Bondcam

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Intrusion



Let me tell you about an interesting little man I met at a conference in
San Francisco a couple of months ago. I first saw him when he presented a
paper on applications for micromachines in waste management. That night,
I was bored and didn't feel like venturing out into the rain. I went down
to the hotel bar and ordered a drink. I sat there alone and ruminated on
my bad luck. I'd only attended the conference because it meant a free
trip to San Francisco and escape from the miserable East Coast winter.
Unfortunately, the weather hadn't cooperated with my schemes. It decided
to unleash an unceasing downpour that stranded me in the hotel bar.

That's where I met this little fellow I just mentioned. He sat down next
to me. That was odd, because the bar was almost empty. I knew he would
start talking to me Somehow I figured he'd have a nasally, complaining
voice. Sure enough, when he started speaking I couldn't help but clench
my jaw. His voice was like fingernails on a blackboard.

"Hi. I'm Ed Moskowitz. I think I saw you over at the conference," he
said and handed me his business card.

"Pleased to meet you, Ed. I'm Harry Holbrook. That was an interesting
paper that you presented," I responded as I fished one of my own business
cards out of its holder.

I won't bore you by recounting the small talk. I kept trying to wiggle
out of our conversation and leave the bar, but he refused to take a hint.
Actually, I think he understood my hints; he just ignored them. I say
that because he seemed to anticipate my move when I was about to stand up
and take my leave. That's when he cast his bait out in front of me.

"Have another drink with me. I haven't had a chance to tell you about my
neighbor's wife, " he offered. As he spoke he pulled his wallet from his
pants pocket. He opened it and flipped through the plastic covered photos
inside. He found the one he wanted and held it out for my inspection. It
was a picture of a busty brunette. She was lying face up on a cheap
looking kitchen table. All she had on were her panties. Her arms were
tied together at the elbows and wrists. Each of her legs was tied at the
ankle to the legs of the table so that she was spread wide. There was a
gag in her mouth and a frightened look on her face. It must have been
obvious that I was fascinated by the picture. My pal laughed a short
laugh and flipped the wallet closed.

He ordered another drink and sat silent for a moment. I was silent, too.
I had no idea what to say.

"Now you're probably pretty shocked. I understand. You're probably
wondering where I got that picture. I took it myself. Don't let me my
looks fool you," he said.

I understood what he meant. His thin upper lip and the way he hunched
over the bar, reminded me of an extremely shy rabbit. It was hard to
imagine that he had subdued a woman like that. As I looked at him, he
smiled a smarmy little smile of satisfaction that sent a chill up my
spine.

"That's my neighbor's wife. I didn't even know her until the night when I
took that picture. I'd seen her before, but I didn't know her. I didn't
know her husband either, for that matter. At least not personally. But,
I had met him once."

"I met him a few months before I met her. He lives just a short distance
from my home. I was having problems with my car. It's an old Dodge Colt.
Do you know the car?", he said as he paused and looked me in the eye.
Obviously, he was trying to pull me into the conversation. He must have
noticed that I became less attentive once he put the picture back in his
wallet.

"No. No, not really. Your car was giving you some trouble?"

"It's the electrical system. It always is on Colts. I can't figure out
why they can't make the electrical systems better. It's such a beautiful
car otherwise. It's the damn bean counters. They get in there and mess
up every decent piece of design," he said, pausing to take a pull on his
bottle of beer. I was afraid that he was about to slip down into a whiny
tirade about his job, but he got back on track.

"Yeah. It kept stalling. Whenever it was damp out. I'd been fiddling
with it one evening after dinner. I thought I had it in shape, so I took
it out for a test run. What a ride that ended up being! I got it about a
mile before it gave out on me. It died right in the middle of a busy four
lane road. Luckily, I was up on top of a hill. I started coasting down
and, when I had the speed up, I popped the clutch. It worked, but it
stalled again. It kept stalling, and I kept popping the clutch. Pretty
soon, I was near the bottom of the hill. I'd turned off onto a side
street where it was less busy. I finally got it going good, so I threw
the parking brake and gunned the engine."

"After a minute or two, a greasy looking guy came walking out of the
driveway near where I'd stopped my car. He was about 6'2", with a tattoo
on his biceps and a goatee. He had on some old, filthy looking tank top.

'You live around here?", he says. 'Yeah, right over the hill. I'm just
letting her warm up. She's been stalling out on me," I tell him. 'Well,
you let it warm up somewhere else. I don't want you in front of my
house," he says to me. 'O.K. Just give me a couple of minutes and I'll
be gone,' I tell him. 'Now!", he says. He starts walking toward me like
he wants a fight. I'd gotten out of the car. But, I got back in when he
started coming at me. You would, too, if you saw him. He was a big son
of a bitch," he concluded. He shot me a look to check my reaction. He
was probably afraid that I would call him a coward. Instead, I nodded an
invitation for him to continue.

"So, I started to drive away, but, of course, the Colt stalled on me
again. I got rolling then popped the clutch again. God, it was
embarrassing. I had to pop it a couple more times. I could see him in
the mirror, standing in front of his driveway like some great landowner.
Well, when I got to the bottom of the hill, I just parked there for a
while and let the engine get nice and hot. I wanted to drive back up
there and shoot that little piece of white trash. I was really mad," he
finished in a rising voice. He took another long pull on his beer. When
he started again his voice was calmer and there was a faint smile on his
lips.

