Bondage a la Carte

by Jurgen von Stuka

  It was a very long night. I dozed and awakened many times, trying to find a comfortable spot and finding none. The pain in my hands, feet and elbows was still there, but only really bad if I moved. The rest seemed to be numb. My shoulders ached from the strain and everywhere the chain touched skin was sore and raw. The emotions were quite different now. Different than what I would have expected. There was this terrible discomfort, the pain and the anger, but under it all was the erotic touch of the cuffs, the helplessness and the wonder of what would come next. I felt that he wasn’t going to really hurt me or he would have already, but what else he had in store was not so clear. Ransom? Hostage? Something else I didn’t want to think about...a torture or sex toy for him or his friends? Probably not that or he would have already done his thing with me. In fact, he had treated me almost as though I was sacred. His hands had touched, but not lingered, passing over and around my flesh, but never stopping to explore. At one dark moment, I thought it odd that he hadn’t tried anything else, but maybe that was coming later, I thought. So why was I wet and what was the erotic thing I was feeling in my head, a feeling that surfaced around the pain and made me sleepy, like being drugged.

  My crotch hurt and my arms and legs were numb, but there was that other thing there, haunting me. It was the same thing I had sometimes felt watching someone get tied up in the movies or on TV. I had always thought it odd that I got more turned on by the tying scene then the obligatory bedroom or shower scene. Not all tying scenes worked either. The goofy stuff where the office manager is tied in his office or the teenager gets tied up in the kitchen had no effect. But the good parts were where the bad guys tie the hero or heroine tight, play with them and leave them alone in the cave or ship’s hold. For reasons I had never understood, these fantasies almost always worked and got me excited to the point where I would pant and sweat and eventually, if things went right, bring me to a damned better orgasm than any man ever had. I had decided that, all personal jokes aside, I was perhaps a “bondage lesbian”, or some other kind of eroticist and, when I thought about it, that was probably all right. Now, I was the person being held captive and it was not pleasant, but a tiny part of me was saying, “This almost feels good. It hurts, but some of it feels good.”

  Not being in control, not being able to move or leave is both scary and arousing. But what would I do if he found out? If he figured I was turned on, he might do anything. I went to sleep thinking about this, not liking the possible answers.

  Morning came only because I could see some small tendrils of daylight through one of the taped up basement windows. He showed up a few hours later with a hot cup of coffee in one hand and an eight-foot long bullwhip in the other.

  “Good Morning, bitch,” he said. “Have a nice comfortable night?”

  I moaned. “Bitch?” That was a new line. The salt bag was loose and wet, oozing out between the wire and the corners of my dry mouth.

  “This is training day number one,” he said. “You can do as you are told the first time and the whip here stays coiled up. Screw up and you get it in places you haven’t even considered yet. Do you understand me?”

  I nodded, groaned and nodded my chained and collared head. He unlocked the cage and the leash, then coaxed me back out and onto the cool, damp cement floor. Then the chest and waist chains came off and the gag was taken out. I breathed much better when he took off the cuffs and brought my hands around in front of me and recuffed them there. Actually grateful, I knelt there, as instructed, while he pointed to the bathroom in the corner and told me to do whatever I had to do and don’t close the door. The whip dangled from his left hand. I crawled, too hurt and tired to stand, to the toilet, peeled off the remains of the torn hose and panties and sat down. That was the best I could do. Modesty was left behind on the same road as common sense had been yesterday when I obeyed his water pistol-enforced command and got into his van. We stared at each other across the basement. I finished, flushed and reached for the rags at my feet.

  “No.” he hissed. “And take the bra off too. NOW.”

  I had no choice. I pulled the torn satin and elastic garment off and stood up, facing him while he watched with a scary detached look on his face.

  “You don’t get it, do you?” he asked. I shook my head, the collar and leash jingling with the motion.

  “Let me enlighten you, college girl. You are here for more school. We’ll train you in the arts of bondage and discipline. B&D. Ever heard of it? Sure you have. Did you see or read ‘Nine and A Half Weeks?’ or ‘The Story of O?’ If you did, you already know what’s in store. I wanted the video tapes so that we’d have a record of you before and after…makes for interesting comparison and helps increase the sale value.” He paused. “We figure you’re worth about a hundred grand right now, without training and with a little too much baby fat. But with a few weeks of work and some firming up and slimming down, we’ll probably get more like a hundred and a quarter in the marketplace.”

  Marketplace? Huh. What was he talking about? What marketplace. B&D? Discipline? For him or me? This was crazy. I was going to be sold? To whom? I shouted and screamed at him and the whip came up and wrapped around my back, the end catching my left breast on the outside and stinging like fire. Tears came from my eyes and I cried hard, big sobs coming up from deep inside where they’d been since he first grabbed me in the van. I staggered back against the plaster wall, cupping the injured breast with cuffed hands.

  “Come over here, honey,” he said, motioning to me with his hand and smiling as he saw the impact his words had on me. I slowly tottered over to him and stood there, my face wet with tears and the salt water and moisture clogging up my nose. I blew hard out my nose and cleared my breathing passages while he watched.

