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From: AnonEMoose <an000000@anon.penet.fi>
Newsgroups: alt.sex.stories.bondage,alt.sex.bondage,alt.sex.stories
Subject: STORY: Slavegirl Stephanie in Parallel Universes: Plantation (MF, bd, Mdom)
Date: Wed, 06 Nov 1996 12:49:42 -0800
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Subject: STORY: Slavegirl Stephanie in Parallel Universes: Plantation (MF, bd, Mdom)
Newsgroups: alt.sex.stories.bondage,alt.sex.bondage,alt.sex.stories
From: wi.5323@n7kbt.rain.com
Message-ID: <2sk4em$71g@vixen.cso.uiuc.edu>
Subject: NEW STORY by Sir Kevin
Date: Sun, 3 Jan 1993 06:48:37 GMT
For those who enjoyed the stories "Stephanie in the Slave Market" and
"Stephanie's Reunion," which I posted for "Sir" Kevin a while ago,
here's a New Year gift from my favorite ASB story writer -- an
all-new story featuring, again, Stephanie the hapless slavegirl! Hope
you'll enjoy it!
Stephanie the Kajira
* * *
Ever wondered what if the result of the Civil War came out the
other way? Well, here's what I envision...
=====================================================================
Stephanie's First Day on the Plantation
By Sir Kevin
***************************
Early fall, 1992
Harrison County, Virginia
(The county would be found
in a separate state named
"West Virginia" had the
Union won the War.)
***************************
"You'll be home soon, sweetheart!"
The sheriff deputy smiled at Stephanie in the rear-view mirror as
he pulled into a small dirt road, not far from where he had turned
off US Highway 50. Apathetically, Stephanie surveyed the
surroundings from the back seat of the patrol car.
The dirt road wound its way across the vast horizon of ploughed
land. On either side of the dirt road, a rugged wooden fence
escorted the road towards a cluster of weathered farm houses
surrounded by large oaks trees. The age-old, unpainted lumber of the
fences were almost completely covered by flourishing wild roses.
A few weeks before, landscape like this would have enchanted
Stephanie into humming out her favorite Suzi Bogguss tune. But
today, somehow the natural beauty of the simple country atmosphere
had lost all its appeal to her.
The car stopped in front of a wooden gate at the end of the road.
Beside the gate, and next to a handsome white Arabian horse, the man
to be known as "Master" was already waiting for them.
The deputy opened the door for Stephanie, and again put on his
broad smile.
"C'mon sweetheart! Cheer up! You're home! And there's your
master, Big Ron Jackson. Aren't you happy to meet him at last?"
It was not easy to exit from the car with her wrists cuffed behind
her back and her ankles connected by a short length of chain, but
with the help of the deputy's friendly hands, Stephanie finally
managed to balance herself on her bare feet.
She took a quick glance at her new master, who gazed back at her
with great interest. Clad in a lumberjack shirt, torn blue jeans and
cowboy boots, he presented to Stephanie the perfect picture of a
hillbilly, a figure as remote to her in real life as she must be to
him. Realizing how ridiculous she must look to him in her shackles
and her UCLA cheerleader uniform, Stephanie hanged her head in
embarrassment.
"I'll be damned, Al!" Ron exclaimed. "Now this is a bit of a
surprise: she looks almost exactly like a white girl."
"If you ask me," the deputy replied, "I say she IS a white girl.
Sheriff Dodd told me she's being delivered to you under the Fugitive
Slave Act, but you can't fool me -- this girl ain't no runaway slave!
I kept asking her on the way, but the sweetie won't say nothing to
me."
"I don't blame her, Al. I'm not sure she knows enough herself."
"So tell me 'bout it!"
"Well, this babe is, what, one sixty-fourth -- hell no,
a-hundred-and-thirty-second of a nigger, you know. What happened is
that her grandma's grandma's grandma on her mother's side was a
mulatto slave on the plantation when old Stonewall was still in
charge. Rumor says she was fathered by old Stonewall himself, and
somehow I think it's true. Anyway, some time during the War, this
mulatto woman ran off with a bunch of Yankee soldiers, and ended up
marrying one of them when the War was over. Well, that's about all
we know, but it's enough to hold this babe here responsible for what
happened back then -- thanks to the Helms Amendment to the Fugitive
Slave Act, and the Supreme Court decision last May."
"Yeah, good for you, Ron," the deputy commented. "Come to think
of it, you are practically cousins to each other."
"You're right, Al. Come to think of it, we are indeed!"
The two men enjoyed their little chat for a few more minutes.
Then Deputy Al removed the handcuffs and leg-irons from Stephanie's
wrists and ankles, and drove off along the dirt road, promising to
come to dinner some day, while Ron locked a heavy iron collar around
the poor girl's neck, and mounted his house.
He grinned at Stephanie, tugging gently on the chain attached to
her collar.
"Welcome home, cousin!"
A rush of fear crept into Stephanie's mind when she found out that
Ron was not taking her directly to the slave quarters. Instead, he
led her to a large room in the mansion facing the main road, where
the glamorous Victorian decorations, relics of the Jackson family's
glorious past, struck a sharp contrast with the rest of the ranch.
"Strip." As soon as the door closed behind her, Stephanie heard
Ron's command in a rather authoritarian voice.
She blushed. Not that she had never been naked in front of a man,
but never in front of a perfect stranger. Besides, being ordered to
strip itself was more humiliation than she had ever experienced. But
she obeyed without further hesitation. Being a slave involved worse
things than this, she knew.
She crossed her arms in front of her breasts after dropping the
last item of clothing on the floor, in a feeble attempt to protect
her modesty. But even this was not allowed.
"Put your hands behind your neck, and spread your legs," came the
next commend.
Stephanie took on a deeper shade of blush, knowing how degrading
this new position would be. But again she obeyed quietly. The chill
of the cold collar chain dangling between her breasts caused her to
shiver.
"Beautiful. Simply beautiful," Ron murmured while pacing around
the nude girl and touching different parts of her slim body with his
fingers.
He stopped behind Stephanie. Pulling her into his arms, he
started fondling her round and firm breasts. Her nipples hardened
almost immediately against his palms, and she felt a sense of arousal
beginning to build up in the lower part of her body. She closed her
eyes, feeling hopelessly torn between her heart and her mind, one
telling her to enjoy the feeling, while the other was telling her to
reject it.
"What size are these, slavegirl?" Ron's voice became soft, almost
like whispers.
"32A, sir." The blush on her face and neck now extended to the
top of her breasts.
"Hm. And how old are you?"
"I'm eighteen, sir."
"You city girls always look so much younger than you are." Ron
heaved a sigh, and released her breasts to feel the muscles in her
arms. "These tender arms, tsk. And your pale skin. Believe me, you
won't survive one single day out in the cotton field."
His hands returned to her breasts, one of them gradually wandering
down to her exposed sex.
"Then again," he continued, "I'm not sure I want you in the cotton
field. That'll be a waste, won't it?"
Not knowing what to say, Stephanie kept her mouth shut.
Ron did not mind. He was very much pleased with this latest
addition to his stable.
"Kneel down, slavegirl."
Stephanie dropped on her knees, and tentatively proceeded to sit
on her heels. But a gentle kick on her left hip persuaded her to
keep her body erect.
"Now, play with yourself."
For a moment Stephanie was petrified. She knew obedience was the
most essential part of a slavegirl's code of ethics, but this was
definitely too much for her to take.
"You hear me, nigger? Go on, masturbate, now!" Ron was
drastically raising his voice, and for the first time he called her a
"nigger," in a way loaded with threats.
"Please, Master..."
Her feeble plea for mercy was answered roughly by a powerful kick
between her shoulder blades. Caught completely in surprise,
Stephanie fell forward onto all fours. Then came the explosive pain
when the thin leather strap of a horse whip cracked loudly against
the bare skin of her unprotected back.
"So they say," Ron sounded genuinely angry, "a nigger will be a
nigger, even with less than one percent of nigger blood."
The whip landed again and again on Stephanie's back and buttocks.
Shocked as she was, Stephanie took the first few lashes in noble
silence, but the fifth or the sixth lash started to extract loud
moans from her. Within fifteen strokes, she was forced to cry out
for mercy.
With great relief, she saw the whip thrown to the floor in front
of her.
"Kiss it, nigger!"
Still panting heavily from the intense pain, Stephanie complied
obediently. When she raised her head again, Ron was squatting by her
side. Grabbing the trembling girl by her pony-tail, he forced her to
lift her face to his.
"Were you ever whipped before?" His voice again softened into near
whispers.
"No... sir."
"Good," he planted a kiss on her cheek. "Now you have learnt the
whip. Hope that'll make sure you never piss me off again."
He stood up, and soon Stephanie saw his clothes and boots dropping
on the floor next to her own. Her heart started pounding wildly.
"Are you a virgin?" Ron asked as he knelt behind Stephanie.
"No..."
"Good. Then I don't have to worry about damaging anything."
He entered her from behind. Stephanie bit her lower lip to keep
herself from sobbing, but large drops of tears rolled down her
cheeks, and dribbled into the thick Persian rug.
It was at dusk when Ron finally led Stephanie out of the mansion
by the chain on her collar. She was still naked. Her wrists were
now tied tightly behind her back, and her ankles were again shackled
and chained.
"I think I'll find you stuff to do around the house," Ron informed
her. "It's better for you, and better for my cotton, too. But you'd
better live with the other slaves anyway."
They walked into a small open area in front of the barn, where a
group of white employees on the plantation had gathered for their
after-dinner entertainment. As if at somebody's command, all the
beer cans, poker cards, harmonicas and baseball bats were lowered,
and every head turned to the naked girl at one precise moment.
Several whistles came from the small crowd.
Stephanie kept her eyes on her toes in humiliation, wishing the
ground under her feet to open up and suck her in.
"Oh mah Gawd, boss!" one of them managed to say after a brief
silence. "Is this the new nigger girl you been talkin' 'bout?"
"Yup."
"You kiddin', Ron? This chick ain't no nigger. She's whiter than
you 'n' me!" Another man decided to be more skeptical.
"She only looks white," Ron explained, not without a touch of
pride in his new acquisition. "She has less than one percent of
nigger blood, but that's enough to make her legally a nigger."
"Ah know how that is," a third man nodded, wiping his mouth with a
sleeve. "Mah ol' man got one the other day just lahk her. They say
she was a big-time fashion model up in New York, but the next thing
she knew, some new law made her a runaway slave."
"You get more and more niggers with white skin these days," Ron
remarked.
"But a nigger is a nigger after all, even if she's white, green or
blue." A man with a heavy beard drew up this rather philosophical
conclusion, while walking up to Stephanie to pinch one of her
nipples.
"No doubt about it," Ron moved to end the discussion. "Well, you
guys go on have your fun. I've got to take this nigger girl to the
slave quarters."
"Want me to do it for you, boss?" the bearded man asked.
"Thanks, Tony, but no thanks. I want her to be there before
Christmas, you know."
The crowd burst into laughter.
The slave quarters were made up of a cluster of old wooden shacks,
reinforced at random places by rusty iron bars. The dense growth of
weeds and wild vines around the shacks made it difficult to believe
that people actually lived in them. At the first glance, Stephanie
concluded that they must have been standing there ever since Robert
Lee became president of the United States.
Ron took Stephanie into a larger shack, which had a row of locked
doors on either side of a long corridor.
"This house is for the single slave women," he told her, "like
yourself."
He opened one of the doors, and thrust an old blanket into her
bound hands.
"Here's your room, slavegirl. And here's a blanket for you. You
won't need any cloths for a few days. I always keep new girls in the
nude for the first week or so, just to let your status on the
plantation sink in well. And keep the men happy, too. Now you have
a good night."
The door was locked behind Stephanie, symbolizing her final
severance from the world of freedom.
There were five other girls, all black, in the cell, sitting or
lying on a row of low wooden beds lined up against the wall. All of
them stared at Stephanie, apparently puzzled by the color of her
skin. There was no expression on their dark faces, but their eyes
were filled with suspicion and hostility.
"Hi!" Stephanie smiled at them nervously. "I'm Stephanie. I'm new
here."
There was no response. The other girls continued to stare at her
motionlessly.
Stephanie looked around, feeling rather awkward, and then walked
to a bed that appeared to be vacant.
"Is this bed taken?" she asked, in the most friendly voice she
could imagine.
No response.
"Can I sleep here, then?"
Still no response, but the black girls started to whisper among
themselves.
Feeling immensely frustrated, Stephanie dropped her blanket on the
bed, and sat down on the edge. But before she could feel the rough
wood under her buttocks, her blanket suddenly flew into a corner of
the cell, narrowly missing the toilet there.
Startled, Stephanie turned to find the youngest of the black
girls, no more than fourteen or fifteen years old, waving a bony fist
at her face.
"Git your white ass off mah bed, white girl!" the younger girl
shouted. "Dis is MAH bed!"
Jumping to her feet almost subconsciously, Stephanie asked, still
humbly: "Which bed can I take, then?"
From the far end of the cell, another girl answered: "Dere ain't
no bed for you here, white girl. You go ahead and sleep on the
floor, where your blanket is."
Stephanie had to fight back tears as she hobbled to the damp and
filthy corner where her blanket had landed. Spreading the blanket
with her fettered bare feet, she decided to lie down and keep to
herself. But her wrists were hurting badly. And her hands began to
feel numb. The thin nylon cord around her wrists must have
obstructed her circulation.
She studied each of the black girls carefully, searching for a
face that promised the most sympathy.
Her eyes settled on the one who seemed to be the oldest, perhaps
in her late twenties. She was sitting next to a girl lying on her
belly, gently wiping the fresh whipmarks on the girl's back with a
wet towel. The tenderness on her face and in her movements reminded
Stephanie of a young mother nursing her new-born baby.
"Excuse me..." Stephanie approached her cautiously.
"What?"
"Can you do me a favor? My arms are hurting terribly..."
"I don't deal wid no white girl!" the black woman interrupted
rudely. "Leave us alone, white girl!"
"But I'm not a white girl!" Stephanie finally burst out. "I'm a
slave just like you!"
The black woman stood up, and threateningly put her hands on her
hips. "Jist like me, huh? Why don't you smash dat white face of
yours, 'n' den tell me dat!"
At last, Stephanie lost the battle to hold her tears. She curled
up into a ball in her corner, and wept herself into sleep.
=====================================================================
Afterthought:
Are they still growing cotton out there, anyway?
_____________________________________________________________________
----------------------------------------------------------------------
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From: AnonEMoose <an000000@anon.penet.fi>
Newsgroups: alt.sex.stories.bondage,alt.sex.bondage,alt.sex.stories
Subject: STORY: Slavegirl Stephanie in Parallel Universes: Vignettes (MF, bd, Mdom)
Date: Wed, 06 Nov 1996 12:48:30 -0800
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Subject: STORY: Slavegirl Stephanie in Parallel Universes: Vignettes (MF, bd, Mdom)
Newsgroups: alt.sex.stories.bondage,alt.sex.bondage,alt.sex.stories
The Jennifer vignettes here were written by the same group
responsible for the Stephanie stories and vignettes.
*******************************************************************
From: wi.3249@wizvax.methuen.ma.us
Newsgroups: alt.sex.bondage
Subject: MINISTORY: Jennifer (12)
Message-ID: <5688@wizvax.methuen.ma.us>
Date: 4 Mar 92 04:03:16 GMT
[Posted by Stephanie the Kajira at the command of Sir Kevin. :) ]
Jennifer (12)
"Jennifer! Jennifer!!"
Her mistress' voice was filled with a sense of urgency.
Jennifer jumped up from the lounge chair on the little balcony
outside her room, and ran as far as her leg-irons allowed, stopping
only to turn around and open the door with her fettered hands.
She suddenly froze when she came to her mistress' study
downstairs. Robby, her mistress' eleven-year-old son, was standing
nervously in a corner, and staring her up and down. She stopped and
hesitated, not knowing whether to step in or to withdraw. She had
been in the house for more than two months, but her mistress had
never confronted her with Robby when she was naked and chained.
"Come on in, Jennifer," her mistress called her. "Don't be shy.
Now kneel down."
Slowly, Jennifer fell on her knees, sat on her heels and spread
her thighs. Over the last few months she had grown accustomed to
this position of submissiveness, but this time she felt more than a
little uncomfortable exposing the most intimate part of her body in
Robby's presence.
"All right, Robby," her mistress said calmly. "Now go ahead and
touch her."
Jennifer lowered her head and flushed when Robby's small sweaty
hands pressed on her breasts and fondled her nipples tentatively.
Apparently fascinated to see how the round nipples became erect, he
pinched and pulled them with great interest.
"Touch her all you want, Robby." Her mistress sounded more
serious now. "You can even hurt her if you like. It's OK to do
whatever you want with Jennifer. She's our slave.
"But," she suddenly raised her voice, "if you get caught one
more time bothering the girls in your school, don't ever come home
to see me again!"
*******************************************************************
From: wi.3249@wizvax.methuen.ma.us
Newsgroups: alt.sex.bondage
Subject: STORY: Stephanie's New Master
Message-ID: <5018@wizvax.methuen.ma.us>
Date: 6 Feb 92 23:03:18 GMT
Well, I can't exactly say this is a "commissioned story," since I
didn't pay the author any commission to do it. But this is indeed a
story that was written specially for me as a birthday gift
(...hmm...). It was written by a friend of mine -- a co-fantasizer,
you might say -- who has no access to ASB.
Enjoy!
Stephanie the Kajira
====================================================================
Stephanie's New Master
The whip was about four feet long, made from soft leather wrapped
around a tapering springy material for about half it's length, then
continuing as a single lash to its end where it was knotted and
splayed into four tips, each about two inches long.
He tested the springiness of the whip as he flicked it through
the air. He then flicked it across Stephanie's belly. Receiving
little reaction from her, he increased the the snap of the wrist,
applying a little more speed and power to the tip of the lash.
Stephanie began to writhe and twitch as the tip of the lash began
to bite her. Her new master decided to change his angle of attack,
out of curiosty, to see if the blows would be visible on her flesh.
He noted with interest that there was some period of delay between
the blow and the appearence of the mark, and as he began to move the
lash about a pattern of blows followed like a shadow. He became so
engrossed in his experiments that he was unaware of the cries and
moans of pain coming from Stephanie.
He stepped back to look at her. Her face was streaked with
tears. The front of her body was now lined with streaks of pink
shading from a light rose hue to a deep angry crimson. The stripes
began at the swelling of her breasts and continued in an unbroken
mass to her knees. He had made sure to pay more than a little
attention to her breasts, inner thighs and lower belly.
Finally he became aware of the sounds of suffering coming from
the naked bound girl. Stephanie was suspended spread-eagled inside
a wooden frame of heavy timber that seemed to be hinged in the
middle where it was held solidly to the floor and ceiling. The
framework could pivot in any direction.
A wimpering Stephanie hung limply within the frame, held in place
by padded manacles attached to blocks and tackles, her chin rested
on her chest as she finally began to catch her breath.
She knew not to look up as she heard her new master go into a
nearby cabinet.
"You have been taught well, Stephanie," her new master said as he
walked back over to the frame.
"I guess we can conclude tonight's entertainment with 12 lashes
from the martinet," her new master said gruffly.
He then held the martinet, a french version of the cat o'nine
once used quit readily in French boarding school, up to Stephanie's
lips.
"Well," he said.
She then kissed the leather that was soon to kiss her flesh.
"Now you are going to get a dozen of the best with this martinet,
and you are going to count them," said her new master.
"Oh, please master,.. no more.. please.. Master, I hurt."
"You are supposed to hurt, Stephanie, it's the purpose of the
lash to make you hurt. Do you want two dozens for whining?"
"No ... Please.. Master.. I beg for a dozen," Stephanie said
submissively.
"You will count each stroke!"
"Yes, Master."
He layed the leather thongs of the martinet softly across her
buttocks, measuring the distance for his swing. Stephanie tightened
her rear in anticipaton.
Swissssssh.... SMACK...... Her new master struck a blow across
her upper buttocks.
"One....... Master."
Swissssssh.... SMACK......
"Twwwooo....... Maaaaaster..." she cried.
The blows rained down on Stephanie, she could only quiver in
the frame as each blow rained down on her. The stripes of the blows
glistened red, from the top of her ass to the tops of her thighs.
One blow slashed between her legs.
"EIGHTTTT............... MASTER!" she screamed. Her voice
climbed higher and higher as she counted the last four blows.
She was now whimpering, crying and gasping for breath. Again her
new master held the martinet to her lips and she fonfly kissed it
and said, "Thank you.... master.."
"And you were worried I wouldn't treat you well," her new master
said as he lowered her from the frame..
*******************************************************************
From: wi.3249@wizvax.methuen.ma.us
Newsgroups: alt.sex.bondage
Subject: MINISTORY: Jennifer (5)
Message-ID: <5517@wizvax.methuen.ma.us>
Date: 26 Feb 92 14:11:13 GMT
[Posted by Stephanie the Kajira at the command of Sir Kevin. :) ]
Jennifer (5)
The ship had been at sea for three weeks, and none of the girls
knew where they were being taken to.
There were nineteen girls in Jennifer's cabin, chained into a
coffle. Some of them were scantily clad in their underwear or
whatever was left of their clothes, others were completely nude.
Jennifer was chained towards the end of the coffle. She was
naked down to her waist, and her legs and feet were bare. Much of
the tiny denim shorts she wore was also torn into rags. Her wrists
and ankles were locked in rough iron manacles, connected by a long
chain that led up to her heavy iron collar. Two other chains
attached her collar to those of the two girls on either side.
On her right was Mary Lou, a Princeton senior less than two weeks
from graduation when she was kidnapped. On the left was young
Christina, formerly a cheerleader at Beverly Hills High School, who
spent much of the journey crying.
Suddenly a girl in the middle of the coffle called out: "Land!
We are approaching land!"
It was, in fact, a small island that the ship was approaching.
On the top of the green slopes, stood an old castle, or fort, built
of rocks.
"Oh Christ!" Mary Lou groaned out. "What a revenge!"
All the girls turned to look at her. After a brief silence,
Jennifer said: "You mean...this is, well, this was one of the..."
"One of the slave-prisons that our own ancesters built," Mary Lou
interrupted. "Off the African coast -- that must be where we are.
They built these forts centuries ago to hold the black slaves before
transporting them to the New World. And now...oh Christ! What an
irony!"
Christina began weeping again, and was soon joined by several
other girls, including Mary Lou. Jennifer caressed Christina's
shoulder, and then Mary Lou's, with her chained hands in a vain
attempt to comfort her companions, but could not think of anything
to say. Before long her own face was covered with tears.
They heard the wistle blowing. The ship was getting ready to
enter port. Through the small, barred window they could now see
people, mostly Africans and Arabs, gathering on the docks along a
narrow path leading to the slave-fort.
In a strange mood, Jennifer started to wonder how many dollars
they would be willing to pay for her.
*******************************************************************
From: wi.3249@wizvax.methuen.ma.us
Newsgroups: alt.sex.bondage
Subject: MINISTORY: Jennifer (18)
Message-ID: <5943@wizvax.methuen.ma.us>
Date: 14 Mar 92 05:17:28 GMT
[Posted by Stephanie the Kajira at the command of Sir Kevin. :) ]
Jennifer (18)
Jennifer looked at herself in the dressing mirror and felt
puzzled. Ricky, her new master's six-year-old son, kept staring at
her and giggling while she was trying to give him a bath before
putting him to bed.
"What's wrong, Ricky?" she finally asked.
"Mommy says it's a shame not to wear cloths in front of other
people," Ricky answered, still giggling. "How come you never wear
any cloths?"
"Oh that!" Jennifer said with a sigh of relief. "That's because
your mommy and daddy want me to be naked all the time."
"What for?"
"So that they can touch me or beat me whenever they want to,"
Jennifer explained patiently.
"How come?" A five or six year-old boy's curiosity was
insatiable.
"Because I'm their slave." Having been a slavegirl for more than
four years ever since she was fifteen, Jennifer had learnt to make
this statement without any emotion.
"What's a slave?"
"A slave is...like a piece of property."
"What's property?"
"Property...it's like saying I'm not a human being like your
mommy and daddy are. I'm a 'thing' that they bought. Like a horse
in the stable, for example."
"But you are not a horse, Jennie."
"No, but they can treat me like a horse. They can do whatever
they want with me, because they own me. Do you understand now?"
"Uh-huh," Ricky said, blinking and thinking. "Do I own you too?"
"...Well, I think you do."
"So I can treat you like a horse too?"
"I hope not; but yes, you can."
"And I can do whatever I want to you?"
"Yes yes yes, of course, my little master. Now stand up and let
me dry you up."
At last, Ricky seemed satisfied with the answer and stopped
interrogating Jennifer.
Early the next morning, Jennifer was waken up by Ricky's loud
screams and cries outside her room. After a while, her mistress
came in, looking completely frustrated.
"I'm sorry to get you up so early, Jennie," she said somewhat
apologetically while detaching the night-chain from Jennifer's steel
collar. "But Ricky would start the third world war right now if I
wouldn't let you play with him."
Five minutes later, Jennifer found herself deeply regretful for
what she had told Ricky the night before, when she was literally
driven into the country road leading to town, walking on her hands
and knees. Ricky had tied a thick flaxen rope around her waist. On
the other end of the rope was his toy cart, in which sat Jennifer's
little master, joyfully whipping the soles of her feet with a small
riding crop.
*******************************************************************
From: wi.3249@wizvax.methuen.ma.us
Newsgroups: alt.sex.bondage
Subject: MINISTORY: Jennifer (19)
Message-ID: <6162@wizvax.methuen.ma.us>
Date: 16 Mar 92 12:34:41 GMT
[Posted by Stephanie the Kajira at the command of Sir Kevin. :) ]
Jennifer (19)
Jennifer could not wait till the end of the ceremony. She
slipped out of the auditorium through the backstage door as soon as
she had received the award, briefly answered a few questions from a
small group of reporters who were smart enough to wait for her
there, and, before the flock of other reporters realized that she
was missing, she had already sneaked into the rented limousine and
was well on her way to Vladimir's house.
She could not wait to share her joy with Vladimir, After all, she
had just won one of the most prestigious award in classical music,
after fifteen years of diligent practice. As Vladimir's protegee
for the last two years, she was sure this latest achievement would
make him very proud.
Jennifer wondered whether he was going to whip her for forgetting
to mention his name in her little acknowledgement speech. She had
been too excited at the moment, but she knew if he decided to whip
her, no excuse would be good enough to save her a sore bottom.
Thirty minutes later, Jennifer was standing in front of
Vladimir's large Tudor-style house. She rang the bell, and heard
his voice over the intercom: "Come in."
She opened the door with her key and entered. In the dark
hallway, she almost tripped over something. Turning on the light,
she saw a small suitcase lying on the floor, with a note stuck on
it: "Change before you come up."
She laid down her violin and opened the suitcase. In it she
found an iron collar and two pairs of wide iron manacles, connected
by a long, dark and heavy chain.
She did not need further instructions. Without any hesitation,
she took off her black velvet evening dress, her underwear, shoes
and stockings, and picked up the iron collar from the suitcase. The
jingles of the chain and the touch of the cold metal on her bare
skin sent a small thrill down her spine.
She carefully locked the collar around her neck, and bent down to
place the manacles at the end of the chain on her ankles. Then,
moving the chain behind her, she fastened the other pair of
manacles, attached in the middle of the chain, around her wrists
against the small of her back.
She hobbled upstairs and stopped at the door to his study.
Turning around, she knocked lightly on the door with her fettered
hands.
"Enter," he commanded briefly.
She walked in. He was sitting in a large armchair, facing away
from her, and was watching her live performance at the ceremony on a
video tape.
"I'm back, my Lord," she ventured to say.
"Hm," was the only answer.
She knelt quietly beside his chair, careful to avoid the soft
Persian rug. In the dim light, she could not see clearly the
expression on his face, and this made her rather nervous. When her
performance was over, she saw him nodding approvingly, which relaxed
her a little. But by the time her speech started on the screen, she
could almost hear her heart pounding against her chest.
Vladimir turned off the TV and the VCR after her brief speech
ended, but did not say anything. For the next five minutes or so, a
thick silence filled the air, interrupted only by the tiny crackles
from the burning firewood.
Finally, he turned to Jennifer and kissed her on the forehead.
"You have done very well tonight, my little one," he whispered.
"Congratulations."
"Thank you, my Lord." Jennifer kissed his hand in return, finally
feeling assured enough to lean on his legs.
A contented smile on his bearded face, Vladimir reclined in the
chair, and stroked her long wavy hair for a while. Then, detaching
her wrist cuffs from the chain, he put his Stradivari violin in her
hands.
"Play that Schubert piece for me again."
She moved to a designated spot by the fireplace, stayed erect on
her knees, and started playing. The warm light of the fire danced
merrily on her ivory skin, giving it the color tone of Boris
Vallejo's nudes.
This was a familiar piece. Over the last few weeks she had
practiced it hundreds of times in the same position, at the same
spot, with him sitting in the same armchair. She could even
remember exactly at which notes his whip had stung her unprotected
back, or which measures she had been made to repeat again and again
while the little teeth of a pair of alligator clamps bit into the
tender flesh of her nipples.
It was beginning to rain outside the window, but Jennifer did not
notice anything. She was swept away by the Danube spring breeze
that sprang to life from the strings under her fingers. She had
dissolved into the music, and the memories brewed into the music.
She hanged her head and close her eyes when she had finished,
immersed in an undescribable satisfaction, almost a kind of orgasm.
She felt Vladimir's hands gently caressing her shoulders, and his
warm lips kissing her on the back of her neck.
"Not bad. Not bad at all." In his vocabulary, this was the
highest praise Jennifer could expect for her musical performance.
With a jingle of the chain, her collar and handcuffs were
removed, but only to be replaced by a heavy wooden stock, which held
her wrists on either sides of her neck. Then her anklets were also
replaced by a foot-stock.
"But you still need to be punished. Do you know why?"
"Yes, my Lord," Jennifer answered without opening her eyes. "I
know...I'm sorry."
"No, you don't, my little one. I'm sure you don't. Do you
realize what you did slightly wrong when you introduced the second
theme of the andante?"
*******************************************************************
----------------------------------------------------------------------
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From: Steve@crooked.demon.co.uk (Steve W.)
Newsgroups: alt.sex.stories.bondage
Subject: FREE PICS AND FREE BONDAGE FICTION AT SLAVE TO DESIRE ON-LINE
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From: Steve@crooked.demon.co.uk (Steve W.)
Newsgroups: alt.sex.stories.bondage
Subject: *************************** SLAVE TO DESIRE ON-LINE ****************************
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From: AnonEMoose <an000000@anon.penet.fi>
Newsgroups: alt.sex.stories.bondage,alt.sex.bondage,alt.sex.stories
Subject: STORY: Slavegirl Stephanie in Parallel Universes: Reunion (MF, bd, Mdom)
Date: Wed, 06 Nov 1996 12:47:09 -0800
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Subject: STORY: Slavegirl Stephanie in Parallel Universes: Reunion (MF, bd, Mdom)
Newsgroups: alt.sex.stories.bondage,alt.sex.bondage,alt.sex.stories
From: wi.3249@wizvax.methuen.ma.us
Newsgroups: alt.sex.bondage
Subject: STORY: Stephanie's Reunion
Message-ID: <6631@wizvax.methuen.ma.us>
Date: 31 Mar 92 04:07:24 GMT
Finally, at last, at long last, Sir Kevin's incredible and sometimes
wild imagination is back with me again, after his long affair with
Jennifer. :) For those of you who complained that the Jennifer
stories are too short and fragmented, and cried for a longer story
with a more coherent plot (me included, in fact), here is a little
something to keep your appetite going.
My first reaction to this story was that it's still rather
"Jenniferish," in that it is not as long and well-developed as his
acclaimed (hee hee) "Stephanie in the Slave Market." I was tempted
to pick on him for that, but decided not to, seeing how hard it has
been just to get him back this far from Jennifer. After all, we can
only wish that he had all the time in the world to give us more
treats like the earlier Stephanie story. :)
Now, enjoy!
Stephanie the Kajira
====================================================================
Stephanie's Reunion
By Sir Kevin
Stephanie smiled at the slavegirls kneeling under the neon sign of
Pompeii's Cafe, the favorite hang-out of her master and the other
slaveowners. They smiled back at her. None of them said anything.
An exchange of smile was all the greeting the slavegirls were
allowed among themselves.
All the girls were naked, like herself. Some of them were chained
or bound, others were not restrained save for the chains around
their necks, but they also rigidly crossed their wrists behind their
backs, as if held by their masters' magic spell.
Stephanie walked to the end of the row and fell on her knees.
Sitting on her heels, she threw out her chest and knelt with the
grace of a Greek statue, while her master locked the chain on her
collar to a ring in the wall and disappeared into the cafe.
Her arms and hands were tied tightly behind her back, so tightly
that it was hurting her. But she had decided not to complain. Her
master was not in a very good mood that day. In fact, just before
they left home he had whipped her severely for some extremely
trivial mistake. Her back and breasts were still burning from the
pain.
The street was crowded as usual. A constant flow of legs and feet
moved to and fro before Stephanie's eyes. Some of them stopped in
front of her. Then there would be a hand touching her at different
places on her body, and maybe even a few flirting words. But over
the last few years, Stephanie had learnt to simply ignore them. The
armed security guards standing by the door of the cafe were her
insurance that these passing menaces would not be any serious threat
to her.
A pair of young lovers appeared around the corner, and Stephanie
could not resist the instinct to glance at them a few times. The
young man, rather gloomy-looking in his dark grey rain-coat, did not
attract much of her attention initially. But his girlfriend, a
cheerful little blonde wearing a bright red and white sport jacket,
tight-fitting blue jeans and a pair of white leather boots, who
walked in a way of dancing and talked in a way of singing, reminded
Stephanie very much of herself before that fateful day in the slave
market.
The girl stopped in front of each of the slavegirls and giggled
brief remarks on them like an art critic appraising art-works on an
exhibition, while her boyfriend hemmed single syllables from his
nose either in agreement or disagreement. Vaguely, Stephanie found
his voice somewhat familiar.
The white leather boots danced over to Stephanie, and the girl
exclaimed in a raised voice: "Oh look! This one has all the
elements of a Degas!"
"Now there you got it, darling. She's a real piece of art." The
young man finally spoke.
Immediately, Stephanie realized whose voice she was hearing. On
an uncontrollable impulse, she raised her head and called out:
"Eddy!"
Stephanie felt like in a dream. Towering over her pitiable
kneeling figure was indeed her younger brother Eddy.
Eddy was the only family she had in the world. Orphaned at a
early age, she practically raised him by herself, although she was
only a year older. Having always demonstrated a strong talent in
art, Eddy aspired to go to an art school in Paris. Five years
before, when he graduated from high school, Stephanie withdrew from
her own college to work as a waitress in order to help him save the
money. A few months later, when it became clear to her that they
would never be able to save enough money with the kind of jobs they
could find, she made an ultimate self-sacrifice for Eddy. She went
to a nationwide slave dealer and signed up for an upcoming
slave-auction, designating her brother as the sole beneficiary of
the proceeds from her sale. The evening before she was taken away
to the auction, Stephanie and Eddy locked each other in their arms
and cried well into the night. The next morning, the men sent by
the slave dealer had to literally tear her away from Eddy's arms.
When the van moved down the road, Stephanie saw her brother running
frantically after it, while she hit the barred windshield until her
hands bled. Eddy's distorted voice had been echoing in her mind
ever since then: "Stephie! Stephie! I'll come and get you out as
soon as I return!" ...
It seemed to have happened only the day before, but in reality
Stephanie had not seen or even heard from Eddy for well over four
years. She knew Eddy should be back from Paris by now, and she had
been praying day and night that he would come to her the very next
minute. And now when her dearest brother suddenly appeared before
her eyes like a miracle, Stephanie could not contain herself.
Looked up at Eddy, her whole body was shaking violently, and her
eyes were filled with passion and expectation.
A complex expression flew over Eddy's face. He had apparently
recognized his loving sister, too. He stepped forward to her, but
stopped instantly. Instead of throwing himself down to her and
relieving her of her bondage as Stephanie expected, he stood
motionlessly, mouth half open and eyes staring blankly beyond her,
as if stricken by a lightning.
The little blonde looked up and down between Eddy and Stephanie,
and asked him curiously: "You know each other?"
"Huh, what? Oh no, no, not really. I don't think so." Eddy
seemed to have finally gathered himself together. He turned to his
hapless sister, and asked: "How do you know my name, slavegirl?
What do you want from me?"
"Eddy..." Now it was Stephanie who felt like stricken by a
lightning.
"What? Do I know you?"
The cruel question came upon Stephanie like a dagger piercing
through her heart. She let her chin sink on her chest, leaned back
against the wall, and breathed deeply.
"You have forgotten, Ed...Master Eddy," after a long while,
Stephanie managed to say in a small voice, without raising her head.
"My master used to be your next-door neighbor... and I used to help
you with your housework when you were young..."
"Ah, I see," Eddy quickly played along. "Now I remember --
Stephanie, right?"
"Yes, Master Eddy..." Stephanie felt as if something had been
stuffed in her throat.
"It's been a long time, Stephanie. How have you been?"
"I'm fine...I guess. Thank you, Master Eddy."
"Where's your master, Mr., eh..."
"Mr. Van Dyke, Master Eddy. He's in the cafe. I have a message
for you from him." In her shocked state of mind, Stephanie did not
realize the illogicality of her last statement.
"Oh? What's the message?"
"My master wishes you all the best in you career, Master Eddy."
"That's... very kind of him," Eddy said after a long pause.
"Please thank him for me, Stephie."
"I will, Master Eddy."
Both of them fell silent. They stared at each other for a time
without saying anything.
Finally, Eddy's girlfriend broke the awkward silence. "I don't
want to interrupt your little reunion, Eddy," she whispered, "but I
think it's time for us to get back to the airport now. I don't want
my parents to wait for us too long."
"Hm," Eddy replied, and slowly turned away from Stephanie like a
dream-walker. Then abruptly he turned back to her and asked:
"Stephie, is your master treating you well?"
"Yes, Master Eddy, very well." Tears streamed down from
Stephanie's eyes.
"Good...now take good care of yourself, OK?" With the words, he
walked away quickly.
"Hey, wait for me!" The little blonde bounced along after him,
while waving to Stephanie. "Bye-bye, Stephanie!"
"Why do I have the feeling that you knew each other much better
than just neighbors?" Stephanie heard her asking Eddy teasingly
once she caught up with him.
"Oh, just those silly childhood things. You don't want to know."
"Yes I do! Tell me!"
"Nah. Leave me alone."
"No, I won't, till you tell me. Tell me tell me tell me..."
They disappeared into the crowd.
Stephanie spent the rest of the evening crying to herself. The
other slavegirls watched her with great sympathy. Some even
accompanied her in tears, but none of them said anything.
The security guards standing around also looked at Stephanie
sympathetically.
"Poor girl," said one of them. "Must have had a crush on that
little boss man."
"Hopeless," another guard commented. "That's why I always tell
these girls: never get wrapped up in those romances."
Stephanie just cried.
Stephanie's master was astonished to see her tear-covered face
when he came out from the cafe.
"What's wrong, Stephie?" He squatted down to wipe her face with
his silk handkerchief and caress her bruised shoulders. "Did I beat
you too hard this evening?"
"No, my Lord...not at all." Stephanie threw herself into his
broad chest and cried like a child.
"Please...my Lord," she murmured between sobs, "please whip me
again... whip me right now, my Lord; I want it... and whip me harder
than ever..."
*******************************************************************
----------------------------------------------------------------------
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From: AnonEMoose <an000000@anon.penet.fi>
Newsgroups: alt.sex.stories.bondage,alt.sex.bondage,alt.sex.stories
Subject: STORY: Slavegirl Stephanie in Parallel Universes: Slave Market (MF, bd, Mdom)
Date: Wed, 06 Nov 1996 12:46:01 -0800
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Subject: STORY: Slavegirl Stephanie in Parallel Universes: Slave Market (MF, bd, Mdom)
Newsgroups: alt.sex.stories.bondage,alt.sex.bondage,alt.sex.stories
From: wi.3249@wizvax.methuen.ma.us
Newsgroups: alt.sex.bondage
Subject: STORY: Stephanie in Slave Market
Message-ID: <5020@wizvax.methuen.ma.us>
Date: 6 Feb 92 23:03:40 GMT
Here's a another story that a friend of mine wrote for me -- not the
same person who wrote "Stephanie's New Master," but another
co-fantasizer who is not even a native speaker of English. (You'll
be impressed by his command of our language -- I was.) As in the
other story, "Stephanie" in this story is modelled on me, but the
story itself is strictly the product of the author's imagination.
Any similarity between the characters and events portrayed in the
story and experiences of real people is purely coincidence. :)
Enjoy!
Stephanie the Kajira
====================================================================
Stephanie in Slave Market
By Sir Kevin
I saw her standing there.
My eyes were fixed on her as soon as I entered the slave market.
There were about twenty slavegirls on display in the market that
day, and each one of them, I had to admit, was of the best quality.
All of them were pretty; some were indeed beautiful. But she seemed
to have a unique atmosphere around her that I found especially
attractive.
Like all the other girls, she was completely naked. Her hands were
cuffed behind her back, and her ankles locked in a set of heavy iron
shackles -- too heavy, I said to myself, for her slim little ankles.
On her neck was a black iron collar, attached to a chain hanging
from a wooden beam above her head. She was forced by the chain to
stand rigidly straight, waiting to be examined by potential buyers
in the most humiliating way -- much in the same manner as the other
girls in the market.
Yet she appeared somewhat different from the rest of the slavegirls.
While all the other girls were tall and well-built, she was petite,
no more than 5 feet 4 inches tall, with a waist small enough, it
seemed, to be held in a man's hands. The others were all gorgeously
blond; her hair was of a silky chestnut color. Surrounded by
well-tanned breasts and thighs, her skin looked vulnerably pale,
through which her veins could be seen as winding thin blue lines.
Against the smooth whiteness of her limbs, the rough, dark surface
of the irons that imprisoned them made a sharp contrast. While the
other girls were making all efforts to present themselves to their
future masters in the most beautiful and sexy way, she simply stood
quietly and almost motionlessly in her corner, with her eyes rooted
on the cement floor. A few bunches of long wavy hair climbed over
her slim shoulders to her front, as if in a desperate attempt to
cover her bare breasts.
Unlike the other girls, who must have been bought and sold in a
slave market as a way of life, she had the freshness to one's eyes
that belonged only to a girl who was having such a traumatic
experience for the first time in her life.
I stopped in front of her. She raised her head slightly to glance
at me, but quickly hung it again. I saw her bare feet trying to
move back away from me, but the chain on her collar held her firmly
in place.
"What's your name?" I asked, lifting her chin with a finger.
"Stephanie... sir." Her voice was trembling a little, but
nevertheless extremely sweet and melodious. Meanwhile she tried
hard to keep her eyes on the ground to avoid confronting my
inquiring eyes. This made her look very lovely.
"Your last name?"
"It doesn't matter, sir," she said with a sigh. "A slavegirl
doesn't need a last name any more."
She might be new in her bondage, but she certainly understood her
situation quite well already.
I brushed aside her hair with my fingers to fully expose her
breasts, and the pair of tenderly pink nipples. Her breasts were
small and firm, and jiggled at the touch of my fingers. She
couldn't be more than twenty, I thought.
"How old are you?"
"Eighteen, sir."
I took her breasts in the palms my hands, and started caressing them
gently. This immediately send a little quake through her body,
causing the chain on her collar to jingle. A faint groan came from
her throat, and I could feel the two small patches of soft pink skin
on the tips of her breasts hardening into thrusting nipples. She
closed her eyes, apparently scared but nonetheless enjoying my
touch. I was pleased with her response.
Perhaps I should have her nipples pierced if I bought her, I
thought.
"Turn around," I released her breasts and ordered her.
With the jingling of chains, she slowly turned around, revealing
about a dozen whip marks on the small of her back. The fingers of
her cuffed hands rubbed against one another nervously.
"Were you whipped recently?"
"Yes, sir. This morning."
"Why?"
"I don't know, sir. Honestly." She gave a sigh and added in a soft
voice: "but I guess whenever a slavegirl is whipped, it's always her
fault, one way or another."
I smiled. She is cute.
I examined her hands carefully, and lifted her feet to look at their
soles. Everything I saw bore the marks of an easy and comfortable
life before the first chain was locked around her neck. Even after
being forced to walk barefoot for days or perhaps weeks, as all
slavegirls were, her feet were amazingly tender and clean.
"How long have you been a slave, Stephanie?" I asked, turning her
around to face me again.
"About two weeks, sir."
"What were you doing before that?"
"I was a student at St. Julia College... sir."
"What was your major?"
"I was an English major..." She raised her head and stared blankly
into the blue sky above the chains and the beams. I could see tears
in her eyes.
"How did you become a slavegirl?" I was genuinely curious.
"It was a long story...," she answered after hesitating for a short
while.
I walked around her nakedness and gave her a full examination again.
The youthful and natural beauty of her petite figure, enhanced by
the chains and shackles she wore, pleased me immensely. There was
no permanent brand anywhere on her body; she had only a fading blue
stamp on her left hip that read: "E&L Slave Traders." But the
inscriptions on her collar indicated a different owner: "Property of
Tony Francera."
"Stephanie," I informed her, "I think I'm going to buy you."
"Are you going to be kind to me, sir?" She raised her head again
and for the first time let her eyes meet mine. Brown and clear, her
eyes were very charming.
"It depends. On how you behave. But anyway, I'll keep you naked
and chained like this all the time. And I'll whip you at least once
a week. Also, how would you like a pair of little rings pierced
through your nipples?"
"...Do I have a choice?"
"Of course not, you silly little slave!" I laughed and patted her on
the back. Except for the fresh whip marks, her skin was soft and
smooth, and felt good.
"Where is your master?"
Before the slavegirl could say anything, a man's voice came from
behind me: "nice choice, fellow! She's real good stuff, isn't she?"
I turned around and found myself facing a short, dark-skinned man
with a black mustache. With a friendly smile, he stretched out his
right hand and said: "I'm Tony. This wench is mine. Isn't she a
real sweetheart?"
"Oh yes, indeed," I agreed as we shook hands. "I haven't seen
anything like her in the market for quite a while. Where did you
get her from?"
"From the hands of the E&L guys. Those bustards! They would have
wasted her. The day I went there, they had her hanging from the
ceiling, her hands tied behind the back and drawn up and all that.
And they tied a cement block to her big toes. Man, it looked like
they were going to break her arms and ruin her for good. When I got
there they had a pair of damn big alligator clamps on her nipples.
They wired them up, and a guy was giving her electric shocks through
the tits. The poor babe was jerking like a fish out of water. Man,
you never heard a girl screaming like that!"
"Good God! Did they really do that to you?" I turned to the
slavegirl.
"Yes, sir," she answered briefly. Her voice was noticeably shaking
with terror at the memory.
"Why did they do that?" I asked Tony, truly unable to imagine the
necessity to torture this sweet and helpless girl in such a
horrifying way.
"It turned out some big brothel wanted to buy her, and they were
only softening her up for the johns. Damn fools! I told them they
were ruining genuine crystal to make a piece of glass. And I told
them the best thing they could do by beating her up was to turn her
into a bitch just like those," Tony pointed at the sexy blondes
chained next to Stephanie.
"That's true," I agreed sincerely.
"Yeah! I could see at the first sight this babe was something
special. High-class stuff; you know what I mean? She deserves
better than that. So I made them a better offer and took her home.
I trained her myself. It didn't take too much hard work. She's a
real good girl. Aren't you, sweetie?" He turned to the slavegirl
and started rubbing the back of his hand against one of her nipples.
"May I ask why you whipped her this morning?"
"Oh that! That was nothing at all. You have to use your whip on
these girls once in a while, you know. Just to make sure they know
who they are." Tony winked at me and changed the subject: "so you
want her?"
"Well, how much?"
"She's going on auction in a moment. I'm asking only eight grand
for a start."
"Eight thousand? That's pretty high a start, don't you think?"
Tony winked at me again and said, "well, she's not just any
slavegirl, right?"
"True. Do you have her papers with you?"
"Sure thing!"
I had just started looking through her identification documents when
suddenly a loud and rough voice burst out right next to my ears:
"Well well well, little bitch! I thought we would meet again!"
Turning around I saw a very big man with a heavy beard standing in
front of Stephanie. Twisting about fearfully in his shadow, the
naked slavegirl looked all the smaller.
"Stephanie Dartville, right?" the man continued. "Still remember me,
you little bitch?"
She obviously recognized him too. Her face turned pale, and her
body shivered visibly. She turned her face left and right, as if
searching for help, and struggled vainly against the shackles and
chains to escape from him.
"Mr. Johnson!" Tony was suddenly all smiles. "How are you doing,
Mr. Johnson? You know this wench?"
"Boy, do I know this little bitch!" the man burst out again. His
words came together with a heavy smell of beer and tobacco. "She's
one of those chicks working for the New Underground Railroad, and
last year she helped several of my slavegirls run away. I've been
looking for her all over the place. And what do you know! Here she
is, the freedom fighter herself in the slave market! God, I love
it!"
"For your information, bitch," the man turned to Stephanie, "I have
caught all my chicks one by one, and I gave every one of them a
lesson that she'll forever thank you for. And that friend of yours,
Jennifer Stanistow, she ended up in my stable too. I showed her a
living hell and then sold her to bunch of bikers. Tell you the
truth she didn't enjoy it at all. Next it's your turn!"
Johnson suddenly grabbed the naked girl's nipples between his
fingers and pinched them very hard. Poor Stephanie threw back her
head and screamed in formidable pain.
"Tony," he roared, "I want this bitch. What's your price on her?"
"Mr. Johnson," Tony asked hesitantly, "you are not going to buy her
just to kill her, are you?"
"Of course not!" Johnson answered. "Not this one. Death will be a
luxury for her. I'm going to teach her things could be worse than
death. I'll make a good example of her for all those chicks. She's
going to spend a long time in the pillory on Broadway, but first
I'll need to whip her hide into tiny pieces. Take a good look at
this whip, little bitch! It's going to be your life-long
companion."
The poor girl glanced at the whip in Johnson's hand, and her eyes
were filled with horror. It was not one of the conventional whips
designed for the tender skin of a girl. Made of raw cow hide, it
was quite similar to the bull-whips that cowboys used on their
cattle, only much shorter. It was an extremely brutal thing to use
on the naked body of a girl.
And the pillory on Broadway was also an extremely brutal torture
device. Besides the utmost humiliation of being displayed naked in
front of thousands of people every day, a girl locked in the pillory
by her neck, wrists, and ankles could support the weight of her body
only by either standing on her toes, sitting on the sharp edge of
the foot-stock, or hurting her neck in the upper pillory. It had
not been used for over three years, but the moans and tears that it
had extracted from every girl it had ever imprisoned still remained
vivid in everyone's memory.
A bell rang at the center of the slave market, indicating the
auction was about to start, and the men began moving toward the
auction block. I took another look at the girl I had decided to
purchase, and turned to join the other men.
