Selfie (a.k.a. Rogue Tie)
You are always so good at making lists, Becca!
This is a compliment I hear a lot from colleagues and friends alike. Always meant sincere, it does have a backhanded element to it. It labels me organised, bureaucratic, predictable. Rebecca, the Excel Queen. Rebecca, mind you. Not Bec or Beckie. Not Becca, either. But people are so quick with shortening my name. Just as quick as with making list-related compliments.
A list, then – old-fashioned with pen and paper, in my girly handwriting:
- Restrains, 3 pairs (handcuffs, elbow cuffs, hobbles)
- Latex hood
- Ball gag
- Posture collar
- Nipple clamps
I was giggling at the last item, even more so as I specified the entry:
- Nipple clamps (the nasty ones, chickenshit!)
- Latex opera gloves
- Chastity chain
- Butt plug
Now I was blushing. Grow up, Rebecca! I hesitated at the final point I had in mind, not so much out of prudery but out of my sense for practicability. I jotted it down nonetheless:
- Ballet boots, lockable
Self-bondage is something I has been experimenting with for the last half year or so, and something that allows me to break my own stereotypical behaviour patterns. Freeing me, if you will. When I am tied up, nobody expects me to organise birthday parties or to have the monthly balance ready by four – actually, we need the numbers by three, Beckie. And some coffee would be nice, too.
Now the next big step in my pervy hobby was neigh. The long weekend. Come Friday evening my company, at least the part I slaved at, would be literally deserted until next Tuesday. Ideal circumstances to expand my operation area. Never before I had laid myself in iron outside the sanctuary of my own flat. This was bound to be a most intense experience. My first ever rogue tie.
By Thursday I had the list neatly ticked off. The packed gym bag was waiting ready next to my chest of drawers. The one with the evil drawers. Somewhere a girl has to store her smut.
The last hours before the bank holiday weekend were nothing short of white torture. The combination of excitement and time dragging on doesn’t leave marks, but even a masochist like my humble self can suffer unduly. My watch showed 16:11. Half an hour later it was 16:12.
By running perfectly flawless numbers again, loading the photocopying machine to the brim and sorting my paper clips, I willed the magic 17:00 to happen. I’m normally not the person who drops everything on the stroke of five. But today I grabbed my stuff not one second later and, wishing a nice weekend to my fellow thralls without even looking back, stormed out.
Freedom! And better still, in three hours’ time: Captivity!
A light supper was followed by a refreshing shower, and again I was counting the minutes. At a quarter to seven I couldn’t take it anymore and left my flat, gym bag in hand (I had once more double-checked its content, of course – an activity that hadn’t done any good to my heat level). To the casual bystander I was just a lass on her way to her workout. Running shoes, yoga pants, tank top over a training bra. Two water bottles in the extra bottle pockets of the bag. None of the items were meant to deceive, though. The clothes I would be able to loose quickly. More importantly, they would be easy to put back on again – after a serious bondage session my body tends to be a bit sore. It also tends to be a bit dehydrated due to the loss of various fluids. You know what I mean.
My office complex is located in a corner of the Digital Apex premises. For the sake of corporal identity it shares the same architectural style of glass, adonised aluminium and polished concrete with the important buildings. But we are a bit more every day. Just like the development headquarters we have got a reception desk (normally with Smiling Molly behind it), but to reach ours a visitor don’t need to cross a foyer the size of Greenland. We, too, have an illuminated DA logo in the entrance area, but ours is one metre tall and wall mounted, whereas Development greet their guests with a rotating three-dimensional letter sculpture outweighing a Mini Cooper, yet seemingly floating in mid-air. The company’s higher echelons don’t even know we existed, let alone set foot into our cosy near-cubical six storey cottage.
The car park was empty, as even the most notorious workaholics had dissipated by now. Some orientation lights in the staircases was all that shone through the glass façade. Just what I had hoped for. From the boot of my (t)rusty rice burner I took the gym back, locked the car and waited for second thoughts to arrive.
Nope, nothing. Operation TieUpRebecca was a go!
It was only in front of the large glass doors that I asked myself why I had carried the heavy bag all across the car park. I could have parked literally anywhere, namely closer to the entrance. But of course I had stowed my conveyance on the exact same designated spot I left it on every morning for the past two years.
I rolled my eyes at myself.
We aren’t sporting the security overkill of Development or Production. A handful of internal sluices in sensible areas, some CCTV around the archives on fourth and fifth floor. Sometimes security blokes drive by in their self-important 4x4s. All you need to open the entrance door is a swipe card with your mug printed on it. I loathe the picture on mine. It has been taken on my second day, when I was battling a sudden attack of the flu with a bit too many Ibus. I looked baked out of my mind.
I knew my opening the electronic lock would be duly documented, and that there were cameras eyeing the foyer’s entrance area. But even if somebody could be bothered to check on the recordings – so what? I was allowed to be here. The situation would turn a bit trickier if I actually ran into somebody. Forward-thinking as I am I’d left my notebook in my desk. If asked, I would have a plausible explanation for my return at hand.
