I was hard at work. The design, both sketches and clay models,
had to be done by the next day, and I did not want to stay late
-- my lover was finally interested in a date for that evening,
and I was certainly ready. The last several weeks he had been
acting very odd, avoiding me, acting surly, etc. I suspected
trouble at work; this didn't seem to be the boredom accompanying
the end of a relationship, but it was irritating me nevertheless.
And he wouldn't talk about the problem, whatever it was. Hmm.
Tie him to the bed and tickle him till he talked? I grinned;
whether or not he said anything, the game sounded like fun.
I returned to work. Reaching for the eraser, my hand tangled in
the phone cord. The momentary hint of bondage brought a smile to
my lips, and a wetness to my groin. Almost unconsciously, I
smoothed my skirt. The unexpected contact of hand to thigh
startled me, and then generated another smile. I didn't often
wear such skimpy outfits to work. But I was intent on celebrat-
ing that evening, and no one would say anything to me -- there
are advantages to owning the firm.
Suddenly, the phone rang. Cursing -- I had told me secretary I
wanted no interruptions -- I picked it up. A distorted voice
said, "You've been kidnaped"
Shit. The call had come in on my private line, the one that did
not go through my secretary's phone. Only one person was likely
to be calling me on that phone these days. "John? Is that you?
We were supposed to meet tonight, not now -- I told you how busy
I'd be today."
It was John. He repeated, "You've been kidnaped. You know the
situation: any time, anyplace -- you drop what you're doing and
come with me. Now."
I did indeed know the rules. Many years, and not a few relation-
ships, ago, a lover and I had evolved the kidnap game as a way to
spice up our bondage lives. Either of us, at any time, could
"kidnap" the other, simply by announcing it. The "victim" would
go to the other's car to be bound, and off we'd go. The kidnaper
would drive off to some prepared place, where a scenario had been
prepared. We'd then have an evening, or a weekend, or even more,
of delicious servitude.
One of the iron-clad rules, though, was that we didn't hurt each
other. I like being tied up -- and I like tying my lovers up --
but I'm not into pain. A whipping, if that's what the game
called for, was just a few strokes, enough to tingle, but not
sting more than slightly. But locks were real locks, and while
we often used Velcro for convenience bonds, if the game called
for sleeping chained, real handcuffs were used. Neither of us
had ever escaped -- and the rules do permit escapes and turn-
abouts. In fact, that was why I started a serious exercise
program; I didn't like being overpowered that easily. I don't
know if I'm as strong as John is, but he can't easily overpower
me without risking hurting me -- and that, as I said, is beyond
the rules. Be that as it may, I grew to like exercise for its
own sake; even today, as busy as I was, I found time to work out.
We always took the "no pain" rule seriously. When we played our
discreet public bondage games, we always did it an hour or more
away, to avoid any public embarrassment. We'd keep each other
minutely apprised of our professional schedules, so that kidnap-
ings didn't cause problems at work.
John always seemed to walk the edge of that rule, though. His
ropes were often a bit tighter than necessary, and his spankings
a bit harder. I never really knew what was going to happen next,
and that was both a thrill and a source of worry. The essence of
bondage is helplessness -- that you are not at all in control,
that you are at the complete and total mercy of another. But
there must also be trust -- you must know that your partner won't
exceed your bounds -- and I was never really sure if I could
trust John. But that, of course, meant I was really at his
mercy, which turned me on even more sometimes. Other times, of
course, it made me worry, and I had been giving serious thought
to ending the relationship.
I remembered what he had done a few months earlier. While I was
sleeping, he had broken into my house, slipped upstairs, and
quickly handcuffed me. As I struggled awake, he kissed me,
announced a kidnaping, and slipped a hood over my head. He then
led me downstairs, out the back door -- nude! -- into his car,
and drove me to his house. He was courteous to drive around to
his back door, too, something he doesn't usually do, and led me
in. Of course, I didn't know where I was; he wouldn't tell me.
He then fastened my hands high over my head to some sort of post,
and tied my legs to either side of it. My toes could just barely
touch the ground. Finally, he moved some sort of lever, and the
whole thing tilted forward about 10 or 15 degrees. My breasts
and crotch were pressed against the post, creating a delicious
pressure. I had just enough leverage to wiggle my crotch against
the post.
John spoke. "I'd like your permission to bend the rules a bit.
I'd like to whip you rather harder than we usually do. It's
really going to hurt this time, and I'm not going to stop after
two or three strokes. I think you'll find it's worth it, though,
at least this time."
I wiggled in my bonds, trying to get loose. I couldn't, of
course. And I didn't know what to say. If I said no, would he
whip me anyway? If I said yes, could I take it? John isn't
particularly large -- in fact, we're about the same height -- but
I hadn't even seen the whip. And would I really enjoy the expe-
rience? I had never found pain to be a particular stimulus in
the past. I moaned and wiggled some more, which of course stimu-
lated my crotch and provoked a different sort of moan.
John said, "You don't have to explicitly agree. I'll count to
ten; if you don't demur by then, I'll proceed." I remained
silent, stilled by an agony of indecision. Oddly enough, rather
than simply counting, he activated a metronome, a slow one, and
counted with every tick.
"One. Two. Three. Four. Five." Still I said nothing, but
still, I struggled with the ropes and chains. "Six. Seven.
Eight. Nine." I braced myself. "Ten."
Nothing happened. Two more ticks went by, and still nothing
happened. "Thirteen. Fourteen. Fifteen." I had just started
to relax, when I heard, and then felt the whip, exactly on the
sixteenth tick. I screamed, and pressed wildly against the post,
rubbing on it. John kept counting; on twenty, he hit me again,
and again on twenty-four and twenty-eight. I knew when each blow
was coming, and before each one I'd try to escape, and press
myself deep into the pole to hide before he hit me again. But
each of these attempts stimulated me more; I found myself trying
to embrace the pole like a lover. Around the tenth stroke, I
felt the pole responding -- John had built a vibrator into it.
My life was just a haze; all I could focus on was the pain in my
back and the pleasure in my groin. I couldn't tell which was
more intense.
Then he skipped a tick, and another, and a third. Was it over?
Suddenly, the hardest stroke of all landed, on my buttocks in-
stead of my back. Before I could even react, John operated a
quick release, freeing my legs and my handcuffs from the pole.
He caught me as I slumped down, eased me to my back, attached the
handcuffs to a flooring. John then spread-eagled my legs, tied
them that way, and mounted me. Again, there were the conflicting
sensations, of the pain of my back and rear against the floor,
and John within me. The pain subsided, John didn't, and I had
one of the most intense orgasms I'd ever had. All I wanted to do
was to hug and hold him, but my hands were chained, and that made
my thrill even greater. When we were both spent, he lay along
side me, hugging me until I fell asleep still
bound.
I awoke the next morning alone in his bed, not remembering being
moved. To the side of the bed was a bottle of champagne, a note,
and a key. "Dearest. Your turn now." A riding crop dangled
from the doorknob, and I knew he hadn't used that on me -- you
never forget what one feels like, even years later. Investigat-
ing downstairs, I found John bound to the pole, where I had been.
I ignored him while I looked at the mechanisms. Finally, I
released him from the pole, and punched him in the stomach as
hard as I could. "John, that was a wonderful night, and if you
ever do anything like it again I'll cut your nuts off and feed
them to you for breakfast. I'll see you next month." After
watching him writhe in pain a bit longer, I tossed the key down,
helped myself to some clothes and his car, and left. I refused
to take any calls from him for four weeks, though I did mail his
car keys back.
Remembering that incident, I pondered what to say to him this
time. Thinking of it still gave me a frisson and made me rub my
legs together. "OK, John, I'll go along. But I'm going to bring
some work along; I really do have to finish this for tomorrow."
Now it was John's turn to pause. "We'll see. I have plans,
too." I shuddered. "You will be downstairs in the parking lot
within five minutes. Move!" I heard a click before I could
reply. I put some clay and some pencils in a sample case,
grabbed it and my gym bag, and left, telling my secretary that I
was going to finish up at home.
His red car was waiting outside. Slowly, I got in, and closed
the door.
John was ready for me. "Wrists," he said. I held out my arms,
and he fastened a cable tie around each one. I don't know if
you've ever seen a cable tie. Electricians use them. They're
narrow strips of tough plastic. One side is ridged; it fits into
a ratchet mechanism moulded into the other end. There's no way
to release the ratchet; once you loop the strip around and insert
it, you can't release it, only tighten it. Electricians don't
care; they rarely want to release their wires. If they do, they
just cut the cable tie. But these were my hands being bound that
way, and I couldn't even hope to steal a key. Even if I had a
sharp enough knife, I probably didn't have the leverage to cut
the plastic.
After braceleting my hands, John used a third tie to bind them
together, and a fourth to fasten them to my seatbelt. I looked
at him; he chuckled, buckled it, and said, "We don't want to get
pulled over again, do we?" I blushed. A year earlier, some
public-spirited citizen had notified police of an apparent kid-
naping -- seeing a bound woman being pushed into a car. Despite
the drawn guns and my helplessness -- for that game, he had bound
my hands behind me and pushed me into the hatch, hiking my skirt
up in the process -- I persuaded the cops to lock him in the
police car (handcuffed, to stay in style with our game!) and
question us separately. We both gave the same story; more impor-
tantly, we both told him the same "release word". I, of course,
was blushing furiously the whole time, though I was thankful that
this was out of town, and that no one who knew me would ever see
that police report with my name. But I got even with John for
ignoring my qualms about public exposure -- I convinced the cop
to release me, and to let me put my pair of handcuffs on John in
place of his. I then drove John off, and I played the master in
that game!