"So, I drove back up the hill pretty quickly. I didn't want to take any
chances with it stalling again. When I got near to my neighbor's pathetic
little house, I saw him leaning up against the hood of his old GMC pickup.
I flipped him the bird as I drove by. I had to look back over my
shoulder to see his reaction. He looked angry enough, but what caught my
eye was the woman who was just stepping into the house through the front
door. I didn't have a chance to take much of a look, but what I saw
looked good. I saw her little ass moving under her cotton dress." He
dropped his voice down to a low, conspiratorial tone. "As I drove home, I
pictured her ass without anything on it. That image stuck in my mind for
a long time. It was like a seed had been planted," he said.

He signaled the bartender to bring him another beer. He had a happily
buzzed glow on his face now. He was no longer watching closely for my
reaction. Maybe he knew that he had me hooked. Once he had a fresh
beer in his hand, he stood up and started walking away from the bar.
Without turning to face me, motioned for me to follow him. He picked a
table in the deserted lounge and sat down. I joined him.

"You see, I have to tell you how I got the idea. I always have a few
magazines tucked away in my dresser. I live alone, but I keep them in my
dresser anyway. The usual: a couple of Penthouses and that sort of thing.
But, also a few bondage magazines. You know what I mean?," he asked.

"Yes. I do," I answered. I did know. I have a few myself.

"I looked at those magazines maybe a number of times before the idea
really hit me. I still remember, it came to me when I was looking at a
picture of a pretty little blonde bent over the back of a chair; tied up
tight so she couldn't get away. They shot that picture in a kitchen. The
blonde was tied to a kitchen chair. For some reason, that's what
triggered the idea in my head. It's funny because the blonde didn't look
anything like my neighbor's wife."

"Maybe a week after I saw that picture, I started buying supplies. I
remember the first thing I bought was rope. Lots of nylon rope. It
seemed like the guy in the hardware store knew why I was buying it. In
that same hardware store I also bought a bag of clothespins. I picked
up..."

I stood up and started to walk away. "I have to get going now. Nice
meeting you. Got to get some sleep," I mumbled as I headed for the door.
His story had started to sound too much like a confession. I didn't want
know anymore about it. I had a disturbing vision of sitting on the
witness and being cross examined by some vicious prosecutor. I hazarded a
quick glance back over my shoulder. He had a wounded look on his face but
he was still seated and showed no signs of following me.

By the time I was on the plane back home, I had already forgotten about my
friend from the hotel bar. I spent the next couple of weeks catching up
on all the work that had gone undone while I was out in San Francisco. I
only saw my wife for a couple of hours between when I dragged myself home
and when I crashed into our bed already asleep. It was a familiar routine
and neither one of us complained about it.

And so it went until one Friday night when I received a very strange fax.
The fax machine started pumping out paper just as I was putting my coat
on. Looking back, I thank God that I picked up that fax myself instead of
leaving it for my secretary. A quick glance at the first page was enough
to cause my stomach to knot itself up. It was handwritten in an small,
neat hand. It read as follows:

"Harry,

I'm sure that you remember me. We met in San Francisco. You never gave
me a chance to finish telling you my story. I thought I'd just fax it to
you. I got your fax number from your card.

Here are some more pictures from my collection:"

Underneath there were grainy reproductions of two photographs. They were
both of the same brunette that he'd showed me before. In one of the
pictures, she was on her hands and knees. It was difficult to make out
the details, but she seemed to be tied to some sort of ottoman. Her arms
and legs were tied to the legs of the ottoman. I could tell her ass was
bare. It looked like her panties had been pulled down to her knees. In
the other picture, she was kneeling, her arms were bound behind her back.
She was looking up at the photographer, who must have been standing
directly in front of her. In her mouth, she had the same ball gag that
I'd seen before. There was an imploring look in her eyes. Her breasts
were bare and seemed to be bound with rope. Some sort of clamps or
clothespins were attached to each nipple.

As I stood examining the first page, the fax machine kept churning out
more. I picked up the second page. It was composed of four more
pictures. I was conscious that I had become erect. I stepped across my
office and shut my door. Then I sat down to examine the rest of the
photos.





Sitting at my desk, I examined the second page of the fax. In large block
letters he'd written across the top of the page, "Like what you see???"
There were four photos beneath. The first was a close-up of her ass. She
was bent over the back of a chair. It looked like her skirt had been
pulled up around her waist. Her panties were stretched tightly over her
ass. In the next photo, she was lying on her back in bed. The angle of
the shot made it obvious that the photographer was standing right over
her. Her arms were bound together at the wrist. Somewhere, out of the
range of the photograph, her wrists must have been secured to the bed.
Each of her legs was folded and her ankles were tied to her thighs. A
pair of ropes attached to each leg at the knee and disappearing off the
edge of the photo kept her legs spread wide. Despite the imperfect
quality of the fax transmission, I could make out the small puckered
indent of her asshole. The third picture, was another close-up; this time
of her breasts. From the other pictures, I knew that her breasts were
rather large and nicely shaped. She had probably not yet passed thirty.
But in this picture, her tits had been forced into tight globes by coils
of restrictive nylon rope. A clothespin dangled from each nipple. In the
last picture, the woman was standing in a shower. Her head was total
encased in a black leather hood. Her arms were tied to the curtain rod.
Though the edge of the tub prevented me from seeing her feet, her awkward
stance told me that her ankles were spread apart by a pole. In that
picture she had been shaved clean. Below the photos was a long, wavy
arrow that ran to the bottom of the page, where he had written, "Over..."

