Chloe

(Smallville Girl)
(selfbondage fiction)
 

What is a fetish? Whatever it is, I have one. 

The term comes, I think, from anthropology, and refers to an item used as the focus of a clan in a neolithic people. Bunch of big words, all right. What this means is that a group of people who are not allowed to marry each other – clans marry people from other clans – are organized around a concept which may be the name of an animal – say, Parrot Clan, or an element, like Fire Clan, or a part of the body, like Forehead Clan. One group is named Horn Clan…. 

Anyway the idea of a fetish is something that you organize your life around and pay attention to in an inordinate way. For the so-called primitive peoples, the object has magic power which the people in that clan in some way share. In a sexual context, a fetish is something that is essentially revered instead of or above standard sexual behavior. A sexual fetish can be an object such as boots or panties. My own particular fetish is more of a condition than an object. My fetish is helplessness. More specifically, the inability to masturbate for long periods due to selfbondage. This situation – wanting desperately to manipulate myself to orgasm but being persistently unable to – produces in me what Freud called the “oceanic feeling.” That means, like, I like it. I like it so much I’m addicted to it. 

I have, or perhaps I suffer, a long-standing compulsion to practice selfbondage at any opportunity, and I have a tendency to increase the intensity somewhat with each session.

Backing up a bit, my name is Chloe. I’m a pretty normal sixteen-year-old rural American girl. I live in Smallville and my best friend is Clark Kent. I get pretty good grades at Smallville High. I hope to go to college and major in Psych. I hear you saying, yeah right, all the Psych students need to be analyzed themselves. Well, maybe. Anyway, my interest in Psych gave me all that jargon I just threw at you. Oh, and I’m not particularly beautiful, but I’m not repulsive either. I have a nice figure but a less than-spectacular face, the way Thomas Mann imagined the biblical figure Leah. 

I work for the school paper, the Torch. I cover all the weird stuff that has happened in Smallville since the meteor shower eleven years ago when I was 5. Some of the stuff that has happened here makes me seem downright normal. Yeah, that’s me all right, normal Chloe. Sometimes I hide secret messages in my text. Like, take the first letter of each sentence and make a message. It says TIE ME UP AND SPANK ME, or I LOVE EATING CUM. Stuff like that. Once it was LANA RIMS ME ALL NIGHT. Just to keep the newspaper interesting, at least to me. 

I hang out with two guys, but neither of them is interested in me romantically or sexually. One is Clark Kent. Now there’s someone weird. Clark is, like, a walking hard on, but he never comes on to anybody except Lana Lang, who acts like he doesn’t exist. I almost wonder whether Clark is gay and just using Lana as a convenient cover. I mean, for one thing, Lana is cute, but she has, like, no ass. Maybe Clark likes her because her ass looks like a boy. Now me, my ass isn’t as large as Brazil, but it’s big enough to sink your teeth into, if you know what I mean. I’m not being catty. Nooooooooo. Seriously, Clark could be a hunk if he knew how, but he doesn’t, so I’m mainly into the dumb jocks. You know, just to look at.

While I don’t consider myself particularly a feminist, I’m in no way eager to be owned by anybody either. So it’s kind of problematic for me to explain why I enjoy being in bondage so much. But the fact that I don’t feel particularly submissive towards anyone goes a long way towards accounting for why I don’t enjoy my bondage with a partner. I just do myself. 

I have tried, twice, to do bondage with a partner. But the guys were just interested in using me and the whole thing was over quickly. My own orgasm was of no interest to them, much less delaying it so that it became enormous.

If there were no internet, I’d still have figured out that I like to tie myself up. In fact, I did, before I knew about the relevant internet sites like Gromet’s. But – I’d be way less competent at it, and I might have even hurt myself along the way. I’ve gotten so many ideas from the kind people who post on the web that I may as well just thank them all right now. Thank you. Thank you. Oh my God, THANK YOU. You have no idea how much fun I have had using your ideas. I have copied stuff from a Colorado Country Girl, and from Teri, and from so many others. 

