Weekend Fantasia-Work

It was 1PM on a summer Saturday, and the Costume Shop was closing for the weekend. Talia locked the front door, and said good-bye to the skeleton crew from the rental department as they punched out and left. Talia, who managed the Retail Sales department, the masks and makeup and accessories, was usually the last one out. She finished counting out the cash register and reconciling the receipts, then punched out herself. But she did not leave.

Instead, she went to the basement, where the business fabricated fiberglass mascot heads, and borrowed a roll of broad transparent tape. She put this in her handbag, and climbed the stairs to the top of the five-story costume warehouse, checking each floor as she did so, to be sure that no one else was lingering in the building.

On the top floor, she went from the stairs at the back to the front of the building, and put the roll of tape on a windowsill, along with a knife, a pair of handcuffs, a key for a different pair of handcuffs, a length of chain, and two open padlocks. She took the old elevator back down, stopping to take with her the helmet from one of the store’s most expensive suits of armor.

Back on the ground floor, she went to the small back office she shared with the firm’s bookkeeper. A huge old safe stood open in the corner. Out of her bag, she took another pair of handcuffs, a key to the pair upstairs, keys to the two padlocks, and a set of antique-pattern leg irons with yet a different key.

Taking a deep breath, she stripped off her dress, folded it neatly, and put it into the safe. Her bra and panties followed, leaving her wearing only a black satin waist cincher with fishnet stockings gartered to it. She had black patent high-heeled sandals on her feet. She had been teased about her sexy attire, but let it be known that she was going to be going out of town early with friends to go clubbing. Now, she looked like a fetishist’s dream as placed her bag containing her purse, money, ID, and all her keys, including the leg iron keys, into the safe. The handcuff key alone she reserved, placing it into the top drawer of her desk. The desk key she held in her hand, then, decisively, strode up to the front of the store. Due to window displays, there was no direct vision into the interior of the store except though the glass of the front door, which exposed only a short corridor to a stained glass interior door. Opening the inner door, she carefully tossed the desk key so that it lay at the bottom of the outer door.

That meant that, if she carried through her plans, in order to free herself from bondage, she would eventually have to expose herself—at least for a few moments—to the view of anyone who might chance to pass the glass door.

She went back to her office, closed the safe door and spun the dial. Then, taking first one ankle and then the other, locked on the leg irons. Although there were skirts galore in the costume warehouse, there would be no question of putting on any pants—or panties—until free of the irons, the keys of which were now locked in the safe. She took a few steps, testing their restraining effect.

Then, she picked up the knight’s helmet. It was a type known as a close-helmet, roughly head-shaped with a flaring neckpiece, or gorget, that sat on the wearer’s shoulders. Checking to be sure her long hair was securely clipped up out of the way, she buckled the gorget around her neck, and settled the helmet over her head. Then she closed the beaver, or faceguard, which was a solid piece of metal , pierced with small holes for ventilation, and two narrow slits for vision. Seeing was alright straight forward, but very restricted up, down, or to the sides. It essentially gave her a case of tunnel vision, and felt very heavy and strange. Her breathing sounded hollow in her ears, like Darth Vader. She knew her voice would be muffled outside the helmet, as outside sounds were muffled and distant to her. And, of course, she would not be able to use her mouth for anything except talking to herself until the helmet was off.

She held her right wrist up in her vision and snapped the handcuff closed around it. She held her breath as she put her hands behind her and ratcheted the cuffs snugly on her left wrist. Now, as she had planned, she was trapped in her nudity and her bondage, at least until she could make her way up to the top floor of the building, where lay the key to the handcuffs she had on. She could neither dress nor cover herself. Even though she could have reached the safe dial, barely, with her cuffed hands behind her, she could not also then see the dial to work the combination. Her desk was locked, and that key would do her no good now. Quivering with excitement she savored her predicament. Then, she set out on her journey.

She carefully stepped out through her work area, and paused a moment on the open display floor, feeling the cool air of the empty store on unaccustomedly bare flesh. She caught sight of her bizarre image, like a Soryama android, in a full length mirror, and nodded with pleasure.

The next step of her journey was the first stairs, a broad open staircase up to the second-floor rental area. She placed her feet in the high-heeled platforms carefully on the steps, one at a time, holding herself very erect to preserve her balance. She only needed to lean on the door at the top of the stairs to open it and slither through. She was now in the display area for rental costumes, with racks of the most popular styles and changing booths for trying them on. She went past the rental counter and into the back sewing room, where the stairs to the third floor were. She had to back up to the stair door to pull it open and sidle into the stairwell, which was dim and steep, but had the advantage of being narrow as well, so that she could easily lean against the walls if she felt unsteady.