Reaching the reception, I placed a small box with jangling content on the desk top behind the futuristic front panel. It was a cheap strongbox one might use to stow money in at garage sales or flea markets. Yet I could not pry its lid open, and its key was not to stay in my possession. As I walked away I couldn’t help myself but take a look over my shoulder to check whether the box was still there.
The lift was across the foyer, to the left. I called the cabin, and as the door slid open, I blocked it with a chair from the waiting area. I had done the same to the second lift in the rear part of the building, past the reception and some non-descript storage rooms, utilising a large potted plastic plant.
I took the stairs, sticking my head into each storey to listen to any sound. There was none, safe for the faint swoosh of the ventilation. The third floor was mine, both in that it was here where I push my zeroes and ones day in, day out, and in that it would be the starting venue for tonight’s kinky activities. Crossing the open office space, I fetched my notebook and stuffed it in a side pocket of my bag. I didn’t look like I would need my back-up plan, but it was good to have one all the same.
Already in the early phase of my planning I had decided upon the exact spot of my changing. Down the corridor with its anthracite carped I marched, past the copier niche and the conveniences. Past Conference Room C and Conference Room B. Which led me consequently to the gates of Conference Room A, a.k.a. Main Conference Room, where I am regularly subjected to the ancient capital punishment of Death by Meeting.
There is quite a number of elements in my job at DA I am rather fond of. Wasting hour upon end in utterly inconclusive meetings isn’t one of them. The room offered a nice view both to the north and to the west – which of course was blocked out during work, so everybody could see the ultra-important pie charts thrown at the far wall. My gym bag found its place at the head of the long table. I did not need to switch on the lamps, the room was dipped in moonlight. The silver rays created a surreal otherworldliness, the perfect ambience for my endeavour. I took my tank top off.
Still no second thoughts.
A minute later my clothes were neatly stored in one of the chairs, strongbox key put on top. Standing here in the buff, cold moonlight on my skin, gave me my first wave of weak knees. Running through the complex at night with a gym bag full of “not safe for work” stuff had been but shady. Now I was doing something forbidden, something punishable. And I wasn’t planning on stopping just now. From the bag I pulled my BDSM paraphernalia, lining them up on the table to a piquant array. After a quick draught of water I was readied both physically and mentally. First item to be donned was the latex opera gloves. Thrilling due to their material rather than to their ability to restrain, I incorporated them into every session. I relished the feeling of my rubberised hands on myself, the promising material between my fingertips and the parts of my body they were visiting. With their insides already lightly sprinkled with talcum, I quickly rolled them up past my elbows. For a moment I allowed myself to be carried away from the reflexions in their perfectly polished surfaces. Continuing the latex theme, the discipline hood came next. If it really was a discipline hood, it was a merciful one – as long as you weren’t claustrophobic. It had openings for the eyes, mouth and nostrils as well as for the hair near the crown of the head. Most importantly, it had an opening for the neck, yet descriptions routinely disregarded that one. There’s no shame in being precise. I had to fiddle about to thread my pony tail through the corresponding hole, but other than that the hood went on easily and was snug in due time. The cool material quickly heated up on my skin. I knew I was blushing beneath it. I also knew I was becoming alarmingly aroused.
The next pieces in line weren’t exactly helpful in that matter, either. High heels as sexual signals are commonly believed to aim at men first and foremost. But when the heels in question are twenty centimetres high and force the wearer’s helpless feet into a severe en pointe position, a girl can get weak knees, too. The ballet boots were evil; knee-high, demanding and unforgiving, they had me landed on my bum or nose more than once. Over the last few months I had taught myself to manage them, and I could walk quite steadily in them by now. Not as good as the fetish models on the interweb, but I didn’t need a wall within reach anymore. The limiting factor was my calves and insteps. Despite my training they would eventually cramp up, and severely so. Twenty minutes tops.
Sitting on the desk, stress-positioned feet resting on one of the chairs, I indulged in the tedious task of lacing the boots. They had no zippers, not even hooks for the last parts. These boots were eyelets all the way up. Being a leading BDSM supplier, their makers knew how to make their customers suffer. Centimetre by centimetre, grommet by grommet I worked my way up. The patent leather owned a certain stiffness by itself, but the strong lacing made it even more rigid. More restrictive.
Was this but a gratuitous moonlit dressing scene? It was gratuitous for me, to be sure. It was also a ritual, a highly stylised transformation. During daytime I might be a medium-easily exploitable accountancy lass, but by night I was Bondage Girl – if I ever got those bloody laces up…!
Finally! I finished each boot with a neat bow, only to cover it with a broad leather flap, which in turn was secured by two small padlocks, one above the other. Hearing them click shut sent another unladylike wave of heat through my body. I was now unable to undo the laces and take the boots off. Not having the keys around, I was trapped in my cruel footwear.
I reminded myself to drink again, even if that meant risking an uncomfortable urge to urinate. I had not embraced the erotic aspects of bladder control yet, but that was on my list – I know, lists. On the table my favourite item was waiting, the huge red ball gag that would make me drool uncontrollably in no time. Hydrating before stuffing my mouth with it was strongly recommended. I worked my jaw in preparation, limbering up muscles and tendons. I have a small mouth, and Big Red was on the mean side of two inches in diameter (size queen!). To say I love or like being gagged as such may be beside the truth. Being gagged is nasty, debasing, and more often than not painful. What I can’t get enough of is enduring these hardships, giving myself up together with my human ability to speak. One can’t endure what they already love, for enduring always demands the presence of suffering.