When I was still in middle school, I started selfbondage. I used laces from some old boots and did it in the tub while my Mom was away. I knew Dad would never bother me in the bathroom (I’m an only child, so there was no one else to worry about). That was before I got handcuffs and lots of other cool stuff. 

The basic problem in selfbondage is the reliability of the escape mechanism. If you can’t get free, you’re going to die, or at least you’re going to have to get some help, which will be embarrassing. Neither is my fantasy by a long shot. 

The other basic concern is the question of whether you want to be forced to orgasm, or denied orgasm completely, or frustrated and barely able to orgasm after great effort. This last one is what I like. In fact, I need it. If I ever let someone tie me up (again), that is what I want: not to be able to cum for a loooong time, no matter how I beg, maybe all night or all weekend, until finally at the end if I’ve been a reaaaly good girl. I don’t care whether a guy or a girl does this to me, as long as they do it right. 

The thing is, some girls come easily, too easily, but usually don’t get fully satisfied by their orgasms. Others can’t hardly cum at all. My perception is, most of the gals into bondage fit into one of these two categories. I sort of vacillate between both, believe it or not. If I’m with a guy on a hot date, I may cum all right, even before I get direct stimulation. But I’m likely to end the evening with a vibrator, in bed alone or in the bathroom hoping he doesn’t hear me. But then, if I’m just masturbating, with no bondage, on my own, sometimes I can't cum for the life of me. I’ll get a sore clit and a tired wrist. I think the key is, in both cases – the date and the solo masturbation – there is an official effort to make me cum. It may work, or not, but somehow just the whole expectation that I have to respond creates a scenario that doesn’t quite work for me. 

Bondage on the other hand, attempts to prevent me from getting off. I create a sort of dominatrix in my mind who creates the bondage situation and makes it hard for the person in the bondage to achieve orgasm. It’s like I’m two people: the person who is a “top,” and the person who is a “bottom” in the game. The top investigates hardware stores, computer software, and actual bondage gear and wracks her brain to come up with a new scenario for the bottom to experience. The bottom tries hard, not to escape before her time is up, but to cum when the situation essentially is set up to prevent that. 

It’s about time I gave some examples. 

I pretty much leave myself alone during the week, but as the weekend approaches my “top” starts making rules about touching myself and dating guys. Unless something special is going on, like homecoming or a big rock concert or something, I just say no to the guys (mostly they ignore me anyway) and plan on a long selfbondage session in my house. My folks are usually gone all weekend. And I’m not allowed to masturbate from Wednesday morning on. That can be difficult, but I have only two nights where will power is even an issue: Friday night I’ll be all tied up. 

On Friday morning I get up early to put on some punishment gear. I wear strips of Johnson & Johnson back plaster on both ass cheeks – sorry to mention a brand name, but there just isn’t anything else like them. The product is a sort of fabric strip like moleskin but with a time-release dose of something like ben-gay in it. You get the idea. Then I cut a small patch of Migraine Ice to attach to my clitoral hood area. Hot behind, cold in front. Over all this I put on a tight pair of red latex panties – I generally use some talcum powder to get them on with out tearing them. I’ll still be able to pee, but it will be an effort to get these down. That discourages me from messing with my self-torture pads. I wear a tight pair of jeans (one size too small at least) and a chain belt with a clasp. At lunch, after going to the bathroom (the one legitimate time I figure I need) I will replace the clasp with a small padlock, the key to which is at home. That’s about when the cumulative effect of the pads is kicking in big time, so it’s a good thing I’m prevented from thoughts about taking them off. This also has the effect of discouraging me from going with anyone for a drink or a bite after school. “Gotta run!” 

All day I’ll be running through what I have planned. Perhaps I have frozen some padlock keys attached to a long picture-hanging-wire in a gallon jug of water, an eight hour thaw or more depending on the temperature. Perhaps I’m planning on picking up about ten helium balloons at the grocery store on the way home. I can tie one key to two or three balloons and send them up to my ceiling for about twenty hours. 
Maybe I took the face off an analogue clock, and then took off the minute hand. I can put the clock up high out of reach with the hour hand between 9 and 10 o’clock. Then I can put a key on the hour hand and have to wait about six hours for it to pass 3 o’clock and drop the key down to me. Perhaps I am going to put the clock on a light-timer so that it turns off and on, making the six hours into twelve or more. 