Once I was bound, he drove off. His voice seemed a bit slurred,
though, and his driving rather unsteady. "John? Have you been
drinking again? I don't think you can drive far enough in your
condition."
He snarled, "Shut up!", as he pulled into the driveway of a
sleazy motel not half a mile from my office. "What I drink is my
business. And if you don't behave yourself, I won't give you a
sweater to put over your hands when you go up to the room." I
shook. For all that I love what I do, and don't hesitate to tell
prospective lovers early on, I'm terrified of exposure. And John
would do it, too, especially because of my fear -- it was just
one more aspect of him crossing the line on pain. I started to
get seriously concerned.
He parked the car and, with a knife from the glove compartment,
cut the tie holding my hands to the seatbelt. He tossed me a
sweater and headed upstairs, leaving me to get out of the car and
follow as best I could. Surprisingly, he took my bags with him.
I was just as glad; I had to get some work done that night, come
hell or high water, and I wasn't pleased with the leers some of
the local loiterers were giving me. Small wonder, perhaps -- I
was wearing a sheer, low-cut blouse and very short skirt -- but
it still made me nervous. I wish I knew why he had picked this
neighbourhood.
Once we were inside, things got a lot better, at least at first.
He closed the door behind us, grabbed me, and kissed me thorough-
ly. I put my bound hands around his neck, which reminded him of
the games we had planned; he tolerated the embrace for a moment
longer, then stepped back and ordered me to strip. Again, there
was a cold note in his voice. And there was a seriously depleted
bottle of vodka on the dresser.
It's hard to undress with your hands tied, of course, and of
course I had to be graceful and sexy -- that's part of the game.
(But you should have seen some of the ways I've made him
undress!) Still, I managed as best I could. The skirt was easy,
as were my panties and garter belt; I left my heels and stockings
on for a while longer. I unbuttoned my blouse, and unhooked my
bra -- it was no accident that both of them fastened from the
front! -- and looked up at him. "Slide them down your arms," he
said. I pushed them both off of my shoulders as far as I could,
and approached John. I then rubbed up against him, using his
body to push my blouse and bra strap down my arms. He didn't
just stand there, of course; he did such a good job of caressing
me that I almost forgot my goal. But he remained clothed.
Eventually, I could go no further that way; the blouse behind me
was holding my bound arms against my stomach. John wasn't satis-
fied, though, and motioned for me to continue. I used the dress-
er, the bed, and sometimes John, to first gain a bit more slack,
and then push my garments below my buttocks. By bending over, I
could lower my hands, too, and ended up with everything around
the level of my knees. I would have tried to bring the clothing
under my legs, but John stopped me; he seemed to like seeing me
doubled up. After leaving me like that for a bit, he produced a
pair of handcuffs and fastened them above the garments. Before
removing the cable ties, though, he fastened a home-made Velcro
cuff to each ankle, and ran a loop of chain connecting them to
each other and to the handcuffs. I was to remain bent over, it
seemed.
Finally, he cut off the cable ties, and told me to continue. I
removed the blouse, and, with John's permission, took off my
shoes and flopped backwards onto the bed. He told me to kneel;
after a bit of struggling, I managed to, with my arms ending up
between my legs, still bound to my ankles. There wasn't enough
slack in the chain to let me slip the loop around my knees in-
stead. Just as well, perhaps -- that would certainly have ripped
the stockings.
I looked over at John. Curiously, he still hadn't undressed; he
hadn't even changed into a costume. Except when I prompted him,
he'd been quite passive. Normally, he'd have been commenting, or
teasing, or fondling. Instead, he seemed interested only in his
vodka bottle. I knelt there silently, and looked around to see
what props he'd set up.
At the head of the bed, there was a short length of chain, with
an open padlock. The chain vanished between the headboard and
the mattress. At the foot, I saw a bar running the full width of
the bed; each end had an adjustable strap with snap hook lying on
the sheets, and a chain dangling off the bed. It looked like a
gadget I'd built a number of years ago, to deal with motel furni-
ture. For that matter, I needed it when visiting some of my
lovers; they weren't well equipped for bondage, either.
In fiction -- or at my house, for that matter -- the bed is
always a four-poster, which provides convenient anchor points for
ties. Motels are rarely so considerate. The next obvious anchor
points are the legs of the bed. This one, though, was a platform
bed -- no legs at all. But if you run a chain under the mat-
tress, with a Y to connect to both ends of that bar, you have two
ideally placed rings. You can do the same at the head of the
bed, of course, but John preferred a single chain for handcuffed
wrists -- that way, he could fasten me to the bed without ever
releasing my hands, a favourite fantasy of his.
There wasn't much more to see. John had brought his toybag, but
it was closed. Judging from the shape, there wasn't much left in
it; in particular, it was flopped over enough that I didn't think
his riding crop was there. Just as well -- in his current mood,
I didn't know if he'd remember to restrain himself enough with
it.
The vodka bottle suddenly dropped to the dresser, startling me.
John staggered over, barely keeping his feet. I said nothing.
He threw me onto my back, rather roughly, and fastened my hand-
cuffs to the head chain, pulling my legs over my head. He didn't
leave me that way, though, but he also didn't tease my bottom the
way I wanted him to. Instead, he use a short chain to fasten my
ankles together, and then released the chain holding them to my
hands. Gratefully, I straightened out.
He only let me have a moment's respite, though, before he at-
tached the straps to the ankle cuffs, and took up the slack.
Then, and only then, did he release the chain, and pulled the two
straps taut together. Another fantasy of his -- simulating
motor-powered bondage. He stopped for an instant while he
grabbed my legs and pulled my whole body down, to keep the head
chain tight, and then finished spreading my legs. He concluded
by taking a gag from his toybox, shoving it into my mouth, and
tying it there. "Don't worry; no whips today," he said as he
staggered back to his chair. "Unless you brought some?", he
asked hopefully, glancing at my bags. I shook my head; he looked
in the bag, and scowled at me.
I wasn't reassured by the absence of whips. I've always hated
gags, even when I didn't need my mouth free to give a release
word. For one thing, they interfere with play too much. I can't
give the proper verbal responses appropriate to whatever game
we're playing -- "My father's knights will avenge me!", or what-
ever. Nor can I use my mouth sexually, for both of our pleas-
ures. Finally -- and perhaps most important -- gags are danger-
ous. It's just too easy to choke with a gag in, especially a
really effective one that puts you on the edge of vomiting. If I
want to use one for its symbolic value, I just tie a scarf around
John's head and mouth. It's thin enough that he can kiss through
it, and it can be pulled down quickly enough in emergencies,
often just by chin movement.
Some people, of course, use real gags because they need the
silence. It's impractical to really whip someone in a city
apartment without one, I suppose. But I had a better solution to
that problem. I'd recently bought an old farmhouse, very far
back from the road, to use as a playhouse. I'd just finished
having it fixed up, and I'd been getting ready to spend a few
weekends there building some accessories -- ring bolts, chains,
even a stock out behind the house where no one would ever see the
occupant. I hadn't told John about this; my original plan had
been to kidnap him there when it was ready. But his behaviour
the last few weeks had been sufficiently odd that I was no longer
certain I wanted him to know about it.
I twisted my head around to look at John. He was still drinking
vodka, and he still hadn't said anything, which was odd; usually
-- always! -- the kidnaper should have said something to set the
scene, even if only to heighten the suspense. I remembered the
last time we'd spent a weekend at my house. I had tied him in
more or less the same position I was now in, and left him that
way overnight. But of course, I had told him he was to await my
pleasure, and every now and then I'd wander back into the room to
lick him a bit. He kept trying to wiggle free, to no avail, of
course, while I'd arouse him and then leave. Around 3 am, when I
was certain he was asleep, I crept back in, aroused him again --
in both senses of the word -- and mounted him. When we were both
more than satisfied, I curled up next to him and we fell asleep
together. Around 10 a.m. or thereabouts, I finally unchained
him.
John finally tried to get up. No dice -- he'd had too much to
drink, and he passed out at the table. Here I was, nude, gagged,
and bound spread-eagled to the bed -- and my captor was in a
drunken stupor, probably unable to move until morning.
As I was being chained to the bed, I had been strongly aroused,
despite my undercurrent of genuine fear. The arousal rapidly
faded, though. There is nothing particularly stimulating in
being immobilized. If a building collapsed around you, you
wouldn't be thrilled, even if you were unhurt and certain of
early rescue. The essence of bondage is the context -- that a
person, your lover, now controls you. Similarly, lying in wait
can be intensely sexual, while you wonder what is going to happen
next, and when. I wasn't wondering; I knew: John was going to
have a hangover, and it wasn't going to happen until the next
morning. And I was stuck, in a rather uncomfortable position,
until then.
For a little while, I just tried to relax; there didn't seem to
be anything I could do, I so just tried to make the best of it.
