Sammy Joe’s Barnyard Self-Bondage 2

Hello again, Sammy Joe here.  When last we met I had made a set of wrist and ankle shackles out of some barn door hinges and a thigh and body harness from three nylon horse halters.  There were only a few more items to fabricate, and a trip to town was in order, not only to purchase a few supplies, but my driver’s license was due for renewal and I wanted to kill all the birds I could with one stone.

I stopped by the license bureau first thing to take care of business; pleasure would come later.  Kristen, my best friend for years, works for the Bureau during the summer breaks from college.  She’s trying to get her foot in the door for a Civil Service job and I tease her that the University offers this as a course, Government Trough Feeding 101.  I guess as long as she keeps laughing, the knife isn’t being twisted too hard.  Kristen could have her choice of any man.  I mean even though I’m a woman, I can honestly say she is hot.  She’s not gorgeous or glamorous… but she simply exudes sex appeal.  She drips with sexuality.  Long, straight black hair, full pouty lips, dark hazel eyes.  She has always had a gift of choosing clothing that accentuates her slim body.  Although not quite as endowed above the waist as myself, her choice in blouses and bras more than make up for any perceived inadequacies.  And those skirts and pants.  I don’t know how she fits into some of them, but for some reason, with her smaller hips, they just look so damned good on her.  And, she always wears stockings, not pantyhose, and high open-toed heels.  Make-up always just so and long painted fingernails.  Believe me, I have tried to imitate her a few times, but for some reason, it just does not work.  Maybe that’s one reason we have managed to stay friends for such a long time.  We attract different groups of suitors.  Mine are usually the nice ones looking for something more, and hers, well, are always jerks and dicks looking only for a good time.  But the funny thing is she’s always been a prick tease, almost to the point of misandry.   I have had some suspicions on this, but that’s another story.  In fact she’s one reason I have gotten so involved in self-bondage.  I suppose I owe her that much.

I took a number, 37, and sat down in the lobby.

After about five minutes an older man walked out from the back room.  He was a bit flushed, looked about furtively, and hurried out the door.  That seemed a bit strange.  What’s going on in there?

“Number 37.”

I got up from my seat and approached the doorway.  I poked my nose around the doorframe and waited for Kristen to look up and see who her next ‘victim’ would be.

“Hey, Sam!”  Her eyes grew wide and she broke into a smile.  “How long have you been back?”

“Oh a couple of weeks, I guess.  Had to come by and renew my license.  How have you been?”  I asked with my brows furrowed, motioning with my head at the door as if to point at the poor guy who had just left.

“Yeah, him,” Kristen replied, motioning for me to close the door and have a seat.  “You know, the older men get, the dirtier they get!” Even though she was giggling, there was an air of indignance in her demeanor.  “He had the nerve to ask what I was doing after work and couldn’t talk to me without looking at my tits!  He was actually serious!  I had to remind him that Mom and Dad go to the same church as he and his wife and kids.  I called him a perv and told him to have a better grasp on reality the next time he came in.  As if I am that hard up!”

I kind of giggled to myself thinking of the mating of the two.  “Well, with all due respect, look at yourself!  I mean what man wouldn’t hit on you, for God’s sake?”

“Well, I didn’t ask to be accosted by a dirty old man!”

“The Hell you didn’t!  And besides, you know damned well you enjoyed the whole ordeal, you sick bitch!”  I said rather loudly with a horselaugh.  “In fact, I’ll bet you get yourself off tonight thinking about old Frank.”

“You know me too well, Sam,” she replied with a sinister sneer.  “Well, let’s get down to business, shall we?  I need your old license, proof of insurance, and last year’s property tax statement.  Papers, please!” she demanded in her best German matron accent.

“Yes, Mistress”, I responded demurely.

Kristen looked over the documents, as a professional civil servant does.  (Make your own assumptions)  “Hey, your birthday is next week, no wonder you’re here.  Cutting it kind of close, aren’t we?”

“Yeah, I’ll be by myself next week and I’ll have my hands full with chores.”  I kind of fidgeted in the chair.  “If you can believe it, Mom, Dad, Joe, and Heather are going to go on a bit of a vacation for a week, and being as the first cut of hay has been harvested and the calves have all gone off the bottle, there shouldn’t be any problems arise in their absence.  It should be quite peaceful.”

“I can’t believe June and Ward are leaving the “Beaver” to fend for herself!”  She paused.  “By yourself, huh?” she mocked with a giggle.  “Allen won’t be visiting, will he?”