"Sir..." It was Stephanie's soft voice.
Turning around, I asked her: "are you talking to me?"
"Yes, sir," she looked at me earnestly. "Are you going to buy me?"
"So you can run away?"
"No, sir, please..." her voice became eager. "I promise I'll never
run away from you. I promise! I'll be your faithful slave
throughout my life. I'll do anything you want... I can cook. I'm
a good dancer -- I have learnt the belly dance. And I can play
violin or mandolin for you. I can be very useful. And... you can
do anything you please to me. Whip me all you want. Keep me
chained. And you can pierce my nipples -- please do. Torture me
anyway you want to. But please... please buy me, sir. You can sell
me again later if you don't like me. But just...just don't let that
beast lay his fingers on me; please?"
Tears ran down on her rosy cheeks. It was a plea that I could not
say no to.
I stepped back to her, and wiped the tears off her face with my
thumbs. Holding her face in both hands, I kissed her gently on her
lips.
"Don't worry," I told her. "I'll do my best to outbid that old
Johnson guy. I like you, sweetheart."
"Thank you, sir."
The auction started. Within an hour about ten of the slavegirls
were sold, some for five or six thousand, others for ten of eleven.
A girl with beautiful long legs and full bosom brought her master
fifteen thousand and eight hundred dollars.
Then came Stephanie's turn.
She was led onto the auction block by an assistant of the
auctioneer. The chain on her collar had been replaced by a leather
leash held in the man's hand. The auctioneer kicked lightly on the
back of one of her knees, and Stephanie dropped on her knees. She
was told to sit on her heels, and the auctioneer's assistant kicked
her knees apart to expose her pussy.
There she knelt, naked and shackled, with her head hanging low, her
legs apart and her hands still cuffed behind her back, in a
beautiful picture of female submission. Few people could imagine
that only two weeks before this miserable slavegirl was sitting in a
comfortable dorm room in one of the most prestigious colleges in the
region, and perhaps writing anti-slavery poems.
The response from the bidders was moderate. Most of the men around
the auction block were middle-aged businessmen, who would much
sooner prefer a mindless blonde sexpot to a girl of intelligence
like Stephanie, whose reserved look was to them an indication of
trouble in the future. When the bidding went over ten thousand,
Johnson and I were the only competitors left. Yet the bidding soon
reached and passed twenty thousand, much to everybody's surprise.
Johnson was clearly determined to put his chains on Stephanie's
neck, and for this he would pay any price. When he called out
twenty-eight thousand after my offer of twenty-five, there was a
brief commotion around the auction block, and then there was
complete silence. I could hear jingling chains on both sides of the
block; the girls still waiting to be auctioned were also stretching
their necks to see what would happen next. Twenty-eight thousand
was almost an insane price to pay for a slavegirl, even for one as
pretty as Stephanie.
"Do I hear twenty-eight and five hundred?" the auctioneer asked.
"Yes." I said. It was far more than I could easily afford, but I
was determined too.
"Twenty-nine thousand!" Johnson called out.
I looked at the naked girl kneeling on the auction block. All I saw
was a pair of expecting eyes.
"Twenty-nine thousand and five hundred," I told the crowd.
"Thirty thousand!"
"Thirty thousand and five hundred."
"Thirty-one!"
"Thirty-one and five hundred."
It was all quite for a while. Johnson did not respond immediately
to my new offer. On the auction block Stephanie closed her eyes and
bit her lower lip in great anxiety.
"Do I hear thirty-two?" the auctioneer asked.
"No," Johnson replied, "you hear forty thousand."
This caused an enormous commotion in the crowd. A man standing next
to me exclaimed: "give him that girl, young man! I could sell you
my mother for that money."
Everybody laughed.
I looked at Stephanie at a loss. Again I saw the pair of expecting
eyes, which were now getting rather desperate. But I quickly
calculated my financial situation and recognized that I had lost
her.
"Sold to the gentleman for FOR-TY THOU-SAND DOLLARS!" The
auctioneer's voice expressed uncontrollable excitement.
More excited was Tony. I was sure he still could not believe what
had happened: he had just made forty thousand dollars out of a girl
he probably paid as little as four thousand for.
I saw him talking warmly with Johnson on the block, patting each
other on the shoulders. Then he helped Johnson drag the poor girl
down from the block. He removed the shackles from Stephanie's neck
and limbs, and Johnson immediately tied her hands tightly behind her
back with a long rope. Stephanie tried to put up a fight, but was
easily overcome by the two men. After they had tied her up, Johnson
kicked Stephanie down on the ground, and lashed her several times
with his whip, making her cry out in pain and beg him for mercy on
her knees. Then they took her away into the blacksmith's workshop
behind the auction block. Shortly after, I heard her screams
penetrating the wooden door of the small workshop.
I had let her down.
Stephanie's screams lasted a few minutes. When she was dragged out
from the workshop, she was apparently in such pain that she could
hardly walk. She was told to kneel in front of the notary's office,
and Johnson and Tony went in.
I walked up to her.
Her whole body was shaking and covered with sweat. Her shoulders
jerked with her sobs. She knelt next to the wall, and leaned on it,
with her head sunk on her chest. The rope, tied around her wrists
and looped several times around her arms, was so tight that it cut
into her tender flesh. The horrible cuts that Johnson's whip left
on her back and shoulders were still bleeding. I noticed her
nipples were bleeding too. They had been pierced, and a small chain
was attached to the silver-colored nipple rings.
On her right hip, I found a newly imprinted oval brand: "S. S.
Johnson." A few other words were cruelly branded on her back near
the right shoulder: "Stephanie Dartville, member of the New
Underground Railroad." I could imagine the formidable humiliation
these words would bring her when she was displayed in the nude in
public.
"Stephanie," I did not know how to comfort her, "I'm sorry."
"No, sir," she said sobbingly, without raising her head, "you did
all you could. I know. But there was no hope from the beginning; I
should have known that. He wanted me, and he had enough money to
buy me at any price. Thank you for trying to help, sir. You have
done me a great favor, and I'll remember it forever. I'll pray for
you every day till I die."
"Stephanie," I tried to offer my advice, "the important thing now is
to take good care of yourself. Try to make the best of it. Try to
please him, and obey him. Maybe he won't be too harsh on you after
a while..."
"There's no use, sir," she interrupted, raising her tear-covered
face and shaking her head in despair. "There's no use. He's
determined to put me through hell, and he's going to do it no matter
what. I know that beast..."
Her head sank again, and she fell silent.
"Well, buddy, still interested in her?" Johnson came out from the
office. "That's all right. Just wait a few years. You can have
this little bitch when I'm done with her. That is, you can have her
bones after I've done away with her skin and flesh."
He laughed savagely, and grabbed the small chain on Stephanie's
nipple-rings to pull her up on her feet, cursing and kicking her
mercilessly in the meantime. Then he turned to me again and said,
rather friendly: "seriously, buddy, take my advice: don't waste your
emotion on a slavegirl. There are plenty of them around. Why don't
you go get yourself another one? You can get five of them for the
money you just offered. And you'll forget all about this chick in a
blink."
Maybe he was right.
I watched while Johnson led Stephanie away through the crowd,
holding the chain on her nipples, which forced her to walk with her
breasts thrown out in a peculiar way. Then I wandered in the slave
market for another ten or fifteen minutes, browsing through the
girls still on display, but without seeing or hearing anything.
I decided to leave.
As soon as I walked out of the slave market, my eyes fell on
Stephanie again. She was now suspended in a spread-eagle position
on the back of a van, with fresh whip marks on her breasts and
thighs. She bit her lip and suffered the agony in silence. A small
crowd had gathered around her.
The van started moving when I walked up, but Stephanie had enough
time to smile at me sadly and say: "Bye-bye, sir. God bless you."
"Bye-bye, Stephanie," I answered her in my mind. "I'll pray for
you."
The small crowd dispersed, leaving me standing conspicuously on the
curb. A security guard looked at me curiously.
Behind me the auctioneer in the slave market declared over the
speaker: "Good news, gentlemen! In a few minutes we are getting two
more girls to be auctioned today. Both are incredibly beautiful.
Authentic college chicks..."
I ran across the street, and kept running.
====================================================================
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From: AnonEMoose <an000000@anon.penet.fi>
Newsgroups: alt.sex.stories.bondage,alt.sex.bondage,alt.sex.stories
Subject: STORY: The Desk, by Suki (MF, bd, Mdom)
Date: Wed, 06 Nov 1996 12:44:31 -0800
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Subject: STORY: The Desk, by Suki (MF, bd, Mdom)
Newsgroups: alt.sex.stories.bondage,alt.sex.bondage,alt.sex.stories
From: (Suki)
Date: Wed, 17 Nov 1993 14:51:51 GMT
Message-ID: <1993Nov17.145151.17629@apple.com>
The Desk
by Suki
It was a magnificient old oak desk. Massive, polished wood
touched the ground on three sides, with drawers built into each side
of the back. It was a huge desk. Large enough to fit a person
underneath comfortably.
He had notice this when he first bought the desk. A few
modifications later and it was perfect. He had business clients
comming today to talk to him. Today was the day to test the
usefullness of this desk.
He brought her in first. His pet. He had ordered her to
strip and then put a belt he had made for her on. The belt had two
small vibrators in it. Strong enough to tease her, but not so strong
as to bring her to orgasm or be heard. He checked the clip on the
belt to make sure it was firmly secured, and then switched the
vibrators on. She stood still, patiently awaiting his command.
He then brought out a blanket and two nipple clamps from a
drawer in the desk. He put the clamps on, just enought so that
there would be steady pressure, and then spread the blanket on the
floor under the desk. Then he ordered her under.
She crawled under the desk and turned around so she was
facing him. He took each wrist and secured it with wide leather
straps to eyebolts he had added to the top of the underside of the
desk. Then he stood back to admire his handywork. 'Perfect' he
though.
She looked up at him. Each wrist carefully secured to the
top of the desk away from her, spreading them away from her. Her
head slightly ducked so as not to bump the side of the desk, and her
knees bent so her bottom rested on her feet. Comfortable and
restrained.
He looked at his watch. Ten minutes. Then he explained to
her the duties he expected her to preform. She was not to make any
noise. She was not to make him come. She was to service him with
her mouth as he sat at the desk.
This was to be one of the best business meetings he ever
had.
-*-
She heard the secretary announce that his 10:00 meeting was
here, and heard him request them sent in. She was a little cramped
under the desk, but otherwise comfortable. The vibrators were
beginning to do their job and she wished that she could reach down
and help them. She couldn't. Her wrists were secured to the
underside of the desk.
He got up from the desk, careful to push away before rising.
She heard him greet what sounded like two other men, and then saw
his knees behind the desk again as he sat down. He pushed his chair
back under the desk, and slid one hand down and touched her neck.
She got the message.
Reaching forward with her neck, she used her teeth to undo
his pants. It's not as easy as it sounds. After about five minutes
of struggle he finally reached down and helped her, moving his
underwear aside out of her way. She began working on him,
alternating techniques whenever she felt him get close. Her jaw
began to get tired. His meeting seemed to go on forever. In
reality it was only about a half an hour when she heard the meeting
end. The sounds of the others saying goodbye, and the audible click
of the door closing sounded like heaven to her aching jaw and mouth.
So intent had she been on pleasing him she had almost forgotten
about the vibrators and nipple clamps. Now the rememberence came
back in full force.
Gently, he unfastened her wrists and lifted her out from
under the desk. He unbuckled the belt, and removed the vibrators.
Then he lifted her to him, and kissed her. 'You did well' he
whispered. He bent her over the desk and entered her. A few
minutes later, they cried out their release in unison.
--
>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>Suki<<<<<<<<<<<<<<<<<<<<<<<<<<<<
Bi, switch, tease, but mostly uppity bottom.
It is better to be hated for what one is than loved for what one is
not. -Gide
----------------------------------------------------------------------
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From: AnonEMoose <an000000@anon.penet.fi>
Newsgroups: alt.sex.bondage,alt.sex.stories.bondage,alt.sex.stories
Subject: REPOST: Some Ideas for Masters (FM, bd, Mdom, Fdom)
Date: Wed, 06 Nov 1996 12:41:00 -0800
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Subject: REPOST: Some Ideas for Masters (FM, bd, Mdom, Fdom)
From: 6600powr@ucsbuxa.ucsb.edu (Joy Luck)
Message-ID: <11957@hub.ucsb.edu>
Date: 8 Jun 91 05:21:11 GMT
My girlfriend, more skilled in such matters than I, described her
idea of the elements necessary to a valuable/worthwhile B&D (S&M,
D&S, insert acronym of choice here) experience. I submit these to
be appended, refuted, commented upon, etc. in the hopes of educating
myself.
Deborah's Man Control guidelines:
I. Break the will
A. Build tension
1. Pleasure without satisfaction
a. Bottom is dependent on you for
satisfaction
B. Use of Pain
1. In order to break down bottom's control
2. To make bottom truly submissive
3. Pain PLUS pleasure
a. Top controls both: becomes God
b. Bottom feels simultaneously helpless
to and protected by top
C. Bottom must feel truly WITHOUT control
1. No control over satisfaction of self or
of top
II. Men & Women (Deborah's opinion)
A. Man as top:
1. He will: tie her up and fuck her
a. Very basic (Deb: "Big deal!")
2. He should: Make her feel helpless, build
tension, make her beg
B. Woman as top:
1. Must be careful to maintain his erection
How to do it? Details, I want details!
From: bbs.sirlance@doomsday.Spies.COM (The TimeTraveller)
Newsgroups: alt.sex.bondage
Subject: Re: Orgasm on command?
Message-ID: <ZcNc94w164w@doomsday.Spies.COM>
Date: 16 Sep 91 04:22:58 GMT
wi.652@wizvax.methuen.ma.us writes:
> Well I was talking to this friend of mine, who is just as kinky as me (which
> is fairly rare ;) ), and he said one of the things he'd love to be able to
> do is to "cum on command" or orgasm on order from his top. Now that idea
> really appealed to me.
> Anyone have any ideas on how to go about it ? I'm thinking of this as being
> a purely psychological feat -- no strings attached as it were ;-). I thought
> of enforcing the idea thru hypnosis or something. Anyone got any better
> suggestions? or similar suggestions?
Here is a file for you...
____________________________________________
The Master's Guide
by
* Master Rob *
Introduction
This is the beginning of what might turn out to be a book. I
decided to share it here in HSX because it is my hope that others
will offer feedback and discussion that will assist me in better
understanding this not-so-gentle art, and that what I say may help
others learn how to safely enjoy dom/sub relationships. It is
especially interesting to offer it here, and at this time because
one avid reader of this information will be my new, and lifelong
slave. As I write this introduction, I am not certain that this is
information a slave should read, but I will reserve judgement on
that matter.
If you are a practicing, or prospective master, this guide is my
effort to share what I have learned in practice and from others
about dominating women. The women who I have dominated all wanted,
in fact passionately desired to be slaves. None of this material is
intended as a way to force an unwilling partner into slavery. Also,
the practices discussed here can be dangerous if not handled with
care. I will try to note cautions whenever it seems appropriate.
However, I can not be responsible for the outcome of any activity
mentioned here. It is critical that you, as a master, use care and
intelligence. You must take full responsibility for the safety of
your slave.
Lastly, what is discussed here is of an adult nature. Mention of
any practice is not a recommendation from me or the publisher (or
network) for that practice. Anything you do, you undertake at your
own risk. If you are in doubt about the safety of anything, DON'T
DO IT. As a master it is your sacred trust to protect your slave!
The Master's Guide may be uploaded to any BBS as long as it is
placed there intact without any edits or changes. It is copyrighted
and may not be printed or reproduced in any publication without
written permission from the author. If you do upload this to a BBS
system or another online network, please send me an email at
72230,110 (CompuServe) letting me know what you did. Also, please
write with comments, criticisms, or suggestions and additions.
Part I UNDERSTANDING WOMEN
The title of this section is a bit misleading. It is unlikely
that there are any men who truly understand women. Perhaps those of
us who are Masters come closest to that ideal. We have to begin any
discussion of domination of women with some thought to how women
differ from men. Obviously, generalizations will be incorrect some
of the time. However, the basic principles seem to hold. The
biggest mistake most men make when looking for a woman is that they
assume women want the same things they do. In a dom/sub situation
this is a fatal error. To illustrate the point, simply read the
personal ads in any newspaper (like the Village Voice in New York
City). The men advertise for women who want sex. The ads
pathetically ask for women who are "sensuous" etc. The women
advertise for "closeness", "warmth", "relationship". The smarter
women advertise themselves as "sensuous", "sexy", etc. The key here
is that most men advertise for a woman who HAS MALE SEXUALITY. That
is why the ads fail. If a man advertises for the values the women
want (as they state in their ads), then the results improve.
This is relevant here because we are beginning a discussion of a
very special kind of relationship; one where the man, the Master,
has total control. If as a master, you impose strictly male desires
and values on the relationship, it will become two-dimensional and
will lack much to keep your slave interested. Also, failing to
understand the fundamental differences between men and women will
make your job of training your slave much more difficult.
Before we begin the main subject, let's list some of the values
women have stated time and again are most important to them:
1. Relationship - Constant love and care from a partner.
2. Tenderness - a bit unexpected in a dom/sub setting, but needed.
3. Understanding - this means letting her know you understand how
she feels, but NOT necessarily letting her feelings change your
actions.
4. Affection - most women will eventually become terrible slaves
if all they do is get you off without real affection as well.
As we explore owning a slave, we will come back to these basics as
appropriate.
TERMINOLOGY
We are discussing male domination of a female. The female is
owned by the man and is under her complete control. We are NOT
discussing a form of dominant/submissive foreplay. This is about
24-hour-a-day, 365-day-a-year ownership. There are lots of hints
for S&M foreplay. This is about the lifestyle. We will refer to
the dominant male as Master, Top, Dom; all mean the same thing. The
woman will be referred to as slave, bottom, or sub. A slave should
understand that any reference to a Master is capitalized, as are
first person pronouns such as His whip, etc. A slave should never
refer to a master by name. If there are more than one master
present a slave may address Master Rob, never Rob. Preferable
address is simply Master, Never MY Master. A slave does not own her
master. He owns her.
We will also refer to S&M and B&D. S&M stands for Sadism and
Masochism, B&D for Bondage and Discipline. At one time the two had
different meanings, nowadays most people refer to any dom/sub
activities as SM (without the "&"). We will generally follow that
lead.
BEGINNINGS
Most of us do not find ourselves acquiring a slave the way we buy
a car. Generally, we discover that part of us that enjoys the
feeling of total domination and control, then we experiment
sexually, and finally end up as Masters. There are more slaves than
Masters in the world. All of us, at some time or another, would
enjoy giving up all control and responsibility. The common fantasy
is that a bottom is a passive person who is acted on by the active
partner, the Top. As we go on, it will become clear that this is
far from the case, but for now we are at the beginning.
A dom/sub relationship rarely begins full-blown. Two people meet
and like each other. The conversation turns to sexual matters and
somehow the topic of domination comes up. Experiments begin. As
trust and compatibility develop, the relationship moves in the
direction of SM. Caveman captures, overwhelming scenes, and other
XX movie techniques don't work in forming long-term relationships.
The same ingredients that are important in "vanilla" relationships
are important in SM relationships. The only difference is that once
the slave makes a commitment, she doesn't get to make any more
decisions after that.
By now you are getting the first important message: SM
relationships begin the same way as vanilla ones. A common interest
in dom/sub sex is not enough to keep either person interested for
very long. The same glue of love, concern and mutual interests make
a dom/sub relationship last, not the scene itself. Once you have
decided that the relationship will work, it is time to begin
training.
BASIC SLAVE TRAINING
A woman who comes to you (on her knees, of course) begging to be
your slave, also comes to you with a lifetime of conditioning that
works against her being a good slave. Feminist teachings, school,
parents, society as a whole have conditioned your slave to behave in
an independent and unsatisfactory way. She was trained this way
through a process of rewards and punishments that reinforced the
behavior that society wanted her to have. As her Master, you have
to condition her to be a good slave. Since she is your property,
her behavior, good and bad, are your responsibility.
When she first comes to you, your slave will be willing but
uneducated. She needs constant reinforcement in order to learn to
be worthy of her Master. It is critical that you give her continual
reminders of her new station in life. Many Masters insist that
their slaves shave their pubic hair every day. Stubble or any
unshaved hair is punished with a severe spanking. Spanking is a
very effective form of punishment. It should always be administered
on her bare ass, and should immediately follow any infraction of
your rules regardless of how trivial. It is a good idea to use an
object like a hairbrush, wooden spoon, or other small-ended wooden
or metal object instead of a paddle. Paddles are good for sexual
spankings, but in punishment it is most effective if your slave
feels the result of her spanking long after you finish it. The
smaller wooden and metal objects will more likely cause small
bruises which are not dangerous, but will make sitting down painful
if too many of them are acquired. Remember, punishments are not for
sexual stimulation. They are to condition your slave's behavior to
conform to your every command.
Many masters also forbid their slaves any underwear (bras and
panties). It is a good idea to also insist that skirts (long, below
the knee) be worn. A slave is also required to always keep her legs
wide open (hence the long skirt). This makes access to her vagina
and ass easy and immediate. The lack of underwear and the new mode
of dress will also serve to constantly remind your slave of her new
position in life. It is also a good idea to forbid makeup, jewelry,
and expensive clothing. A slave should purchase her wardrobe at
K-Mart, J.C. Penney, Sears, etc. Pride and vanity are not
permitted to slaves.
Many people like to imagine their slaves exposing themselves in
public. After proper training, if it amuses her Master, she may be
made to do it. In the initial phase it is not a good idea because
it diverts her attention from her master to the humiliating and
exciting exposure.
A slave's total objective in life is to please her master. It
should be noted that this doesn't me she isn't a strong, competitive
leader with others. Many slaves are true leaders who dominate in
their professional lives. Many of these leaders have shaved pubes
and no underwear on.
The science of behavioral psychology teaches us that to be
effective in conditioning, we must be absolutely consistent and
punish or reward immediately when required. Your slave will WANT to
behave (a major difference between male slaves and female slaves --
males want to be naughty so they can be punished). However, during
the first six to nine months, she will have times she will test you
(consciously and unconsciously). She will get rebellious and try to
change the nature of the relationship. It is at times like these
when she attempts to manipulate or rebel, that you must be
absolutely firm. A slave who fails to observe proper table manners
(i.e.: eating only what and as much as her Master says) should not
be fed for 24-hours and then served on the floor in a dog bowl. The
punishment should fit the crime (to steal a line from Gilbert and
Sullivan). On occasion a slave will stubbornly refuse to give in
regardless of how much you spank her. Don't let that defeat you.
Tie her to a strong, heavy chair for several hours (all night
perhaps). She will then have time to cool off and realize the error
of her ways.
A very important aspect of conditioning involves training your
slave that she has no control over any part of her life. Many
Masters require a slave to ask permission to go to the bathroom.
Permission is frequently witheld. The central concept is that you,
as master have absolute control over your slave. She is property,
similar to a valuable dog or horse. She requires care and training,
but she is yours to do with what you please.
You have an obligation to her. She gave herself to you
understanding she would have a difficult time adapting. You have to
remain strong and teach her that instant and perfect obedience is
the only course she can take. During the period of basic training
you have to be at your strongest. Later, after she is properly
trained, you can relax a bit. Those first months will make or break
the relationship.
Many slaves test their Masters in the beginning by attempting to
misbehave in a public place where immediate punishment seems
impossible. For example, she might order for herself in a
restaurant, overeat, discuss a topic you don't wish her to. In
situations like this you have to be creative. In a restaurant,
always sit next to her. If she misbehaves, you can quietly reach
under her skirt and pinch her clitoris firmly. Continue applying
pressure until she has completely corrected whatever she did wrong.
If you are in a place where even punishment like this is impossible,
you have to simply leave the area and find the closest place (even
your car) where you can discipline her appropriately. Needless to
say, if her bad behavior caused you to miss something you wanted to
do, she should receive severe punishment when you get home. It is
particularly effective when this type of transgression occurs to
strip her and then tie her with her wrists together behind her, her
ankles tied together, then tie hre wrists to her ankles (not too
tightly). Leave her this way on the floor next to your bed all
night. By morning she will be stiff and very repentant.
Sexual Conditioning
If you have a sexual relationship with your slave, you must extend
the conditioning process to sexuality as well. As her master, you
control every aspect of her life. The sexual conditioning process
should be handled as carefully as the other conditioning you do. A
slave must learn that she is responsible for the sexual pleasure of
the Master. While many books and films discuss "lending" a slave
for sexual pleasure to friends (and in fact many slaves fantasize
about this), it is not a good idea in practice. Your slave should
become the world's expert on your sexual pleasure. A good program
in conditioning should include teaching her to orgasm on command
from you. This training takes some time. A good way to do it is to
make her masturbate in front of you. When she is ready to come,
make her continue rubbing herself but forbid her from having an
orgasm. If she makes a mistake and comes before you let her, she
should get a non-sexual punishment spanking. After the spanking she
should be required to masturbate again until she holds off waiting
for your permission to come.
In the beginning, allow her to come only a few seconds after she
begs to come. Extend the time a bit each session. Then begin
counting from one to ten as you see her get near orgasm (as she
masturbates). Spank her if she doesn't come by your count of ten.
Then reduce the count to five, then three. Next, start counting
earlier and earlier in the masturbatory activity. If she fails to
come, spank her and then prohibit any masturbation or other orgasmic
activity for three days. After three days, try again. If she still
doesn't come on command, spank her and wait a week. She will be
climbing the walls, and eventually will learn to orgasm on a single
command from you.
Since you want her constantly accessible, she should not be
permitted any clothing when at home. She should only be allowed to
dress to go out or when company is expected. You should teach her
the art of oral sex. She should learn to please you orally very
early on. A good idea is to have her keep your penis in her mouth
for an hour or two at a time. While you read or watch TV, she
should be sucking and licking. She should learn to enjoy spending
hours doing this. It is also a good idea to train her to lick you
all over. Many Masters enjoy it when their slaves deeply kiss their
anuses. Licking and kissing there also has a dramatic effect on the
slave. Extended periods of oral-genital contact, and oral-anal
contact say in a way almost no other activity can, that your slave
is completely submissive to you. Bathing you is another activity
that should be a daily part of her duties. The more intimate and
personal her duties, the more different from anything she had done
before (like 3-hours of sucking and licking, anal kissing) help her
learn her new position in life.
If you enjoy masturbating, or being masturbated, your slave should
use her tongue to clean you up afterward. It is also a good idea
after intercourse to reach into your slave and remove the semen that
would normally drip out, then have her lick it from your fingers.
Many masters also teach their slaves to enjoy drinking their urine.
Several publications indicate that urine is not dangerous to drink
unless the person has a sexually transmitted disease. If this is
your pleasure, you should certainly teach your slave to do it. If
she is sucking you for hours it is almost a necessity that she be
ready for any fluid you might release. It is inconvenient and
breaks the mood if you have to go to the bathroom.
Eating feces is not a good idea. The anus is usually quite clean
(it is self-cleansing), but feces can carry toxins and bacteria.
While urine is considered nearly sterile, feces are not. Avoid the
temptation to extend her training to that. Anal sex, on the other
hand, is important in training your slave. Oral and anal
intercourse give her the chance to please you without orgasm for
herself. Also, most women become highly submissive after anal
intercourse. If you use plenty of KY jelly and very, very slowly
insert your penis, it will not be very painful to her. Once she
learns to enjoy it, she will come when you fuck her there (with your
permission, of course).
It is very important you establish and enforce rules for your
slave to follow. These rules should govern her behavior, dress and
eating practices as well as how she should behave with you. More on
that in the next installment.
Master Rob
____________________________________________
From: juu@netcom.com (Jay Doubleyou)
Subject: FEMINA File: 35 Rules for Sub Males.
Message-ID: <juuCnzCry.CM2@netcom.com>
Date: Sat, 9 Apr 1994 06:59:58 GMT
Summary: FEMINA Society: 35 Rules for Managing the Submissive Female.
Keywords: FEMINA Deering lifestyle femdom submale relationship rules
Based on the e-mail received, there seems to be some interest within
this group in reading some more of the text files from Ms. Charlene
Deering's FEMINA Society library which were downloaded from a Florida-
based Femdom BBS. So I'll be posting some of the ones that I think
you all may enjoy. Those who do not subscribe to, nor wish to read
of Ms. Charlene Deering's philosophies should hit the 'n' key.
This one is a set of rules describing a rather intense lifestyle
relationship. Posting this on a local BBS has sparked some rather
interesting discussion in the past. And my Mistress/wife has used this
list as a source list while negotiating our own lifestyle relationship.
Some of these rules have become my own.
-Mistress N's slave,
Slave JW
========================================================================
THIRTY-FIVE SIMPLE RULES
FOR MANAGING THE SUBMISSIVE MALE
================================
RESPECT
1. The submale must always practice traditional courtesy which men have
shown Women in polite society, whether in private or public. Stand
when She enters the room. Sit (or kneel) as soon as She is seated.
2. Be totally attentive: open doors, wait at table so that She begins
eating first, always ask permission to leave Her presence.
3. The submale should never speak unless spoken to, or unless
anticipating the needs of his Mistress.
4. The submissive will never sit with legs spread or slouch in a way
typical of untrained males. Good posture and decorum is a sign of
respect.
5. The submale will never stare at a Woman without Her permission.
Unless the Woman seeks eye-contact, the submissive will keep his eyes
lowered at all times.
6. When walking with his Mistress, or any Woman, the submissive will
keep his gait in step with hers, which usually means taking smaller
steps. The submale should always be at least a step behind; but not
too far, because he must open all doors.
7. Respect is shown by a submissive as long as he never fails to
forget his lowly role in life. The submissive must always be
pleasant, never argue and never pout.
THE submale's NAME
8. The submale should be given a new name by his Mistress to symbolize
his submissive state. If the submale is a sissy, it should be a
feminine name. Other names may be "made up" words that sound
humiliating or which are amusing or pleasing to the Mistress; for
example, names typical of pet dogs or cats.
THE submale's BODY
9. A submale surrenders control to his Mistress. He surrenders control
of his body, how he spends his time, how he dresses, what he eats,
where he sleeps, the friends or acquaintances he is allowed to keep.
In all aspects, the Mistress controls the submale.
10. Because a submale's purpose is to please his Mistress, more than
anything else She owns, he must learn to control his response to
sexual stimulation for the greater enjoyment of his Mistress. his
orgasm is the only that the submale has left to control for himself.
Failure to control his orgasm is disobedience. Disobedience requires
punishment.
11. If the Mistress prefers simply to torment the submale and deny him
release, then the submale must control himself to provide Her than
pleasure. He must dedicate himself to abstinence and thank his
Mistress humbly for removing the pleasure of ejaculation, thus
allowing him to dedicate his lost pleasure to Her.
12. If the Mistress demands satisfaction through sexual intercourse,
the submale must be able to control effectively his own orgasm so that
it is timed to the pleasure of his Mistress. His purpose is not to
please himself but to please Her.
13. In all cases, the submale must remember that his orgasm does not
belong to him -- his orgasm belongs to his Mistress. It is Hers to
use, however she sees fit.
14. The submale should be as clean-shaven as the Mistress requires:
from the top of his head to his toes, body hair should be present only
if the Mistress allows it.
15. The submale may wear long hair, styled to imitate the superior
styles of Women, only if the Mistress permits.
16. The submale may never touch his own genitals without the permission
of his Mistress. When washing, he must use a washcloth or brush,
never his hands.
17. The submale will allow himself to be pierced or tattooed as required
by his Mistress, if safely and professionally done.
PERSONAL PROPERTY
18. The submale is the personal property of the Mistress. his
possessions are Her possessions.
19. The submissive should always be saving to purchase "big ticket"
items that his Mistress wants to buy. This means the submale is always
on a strict allowance, kept by his Mistress.
CLOTHING
20. Feminization is training in submission. Wearing items of Feminine
attire separates the submissive from and puts him outside of the world
of the macho male. Wearing feminine attire doesn't make the male like
a Woman; this is impossible.
21. Standard attire is pink or white panties, an extra-absorbent pad
(normally used by those suffering from incontinence), and panty hose
worn under male clothing.
22. Whether a woman knows what the submissive is wearing or not,
feminization pushes the submissive closer to the company of women and
away from the company of men. This is good for the submale, because it
creates greater opportunities for him to be of help to Women, to serve
them, and to model his behavior on their own superior behavior.
23. Feminine items can also be used as punishment -- corsets, girdles
and foundations. These should be selected by the Mistress for maximum
discomfort.
24. If the submale is a sissy or TV, very feminine clothing should be
reserved for rewards; drudge clothing -- plain white panties, plain
lingerie, housecoats, aprons, etc. -- should be required as normal
attire.
25. The submale should never buy his own clothing without the guidance
of his Mistress. He should buy what pleases her, not what he likes.
HEALTH & HYGIENE
26. The submissive will use only Feminine hygiene products: soaps,
shampoos, lotions, deodorants, etc. and will be clean and properly
groomed at all times.
27. The submale will submit to enemas, or self-administer enemas, on
demand by the Mistress.
28. When urinating, the submale will always sit on the toilet; no
exceptions.
29. For good health, the submissive will enroll in a dance aerobics
class. As an alternative, the submale will prepare his own dance
aerobics routine and perform it for his Mistress for Her amusement.
30. The submale must diet as required to maintain a correct weight for
his height and should drink at least six 12-ounce glasses of water
each day.
31. The submale must submit to eating only "submale food" selected by his
Mistress whenever she requires it.
MAID SERVICE
32. When a meal is over the submale must be quick to clear the table and
wash the dishes.
33. The submale must always give his Mistress the first choice of
everything -- She picks the section of the paper to read first, the
channel on TV to watch, the restaurant to go to, the movie to see, the
friends to entertain, etc.
34. The submissive must always keep his own quarters spotless, as
directed by the Mistress. All furnishings and interior decoration
will follow Her taste.
35. The submale will perform all household chores for the Mistress, to
include:
- sweep and vacuum all floors and carpets
- mop and was all floors
- dust and polish all furniture
- make the beds every day
- wash and fold all clothing and linens
- iron
- handwash all lingerie
- scrub bathrooms
- clean kitchen
- cook simple meals; assist in all cooking
- wash dishes and put them away
- set the table
- shop for groceries and put them away
- take out trash and sort recycled items
- run all errands as directed
- perform yard work; plant flowers as directed
*** End of text file ***
From: kibo@world.std.com (James "Kibo" Parry)
Subject: Re: FEMINA File: 35 Rules for Sub Males.
Message-ID: <CnzwAn.G8u@world.std.com>
Organization: HappyNet Headquarters
Date: Sat, 9 Apr 1994 14:01:34 GMT
[alt.sex.femdom]
In article <juuCnzCry.CM2@netcom.com>, Jay Doubleyou <juu@netcom.com> wrote:
>
> 31. The submale must submit to eating only "submale food" selected by his
> Mistress whenever she requires it.
For some reason, reading the above sentence over and over makes me feel
like I'm reading the instructions on the packet of the "beverage base
powder comma lemon-lime comma one" included with MREs. The submale must
submit via e-mail, in triplicate, substitute submissions substituting
submale submarines for "submale food" which shall consist of equal parts
sub food and male food in accordance with milspec 666/DS/BD/1314.
Now, if MREs are "submale food", does this mean that all the men in the
Army are being dominated by the SECRET FEMALE FIVE-STAR GENERAL that
they won't tell you about? I have uncovered the MOST INTERESTING
CONSPIRACY the WORLD HAS EVER KNOWN! Who says olive has to be drab when
we discover the Army is conducting SECRET KINKY SEX EXPERIMENTS?
-- K.
Topping Usenet again.
----------------------------------------------------------------------
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From: AnonEMoose <an000000@anon.penet.fi>
Newsgroups: alt.sex.exhibitionism,alt.sex.bondage,alt.sex.stories.bondage,alt.sex.stories
Subject: STORY: The Metro (MF, exhi)
Date: Wed, 06 Nov 1996 12:39:41 -0800
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Subject: STORY: The Metro (MF, exhi)
Newsgroups: rec.arts.erotica
Subject: The Metro
Message-ID: <90Oct13.083504edt.64454@gpu.utcs.utoronto.ca>
Date: 10 Dec 90 06:18:29 GMT
I didn't write this, I don't know who did. I believe it is
translated from the French, though.
____________________________________________________________________
It was the end of the month of May, a Wednesday, about 6:30, in
the metro. It's extremely uncomfortable to take the metro then,
because of the enormous crowds in all the cars -- pressed against
each other, sometimes in direct contact with people less clean... I
had no courses that afternoon, and I had gone to Paris to shop in
the big stores.
Coming back, I had an adventure which, even in my imagination,
which is sometimes quite lively and a little crazy, I could never
have invented.
I got on at Chaussee d'Antin, direction Levallois; I was thinking
of changing at Saint-Lazare. Terrible crowd, packed cars, you push
as hard as possible in order to get into the car. Outside it was
very hot, and it was hotter in the metro, so I was wearing a mini-
mini-skirt and a blouse; no underwear, as always, but a bra, very
light, which didn't hide much of my chest.
I was carrying a paper bag in my hand with a sweater I had bought,
and I had my handbag over my shoulder.
I climbed into a car and was pushed toward the back by all the
people who wanted to get on behind me; when the door closed, we were
all packed like herrings in a can. I thought of a song that I heard
one time: "If We Could Unpack the Sardines."
My arms were trapped against the length of my body. I could not
make the slightest movement, held fast in front, behind, to the
right and the left by other passengers. I was almost against the
back door of the car; there was only one other person, behind my
back, between this door and me.
In my unhappiness, half-asphyxiated, I found that I was in luck,
because the people surrounding me seemed nice, as far as I could
tell by appearances. By chance, after everyone pushed on, I was
left facing, as squashed as I was, a woman about my age with a face
sort of like mine. We exchanged smiles which seemed to say "We can
only suffer in patience."
The metro moved about a thousand feet or so, when I sensed very
clearly a hand behind me, placed on my buttocks. This sort of thing
had never happened to me on the metro, although my friends have told
me of having such "attacks," from which they vehemently recoiled,
but I thought they were lying, because I had never been the subject
of such "adventures," as they say.
But there it was. A hand, firmly pushing against my buttocks.
You should know that it isn't my nature to protest against a thing
like this -- au contraire. By contracting the muscles of my behind,
I tried to make understood to this hand, that I appreciated its
audacity.
But whose hand was this? I knew there were three men behind me:
one immediately behind and another at each side. Which of the
three? I didn't dare turn around in fear that the man would take my
movement for a rebuff.
After all, it wasn't important whose hand it was. I was delighted
that this was happening; I forgot the extreme inconveniences of the
metro at 6:30 in seeing, or feeling, the enormous advantages that
came with it.
The hand caressed my behind, constantly. A well put together
hand, moving with gentleness and firmness. I closed my eyes in
order to better taste this caress, and I don't have to tell you that
I began to get rather wet. The metro would be on time to the next
station, so not too many people would get off. For me, in this
mood, there was no further thought of changing at Saint Lazare, if
the hand continued its work.
I was hoping the hand would dare to go under my skirt. I was
pressing myself more and more backwards, in order to better make
understood my accord. The hand moved more quickly and firmly on my
behind.
The metro entered the next station. When it stopped, the hand
grasped my buttocks, and rested on my behind, without caressing me.
Happily, at this hour, when 10 people get off, 10 more get on.
The shuffle literally plastered the woman in front of me against me.
"Excuse me," she said.
"That's OK," I said. "There is nothing you can do."
I tried to tell her with my eyes that I did not find this
disagreeable. Her pelvis seemed overly pushed against mine, with
respect the rest of her body. I did not object to that. That day,
the metro seemed to bring me everything at the same time.
As soon as the metro started up again, the hand went directly
under my skirt; I imagined the man's joy in finding I had nothing on
underneath; the hand didn't have to go down very far in order to
pass under my skirt, of course.
Between my thighs, the man lost no time, burying his finger in my
vagina, which was all wet; he moved it quickly, right away. I
closed my eyes again, and opening them for a few seconds, I saw the
face of the woman in front of me. She was observing me curiously,
becoming aware that something was happening.
This finger in me and the excitement it gave me made me lose all
prudence; I moved my pelvis forward and backward, almost
instinctively, imperceptibly, but enough that the woman felt it.
She pressed more strongly against me, and began a light, oscillating
movement. A wonderful pleasure was born -- enhanced by this special
situation -- I managed to slip my free hand up against the lower
pelvis of the woman and, outside of her skirt, I felt for her
clitoris to rub it; her eyes were smiling at me.
Fabulous. A finger in my sex from behind, and my finger caressing
a woman in front of me, right in the middle of a crowd, who might
discover everything, and cry out in scandal!
I was going to climax, I knew this, surrounded by dozens of blind
people. If they could only have guessed...
At the next stop, the three of us continued as if nothing were
happening.
I imagined the man and the woman were as excited as I was, and had
also abandoned all prudence. But how could we fear being noticed in
this crowd, if we kept a certain minimum of apparent calmness and
impassiveness?
The woman's dress was a maxi with buttons in front; I easily
unbuttoned the one above her sex -- because I wanted to touch her
skin -- and passed my hand through the opening and placed it on her
panties.
They didn't cling. I moved my finger between the cloth and her
skin, and my finger reached her sex; a lot of hair, but I quickly
found her clitoris and her very wet vagina. I wet my finger there
and started to caress her seriously. Now, she closed her eyes.
I looked nonchalently around me, and saw people who seemed to be
ignorant of everything that was happening, each with eyes fixed in
front, lost in thought, no doubt.
Solitude in the crowd. Liberty to do everything without being
seen; more easily perhaps than in open countryside where one never
knows if, some distance away, behind a tree or a window, a man or an
old woman is busy watching. (I am not against exhibitionism, but I
like to choose my voyeurs.)
Three stations already. I decide to go to the last stop.
In me, this finger is moving, always; pleasure builds little by
little within me; a new pleasure, unknown till this moment, coming
as much from the finger of the man and the sex of the woman as from
the place where we are.
The finger excites me terribly fast. My climax comes in three
seconds, brusquely. I hold back a scream with great difficulty and
bite my lips hard. I have rarely come so quickly. Normally, this
pleasure grows in me gradually, gently, arriving at the paroxysm
more slowly; but here, everything came in three or four seconds.
Incredible!
I began to caress the woman in front of me furiously, and I sensed
her about to come too, under my finger. A sexy one, for sure. But
no more than me! Her eyes flutter, then totally close; I begin to
take back my hand when she reopens her eyes, extremely gently, and
stares at me:
"Again."
Incredible. This word she has just pronounced galvanizes me, and
I begin to caress her more beautifully. I regret she cannot return
this. I took the risk of making us noticed, because I never knew
whose hand was in me, but I hoped it would continue to caress me.
But the man took back his hand when he felt, by the pressure of my
buttocks, that I had climaxed. It was finished, I sensed.
Once more the metro stopped, at Malesherbes, nearly the last stop.
The car would stay full. So much the better.
Why did the man stop caressing me? Was he satisfied? Did he only
want to make me climax? I knew that sometimes men could come this
way too, by simple intellectual excitation, and that after this, men
lost, for a certain time, all their erotic ideas...
But I was wrong to make this of it. The man hadn't climaxed. Not
yet. Then he did something that was difficult for me to believe, at
first. I sensed between my thighs, no longer the man's hand, but
his penis. I was sure that it was that, but for two seconds, I told
myself that this was impossible. He would not possibly dare to do
this! He could not have done this in such a crowd! Or else, he was
completely crazy. But what a marvelous fool!
I continued to caress the woman, having decided to make her come
at least as strongly as before.
I knew now it could only be the man directly behind me who could
take his penis out of his pants and lift up my skirt and put it
between my thighs. I tried to spread myself more to make the task
easier.
The man clung strongly to the lower part of my skirt, and he
pressed himself as straight as possible against me. He only let me
move very lightly forward and backward, which gave me a chance to
caress his penis, rubbing between my legs.
In front of me, the woman swooned, her eyes happily closed.
Except for that, our neighbors would certainly have noticed her
condition.
The metro entered Wagram station. Few people on the platform.
Few people would get off here. Three people got off, two got on.
Perfect, we were still deliciously crowded. The metro left.
Immediately, the man put his penis in my vagina. Marvelous! It
was of normal length, but with an rather imposing diameter, it
seemed to me, from what I could feel inside me. It seemed
impossible to me, now, that the men on either side of me sensed
nothing. I glanced to the right and the left behind me, and I saw
the eyes of one man fixed on my buttocks. They were seeing
everything. And they said nothing. Metro, Liberty is thy name!
Secure in all these complicities, the man moved in me, scarcely
discretely; in front of me I caressed the woman, who in turn, passed
a hand under my skirt and caressed my clitoris, while introducing
her finger in my vagina, with the man's penis. No one could come
more strongly than I did. I came continuously between the Wagram
and Pereire stations. I came like a crazy person. At this hour,
the metro moves in slow pauses, because ahead, the track is not
totally free. It sometimes even stops between stations. I came for
about 3 minutes, continuously, and fantastically. I no longer knew
where I was, and I didn't know how -- a sort of instinctive desire
kept me from screaming -- but in part because of this, I moved my
hips as much as possible.
Behind, the man makes love to me savagely. At one moment, a
finger in my anus. Is it his or one of the other men? I do not
know. And that isn't important. I want all of the people in the
car to touch me, to fuck me, to kiss me, to lick me, to crush me, to
caress me, to rape me.
And I caress the woman: still masturbating her clitoris, I bury
two fingers in her sex and she comes intensely, too. She bites her
lips, and under my skirt, her frenetic finger translates these
sensations.
The finger in my anus enters me deeply and marvelously, but this
big penis in me gives me an inexpressible pleasure.
A little before the Pereire station, while the metro was slowing
down, the man held me plastered against him, strongly, and pulled
violently on my skirt. I couldn't budge, not even a half-inch, and
he came in me in long hot spurting jets, leading me to inacessible
summits. I had believed in this before that -- in the great climax.
I was exhausted, and surely would have fallen over if the crowd
around me had not held me up. The woman under my fingers came
again, wetting herself insensibly. My fingers, my hand were
entirely engulfed in her liquid of love, which flowed down the
length of my arm. I withdrew my hand and dried it a bit against her
skirt. Her eyes said "Merci," with excessive sincerity, and I
wanted well to believe this. (I believe I caress in a more than
excellent manner, and I take pains to caress other people
particularly well.)
The finger withdrew from my behind and the penis left my sex, my
warm sex, almost as soon as the man came.
It is over, and I have just known an unforgettable sensation.
"You get off here?" a voice behind me asked.
"No."
I spread my legs out. In front of me, the woman gave me a small
glance of complicity and turned around to get off, while the man who
was behind me passed in front of me, giving me the very slightest
attention.
Incredible! (I repeat this adjective often, but remember the
circumstances!) Truly incredible! He could have looked at me.
Looked for my face. To see who he fucked. No. He went by quickly.
Incredible.
"Are you getting off here?" he asked another person ahead of him.
I hadn't even seen his face. I only saw the back of his neck.
The long hair on his neck. He had blue jeans and a brown leather
shirt, under which I saw the collar of a colored shirt. He wasn't
very tall, about my size, no more. That had made it easy for him to
fuck me standing up, from behind, without gathering too much
attention around us. I had nothing more of him, than his hands and
his penis and the sound of his voice when he asked "Are you getting
off here?"
No, I'm not getting off here, and what good would it do to follow
him? His attitude invited nothing, and what would we say to each
other?
The train stopped. The door opened: Pereire. Five or six people
got off in less than a minute, among them the woman that I caressed
and the man that fucked me.
And incredible! I tell you that is the only word that fits. I
see the two of them join hands and walk off the platform talking and
smiling. The man kissing the woman on the neck.
The metro leaves. I see the face of the man. Blond, gentle
features. I find him beautiful. He is no more than 23 years old, I
guess.
She and he, two little gentle lovers, one would say. The people
who have met them, the people whom they are meeting and the people
whom they will meet, would take them for two little young adorable
people who simply love each other. And in fact, that seems to be
the case. She and he, conniving together, made love with me in the
middle of the metro. The two of them seem like little angels.
What is behind the face of each one? And the people hiding behind
the wise faces of this man and this woman, are they exceptional?
Isn't it the same thing for the rest of the world? And for the next
man who passes? What of the dream of the next woman to cross your
path, a little farther on? What will you think of and what have you
done, you who seem shameful? What do all couples hope for? What do
their faces hide?
Open yourselves, faces. Speak to me. Tell the truth, impassive
eyes. With whom do you like to make love, all of you? And how?
And where?
We have only illusions about people, and if we do not read, we
guess past the faces.
I think again of the two men who are still behind me and who
"witnessed" this. I dare not turn around. But I do not wish to
dissimulate. I want to be youth who dares, who has no shame of her
body, who considers that making love is marvelous at any moment, who
wants to live all lives in one only, and who wants to do all that
she wants without blocking and repressing in her, later having
thoughts which she would not dare explain.
I turn around and look at the two men to the right and left. They
were each about 40, suit and tie over a white shirt. They could be
brothers. I see other men, suit and tie and white shirt, the
uniform of city life.
The two men avoid my look. One reads a paperback book. The other
pretends to be interested in the headlines of a paper being read by
a woman six feet away. Look at me. Have the courage to look at me.
I know that you saw. This evening, if they are married, they will
make love to their wives and think of me, I am sure. But here, they
pretend they saw nothing. Poor men. When I get off the train, they
will make out my silhouette on the platform, undressing me through
the windows of the train.
So, get off. There is nothing to do with them. None have the
courage to do what the man just did, even if they often imagine
that. And if they reprove, then they should have protested.
Capable of nothing, I tell you.
What a marvel, this little metro trip. I feel a little sperm
sliding gently between my legs. Incomparable memories of the
extraordinary climax that I had. I go near the door. The metro
stops. I am going to get off. Between my thighs, wet with sperm
and my own juices, I still feel the man's penis and the woman's
hand. I put the hand that caressed this woman to my lips, and the
wild odor of her sex assures me that I was not dreaming. A certain
aphrodisiac.
Now I am on the platform. This is not a transfer station, Porte
Champerret, it only remains for me to leave again by the opposite
platform. This I do in an other worldly state, lost in the memory
of what just happened, my body annihilated by happy fatigue. Going
the other way, the metro is almost empty. Going back, I think over
my voyage of eroticism and climax. I go over these unforgettable
moments in my mind.
--The End--
____________________________________________________________________
----------------------------------------------------------------------
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From: AnonEMoose <an000000@anon.penet.fi>
Newsgroups: alt.sex.stories,alt.sex.stories.bondage,alt.sex.femdom
Subject: STORY (updated): Menstruation Slavery (FM, bd, Fdom)
Date: Wed, 06 Nov 1996 12:38:13 -0800
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Subject: STORY (updated): Menstruation Slavery (FM, bd, Fdom)
This story was extremely crude in its original form; I have tried to
add in a few touches of semi-sophistication (don't bother telling me
if you think it might not have been really worth the effort).