In any case, my mind is sure to be racing through the possibilities while I’m physically taking notes about, say, deviant behavior and societal norms. I’ll have goosebumps all up and down my legs, ragged breathing, extra perspiration – you name it. I cross my legs and kick the top leg a mile a minute. I move my tongue around my mouth, licking the inside of my lips, knowing that I will (most likely) be gagged later. I play with my pen or pencil as if it were a – well, maybe not. But I manage to keep these symptoms under the radar. No one says, “Hey Chloe, are you sick or something?” Well, maybe I am. It is hard to describe the feeling I get when I’m this horny. It’s not just feeling centered between my legs. It as if every square centimeter of my skin is alive with sensation, every hair and pore open and willing to experience the world.

I guess I’m a deviant because I value the quality of my orgasms, and I want to use the most of the technology I have to increase their duration and intensity. Also, I’m indulging in an obsessive anti-social behavior which is self-reinforcing. But I am succeeding in awakening my sexual potentials, and most of the techniques I discover could be used on a partner – someday. At least so my rationalizations run.

I’m writing this on a Friday, and I’ll update it on Monday to tell you how this weekend went. My plans are to go to a party store after my last class (no ditching, that’s part of the rules, even if I’m a wreck and can’t think straight). There, I plan to buy as many helium balloons as I can wrestle into the back seat of my Civic. Maybe twenty-five or thirty. Everything else I have at home so I go straight home after answering the clerk’s intruding questions about what I’m going to do with these balloons (birthday party for a three-year-old nephew I say).

At home, I park the balloons in the bedroom, and quickly unlock my chain belt, remove my jeans, and strip down to nothing. I take a shower, thoroughly washing off the stickiness and chemical residue from my torture pads. I also wash away my day’s worth of perspiration from thinking about tonight. I’m tempted to finger myself, but not much. This will be too good to waste!

I dress again in the sluttiest outfit I can. Red latex thigh-highs with matching garter belt and bra, but no panties. The bra has holes for my nipples and aureoles, so the total effect is much more nude than if I were naked. I need lots of talcum to get these on. 

Then I put on leather ankle and wrist cuffs which lock onto my limbs. All my padlocks are small masterlocks which are keyed in sets of four. I deliberately don’t mark them so that it will be difficult to know which key opens which lock later. 

Next I haul out my timing system in the living room. It’s already configured; I just have to set it up.

I have six timers, of the sort people use to turn the lights on and off while they’re away for the weekend. My idea is, I have two timers in series, with three series in all. The second timer in each series is plugged into the wall, not into the first timer, so that they will both operate even when the first timer shuts the power off. It’s the power flow to my vibrators that they will interrupt. 

The first timer series is for my anal plug. Here I’m generous. Timer one will be on about 2/3’ds of the time and its successor timer will be on half of the time. But they are out of phase, so I will never know when they will turn on or off. What I actually do in insert lots of little plastic on and off tabs on the outside of the 24-hour timer clock, approximating the times I have just said. Then I blindly spin each when I’m done so that I have no idea where they are in relation to each other. They will operate as long as there is power in the outlet, and I always pay my electric bill!

The second series is for a vaginal dildo vibrator, and the third is for little vibrators I attach to my nipple clamps (more on that later). The second series is the stingy one. Timer one is on maybe 1/10th of the time and timer two maybe 1/5th. I’ll be lucky to get much out of that one. The third series is like the anal plug, kind of generous. I set timer one to be on 4/5th of the time or so and timer two to maybe ½. Spin spin spin and I don’t know how they line up. 

Plugged into each of the secondary timers is a 50-foot outdoor extension cord. In fact, I have epoxied the plug into the timer. At the other end of the cord is the regular plug to the vibrator in question. This was also epoxied into its socket, long ago. 

