was I was facing; I ran straight into the wall
while John laughed. He more or less dragged me up the
stairs, into the living room. When we got there, he
chained my legs together again, though he left me
standing alone for a moment.
"You didn't finish this room," he complained, somewhat
illogically. "No matter; I know how to install
ringbolts."
With that, he tied my ankle chain to the floor, and
attached a rope to my handcuffs. The rope apparently
went up to the ceiling; he pulled it taut, stretching my
arms up rather uncomfortably, and causing my buttocks to
stick out at him. I assume he tied the end somewhere,
but the next I knew of his activity was when I felt the
sting of the paddle. He was no longer playing; the
beating hurt worse than anything I'd ever felt. I wanted
to scream despite the gag, and despite the hood my eyes
were tearing.
I don't know how long the pain continued, but he stopped
well short of beating me unconscious, John wanted me
awake for the next part. He release the rope to the
ceiling, pushed me to my knees, and raped me from
behind. I wasn't responsive, of course, no one would be
in that situation, and that infuriated him. He kicked me
hard, then hauled on the rope again till I was in his
chosen whipping position. He hit me a few more times,
muttered to himself, and then left. Eventually, I heard
the door slam, and a car drive away.
For a while, I was too numb to think. Then the old
worries returned and gnawed at me. In that position, I
didn't even have the solace of sleep, so I tried
desperately to think pleasant thoughts. I even managed
to come up with two about my present situation. The
first was that John had never cared for anal sex; if he
had, he'd certainly have hurt me severely taking me that
way, with no preparation or gentleness. The second was
that my foresight in using an IUD was again paying off,
when bondage and spontaneity are at the heart of your
sex life, other forms of birth control can be
problematic at best. Of course, my very survival seemed
in doubt at that point, rendering any question of birth
control academic.
-= * =-
After some measureless interval, I heard a car pull up,
and the door open. I braced myself, certain that I'd be
greeted by a blow. But I was surprised. "Hi, Boss. At
least, I assume that's you." It was Roger, and I nearly
fainted with relief.
Quickly, he unfastened the ropes holding me in place,
carried me to the couch, and removed the hood and gag.
He didn't waste time asking me if I was okay; the
outlines of what had happened were obvious enough.
"Where are the keys to your handcuffs and leg chains?"
he asked. I told him that I had left the keys on the
night table, but that I suspected John had taken them
with him. "There's a master set in the linen closet,
though; I always keep spares there."
Roger disappeared for a moment, but returned empty-
handed: "John apparently ransacked the place; there are
no keys to be found. Let me run into town and pick up a
few tools."
I demurred. "Before you go anywhere, could you please
carry me to the bathroom? And I have a well equipped
workshop downstairs; you'll find what you need in there,
I think." Roger obliged in the first respect, but before
fetching the tools, he carried me back to the couch and
covered me with a sheet. "I think you'll be more
comfortable this way," he said, without even a leer or
flirtatious note.
Teasing games were one thing, I remembered Roger at a
company beach party when John had eased my bikini top
off, but he knew that this wasn't the place for any such
thing. Of course, I was feeling safe again, which made
my bondage seem a bit sexy again; my reaction, at least
partially, was that I wouldn't mind the chains just then
if only Roger had been the one who had put them there! I
didn't let on, though; I just composed myself while
Roger got what he needed, and cut through the links. He
then dispatched me to the bedroom to shower and dress,
while he cooked some food for us.
Over the meal, breakfast? lunch?, I told him what had
happened, sparing no details. I even explained the
"Kidnap" game to Roger; he seemed fascinated. When I
finished, I asked him to explain how he had shown up to
rescue me.
"When I saw John following you away from the office
yesterday, I knew there would be trouble. I had biked in
to work, so I had no way of following you, and of course
I had no idea where you were going except for *the
farmhouse*. I tried going to the police, but they
weren't interested; everything was too vague and weird
sounding. So I went back to the office and thought for a
while."
"It seemed to me that your farmhouse would be 30 minutes
to two hours from here. Much closer and you wouldn't get
any extra privacy over your regular house; much further
and it would be too inconvenient for weekend visits. I
kind of guessed it was a love nest, but I wasn't certain
just how you'd feather it." We both blushed.
"I narrowed down the search area a bit by assuming it
was in the same general direction as your house; the
direction you headed off in was at least consistent with
that guess. That still left a lot of towns, though. But
it was all I had to go on, so I started dialing
Information for each of the towns. No dice."
"No," I said. "The purpose of this place is relaxation
and isolation; I deliberately didn't get a phone or even
any clocks. As far as possible, this is not the real
world."
Roger nodded. "That left the local tax offices, for all
those wretched little towns. I knew there was nothing
else to be done until morning when they opened, so I
called my `assistant' and alerted her." I looked a bit
puzzled; Roger replied, "Surely you remember Janice?"
I nodded.
Roger continued, "Even though we're no longer going out,
we're still friends. And Janice hates John with a
passion. Their relationship ended much like yours is
doing: with John getting violent, though not quite to
this extent. He let her go after a week, and she never
filed charges, she said that she had no evidence it
wasn't just another game, and he could point to her
collection of toys when defending himself. I didn't
agree, but it's not the sort of thing you can push a
lover into doing, especially after a couple of years.
"Anyway, by morning I had compiled a complete list of
numbers for her to call; one of them eventually worked.
I couldn't make the calls myself, I had to give your
presentation."
I jumped up. "Roger! How did it go? What did you say
about me?"
"No problem, I said you had a bad stomach virus, but
would probably be in tomorrow. And I think things went
quite well; they really liked your stuff, even more than
mine, I think." He paused. "You always keep the best
parts of these bids for yourself," but he was smiling as
he said that.
I smiled back at him. "That's my real pay for running
the business, and tending to all the paperwork. Anyway,
that's neither here nor there. What are we going to do
about John?"
Roger turned dead serious. "I don't know. Would you
prosecute?"
"Well, to some extent I have the same problem as Janice:
where's the evidence? You rescued me, of course, but all
of the paraphernalia here is mine, and that's a pretty
strong defense. We'd need to get more evidence."
Roger paused. "Can we frighten him, maybe even punish
him enough to make him stay away?"
"I doubt it, and in any event I will not be a party to
that sort of violence." Roger seemed to sigh in relief
as I continued, "Hmm, if we did manage to get some more
evidence, could we use it for blackmail instead? Neither
of us wants our proclivities known." I blushed; I'd been
fidgeting with the remains of the handcuff the way I do
with bracelets, treating it almost as if it belonged
there. Roger noticed, and laughed.
"Whatever do you mean by that?" he asked, as he pulled
the two chain remnants close together. "Do you mean you
like this?" he asked as he grabbed a discarded twist tie
and fastened the two together again.
"Roger! Stop that this instant! Or I'll have to spank
you," I said. But I left my hands together, not pulling
them apart, while we continued talking.
"Can you tolerate being bound again, the way you were
when I found you?" Roger asked. I hesitated; he
continued. "If the chains and hood are on you, but
you're laying on the floor, I think I can pull the rope
taut when I see his car entering the driveway. There
would still be time for me to hide. Here's what we'll
do."