The next two floors were bulk storage of rack after rack of costumes, two levels and more high. She made her way into the center of floor three and shouted her joy defiantly. What little sound escaped her echoing helmet was absorbed by the acres of fabric surrounding her.

The stairs to the fifth floor were narrowest and steepest of all, and were closed at the top by a heavy fire door with a spring closer. Pushing the door with her shoulder, with her limited traction and leverage, did not open the door far enough for her to get through!

Ultimately, she put her back to the door, leaned her arms and shoulders against the metal panel, bent her knees and leaned back, sliding through the door in what was essentially a controlled fall onto her buttocks. She pulled her legs through the door, which left her sitting on the old, worn floorboards. She didn’t fancy trying to get from her knees to her feet again in high heels with no hands, and with the heavy helmet unbalancing her, so she pushed herself around to be sitting against the fire door, pulled her feet up underneath herself, and ‘walked’ her shoulder blades up the door to a standing position.

The fifth floor was the business’ “attic”, full of things that were old, worn, or seldom called for. The staff might come up here once in a week, if that. Only because she had been up earlier was the atmosphere not dusty and airless. She stepped carefully around piles of worn-out belts and rusted army helmets to the front of the building, where her things rested on the windowsill.

Turning her back to the window, she felt for the key, found it, and carefully inserted it into the keyhole of her left cuff. It turned smoothly and the cuff fell open. With relief, she lifted her hands to her head and removed the steel headgear. Setting the helmet aside, she took her hair out of its clips and ran her fingers through it, which had the double effect of dispersing the sweat from it an unkinking her shoulders. She sat unconcernedly on the windowsill as she did so. At this height, she was  invisible from the sidewalk. Although the windows were rather dirty, she would have been in full view from windows across the street, but she knew that those buildings were all storage on the upper floors also, and the change of anyone being in a position to see her was so remote, she felt the small thrill well worth the risk.

She then began preparing for the second leg of her journey. She finished removing the handcuffs she had worn upstairs, and then bent down and took off her shoes. It was harder going downstairs in high heels than up, and being in stocking feet gave her a different sort of vulnerable feeling. With the small knife, she cut four strips of the broad, strong, and sticky clear tape. She picked up the first strip and carefully smoothed it lengthwise across her lips. It covered her mouth from just below her nose to the bottom of her chin. The second and third pieces went vertically down her cheeks from her eyes to under her jaw line, to anchor the ends of the first strip. The fourth and longest went from the back of her neck under her hair, around to the front and across her lips again, and around again to the back. She raised her voice, attempting to speak, getting only a soft hoot through her nose. Her lips were truly sealed.

Then, she picked up the length of chain and two small padlocks. She used one to attach one end of the chain to the middle of the chain connecting her leg irons (the keys to which were still in the safe). She looped the other end of the chain around the center of the second set of handcuffs, and secured it with the second lock. These had a totally different key than the others, and this key was in the locked desk. The cuffs were heavier and connected with a jointed rod which made these more restrictive and harder to get off than the ones she had had behind her. With these cuffs and chains locked on, she would be unable to raise her hands above her waist, albeit this time she would have her hands in front. Of course, she would be able to reach her face if she doubled up into a ball, but it would still be a difficult and time-consuming process to try to claw the tape off her face that way. She swiftly put her things aside, then took the handcuffs and locked them on. The keys for these were in her desk. The keys for the leg irons and the padlocks were in the safe. It was time she began her trek downstairs.

Surefooted in her stocking feet, and with more control of her balance, she was able to move more swiftly. Without the helmet, her eyes and ears seemed preternaturally sharp. Dust motes in the rays of afternoon sun were dazzling points of light. The old building itself was silent, but it seemed she could hear every car and passer-by on the sidewalk in front. On the third floor, she pretended that she heard someone entering the building and looked around for a place to hide. She pushed behind a rack of long costumes, letting her breasts and buttocks be caressed by the satins and laces, the velvets and homespuns. What if someone did come back? The show rental manager might come in to pull costumes for a full production. The account manager might come in to review the books for the week. The owner might come in to wheel and deal on his office phone. In any case, such tasks might take hours. If not otherwise discovered, (horrors!) what could she do but lie uncomfortably hidden until the building grew silent again, perhaps until night?