I also haul into the living room my bondage belt, which will secure the vibrating dildo and buttplug beyond any recall. This is basically a thick belt of black leather with D-rings bolted on to it, and a leather strip which goes between the legs to hold everything in. Of course it locks on. But I’m far from ready!

I pull out my absurd seven-inch red pumps, with little padlocks to lock to my feet. This sort of heel they call “ballerina” in that it keeps you on your toes. I lay out my red latex opera gloves and a big can of talcum powder to help get them on. I lay out my nipple clamps, basically alligator clips with red rubber nubbies on them and a chain between them. 

I lug from the freezer a long-frozen gallon jug of water. Inside are two keys to a padlock I will use to attach myself to my sturdy coffee table, a garage-sale find I have modified with some unobtrusive eyelet-screws underneath its surface. My plan is to be hog-tied on top of this coffee table until the water melts, allowing me to unlock the restraints keeping me attached to its surface. This will take maybe eight hours or so. After that, I will have to wait for the balloons come down to escape the hogtie itself. 

I padlock two chains I have had pre-cut to the right length to the eyelet screws on the bottom of the coffee table. When I am done I have a big X in chains on top of the coffee table. There is very little slack between where the chains meet and the table; I can hardly lift it. The trick is to thread a second chain under this X and around me while I’m face down on the table, and then fasten it with a lock behind my back such that I can unlock it, even hogtied, if I have the key. The key is in the frozen gallon of water, attached by a doubled length of picture hanging wire. The end to this wire I will thread through the cuff of my right wrist so that I cannot lose it. For comfort I place an exercise mat on top of the chain X.

But I’m not ready yet!

I go to the bathroom to make myself up. Normally I use no makeup at all, but I like to get that slutty feeling when I put myself in bondage for twelve hours. I do my hair in side-ponytails tied with red bows. I use the toilet with that sort of now-or-never desperation people have before going to any long event, and then put on bright red lipstick, rouge on my cheeks and nipples, and perfume (all over). Way too much mascara – blue on my eyelids and a black outline to my eyes. 

Using the mirror, for no intelligible reason, I put a big lipstick X on one ass-cheek and a big red O, all filled in, on the other. Then, on my forehead, being careful to make it read backwards in the mirror and forwards to any imaginary viewer, I write S L U T in letters as big as my forehead will hold. 

I take some fresh cotton from a jar of medicinal cotton, and make a big wad I stuff up my pussy. In no time it is sopping wet. After about twenty minutes I pull it out and make noseplugs out of it. These I insert in each nostril, leaving just a little room for me to breathe. Then I put on one of those rubber nosepinchers made for swimming – this will keep them in. Now my own pheromones are all I can smell. 

I consider putting a large red ballgag in my mouth and then think of something else. I will instead put on my wireless phone headset and program it to turn off call waiting. I will call one of those pathetic date line phone chat services where “girls are free” and, I suppose, most of the girls are actually employees of the service. I look up the number and program it in. 

I set up some chilled sports drink with a superlong straw that I will be able to reach. I also place a bowl in front of my face filled with dry granola so that I won’t starve. I cover the floor beneath the coffee table with old towels in the not-too-unlikely event I lose continence. 

Time for the balloons. I get twine and combine them in groups of threes. Each clump of balloons will have only one key attached to it, plus a two-foot length of string to make snagging them slightly easier. After all, I will still be hogtied when they descend. Each key fits one of the locks I will be using to fasten the ankle and wrist cuffs to each other in a point. Up they go, seven clumps of three balloons each. Immediately they hug the ceiling. No other keys to those locks exist. 

I take this moment to tape the wireless headset phone to my head so that I can’t shake it off. 

Looking up I notice the candelabra exactly over the coffee table. I found this in an antique shop and replaced a light fixture with it when I moved in. Tonight I need to replace the candles in it so that I won’t run out of hot wax during my session. They are positioned so that they will drip entirely on me. I am supposed to use white candles because they burn cooler, but that’s exactly why I use candles of various colors. 

I replace them and light them all. 