____________________________________________________________
From: mayost@leland.Stanford.EDU
Date: Mon, 16 Aug 93 12:26:27 GMT
Message-ID: <CMwn5J.2EJ@cs.uiuc.edu>
Subject: Male submission, Transvestism, Tampons
MENSTRUATION SLAVERY
(By Le Carnard - The Purveyor of Fine Filth)
My slave training began two months ago when my thirty-seven year old
next door neighbor happened to catch me buying my supply of sanitary
napkins and Tampax. Melanie is a sexy-looking lady with a dynamite
body. She had just recently moved into the apartment complex where I
live. As I found out later, after becoming her slave, she works as a
legal secretary and was recently divorced. She said her former
husband was a lousy lover, only caring about his own orgasms, and
that at first she had been hurt by his running off with some young
slut. She soon realized that he was the loser, not her. She sold
the big fancy house he had bought her and moved to this apartment
complex. She said that she had checked out all the single men when
she first moved here. I was the one that most appealed to her, and
she was glad that she caught me in the grocery store.
No sooner had I arrived home that day, then Melanie, my neighbor and
soon to be my Mistress, was at my door. At first she made it seem
that it was purely accidental that she was there at that moment. But
she was not at all shy or embarassed when she pretended to notice the
Tampax in my grocery bag, and said that she had seen me buying such
items several times in the grocery store -- and that she knew I was
not married, and that she had never seen any women enter or leave my
apartment. On the contrary, she seemed to enjoy my embarassment and
humiliation, as she boldly asked me why did I then buy such items. I
was caught out, and my guard was down, and I really wanted to confess
my secret to somebody anyway. She quickly dropped the pretence of
being a mere nosey neighbour, and we got down to business -- she
asked about my fetish, saying that she was interested in such kinds
of sexual practices, and that herself had some "kinky" preferences,
such as dominating and humiliating men, though she had never yet
really acted on them.
I somewhat sheepishly confessed that since my college days I have
enjoyed wearing certain feminine products. I described how the soft
cotton of a sanitary napkin against my balls was wonderful, and how
going out in public with a Kotex between my legs and a Tampax up my
ass would keep my cock hard for hours. She was so easy to talk to,
and so understanding. She asked me what I thought was the basis of
my fetish. I couldn't answer precisely; but I told her that maybe I
really thought of the female genitals as being very mysterious and
exotic, but also very important -- the basic difference between men
and women and the foundation of all sex -- and that the flow of blood
made the female genitals even more mysterious and exotic, more
different from anything that can be found in my own uninteresting
male body. And whatever is mysterious and exotic and unknown may be
considered as dangerous and repulsive (the way most men have viewed
menstruation, maybe), but also as attractive and alluring. So for me
menstruation has some kind of basic connection to sex -- and besides,
blood also has some kind of special powerful meaning (though I know
that menstrual flow is not really `blood'). The word `blood' is
mentioned over 350 times in the Old Testament (a book I am very
familiar with from my childhood). And the Old Testament laws on
menstruation show that those old-time people thought that
menstruation had great importance and power (even if the men in the
Old Testament viewed it as dangerous and repulsive also).
Anyway, I am not an intellectual or a psycho-analyst, and maybe this
is all bullshit, but we talked all about this, and that was the best
I was able to explain it to her or myself. She did not try and put
me down for my fetish, and I soon confessed to her some other little
quirks that I had. I told her that I was not really a transvestite,
but that I was aroused by women's underwear, and I sometimes wore
women's lace panties -- and that the sanitary napkins kept me from
staining them when I would suddenly have a climax, just from thinking
about women wearing them too.
She told me that she thought some of my "kinkiness" and fetishes
were compatible in a way with hers, and that maybe she could use a
relationship between us to finally act on some of her own fantasies
also. She said that one of her fantasies was to have a slave. She
said she had fantasies where the slave was a man and sometimes the
slave was a woman. She asked if I had any such Dominant fantasies.
I told her no. She smiled, and she told me she had thought I was a
submissive, which was why she had come to me.
She told me that she was attracted to me, but that she had just come
out of a marriage where for eleven years sex was the missionary
position twice or three times a week (or less often if her husband
was cheating on her), and she really didn't want to get into another
relationship with anybody that remotely resembled that one. That was
why she had been so excited when she had begun to find out about my
fetish, and especially that my fetish had submissive tendencies.
Taking my hands into hers, she gazed into my eyes and ask if I wanted
to take my fetish one step further and become her menstrual slave.
After years of fantasizing about women on the rag, here was one
wanting me to service her monthly. I quickly agreed. She said my
training would begin the following week when her period was due to
start. She admitted that she wasn't very experienced at this kind of
dominant-submissive relationship, and I'm not either, but we talked
about the basic way things would work between us, and we agreed that
she would be free to improvise somewhat and draw up precise rules and
requirements for me to follow, but that if I was uncomfortable or I
thought my needs were not being met, I could bring it up, and we
would talk about it.
* * *
The following Wednesday evening, Melanie called and put my week-long
nervousness to rest. She wanted me at her apartment, dressed only in
a robe. Upon entering her place Melanie presented me with a list of
rules I must follow to the letter. She asked if I wanted to be her
slave and accept her as my mistress. When I replied, "Oh! Yes,
Melanie! more than anything," she ordered me to kneel down and read
the list of rules out loud to her.
Falling immediately to my knees, I began:
1) I must wear a Kotex and have a Tampax up my ass at all times.
2) During her period, I will wear Melanie's used Kotex or Tampax.
3) During non-work hours, I must change Melanie's protection for her.
4) I will lick her pussy on command until it is clean.
5) I will receive an enema at the beginning and end of her period.
6) I will not be allowed to cum unless Melanie jerks me off.
7) I will only be allowed to wear feminine underwear while serving
Melanie.
8) From now on, I must treat my genitals as if they were female,
and use feminine hygiene products, and douches, Tampax, and
vaginal lubricants.
9) I will be Melanie's slave, and do chores and menial work for her,
and obey her orders, as long as there would be nothing harmful
and my job and other outside commitments would not be interfered
with.
Melanie said that if I broke any of the rules I would be punished.
And if I refused to carry out any command she would probably dismiss
me as her slave, never to see her again.
I quickly agreed to obey her, and began my life as a slave. Melanie
began by giving me a soapy enema, followed by the insertion of a
Tampax Super. My cock was rock hard. Melanie then presented me with
a sanitary napkin belt, which I put around my waist. Melanie then
lay down on the bed, and commanded me to remove her Kotex. Raising
her skirt, I quickly lowered her panties. She even helped by raising
her hips from the bed. Once I had the used pad detached from her
belt, she instructed me to attach it to my own. It was still warm
from being in contact with her crotch. Once it was in place, my cock
seemed to swell larger. Melanie then ordered me to get a new
sanitary napkin from the bathroom. On returning, I stood at the end
of the bed. Melanie had put her feet up on the bed. She now spread
her legs widely, showing me her vagina. A small amount of menstrual
fluid had leaked from the lips of her pussy. She had unbuttoned her
blouse and pushed her bra up and was now playing with her own breast.
Pinching the nipples, she smiled up at me and said "Clean the outer
lips of my pussy before you attach the new Kotex to the belt, Slave."
Kneeling at the foot of the bed, I lowered my head to her crotch. At
first I ran my tongue around the edges of her pubic hair, not sure if
I could go through with it, even though it was my fantasy.
Leaning up on her elbows, Melanie commanded "Do it, Slave." Closing
my eyes, I ran my tongue alongside her right pussy lip. The taste
was different but not bad. I began licking in earnest, once the
bloody discharge was gone and her pussy was clean. I spread her cunt
open and darted my tongue into the center of her hole. The more I
ate her the better she tasted. Melanie even reached down to hold
herself open. She moaned for me to lick her clit. When she
orgasmed, the flavor of the juices changed. When she finally had had
enough, she reached down and pulled my face up, and said "Enough for
now, attach the clean Kotex. You'll have to change me again in four
hours."
Once she had her panties and the rest of clothes on, she had me lie
on the bed. She removed the Kotex and instructed me to bring my legs
back over my head. The tip of my cock was now only two or three
inches from my face. She stroked my dick slowly then faster and
faster. When I moaned I was cumming. She order me to open my mouth
wide. In no time, cum began shooting from the head of my cock in
great streams and landed right on my tongue. I swished it around in
my mouth and tasted it, before she commanded "Swallow it." My spunk
didn't taste bad and I was sure I would taste it often.
Melanie then reattached the Kotex to my belt and dressed me up in a
beautiful pair of panties. I then went to work cleaning up the
apartment, knowing that in less than four hours I would be changing
her again. She said that this time I would have to insert a Tampax
into her vagina, but that she would need to cleaned up first.
So far, it's been heaven for me since that fateful day she caught me
buying my Kotex. Now when we go shopping, she makes me hand carry
both our Feminine Products to the check-out counter. I can hardly
wait; in another week, I'll be helping my mistress to stay clean and
feminine for another of her periods.
----------------------------------------------------------------------
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From: AnonEMoose <an000000@anon.penet.fi>
Newsgroups: alt.sex.stories.bondage,alt.sex.bondage,alt.sex.stories
Subject: STORY: Macchine (MF, bd, machine-dom)
Date: Wed, 06 Nov 1996 12:35:50 -0800
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Subject: STORY: Macchine (MF, bd, machine-dom)
From: wi.6745@n7kbt.rain.com (Shezmu)
Subject: Macchine part 1
Message-ID: <C6v8DA.F5z@n7kbt.rain.com>
Date: Tue, 11 May 1993 14:03:09 GMT
-= Shezmu =-
Enough folks have written to ask me for reposts, email copies etc.,
I've decided to get off my duff, make some edits and clean up some
literary nastiness, and do a repost of Macchine. To those who
missed it, enjoy. If you've read this before, the changes are
mostly cosmetic (kind of like adding extra warts to a Really Ugly
Troll). If you've archived it, you may want to replace your copy.
Disclaimer: this story contains scenes of industrial-scale sexual
dominance, whipping, bizarre types of penetration, pushes limits of
consentuality, and may cause various gastric or genital effects. If
you aren't already a pervert, you probably will be after reading
this. Hit "n" now if you're more easily offended than fascinated.
____________________________________________________________________
MACCHINE, Part One.
A tapping ring: a small, precise hammer striking a perfectly milled
steel cotter pin. The smell of shaved steel and machine oil, a
dark, musty but sharp scent. Brilliant platinum halogen lights try
to penetrate the thick darkness of the cavernous room, but light is
sucked away; the room's corners are invisible. The lights seem
lonely, frightened by the immensity of the cold, hangar-sized space.
They huddle around the workspace, where a small, elderly, balding
man hunches over a tiny mechanical assembly, his eyes obscured by a
grey metal magnifying visor. Above the man, the great beast
slumbers, menacing, dominating, drawing my gaze, sucking the light
into itself as if its gunmetal-steel hide was made of shadow.
Macchine.
For sixteen months it has grown, base then skeleton then flesh and
organ and carapace, growing into a dark consciousness in this
concrete and steel cavern. If I am its father, the little man below
is its mother, crafting it lovingly, gear and bone and sinew. He is
Havel, a master machinist and a genius of industrial design. He is
unique in the world.
Men must have obsessions; men are, in many ways, defined by their
obsessions. It determines their self, their style, their character,
their color. Havel's obsession was perfect machines: machines that
interlock and fit without play or squeak, gears that lock with a
solid *snap*, perfect-folding hinges and tensioned springs. My
father's obsession was money, a bland and boring habit but one which
left me wealthy beyond care. My own obsessions were sex and power.
Our obsessions were smelted together in this entity: a blending of
wealth, mechanical craft, and raw sexual power.
Macchine.
Starting as a typical small-minded idea, a seed of lust, it had
grown to something beyond art, beyond industrial craft, beyond
function. No longer purely machine, it had begun to form its own
personality: dark, brooding, single-minded, with its own glittering
spark of cold carnal lust. Macchine waited, its attention reaching
outward, waiting to feel the mind and touch the soft human flesh of
its destined prey. Waiting like I waited. Waiting for you.
You, too, are a creature beyond mortal. You and Macchine, two
halves of a whole, a synergy of dark lust and power.
You were always the perfect submissive. Like a raging fire
demanding to be quenched, you burned in perfection, challenging all,
consuming all. I have been here longer than any of your previous
lovers, probably because you saw my obsession and its possibilities.
But I knew early on that I would eventually fail to meet your need,
and be consumed in your dark flames.
I remember times, wielding the whip, lashing across your back and
bottom with all my strength, leaving welts deeper and deeper until
the blood flowed. I would finally crack, frightened of what you
could drive me to; stop without saying a word, amazed that only the
barest whimpers escaped from your lips. Your bottomless eyes would
turn to me, pleading for something no human being could ever give.
A safeword was simply an insult, accepted by you as a favor, a rule
of the game. I could scream insults, filthy cunt, selfish bitch,
worthless slut, they were absorbed and burned in your essence. You
became all those things, as ordered, and transcended them all.
I remember: having you ride the escalator at the mall, ordering you
to hike up your skirt and fuck yourself with a large dildo for the
viewing pleasure of the following shoppers. You did this without
complaint, bringing yourself to orgasm in front of those shocked and
titillated eyes, without ever blushing. Later that night, when you
had left, I cried. How could I ever master you, when you had no
fear, no embarrassment, no limits to push?
Macchine was born that night, conceived by a father who knew defeat.
The idea of a machine to master you, to beat you, to bind and twist
your body more powerfully than any man could do, was an idea born of
my desperation and the memory of your pleading eyes. But the idea
swelled, sprouted, grew roots that locked deep in my soul, with a
speed that terrified me. I could not sleep; my painting and music
came to be trivial distractions. Even sex with you became secondary
to my new obsession. It had to be tried.
Money was no obstacle at all. But my first attempts to hire a
machinist and artisan were disappointing; some laughed, some hid
greed under politeness, others tried to cheapen or commercialize the
vision. It was not until I found Havel that the seed was truly
planted. And then, what grew from that seed was far beyond my
original vision. It was not a machine at all.
It was Macchine.
MACCHINE, Part Two.
You expressed only a mild curiosity when I starting making plaster
casts of your body parts. Your body was mine to do with as I
pleased, for so long as I could hold you. When you became bored,
you would vanish, change identity, as you had done so often before.
But perhaps the curiosity helped me to hold you a little longer.
What did I have in mind? We had played corsets and stays, rubber
suits and other wrappings. But you saw the fire, the intensity in
my eyes, my aura of excitement -- you would not leave, even though
our play sessions became less frequent and intense. The casting
itself became our play sometimes: shaving and wrapping a perfect
limb with the warm cheesecloths, the dusty smell of plaster, the
heat of drying turning your skin bright red; and later, licking the
sweat off your flesh as the mold cured beside the bed. I never told
you my purpose, of course, but you knew it was something special.
Crafting the flexible model of your body took three months by
itself. It was quite realistic; I found myself, at times, stroking
its pliable rubber surface and actually feeling your soft skin.
Later, when Macchine's early clumsiness would break a limb or punch
an inappropriate hole, I would cringe inside, feeling nausea and
terror.
Around the model, Macchine began to take shape. First the hinged
beams and custom metal clasps, then the support frames and bearings,
then the complex probes and pumps, sexual organs for a creature of
pure lust and fantasy. Macchine was *big*, bigger than I'd ever
imagined. Havel would have no thin rods, sagging supports, or
underpowered mechanics; he used earth-mover technology and absurd
amounts of torque capacity. Machhine could have manipulated a dummy
made of hardened steel as easily as our plastic and rubber model.
But Havel was equally masterful working with 10-inch thick steel
beams as he was with Swiss watch components. In his hands, a steel
pipe became bone, a hydraulic shock sinew, a giant electric motor a
pulsing heart. And his combinations of tiny stepper motors, scale
hinges and miniature elastic belts could turn several hundred hard
steel parts into a sinuous, curved, living organ -- with eighty to a
hundred horsepower of torque behind it.
We discussed motions, watching computer simulations for hours;
Macchine would not be a jerky, pumping, spastic machine, but a
creature of slow, inexorable, sensuous strength. It would be
completely unyielding, totally in control, bristling with untapped
power. Your body would be always poised on the edge of death and
mutilation by a beast that could snap a torso into nine or ten parts
in an instant; but a trained beast, slowly performing my ritual of
dominance and intense, alien mating.
We discussed appearance. For a time, we worked with Giger of Alien
fame, but his visions were too insectile and impractical. We found
another, less known, sculptor and artist to assist. Macchine became
reptilian, rounded and sleek, but never using soft materials.
Always, we used thick gunmetal plates, hammered, beveled, and
burnished. It came alive, gradually rousing from deep slumber.
Even without the motors running, without the strange, obscene
hunching and stretching motions of the practice programs, Macchine
seemed to breathe softly, waiting.
And finally, the artist was dismissed, his visions having become
part of ours. It was just Havel and myself, now, and the computer
that was Macchine's rudimentary brain, and the final polishing.
Havel's dream was coming to an end. His masterpiece completed, he
had no real desire to watch the final ravishment. Sex vaguely
disgusted Havel, its mechanics always imperfect, the motions too
variable. Someday, perhaps, Macchine would slumber in an art museum
in some wing devoted to sex and horror, and Havel would come worship
at his creation's riveted feet. But for now, his dream was ending,
and mine was beginning. Macchine will forget its mother, come home
to its father, find its mate.
And today, as I stand in this space, listening to Havel repair the
tiny imperfection (undetectable to me, I'm certain) in the third
phallic probe, I see the whole Macchine, and it sees me. I think of
you, on your way here to the preparation room, and project my
visions to Macchine. Macchine's industrial brain awakens with a
spark of lust like a welding torch, and projects a frightening
thought back to me:
"I was not created for Her. She was born for Me."
MACCHINE, Part 3.
Havel cried when he left, as I knew he would. I wanted to weep for
him, but I must save my tears for you. Just as I had taken Macchine
from Havel, I knew Macchine would take you from me. And although
you may perhaps find an answer to your deep cravings from Macchine,
you will find no great love in those cruel steel arms. I suspected
the only real winner in this crazy game would be Macchine. He was,
of course, born only to win.
You arrived at the outer studio in the early evening. I supervised
your preparation without touching. Obedient but curious, you
followed all my instructions, from the careful shaving and oiling of
your genitals, to the three high enemas to cleanse you inside, to
the careful pinning back of your long hair and the long series of
yoga stretches, loosening up your already supple body. We finally
touched, in a deep kiss, and I began spreading the slippery oil over
your body. Finally, I clasped the heavy manacles around your wrists
and ankles, and looked again at the vision of perfect submission.
I thought of taking you then, but it would be a sad and unsatisfying
experience. We were upon the edge of something truly climactic, and
we both knew this. Perhaps would masturbate as I watched my
creation take you. After you recovered, perhaps long after, we
would see what had changed.
As I led you from the room, I walked the edge of my own deepest
fear. Would my creation be enough to master you? Was there truly
anything in this world that could push you enough, that would give
you what your dark eyes always asked for, pleaded for, demanded? Or
would Macchine be just another sex toy, a distraction, to be sampled
and tossed into your flames?
I need not have worried. I led you, manacled, into the Cave. The
lights had been arranged to show Macchine in its perfect meld of
light and shadow. Its purpose, hidden at first, took about fifteen
long seconds to reveal itself fully. You made a sound I had never
heard before, a whimper or high moan, but not of pain. Of fear.
You turned to me, offering me the highest gift you had to give: the
sight of honest fear, even terror, in your deep eyes.
Your trembling, at first a bare shiver, increased as we walked the
long blood-red carpet runner up to Macchine. It loomed, menacing,
the metal clamps open like teeth. Your chain was snapped onto
Macchine's throat, and as I flicked the warm-up switch to start the
deep growling rumble in its belly, your knees folded gently, and you
sank to the floor, shaking, your low sobs making a chord with
Macchine's deep bass.
I came up behind you, took your hair gently in my hand, and bent
your head back to see your face. The tears were real, the fear
palpable. But with this was a deeper lust and excitement than I had
ever seen in those eyes.
"This is Macchine. He is your Master. Do you accept him and offer
him your body, completely, without reservation?"
You looked again at Macchine. While the probes were hidden,
retracted into flush metal sleeves, there was still a sense of
infinite danger. Macchine appeared to be built to crush, to rend,
to impale; its power rumbled, waiting, heedless of all flesh. I was
asking you to trust that this giant tractor would somehow spare your
life, although it did not seem capable of motion without killing. A
very deliberate effect.
You never even looked back at my eyes. Mesmerized by Macchine, you
knelt transfixed, nearly a minute, weeping, shaking, and taking
deep, long breaths. Finally something inside you released, and you
bowed your head, pressed your lips to the cold metal, and said
directly to Macchine:
"Your will."
MACCHINE, Part Four.
Your body was actually trembling less when I removed the manacles
and helped you up into the belly of Macchine. I can't know what
decision you made inside, but you seemed to be radiating love and
power as well as terror. Your body was positioned face down in the
steel harness, about four feet off the floor. Your oiled flesh
would be visible from below and the side, except where obscured by
the thick steel bars which would run along your limbs, hinged at
your joints.
Havel had designed to three factors: rigidity, steel-on-flesh, and
comfort. Your body would be held absolutely rigid to the frame,
with no possiblity of struggle; part of the machine. All the bonds
would be pure steel, no padding, leather, cloth, or rope. And
comfort was achieved by absolute attention to body shape; the steel
milled, rounded and burnished to fit your body and no other's. You
would not be comfortable for long; but there would be no
distractions from Macchine's will.
Each steel restraint went *snap* *thunk* as the shaped cuff closed
around a limb, and the precise, heavy latches were thrown. Three
for each arm, with the wrist-cuffs shaped into a handgrip. Three
for each leg. Two for the hips, grasping your pelvis. The oil on
your body allows for very slight motion within the cuffs as the
beams move. The steel hands will grip you, massage you, force you
into Macchine's desired mating stance. Your breasts fit into a
strange, rounded steel "bra" that forces them into conical shapes.
Two concave steel plates on thick rods fit onto your forehead, and
another cups your chin, holding your mouth, at the moment, closed.
I turn dials, adjusting tiny calipers in Macchine to account for
differences between the model and your body. I tell you to
struggle. You try; your body shifts less than an inch any
direction. We are ready.
I have debated giving you the off-switch, the ability to kill
Macchine once it begins. But I know the insult to your pride that
would give, as well as I know your body and its limits. You knew,
when you submitted to Macchine, there would be no turning back.
Havel and I have run the program a hundred times, and I know every
danger spot. And if the program fails, if a part collapses, if
Macchine goes insane, no switch will prevent tragedy. But Havel has
built and tested well. Now it is time for your testing.
I type the "begin" command and bring Macchine out of its warming
rest. the motor's sound thrums, deepens, and the beams begin to
compress, bending your legs downward. You start to cry again,
feeling the complete helplessness of knowing your body now belongs
to the metal beast. Your arms are brought up as your legs fold to
your body, arching your back. This is a fairly rapid motion, not
quite a snap, but enough to let you feel the full power; another
foot of motion and your spine would crack like a twig. The head
restraints force you to look downwards as your arms are held up and
back.
The front of the metal "bra" is now visible, along with the clear
tubing that runs from the cut-out tips. An air-pump whirs to life,
gently drawing air through the tubes, making a vacuum in the cups.
Your breasts seal against the metal, are sucked into the cones,
compressed further and further. You let out a shriek, just as the
red, swollen nipples emerge from the ends of the cups. Around each
nipple, two gently serrated metal rods snap closed, pinching the
nipples flat at the base. The suction releases with a soft sigh,
your breasts extended by the nipples alone. Your long, drawn
"Aaaaaaauuuuuu" fades to ragged breaths.
Now the metal bars shaping your legs and thighs begin to
part...slowly, so slowly. It takes a full minute before your thighs
are forced wide, knees and hips still bent at 45 degree angles. At
the same time, your arms are lowered and your head raised, until you
are in the classic female animal's mating posture. The thigh-bars
continue to spread, even more slowly, stretching your muscles,
showing you how impossible it is to resist. You must relax your
thigh-muscles more and more over the next minute, and at the end,
you are spread almost flat, your sex and anus thrust out, open and
accessible.
But Macchine will play before it will mate. To be a suitable
receptacle for its lust, you must be broken mentally to its will,
your body moved beyond fear into total submission. Macchine knows
you well.
New gears silently engage. Slowly the whipwheels begin to turn.
From six perfectly recessed thin slots in Macchine's body, meter-
long wires are drawn, attached to the edges of the whipwheels. The
wheels begin their pivot inward towards your body, wires making a
thin swish through the air. Two are arranged to strike your inner
thighs from below at an angle; two more to strike downward at your
upturned ass; the last two to strike your upper back. But for now,
the wheels spin free, faster and faster, the whipping sound of metal
wires growing higher and louder, until the sound is a dangerous
sizzling. You hear, and understand, and begin to sob in fear. It
is the sound of flesh being flayed from your body.
Macchine's touch is gentle, though, for all its ferocity. The
carefully rounded ends of the wires barely touch your skin, and
precise servos "feel" the touch, keep the ends of the wires barely
grazing your flesh each pass. If you tense a muscle in your ass or
thigh or back, raising your flesh, the next pass brings a *snap* and
a welt. You realize you must go completely limp to avoid the metal
scarring your body. The wheels drift over you, change angles
slightly, like a dangerous metal tongue caressing your skin.
Once they have traced, memorized and recorded your contours, these
tongues of steel retrace their steps; but this time, the whipwheels
begin slowing down, to devastating effect. As the wheels spin more
slowly, the wires move outward, beginning all at once to drive into
your flesh and muscle. The servos react more slowly, drawing the
wheels gradually away, but only quickly enough to avoid your skin
being torn. You are dealt a barrage of rapid-fire whipping, raising
welts all over your back, ass and thighs within seconds. The
assault brings an uncontrolled shriek and a long, drawn-out scream
of pain from you. I see your every muscle tense as you try to
twist, buck, kick; but you are bolted to solid iron. The only
motion left to you is the ability to hunch your back slightly; but
this pulls your clamped and aching nipples harder against the tips
of the steel bra. Your only release is through sound, and your wail
is that of a mating cat.
The wires slow and stop, the final pass closing in for a long, slow
lick of each wire against your tortured flesh, then recede back to
their home-slots, their work complete. They were cruel but precise;
your back is completely covered with red welts, but no blood has
been drawn. The endorphins are beginning to flow in your body now,
your breathing growing heavy as your mind reels in terror.
Your body has a brief respite while the heavy whips extend slowly,
out of your vision. The two flexible graphite and fiberglass shafts
rise from below like twin phalluses, one on each side of you.
Unlike the wires, these are heavy shafts, like a riding crop or
fishing rod. And no simple wheels are used to move these whips.
The offset gearing and counterweights used to simulate whipping were
one of Havel's greatest challenges. As in everything, Havel did not
stop until he acheived perfection.
The first of the five-foot whips stops in position in front of your
ass. A sudden twitch of gears, and the whip's body jerks backwards,
bending the whip into a graceful arc. Just before the tip catches
up to the new position, the gear reverses, bringing the whip even
more violently forward. The tip yanks backwards, describing a
whistling figure-eight, and forward to slam into both your buttocks
with a force that rocks your entire frame. You were unprepared, of
course; it takes nearly a half-second for your overloaded nerves to
register the strike, and translate the pain into a the start of a
long scream.
But there is little time for thought, because the second whip has
begun its strike as the first whips back to original position for a
second blow. The second whip aims just below the first, just above
the entrance to your sex. The long cycle of the whips is
mesmerizing, each keeping precisely out of the way of the other, as
they beat you, deep strokes you will feel inside your belly. The
screams forced from your throat do not sound human. But gradually,
as your endorphin levels reach higher and higher, the sounds deepen
to groans, and I hear your breath being sucked in, deep and slow, in
between.
The whips finally stop, as suddenly as they began. As they retract,
I hear your voice, soft, deep, moaning from your belly, in a tone
that sounds like distilled bliss. You are saying, in a rhythm that
echoes the whip-strokes: "Master. Master. Master."
MACCHINE, Part Five (Conclusion).
Deep in your submission, your eyes closed, your body limp and soft,
your soul opens to Macchine as it never did to me. I cannot feel
jealous or angry -- you and Macchine are elemental, polar, bonded,
nature and science, interlocking halves. As Macchine becomes more
machine, you become more human, the contrast touching something deep
inside me. I feel no pride, strangely, in creating this; just a
sense of dark, rich joy in the watching, overwhelming my senses.
You recite your soft litany, over and over, and I sense satisfaction
and poised readiness from Macchine. Soft, small movements: the
final program begins.
Like a pair of pincers closing on the space behind your ass, the two
heavy probe-sheaths slowly swing into place; one lowering from
above, a larger rising from below. The third sheath lowers down in
front of your vision. Circular vents iris open with a hiss of
steam. The probes emerge ever so slowly from their sheaths, steam
rising around them. Your eyes, open now, are mesmerized, locked on
the phallic shape slowly revealing itself before your face. Behind
you, a large probe emerges downward towards your ass, and two
probes, one small and one nearly arm-sized, rise from the lower
sheath.
Each probe's intricate joints, tubes, and motion-belts are hidden
within a tapered, scaled-metal hide, capable of delicate motion but
completely unyielding to flesh. Each is a powerful, sinuous steel
tentacle. Around the metal hide is a thick skin of latex, and
another, somewhat thinner, looser skin, coated with oil, blue-black
in color, looking something like a foreskin. They extend to nearly
touch your mouth, your pink sex, and your anus. Then, in a move
designed purely to show off and intimidate, all four probes do a
sinuous dance, a corkscrew ripple starting at the base and moving to
the tip, with a curling, spiral motion. You watch the hypnotic
motion of the mouth-probe as you feel the other three caress your
thighs and bottom, smearing them with hot oil. More oil drips down
along the dark, slick shafts. Your tongue obediently extends to try
to catch a drop of oil, but the mouth-probe stays just out of reach.
Your anus will be penetrated first. Slowly, smoothly, the slender
tip is pressed outward, touching and parting your ring, entering
your ass. The probe cares nothing for resistance, but moves slowly,
millimeter at a time, as you moan and accept this inexorable
invasion. The probe continues, its gentle taper finally reaching
its maximum inch-and-a-half diameter, and slowly slides up inside
your colon. A gentle squirm inside shows you how deeply you have
been penetrated, how a part of Macchine now lives and moves deep
inside you. You gasp.
The smaller of the vaginal probes extends upward. Only a half-inch
thick, it has been designed for flexibility. Sliding past your
clitoris, it curls and enters your sex, as your gasps turn to cries
of passion, frustration and need. I cannot see the curl continuing,
but I know it is wrapping around your pubic bone, holding it like a
curled finger, finally pressing your G-spot with its tip and your
clit with its smooth, oiled shaft. And I see and hear your
dramatic, intense reaction when the probe tightens around your pubic
bone and -pulls- down!
Your scream and renewed attempts to thrash and pull away show the
effectiveness of the technique we called "wishbone." The anal probe
pulls upwards, pressing your tailbone higher, as the pubic bone is
pulled downward. The probes are strong enough to pull you apart,
but they apply just enough pressure for you to feel your bones being
separated, the mouth of your sex stretched wide. Stretched in
preparation, of course, for Macchine's real penis.
It begins moving now, its blunt head nudging between the other
probes, until it is pressed against your open sex. The head seems
impossibly large, the size of an apple, but I know your limits well.
The probe is about the diameter of my closed hand, which you have
learned to accept over time. The probe starts to squirm, gently
moving your inner lips out of the way, parting you, spreading you,
and penetrating.
Once again, your body can accept this, but your mind cannot.
Nothing has prepared you for the intensity of this invasion, this
splitting open of your body by steel and rubber. You scream again,
the sounds becoming strangled, gasping, until you suddenly pass
another threshold of submission. Some final part of your mind
clicks off, and you feel no need to scream; just to accept, to let
Macchine use you, force you, mate you. As the mouth-probe extends
and the head clasps force your jaw apart, your tongue extends
lovingly, accepting this final part of Macchine into your remaining
opening.
The motions of the other probes are slow, delicate, sinuous now.
The wishbone probes relax, your sex having streched to its widest
ever. The mouth probe requires your final, most intimate
submission, as it slides past your tongue and down your throat.
You cannot breathe, and the gag reflex cannot be completely turned
off, though you try. Involuntary spasms wrack your body as the long
probe slithers into your esophagus, widening your throat. The
fifteen seconds of penetration must seem like an eternity, but at
last the probe withdraws, leaving you gasping, retching, sputtering,
and crying. I hold the pause switch this time, letting my intuition
aid Macchine in making sure you are safe. When your coughing
subsides and you have had two deep breaths, I release the switch and
let Macchine penetrate you again.
This continues until Macchine finally owns your throat as surely as
your other passages. The penetrations now are smooth, with no
gagging or thrashing, and you breathe deeply in between. Thin
streams of saliva mixed with oil run from the corners of your mouth.
Your eyes are closed in total peace, tears streaming, but accepting
all.
Macchine now moves as a single organism, mating with your entire
body as no animal could do. Perfectly synchronized, the hinged bars
begin to thrust and shape your body in the slow, hunching motion of
the build to ecstacy. Gradually, the speed increases, almost
imperceptibly. The anal probe swells further, as hot water is
pumped between the latex membranes. Inside your ass, a balloon of
warm liquid adds to the intense pressure. Slowly, the small vaginal
grip-probe starts to thrum with slow vibrations, as if a violin
string is being plucked.
The vibrations increase in intensity as Macchine pumps faster. The
mouth-probe now penetrates only to the back of your throat, but its
tip, too, begins to swell with warm liquid. Your body's flush tells
of your impending orgasm as your mouth and jaw are streched to their
limit, your body rammed back against the probes, your flesh
rippling.
As you come, I signal the end to Macchine. Tubes throughout the
probes fill with the warm, creamy, drugged mixture that forms
Macchine's sperm. And the pumps begin to force it into your
openings, first in jets, then a slow, languorous flow. You swallow
rhythmically, greedily, but a thick stream still flows out beside
the swollen mouth-probe, the white cream contrasting with the dark
skin of the probe and your own red, flushed complexion. The flow
into your sex is slow, filling you until a steady trickle is forced
out between the fist-sized probe and your red, swollen, stretched
lips. But the anal probe pumps steadily, with no leakage, filling
your bowels and colon as the probe in your throat fills your stomach
until you can no longer swallow. Only when your belly is distended,
stretched full with Macchine's seed, does the flow finally stop, the
probes' swelling recede, the slow withdrawal begin.
As the probes finally exit, the cream drains from all your openings,
your body overwhelmed, expelling the huge burden. Macchine relaxes
into a gentle slumber, allowing your limbs to collapse inward to a
fetal position. Even so, you choke, panicked, and I must run over,
release your nipples and head, and help you clear your lungs.
The last clasp is released. Your limp body falls into my arms.
Your face shows no comprehension, no emotion; all your humanity for
now is drained, given to Macchine. Your belly ripples with cramps
as more cream is forced from your bowels, but the pain does not
touch you. Your mind is somewhere deep inside, deep underground, at
the very heart of your deep caverns of submission. I will never
know what secret you find there.
The gentle drugs work their effect, and you slide off to a deep
slumber, joining with Macchine once more in your unconsciousness.
When you awaken late tomorrow, perhaps we will talk; or perhaps,
like a machine, you will cast me a cold glance and walk away into
the unknown. Macchine will rust, or be oiled and polished, but
never again take your body. Perhaps someday your body may be given
to a person again, and perhaps it will be me.
For now, I will indulge myself by licking the last drops of cream
from your body, gently washing your abraded skin and arranging you
on the gentle flannel sheets. I begin to cry softly, then deeply,
sobbing, astonished as what and who we are, and what we are capable
of, at the senselessness and total logic of it all. We are exactly
what we are, intensely, profoundly:
Human. Human.
MACCHINE, (c) 1993 by Shezmu
____________________________________________________________________
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From: AnonEMoose <an000000@anon.penet.fi>
Newsgroups: alt.sex.stories.bondage,alt.sex.bondage,alt.sex.stories,alt.sex.femdom,alt.eunuchs.questions
Subject: STORY: A Cock for Kali (FM, bd, Fdom, cbt)
Date: Wed, 06 Nov 1996 12:32:37 -0800
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Newsgroups: alt.sex.stories.bondage,alt.sex.bondage,alt.sex.stories,alt.sex.femdom,alt.eunuchs.questions
Subject: STORY: A Cock for Kali (FM, bd, Fdom, cbt)
======================================================================
From: becci@delphi.com (Lady*Beclan)
Newsgroups: alt.sex.femdom
Subject: Chastity/Castration
Message-ID: <9501291205592.The_Win-D.becci@delphi.com>
In article <3gg7l5$oq$1@mhadf.production.compuserve.com>, Taliesin
writes:
> I've noticed several stories and messages on chastity (such as
> Debbie's Gift) and castration (such as Penectomy). My own personal
> interest is in chastity and erection/orgasm control by a Dominant
> Female. (Castration is the ultimate step as a method of control.)
Well, I am sure you will enjoy the following story:
****************************************
A COCK FOR KALI
Chastity Harsh glared at the graffiti scrawled in lipstick across
the white tiles in the bathroom of Yokum Hall: "kevin dicks raped Me!
Stay away from him!" Professor Harsh flipped open Her notepad and
added his name to the list of six others whose names She'd gotten from
Female restrooms around campus. One of the men, charlie post, had
three checks beside his, plus the initials "KTB."
Back in Her office Chastity typed dick's name and address into
Her TEETH file. he was one of four who lived off-campus. After
logging it in, Chastity stared at the monitor. She could almost hear
those bastards bragging to their buddies about "getting away with it."
Her jaw tight with anger, She punched up the information She had on
the student, charlie post.
AGE: 21
DEGREE PROGRAM: Business Administration
STUDENT PERFORMANCE: Average
OFF-CAMPUS ADDRESS: 33 Couch Street
"Perfect address for a prick like that," She muttered. Then
Professor Harsh cleared the screen and started to type:
NOTE TO THE FOUNDRESS:
HAVE FOUND SIX CLASS B MALES FOR TAGGING WITH KTB.
WILL START WITH A "STUD" NAMED CHARLIE POST. AFTER
TAGGING IS COMPLETED, I WILL CONTACT YOU ABOUT POSSIBLE
DELIVERY OF KTB-BANDED MALE TO "GODDESS GARDEN RETREAT."
Chastity's long smooth lips curled in a smile, enhancing Her
high, aristocratic cheekbones. She knew that a prick like charlie
post would go crazy, because at the Goddess Garden Retreat only the
Women are allowed to cum inside the mouths of the men who don't get to
cum at all!
Ms. Harsh spent the next few days trying to find out which of Her
Female students knew this charming rapist, charlie post or, at least,
knew OF him, because the first step toward getting the "Kali's Teeth
Bracelet" on his cock was to find out which bar he hung out at the
most. Now Professor Harsh wasn't one for taking in the downtown bar
scene, but it needed to be done in order to further the goal of the
DAUGHTERS OF THE GODDESS TEETH, which was to "tag" all males who
didn't know how to control their cocks. That was the first step, of
course. In time, all adult males would wear the Kali's Teeth Bracelet
as a, kind of, "wedding band." In other words, no single men would be
left. ALL men would belong to one Woman or Another. There would be
no "loose cannons" for Women to worry about.
By Friday Chastity Harsh had found out the name of the bar --
"Peabody's." It wasn't the usual college hangout. In fact, Chastity
and another Woman in Her department had lunch there once. Most of the
other customers were business men and Women. She guessed that the
Friday night crowd, however, would be a lot different.
Around ten Professor Harsh entered the bar with Carla, one of Her
students Who knew charlie. Chastity had told Carla to introduce them
and then to leave. All Chastity had said to the young Woman was that
after tonight, charlie would not be able to bother ANYBODY.
The moment charlie's eyes met Hers, Chastity knew She had him.
It was as if Carla didn't even exist.
"This is my teacher, Professor Harsh. She says She wants to meet
you."
"Oh, yeah?" charlie replied, leeringly, as he glanced down at
Chastity's 38 D-cups swelling beneath Her blouse. She had unbuttoned
it just enough to let him be able to get a teasing glimpse of the
cleft between Her breasts.
"Thank-you, Carla," said Chastity.
After Carla left, charlie said, his tone somewhat suspicious, "So
what's this all about?"
Chastity raised Her eyebrows but said nothing.
"I mean, why ya wanna meet ME?"
"If you can pull yourself away from your buddies for a while,
I'll tell you."
The other guys let out a long "Wuuuuuuuu!"
"Yeah, let's get away from these jerks and go someplace else,"
said charlie.
When they got outside, charlie began to suggest another bar, but
Chastity cut him off with, "I'd rather go to My place if you don't
mind."
She smiled as his mouth dropped open just like a nutcracker
doll's.
"Do you have a car?" She asked.
"N-no," he muttered.
"Good. Then we'll take mine."
As they walked to the city parking lot, Professor Harsh could
sense a slight shift in the balance of power between them. The young
man, She could tell, wasn't used to dealing with assertive Women. And
the fact that She was a Professor and more than ten years older than
him, gave Chastity even MORE of an advantage.
"Did... did Carla say something about me?" he finally asked, as
Chastity was unlocking the door to Her red Camaro.
"Yes," She said, sending hem a piercing look. Then She just
stared at him a few moments, relishing his obvious discomfort at not
knowing what Carla had said. With a slight smile, now, Chastity
added, "She said you're a man who knows what he wants. And that's the
kind of man I like." charlie's expression changed. his lips curved
into an easy, self satisfied grin.
"You've been playing around with little Girls Who don't know what
they want," Chastity continued. She paused and smiled. "I DO know
what I want."
Driving to Her apartment, Chastity icily stared straight ahead.
"So you're a prof, huh?"
"Yes."
"Coulda fooled ME."
Chastity smiled. The extra attention She had given to that sexy,
vampish act had paid off.
Inside Her apartment, now, Chastity asked him what he wanted to
drink.
"Got any beer?"
"No. How about some brandy?"
"Great," charlie replied with a kind of growl.
Professor Harsh returned with the drinks.
"Cool glasses," he said as he took one."
"They're called brandy goblets," She replied. "They trap the
bouquet."
They sat together on a thick-cushioned sofa, the upholstery of
which was a jungle of gaudy plants and flowers.
You're a very popular fellow," She said before taking a sip.
"Your name's on all the bathroom walls." She paused. "Girl's rooms,
I mean."
charlie stared at Her, not moving.
"I didn't do nothing to Carla," he finally said, his tone
resentful.
"No one said you did."
"I didn't do nothing to anybody, if that's what you wanna know.
They they just...you know..."
"Are confused little Girls," Chastity cut in before he could find
the right words to finish.
"Yeah, yeah, you're right. They don't know what they want."
"And you do."
" Well....yeah," he said, somewhat smugly, and took another sip.
Chastity laughed softly in Her throat and thought, "Well so do
I."
"Anyway," She began, "let me set up some ground rules. If you
ever want to see me again, you don't talk about this. To ANYBODY. Is
that clear?"
"Yeah, but what if...?"
"I said to NO ONE. And that includes your buddies. If I ever
find out that you told someone, I'll just deny it. Then I'll make you
wish you never had. Are we clear on that, charlie?"
"Clear as a bell," he replied with a grin.
"Good, now... tell Me," she continued. "Have you ever done
anything ... kinky?"
The young stud grinned and let out a giggle.
"Like... like what?"
"Like tying-up-to-the-bed games," said Chastity.
"You IN to that stuff?"
"My, My," said Chastity, "I didn't know I had brought home such a
goody-two-shoes."
"Hey, I didn't say I wouldn't play!" he said, indignantly.
Well, that's good. For a moment, there, I thought I'd picked the
wrong man," Chastity said with a sly smile.
"So ya want me to tie ya up, is that it?" he said with a gleam in
his eye.
She laughed softly.
"you have it backwards," She said. "I tie you up first."
Chastity sipped Her brandy.
"Unless, of course, you don't WANT to play."
charlie rolled his tongue around inside his mouth, then he belted
down the rest of his brandy.
"So...so what happens when I'm all tied up? he asked.
"I tease you until you're all hot and bothered," She said. "Then
I let you tie ME up."
"Y-you'd let me do that?"
"you're letting me do it to YOU," she replied. "Aren't you?"
charlie smiled at Her for a few seconds. Then, taking a deep
breath, he said, "Okay, I'm game. But you promise you'll let me tie
YOU up, right?"
"Of course."
"By the way," said charlie, "I didn't get your first name."
"My name is Mizz Harsh."
"Okaaaay... MIZZZZ Harsh," he replied with drenching sarcasm.
"boy are you going to get yours," She thought, smiling at him.
Professor Harsh had a perfect bed for spread-eagling someone --
a solid four-poster oak. After telling charlie to strip naked and lie
with his arms and legs pointed toward the posts, Professor Harsh took
four large black scarves out of Her top dresser drawer. As She did,
She glanced at the jewelry box on top. Inside was Her little
"surprise." She wanted to use scarves because they would hold him down
quite well, but not harm the wood finish. First Chastity tied his
wrists, then his ankles. The only article of clothing SHE had taken
off, however, were Her shoes.
When the final knot had been made, Professor Harsh stepped to the
head of the bed, put Her hands on Her hips, and said, "Now try to get
loose."
charlie tugged lamely on the scarves.
"Come on, charlie, you can do better than that," She teasingly
scolded.
"You just wanna watch me struggle, right?" he said jokingly.
"Of course," she said. "But I also want to make sure you can't
get loose before I'm done with you."
"See?" he said, smiling and tugging. "I can't."
"Good. Now we can begin."
For the next forty minutes Chastity Harsh stroked and tickled
every part of charlie except his intensely erect penis, using, first,
Her fingers, and, then, a large feather. At one point, She even
blindfolded him, which really drove charlie CRAZY because he didn't
know when or where She was going to tickle or touch him.
While tickling the insides of his thighs with the feather,
Chastity said, "Do you like Me to tease you like this, charlie?"
"Oh! Yes!" he gasped, the blindfold still on. "But-but what
about my cock? Please!... Please touch it!"
"Oh, I WILL," She replied. "Don't worry."
Chastity had stimulated the young stud so much that beads of
sweat dotted his naked, almost constantly squirming, body.
Then She stopped.
"Well," She said, "I think I'll let you cool off a bit."
"Wha?" he said, breathing hard.
"you need to calm down. I don't want you breaking any blood
vessels."
"But...but I'm..."
"Too hot," Chastity cut in. "I don't want your cock to cum too
soon. I want you to save it for ME." And She watched charlie's lips
curve into a wide grin. Then Chastity just stood there for a moment
or two, watching his sweaty chest rise and fall and smiling over what
She was about to do to him once his penis had become flaccid again --
IF it became flaccid, that is. charlie moaned every now and then and
moved his pelvis, as if he were trying to screw thin air.
"This won't do," She thought.
"I'm leaving the room, charlie," she said. "When I come back, I
want your cock to be soft, or I won't untie you."
charlie let out a kind of laugh mixed with a gasp.
"That's part of your game, too?"
"Yes," She replied, "It is."
In the bathroom, Chastity stood before the full length mirror,
admiring Her choice of sexy lingerie with which to tease the, now
horny, young buck. the "Frederick's of Hollywood" catalog called it
"LACE ALLURE: Alluring swirls charm the footed stretch lace cat-suit,
with low scooped front and back, plus convenience crotch." Which was
another way of saying that Chastity would make him "eat Her pussy"
while She wore it.
Chastity smiled as She speculated on what might be going through
charlie's mind right now, lying there all tied up, and wondering when
She might return. Chastity knew that the longer She stayed away, the
more anxious he would become. But that wa the whole point. to make
him feel just like the young Women did before he forced himself on
them!
Chastity slipped on Her black four-inch high spiked heels and
returned to the bedroom. The first place Her eyes fell was on
charlie's penis. It was limp and lying against his thigh like a
harmless turkey neck.
he's ready for "dick-banding," she thought.
Professor Harsh tip-toed to Her dresser and opened the small
jewelry box. There lay "Kali's Teeth!"
"Mizz...Mizz Harsh?" he said suddenly.
"Be patient, charlie," She replied. "I'll be there in a minute."
"Okay."
She detected a tiny note of concern in his voice, and it pleased
Her.
Holding the opened bracelet, with its inner row of sharp teeth,
Chastity walked to the side of the bed, leaned over, carefully took
the head of charlie's cock with one hand, stretched it, and with Her
other hand, clicked the metal bracelet on just under the rim of his
glans.
"Hey, whattaya doin'?" charlie cried, startled and confused.
"Something that should have been done and long time ago."
"What's... what's goin' on? Wudja put on my cock?"
Chastity pulled off his blindfold.
"See for yourself," She said.
The young man blinked his eyes hard several times, trying to
clear his vision. charlie lifted his head and looked at the metal
band around his still-flaccid penis, his face screwed up in confusion.
"Wudja pu THAT on for?" he asked.
"you mean my cat-suit?"
"No, no I..." But charlie's words stopped dead in their tracks
the second he raised his eyes and saw what Chastity had on. his mouth
dropped open again. It sparked an amusing image in Chastity's mind,
that is, of seeing it stuffed with a bright blue rubber ball.
"What's wrong, charlie? Cat got your tongue?"
"Wha? Oh... oh my god," he muttered, his voice dripping with
desire.
"I think it's about time, now, for you to pleasure ME," She said,
Her tone haughty, "with your MOUTH."
A COCK FOR KALI: PART 2
When Chastity climbed off charlie's face after She had cum, She
noticed that his eyes were red and teary. Whether over pain or
humiliation, Chastity wasn't sure. She WAS sure, however, that he had
gotten an erection -- several, in fact -- because of the muffled cries
he made while his face was smothered between Her thighs. It pleased
Her that he wasn't able to control them yet. But it pleased Her even
more that, in order to avoid the pain of the "Kali's Teeth Bracelet,"
charlie would HAVE to learn to control them.
"Well, charlie," said Professor Harsh, standing with Her hands on
Her hips beside the bed, "you no know how the bracelet works."
"Please take it off," the young man sputtered, his former
cockiness totally gone. "Please!"
"Reduced to begging are we?" She said, with triumphal sarcasm.
"Wh..Why...?"
"Why?" Chastity cut in. "Because you don't know how to USE it
properly. So we're not going to let you use it at all," She said.
"Wh-what?"
"you can't ejaculate with the bracelet on."
charlie post could not reply to such an outrageous statement. he
just lay there, staring at Her in disbelief.
"Erections won't be much fun either," Professor Harsh continued.
"you'll have to learn to control them."
Her last words seemed to do the trick. his jaw tightened and he
gave a violent jerk at the scarves.
"Untie me!" he yelled.
"Is that an ORDER?"
he paused.
"Please."
She smiled. "That's better. But before I do, I want to warn
you. If you so much as even TRY to touch Me, I'll go for your crotch.
And I don't think you want Me to do that, now do you?"
charlie just shook his head.
Chastity talked while She undid the knots.
"I want you to come to My office on Monday," She said. "It's in
the Humanities Building, Second Floor, Room Two-O Three. My office
hours are Ten A.M. till Noon. Be there at ten."