Wow, great chain of thought. I’ve got to write that down…!
It took a bit of work to jam the silicon sphere past my teeth. Instantly a slight ache in my muscles and joints introduced itself, of which I knew would increase over time to a very unsexy level. I would be able to tolerate the gag longer than the boots, though. A smaller version I had worn for over three hours. It was a most visited phantasy of mine being gagged indefinitely, tormented and humiliated by instruments of oral discipline. Sometimes it was “only” Big Red, then again obscene spider gags, spiked steel balls or mediæval branks. Now and then they took on phallic forms or characteristics of vicious horse bits.
Wedged behind my teeth and putting considerable pressure on my tongue and palate, the ball gag was already doing its job even before I buckled the head harness. Harnesses are a must-have. A girl isn’t properly gagged without an unyielding set of leather straps encircling her head. I had too many useless gags I could work out of my mouth with my tongue or jaw movement. Very disappointing when you are in otherwise perfect bondage. One could argue I just should stop trying to push the gag out – but what would be the point of that? I want to be gagged without escape. Not pretending to be. I felt the first tickles of saliva gathering in the corners of my mouth.
Tilting my head I buckled the various straps. I had customised the broad one running from my forehead across the crown of my head. It was now interrupted by an additional ring for my ponytail. The harnessing was an iterative process. Buckles I had already closed I opened anew, because slack appeared once I had worked some other belt. Tightening the main strap across my cheeks pulled the gag even deeper in my mouth, and the chin strap sealed the deal by forcing my jaw against the ball. I always felt a little silly stuffing a silicone thingy into my mouth, but that passed the moment I saw myself in all my bound glory. It was too dark in the conference room to have a mirror image in the glass walls, but I knew it looked great, especially in combination with the glossy latex hood. Three more padlocks clicked, pushing the level of head restrains towards bondage overkill.
After having securely gagged myself, things became even raunchier in form of the chastity chain. As the term indicated quite subtly, this device would prevent me from touching myself inappropriately. Once tied up I wouldn’t be able to do that anyway but besides the thrill of its sole presence there was another catch to it: Getting out of it again would be far more challenging than it would be the case with the rest of my bondage.
I picked the already untangled contraption. It was heavy, of menacing yet downright intriguing design. A belt made of black leather with plenty of D-rings along its circumference. It provided anchorage for the actual chain that defended my honour by running through between my legs. The chain was of the same kind used for bicycles, if in a smoothly polished finish. With surprising easiness it followed the anatomic curves of my pus―… pudenda. But in direction of its pins it was unyieldingly rigid and could neither be bent away nor flipped over, denying me any chance of getting it out of position.
I was wondering whether there was a version using a chainsaw chain?
Naturally, the chain also nestled itself between my buttocks, were it took over a second, more sinister function. Leaving the metal thong dangle for the time being, I took the slim butt plug off the table, weighting it gingerly in my hand. People often describe me as “anal”, yet I never had the dark pleasures of sodomy bestowed upon me (dodged that bullet so far). I also have mixed feelings about plugs. They have a very strong impact on me, psychologically more than physically. This night I would subject myself to their intrusive caressing once again – when not pushing my boundaries now, then when?
My plug of choice was rather benign; seven centimetres of effective length, with a diameter of three centimetres at its widest, and of classic tapered form. I wasn’t too shy on the lubricant, too. Yet I couldn’t help but gasp into the mouth-filling gag as the thickest part slid past my sphincter. The wicked toy, all cold and invasive, lodged itself deeper still. The ring of muscles closed around the slim stem in protest, and my body kept the source of its own debasement trapped within it.
After a few deep breaths to become accustomed to the weird sensation of being filled, I put on the chastity device. To the base of my anal invader I had fitted a screw eye, through which I was now fumbling the chain before connecting it to the back of the belt. I don’t have to mention that both belt and chain were to be locked, too, and separately so. I do it nevertheless, so you can keep track of the number of keys needed for my rescue.
The moonlight faded for some moments as a cloud travelled by lazily. Forecast had predicted no rain for the long weekend, yet only underwhelming temperatures. So my recreational activities would mainly involve my couch. But who knew what urges this night would trigger in me.
Although barely putting any weight on them, my feet were starting to ache in the ballet boots. Better to continue with the task at hand. Time to surrender myself to the questionable mercy of my nipple clamps. Being of the crocodile style and with distinctively narrow jaws, they ranked one step below true endurance clamps. Not so harsh their victim constantly had to uphold all willpower not to double over in anguish, but already with a rather high “take’em off!”-factor.
Welcome, second thoughts!
I had worn nipple clamps before, if only for a short time and models not this strong. And I had cheated by masturbating the edge away. With the pussy chain installed that wasn’t an option tonight. Until now I had always wimped out on wearing the nasty ones. There were non-adjustable, binary in their pain infliction. None or full throttle.
