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Summer Convention Part 1 (FDom TV Bondage)
This work Copyright (C) 2001, by Caitlain McCarren. I
reserve all rights of distribution not otherwise expressly
granted herein.
Should you like my works and wish to add my to your
collection, you are at liberty to do so for personal use
as proscribed by the Berne Convention and U. S. Copyright
law pertaining to fair use. In addition, electronic
distribution is allowed through BBS or the Internet as
long as the text retains my by-line, copyright data, and
signature, and no fee for this transmission is charged or
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Transmission or distribution by all other modes; print,
duplication to optical or magnetic media, and such other
modes as may be currently or ultimately provided, are
expressly forbidden. I, Caitlain McCarren, retain all
rights to such transmission.
In addition, this is a work of fiction. Any resemblance
to or association with persons living or dead is
coincidental. I describe situations, which without proper
care could cause bodily harm or injury. Fiction is best
left as such. Don't attempt any of what is described
herein without providing utmost care and consideration
before the fact.
To close, this story, while work of fiction, describes
adult situations. If you are not yet of the age of
majority, or if accessing, reading, possessing, or
distributing material of this nature is illegal in your
community; or if such material offends you, I invite you
to leave now, before you begin.
The following is a departure from my regular writing
voice. I took this up on assignment. A dare, really. I
didn't think it would turn out as well as it did.
Certainly, it took me much longer to write than any
previous I attempted. Won't you let me know what you
think? My e-mail address appears at the end.
Convention:
Part one:
We went to the club's state convention this weekend. He was
required to paint his nails, shave his legs, chest, arms,
underarms and face. We waxed his back and backside and
shaved his pubes. At night we dressed him like a woman, he
slept in a nightgown. He wore a corset under his tuxedo at
dinner. When we were alone in our room he wore heels. He
wore and all weekend. We didn't even
pack regular underwear for him.
We booked an extra day at the end of the convention, and,
otherwise prepared that afternoon, he was required to
shower and shave. I replaced the plug and tube and locked
them in place. We laid out his feminine attire and packed
the rest in the remaining suitcase. Now it was he, the
girlish clothing, his cosmetic kit, my bag of tricks, and
me.
I forced him to dress in the hose and heels and then laced
him in his corset and locked them on. I had him step onto
a thin piece of tissue in the middle of the floor and
stand up on his toes. I tethered his ankles together with
leather cuffs locking them in place and left him with the
instruction not to move and not to cut the paper with his
heels. Thus, with his wrists bound across his back and
standing on his toes, I left to secure the luggage in the
car.
I moved the car to the lowest level of the parking garage
after securing the luggage. I grabbed the last toy I
needed to complete my plans and returned to the room.
He had shredded the tissue and my look of disgust told him
it would be a long night. I pinned his wig in place and
dabbed some spirit gum at the front to anchor it to his
forehead. I combed the hair and used a barrette to tie it
back. I started the anal plug at a very low hum and
released his wrists and ankles.
I commanded him to apply his make-up and he went to the
bath to comply. I didn't like the results. I told him
what to change and to start over. He kept me waiting
several minutes while he washed with cold cream and
reapplied the make-up, to much improved affect.
He tucked the under the stays at the end of the
garters and I handed him his panties, pointing to indicate
he should put them on. Next I handed him his bra, then I
handed him his bustle. Having donned these I stepped back
to have a look. I'd softened his form considerably. With
his arms crossed at the wrist in front of him he looked
hippy and breasty to the feminine extreme. He posed for
me in that pretty, feminine way I'd taught him. He
followed that up with a curtsy.
Satisfied with the result so far I decided to start on the
restraints. I opened the case and removed his knee loops,
a heavy gauge steel wire in a figure-eight form at the end
of a short piece of chain. I handed the knee loops to him
and he stepped through them. Handing him a padlock he
locked the chain to his corset so the wire hung just above
his knees. The purpose of knee loops is to prevent him
from spreading his knees any wider than his hips. It
doesn't prevent crossing the legs at the knees but does
prevent that wide leg sprawl that display while
sitting. It's one thing to look like that while wearing
pants, its quite another while wearing a skirt or dress.
He'll learn proper posture, either over time with aids
like these, or at the end of a whip.
I gathered up the hem of a full-length slip and while he
held his arms out I laid it on over his body. I pulled
the hem down over his pendulous "breasts" and fitted them
in the cups. The hem floated past his severely cinched
waist, now only twenty-six inches around and undoubtedly
uncomfortably constrained. I fitted the skirt over the
bustle and tugged the hem down to the mid-calf.
With the bustle and restraints in place the transformation
was remarkable. The drape of the skirt was perfect. The
make-up was quite acceptable though not quite perfect.
The heels were high, the calf muscles drawn up toward the
knee. A pretty woman in all respects, except one: too tall.
It was time to silence "her." I reached in and removed the
large ball gag and "her" look went from pleased to resigned.
"She" hated the large ball and it showed in "her" face. She
was smart enough to hold her tongue, though. "She" knew
speaking out of turn would only incite me to do my worst.
I held it out to "her" and "she" reached out and took it,
cradling it in "her" right palm. I reached into my bag and
retrieved my Contax SLR camera, then reached over for one of
the hotel's wooden chairs. I stood in the chair and then
crouched down so I would be shooting down on "her" from
three, or so, inches above "her" eye line. I knew the
perspective would mask the fact of "her" height. I was a
good eight feet away and mounted on the was the 85mm
Zeiss lens I preferred for portraiture.
I liked the idea of turning the tables and forcing "her"
into the position of glamour model. I liked even more that
"she" was required to do it gagged. I loaded the first roll
of thirty-six exposure VPS (r) color negative film.
Normally used for weddings because of its fidelity to
Caucasian skin tones, it would render "her" current cream
colored complexion perfectly. More importantly it would
render "her" blush all the more vividly.