When She finished freeing charlie's arms, Chastity had him undo
the other knots himself while She, on the other hand, returned to the
bathroom to out Her street-clothes back on.
Still naked and sitting on the edge of the bed, charlie examined
the metal bracelet that had caused him so much agony. The stainless
steel and was about a half-inch wide. charlie grasped the, now, soft
head of his penis and stretched. To his utter horror, the entire
inside of the bracelet was lined with metal teeth. They HAS to be
sharp, he guessed, in order to have caused so much pain. But there
was no blood! None! The he saw the tiny keyhole, similar to that
found on handcuffs. Feeling a wave of panic, he grabbed the edges of
the hellish bracelet and tried to pull the damn thing apart. Nothing
happened! he tried again, with the same result.
"It's locked, charlie, so you might as well quit trying,"
Chastity said.
he jerked his face up to Her. She was standing in the doorway,
wearing what She had worn in the bar.
"So, do you want Me to take you home or do you want to go back to
'Peabody's'..." She paused. "And brag to your buddies?"
With a demanding whimper that undercut the demand, Charlie said,
"Where's the key?"
Professor Harsh let out a soft chuckle. "That's none of your
business. Now put your clothes back on."
he just glared at Her.
"you'd better hurry, charlie," Chastity said with a slight smile,
"or I'll make you service Me again."
Putting on his pants, charlie said, "i can go to the police."
"And what are you going to tell them? That a tenured Woman
college professor snapped a bracelet around your cock?" Her smile
broadened. "I would love to see you drop your pants for them. No,
charlie," Professor Harsh continued, "you won't go to the police.
you'd be too embarrassed. Besides, I would deny even knowing about
it. And if I don't KNOW anything about it, charlie, then how AM I
going to take it off?"
The young man said nothing in return but just finished getting
dressed in silence while Chastity looked on.
No one was home when charlie entered the house after Chastity
dropped him off, reminding him once more about his Monday appointment.
It was just a little after midnight. The other guys wouldn't be
dragging in till two or three. That gave him at least two hours to
try and jimmy the lock. All he could find that might work was a paper
clip. he went upstairs to his bedroom and locked the door. Then he
took off his pants and his underwear and, sitting at his desk, he
began to wiggle the wire around inside the keyhole. Each time charlie
wiggled the wire and then tried to open the bracelet, his feeling of
panic grew. After well over a dozen attempts, he was sweating and
shaking all over. Now, feeling desperate, he elongated his penis as
much as he could and tried to slide the thing off. That didn't work
either. The teeth were pressing too tightly against the soft folds of
his limp dick; but not enough to cause pain nor, even, discomfort. It
seemed as if there were no teeth at all!
After nearly an hour's worth of struggle to jimmy the lock,
charlie let out a wail of frustrated anger. he wanted to slap the
fuck out of that professor bitch. But because of the bracelet,
charlie knew he couldn't. The safety of his cock was more important
than giving in to his rage. The bitch COULD do a serious number on
his prick if he tried to force Her to hand over the key. That much he
knew. He also knew why the prof had singled him out. It was those
bitches who had plastered his name over the bathroom walls.
Sometime during the night, charlie heard the boys laughing
downstairs. For a split second he thought that they were laughing at
him, until he realized that that's what they always did after coming
back from downtown. Ordinarily, charlie would be right down there
with them, that is, unless he'd picked up a foxy chick. charlie
wondered, as he lay there in the dark, how big a lie he would tell the
guys tomorrow morning. I mean, now he was balling professors. The
guys would love to hear all the details.
"Oh shit," he whispered. "If i tell'em, and She finds
out...She'll....She'll never take it off."
he realized, now, that his lie would have to be much less
titillating. They left the bar, had a few drinks somewhere else, he
popped the question and She got cold feet.
"So i came back," charlie whispered again, just to hear how it
sounded.
It didn't sound like him. The guys would wonder why he didn't
just come back to 'Peabody's." And because they wouldn't believe him,
they'd keep bringing it up, over and over, knowing there was something
he was hiding, something that they wanted to know. Telling them that
the Woman's rejection had sent him home like a dog with its tail
between its legs was just too far out of character for a guy like
charlie. So the first thing was to make his buddies promise not to
tell. Then he would give them the story they wanted to hear.
charlie was dreaming about tying the naked Professor Bitch to Her
bed an attaching four or five clothespins to each breast and more to
the insides of Her thighs, and then, while She's squirming over the
cruel pinching, climbing up onto the bed and moving to Her face with a
rock- hard cock that needed a blow-job, when at that moment, he
snapped awake to a hard-on throbbing with an indescribable pain. To
keep from making any noise, in fact, charlie had to stuff the edge of
his pillow in his mouth. The worst of the pain lasted just a few
moments, that is, until his cock began to bid a hasty retreat from the
prick of the teeth. charlie removed the pillow from his mouth. he
was breathing hard and quaking with anger.
"That fuckin' bitch," he muttered under his breath, his rage
barely under control. "That goddamn fuckin' bitch."
charlie looked at the clock. It was six-thirty. The other guys
wouldn't be rolling out of the sack for at least another four hours.
Lying there in the semi-dark, the young man realized what he had to
do. And it could not wait until Monday.
After another two hours of fitful sleep, charlie couldn't stand
just lying there in bed anymore, unable to play with his cock if he
wanted to. he knew that he had to go back to Professor Harsh's
apartment this morning and try to work out the problem. charlie also
realized, however, that he would need to change his attitude, admit to
the charges that appeared on the bathroom walls. he would turn over a
new leaf. In other words, he would try to give an academy award
performance.
While in the shower (he had the whole bathroom to himself),
charlie soaped his crotch as carefully as he could. As the warm water
cascaded over his body, he felt that familiar tingle in his balls, he
wanted to play with himself. he wanted to get an erection. charlie
figured that the soap and everything might make the teeth slippery
enough to pull his dick out of their mean grip. he lathered up his
hands real good and squeezed the head of his pecker, then he stretched
it. But the moment he tried to move the bracelet up his shaft, he
felt the sharp scrape of the teeth and immediately let go. With an
angry desperation charlie, then, tried to beat off in the shower. he
imagined sneaking into the Woman's place while She was still asleep,
holding the same scarves that She had used to tie him to the bedposts.
charlie, of course, pictured Her naked. After slapping the prof a few
times just to let Her know that She'd better not resist, he secured
Chastity's hands and feet to the posts, then asked where She kept Her
candles. She refused to tell him. he bit one of Her nipples.
charlie asked once more. Through tears, She told him.
Now we're going to play 'Hot Wax,' he imagined saying, but even
as the sadistic words passed through his brain, the pain of the teeth
hit like a sledge hammer, doubling him over. charlie had never
imagined that such a pain could come to his prized possession, a
teeth-grinding pain, a pain unlike any other.
"i'm gonna kill'er," he said quietly, his jaw tight. "i'm gonna
kill'er."
Chastity was sitting in the love-eat in front of the bay windows
wearing Her striped robe and drinking coffee, reading the Saturday
TIMES, when the doorbell rang. She wasn't expecting anyone,
especially this early in the morning.
When She recognized who it was through the glass-paneled front
door, She smiled. But a moment before Chastity opened it, She clicked
into a haughty mood, wanting charlie to know right off the bat that
She was annoyed at the disturbance.
"i-i'm sorry, i..." he began.
"you ought to be," Chastity snapped back before he could finish.
"I TOLD you when I wanted to see you."
"Yeah... yeah, i know, but-but i jes wanted to come over and ...
You know...tell You how sorry i am for the way i acted last night."
Her expression softened a bit.
"Really," She said, with some sarcasm. "I thought you acted just
fine."
"Well...i mean i-i yelled at You and..."
"It's chilly standing here, " Professor Harsh cut in once more.
"Why don't you come inside."
"Thanks, Professor Harsh," said charlie, a paragon of politeness.
Chastity smiled. charlie's new-found manners delighted and
amused Her. If having to spend just one night in "Kali's Teeth" could
do this to a guy like charlie, She whimsically wondered what having to
spend a week in it, or two, might do.
"Want some coffee?" She asked.
"If....If You don't mind."
She sent him a wry Grin. "This is hard for you, isn't it?"
Naturally, he played dumb.
"Wh..whattaya mean?"
"All this sweetness and politeness. you're just trying to butter
me up to see if I'll take off the bracelet."
charlie gave Her a pained look.
"Right?"
"But-but it hurts."
"It's SUPPOSED to," She replied, Her tone and expression, severe.
"That's why you're wearing it. Now why don't you go sit down, and
I'll bring you some coffee."
After She handed charlie his cup, Chastity returned to the
love-seat and crossed Her legs.
"All right, charlie, now tell Me why you're REALLY here?"
"i--i jes wanted to find out if there was somethin' i could say
or-- or do or...what i mean is, i'm sorry about what i did to Carla.
It-it was wrong."
"Well, I'm glad you finally realize that," said Chastity. Then
She sipped Her coffee.
"So--so what i was thinking i could do was .... well... well, You
know, go over to Carla's place a-and, like, apologize."
"I think you should, too," She said.
"And then maybe if i do that you'll...?"
"I know what you're going to say, charlie," Chastity cut in. "And
the answer is no. I mean, it's nice of you to want to apologize, but
the fact is, you're going to have to do a LOT more than that before we
allow you to cum again."
"W-we?"
"Myself and the 'Goddess Teeth Underground'," Professor Harsh
replied. "It's a militant wing of the FEMINA SOCIETY. Our goal is to
'tag' and then to reeducate men who We regard as Class B males.
you're probably more familiar with popular term." She paused.
"Sexist pigs."
charlie could not believe his ears. he just sat there and stared
at Her.
"In your case, it was very easy to find you. your name is in
every bathroom."
Chastity calmly sipped Her coffee.
"Now...now wait a second," he began, his voice trembling a bit.
"A- are You saying Yer not gonna take this-this thing off?"
"Not until you've performed certain...TASKS of atonement, as We
call them."
"Like...like what?" he answered, sullen.
"Like offering your mouth to any Woman who wants to use it," She
said.
charlie said nothing.
"OR lending yourself out as an escort service for Women who might
want to do a night on the town. you'll make sure that They get home
safely if They've had too much to drink. Which, of course, means that
you would have to ABSTAIN from drinking. And I would know if you
didn't because They would tell me," said Chastity. "And, needless to
say, all of Them will know exactly what you have around your cock,"
she added. "Oh, yes, and ah...They might want you to clean Their
apartments."
charlie's expression was hard and set. "What if i don't wanna do
it?"
"Then I'll notify our Foundress and She might want you to pay a
visit to our GODDESS GARDEN RETREAT. Or She might just tell Me to
forget about you," said Professor Harsh. "Which means the bracelet
stays on for good."
"What??"
"you'll have to wear it till you find a way to get it off without
the key," said Professor Harsh matter-of-factly. "Which I'm sure
you've tried already, unsuccessfully, or else you wouldn't BE here."
charlie just glared at Her. The hatred was returning. But at
the same time he felt a growing sense of panic, especially over the
fact that other Women would know about the horrible steel trap he wore
around his poor pecker. But hatred mixed with helpless panic soon
gave way to fear. his mood changed.
"Look, look please. i'll never hurt anybody again. i PROMISE.
Jes-jes please take this off, Professor Harsh. Please!"
"you must play with your penis quite a lot, charlie, to be
reduced to begging like this. But you might as well save your breath,
because it's going to be quite a while before you're allowed to
experience sexual relief," said Chastity.
charlie looked down at the braided rug. he grabbed for anything
he could that might make Her feel sorry for him.
Then looking up, he said, "What if the Teeth... You know...start
to irritate my skin?" his voice was kind of whiny now.
"They won't if you stay soft."
"But...but I CAN'T!" he said, his voice now whiny with
frustration.
"Is it hard now?"
"W-well no, but..."
"So you're wrong, charlie," Chastity cut in. "you CAN keep it
soft."
"But i'm not AROUSED."
"Good," She said, "We WANT you to learn to control your erections
when you're around Women."
"What about when i'm by myself. i mean...i mean, can't i
even...?"
"No, you can't!" Chastity snapped back. "Your masturbating days
are over, charlie. your penis belongs to the FEMINA SOCIETY. WE'LL
decide when We want to use it, not you. Is that clear enough?"
charlie's features became all twisted up. "Y-y-you can't do
that!" he whined again.
"We just DID." She looked at his cup. "More coffee?"
he sent Her a vacant look, then looked down and shook his head.
"So what will it be, charlie? Ejaculation with the bracelet
OFF -- when We ALLOW it, of course -- or trying to do it while it's
locked on...for keeps."
"Do You..." he began. "Do You REALLY have to tell Carla
abou-about this?"
"Her especially," Professor Harsh replied.
But-but-but if You do, S-she might..." his voice caught.
Chastity sent him a sly grin.
"What's the matter, charlie? Afraid?"
"Well...well yeah, sorta."
"Good. Because that's exactly how Carla felt when you forced Her
to have sex. Now it's YOUR turn to be vulnerable," She said.
****************************************
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From: verwest@geocities.com
Newsgroups: alt.sex.stories.bondage,alt.sex.bondage,alt.sex.stories,alt.sex.femdom,alt.eunuchs.questions
Subject: Re: STORY: A Cock for Kali (FM, bd, Fdom, cbt)
Date: Sat, 09 Nov 1996 01:07:46 GMT
Organization: The DataXchange Network, Inc
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Message-ID: <3283d911.23859070@news.dx.net>
References: <3280F5E5.7D3@anon.penet.fi>
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AnonEMoose <an000000@anon.penet.fi> wrote:
> Chastity Harsh glared at the graffiti scrawled in lipstick across
>the white tiles in the bathroom of Yokum Hall: "kevin dicks raped Me!
Well, AnonE, I guess I know what college you go/went to. :-)
I spent a summer in Yokum.
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From: AnonEMoose <an000000@anon.penet.fi>
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Subject: REPOST: Judy's Jewels (FM, bd, Fdom, castration)
Date: Wed, 06 Nov 1996 12:30:40 -0800
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Subject: REPOST: Judy's Jewels (FM, bd, Fdom, castration)
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>From p01442@psilink.com Wed May 11 22:08:04 CDT 1994
WARNING : The following story deals with female domination and
castration themes,
if this isn't for you don't read it!
.,.,.,.,,.,.,.,.,.,.,.,,.,.,.,.,.,.,.,,.,.,.,.,.,.,.,,.,.,.,.,.,.
JUDY'S JEWELS
One summer while a teenager of 16, Peter visited relatives
who owned a small ranch in the Texas hill country. The
attraction of the place for him was not the pleasant green hills
and sparkling natural springs, but rather his distant cousin
Judy, a buxom country lass about his own age. At a brief
meeting several months earlier, the sexually precocious girl had
given the inexperienced youth his first lessons in making out,
in the back seat of a Chevrolet at a drive in movie. Obsessed
by the memory of his adolescent seed spilling in her hands as
her fingers slowly teased his virgin genitals, Peter eagerly
anticipated the visit. The day after his arrival, Judy offered
to show him around the ranch, which was devoted to the breeding
of cattle. After pointing out the stock pens and some of the
prize breeding bulls, she led him into a small, clean building
filled with equipment unfamiliar to the cityreared teenager.
"This here's our breedin' barn. This is where we inseminate the
cows to get them with calves. Also," with a sly smile, "where
we milk the bulls."
This last remark confused Peter. "Milk the bulls -- I don't
understand."
"I don't mean the drinkin' kind. Where do you think we get
all the sperm for the cows?" She giggled, "Remember what I did
to you at the drive in?" Peter blushed in understanding. "Oh."
Judy walked over to a stall, beside which a large stainless
steel machine stood. "This here's the extractor. We lead the
bull into this stall and strap him down good so he can't kick up
a fuss. Then we stick this hose on his pizzle and let it suck
away on him till he creams." She held up a clear plastic tube
attached to the machine.
Peter stared in fascination. "You mean it makes him...
ejaculate... just like..."
"Yep, it milks away at their pricks until they shoot a load,
just like jacking off. I get a kick out of watchin' them. They
don't know what's happening, but they sure know it feels good!"
"Gee, do you do that to all the bulls?"
"Well, all the breedin' bulls. 'Course the ones we don't
breed get castrated. We do that in this stall, too. Sometimes
Paw lets me work the castrator myself, and he says I'm real good
at it." Peter shuddered at the callous cruelty in her voice.
But his eyes remained fixed on the extractor. Judy played
with the tube in her fingers, watching him out of the corner of
her eye. "The extractor don't work just for bulls, you know."
"What... what do you mean."
"I came out here with one of ma's cocker spaniels once and
caught the hired man with his pants off and his prick in the
extractor tube. He liked it too, 'cause he gruntin'just like a
bull. I went and told Maw what he was doin', and she came out
and ran him off with the cattle prod, didn't even let him pull
his pants back on." Peter's lips were dry as he tried to
imagine the scene. She paused for a moment, and then asked,
"What do you think it would feel like, Peter, gettin' milked
like that?"
"I... I have no idea."
She gave him a devilish grin. "Want to try it?"
He gaped open-mouthed at her suggestion. "You
mean... me... in the...?"
"Sure. I'll work the extractor on you, and you can see how
it feels. I know you like gettin' jerked off."
"Well... yes, but..."
"Then what's the difference? C'mon, pull your pants off and
let me give you a milkin'."
If he were alone, Peter would have relished the chance to try
the novel stimulation. But he was reluctant to perform to such
a humiliating and bizarre sexual act in front of his adored
cousin.
"Judy, I couldn't! Not with you..."
"Oh, don't be such a chicken! Will you do it if I take off
something first?" With that she quickly unbuttoned her work
shirt and spread it open. Peter gaped as her enormous bosom was
bared before him. Rather than removing the shirt, she tied the
loose ends together beneath her breasts, lifting and framing
them for his view.
"There. I showed you my tits, so you pull down your pants.
Go on now, do it." At the sight of her abundant womanhood,
Peter felt all resistance ebb from him. Almost in a dream he
obeyed, fearing loss of the heavenly vision if he refused. Judy
made him step out of his trousers and underwear until he stood
before her naked from the waist down. Aroused by the
experience, his penis jutted stiffly in front of him.
She pointed at this manifestation and giggled. "See, you
really do want to, don't you? Come on, get down on all fours in
the stall, like a bull."
Peter did as she asked, even allowing her to fasten the
restraints used for the animals. As he knelt on hands and
knees, she took two wide leather belts which hung by rope from
the ceiling and cinched them tightly around his chest and
stomach, forming a sling which supported his weight. She then
attached wrist and leg bindings which secured his limbs to the
four corners of the stall. He waited nervously, helplessly
immobilized, conscious of his naked organs dangling between his
parted thighs, completely at Judy's mercy.
She gave his penis a flick with one finger and said
sarcastically, "You don't exactly have the equipment of a bull,
do you, little cousin? This here tube might be a bit large for
you. But that's OK, 'cause I've got a small- size one we use
for the cocker spaniels Maw breeds. It ought to be small enough
even for your little pizzle." She chuckled, obviously amused by
the humiliating comparison.
She attached one end of the smaller tube to the extractor and
then prepared to slip the other end over Peter's penis. But
first she paused, thoughtfully studying his organs. "You ever
see an ol' heifer about to be milked, cousin? That's just about
what you look like, right now. She's got a big ol' floppy udder
full of milk," -- she hefted his male sacks in her palm -- "and
a long ol' teat hanging down between her legs," -- she ran a
finger lightly down the sensitive underside of his shaft. "You
ought to hear her moo, when her sacks are real full and she's
just begging somebody to squeeze it." She tickled the little
tuck of skin just below the head of his member, driving Peter
nearly mad with excitement. "You want me to show you how a
country girl milks a cow, Peter, how we squeeze those teats in
our hands?"
He cried in agonized frustration, "Please, Judy! Squeeze
me!"
"Well, I don't know, little cousin, how bad do you need
milkin'? I don't hear you mooing. Tell me how much you need
it."
Peter bit his lip, trying to resist yielding to her
humiliating game. But the teasing finger continued to torment
his frenum, and finally he surrendered all dignity, willing to
do anything for the promised caress. "...m...moo... Oh Judy,
milk me! Moo, MOO, MOOOO!" Laughing, she grasped his penis in
her hand and began squeezing it with a practiced motion. Peter
moaned with pleasure and continued to imitate the sounds of a
cow for her amusement.
After a few moments, she tired of this game and returned to
the main objective. She slipped his penis into the extractor
tube and circled an elastic band around the neck of his scrotum,
fastening the tube securely in place. Then without any
announcement she switched on the machine. Peter felt and
indescribable sensation. It seemed as if the tube became a
living thing, a pulsing insatiable mouth, a creature thirsty for
his very essence, sucking hungrily at his organ even as a calf
might nurse urgently at his mother's teat.
Judy left the machine to work on his genitals and, going
around to the other end of the stall, sat down cross-legged in
front of him. Her large bare bosom was almost level with his
eyes. He longed for his hands to be free to feel it's soft
massiveness. "Feels good, doesn't it, Peter?" she grinned.
"Mmm...yes, Judy. It does..."
She leaned forward, bringing her breast within inches of his
face. "I bet getting sucked like that makes you want to suck on
somethin', too. Don't it, little cousin?" Her breast was only
an inch from Peter's mouth, and the prominently erect nipple
jutted more that half the space to his lips.
"Please, Judy, may I?" he begged. In answer she only
giggled, and leaned forward. He drew the rosy bud into his
mouth as eagerly as a famished infant and began sucking. Judy
smiled to observe that his nursing lips matched perfectly the
rhythm of the extractor on his organ. How long he could have
remained thus before nature ended his rapture in an ecstatic
release, none can say. For Peter was suddenly, without warning,
doubly deprived as Judy quickly pulled her breast from his mouth
and shut off the extractor. He groaned in disappointment.
"Hold your horses, Peter, we aren't through yet. I got
something else to show you." She walked over to a wall rack and
took down an unfamiliar implement.
"Know what this is?" She held up an iron tool about two feet
in length, looking like a cross between a pair of fireplace
tongs and a bolt cutter. She parted the handles, and
pliers-like clamps opened at the end. Peter shifted
uncomfortably. "N...No Judy, I don't." Something about the
look of the implement and the wicked glint in her eyes told him
he didn't want to learn.
"This here's what we use on the other bulls, the ones we
don't want for breedin'. It's called a castrator. See, this
clamp end goes around their sacks, just above the balls. Then
we give it a good PINCH!" She slammed the handles together, and
the clamps closed mercilessly around an imaginary victim. Peter
shuddered. "It's not so bad as it looks. It puts a metal band
around the top of their sac and seals it. Then the blades cut
the sac right below their balls and they hit the ground. And it
can't hurt too much because sometimes they don't even know when
I do it to them." She giggled, "Especially if I'm milkin' them
at the same time. I like to do that, so they'll have one last
time to remember what it was like."
Peter felt an ominous foreboding at the direction of Judy's
talk. "Uh... Judy... I really have enjoyed this afternoon, and
thanks for showing me the breeding barn, but I think it's
getting near supper time and we really ought to get back to the
house now..."
"Naw, there ain't no hurry, we got plenty of time left to
show you how this gizmo works."
She drew up a short stool behind him and sat down. "We put
the bulls in the stall and tie their legs apart, just like you,
Peter. That way we can get at their sacks easy." She reached
between his legs and began gently scratching his scrotum with
her fingernails. Peter sighed deeply in spite of his growing
anxiety. "We put the castrator right here, right around the top
of their sacks." She opened the handles and circled the neck of
Peter's scrotum with the pliers. The cold iron on his tender
manhood made him wince.
"Please, Judy... I don't like this game very much. Can we go
back now?" She ignored him. Her voice changed, taking on a
strange, alarming note of obsession. "You know that hired man I
found out here? I didn't finish tellin' you about him. You see,
I didn't go tell Maw about him right away. I watched him for a
few minutes, first, while he was playin' in the extractor. Then
he turned around and saw me watchin' him, and the way he looked
at me sort of made me mad. He was just starin' at my tits, and
that reminded me of how he was always rubbin' up against me,
trying to get a feel of them. That polecat just kept starin' at
me and jerking off, and then he even said, `Hey honey, take 'em
out and let me see 'em.'
"Well that really made me mad, and I decided to teach him a
lesson he wouldn't forget. I told him I'd show him my tits if
he'd let me milk him just like a bull. Well that fool didn't
even suspect, and no time at all I had him strapped down, just
like you. I showed him my tits like I promised, and I set the
extractor to milkin' him. But just when he was starting to let
his milk down, I slipped the castrator on him like this and
PINCHED!" She squeezed the handles, very gently, but hard
enough to clamp Peter's helpless glands in a painful grip. "Ow!
Oh please, Judy, don't! Let me go..."
She eased the pressure and removed the tool altogether, and
Peter breathed a sigh of relief. But then she reached down and
flicked on the extractor. A moment later Peter felt the cruel
metal again encircle his fragile masculinity and realized his
ordeal was not over. "I sure fixed him. Then I fed his balls
to the dog right in front of him."
"It's time to finish your milkin', little cousin, and I'm
going to make it real special for you." She giggled
demonically, "I'm gonna fix you, like we do the bulls, like I
did that hired man."
"No, please Judy, don't do it..." he begged.
"C'mon, Peter, let me castrate you. I bet you'll like it.
That hired man knew what I was doin' to him, but he still had
the biggest cum I ever saw. I think knowing it was his last
made it really special for him. Let me do it to you, please."
Although Peter was in a panic, realizing the peril he was in
from the half-crazed girl, he tried to sound calm. "No, Judy, I
don't want it to be my last, maybe sometime later, but I'm not
ready just yet." In spite of his terror, the he could not help
thrusting his hips in response to work of the extractor.
Her voice became intimate, tender, almost loving. "C'mon,
Peter, do it for me. You really like me, don't you?"
"...Yes, Judy... but..."
"It'd be sort of like goin' steady, like giving me your class
ring, only better. My girlfriend does bronze work, she could
coat 'um and I'd have earrings or charms. This way, I'd know no
matter what, you'd never get some other girl friend and forget
me."
"...but..." Peter was full of confused emotion.
Notwithstanding the horror of what she proposed, some darker,
mysterious urge began to stir within him. He squirmed about in
his bonds, testing the unyielding grip of the tool on his
testicles. What would it feel like, the ecstatic release, the
moment of crushing force, the lifetime of chaste devotion to his
beautiful despoiler. A nameless urge welled within him,
reaching back through the millennia to a time when women ruled
over men, and it was a coveted privilege for a man to sacrifice
his masculinity to the high priestess of the Earth Mother. As
the extractor drew him inexorably toward spending, these
feelings warred within Peter. He moaned in his agony of
confusion.
"C'mon little cousin, let me do it to you, let me castrate
you. You really want me to, don't you?"
As she spoke, Peter surrendered to the inevitability of
climax. The pulsing suction urged him over the brink, and he
began emptying his glands in gushing surges. The strong
contractions of his penis were clearly visible to Judy even
through the plastic tube.
"Now, Peter! While you're letting go -- can I do it?"
In a delirium of sensation he moaned, "Please... Judy...
Please..." but he would never know for sure if he meant "Please
don't" -- or "Please do." Regardless of the youth's wishes of
the moment, Judy clipped his manhood and laid aside the
castrator. He long remained slumped in the restraining straps,
speechless with the intensity of the experience, while Judy
gently cradled his sacks in her soft palm and patted his naked
backside comfortingly. At last when he was rested, she released
him and helped him to his feet. "Thank you letting me fix you,
Peter? You sure creamed more than I've ever seen before!" Peter
had to admit that he did. In the following weeks Judy, wearing
her new jewelry, would thrill him with countless masturbatory
treats -- until he could no longer achieve erections. The
intensity of that experience was never reached.
As Peter left the ranch house to go home, Peter could not
help taking one last look at Judy's new jewelry.
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From: AnonEMoose <an000000@anon.penet.fi>
Newsgroups: alt.sex.stories.bondage,alt.sex.bondage,alt.sex.stories
Subject: STORY: Ficta (MF, bd, Mdom)
Date: Wed, 06 Nov 1996 12:28:53 -0800
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Subject: STORY: Ficta (MF, bd, Mdom)
From: wi.279@wizvax.methuen.ma.us (Ladyhawke)
Newsgroups: alt.sex.bondage
Subject: Story: Ficta
Message-ID: <859@wizvax.methuen.ma.us>
Date: 3 Jun 91 11:11:53 GMT
WARNING! This work of fiction contains descriptions of sexual
practices some people might find disturbing to read about. If you
find that certain types of descriptive passages cause you extreme
distress, press ``n'' now! You have been warned!
This work copyrighted, 1991, Ladyhawke (real name withheld).
Electronic transmission is permitted and the printing of hardcopy
for personal use only is permitted, so long as the text is not
altered, including disclaimers, and it is attributed to Ladyhawke.
********************************************************************
Ficta (Part 1 of 5)
The door was open, and she had seen him drive off. Surely he would
have a copy of his own books in his home! Why, she could slip in
and take a look, and leave again, and he would never know.
She did not know why this idea slipped into her head. She would
never have thought of such a thing, usually. But it was true: here
was an opportunity to read the very works she had been so frustrated
in trying to find. A silly thing, to be unable to buy or borrow
books, the author of which lived in one's own town.
And it wasn't as if they were cult books, for which doing such a
stunt would be attractive and daring, and something to brag about.
They were on history, and academic theories; slightly dated texts at
that. But what she heard of them hinted at great ideas which
fascinated her. And the more trouble she had finding them, the more
she wanted to see them.
She walked right up to the front door, and went in. There was a
study like area near the kitchen, lined with bookshelves. There,
the texts of many authors were arranged in alphabetical order by
authors name. For one brief moment, the name of the author whose
house she was now in escaped her mind, but then, her eyes fell upon
his name in the H's, and she beamed with pleasure. They were humbly
categorized with the others, and were not set apart. They were
slender, oversized books, hard cover in cloth, and they reminded her
of the music scores she got from the library. She took the set from
the shelves and carried them into the dining room.
On the way there, she noticed a storage room, or pantry, and thought
``should he come back, I can hide in there.'' She tested the door,
only to find that it could not close all the way. At least it would
block her from view from the front door, and if he walked without
looking backward, she should remain hidden. She then went to the
dining room, and spread out the books. She took the first one in
the series, and began skimming through it.
Ah, but they were fascinating! She was soon drawn into the texts,
reading them passages hanging on every word, gazing at the color
plates of manuscripts she had never seen before. And his theories
delighted her mind, she felt like singing, like crushing the book to
her head as if she could push all the words into her brain at once.
One part of her demanded she keep reading the way a thirsting man's
body demands drinking; another part of her was so over charged with
ideas and thoughts, she needed to lay the book down to digest and
ferment the kaleidoscope in her mind.
Then she heard him at the door. For a moment she thought of
restoring the books to their place that he not suspect an intruder,
but she realized she had no time for that. She whisked herself into
the storage room, and pulled the door as shut as she could. She
dared not look out the doorway, for fear he would she her as well as
she saw him. She heard him enter, and sure enough, he walked by.
But now he was in the kitchen, and could see the door to the pantry
through the open-work bookshelves between them, and he had a clear
view to where she stood, were he only to turn towards her. He could
turn at any moment, or perhaps even see her reflection in some stray
kitchen utensil. With that thought, she broke for it.
She exploded out of the pantry, and in a few steps gained the door.
He whirled as he heard her, but he was much older than she, and
slower. The screen door crashed shut behind her as she burst from
the house. She crossed the driveway, running along the house, and
it was in her mind that she go around the house to the woods in back
to make her escape. But then as she rounded the garage a dread
thought came to her: he was a hunter, and he owned rifles, and kept
them handy. Would her shoot her? Her skirt was white, like a swan;
she remembered a story in which an archer shot his true love while
she wore the guise of a swan, and in truth she did not know why she
thought of that story in that second. But moved thus, she darted
into the cluttered garage, to hide.
He entered the garage, searching, and she could not catch a glimpse
of him for fear of betraying her location; she could only crouch and
wait. At last she decided she would break for it again. She sprang
up... and found herself face to face with him, and he stood between
her and the road. His face was lined, and weathered, his hair was
white; his face showed no emotion. He seized her right arm, and
pushed her towards the door to the house.
She entered the house again, this time by the kitchen door to the
garage. But to her surprise, there were people there, idly chatting
and sitting about and browsing through magazines on the coffee
table. Perhaps they entered with him? He did not get a chance to
say anything, for he was immediately hailed, and corralled by guests
who just *had* to speak with him. And more people were entering.
She found herself unescorted again. She wandered about, acting as
casual as she could manage. After a while, she worked her way back
towards the front door, and she espied a woman calling a cab
company.
She requested, in her most offhand manner, if the woman could ask
that they send a cab for her too? And the woman did indeed. It was
a short wait, when she saw a cab down the street. She stepped
outside, unhindered. Walking down the driveway, someone asked,
``Do you know how to get to Civic Center?''
She wracked her brains; ``I'm sorry, I've been away from the area
for quite a while, and I can't remember the names of the
highways...are you familiar with the county? You know the triangle?
And the 23 runs along here,'' she illustrated in the air, ``Right
here is the Civic Center.''
``Thank you.''
At the end of the driveway, there were three of her friends. They
hailed her, and looked surprised to find her there, but she did not
get a chance to speak with them for the cab pulled up, and she
wished to dally no longer.
End of part 1 of 5
* * * * * * * *
(Ficta, part 2 of 5)
She did not know why she returned, but she indeed found herself at
his house again. Some part of her, a part which staunchly would not
talk to her conscious mind, guided her limbs to convey her here
again. Some vague and nebulous, unnamed emotion roiled in her mind:
a desire? a wish? a certainty? Again the door was open, and again
she entered.
She saw the living room, the kitchen, the dining room, the pantry,
the book shelves were his works rested. This time she passed them
by, and went further into the house. She left the darker, wood
paneled rooms, and came to a chamber where the walls were painted
the faintest shade of blue, and the floor was carpeted in thick off-
white pile, and gauzy white drapes hung along the windows. Nothing
like furniture was in this room, but there were two manacles set
into the floor, several feet apart, and two manacles hung on rods
from the ceiling, above the ones on the floor. Nothing else
disturbed the emptiness, the stillness, of the room.
She examined the manacles; they were cleverly designed. They all
lay open, each one a half ring, hinged to its other half, which in
turn was fastened to a ceiling rod, or to the floor by a shorter
rod. In the second half-circle lay a lever, such that if on should
put one's limb into the embrace of the connected half, the other
freely hinged part, would be snapped up, and over, and around one's
limb, to lock into the closed position. And moved by what she knew
not, she did this.
First she removed her sandals, and stepping out of them, she walked
to a place between the manacles. She spread her legs, and set one
ankle against the inner arc of a manacle, and as she pressed *snap!*
the other half closed about the end of her slender leg. She then
reached up, and pressed the wrist of the same side into the hanging
mechanism, and it too closed with a satisfying //click//. She
reached her other leg towards the respective bond; only with much
straining was she able to reach far enough to set her other ankle
in. But now, the last manacle hung on it's rod above and beyond her
reach. She pulled towards it, but the spread of her feet kept her
from attaining the last ring. Then, there were hands on her waist,
from behind, lifting her up, lifting her strongly, so that the steel
at her feet pulled her legs unrelentingly to earth. And with that,
she set her wrist into the manacle, and it clicked home. She hung
there, most of her weight borne by her arms, her feet barely
touching the floor, imprisoned.
He walked around her, to stand before her. His gaze took her in,
and she looked back at him.
He wore nothing but billowing draw-sting pants. Though his hair was
gray, right down to the wisps on his chest, his muscles were still
defined, and he had lifted her with apparently little effort. She
could not guess his age; she knew those books had been published a
long time ago. Now his weathered face bore a pleased smile, and
shone with warmth. His eyes were a very clear blue.
She was young; just a woman, but definitely a woman, having left
adolescence behind for good. Her dark hair hung in a sea of waves
about her pale neck, her shoulders hidden in all but curve by her
blouse of deep electric blue. Her cheekbones were faintly defined,
and her jaw like the line of a heron's wing bounded her oval face.
Her arms, too, where like wings, stretched out and taught, or like
the arms of an angel raised in supplication or adoration of heaven.
Her ankles were slender and delicately curved; a long white starched
skirt hung from her slender waist. Her eyes were black like night.
Her eyes rested on his face, as with a tug he loosed the drawstring
of his pants, and they felt to the floor; his gaze did not leave her
face. She heard a crinkling, and rubbing sound. He lifted her
white skirt, and with a pair of scissors he materialized from where
she knew not, he snipped her plain white underwear from her body.
He stepped up to her, his body touching her. He reached around her
and gripped her thighs from behind, and lifted her again, stepping
forward as he did, and setting her onto him, her cunt driven down
onto his member by her own weight. Breath escaped her lungs like an
unarticulated sigh.
Now she gazed over his shoulder, but sight was lost to her as all
her attention was drawn to her nerves, inside and out. In some
distant part of her mind the thought flared ///A condom! How good,
and kind, and caring he is of me! How fine he is!/// Then there
was no more effort left for words in her mind, as he began to stroke
into her. She could not effectively move with his rhythm, for she
had no manoeuverability to balance, but he steadied her with his
hand on her thigh, and his strong steady pushing into her accounted
for all the motion that was needed. It reminded her of oars,
pushing against the sea.
When he came, she knew it by the tightening of his muscles, but he
was silent save the single hard expulsion of breath. His worn cheek
lay against her own smooth face for some moments longer, then he
withdrew from her body, and stepped back. Her skirt fell about her
legs again. He spoke.
``I set a suggestion into your mind, a vision, before you left here.
To this you could have two responses. You could flee from here in
fear, forever shy of this place and of me, never to trespass again.
Or you would return. The suggestion was this: were you ever to
enter this house again, you would become mine forever. The choice
between these two would lie in your own nature.''
She said nothing, and her face showed little, but he knew his words
spoke into the heart of her and she understood and followed
everything he said.
``What is your name?''
``I do not remember, Master,'' she answered truthfully, ``But I know
I am your slave.''
End of part 2 of 5
********************************************************************
(Ficta, part 3 of 5)
``What is your name?''
``I do not remember, Master,'' she answered truthfully, ``But I know
I am your slave.''
``And what is my name?''
``I do not remember that either, Master.'' She added after knotting
her brow briefly in thought: ``I call you by the title `Master'
because it is what you are to me.''
``Good, my dear. I think you shall find me a pleasing Master. I
have never been exceedingly lusty, and I have somewhat less interest
than I did when I was younger. But I still desire the use of your
body, and you shall not go without. I seek to have, also, a woman
who body I may play with, experiment on, toy with. There are many
things which I wish to do to your flesh, and to your mind. I will
reprogram you mind so that you will unable to disobey me; what I say
will be like your own will in your body. '' He paused a moment.
``Does this please you?''
``Yes, Master, it pleases me.''
He smiled warmly at her. ``Good, my love. Let us begin.''
He left the room, and she hung there patiently. When he returned,
he wore a white robe which hung to his ankles, and he carried a ring
of keys and more manacles in his hands. He unlocked her ankles,
then her hands, carrying her limbs down to ease the pain of their
release, stiff and sore he knew they would be. He kneaded her
shoulders for a moment, then he brought her wrists together behind
her back and locked them that way. He fastened a loose loop of
chain about her waist, from which hung another length of chain to
her knees. He put a manacle about each ankle, and these were
connected by a chain in the middle of which met the length from her
waist; in this way the chain of her hobbles would be lifted from the
floor so she would not trip. Then he locked a wide steel collar
about her neck, and from this collar was a chain leash.
With one hand at her lower back, and one hand holder her leash, he
steered her out of the room by way of a doorway on the other side
from which she entered. They passed through a small hallway with
pleasant small floral print wallpaper, a small antique table with a
vase of flowers, all reminding her of an apocryphal aunt's home, and
then they came to another room.
This was about the same size as the last room, but far more
cluttered. This seemed more like a study, and bookshelves
overflowed with papers, loosely bound texts, bric-a-brack and
personal artifacts. There were cabinets along another wall, and
there was a desk mostly covered by paper. But also on the desk was
a computer, and around this computer was clear of the general
clutter.
He left her standing in the center of the room, while still holding
her leash, and opened up a cabinet. He pulled from it a large
device of wire and metal rods and plastic bands. He set it
precariously on a stack of papers on the desk, and closed the
cabinet. He fastened her leash to a ring set in the desk; he had
her kneel. He fiddled with the device for a moment, then it opened
up, in some fashion, and he set it about her head.
The thing reminded her of a halo brace, and indeed with the twisting
of knobs, the screwing of cranks, and the snapping of snaps the
device gripped her head firmly, and pressed against her skull in
numerous places. A large multi-colored ribbon of wires ran from the
device to a pronged end, which he plugged into a box attached to the
computer. She merrily laughed inwardly to find that she would be
re-written on a computer.
He sat himself at the desk and began to type at the keyboard.
Kneeling by his side, she laid her head against his thigh. He
grinned at her, and reached through the wiring to rub at her jaw
line for a moment, then returned to the machine. As she lay there,
she felt dancing on the inside, like a flight of butterflies in her
heart, but she had no inclination to move from her position against
her master. After a few more commands, he looked at her again, then
tapped one last keystroke.
She felt a fleeting feeling across her mind, like a high cloud
scooting across the sky, a feeling that was more an awareness than
an emotion. She neglected her vision, her hearing, and all her
outward senses, turning all of her awareness to what was happening
to her mind. She opened up all of her mind to this faint thing.
She felt as if she were in midair, falling or flying, then. And she
felt as if there was someone who's thinking she could hear, or feel,
or know. Then, instantaneously, with not transition, she knew she
would not disobey. She could ///remember/// being able to disobey,
but she no longer could. And it was not even a realization about
whether or not she *could*, but rather the understanding that never
in her life would she disobey her Master. But she had not wanted to
then, and was no longer capable now, and could not longer conceive
of herself disobeying. Freedom from his will passed entirely from
her understanding and ability and desire and all her soul.
Then there came into her mind another understanding, or rather,
there passed from her other knowings. Gone was the worry that she
might leave, gone the idea that she someday would not be his slave,
gone the concept of being not his, gone the idea of having an
identity of her own. All questions of permanence fled: she knew she
was once something else, free, but she could no longer imagine it,
or hold such an idea for herself in her mind.
Certainty came to her next of his love and caring for her. It was
eternal, and undivided by any other loves he indulged in. She knew
this, and became removed from any jealousy. She came to know that
he was capable in what he promised her, and would not fail her. Of
these two things trust is made, and forged in her was an absolute
and unquestioning trust in him. She knew, for instance, that she
would have no desire to preserve her life should he tell her it was
to end.
And she knew then, that he *understood*.
End of part 3 of 5
********************************************************************
(Ficta, part 4 of 5)
And she knew then, that he *understood*. He understood her need for
pain. He understood that every blow and every cut would convey love
as a kiss does, and she understood that every blow and every cut was
a gift of infinite loving. Every agony he inflicted would be his
gift and his testament of love to her. She knew she would be made
to suffer beyond her ability to endure, because he cared. She knew
that he would understand every scream and every whimper to be not a
wish for the pain to end, but a sound her body demanded she make;
she knew she need not be silent for fear of making his ministrations
cease. It was a promise written on her soul, ``No matter what you
do, I will not stop, you cannot make me stop. I will make you
*hurt*.''
He watched on the screen as the machine wrote in her mind what she
shall be for the rest of her life. There was a gauge that showed
her resistance to the imprinting: in truth, there was no resistance.
Her mind welcomed these thoughts, beliefs and tenets with complete
acceptance. He watched as the machine remade her mind, with a
delight and awe he rarely felt. She wanted to be his as much as he
desired to own her. It seemed to him to be a miracle, and he felt a
desire to thank some nameless deity that such a creature could
exist, that a creature existing could be so perfect for him, could
be his true mate.
He did not have to reprogram her. She had fallen in love as he took
her in the chains. She would have obeyed as best any natural
creature could physically obey. But then again, he did need to
reprogram her. They both needed it. He needed to know her faith
and love were absolute; that is what his heart needed. And it was
also his gift to her. The programming went well beyond her
consciousness, circumventing her own thoughts. Things she would
have been physically incapable of doing at his order, such as ``Go
to sleep'', her new programming would obey; he was programming the
controls to her body, not just her mind. If he did not do this, she
would fail, and it would wrack at her, and grieve her; now she would
not have to endure failure at what she wished to be able to do.
He scratched her scalp idly as the machine whirred away. Then it
was done. He shut down the master program, and unplugged the
headset. She lifted her head from his leg, and looked up in his
eyes. He released her head from the mechanism, and set it on the
desk. Her eyes were choked with emotion, but were dry. With a soft
rustle of a voice she said,
``Thank you, Master. Thank you for making me this.''
He lifted her up and kissed her then, and she responded with all the
ardor in her overwhelmed heart. He took the chain from the desk,
and lead her forth again.
This time, they came to a room that looked of japanese style; two
walls were of rice-paper panes in wood. Racks lined the other
austere, white, walls, bearing all manner of instruments. A pallet
lay on the hardwood floor by one wall. A low table held a lantern,
a sprig of flowers, a white cloth, and a pitcher with a glass. He
unlocked her hand from behind her back, and helped her strip off her
clothing. Folded these were put on the table, with his robe.
He locked her hands to a sturdy chain from the ceiling. He took the
white cloth; with one hand gripped her hair and pulled back her
head, and with the other he forced the cloth into her mouth. There
was much of it, and it would not all fit in her mouth. He pulled it
out, and twisted one corner, and forced it back into her mouth.
``Swallow,'' he commanded, and she let the cloth into her throat.
This time he was able to press all of the fabric into her. She
gagged fiercely against the mass filling her throat, but so tightly
was the cloth packed she could not even vomit, neither could she
move her jaw at all.
He took a roll of tape and a squeeze tube from the wall; he smeared
the substance in the tube on her lips, then sealed over her mouth
with the tape. The distress of gagging against the cloth surged
adrenaline through her, and her breath came ragged and panicked
through her nostrils. She managed to control this quickly and her
body stopped spasming as violently.
He took a heavy stick from the wall; it was black and had a grip at
one end: a billyclub. He met her gaze once. His face was filled
with a zen-like calm. She matched this within herself. Then he
broke gaze with her, and raised the club.
With a snap of his wrist and flex of his shoulder, the club hit her
with a meaty ///thunk///. He was older, but he was not weak. That
blow summoned more force than she had ever seen used against a
living person; nothing was held back. Wasting no time, he recoiled,
and clubbed her again. Her breath was forced from her lungs.
He proceeded to beat her. Each blow was a study in technique, a
perfect culmination of study and skill in force and aim. Tears
tracked down her cheeks, and she grunted and moaned and shrilled and
gurgled in pain around the gag but all of these sounds were muffled
almost beyond his hearing. He walked about her as he beat her,
being careful not to do any severe trauma to delicate areas, such as
her kidneys. Blows fell across her belly, across her shoulders, her
thighs, her breasts, her ribs, her calves. After a while, he
ceased, and poured a drink of water for himself from the pitcher; he
sipped at the water for a time. Then he began again.
She passed beyond tears, grunting faintly only because some blows
pushed the air past her vocal cords. All of her awareness compacted
to the immediate room. Her mind filled with the perfection of the
connection between swinging hardwood rod and her flesh. Each swing
was a need, and that need was fulfilled by her soft body accepting
and intercepting the motion, stilling it and absorbing it. Each
volume of her body was a need, and the force of each impact
dispersing deep throughout her muscle was a fulfillment.
She did not realize when he stopped, for her body hurt so. But it
was the jingling of the keys and he reached up and unlocked her that
alerted her to the end of the ordeal. The manacles fell from the
chain and she collapsed into his arms. He bore her down to the
pallet, and cradled her in his arms. He smiled at her.
End of part 4 of 5
********************************************************************
(Ficta, part 5 of 5)
The manacles fell from the chain and she collapsed into his arms.
He bore her down to the pallet, and cradled her in his arms. He
smiled at her.
``See,'' he said stroking her throat, ``You no longer gag.'' She
nodded faintly, her head resting against his chest. He ran his
hands over her bruising body. Her breath wheezed in and out of her
constricted air passage, but it no longer distressed her.
He pulled the tape from her mouth. Then he pulled the damp wadded
cloth from her mouth. She gagged a bit as he drew the last of it
from her upper esophagus. He massaged her neck around the collar,
then sat her up. He ran a short chain though the loop about her
waist, and fastened each end to a wrist manacle. He stood and
donned his white robe; holding her leash, and said, ``Come with
me.''
He stopped in the hall to open a closet and get a pink shift for her
to wear. It was light and pleasant against her skin. Then he lead
her to the kitchen. It seemed strange to be in this place again
while in chains, but strangenesses were no longer her concern. He
rummaged in the refrigerator, and put a handful of vegetables on the
counter. He leashed her to the counter. He got a knife, a parer
and a cutting board.
``Wash, skin and chop these,'' he instructed. She went to her task
with a will. Her motions were clean and efficient, and she was
capable with the knife; but she found the limits on the motion of
her hands to make her work challenging. She did not let it deter
her. He prepared meat and when they were done, he began cooking it,
and she set the kitchen table. Together they worked.
When it was done, they brought the food to the table -- her chain
reaching that far where it was fastened, and sat to eat. She found
his cooking very pleasing, and ate with a relish and a gratitude she
could not remember ever experiencing before. When she had cleared
her plate, she realized that her Master was still eating. Her mind
reeled for a moment: had she erred? He laughed softly at her like
one laughs at the timidity of a child. He picked a slice of carrot
from his plate and held it forth to her. She took it delicately in
her teeth, and chewed it slowly and thoroughly; it hurt her abuse
throat a little as she swallowed. She licked his fingers clean.
He laughed merrily, and slapped his thigh in summons. She fell to
her knees at his side, and as he ate he would occasionally feed her
from his hand. When he was done, he had her lick the dishes clean;
she closed her eyes and hummed with pleasure as she did. They
finished cleaning in a more ordinary manner, with a dishwasher, and
put everything away.
He brought her back into the further reaches of the house, and they
came to his bedroom. He stripped her of all but her manacles and
collar. He laid her down in his bed and locked her leash to the
headboard. He laid down beside her, and pulled the covers over
them. He took her in his arms, pulling her back to his chest, and
curling his knees against the backs of hers.
``Did you like that?''
``Yes, Master.''
``Would you like to do that every day?''
She thought about the question for a moment.
``I would like to feel like that every day, but I would be afraid I
would become acclimated to it, Master, if it were always the same.''
``I have many, many ordeals to put you through, dearest. Go to
sleep now, and tomorrow there will be new acts to endure.'' He
kissed her behind her ear, and with his face buried in her tresses,
she fell into a peaceful slumber.