“C’mon, wuss!” I taunted myself. What passed the ball in my mouth was of course mumbling.
Before Rebecca even had a chance to overthink the whole concept of nipple torture even more, Bondage Girl grabbed the clamps and applied them. One left, one right, in quick succession. Again the gag came in handy, both in providing something to bite into, and to stifle my drawn-out groan. Half doubled over, I breathed through the initial pain rampaging in my poor nips. For being initial, it took its sweet-arse time to subside to a bearable level.
These bastards were intense, and no mistake!
One last insignia had remained on the conference table. A collar was arguably the ultimate symbol of submission. And the tall leather posture collar so dramatically draped in the pale moonlight promised a strictness wiping away any thoughts of resistance. It had cost me some bob, but was as beautifully crafted as it was confining. It did not constrict me to the point of choking, but let me feel with every filling of my lungs that the most basic attribute of life was controlled by an inanimate object. It would make breathing an active act. It would also massively interfere with swallowing, and I had to swallow often thanks to my drool-triggering gag, which in itself made swallowing quite strenuous. Two more locks snapped shut in the nape of my neck. With both the head harness and the posture collar installed, it was impossible for me to remove my hood.
Gingerly I let myself glide off the table, moaning with delightful pain as more and more weight came to rest on my ballet-booted feet. The first few steps were unusually awkward, and I stayed close to the table until the unsteadiness had vanished. Seemed I was a bit out of practice. Nonetheless I relished this little walk, and all its side effects; the demanding posture making me three hands taller, plug shifting in my bottom and nipple chain swinging gently.
I had intentionally put the cuffs and hobbles at the head of the table. I wanted to complete my bondage there, right in front of the single chair reserved for our Fearless Leader. More than anything else, even gaining sexual thrill, this night was about creating memories. Next time our head of department was monolouging the shit out of quarterly figures, I would remember standing on this exact spot, clad in serious fetish attire. And I would smile at the fact that he would never know. Neither would my esteemed colleague who always plays with his phone under the desk top during meetings. Nor that bloke from controlling that routinely dozes off. Nor my team leader who has stuffed himself so far up the HoD’s backside he has his mail forwarded there.
Logically the ankle fetters went on first. A forty centimetre hobble chain connected two broad leather cuffs, which were secured by a massive padlock each. I had voted against steel shackles, lest my beautiful boots be damaged by the unforgiving material. I hadn’t given in to such a concern regarding my latex gloves. Steel handcuffs it had to be, heavy-duty ones with exceptionally sturdy chain links. I prefer hinged or even rigid ones, but would be unable to unlock them, no matter how nimble my fingers. I also prefer having my hands secured with the palms facing outwards – again: same problem.
But before I would employ the handcuffs, my newest invention had its grand entrance. It is incredible, I daresay frightening, how helpless you are rendered with your elbows bound together. I am still working on an automatically tightening armbinder, with less than spectacular results so far. But my elbow cuffs work like a charm! A steel cuff snapped shut above each joint, calling for key number 14 and 15. Their long chains were running crosswise around my torso; the one from the left manacle around my right flank, diagonally across my belly, and to the left side of my waist. Its right counterpart did the journey the other way around. With a little bit of contorting, I was able to lock the chain ends to the belt of my chastity toy (key number 16 and 17). Although not physically tethered to each other, my elbows were drawn closely together by this nifty design. As an additional effect the rigging was putting more delicious stress on my crotch chain.
After this spark of ingenuity the handcuffing went down almost anti-climatic. I double-checked whether the key holes were pointing down so I would be able to put the key in later. Then I closed the cuffs around my wrists behind the back. The sound they were making, the no-nonsense clicks of the ratchets, sent another tingle up my spine. Their considerable weight on my wrists was creating a weird mix of helplessness and security. I stopped when they were snug, yet still not digging in my flesh. I had no way of double-locking the handcuffs, so I better avoided any clumsiness that would cause them to tighten more.
I was bound.
More stringent than ever before, and more at risk of being found out. I granted myself a minute of contemplation. Back straight, ankles together, head high (the posture collar wasn’t giving me any other options anyway). I dove into my various pains, letting the sensation of absolute obedience flow through me. Obedience to whom? To the act itself. To the elegance of bondage.
With a sigh from behind my gag I snapped out of it. I have a strong tendency to daydreaming when in chains. But this night I couldn’t just relish and wait until a time lock or a melting ice cube would grant me access to means of escape. I had to work for my freedom, although the sordid part of me just wanted to stay tied up. The box I had left on the reception desk contained the keys to my outfit and fetters. To reach it, I had to overcome three times two flights of stairs. Time as such wasn’t at the essence. The limiting factor would be the pain in my feet. If I miscalculated my stamina and endurance, I had to crawl the last bit. Not only would this be quite undignified, I was also eager to avoid having my nipples clamped for more than twenty minutes. Balancing in my evil boots I started my journey. The pain from the clamps had subsided to very present yet dull ache, but every move sent sharp lightnings through my nips. It was the cruel beauty of my plan that I had to endure those hard-core toys whilst I actively had to earn deliverance from them. As I strode out into the corridor, I imagined having the chain manipulated or even being led by it.