Eventually, reluctantly, I agreed. And so it was that
after Roger chiseled the remains of the old manacles
from me, I brought out some new ones, sans any keys,
from the toy box. I stalled, looking for every last
excuse not to go through with it. Was the kitchen
properly cleaned up? Was Roger's car well hidden?
Finally, there was nothing left to prepare; it was time
to do it or flee. I went into my room and undressed,
then headed back to the living room. "Are you ready?"
Roger asked. I remained mute, no more able to agree than
I had been when John bound me to his whipping post.
I draped the gag around my neck, we decided to try
pretending I had managed to spit it out, and Roger tied
the hood. He handed me the handcuffs then and asked me
to chain myself. "No, Roger, you do it." I hugged him;
he hugged my naked body, and bent to his task. The locks
clicked home.
"Roger? Touch me again?" I pleaded.
He finished tying my ankles to the floor, and properly
threading the ceiling rope. I felt a gentle caress on
the side of my breast as I lay on the floor. "Let's talk
about that later, when we're equal again," he replied.
But he caressed my breast once more, lovingly and
lingeringly, taking the sting out of his words. And
though we lay there silently, his arm remained on my
shoulder, reassuringly.
I don't know how long I laid there, bound. This time,
the chains were Roger's; the scene, though, was John's,
and there was still very real danger ahead. And I could
do nothing to help; we had no key for me to use to
escape and come to Roger's aid if necessary. Eventually,
we heard tires kicking up gravel in the drive. "He's
here," Roger said, unnecessarily. He helped me to my
feet, pulled the rope taut, and vanished without even a
kiss. Helpless, I waited for John.
A few minutes later, John came in. "Waiting where I left
you, I see. Polite of you," he sneered. I heard the
sound of a heavy object hitting floor, and the clank of
some metal. John chuckled. "Remember what I said I'd do
tonight? Here are my branding tools, all nice and clean.
I ordered them weeks ago, waiting for this moment." Now
that was an interesting revelation; my revenge for his
apparent thoughtlessness had nothing to do with the
situation. It struck me as quite likely that if I hadn't
escaped from the motel, all this might have happened
last night.
As if he were reading my mind, John said, "Yup, last
night was to be the lead-in, if you hadn't dawdled. You
thought you were playing bondage games with me, but it
was never really a game to either of us, was it?" With
that, he slapped my buttocks, hard. "Of course, I could
never have afforded a place like this before today
anyway; it was thoughtful of you to provide it for me. I
hope you like it a lot; I don't think you're ever going
to leave. While you're here, you life will be like
this."
With that, he started to hit me, hard. I stifled a
scream; I was supposed to be gagged. Roger stayed
hidden; he was going to come out on my signal only. For
now, we had to elicit as many incriminating comments as
possible from John, which meant that I had to take as
many blows as I could stand. And I had to judge the
psychological moment just right; expelling the gag with
a scream after a blow seemed more plausible if I were
silent despite having been ungagged for some time.
Why not put the gag back in? Well, apart from the
dangers I described earlier, I need to be free to give
our release word. And we were certain that the hood was
going to come off before the attempted branding; John
would certainly want to tease me with the sight of the
hot iron. If we were wrong about that, I was going to
suffer a lot of pain before I got out of this. Worse
yet, John might consider the hot iron a weapon to use
against Roger; in a fight like that, anything could
happen.
I was bracing myself to scream when John stopped the
beating. "Time for a different game," he said. He untied
the ropes holding me in place, and pushed me to the
floor. My arms and legs were still chained; he further
secured my by tying my handcuffs to my waist. Finally,
he tied another rope to my leg chains and dragged me,
feet first, towards the barn.
My sense of panic, which had vanished when I heard
Roger's voice, returned in full measure. Could Roger
follow us and not be noticed? Did Roger even know where
we were going? Was there a place for him to hide in the
barn? I didn't know, and it worried me.
If I'd known what Roger was up to, I'd have been even
more worried. He hadn't even been in the house during
the whipping! Rather, he'd been out searching John's
car, an action that was ultimately to prove very
helpful, but almost got him caught at the time.
When we reached the gravel drive, I couldn't hold in my
screams any longer. I was being dragged face down, and
the rocks raking across my breasts were too much to
bear. John dropped me, swore, and came over to
investigate. "Maybe I should have dragged you by the
hair; the gag seems to have been pulled off." Sure
enough, the hood was shredded, so his explanation was
quite plausible. "No matter, I'm the only one who can
hear you scream, and I quite enjoy it." He laughed
again, and twisted my breasts. "But I think I'll let you
recover a bit while I prepare the next set of toys."
With that, he picked me up in a fireman's carry and went
into the barn.
It would have been out of character not to plead, so I
did. "John, stop this; you know I'll play any sort of
game you want, do anything you want."
"Of course you will, dear; did you think I'd give you
the opportunity to refuse. Now shut up; if you say
another word I'll gag you again." I was silent; another
gag could have been deadly. John continued, "But I do
think I'll put the hood back on for now; wondering what
I'm going to do next will be half your pleasure."
When we got into the barn, John tied a rope to my ankle
cuffs, and hoisted me into the air upside-down. "Next
time, instead of leaving your hands tied to your waist
like that, I'll just attach them to a heavy weight, and
bounce it down on occasion; this time, though, this pose
is just to hold you for a while." I moaned, and had no
need to fake it.
What followed next was a bit odd, some hammering,
drilling, sounds of something, a ladder, I learned
later, being dragged around, plus more than a few
curses, John wasn't the handiest guy around. Finally, he
was done. He informed me of this by unceremoniously
cutting through the rope; if I had been much higher off
the ground, I could easily have broken my neck when I
fell. He then unlocked my leg chains, and fastened a
strap around each ankle. Some footsteps, and the
clicking of a ratchet. Slowly, my legs were pulled
further and further apart.
Slowly, they were raised into the air. I started to
scream, but John didn't say anything until I was again
suspended, this time with my legs pulled uncomfortably
far apart. He pulled off the hood and looked at me.
"I'm going to spread you a bit more, then leave you like
this. Then I'm going to brand the inside of your thighs
while you can't move an inch to stop me. Then I'll drop
you to the ground, rearrange the pulleys to spread you
like you've never been spread before, and take you till
you scream." True to his word, he tightened the ratchet
a bit more, and vanished.
For some reason, I felt the urge to look around and
understand what he had done. A rope from each ankle went
through a pulley wheel mounted high off the ground, at
either end of the barn. One rope was simply tied, at
ground level; the other went to a winch, also near the
ground. By turning it, he dragged my ankles apart, and
raised me into the air. Obviously, by simply removing
the pulley wheels, he could stretch me on the floor, in
a more convenient position for rape.
Suddenly, I heard Roger's voice. "I think we've got him.
If you can, try the release word before he lights the
torch!" But where was Roger hiding? The whole inside of
the barn was open; there weren't even any stalls left.
I didn't get a chance to ask him; John came back in. "I
found something else I want to try before branding you;
it should be even more fun." It was a round file, a very
coarse one, that he had found in the workshop. He rubbed
it, hard, on the inside of my thighs. It would have hurt
enough under any circumstances; with my legs stretched
that tight, it was sheer agony. I screamed, then used
our release word. I'd only done that once before with
John, and that time it was a test, though he never knew
that, it's always wise to learn if your partner really
will stop when things get too rough.