End of _Ficta_, Part 5 of 5
********************************************************************
----------------------------------------------------------------------
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From: AnonEMoose <an000000@anon.penet.fi>
Newsgroups: alt.sex.stories.bondage,alt.sex.bondage,alt.sex.stories
Subject: STORY: Just a dream (M, bd, Msub, fantasy)
Date: Wed, 06 Nov 1996 12:27:38 -0800
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Subject: STORY: Just a dream (M, bd, Msub, fantasy)
Newsgroups: alt.sex.stories.bondage,alt.sex.bondage,alt.sex.stories
From: gls@infolab.han.de (Gerald Schlueter)
Newsgroups: alt.sex.bondage
Subject: Story: Just a dream
Message-ID: <1991Jun13.165918.5341@infolab.han.de>
Date: 13 Jun 91 16:59:18 GMT
Here is another story, which just came into my mind. Any comments
are welcome.
I was looking out of the window, and watching some people walk by.
Suddenly, I had this Idea...
Just a dream
------------
I was still lying in bed, thinking about the day. I hate getting
up, and I hated it even more on this day, because I had lots of
boring stuff to do. But it was my fault, since I always push all
the boring things I have to do up to the last deadline, and this day
was a day when it all came together.
We had a great party at my house the day before, and my mind wasn't
clear yet. The only thing I could do, to kill this day, was not to
think. And that was the first thing I did, so immediately after
deciding `not' to think, I stopped, and got up.
After doing all the stuff you have to do before you can leave a
house, I just sat down in a chair, to calm down. That was because
my brain always presented me with the pictures of the coming day,
the waiting in long, long lines for example to get a new passport,
the police politely telling me to drive more slowly (they got a
photo of me, and want me to come for identification). I had to talk
with the bank, so that I get more money from them and...
The door bell rang. Who was that? What the heck, I'll open. It
was the gasman, who wanted to get in to check how much heat I had
wasted. At first I didn't notice it, but he had a whip in his hand.
How strange! I didn't dare to ask him, why he carried a whip with
him, maybe because I wasn't fully awake at that time. When I gave
my signature, he told me, that I am too slow, and it is time to get
a punishment, and started without any question to beat me up with
it.
I jumped and screamed, and told him to leave. He said that I had
enough punishment, he was now going to leave, and that's what he
did. Hell did it hurt -- but at the same time, it felt quite good.
First time _this_ happened to me, maybe the day will be special.
The next event happened in the elevator. This awful dead looking
old woman, who usually never took her coat off, hopped in on the 5th
floor. But this time, she was all dressed up in leather, a belt
made of handcuffs, heavy boots, high heels, and looked at me in such
a way that I went over my internal list of all safe-words I knew,
just in case I'd need one. Well, she didn't do anything to me.
In the taxi, I noticed there were no seat belts. The young lady
(who also didn't look too normal, very short skirt, the rest of her
body wrapped up in chains) told me, that I should not worry about
them, and she was right, since immediately after I sat down, some
mechanical hands came out of the seat, and pushed me firmly into it.
What a grip! I couldn't move a bit. The same happened to my feet.
The last thing she wanted me to say was to tell her the destination,
then she gagged and blindfolded me.
"I hate noisy customers, and I also hate them telling me how to
drive, so I have to do this to you; but I am sure you understand."
I didn't say anything, I just noticed that the hands grabbed me
more and more strongly, the longer she drove, and they started
moving. It still didn't hurt, but it wouldn't take long, and then
it would. I started to struggle, but I believe she didn't even
notice. Finally she stopped, and took off the blindfold and the
gag.
"That makes..." and she started to look at the pressure of the arms
still holding me "oh I just take what I deserve for it." She
started to search my pockets, and took some money from me. A
reasonable amount. It was fair. Then she pressed a button -- I was
released, and pushed out of the car.
I had to take time to recover. The pressure had been unbearable at
the end, so I was lying there on the street. A school class came
by, and the little children just walked over me, as if I wasn't
there. I was surprised that their teacher didn't stop them. I
turned over, and tried to get up. When the teacher came, he kicked
me back to the ground, telling me that he just wanted his kids to
have some fun.
After that, I finally got some time to recover myself. So I stood
up, and walked into the place where you get your passport. I
expected a long, long line, but to my amazement, I was the only one
in the large hall. At least I thought so. Then a woman came, and
told me to follow her. She turned me around, and then I saw it: All
the waiting people chained to the wall! She guided me to a free
spot, and put me in chains. She said, when the time came, I would
be freed, and then they'd serve me. Till then, I'd just have to
wait.
I began to get crazy. What had happened to this world? The moment
the cuffs were clicked around my wrist, I suddenly began to shake,
and the light began to fade. The picture just faded away, and
suddenly I was lying in my bed.
What a dream!
I got up, and made myself a cup of coffee. I didn't feel as tired
as in my dream, but still, it was just too real.
Again after doing all the morning stuff, I sat down. Again the
gasman came, but he was normal. Again this old lady joined me in
the elevator, and she looked as ugly as ever. Life had me back in
its rut again.
Not for long. In front of a supermarket, someone asked me to watch
his dog while he went shopping. I agreed. I was somewhat surprised
that he cuffed his dog to a ring, made for that purpose. And I was
even more surprised that he cuffed me to another ring, beside the
first one.
People came along, and began to play with me, tease me. One woman
tore my t-shirt off, another one tickled me. I was stunned.
Suddenly I noticed a couple, approaching me, she had a very big
whip, and he carried a large plastic dildo, which he pointed at
me with, and both of them were really excited. The people working
on me just ran away. Maybe they knew this couple.
I prayed for the release. They came closer and closer, and she
already played with the whip, whipping some trees on her way, making
branches fall to the floor. I imagined how my arms would fall off,
just like these branches, and I was very much scared.
The moment they came really close, at maybe the last moment before
they were about to begin on me, the guy came back out of the store,
and told them to step aside so that he could get his dog.
"And me? What about me?" I asked. "Oh yes, I forgot," he said,
"thank you very much.". Then he left. I was alone again, still
chained to this ring, with a strange couple in front of me, ready to
eat me for dinner.
As soon as she started to whip me, as soon as he started to open my
pants to put his dildo in action, the moment I had this big and
wonderful orgasm from all these strange events -- everything began
to fade again, the pain went away, and I wasn't scared any more. I
was ready to wake up, one more time.
But I didn't. Everything kept being black, emptiness around me, no
temperature, no excitement, just plain NOTHING surrounding me.
Now I knew that I was being dreamt by someone else. So please,
whoever you are, please go back to sleep, so that I may live.
Gerry gls@veeble.han.de
----------------------------------------------------------------------
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From: AnonEMoose <an000000@anon.penet.fi>
Newsgroups: alt.sex.stories.bondage,alt.sex.femdom,alt.eunuchs.questions,alt.sex.bondage,alt.sex.stories
Subject: STORY: Country Life (FM, bd, Fdom, castration)
Date: Wed, 06 Nov 1996 12:26:27 -0800
Organization: Penet anonymous remailer
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Subject: STORY: Country Life (FM, bd, Fdom, castration)
Newsgroups: alt.sex.stories.bondage,alt.sex.femdom,alt.eunuchs.questions,alt.sex.bondage,alt.sex.stories
From: an20520@anon.penet.fi (Porky Pig)
Subject: Country Life I (fantasy)
Message-ID: <1993May30.103304.16327@fuug.fi>
Date: Sun, 30 May 1993 10:27:00 GMT
Preface:
The human mind is a commitee composed of monomaniacs. The
protagonist of this story is one of mine who I usually keep chained
up in a dark corner (which is what he likes anyway). I don't
dislike him and am pleased to give him this outing. Who knows,
someday I may pass him the gavel.
====================================================================
Country Life I
Although the leather straps of the chastity belt, softened as they
were by wear, tended to rub against the buttocks when I walked fast,
I was puffing by the time I reached the house. She did not allow me
much more than ten minutes for the quarter mile walk from the
bus-stop and much of the distance was along a rough track. Not that
She would say anything if I were late, but there were many ways that
I would pay for such a black mark. At least I had warmed up a
little. It had been a cold spring day and when She ordered me to go
to work that morning, the clothes bin had contained only trousers, a
shirt and a thin pullover. One more sign of recent disfavour.
I entered the yard through the side gate. Immediately I had
closed it behind me, it was time to take off the shoes, socks and
pants while I was still on the relatively clean paving. The shoes
were already a little muddy, but as yet I had managed to prevent any
mud getting on the pants and It wouldn't do at all to cross the very
muddy yard in them. I had learned to be scrupulous in controlling
the eyes during this process. On a previous occasion while I was
concentrating on removing the pants without letting them touch the
dusty paving, the gaze had accidentally fallen on a window of the
house and I had, for an instant, met Her gaze like an equal.
Wearing a blinding hood continously for three days makes an
effective impression on the memory.
In shirt and harness and carefully carrying the pants and shoes
I hurried across to the piggery door and gratefully entered it's
pungent gloom. The warmth generated by the occupants of the pen was
welcome. Even the smell which had once seemed a stomach churning
stench was now familiar and even comforting. Here it was easier to
control the gaze because I must now avert it only from the small TV
camera mounted near the roof in one corner of the small barn. Here,
of course, it was impossible to know if She was watching or not. It
hadn't taken me very long to learn the value of assuming that She
was. Sometimes She'd record me for hours and use the forward search
on the VCR to check for improper behaviour. The clothes bin had a
separate compartment for shoes and even a pocket for the emergency
telephone card which was the only contents of the pockets. I used
them. Then I took the collar off its peg, dropped to hands and
knees and put it on.
The collar was, I suppose, quite a clever piece of electronics.
It was based on a design originally intended to train dogs not to
bark by detecting the bark and giving an electric shock. The
battery, shock apparatus, and throat mike were from the original
module but the electronics had been extended, and there was now a
mercury tilt switch and an infra-red receiver. The resulting
package under the chin was a little on the large side for comfort,
but then comfort was not the idea. From the middle of the package a
hasp, like that of an unlocked padlock emerged. That too had its
sensor.
The gate of the pen it not much wider than the shoulders, so
there is little danger of even the piglets slipping past when I
crawl in. Sara, the big sow could back me off if she chose -- I am
quite afraid of her -- but the gate, which opens inwards, would
probably close between us on its spring and anyway she seems content
with her own side of the fence. The pen takes up only a little less
than half the floor area of the barn and the other part is cluttered
with the crush pen, which is something I shudder to look at, and the
dogcart, which holds somewhat happier memories. It is good,
sometimes, to get out in the fresh air. The harness is well
designed and now I have learned how to move agily within its
restrictions; only the bit causes me any real discomfort. I like to
believe that, for the size, I've become quite a useful and well
trained draft animal. Certainly the last few times we've been out
for a drive, She's hardly more than flicked me with the whip. Very
different from our first outing.
About a half an inch above the floor of the pen, a metal bar
runs from near the front to the back, about a foot from the left
hand side. It tends to get buried, of course, among the bedding and
dung but it is easy enough to find when you know where it is. The
chain is about eighteen inches long and has a welded ring on each
end. It is quite heavy. One ring goes around the bar. On the
other I now closed the hasp of the collar with it's very audible
click. There is a time limit on this. If I don't lock the collar
on something within twenty seconds of putting it on the electronics
starts to punish me. The chain is long enough for me to get the
head in the food trough and to use the water fountain but I have to
be very careful when the bar is covered by bedding because I must
drag the ring along it without the collar punishing me for pulling
too hard. Of course I don't dare touch it with the hands, even by
accident. By this time I hardly ever got shocked that way. I
worried more about Sara. In the beginning I had been bitten several
times, once seriously enough to need stitches. (Writhing in the
crush pen, mumbling the pain into a gag while She stitched as calmly
as if making a dress.) Things were better now; Sara had got used to
me and I had learnt the body language to show her deference so that
she was rarely angry with me. These days she even permitted me to
eat before she was finished. With this established, the other pigs
were not much of a threat since they, like me, deferred to her. Oh,
I got the occasional warning nip, but I hadn't had a bite bad enough
to bleed in weeks.
One of the benefits of the chastity belt is that it protects
one otherwise tempting target from bites. Another is that without
it, straw bedding causes irritation to the cock. It is an
embarrassment at work, of course. I can't use the urinals and I
tend to smell faintly of urine by the end of the day. When I wash
the body before setting out for work I have to flush out the belt by
putting the hose against the urine hole. When She does the hosing
down, I am locked into the crush pen and She usually removes the
belt and washes it, and me, thoroughly with the hard cold water jet.
It is, of course, one of the prime rules that the belt never comes
off when I might be in a position to touch or see the cock. That's
what the belt is for. It isn't that She imagines I might be
unfaithful but that it's important that I remember that the cock is
Her property, not for me to look at or interfere with. I'm glad of
it really, masturbation is the violation of the Rule which proved
the most difficult to suppress.
Along with the other inhabitants of the sty I wait for feeding
time with some impatience. They ate at noon but I haven't eaten
since early morning, since when I've done both farm chores and the
job. There is a canteen at work, of course, but the only money I'm
allowed to handle is the exact change for the busfare. It is hard
to get an impression of the passage of time here, because the dim
lighting is artificial with hardly a trace of sunlight getting in
but it was probably a couple of hours before she came. I schooled
the gaze to the center of her dungaree clad form. Higher I dare not
look, without a direct command. Her legs were hidden by the wall of
the sty. The bucket of slops is in her hands and we all hurry to
the trough as she heaves. We all slurp up the slurry with equal
haste. If anything I am the most frantic eater. The flat human
face puts me at a grave disadvantage here and I used to get a lot up
the nose but I have learned to eat quickly, otherwise the share is
too little, and I spend the next day painfully hungry.
Occasionally, when I have pleased Her, She gives me titbits of human
food, but never enough to be of any dietry significance. The pigs
seem to get such treats more often than I do.
Soon the trough is too low for me to get any more out, even by
licking the cold metal bottom. I turn and carefully look out of the
sty. Oh joy, she is taking down the leash. Perhaps she means to
allow me in the house this evening. For the last two nights She has
simply walked out after filling the trough, and I suspect that I
must have offended Her, though I had racked the mind in vain for the
offense. Perhaps She's forgiven me. Even if She is taking me out
of the pen for some more active punishment, that punishment will
expiate the offence, whatever it was. Her punishments are often
harsh and always inventive but once I have been punished, that is
always the end of it.
I lay on the back with the eyes closed while She used a small
key to open the hasp of the collar. When I heard the gate open, I
hurried out. Again, I must get the leash put on within twenty
seconds if I am to avoid painful shocks. At the same time, I must
not rise from all fours or the mercury switch will trigger the
shocks. She seemed in no hurry to lock the leash on but I only got
the first, warning tingle before the hasp of the collar clicked over
the leash ring. She put me in the crush pen, closed the gate on the
neck and clamped the hands and feet. This could be a good or a bad
omen. If She means to take me into the house She will want to clean
me up first with the hose. On the other hand she may have put me in
for some kind of torture. A chain belt is pulled up under the
waist, clamping the arse against the bars of the cage's roof. I now
had about four square feet of dirty floor to look at. I must hold
the arms straight or the gate would half strangle me. If the legs
relax the chain belt digs painfully into the waist. One of the
things I most dread is being left in this cage for so long that the
strength of the arms and legs starts to give out. I'm put in here
maybe twice a day on average, usually only for a few minutes but I
haven't got over that dread for the very good reason that it is
realised from time to time, invariably without any prior warning.
The hard stream of icy water was a shock -- it always is -- but
it was also a relief. The hose has a nozzle which produces a hard,
flat fan of water which batters painfully against the skin, even
when directed at a shallow angle, but efficiently dislodges the
filth in which I was almost completely coated. Once I was clean,
She brought the boots. The boots are not for the feet but for the
hands. They come up several inches above the elbows, greatly
reducing their ability to bend and a strap tightens them onto the
wrist, trapping the hands inside a rigid "foot". A longer strap
from the outside of the top of each boot buckles behind the
shoulders. They add about six inches to the length of the arms
which makes it easier to walk on hands and feet since it equalises
the length of the front and back "legs". This is encouraging. She
seldom takes me into the house without these things on. On the
other hand she could just be teasing me and the next move might be
back into the pen.
Learning to walk on the leash had cost me some considerable
pain. I must walk to her left with the face about level with the
midline of Her body. The leash must be under tension but not too
tight or the collar will shock me. I must be careful not to get
under Her feet. At least, in these circumstances, there is no
danger of looking Her in the eyes, in fact all I can see without
getting a pain in the neck is the ground immediately before me. If
I twist the neck to try to see Her feet, I tend to veer to the
right. This is why it is so difficult to get it right. I must
judge our relative position almost entirely by the strength and
direction of the pull on the leash and the occasional glimpse of
foot out of the corner of the eye. At first it was difficult not to
get underfoot when She turned to Her left, but She knew I was trying
my best and would punish me only by triggering the collar with a
jerk on the leash. At one time walking on all fours would have soon
have become painful in itself but the sinews and muscles seem to
have accomodated to it.
While I was wiping the feet on the doormat a man walked out of
the living room. His body, perhaps, ten years younger and
undeniably better looking than the one I use. The expression on his
face, as far as I could tell, oscillated between lust, hope, and
embarrassment. I recognised him from Her latest party. Had I owned
hackles they would, no doubt, have been bristling. His name, I
remembered, was Dirk. I had taken a dislike to him, not so much
because had had put out his cigarette butt on the backside and them
made me eat it (I was, after all, there to entertain Her guests) but
because of his arrogant and superficial conversation. I remember
him asking Her about the number freeze-branded on the back. "It's
his Farmmark number," She explained patiently, and then, when his
incomprehension was obvious "It's a livestock registration scheme.
If he gets stolen or run over by a bus they can look the number up
on a computer and let me know." (I was registered as a boar. She'd
put "Species: Bore" on the form as a kind of joke and they'd
predictably "corrected" it.) She took out the controller for the
collar and switched off the tilt switch so we could go upstairs
without me getting shocked. When the three of us entered the
bedroom my suspisions about what was to occur were confirmed. This
was probably why I hadn't been brought into the house for the
previous two evenings.
There was a small square table in one corner of the room. She
patted the surface and I clambered up and knelt on it. It was a
familiar perch. "Stay." she ordered, "Watch".
"Do we have to have him in here?" Dirk protested. "I'm not
sure I can perform with him watching."
"Then leave." She answered with Her customery economy, so
different from his own garrulousness. However the Gods were deaf to
my silent prayers and he stayed.
A detached part of the mind followed their loveplay. Her skill
is immaculate. She led him to lovemaking of a sophistication he had
almost certainly never known, yet so adroitly that he doubtless
imagines that all the inspiration was all his. Most of the mind,
though, was writhing with emotion. There was jealousy and hatred,
of course. There was some stirring of the ghost of the late,
unmlamented sense of embarrassment. The overwhelming emotion,
though, was fear.
The most traumatic episode of life to date had occurred about a
week after the sty became my regular residence. By then, being
locked in the crush pen and hosed off had become more or less
routine. What followed, though, was anything but.
First, She had placed a metal bowl in the middle of the narrow
field of view. In the bowl was a scalpel, three sets of forceps,
surgical scissors and some sutures. Then she explained, with
unemmotional didactism, exactly how gelding was performed. She knew
where to cut the scrotum, what blood vessels had to be tied off.
"These instruments are relatively easy to obtain," She concluded
"but you can't easily get local anaesthetics."
She took the bowl back out of sight and I heard the instruments
clink in the bowl. I was shivering with unfeigned terror. In the
front of the mind the terrible, irrevocable "safeword" flashed like
a neon sign.
Yet when cold metal touched the scrotum what emerged from the
mouth was not the safeword. It was not a human sound at all but a
terrible peircing squeal such as my stymates might have made in
similar circumstances. Yet the touch was brief and harmless and She
laughed. "Not while I've still got a use for them," and, seeing
that I would be good for nothing that evening, She returned me to
the Sty where I lay shivering.
I had learned two terrible things. Firstly, up to that point I
had imagined that one day she would go too far and I would use the
safeword. Now I knew better. I had genuinely believed I was about
to be castrated and I had not said it. I will never say it.
Secondly I knew that Her seeming joke had been serious. If She ever
loses interest in me sexually, She will geld me. That's why a new
lover filled me more with terror than with jealousy.
I should, perhaps, explain about Her variant of the safeword
concept. Back at the beginning of our relationship She had
explained it in Her deadly serious voice.
"There's only one kind of `safeword' I accept and that's `I'm
leaving you.'. If you ever say that, our relationship ends right
then. I'll give you back all the gifts you've given me, and we'll
never meet again. Don't ever threaten me with it, don't ever joke
about it."
Since then, I've given Her more gifts. I've given Her the body
that had been mine. I've given Her everything I once owned. I've
given Her my future. I don't want the gifts back. Those things
used to seem so valuable. Now they seem like a backbreaking burden
that I am glad to be rid of. Better a slave to Her, even a gelded
slave than a slave to things. I understand, now, the attractions of
the life of cloistered monks. The vows of poverty and obedience and
sometimes silence are, in a way, tremendously liberating.
But now the lovers had finished their business. It was clear
that She wasn't fully satiated, and I hoped that Her lust would earn
me a turn, though that might not fit in with the aesthetics of the
scene. Dirk, however, was both glowing and exhausted. In an evident
mood of post coital benificence he came over to where I was
squatting, doggy fashion. "Did you enjoy the show?" he asked and
put his hand out, probably, to pat me on the head. That was a
mistake. Because he didn't understand the rules under which I live,
he thought me harmless. Knowing those rules well, I barely gave it
a thought. The teeth clamped down on the webbing between his thumb
and forefinger provoking a howl of outrage and pain. The taste of
blood was a joy to the mouth. He slapped me back handed across the
face and my own blood mingled with his in my mouth, but it was
nothing. The wound would heal only very slowly on such a mobile
area of flesh. With luck it would hurt for weeks.
The basic rule is simple. I am allowed, unless specifically
told otherwise, to satisfy animal needs by animal means. On the
other hand I may only use peculiarly human abilities, such as
manipulation with the hands, walking upright and speech, or
operating even the simplest gadgets such as doorknobs, in carrying
out an order, and then only to the absolute minimum extent necessary
to comply. I can function at work only because I am under orders to
pretend I'm a person while I'm there. At parties, I am ordered to
be nice to the guests. I had had no such orders that evening.
This had been a risky enterprise, however. Just because what I
had done was within the Rule, that didn't mean I wouldn't be
punished. The Rule binds me, not Her. But it payed off. She
laughed. I had pleased Her! I could not be sure, of course, but I
had hopes that our relationship would now be on the way back to
normal.
====================================================================
Country Life II
I was getting increasingly nervous. After the Dirk incident things
had seemed better at first. I hadn't seen the creep again, but
there had been other lovers.
There were two signs, very ominous when taken together. The
first was that She seemed to be using me for sexual pleasure less
and less often. The second was that She was being unusually kind to
me. She dropped a whole slice of cheesecake, something I lust
after, on the kitchen floor and though She cursed, I was pretty well
convinced it was no accident. When there was no lover, She allowed
me to stay later than usual in the house. I was pretty sure I knew
what was on Her mind. She was gradually coming to the conclusion
that castration was the most humane course of action. Increasingly
denied the only outlet for my sex drive permitted me by the Rule and
the belt, I was beginning to wonder if she was right myself.
Mostly, I was afraid of the pain. I was never one of those
people who take pleasure in pain, especially not my own. Oh, my
tolerance has increased, but I still fear it. From the beginning
She had understood that too much pain used as punishment would
become ineffective, since I would habituate to it or even begin to
enjoy it. If I were to be gelded, She would have to do it herself,
and I didn't doubt Her hand would be steady. The trouble is that
although She worked as a biochemist, She would not be able to get
the local anaesthetic that a vet would use. The vet, poor man,
turned a blind eye to a lot. I had only once heard him complain
about the situation, and that was when the pigs went down with an
infection he was convinced they had from me, but beyond a certain
point he certainly wouldn't go.
To understand why She was going to obliged to make this
"unkindest cut", it's best to try to see the nature of our mutual
obligations from their beginning, barely (it seems incredible) a
year previously.
When we first went beyond friendship we played the switch game,
but it soon became apparent that I was the natural bottom. We tried
an oath of obedience, at first for a week, then renewed weekly, and
finally "until death do us part". It was very difficult at first.
I never deliberately broke it, but habit kept betraying me. So when
I took the oath, what I swore to was to do everything in my power to
obey Her every command. She, in return, promised to do everything
in Her power to help me keep my oath and it was a promise She kept
consistently, mercilessly, and with ingenuity. At this point we
were quietly married.
Of course, obedience became more natural and, ultimately, easy
with practice. I began to feel a shadow of discontent. As I first
accepted the commitment, I had felt the sense of shedding a heavy
weight. The heavy weight was, I think, the responsibility that goes
with freedom. But having shed so much of that weight, I now became
more sensitive to what remained. We discussed it. We concluded
that I still had too much freedom. I was, in effect, free to do
anything She had not forbidden, and that covered much ground,
despite so many standing orders that it was hard work to keep track
(though pain is a great aid to memory). We discussed extending the
oath so that I would do nothing without orders but it was
impracticable. The problem was that my biological needs were known
directly only to myself. To ask permission every time I was thirsty
or needed to relieve myself would not only be a nuisance for her, it
would also be me taking the initiative, which contradicted the whole
idea.
"That would make you a kind of Zombie needing to be ordered to
do every little thing. You'd have less initiative than a dog," She
pointed out, and thus the Rule was born. We saw that the level of
initiative of a dog was about right for me. The rule is really very
simple. I may use animal means to satisfy animal needs. I may use
human means only to the minimum degree necessary to comply with
orders. If I'm thirsty, I can go out to the kitchen and drink from
my bowl. If I need to relieve myself, I can go outside, on all
fours of course, and lift my leg (providing the door is not latched,
of course). There are inevitably grey areas. If I absolutely must,
I can communicate a need doggy fashion. I can bring her my water
bowl in my mouth if it is empty, I can knock on bottom of the back
door if I absolutely must go out. This will often earn me a minor
punishment and almost always a telling off, but it gets me into a
lot less trouble than, say, pissing on the floor.
We tried this for a week and it was hard. Again, habits kept
betraying me. We both worked hard at it. She bought the collar, at
first just to give me a shock when I vocalised, which I did too
often without thinking about it. Then She got the thing modified to
remind me to keep my body horizonal, and not to tug too hard at
leash or tether. It helped a lot to avoid the errors I made when I
was inattentive and bad habits caused misbehaviour. I also wore the
"boots" on my arms for long periods to get me out of the unconscious
habit of handling things. A habit which often got me punished at
first.
By the end of the week I was beginning to improve by leaps and
bounds, losing the old habits and starting to form new ones. I felt
again that wonderful, paradoxical sense of freedom, in much stronger
measure. I made the oath perpetual with great enthusiasm. Again
She made the complementary promise to do all in Her power to help me
to keep the Rule. We also instituted regular confessionals to deal
with those cases where I slipped up without Her being aware of it.
Masturbation is a persistent problem. Masturbation is not,
generally, an animal means, though sexual frustration is an animal
need. It became the most common cause of my being punished. It
became apparent that it was always going to be very difficult to
control. So She made the chasity belt. It helps.
At first I slept on the floor at the foot of the bed. The
trouble was that I kept being caught short in the night and having
to wake Her so She could let me out to urinate. One night She got
so irritated that as soon as I went outside She shut the door behind
me and went back to bed. It was a cold night. I began to worry
about hypothermia.
I checked the outbuildings. All the doors were latched. I saw
that there was only one way open to me within the Rule to keep warm.
With hands and feet I dug a trench in the dung heap and buried
myself as best I could. My feet were like ice and I slept not a
wink but the warmth of decomposition kept my core temperature up.
How She laughed when She found me like that in the morning.
"Of course, that's the obvious solution," She said. From then on I
slept and ate with the pigs, finding, to my surprise, that the straw
bedding was more comfortable than the carpet.
Now that she was making less use of me sexually, the pressure
to masturbate was becoming more of a problem again. I might not be
able to touch it, and a hard-on hurt in the confines of the harness
but I still had my imagination. She knew this as well as I did.
The promise to help me keep to the Rule still bound Her, yet to have
used me when She felt no desire would be a betrayal of our
relationship. There seemed only one real solution.
But suddenly It seemed that She might have thought of another
one. She became very busy and I spent more time in the sty than
usual. A couple of times She was away from home, once for three
days, leaving one of Her new lovers to feed us livestock. There was
much brown paper in the waistbasket, denoting parcels. She seemed
happier but more pensive and was offhand with me. Naturally She
told me nothing of Her plans. Why would She? I don't do decisions
these days.
One evening She came into the piggery with a mysterious box
which had some controls and a couple of wires coming from it. She
put me into the crush pen as usual but then I felt two needles
pushed under the skin of the back, one in the neck and one near the
base of the spine. Suddenly my whole body was full of pins and
needles. The sensation increased until is seemed unbearable and I
discovered that all muscles seemed to be locked. "Did you feel
that?" She asked, and added the necessary command "Answer." I tried
but my vocal apparatus refused to obey. "Oh, of course," She said
and the pins and needles stopped. She gave me a token smack for
failing to obey before, and said "Did you feel me stick the needle
in your arse? Answer now." "No Lady" I replied; if there had been
pain from the needle, the pins-and-needles sensation had swamped it.
It seemed She had found me an anaesthetic of sorts.
Three days later, She seemed to be ready. Before ordering out
of the sty that evening She ordered me to empty my bladder as
completely as possible. She then gave me the most thorough wash of
my life, using some kind of liquid soap. Rather than put the belt
back on she put a simple condom on me. Then She led me to the tool
shed.
The tool shed was originally intended as a byre although,
nowadays, it is only used that way when I am ill and quarantined to
prevent the pigs catching something from me. This evening it had
been totally cleaned out and smelled of disinfectant. In the middle
was a heavy wooden table, freshly sanded. There were straps
attached to the legs. There was also an insulated ice box, some
metal boxes and the electrical box. I started to shake violently.
She ordered me to sit on one end of the table and fastened straps
around my ankles. Then She pushed the two needles from the
paralysis box into my back and had me lie back. She then pulled my
forearms down over the sides of the table and secured my wrists to
the other legs. She stroked my hair. "There, there. You know you
have to trust me to do what is right for us both. This will solve
our little problem one way or the other. Trust me." With that, She
turned on the current.
What I experienced wasn't exactly pain but it was certainly
unpleasant. It was as if my body from the neck down was dead meat.
I could see her take a succession of surgical instruments and work
with them. What she was doing seemed far more complex than I knew
castration to be. At last, She told me to brace myself and turned
off the current. I felt as if someone had just expertly put the
boot in. She then brought in my boots, collar and leash. "Now
don't touch yourself," She ordered as She undid the straps. She put
the boots on my arms and the collar on my neck, then tethered me to
the usual ring She uses when I sleep in there. She brought me some
clean straw bedding and a bowl of water. After I had settled, She
cleaned up the instruments and wiped up the blood. I glimpsed two
small, bloody objects in a kidney shaped dish. "Yes, the source of
the problem," She said, catching the direction of my gaze. "A nice
little titbit for the Sara." Sara was the big sow. She was in
season at the moment and that made her irritable.
For three days She kept me in the building, a small heater
keeping it pleasantly warm. She was in and out all the time.
Constantly replacing the bedding and repeatedly examining my
scrotum. On the morning of the third day She came in with an
electro-ejaculator and a condom. She efficiently collected a semen
sample. "Now, we'll see," She said.
About fifteen minutes later She came back and sat on the table,
looking very seriously at me. "I owe you an apology and an
explanation," She said. I was genuinely shocked. In the course of
our relationship never once had She apologised. "When I made that
`joke' about castration way back, that was wrong, and weak of me.
In our relationship you give, I take, you know that. That is in our
respective natures. You have given me everything, and I have seen
how glad you are to be rid of it. You have given me your future.
In making that threat I gave a piece of future back to you, forced
it on you. I didn't want to have that piece. But that was a
selfish, thoughtless act. Well, that piece of future is gone now
from both of us."
I realised how right She was. That fear was gone from me now.
I literally had nothing left to lose!
"You know," She went on, "that ever since I decided that you
were one of the livestock, we have always wanted you to be able to
earn your keep that way, as livestock." It was true. I had come to
hate working like a person, wearing clothes. Keeping up the
pretence, and that was exactly what it felt like, was a constant
strain. "Well, I think I have found a way. I don't know if you
have heard about the progress in pig to human xenotransplants but
the success rate is now better than human to human transplants,
thanks to genetically engineered pigs with human antigens. Well, I
managed to find one that matches your profile. When they used its
heart, I swiped a piece they'd never have thought to use. They'll
never miss them, the rest of the pig goes straight to the butchers.
I just checked your sperm count, my little piggy, and they've
taken!"
She watched understanding and contentment dawn in my face.
Then She unhitched my leash from the wall. "Come on, lets go cure
Sara's itch."
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From: AnonEMoose <an000000@anon.penet.fi>
Newsgroups: alt.sex.stories.bondage,alt.eunuchs.questions
Subject: REPOST: Castration in the news...
Date: Wed, 06 Nov 1996 12:24:13 -0800
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Subject: REPOST: Castration in the news...
Newsgroups: alt.sex.bondage.stories,alt.eunuchs.questions
Subject: Ceremony Briefly Frees Eunuchs
From: clarinews@clarinet.com (AP)
Newsgroups: clari.world.asia.india,clari.news.religion,
clari.news.features,clari.world.asia
Copyright: 1994 by The Associated Press, R
Message-ID: <india-eunuch-festUR490_4AR@clarinet.com>
Date: Wed, 27 Apr 94 14:10:12 PDT
KOOVAGAM, India (AP) -- For a brief moment, 10,000 eunuchs were
transformed from outcasts to exuberant newlyweds.
Under a full moon, dressed in their finest saris and jewelry, the
eunuchs entered a temple to marry Aravan, their mythological demigod.
On Wednesday morning, they pulled a wooden cart bearing a 20-foot
effigy of their new husband down dirt roads, singing, dancing and
smashing open coconuts. At the end of the ceremony, when Aravan was
decapitated, they beat their chests in mourning.
About 50,000 people, including 10,000 eunuchs, attended the annual
festival, according to police estimates.
The word ``eunuch'' refers in India not only to castrated men, but
also to transvestites and transsexuals.
According to the Indian epic Mahabharata, Aravan is sacrificed to
increase his family's chance of a victory in battle. Before being
decapitated, he wants to marry. When no women accepts him, the Hindu
god Krishna turns himself into a woman, marries Aravan and has sex
with him.
For the last 10 years, thousands of eunuchs have flocked to
Koovagam in the southern state of Tamil Nadu for the ceremony. Many
come from distant cities such as Bombay and New Delhi, where they
fled years ago from villages that rejected them.
In this male-dominated nation where homosexuality is taboo, many
gay men join urban eunuch clans, get themselves castrated, and live
as women. There are an estimated 200,000 eunuchs in India.
None live in Koovagam, a rural village that allows the festival to
cash in on the crowds and, more important, to win good luck from
Aravan.
``This is a great festival for us,'' said Banu, a 28-year-old man
with long black hair, who wore an orange sari, dark make-up, silver
ear rings, a pink necklace and nail polish.
``We can dress up as eunuchs without any inhibitions or
criticism.''
Banu said he was rejected by his parents at age 12 and lives in a
clan in a small town. When he earns enough money, he plans to join a
bigger clan in Bombay.
Hundreds of years ago, eunuchs guarded the harems and sacred relics
of India's Muslim rulers, or served as court entertainers.
While they were once common across Europe and Asia, their heyday
was in India during the Mogul empire from 1550 to 1750, where some
became chamberlains, governors and generals.
That system collapsed when the British colonized India and
dismissed eunuchs as freaks. Most survive in cities by selling good
luck or working as prostitutes.
Eunuchs, or ``hijras,'' often are jeered at and sometimes attacked,
but many Indians consider their blessings auspicious for newlyweds
and newborn children. Some believe eunuchs have the power to make
barren women fertile and scare off evil spirits.
Subject: Man cuts off his own sex organs
From: clarinews@clarinet.com (UPI)
Newsgroups: clari.news.interest.quirks,clari.local.ohio
Keywords: quirks, human interest
Copyright: 1994 by UPI, R
Message-ID: <oh-mutilateUR17b_4JC@clarinet.com>
Date: Wed, 12 Jan 94 13:19:23 PST
WOOSTER, Ohio (UPI) -- Richard Zorub, 55, of Wooster, was
hospitalized in fair condition Wednesday after cutting off his own
penis and testicles, reportedly because he could not afford a sex
change operation.
Wooster Police Capt. Don Edwards said Zorub's girlfriend
discovered the mutilation Monday and found Zorub's penis and
testicles in a cooking pot stored inside his refrigerator.
Edwards said when police officers arrived at the scene they found
the man eating a peanut butter and jelly sandwich. He told officers
he needed the energy because he was beginning to feel weak, Edwards
added.
Surgeons at Wooster Community Hospital said they decided not to
reattach the organs because Zorub told them he would only cut them
off again.
He told police he cut off his own penis and testicles because he
could not afford a sex-change operation.
Officials said no charges would be filed in the mutilation, but
they were considering filing telephone harassment and petty theft
charges.
Edwards said Zorub is believed responsible for making more than
400 obscene telephone calls to female telephone operators, during
which he allegedly told them he would like to, among other things,
cut their toenails. The pending theft charge involved the
shoplifting of a pair of toenail clippers.
Edwards said officers escorted Zorub from the Wooster Public
Library Dec. 16 when library officials complained he entered a
women's rest room wearing female clothing.
``The only purpose we would have in filing any charges is to make
sure he receives some intense mental health treatment,'' Edwards
said.
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From: AnonEMoose <an000000@anon.penet.fi>
Newsgroups: alt.sex.stories.bondage,alt.sex.bondage,alt.sex.stories,alt.sex.fetish.fashion
Subject: STORY: The Bottiers in/on Corsets, 17-18 (MF, bd, corsets)
Date: Wed, 06 Nov 1996 12:20:38 -0800
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Subject: STORY: The Bottiers in/on Corsets, 17-18 (MF, bd, corsets)
Newsgroups: alt.sex.stories.bondage,alt.sex.bondage,alt.sex.stories,alt.sex.fetish.fashion
__________________________________________________________________
Subject: Another note from the Bottiers (#17)- was Corseted Ladies, I think.
From: wi.1771@wizvax.methuen.ma.us
Message-ID: <5617@wizvax.methuen.ma.us>
Date: 4 Nov 91 19:37:48 GMT
In <5469@wizvax.methuen.ma.us>, wi.1835 (Shadow Grey) writes:
> Several women have recently posted about receiving additional
> attention from men while wearing corsets. I was wondering if some of
> that attention might be in the attitudes and mind set of the women
> while they were wearing the corsets. First off, perhaps they were
> thinking of themselves as being more sexy while wearing the corset and
> carried/projected themselves differently, sending out subconscious
> signals so to speak.
Oh, without a doubt the attentions of others are affected as much by
the persona projected by the wearer as the wearers' appearance itself-
and this is hardly a silly question at all, as it touches upon the
very core of the tightlacers' psyche.
I am a tightlacer, and have been for many years. I have gone out in
public laced down anywhere from "imperceptibly" to "unbelieveably"
for fully half my adult life, and I have found that the attentions of
onlookers _are_ altered, to greater or lesser degrees- regardless of
how small my waist appears outwardly.
I tightlace because I _enjoy it_- for the undeniably sensual
sensations themselves, as the corset slowly tightens on me under my
husband's (or my own) strong pull, and for the fact that I am then
totally in control of my own form- I can mold myself, as surely as a
sculptor might mold the clay. This has two effects- it has the
wonderful effect of rendering it unnecessary to worry about major
aspects of one's posture, bearing, and appearance, and the pressure of
the busk and stays sends up reinforcing reminder messages to the
effect that "all is well- those concerns are _handled_, think nothing
of them". This control, and the inward and outward effects that
result, have always provided an inordinate boost to my self-esteem.
And of course, if I'm laced down _tightly_, the inward effects are
intense enough that my wabblies can't help but take notice (Thanks for
that turn of phrase, STella!)- but that's a story that we've beaten up
enough already, and not what we're discussing here.
The sensations I feel from the support of the corset gives me a
feeling of confidence that I achieve no other way. It controls me,
shapes me, molds me into precisely what I want to be at that moment,
and keeps me that way- it enforces a proud and upright bearing, and a
the sum total of all these sensations and rearrangements makes it
essentially impossible for me to feel any way _other_ than confident
and in control, in most reasonable social situations. And this I know
others can perceive- even if I were to be laced down under a muu-muu
(don't laugh, I've done it), or one of those shapeless, baggy
sweater-things popular more recently. I am not a tall woman- but a
woman of _any_ stature who carries herself proudly, with erect posture
and not the hint of a slouch about her, will get _noticed_.
And then, of course, if the waist thus created is visible (or
accentuated, with an A-line skirt, padded shoulders, a sweater belted
in with one of those marvelous elastic hook-clasp belts, or two dozen
other ways), the corset wearer can stop traffic. Quite literally- I've
done that, too, and not always intentionally! In this day and age of
cookie-cutter proportions, and a sort of asexual blandness in fashion
in general, a woman who presents what is essentially an ultrafeminine
appearance is a rare item indeed!
I suspect that, at a distance, it may be the tiny waist that gets
noticed first, but it's the proud bearing that holds the attention up
close. And the corset certainly helps enforce this, by its very
definite control over the wearer's body language. It's as if there is
something primordially interesting about a woman who will not wilt
demurely under the glare of attention focussed upon her- I suspect
that most men are very intrigued when their glances are returned,
without the slightest hint of a shy slouch towards the exits, or the
polite aversion of the returned glance.
Which brings us to an interesting point- of course, corset wear is not
a necessary adjunct to this proud bearing. Pride only is required-
thus I should be able to recreate it at will without the aid of my
stays, should I not?
I'm sorry to say it, but I can't, quite. I have no idea why- but it's
certainly one of the major reasons I've been a committed corset
fetishist for lo these many years! Others may find that public display
of their own favorite kinks may inspire in them the same confidence-
as if they were saying "This is _me_, I am what I appear to you to be
_precisely_ because it pleases me!". I can easily imagine it being
that way for others with leather or latex, although they tend not to
affect me as deeply as lacing does. Come to think of it, I am to some
extent affected this way by my heels, as I feel rather like a
5-year-old in flats- but my foot fetish is well known, as well. Your
mileage will most assuredly vary.
> Secondly, perhaps if they were thinking of themselves as being more
> sexy they reinterpreted the signals they were always getting in the
> new light of considering themselves sexy.
There is some merit to this, as positive attention always is a great
shot in the confidence, and confidence can make up for a multitude of
leers. But I maintain that people react to the bearing as much as the
appearance. What do the other tightlacers (if any) here think?
- Mrs. Bottier
__________________________________________________________________
__________________________________________________________________
Subject: Another note from the Bottiers, #18 (was Re: high heels)
From: wi.1771@wizvax.methuen.ma.us
Date: 14 Nov 91 22:29:26 GMT
Oh, dear- if I keep this up, I'll completely kill our reputations as
only being occasional posters, won't I? But this subject is far too
near to my heart to let it go by.
Phaedrus asked, in some article, the meaning of whose number escapes me:
> Does anybody out there _like_ wearing high heels? I'll admit that
> they can accent the visual appeal of a persons legs and posture, but
> I find it difficult to imagine that they can be at all enjoyable to
> wear.
Yes. I do- and I always have. I wear fairly high heels (4" or so) at
work almost everyday, and higher ones often enough. And as we've
written here in the past, I wear _really_ high heels whenever the
fancy strikes me- or whenever my husband requests it, if I haven't
preempted him!
Both of us are foot fetishists of the highest order, I think- I enjoy
the sensations that my heels induce in me, and truly do love the effects
on my posture and the look that they give my legs. And I'm grateful
for any help at all in the height department- after moving to the West
Coast, I have discovered that the average height the of women I work
with has suddenly increased by about 6 inches, compared to the average
height in New England. All the volleyball players would seem to have
stayed out here, and I have to do _something_ to compete! In any case,
it provides a wonderful excuse for me.
Roo said:
> i guess it kinda depends....once your legs start going to rubber,
> standing and
> balance becoome a challange anyway....heels just accentuate that...
Yes. And YES. And for play, or when combined with lacing or some of
our other pleasures, the feelings induced through my hips and legs are
just _electric_! As I wrote what seems like forever ago, on my
highest heels my body is utterly perched on tip-toe, with instep,
shin, and thigh in one straight line. But that's yet another subject
that I've written about here in the past, so I'll not beat it to death
again. After all, I _am_ a fetishist, and this is one of my hot
buttons, so it is quite reasonable for your mileage to vary!
In articles over the past few days, there have been quite a few
viewpoints expressed. There are some of us who like heels, and some of
us who simply can't abide them, and that is as it should be- there are
some women (probably many, in fact) who have structural difficulties
with their feet that would render them wheelchair-bound after a day in
my shoes, and there are many more for whom the aches incurred after a
day of standing on their toes aren't the least bit pleasureable. That
is just right and proper- we all differ in our needs and wants, not to
mention tolerances. However, I'd like to offer up a couple of
suggestions for discussion, and see what people think. And please
understand that this is coming from a dirty old heterosexual
monogamous lady- if you need to swap pronouns, please do them in your
heads.
There are very few men in the world who aren't turned on to some
extent or another by the sight of a woman in heels. Unfortunately,
the professional dress codes of the world, combined with bad
experiences over the years (too many hours spent in heels too high for
the situation), have conspired to totally ruin most women's ability to
_enjoy_ wearing heels- to the extent that many women won't even wear
them for play. And that I find to be very sad!
The dress code at work is non-consensual, as were whatever peer
pressures might have forced some of us into bad experiences. Whatever
structural problems nature gave some of us, that make weightbearing in
heels outright impossible, were also non-consensual. Those are givens.
But what passes between us and our partners for play is consensual,
and therefore negotiable- and futhermore, needs to be separated from
the pressures of the day, the discriminations of the outside world,
and the experiences of the past as much as practicable- our play is
_here_, and _now_, and involves who we are and who we are with. In
private, heels are _toys_, not obligatory articles of fashion. And
toys are to be used for the mutual pleasures of ourselves and our
partners. So- if seeing you in heels is a turn on for your partner,
and a turn-off for you, I claim that it is worthwhile to try to work
it out with your partner- and there are lots of ways to work these
toys into the play, without crippling yourself!
Lothie said:
> Ooooh. PLEASE don't ever do this to me. I've always liked wearing heels,
> but I have these LITTLE TEENSY WEENSY FEET that are 1) very sensitive to
> pain and 2) far too bloody small to be taking all my weight in the first
> place.
Here's an exercise for the reader, then- picture yourself languidly
reclining on a bearskin rug in front of a roaring fire, dressed in a
fine silk dress, pearls, and a pair of 6 inch heeled pumps, with a
couple of snifters of Courvoisier, waiting for the love of your life
to come and sit with you for a time. Would you feel sexy? I would
hope so! Would it _matter_ if it were impossible for you to walk in
the shoes, if the imagery pleased the both of you? Certainly it
wouldn't bother me- in that case I could always prevail upon my
long-suffering husband to _carry_ me anywhere I needed to go, or slip
them off. They go back on easily enough, after all.
The image of a woman thus presented is very sexy and powerful- it is
clear that she is not going anywhere, and that she is there, displayed
in that manner, vulnerable and just that tiny bit helpless,
_precisely_ because she wants to be. That is a very sexy scene, and
one that would drive most men quite mad!
Then picture those same shoes, padlocked in place. All right- when the
padlocks go on, the ability to walk (or bear weight, or whatever your
limits might be) goes away as well, and that is to be understood
between the two of you going in. If he wants you elsewhere, the price
for seeing you in those shoes, locked on, is that he transport you
there. These toys are no different than any other- undoubtedly we all
have toys that there are tacit limits imposed upon, whether they be
too-big ballgags, or too-big plugs, or too-hard paddle strokes.
Negotiate the limits, and be creative- for the fetish for heels is a
very powerful and prevalent one, and to deny it in oneself or one's
partner is as much a mistake as the denial of any other fetish.
Even I have my limits- on my six-inchers, about all I can manage is a
total of about 6 blocks of walking, and that is _it_ for the evening
as far as me even standing on them. For my toe-shoes, maybe 10 feet.
So we know these limits, and respect them, and work within them.
Rosie said:
> I absolutely HATE wearing heels. My husband insists on them
> sometimes, and of course I'll wear them for those times. When I do
> HAVE to get dressed up I wear flats or shoes with low heels (hi
> phaesweetie). Walking around in heels hurts my feet. Funny, I can
> take a lotta pain a lotta places but NOT MY FEET, please NOT MY FEET.
The thing that's easy to lose track of is that there is a huge
difference between dressing for "HAVE to" and dressing for "GROWL!".
A long time ago, I discovered a fact about the foot fetishists of the
world that has long stood me in good stead- and that is that a
fetishist thinks that heels are a turn-on whether the wearer is
bearing weight on them or not! They look sexy when you're sitting
down, they look sexy when you're horizontal, they look _marvelously_
sexy when you're tied to the coffee-table. They look sexy even if your
feet are not in contact with the ground- and even sexier if they are
_kept_ from contact with the ground by a few lovingly applied straps or
ropes. So how about negotiating with him to give him a dose of you in
heels, with the caveat that he make it unnecessary (or _impossible_)
for you to stand in them? I suspect that even the most intractable of
lovers might see the sense in this, and your feet will still love you
in the morning.
I've just reread this, and it's coming off altogether too much as a
religious tract, isn't it? I realize that heels aren't for everybody,
and that I probably sound undescribably shrill to those of you who
fall into that category. I suppose that the thing I want to convey
most strongly is that the play we enter into with our partners is a
consensual thing, and even the details we take for granted are
available to us to use to craft our scenes. Things that the world has
taken from us, we can take back, and share with our partners- if only
we think about it a bit.
- Mrs. Bottier
__________________________________________________________________
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From: AnonEMoose <an000000@anon.penet.fi>
Newsgroups: alt.sex.stories.bondage,alt.sex.bondage,alt.sex.stories,alt.sex.fetish.fashion
Subject: STORY: The Bottiers in/on Corsets, 12-16 (MF, bd, corsets)
Date: Wed, 06 Nov 1996 12:19:05 -0800
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Subject: STORY: The Bottiers in/on Corsets, 12-16 (MF, bd, corsets)
Newsgroups: alt.sex.stories.bondage,alt.sex.bondage,alt.sex.stories,alt.sex.fetish.fashion
__________________________________________________________________
Subject: Another note from the Bottiers (#12)
Another note from the Bottiers (#12)
This article is made up of fragments of other articles that we've
started in on, but are unlikely to have time to finish right now.
We're in the process of relocating, and this involves a bit of
upheaval for the us- in addition to making our access to this account
a bit more difficult. Thus, we thought that we'd just go ahead and
post the beginnings of them for your enjoyment. We may actually get
around to properly finishing them off at some point- we'll just have
to see if we can recreate the original scenes well enough to embroider
them properly... In any case, we hope that you enjoy them just the
same.
We'll likely be out of touch for a while. The very best to you all!