The hobble chain was severely limiting my range of motion, and with every step the heavy ring at the front of my collar was tapping against the leather like a door knocker. This would be the rhythm of my Walk of Bondage. I had already opted against a straight route down to the foyer, a decision I would surely come to regret when the cramps would set in. But roaming freely through the building was too titillating a prospect – except for the two top floors, where the archives and sever rooms were located. There be CCTV dragons!
I stopped at the copier niche, a naughty idea rekindled in my harnessed head. With my nose and a good deal of balancing I managed to open the lid. The copier machine presented itself as a high-end affair, capable of colour-copying, printing, scanning, faxing, folding, stapling and – wait for it – hole-punching. The glass for the documents to put onto was in a comfortable working height, in my case and thanks to the fierce heels at navel level. Again with the latex-covered tip of my nose I pressed the “idiot” button for a default copy, turned and quickly hopped on. Jumping in ballet boots isn’t easy at all, and I misjudged the momentum I hit the glass bed with. I landed square on the plug’s base, and with my nipple chain sent into a wild bouncing.
I shrieked out a single drawn-out vowel, which was ball-gag for “Shiiit!”.
If you have no idea how much it hurts to have your rectum internally punched, good for you. Sadly I couldn’t count myself to that group of enviable people anymore. My plug had transferred the impact straight up my intestines, basically fisting me with the aid of my body weight. At the same time my nips felt like being gashed open by the steel teeth.
The machine had taken my bottom-first assault amiss as well. After emitting a creaking noise it went haywire, spilling out copy after copy of my chastitied girlie parts. Though this had been my idea in the first place, it kinda sort of had escalated out of hand. I jumped off the device, only to land hard on my toes. I winced and hobbled around the copier. Using one of my murderous heels, I fished for the power cord whilst the floor around me became covered in A4-sized lewdness. The electric plug didn’t budge, and I was forced to really put my back into it. Eventually it flew out of the socket, sending me off-balance and into the niche’s wall. I got the wind knocked out of me quite neatly, and my trapped arms received some bruises, too. But at least I had stopped the photocopy rampage. Sheets had piled up all around the machine, a whole bundle was still sticking out of the output tray. The glass seemed not to be cracked, but was misaligned to its frame. I would deal with it once I had freed myself. In the worst case scenario I would have to call a technician on Tuesday. Getting up in ballet boots is quite the struggle. I manoeuvred myself into a kneeling position first, then wiggled up the wall until I was able to get one foot, then the other underneath me. With an indignant toss of my head, actually my whole upper body, I strode out of the niche.
Nobody puts Bondage Girl in a corner!
Since I had blocked the lifts at the ground floor, my descent could only be made by foot. The glass doors separating the working areas from the stairwell were no obstacles; they sported panic bars on the way down and out. Negotiating stairs in ballet-toed shoes was a horse of a different colour. Now I sagely sought the proximity to the wall, ready to let myself fall back on my bum at any sign of trouble. Better to allow the anal plug to have its way with me again than to risk a face-first impact whilst being restrained at wrists and elbows. First heel, then toe, I ballerina’d my way down the stairs.
Presumably triggered by the additional adrenalin rush from the copier incident, my level of “lady excitement” had gone through the ceiling by now. I couldn’t stop the nip clamps from tormenting me, the strictness of my neck and arm bondage was frustrating me wonderfully. To fight against my restrains in vain was a major part of the fun. So was denying myself of the final release for as long as possible. Something about the keys in the box I might not have clarified to the full extent: To release myself from all bonds eighteen keys were needed, but only sixteen were in it. The two opening the locks to my chastity belt were lying safe and sound on my bedside table.
On the landing leading to the second floor a character streak even more deviant than my need for tying myself up was kicking in. The storey basically has the same purpose as the one I work on, and therefore basically the same layout. The most significant differences are the absence of meeting rooms and the existence of an open kitchen corner, strategically placed at the three-way junction behind the IT office. We also have a cafeteria, accessible from the ground floor via a glass covered walkway, but that actually belongs to Marketing. Our Marketing blokes are a bit weird, though, most likely because they have only the two letters D and A to work with.
Upon reaching the kitchen area, I minced backwards against the refrigerator to open it with my cuffed hands. A wedge of light fell on the dark tiles as the fridge allowed a look at its content.
I knew it! I’d told that ginger Tanja several times to take her opened pot of yoghurt out before the long weekend! That’s so unhygienic!
I was chewing on the ball gag in irritation about this blatant breach of office kitchen etiquette, but became distracted the moment I glanced at the window front.
The light from fridge had turned the glass into a semi-mirror. The face looking out of it at me was of such alien beauty that my attention was entangled at once. It took me a moment to recognise myself in it. Of course I knew from logic that it was my own reflection, but it was dramatically far away from the every-day image in my looking glass. I had seen myself wearing the hood before, but that had been a test run. Without any further gear. And without polishing it first. Just as my gloves, my mask was now glossy to the point of gleaming. Lights not unlike lense flares were dancing on the smooth surface, rendering my features even more unrecognisable. The latex seemed to be molten onto me, crowned by the high pony tail. The deep red of the ball gag stood out in stark contrast, its straps harnessing a head held up proud by a tall posture collar. Bellow its black leather the bare form of my breasts curved, here and there sprinkled with drops of saliva. Further down the mirror effect faded, making the chain of the nipple clamps float in twilit air.