Almost showtime. I put a pillow where my head will go. Hey, I’m into torture, not discomfort! I insert the vibrators, make sure the timers are all plugged in, and attach the bondage belt. Its locks are keyed to the balloon keys, so even when I’m off the table I will still be vibrating. I also attach my nipple clamps and make sure they are attached to their vibrators. Immediately my ass and my nipples are vibrating… no dice on my pussy so far though.

Taking some old-fashioned rope, I tie my knees together tightly. 

I assemble my padlocks on the coffee table. I get onto the table on my belly, and, taking one lock, I attach my ankle cuffs to each other. I make sure the picture hanger wire is threaded securely through my right wrist cuff. I bend my knees, bringing my ankles toward my ass. I reach down with an open padlock and hook the ankle cuffs to my left wrist cuff. Click. Now only my right wrist is free. I use it to push the auto-dial function on my wireless phone and I am connecting to the date line. 

It is difficult, but I manage to use the correct lock – it is shaped differently – to attach myself to the coffee table. A chain now passes through the link between my left wrist and my ankles, and goes tightly around me to the X underneath my belly. 

I pause at this point, although I am already committed, because I am about to lose my only free limb. After this I will be unable to even hang up the phone. I make sure I can reach the straw to the gatorade. While I’m deliberating, the vibration in my ass stops. Then the nipple vibration stops. And then the massive full-on vibrator starts up in my pussy – it’s a knobby dildo that barely fits in me, and when plugged in, look out! I take this as a sign to go ahead. 

Click goes the last lock. My wrists and ankles are now firmly attached to each other behind my ass, and my belly is attached firmly to the coffee table. My pussy is vibrating, and suddenly my ass is as well. There’s an operator on the phone asking which chat room I would like. “Do you have one for bondage and discipline?” I ask? The girl pauses only a second before saying, something like well, there is a fetish room, but it’s not specifically for bondage and discipline. “That’s ok, please patch me in.” 

In the fetish room are about three guys and one girl who I figure out quickly works for the service. The guys are paying maybe fifty cents a minute for this. Most are just listening as one of them dominates this girl. He’s making her beg to suck his cock, as if she could over the phone. She’s calling him “Master” and he’s calling her slavegirl. Who am I to question this, I wonder? I have S L U T written on my forehead! And yet this is not exactly my scene. I decide to tell the truth and I explain that I have maybe fifteen or twenty hours before I can escape my hogtie. 

As I say this my pussy-vibe turns on and I gasp a little. The anal plug is vibrating more or less constantly in a nice sort of bass ostinato to my pussy’s intermittent aria. Then I have to explain what is happening to me. My nose sound sort of stuffy so I explain that I have pussy-soaked cotton up both nostrils. The guys are awed, I can tell, but the pro-sub is somewhat shocked. She is paid to pretend to do this stuff; encountering someone who does it for real is a bit much for her. One of the guys – speaking on his own for the first time – says that he used to do some selfbondage in the woods. 

I volunteer that, not wanting to get gangraped, I have almost never done such. However, I do some things along those lines – I explain about the BackPlaster on my ass and the Migraine Ice on my pussy. Also, warming to the scene a bit more now, I tell them that I have done some things involving going in public to retrieve a key. 

They are all ears as I mention what I did maybe a month ago. I exaggerate the story a bit – this is what I told them. 

I had two sets of keys to secure. One was to a locking chastity belt, which, like my bondage belt, can hold dildoes firmly in place. It also has some spikes both outside and in for added interest. The other set was to two pairs of handcuffs, each with a longer than usual chain – about ten inches. These handcuffs did not accept the usual key which open most handcuffs. Only the right key would work. 

On a Friday after work, I mailed an envelope containing two keys to myself third-class. This was my safety. 

Then I put took both remaining keys, the only ones I had now, and drove to the biggest mall in the area (not the closest, by far). One, the chastity belt key, I placed in a magnetic key-holder box and put on the underside of the table at the center of the food mall. Then I walked all the way to the other end of the mall – over a mile I am sure – where there was a fountain people threw coins into. Here I tossed the handcuff key into the water near the edge. 