"Release you?" John asked. "Are you joking? That was
when we were playing your games. This is my game, and
I'm the one who decides when to let go. Come now, are
you ready for your brand? Or shall I use this a bit
more?" He pointed the file downward, as if ready to
insert it.
"No, no!" I screamed.
"Beg to be branded," he replied, touching me with the
tip of the file.
"I beg you, I beg you!" I screamed, all but forgetting
that rescue was at hand. But I had to get him away from
me, lest he use me as a hostage.
I needn't have worried. As John stepped towards the
propane torch he'd brought, I yelled, "Roger!" John
looked up, and an amazing thing happened: Roger jumped
him from above; he'd been in the hayloft!
It wasn't really a fight; John was stunned by the
impact. Roger pushed him, roughly, towards the winch,
slammed John into the wall to immobilize him, and
released me. He caught the crank so he could lower me
slowly to the floor. The keys had fallen from John's
pocket during all this; ignoring him for the moment,
Roger picked them up, walked over to me, and unlocked
me.
John slowly rose to his feet. "I'm not done with you
yet, bitch. And don't try calling the cops; with this
setup, I'll have no trouble convincing any judge this
wasn't just a game. And you can't even afford to have
this public; your precious business would fall apart."
I was going to reply, and dare him to expose me. He
didn't really understand the situation. I, and my
competitors, are fundamentally artists. So are the
client representatives we deal with. And in the art
world, people pride themselves on ignoring odd personal
lives; such things are irrelevant. What I did was quite
tame by comparison to some of them.
I didn't get a chance to answer, though; Roger spoke
first. "Of course, you can't afford the exposure,
either. What's more, there will be no trouble with the
jury; I have the whole thing on tape, even the part
about you rejecting the release word." John started
looking concerned. "But there's more. While you were
busy, I had a look in your car." At that, John started
looking very alarmed.
Roger continued, "I'm sure the D.A. would love to send
that funny white powder to a lab. But that's not all.
That stuff was packaged for sale, not home use. And
there was a lot of cash in the trunk as well, which
suggests that you didn't purchase the stuff. Tell me,
what would the kind of folks you ripped off do if they
learned your name and address? Wait, don't leave yet.
I'm not going to do anything with that tape now. Nor
have I removed anything from your car. But I did use
your very own car phone to tell some friends what's
going on. I suggest that you leave, immediately. And if
you ever come near her or me again, well, that tape will
be page 1 news, and a letter about the drug rip-off will
be mailed to a certain address."
John didn't stay to hear any more; he fled. All I wanted
to do was lay down and have a good screaming fit, but
Roger dissuaded me. With some justice, he pointed out
that I should not stay at a known address until he had
distributed copies of the tape and I had installed
suitable alarm systems. We walked back to the house, arm
in arm. Roger cleaned me up and bandaged me; then we
headed for a randomly chosen hotel to spend the night.
Obviously, all we did was cuddle.
Roger was a bit distant in the morning, when I was a bit
in the mood for more. "Right now, you're feeling very
grateful to me. Don't mistake that for infatuation. And
remember, we still work together, even if you do make me
a partner to handle half of this contract." How had he
guessed my thoughts! "Relax for a while, date others,
and recover from all this. In a few months, you can make
a decision about us."
His logic was, of course, impeccable. And I did start
dating others, though I remained celibate; I wasn't
ready for anything deep. Work kept me busy; we did get
that contract, and I did promote Roger. And we never
heard a word from John; when we checked with his
neighbors, we learned that he had never returned that
day. I never did learn if he fled or if the mob got him
without our help.
Finally, I hit it off with someone. We retired to his
place that evening; he even had a reasonable set of toys
of his own. And it felt good, when you chain yourself
up, as I had been doing, there isn't that sense of
abandoning control that you get when someone else does
it. Most important, though, it clarified my feelings
about Roger.
I waited until the next time both of us had to work
late, well after everyone else had gone. I walked up
behind him as he sat at his desk, put my arms around his
neck, and rested my head on his shoulders. "You've been
kidnapped," I said in a dreamy voice, closing my eyes.
He grasped my hands, and I felt something hard. "No,
it's you who's been kidnapped," he said, as he snapped a
pair of handcuffs shut.
We drifted back to the couch in my office. Before this,
I'd often spent the night there when I'd been working
late, but never nude, never bound, and never with Roger
chained beside me.
-= * =-
It was while I was tied under the car that I started
wondering about my sexual preferences. Was this really a
way to get my kicks? I mean, autoeroticism is one thing,
but auto eroticism? This wasn't fun at all. Worse yet,
it wasn't even arousing me.
Hmm, perhaps I should explain how I got there.
This all took place sometime after the breakup with
John. Roger and I hit it off very well, though not
without a few strains. For one thing, we found that it
generally didn't work well to spend the night together
during the week; being together all day at work, and
then all evening, was just too much togetherness. But
weekends, and an occasional exception, were great fun,
and our holidays together were marvelous. We tried to
keep matters cool at work (except for the time I really
chained him to his desk, but I'll get to that later);
some of the staff knew what was going on, but it didn't
seem to affect morale as best we could tell.
We switched off, in no particular order, between his
house and the farmhouse. His house was great for me,
because of all the new toys, and the farmhouse was great
for both of us, because it was intended as a love nest.
Not that his place was far behind, Roger let his
artistic talents really flourish.
For example, at the moment he's building a genuine
dungeon in the basement. I don't mean just a cell, like
I have at the farmhouse; I mean as authentic looking a
dungeon as he can come up with. And I suppose I don't
even mean "authentic," I mean something redolent of old
B-movies, after all, that's our image of what a dungeon
is. So the walls appear to be stone, and there are
stuffed rats in strategic places, one or two of which
are even equipped to produce sound effects.
There are torches stuck in the wall, and "cobwebs," and
so on. There are several cells, all fully functional and
well equipped with chains and ring bolts. Does he plan
on bringing another woman down there with me? Another
man? Another couple? He won't say; Roger hates to talk
about a project before it's done. I wouldn't even have
known about the dungeon plans, except that I went
wandering around his house one of the first mornings I
was there, Roger was still spread-eagled to the bed, so
he couldn't really stop me.
The torture chamber, I'm told, will be in the laundry
room, games are one thing, but having clean clothes is
still important. That's one of the parts that isn't
finished yet; with Roger, though, I'm not worried about
more pain than I find stimulating.
While waiting for the dungeon to be finished, we often
played in his "barn," in the living room. Last time, I
mentioned the hay lift; I didn't realize all the ways
he'd thought of to use it. A couple of weeks ago, for
example, he tied my hands to my sides, tied my ankles
together, and lifted me up by my feet. Different enough,
and not too hard to take, till he told me I was staying
that way all night.
I was surprised, and a bit concerned; that didn't sound
like fun. But he wasn't done. Next, Roger put a strap
under my arms, and raised my body up to the underside of
the beam. Another around my waist, my thighs, and my
head, and I was nicely supported. Much better, but he
still wasn't finished with me. Sitting on top of the
beam, Roger adjusted the bonds on my legs, so that they
were splayed on either side of the beam.