My almost narcissistic episode found an abrupt end as down below on the car park the dual cones of headlights emerged.
I hunkered down and pressed the refrigerator door shut with my torso. Slowly a silvery 4×4 came into view, rolling purposefully across the tarmac. The DA logos plus stylised knight’s shield on bonnet, front doors and spare wheel cover identified the vehicle as a security patrol car. It crossed the car park in a wide arc, only to come to a halt in front of my whip. For a moment nothing happened, then the bull-bar mounted auxiliary head lamps went on – an action that made me cower even closer to the fridge, even though there was no way for them to reach up to the second floor. Another moment later the 4×4’s driver’s door opened. Clad in the sort-of uniform of parka and baseball cap its sole occupant stepped out into the night, hell-bent to serve the public trust, protect the innocent, and uphold the law. To perform this honourable tasks, it was bestowed upon him no gun, no portable radio, no authority except to ban from the premises – and no handcuffs (hehehe).
The watchman scrutinised my car, beginning with the number plate, but the parking permit behind my windscreen eventually appeased him. He turned his attention to the building, presumably looking for any sign of the car’s owner. Had he seen the light from the fridge? Why was he staring at the windows of the second floor for so long, right where I was hiding? Of course I couldn’t tell where exactly he was looking at, but my heart was racing all the same. Finally Mr 4×4 moved, climbed back in his vehicle and drove off. Last thing I saw was the auxiliary lamps being switched off. I pressed a deep sigh past the ball in my mouth. An employee had left their car here and had driven off with co-workers for some drinks – simple explanation, 100% believable. Nothing to see here, constable. Carry on!
I straightened myself to get up, and immediately doubled over, howling into the gag. My nipples felt as if they were torn bloody. The wild pain caused by the teeth of the clamps made my eyes tear up. What had that been?! The posture collar did not allow me to look down to my breasts, so I had to rely on my other senses. Very carefully I bent my body backwards and felt tension building up in the nipple chain. Immediately I moved back into my original pose. Somehow I had managed to trap the chain in the fridge door! This was exactly one of those freak things that could only happen to me! I had tethered my bound and gagged self to the office kitchen. The fridge door was fully shut, its stainless steel front flush with the adjacent cabinet. The nipple chain had to be stuck beneath the seal. I tested my bondage in earnest, to no avail. I’m not known for doing half-arsed jobs.
Still dizzy from pain and disbelieve, I considered my options in a mental list (being aware of the irony):
- Yanking and hoping for the best. If the chain came loose from one or both nipples instead from the refrigerator, I could seriously injure myself.
- Carefully pulling. Better control, but prolonged pain.
- Waiting until I was rescued. Not really an option, even without the unnameable humiliation. The risk of injuries was immense, way higher even than in option a. More than three days severely gagged and in ballet boots would ruin my jaw and feet. Not to mention the effect of long term nipple clamping. But even before all this I would fall asleep and tilt over (see option a).
Option b it was. At least I could bite into something. I bent backwards again until all slack was gone from the chain, then further and further. Pain was powering up in my tormented nips, held captive so cruelly by the merciless crocodile clamps. I sunk my teeth into the ball gag and forced myself to keep up the tension. A weird sensation ran through the taut chain, a reluctant, rubbery giving in: the links were slowly pulled free from under the seal. I moved backwards some more to re-build the strain to the limit of my endurance. Alternatingly biting and squealing into my gag. For each new wave of pain I was rewarded with another incremantal slip of the chain. No dungeon can hold Bondage Girl!
The last links came free rather abruptly. I fell backwards on my bum, exactly on the base of the plug. The nasty invader took the opportunity to suckerpunch me where the sun didn’t shine once more. But the engulfing pain from my nips was distracting me from my bruised rectum. Lucky me. I was sure the serrated clamps had furrowed my flesh down to the blood. The sensation was red-hot, at the same time ice-cold, and utterly breath-taking. If I were ever to be tortured for company secrets by an evil rival firm, don’t waste time on electric shocks or soldering irons – just jump straight to nipple clamps!
After the less than graceful struggle to stand up in ballet heels I strongly decided against any further detours. During all these unscheduled activities I had managed to tighten my handcuffs to a very uncomfortable degree – not yet police brutality, but definitely past sexy. The pain from the clamps was threatening to tilt into non-erotic territory as well, so was the burning in my calves and insteps. I wished I could say the same about the situation between my legs. As I stilted back to the stairwell and down the next flight, the chastity chain became more and more irritating, partly because its lateral rigidity prevented it from “swinging” with my hips. The result wasn’t so much a chafing (for that the body region in question was way too slick by now), but a kneading for lack of a better word. My most female parts were receiving a steel massage – without the happy ending. It dawned on me that maybe, just maybe, I had bitten off more than I could chew.