I spoke, "This is our first game of the day, dear. The
object of the game is for you to look pretty and feminine.
When you strike a pose I like, I'll snap a of you.
I have eight roles of film or enough film for about three
hundred pictures. The first pictures are to be of you
inserting, strapping on, and locking in place that gag in
your hand. Do you understand?"
"Yes, mistress," "she" gave quietly in reply.
"When I'm done, we'll tie you to this chair while I go down
to the one-hour photo shop and have the film developed.
When I come back you get all the pictures but twelve. The
first twelve choices are mine. That's the fee for shooting
and developing the pictures. I get pictures and negatives,
understand?"
"Yes, mistress," "she" answered mildly.
"From the remaining pictures, through which you may cull,
you will be allowed to submit to me pictures you think I
may enjoy having for my collection. You must choose which
you think I might like, understand."
"Yes, mistress," "she" said equivocally. "Her" interest was
becoming piqued. "She" was wondering how I was to reward
"her", or punish "her", and a look of concern formed on
"her" face. "Now comes the prize or punishment aspect of
our little game, dear. For every I accept you will
be allowed to attempt one orgasm on the way home tomorrow.
For every I decline, you are required to bring me
to orgasm in any fiendish manner I can devise, understand?"
"Oh!, yes, mistress," "she" replied, pleased.
"To make it interesting, and to motivate you to do well at
your assignment, those pictures not submitted are subject
to publication on the web. Therefore, it's in your
interest to look your best, meaning your most feminine.
It's your only hope of anonymity to look so much like a
girl that the pictures published couldn't possibly be
attributed to you. It is in your interest to please me
with your posing, because the more pictures I like, the
more likely you are to submit one that buys you an orgasm
and the less likely you are to submit one that costs you an
orgasm, understand?"
"Oh, yes!, mistress," "she" stated firmly.
"Are you anxious to play, dear?"
Her smile beamed at me. I pointed the and snapped
the first of that smile while she answered,
"Oh, yes please! If it pleases you that I should be
anxious?"
I'm sure you noted the change in gender. I'd like to
explain, though it would seem to defy explanation. First,
when we began playing the "game" it is by mutual agreement
that I refer to her in the feminine gender. It helps her
remember her vulnerable position at my hand. It creates a
strange space which helps her alter ego, her female
personality, emerge. Sometimes she can actually forget her
male personality and will speak as a woman.
For me, the change in gender reference allows me to deal
with "her." I see them as different people, though they
sometimes occupy the same body. I see "her" as a
competitor for "him." In a strange way that fact is true.
After all, "she" takes his time away from me and takes my
time away from him. Trouble is he loves "her" almost as
much as he loves me. Because of the "almost" in the last
sentence I tolerate this.
The fringe benefit of thinking of "her" as competition is
that it separates them from each other. I deal with each
differently. Which is to say that by controlling and
dominating her I get to stake my superior claim over him.
I know! This is a very dangerous psychological line fraught
with the possibilities of disjointed character traits,
multiple personalities, and psychotic breaks. The benefits
to each of us outweigh the seeming distractions. I treat
"her" like a woman, and expect that behavior from her. I
punish her when ultra-feminine behavior is not displayed.
Punishing the competition for not being "woman" enough for
my has appeal, to the point I discipline to produce the
most submissive and effeminate behavior.
"It always pleases me to see you anxious to please me! Are
you confident you can give me what I want?"
Her reply was measured. "I don't know mistress, but I know
that I want to try. I feel as though if I'm not allowed to
cum soon, I shall just burst!"
"Well, I'll be up here shooting down. The high angle will
make it look more as though you're shorter. No really
wants a woman to be larger or taller than he. No woman
wants to look at images she can't imagine herself
experiencing. The lenses are chosen to mask your size
through perspective changes. I've hope that together we
can give you quite the portfolio for your new modeling
career."
"Modeling career? Mistress?"
I replied, "Oh, I guess I hadn't told you. I'm
investigating the possibility that you might for a
living, a la Ru Paul, but larger sized more like Emme.
You really are remarkably pretty when you want to be.
You living the life in my home only serves to enhance the
effect. It gives you opportunity to get out in the world
in the guise of your new persona. It allows me to send you
out in bonds, which are much easier to hide under skirts.
You would then have to deal with the world as a woman,
which is very much what I want for you. It would allow us
to be seen in public without penalty, and as a photographer,
with you as my 'discovery,' I would get to do this all too
often. Seems like the perfect solution for your situation."
"It's not a thought I'd entertained." She replied coolly.
"Entertain it!" I commanded.
Otherwise helpless, and told she had no choice in the
matter, she dropped her face to her chest and tears
started.
"Hey!," I barked. "None of that. You haven't the time to
re-do your make-up. Now dry up and prepare for your
humiliation."
"Yes, Mistress," she said weakly.
I gave her a moment to compose herself. I focused on her
hair, bound back with the barrette and glowing in the sun
from the window behind me and to my left. A halo formed
from the sheen of it. I snapped the and she snapped
her head up.
"Dry your eyes, deary. You've no time to lose. Cross your
arms at the wrists and stand still." The hands were brought
together with the ball gag in shot. The ball was so large
that it spilled out of her hand and into the frame, even
though I was looking at the back of the hand. I framed and
focused and snapped the picture.
"Now, insert the ball into your mouth. Turn to the window
for the sun, dear. Perfect. Hold." The ball was at her
teeth, those pearly whites we had been cultivating for
months were set-off by the blue of the ball, the cream
complexion set-off by the tan of the leather now drooping
out of frame. Her eyes were on the gag, and they were wet
with tears and glassed with fear. It was a look of
helplessness. I framed and shot the in a vertical
with her back against the right side of the frame and her
cleavage exposed at the bottom of the frame.