The next page was covered with his neat, even spaced writing:

I hope that you enjoyed those. I have more. But, I'm getting ahead of
myself. I haven't told you the story in its proper order. When we last
spoke I was telling you how I'd been acquiring my supplies. I always paid
cash. I didn't want to leave any sort of trail. I even kept everything
hidden in a beat up old box in the garage. Meanwhile, I was planning how
I would take care of business.

My pal and his wife had a house on one of the last undeveloped patches in
town. When I say undeveloped, I mean that there were still some trees
around; not that it was farm country. So at night, I would walk down
their street until I was a few hundred feet away and then cut back into
the woods.

I'd sit myself down with a thermos of coffee and keep a watch on their
house. Pretty soon I'd gotten to know their habits. I knew that Saturday
night was going to be my night. Without fail, he would take off a little
after nine. On more than one Friday night, I waited there in the woods
until at least three in the morning and saw no sign of his return. It was
kind of fun watching them and knowing that they were unaware of me. One
night, I decided to get a closer look at their ramshackle little house. I
moved very, very slowly. I'd never seen any dog, but I wasn't taking any
chances. It must have taken me two hours to move the last 500 feet from
the woods to the house.

I'd watched them undress as I was moving in. My neighbor is no clothes
horse. He's always in a tee-shirt (or tank top) and jeans. His wife is
better. I saw that she had on a nice pair of floral print panties and a
matching bra. She was lying on top of him. As they kissed he kneaded her
ass. After a few more minutes of foreplay, he slipped her panties off and
entered her. Just when she starting to moan, he came. It couldn't have
taken him more than three minutes. About what I had expected from him.

All this time, I'd been buying reference material. I had dozens of
bondage magazines and a few videos. I practiced tying the knots on my own
ankles or wrists. I always worked in my bedroom with the door locked. Of
course, there was only so much I could do without a subject to practice
on. I sure didn't want to tie myself so well that the fire department
would have to rescue me. They probably wouldn't come anyway. All the
locals (and the firemen are locals) don't like the people that live up
here in these new condo developments. That's they way this town is.

Anyway, I had to figure out some way to practice with my ropesmen ship.
Oddly enough, it was my boss that gave me the idea. I can't stand the
little bastard. He's a little ass-kissing yuppie. He hasn't even been at
the company two years and they've already made him my boss. Style over
substance about sums it up.

It was at one our little group dinners that he gave me the idea. Ever
since he took over we all "voluntarily" meet for dinner after work on the
first Friday of each month. I hate those things. He pretends to be
friendly with me, but I know he'd boot me out the door in a second if it
suited him. That night the only woman in our team didn't show up. We
were less inhibited in our conversation without her and the subject of
prostitutes came up. I didn't have much to say. I'd never been to one.
My boss had; in Amsterdam.( Of Course!) That didn't surprise any of us.
He's young and he into those crazy thrill sports. He's just the type.
But what surprised us was when he mentioned, in passing, that he'd been to
a local prostitute. As unusual as it seemed, it didn't mean much to me at
the time. It took me several days to realize that my boss' whore might be
able to help me out.

It was embarrassing having to ask him about how to contact her. I'd walk
up to his door, pause ready to knock, then continue down the hall as if
nothing had happened. Eventually I got up the courage to ask and he gave
me her first name and her number. I think my asking actually improved his
opinion of me. He stood up and showed me out of his office. (Usually he
just sits there.) Before I stepped out he patted me on the shoulder.

It was also embarrassing calling her. I had no idea what one says to a
prostitute. Her name was Karen. I called her from a pay phone. I
thought she might have caller ID and I didn't want her to have my number.
At first she was rather terse, but once I told her that Nate (my boss) had
referred me, she became quite friendly. I didn't feel like getting
involved in that business unless she was going to let me tie her up.
After all prostitution is still illegal. So I asked her directly. There
was a brief silence and I knew that she was taken aback. (I admit that I
did blurt it out rather suddenly) Finally, she said that she was willing
to be bound, but not spanked or hurt. That's all I wanted, so I told her
OK. We arranged a time to meet her at her apartment.

Actually, the apartment where we met was her office, not her home. She
only used it with clients. When I came to the door I had a duffel bag
full of rope in my hand. I noticed that she gave it a quick and dubious
look. After she had poured me a drink, she told me right up front that
she was going to call a friend and leave a message on her friend's machine
saying that she expected to be at her friend's home at about nine. That
would give us two hours. Then she made the call from the phone in the
living room where I was sitting. I liked that. It was smart.

She was very professional. She sat down right next to me and asked me if
there was anything special I'd like her to wear. I hadn't really thought
about it, but I've always had a weakness for stockings and garter belts.
I asked her if she had any stockings. She just smiled as if to say,
"Don't ask silly questions," and stood up. She told me she'd be right
back and walked into her bedroom. I watched her ass as she walked away.
It had a wonderful shape. Tight, but not hard. She was graceful in
heels.

She came out a few minutes later. She still had the heels on, but not
much else. She picked stockings in a beautiful, dark wine color. She
wore no panties. A thin, almost transparent wrap covered her torso. She
walked up to couch and stood right in front of me. She shrugged the wrap
off of her shoulders. Her breasts had that rare and beautiful shape
that's so hard to describe. They were something like avocados. A little
slope and a delicate curve underneath. She put her arms out in front of
her and crossed her wrists. She smiled and asked me if I wanted to tie
her up.

