The Adult Story Hub

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 story 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 required by the transmitter. 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 story 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 story I attempted. Won't you let me know what you think? My e-mail address appears at the end.

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 panties and stockings 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 stockings 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 guys 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 camera 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 picture 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 picture I accept you will be allowed to attempt one orgasm on the way home tomorrow. For every picture 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 camera and snapped the first picture 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 man 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 man 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 model 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 picture 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 picture 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 picture of her struggling to push the big blue ball in. I shot another of her painted lips sealed fast around it. The next picture 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 camera 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 camera 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 breast 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, drawing 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 picture to cover from the knee to the top of her head. She posed for me in the mirror, looking at the camera 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 drawing 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, drawing her elbows back and together slowly. I finished the bondage stiffening it and her posture. I shot the image for posterity. The picture 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, drawing 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 split 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 camera 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 camera 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 camera 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 camera 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 split 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 camera was mounted in such a way that if a proper video 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 camera 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 recording 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 recording 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 breasts out precipitously. I framed and shot another picture after releasing my equipment from the camera mount on the back of the chair across the room.
Setting the camera 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 drawing 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)

Hard to find the "right" words? Want it in a story? * * Tell me about it by mail at caitmccarren@yahoo.com.