Then I drove home, showered, ate, put new batteries in my vibrator, and began. I inserted the humming vibrator in my pussy. That needed no lubrication. I lubed up and inserted the anal plug. This was hard with the dildo already in my pussy. I had to bend over to do it, but where there’s a will there’s a way. 
When I straightened up I was already starting to cum. No, I said, and put on the chastity belt. It had, as I said, silver spikes inside and out. Ouch! It had its own lock on the front which clicked into place. Now I was humming, and stuck. 

I put on some smallish nipple clamps, then a bra to cover them up, and then got dressed in a floorlength red skirt and opaque red blouse. I had a big red cape which I threw over my shoulders, and opera gloves. I put on red leather thigh high boots with 6 inch heels, and attached one set of the handcuffs to my ankles. The cape fastened in front, which emboldened me to do a little more. I made myself up sort of slutty, like I am now, but without the word S L U T on my forehead, and, making sure I had cash and change in my purse, I fastened my other pair of long-chain handcuffs behind my back. 

The mall was closing around now, and was on the other side of town anyway. But release was not on my mind right now. I grabbed my keys and went out the door. About two blocks away is a bus stop. I must have made a pretty sight sitting there all in red, with my arms strangely out of sight under my cape. Some teenage boys came by and sat next to me, but luckily they didn’t offer conversation. Eventually some other people arrived and there were about eight of us when the bus finally pulled up. I had my change ready, and made sure I was last in line getting on. I swung my left hand as far right as it could go behind my back and was just able to reach far enough to put my change in the till. The bus driver either noticed nothing or pretended as much. I hoped I wasn’t humming too loud as I walked past the entire bus to sit at the rear. Hmmmmmmmm, went my pussy. Surely someone heard that! But if they did, they ignored me. I sat down gently, as one learns to do when one has a plug up one’s ass. 

I had in mind a movie and then, possibly, some dancing. I rode the bus way across town, using one transfer, to a cineplex with 24 screens. Not caring what was showing, I got exact change ready before getting in line. It was difficult to pay, as the window was fairly high, but I managed to stand tall in my spike heels and slide a ten onto the ledge and at lease close to the hole in the glass. The girl glared at me as she had to extend her arm through the opening to collect my money. “Keep the change,” I said, but she insisted “no tipping,” and put my change with my ticket in the metal tray under the opening. I actually had to sort of turn around, grab the ledge with my left hand behind my back, and reach quickly with my right hand to grab the ticket and my cash. In the process, my handcuff was clearly visible as I reached for the tray. 

My face must have been as red as my lipstick as I let myself down and walked in. Now another sixteen-year-old girl was standing in a sort of uniform to take my ticket. I shifted the change to my left hand, separated the ticket into my right, and waited for a break in the customers so that I could approach her alone. I swung my left arm as far right as it could, and extended my hand from my cape. Again, my metal “bracelet” showed, as did the chain extending behind my back to my left arm. Understanding my situation completely, she looked me right in the eyes and said, sotto voce, “you slut.” 

“You’re totally right, I am,” I said. “Could we go somewhere where I could eat you out real slow and pretty?” 

“No. Third theatre on the right, slut,” she added, and I started to leave but she said, “here, girlie, you forgot your stub.” I waddled back – my ankle cuffs were hard to walk normally with – and she said, “here, I’ll give you a hand,” and she tucked the ticked inside my left bra-cup. While she was there, she dipped down to give me a sharp tweak and found the clamps instead. “Oooh. You really are a hot one,” she cooed at this discovery. 

“Th-thanks, Miss, and you are soo sexy” I actually stammered, and swirled around to go to my movie. I’m not sure whether I’m glad or regretful that I never saw her again. Her shift must have ended during my movie. 

I really don’t know what I saw, and I know you’ll be disappointed because my audience on the phone was. I think between trying to get comfortable with a vibrator and buttplug, and trying to sit as far away from everyone as possible so as to mask my constant hummmmmmm, I just didn’t have any attention left for the screen. I think it was some kind of love story. I do remember that about ten minutes after I sat down, when I had started to relax from my bus ride and humiliation in the lobby, I came big time. A ten on a scale of one to ten. It was hard to stay quiet, and I’m not sure I did. Anyway, I do remember that I came so hard I ejaculated and my seat was wet, so I had to move. My legs were bare under my long skirt, and the inside of my thighs was streaked with my ooze pretty well. 