Actually, at that moment, I wanted to fuck her more than anything else.
But, I remembered that I had a mission. I unzipped my bag in an instant.
I began winding the rope around her wrists. My hands were shaking a
little. It was such a thrill to see my hands in front of me actually
tying a woman's arms together. Also, with her standing right in front of
me, her pussy was at face level. I could see that she kept her pubic hair
meticulously groomed.

I didn't do a very good job at tying her wrists. The knot was solid
enough, but it was also sloppy. It made me realize how much work went
into all the photo spreads in those bondage magazines. I asked her to lay
down on the couch so that I could tie her legs together. She did, and to
my great pleasure, she lay face down. That gave me a wonderful
opportunity to admire her beautiful ass. I started with her ankles. The
knot I used was essentially the same as the one I used on her wrists.
This time it came out better. Then I worked at tying her knees together.
As I was passing the rope between her legs I couldn't help but feel the
smooth skin of her thighs. I also couldn't help but admire her ass. Her
ass cheeks looked so soft and round, that I wanted to dig my teeth into
them.

Once I had finished tying her legs, I tentatively ran my fingers over her
ass. She looked over her shoulder and smiled. I stood next to the couch
and ran my fingers along the backs of her legs. Her calves were like
tight little apples. I caressed the backs of her thighs. I kneaded her
ass. I could smell her excitement. Instinctively, I ran my index finger
down her lovely ass crack and over her pussy. I could feel her getting
wet. I was rock hard and I wanted to just drop my pants and fuck her.

She must have known what I was thinking. In a silky voice, she suggested
that I tie her up bent over the back of the couch. When she said it would
make it easier to fuck her, I almost came. Of course I followed her
advice. It's too bad that I don't have any pictures of her to show you.

She walked around to the back of her sofa. She bent over and waited for
me. I asked her to spread her legs wider. She spread them as wide as she
could and still balance in her heels. Each of her ankles I tied to a leg
of the couch. Her wrists were still secured. I took a length of rope and
attached one end to the knot at her wrists. The free end I slid under the
couch. I walked to the back of the couch and took up the slack on the
free end of the rope. As I pulled on it, it caused her to bend over
further. When she was bent over as far as she could go, I tied the free
end of the rope to her ankle. I stepped back for a moment to admire my
handiwork. I must say that I did a pretty good job. But, it was
difficult to concentrate on the knots with her tempting ass up in the air
like that.

I slid out of my pants and underwear. I stepped up behind her and began
rubbing her ass. In a breathy, but insistent voice she told me that she
kept the condoms in a jar on the coffee table. I took the hint. In
retrospect, it worries me that I was so out of control that I almost had
unprotected sex with a prostitute. Who knows what I could have gotten.
But, at the time I was annoyed. In a rush I grabbed a condom out of her
jar and unrolled it on my penis. Then, to show my frustration, I stepped
up behind her and, without warning, shoved myself deep inside of her. She
didn't complain.

Soon I was fucking her hard. Each time I pounded against her ass the
couch squeaked and inched forward across the hardwood floor. She was
making these moaning noises that sounded like little pleas for me to fuck
her.

Before long I was grunting. I knew that I would cum very shortly, but I
didn't have the willpower to control myself. At that point, she did
something that surprised me. She asked me to spank her. When we had
spoken earlier she had specifically forbidden spanking. I didn't
hesitate. I made several attempts at smacking her ass while I fucked her,
but I just couldn't get a good angle. I found that I had to withdraw and
step back to give her a really good paddling. And a good paddling was
apparently what she wanted. When I spanked her hard, she asked for more.

Now two desires were battling it out in my head: the desire to spank that
ripe little ass and the desire to drive myself deep it. One would win out
and I would slap her ass to the accompaniment of her little yelps of
delight. Then the other would take over and I would pound her against the
couch while she moaned enticingly. With a series of three or four quick
thrusts, I came inside of her.




I was pretty winded after that, but she didn't give me a chance to catch
my breath. She wanted me to untie her right away. I obliged. Then,
without any hint of sentimentality, she asked for her payment. Well, I
had to admit that she'd earned it. Just being able to look at her close
up was worth more than a little. I walked to the where my pants lay on
the floor and retrieved my wallet from the back pocket. As I counted out
the twenties, I couldn't help but be aware of my penis hanging loose and
still partially erect. It was hard to resist the temptation to look down
and check if it was visible underneath my shirt. She counted the cash,
gave me a quick peck on the cheek, and then walked into her bedroom. It
was clearly time for me to leave.

I didn't get to practice my knots as much as I had hoped, but I had
learned a valuable lesson. I was capable of making my fantasies come
true. Before I met with her, there was an annoying doubt lurking in the
back of my mind. I kept wondering whether or not I actually had the balls
to tie a woman up and enjoy it. After my session, I knew that I did.

Of course, I had much bigger plans for my neighbor's wife. I wasn't just
going to tie her up. The point was

That is where the seventh page of his fax ended. I had been grabbing them
out of the fax machine as quickly as it could print them. The little
machine began to make that familiar rising tone that signals the arrival
of a new page, when I heard someone's keys jingling somewhere nearby my
door. The only one who ever worked later than I did on a Friday was my
boss. Before leaving for the night, he would usually stop by my office
and wish me a good weekend. It was his way of recognizing my hard work.
I killed the power to the fax. Hurriedly, I gathered together the
evidence and shoved it into my briefcase. Then I sat down and listened.
The jingling ceased and there was silence. Finally, I heard the front
door close. Whoever it was had left for the day. Leaving seemed like a
good idea.