But my work kept coming back to haunt me. Those designs had to
be done or my business was in deep trouble; reliability is the a
key asset when your competitors are perceived as being flaky or
temperamental. I considered my situation. Was there some way to
escape?
I considered my arms first, of course. Had the cuffs been fas-
tened too tightly for me to slip out? The right one definitely
was; in fact, it was downright uncomfortable. The left had a bit
more slack, but a few minutes of trying didn't get me anywhere.
I decided to explore other options.
A second possibility was the chain holding my hands above my
head. Rather, the lock might be a target; it was a fairly small,
cheap one, and it might break if pulled hard enough. But I had
no leverage in that position, not even enough to be worth trying
again later. Besides, each tug made the handcuffs cut into my
wrists.
Could I get my legs free? That seemed like the best shot. They
were only held in place by Velcro cuffs, not steel. And they
were simple, homemade cuffs, and not too well-done at that --
they were some of John's first efforts. I probably couldn't
break out of good ones, the kind where you stick the free end
through a metal ring on the other end of the strap, then fold it
back on itself before fastening it. These were simple loops,
though -- he had taken 9 inch lengths of both the hook and loop
pieces, and glued them to each other. You wrap it around the
limb, with the soft hook side inside, then overlap it and press
down. For a tie point, just use a key ring, slipped over the
Velcro before fastening it.
I started tugging, rhythmically, with my right leg, each time
pulling as hard as I could. I tried jerking it in the direction
of the fastening -- Velcro releases by moving up, and I wanted to
work with it, not against it. Gradually, I got more and more
frantic, and lost my rhythm. I'd been bound, John had put me
here, and I wasn't getting out! The struggles, and the remem-
brance of who had bound me, got me more aroused. I writhed, and
tugged, to no avail, and each movement got me more aroused. But
I couldn't do anything to relieve myself; my hands were bound,
and I couldn't get enough stimulation. That thought aroused me
even more, of course; the whole situation was again intensely
sexual. I moaned through the gag, and tried desperately to
squeeze my legs together, to rub my thighs on each other. At
that point, I would have given up all thought of escape in ex-
change for being bound on my stomach instead, with a pillow under
me to grab between my legs.
Eventually, by main force of will, I managed to relax. My strug-
gles had gotten me an inch or so of slack -- perhaps the chain
connecting the anchor bar to the arm chain wasn't completely taut
under the mattress. Did that offer any new possibilities? I
lifted my head, as best I could, and surveyed the situation.
Gotcha! Either from my escape attempts, or because John had
bound me incorrectly, given his state, my left leg was fastened
incorrectly. The Velcro overlap was rotated so that it was
mostly down, towards the mattress. By carefully twisting and
moving my leg from side to side, I could tease the two halves
apart. It was a slow process -- drag, up, and back -- but the
rhythm aroused me again. The back movements became jerks, nomi-
nally to apply pressure, but really because I couldn't control
myself much anymore. Just as I was losing myself in arousal
again, my leg burst free. In delicious agony I just threw my
legs together and rolled over, rubbing my legs together, pressing
my body into the bed. This time, I achieved release, albeit a
small one. I more or less collapsed at this point, still bound
by my arms and one leg.
Getting my other leg free was rather straight forward at this
point. My toes were able to release the strap holding my right
leg, and I painfully drew my legs up. I rolled off the bed, and
pulled the arm chain out from under the mattress, eventually
reaching the anchor bar that had held the leg straps. I was
lucky -- if he had found a place on the bed to secure that chain,
such as carrying handles on the mattresses -- I'd probably have
been stymied. As is, I was more or less free, though I had an
eight foot chain and a six foot bar fastened to my cuffed hands.
I tried next to get the gag off, but that didn't work -- the knot
was too tight for me to manage with my hands still bound. No
matter -- the next few steps wouldn't be strenuous. While I was
trying to get loose from the bed, I thought I was going to choke;
gags can really restrict your breathing. So I went over to
John's toybag, looking for the key. It wasn't there; apart from
a few lengths of chain and a few locks, all I saw was another
pair of handcuffs. I did spot the key to the padlock holding my
arms to their chain; opening that let me move around much more
easily. But I was getting worried.
I had done something like this once to John. At the end of a
long vacation weekend, I had locked his hands in front of him,
but I had deliberately left the key elsewhere. At that point, he
had no choice -- he had to follow me, waiting patiently -- with a
jacket over his hands, of course! -- while I checked out of the
motel, loaded the car, etc. He, of course, was contemplating the
prospect of a five hour drive home, bound, without even much
ability to visit a rest area. "Now you know why I rented this
van", I said, as I urged him into the back and blindfolded him.
I drove around, then, for about 30 minutes, while he pleaded to
be released. But all I could do was to answer -- truthfully! --
that I didn't have the key. Finally, when I thought he had had
enough, I headed for a secluded campsite, where I had cached the
key. That, of course, was both reason and means to extend our
stay for a few days.
I searched the room for the key, as best I could. No luck. I
was getting desperate; John still wasn't likely to wake up for
hours, and I still had to work. And I couldn't just leave; I was
nude, and I didn't see any reasonable way of dressing myself with
my hands chained like that. Yes, a tube top would have done, or
a strapless evening dress, or even a halter top, but I didn't
have those with me. I could, I suppose, have cut the bra straps,
and tied them behind my neck, but that would be very difficult,
too. Besides, that bra was about as sheer as possible; I cer-
tainly couldn't go outside wearing just it in this neighbourhood.
As before, my frustration at being unable to escape the bonds
that John had put me in aroused me. This time, though, my hands
were free, so I was able to satisfy myself. It felt good, too;
there was still a lot of unresolved tension from my time on the
bed.
After all that, I realized that if the key were in the room, it
was in one of John's pockets. Slipping bound hands into them
wasn't going to be easy. At that thought, I grinned. There was
no reason to leave his pants on while I searched them. First,
though, a precaution. I took the spare handcuffs out of the bag,
and locked his hands behind him. Then I had a better thought,
and spent a few minutes putting the anchor chain back under the
mattress. The next step was getting John onto the bed; while I'm
strong enough to drag him, I didn't see at first how I could do
so with my arms bound. I discovered, though, that I could get my
arms around his legs, and then up his body. Grunting, I got him
to the bed, and then on it. Finally, I got his pants off --
which is more difficult than it sounds when he's just deadweight
on the bed, and you are chained -- and checked his pockets.
Fortunately, the key was there; I released my hands immediately,
and then got that gag off. Finally free, I stretched and consid-
ered my next move.
One thought was foremost in my mind -- I wanted revenge. John
had been treating me like an object, of late, culminating in this
latest indignity. Apart from the potential risk to my business
-- and I knew only too well how many breaks had gone my way, to
let me get loose -- he simply shouldn't have set up that situa-
tion, where he was more interested in the bottle than me, but
kidnaped me anyway. If he wanted to get drunk, fine -- but leave
me unbound. If he wanted a shoulder to cry on, I'm always will-
ing to do that for my lovers. And if he wanted to set up a
scenario where he could act out his frustrations, I could go
along with that, too. But what had happened was unacceptable.
This, on top of everything else over the last few weeks, was
quite possibly going to break up our relationship, and I felt
like getting my last licks in. If he wanted to apologize after-
wards, I might listen, but for now -- revenge!
I started by stripping him, and binding him in the same position
I'd been in. One idea was to leave him like that, with a note
next to his head: "Dear John, I got out of this position; can
you? Just like you did, I've kept the final key on my person.
Trouble is, I had to go back to my office; I'll see you there
later. Love, me."
I didn't much like that idea, though; it was too close to break-
ing my rules. If he didn't spot my escape paths, he'd be stuck
there till the chambermaid came by in the morning. In this dump,
that might be a long time. And the vodka was going to be heading
for his bladder; he was going to be awfully uncomfortable, proba-
bly to the point of pain. What else could I do?
I decided to stick with the notion of me keeping the key; forcing
him to make his way to my office while handcuffed had an undeni-
able appeal. That would mean that I'd have to put his shirt on
him; I started to do that. Before I did, though, I wondered what
would happen if I tried to take advantage of him. I decided to
find out, and went at him with my lips and mouth. Nothing. For
all the growth, so to speak, in his crotch, I might just as well
have been licking another woman. Woman? Hmm -- I knew what I
was going to do!
As I had mentioned, John was very slight of build. He also had
long hair for a man, and a clear complexion. Could I turn him
into an involuntary female impersonator? I didn't know, but I
sure could try! The first step was to shave him. He'd brought
along a razor, of course; I plugged it in and went over his face,
legs, and armpits quite thoroughly. I didn't think his face
would remain that smooth by morning, but I decided to postpone
that problem. Next, I started dressing him in my clothes.
The stockings were no problem, of course, nor was the garter
belt. I put my panties on him, then paused. One good erection
could spoil the whole effect, to say nothing of the panties.
Rummaging around in my bag, I discovered some string. I tied
this around the piece de resistance, through his legs, and up to
his waist. I then knotted it in the back. It was very strong
twine; he would not find it easy to break. And too much arousal
would be quite painful. Breaking the rules? Maybe -- but it was
up to him; if he retained his control, it wouldn't hurt at all.