Then I had to pee, like really really bad, so I went to the restroom. The chastity belt allows for this, with a sort of grate in front of the urethra, but with the dildo inside, it was sure to be messy. My pee came out at high pressure and made a lot of noise, but it did the job. 

I left the theatre without even finishing the movie. There was a different girl where I had been humiliated over my ticket, so I walked past without even looking. I was still humming pretty loud as I waited for the bus, sitting on the bench, arms behind my back under my cape, trying to look nonchalant, but close to another orgasm the whole time. I crossed my legs under my skirt, kicking my leg up and down, wishing someone would buy me a drink or something. Anyway, the bus came, I gave up on my idea of going to a disco, and I went home and tried to relax. I was able to get out of my clothes – no pants, natch, nor panties either, except for my chastity belt, which I would be wearing until I got those keys. I flung myself on the bed naked, on my tummy, and wormed my arm around to play with my clitoris, only to find the spikes of my chastity belt in the way. Damn! I couldn’t manipulate myself properly, but I was able to cum anyway, a little, from the now diminished hum of my vibrator, plus squashing my pelvis against the mattress. 

My listeners were happy with my story. It was, of course, not entirely true. I had invented the humiliation at the theatre, although the rest was true enough. My own situation, in contrast, was extremely real, tied to the coffee table and unable to hang up the phone. My nipples, clamped and vibrating (most of the time) were mashed underneath my flattened breasts, while my back and my ass were getting covered with various colors of wax as if I were a fucking Jackson Pollock canvas. When my vaginal vibrator kicked in I was always trying to cum on its stimulation, but it ended too soon every time. The part of me that had put me in this fix was maddeningly sadistic. 

My breath got ragged and my chat-room buddies asked why. “It’s … because …” I couldn’t get a complete sentence out as I was trying, again, to get off. It just wouldn’t quite click. “ I … can’t … quite … cum.” The guys were immediately excited. Somehow I explained about the timers. The girl, forgetting she’s supposed to be a sub, says “Oh, that’s so interesting – are you really close? Can we do anything to help?” I ask them to collectively humiliate me, you know, call me a slut and so on. So they do. The girl tells me to beg to rim her… well this is not something I would really like to do, but I beg for it. The guys all want blowjobs at once. I’m gasping, but I try to do what they say, sort of. I beg them to let me suck their big handsome cocks. 

It still doesn’t get me off, but I am blushing. I get out of breath again and they lay in to me with slut and floosey and whore and so on. I’m so close to climax, and yet I know I won’t cum for hours, and I have these voices in my head telling me what my forehead says it true, that I am a slut, spelled S L U T like a cheerleader routine, you know, GIMME AN S and so on, and so I start to cry. It’s mostly a long slow, stuttering sob – nothing loud – but they hear it and increase their abuse. They’re yelling at me now. I know my mascara is running down my cheeks. 

Here I am, as horny as I have ever been, and instead of getting it on like some normal high school country girl, I’m tied to a coffee table, unable to climax, being told in no uncertain terms that I deserve to be stripped, blindfolded and tied to the urinals at the train station in downtown Metropolis, or spreadeagled on the lawn in front of a frat house at the state college, or just tied to a streetlight downtown. I agree with their assessment. In my altered state I seem to believe that agreeing with the proposition that I am a slut is the best way to distance myself from my insatiable and unsatisfied state. By condemning myself, I the submissive “bottom” seem to become, also, the cruel and judgmental dominatrix, or “top” who got me into this. Indeed, it was my “top’s” opinion of my “bottom” that decreed my punishments, including the wax and the oddly-timed vibrators. 