"Continue." I shot a of her struggling to push the
big blue ball in. I shot another of her painted lips sealed
fast around it. The next was of her having drawn
the straps behind her head and under her hair. "Hold!" I
commanded. "Turn to face me."
The look of shame was perfect. I framed and shot again.
"Continue," I commanded. She tipped her head down to
facilitate pushing the strap through the latch and when
both came into view I shot again. She drew the strap tight
with her left hand and clipped the strap in place as I shot
again. She threaded the end of the strap through the other
side of the latch so it lay flat against her head. She
threaded it through one strap loop, over the lock pin and
through the other strap loop. I shot a frame as she
finished. "Hold," I commanded, "arms at your sides,
relax."
I stepped down and rummaged through my bag and found one of
the padlocks. I walked over and handed it to her, then
commanded, "hold the lock out in your cradled palms." I
pointed, focused and shot the frame of her holding the lock.
I turned and walked back to the chair. While stepping up I
said, "Turn toward the wall on the right; thread the lock
through the pin." She complied while I shot the action.
"Now hold, dear. Good. Now snap it closed." She complied,
locking the harness in place. "Hands at your sides, dear.
Show us how dejected and frightened you are to wear the gag.
Tear in the eye time, dear. Good! Good."
"Now dear, we want a look of resignation. OK. Draw the
end of the strap back through the loop so it doesn't hang
loose. Keep that look of resignation. Excellent! Hold.
Got it! Now cross your arms at the wrists again and turn
toward me. Head down, eyes toward me. Shame, dear, they
want to see shame and humiliation. Hold. Very good.
Relax."
"Don't let this go to your head, dear, but you are doing
very well. If you continue, you may win some additional
reward. You please me greatly just now."
I stepped off the chair and looked through the contents of
my bag. I retrieved the remote control to the stimulators
locked in place on her body. I went back to the chair and
pointed the her way. "Now dear, look up here." I
revealed the control to her and a look of surprise flashed
across her face and went immediately to fear. Then I
pressed a button, and the look was one of pleasure. I
snapped pictures of all three moods as they flashed by.
I allowed her to enjoy the stimulation for several minutes.
Perspiration was building on her brow, and she was showing
signs of building to orgasm. I let her go as long as I
dared, then stopped the stimulation. Her hands went
immediately to her crotch in search of the completion to
the orgasm. She looked up in fury, mad that I had cut the
stimulation off. I pressed another button and gave her an
electric shock up the ass. While I asked, "we're you about
to come, dear. You know better than to try that without
permission. What were you thinking?"
First, I saw shame for her having forgotten herself, then
something unexpected. She rushed the chair, surprising me.
As I stepped off the chair, she knelt on the hem of her slip
in front of it. She turned toward me, now at the side of
the chair, and put a pleading look on her face that was
simply precious. I shot a frame of both looks and climbed
back up on the chair and shot down on her with that pleading
look in her eye. The frame showed the chair, the toes of my
heels, and her head with the gag in place, kneeling and
begging in supplication.
"No begging, wench. You know better. Now stand up." I'd
snapped frames through all the changes of expression. I had
a lot of good frames. This photo essay was going to be
perfect. She stood up and went back to the head down, eyes
down posture and I shot her look of dejected resignation and
utter humiliation. I reloaded the with a new roll of
film.
"Want to redeem yourself, wench?" I waited for her look of
hope and got it in frame and on film. "Very well. I want
you to do all those girlish things you do for me just
before I get home. You know, brush out your hair, smooth
out your clothes, touch up your make-up, that sort of
thing. Understand?" She nodded affirmatively. "Good, get
going."
She started by heading to the bath where she blotted the
sweat from her face and neck and with a cold
compress. She applied make-up to clean up the smudges and
feathered it in with a cosmetic sponge. I shot all of it
with a 50mm f/1.4 lens now mounted. I was concentrating on
her face now. It really needed a normal lens. I'd mounted
the ring flash to the front of the lens to provide even
lighting. Next, she adjusted her stockings, straightening
and smoothing them and pulling them up her thigh.
Next she removed her nail kit and went to the counter in
the kitchenette. She filed and buffed her nails and cleaned
under them while standing at the counter. She pulled down a
small cereal bowl out of the cabinet over the sink and
poured some liquid in from a bottle. She added water from
the faucet and put the bowl on the counter. She put her
left hand in the water and with the right retrieved a
cuticle stick. She soaked and pushed back the cuticles on
each finger of her hands.
She buffed each of her nails again. She pulled out a nail
extension kit and applied, one by one, false nails to the
ends of each of her own. She trimmed and filed each of
these and buffed them to a high gloss. She held them out
to me and I snapped a frame of those lovely digits.
She put the orange wood cuticle stick back and poured out
the soaking solution, rinsing the bowl in the sink. She put
the nail extension kit back and retrieved a bottle of rouge
red polish from the nail kit. She reached back into the
kit with the other hand and pulled out a bottle of clear
polish. She applied a clear coat back to front and waited
several minutes for it to set before applying another coat
left to right across the nail. She waited about ten
minutes, this time, for the polish to harden. She buffed
each of the nails again, the degrees of polish much higher.
She held her hands out again and I shot them again.
Finally, she applied a coat of the rouge red, and waited
for it to dry. She retrieved the buffer again, buffing each
nail again. I thought her finished, but re-opening the
clear coat she lay on another coat and waited another ten
minutes. After, she buffed, and buffed, and buffed. The
whole process took the better part of an hour. The results
were remarkable.
She placed her hands side by side on the white counter and
let the sun shine off the polish into the lens. They were
actually, not figuratively, scintillating. "You do this
every day?" I asked, while shooting the hands. She motioned
at me with the symbol for paper and pen. I went to the
writing desk and brought back a pad and hotel pen. She
wrote, "Every Friday, before you come home."