Besides, I had bound him that way before, and he had never seri-
ously complained, the way I always did when he stretched the
rules.
The bra was easy enough, and I filled it with some of my modeling
clay. Then I got inspired and coloured in an aureole and a
nipple -- the bra and blouse were sheer enough to make that
noticeable. I confess I was vain enough to use myself as a
model, though my half-hearted attempts at making an actual cast-
ing didn't work. Finally, I put my blouse on him, though I
decided to leave it unbuttoned; let him have the fun of trying to
close it with his hands bound. For the same reason, I left the
miniskirt off, too.
A bit of hair styling was next. I didn't want to cut his hair,
but there was no reason I couldn't put in a nice pony tail, and a
few barrettes. And I'd worn clip-on earrings that day, which
heightened the effect. Would my heels fit on his feet? They
were a tight fit, and would be uncomfortable to walk in, but so
what? I think shoes like that are a cultural form of bondage,
that society as a whole has forced women into. It was a man's
turn now.
I finished my preparations by handcuffing him, then spread-ea-
gling his legs to the anchor bar. I didn't attach the handcuffs
to the arm chain, which meant that getting loose would be much
easier for him than it was for me, but that was the whole point.
One last problem: could I wake him up earlier? I decided it was
worth a try. I pushed the blouse up away from his midriff, and
put an ice cube in his navel. I then dressed in my gym clothes,
gathered up everything else but a single sweater, and left.
Pleasant dreams, John.
As I started his car, though, a disturbing thought struck me. I
had escaped, but what would John do to get even? Would I regret
my revenge?
Driving back to the office, I asked myself this question: why
did I persist in my relationship with John? What did he supply,
to make me take such risks? The key answer, I think, is imagina-
tion.
Did you ever see the movie "Blowup", where some characters play
an invisible tennis game? It takes a certain kind of mindset to
do that without a director hovering over you. Not every shot is
difficult, but some are. You neither win nor lose every point.
Bondage games, at least the kind I like, are similar. You have
to know when to resist, when to give in, when to dominate.
Beyond that, you have to create an illusion, set a scene.
There's no particular trick to just tying someone up, and some-
times that's a good thing to do. Other times, though, you want
more. Perhaps there's a new way to tie someone up, or a good
world-model to keep in mind.
John could do that. There was that whipping post, for example,
that was perfect for stimulating the victim, even without the
built-in vibrator. Or there were the worlds he could create.
Once he described a society very similar to ours, with just a few
changes. Slavery -- sexual slavery -- was legal. Debtors could
be repossessed. And the whole legal structure was weighted in
favour of the banks.
You can imagine some of what comes next, of course. I was vic-
timized by a "mistake" by my credit card company. We acted out
my arrest, detention (with "parties" for the staff), trial, sale,
and eventual release. We kept that story going for weeks. But
he could also take the other side. I pointed out that my lover
in the scenario might be held for contempt of court, for object-
ing to the proceedings, and remanded to a municipal brothel.
Guess who the patron of that brothel was? Guess who the judge
was? This was a society with egalitarian sexual slavery; I could
have just as much fun ordering John tied to a log as he could
have leading me around on a leash.
Not everyone can do this sort of double think. I remember one
past lover who never could come up with much new. If I suggest-
ed, for example, that I was an odalisque in a harem, he'd comply.
He could find appropriate costumes, and perhaps even an authentic
scholarly tract on, say, punishments of the period. Similarly,
he would act the part if I told him I was the mistress of a Roman
plantation, and he was part of my property. But dream them up?
Never. And he had a great deal of difficulty switching roles
within a scenario.
Now, though, I was concerned that the real-life relationship I
had with John was broken. He had pushed me past my breaking
point, and I suspected that my revenge had pushed him past his.
With most people, that wouldn't be a serious matter. Upsetting,
yes -- you never want a relationship to end on such a note of
hostility. But John had been so unpredictable of late that real
violence seemed a possibility.
I went upstairs to my office. It was late, and the place was
almost deserted. There was one light on in the back; luckily, it
was Roger. I was almost in love with him, even though we'd never
gone out; he was by far the brightest (and handsomest) member of
my staff. But I have rigid policies against dating my employees;
if nothing else, it can totally mess up the professional dynamics
of the company. (Besides, could you imagine a lawsuit for sexual
harassment, given my tastes? "Your Honour, not only did she
proposition my client, she tied him up and whipped him. And she
literally chained him to the desk when he had to work overtime.")
Another reason I liked Roger, though, was that I suspected he
liked bondage as well. A few years ago, when I gave a company
costume party, he and his lover of the time showed up, with her
dressed as a barbarian warrior, and Roger all but naked and in
handcuffs. She held a short chain leading to the cuffs; whenever
he did something she "didn't like", such as flirt with me, she'd
tug on the chain and nearly make him spill his drink. Half-way
through the party, though, they vanished; when they reappeared,
she was stripped of her brass bra and other finery, had her hands
bound behind her, and was being led around on a leash by her
barbarian captor. She could only eat when he fed her, or if she
was willing to kneel on the floor and eat like an animal.
Not enough to convince you? I was convinced; I practically raped
Roger right then and there. But let me tell you about another
party, at his house. This was a conventional party; no costumes
or anything. Roger has odd decorating tastes, and -- being an
artist -- he can indulge in them a lot himself. He had painted a
wall of his living room to resemble the side of a barn. The
balcony became a hayloft, complete with a beam sticking out for
the lift. But the pulley wasn't just decorative; it was obvious-
ly serviceable, not just a painted-over antique from some farm.
I was staring at it, imagining how John would look suspended from
it, when Roger walked over to me. "That's for rolls in the hay,"
he said. I looked up at him; he continued, "or other associated
games". "Games?" I replied. "Ask Janice," he said, gesturing
towards his lover. But she was staring at John, who had just
arrived -- they had been involved for a while, it seems, all
unknown to Roger or myself. And John's tastes are enough like
mine that I knew what sort of games he would have played with
Janice. We left that party early; staring at those ropes all
evening without touching them was too much for me; I could barely
wait for John to tie me up.
But all that was fantasy of a different sort; Roger was off-
limits, even though I knew he'd broken up with Janice. I could
dream of the day the firm was big enough that I'd need a partner,
but for now I needed to get to work -- after all, this contract
just might do it. I sat down to work. I figured that if John
was going to do something, it would be one or two hours later --
he'd need at least that much time to get loose and walk from the
motel. But if it took much longer than that, it probably meant
he'd just gone home to nurse his anger.
Sure enough, just about an hour after I'd started, the phone
rang. It was John. "You've had it." I tried to reason with
him. "John, let's talk about this later. You're still drunk.
Let's talk in the morning, and tomorrow night I'll have a special
surprise for you."
He wasn't buying. "Forget it, you bitch. It's war, not play,
and you're the target." Click.
I didn't know what to do. I really wanted to finish up, and I
was almost done, but would John turn violent? He certainly
sounded that way. I compromised with myself. I wandered down to
Roger's office, mostly to verify that he was still there, and
made some small talk. I just "happened" to let him know that I'd
just broken up with John, and that John wasn't taking it well.
This was mostly to alert him, in case something untoward did
happen, that I might not mind intervention. That settled, I went
back to my office and got back to work.
I'd just finished when John showed up. How he got in, I don't
know to this day; I'm certain I had locked the front door to the
office suite. But there he was, twirling a choke collar and
leash. He did look charming in a miniskirt, though. I didn't
know if he wanted to play or hit me with it; either way, I wasn't
buying. I decided to play it cautious. "John, I'm really not in
the mood anymore tonight. We did play a bit, and I turned the
tables on you, just like we always said could happen."
"Forget it, bitch. You're mine, and I make the rules now." He
took a few steps forward.
I braced myself, and stood up, reviewing some karate moves. I
didn't see any way out of the situation that wouldn't require
hurting him, and that would make the hostility permanent, even
after he sobered up. I decided to make one more try at dissuad-
ing him. "John! Leave! Now. I'm busy, and I don't have time
for this. We'll talk tomorrow. I'd appreciate it very much if
you'd leave this instant."
I didn't work; John kept on coming. Just before I had to move,
Roger showed up in the door, startling John and me. "Hi, folks.
Am I interrupting any games?" he said with only a small leer.
John looked at him -- looked up at him, rather -- and decided the
odds weren't in his favour. They weren't even if Roger hadn't
been there, but I don't think John realized that. I was confi-
dent, though -- and for whatever reason, karate lessons had never
come up in conversations with John. Be that as it may, John
backed out the door, snarling "I'll get you later" as he left.
Roger was concerned. "You'd better flee, fast. Do you have
anywhere to go that he wouldn't know of? Don't even go to a
friend he might think of. If there's nothing else, try a hotel,
but even that's risky." I told him about the farmhouse and said
I'd be okay. He escorted me to the parking lot, and I drove off.
I didn't notice the red car that followed me down the street, or
Roger's wild gesticulations and shouts.
At that hour, there wasn't much traffic out of town. I was too
self-absorbed to notice that there was always a car behind me, no
matter where I drove. Finally, I pulled into my own drive, and
breathed a sigh of relief. I did see the car behind me going
past, then; for some reason, it seemed to be driving slowly.