- Bottier
*********************
My husband is a bit of a brute. I'm currently laced down to 20", and
done up in latex stockings, latex corselet over my corset, and latex
gloves covered by my calf gloves, and it is quite hot in here- so I'm
really swimming in these things, especially from the effort needed to
keep myself upright! I have my chastity locked on, with my front and
rear vibrators in place, but off for the moment (the rear with
toothpaste smeared on it- argh!), and I'm bound in a kneeling position
over our footstool. I have my toe-shoes and shoehorns on, and my
ankles are tied up tightly to my waist- so that my knees just rest on
the floor, and my feet are pulled up helplessly behind me. The
footstool is holding my legs well spread, as well as concentrating my
weight on my crotch. I have on my scold's bridle, and my wide collar,
and as a final touch, he's handcuffed me in front, and tied the cuffs
to the base of my front vibrator with a strap. In order to get up to
the keyboard to type (as the footstool is about six inches lower than
a chair woule be), I have to strain as far up as I can with my hands
against the strap, which tugs on the vibrator! He's definitely a
brute, making me type this while bound like this.
The footstool is an antique- it is wooden, about eighteen inches long
and about 6 inches wide, and about a foot high, with two legs at each
end. The sides are tapered away from the top, and it narrows slightly
in the middle- which was what made my husband originally notice that I
could be tied straddling it with my knees on the ground, when we saw
it in the antique store. I'm convinced that that's what its original
designers had in mind- we couldn't have come up with anything more
perfect had we tried!
If he's being nice to me, or if I'm to be left here for a long time,
he'll put something soft on top of it for my weight to bear down on-
he has pairs of carved wooden wedges that nest together and adjust to
fit most perfectly, which he sometimes pads with terrycloth towels
several layers thick- and sometimes not. Otherwise, he just lets the
edges of the top press into my inner thighs, which allows him free
access to several rather sensitive bits. When he ties my feet to my
waist, as they are now, I find it nearly impossible to keep my
balance, especially if my arms are really bound. Sometimes he then
ties ropes from my knees forward and back to the legs of the stool,
which stabilizes me somewhat, or if I'm wearing my scold's bridle, he
might tie a rope from the center top ring to something overhead, which
stabilizes me even more. I have never successfully escaped from
the footstool, and I've been trying for some time- I'm just too afraid
of falling over to try very hard. If I'm tightlaced, the stiffness
really keeps me from being able to maneuver my hips and lower body
very well, so I'm definitely here until he sees fit to release me.
This particular position is pretty stringent- I have to strain against
the cuffs with my hands, and the stiffness of the corset and the
strain in my arms force me to arch my back and actually lean back
quite a bit to reach the keyboard, so it continually feels as if I am
about to topple over backwards. The rear vibrator makes it worse- as I
lean back, more of my weight gets concentrated on it, and even though
it is quite small, its effects are large! At the outset of this, I
could reach down occasionally and support myself with my hands, which
took some of the weight off of my crotch and knees. But he saw me
doing it, and he has now come in and pulled down the cups of the
corselet, and added my nipple clips and a short chain from them to the
handcuffs- so now my hands are held in suspension in front of me at
breast level, and every time I move my them, it tugs on both the
vibrator in my crotch and the clips biting onto my nipples. He's
chosen this time to come back and turn on the front vibrator, and now
he is once again walking away- and here I will stay, at once suffering
agonies and basking in sweet bliss until he sees fit to release me-
struggling to stay upright and swimming in the heat of my
spring-steel, satin, and latex bonds.
***********************************
I recently finished a most worthwhile addition to our collection of
fabricated toys. I call them glove stiffeners, and they seem to be a
nearly ideal toy for discreet public bondages. Longtime readers know
that I very much enjoy my wife's collection of long gloves, and have
her in them whenever I can. I also enjoy working with metals, and one
day was seized with the inspiration for a nearly ideal way to
incorporate gloves into really inescapable but still very discreet
bondages.
I got my wife to sit for me while I took tracings of her hands and
forearms, as she held them in a relaxed position, from each fingertip
up to just below the elbow. I then transferred these patterns to some
..064" stainless steel sheet stock that I keep lying about (the same
stuff I used for her shoehorns, in fact), and went to work forming
them to fit the curvature of her fingers, palms, and wrists. This was
a very time-consuming process, consuming the better part of two weeks
in my spare time, and she was very patient with me as I had her test
each one for fit during the ongoing process- despite her curiosity, as
I hadn't told her wehat it was I had in mind.
Finally, I was rewarded with two perfectly-formed stainless steel
splints, curved to fit her fingers, hands and wrists when they were
relaxed in front of her, as if they were resting on a tabletop. By
this time, she was dying of curiosity- so I showed her what I had in
mind. I placed each of her hands in turn into its splint, and then
rolled a pair of her latex gloves up over them, and up beyond her
elbows- followed by one of her calf gloves.
A few years ago we bought a pair of calf gloves from a vendor who was
not very accurate in sizing things- the gloves turned out to be too
large by a few sizes, and as they didn't fit with the snugness that my
wife craves, they were relegated to the back of a box in the closet.
However, with the splints in place covered by her latex gloves, those
now fit very snugly indeed- it was a struggle for a few minutes to
stretch them into place around her now-rigid fingers, and especially
hard to get them over the heels of her hands (as there's barely enough
room even _without_ the glove stiffeners in place). Saddle soap and a
great deal of patience finally paid off, and the leather stretched
very tightly indeed!
After getting both sets of stiffeners and gloves in place, and
buttoning up the wrists on the calf gloves, I locked her leather wrist
cuffs in place over the buttons- which prevented her from even being
able to unbutton them with her teeth, assuring that they would stay in
place for the duration. To look at her hands, one would think that she
was merely wearing just very slightly bulky gloves- but in reality,
she cannot even move her fingers or bend her wrists, as the stiffness
of the thin metal bent to match the curvature of her fingers is
significantly greater than the strength of her grip. Grasping anything
is completely beyond her- the best she can do is to awkwardly attempt
to press her hands together on opposite sides of an object, and that
is useful for only the crudest of tasks.
Even her sense of touch is completely rendered inoperative, as the
ends of the splint-fingers are formed to surround her sensitive
fingertips, preventing them from touching anything but the unyeilding
steel itself. The world is tantalizingly close, yet utterly beyond her
grasp- which she finds makes her every bit as frantic as being totally
bound helpless. A simple doorknob presents an insurmountable obstacle-
let alone the manipulation of locks, buckles, or laces, all of which I
copiously supply her with.
A few nights after her introduction to the glove stiffeners, I decided
that it would be worthwhile to try them as part of a public scene. I
asked her if she would be willing to try such a thing, and she agreed-
albeit with some noticeable trepidation! She went and had a bath, and
presented herself to me after having finished the chore of applying
her makeup. I applied the stiffeners and gloves first of all, as she
stood naked in the bedroom. I then proceeded to dress her as I saw
fit, which involved lacing her into her ever-present corset, and then
putting together a street outfit which could hide her latex stockings,
panty girdle, and corselet, her two-inch leather collar, her locking
six-inch heels, and her chastity belt, as well as hiding the locking
cuffs at her wrists.
One of her work pantsuits worked very well for this task, with a
cotton turtleneck sweater to cover her collar. This was in fact the
same street outfit that she wore on the restaurant expedition that we
have written about in the past, although the turtleneck was a new
addition, and one that did seem perhaps a bit out-of-place in July.
She stood most quietly as I put the finishing touches on her outfit,
with her hands held out slightly from her sides- I could see the tiny
stretchings of the gloves over her knuckles as she explored the
stiffness of the splints and the extent of her helplessness.
She then asked what I had in mind for our activities for the evening,
and I told her- we would go out to our favorite local restaurant again
for dinner, and then off to see a movie! She was taken quite aback by
this, and asked how in the world she was supposed to eat or drink in
public without the use of her hands (she's actually very good at it in
private, having had ample opportunity to practice, but I'd say that
her techniques _might_ tend to draw a bit of attention). I simply said
that I'd help out in any way that I could, without making a scene, and
that she had nothing to fear- and so we were off, as I opened all the
doors for her and helped her down to the drive and into the car- not
an easy task corseted and wearing such heels, and doubly difficult
when the hands are somewhat restricted.
We arrived at the restaurant, and asked after a booth in the back that
we've had occasion to frequent. We then sat down in the lounge to
wait. I ordered her one of her favorite drinks, to be served with a
straw, and we sat off to the side- she merely placed her hands in her
lap, and drank her fill- although the corset and her collar made it a
bit difficult for her to bend her head down to meet the straw.
When our table opened up, we were seated- although she had a bit more
difficulty than usual handling walking on her heels after one drink on
an empty stomach. I ordered dinner for us, and more drinks, and we
were left quite alone in our private booth as I fed her her dinner.
She told me that having her hands done so seemed even more restrictive
than having them bound behind her would be- if they were bound behind
her, she could merely forget them for the duration, but as they were
she would be tempted to try and use them, with presumably disastrous
results- which presented quite a formidable psychological challenge to
her, as she fears exposure in public so.
We finished dinner, and I paid the check and helped her to the car. We
drove to the cinema, and arrived just in time for the movie to start.
We took seats around mid-theatre (which proved to be something of a
challenge for her, as we had to walk down the inclined aisle to the
seats, effectively increasing the height of heels that were already
nearly impossible for her to manage after three drinks with dinner).
The film was a naval drama of the action-adventure type, starring Sean
Connery, and was entertaining enough- but I entertained myself
significantly more by subtly (or unsubtly!) teasing her as we sat.
After a time, though, I became aware that she was squirming around
rather differently than normally ascribed to excitement, and I asked
her what the problem might be. "Stop that!" she said, "because I have
to go to the bathroom."
Ahh, indeed! Several drinks, added to the compression of her abdomen
and therefore her bladder, would certainly lend a bit of urgency to
her situation. "Be my guest" was all I said- and she sat bolt upright
as the meaning of that sank into her, and the realization that she had
absolutely no chance of manipulating the closure of her pants by
herself, let alone undoing the chastity or peeling down her
panty-girdle to relieve herself- and she was quite effectively sealed
into a latex bodysuit, from toes to armpits. I'm sure that at that
time she weighed the idea of enlisting a bystander to help, and
immediately discarded it out of hand. "Oh, NO!" she said, and then
"You have to help me".
"All right," I said, "go stand outside the men's restroom and wait for
me there- keep an eye on it and see if anyone comes or goes, and when
it's clear we'll go in and fix this situation for you."
I turned and watched in the flickering light in the theatre as she
walked unsteadily up the aisle, apparently trying with all her might
to keep her thighs pressed together- effectively hobbling her step
even more than the heels themselves did. I gave her a few minutes to
watch the room for us, as well as to increase the urgency of the
situation a bit more, and then walked up to join her. She made a most
marvelous sight, leaning lightly against the wall on her impossible
heels (once again, her pants had ridden up a bit, exposing stocking,
shoes, and locked anklestraps for all to see), with her rigid hands
hidden behind her, and her every muscle straining to keep her rather
tormented bladder under control.
All she said was "Hurry!", and we went into the luckily unoccupied
men's room together, selecting the last stall for our trysting-place.
I unfastened her pants, undid the crotchstrap of her chastity,
stripped down her latex pantygirdle, and dodged out of the way as she
lunged for the toilet in the crowded confines of the stall- and sighed
hugely as her poor, overworked muscles could finally relax without
drowning her in her latex prison.
When she was done, she stood up and I handled the routine cleaning
chores for her, and then sat down myself, as she stood facing me.
"Well, dress me back up again and let's go watch the end of the
movie!" she said.
And there I was, staring at the latex-clad form of the love of my
life- corseted, heeled, somewhat disheveled, and unable to use her
hands to re-dress herself, rather at my mercy in fact- hardly an
opportunity to pass up! I reached out to her, and slipped her pants
off over her feet, followed by her pantygirdle, both of which I hung
on the coathook. "Pay toll!" was all I had to say- that, and slip my
own pants down around my ankles. She came to sit down on my lap,
facing me, with her rigid hands resting on my shoulders, and lowered
herself onto me- and we enjoyed each other for some time until we both
were satisfied, interrupted only once or twice as other patrons came
in to use the facility.
I wonder if any of them noticed the curious spectacle of my feet
facing outward, and her impossibly-heeled feet facing inward, through
the gap at the bottom of the stall walls.
I dressed her again, and we had just snuck back out of the men's room,
as the crowd began to pour out of the theatre. I suspect that I'll
never find out how the movie ended. We walked out of the theatre,
borne on the flow of the crowd, and went home- both marvelling at the
efficiency of two small hand-shaped pieces of metal as a bondage toy.
All in all, the effects have proven to be well worth the effort
required!
__________________________________________________________________
From: wi.127@wizvax.methuen.ma.us
Subject: Re: Self-bondage
Date: 30 Apr 91 00:46:48 GMT
Perhaps this should really be called: Another note from the Bottiers (#13)-
with the sounds of caution being tossed to the winds...
On Apr 25, Cecilia M. Tan wrote:
> Topping yourself is tough, but it can be done. Most of the self-bondage I
> have done is mostly mental in nature, but the physical aspect of it is
> important, too. It helps if, like me, you are flexible and can contort
> your body easily. More on this in a moment.
Ahh, there at last is a subject near and very dear indeed to my heart!
I practised self-bondage for many years before I met my husband, as
we've posted about in the past, and I daresay that I've kept my hand
in in the intervening years. Flexibility is a key property, but a
devious creativity and a bit of determination helps as well.
> A question: for how many people was self-bondage your first bondage
> experience (beyond "let's pretend" tying games, cops&robbers etc)?
> I discovered masturbation at age six. It wasn't much longer after that
> I started "pushing myself." I used to do mental tricks, like determine
> somehow how many times I was going to come, and then have to stick to that
> number, no matter how low or high it was (Fate/Luck as the "Top.") Or the
> classic trick of having to keep from coming until some signal... the egg
> timer, a certain song to come on the radio, until the commercial break...
>
> Then when I got into a little pain, too, I used to choose objects at
> random (I had various arcane methods of "divining" things) that I had
> to masturbate with. A shoe, the handle of the scissors, string, a
> leather belt. Some of them were painful, some weren't.
Both my husband and I practise self-bondage, in varying degrees and at
various times, as an aid to self-release- when the other orders it, is
absent, is too worn out, or is indisposed by being helpless
themselves. I enjoy extremes of compression and tension, and find
those sensations to be every bit as overpoweringly exciting as the
helplessness of an inescapable bondage. I find that I can enjoy the
tightness of a self-induced bondage position every bit as much if I
put myself into it (which pretty well determines that I can then get
_out_), as if my husband applies all his considerable talents to
assuring that I _cannot_ get out.
We enjoy self-bondage in a variety of ways. I often use it whenever my
husband is out of town on business for more than a day or two, all by
myself- or sometimes we play games that involve we binding myself
according to a set of instructions he leaves for me, so that he can
find me when he arrives from work- or occasionally, I have used it to
get myself some additional release after he has exhausted himself,
especially if he has already started the job for me. I find that this
often has the added benefit of arousing his interest again (well,
whatever might be _left_ of it, in any case), as I struggle to apply
the pressures and tensions in just the right way, just to cap off the
evening's (or morning's, or day's) play.
And, through years of experimentation, we have found that the same
general types of sensations stimulate him as well- although not as
strongly as me, it seems.
Both of us find the sight of each other struggling against a tight
hogtie to be most delicious, and I think that the hogtie is the ideal
position to start out with for self-bondage. If one has access to two
pairs of leather cuffs and a caribiner, one can arrange a most
satisfactory starting hogtie. Clip the wrists together behind your
back, roll onto the stomach, and clip in each ankle in turn- and the
deed is done. Most men will find that their limited flexibility will
reguire some struggle to make hands meet feet, which will incidentally
grind their sensitive bits into the carpet in a most pleasurable way.
And escape is a fairly easy thing, as the caribiner is right there for
your fingers to manipulate.
If you are into a greater level of struggle, then use a padlock
instead of the caribiner, and just leave the key on the floor beside
you, or perhaps across the room- and make SURE that you have someone
who will come 'round after a while and let you out, because that can
be a very big struggle indeed. Especially if you add gloves to the
picture. Or a blindfold. One word of caution, though- if you like to
play with gags, these types of scenes can be very strenuous, and you
are very likely to get _very_ winded. Make sure that nothing can
compromise your breathing (we have a wiffle-ball ball gag that I'm
partial to, for solo scenes- it makes me feel very gagged, but I can
still breathe through it- even if I do tend to make a _huge_ mess of
the carpet or bed that way. Try it, and you'll understand.)
Most women will find this a bit lacking in the stimulus department,
though, and will need a bit more oof to really enjoy the ride. I am a
tightlacer, and I always arrange to be laced down- even for my solo
scenes, so I have the compression of the corset to look forward to.
And I have one corset that has a short extension on the busk at the
bottom front, that extends down just past my pubic bone- so if I arch
my back by pulling out with my ankles, I can semi-press all of my good
bits up against it- or at least come tantalizingly close as I
struggle, which I find to be _exquisitely_ exciting.
This is fairly tame, though. To increase the level of stimulus, one
merely has to increase the level of tightness of the pose! Tie the
legs together just below the knees, as an example. I also very much
enjoy adding a crotch rope, or the crotch strap of my chastity, to my
own solo bondages- and I have found that this works marvels on my
husband as well! Here are some ideas that I truly love.
We use flat nylon tubular webbing a great deal, and it is wonderful
for this. I will wrap a 10-or-so foot length around my waist over the
corset several times, and tie it in the center front, pulling out all
the slack as tightly as I can. I then take the two tail ends, and run
them through my crotch, twisting them around so that they lie flat (or
sometimes, twisting them up all the more...), and up in the rear. I
then slide them under the waist wrap, so that the tail ends go all the
way back up to my waist in the rear, and then hang down on the outside
of the waist wrap.
We have a one-way buckle on a ring that my husband got from a
camping-goods store- the mechanism looks for all the world like half a
butterfly hair clip riveted to a metal plate, and the spring-loaded
part allows the webbing to go though one way, but not the other
(unless the release lever part of the butterfly is pressed). This I
fasten to my ankles (for this scene, I usually just tie them together
with a few leather straps or more webbing, for the least slack of all,
and I always tie my knees as well). I then can feed the tail ends of
the crotch strap through between my wrists, and down to the one-way
buckle at my ankles.
This allows me to pull slack out of the waist wrap through the crotch
strap, by straining my legs out, and then pull the slack out through
the one-way buckle as I relax my legs. Repeating this slowly increases
the tightness of the waist wrap, crotch straps, and the tension in my
arms and legs to any level I desire! Not to mention allowing me to
squirm however much I want, or really grind my interesting bits up
against the corset busk and straps, or tug the webbing in between my
lips, or rub my nipples and breasts against whatever I might be laying
on (more interesting if clips are added, of course), and so on and so
on. And release is merely a matter of squeezing the buckle with my
fingers. There are also a variety of one-way slip knots that my
husband knows, but this buckle apparatus has made it unnecessary for
me to learn them!
This sort of treatment works very well on my husband, as well- and I
find that adding a vibrator right where it will do him the most good,
perhaps lubricated with just the tiniest smear of toothpaste if I'm
feeling obstreporous, and perhaps wrapping the crotch strap around the
base of the vibrator where it protrudes from his rear so that his
struggles tweak it just a bit, can also be used to drive him wild. Of
course, there are all manner of other good bits down there that can be
incorporated into the bondage as well! He tends not to pull as much
slack out of his own hogtie as I do, though- usually I find that I
need to _remind_ him...
We have a large variety of other toys that we can each use to make
these situations more intense and pleaurable, some that we've written
about in the past- but they are generally expensive, hard to obtain,
or not of interest to the casual public. For example, I suspect that
none of you reading this have a knee length corset, so telling you
that using the one-way buckle as a way of simultaneously lacing the
corset ever tighter and tightening the hogtie would be of little
benefit. However, if you do, you'll need to use nylon laces, doubled,
or they'll break, and reinforced eyelets, or they'll pull out- and the
buckle can slip a bit on the thin laces, which can detract from the
scene. But _oh_, is it delicious!
And there is nothing magical about the hogtie- as I'm sure other
posters will indicate, there are as many favorite poses as there are
practicioners.
Now, if I could just devine a way of tying my own elbows together
behind me in this pose- I find that the added tightness and tension in
my arms and shoulders really helps arouse me, not to mention letting
me concentrate more weight on my breasts, but I have never been able
to dream up any way to do this at all. Any ideas will be graciously
accepted.
> Go on, PUSH YOURSELF. See what you can do, don't be afraid to be cruel.
> After all, you'll know the safeword!
How true- how _gloriously_ true. The very best to you and yours!
- Mrs. Bottier
__________________________________________________________________
Subject: Corsets (or, another note from the Bottiers- #14)
On Apr 29, Jennifer Brooks wrote:
> Lotsa folks are talking. I've been studying costume for a long
> time, even longer than I've been a pervert, so here's my 2cents:
Good for you! There aren't nearly enough of us out here!
> Factoid: what folks are talking about in this discussion is the
> Victorian corset (England, 1820-1900, or so.) The Victorian folks were
> amazing in their ability to hold completely contradictory notions, such
> as the idea that men are unable to control their sexuality, while women
> have no sexuality at all, and are in charge of controlling mens'. (This
> is because women were more evolved, more spiritual, less animal-like.)
> (Before you flame more for good presentation, let me assure you that I
> disagree with these notions.) Children were also seen as simultaneously
> innocent and angel-like, and as great sexual temptations. ("Virgins" in
> brothels were a huge draw.)
Too true. For what it's worth, many corset fetishists (my husband and
I included) are rather partial to designs from the early Edwardian
period also (1899-1910 or thereabouts). That period saw the
reintroduction of the hobbleskirt, and the corsetieres of the period
took that opportunity to do their level best to take advantage of it-
with mid-thigh and knee length designs, intended to accompany the
shift of focus from the waist to the hips.
> There was a lot of emphasis placed on self-control, and on physical
> manifestations of spiritual qualities: so if you were a good person, it
> showed in your beauty, clear skin, blond hair, and straight back.
> Backboards were used, and corsets were used.
Not to mention the terrible techniques used to prevent or discourage
masturbation, which was certainly looked upon as the ultimate
embodiment of impurity- and therefore made all the more precious. Many
women became corset fetishists at that time, as there is no question
that a properly fitted corset can be a magnificent tool for sexual
arousal!
> As the century progressed, fashions changed and got more extreme.
> Corsets changed, too. They got tighter and tighter and tighter.
> Remember that scene in "Gone With The Wind" where Scarlet wants back her
> pre-childbearing waistline of **18"**? Now, think about it. A *very*
> slender woman today has a waistline of 24". I have a waistline of 26 or
> 27 or 28 inches, and I'm by no means fat. Those corsets were laced
> *tightly* - by some women.
Yes, and no. I have been tightlacing for over 20 years, and maintain a
corseted waistline of 20"-21", and my normal waistline is 25" or so. I
have gone down as small as 19" as recently as four years ago, for a
friend's wedding. The point is, that after many years of wear,
maintaining a corseted waistline of roughly 21" is little problem,
given a ready supply of well-fitted corsets (not at all a simple thing
to assure these days). The problem comes with attempting to squash 6"
off the normal waistline _all at once_, and with a poorly fitted
garment to boot. That is why many women who decide to try lacing
abandon it after one attempt, when their burly husband/boyfriend/SO
lovingly crushes them all at once, with improperly placed boning
biting into their skin and muscle, which I can attest results in a
_singular_ agony.
No, the women of the Victorian period achieved their reductions
through a regimen of lacing no less lifelong, and involving, than our
modern day aerobics fetishists. There is no doubt in my mind that
about the same percentage of Victorian women actually _enjoyed_ their
regimen, and even became committed fetishists, as the modern women who
our society compels to pound themselves to death in the aerobics
classes enjoy theirs- which is to say: few, but enough.
It's so tragic- there are women who ruin their feet by bouncing up and
down for hours in front of some drill-sergeant instructors, spoiling
them forever for wearing heels! (:-)
> Well, I've *worn* corsets, of different time periods, and my experiences
> negate what you are saying here. Corsets compress the ribs. That's
> one reason why you have to keep re-tightening them for an hour or so-
> the ribs compress and the corset isn't as tight anymore. You also have
> to loosen them slowly, or the muscles hurt from the sudden release of
> pressure.
That is certainly the case with the Elizabethan corsets you describe
elsewhere- but should be less true of the Victorian, and especially
the Edwardian designs when well-fitted. My favorite corsets are
reproductions of an 1883 Parisian design, very similar to some of the
fluted designs illustrated in Norah Waugh's _Corsets and Crinolines_,
with which you are probably familiar. The goal of this design is to
accommodate the largely unmoveable ribcage (after its initial
compression, of course) as well as the hipbones, by the inclusion of
several gussetted flutes, and alter the boning accordingly. This
allows the compression to be focussed upon the waist itself, rather
than simply irritating the skin over the immovable portions- and due
to the forward sweep of the boning, it also helps create the very
gentle forward lean so beloved of my husband and myself.
The problem is finding a corsetiere who can cut the garment to really
properly fit- without that, long term lacing becomes a study in
discomfort, rather than a pleasurable exercise in body sculpting.
> Now, that applies to Elizabethan corsets, and to modern "merry widow"
> style corsets. The corsets worn during the Victorian times really did
> do damage to women. I don't know what the difference is in
> construction, but there really *are* documented cases of women's
> internal organs falling out thru their vaginas, because the abdominal
> muscles were too weak to support them any more.
Here we part company, I think. Please promise me this one thing-
before you post again with information of this nature, research it as
thoroughly as you can. As a corset fetishist, I _have_: and what I've
found can help shed some light on this bizarre era in fashion history.
Please obtain, by hook, or crook, David Kunzle's seminal work on the
subject: _Fashion and Fetishism_, Rowman 1982. You'll find that he has
done a marvelously balanced research into the subject- his
bibliography alone runs some 15 pages, and actually seeking out the
individual references has become a lifework for my husband and I.
This era was rife with a struggle between the fashion reformers, and
the fashioners themselves, and the public at large. It was an innocent
era, and the topic of tightlacing extended into the very bedrooms of
everyone, from the most common to those of royal blood. It should come
as no surprise that a certain level of tabloid journalism was brought
to bear on the subject- and even within the medical profession itself,
much controversy raged and disinformation was spread. And some of this
disinformation (from _both_ sides) became essentially urban legend.
The widely-circulated story of the "Countess with the 11-inch waist"
was no more based in fact than the widely-circulated stories of
"hundreds of women who die each day in the corset shops of the East
End, themselves tightlacers". The truth lies somewhere between.
Kunzle quotes extensively, and equally, from the tabloid literature,
fetishist correspondence of the day, and from the few scientifically
valid and documented studies performed during that era. You'll find
the material fascinating, I'm sure.
> (Btw, Victorian women sometimes had ribs surgically removed to make
> their waistlines even more corset-able.)
Sometimes, yes. More common was that they had them broken, so that the
corset could then mold them as they healed. And yes, there are
documented cases of deaths caused by this practice, due to punctured
lungs and internal trauma- perhaps as many as ten or fifteen cases. But
despite the rarity of this type of occurrence, it still found a great
deal of press coverage in the dress-reform-minded press, which made it
seem as if it was a daily occurrence as they trumpeted the news from
on high!
> >As far as inability to perform any form of exertion that requires more than
> >minimal oxygen intake is concerned, I know that the actress Sabina used to
> >play cricket in a corset. And I know people who have made love in one.
>
> I don't know when the actress you mention lived; I don't know what sort
> of corset she wore - or how tightly she laced it! I do strongly suspect
> that the (modern?) folks you know who have made love in a corset - two
> corsets? - very likely did not have them laced anything like as tightly
> as Victorian women laced theirs.
The photo referred to is in the Kunzle book. At the time, she was
laced down to roughly 20", and was also wearing a metal belt over her
cricket whites. She cuts a magnificent figure, I must say. And by
today's standards, she was fairly tight-laced at the time, probably in
a short corset to leave her hips free- but not that much compression
is required to maintain a figure sculpted by long training, so the
overall restriction of movement would be much less than that
experienced by a casual or first-time lacer.
The relevent section from the book reads as follows:
> Combining film bust with fashion waist, actresses in the late 1950s
> flaunted the most extraordinary diproportion. The best known was
> Sabrina, with a 42-inch bust (supposedly insured at a rate of 2,500
> pounds Sterling per inch under 41 inches at a premium of 10 pounds
> Sterling per week) over a 19-inch waist. According to a news article
> entitled WOTTAWAIST, the latter measurement was challenged by a
> belt-maker of Plymouth named Zygfryd Szmidt, who made her a 19-inch
> belt. "She took a deep breath, and two husky he-men tugged and tugged
> until the buckle closed. 'Is it on?' she asked. 'I can't see it!'"
> Tenuously hinged in an all-steel belt, insectoid, Sabrina demonstrated
> her athletic prowess at a charity cricket match (Plate 82).
Clearly she must have been something of a fetishist as well!
And I would claim that some of our corseted lovemaking has been
undertaken while laced down at least as tightly as the Victorians-
perhaps, since some of our scenes last a shorter time, even tighter.
And I can attest that two corseted people making love is an exquisite
thing indeed- my husband can support my entire weight by clasping my
waist in his hands, and the corset distributes the pressure around me-
allowing me to essentially float free in midair to enjoy the pressures
of the corset from without and my husband from within- and _that_ is an
unalloyed delight!
> It was completely common, in the middle and upper classes, for women to
> "take to their couches," fairly early in life. Like in their late 20's
> and 30's. This meant exactly what it sounds like - they became invalids
> and did almost nothing. They had household servants and children to actually
> do things; all they needed to do was "run" the household, and possibly have
> children every so often. There were real medical reasons for women's
> doing this. Some of them were clinically depressed; some of them were
> lead poisoned; some of them were chronically short of air because they
> even *slept* in their corsets!
Sleeping corsets are not the demonic things you seem to believe they
are, and mine do not make me particularly short of air- but I do not
advocate them unless you share our love for the sensations themselves,
_for their own sweet sakes_. For that matter, I can't advocate
tightlacing at all, even to please a devoted partner, unless one finds
the sensations rewarding in their own right!
> The Prince Regent was Victoria's father. Men did wear corsets, in the
> very earliest years of the 1800's. Women's corsets became
> life-threatening in the late 1800's. It's really not fair to compare
> the two times.
This style of research is really more akin to archaeology than fashion
history, but I do encourage you to look beyond the urban legend into
the realities of the times. I can't help but point out that the injury
and mortality rate from _improperly applied_ aerobics classes probably
comes surprisingly close to that from corset wear in the Victorian
period- but there are no masses of "exercise reform" journalists
printing tabloid accounts of these tragedies, to spur an apathetic public
into taking action to stop the horror. The pressures felt by women
to conform have exposed us to tortures at _every_ generation, and
undoubtedly there are some of us in each generation who have found
these tortures quite to our liking!
You may never try lacing again, as it sounds as if your experiences
were as miserable as many women's tend to be. And I wouldn't dream of
arguing about that experience with you. But if you do decide to try
again, please go gently, and with good knowledge of what you mean to
accomplish.
Enjoy- and the very best to you and yours!
- Mrs. Bottier
<FF>
____________________________________________________________
Subject: Corsetry, and the fitting thereof (rather long, I'm afraid) #15
From: wi.125@wizvax.methuen.ma.us (The Bottiers)
Date: 18 Jul 91 07:18:24 EDT
This seems to have gotten a bit long, so skip this unless you are
particularly partial to corsetry!
On July 14, 1991, Dr. Roger Ramjet wrote:
> My lady just received a handmade corset as a gift from a good friend.
> However, the undergarment is just a tad too big -- it will tighten up, but
> it does little in the way of corseting. Is there any way that any of you
> enthusiasts know of to temporarily modify a corset to allow it to fit on a
> smaller person? I would appreciate email or public replies on this, as she
> cannot wait to experience one. Thank you.
Well, congratulations to the both of you! I'd like to add a few cents'
worth on the subject, as it's always good to help out another person who
might develop into a tightlacer.
Fitting a corset is always a difficult thing, and very time-consuming-
but well worth the effort! Before I started having all mine custom
made, I did a fair amount of fitting off-the-shelf designs, and making
my own from patterns- and it takes a great deal of time to get even
approximately right.
I'll assume that this is a proper back-lacing, front-busk modern corset,
extending from just under the bust down to about the pelvic bone in the
front- and that the fit problems are that it tightens perhaps a bit
around the waist and just hangs loose at the ribcage and the hips.
Further, I'll assume that it is constructed using the normal modern
2-layer style, with a sturdy cotton coutil inner layer, ideally a
cotton tape reinforcement right at the waistline, and a satin or other
dress layer outside, and that the boning follows the normal modern
pattern, with one strip run vertically along the seams between
each of the individual pieces that make up each half-corset.
The curves are very complex, and hard to fit unless you're a _very_
advanced seamster- so I'd recommend that you cheat a bit. You want it
to lay very snugly around the lower ribcage when laced down until the
lacing gap is open about 1-1/2 inches. At the bottom, you would like
it to just tighten across the hipbones, and snug the busk down against
the pelvic bone, with about the same gap (or a little bigger).
And the waist should just do whatever it does, so that you don't have
to try and play with the complex curves- for a first corset, you
shouldn't concern yourself overmuch with the exact measurement, as the
effects of compression (to the wearer) and the aesthetic effects (to
the observer) will be quite wonderful, regardless of exactly how tiny
it is. Besides, any more than a 3-4" reduction from the uncorsetted
size will require some acclimatization (and sturdier construction than
you are likely to achieve through these modifications!).
The easiest, most functional way to accomplish this is to take 4 tucks
(stitched-in double folds) in the garment- two on each half-corset.
Remove the laces, separating the halves of the corset, and make one
tuck in the first panel on each side, right beside the busk- let's say
3/8" or 1/2" deep, all the way from the top edge to the bottom edge.
Make a similar one on the last panel, just before the boning at the
lacing eyelets. The first and last panels are the only panels that
have very little compound curving in the cut, you see.
If the corset is a bit looser on the top than on the bottom (which it
is for most of us!), then taper the tucks- for example, make it 1/2"
at the top and 3/8" at the bottom. Four 1/2" tucks will take 2" or so
out of the garment, equally at top, waist, and bottom- and that will
probably really snug it up enough for her to enjoy it.
On July 16, William Blanton responded:
> If it seems to fit pretty well anyways and it's just too loose, fold it in
> half at the back, outside of the corset folder against outside, then run a
> line of stitching about 2" along the inside of the fold. (Again, use a long
> stitch so you can pull it out again, without much difficulty).
> As long as you're willing to put up with the discomfort this will entail
> while wearing, it should work as an introduction but...
Hmm- If it has no busk, or front laces, then it's not the kind of
design that will be conducive to real lacing. Similarly, if it has no
bones, it won't work on the female physique _at all_- the contrast in
sizes and the tension will lead to the entire garment bunching up in
the waist. That's what the bones are for!
Whatever you do, _don't_ do as was suggested and simply take a single
flat fold anywhere- especially out of the middle of each half-corset!
That's right where the compound curve is the most extreme, and no
simple straight fold can possibly preserve it. It is also where the
pressure against the skin is the highest- and I would not suggest
exposing a new lacer to the peculiar agonies of having a fold pressed
into her skin just at the side of the waistline, or worse yet the top
of the hipbone. My regards to Mr. Blanton, but my experience has been
that men's corsets are ever so much easier to fit than women's- you
men just simply have no _shape_, so a tubular approximation works
quite well! (:-)
And resist the temptation (if you can) to take it down too tight- a
modified garment simply can't be as comfortable as a custom fit one,
and if you try to go too small, the temptation will be there to really
pull it in- which will result in either a) a very uncomfortable wearer,
or b) exploded seams in your tucks.
The fitting process will consist of pressing the tucks with an iron
(to hold their shape), pinning them (using LOTS of pins), and trying
on with a _very_ gentle lacing- I used to use button thread for the
laces, to keep from trying to pull it too tight when it is only pinned
and not sewn. After all, too much tightness will pull the pins- which
will probably result in the wearer being punctured by the wayward pins
as they head for freedom- which might, or might not, not be part of
the scene of interest! This fitting process can be iterated on,
pressing the halves flat before taking new tucks, until the tucks are
right.
When sewing the tucks in place, do stitch them down with a long stitch
for a trial run at low tension- then, I would recommend running up both
edges of all tucks with a satin stitch, to _really_ reinforce the
area- especially at the waist. Make sure that the waist reinforcement
tape is well-stitched, as that provides much of the strength of the
garment in this highly-stressed area. The satin stitch also has
worthwhile property of flattening and smoothing the edges of the tuck-
if done properly, it will be very flat indeed, and provide little
irritation.
A perfectionist would use a seam-ripper to gently free the edge
binding at the top and bottom edges right at the tucks, and sew it
back down, trimmed to size after the tucks are taken, to dress the
edges and prevent building up bulk there.
And when all the fitting is done, and the time comes for the first
real trial run, take your time. This may be the hardest advice of all
to follow- and is the most crucial. The problem comes with attempting
to squash many inches off the normal waistline _all at once_, and with
an imperfectly fitted garment to boot. That is why many women who
decide to try lacing abandon it after one attempt, when their burly
husband/boyfriend/SO lovingly crushes them all at once, with
improperly placed boning biting into their skin and muscle without
it having a chance to become acclimated and move aside. This, I can
attest, results in a _singular_ agony- women are gloriously moldable
creatures, but there are limits! The first lacing should just be
snug, followed by 15 or 20 minutes' rest. Then go in another bit,
perhaps half-an-inch- and another rest. Go until it is _tight_, in
easy stages, and then stop there. Wear at the level of _tight_ for two
or three hours, and then be treated to the pleasant discovery that
_tight_ isn't anymore, as the soft tissues have molded to the garment.
The limits of comfort occur when the corset tries to compress
hipbones, or overcompress ribs. Ribs will give quite a bit- that's
part of the fun! But squeezing these bony bits too much obviously is
doomed to failure, so room must to be added in to accommodate them as
the soft tissues nearby are compressed further. Or, when the corset
can be worn laced fully closed- at which point it's time for a new
(smaller) corset!
As Mr. Blanton pointed out, the real way to do this is to have a
garment custom made, and there are several sources that have been
discussed in this group in the past. I agree- if the goal is to have a
corseted waist more than 3-4" smaller than the uncorsetted waist, a
custom fit garment is nearly a requirement. Similarly, if the goal is
real figure training, or all-day wear, then the niggling little
annoyances of pressure points and folds and whatnot need to be dealt
with.
I hope that this helps all the would-be lacers who have acquired stock
garments on speculation, and have discovered that they just don't fit
quite well enough to give that _oomph_ that was desired. Go gently,
and enjoy your newfound pursuits- and by all means, let us know how it
goes!
The very best to you and yours!
- Mrs. Bottier
__________________________________________________________________
Subject: Another note from the Bottiers (#16), was Re: Bondaged from behind
From: wi.1771@wizvax.methuen.ma.us
Message-ID: <5330@wizvax.methuen.ma.us>
Date: 25 Oct 91 09:04:11 GMT
In article <5113@wizvax.methuen.ma.us> wi.733@wizvax.methuen.ma.us
(Dan) writes:
> Is there a comfortable position for her to be in while on her knees,
> but bent forward with her hands handcuffed behin dher back? Thus,
> her hips are raised in the air, but her shoulders and head are touching the
> bed.
Ahh, yes, the joys of bottoms-up bondage! There are more variations
available here than you can imagine, as Rob and Beverly (and others I
haven't read yet, no doubt) have pointed out. So I'll just take this
opportunity to embellish this topic with some of our own favorites.
On her knees, certainly- we purchased a sofa many years ago
specifically because its cushions were exactly the right height for
this position. This prevents the strain in her neck and shoulders from
becoming too annoying, as her torso is supported equally well along
its length. An extra dimension is added if breast bondage is
incorporated as well, as her weight will be concentrated on her
breasts, and motion of her torso (voluntary or involuntary) will have
the effect of intensifying the sensations of "boundness" as they move
against the upholstery. Wrists bound behind, or to her ankles, as you
will- Beverly's post suggested a favorite of ours for bedtop bondage.
Also, the kneeling-in-front-of-the-sofa position and a loose loop of
rope at the elbows can turn this simple kneeling position, with ankles
bound to wrists, into a study in intensity. This will put a bit of an
arch in her back, and pull her heels up right to her rear, leaving her
draped helplessly over the edge of the sofa- which we both find to be
a most pleasant image. Add a spreader bar at the knees, and they'll no
longer _quite_ reach the floor- removing her last ability to get
leverage to move. Oh, if that sofa could talk, what stories it could
tell! So, come to think of it, could the kitchen table...
We both happen to be very partial to a standing position involving
spreader bars- as a result some years ago I discovered an ideal,
inexpensive way to make them, assuming that you have access to a good
set of "D-ring and slot" style cuffs. I'll give descriptions of the
bars below, but the position is simple- her standing, facing the sofa,
ankles held spread about 3 feet with one of the spreader bars. As a
rabid foot fetishist, I will always have her on her 6-inch heels for
this, and position her with each foot on a thick book (or if I'm
feeling particularly mean, a section of four-by-four), so that she is
raised up about 8 inches overall- the utility of which will become
more clear in a moment. She is bent forward at the hips, and her
wrists are spread a bit less than 4 feet with the other bar, which is
fastened down in the center to an eyebolt at the center rear of the
sofa, down between the cushions where it is unnoticeable during normal
daily use.
Thus, she supports her torso with her arms, and the heels and books
hold her rear and all the adjoining good bits at exactly the right
height and angle to make them accessible to me for whatever purposes I
might have in mind. And her feet and legs are beautifully displayed
for our mutual enjoyment. As long as she doesn't bend her knees, she
is positioned perfectly- so I'll always arrange for an appropriate
deterrent to knee-bending. Or, for stepping off the books or blocks,
for that matter- she is always very quiet and careful on the blocks,
as they are a bit unstable under her as she stands up on her toes in
those very high heels.
And all manner of intensifiers can be added- from her corset (which is
almost always there in any case, and is rigidly boned enough to
prevent her from being able to use the muscles in her lower back for
leverage to stand up straight), to her scold's bridle, to plugs for
whichever of her portals might be unoccupied (with perhaps a smear of
toothpaste for her rear just for good measure), nipple clips, and so
on- I could go on for hours, boring you all quite to tears, but I'm
sure that you get the general drift. Intensity embodied- and a very
cozy way to spend an evening if there's a fire in the fireplace.
But on to the mechanical part, how to make spreader bars. I prefer
adjustablilty- which costs a fortune if bought ready made. Luckily,
hardware stores everywhere stock adjustable telescoping clothes bars-
which consist generally of two closely-fitted aluminium tubes, usually
with a spring in the middle. Obtain one of these, say a four-footer.
Discard the spring, slip the outer tube over the inner, and cut a two
foot six inch section of this doubled tube- this will allow
adjustability out to four feet or thereabouts, with sufficient overlap
remaining for strength. Then drill a series of 3/8" holes right
through the centerline of the two nested tubes every two inches or so-
make the intervals even. And finally, drill a 3/8" hole 1/4" in from
each end. Slip the inner tube out, deburr all the holes and the bar
ends (to protect the skin of the bindee from accidental injury from
the sharp edges left by the drilling and cutting), and there you are-
an adjustable spreader bar!
It may not look like much by itself- but combined with the D-ring/slot
cuffs, and 3 padlocks with long enough shackles to slip through the
drilled holes, you are well set up. The tubes are slipped out to the
length desired, the set of holes nearest the center are lined up, and
then the first padlock is slipped through to lock in the adjustment.
The first cuff is applied, its D-ring is slipped up inside one end of
the telescoped tubes, and the second padlock is slipped through the
end holes- locking the D-ring on the cuff up inside the end of the
bar. The same is repeated at the other end- and viola! A spreader bar
for the masses, and certainly cheap enough that everyone should have
several for their toyboxes. The D-ring closure provides a double
thickness of leather to adequately pad the end of the bar to prevent
it bruising the wearer, and there is little question about
escapability. For our standing sofa scene above, I'll usually lock the
center lock on the wrist spreader to the eyebolt on the sofa- and that
is most assuredly _that_ for the duration.
Speaking of which, I feel a need to close this just now, and perhaps
conduct a bit of research into another variation which just occurred
to me! If you'll excuse me...
The very best to you and yours!
-Bottier
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From: AnonEMoose <an000000@anon.penet.fi>
Newsgroups: alt.sex.stories.bondage,alt.sex.bondage,alt.sex.stories,alt.sex.fetish.fashion
Subject: STORY: The Bottiers in/on Corsets, 7-11 (MF, bd, corsets)
Date: Wed, 06 Nov 1996 12:17:19 -0800
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Subject: STORY: The Bottiers in/on Corsets, 7-11 (MF, bd, corsets)
Newsgroups: alt.sex.stories.bondage,alt.sex.bondage,alt.sex.stories,alt.sex.fetish.fashion
__________________________________________________________________
Subject: Another note from the Bottiers (#7)
- 7 -
There has been a great deal of healthy discussion of bondage
techniques, positions, and the like here recently. Several posters
have asked about positions for bondage games. My wife and I employ a
variety of different positions, depending largely upon what stimulus
she desires, and whether we want to actually have intercourse as part
of the scene or whether it is intended to stand by itself.
This is one scene that we recently discovered. As I arrived home from
work, I was greeted by the always-welcome sight of her work clothes
draped over the back of the couch, which is a sure sign that she has
come home and changed into something less comfortable. I walked back
to the bedroom, and found her seated on the edge of the bed dressed in
her latex stockings, her ballet heeled shoes and shoehorns, her black
leather corset, and her long black latex gloves. The toy box was out,
so I asked her what was her pleasure for the evening. She asked me to
finish lacing her in, and as she lay down on her front so that I could
finish that task (as she still finds it impossible to stand for any
length of time on those heels), we talked about what we should create.
She was feeling a bit frisky, and coquetteishly challenged me to find
some way to bind her face down that prevented her rolling over,
without actually securing her to the bed.
I accepted the challenge, and hastened to the task at hand. I added
her scold's bridle, her wide collar, and her chastity belt with the
wide saddle strap and the rear plug to the costume. Soon, she was
seated on the edge of the bed, feet on tiptoe, and hands bound behind
her with some of our leather cuffs. I moved her back onto the bed a
few feet, and after putting a set of cuffs on her ankles, pulled her
legs up into essentially the lotus position, with legs crossed over
one another in front.
The latex stockings made getting her legs into this position
interesting, as I hadn't powdered them very well. I then unfastened
her hands from each other, and pulled her right wrist across behind
her back to her left side and secured it to her right ankle with a
narrow leather strap. I bound her left wrist and ankle in the same
way, and then began a slow series of tightenings, pulling slack out of
the strap that secured each wrist to each ankle. Soon, she was
stretched quite tightly, with each heel pulled as close to her hipbone
as possible, and each wrist pulled tightly across her back and into
her corseted waist at the sides, with her elbows crossing at the
center back. One more small strap secured her elbows together.
She looked at me with her look that means "is that all"? I asked her
how she was doing, and she responded with our "I'm ok" sound and what
must have been quite a toss of the head, given her collar and the
mount of tension in her shoulders. The tension had pulled them back as
far as they would go, and the corset held her waist essentially rigid
as her arms pulled around behind her. This arched her back
significantly, which concentrated all her weight over the plug in her
bottom, as well as making her breasts stand out most appealingly. I
took this as an invitation to annoy her nipples a bit, and fastened
her chained pair of nipple clamps in place. At this, she began showing
signs of arousal! I then rolled her gently over face-down, with a
stack of several pillows underneath her chest, pressing her weight
down onto her knees and breasts. This forced her hips to extend
slightly, increasing the tension in her arms and the arch in her back,
and left her bottom pushed straight up in the air.
I then asked her how the process of rolling over was going. She
struggled a bit, attempted to roll around for a moment, and then began
rhythmically twisting her upper torso from side to side in an effort
to apply some more stimulus to her nipples. The stiff corset and the
tensions in her arms and legs kept her from moving very much at all,
though- her shoulders could perhaps move an inch each way. The stiff
collar kept her from being able to look around towards me, and I knelt
on the bed behind her, out of her view, and played with her for a
time. It was becoming clear that she was not receiving the level of
stimulus she desired, and the strenuous nature of the position made it
necessary to turn up the heat, so to speak, to allow her her
satisfaction, or release her before the position became intolerable.
I was then seized with an inspiration, and unfastened the saddle strap
of her chastity belt. I removed the plug from her rear, and replaced
it with one of her smaller vibrators. I lubricated it with a smear of
toothpaste, which causes an irresistable burning sensation, and always
makes her move her rear most attractively. I then looped a length of
hemp twine around the base of the vibrator where it protruded from her
bottom, and pulled it tight and tied it to the ring at the top of her
bridle. Thus, each movement she made with shoulders, head, or hips
tended to physically tug against the vibrator in her rear, and the
coarse twine rubbed against her skin all 'round as well. This twist
made her movements take on a much more frantic edge! I gave her a
moment to drink in the sensations, and then, kneeling behind her,
picked her up gently by her tightly-stretched hips and entered her
myself as well. And we enjoyed one another until we were both well
exhausted!
-Bottier
__________________________________________________________________
Subject: Another note from the Bottiers (#8)
- 8 -
As we stated a few articles back, my wife has been working on a
modification to her knee-length corset to extend it upwards to
approximately turtleneck height, in an effort to expand the portion of
her body in the compressed state created by her corset to include her
breasts and upper torso. Several correspondents have written to ask
how this project is going.
The making of corsetry is a nontrivial undertaking indeed! The actual
cutting and initial assembly took only a few weeks- but the final
fitting process has been going on now for several months. She is doing
most of the work on a full-length dressmakers' dummy that we made for
the purpose. The making of the dummy itself was quite a project, and
gave us both a chance to fulfill a few fantasies that we had always
kept on the back burner. The article on mummification published here
last week recalled this all to mind, and I thought that it would be a
good time to post our experiences.
We needed an absolutely form-fit dummy in order for her to have any
chance at all of success in fitting the corset. The idea occurred to
me that the ideal way to achieve this goal was to make a cast of her
body, molding the plaster as closely as desired, and then filling the
cast with high-expansion foam after hardening and removal. She shared
my excitement at the thought of encasing her from chin to ankles in
plaster! We had experimented some with the making of casts for bondage
purposes, and I had in fact put both her arms in long casts once
before for a weekend's play, which we'll have to describe at some
point.
I laid in a supply of plaster bandages for the purpose. I bought three
cases of 6 inch slow-setting plaster bandage, each containing 12 rolls
5 yards long. I used Johnson and Johnson Specialist brand plaster, and
we used the slow setting type for a very good reason- as the plaster
sets, the heat of crystallization given off heats the plaster mass
very effectively. The faster the setting time, and the thicker the
cast, the more intense the heating effects, and the higher the peak
temperature reached. When I was casting her arms that time, she
complained that the first arm was too cold from the damp plaster-
followed in minutes by protestations that her skin was very near
burning as the setting process got underway, as I had naively used the
extra-fast plaster. If you intend to try this, be very aware of this
effect- as well as the fact that it takes quite a bit of time to get a
cast off if necessary.