“No, he got an opportunity to work on a ranch over break in Wyoming for a few credits,” I coolly answered.  All alone and my man hundreds of miles away, doing who knows what. “Only the pets to keep me company.”

Kristen scoffed at my answer and once again looked through my papers.  Man, she can be cold.  “Any changes on your vitals?  Still 5’4 and 118?” as she eyed me. 

“Why YES!” I almost yelled.  “I may be a farm girl, but I am not a hog!  No sophomore spread here, milady.”

“Okay, place your toes on the masking tape and grin into the camera.”  Digital cameras don’t ‘click’ so I had to wait for her to tell me to sit back down.  “It’ll be just a few minutes for the machine to finish your new license.  Here’s your old one,” as she handed it back to me after punching a hole in it.  “Still an organ donor, right?”

“Yeah.”

“Same hair and eyes?”

“Yes.”

“Same address?”

“Yes.”

Kristin typed in all of the appropriate information.  “So, give me a call next week?”

“Yeah, I will.”  I responded with some hesitation.  “I would have called before now, but it’s been hectic around the farm and I’ve been trying to get back into the groove of things.”  I swear she can look right down into my soul.  Her eyes bore right through me.

The machine made a whirring noise and a freshly laminated license emerged from its slot.  “Here’s your license.  I’ll try and drop by next week.”

“That would be great.  Call me before you come out in case I’m tied up.”  Why oh why did I say that?  I knew just as soon as those words rolled off my tongue that Kristen would somehow read meaning into my answer.  Sometimes the past has a way of resurrecting itself.  I scrawled my signature on the check and handed it to her across the table.  She snatched it from my hand.  God, her hands are gorgeous! 

“Yeah, yeah, okay, I’ll do that,” she almost stammered.  Something in the back of my mind told me I might have compromised myself.  She’s a witch, that one.

“I really mean it, okay?  Call me first, please, okay?”  I tried to mask my desperation, but I somehow knew it would be for naught.

“Okay.  Talk to you later,” she replied, looking past me at a monitor.  “I see some more ‘victims’ in the lobby awaiting my abuse.”

“Would you please behave yourself, you bitch,” I said as I opened the door and left Kristen with a flash of my middle finger.  I’m sure she responded in kind.

“Number 38!”

The hardware store was on the next block down, so I decided to hoof it.  The good thing about small town hardware stores is that they stock almost everything for the home, farm, and garden.  I made my way to the back of the store to the livestock section and took a quick browse through some of the merchandise.  I needed some dog collars, steel rings, padlocks, and some nylon strapping.  Even though Dad kept a lot of supplies in the machine shop, I didn’t want to plunder everything in sight.  I wanted to keep my activities hidden.  Missing items means questions and inquiries.  So, I decided to by a box of 20 feet #2 link chain, light enough, but able to accommodate a standard padlock.  After grabbing up the chain, I made my way to the pet supplies and picked out a couple of matching 18-inch dog collars, the ones with O rings placed about midway through the length.  I lucked out as they also stocked some 16-inch collars without the ring, just solid nylon strap with a buckle.  I latched onto two of those.  Oops, forgot about the metal rings.  Wanted five of the same size and plucked them off of the pegboard.  My hands were getting full, so I went back to the front of the store and grabbed a hand basket to carry all of the booty.  Let’s see, what am I forgetting?  Oh, yeah, the padlocks.  I made my way back to hardwares and spotted the lock display.  Quite a variety, but all I needed were value-packs of keyed-alike locks.  Hey!  Talk about luck, there hanging on the display were some packages of “suitcase” locks, four apiece with the same key.  Took three packages.  Scanned the display until I spied packages of four keyed-alike standard padlocks.  Grabbed four of those.  I thought hard about what else I could possibly need.  I was almost in a fugue.  A hardware store and visions of bondage?  I wanted everything, just in case.  You know. Oh yeah, some epoxy glue.  I almost forgot.  Separately and without a common thread, all of these items are seemingly innocuous and unrelated, however to the astute mind accustomed to self-bondage, these essentials combine to form an integrated method of self-pleasure/denial.

“Hello, Sam.  You want these on your account?  Susan asked while clicking on he keyboard.

“No, not this time.  I’ll go ahead and pay for this now.”