"Why four coats?" I queried. She held out the bottle of
clear polish to me. I took it from her, and she came
around the counter and pointed at a section of the
directions. I had to hold the bottle up to read them.
There emblazoned were the directions specifying just that.
She wrote on the pad "first two coats strengthen the nail
and prevent color from staining. Last coat protects color
from chips."
"Strong?' I asked.
"Can't even bite through the polish," she wrote in answer.
"Want that I should do yours?"
"Yes, now!"
She went back around the counter to retrieve the bowl from
the sink. She gently soaked and pushed and pried and
cleaned my cuticles and nails. She buffed my nails and
applied the nail extensions, then trimmed them. She buffed
and polished and polished and buffed. She pulled three
bottles of color coats from her kit and set them in front
of me. There was the rouge red, of course, and a dark
burgundy, but the one I picked was a deep, metallic,
purple. I thought once it dried, she would go right to the
clear coat. She surprised me by pulling out a bottle of
white polish. "What's this for?" I asked.
She wrote back to me, "French?"
"OK," I returned.
She reached into the kit again and came back with a nail
mask. Using it she applied a coat of white to the tips of
each nail. It dried and she buffed out the color coat,
giving it a polished sheen. She applied the topcoat and we
waited for it to dry. I started, "Thank you, dear. I
never would have thought you so 'polished' at this side of
presentation."
"You're welcome, mistress," She wrote back, "I like to
please you."
"You've done well. I appreciate it very much, but we've
used a lot of time and need to get back to business."
"Should I just continue?" she wrote.
"Yes," I replied.
She cleaned up the nail episode while I loaded a fresh roll
of VPS film. She went back to the bath where she put the
nail kit away. She pulled out an eyeliner pencil, then
eyeshadow, and touched up her mascara. She put all that
away and removed a hairbrush. She unclipped and removed
the barrette holding her hair back and shook her hair out
while I shot. She proceeded to brush out her hair
vigorously. Soon it looked shiny and long and perfect.
She spritzed it out of a squeeze bottle, presumably with a
holding spray.
She put the cosmetics and beauty aids away, closing up the
case. Thus prepared, she stepped out of the bath and held
out her hands palms up, as if to say, "what next?"
"Let's finish dressing you, dear. I want to photograph some
of those more interesting positions I bind you in. These
might be considered instructive or illustrative."
She proceeded to the closet and returned with her dress.
It was cream colored with a large green leaf and vine
pattern, a fitted bodice and straight skirt, though it was
a little fuller than the usual straight skirt. I took my
position on the chair as she unbuttoned the back and stepped
through. I shot the action as it proceeded. She folded her
slip through the opening in the back of the dress. She
fitted the bodice, her arms through the cap sleeves.
She turned to her right to obliquely show herself buttoning
the back. Smoothed it down the back then turned toward me
and smoothed it down the front. Over the circle skirt full
slip underneath it spread and filled out perfectly as if she
wore crinolines.
She walked back to the mirror mounted on the closet door.
I stepped down to follow. I stepped up to watch as she
checked herself in the mirror. I framed the to
cover from the knee to the top of her head. She posed for
me in the mirror, looking at the reflected there and
showing herself to advantage. She turned left then right
looking for exposed slip. She turned around and looked
over her shoulders for the same, then traced her fingers
down the back buttons to be sure she hadn't missed any.
She threw her hair back. I photographed it all. It was a
singularly feminine display, which I was sure would come
out in the photos. I was beginning to think that the threat
of a modeling career wasn't really much of a threat after
all. She seemed to be enjoying herself, playing up to the
camera.
I enjoyed her this afternoon. She seemed determined to
please. Not just me, but the camera, too. Maybe it was
just the way the elements came together, but I was sure
that these pictures could grace the pages of any womens or
fashion magazine were it not for the element of bondage.
She went back to the bath where I followed. She reached
into her cosmetics kit and removed a small tray of jewelry.
From it she plucked two screw back earrings designed to look
like lever backs. Two bangles in silver which she put on
her right wrist. Finally, she put on an 18" wire choker.
From it hung a large pendent with a dark green gem that
matched the dress perfectly. I shot the frames of her
putting on the jewelry. She returned the tray to the
cosmetics kit and turned to me.
The bath was equipped with one of those three-way mirrors
that let you see the sides, as well as the front, all at
once. She was turned away from it now and at my angle I
could see her from the front and the back and the sides all
at once. "Step back to the counter and cross your arms at
the wrists, dear." She complied and I framed and shot
twice.
We stepped out of the bath and when I'd reached the counter
in the kitchenette I turned to her saying, "I'm hungry,
dear. There are eggs, cheese and vegetables in the fridge.
Would you whip up an omelet for me?"
She'd done this many times. It was our usual Sunday evening
meal. She went to the kitchenette and from the cupboard
reached down a non-stick fry pan and a bowl to whip the
eggs. From another cupboard she pulled out a plastic
cutting board and a knife to mince the cheese and veggies.
She opened the fridge and removed the three eggs in the bowl
and the small allotment of filling. She turned back to the
counter and gave me a quick look to query why she wasn't
eating.
"I didn't bring the keys to anything but the chastity belt.
I can't release the gag to let you eat," I said.
She shrugged her shoulders and went to work mincing the
onions and peppers, and cutting the tomatoes into slices.
When done she cracked the eggs and whipped them with a
little water while preheating the fry pan on the stove.
Meals and clean up are her chore. Over time she'd learned
and started showing efficiency in the process. I was
pleased to see it. Meals, of course, have traditionally
been the woman's province in a relationship. Since I
wanted her to act the part of a woman I shifted the job to
her. Since she's in service to me, it didn't matter that
she didn't eat with me. I'd made it a rule early on that
unless by special invitation she wouldn't be dinning with
me anyway. It's just that on previous occasions, when we
traveled together, we'd always eaten together.