Splat goes the wax on my ass and my back, but I’m so covered now, that the pain has diminished greatly. Most of the wax hits old wax, and by the time it flows to where my skin is, it has cooled somewhat. Eventually, I have cooled somewhat as well. The abuse has slowed, then stopped, and I have thanked my abusers for their candid opinions of me. The men eventually sign off and I am left with the woman. Her “stage name” has been Tawny, ridiculously enough, but she now offers me a job with this phone chat-line. I say I am interested and her boss, a man who identifies himself as Cliff, comes on. I’m like, I’ve got my own Cliff Hanger, I don’t need another one. 

Cliff informs me that I have just made over two thousand dollars for him, in fees from the various guys I kept on the line so long in their fetish room. He offers me a commission for doing this sort of thing on a regular basis. I agree, thinking of all the cool bondage gear I can get with some extra spending money. 
As it gets later, even Cliff hangs up, although he talks to me longer than necessary to get my information. You know, like social security number, real name and address, so he can send the check. Maybe I was crazy, but I trusted him with all that. 

Eventually, my ice melts, I roll off of the coffee table onto the floor, and wait for my balloons to float down. Watching a helium balloon become heavier than air while wishing that you could masturbate is a good way to learn patience. I wonder whether Buddhist monks train this way. 

So now, every Friday I do my thing, but, instead of the gag I used to wear during my bondage, I wear my wireless phone, already dialed into the fetish room. Indeed, I dial up early so that I can narrate my self-bondage preparations. The number of people in the fetish room has swelled, and so has my allowance for fetish wear and gear. A win/win situation, as they say. I’m making lots of money. 

One night, one of the customers turns out to be Lana Lang. Of course she uses a pseudonym. She’s with her jock boyfriend, so I bet he talked her into this. I turn on the juice extra hot so he gets the idea that a female sub would be a really nice thing. Bet Lana has some surprises for her. Bet he does too, when he tries to spank her no-flesh ass and stings his hand real bad. Wonder if he fucks her in that super-tight ass of hers – naaw. 

Will I ever find my ideal bondage partner? Well, I can describe him or her. He or she is into selfbondage him or herself, so that we can do it together. Saying it’s a guy, he’s got a few fetishes of his own: he likes panties with lots of vaginal discharge and even dried menstrual blood on the inner panel, and he loves, I mean LOVES giving extended rim jobs. Those are non-negotiable as I intend to make a panty-slave out of him and sit on his face while we’re both tied up waiting for the ice to melt or the balloons to come down or whatever. I expect maybe ten hours of his tongue up my ass while we’re both helpless. 

Oh I’ll let him top me too, but….

On my wish list: he likes to suck my toes and loves to drink my pee. I imagine him sucking my toes in a public park while I read a book on a park bench. I can clearly see him ordering lemonade in a restaurant, and then me taking his half-empty glass to the restroom to fill it for him. I can also see us going into a bar with him on a leash, with a pair of my dirty panties stuffed in his mouth, with enough of the panel sticking out so that people can see that they are heavily, heavily stained. I can also imagine making him wear my panties over his jeans wherever we go together: the supermarket, the bookstore, the movies. I would definitely force him to wear a chastity belt whenever we are apart, so that he cannot possibly masturbate. 
I would make him wear perfume and lipstick and sometimes even a dress. There’s a lot I can imagine. 

I would rig up a slow-drip enema bag with my warm pee in it, spiced by having been used by me in an enema first, and attach it to a ball gag I have drilled a hole in. I would invite some girlfriends over to watch him drink it all down while we laugh! (Maybe even Lana Lang!)

I would share him, like any mere possession. My girlfriends and I could play cards, and he would be tied (ankles, knees, and elbows and hands tight behind his back) kneeling on the floor under the table. He would of course have to eat whoever won the last hand. We would all be stripped from the waist down. During the first hand, before anyone won, he would lick all our toes. He would certainly be blindfolded and would have to thank us by name for the privilege of eating our pussies. If he got confused and thanked the wrong girl, he would get another clothespin on his scrotum. 

If all this sounds pretty dominant for a self-bondage girl, well, one learns from the bottom up. And there are never enough dominant women in the world! Right now I think I would even like to eat Lana’s ass, if she tied me up tight enough!
 

By Sir Stephen
comments welcome at
oberon@uswestmail.net

07-01-02