(For the benefit of mods and others:
- Yes, I have done things like this before, though not on this scale. I would love to again.
- I willingly consented to all of it, and helped organise it.
- Some of the details described here are not safe unless you know what you're doing with bondage, and take extreme care both with the details and your chosen/trusted partner[s] in crime.)
Darkness. Cold. Quiet.
The silence in my lockup is not absolute: the occasional bark of a fox outside or a car whooshing along the main street. And the sound of my own heartbeat, thumping out of its chest. I'm shivering, but not with the chill: with dread, fear of discovery, fear of what might go wrong... and with anticipation.
The scrunch of gravel outside and the heavy thrum of a vehicle pulling up breaks my train of thought. I don't rush to the door immediately: that could be anybody, and I don't want just anybody seeing me like this. Wait. The scrunching moves. Reverse gear. Turning. Backing up to my door.
Go.
Moving quickly, I pop the garage door, grabbing a large black army rucksack and a bulging shopping bag on the way. There's a tall, burly man outside, but I don't look at him beyond a glance: his face is covered with a medical mask and a beanie pulled down low. I close my door as he opens his, and we scramble together into the back of the van.
Working together, we quickly open the bags and spread their contents on the floor. A pair of large, heavy chains spread out across the floor into an X, then locked to the cargo rings. An pair of old pillows, stuffed into black plastic garbage bags, laid across them. And a third heavy chain is attached to a ceiling joist with a strap, tugging it to make sure it's sound.
With the van readied, it's time to prepare tonight's entertainment. Me.
That means unzipping my hoodie and stuffing it into the bag, then kicking off my joggers. The man turns round from checking a chain as I hop around and swear, and I hear an appreciative indrawn breath that raises my heart rate even more.
I can see him taking me in. The black, shiny, thigh length boots with the little red strap details. The ankle cuffs. The black seamed nylon stockings with their red tops just peeking out over the boots. The studded waist belt. The thin, gauzy mesh leotard with its PVC detalls, and bondage harness cupping two large, fine breasts. The wrist cuffs, just waiting to be secured. The heavy, tarty makeup, framed by tumbling, fake red hair.
Oh, and the heavy leather collar, with its diamante lettering: DIRTY WHORE.
I know what I really am. I know what I really want.
Now, so will everyone who sees me.
We work together to take the next steps, carefully checking position and tensions with each move. Ankles are locked wide apart. Pillows placed under each knee and calf, then thick belts strapped around each one and locked to the chain, again forcing me wide open. Finally, we clip my wrists together behind my back, and I bend forward, offering my hands up to him as high as I can manage. He tugs, then yanks them just that little bit higher, leaving me straining and squirming just enough to be deliciously uncomfortable.
And leaving my ass raised away from the floor: and my mouth at crotch height.
He stops, admiring our handiwork. Admiring me. I gulp nervously, and look up at him, pleading, big baby blue eyes ringed with kohl, offering, begging silently. He moves closer: and as he cups my chin with his hand, offers a thumb. I begin sucking it eagerly, teasing the rough calloused skin with my tongue, and hear him grunt, maybe a tiny moan. Looking up for a second, I can already see see his crotch straining and swelling against the heavy cloth of his overalls. I can almost hear him thinking. Tempted. Wanting to start the show early.
I'm rewarded only with a slap across the cheeks: "bad girl". And the thumb is replaced with cold rubber. A thick dildo gag, long enough to fill and silence me, but just before the point of choking, is shoved roughly in its place and locked. My small squeaks seem to excite him even more, though I won't know for certain: not yet.
One last thing remains. He moves and kneels behind me, and I feel the cold, glistening cold of lube being poured on my pussy, immediately warming as it hits my skin. I feel him teasing me with one finger, then two, then yelp, arch and groan as they invade me, opening me over and over, pushing more and more inside me, making me a properly wet slut. The fingers withdraw and my moans subside, but then I feel more thick rubber pressing against my entrance, pushing past any resistance, and settling with a "pop" I feel rather than hear as the plug comes to rest.
I hear him wiping his hands on a towel and tossing it aside. Then he stops, and takes something from his jacket. A new light hits me in the dim of the van: he's filming me on his phone. Walking around me. Offering me up like a bridled mare in a sale ring. Lifting my chin to show off my chest and taking a closeup of the collar.
He stops, then I hear the rapid electronic clicking as he sends a message, and holds it up to me as I hear the Send beep.
There's a pause.
And then I begin hearing dings as people respond.
I don't know what they're saying: I'll get that later, along with the pictures.
All I know is this is out there now.
He chuckles, puts his phone away, and prepares to open the door: then remembers one last thing. A small, rough hessian sack is produced, and before I can squeak it's over my head, blotting out almost all the last of the light. Then I hear him leave the van and shut the door, leaving me bound, helpless, and in pitch black.
The engine rumbles, and I tension myself as I've been practicing, holding onto the chain with my arms and crouching as low as I can, absorbing the turns and potholes with my knees.
Even though I've set the rules, I don't know who's waiting for me out there.
But I'm not waiting any more. This is what I want. What I need. To be shown off. To be used. To be the best slut I can be.
To be wanted. |