We decided that she needed to be dressed as nearly as possible to her
intended configuration, so that her back, hips, and shoulders would be
held in the correct alignment as the plaster set. I had her put on one
of her older pairs of latex stockings, so the plaster would not adhere
to her lower legs, and we then laced her as tightly as possible into
her knee-length corset over a period of about an hour. I then had her
put on one pair of her six-inch heels, so that her hips and lower back
would be molded in in the correct slight forward lean that the heels
induce.
It would be necessary for her to remain completely motionless as the
plaster set, but that was certainly easily achieved for us! I led her
under one of the hooks set in the ceiling of our tile-floored
playroom, and put one of her scold's bridles on. We have one that has
a wooden dowel about 1 inch in diameter for the gag, instead of the
large rubber ball gag, which would stretch her chin down too far,
making it impossible to get an accurate cast of her neck. The ring
atop this I tied to the ceiling hook with a strap, and pulled up the
slack so that there was a bit of tension applied to her head, to keep
her straight as the heavy plaster was applied. I tied her hands out to
the sides so that her arms were pulled out at about a 45 degree angle,
so that I would have room to maneuver the plaster rolls, and as a
final touch I lightly taped her ankles together. She was already
beginning to show very real signs of arousal and anticipation, as she
stood there on her tall heels.
In order to allow the cast to be separated from her body without
damaging the corset from the effects of the wet plaster, I then
wrapped her from her knees to her chin with a very thin layer of Saran
wrap. I had previously cut a roll in half (the narrower width allowed
the plastic to conform to the contours of her body more easily). I
also pulled her hair up at the back of her head and covered it with
some wrap as well, to keep it from being incorporated into the
plaster. Be forewarned- the plaster will glue in any hairs underneath
it, and conform to the skin with great accuracy- such that when the
cast is removed, it will quite happily remove every hair in the area
as well! Thus prepared, we were ready for the actual application of
the plaster.
I dipped the first roll, and started applying the plaster in smooth
overlapping layers over her rigidly-laced waist and hips from just
under her bust, working downwards. I tried to keep it such that the
cast was between 3 and 5 layers thick in all locations, and massaged
the plaster as I wrapped it so that the individual layers would fuse
together properly. The plaster quickly built up to between an
eighth-inch and a quarter-inch thick layer. As I worked it down her
legs, I dimpled it in between so as to mold it to her lower legs. And
as I reached her feet, I was seized with the inspiration to continue
the cast down over her insteps, and under the arches of her feet,
leaving only the toes and heels of her shoes (now liberally spattered
with plaster drippings, along with most of the room) exposed. At this
point she was casted from bustline to toes, and her heels were gong to
stay on until the cast came off!
I then moved back up and began casting her breasts, shoulders, and
neck. This part was good fun, as I could play with her nipples
through the setting plaster, causing them to be molded in as fully
erect. I continued the wrap out to the points of her shoulders,
pushing them slightly back into a barely-arched position as we had
agreed. And up to her jawline in front, and the base of her skull in
the rear, such that the cast would support her head and hold it
rigidly when the tension on her bridle was released. I finally
completed the casting after about two hours total, and stood back to
admire my handiwork. There she stood, totally encased in plaster from
toes to jawline.
She was beginning to fuss a bit, since she had been standing there
essentially motionless on her heels for well over two hours. I warned
her that the cast would have no real strength for about another hour,
and that she had to remain motionless or it would be ruined. I then
had a seat behind her to rest a bit myself, as well as monitor her for
signs of real distress. She began making very real sounds of
excitement, and began opening and closing her hands on the thin air
that was all she could reach. After the requisite hour had passed, I
walked over to her and tapped on one rigid breast. She was sweating
profusely, partially from the heat of the setting plaster and
partially from her excited, frustrated state- which I did nothing to
help by pointing out that there was no way for either of us to touch
any of her most sensitive spots until the cast was off, at some
unknown time in the future.
I then unfastened her hands. She immediately began running them over
her plastered form, feeling the cool rigidity of her own breasts,
waist, and crotch. It was clear from the tiny movements of her neck
and shoulders that she was revelling in the total immobility of it,
hanging there balanced only by her bridle. I then undid the gag strap
on her bridle, totally freeing her head, and allowed her to topple
gently forward into my arms. I would estimate that the cast added
about forty pounds to her weight- it certainly added immeasurably to
the awkwardness involved in carrying her the short distance to lean
her in the corner of the room. She obviously had absolutely no balance
whatsoever, and no chance of controlling her body. She stood propped
in the corner on her heels, running her hands over herself, and
exclaiming about how totally, frustratingly erotic the situation was.
I then carried her to the couch in the room, and picked her up bodily
and lay her down on her back on it. By this point, she had been laced
down severely for about 4 hours, and had been standing on her heels
for much of that time, so I thought it wise to give her feet a break.
She tried for some time to roll herself over using only her arms, but
was unable to even budge herself. She just kept exclaiming over and
over how intense the sensations were of being almost totally
immobilized. I asked her if she would like to try even more
immobilization, and she immediately agreed- so I rolled her over onto
her front, regagged her, and (as I was out of plaster!) tied her hands
and elbows tightly together behind her, and to her rigid torso by
looping ropes around at the waist and the bust. At this point all she
could move was her fingers, and she strained one wrist around until
she could press her fingers against her plastered and compressed rear.
Her struggles were essentially invisible, and I could tell by the
sound of her breathing that she was finally getting enough stimulation
to release herself, so I sat back to enjoy her pleasures as best I
could.
She finally fell silent in exhausted bliss. I then had to gently point
out that it was time to remove the cast, and I ungagged her. She
argued that she wanted to remain in it overnight, and remove it in the
morning, but I felt that the risks were too great given her compressed
state. I stood her back up, and carried her back to the strap still
attached to the ceiling. As I was getting ready to reapply her bridle,
she asked for just a few minutes to be allowed to stand and attempt to
walk as much as she could. I supported her arms as she held onto my
shoulders, and in two minutes' struggle, she managed to take four or
five steps in her heels- each about a sixteenth of an inch long. She
finally abandoned the effort, and I refastened her bridle to the
ceiling and set about freeing her.
I had prepared a cast cutter by grinding down the lower blade of a
pair of aviation snips (essentially tin snips). With these, I was able
to slide the thinned lower blade under the plaster, and cut each side
from her ankles up to her armpits, and above her shoulders up to the
top of the cast. This was slow, hard work, as I had to take care not to
damage the cast, her corset, or (of course) her. And finally, after an
hour or two, she was freed of her plaster tomb. Her corset was soaked
with water from the plaster, sweat from her overheated body, and from
the waist down, her own juices from her struggles.
I unlaced her and left her to rest and cool for a time, and set about
cleaning up the mating edges of the cast, smoothing the inside surface
and removing the scraps of saran wrap, and taping it back together in
preparation for the foam molding process. I trimmed the cast at the
level of the tops of the toes, so that the dummy would have the same
instep arch and ankle shape as hers, and trimmed the top just at the
jawline. I then taped another piece of saran wrap over the bottom
opening. I mixed up some of the two-part high expansion rigid foam
used to pack electronic equipment for shipping, and poured it in the
top of the cast. This part I did in four stages, as I didn't want the
uncured foam to overexpand and ruin the cast. When it was done, I
leaned the cast against the wall, and the two of us retired for the
evening quite exhausted!
All that remained the next day was to separate out the dummy from the
cast, and mount it on an adjustable stand that supports it at the
proper height for whatever project she might be working on. We
attacked it with sandpaper to smooth out some of the surfaces, as well
as to modify certain proportions to her exacting expectations. We also
made the front section at the bust removable, so that for regular
dressmaking tasks she would have a noncompressed bust model, and for
the turtleneck project, she could have an essentially flat-chested
model of her totally compressed torso. She has since grafted on a
dummy head from a wig stand, and covered it in some stretch fabric,
allowing her to pin projects directly to it. It really looks
outstandingly professional, if I do say so myself- except for the
distinctly corseted proportions, the very slight forward tilt, and the
still visible high-heeled instep arch, one would think that one could
order it from some catalog somewhere! But we have always held it true
that nothing succeeds like excess.
If any of you desire to try this for yourselves, please note that this
can be a dangerous undertaking! This experience of ours violates many
of the rules of safe play, primarily those that hold that the neck
must not be involved in the bondage, those having to do with a ready
and instantaneous escape path, and those that have to do with keeping
an eye on bound parts to insure good blood circulation. Also the
threat of heat prostration is very real, especially given the number
of layers used in our case. If you would like to play with this,
please do start small, and play as safely and sanely as you can. When
taken to this level, escape can easily be a half-hour process at the
very best- not a situation to enter into lightly. We entered into this
after looking long and hard at the risks involved, not in the heat of
the moment.
No, the heat of the moment only occurred after we had started!
At this moment she is putting some finishing touches on her now
chin-to-knee length corset, which is currently worn most fetchingly by
our dummy. She has gone back and doubled the boning through the waist
and hips, saying that since it makes it impossible to sit anyway, she
might as well finish the job. It should be ready for its first real
trial in about two weeks. And my other side project, a leather leg
binder to accompany our corset-glove, is well underway as well. It
extends from instep to hip, with lacing the length of the rear, a
buckling strap under the insteps, and very heavy boning at the knee,
which should render her knees almost as inflexible as the cast did, at
the same time as compressing her legs smoothly together from the
ankles up. By the end of all this Herculean effort, we should be able
to fulfill our shared fantasy of total compression from top to bottom!
The best to all.
-Bottier
__________________________________________________________________
Subject: Another note from the Bottiers (#9
- 9 -
I suppose that this becomes another note from Bottier (#9), for those
like myself who are pathological about keeping things in neat piles.
In Message-ID: <26140@princeton.Princeton.EDU>
nr@notecnirp.Princeton.EDU (Norman Ramsey) writes:
> How can you gag someone with material I'm likely to have around the
> house? I've heard of some of you using tape---what kind of tape do
> you use, and how much does it hurt coming off? (I suppose it could be
> good or bad if it hurts coming off :-) Can you use tape on bearded
> men?
Good questions! There are an immense variety of ways to go about it,
with varying degrees of functionality, appearance, and unfortunately
risk. A really good gag should be mouth-filling, and held in place
very tightly indeed- but this creates a very real risk of triggering a
powerful gag reflex episode, and if the subject is well and truly
bound helpless, panic can easily set in- regardless of any level of
trust inherent in the scene. Thus, the top should make sure that they
can handle any such episode, and keep an escape means ready _at all
times_.
That said, we use a variety of things. The traditional mouthfull of
panties, secured in place by a necktie or some portion of the bondage
itself comes immediately to mind. For the foot-fetishists among us,
I'm told that the toe of a high-heeled shoe provides a most pleasant
mouth-filler. Perhaps Saran wrap applied over some mouth filler, if
care is taken that no accidental slippage could possibly compromise
the airway. Tape works, but only if the mouth is well filled ahead of
time, so that the tongue can't be used to work the tape seal loose. I
don't know about the case of a bearded man, since both my wife and I
have always been clean-shaven, but I suspect that tape would be less
than satisfactory. You might do well to check some of the other
regular contributers in that regard.
> What about gags that are especially-made to be gags? How do I make a
> ball gag (or what do I look for in one)? What about inflatable gags?
> What other kinds are there?
Ahh! Now we begin to get into more interesting things. Ball gags are
in my humble opinion the most satisfactory way to gag a person, and
are one of the few bondage toys that can be made with no tools at all.
The ball should be sized to fit the mouth in question, so some
experimentation is very much in order. If the ball is too small, it
won't work as well as one would like, although it can be pulled very
deeply into the mouth by increasing the tension on the strap. This
pulls the corners of the mouth back, stretching the skin, and making
the subject feel very bound indeed. Too large a ball will cause an
intense ache in the jaw joint almost immediately, also making the
subject feel very bound indeed. Sealing the lips to the ball with tape
also increases the sensation, as does the use of a wider strap.
If the subject is restricted in their ability to breathe through the
nose (with a cold or some other condition), gags are somewhat
dangerous. However, a ball gag made with a child's wiffle ball will
still allow mouth breathing. One other good source of ball gag balls
would be your friendly neighborhood pet store. Hartz makes a
_staggering_ variety of hollow hard rubber balls, many with a
through-hole already pierced, perfect for your strap (once you get rid
of the silly _bell_ inside... or perhaps not). And the wide variety of
pet collars provides a nice selection for the strap as well. With one
stop, you can have a ball gag ready to go for less than $10. I wonder
how many pet store owners know what really goes on with their wares.
For the really large mouth, or a real stretch of the jaw, don't
overlook retired racquetballs.
Other gags would use a wooden dowel, say 1"- 1.5" diameter. Or, if the
subject has a fondness for it, consider covering a ball or dowel in
some finely-tanned leather (wash it several times first, so that the
subject doesn't get TOO big a mouthful of tannin, unless you're truly
mean-hearted). Consider incorporating the ball or dowel into a scold's
bridle, as I described a couple of postings ago.
Inflatable gags are a specialty item that tend to be a bit hard to
make, although I have heard of successes using pneumatic model
airplane tires. We haven't tried that one just yet, though. Inflatable
gags are available in a variety of places- ours came from Caprice, but
it doesn't see much use, and I regret having spent the money on it.
A risky but amazingly intense way to increase the utility of any gag
is to hood the subject while they are wearing it. A leather or latex
hood, fitted tightly around the jaw and cheekbones, does a much better
job of increasing the sensation of helplessness that merely taping the
lips to the ball. It can also provide a good blindfolding effect. I
made one that laces up the back (I'm sure, to no one's surprise), but
it's not right yet. I probably would have done better to buy one.
Hoods can really increase the amount of time it takes to free a
panicky subject, as well as making it much more difficult to monitor
their condition and maintain their airway- these are to be used with
extreme care.
And if you want to go off to the truly extreme, there are always the
tongue stocks. My wife found references to this deviously clever
device while she was researching our Victorian compatriots (in the
same volume as the armpit balls, for the curious). It consists of two
carved wooden slats, roughly 10" by 1" by 1/2". The mouth is opened,
and the tongue is inserted between the slats as they are pushed as far
to the rear of the mouth as possible. They are then clamped firmly
together by thumbscrews on the protruding ends of the slats, holding
the tongue immobile. This assembly is then secured in place by a strap
that wraps around the back of the head. Its use was ostensibly to cure
overly talkative children of their condition. A similar device was
described for the breasts, by the way- although exactly what
"medicinal" use was ascribed to that appliance slips my mind just now.
No, I'm not making this bit up. The Victorians can serve as a source
of either inspiration or perhaps abject fear to us all. And I haven't
got 'round to making either of them just yet- though I may move them
up the list of "toys to make" a bit, depending upon how the Mrs. feels
about it. So much to make, and so little time...
The best to all.
-Bottier
__________________________
Subject: Another note from the Bottiers (#10)
- 10 -
This is will be an interesting article, I believe- now that I've
figured out how to post news, I can actually do up an article of my
own, rather than merely contributing to my husband's articles as he
puts them together! Consequently, I think that I'll make this one just
a bit different than our others have been.
Several readers of this group have corresponded with us, and have
asked about whether or not we ever change roles. We do! Yes, it's
true- the Bottiers do switch roles from time to time, perhaps 10% of
the time, even though we seldom write about it here. It may seem
from our writings that I'm the perfect submissive, and my husband the
perfect dominant, but there have been many times that I've topped my
husband- when my desire to bind and torment actually outweighed my
desire to be bound and tormented. I'm not sure that he's too keen to
write of his experiences himself, so I think that I'll write of them
_for him_- that seems a good way to introduce that side of him to the
net. There's a pleasing symmetry in that, actually- since that's the
way that he introduced _me_!
These times are much different, and then again not at all different,
from the times he tops me. Suffice it to say that there have been
times that it has been _he_ who has been deliciously bound, begging for
just a taste of _me_- which I have usually given him, after a time.
One of the most enjoyable parts of this type of play is the "reverse
striptease" that I do. Despite the fact that I'm the top, I still
almost always wear my latex, corset, and heels, and often my
vibrator-plugged chastity, if I feel like it. I enjoy the sensations
that these things create in me quite a lot, and it drives him nearly
mad to be bound helpless and to have to watch me as I dress myself,
putting more and more layers of decorative costume between my good
bits and his. It seems to be particularly intense for him to have to
watch me put on my chastity belt, especially if I leave the plugs on
it! We call these "chastity evenings", and with good reason usually.
Thus, I'll usually initiate the game when I'm mostly unencumbered,
perhaps only wearing my corset, and after I get him immobile I'll
start adding in layers for myself as well!
My favorite way to approach this pastime is to get started by binding
his hands behind him. He is usually naked to begin with, and I'm
usually only corseted, so that I can wrestle with him and have any
chance of getting an advantage at all. I'm not a large person, and the
disparity in size and power presents a real problem! I'll usually use
handcuffs to start with, just to quickly get his hands where I can
control them, and replace them with some of our locking leather cuffs.
Usually, as soon as I get to this stage, he gets to be fairly
tractable, but I'll usually go ahead and tie his ankles or use some
cuffs just to insure that he doesn't go anywhere. This leaves him down
on the floor, usually.
As soon as I get him that helpless, I can start teasing him by
decorating myself. I usually stop and take some time to put on my
latex stockings and hobbleskirt, and my locking heels- so that his
floor-level view is one of vertical heel and instep, black latex, and
locked anklestraps. At this point I'll usually turn my attention back
to him, and finish up the binding. We both seem to like having him in
a kneeling hogtie the best, but this used to pose a problem- how can a
110 pound woman, dressed in a very tight and VERY stiff corset, a
nearly-unyeilding hobbleskirt, and six-inch heels, ever hope to even
_budge_ a 220 pound man? I can barely even keep my balance, let alone
bend at the waist, and moving him seemed out of the question- until I
decided to use a trick on him that he had used on me!
We have a spare clothes bar from our walk-in closet. It's eight feet
long, and about an inch and a half around. I lay it along his back,
slipping it down so that it lies between his hands and his back, with
the end between his knees. I tie his knees together and to the pole,
then tie the pole to his back very tightly between his shoulders, by
using some rope in a figure-eight. I can then tie his ankles to a loop
around his waist, his elbows as close together as I can (he's not
_nearly_ as flexible as I am, it seems- my elbows can touch!) and his
hands to his ankles to complete the hogtie, and if I'm really feeling
nasty I'll ball-gag him with the gag strap also wrapped around the
pole. Then, I can lift the far end of the pole, using it as a lever,
and sort of walk in underneath it, pushing it up and over until the
top end of the pole leans back against the wall behind him. This sets
him up perched entirely on his kneecaps- without an impossible amount
of struggle on my part, and despite the fact that in corset, skirt and
heels I'm nearly as bound as he is! Klaw and Willie would be proud,
even if somewhat aghast that it was a _man_ being bound, I'm sure.
This part drives him nearly as crazy as watching me chastity myself,
since he spends a long time with his face pressed into the floor only
inches from my nicely decorated feet and legs. This usually leaves him
pretty erect and standing proud, as he leans back helplessly. I can
then decide whether I want him right then, or whether I want to
torment him some more. If I want him then, I can just peel my skirt
off and have at him! But if I want to be mean, I'll usually indulge in
some cock bondage.
We got him an appliance called the "gates of hell", which is a leather
strap supporting a series of 7 cock rings large enough to admit a
flaccid, but too small to comfortably contain an erect, penis. He has
to relax and calm down enough for me to get it on, which ten minutes
blindfolded usually helps. But once it's on him, off comes the
blindfold, and he has to be careful not to let _himself_ get too
excited- which, of course, I do everything in my power to cause
happen!
Once he's got it on him, his cock is of no real use to me for the
duration- so that's always time for me to grab my chastity and a tube
of KY, and make a great show of putting everything in their proper
places and locking it all on, followed once again by my hobbleskirt
when all is done. And as he gets more excited watching all this, so do
I- and those vibrators _do_ seem to help as well! I believe that
pressures on his cock from those unyeilding rings stop feeling
uncomfortable and just add to the pleasures, just the same way that
the pressures of my corset, hobbleskirt, and heels feel so divinely
sexual to me as I grow excited. What usually really does him (and me
too) is when I get down on my hands and knees in front of him where he
can see me in my finery, but not touch me or help himself, and then I
go down on him essentially in slow motion, tongueing him through the
gaps between the rings and tugging on my own crotch strap or touching
myself until we both explode.
There is one other variation of this game that we enjoy a great deal.
It might be of use to anyone who tops a bound man, and wants to enjoy
them at the same time. If he's well and duly hogtied, ideally on the
bed or some soft surface, place him on his side. You can then lay down
on your back, hooking your legs over and behind him, and pull him up
against you (or more accurately in my case, pull myself up against him)
so that he can enter you from that position- but you control the depth,
intensity, and timing of it. Additionally, this lets you press your
heels into his back a bit, and he can fondle your feet with his bound
hands. This is a sure-fire mindblower for the foot fetishist, if you
are wearing a costume like my favorite here!
The next installment of my own story here will probably concern the
Christmas gift I gave him a few years ago. Most of our suppliers of
toys stock everything in men's sizes as well as women's, as it turns
out- and he _had_ always said that he had always wondered how my heels
and corsets felt to me. So, not being one to shrink from a challenge,
I got him a pair of 7-inch heeled pumps (no locking straps on these,
though) and a gentlemen's corset, and wrapped them and presented them
to him under the tree! Suffice it to say that they have seen a bit of
use, from time to time- and I think that he looks marvelous standing
up on his toes just like me (with his larger feet, his 7 inchers put
him up on his toes almost as much as my 6 inchers do me, which is
quite a lot!) with his waist nipped in a few inches, and a few
artistically placed cuffs, chains, straps, rings, or ropes.
He doesn't voluntarily dig out his corset and heels and wear them-
they tend to appear only when I request them, or more accurately when
I install them on him when he's helpless. He's never really learned to
walk on his heels as a result, though he can manage to stand
unsteadily, and I'm sure that his macho side would never have
permitted him to write of this without some extreme provocation- just
such as this! But those are stories for another time, I should think-
and now that I've begun the telling, perhaps he'll continue it! Or
maybe I will. But never let it be said that what's sauce for the
gander is NOT sauce for the goose, or that there is no balance in the
lives of the Bottiers!
- Mrs. Bottier
__________________________________________________________________
Subject: Another note from the Bottiers (#11)
Bottier #11
Over the Memorial Day weekend, we finally got to try out my
knee-to-chin corset, and that instep-to-hip legbinder corset that my
husband described in our note #8. This has been the fulfillment of a
long-time fantasy of mine, as I've documented here, and has started me
off on a month of fairly intensive figure-training as well! This is a
bit of a long piece, so you'll have to bear with me- but it's all
mine, as you'll see.
The corset itself is a modification of my old knee-length corset. This
garment itself was quite an amazing device- black satin over cotton
coutil, extending from just below the bust to the knees, with a front
busk and back laces from top to bottom like any proper corset. Its
waist measured 22 inches, when laced fully closed, and I enjoyed the
compression it provided over its length.
Between the compression, and the stiff boning through the hips, it was
only possible to bend about twenty degrees at the hips, and perhaps
ten more at the waist- which rendered sitting nearly impossible. The
same compression and stiffness existed at the knees, so that I was
essentially totally hobbled, and limited to taking steps roughly four
inches long while laced into it- which was fine, if combined with some
of my very high heels, since they also limit the length of the steps I
can take. I found the knee length corset and my six-inch heels to be
nearly a perfect match, and my husband didn't object at all, for some
reason. Getting around in this combination could be very difficult,
but it ws devastatingly sexy- as he can attest!
I enjoy tightlacing enough that I often go to work laced into one of
my shorter corsets, and I'll almost always be laced when my husband
and I go out for an evening- but this one was just too restricting for
anything other than game-playing at home. I loved the compression it
provided, though- so my thought was this: if it makes it too
impossible for me to wear in public anyway, why not modify it so that
it _really_ does the job, and provides the desired compression from
the chin down?
My old work as a costumer for my college theatre groups stood me in
good stead- I had access to several patterns I'd copied from bodices
for costumes based in the 1880s, so that I had a good idea of the
shapes of the pieces needed- and we had what must certainly be the
ultimate dressmakers' dummy, as we documented before. What remained
was the actual assembly, and then the fitting.
I wanted two things- I wanted the compression to include my breasts
and shoulders with the same level of tension that my waist and hips
experienced, and I wanted the boning to be very stiff- as near as
possible to the stiffness of the cast we made to make the dummy with.
The cast was stiff, alright- but it wasn't really tight. And I wanted
both. I personally like the stiffness almost as much as the
compression- most of my favorite corsets have a separate spring steel
underbusk to help stiffen them even more (and to prevent the busk from
cracking from fatigue, right at the waist). The tighter I am laced,
the more important the underbusk is.
I won't go into long, boring details about the cutting and sewing of
it, as I doubt that that holds any interest for this audience. The
now-finished corset has a three-part front busk, so that it opens all
the way from top to bottom down the front for ease of entry. It ended
up being three parts primarily because it proved impossible to find
the steel busk clasp in a single piece that long! The busk ends just
above my adam's apple in front, and down at the knees at the bottom.
Since it is in three parts, there would be a loss of the stiffening
effect at each joint in the busk- so I had my husband make me an
underbusk for it as well, from some one inch wide stainless strip
stock he keeps around for this, among other, purposes. It extends the
length of the garment in the front, and when I'm laced into it, it
holds my head up very high- if I relax my neck, the top of the
underbusk presses into the soft tissues under my jaw, which serves as
a definite reminder to straighten up!
In the back, there are 60 pairs of lacing eyelets, and there are four
strips of heavy boning that run the length of the corset on each side
to reinforce them. These I replaced with strips of flat spring-steel
boning the length of the corset, doubled for stiffness. At the top,
this boning presses against the base of my skull, adding to the
impetus for holding my head up high! And on the sides, the top of the
corset comes just to my jawline. There is ease cut in for my neck, so
that it is not particularly compressed- but there are about 20 pieces
of flat spring boning on each side, so that the neck is as stiff as
the rest of the garment.
I cut the bodice part with barely any ease for my breasts at all- just
enough that it would allow a tiny bit of shape when I was laced down.
And I extended the boning from the waist upwards all the way to the
points of the shoulders, and shaped it so that it would tend to pull
my shoulders back a bit as the laces were tightened. The shoulders on
the bodice I brought out to just before the points of my shoulders, so
that only the outer inch or so of my shoulder would be outside the
garment. I roughly tripled the boning through the waist and hips,
so that the waist section itself is essentially solid boning at
minimum spacing all the way around, and is very rigid indeed. I also
took that opportunity to reduce the measurement in the waist section
to 20" when fully closed. I did this by making the beast smaller in
the back above the waist, and smaller in the front below- so that the
forward lean that it induced would be exaggerated just a bit, as both
of us like that. Little did I know how effective that would be!
And the leg-binder that my husband has made was finished as well. It
is made in black calf leather, and extends from instep to hip, with
lacing the length of the rear, a buckling strap under the insteps to
hold on whatever shoes I might be wearing, and very heavy boning
at the knee consisting of four strips of the underbusk material. It
really does render my knees almost as inflexible as the cast did, and
compresses my legs smoothly together from the ankles up. It makes it
even tighter at my thighs and knees, something I'd scarcely thought
possible! We kept it separate so that I could actually get around a
bit while wearing the corset only.
Thus, on Saturday afternoon, my husband declared that it was time for
the trial-run to begin. I'd had it on on several occasions while
fitting it, but we hadn't ever really laced it down for real- so I was
shivering with anticipation. He prepared me to recieve it with a
generous layer of talc, and then put me onto my six-inch heels and
locked them in place. Then, almost as an afterthought, he slipped two
of my plugs into me, one each front and rear, and put on my
shoulder-length black calf gloves. He then slotted up the busk in
front, and began lacing- a process which took nearly forever, as there
are so many laces to manipulate. It was quite a thrill to feel the
tensions increase around my breasts and upper body, as they had so
many times before on my waist and ribcage.
It was extraordinary- normally, a tight-lacer breathes by expanding
the chest, since the corset restricts the diaphragm from moving. But
now my chest was being compressed as well! We stopped several times to
allow me to become acclimated to the compression around my chest, and
to get used to the new patterns of breathing required. As the laces
tightened, my breathing became more and more shallow, until I feared
that I would be unable to continue! But just then, he announced that
the bodice portion was laced closed- that the maximum possible
tightness had been reached, and that the only remaining gap was a gap
of a bit over an inch right at the waist.
The stiffness was total- I stood, straining a bit to keep my head as
erect as possible, due to the urgings of the neck of the corset. I
attempted to bend at the waist or hips. To no avail- the garment was
too stiff, and the compression kept my muscles from responding with
any authority! My shoulders were pulled well back, and pulled down
away from my neck by the tension, as strongly as if I'd been hogtied.
And my upper torso was thrust well forward above the waist, with a
most beautiful arch in my back, so that I felt as if I was in imminent
danger of toppling forward- but the rigid waist and back held me at
that angle and would not allow me to lean back, and the very high
heels held me at the very edge of my ability to balance unsupported.
He asked me to take a step forward, and backed away from me. My first
step was at most an inch long, and threatened to make me topple
instantly! It was clear that moving around was going to take more than
a bit of practice! Adding to the difficulty was the fact that the
compression of my abdomen, waist and breasts, the desperate shortness
of breath, my plugs, and my struggles were working in harmony to
arouse me- and as I become more aroused, my ability to balance falls
by the wayside. I somehow managed to walk to the bookshelf, and grab
it with one hand to keep from collapsing. He came up behind me and
massaged my breasts as best he could through the layers of satin and
boning, and I very shortly found it impossible to stand any longer-
rigid support or no.
In due time, I regained some awareness of where I was. He had lain me
down on the bed, and had taken that opportunity to add to my
difficulties somewhat! He had put a pair of our cuffs on my arms, just
above the elbows, and tied them loosely together behind me, with about
six or eight inches of slack. And he had added my scold's bridle,
which was certainly unwelcome as the ball gag forces the bottom of my
chin down- right onto the top of the busk! Thus I had to work even
harder to keep my head up. Thus bound and gloved, I had some of the
use of my hands, but I could not reach above my chest, nor below
mid-thigh. He helped me to stand, which is to say that he picked me up
bodily and put me down on my feet, and informed me that I was to cook
dinner for him! I indicated to him that I thought that it would be
nearly impossible for me to walk all the way to the kitchen unaided-
or at least I tried to indicate that. He extended a hand to me to use
as an aid, and made it clear that that was my task to
complete, regardless.
The journey took forever, taking steps one inch long- as my
preacarious balance and hobbled knees, not to mention the tensions of
arousal inside me, did their dirty work. I certainly would have been
panting, if I could have- but the compressions denied me even that!
Once inside the kitchen, I could hold onto the countertop with one
hand, and try and do whatever was necessary to prepare the meal with
the other. The hardest part was using the can opener- which is mounted
under the top cabinets, and requires both hands to work! I managed to
get the can into the jaws, and I leaned against the edge of the
counter so that I could try and stretch both hands as far as possible
back towards the opener against my bonds. I then found that the
pressure of leaning against the counter forced the underbusk against
my pelvic bone and the sensitive bits nearby in a most pleasurable
way, and that I was far too far off balance to regain a standing
position- not that I particularly wanted to. I suppose that I must
have tried to open that can for ten minutes or so- and I'm very glad
that I was leaned into a secure position (or that my husband helped
support me), so that I didn't fall when I came.
In any case, the next time that I became really aware of where I was,
he had finished up dinner, and it was ready to eat. He had his, and
made me wait, standing propped up in the kitchen in the corner of the
counters. He then ungagged me, and fed me mine- as if there was any
free space in my body to be occupied by food! By this point, I'd been
standing on those heels for some time, so he took pity on me and took
me back to bed. He loosened the corset somewhat from top to bottom,
and turned out the light- with my elbows still bound loosely, and my
heels still locked on. I couldn't reach the pillows to adjust them, so
he pulled them around until they supported my head in a comfortable
position, and then we slept. Or tried to, anyway. I have often slept
corseted, but never had I been so extensively done!
The next morning, I had to go to the bathroom in the worst way. After
some discussion, he untied my elbows and unlaced me. The freedom from
the pressure felt like a physical blow! Several parts of my body were
a bit numb from the pressure, and it took a bit of doing for me to
walk on the heels to the bathroom and do my business. My balance
hadn't really returned when I got back, so he asked me if I felt up to
continuing- and I said "why not?"
Within half an hour he had changed the plugs, the one in the rear
reinstalled with a smear of toothpaste, and I was laced back down with
my elbows secure again. He then walked me back into the kitchen, one
tiny step at a time, and left me there for a few minutes, to try and
blalnce the best I could. He returned with the legbinder and laced
that around my lower legs, snugging the strap up under my arches.
Bound in this manner, I ate breakfast and lunch- standing in the
kitchen. With the legbinder in place I had at most a quarter-inch of
free movement at my feet, and with the burning sensation of the
toothpaste making me move my rear involuntarily, I had absolutely no
balance at all on those heels! There was no way that I could support
myself without holding on with my hands, or being leaned into the
corner of the countertop- although the fact that my knees were held
rigidly straight did keep me from falling at the appropriate times.
All I could do was to run my hands over my satin-bound form, as far as
my bound elbows would allow- and lean against the edge of the counter
with all my might, during the times he saw fit to turn me around to
face the edge.
By the evening I was woozy with hunger, numb from the compressions,
and nearly overloaded to the point of catatonia from the sensations of
it all. Even the slightest movement sent waves of warmth through me,
threatening to put me over the edge again, and my ability to balance
had fallen away hours before. He then announced that it was time for
the last phase, and carried my rigid form back to the bedroom. He
unlaced just the bottom of the legbinder and undid the arch strap, and
exchanged the six-inch heels for my toe-shoes and shoehorns. I both
dreaded and awaited with pleasure what was to come next- he laced up
the legbinder again, and produced my corset-glove armbinder. Up until
then, my elbows had been only loosely tied- with this laced into
place, my elbows were pulled fully together, and my forearms were
pressed tightly togther their full length behind my back. Thus laced
up, the only parts of my body not compressed were my upper arms and
outer shoulders, and my head.
He had a solution for those, of course. My shoulders and upper arms he
wrapped several thicknesses deep with latex sprain bandages that we
keep around- I'd never thought of those in this context! He then
fastened my scold's bridle back in place, and gently stood me in front
of the full length mirror on the back of the closet door. There I was,
_totally_ bound and compressed, struggling for balance and breath,
perched precariously on my very tiptoes- the fulfillment of a lifelong
fantasy! While my body was busy going off on its own tangent, he
fastened a strap from the suspension loop at the top of the bridle to
one of the hooks in the ceiling, and left me suspended there- unable
to move, barely able to breathe, and scarcely able to imagine that the
image in the mirror was I.
After a few minutes, he snuck up beind me and laced on the hood that
he had made- which wrapped me in complete leather-scented darkness,
and compressed even my face around the ball-gag. I was truly helpless,
and truly his. He massaged my breasts once again, and pressed on the
"sweet spot" on the busk that I had found during my dinner-making, and
got me inflamed enough to lose myself one more titanic time.
I reawakened on the bed- my hood gone, but all the other things
loosened a bit but still there. I wanted so much to have one more
grand ride as the sensations took over control of my body, but I was
simply too exhausted. The continual compressions were beginning to
take their toll- I was a large mass of needles and pins below the
waist and elbows. He appeared over me and asked if I wanted to be
freed- and I signaled him no- I wanted just to nap a while as I was,
before having the whole experience be over.
I slept uneasily a while, and when I awoke the signals from my body
were unmistakable- I had to be freed. I signaled him and he rolled
over and said "Do you feel properly chastised for posting that article
about me?" I signalled yes, and tried to roll as far over as I could
so that he could reach the fastenings on my bonds- which didn't even
budge me a bit, of course.
"Good." he said, and the brute _rolled back over_ and pretended to go
back to sleep!
In my exhausted state, I tried as hard as I could to kick him or move
towards him. I doubt that these efforts on my part even shook the bed.
He listened to my rantings for what he claimed was just a few minutes,
but seemed like hours to me! And just as I got ready to use our safe
sound and demand release, he rolled over and began undoing me.
Once I was freed, he carried me into the bath, and drew me a hot
tubful of water, and poured it from a picher over me as I sat in the
bath. The warmth helped soothe the irritation of my skin where the
seams of the corset had pressed into it for the past many hours- over
my ribs, the points of my hipbones, my collarbones, and elsewhere. And
he massaged my poor feet, and rubbed the sore spots at my knees and
ankles where the corset had pressed bone against unyeilding bone. And
after a time, he brought me strawberries and whipped cream as a
reward, and fed them to me most tenderly as I soaked, now that I had
space inside me for them to occupy. It was over!
Thus did I get to enact my favorite fantasy- and I suspect that we'll
revisit it from time to time, now that we have the means. It has
inspired me to go into a period of figure training, as I shudder with
anticipation, even now, at the thought of feeling that beast close
down the last inch over my waist! I'm still tightlaced now- I suspect
that I'll go through as much of June as I can laced down, and we'll
have another go at it later in the summer. For now, I have the memory
of it, and that alone is enough to inspire me to work towards my goal
of a 20" waist inside that device, and another total immersion.
- Mrs. Bottier
__________________________________________________________________
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From: AnonEMoose <an000000@anon.penet.fi>
Newsgroups: alt.sex.stories.bondage,alt.sex.bondage,alt.sex.stories,alt.sex.fetish.fashion
Subject: STORY: The Bottiers in/on Corsets, 1-6 (MF, bd, corsets)
Date: Wed, 06 Nov 1996 12:15:38 -0800
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Xref: news1.istar.ca alt.sex.stories.bondage:3474 alt.sex.bondage:139704 alt.sex.stories:170182 alt.sex.fetish.fashion:22825
Subject: STORY: The Bottiers in/on Corsets, 1-6 (MF, bd, corsets)
Newsgroups: alt.sex.stories.bondage,alt.sex.bondage,alt.sex.stories,alt.sex.fetish.fashion
__________________________________________________________________
From: an1047@anon.penet.fi (Ol Sarge)
Message-ID: <190337Z04111993@anon.penet.fi>
Newsgroups: alt.sex.bondage
Reply-To: an1047@anon.penet.fi
Date: Thu, 4 Nov 1993 19:02:38 UTC
In keeping with my previous postings of the Nurse Jones Saga,
Ol' Sarge Distributions is proud to present a
Bottier production of a Mrs. Bottier Screen play
Derived from a short story by Anonymous, inspired by
an article by wi.1@wizvax.methuen.ma.us, derived from
a note by unknown@nowhere.edu, from a sentence
heard in the hall, deduced from a word spoken by
Walter Cronkite on the evening news.
The Bottier Saga, A serial in 19 parts, Starring:
Mrs. Bottier as Mrs. Bottier
and Mr. Bottier as Mr. Bottier.
And to tantalize you, here is the index to the Bottier Saga:
Index of Missives from the Bottiers
A few years ago I had some communication with the Bottiers. The
following index is the result of part of that discussion.
1 Chinese Puzzle, corset, hobble skirt, gloves, latex and bondage.
2 Follow up to CP, some discussion on Corsets, and a memorable dinner.
3 Making a Single glove, suspension.
4 How Mrs. B became interested in Corsets, and met Mr. B.
5 Mrs. B, Posting while complexly bound.
6 On the manufacture of diverse and nifty items (Scold's bridles etc).
7 Mrs. B. Very securly bound- can't even roll over.
8 Making the body cast for a dress (corset) form.
9 Gags and gaggage.
10 Sauce for the Goose is sauce for the Gander, Mrs. B. turns the tables.
11 A very memorable weekend, Mrs. B. wears THE full length corset.
12 Bits and pieces, posting while Bound (again), glove stiffeners, dinner
and a trip to the cinema.
13 Mrs. B on self bondage.
14 Mrs. B on the history of corsets, fashion and the `reform' press.
15 Corsetry, and the fitting thereof.
16 Bondaged from behind.
17 Followup to Corseted Ladies, (and the effects thereof on the weaker sex)
18 High heels, the Good, the Bad, and the kinky.
Message-ID: <042333Z16111993@anon.penet.fi>
Newsgroups: alt.sex.bondage
Date: Tue, 16 Nov 1993 04:14:08 UTC
Subject: The Bottier Compilation
__________________________________________________________________
Subject: A note from Bottier (#1)
Newsgroups: alt.sex.bondage
A note from Bottier
I've been a lurker on this group since its inception, and since I
introduced my wife to it, she's been pressing me to post one of our
stories. Here it is, then, with a twist, for your approval.
We both enjoy adding a great deal of interesting costume to our play.
I love the sight of her in extreme heels and tightly-laced old
fashioned corsets, as well as bound and helpless. She loves these
things, as well as anything else that presses, squeezes, or otherwise
molds her, and adds to her tactile overload or general level of
frustration. Thus, we've accumulated a great storehouse of toys over
the years, from a variety of shoes with heels in varying heights, to
several custom made corsets (there are very few manufacturers left,
and the prices can be outrageous) with waists from 19" to 22"
(including one that is knee-length), rubber stockings, skirts, and so
on, and a very large drawerful of cuffs, collars and padlocks. All
these things see a good amount of use!
One of our favorite activities is what I call the "chinese puzzle"
bondage. It takes a bit of planning, but the end results are most
rewarding for both of us. I strive to never do quite the same thing
twice, so I'll just describe the most recent version.
We begin the play with her naked, standing in the bedroom. I first
apply her scold's bridle, which has a nice large ball gag. It buckles
in the back, and I fasten it in place with the first padlock. The key
to this padlock I tape into the palm of her right hand. I then put one
of her calf gloves on (these extend almost up to the shoulder, and
fasten at the wrist very tightly with four buttons) which nicely
secures the key into her hand. I then put one of our 3" locking wrist
cuffs on over the glove, which nicely covers the buttons, making it
impossible to remove without first getting the cuff off. The key to
this cuff I tape into the palm of her left hand, followed by the
other glove and cuff. At this point she is gagged and gloved, and
beginning to show some signs of anticipation.
One wonderful thing about the gloves (that will come into play most
frustratingly later) is that they make it very difficult indeed to
handle the keys to these padlocks (none of the keys is over 1 inch
long, and some are only half that).
The key to her left cuff I tape to the inside of her leather collar,
which is about 4" wide at the front and tapers down to 2 1/2" at the
rear. I fasten this on her neck, which makes her hold her head up very
straight. I fasten this in place with another padlock.
The collar key I tape to the bottom of her right foot, right under the
heel. I then put one of her rubber stockings on, smoothing it up her
leg as I go. On her foot, I place one of the prizes of our collection,
a 6" heel pump with a 2" wide locking ankle strap. This I lock on, and
tape the key to the bottom of her left foot, followed by the stocking
and the other matching shoe.
This is the part that really starts to get her attention. The 6" heels
are very high for her (she has size 7 1/2 feet), but she has to stand
even further up on her toes to keep the keys from pressing into her
heels. She says that she loves the sensation, and also the tightness
and warm coolness of the stockings. Needless to say, with the shoes
locked on, she can't get to the keys under her heels.
The key to her left shoe I tape to the inside of the busk on her
corset, and fasten it around her and begin lacing. True tight-lacers
know that you can't just squeeze in a corset all at once, but rather
you must do it in easy stages. Thus, this phase takes about half an
hour, as we reduce her waist from its normal 25" to 20" or so over the
corset. I fasten the stocking tops to the garters on the corset, which
isn't strictly necessary since they are so tight that they'll stay up
by themselves- but she loves the added pressure. The corset itself is
very heavily boned, and makes her lean forward about 20 degrees at the
waist with a most beautiful S-curve in her back- this, in addition to
the forward lean that the heels induce, makes her balance somewhat
precarious, and walking becomes somewhat difficult. She finds this to
be quite a turn-on, combined with all the pressures.
So there she stands, not yet helpless, but certainly bound. I'll
usually take a break here and play with her a bit, until she starts
egging me on the next step.
We have a chastity belt that has self-contained vibrators in two sizes
fastened to its inner surface. I have modified it so that it fits her
tiny corseted waist, and I then apply it to her, locking the waistband
and crotch strap in place (which very conveniently covers the knot in
the laces, rendering it impossible for her to get the corset off). I
have to work fast, since this is quite an intense stimulation for her.
The vibrators in her front and rear begin to do their dirty work, so
while she is distracted, I tape the key to her chastity belt to the
inside of the waistband of her rubber hobble skirt, which is about
1/8" thick and fits her tighter than a second skin from just below
that breasts to the knees. It has to be rolled on from the knees up,
and does a much more effective job of hobbling her than tying her
knees, because it exerts so much pressure so evenly over so much of
her legs, hips, and torso.
At this point, she is usually hanging right on the edge of orgasm from
sheer sensory overload. Under the right circumstances, she can come
simply from the pressure of the corset, but having to balance in the
heels with her knees hobbled and the vibrators working usually puts
her right up to the edge. If I make her walk any distance at all, she
might just overload and come too soon. So it's time to keep her very
still and finish the job.
I then lock her wrist cuffs together behind her with a padlock. This
key is threaded onto the hasp of another padlock, which is then used
to lock an 8 inch or so loop of chain between her ankles. With this
chain, she is limited to taking steps about four inches long (not that
she could take longer ones with the heels and hobble skirt). The key
to the ankle chain is attached to the middle of a chain about 15
inches long with a nipple clamp at each end, which I then attach to her
nipples. The lean induced by her corset and heels causes the key to
hang well in front of her.
And to finish, I attach her wrist cuffs to her collar by looping a two
foot chain and locking it with the last padlock. This pulls her wrists
up to just below her shoulderblades- not high enough to cause much
tension on the collar, but enough to keep her from reaching any of the
keys, or stretching around to the nipple clips in front. Also, in this
position her fingers lose some of their dexterity, and the gloves
certainly don't help much either.
The last key is truly the key to the puzzle- without it, she has
absolutely no way to get out of all these marvelous decorations,
despite having all the other keys on her person. She also doesn't have
enough flexibility to give herself the last bit of stimulus to go over
the edge while standing there. What she has to do to get the relief
that she craves is to try to find that last key, and then coax her
bound fingers into manuipulating the locks in sequence. She has to
take the tiny steps that are all she can manage over to wherever it
is, unlock the lock holding her wrists up high, then get the nipple
clamps off somehow so that she can get her ankles unlocked to get the
key that holds her wrists behind her and so on. Usually, the
stimulation catches up with her somewhere along the way- and she goes
from having an isolated orgasm to having a continuous string of them,
generally requiring quite a bit of support from me to keep from
falling. Needless to say, I'm never far away during these times- since
the visual impact of her done up this way is one of my greatest
pleasures, not to mention getting to take whatever advantage of the
situation I can.
This last key is what she needs- and this is the funny part of the
story: as I have been typing this, she has been attempting to sit next
to me here at the machine, done up exactly as I describe here. She
has been hanging right on the edge for some time, but she has to wait
for me to type the location of the final key! The butt plug and
extremely tight hobble skirt keep her from being able to sit flat on
the office chair, but she has to try and take the weight off her heels
so that the keys stop pressing in, and the corset keeps her leaning
forward so that the weight of the chain dangling from her nipple clips
is borne entirely by her poor nipples. She has been very good.
The key is under your pillow.
I'm going to close this now- she's probably going to need some help as
she hobbles back down the hall to the bedroom, my lovely vision in
black everything, and I wouldn't miss it for the world.
-Bottier
__________________________________________________________________
Subject: A note from the Bottiers (#2)
Another note from Bottier (#2)
The response to the "Costume" article has been most gratifying. We had
fun reading through them, and have finally made some time to reply to
some of the questions that were asked, and to describe how this
particular scene came out.
She made it about halfway down the hall before she overloaded enough
that she couldn't keep going. When she does finally get into
continuous orgasm, she can't make her legs hold her up anymore with
the heels and the hobble skirt- so I picked her up and carried her
back to bed. She tried for about 5 minutes to deal with the key to the
first lock, but couldn't (or wouldn't) cope with it, so she just
rolled onto her back with her whole body in spasms.
One poster asked about making the chastity belt the very last layer to
come off. We've tried that, but I usually don't do that anymore- and
here's why: Here I was, faced with a very bound, very helpless, and
very hot lover. If you were me, what would you do? In this case, all I
had to do was to peel off her skirt and unlock the chastity belt
(leaving the butt plug in place, of course)- and she was wonderfully,
willingly, and helplessly mine for the duration, without my having to
undo any of the other decorations that we both love so much. In this
way, we could enjoy one another, without my having to completely free
her. And she could either free herself later, or ask me in her own way
to free her after we were both sated.
She usually doesn't manage to get herself free of this predicament
until after we exhaust ourselves, especially in cases where we let a
reasonable amount of buildup time go by (which was certainly the case
as she sat squirming while I typed). If we don't allow much buildup,
she will almost always get to the point of undoing her corset,
although often the amount of effort required to get herself out of the
skirt can sometimes push her over. She usually stops here, though,
becuase she enjoys the pressure of the corset too much to take it off
at that point. A couple of times she has gone ahead and escaped
completely, just so that she could prove to herself that she could-
and it took about and hour and a half. The really hard part is the
first key, and (as one poster pointed out) the key to her ankle chain,
which is usually on the nipple clamp chain. She's a dancer, and is
very flexible, but it is still a difficult thing for her to stretch her
arms around to the front (with her wrists locked together) and gently
remove the clamps. The gloves help make this harder, as well.
Of course, there are an incredible number of variations on this basic
theme that can be used. One that we enjoy occasionally involves me
peeling off her skirt and the chastity belt, and then looping a rope
around her tiny waist two or three turns. I then bend her legs at the
knee, and tie the loose ends of the rope to her ankle chain, pulling
out all the slack possible. This pulls her ankles right up to her rear
very tightly, sort of a hogtie that doesn't put stress on her wrists
(which are still fastened up to her collar). The neat part of this is
that the loops of rope around her waist act as a crude pulley, so by
pulling with her legs she can increase the pressure on her waist even
more! The real reward for me, and frustration for her, comes when I
roll her up on top of me, face to face. The slack between her ankles
allows her to spread her legs just far enough for me to enter her from
below- but the stiff corset and added tension from the rope will
barely let her move her hips, and if I hold her up under the shoulders
then all her weight forces her down onto me. This is incredibly
intense for both of us, as she struggles to move enough to release
herself, and in so doing grinds me deeply into her.
Someone asked about our corsets, especially the knee-length one. That
one is truly amazing, but it really doesn't see much use anymore,
except when she specifically asks for it. It is black satin, very
heavily boned the entire length (especially through the waist and
hips), and measures 21" at the waist when fully closed. The front busk
is 15" long, and it extends exactly down to her pubic bone. When it is
laced fully closed, it makes it amost entirely impossible for her to
bend either her waist or hips, and compresses her entire torso pretty
intensely. When she's in it, she can only barely keep her balance, and
she can't reach her feet no matter how hard she tries, so we always
add her 6 inch heels to the costume. She can't walk at all when done
up this way. I usually put in one or both of her vibrators before
lacing her in, but getting her into and out of this beast is such a
production that she's usually exhausted before I get much of a chance.
About all she can do is lean up against something- so this is usually
a good outfit to play with some gentle suspension games with.