The freeway was relatively quiet. Rush hour had passed. The sun had set
long ago. I cranked up the volume on the stereo. Loud music was
something I only got to indulge in when I was driving by myself. As was
my habit, I tried to use the drive home as a time to collect my thoughts
and make my plans. But that night my mind kept breaking free and trying
to visualize all of the events that my little friend had described in his
fax. I kept visualizing that woman in front of me, naked, bent over the
back of a sofa, helpless. I have to admit that riding alone in my car I
had an erection.

It happened almost without my willing it. I got off the freeway and
pointed the car into the heart of the city. I drove between the immense
office towers and down to what used to be the garment district. Block
after block of five story brick warehouses. For the most part, that area
was devoid of life. Here and there a dirty tractor cab was parked half on
the sidewalk. Eventually, corner bars started to appear. Most had no
windows at all. What windows there were had been covered with a coat of
paint and a set of steel bars. And then I saw what I'd been looking for.
The blue and red neon that read, "Adult Bookstore Open 24 hr."

I'd never been in that particular bookstore before, but the smell was
instantly familiar. I don't know what they spray in those places but I
know it must contain some combination of Lysol and ReNuzit. The interior
was much more pleasant than the grim exterior suggested. I browsed their
selection of videos. Though I didn't see any labels, it was obvious that
the tapes were grouped by subject. A profusion of bright red ball gags
and black leather made the bondage section easy to spot. I could feel my
erection returning as a looked at the photos on the boxes. Plenty of
beautiful blondes kneeling naked in front of cruel, raven-haired girls in
heels. Many tightly bound tits being squeezed by big hairy hands. More
than one featured overweight, middle aged men in camouflage fatigues
tormenting pretty girls in their mid twenties.

I final decided on one titled, "Slave Camp." The premise was ridiculous.
An Ivy League sorority sends errant sisters to a camp run by a bunch of
heavily bearded sadists. But the pictures on the box were very enticing.
Blonde college girls tied to picnic tables. Shiny chrome clamps on pink
nipples. A young woman kneeling, hands bound behind her, plaid skirts
barely covering her ass, her face pressed against the crotch of a bumpkin
in denim overalls. It was heady stuff and it convinced me to shell out
ten dollars to "preview" the tape.

The booth was surprisingly clean. Unfortunately there were no controls
for fast forwarding the tape. So, I had to sit through all of the
advertisements and disclaimers. Finally the feature started. As
expected, the acting was terrible. After about five minutes I turned off
the sound. This relieved me of the burden of listening to the dialogue,
but it also forced me to listen to everyone else's soundtrack. The booths
had thin walls and on all sides I could hear movies playing. At first I
tried to make out what all the strange slapping, gurgling, and moaning
noises were, but I soon lost interest. I could also hear my fellow
customers walking to and from their booths. I tensed up every time one of
them walked near my door. It made me feel like a pervert sitting there in
a dark booth, watching the doorknob to make sure no one was opening my
door.

The only redeeming feature of the first 20 minutes was a scene where a
sorority "mother" spanked a sister's white panty clad ass. Apparently
that punishment was not deemed sufficient, because in the next scene that
same sister was etherized, bound, and put in a windowless van. When she
awoke she found herself in the "Slave Camp". I won't bore you with a
description of the whole plot I don't actually remember much of it. One
thing that I do remember is that the viewer was clearly meant to empathize
with the men who ran the camp; not with the girls who were punished there.
This was odd, because the tormentors were an unsavory looking bunch who
came across as overgrown bullies. There are also a couple of scenes that
stick in my mind and I'll share these with you.

The number of binding and disciplining techniques that the tormentors
employed was certainly impressive. What the production lacked in
dialogue, it made up for with special racks and esoteric leather
appliances. Girls were forced to sit on elaborate thrones with built in
mechanisms for penetrating them from underneath. Others were connected to
complex arrays of ropes and pulleys that would force them into very
comprising positions by exerting force on their sensitive nipples and
clits. There were many close ups of tight young bottoms being penetrated
by exotic dildos molded in neon colors.

There was one actress that was my favorite. She was a petite blonde. She
didn't have big breasts, but they were perky and the director made the
most of them. She had a wonderfully round behind. The type that I really
enjoy seeing. Curvy like a pear, but not flabby. She was obviously the
star of the film and, so, suffered the most punishment. She was welcomed
to the camp by a man dressed as a drill sergeant. He looked ridiculous in
his costume, but it was easy to ignore him. He handcuffed the star's
wrists together, slapped a few pieces of duct tape over her mouth, and
dragged her into a cellar.

In the dim light, he secured her manacled wrists above her head by tying
them to a pipe that ran across the ceiling. She began to struggle and
kick so her handcuffed her ankles together also. The next few moments
were, for me, the most erotic. The "sergeant" now began to caress her.
He ran his hands over all of the lovely curves where I would have run my
hands. He stood behind her and cupped her breasts in his hands. He ran
his fingers over her ass, down her thigh to her calf. She tried to twist
and turn to avoid his touch, but, of course, it was impossible. The man
playing the tormentor was very convincing while he caressed her. He
seemed to be doing what came naturally.