That much I noticed, but I didn't put two and two together.
Once inside, I relaxed a bit. Odd. It would be first time I'd
slept there, but I was doing it alone. Should I tie myself up
for recreation, the way I did when I was between lovers? While
the place was by no means finished, I did have a few toys in
place. I seriously considered it, and after I'd undressed and
showered, I toyed around for a while with some handcuffs and a
harness I'd made. I finally took them off; I just wasn't in the
mood, and going through the motions of autoerotism for their own
sake didn't seem to make much sense. Accommodating a lover when
you're not in the mood, sure, but yourself? Then I rethought the
issue; on a night like this one, I was all too likely to wake up
horny and depressed in the middle of the night. So I compromised
-- I put the harness back on, left two pairs of handcuffs within
easy reach, and went to sleep. That was a mistake -- a big one.
By the clock, I'd been asleep an hour or so when I was awakened
by the crack of a strap across my thighs. I jerked around but
was caught short -- my hands were chained to the waist ring of
the harness! I tried to kick out, but that didn't work well,
either; my legs were confined by the second pair of handcuffs.
Before I could recover, John had clipped my legs to a ring I'd
conveniently installed at the foot of the bed. It took only a
moment more for him to collar me, and attach that to the head of
the bed.
"Nice little love nest you have," he said. "I haven't been here
before; who have you been sharing it with?" With that, he struck
me again. "Doesn't matter, though; it's mine, now, and so are
you." I was petrified.
"I haven't been with anyone else," I said, truthfully. "This
isn't even my place; it's Roger's," I added. John just laughed.
"With your name on the mailbox? With the front door keyed the
same as your house?" My heart sank as John continued, "I don't
like being lied to; you'll regret it." He whipped me twice more
as he said that, but almost casually; I could see that he was
working up to something bigger.
"OK, John, what do you want?" I asked.
"You, of course; I already told you that. And the first step is
to mark you as all mine. Tonight, I'll bring back some tattooing
equipment, or maybe a branding iron; for now, though, this will
have to serve." With that, he pulled out a pen and started
marking my breasts with indelible ink. He first wrote "Property
of" on one side, and his name on the other. He continued with a
few obscene phrases describing me, then rolled me over and con-
tinued on my buttocks. Naturally, he wasn't at all gentle about
it, either.
Finally, he was done. "I'm going to look around this place, to
see what else you've got here. That bed is entirely too comfort-
able for the likes of you." With that, he vanished. I didn't
even bother struggling; I knew too well the quality of the toys
I'd bought. And I was also certain where I was spending the
night. When I heard a satisfied "Ah!", I knew he'd found it.
Have you ever considered the problem of building a jail cell?
Trying to order an authentic door and having it delivered to a
residence just doesn't work. And I'm not a metal worker. I am,
however, a decent carpenter. Downstairs in the basement, there
was a large storage closet. I took off the door, and built my
own. I started with a stout frame of 2x4s. That would sag,
though. So I took two pieces of plywood the same size as the
frame, and cut out the middle. That gave me a rigid border to
fasten to the 2x4s. I filled in the middle with thick dowel
sticks, the kind you use for clothes rods in closets. I ran a
6x4 across the center for rigidity, and used it as the anchor
point for a deadbolt. Voila! -- a cell door. The inside of the
cell was, of course, fully equipped with rings, chains, etc. I
left the bare cement floor alone; it added to the air of authen-
ticity. I did have some foam pads cut to fit the floor for
overnight use; spending a full night on a bare cement floor could
be very unpleasant, especially in winter. Somehow, though, I
didn't think John was going to be that nice to me.
John came back upstairs. He released my legs from the ring, only
to bend them backwards and chain them to the back of the harness.
I sure wasn't going to be kicking him. He also fastened another
pair of handcuffs to my leg cuffs before unchaining my neck and
carrying me downstairs into the cell, dropping me on the floor.
While I was still a bit stunned, he quickly moved my right hand
from the front handcuffs to the back. Fastened like that, I was
helpless; I acquiesced while he moved my other hand. He complet-
ed the scene by chaining my neck to a ring, and locking the cell
door. "Good night; don't go anywhere," he said as he turned out
the light and closed the basement door.
Somehow, despite my total helplessness at the hands of a man who
had been my lover only hours before, I wasn't the least bit
aroused. Eventually, somehow, I fell asleep.
For obvious reasons, I didn't sleep well that night. Apart from
my discomfort, I was very worried about my situation, and not
just the obvious concerns. Have you ever been bound that way,
with your hands tied tightly to your ankles? It's an exhausting
position; it's even a bit hard to breathe. And that was the
danger; when breathing becomes a struggle, eventually your chest
muscles and diaphragm become too tired to keep up their job. Did
John know that? And was I safer if he did or didn't know?
And, oddly enough, I even worried about work. I was sure to miss
the presentation in the morning. Losing the contract, while
disappointing, would be no big deal. But not showing up would be
disastrous; with all the temperamental "artistic" types I compet-
ed with, my reputation for reliability was a crucial edge. Could
I explain, "sorry, I was tied up yesterday?" No, I doubted
they'd understand!
That was the way the night passed. I'd doze for a while, then
wake up and worry. I had no idea what time it was, or even if it
was morning yet; that basement was pretty light-tight. Eventual-
ly, I was awakened by a gag being shoved into my mouth, and a
hood being placed over my head. John started to speak.
"OK, bitch, I make the rules now. Here's what your life is going
to be like from now on. First thing every morning, you'll be
punished. We'll start today with a whipping -- a real one -- but
I have lots more ideas, so don't worry about being bored. After
that, we'll see how well you can please me. Be sure to do a good
job; how satisfied I am will determine whether you get fed that
day, how tightly you'll be bound while I'm gone, even whether or
not you get to use a toilet instead of lying in your own crap all
day." He giggled; I, perforce, was silent. I didn't even try to
moan audibly, though internally I was on the verge of panic. In
the right context, those same words -- even those same actions,
for a few days -- might have been a tremendous turn-on; here,
they were threats.
John continued with his schedule. "The same thing will happen in
the evening, of course. And if I'm not interested in having you"
-- his phrase, verbatim -- "that's obviously your fault for not
interesting me enough, so I'll have to punish you some more. Of
course, some evenings I'll be too tired to drive all the way out
here; that might even happen two or three nights in a row. I
sure hope that you were good enough the morning before to earn an
extra plate of food left next to you; that would be an extra-
special treat, one I couldn't give you very often." Again, he
giggled, and I could imagine him smirking.
When he was done talking, he unfastened my legs and neck chain,
and slapped me on the buttocks. "Up!" he commanded, pulling on
my leash. "Run!", he said as we left the cell, pointing me
towards the stairs, slapping me again, and pulling harder. Of
course, I didn't know which was I was facing; I ran straight into
the wall while John laughed. He more or less dragged me up the
stairs, into the living room. When we got there, he chained my
legs together again, though he left me standing alone for a
moment.
"You didn't finish this room," he complained, somewhat illogical-
ly. "No matter; I know how to install ringbolts." With that, he
tied my ankle chain to the floor, and attached a rope to my
handcuffs. The rope apparently went up to the ceiling; he pulled
it taut, stretching my arms up rather uncomfortably, and causing
my buttocks to stick out at him. I assume he tied the end some-
where, but the next I knew of his activity was when I felt the
sting of the paddle. He was no longer playing; the beating hurt
worse than anything I'd ever felt. I wanted to scream despite
the gag, and despite the hood my eyes were tearing.
I don't know how long the pain continued, but he stopped well
short of beating me unconscious -- John wanted me awake for the
next part. He release the rope to the ceiling, pushed me to my
knees, and raped me from behind. I wasn't responsive, of course
-- no one would be in that situation -- and that infuriated him.
He kicked me hard, then hauled on the rope again till I was in
his chosen whipping position. He hit me a few more times, mut-
tered to himself, and then left. Eventually, I heard the door
slam, and a car drive away.
For a while, I was too numb to think. Then the old worries
returned and gnawed at me. In that position, I didn't even have
the solace of sleep, so I tried desperately to think pleasant
thoughts. I even managed to come up with two about my present
situation. The first was that John had never cared for anal sex;
if he had, he'd certainly have hurt me severely taking me that
way, with no preparation or gentleness. The second was that my
foresight in using an IUD was again paying off -- when bondage
and spontaneity are at the heart of your sex life, other forms of
birth control can be problematic at best. Of course, my very
survival seemed in doubt at that point, rendering any question of
birth control academic.
Kidnap (part 2) (2/2)
After some measureless interval, I heard a car pull up, and the
door open. I braced myself, certain that I'd be greeted by a
blow. But I was surprised. "Hi, Boss. At least, I assume
that's you." It was Roger -- and I nearly fainted with relief.
Quickly, he unfastened the ropes holding me in place, carried me
to the couch, and removed the hood and gag. He didn't waste time
asking me if I was okay; the outlines of what had happened were
obvious enough. "Where are the keys to your handcuffs and leg
chains?" he asked. I told him that I had left the keys on the
night table, but that I suspected John had taken them with him.
"There's a master set in the linen closet, though; I always keep
spares there." Roger disappeared for a moment, but returned
empty-handed: "John apparently ransacked the place; there are no
keys to be found. Let me run into town and pick up a few tools."