Then, and I'm not kidding, he dragged in a makeshift
scaffold, lay on it at almost my height, and started
licking me. I barely kept from screaming; I was being
stimulated all over, and I not only couldn't get loose,
if I had I'd have fallen eight feet to the floor! After
a bit of that, he went back to the balcony, crawled out
on the beam, and caressed me from that side. Finally, he
went back to the scaffold and tried for penetration, but
without much luck. He settled for moving the scaffold so
I could return the oral favor.
That was the pattern of our sex lives, who could think
of the most imaginative ways to tie up the other? Once,
when I was a bit annoyed at him, he was late for a
dinner date, I decided some mild revenge was in order. I
waited until we were alone in the office late one night,
business had picked up, which is both good and bad,
wandered in, and announced a kidnap.
Roger knew the rules, and complied when I told him to
strip. He was a bit surprised when I started chaining
him to his desk, but again, that was part of the game. I
spread-eagled him on his desk, and after suitable
foreplay mounted him. Then, and only then, did I tell
him his fate: that I wasn't going to release him until
the next morning! On that note, I left.
Roger, of course, was a bit upset, but he was also
curious what I was going to do. He knew me well enough
to know that I wouldn't let him be discovered like that,
that would be against our rules, but would I do more
than show up early? I let him stew all night. About
8:00, he probably started worrying seriously.
His secretary seemed to be the type who thought ordinary
sex was evil, let alone what we did. To be sure, I don't
even know if that sort of naive mind would even
recognize this as sexual, but nudity was also bad;
apparently, if we'd been intended to go around without
any clothes, we'd have been born that way. No matter,
efficiency is what counts in a secretary, not personal
beliefs, however weird they are.
I did more than time things carefully; I watched from my
window till the secretary got to the door. Roger must
have heard it open and really start to sweat! I then ran
past the anteroom, shouting "Don't disturb us for
anything; we've got an important meeting!" and on in to
Roger's office. His desk was out of the line of sight,
so there was no exposure. We did "meet," though we had
to be rather more silent than was our custom. I jokingly
threatened Roger with a gag, but it wasn't really
necessary. About 10:30 or so, I finally let him go.
Such was the pattern of our lives. A few weeks ago,
though, he told me he wasn't going to be around for the
Fourth; he wanted to visit his sister. I was
disappointed, a four day weekend sounded like fun, but
going with him didn't appeal to me; his sister is as
straight as they come. We'd even have been consigned to
separate beds! So I drove him to the airport, and headed
up to the farmhouse alone, I figured I might as well
work on some of my own construction projects. It was
late when I got there, but I still took the time to play
by myself with a few toys before falling asleep. And, as
happened that time with John, I awoke to find my legs
chained together, and my hand being fastened behind my
back.
My first reaction, of course, was panic. I didn't waste
energy screaming; I just kicked out. No dice; I was
being held to well. But there was no cursing, no
violence; instead, whoever was holding me was fondling
me, gently, and in my favorite places. But I still
didn't know who it was, it was utterly and completely
black in the room.
If you're from the city, like I am, you're not used to
total darkness. In the city, there are always
streetlights, or passing cars. Out here, there was none
of that. Usually, I could see a bit at night by the
light from my clock, but my captor had unplugged it.
"Roger?" I asked.
No answer, just caresses in a way that only Roger had
ever done, a rhythmic sort of teasing of my nipples. I
wiggled from pleasure, but decided to test things. "The
ankle cuff is hurting me; could you loosen it?" I added
our release word.
Instantly, whoever he was, no doubt that it was a male;
I could feel that! He released my body, and adjusted the
manacle. That settled one thing, it certainly wasn't
John. But was it Roger? I'd seen him get on the plane,
hadn't I? But if it wasn't Roger, who was it? And how
had he gotten in, past my alarm?
I asked him who he was; rather than answer me, he rolled
me onto my back, and used his lips for more important
matters. My mouth, my breasts, the inside of my thighs,
I was practically delirious with pleasure. But it didn't
feel like Roger; the texture of his facial skin felt
wrong, to say nothing of his style of making love.
Finally, he rolled me up onto my knees, put a few
pillows under my stomach, and put my head down. I knew
what was coming next, of course, and moaned in
anticipation. But he paused, just holding me gently.
It took me a moment to figure out what was going on. My
captor, whoever it was, was waiting for my permission to
proceed. I was certain that if I told him to stop, and
used the release word, he would. But I didn't want to
stop, not after a buildup like that. I told him to
please go ahead, and quickly! Instead, he did something
even more curious, he let me down, got up from the bed,
and vanished.
The light went on in the living room, and music filled
the house, one of Roger's favorite pieces, on the
stereo. The lights went out, and whoever it was
returned. Again, he started licking and caressing me,
while I writhed in my chains. I wanted to hold him, I
wanted to lick him, I wanted to engulf him, but I
couldn't move. I moaned, and pulled against my bonds,
and pressed my body against his as best I could.
Finally, finally, he rolled me onto my knees again, and
this time he didn't stop.
We drifted off to sleep together, back to his front, my
chained hands holding him where we wanted me to. My last
thought before I dozed off was that in the morning, I'd
be able to see him.
-= * =-
I awoke in the morning to find I wasn't going to learn
who was in bed next to me, I'd been blindfolded. I said,
"Good morning, whoever you are. Are we going to play
more games today?"
He was silent, but immediately unchained my legs and led
me to the bathroom. It's an odd feeling to be treated
like a baby, to have someone else tend you in the
bathroom, but it was nothing new to me, this was hardly
the first time I'd awakened bound. And, of course, I
wasn't surprised when his hand wandered towards my
breast after wiping me. It's hard to make wiping someone
erotic, but he manage quite well, thank you, I was
tempted to head back to bed.
I didn't, though; I wanted to satisfy hungers of another
sort first. "Breakfast?" I asked.
He responded by putting a leash around my neck and
leading me to the kitchen. He was considerate about it,
though; when we came to a door or a turn, where I might
stub a toe, he took my arm and guided me around the
obstacle. Along the way, he ran his fingers up my spine,
in just the way, and in just the musical rhythm, that
Roger would do. Was this Roger? I was beginning to think
it was.
Breakfast was already prepared; if it wasn't Roger, he'd
been well briefed, because everything was just as I
liked it. He fed me, of course, even holding up the
coffee cup whenever I asked for it. I decided to try a
test. "Can I have some yogurt?" I asked. There were two
containers, a large open carton of blueberry that Roger
had brought last weekend, and some vanilla. I despise
blueberry, but would a stranger know that? I rarely eat
yogurt for breakfast, but maybe that wasn't in the
briefing. No such luck, a moment or two later, a
spoonful of vanilla yogurt was entering my mouth. A
moment later came a blueberry yogurt kiss, he knew it
was a test!
Dessert was more fun, though I had to wait a while for
him to clean up. There's that advantage to being bound,
someone else has to do the dishes. Of course, having to
wait on your knees, with your legs chained again and a
leash holding your head to the floor takes away some of
the pleasure. And he wasn't quick about the chores,
mostly because he kept pausing to rub or kiss my breasts
and back. But it was worth waiting for; when he
finished, he carried me back to the bed, put me on my
knees and lay down in front of me. I didn't need to be
told what to do; I bent over and started licking and
kissing him.