I passed the door to the first floor without the slightest interest in wreaking havoc on that storey as well. For the last dozen of stairs I leant on the handrail to take some weight off my tortured toes and make balancing easier. With a groan of both relief and exhaustion I reached the landing at the ground floor. I felt sticky drops trickling and tickling down my sternum and knew that my ball gag, latex-encased chin and collar were shining with saliva. I didn’t care. My sole focus was lying on the box of keys at the reception. Already my throbbing body was pushing against the glass door to the foyer before I even noticed Mr 4×4.
He was standing on the other side of the door, some metres to the left, his back halfway towards me. If he turned around now or even looked over his right shoulder, he would be in for a treat. Yet his attention wasn’t aimed at the door to the stairs. He had his head cocked, as though trying to remember some old song text. In his hand he was holding a black torch of impressive length, not that he was needing it – a sufficient amount of light was falling out of the lift cabin, whose door I had blocked open. The watchman was clearly trying to make head or tail of what he was witnessing. I staggered backwards, each hit of my murderous heels against the concrete floor deafening to me. Despite all the gag-induced drooling my throat was very dry all of a sudden. Pressing myself against the wall I could see very little of what was going on in the foyer. A glimpse of Mr 4×4 carrying the chair back to the waiting area told me he had unblocked the lift door. Now that the obstacle was gone, a computerised lady-voice announced the lift door to be closing. With a sinking feeling in my stomach I retreated onto the first landing, holding my breath. Surely he was coming back, eager to investigate who was taking the piss during his shift. Would he choose the stairs? Would he knock me out with that torch of his, just how I had seen it in poorly-written crime flicks, taking me for a perverted intruder instead of a perverted employee? Throw me in a Digital Apex holding cell without loosening any of my ties? Was there even anything like Digital Apex holding cells? We are a very peaceful staff.
The artificial lady again. First hardly audible before the cabin door opened again, then as loud as the first time upon readying the lift for take-off. Mr 4×4 had decided to be lazy. For the first time of what seemed to be minutes I dared breathe again. I needed the key box! I couldn’t out-manoeuver him heeled and hobbled like this for long. I couldn’t hide and wait, either – my boots were killing me, and the nip clamps made me wish my boots would hurry up! Sneaking back to the door, I made as sure as possible that 4×4 wasn’t waiting somewhere in the dark after having sent the lift up as a red herring. Carefully I pressed my belly against the panic bar. It gave way, and the door opened a crack. Luckily for me, the glass door two storeys above was opened with much less care. Beside the noise there was a noticeable move of air through the stairwell, sending a chill across my skin covered in fresh sweat (the stairwells were pressurised to keep smoke out in case of a fire). The watchman was coming back down, and this time he was showing off his sporty side!
I squeezed myself through the crack and fished for the handle at the outside with my bound hands (not easily done in wrist and elbow restrains). I shut the door as softly as I was capable of with panic rising and adrenalin boiling in my system. Eight metres to the reception. I dashed across the foyer, faster than I had ever thought it possible in ballet heels. I kid you not, my hobble chain turned out to be the limiting factor! The punishment I was receiving from my hyperextending footwear, sawing chastity and flailing nipple chain was no less explosive than my sprint itself. Reaching the reception table, I threw myself into a mid-run spin, bumped into the counter bum-first (mercifully not dead-right on the plug for once), grabbed the key box (wrist and elbow restrains, the second) and darted back across the foyer – this time a little to the left, straight towards the lift. With hands not only cuffed but now also full I punched the stainless steel inlay in the wall until I hit the call button.
“Ohgn-ohgn, ohgn-ohgn, ohgn-ohgn!”
(“Come on, come on, come on!”)
The 2 in the display utterly ignored my haste, so did the 1.
“Doors are opening.”
The lift door – in spite of its sliding elements a singular in my definition – gave the way free into the cabin. I stumbled in, slammed down on my knees and pushed the touchscreenish control panel with my latex-clad nose tip.
“The time is 22:07.”
A little bit down, where the digitalised button for the second floor was taunting me.
“13° Celsius, slightly cloudy.”
With squinting eyes I aimed again.
“You have chosen the voice command mode.”
(I haven’t got to translate that.)
“I am sorry, I could not understand you.”
“Uhgt eh uck uhgp!”
(“Please be quiet.”)
“I am sorry, I could not understand you. If you wish to enter the language select menu, please press the ‘help’ field. If you wish to return to the tactile control mode, please press the ‘return’ field. If you are being held hostage, not been able to communicate verbally, and wish to send a distress signal to the police service, please press any field on the panel for longer than three seconds.”
What sort of bell-end had programmed this nonsense?!
I hammered with my smarting nose like a woodpecker on meth.
“Second floor. Doors are closing.”
I nearly wet myself with relief. I just hoped 4×4 still hadn’t been down the stairs far enough to hear the crash course in lift operating. It was my intention to ride to the second floor. That storey he had already checked, so it was less likely to be visited by him again. Plus, he would become even more suspicious if he saw another number on the display than that of the floor he had left the cabin on.
On second I slipped out of the lift and pressed my ear against the door to the stairs. All I could hear was my own blood pumping through me in excitement. My laboured panting, enhanced by the collar and gag. No security bloke storming up in hot pursuit.
