Gromet's PlazaSelf Bondage Stories

Walking the plank

by Nickerlas

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© Copyright 2003 - Nickerlas - Used by permission

Storycodes: Sbm; bondage; cons; X

Walking the Plank
by Nickerlas
Walking the Plank by Nickerlas
I couldn’t see much through the open zipper in the front of the leather mask, and I couldn’t push the branches out of my way as my wrists were firmly tied behind my back.  Chum was guiding me along the forest path with a strong grip on my arm, all the while filming our progress on his digital.  Apart from sandals and the mask I was stark naked.

We paused as the light brightened, for him to pan the camera.  I caught the glimmer of sun on water and guessed we had arrived at the pond.  I knew this pond, I’d helped him make it some years earlier and was aware that it had some 3 feet of water at the deepest part and was lined with wet clay.  A spring fed it with cold water from deep underground.  By now, of course, it would have grown a thriving ecosystem of weed, snails, frogs and a million small wriggly things.  Yuk.

We moved on round the edge to where the bank was steep and the pond dark and still.  A thick rubber plank had been put there earlier, about a foot wide and 3 feet long, with one end projecting over the water.

I was placed on the plank facing away from the pond.  That was the last I saw for a while as Chum zipped the mask closed, but I felt him tapping my feet one after the other to raise them while he removed the sandals.  The camera must have been set up nearby as he used both hands to tie my ankles and knees.

‘Start moving!’ he growled, prodding me on the thighs and stomach with a heavy stick.

I couldn’t really complain at this treatment.  It had, after all, been my idea in the first place to tie myself up but Chum had improved and dramatised it for the film.  Just at this moment, however, I was having serious misgivings about the whole thing.

But the camera was rolling so I did as I was told and eased my bound ankles back a centimetre at a time, left foot, right foot, left again, feeling outward for the edges of the plank with my toes to keep going straight.  Chum was busy taking close-ups of my feet moving inexorably towards the edge. 

Then the plank started to wobble.  I was almost on the point of balance right over the edge.  I leaned forward a little to redistribute the weight and did another tiny shuffle backwards.  And another.  And another.

The plank was rocking on the edge now and I felt like a high-wire performer struggling to keep balance. But he at least would have the use of his arms, legs and balance pole to help!  Slowly I straightened up.  Most of my weight was on my toes now and it would be difficult to put off the moment much longer.  I tried another little shuffle and instantly knew I had gone past the point of no return.

Oh Christ, this is it!

Very, very slowly I began to topple backwards, then gravity took over and I was accelerating downwards.  I kicked clear of the bank and hit the water with one hell of a splash.

After all that slow build-up things now began to happen fast.  I went right under, the hood filled with water, my hands and bum felt the ooze and I came close to panic.  I pushed off from the bottom with my hands but I couldn’t use my arms to help me upright and splashed back under water again.  The second try I managed to get my feet partly underneath and pushed up desperately only to catapult myself backwards.  The movement gave me space to land more on my feet, however, and after a few more such bunny hops I managed balance and could stand up and drip.

So where was the bank?

Well everywhere, I guess, so I started hopping forward until I felt the pond getting shallower.  I couldn’t hope to keep going as the muddy slope got steeper, so I did a big lurch forward into nowhere.

And landed with my chest on grass!

Made it!

I rolled over onto my back and used my hands to haul myself out of the water until I was sitting on the bank paddling my feet like any holidaymaker.  Relief!  I grinned inside the hood that now smelt of wet leather and pondweed.

Clearly Chum had no intention of helping with untying the ropes – he just filmed me struggling with the wet knots until I had first my wrists and then my legs free.  I stood up shakily and unzipped the eye slot.  Chum started making rotating movements with his spare hand, so I turned slowly round full circle; he wanted to film the mud on my back and feet and the bits of weed hanging off me here and even there.

Chum put the camera down and started re-tying my wrists.

“That was great”, he said.  “This time, could you stay under a little longer?”

“What?  Christ, you don’t want me to do it again?”  I was appalled.

“I need a long shot from across the pond to cut in with the close-ups.  Come on, don’t be wet!”  I didn’t share the laugh as he hauled me back to the plank, adjusted its position and tied my legs together again.   “Remember, I’m directing this movie.”  And he zipped my eyes back into pond-flavoured darkness.


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