I don't know how long I spent at it; sometimes, I
wiggled around to use my hands instead; sometimes, I lay
down to use my whole body; sometimes, I just moaned and
tried to pull my hands free to hug him. He wasn't just
lying there, either; after the first few minutes, his
hands and mouth were as busy as mine. Eventually, he
gently laid me on my back, unlocked my legs, and brought
us to a peak.
We lay like that for a while before I stirred. "These
handcuffs are rather uncomfortable to lie on, you know;
could you possibly chain me in a different position?"
Instantly, he jumped up and rolled me over. But rather
than unlock me right away, he got out a few cable ties,
and used them to bind my hands. Only when they were
secure did he unlock the handcuffs. I groaned. Arms
aren't that much better when you're laying on your back.
And I expected to be laying on my back a lot that
weekend; he seemed to have one thing in mind. In that I
was both right and wrong, he varied positions a lot, but
about only time my hands weren't bound behind me was
when he tied me under that stupid car. And his body
still didn't feel like Roger's.
We lay there for a while like that, though he got up
briefly to put on some more music. It was the radio this
time, which provided less evidence. We snuggled
together; he read, and I thought. Was this Roger? Should
I stop the charade, one way or another, and find out? I
was certain my captor would honor a request to release
me; I was less certain that he'd do it in a way that
would let me learn his identity. Did I care? Should I
care? Physically, I had no complaints; the sex was
wonderful, and everything was according to my rules. And
whoever that was next to me, Roger had obviously planned
this, and presumably was deriving pleasure from it. Did
it matter that it was indirect? If you make love in a
forest and no one hears it, do you have an orgasm? The
analogy doesn't hold up, but you know what I mean.
I came to no conclusions before lunch. The arrangements
were much like those at breakfast, though with a minor
new wrinkle: I was bound to the chair at my waist, and
my captor actually put a bib on me! Don't laugh too
much, the strap was just more bondage, and a bib is
simply practical when you're being fed by someone. But
Roger never saw it like that, he claimed that it seemed
to him to be too suggestive of pedophilia, and besides
licking any stray food off was fun. My captor had done
that at breakfast, just like Roger would, but not at
lunch.
Cleanup was as before; I was forced to kneel head down
while he washed up. Again, he kept pausing to touch and
rub me; again, I was ready to explode by the time he
picked me up. Instead of heading for the bedroom this
time, though, he carried me down to the cell in the
basement. He gently put me on the padded floor, after
the episode with John, I decided that bare cement wasn't
acceptable even for playing, unlocked my legs, and
aroused me quite thoroughly. But I couldn't touch him,
with my arms bound, and suddenly I heard a click, he had
locked me in, and left!
I tugged at my bonds, to no avail, and tried to rub up
against the bars. It didn't work too well, but I
achieved some release, and sat down. While trying to get
comfortable, I discovered that I'd been left a pillow; I
managed to lay down with it between my legs, and
satisfied myself a bit more. With that out of the way, I
resumed my mental debate about my position, while locked
in a cell, blindfolded, and with my hands quite
thoroughly bound behind my back.
I started out by listing what I was certain of: that my
captor might or might not be Roger, that Roger was
certainly involved in the affair, and that physically I
had no complaints at all, the sex was wonderful, and it
was certainly an imaginative way to play. I tugged my
hands again; they weren't going anywhere.
I could, I suppose, have rubbed my blindfold free, but
that would have been cheating in a sense. If I wanted
out, I could simply ask; if I didn't, I should play by
the rules. A blindfold like that is almost more a symbol
than a reality. I had one in the toy box that was real,
that I couldn't have pushed off. It was more like a
tight fitting ski mask that left my nose and mouth free,
but locked behind my neck. A taut elastic band went down
from the built-in eyepieces to the lock, so that I
couldn't push it up off of my eyes.
It even had loops for a pair of straps that would go
down across my cheeks and fasten to the neckband in
front, for use when I didn't need my mouth, times like
right now. That blindfold was much less comfortable; I
left the current one alone. (Not, of course, that it
would have slipped off easily; the strap in back was
broad, elastic, and quite taut.)
Alone in the dark, I vaguely remembered a conversation
Roger and I had had a few months ago. I didn't remember
it well, because it took place late on a night when we
were both very drunk. We were also chained to each other
at each extremity, face to face, which made lovemaking
quite a challenge, especially when that drunk. But in
the aftermath and afterglow, we suddenly waxed
philosophical.
Two points stuck with me, among all the world's problems
we tried to solve that night. First, we discussed the
question of identity. Who, really, was a person? Was it
their body? Their mind? The two together? What was the
status of an agent with no free will of its own?
(Imagine a robot for that last, if you will.) What about
organizations? Did a corporation have a will, as opposed
to the wills of the people running it? I don't recall
that we came to any conclusions, but it certainly seemed
to bear on my current situation.
The other relevant point was rather more immediate and
personal. Was our relationship inherently monogamous,
and would we ever want to play with other individuals or
couples? To the former, I told Roger that I was, at
least for now, content with him, but didn't mind if he
had occasional encounters elsewhere. He said more or
less the same thing to me, which gave both of us freedom
to explore if and when we wished. In the past, when I
had taken advantage of similar arrangements, it had been
on the basis of pure, unadulterated lust, and this
interlude certainly seemed to fit that model. If my
captor wasn't Roger, I'd certainly be lusting for him
now even if I hadn't before.
Roger was teasingly vague about the last point.
Threesomes and foursomes can be fun, though too often
I've seen them fail miserably with one person feeling
left out. But what we were talking about was more
complex, we wanted others to play with us, to act out
our fantasies. It's hard enough getting two people
reacting properly; I'd never succeeded with three except
once, a long time ago, when my then-lover wanted to play
master to two "harem slaves."
I said it worked, in that we all seemed to play our
proper roles, but for whatever reason none of us ever
tried that game again. I tried telling Roger how much
fun that would be in his dungeon, I really wanted him to
finish it so we could try it, but he just smiled. So I
threatened to chain him down there with his secretary;
he said that he was having more fun chained the way he
was, and proceeded to show me how and why. The second
time that evening went much more smoothly, and we fell
asleep without resolving the question.
One more random thought came to my while I lay in the
cell, bound and blindfolded. In Roger's serious art, as
opposed to the commercial stuff he did for me, or the
fantasy decorating he did, he liked to force people to
take a variant point of view, to look at a situation
differently. There was one painting, for example, where
the perspective seemed wrong, where the viewpoint seemed
to be at waist level, and some of the people seemed to
be fuzzily drawn while others were portrayed with
exquisite detail. You had to stare at it a long time, or
perhaps glance at the title, before you realized that it
was a toddler's view of the world. Was this all Roger's
way of "sketching" our discussion?
I hadn't come to any conclusions when I heard footsteps.
I stayed where I was; I was curious to see what he'd do
or say. He bent down and started touching me, lightly
and delicately. As I responded, he moved on to other
areas. Finally, he leashed me again and led me to a
broad armchair. He sat down and I straddled him, facing
him, mounting him, until we were done. And then he led
me to the kitchen and knelt me there again, while he
cooked a long and elaborate dinner. Throughout, he
hadn't said a single word. And so I knelt there, bound
hand, foot, and neck, kneeling in my own kitchen,
wondering if he really was Roger, this time, the style
did feel more like Roger, and wondering if I should ask
to be released.