I demurred. "Before you go anywhere, could you please carry me
to the bathroom? And I have a well-equipped workshop downstairs;
you'll find what you need in there, I think." Roger obliged in
the first respect, but before fetching the tools, he carried me
back to the couch and covered me with a sheet. "I think you'll
be more comfortable this way," he said, without even a leer or
flirtatious note. Teasing games were one thing -- I remembered
Roger at a company beach party when John had eased my bikini top
off -- but he knew that this wasn't the place for any such thing.
Of course, I was feeling safe again, which made my bondage seem a
bit sexy again; my reaction, at least partially, was that I
wouldn't mind the chains just then if only Roger had been the one
who had put them there! I didn't let on, though; I just composed
myself while Roger got what he needed, and cut through the links.
He then dispatched me to the bedroom to shower and dress, while
he cooked some food for us.
Over the meal -- breakfast? lunch? -- I told him what had hap-
pened, sparing no details. I even explained the "Kidnap" game to
Roger; he seemed fascinated. When I finished, I asked him to
explain how he had shown up to rescue me.
"When I saw John following you away from the office yesterday, I
knew there would be trouble. I had biked in to work, so I had no
way of following you, and of course I had no idea where you were
going except for *the farmhouse*. I tried going to the police,
but they weren't interested; everything was too vague and weird-
sounding. So I went back to the office and thought for a while."
"It seemed to me that your farmhouse would be 30 minutes to two
hours from here. Much closer and you wouldn't get any extra
privacy over your regular house; much further and it would be too
inconvenient for weekend visits. I kind-of guessed it was a love
nest, but I wasn't certain just how you'd feather it." We both
blushed.
"I narrowed down the search area a bit by assuming it was in the
same general direction as your house; the direction you headed
off in was at least consistent with that guess. That still left
a lot of towns, though. But it was all I had to go on, so I
started dialing Information for each of the towns. No dice."
"No," I said. "The purpose of this place is relaxation and
isolation; I deliberately didn't get a phone or even any clocks.
As far as possible, this is not the real world."
Roger nodded. "That left the local tax offices, for all those
wretched little towns. I knew there was nothing else to be done
until morning when they opened, so I called my `assistant' and
alerted her." I looked a bit puzzled; Roger replied, "Surely you
remember Janice?" I nodded; Roger continued, "Even though we're
no longer going out, we're still friends. And Janice hates John
with a passion. Their relationship ended much like yours is
doing: with John getting violent, though not quite to this ex-
tent. He let her go after a week, and she never filed charges --
she said that she had no evidence it wasn't just another game,
and he could point to her collection of toys when defending
himself. I didn't agree, but it's not the sort of thing you can
push a lover into doing, especially after a couple of years."
"Anyway, by morning I had compiled a complete list of numbers for
her to call; one of them eventually worked. I couldn't make the
calls myself -- I had to give your presentation."
I jumped up. "Roger! How did it go? What did you say about
me?"
"No problem -- I said you had a bad stomach virus, but would
probably be in tomorrow. And I think things went quite well;
they really liked your stuff, even more than mine, I think." He
paused. "You always keep the best parts of these bids for your-
self," but he was smiling as he said that.
I smiled back at him. "That's my real pay for running the busi-
ness, and tending to all the paperwork. Anyway, that's neither
here nor there. What are we going to do about John?"
Roger turned dead-serious. "I don't know. Would you prosecute?"
"Well, to some extent I have the same problem as Janice: where's
the evidence? You rescued me, of course, but all of the para-
phernalia here is mine -- and that's a pretty strong defense.
We'd need to get more evidence."
Roger paused. "Can we frighten him, maybe even punish him enough
to make him stay away?"
"I doubt it -- and in any event I will not be a party to that
sort of violence." Roger seemed to sigh in relief as I contin-
ued, "Hmm -- if we did manage to get some more evidence, could we
use it for blackmail instead? Neither of us wants our proclivi-
ties known." I blushed; I'd been fidgeting with the remains of
the handcuff the way I do with bracelets, treating it almost as
if it belonged there. Roger noticed, and laughed.
"Whatever do you mean by that?" he asked, as he pulled the two
chain remnants close together. "Do you mean you like this?" he
asked as he grabbed a discarded twist-tie and fastened the two
together again.
"Roger! Stop that this instant! Or I'll have to spank you," I
said. But I left my hands together, not pulling them apart,
while we continued talking.
"Can you tolerate being bound again, the way you were when I
found you?" Roger asked. I hesitated; he continued. "If the
chains and hood are on you, but you're laying on the floor, I
think I can pull the rope taut when I see his car entering the
driveway. There would still be time for me to hide. Here's what
we'll do."
Eventually, reluctantly, I agreed. And so it was that after
Roger chiseled the remains of the old manacles from me, I brought
out some new ones -- sans any keys -- from the toybox. I
stalled, looking for every last excuse not to go through with it.
Was the kitchen properly cleaned up? Was Roger's car well-hid-
den? Finally, there was nothing left to prepare; it was time to
do it or flee. I went into my room and undressed, then headed
back to the living room. "Are you ready?" Roger asked. I re-
mained mute, no more able to agree than I had been when John
bound me to his whipping post. I draped the gag around my neck
-- we decided to try pretending I had managed to spit it out --
and Roger tied the hood. He handed me the handcuffs then and
asked me to chain myself. "No, Roger -- you do it." I hugged
him; he hugged my naked body, and bent to his task. The locks
clicked home. "Roger? Touch me again?" I pleaded. He finished
tying my ankles to the floor, and properly threading the ceiling
rope. I felt a gentle caress on the side of my breast as I lay
on the floor. "Let's talk about that later, when we're equal
again," he replied. But he caressed my breast once more, loving-
ly and lingeringly, taking the sting out of his words. And
though we lay there silently, his arm remained on my shoulder,
reassuringly.
I don't know how long I laid there, bound. This time, the chains
were Roger's; the scene, though, was John's, and there was still
very real danger ahead. And I could do nothing to help; we had
no key for me to use to escape and come to Roger's aid if neces-
sary. Eventually, we heard tires kicking up gravel in the drive.
"He's here," Roger said, unnecessarily. He helped me to my feet,
pulled the rope taut, and vanished without even a kiss. Help-
less, I waited for John.
A few minutes later, John came in. "Waiting where I left you, I
see. Polite of you," he sneered. I heard the sound of a heavy
object hitting floor, and the clank of some metal. John chuck-
led. "Remember what I said I'd do tonight? Here are my branding
tools, all nice and clean. I ordered them weeks ago, waiting for
this moment." Now that was an interesting revelation; my revenge
for his apparent thoughtlessness had nothing to do with the
situation. It struck me as quite likely that if I hadn't escaped
from the motel, all this might have happened last night.
As if he were reading my mind, John said, "Yup -- last night was
to be the lead-in, if you hadn't dawdled. You thought you were
playing bondage games with me, but it was never really a game to
either of us, was it?" With that, he slapped my buttocks, hard.
"Of course, I could never have afforded a place like this before
today anyway; it was thoughtful of you to provide it for me. I
hope you like it a lot; I don't think you're ever going to leave.
While you're here, you life will be like this."
With that, he started to hit me, hard. I stifled a scream; I was
supposed to be gagged. Roger stayed hidden; he was going to come
out on my signal only. For now, we had to elicit as many incrim-
inating comments as possible from John, which meant that I had to
take as many blows as I could stand. And I had to judge the
psychological moment just right; expelling the gag with a scream
after a blow seemed more plausible if I were silent despite
having been ungagged for some time.
Why not put the gag back in? Well, apart from the dangers I
described earlier, I need to be free to give our release word.
And we were certain that the hood was going to come off before
the attempted branding; John would certainly want to tease me
with the sight of the hot iron. If we were wrong about that, I
was going to suffer a lot of pain before I got out of this.
Worse yet, John might consider the hot iron a weapon to use
against Roger; in a fight like that, anything could happen.
I was bracing myself to scream when John stopped the beating.
"Time for a different game," he said. He untied the ropes hold-
ing me in place, and pushed me to the floor. My arms and legs
were still chained; he further secured my by tying my handcuffs
to my waist. Finally, he tied another rope to my leg chains and
dragged me, feet first, towards the barn.
My sense of panic, which had vanished when I heard Roger's voice,
returned in full measure. Could Roger follow us and not be
noticed? Did Roger even know where we were going? Was there a
place for him to hide in the barn? I didn't know, and it worried
me.
If I'd known what Roger was up to, I'd have been even more wor-
ried. He hadn't even been in the house during the whipping!
Rather, he'd been out searching John's car, an action that was
ultimately to prove very helpful, but almost got him caught at
the time.
When we reached the gravel drive, I couldn't hold in my screams
any longer. I was being dragged face down, and the rocks raking
across my breasts were too much to bear. John dropped me, swore,
and came over to investigate. "Maybe I should have dragged you
by the hair; the gag seems to have been pulled off." Sure
enough, the hood was shredded, so his explanation was quite
plausible. "No matter, I'm the only one who can hear you scream,
and I quite enjoy it." He laughed again, and twisted my breasts.
"But I think I'll let you recover a bit while I prepare the next
set of toys." With that, he picked me up in a fireman's carry
and went into the barn.