“Okay.  Let me put these in a bag for you.  How are your parents doing?” she asked.  Susan and Mom have been life-long acquaintances since they were born all those years ago, much like most of the people throughout the area.  Not only friends, but also somehow related either through blood or marriage.  If it weren’t for ‘foreigners’ moving into the county, everyone’s family tree would be all trunk and no branches. 

“They’re fine.  I’m sure you already know they’re taking a trip next week.”

“Yeah, some vacation, mmph,” she cracked.  “No doubt your Dad is writing it off as a business expense.  That brother of yours is turning out to be one hell of an accountant, or tax lawyer. Shysters.”  Susan thinks anyone getting more tax write-offs than she is a liar and a cheat.

“Well, I do know most of it is for fun and leisure. And besides, I get to run the farm for a week.”  I didn’t want to mention the farm festival and workshop.  That would just validate her paranoia.

She handed the ticket to me and I filled out a check for the amount.

Susan slipped the check into the register.  “Say ‘Hi’ to everyone for me,” she finished.

“Okay,” I answered. (You nosy bitch).  “Talk to you later. Bye.” The door didn’t have a chance to hit me as I left.

With that unpleasantry resolved, I made my way back the pickup and drove to the supermarket.  Only a few items left, and I can get out of this beehive of rumor mongering.

After parking the pickup, I made my way into the Country Market and tried as hard as I could to slip past all of the local nosy bodies unnoticed.  You know how it is when you’re in a hurry.  All of the aisles are full of little old ladies talking to their friends, friends who only fifteen minutes before were speaking with them on the phone.  Never in the wide open lobby, but blocking every conceivable access to the place where you want to go and oblivious to others who need to get past.  And if you do manage to get by, they watch to see what it is you get from the shelf they were blocking.  How dare anyone interrupt them!  Oh, well.  Anyway…

Luck of luck.  No one was in the hygiene section and was able to grab a few tubes of K-Y Jelly without one of my parent’s friends sticking their nose up my butt.  And to top it all off, no one in line at the pharmacist’s station.  My final purchase would take place with no hassle, as the cashier did not look in the least familiar.  Probably a foreigner, I thought.

“Ten tubes of K-Y?” she asked with a smirk.  “Stocking up, are we,” she added with an unmistakable New York accent.  Great!  They always say first impressions are the most important, and now this smart-ass woman thinks that not only am I a whore, but dry and rough as sandpaper to boot.

I tried to feed her a line.  Being as she obviously had no experience with livestock, I thought of a plausible explanation.  “No, I read an article in one of my magazines about using K-Y for soothing the teats on nursing cows that are suffering from abuse from their calves.  Since their udders are so large, I need to buy quite a bit to see if it works.  Saves some unnecessary trips to town.”  I managed to keep a straight face as I lied to her.

“Oh, really?” she remarked with a bit of surprise.  “I thought it was only for lubing,” her voice hushed, “women’s dry, uh, you know, uh, vaginas for, you know, easier uh,” her face contorted and she gesticulated a bit, “penetr…, ah, sexual comfort?”  Maybe she wasn’t that bad after all.

“Well, like I said, I’m just going to give it a try.”  I was laughing inside.

I passed her few bills and she handed me the change. “Thanks and come again.”  Boy, she was flushed.  I felt kind of bad.  Oh, well, I’m sure I’ll get over it before she does.

With that final purchase complete, I exited the store and tossed the bag into the cab.  I sat there for a moment in thought.  “Anything else?”  I wondered to myself.  No, nothing, and besides, I would probably have to come to town anyway right before the parental units left to stock up on food and whatnot.

I slid the key into the ignition and fired up the engine.  The selector slipped easily into drive and I sped off towards the farm.  Along the way I went over the final preparations.

Part Four
Final Preparations

I turned onto the lane heading back to the farm and pulled up to the house.  Taking the bags of merchandise from the truck, I walked to the building where I kept my bottle-feeding equipment. Dad and Joe were still in the fields and Mom was working in the garden, so I had some time to complete my preparations.