Then he produced a pair of scissors from out of nowhere and the scene
became somewhat less believable. Her eyes opened wide with fear when she
saw the shiny blades, but she was over-acting. He began by cutting her
blouse right up the front. He paused and brushed her cheek gently with
the edge of the scissors. Then he snipped her bra in between her breasts.
I have a fond memory of the way her tits sprang loose from that bra.
With exaggerated brutality, he torn what was left of her blouse off of her
torso. Then he kneeled down in front of her. Beginning at her ankle, he
ran the pointed tip of the scissors slowly up the inside of her thigh.
She had no hose on, just a plaid skirt. I did get a visceral thrill from
watching as the scissors began to creep up her inner thigh lifting her
skirt as they went. He stopped before he reached her most sensitive skin.
A few quick snips and her skirt fell to the floor. Next he snipped the
sideband of her panties. She pressed her legs together to keep her
panties from falling off. He snipped the other sideband. The remains of
her panties were pressed between her thighs. He took her panties in his
hand, smiled at her, and yanked them away. Now she stood totally bare and
squirming.

There was one other scene that stands out in my mind. It wasn't nearly as
erotic as the one I just described and it didn't feature my favorite
actress. But the sheer perversity of it made it exciting. This scene
opened with a shot of a pretty brunette, totally naked, strapped into some
special sort of chair. The back of the chair reclined much like a car
seat. It was angled back to about forty-five degrees. She was strapped
to the chair like an X-rated Gulliver; totally unable to move. In
particular, her legs had been carefully secured so as to keep them spread
wide and a strap had been placed over her forehead to keep her head
motionless.

After the camera had given the viewer a moment to appreciate her
predicament, a man dressed in blue jeans and a plaid shirt entered the
scene. He ran his hands over her body possessively, making sure to fondle
her breasts. When he was done stroking her, he wheeled over some
contraption with tubes and pulleys. It is difficult to describe it. The
backbone of the thing was an intravenous stand, like the ones used in
hospitals. There were a couple of metal rods welded to the IV stand.
Pulleys were attached to these rods and cords hung from the pulleys. A
large bag of thick plastic with a tube at the bottom was draped over the
top of the IV stand. When I saw that, I though that I was about to
witness the administration of an enema. I wasn't too pleased with that
prospect.

But, as I mentioned earlier, the creators of "Slave Camp" did not lack
originality. I now saw that there was a small, shiny clamp attached to
one end of the cord. The man took this and attached it to the delicate
flesh near his subject's clitoris. She thrashed a bit when he did this
and it looked like it really did hurt. The other end of the cord he now
tied to the top of the plastic bag. He fiddled with his contraption a bit
and when he was done the cord wound its way up from between her legs, over
a pulley, and down to the top of the bag.

I still hadn't figured out what purpose his contraption served and I was
becoming less and less interested in guessing. Then, with a very fine
sense of timing, the actor held up the end of the rubber tube for the
woman (and his viewers) to see. Fastened to the end was a rubber dildo
that was lifelike in everything but its scale. It was enormous.
Predictably, he pressed this to her lips and slowly forced it into her
mouth. With her head immobilized, she couldn't have offered much
resistance. From somewhere off screen, he procured a small bucket. In a
deliberate manner, he tipped the bucket and began to pour its contents
into the plastic bag. I have no idea what was really in that bucket. It
had the color and viscosity of semen.

As the bag began to fill, it began to pull down on the cord from which it
was suspended. This, in turn, caused the cord to pull up on the clip
attached to her clitoris. Underneath all of those straps, she had very
little freedom of movement, but as the clamp began to tug she managed to
wiggle convincingly. The purpose of the apparatus was now clear. The
girl was able to end her own torment, but only by sucking about a gallon
of "semen" from a rubber "penis". As contrived and mechanical as that
scene was, I have to say that I felt a surge of excitement watching her
suck on that dildo. Some of the "semen" ran down her chin. Watching the
actor rub that fake cum into her breasts very nearly caused me to cum.





I sat waiting for my erection to subside while the credits rolled. My
butt had gone numb from sitting in the same position for so long. I
checked my watch. 10:34 Once I felt fairly certain that I wouldn't
embarrass myself, I stepped out into the dimly lit aisle and made my way
to the door. The man behind the counter was busy putting magazines into
clear plastic wrappers. There was a huge sandwich wrapped in white paper
waiting for him. I could smell the onions as I walked out.

When I reached my car, the first thing that drew my eye were the tiny
cubes of glass glittering on the concrete. My stomach tightened as I
lifted my eyes up to the driver's side window. It no longer existed. The
mangled plastic told me that they had used either a hammer or a crow bar
to pry open the glove box. Maps and pieces of yellow fanfold paper were
strewn over the seat. The radio was still there. It had a detachable
face that I could feel inside of my jacket pocket. It wouldn't have
worked without the face; they must have known that. The majority of the
glass ended up on the driver's seat. I couldn't help looking over my
shoulder as I brushed it off.

I had to turn the heat all the way up on the way home. The wind blew hard
through the window and made my eyes water. I was gripping the wheel so
tight that I could feel my fingers starting to tingle. Besides the anger,
there was the anxiety. I needed to get it fixed before my wife saw it.
The only places that I ever left that car were so damn secure. I kept it
in the company garage at work and at home it was parked in our own garage.
There's was no way to explain it to her. I'd just have to get rid of the
evidence before she saw it. I could get one of those same day windshield
places to take care of the window, but the dashboard was going to be more
difficult. Luckily,. I knew that my wife wouldn't be home for a couple of
days. She was at her brother's house. My sister-in-law had just given
birth and my wife was helping with the baby.