Whipped to froth with a fork, she poured the eggs into the
pan with a sizzle. She turned down the heat and added the
veggies immediately. She watched the eggs settling and
cooking and at the appropriate time she added the cheese,
folding the omelet over. She waited a moment then flipped
the omelet over in the pan and turned the heat off. She
removed a plate from the cupboard and a fork from the drawer
and rinsed them in the sink. She dried them with a towel
and set them on the counter by the stove. She turned the
omelet again to check it's progress, then flipped it again
unsatisfied. While it finished she chopped the cilantro.
When finished she emptied the pan on the plate and added
the cilantro as garnish. She polished the fork with the
towel and placed it on the plate. She turned and held out
the plate to present it to me.
I snapped a picture. I'd been photographing the process
all along. Now I stopped to eat. The omelet tasted as
good as it looked. Presentation really is everything:
don't you think?
She had turned back to the sink and was water to
wash the dishes. As she was putting the pan in the water I
stopped long enough to get a couple of shots of her being
domestic. I sat back down and finished the meal. She
quickly removed and washed the plate and fork setting them
on a towel at the side of the sink with the pan, the
cutting board, and the knife.
"Well dear that was delicious. So sorry you couldn't share
the meal with me." She knew I'd planned it. She was bright
enough to keep it to herself though. She just kept her head
down.
I had gone through six rolls of film by this time. I was
loading the seventh as I said, "Time to continue with the
photoshoot; onto the bondage. We have no manner to suspend
you, so, the bondage needs be compression and immobilization
in nature." I rummaged through my bag again and pulled out
her leather hand restraints.
The hand restraints splayed the fingers out on a round
leather covered board. There was one for each hand and
there are several ways to bind the two together. "Why don't
we start with these, dear," I said, holding one out. She
took it from my hand. It happened to be the one for the
right hand. She inserted her hand under the leather cover
and splayed out her fingers to fill the spaces for each.
She fastened the wrist strap while I shot pictures of her
activity. She held it out to show me she secured that hand,
then held out the other for me to bind.
I closed the distance and refocused the lens so it would see
what we were doing. I held out the board so it was in
focus, she inserted her hand and splayed her fingers into
their individual finger restraints. I stepped closer by
about two inches and shot frames of myself threading the
strap and latching her wrist onto the board. I threaded the
strap through the rest of the buckle. She brought up her
other hand and showed both. Her polished nails could be
seen at the ends of the individual finger splays and I shot
another frame, close focusing on the nails themselves.
I walked back to my bag and removed two short leather
thongs. I used them to tie the two boards back to back so
as to place the palms at right angles to each other, left
over right. When finished, the result was she stood relaxed
with the left hand folded on the right, hands at her waist.
I took the opportunity to add to the excitement by sending
the vibrator amplitude up a notch, now that she couldn't
even reach for that part of her body.
Back at the bag I retrieved two more thongs, one short, one
long. The short I looped around the left elbow, the long I
looped around the right elbow, and used the excess to
connect the two. I wound the tether around a foot long
piece of closet rod and twisted, her elbows back and
together slowly. I finished the bondage stiffening it and
her posture. I shot the image for posterity. The
would show a change in demeanor and reflect the
rectification of her posture, now straighter. I shot again
as she cleared the hair from her eyes by tossing her head
and tilting it so she could see me; a most feminine pose,
and about all she could do without the use of her arms or
hands.
Bound, as she was, she now had no way to reach down to her
crotch or up to her breasts, her hands now truly
immobilized and crossed over her navel. I turned up the
anal stimulator and gave her a five-minute shot on the high
setting before backing it off to low. The sweat formed a
sheen on the exposed portion of her chest before it settled
in and became comfortable for her. She didn't 'get off' as
she brusquely put it on previous occasions, which was fine
with me. The point was to keep her wanting, not satisfying
the need. I made several shots of the activity.
The counter where I ate earlier has thirty-inch solid oak
bar stools, the variety without arms or a back to lean
against. I retrieved one and brought it to the center of
the room. I motioned for her to sit and she of course
complied, jumping up to do so. The stimulation increased
slightly as she was forced to sit upon the hard case of the
stimulator and she shifted a little on the chair to
accommodate it. I pulled out of the magic bag a long thong
that I doubled over and looped around her waist, centering
the knot in the small of her back. I pulled the ends under
the chair and tied them together around a leg. I had her
re-adjust her position so she was sitting forward on the
chair and tugging against the thong I just used.
I pulled out of the bag another equally long thong and
reached under her hems to lace the thong over the left
thigh and hip, around her back and under the previous thong
to the right hip and over the right thigh. I made even the
lengths on the ends of the thong and half-hitched a knot
across her stomach, leaving the ends hanging over the knee
loops and dangling between her knees.
I retrieved another long thong and a block of stiff closed
cell foam rubber. I positioned her ankles together and
placed the foam between to cushion the tension of the thong
that I now doubled around the ankles, half hitched, and
adjusted to first remove the slack and then tightened around
the outsides of her ankles, unifying them. It finished off
the knot by reversing the half hitch and creating a square
knot. I rolled the front hem of her skirts exposing the
heels, stockings, knee loops, garters and stays, the bottom
of her corset, and the top of her chastity belt. In the
picture, black and shiny, and set off perfectly by her white
stockings were the thongs and their ends.
I took the ends of the thong around the ankles and, pushing
the toes of her high-heels apart, drew the ends down
between. I found the ends underneath the heels and twisted
them a couple of times before pulling the ends around to
the outside of each foot and over the insteps. I then
crossed them over the insteps, them back underneath
and crossing them again, I swapped the ends hand to hand,
and pulled the ends behind the heels and crossed them yet
again, pulling them to the front. What excess there was I
wrapped around the ankles and finished by adjusting the
straps to remove the slack and finishing the ends in a neat
bow at the front.