-= * =-
Dinner went much like breakfast and lunch, though with
two telling points. The first was that the chicken was
seasoned just as Roger would have. This was more
significant than you might think; Roger disdained
written recipes, but achieved a marvelous consistency
through his skills as a cook. I didn't see how he could
teach someone else how to do that. The other point was
that my captor served me wine through a straw!
Bound as I was, it was quite a practical solution; I
could bend over and sip it when I wanted to. But Roger
never would do that; he was the sort of person who
preferred to bring fine silverware on a picnic instead
of, as he once put it, "useless, garish, tacky, plastic
forks." I'd never known him to compromise his principles
for convenience before.
I knelt in my accustomed place and position while he
cleaned up; then it was off to bed. We didn't do much
besides cuddle a bit while he read and I thought some
more. I was having lots of time to think about the
contradictions inherent in bondage. I was utterly
helpless, but I had a devoted slave who catered to my
every whim, even wiping me on the toilet. I couldn't
move much when we made love, but sex had rarely, if
ever, been better. And, though I was completely in the
power of a possibly unknown man, I trusted him
completely, and I knew that if I asked, I'd be released.
Curious as it may have seemed to an outsider, I was not
being "had" against my will.
The next morning, I decided to try to take control, but
within the game. I knew what I planned to do, but I
never got the chance to try it. It was almost as if he
sensed my mood, knew my limits, and blocked me. Rather
than slowly and delicately arousing me, he was much more
direct and almost forceful. The day before, our
lovemaking was, if you'll pardon the strained analogy,
like the slow, inexorable advance of a glacier. This was
more like a volcano, sudden and explosive. Neither is
resistible, not that I wanted to resist! , but they were
quite different. It ended with me bending forward over
the back of the armchair, gasping, with my legs tied to
its legs while he entered me.
The rest of the morning was different as well. After we
had regained our strength, he leashed me again and led
me on a walk in the woods. It's odd, being led naked and
blindfolded through a forest. Was something about to
brush against me? What would it feel like? And he played
a game with me, picking up different objects and
touching me in different places, while I tried to guess
what he was holding. I felt leaves brush my breasts,
twigs caress my groin, a thorny branch pass ever so
lightly across my stomach. A wrong guess produced
nothing; a right answer was rewarded with a kiss or
more. I'd been guessing right for a while, and was eager
for bigger rewards, when he changed the game. He
suddenly stopped, tied my leash to a branch over my
head, gave me a quick kiss on the lips, and left,
walking noisily through the underbrush.
I'd never done anything like that before. As I said, I'm
a city person; I bought the farm because I wanted
privacy, not because I liked nature. But here I was,
bound blindfolded in the woods, not knowing who else or
what else might happen by. Your skin becomes very
sensitive at a time like that; you feel every little
breath of wind, or skittering leaf. A few times, I
thought I heard an animal walk nearby, while I held
motionless.
Was that my captor next to me? Was it a deer? Had I
really felt anything at all? I didn't dare move. Then I
felt something on my thigh, but it was furry? Or was it?
And what large animal would come up to me like that? Had
I even felt it? The phantom touches grew more and more
frequent, until suddenly they weren't phantom at all,
they were him, touching me, rubbing me, kissing me. At
long last, he untied the leash, and we made love on the
forest floor.
Lunch was as usual; afterwards, he conducted me to my
cell again. He didn't arouse me first this time, but he
did bind my feet, and fasten my neck by a short chain to
a ringbolt near the floor. And the friendly pillow was
gone as well. All in all less pleasant than the day
before, but I scarcely noticed; I thought I understood
the situation at last. It was a game, of course, but
sexual pleasure wasn't the object; it was the means.
When Roger and I played our usual games, they were for
one reason only: to stimulate and arouse us. This was a
deeper game, though, orchestrated by Roger for a deeper
pleasure. Yes, the sex was great, for me and for
whomever, but there was another purpose as well. The
prize was my captor's identity. He was to conceal it at
all costs; I was to learn it. I could end the game at
any time, simply by asking to, though that might or
might not let me learn his identity. His strategy was to
keep me from wanting to end the game; to keep me so
aroused that I would want it to go on forever. And he
was doing it, too; I had seldom been at such a peak for
so long.
What were my moves? Crude physical violence seemed
inappropriate; we had tacitly discarded that the first
night, when I stopped struggling. Besides, it might not
work; he seemed to be stronger than I was, and I was
already bound. The obvious counter to his moves was to
ignore his caresses, to refuse to be aroused on his
whim. Would that do it? That was more or less what I
planned that morning, though I couldn't put it into
effect. And that was the weakness of the idea, I quite
possibly couldn't carry it out! Besides, it might not
work; I suspected that he'd just keep at me until I
yielded. Whoever it was knew me too well, and my body
knew and desired him.
Did I have any other moves? Hmm, what if I let myself
get aroused, but refused to respond? Could I do that? It
would be frustrating, but I only had to keep my
conscious actions under control; my reflexes could do as
they pleased. I'm sure it was stimulating to him when he
worked on me; I'm just as sure that he wanted, even
needed, my cooperation to make the experience as
pleasurable for him as for me. I doubted that Roger or
his friends were into necrophilia. When my captor came
for me, I'd be ready.
He came for me at dinner time. Instead of leading me up
the stairs this time, he carried me, leaving my ankles
bound. And instead of seating me in a chair, he put me
on my side, on the rug in the dining room. I half
expected that I'd be expected to feed myself like a dog
would, but he knew my limits; he fed me again himself.
And his hands were busy with me, though I don't know if
he noticed that I wasn't trying to press against him. I
gladly accepted his caresses, but insofar as was
possible I returned none.
Dinner drifted into love-play. I think he was starting
to notice what was going on by that point; several
times, he lay behind me, and wrapped his arms about me
to touch my front. But unlike our past encounters, I
didn't use my hands on him, even though that was the
only time I could. Sometimes, he paused briefly after
that happened, but then persisted. After all, I wasn't
rejecting his advances; I wasn't resisting; I was quite
visibly and audibly becoming aroused. Matters came to a
head, so to speak, when he rolled me onto my back and
squatted near my face, and I did: nothing. I didn't turn
my head away; I didn't even close my mouth, but I also
didn't say anything and didn't do anything.
That surprised him for moment, but only for a moment. He
unlocked my legs, positioned himself between them, and
started to lick me. That has always driven me wild; he
brought me to my peak, and beyond, and held me there. I
was practically delirious with pleasure by the time he
reversed his angle, licking all the while, but I
retained enough presence of mind to stick with my plan.
If he'd had any more doubts, that ended them; he got up,
and slowly walked to the couch.
Matters remained that way for a few minutes. He could
have mounted me, of course, but that wasn't the point
and we both knew it. It also wouldn't have been much fun
for him, since I was firmly resolved to play dead. I
wouldn't have closed my legs, or struggled, that would
have been active rejection, but I knew he wanted more
than just an inflatable doll. It was his move, and I
wondered what it would be.