It would have been out of character not to plead, so I did.
"John, stop this; you know I'll play any sort of game you want,
do anything you want."
"Of course you will, dear; did you think I'd give you the oppor-
tunity to refuse. Now shut up; if you say another word I'll gag
you again." I was silent; another gag could have been deadly.
John continued, "But I do think I'll put the hood back on for
now; wondering what I'm going to do next will be half your pleas-
ure."
When we got into the barn, John tied a rope to my ankle cuffs,
and hoisted me into the air up-side-down. "Next time, instead of
leaving your hands tied to your waist like that, I'll just attach
them to a heavy weight, and bounce it down on occasion; this
time, though, this pose is just to hold you for a while." I
moaned, and had no need to fake it.
What followed next was a bit odd -- some hammering, drilling,
sounds of something -- a ladder, I learned later -- being dragged
around, plus more than a few curses -- John wasn't the handiest
guy around. Finally, he was done. He informed me of this by
unceremoniously cutting through the rope; if I had been much
higher off the ground, I could easily have broken my neck when I
fell. He then unlocked my leg chains, and fastened a strap
around each ankle. Some footsteps, and the clicking of a ratchet.
Slowly, my legs were pulled further and further apart.
Slowly, they were raised into the air. I started to scream, but
John didn't say anything until I was again suspended, this time
with my legs pulled uncomfortably far apart. He pulled off the
hood and looked at me.
"I'm going to spread you a bit more, then leave you like this.
Then I'm going to brand the inside of your thighs while you can't
move an inch to stop me. Then I'll drop you to the ground,
rearrange the pulleys to spread you like you've never been spread
before, and take you till you scream." True to his word, he
tightened the ratchet a bit more, and vanished.
For some reason, I felt the urge to look around and understand
what he had done. A rope from each ankle went through a pulley
wheel mounted high off the ground, at either end of the barn.
One rope was simply tied, at ground level; the other went to a
winch, also near the ground. By turning it, he dragged my ankles
apart, and raised me into the air. Obviously, by simply removing
the pulley wheels, he could stretch me on the floor, in a more
convenient position for rape.
Suddenly, I heard Roger's voice. "I think we've got him. If you
can, try the release word before he lights the torch!" But where
was Roger hiding? The whole inside of the barn was open; there
weren't even any stalls left.
I didn't get a chance to ask him; John came back in. "I found
something else I want to try before branding you; it should be
even more fun." It was a round file, a very coarse one, that he
had found in the workshop. He rubbed it, hard, on the inside of
my thighs. It would have hurt enough under any circumstances;
with my legs stretched that tight, it was sheer agony. I
screamed, then used our release word. I'd only done that once
before with John, and that time it was a test, though he never
knew that -- it's always wise to learn if your partner really
will stop when things get too rough.
"Release you?" John asked? "Are you joking? That was when we
were playing your games. This is my game, and I'm the one who
decides when to let go. Come now -- are you ready for your
brand? Or shall I use this a bit more?" He pointed the file
downward, as if ready to insert it. "No, no!" I screamed. "Beg
to be branded," he replied, touching me with the tip of the file.
"I beg you, I beg you!" I screamed, all but forgetting that
rescue was at hand. But I had to get him away from me, lest he
use me as a hostage.
I needn't have worried. As John stepped towards the propane
torch he'd brought, I yelled, "Roger!" John looked up, and an
amazing thing happened: Roger jumped him from above; he'd been
in the hayloft!
It wasn't really a fight; John was stunned by the impact. Roger
pushed him, roughly, towards the winch, slammed John into the
wall to immobilize him, and released me. He caught the crank so
he could lower me slowly to the floor. The keys had fallen from
John's pocket during all this; ignoring him for the moment, Roger
picked them up, walked over to me, and unlocked me.
John slowly rose to his feet. "I'm not done with you yet, bitch.
And don't try calling the cops; with this setup, I'll have no
trouble convincing any judge this wasn't just a game. And you
can't even afford to have this public; your precious business
would fall apart."
I was going to reply, and dare him to expose me. He didn't
really understand the situation. I, and my competitors, are
fundamentally artists. So are the client representatives we deal
with. And in the art world, people pride themselves on ignoring
odd personal lives; such things are irrelevant. What I did was
quite tame by comparison to some of them.
I didn't get a chance to answer, though; Roger spoke first. "Of
course, you can't afford the exposure, either. What's more,
there will be no trouble with the jury; I have the whole thing on
tape, even the part about you rejecting the release word." John
started looking concerned. "But there's more. While you were
busy, I had a look in your car." At that, John started looking
very alarmed. Roger continued, "I'm sure the D.A. would love to
send that funny white powder to a lab. But that's not all. That
stuff was packaged for sale, not home use. And there was a lot
of cash in the trunk as well, which suggests that you didn't
purchase the stuff. Tell me -- what would the kind of folks you
ripped off do if they learned your name and address? Wait --
don't leave yet. I'm not going to do anything with that tape
now. Nor have I removed anything from your car. But I did use
your very own car phone to tell some friends what's going on. I
suggest that you leave, immediately. And if you ever come near
her or me again -- well, that tape will be page 1 news, and a
letter about the drug ripoff will be mailed to a certain
address."
John didn't stay to hear any more; he fled. All I wanted to do
was lay down and have a good screaming fit, but Roger dissuaded
me. With some justice, he pointed out that I should not stay at
a known address until he had distributed copies of the tape and I
had installed suitable alarm systems. We walked back to the
house, arm in arm. Roger cleaned me up and bandaged me; then we
headed for a randomly-chosen hotel to spend the night. Obvious-
ly, all we did was cuddle.
Roger was a bit distant in the morning, when I was a bit in the
mood for more. "Right now, you're feeling very grateful to me.
Don't mistake that for infatuation. And remember, we still work
together, even if you do make me a partner to handle half of this
contract." How had he guessed my thoughts! "Relax for a while,
date others, and recover from all this. In a few months, you can
make a decision about us."
His logic was, of course, impeccable. And I did start dating
others, though I remained celibate; I wasn't ready for anything
deep. Work kept me busy; we did get that contract, and I did
promote Roger. And we never heard a word from John; when we
checked with his neighbours, we learned that he had never re-
turned that day. I never did learn if he fled or if the mob got
him without our help.
Finally, I hit it off with someone. We retired to his place that
evening; he even had a reasonable set of toys of his own. And it
felt good -- when you chain yourself up, as I had been doing,
there isn't that sense of abandoning control that you get when
someone else does it. Most important, though, it clarified my
feelings about Roger.
I waited until the next time both of us had to work late, well
after everyone else had gone. I walked up behind him as he sat
at his desk, put my arms around his neck, and rested my head on
his shoulders. "You've been kidnaped," I said in a dreamy voice,
closing my eyes. He grasped my hands, and I felt something hard.
"No, it's you who's been kidnaped," he said, as he snapped a pair
of handcuffs shut.
We drifted back to the couch in my office. Before this, I'd
often spent the night there when I'd been working late, but never
nude, never bound, and never with Roger chained beside me.
It was while I was tied under the car that I started wondering
about my sexual preferences. Was this really a way to get my
kicks? I mean, autoeroticism is one thing, but auto eroticism?
This wasn't fun at all. Worse yet, it wasn't even arousing me.
Hmm -- perhaps I should explain how I got there.
This all took place some time after the breakup with John. Roger
and I hit it off very well, though not without a few strains.
For one thing, we found that it generally didn't work well to
spend the night together during the week; being together all day
at work, and then all evening, was just too much togetherness.
But weekends, and an occasional exception, were great fun, and
our holidays together were marvelous. We tried to keep matters
cool at work (except for the time I really chained him to his
desk, but I'll get to that later); some of the staff knew what
was going on, but it didn't seem to affect morale as best we
could tell.
We switched off, in no particular order, between his house and
the farmhouse. His house was great for me, because of all the
new toys, and the farmhouse was great for both of us, because it
was intended as a love nest. Not that his place was far behind
-- Roger let his artistic talents really flourish. For example,
at the moment he's building a genuine dungeon in the basement. I
don't mean just a cell, like I have at the farmhouse; I mean as
authentic-looking a dungeon as he can come up with. And I sup-
pose I don't even mean "authentic," I mean something redolent of
old B-movies -- after all, that's our image of what a dungeon is.
So the walls appear to be stone, and there are stuffed rats in
strategic places, one or two of which are even equipped to pro-
duce sound effects. There are torches stuck in the wall, and
"cobwebs," and so on. There are several cells, all fully func-
tional and well-equipped with chains and ring bolts. Does he
plan on bringing another woman down there with me? Another man?
Another couple? He won't say; Roger hates to talk about a
project before it's done. I wouldn't even have known about the
dungeon plans, except that I went wandering around his house one
of the first mornings I was there -- Roger was still spread-
eagled to the bed, so he couldn't really stop me. The torture
chamber, I'm told, will be in the laundry room -- games are one
thing, but having clean clothes is still important. That's one
of the parts that isn't finished yet; with Roger, though, I'm not
worried about more pain than I find stimulating.
While waiting for the dungeon to be finished, we often played in
his "barn," in the living room. Last time, I mentioned the
haylift; I didn't realize all the ways he'd thought of to use it.