I shot pictures of the job, centering the legs from ankles
to knees in the frame. She allowed her hems to fall as I
was framing another shot. I gave her a dirty look to say
"How did this happen?!," and let her know my displeasure.
She returned a sheepish, helpless, horrified look that
revealed her fear of having failed. "You'll pay later,
dear," I voiced out loud.
I retrieved a short thong and guided her legs up to the top
rungs just under the seat of the chair and hooked her heels
over the rungs on each side of the chair leg, raising her
knees above her hips. I used the short thong to secure the
ankles in place on the top rungs.
I grabbed the ends of the thong wrapped around her waist,
now draped over the knee loops, and pushed them down between
her thighs. I pulled the ends taut and passed them between
her calves. I worked the ends behind the bow at her ankles,
one end of the thong on each side of the bow, and threaded
them down between her feet. Tugging on the ends and pulling
them taut I firmly tied the ends behind the chair leg with a
square knot.
Bound as she was, she could now no longer slip off the
chair, nor could she step off the chair. Her genitalia were
now inaccessible to her and her derriere was firmly held to
the seat by the thongs. The anal plug buzzed away
unceasingly and was made all the more effective by the
unyielding posture and immobility she experienced. Soon
the strain on her lower back, caused by the inability to
adjust her posture and binding her knees above her hips,
would tell on her terribly. However, she hadn't yet noted
any discomfort. I continued with immobilization.
I tightened by twisting the bonds between her elbows. I
put enough tension on the thongs to draw the shoulders back
and assure no further movement of her elbows or her hands
now bound before her. I took time now to go back over all
the bonds and take up all slack allowed by the leather
thongs. The process to do so took an additional ten
minutes, but when I finished she couldn't budge an inch in
any direction.
I shot frames of all the bonds. I stepped back and shot a
frame displaying her untenable posture. She had yet to show
any sign of discomfort. I knew it would catch up with her
soon. I continued.
I retrieved and applied her discipline collar, lacing it
tightly to her neck and immobilizing her head. She now
looked naturally up at the juncture of wall and ceiling
which must have been rather monotonous over the time I
now left her. I went back to the chair where I stood
overlooking her and shot pictures of her helpless condition
from several angles, moving the chair as I went. Then I
waited. I waited about an hour before the pain started to
overtake her. I framed pictures of the concerned, then
pleading, then pained expressions coming to her face over
that period.
Finally, I brought out the box. I showed her the leather-
covered container about 18 inches high and twelve by twelve
in the other dimensions. She looked down her nose to see
it, and due to this had difficulty maintaining focus on the
box as I unlatched it. It hinged apart along the long axis
and from one corner to the other revealing the
burgundy interior flocking and the black leather, gold
trimmed, discipline helmet within. It took just a moment
for her to realize it was meant she wear it. The panic
revealed on her face didn't abate as I drew nearer,
positioning the device to better frame it and her look of
horror in the same photo. I snapped another frame.
The helmet was an evil looking device. It was shaped to
form fit the head but provided no eyeholes to look through.
Along the top was a golden pair of knobs that on first
inspection might be mistaken for insect-like compound
eyes. These were actually part of the re-breathing
apparatus contained within. It would scare anyone. It
certainly frightened her. Helpless as she was all she
could do was look, and look she did. The closer I got the
wider her eyes became. Unable to move her head she turned
her eyes locking on it, unable to look away. The tension
emanating from her was palpable, thick, and frightened. I
set the mask in her lap and standing before her framed the
shot of her looking down her nose trying to keep it in
sight. Satisfied I set the down and went back to the
closet to retrieve the gas with which I would soon flood the
helmet. I wheeled the gas up to the chair behind her.
At this point it was late afternoon in May and the trees at
this northern New England ski lodge were budded and growing
and the first fragrant blossoms were wafting their scent
through the windows. It would darken soon even though we
were in daylight savings time and I thought I'd let her
enjoy the twilight. Try as I might she just wouldn't take
her eyes away from the helmet now barely within sight. She
shimmied and twisted this way and that, but try as she might
she was unable to shake it out of her lap to the floor.
Quietly I clamped a mount to the back of the chair I
stood in earlier and attached the Contax. I set up the
framing to include the two of us when I went back to clap
that helmet around her head. I connected the remote shutter
release and mounted the flash to the hot shoe. I brought it
closer to more fully fill the frame and stopped.
I stopped to savor the moment. When she realized I ceased
my activity she stole a sideways glance in my direction then
turned back to the helmet. She mewled incoherently her
opposition to the helmet and I watched her continue to
struggle against her bonds to push it off her lap. It was
all to no avail; which is why I'd put it in her lap in the
first place. I watched her continue her struggles while
listening to her muted cries and the sounds of activity
outside.
It was a perfect Sunday afternoon as far as I was concerned.
It was now blissfully quiet save for natural sounds of
breezes, birds, the river cascading down the slope in front
of the window, and the soft, stifled, frightened cries
emanating from the warm feminine form before me. She,
struggling against inescapable bonds and feeling tormented
by what I would do next. The anguish on that face was
precious. The more she struggled the deeper that anal plug
set within her and the more stimulated she became. She was
now quite flush with the effort and it promised to remain as
she struggled unceasingly. It was effect to perfection and
all I needed do was watch. Perfect! Perfect! Perfect!
Even if she wouldn't, I watched the sun set. As the sun
went over the ridge before us I watched the light change
from white to orange to red, the clouds turn all magenta
and caramel, and finally go dark.