The knee-length one was custom made for us a few years ago by a
company in the UK which has now closed down. Currently, it is possible
to order custom work from three companies that I know of: La Guepiere,
which is in the UK and consists of one tiny fragile lady in her 70s
who retired a number of years ago from that same late company, True
Grace, also in the UK, and one here in the States, BR Creations in
Moutain View, Ca. The UK companies are slow and expensive, but do
magnificent work. BR Creations is quicker and less expensive, and
expect to pay around $150 for a reasonable short corset in satin,
significantly more in leather. There are also some of the US mailorder
companies that offer stock corsets (Renee Fashion Company, Monique of
Hollywod), made I think by Vollers in the UK, but with those you run
the risk of a poor fit. They will only cost you around $100.
Tightlacing is an art in itself, though- don't rush into it with a
lover, expecting to be able to pull them in 6 inches the first time.
Posession of a tiny waist must be worked up to, and having a perfectly
fitted garment is of paramount importance. If anybody is interested in
body modification of this type, I could go off on that tangent another
time.
Another poster asks whether we bought or made most of our toys. We
bought almost all the clothing, and made almost all the leather cuffs
and other bits. The rubber stockings and hobble skirt are straight
from the Sealwear catalogue a few years back, and I'm sure that
someone in the US still imports this line- I`ve seen some good
examples in the Dream Dresser catalogue. Lately, we buy most of our
latex from a little shop here locally, though. Our gloves we bought
from a custom maker in California, Hammer of Hollywood. They fit,
which is much more than can be said of the cheap merchandise sold
mailorder nowadays. I could post some of the construction details for
the cuffs and other things if there is enough interest (and, of
course, time permitting).
Finally, we'll leave you with a story from last Saturday night. She
expressed a desire to go out for dinner, contrary to plans we had made
to stay in and play. This usually indicates that she wants to try
something different, so we reached something of a compromise- we would
play while going out! This is usually quite a treat for us both,
because she enjoys the frustration of her building excitement and
inability to help herself, and my response follows hers quite closely.
So we dressed her similarly to the way I described before, but without
the gag or collar, and with the corset and chastity belt on the
bottom, as the other poster had suggested.
We laced her into the 20" black calf corset, and then put her into her
rubber corselet. This has molded-in cups and functions quite nicely as
a bra, and extends down just to the bottom of her corset with
suspender grips for her stockings. I then locked on her chastity belt,
with only the butt plug vibrator humming merrily away. The key went
under one glove, which was locked on, followed by the other glove,
followed by the stockings and locking shoes. The last key went onto
the mantelpiece. I then left her to choose street clothes that could
be worn over all these, concealing them well enough for us to go out
in public!
She came out in one of the pantsuits that she wears to work- quite
formal in appearance, but even more so with it belted in to fit her
tiny waist and very erect carriage. She usually wears at least 4 inch
heels to work, so the pants were long enough to cover most of the 6
inchers when pulled down to her corseted waistline- but not long
enough to prevent a peek of the rubber stocking on her insteps as she
walked. And the jacket nicely covered the cuffs and padlocks on her
wrists, the small bulge of the chastity belt padlock in the small of
her back, and the rather thin blouse that she wore to cover the
corselet. Thus, to the casual observer, she appeared to be quite
normally dressed, except for her gloved hands, tiny waist, and just
the hint of a higher-than-usual heel and blacker-than-black stocking.
We went out to one of our favorite restaurants near here, chosen to
minimize the transit time (since the vibrator was still hard at work).
She actually did quite well with all the walking, hanging there on my
arm balanced so precariously. We sat at one of the tables out in the
middle of the room, with her leaning just slightly forward because of
the corset, and wobbling a bit side-to-side because of the plug. Then
we started to notice the sidelong glances that she was getting from
some of the tables- a number of people were paying a bit of interest
to her outfit, especially her feet. Tight-laced as she was, she
couldn't discreetly twist around to see what the problem was, but I
could- when she sat down, her pants legs had ridden up her legs,
revealing the full glory of 6 inch heel, padlocked ankle strap, and
rubber stocking to the room!
When I told her, she was at once mortified with embarassment, and
overcome by the message being sent up by the vibrator- but, being in
public, she had to try and exert some control over her response. After
all, the key was at home on the mantelpiece! I then got to enjoy the
beautiful sight of her, flushed, breathing as deeply as possible
within her corset, trying her utmost to stop the stream of orgasms.
Needless to say, we paid the check and left after the appetizer, and I
had to carry her to the car once we got out of the main room.
A most pleasant, though very short, dinner.
-Bottier
__________________________________________________________________
Subject: A note from the Bottiers (#3)
Another note from Bottier (#3)
Last week I finally managed to finish a project that I'd been working
on for some time. As readers of this group (at least, the ones who
haven't KILLed all anonymous postings) know, my wife and I are very
partial to corsetry and extremely controlling garments of that sort,
as well as more mainstream bondage play. As the last year or so has
gone by, she has begun spending more time tightlaced- to the point
that she now even goes to work corseted once or twice a week, allowing
her to stay laced for 36-48 hours at a stretch. She enjoys the
pressure and restricted movement that corsetry induces, and finds that
these sensations lead to a tremendous enhancement of her stimulation
during our lovemaking. Needless to say, this enhancement combined with
the intensity added by bondage play is a source of great pleasure to
both of us.
She has been talking about trying to find ways to include more of her
body in the compressed state induced by her corset and rubber
hobbleskirts. In particular, she wanted to find a way to compress her
breasts, upper torso, and arms, since all of her current corsets end
just below her breasts. So, she has started a project to lengthen her
knee-length corset upwards to essentially turtle-neck height
(although, obviously, no compression of the neck itself will be
allowed- just stiff boning), and delegated the task of handling her
arms to me.
Inspired by this request, I did a bit of research and set to work. I
decided to make a leather armbinder, along the lines of the single
gloves so beloved by the Harmony photographers, but incorporating some
corsetlike elements. This allows the compression my wife craves so, as
well as keeping her arms most securely bound behind her back. I
obtained a skin (black, of course) from a local leathercraft outlet,
and scrapped one of her most worn out corsets for hardware. The glove
is essentially a heavily boned conical section 12" long tapered to fit
her forearms if they are securely pressed together, split down one
side to allow the busk to fasten the opening, and split down the other
side to allow the lacing to tighten it up. At the bottom is a larger,
rounded "bag" section, intended to contain both her hands, and at the
top is a more flared conical section about 4" high that covers her
upper arms. At the extreme top of this are fastened two straps which
pass forward under her armpits, up across her chest crossing above her
breasts, and then down over her shoulders to the glove again, allowing
it to be secured in place. Additionally, there are two 1" straps
around the outside of the glove- one right at the wrists, and one at
the elbows.
It took about a month of careful cutting and sewing to prepare it for
its first test run. I laced her up into her black calf corset, and put
her into her vibrator chastity belt, rubber stockings, 6" heeled pumps
with locking anklestraps, and rubber hobbleskirt for the occasion (as
described before- if it seems that this is our favorite costume, I'd
hardly disagree). I walked around behind her as she stood in the
bedroom to put her arms in the glove, and found that I had to tie her
elbows together temporarily in order to get the corset busk that
fastens the glove to close. I then removed the rope holding her
elbows, and laced the glove tightly, which pressed her forearms
completely together from wrists to elbows. This took a few minutes,
to allow her shoulders to relax enough for her arms to assume this
position. I then fastened the straps at the wrists and elbows, and
the straps around her chest and shoulders, and she found herself
completely unable to move anything but her fingers, which were hidden
away in the leather bag at the bottom. This left her entirely encased
in black rubber and leather except for her breasts, upper chest, and
face, and the pressure from the glove on her arms and shoulders made
her breasts stand out most invitingly. A few minutes of scarcely-
visible struggle led her to pronounce the glove totally unescapable.
We took a break, and I played with her nipples for a few moments, and
listened as she described the sensations she was feeling. She then
asked me to bind her further, to increase her helplessness. When I asked
her how much, she simply said, "As much as you can".
I walked her into our walk-in closet, and cleared a large space under
one of the clothes bars. I put on her scold's bridle, seting the
rubber ball well back in her mouth. I then walked her under the bar,
and tied her ankles together. With her ankles tied, and her arms made
completely immobile in the glove, the 6" heels made her instantly
unstable, so I had to support her somehow. This I did by tying a rope
to the wrist strap on the glove, and using it to pull her wrists up
behind her. This forced her to lean forward at the hips (since the
corset makes her waist essentially rigid). I pulled her arms up to
about 30 degrees above the horizontal, and this made her back bend
down roughly horizontal.
It seems that his made her even more unstable, so I tied a rope from
the ring at the top of her scold's bridle (right at the center of her
head) to the bar, pulling it up so that her head was pulled back up
about 20 degrees or so. I then fastened her wide leather collar on,
just for good measure.
She was showing some real signs of arousal by now, and I feared that
she would lose her balance and injure herself (when she comes, she tends
to lose control of her legs, and bound this way she would probably
injure her shoulders badly). So I tied a heavy rope sling around her
tiny waist and up to the clothes bar, to support her full weight if she
were to lose balance.
She immediately bent her knees and pulled her bound ankles up under
her rear, putting her full weight on the waist rope! I watched her
struggle to keep her feet up, and then realized what she was telling me-
so I tied one more rope from her ankles up to the bar, holding them up
right against her rear wirth her hips flexed 90 degrees.
In this position, she was completely in suspension, utterly unable to
escape or move more than her knees. Still, she could regulate the
amount of pressure on her waist, arms, and head by pulling against the
rope with her ankles and flexing her back (at least as much as the
corset and added rope pressure would allow). This she did with great
vigor, until she had exhausted (and satisfied) herself- and it became
my turn.
Over the weekend, in several sessions, she accumulated quite a bit of
waht we've come to call "air time"- and she didn't take off her
corset or heels until time to dress for work on Monday. Excellent fun.
It is sad that there are people who have decided to kill all anonymous
postings, on the pretext that "real bondage people who desrve to be
heard" will step up and post their real names with no fear. We are real
people, thank you, and I think that we should be heard as well- but
as the experiences of D! show, there is much to be said for allowing
some preservation of privacy. I'm not particularly worried about
my employers seeing my preferences published here, but my employees
and customers might be taken a bit aback!
I would like to see more real experiences posted. And, should the
anonymous posting service be shouted down, I'll quite happily allow my
wife and I to be shouted down also, and disappear from the net as
quietly as I appeared, along with D! and many other of the "real
people". More's the pity- we derive a great deal of pleasure from
seeing our intimate and special pleasures broadcast- anonymously
though it may be.
Bottier
__________________________________________________________________
Subject: A note from the Bottiers (#4)
Another note from Bottier (#4)
I have gone on at length in the past about the exploits of my wife and
I, and the two of us have decided that the time has come for her side
of the story to be told. So, without further ado, I'll step aside and
let her become notorious in her own way.
The question comes up from time to time as to how I originally got
interested in tight-lacing, since it is hardly a mainstream enjoyment.
It might surprise you to know that I was very interested in it even
before I met my husband, although he has certainly expanded my
horizons significantly!
I remember quite vividly an incident when I was about six years old,
while playing with my older brother and some of his friends. They
decided that the game should involve tying me to a pole, and to
accomplish this they wrapped a length of rope around my waist while I
stood with my back against the pole, pulling quite tightly on the
ends. This compressed my waist so much that breathing itself became
difficult, and I was left this way for quite some time. My initial
fear gave way to a curious warm sensation emanating from my waist and
hips, and when my mother's exhortations finally convinced them to
release me I was reluctant to be let go! My mother warned my brother
to never play those sorts of games again, so naturally they became
preciously illicit and I looked forward to them all the more. I asked
them to tie me again on several occasions after that, and always
insisted that they make it as tight as possible around the waist. This
pleasant period went on for several years, until it was time for my
brother to go off to school.
When my own body began to develop seriously, I always wore as tight a
belt as I could manage. I ws also very impressed with my mothers' high
heels, having grown up during a period where spike heeled pumps were a
requirement for women even in the kitchen. I campaigned for them
continually, and was finally allowed to have a pair of two-and-a-half
inch pumps when I was fourteen. Once I began buying my own clothes, I
was never without them.
I eventually accumulated what must have been quite an unusual
collection of longline bras, girdles, all-in-ones, and other gently
waist-and-torso-constricting garments. Certainly my mother admonished
me that a fit teenaged girl did not need to wear these creations of
elastic and wire, and with such a tight belt! She refused to have any
part in it, and so I began doing my own laundry in the bath and drying
the garments in the attic. I enjoyed the snugness, though, and
continued to wear them for a time. However, as fashions changed, the
pressures asserted by my peers led to me abandoning my tiny waist and
tiptoe posture as being "old-fashioned" and silly, except for those
private times we each of us keep to ourselves, special dress
occasions, and those few times that my compressed state could be
concealed to my satisfaction under bulky outer clothing. Looking back
now, I realize that this censure simply made the wearing of these
things and the sensations thus created all the more special.
However, my Junior year in high school, I discovered one of the great
joys of sexually repressed people everywhere- the theatre! Our
production was a period piece, and our director was quite a stickler
for authenticity- down to the level of presenting each of his
actresses with a properly made back-lacing corset, in order that we
might present the proper carriage and proportions. Initially, I was
very apprehensive- up until the first time he laced me into mine,
after which I was quite taken with it! It extended from immediately
below the bust to the pubic bone in front, thirteen or so inches long,
and was quite heavily boned. I wore it nearly continuously during the
production, under the guise of "character identification". By the time
the show finished its run and I had to return it, I'd nearly worn it
out- and my body had adapted to it to the point that even when laced
closed to its twenty-three inch minimum, it fit quite loosely.
I didn't want to return it! After much discussion, I talked the
director (who in retrospect must have been a kindred spirit) into
allowing me to keep one of the smaller corsets, a twenty-one-inch that
had been scarcely worn by a thinner classmate who considered it to be
the highest form of torture. I wore it from time to time in private,
although as most tight-lacers know, it is almost impossible to do a
decent job lacing oneself in. Even so, the pressures it created on my
waist and lower abdomen kept me in a continual state of excitement
that I found to be almost unbearably pleasurable. Unfortunately it was
not possible to find a partner to manipulate the laces until it was
laced closed. And I was not about to turn loose a highschool friend
with the knowledge of how much I liked to be laced up, my reputation
having already suffered quite enough with the scenes in the girls' gym
locker room over my longlines and girdles. I merely satisfied myself
with an occasional wearing in the private of my own room, and
relegated my collection of foundations to the bottom of a trunk. My
highschool career then ran its course in an unremarkable,
uncompressed, and thoroughly unsatisfying way.
What a revelation the college life was! It was some time after I
arrived at school that I realized that I was finally freed of all my
old baggage- no one there knew me in high school, nor did they
particularly care what it was that I wore as my most intimate layer.
My roommate, to whom I am eternally grateful, one day stumbled across
the small collection of foundations that I'd allowed myself to bring
with me. To my intense horror, she walked over to the drawer in whose
bottom they were concealed, and pulled out the smallest girdle and one
of my longlines. As fate would have it, she had noticed a flash of
white elastic at my waist one day as I dressed, and curiosity had led
her to investigate further. Rather than belittling me for my
"old-fashioned" leanings, she admitted that she had always been
curious about how one felt when wearing such things, and asked if I
would mind if she borrowed them! We became close friends, as roommates
often do, and as we were nearly the same size, we soon were exchanging
garments. I introduced her to the pleasures of wearing multiple
layers of girdles, longlines, and waist-nippers (at this time, I often
wore them 3 or 4 layers deep, just to increase the pressure). She
seemed to enjoy these things, after an initial period of awkwardness,
and we became good shopping partners- eventually building up a
collection that truly put my old one to shame.
She also reintroduced me to the wearing of high heels, which were
enjoying something of a resurgence in popularity at that time. We must
have made quite a pair while out shopping together- layers deep in
spandex, and "oohing" and "ahhing" over things that only women old enough
to be our mothers were likely to wear.
And one fateful day, after a vacation, I brought back my old
backlacing corset from its oblivion at the bottom of my trunk at home.
This impressed her tremendously, and we spent an evening alternately
lacing each other in, trying out various combinations of underlayers,
outerlayers, and heels, and admiring our handiwork in the mirror as we
went along! She did an excellent job of lacing me in until the corset
was nearly closed, and stood grasping the top of the bunkbeds as I
laced her in in turn. She walked unsteadily around the room, her hands
at her tiny, rigidly boned waist, with little exclamations of how
funny it made her feel through the hips! Not long after that, she
managed to find somewhere a corset-girdle that extended from 3 inches
above the waist to roughly mid-thigh, with a short front busk and
lacing the length of the back. This was a diabolical little device
that made sitting down nearly impossible, and the rigid fabric forced
the wearer to keep the thighs pressed tightly together in a way that
multiple elastic layers couldn't begin to rival.
Needless to say, I instantly seized upon the idea of combining my long
corset with her corset-girdle, allowing compression from just under
the bust to mid-thigh. She insisted that she be the one to try it
first, though, and so the experiment was joined- I laced her as firmly
as I could into the bottom half, getting it nearly closed over her
hips although the waist was a bit slack. I then laced down the long
corset over the top, closing down the waist until I feared the laces
breaking. She stood panting slightly, and then tried to take a few
small steps around the room, but quickly declared the combination to
be too rigid to allow any balance at all. She attempted then to sit
down, but found that her hips were too tightly compressed to allow it!
This proved too much for her, so we reversed the roles.
She soon had me laced in if anything tighter than I had had her, and
the pressures were exquisite. I then asked her to go to the closet and
get out my best heels, which were four inches or so tall, and slip
them on for me (as I found myself entirely unable to bend down to
touch my feet when laced so tightly). As I walked around the room, the
feeling of warm congestion inside began to grow, and the effort of
walking on these heels with my thighs so tightly pressed together and
balancing with my rigid hips and waist proved to be quite unbearably
pleasurable. I managed to hobble to the bunk before collapsing in
sweet bliss as my body followed its own course under the onslaught of
sensation. I quite embarassed myself, in short, and my first discovery
of the joys of orgasm were forever, inextricably linked to those intense
sensations.
Not long after that, we were out shopping with me laced down less
tightly so that I had any chance of getting anywhere. I had on a
summery dress, belted in to show off my tiny waist (how far I had
come, to make public what had become quite a private thing), and
three-inch or so high heels. We were poring over the racks in a
favorite store, with my roommate handing me those items that I could
not bend to examine, when I became distantly aware that a hand was
resting upon my armored waist. I turned delicately, as that is the
only way that I could move while so contained, and rested my eyes on a
tall, handsome man perhaps a handful of years my senior. He said "You
are undoubtedly the most beautiful creature that I have ever laid eyes
upon! Please pardon my presumption in touching you, but I simply had
to know if you were in fact tightlacing. You carry yourself with
remarkable poise!" A brief moment's utter panic subsided, to be
replaced with a nearly undeniable desire to run immediately back to
our room and hide (that surely would have met with instant disaster,
hobbled as I was), and then a curiosity as to just what type of man
this was- to be so familiar with my innermost secret at first meeting!
This same man would later present me with my first truly custom made
corset, my first pair of truly high heels, my first pair of rubber
stockings, my first truly loving bondage scene, my first real sexual
encounter, and my first and only marriage (roughly in that order).
After all these years I have come to enjoy the thrill of tight
corsets, the difficulties induced by extremely high heels and tight
skirts, and the struggles of inescapable bondages for their own sweet
sake. I myself submit only because I _enjoy_it_ and delight in
pleasing my husband, who derives such intense pleasure from rendering
me helpless in so many creative ways. He is very adept in the ways of
bondage and tight-lacing, and indeed it is a thrill when I feel the
long, unyielding grip of the corset becoming tighter and tighter under
his strong pull. I love to feel the ache that the corset, skirt and
heels induce, and on my highest heels my body is utterly perched on
tip-toe, with instep, shin, and thigh in one straight line. And if he
sees fit to bind me, then that merely acts as an intensifier, and my
own struggles serve to drive me further into bliss. Truly, I wouldn't
have it any other way!
-Mrs. Bottier
__________________________________________________________________
Subject: A note from the Bottiers (#5)
Another note from Bottier (#5)
As I type this, I am sitting in front of my husband's computer here in
our home office, in very dire straits indeed. I managed to delete a
number of his files while playing with the machine earlier this
weekend, and I now seem destined to pay the price for that
indiscretion for the duration of the weekend.
I am indeed glad that he has seen fit to include some of my favorite
activities in my punishment, or this would be a very long weekend. As
you know, I love compression and the wearing of unusual, sexy,
pleasurable clothes- these things he likes also, but seems to add his
own twists as well, all of which seem intended to render me as
helpless as possible at all times! Especially so now, though.
At this time, I am dressed in the following way: I am wearing my black
satin corset, which has about a twenty-inch waist, and must certainly
be laced closed from the feel of it. On my legs I have my beloved
rubber stockings, pulled tightly up to the suspender grips at the
bottom of the corset. On my feet, I have the latest addition to our
toy collection, a pair of seven-inch ballet heeled shoes, with (of
course) wide, locking ankle straps. These shoes force me completely up
onto the very tips of my toes, as if dancing en pointe', and took what
seemed like forever to have made for me. I now wish that they'd taken
just a bit longer! He has also made an addition to them- for each
foot, there is a metal piece shaped roughly like a shoehorn, which is
curved to fit over the instep from just above my toes to partway up my
shin, and is held tightly in place by the anklestraps. These prevent
me from straightening out my foot at all- all I can do is put my
weight directly on the tips of my toes. If only they provided the same
support that real ballet toe shoes provide to the forefoot!
Unfortunately, they don't, and standing in them for more than a few
seconds is utterly impossible. Walking in them is totally
unthinkable, which makes them ideal additions to any costume whose
goal is my immobilization. Luckily, he has seen fit to leave me
seated- or nearly so.
My legs are tied tightly together at the ankle and knee, which presses
my inner thighs together around the crotch-strap of my chastity belt.
This he has equipped with my two largest vibrators, which are off for
the moment (or I doubt that I'd remain lucid long enough to finish my
task here). The problem with this is that the rear one is
significantly longer than my poor rear can accomodate, and thus it
projects some three or four inches out beyond the crotch strap. This
means that I am unable to sit normally- I can only rest one cheek on
the chair, allowing the protruding vibrator and my other cheek to hang
free in the air- which means that I have to support roughly half my
weight on my poor toes (which are screaming for mercy at this) or my
arms- which, as will be seen, are little enough help.
My hands are gloved two layers deep- with a layer of my very tight
rubber gloves beneath, and one of my kid leather gloves outside. This
would make typing nearly impossible by itself, but he has also
handcuffed my wrists, and padlocked the center of the chain linking
the cuffs to the handle on the center desk drawer. But most viciously
of all, he has added my armpit balls to this production. These are two
small wooden balls, about an inch and a half in diameter, that are
studded around the outside with brass brads with rounded heads
protruding out perhaps a quarter inch. These are held firmly in the
armpits on loops of chain that lock to the sides of my wide collar.
They may not sound like much, but they provide quite a shock to the
system when ones' concentration lapses and one allows the arms to sag
lower than about a forty-five degree angle to the torso. The pressure
even from those rounded heads pressing into the skin under the
leverage of the weight of the arms is most intense. I loathe the
things, and this is undoubtedly the most difficult situation he has
yet come up with involving them! Any attempt to take weight off my
toes by using my arms almost always results in me nearly losing my
very precarious balance, and the resulting struggle invariably has me
press down with one arm or the other- which makes me try and cry out
with the pain. My scold's bridle with its large ball gag very
efficiently converts this cry into a sort of mewing sound, however,
which I think gives him great pleasure in itself.
Thus, I have to stretch my hands against the cuffs at a most awkward
angle to type at all, while holding my arms out at an angle to my
body, and I have to slide the keyboard back and forth with the sides
of my hands in order to reach keys at the extreme edges- and I am told
that I will not be released until my work here is perfect, from a
grammatical and spelling point of view. Given that reaching the delete
key requires three or four sidewards slides of the keyboard, I would
estimate that I am averaging three or four words per minute.
The straps of the scold's bridle which go up on either side of my nose
block about half of my vision, along with the fact that the collar
forces my head back at some angle. And to top off the punishment, as
I've typed, he has added some torment for my nipples- in the form of
dental elastics around the bases. These tiny rubberbands he applies to
my erect nipples by rolling them up a thimble- he presses the thimble
over my nipple, and rolls the rubberband off the base of the thimble
onto my nipple with a most painful snap! After the initial sting, this
is fairly tolerable- at least for the first few minutes. After a short
while, though, the tissues swell, and become almost unbearably
sensitive. He always passes a short loop of button thread through the
elastic, so that when time comes to remove it, he can tug it up from
the swollen flesh- otherwise, he'd never get it off I'm sure! This
also seems to provide him a convenient place to secure small fishing
weights, light chains, and the like. Every woman's nipples are
extremely sensitive, and I can assure you that a tiny elastic, some
thread, and a fishing weight provide punishment indeed.
He has just come back and turned on the vibrators
-Bottier
__________________________________________________________________
Subject: From Bottier- the original Costume article (#6)
From: Anonymous@n7kbt.WA.COM (Anonymous Posting Service)
Date: 11 Jan 90 00:49:54 GMT
Note from Bottier (#6)
- 6 -
The current very healthy outbreak of questions is an encouraging thing
indeed! I applaud those who have chosen to come forward, and
ask these things. It is good to see open, educational discussion of our
pleasures here.
One person wrote in private email:
While I've got you on the line, as it were, can you tell me
what a scold's bridle is? (Perhaps you can post; there may be
other inquiring minds that want to know.)
It's easy to forget at times that not everyone knows or understands
the vocabulary. A scold's bridle is a combination ball gag and head
harness. The ball gag is secured in the mouth via a wide leather strap
which buckles in back, like most all gags. However, at the corners of
the mouth are riveted two straps that pass upwards and join at the
bridge of the nose. From there, a wide strap continues up over the top
of the head and down the back, to be fastened to the center back of
the gag strap. The final part is then a smaller strap that fastens at
each corner of the mouth, slightly further back towards the rear than
the upper straps, which buckles together under the chin.
Thus, the gag is buckled into place, and the strap over the top of the
head is pulled tight. When the strap under the chin is tightened, it
has the effect of holding the jaw closed on the ball as tightly as the
person applying it pleases. The one that I have made for us is set up
such that all buckles can be locked with our collection of small
padlocks, as well. The final addition on ours is a d-ring at the very
center top, which can be used to apply upward tension to the wearers'
head. We find that useful in suspension situations in which the bottom
is balanced precariously- gentle support can be provided to the head,
while more firm support is applied elsewhere.
It is very important to be extremely careful when playing with gags,
but one must be extraordinarily so in suspension scenes! The goal in
suspending by the scolds' bridle is to make the bottom _feel_ as if
they are suspended by the head, but provide real support to structures
that are more amenable to real pressures (such as waists, arms,
shoulders, and the like) in the case that the bottom really loses
control. As we've described here, we enjoy predicaments wherein my
wife is bound at the knees and ankles while standing on extremely high
heels (among many other things!), and slowly stimulated to the point
of competely losing control of her body. This is extremely pleasurable
for her, but without proper support she would most assuredly injure
herself very badly, as the human body is not designed to hang from a
ball gag. As the top, I am fully responsible to keep this safe.
So, why not provide a thin rope from the top of the scold's bridle to
(for example) the clothes bar in a walk-in closet. This could then be
pulled just tight (to help her keep her balance), and thickness or two
of heavier rope intended to provide the _actual_ suspension would be
tied to the clothes bar behind her, passed through between her legs,
and tied to the bar in front of her with sufficient tension to apply
just a bit of force to her crotch. In this way, when she does finally
lose control of her legs and collapses, she applies all her weight to
the crotch rope instead of the bridle- and the crotch rope can safely
support all her weight, as well as providing an extra dose of stimulus
just when it will do the most good! The scold's bridle merely keeps
her upright, and provides a pleasant level of tension to her head- and
all the knots are well out of reach of her bound hands.
There are a few other leather bits that have proven invaluable in our
play. Certainly, no toy box would be complete without a variety of
lockable cuffs intended to fit wrists, ankles, forearms, and other
features. These are easily made from 2" wide belt-blank leather- 10"
long for wrists, 14" for ankles, longer for other areas. Rivet a 1"
D-ring at one end (perpendicular to the long dimension of the strip),
and cut a series of 1" slots (also perpendicular to the long
dimension) from the other end approximately 3/4" apart. To use, wrap
the cuff around the wrist or ankle from the ring end, and slip the
d-ring through the nearest slot. Lock in place, and viola'! A 1"x1/8"
oval leather slot punch costs about $10, and is a very useful tool for
any enthusiast. And the cuffs can be lined with whatever attracts
you. A good set of 8-10 cuffs should cost no more than $25 in parts,
tools, and materials.
The "slot and D-ring" technique is a quick and easy way to make just
about anything lockable, but it does not provide the real tension that
a roller buckle strap provides. To make toys that use those, one must
either spend more time cutting and punching, or be willing to frequent
the local pet store and adapt the wonderful (and inexpensive) leather
goods found there. And buckles of this type are easily locked- simply
widen the tongue holes enough to admit the hasp of a small padlock,
and install it in the next hole upstream of the fastened buckle! One
of the most delightful experiences in the world is the discovery that
the shiny bauble gracing the anklestrap securing a high-heeled shoe on
an attractive foot is in fact a tiny padlock! But I digress.
The other indispensable item in our armory is the chastity belt. This
is a straight leather belt at the waist, 2" wide, and equipped with a
roller buckle at each side in the front. There is a triangular section
6" wide at the base, which tapers to a 2" roller buckle just above the
pubic bone in front. There is also a roller buckle in the center back,
allowing a variety of saddle-strap sections to be fastened through the
crotch area, with any level of tension desired. We have a number of
these, ranging from plain leather to a variety of attached plugs and
vibrators, and in widths from very narrow to about 2 1/2" wide. 4
small padlocks then guarantee that whatever torment is applied stays
applied! Given my wife's love of corsetry, our belt needs to be
adjustable to fit waists from about 26" down to 18" or so. When she
is tight-laced, she likes this to be applied and pulled as tightly as
possible over her corset, and then the saddle strap be cinched down as
well. This sees a great deal of use, and the fact that the saddle
straps are easily replaced as they wear out is certainly a benefit! I
have also riveted D-rings to the waist belt at the center front,
center back, and sides, which are useful for suspension scenes as
well.
We have a variety of other toys as well, many of which we've described
in use. I have gone on overlong for now, though. I'll close, and
perhaps post more later. She has been out of town for a few days, and is
due back this weekend- which presents a perfect opportunity to try out
some variations on the basic closet scene above....
We wish the very best to you all.
-Bottier
__________________________________________________________________
----------------------------------------------------------------------
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Subject: STORY: My Body (MF, bd, piercing, body-art, art-body, exhi)
Date: Wed, 06 Nov 1996 12:13:25 -0800
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Newsgroups: alt.sex.bondage,alt.sex.stories.bondage,alt.sex.stories,alt.sex.exhibitionism
Subject: STORY: My Body (MF, bd, piercing, body-art, art-body, exhi)
___________________________________________________________________
Newsgroups: alt.sex.bondage
Subject: My Body
Message-ID: <1992Apr29.203322.1694@muddcs.claremont.edu>
Date: 29 Apr 92 20:33:22 GMT
My Body
Part I
The early evening was pleasantly warm as I stood naked in my studio
looking at the gleaming oak and stainless steel of my armature. The
sound of the cicadas and crickets was comforting, but I hesitated.
I went to the door again, checking to see that it was open, adjusted
the lights, checked the program on my CD player, checked the view
through the video cameras, adjusted the stack of handouts, and read
over the engraved invitation I'd sent out one last time.
Susan Anderson
invites you to join her to celebrate
the completion of her most recent
work of art. This mixed media work
is the largest and most personal
work she has ever created.
Come at seven, Friday afternoon.
The door will be open, let yourself in.
It was right, the door was open, the snack trays were all in place,
the lights were adjusted, the champagne was ready, so I looked back
at my armature.
The armature was a massive oak framework, reaching to the ceiling.
and filling the center of the room. Originally, I'd planned on a
crude looking framework, but over the year and a half that I'd
worked on the project, it had been refined, polished, sculpted.
Now, it had a heavy body, but there were smooth organic looking
projections here and there, some functional as seats, and 22
stainless steel studs protruded from the oak, almost at random.
Those pegs had taken me hours of work. They were made from various
diameter stainless rod, carefully fit into the oak and protruding
from two inches to a foot. They were almost smooth, but near the
ends, all were lightly threaded to accept a nut screwed onto them.
I rewound the VCR, started the CD player on its program, and slowly
walked into the cameras' fields of view. I looked at the lowest peg
on the armature. It was almost waist high, protruding from the
bottom of one curved oak surface. I was ready, so I lifted my right
foot to the stud and carefully worked the lubricated peg through the
hole I'd pierced more than a year ago in the ball of my foot. I
took a polished brass washer from a nearby notch in the armature,
slipped it over the peg, then took a stainless steel nut and
carefully tightened it until my foot was snugly held in place.
The 22 holes I'd had pierced in my body had been a chore. The pain
of piercing was transient, and most had healed in less than a month,
but keeping them a secret was another matter. The holes in my feet
and breasts were private enough as long as I wore normal clothes,
but others like those in my hands and face couldn't be hidden. I'd
justified them to my friends as experiments in body piercing
jewelry, and they were fun to use that way, but I was about to put
them to their real purpose.
With the ball of my right foot secure, I twisted my foot, slowly
sliding the next stud through the back of my ankle, between the
tendon and the bone. I'd put in quite a few hours studying anatomy
books to find out where I could pierce myself safely, without risk
to nerves, blood supply, or mobility. When my ankle was secure,
another bolt held my upper calf, and then I was ready to climb into
my armature.
The pegs would have made good handholds if they weren't lubricated,
but I'd planned the armature carefully and it had plenty of places
to hold on. I slid my left foot carefully down over its peg, then
added a brass washer and tightened the nut, all the while hanging
awkwardly by one hand and my right leg. My leg held most of my
weight, and it hurt a bit, but that was only temporary. With all 22
pegs in place, I knew I'd be comfortable. I'd done experiments to
prove it.
It wasn't difficult to slide onto the four studs securing my hips,
and once I was securely bolted to them, I could work comfortably.
I'd debated long and hard about how to secure my hips. A bolt
through the navel would have been beautiful, but weeks in the
medical library had convinced me that it couldn't be done. I'd been
tempted for a while to put a bolt through my genitals somehow, but
in the end, I rejected that on aesthetic grounds. I wanted to be
frankly sexual, and that would have looked too much like a figleaf.
I'd spent hours locked in my studio bolted like this, using the
bottom half of my armature as a chair while I worked on the rest,
and I'd tried on each part of the armature before, but I'd never
gone all the way. I'd rehearsed every part of the bolting it
before, getting it so I could bolt myself in place in some semblance
of synchronization to the music. Now, I had time for a short rest
before the next step.
When it was time for the next move. I carefully leaned back into a
hollow in an oak crossbeam. A pair of long slim bolts protruded on
each side of the hollow; they went under my arms and fit tightly
against my sides, and I had to be careful not to bend them. As I
leaned back, I guided them into the piercings in the backs of my
breasts, then carefully used my hands to work first one breast and
then the other into place, so the ends of the bolts protruded from
the little craters in the center of each nipple. Those piercings
had taken particular care, and I was glad I'd been generous with the
KY Jelly on the studs because my nipples always felt a bit odd for
the first few minute when I ran the studs through them. I carefully
slid the brass washers on, then tightened the nuts as the music
reached a brief creshendo.
Another pair of bolts went through my armpits, and then it was time
to secure my head. I took a last look around the room from my high
perch. The video camers were in place, focused on me as I worked
and I gave them my last smile. I adjusted my hair carefully,
letting its blond length drape forward over my right shoulder, clear
of my breast, and then carefully leaned my head back. I slid my
head carefully sideways, guiding the stud through my cheek and
tongue, and with my head cradeled in the form fitting curve of the
oak, slid the washer in place and tightened the bolt.
I couldn't turn to look at what I was doing anymore, and that made
securing my arms the hardest part of the job. The beams to which my
arms were secured were hinged, and I pulled them forward, then slid
my left forearm and palm onto their studs. I set the bolts and
washers for my right arm in my upturned left palm, then slid my
right forearm and palm up onto its studs and carefully fumbled the
washers and nuts into place.
I'd done it! I could still free myself by reversing the process I'd
gone through to bolt myself to the armature, but I was basically in
place. As the music reached it's final creschendo, I slowly
straightened my arms, moving them in the only way the hinged
armature allowed, straightening them until I heard the clicks that
signified that my armature had locked me into my final position. I
was held in the pose of a triumphal leap, soaring off towards the
left, my feet well off the ground, my body tightly bound but
completely exposed, my head turned up and to the side. I knew I was
beautiful!
My Body
Part II
While I waited for my guests to arrive, I thought about how I'd come
to this. It had all started as a crucifixion fantasy, and I'd
gotten my first piercings with that goal in mind. I'd even built
myself a cross and experimented with hanging from it, but as time
went on, I'd decided that there was too much wrong with that. I'd
concluded that I didn't like the religious symbolism. There was
something intriguing about the image of a crucified woman, but that
was wrong. I wanted to create a more triumphal image, but the idea
of being bound to my artwork continued to draw me in.
My thoughts were interrupted by the noise of a small car with a bad
muffler pulling into my drive, and after the doors slammed, I heard
the familiar voices of Don and Marie Cavanaugh on their way up the
walk to my barn studio. Marie had been one of my art professors,
and Don ran a gallery I sometimes sold work through. The screen door
banged behind them, and then their conversation stopped abruptly as
they came into sight. "What the blazes?" Don said. "Sue, is that
really you?"
Marie didn't say anything, and I couldn't. The stud through my
cheeks and tongue deliberately prevented that. I didn't want to
spoil my creation by chatting away while I was part of it.
Don found my pile of handouts, and I heard him mumble what I'd
written as he read.
My Body
by
Susan Anderson
This work combines aspects of performance
art with multimedia sculpture. The work
consists of three major components, a semi-
rigid bolted wood framework, a system of
stainless steel studs, each with a brass
washer and a steel nut, and me.
As an artist, I am frequently asked to
describe what my work symbolizes. Keeping
in mind the warning that the ultimate judge
of symbolism must be the viewer, consider
the following explanation. I have always
felt that I was bound up in my work, I have
always felt that the human body was an
appropriate subject for art, and I have
always wanted to try performance art. This
work fulfills my interest in all of these.
Because of the nature of this work, I will
not be able to participate with you in the
celebration of its completion, so let me
give you some guidelines.
As with all my sculptures, this work is
intended to be touched and climbed on. A
few parts are delicate, but I trust your
judgement when it comes to that.
Please feel free to enjoy the refreshments
set around the room, and if you want, take
a photo with one of the cameras (If you do,
please note the exposure number and sign
the log sheet so I'll know who took what).
Someone else came in while Don was mumbling, but they didn't speak.
I herd the rustle of paper, but I didn't learn anything until Don
was done reading. "I'll be damned," he said.
"Damnation's not enough," someone whispered, under their breath.
I heard footsteps walking around me, and I wished I could see who it
was and what they were doing. There was a pop and then a clink of
glass, and I knew someone was pouring a glass of champagne. "To
Susan," the mystery person said, and I knew it was Ken Fuchs. "I
don't know why you've done this to yourself," he went on with his
toast, "But I'll admit it's one of the most disturbing things I've
seen in my years in the art business." Ken was another artist in
the area, I'd invited him because his art was some of the most
sexual I'd seen without being in any way obscene.
Three more people arrived; "Susan!" someone almost screamed. It was
Jenny Helgeson's voice. "What in God's name have you done?" Jenny
was a friend of Tom Carstens, so I wasn't surprised to hear Tom's
voice, but it was very reassuring to hear Ed Silvers. Ed was my
current boyfriend, and I'd sent him a special invitation to the
event.
I relaxed into comfortable drowsiness as the sound of conversation
intensified around me. Someone took some pictures, and I felt my
armature vibrate as someone did more than touch it. There were
seats in it at various levels, sort of like a jungle gym, and
someone must have sat in one. They were the only seats in the room,
and I'd hoped people would sit in them.
I lost track of the people in the room, but my attention returned to
the moment when I felt a hand on my leg. The seats were
intentionally near my body, but as I'd expected, it took a while
before anyone touched me. The feeling was electric as the hand slid
up to my thigh and traced the edge of the washer holding my lower
thigh in place.
"This is really remarkable," Ken Fuchs said, "I knew she'd
experimented with body piercing, but I didn't realize the extent."
"Don't you feel awkward touching her like that?" Jenny asked from
almost between my legs. "A bit," Ken said, "but she said to feel
free to touch in her writeup. Try it, touch her."
I heard a camera click as a hand brushed the inside of my thigh, and
then I felt something brush against my thigh. Jenny giggled and the
camera clicked again.
Charlie Andrews spoke. "That's obscene!" Jenny giggled again and
the pressure of hair on the inside of my thigh was firm. "Charlie,
she put the seat here on purpose, if she wants people to sit here,
she wants their heads against her thigh." I could feel the hair
move as Jenny spoke, so I knew it was her head leaning against my
thigh.
I don't know how long the party went on, but eventually, there were
only a few people left in the room, Ed Silvers, Jenny Helgeson, and
Tom Carstens. "God," Jenny said, "I just realized I'm still leaning
on Susan's thigh. It's like I've reduced her to a piece of
furniture, a thing!"
"But you've done more than just use her," Ed said. "You've talked
about her as if she isn't here. Good God, I'm doing it. Susan?
You there? Wiggle your fingers or grunt or something! Let us know
you're still a person!" I wiggled my fingers and laughed a bit.
Tom spoke in a thoughtful voice. "We've been sitting drinking your
champagne, and we haven't even offered you any. Want some?" He
paused. I realized that I was thirsty, very thirsty. I wiggled my
fingers again and I guess someone saw my answer, because I felt the
armature vibrate, then heard Tom again. "How?"
"Probably climb up that post," Jenny said. "Don't use a glass, let
her drink from the bottle." I felt the armature vibrate, and Tom's
head came into view, the first person I'd seen since I began my
preparations for the party. He smiled at me, then carefully fitted
the bottle to my lips and tipped it up. I cooperated as best I
could, sputtered a bit, spilled some of the champagne, then got the
hang of it and began to drink. I didn't stop until the bottle was
empty.
"Good?" Tom asked, smiling. I smiled back, and he gently traced a
finger down my cheek and around the washer that secured my head.
"God, I still don't believe you're doing this," he said.
"What gets me is the sexuality of it all," Jenny said from down near
my thigh. "I mean, I always thought of female bondage as sick, and
it wrenches my gut to see what Susan's done and realize that I think
its beautiful."
"She's such an aggressive girl," Ed said, very quietly, while Tom
continued to look at my face. "You've done something very
aggressive," Tom said, and then stroked my face again before
disappearing from my view. "Can you imagine a more agressive way to
do it?" Tom asked from down near my thighs.
"It still hurts," Jenny said. "I mean, everything I know about
female submissive bondage cries out 'Rape' at every turn. Isn't
that what rape is? Taking away a woman's right to chose her own
place and time, forcing her to submit, forcing her to passively
participate in whatever turns a man on?"
The discussion went on that way for a while, and my attention
wandered to the music from my CD player. Half the reason I'd
programmed as much music as I did was to make sure I'd have
something to occupy me while the party went on. My bladder was
starting to ache from the champagne I'd drunk and the hours since
I'd been to the toilet, and the music helped distract me from it.
My Body
Part III
My attention was jerked back to reality by a gentle touch on the
inside of my upper thigh. "It's awfully late," Jenny said. "Should
we do something about Susan first? Help her down? I hate to think
of leaving her all alone like this." Ed Silvers answered. "Her
invitation asked me to help clean up, but she didn't say anything
specific."
"You're lovers, aren't you?" Jenny asked. Someone reached up to pat
my stomach. "I think so," Ed said. "Lately, she's been so
secretive, I'm not really sure." Jenny laughed. "Look what she's
been doing, are you surprised? When's the last time you made love?"
"Two days ago," he said, and I remembered. It had been more and
more awkward hiding some of my piercings from him, and these last
few months, I'd hardly let him see my body or touch me when we made
love.
"Think she wants you to make love to her before you take her down?"
Jenny asked. "If I were her, I think I might!" She giggled. Tom
Carstens chuckled. "You know what? It fits my idea of performance
art; why don't you do it?"
"Gross," Ed said. "Anyway, to make modern performance art, we all
have to take part, and we have to get it on video. You know what
the problem with that is? It's almost tempting." There was a long
pause, and I tingled with anticipation. I'd almost given up hope
that someone would be brave enough to do it. For a long time, I
hadn't been able to face the fact that I wanted it, but I think the
plan was always there in the back of my mind.
"Those video cameras still running?" Tom asked. There was movement,
and then Jenny's voice answered "Yup, someone must have changed the
tape before they left. We've got a half hour or so." They
discussed it for a few more minutes, and as they talked, I felt a
change in my body. The abstract detachment I'd felt the whole
evening began to melt away, to be replaced with a fierce longing.
My longing was answered! A gentle touch to my clitoris, a brushing
of my thigh, and my spirits soared. "She's real wet," Jenny said.
"Come on, Ed, she wants you." "Wait," Tom said. "She probably
needs to pee first, Susan? We'll get you something to pee in, OK?"
Ed sounded very quiet when he spoke. "I've always had this
fantasy," he paused. "No, I shouldn't," he paused uncertainly.
"What?" Jen asked. "Well," he went on, "I guess it won't hurt to
say, I've always wanted to drink a womans pee." "Why not," Jen said.
"You'll never have a better chance!" There was a long pause before
Ed spoke again. "OK, Susan? Is it OK with you? Can you wiggle
your fingers if it's ok?"
I wiggled my fingers, and then relaxed to the gentle touch of Ed's
lips between my legs. We'd enjoyed oral sex before, but not like
this. It was hard to relax, and I shivvered all over when I finally
started to pee. The feel of lips sucking on me overcame my senses,
and as I ran dry, I came convulsively.
"Wow," Jen said, and I heard a zipper being pulled down. "I've,
God, what am I saying?" She giggled. "Oh God! Ed? Can I try?
I've never done this to a woman before, but ... Somehow it just
seems to be the right way to end the evening." Who had unzipped
what? I wouldn't find that out until I looked at the video tapes.
Ed chuckled nervously, and I felt his hand pat my belly and then
slide over and circle the washer on the stud through the flesh of my
side. "This is wierd," he said, "but Susan? That what you want?" I
wiggled my fingers, and someone started kissing their way up my
thigh. I think all three of them were at it, but I lost track as I
came and came again.
I heard the screen door slam as I came one last time, and then
someone turned out the lights. I was two exhausted to say anything,
but I knew that someone was still in the room with me. After what
seemed like forever, Ed's voice spoke. "Susan, the others went
home, sorry they didn't say goodbye, but I think they were a bit
embarrassed by what your artwork inspired in them. I don't blame
them one bit, I'm a bit grossed out by what I've just done."
He paused, and I had to admit that if I hadn't planned for things to
end the way they did, I'd have been a bit grossed out myself. "Was
that what you really wanted?" He finally asked. "I'm not sure I
want to know right now, and since you've rigged things so you can't
speak, I guess I won't find out. I'll be back tomorrow, OK?"
I listened in disbelief as his footsteps echoed out of my studio,
and then the door slammed. I heard the faint call of Jenny's voice
asking if everything was OK, then the sound of a car starting and
driving away. My CD player wasn't going anymore, I assumed because
the program had ended, so my world was filled with the sounds of a
summer night.
While I hung on my creation, the peaceful sounds of cicadas and
katydids wafted over me, with the occasional sound of an owl adding
a mournful note. At first, I was furious at Ed for leaving me, but
as time passed, I relaxed. In a way, I'd certainly asked for it,
although I never imagined that he'd leave me bound to my armature
for the night.
I must have fallen asleep, because the next thing I remember is
waking up to find the early morning sun streaming into my studio,
with the night's insect sounds replaced by the morning's birdsongs.
I felt a bit stiff from not moving all night, but at least I didn't
ache. The worst part of it was that I was bored, and I don't know
how many times I reviewed the evening before while I waited for Ed.
It seemed like forever, and I had to pee.
They say that sensory depravation sharpens the senses, and I guess
its true. I listened to every car that went by on the distant
highway, and I began to imagine that I knew exactly where each bird
outside was sitting when I heard it sing. I heard a car slow down
on the highway, and my heart rose with my excitement as I imagined
it turning into my drive. It did! The sound of gravel under car
tires was music to my ears, and then the screen door slammed and I
had company again.
Footsteps approached, but whoever it was didn't speak and I
couldn't. My body tensed, but then a hand rested gently on my thigh
and stroked up towards my crotch. It had to be Ed, but why didn't
he say anything. Whovever it was stepped back, and I heard the
click of a camera, and then the sound of someone fiddling with my
video equipment, changing tapes? I couldn't tell.
The person came back and I felt a gentle kiss on the inside of my
thigh, and then more kisses, up my thigh towards my crotch. Was it
Ed? If it was, he knew well that I needed to pee, if it wasn't, it
would serve the person right. As the mouth closed over my pussy, I
let go, and knew it was Ed. I could feel the eager sucking, and the
hands on my hips and thighs massaged me as he worked. I didn't
climax immediately, the uncertainty had been too much, but he didn't
stop until I was satisfied.
There was a brief vibration in my oak armature, and then I felt his
hands gently sliding up over my hips, fingering the bolts in my
sides as he kissed his way up my body. He kissed his way around my
breast before he finally climbed into view and looked at me. I
could smell my urine on his breath as he kissed my lips, and then
backed off to look at me.
Almost reluctantly, he undid the nut on my cheek and slid the washer
off, and then I carefully slid myself off the stud, freeing my mouth
for the first time in what must have been more than twelve hours.
He held his finger to his lips as I slid free, so I didn't say
anything. He kissed me gently on the lips, and then more fiercely.
His body pressed against mine, and I could feel that he was nude, I
didn't know what he was standing on, but he reached down with one
hand and guided his penis into me and then, very gently, began to
grind his hips, bringing both of us to another climax. I hadn't
planned this, but I was in ecstacy. It was the right ending!
As I recovered from my climax, I thought about what I'd done, and
about what I'd managed to inspire in others. I hoped it was all on
video, I wanted to see it! I knew I'd have to cut two versions of
the tape when I edited it, one very personal copy just for me and
three friends who had proved to be closer than I ever expected, and
one for public use, to the extent that the kind of performance art
I'd just done is ever shown in public. What kinds of pictures were
on the film in my cameras? I couldn't wait to develop them and
print them. Would any be good enough to sell as art? I had to
support myself after all.
Only when we were both satisfied and recovered did he finally speak.
"Did you really want things to turn out the way they did?" My jaw
ached, but I managed to say the word that mattered. "Yes." He
paused and gently ran his finger around the edge of the washer
covering my nipple. When he finally spoke, his voice sounded
reluctant. "I guess it's time to take you down, what do I undo
first?"
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