My head was filled with these thoughts as I made my way out of the
warehouse district. I'd been heading in the general direction of the
downtown skyline. But, the landscape was becoming steadily less familiar.
I began to slow down at each intersection and read the road signs. I
didn't recognize any of the street names. The city was old and not
arranged on a grid, so there was no straight path back to the downtown. I
cursed the bastards in city hall who'd allowed the city to develop like
some medieval hamlet.

Suddenly there was a blur of motion only a few yards in front of me.
Instinctively, I hit the brakes. The car came to a sharp, squealing stop.
A thin, pale woman stood inches in front of my hood regarding me
placidly. After a moment, she walked alongside my door. Not having that
thin membrane of safety glass next to me made me feel quite vulnerable. I
would have just pulled away, but that woman looked damned sexy. I
wouldn't call her pretty or even attractive. She had on a full length
coat. Some sort of shiny plastic material. But the coat was unbuttoned
and I could see that she was wearing an incredibly short neon green dress
underneath. It was so short that I think I may have seen her panties as
she walked. When she reached my window, she bent over to speak with me.
I could tell that she had noticed the broken window, but she didn't
mention it.

"Hi. It's a hundred for the night," she offered. I couldn't help but
notice her cleavage. Her breasts were small, but her dress lifted them up
and pressed them tightly together.

I sat, silent. My heart was racing. My hands were already cold, but now
they felt like ice.

"Yes," I answered. I could hear the fear in my own voice, but she didn't
seem to mind. She stood up and walked to the passengers side. She pulled
on the handle, but the door didn't open. I'd forgotten to unlock it. I
watched her as she sat down. I felt entitled to look at her ass. She
smiled at me. I wasn't sure what to say, so I began to drive.

"I've got a hotel that I use, but you're going to have to pull a U-turn,"
she said casually. After looking around for police cars, I made an
illegal U-turn at the next intersection. I shot a glance down at her
legs. Now I could definitely see her panties. They were some sort of
silky, spandex material and they were tight enough to reveal the contours
of her labia. I could smell alcohol underneath her perfume.

After several blocks, we arrived at the "hotel". Actually, it was a
motel. I parked in the lot. Two stories with a balcony running the
length of the second floor. Air conditioners jutted out from under most
of the windows. Where the air conditioners were missing, unpainted
plywood covered the hole. As dreary as it looked, it was not as sordid as
I had expected.

"Let me go into the lobby and get a room," she said as she reached for the
door handle.

"Wait. Hang on a second. Uh...do you do bondage....or, um, S and M?", I
mumbled.

"Jesus, what is it with you guys in the BMW's? All you want to do is S&M
and that sort of shit. Can't you guys just fuck somebody?," she paused
long enough to catch her breath then continued, "No, I do not do S&M!
Fuckin' Christ, you could have said something sooner."

"Sorry. I...Here's something for your time," I said meekly as I reached
into my wallet. I pulled out a few twenties. I don't even know how many.
She took the money, but it didn't seem to placate her. If anything, she
looked even more disgusted.

She got out of my car and began walking out of the parking lot. When she
was on the sidewalk, she turned and shouted, "What the fuck are you
waiting for? Go home you fucking pervert!" I could see that the night
manager had stepped to lobby window to get a better view of the scene in
the parking lot. His face, like the rest of him, was covered in fat, so
it was impossible to read his expression. I'm pretty sure he was
smirking, though.

I slammed my fist against the steering wheel, but I knew how silly I
really looked. There didn't seem to be much else to do, so I headed for
home. I took me a while to get my bearings. But, eventually, when I
passed the porn shop I'd visited earlier, I knew I was on the right path.


The house was, of course, dead quiet when I got home. After I got out of
the shower, I rummaged around underneath my dresser until I found my
magazine stash. I pulled all four of them out and brought them to bed
with me.

One was an old Penthouse. The others were bondage magazines. All of the
models were beautiful. Their hair was always set just right, even during
what was supposed to be a severe flogging. Their lipstick was always
bright red and glossy. They were supposed to be in pain or afraid, but
somehow, the models couldn't carry it off. It wasn't entirely their
fault. They were forced to work with garish backdrops and a paucity of
props. Still, the bondage was first quality and there were plenty of sexy
women being tied, chained, suspended, and whipped.

I lay in bed looking at the magazines and masturbating. When I closed my
eyes, I saw images of the women in the magazines. They struggled in their
bonds and begged me to release them. Soon, however, my own imagination
asserted itself. I replaced the models with the prostitute that I had
picked up a few hours ago.

I pictured myself pushing her along in front of me, her hands tied behind
her back, a gag in her mouth. I watched her ass move underneath the
tight, skimpy skirt. I pushed her into some dark room and shut the door
behind me. There was a bed in the center of the room covered in a cheap
bed spread. I push her face down onto it. She tried to get up, but I
pressed her to the bed with one hand and pulled up her skirt with the
other. I admired your legs for a moment, then pulled her panties down to
her knees. I ran my hand over her ass. In my fantasy, her ass was tender
and warm. I squeezed it roughly.

Then I imagined her in a dank cellar. She stood before me totally naked.
Her arms were chained together above her head. Her legs were spread, each
ankle attached to a post. A bright red ball gag was in her mouth. Her
eyes followed me as I walked toward her. I ran my fingers over her
stomach and she flinched. I walked behind her and pressed myself against
her as I fondled her breasts. I ran my index finger along her pussy. It
was wonderfully, implausibly wet. She squirmed, but to no avail.