After some minutes, waiting till I heard nothing but the
breeze and her whimpers, I went to the desk lamp and turned
it on. The warm orange glow illuminated the sheen of
perspiration upon her chest and breasts. She had been
working herself up pretty well and it now shone through
quite obviously. I turned up the churn a little by
increasing the intensity of the vibrator now most firmly
seated within her. When this registered with her equally
churned thoughts I saw the grimaced features of her face
behind her gag and I saw her eyes.
There was nothing to be gained by making her wait now. I
walked over and lifted the helmet from her lap and
positioned myself between her and the moving left
slightly so to show her in frame. I cracked open the helmet
and held it out to my right side to show the the
interior and silhouette the device for her. When she
displayed the mood I wanted I pressed the shutter release
on the remote control in my left hand. I saw the fill flash
and knew it was going OK!
Still holding it out to my right I repositioned my hands
holding each half in one hand. I turned it round and
approached holding it up. I snapped another picture. I
held it up to her head and let her see in. I snapped
another picture. Finally I clapped it around her head,
adjusting her hair to fit within. The edges sealed with
closed cell foam along the and along the neck around
her collar, and latches at the top and back made sure it
stayed sealed. I waited a moment or so and brought the tube
from the gas around to the petcock under her nose. Turning
the knob at the top of the tank I charged the equipment with
the hose, but didn't yet feed the gas inside.
The rebreather is a unique device. It electrochemically
clears the carbon from the interior. The oxygen within was
trapped there and no oxygen would come past the seals of
the helmet from the outside. For it to work though, the
interior needs to be pressurized to about two atmospheres.
Because I hadn't yet charged the interior with the gas, she
was slowly using up the oxygen within. Within moments of
the panic reaction I turned the valve on the petcock
charging the system within. She no longer breathed air.
Her panic receded as the system began its work and the
oxygen was freed as the carbon was extracted. She breathed
deeply to extract as much oxygen from the mixture of gases
within. Because the system was pressurized the gas was
absorbed into her body quickly.
The gas, a combination of derivative drugs from the
Riluzole(r), Respiradone(r) family, and Cyclobenzaprine
Hydrochloride, I chose for it's mood elevation qualities
and a very important side effect. Because the system was
closed, extracting only the Carbon from the Carbon Dioxide,
she couldn't expel the gas through respiration. The gas was
recirculated until absorbed. The helmet was constantly
pressurized at two atmospheres by the gas supply, thus
renewing what may be lost through leakage past seals and
osmotic losses through the leather of the helmet.
Internally a lipstick was mounted in such a way
that if a proper monitor is attached one may see the
eyes of the person within the helmet. I went back to the
box and removed the Sony(r) Digital 8(r) recorder and a
Firewire(r) feed cable. Attaching the feed cable between
the recorder and the Firewire(r) port located behind the
left ear of the helmet, I turned on the recorder and the
infrared within came to life on the LCD view-screen.
I recorded about a minute's worth of those eyes transiting
from panic to relaxation to pleasant acceptance. Turning
off I monitored the screen for the first signs of
side effects. It took some minutes. Eventually the signs
came about and I knew I had her hooked. Her eyes started
blinking as much from the pressurized atmosphere as from
the building feelings within her. Eventually her eyes
closed momentarily from the intense sense of euphoric well
being, then blinked open, then closed again as the sexual
sensations budded much as the leaves on the trees in the
dark outside had done so recently. I began again.
As I recorded this slow buildup to her total sexual
frustration I contemplated the idea that this was to be as
close as I could bring her to actually knowing the sexual
experience as a woman. The initial sense of wellbeing
generated by touch was roughly analogous to the first
introduction of the gas into the helmet. The subsequent
sense of the loss of control as one yields to the sensation;
the initial spark of sexual tension in the loins and
breasts, for the gas excites them as well. She'd soon
experience the buildup of intensity.
However, as close to the edge of orgasm as she gets she'll
not know release until I manipulate the bonds to allow it.
She'll not manage of her own volition, for while the drugs
enhance her desire for release, they also depress her
ability to achieve it without my assistance.
Her leaf of sexual need unfolded and grew. It grew until
it devoured what was left of her sensibility. Soon her
need outgrew the level of stimulation she received. As
she reached this point she ground her hips down onto the
round seat attempting to increase the available stimulation
from the ever-vibrating anal plug. I obliged her by setting
it vibrating at highest amplitude. This only served to
increase her desire and intensify the grinding of her hips.
To watch her eyes as this occurred was fascinating. They
openly flashed her desire for gratification, her intensity
while gyrating her hips, her frustration at gratification
continuously denied, and the inability to communicate her
needs until finally, the "piece de resistance," her
fluttering eyes just before they rolled into the top of
her head distinguishing her faint. I'd hold her until the
monitor showed her coming to consciousness just so she
didn't tip herself and the chair over. Though her bonds
were probably enough to do the chore, as always it's safety
first!
I let this process continue and repeat, again and again,
until she reached the point where if it were to continue she
wouldn't respond even if I manipulated what she had between
her legs. This last time, as the build up of sexual
tensions was just short of peak, I lifted her hems and
attached the inflation bulb. The bulb was a simple
pneumatic shutter release from my bag of tricks. The hose
was two meters long - long enough to drop her hems again and
still have access to the bulb.
It was then simply a matter of watching her eyes on the
monitor. Just as she was starting to flutter her eyes again
I inflated the bladder within the tube, driving the pins at
the head of the bladder into her most sensitive bit of
sexual sense organ. To watch the spasm was delicious.
I held her through her faint. The struggle returning to
consciousness was much harder fought this last time. I
knew she would be hard pressed to endure the build up yet
again. She must rest a little. I released the air from the
pin-driving bladder. Using the remote I reduced the
intensity of the omnipresent anal plug.