But no such actual intrusion interrupted her fevered reveries. On the second floor, she squirmed her way onto one of the large cutting tables and imagined herself a ‘sacrificial victim’ laid out on some grim altar. Again, she ‘hid’ herself in a dressing room—inadequately, since the short curtain did not go to the floor, and would not hide her net-stockinged feet or shackled ankles. The dressing room mirror gave her a good, close-up view of herself, her lips a smear of red under the distortion of the tape, her bosom flushed, her nipples erect, her hands “demurely” chained in front of her sex, her only garments mere decoration. She was someone’s sexy captive, on her way to life as a slave girl--.

Now feeling that things were getting late, she padded down to the first floor, where she paused a moment to consider. The keys to her handcuffs were in her locked desk, the key to which lay in view of the street at the front door. The keys to the leg irons and connecting chain were in the safe. She could possibly, with work, get the safe open, and undo the irons, maybe even pull on her panties (scanty thong that they were), and pull off the tape gag before she went for the desk key. On the other hand, the risk was only slightly greater, so why not go for it--. She turned toward the front door.

The inner stained glass door was a mixed blessing. No one could see her as she anxiously listened for traffic passing on the street, but she could not see out either. She could hear the noise of the occasional car or truck passing, but no conversation. She would not be able to hear someone who was not talking but just walking. This block grew quiet on a Saturday afternoon, although next door was a combination antique shop and café, and on the other side was a video store that was notorious for its selection of kinky porn tapes.

Grasping the handle in her cuffed hands, she eased the inner door open and peered through the crack she made. No one was in sight. This was as good a time as any. Taking a deep breath, she heaved back on the door (she had never noticed before how many heavy doors this place had!) and scraped through. Her chains held her to a frantic scuffle to the door, although thankfully the matting on the floor muffled the rattle of the shackles. She crouched to scoop up the key, intensely aware that her nudity was as displayed to the world as though she were kneeling in the tall show window. She shot back to her feet as she heard voices approaching—two men, coming toward her. She scampered to the inner door and flung herself against it, feeling like her bare backside was glowing like a beacon and impossible to miss. She stumbled through, and the door clicked shut behind her as the voices passed.

The adrenalin rush was the last straw. Knees barely supporting her, she staggered to the owner’s office. With her last vestige of self-control, she carefully placed the precious key on the desk before she flopped into the boss’ big leather chair, leaned back, braced her feet against the edge of the desktop, and frantically touched her quivering vagina, which almost instantaneously brought her to an orgasm that drove her back in the chair like a rocket blast-off. She wheezed and gasped through her nose as the edges of the handcuffs caressed her pubic mound, and links of chain slid between the lips of her vagina. Eventually, the shocks and aftershocks came to an end.

She looked around. She had lost almost half an hour in the stupor of afterglow. She got up, retrieved the key to her own desk, and padded into her office. She unlocked the desk, got the handcuff keys, and unlocked the cuffs with a sigh of relief. With the help of a scissors from her drawer, she unpeeled the tape from her face, which she carefully rolled up and set aside to take with her for disposal. Stepping over the cuffs on the floor, she spun the safe dial and took out her bag. She unlocked the leg irons and put the whole assembly into the bag, following that action with a grateful stretch. She went to the washroom and cleaned up, scrubbing off her ruined makeup, and then, examining the tape marks on her face, put new on with a heavy base from the theatrical stock. She put on eyeliner, shadow, blush, and lip color heavily to match the base, overdrawing her face boldly—sluttishly.

She went back to her office, and, after a moment’s thought, neatly folded her scanty bra and panties, sealed them in a large envelope, labeled it for herself, put it back in the safe, and closed and locked the door. She put her dress on carefully.

She walked in stocking feet to the elevator, rode it to the top, and retrieved her shoes, the helmet, the tape, and her knife, handcuffs, and keys. She put her shoes on, her things in her bag, and bestowed the other things where they belonged on the trip down.

Finally—it was now late in the afternoon—she paused to check herself out in the mirror by the door on the way out. With her extreme make-up, short, tight black dress—not obviously but still discernably braless beneath--, net stockings and high heels, she frankly thought she looked like a call girl, a slut, and it turned her on. She knew that when she got to her car, she would drive home “Story of O” fashion, with her short skirt up around her waist, and her bare ass on the car seat. She would treat herself to a long, sensuous bath, a bottle of wine—she actually had no commitments this weekend at all—and a long evening and long Sunday of bondage. She hefted her heavy shoulder bag and smiled as she got an idea—perhaps the store next door had bondage videos? How wicked to go in as she was and ask. She eagerly went out the door and locked it behind her.

End of part One
 
 
 
 

26.02.03