A couple of weeks ago, for example, he tied my hands to my sides,
tied my ankles together, and lifted me up by my feet. Different
enough, and not too hard to take, till he told me I was staying
that way all night. I was surprised, and a bit concerned; that
didn't sound like fun. But he wasn't done. Next, Roger put a
strap under my arms, and raised my body up to the underside of
the beam. Another around my waist, my thighs, and my head, and I
was nicely supported. Much better, but he still wasn't finished
with me. Sitting on top of the beam, Roger adjusted the bonds on
my legs, so that they were splayed on either side of the beam.
Then -- and I'm not kidding -- he dragged in a makeshift scaf-
fold, lay on it at almost my height, and started licking me. I
barely kept from screaming; I was being stimulated all over, and
I not only couldn't get loose, if I had I'd have fallen eight
feet to the floor! After a bit of that, he went back to the
balcony, crawled out on the beam, and caressed me from that side.
Finally, he went back to the scaffold and tried for penetration,
but without much luck. He settled for moving the scaffold so I
could return the oral favor.
That was the pattern of our sex lives -- who could think of the
most imaginative ways to tie up the other? Once, when I was a
bit annoyed at him -- he was late for a dinner date -- I decided
some mild revenge was in order. I waited until we were alone in
the office late one night -- business had picked up, which is
both good and bad -- wandered in, and announced a kidnap. Roger
knew the rules, and complied when I told him to strip. He was a
bit surprised when I started chaining him to his desk, but again,
that was part of the game. I spread-eagled him on his desk, and
after suitable foreplay mounted him. Then, and only then, did I
tell him his fate: that I wasn't going to release him until the
next morning! On that note, I left.
Roger, of course, was a bit upset, but he was also curious what I
was going to do. He knew me well enough to know that I wouldn't
let him be discovered like that -- that would be against our
rules -- but would I do more than show up early? I let him stew
all night. About 8:00, he probably started worrying seriously.
His secretary seemed to be the type who thought ordinary sex was
evil, let alone what we did. To be sure, I don't even know if
that sort of naive mind would even recognize this as sexual --
but nudity was also bad; apparently, if we'd been intended to go
around without any clothes, we'd have been born that way. No
matter -- efficiency is what counts in a secretary, not personal
beliefs, however weird they are.
I did more than time things carefully; I watched from my window
till the secretary got to the door. Roger must have heard it
open and really start to sweat! I then ran past the anteroom,
shouting "Don't disturb us for anything; we've got an important
meeting!" and on in to Roger's office. His desk was out of the
line of sight, so there was no exposure. We did "meet," though
we had to be rather more silent than was our custom. I jokingly
threatened Roger with a gag, but it wasn't really necessary.
About 10:30 or so, I finally let him go.
Such was the pattern of our lives. A few weeks ago, though, he
told me he wasn't going to be around for the Fourth; he wanted to
visit his sister. I was disappointed -- a four-day weekend
sounded like fun -- but going with him didn't appeal to me; his
sister is as straight as they come. We'd even have been con-
signed to separate beds! So I drove him to the airport, and
headed up to the farmhouse alone -- I figured I might as well
work on some of my own construction projects. It was late when I
got there, but I still took the time to play by myself with a few
toys before falling asleep. And, as happened that time with
John, I awoke to find my legs chained together, and my hand being
fastened behind my back.
My first reaction, of course, was panic. I didn't waste energy
screaming; I just kicked out. No dice; I was being held to well.
But there was no cursing, no violence; instead, whoever was
holding me was fondling me, gently, and in my favorite places.
But I still didn't know who it was -- it was utterly and com-
pletely black in the room.
If you're from the city, like I am, you're not used to total
darkness. In the city, there are always streetlights, or passing
cars. Out here, there was none of that. Usually, I could see a
bit at night by the light from my clock, but my captor had un-
plugged it. "Roger?" I asked.
No answer, just caresses in a way that only Roger had ever done
-- a rhythmic sort of teasing of my nipples. I wiggled from
pleasure, but decided to test things. "The anklecuff is hurting
me; could you loosen it?" I added our release word.
Instantly, whoever he was -- no doubt that it was a male; I could
feel that! -- released my body, and adjusted the manacle. That
settled one thing -- it certainly wasn't John. But was it Roger?
I'd seen him get on the plane, hadn't I? But if it wasn't Roger,
who was it? And how had he gotten in, past my alarm?
I asked him who he was; rather than answer me, he rolled me onto
my back, and used his lips for more important matters. My mouth,
my breasts, the inside of my thighs -- I was practically deliri-
ous with pleasure. But it didn't feel like Roger; the texture of
his facial skin felt wrong, to say nothing of his style of making
love. Finally, he rolled me up onto my knees, put a few pillows
under my stomach, and put my head down. I knew what was coming
next, of course, and moaned in anticipation. But he paused, just
holding me gently.
It took me a moment to figure out what was going on. My captor,
whoever it was, was waiting for my permission to proceed. I was
certain that if I told him to stop, and used the release word, he
would. But I didn't want to stop, not after a buildup like that.
I told him to please go ahead, and quickly! Instead, he did
something even more curious -- he let me down, got up from the
bed, and vanished. The light went on in the living room, and
music filled the house -- one of Roger's favorite pieces, on the
stereo. The lights went out, and whoever it was returned.
Again, he started licking and caressing me, while I writhed in my
chains. I wanted to hold him, I wanted to lick him, I wanted to
engulf him, but I couldn't move. I moaned, and pulled against my
bonds, and pressed my body against his as best I could. Finally,
finally, he rolled me onto my knees again, and this time he
didn't stop.
We drifted off to sleep together, back to his front, my chained
hands holding him where we wanted me to. My last thought before
I dozed off was that in the morning, I'd be able to see him.
==============================================================
I awoke in the morning to find I wasn't going to learn who was in
bed next to me -- I'd been blindfolded. I said, "Good morning,
whoever you are. Are we going to play more games today?"
He was silent, but immediately unchained my legs and led me to
the bathroom. It's an odd feeling to be treated like a baby, to
have someone else tend you in the bathroom, but it was nothing
new to me -- this was hardly the first time I'd awakened bound.
And, of course, I wasn't surprised when his hand wandered towards
my breast after wiping me. It's hard to make wiping someone
erotic, but he manage quite well, thank you -- I was tempted to
head back to bed.
I didn't, though; I wanted to satisfy hungers of another sort
first. "Breakfast?" I asked.
He responded by putting a leash around my neck and leading me to
the kitchen. He was considerate about it, though; when we came
to a door or a turn, where I might stub a toe, he took my arm and
guided me around the obstacle. Along the way, he ran his fingers
up my spine, in just the way -- and in just the musical rhythm --
that Roger would do. Was this Roger? I was beginning to think
it was.
Breakfast was already prepared; if it wasn't Roger, he'd been
well-briefed, because everything was just as I liked it. He fed
me, of course, even holding up the coffee cup whenever I asked
for it. I decided to try a test. "Can I have some yogurt?" I
asked. There were two containers, a large open carton of blue-
berry that Roger had brought last weekend, and some vanilla. I
despise blueberry, but would a stranger know that? I rarely eat
yogurt for breakfast, but maybe that wasn't in the briefing. No
such luck -- a moment or two later, a spoonful of vanilla yogurt
was entering my mouth. A moment later came a blueberry yogurt
kiss -- he knew it was a test!
Dessert was more fun, though I had to wait a while for him to
clean up. There's that advantage to being bound -- someone else
has to do the dishes. Of course, having to wait on your knees,
with your legs chained again and a leash holding your head to the
floor takes away some of the pleasure. And he wasn't quick about
the chores, mostly because he kept pausing to rub or kiss my
breasts and back. But it was worth waiting for; when he fin-
ished, he carried me back to the bed, put me on my knees and lay
down in front of me. I didn't need to be told what to do; I bent
over and started licking and kissing him.
I don't know how long I spent at it; sometimes, I wiggled around
to use my hands instead; sometimes, I lay down to use my whole
body; sometimes, I just moaned and tried to pull my hands free to
hug him. He wasn't just lying there, either; after the first few
minutes, his hands and mouth were as busy as mine. Eventually,
he gently laid me on my back, unlocked my legs, and brought us to
a peak.
We lay like that for a while before I stirred. "These handcuffs
are rather uncomfortable to lie on, you know; could you possibly
chain me in a different position?"
Instantly, he jumped up and rolled me over. But rather than
unlock me right away, he got out a few cable ties, and used them
to bind my hands. Only when they were secure did he unlock the
handcuffs. I groaned. Arms aren't that much better when you're
laying on your back. And I expected to be laying on my back a
lot that weekend; he seemed to have one thing in mind. In that I
was both right and wrong -- he varied positions a lot, but about
only time my hands weren't bound behind me was when he tied me
under that stupid car. And his body still didn't feel like
Roger's.
We lay there for a while like that, though he got up briefly to
put on some more music. It was the radio this time, which pro-
vided less evidence. We snuggled together; he read, and I
thought. Was this Roger? Should I stop the charade, one way or
another, and find out? I was certain my captor would honor a
God is a magician,
Reality His trick,
and it's all done with mirrors.