Then I imagined my prostitute in the back of a late model American van.
She was lying on her side. Her legs were tied together at the ankles and
at the knees. Her wrists were bound behind her back. Her knees were
pressed tightly against her chest and held there by coils of rope. Duct
tape covered her mouth. Her jeans had been pulled down to about mid thigh
exposing her white cotton panties. I knelt behind her and pulled the
panties down as far as the ropes would allow. With my left hand I spread
one ass cheek away from the other. My right index figure I ran forcefully
down along the crack of her ass, over her asshole, then along her pussy.
In this fantasy her pussy was not wet. I shoved my finger into her
anyway. But when I looked at her face to gauge her reaction, I saw may
wife's face instead.

Quickly and guiltily, I abandoned that daydream. The prostitute was back
as the object of my next fantasy. But, I quickly replaced her with the
little coed who was interning at my office. I'd been watching her since
September when she started her internship. She was just a little plump,
but she had wonderful, young breasts. Her ass was nicely rounded, too.
Now, in my daydream, she was standing in a high school locker room. She
had on a pleated cheerleader's skirt, but her torso was bare. She had an
elaborate rope harness on her chest and a pole behind her back. These
forced her to keep her arms at her sides and to stick her chest out. The
harness also acted as kind of bra, wrapping around her tits and pushing
them up. I stood in front of her, brushing my fingers over her taut
breasts. She looked on with alarm as I pinched her nipples, but only a
little whimper escaped her young lips. I licked her tits until they both
shone with my saliva. Then I blew on them. My breath chilled her breasts
and made her nipples contract into hard little islands. I bit down gently
on her left nipple.

Then suddenly, we were transported to the shower. She was naked, bent
over, one wrist tied to her ankle. The other wrist I held behind her
back. The water sprayed down onto her. It ran through her blonde hair,
pulling it down almost to the floor. I pressed my penis against her
pussy. Even in my dream it was hot. She knew what I meant to do. She
was trying to speak, but the water prevented her. I thrust myself into
her. Soon I was pounding into her.

But, my mind could not rid itself of the connection between the intern and
my job. Somehow thoughts of my office, of my budget, of the other men who
were vying for the Vice President slot, wormed their way into my conscious
mind. Soon my fantasy collapsed and I was aware that I was lying in my
bedroom in my home. I could smell the potpourri that my wife set on her
dressing table. Now fatigue flooded over me. It was all I could do to
put the magazines back under the dresser before I fell into a deep sleep.

I usually do not remember my dreams, but that night I had one that made an
indelible impression. In it I was driving a large tow truck. It looked
like it had been built in the 40's. The truck was not "right" in many
small ways. For instance, the speedometer was in the center of the dash
and I had to lean over to see how fast I was going. There was a pile of
faded and worn magazines on the passenger's side of the seat. Their
contents would be different each time I glanced at them. Sometimes they
were automobile mechanics' trade journals; sometimes they were women's
magazines; other times they were porno magazines. I wasn't myself either.
I was shorter, broader and my hair was darker. The voice of a dispatcher
would occasionally come in over the radio. It was speaking in a foreign
tongue that I do not understand in my waking life; it sounded vaguely
Polish. In my dream, though, I could understand it. I knew when the
dispatcher was addressing me. I knew that he was sending me to a job.

Soon I was out on a dirt road in the middle of farmland. It was Fall and
the ground was barren and gray. Soldiers were walking along the road.
Their uniforms were not American, but I could not say where they were
from. When I came upon a crowd at the side of the road, I knew that I had
reached my destination.. Fifteen or twenty men were standing silent in a
rough circle. Incongruously, they wore the denim overalls of factory
workers, but there were no buildings or means of transportation for miles
around. When I pulled in, only a few turned to look at me. The rest were
engrossed in whatever was going on in the center of the circle. They
moved out of the way passively enough as I made my way into the crowd.
Then I saw what they were concentrating on.

My wife was lying there. She was lying on her back, stretched over the
top a round boulder. Her arms were obviously bound together and secured
somehow to the ground or to the boulder, but I couldn't see how. Her legs
were also secured by some mysterious means. They were spread wide open.
She was totally naked. I could see her stomach muscles moving as she
breathed. None of the men was touching her, but when I got closer I could
see that a trail of semen had oozed from the corner of her mouth. In my
dream, I was totally detached. Seeing my wife in that condition did not
stir my emotions one way or the other.

When I looked, I found some sort of tool in my right hand. It was
fashioned of a dull metal and most resembled a cross between a giant
syringe and a grease gun. It was large and heavy in my hand. I pulled
the trigger. A jet of amber motor oil shot from the tip.
Dispassionately, I pushed this into my wife's pussy. She squirmed and
begged me to stop. Instead I pulled the trigger several times. I watched
as muscles all over her body tensed. She let out a loud moan. Oil gushed
out of her pussy. I pulled the tool out and began hunting between her ass
cheeks for her asshole . There was resistance, but I pushed the tip
inside anyway. Once again I pulled the trigger several times. My wife's
reaction was even more extreme this time. She began moaning and
whimpering. I squeezed the trigger several more times and her body
convulsed. I withdrew the tool. I could smell the musty odor of her
asshole.

I walked to where her head hung down. I placed the tip inside her open
mouth,. She closed her lips around it as if to suck. When I pulled the
trigger, her cheeks swelled out with the oil. I watched her throat
working as she swallowed. I kept injecting just enough oil to keep her
mouth full. After a minute or two the tool was empty. I took it out of
her mouth and turned to go.

A modern squad car was parked on the road, its strobes flashing. A
highway patrolman was putting a ticket on my tow truck.