I have experimented with gagging my self with socks, rags, wifflle golf balls, among others items, and have found the experiences lacking and sometimes distressful.  My idea of a mouth gag, however, takes a different tack.  I’ve got a box of bottle-feeding nipples, the kind that slip over the neck of the feed bottle.  They are made of thick, durable, yet pliable latex rubber, about five inches long. I’ve got two different diameter sizes, both the same lengths.  The smaller is about the size of a hot dog and the larger about half again larger.  I placed all of the bags full of supplies on a table and dug out the steel rings I had bought, grabbed two of the larger nipples and one of the smaller, and laid them out before me.  I picked up one of the rings, about 3 inches in diameter, and fed it into the base of the nipple where the bottleneck would normally go in order to make a rigid attachment point at the base.  I did the same with all three, collected them, and made my way to the machine shop.  I needed a vise to modify one of the rings.  After reaching the workbench, I slipped one of the larger nipples into the vise and pinched the ring at the base to where it was not round anymore, but more of an oval shape. 

With that done, I trotted back to my “shop” and fished out a razor knife.  Taking the larger nipple I had just pinched in the vice, I cut off the end making a hollow rubber tube.  Next, I took the razor knife and cut a slits at the elongated ends of the base of the nipple in order to accept a four foot long, half inch leather buckling strap, using the metal ring as a reinforced mounting point.  The other two nipple assemblies suffered similar, but slightly larger slits to accommodate the one inch nylon straps I had bought at the hardware store.  I couldn’t help but put the nipple in my mouth.  The 2-½ inch long, 1 ½ diameter hollow tube allowed me to breathe, but I was still able to compress my mouth and tongue around the nipple and swallow with relative ease.  I couldn’t resist the urge to suck on the nipple like I would a man’s cock.  I don’t think I prefer the taste of rubber, however.  This gag would do nicely.

Next was to finish the two other nipples, gags of a different sort.  I picked out the remaining larger nipple and once again grabbed the razor knife and cut off the end of the tube leaving only an inch protruding from the base.  I figured this would make an adequate elastic retaining mount for a certain appliance I would later be using.  Lastly, I took hold of the remaining nipple assembly and fished into one of the bags for a tube of K-Y jelly.  This smaller nipple I would be using for a butt-plug.  I figured inserting the flaccid nipple into my tight nether hole might be a little difficult and sexually unsatisfying. Therefore, I decided to give it a more substantial form by filling it with, you guessed, K-Y.  I inserted the first tube into the hollow of the nipple and began to squeeze out the contents, emptied it and proceeded to squeeze into it several more until the cavity was almost full.  It was now time to squeeze any air pockets out of the nipple, so I started pinching the nipple together at the base and kneading the contents toward the crosshatch slits at the end (much like moving toothpaste from the end of the tube towards the threaded applicator nozzle) until an uninterrupted flow of jelly emerged from the end.  I then wiped and cleaned the end of the nipple and dug into the bag for the epoxy glue.  The crosshatch slits now needed to be sealed, and epoxy seemed to be a suitable medium.  The glue needed some time to cure, so I packed up the rest of the articles into one of the bags, stuck the “butt plug” on top and left the shed.  It was starting to get dark outside, so I decided to take my activities into the house for the evening.  I had a nice chest with a lock in my bedroom which I used to store some of my more sensitive and personal belongings and collections, among them being my bondage gear, which until only recently consisted only of handcuffs and several coils of rope. 

I rushed upstairs to my bedroom and locked the door behind me.  The chest was quickly opened with one of the keys on my key ring and I placed the bags of paraphernalia into it, grabbed the “plug”, some more jelly, the epoxy, and one of the nipple ends I had cut off earlier in the shed.  I slid open the razor knife and cut a piece of rubber large enough to glue over the cavity of the nipple to seal the jelly inside, thereby making a semi-solid “butt plug”; flexible enough to be satisfyingly filling, yet firm enough to be inserted with minimal effort.  Grabbing one of the remaining tubes of K-Y, I emptied the contents into the cavity until it was brimming full, wiped off the excess, and applied a film of glue to the patch I had cut, placed it over the hollow end and pressed down firmly.  It would take time for the glue to cure and melt the rubber together, so I decided to call it a day and placed everything into the chest and locked it.  Preparations were now nearly complete.  The remaining items were in need of only perfunctory and mundane attention.

Tomorrow would be another day, and besides, I had to act like a mature adult around the parentals.  I would just hate to inadvertently cause any doubt that the farm would be in good hands during their brief absence.  My plans were finally coming to fruition and I wouldn’t want to jeopardize my future ambitions of self-bound fulfillment and helplessness.

I made my way back down the steps and into the kitchen.  Dinner needed to be prepared and Mom usually appreciated any help I could give her.  I washed my hands in the sink and started working on some of the foodstuffs she had laid out.
 

14.04.03