After all the excitement I was feeling quite amorous
myself. Thinking my now weeping love canal could do with
a proper tongue bath, and realizing my most sensitive bit
of sexual sense organ could do with an agreeable tongue
lashing, I retrieved the other barstool and set it before
her. I released the elbow straps just a little, then
released the hand restraints from each other binding them
together behind her back. I tightened the elbow restraints
drawing the elbows very close. With the excess thong I
bound her wrists to her elbows putting a permanent bend
in them. I released the thong binding her down to the
chair in the back, and without unwrapping it from her waist
used it to secure her hands in the small of her back. This
had the pleasant effect of arching her back, pushing those
melon-mound out precipitously. I framed and shot
another after releasing my equipment from the
mount on the back of the chair across the room.
Setting the down on the desk I returned to her and
set about releasing her ankles. I unlashed the long thong
holding her to the chair. I untied the thong anchoring her
ankles to the chair leg. Pulling up mightily on her knee
loops I released her heels from the chair rungs and allowed
her feet to touch the floor. I massaged her calves for
twenty minutes to stave off the inevitable cramps that
would come from the lactates building in her blood from
all the exertion of the past few hours. The look on the
monitor was one of pained relief. Her hip joints would
ache terribly now though the ache would dull they would
continue to ache for several hours. I loosed and pulled
the long thong about her waist and retied it about her waist
on the outside. I turned the valve on the gas tank closing
it and closed the petcock trapping whatever was left of the
gas within the helmet. I removed the hose between the two,
coiling it and draping it over the valve on the tank.
I turned the petcock just slightly to start the minute long
release of pressure that, if I were lucky, would prevent her
ears from popping within the helmet. I watched the clock
and turned the petcock full open after a minute passed. I
snapped the latches and cracked the helmet open. I drew the
helmet away from her head just slightly to allow her eyes to
adjust to the light. Then pulled the helmet away to have a
look at her.
Her mascara ran. Beads of perspiration collected on her
furrowed brow. Her hair was damp and matted as she tried
to shake it out. She blinked for the first minute. She
then closed her eyes and put a dreamy look on her face that
screamed "Ahhhhhhh!" When those eyes opened again to focus
on me the look of gratitude on her face overcame me. I shed
a tear with her.
After the mutual catharsis I asked, "Can you stand, dear."
To hear my own voice took us both by surprise after the long
hours of silence on my part. She stood and very nearly
collapsed. I held her for a moment until she got her land
legs back under her. She stood directly against one of the
legs of the chair before her so I took the opportunity to
lash her ankles to it. I drew the long thong away from her
waist and pulled it over the top of the chair to wrap it
around the leg diagonally opposite. I passed it underneath,
back to the leg to which her ankles were bound. There I
pulled up a bunch of slack and tied it forcing her into a
semi-bend from the hip.
Returning to my bag of tricks I extracted a short length of
closet dowel. Wrapping the thong around it I turned,
twisting the thong about itself and her cinched
stomach toward the top of chair. Due to the bonds the
muscles along the back of her legs were now stretched tight
as the muscles of her back strained to hold her body above
the hip horizontal. The result was a well-dressed woman
standing on her toes with her ass sticking up, her torso
hovering over the seat of the chair to which she was bound.
I wound the dowel and thong around the chair leg tying it,
and her, off. Immobile. Unmoving.
I moved to the glass before us and threw full open the
sliding glass door chilling the room. I turned up the
amplitude of the anal plug.
I pulled around the now vacant bar stool, the one to which
she was bound most of the evening, positioning its edge
under her nose.
I turned away to the house phone and punched seven for
the concierge. When he came on the line I spoke, "It's time.
How long?"
"Five minutes to your door. Half-hour to the photo-
finisher. Hour, hour and a quarter there. Half-hour back.
Five minutes to your door. About two and a half-hours
total. OK?" he asked.
"Very good" I replied.
"I get copies? She gets copies?" He asked.
"She?" I queried.
"The photo-finisher," he stated flatly.
"You handle the transaction yourself?" I asked.
"Short of the actual development, I handle it all front to
back. No other parties involved. Satisfactory?"
"My cost?"
His reply, "If we're satisfied with what develops,
nothing!"
"Excellent!" I state. "If you're not?"
"No more than the cost of development for your set. $13.00
per roll." he said.
"Done," I said.
"Be right up," he said.
I gathered six of the eight rolls and deposited them into an
unused plastic bag from the trash bin. After adjusting her
hair I stepped back from my tortured subject and shot frames
from the front, the side, and from underneath. She of
course posed as required. She could do little else. This
finished this roll of thirty-six exposures. I rewound,
removed, and added the roll to the bag-full I'd collected
when I heard the knock on the door. Leaving her where she
was I walked out to the door, gathering up the bag on the
way, and opening the door and stepping out gave over the
seven rolls into the hands of the concierge.
I left the door partially open so he peeked in at her, as
I just knew he would, looking over my left shoulder into
the room through the four-inch crack between the door and
jamb. The reaction to the view was the wry smile I
expected. I plastered on a menacing smile meant to say,
"Welcome to my lair. Are you sure you want to come in?"
He just smiled back and turned away, leaving to complete
his chore. I watched him run down the hall to the elevator,
press the call button, then climb in when the bell chimed,
with that same menacing smile plastered on my face lest he
look back.
(Continued)
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* *
* Implied *
* Subjection, but requir'd with gentle sway, *
* And by her yielded, by him best receiv'd, -- *
* Yielded with coy submission, modest pride, *
* And sweet, reluctant, amorous delay. *
* *
* Milton's Paradise Lost, book iv, Line 307. *
* *
* Something to say from the submissive's point of view? *
* Hard to find the "right" words? Want it in a story? *
* Tell me about it by mail at caitmccarren@yahoo.com. *
* *
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