In retrospect, it was fairly obvious. He had to express
displeasure, but do so within the game. And he couldn't
say anything; that was exactly what I wanted. But
punishment was legal, as long as it didn't hurt too
much. I've mentioned before how I felt about pain: a bit
of a symbolic sting is fine, but nothing serious, since
it doesn't turn me on at all.
For whatever reason, he chose to use the whipping
position that John had used. He tied a rope to my
wrists, and ran it through a ring in the ceiling,
pulling it fairly taut, and fastening it below. I was
thus bent over, in a very vulnerable position. I also
started worrying a bit, especially when I heard him take
a few practice swings with that riding crop I keep
around. But he stayed within my bounds, only stinging me
a bit when the whipping started. He was good at it, too;
he hit me at irregular intervals, never letting me know
when he was done.
Once, he even let two or three minutes go by before he
came back with a small flurry of strokes. By the time he
was finished, I was getting quite uncomfortable.
Inwardly, though, I was thrilled, was he actually
genuinely angry? That was certainly worth a few points
for me. And I was even more aroused. This was a game we
were playing, a sexual game, and the "beating" would be
followed by another round of foreplay.
How much pain do I like? It's hard to explain just how
hard a blow I consider acceptable. I define it as hard
enough to be unpleasant, hard enough that you genuinely
don't want it to happen, but not hard enough to draw an
exclamation. The best analogy is clapping your hands
together hard, if you do it a few times, you're not
going to like it. Well, each blow should be a bit harder
than that.
I remember trying to teach Roger my limits. He has a
greater liking for pain than I do, and it seemed to take
him overly long to learn where my threshold is. The man
who was beating me this time knew just how hard to hit
me. He only went over once, near the beginning; I warned
him with a code word, and he honored it scrupulously.
Was it Roger? Could a stranger pick up on my moods that
well?
Finally, it was over. He removed the rope, led me to the
bed, and fastened me to it via a rather long leash. He
joined me, and tried to arouse me again. He succeeded,
too, but I refused to return the favor. Being bound to
the car was the end result, though at the time I didn't
know what was happening.
His first move was to lead me out to the barn. I had
left John's winches in place, but I didn't think my
captor would use them; that whole memory was so
traumatic I would have aborted the game had he even
tried. Instead, he knelt me down inside the barn without
fastening the leash to anything, puttered around a bit,
and left.
That struck me as curious until I heard a car start, at
which point I nearly panicked. Was he going to leave me
in the barn, nude, bound, and blindfolded, with no
recourse but to try to find the road and seek help? I
jumped up, ready to run after him and beg for release; I
wasn't aroused at all, I was scared. But this wasn't
John, and I needn't have worried; the car pulled into
the barn, not away from me. I wasn't being abandoned.
My captor got out of the car, and, perhaps irked that I
had stood without permission, urged me to my knees and
pushed my head to the ground. I heard chain noises then,
metal rattling against metal, from the direction of the
car. Finally he came for me, and lay me down on some
sort of dolly. My legs were manacled; to my great
surprise, he cut the cable ties on my arms as well. I
was so happy to have a chance to stretch after a day and
a half that I barely noticed the new restraints being
locked on each wrist.
I was jerked out of my reverie by a tug on my legs; I
was being pulled underneath the car. My leg chains were
pulled tight and fastened to something; he pulled out
the dolly from the other end and locked my wrist chains
over my head as well. Last, he did something else that
surprised me: he released the strap holding my blindfold
in place. Had I won? Not quite, he tied a loosely
knotted scarf around my head, one that I could easily
remove but not until he had a chance to leave the barn.
It was clear that I was supposed to remove it; to what
end wasn't clear, but I was eager enough to find out.
It was when I could finally see again that I realized I
was under a car. A lot of cars, especially some imports,
have a pair of tow rings at either end. I was spread-
eagled between the them. He had driven the front of the
car up onto jack stands, giving me a bit more room, but
all I could see was the underside of the engine
compartment. Obviously, I was being disciplined; I was
supposed to think about my "stubbornness" while laying
there. I had often found the tow rings suggestive,
actually, I find any sort of chain suggestive, and I
love looking at the locks section of hardware stores as
much as some men like the lingerie section, but I never
could figure out anything erotic to do with them.
Judging from my response, my captor hadn't figured it
out, either.
It took me a little while to figure out the second part
of the message. My eyes were open for a reason; given
the lack of interesting sights under the car, it had to
be so I could see how light it was. My captor wasn't
going to come back until it was pitch-black outside, and
I wasn't going anywhere until he did return. Based on
the sky and my hunger level, it was no later than six
o'clock; full darkness probably wouldn't happen until
around nine or thereabouts. And all I could do was to
lay there, bound by my captor, condemned to stay there
until I was willing to give pleasure as well as receive
it.
-= * =-
I was in a fairly foul mood by the time my captor
returned. "What kind of stupid stunt do you plan to pull
next? Tying me to a tractor instead? Seeing if I like
being lashed with wet noodles? Did you really think I'd
find the underside of your car sensual?" Naturally, he
didn't say anything, but after I crawled out, he had
unlocked my legs, and lengthened my arm chains, he
gently touched my face. "I assume that that's an
apology," I said as he put my hands behind my back and
handcuffed them that way.
Again, the gentle touch on my face, followed this time
by a brief, fleeting, touch of my left nipple. "No, I'm
not aroused, and not likely to be," I told him. He
locked the leash around my neck, released the manacles
holding my arms to the car, and blindfolded me anew.
Finally, he touched my breast once more, and started
towards the house. Perforce, I followed.
I wasn't joking when I said I didn't think he could
arouse me. Sex isn't a light bulb; you, or at least I,
don't rise to a peak that easily. And the last few hours
had blown the marvelous mood my unknown captor had built
up during the weekend. Besides, I was dirty and hungry
from laying on the barn floor under the car. But he
sensed that. There was no explicit sex play; rather, we
headed straight for the bathroom, where I received a
crisp, almost businesslike shower.
A less sensitive man might have tried for a sensual
shower. That wouldn't have worked, and he knew it. When
your car has been in an accident, you don't go ahead and
install a new stereo. First you fix the damage, repair
everything, make sure it still works, and then you start
adding enhancements. That was my mood, I wasn't going to
be the least bit interested in sex until I'd calmed down
and relaxed a bit. And as I thought that, I smiled to
myself: this might have won the game for me. If he
couldn't arouse me again, there was no point in keeping
me captive, he'd have no choice but to release me and
leave. Hmm, should I even give him the chance to arouse
me again? Or should I just end things after dinner? I
decided to let him try; anything else was almost
cheating. Besides, in some sense I'd win either way,
I'd either win the game if he couldn't arouse me, or I'd
have a marvelous time again if he could.
Dinner was simple, though with an excellent wine. He fed
me again, and went through his usual cleanup ritual,
with me chained on my knees near the sink, head held low
by the leash. There were only a few touches, almost more
to let me know that I wasn't being forgotten than to
turn me on. Eventually, we headed to the bedroom; I
found myself wondering what he had in mind. Something
new and different?
He started by removing the handcuffs and replacing them
with long leather cuffs that went almost half way up to
my elbow. There were straps on each of the cuffs, on the
end away from the wrists; he used these to bind my arms
tightly against my sides. This tie gave my wrists a lot
of play, so he secured them by very thin straps, cords,
almost, that ran from the cuffs around my thighs at
crotch level. If I'd pulled on them, it might have hurt,
but if I stood still I hardly noticed they were there.