I didn’t have to gather much courage to enter the stairwell again. The fierce clamps having their way with me took care of that. Climbing stairs didn’t make it any better. Burning pain was spiking with every step, with every breath, with every pounding of my heart. My leg muscles were now officially cramped up. And I was horny beyond believe. The now very real danger of being caught had triggered a sexual overload. I was almost melting the chastity chain. But the prospect of release and relief kept me going. Only a couple more stairs now. Climbing up was easier than walking down, but the fatigue was hard on me. My hands were trembling, the too-tight cuffs causing a crippling numbness. I was sweating heavily inside the latex gloves. At least the material was improving my grip on the box. Letting go of it, sending it rattling down the stairwell, maybe even cracking it and spilling the sixteen keys to my freedom noisily all over the flight – that would be the ultimate disaster of the evening.
I had to put the key box down to open the glass door to the third floor, though. Holding the door open with my manacled hands, stabilising myself on the handle at the same time, I performed the fetish boot version of a back-heel to kick the box inside. With it resting safely in my latex grip again, I stumbled down the corridor like a drunken gimp girl. Past the copier niche and the conveniences. Past Conference Room C and Conference Room B.
A perfectly pitched burst of laugh escaped from behind the ball gag as the single key I had deposited on top of my clothes found the lock, and the strongbox opened. Plug or no plug, I was sitting on the long table of Conference Room A, a.k.a. Main Conference Room, where my self-bondage adventure had started the eternity of thirty-four minutes ago. I physically could not stand anymore. I had broken my record in ballet boots, though – and most of my toes, judging by the feeling.
The key to my handcuff was easy to find blind, I had a key ring connected to it just for this purpose. As soon as the first cuff snapped open, I released my elbow ties and brought my arms to the front of my body, ignoring the deep marks around my wrists and the insane tingling in the freed hand. A moment later I was literally rolling on the carpet in pain. Removing harsh and constantly tugged-at nipple clamps after over half an hour of use tends to cause that. I had also broken my record in harsh nipple clamps, in case you are wondering.
Just show me those devils again, and I confess to anything.
As the agony from the blood returning to my maltreated nips had subsided, I used the remaining keys in a defined order.
Getting out of the boots was bliss. Getting the gag out of my mouth was messy. I had a towel ready for that in my bag. This stint hadn’t seen the longest period of time I had been gagged, but I had approached my limits of oral bondage nonetheless. That was part of the deal; every device meant to restrain its wearer will be the source of pain, both during and after wearing. Intensity may vary, but with Bondage Girl involved, heavier stuff is to be expected. One by one my own restrains gave my body free. And I am happy to deny that with each item Bondage Girl diminished a bit more. That kinky lass doesn’t need leather, steel and latex to come forth. But this naughty trio definitely does help to get in sync with her.
Whilst putting on my normal clothes and stowing away my not so normal ones, I kept working my jaw and rubbing my neck, wrists and feet. One part of my body I still could not rub.
The corridor was clear. I rushed out of Conference Room A, only to take cover in the copy niche. Hastily I stuffed the incriminating sheets in my bag, which became quite full and quite heavy in the process. There was no way to dispose of them in the document shredder, not with the risk of Mr 4×4 still being around.
He wasn’t. At least I saw him neither on the stairs nor in the foyer. The lift was still waiting on the second floor. Maybe he was at the other end of the building, rescuing the potted plastic plant from its peril. Out into the cool night I stepped. I knew I had been on camera again for some moments whilst opening the entrance door, but doubted the watchman would go through hours of CCTV footage to prosecute the subversive tampering with the building’s vertical transportation system.
On the car park Mr 4×4’s mysterious 4×4 was nowhere to be seen, but I wouldn’t be fooled twice. I jogged across the free area as quickly as my paper-bloated bag allowed and cursed me again for not having parked closer to the entrance. I threw the gym bag on the passenger seat and eased myself behind the wheel. I forced myself to leave the DA premises and the business quarters with its terracotta army of speed traps in an unsupicious choice of gear and revs. As soon as I was in the clear, I floored it. Onwards to the final key. Oh, the things I would do to myself the moment the chastity chain would fall! That piece of automotive junk better not leave me in the lurch, or it could find itself another fool to refill it!
I was tired, wound up, crazing out with need, but very content. Despite all the ludicrous complications, unplanned pains and unasked-for jump scares I declared my first rogue tie a success. A victory of kink over boredom. The memory of it would spice up many a workday to come.
A next of many a workday was Tuesday, and I owned that bitch! When I left shortly after five, I was still sporting a vibrant amount of energy. My motor was again standing on its spot in the car park, and why would it not? I noticed the note tucked behind the windscreen wiper as I was about to get in. Reaching around the a-pillar I plucked it free. An A4-sized sheet of paper, neatly folded twice. My knees turned into jelly, my face first pale, than crimson as I, unfolding it, was looking at a copy of my chained-up womanhood. Wild-eyed I looked left and right. A dozen other people were on the car park, ready to drive away or chatting. Nobody appeared to be watching me, feasting on my reaction to finding their nasty surprise. I looked at the picture again, on the line in a male handwriting boldly across my photocopied left buttock.
“Had a fun weekend?”