He then put me gently on the bed, on some sort of thin
silk cloth, and tied my ankles together with ordinary
leather cuffs. Finally, he threaded a strap under one
arm at the armpit, across my chest above my breasts, and
down under the other arm.
So far, nothing out of the ordinary was happening,
though I had a bit more freedom to wiggle than in some
ties. I enjoyed the position, but it was nothing
special, nothing to weaken my resolve. But he had indeed
found a new way to bind me, one that was powerful
indeed. At the time it was happening, I couldn't figure
out what he was doing, it was only after he was finished
that I figured it out. And a few details escaped me
until I saw the device later on, he left it for me as a
present, for which I was quite grateful!
He began by putting another silk cloth on top of me,
covering me from neck to ankle. Odd. He then bent to my
ankles and started doing things, working first on one
side of me, and then the other, pulling the cloth
around. Eventually, I realized that he was lacing the
two pieces of silk together, sewing me up quite tightly.
He proceeded this way for quite a while, taking special
care to keep the silk smooth, even and taut. There were
darts at my hips, waist, and breast so that it fit quite
snugly. Who had measured me that carefully?
It took quite a while for him to finish lacing me up. By
the time he was done, I could barely move. Even my
fingers were held tightly against my thighs. Definitely
new, and definitely arousing. Was there more to this?
Indeed there was. When he started to caress me through
the silk, I nearly jumped off the bed, the feelings were
so intense.
It is a truism that the right clothing is often sexier
than nudity. Clothing can tease the eye, and direct it
to points of interest. It is less often appreciated that
contact through thin cloth can be even more stimulating
than skin-to-skin contact. The fingers can tease,
outline, glide. The cloth acts as a lubricant, allowing
one's hand to float lightly above your partner's skin.
There are few things I enjoy more than showering,
falling onto a bed with crisp, clean sheets, and tracing
the contours of my lover's body through the top sheet.
My captor either knew this about me, not surprising at
this stage, or felt the same way. His touches were
driving me wild; when he reached my breasts and started
running his palms lightly over my nipples, I couldn't
take it anymore, and rolled towards him.
That wasn't to be; I then learned the purpose of that
strap across my chest. He pushed my onto my back, and
used it to tie my upper body down. It was only the work
of another minute for him to put another strap over my
legs, and a third at waist level. I was fastened to the
bed, and squeezed by him and a silk cocoon.
He continued his caressing and teasing, paying no heed
to my moans and pleas for release. He swung around to
where I could have taken him into my mouth if I chose; I
remained firm in my resolve. But he continued his
touches, continued arousing me, and then slowly
approached my crotch. I was frantic with the desire when
I realized that he couldn't satisfy me, that the silk
was so taut all he could do was to arouse me even more.
I thrust my hips up hard towards him, ignoring or even
relishing the pain from the wrist cords. I didn't care,
I wanted him in me, and even though I knew that unlacing
me would take as long as lacing me had I begged him.
Still he touched, still he rubbed, and as I writhed and
moaned I did use my mouth, I did lick him, I forgot all
about games and knew only his body and mine. Finally,
incredibly, I came. And he didn't let it end there;
then, and only then, did he unlace my lower body and
untie my ankles, and lick me and enter me until we
couldn't move.
I lay there, all but motionless. Not that I could move
much, of course; my arms were still bound to my sides,
my waist and shoulders were still fastened to the bed,
and the cocoon imprisoned my upper body. But it didn't
matter; I could have been free and I wouldn't have
moved. I barely noticed as he removed my bonds, rolled
me over, and fastened new cable ties to my wrists. He
did my ankles, too, though he left a few inches of
slack; I could tell I'd be able to walk, albeit with
difficulty. At the end, as I was almost asleep, he shut
the light. My last thought as I drifted off was that I
had lost but loved doing so.
You're probably wondering how he unlaced the cocoon so
fast. I didn't find out until later, when I played with
it with Roger. When you think of lacing something up,
you normally visualize putting a cord in one side of a
hole, and out the other. That's the way the bottom piece
was laced, but the top was more clever.
The cord came up through the hole, around a flexible
rod, and back down through the same hole. (This is much
the same way that a sewing machine works, incidentally.)
If you remove the rod, the loop just falls through. Of
course, there was enough tension on the cords that one
single rod didn't cover a whole edge. Instead, there
were a series of them, each about 8 inches long, with a
loop in one end to make withdrawal easier. So he had to
remove a few on each side, but that's much faster than
unlacing the whole thing.
-= * =-
I woke up the next morning with the sun shining in my
eyes. Eyes? The blindfold was off! I rolled over quickly
to see who was next to me; at least, I rolled over as
quickly as I could, given the state of my arms and legs.
It was Roger! I kneed him awake, but not before I
noticed that he was bound the same way I was. That was
odd, cable ties are hard to fasten one-handed; it wasn't
at all clear that he could have bound his hands behind
his back that way. In fact, on closer inspection, his
arms were held together even more tightly than mine; the
connecting tie was extremely tight. Could he have done
it to himself? I had no idea. Of course, I immediately
asked him when he'd arrived, and what was going on.
Alas, I got no satisfaction.
"I got in late last night. Staying at my sister's place
was no fun, so I left early and headed out here. When I
got here, you were sound asleep. You were tied up, but
that's not unusual; I know you like to play by yourself
when you're alone." I nodded; that was quite true. In
fact, he does to. Sometimes we amuse each other by each
binding ourselves before we try to make love. Roger
continued, "I was tired enough that I didn't feel like
waking you. So I just went straight to sleep myself. I
have no idea who tied me up."
A lovely story, but was true? I told Roger what had
happened to me. He was visibly turned on by my
description, but denied any knowledge of it. And that
was patently false; whether or not my captor was Roger,
it was obvious that Roger had planned it. I could ask
his sister where he was, I suppose, but she doesn't like
me, I represent all that she thinks is wrong: I'm
successful, single, sexually uninhibited (some would say
aggressive), and I utterly refuse to give even lip
service to conventional morality. I only let a modicum
of practicality govern my actions; my exact bedroom
habits are the business of my lover, and only my lover.
We went back and forth like this for a while.
Eventually, we agreed that I should try to free myself.
I hobbled out to the kitchen, where I found some wire
cutters left on the table. I brought them back to Roger;
he got my hands loose. But I didn't free him; I decided
to show him just how much fun it was to be bound for two
days. So I slipped the blindfold on him, and proceeded
to have my way with Roger. It was, after all, a four day
weekend, which gave me plenty of time to reenact the
whole thing. Of course, I threw in a few variations (and
I omitted the car entirely); by the time Tuesday evening
rolled around, Roger was sore but sated, utterly sated.
But that's another story, for another time.
And my captor? To this day, I don't know who it was.
END
* * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * *
It's okay to *READ* stories about unprotected sex with
others outside a monogamous relationship. But it isn't
okay to *HAVE* unprotected sex with people other than
a trusted partner. 4-million people around the world
contract HIV every year. You only have one body per
lifetime, so take good care of it!
* * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * *
Kristen's collection - Directory 70