  “OK. Let’s get the tough part out of the way,” he said. “Step over to the frame.” He pointed to the heavy steel framework against the wall. I shook my head and whined, but of course, it did no good. He pulled the leash and I followed. The frame was cold and he spent several minutes attaching my small body to it in ways that convinced me that I was in for even more discomfort and pain. When he was finished, I was bound so well that nothing moved except my fingers and toes. My arms were back behind the frame’s cross bar, the bar against my back and in front of my elbows. My wrists were locked into strong metal cuffs welded to the cross bar. My collar was locked to an upright part of the frame and my legs were cuffed at the ankles and above the knee and then spread wide. Other metal bands held my waist and chest to the frame. The bands were tightened by levers that swung one hundred eighty degrees and closed the bands. To get the right tension, there were turnbuckles that took up the slack. He adjusted these devices several time, releasing the levers, tensioning the turnbuckles and then closing the levers again. I realized that this was the same sort of tie-down arrangement used by truckers to secure heavy loads on flat bed trailers. It was simple, extremely heavy duty and once the levers were locked down, nothing except a cutting torch or bolt cutters was going to free me. When he was satisfied that I could not move an inch, he rotated the frame so that the base came up and I was in a horizontal position with my legs raised. My crotch was positioned directly in front of a small metal stool. He then walked around to the end where my head was and adjusted a metal and leather head brace so that I was tearfully looking up at the ceiling. He reached over to the tray of surgical instruments.

  “Time for a new gag,” he said. “We don’t want to disturb the neighbors, do we?”

  The new gag was a large rubber plug that filled my entire mouth and stretched my jaws wider than the salt bag had. Once the plug was in, he inflated it and then closed off the air valve, sealing my mouth open. He went back to the stool at the other end of the frame and positioned himself right between my legs, at eye level with my crotch. He took out a razor and a can of scented shaving cream and shaved my pubic hair off quickly while I struggled and tested the frame’s strength. The most movement I was able to get was by tensing my buttocks and slightly rot
ating my hips. The rather suggestive nature of this move convinced me not to try it more than once. I could not see what he was doing, but his handling of the razor and other cold metal tools between my legs encouraged me to lie still. He inserted what felt like a gynecologist’s speculum-type device into my vagina and slowly opened it, just as a doctor might do. I jerked involuntarily and he said something that I could not hear, eased up on the stretching device for a minute and then proceeded to open me up even wider. Taking my labia in his fingers and stretching each one slowly until it was pulled well away from the opening, he began to attach small metal snap rings at evenly spaced points along my lips’ edge. Every few minutes, as he picked up a new tool or part, he extended his hand so that I could see what it was. This was an effective technique. The implements he was using were scary enough to keep me from even twitching as he applied them to my open crotch. He’d take the ring and insert it into a pliers-like tool that was in his other hand. The tool opened the ring up and showed the gleaming sharp points about a quarter inch apart. He then brought the ring to the stretched lip flesh and allowed the ring to close around the skin. I screamed louder and harder than I had ever screamed before. The gag kept some of it in, but the room filled with the sound of my anguish. The pain was terrible. It was like the pain from a dentist’s drilling deep in the nerve of a tooth without any Novocain. I wept and cried and screamed, but I could move only a fraction of an inch by flexing my buttock and leg muscles. Only my twisting in the metal bands and wiggling toes and fingers showed how miserable I was.

  The rings were the types that are used to pierce ears without a hole first being put in the tissue. The ends of the heavy surgical stainless steel wire are tapered and sharp and the ring is made of spring steel. The ring is opened and the flesh inserted into the opening, then the ring is allowed to close and the sharp edges dig into the flesh, slowly cutting their way through the tissue until the ends meet and the piercing is made. There is very little blood with this process and I had several friends in college who had body piercing done this way. The technique was not as sterile as the more common method of using surgical syringe needles to pierce and then inserting the open rings, but at this time, the difference seemed of little consequence. He was attaching steel rings to my lower lips and I lay there, hung there, tightly bound to this steel frame, screaming my head off and no one was going to hear me or save me. His technique left a lot to be desired. It was neither painless nor subtle and he was working fast, for whatever reason I couldn’t imagine. From my perspective, it was a horribly painful experience and I had no idea how much pain could come with these little rings as they slowly cut into my private flesh.

  He carefully placed three rings on each lip, then attached some kind of thin wire to the rings and to the edges of the frame, then pulled on them so that the lips were even wider apart, exposing the sensitive area between. Then he was probing inside with his rubber-gloved fingers while his thumb gently massaged my clitoris. He soon got the embarrassing reaction he wanted as the little nubbin rose to meet his finger and I alternately blushed and struggled as my bound body responded unwillingly to his touch. He got up and went around the frame, tightening all the connections, adding another set of heavy metal bands just at the top of each thigh and another above each knee. He raised the bar behind me and pulled my arms back even more, then spread my legs further apart until I thought the joints or the bones would break or crack. He refastened the head frame and the brace under my chin, making sure there was no room for movement, and then he went back to his seat, took a drink from the glass of cold coffee next to him, looked at me and smiled. I could only make minimum eye contact with him by staring downward through the space between my breasts and over my stomach. Lying there in such pain and anguish, I thought that his grin was like that of the characters in horror movies just before they do something terrible. It was a Bela Lugosi grin, a Freddie Kruger grin, and a Boris Karloff grin of maniacal evil.

  In his right hand was yet another little steel ring already set in the pliers-like tool. Making sure that I was watching with all the fear I had, he lowered the tool to the place where his finger had been and set the ring with the sharp ends on either side of my clitoris. I screamed, bucked my bound hips and tried to shift my position, but the frame held tight. My arms were behind me and immobile, my legs pulled so wide apart that there was no room for any motion there and my back was arched and held tightly to the frame. I could not move. I wiggled fingers and toes, making them flutter spastically, moaning and humming into the rubber gag, begging him not to close the pliers. I had already shut my eyes tightly. I was trying to shake my head, trying to move away from the frame’s cold, unyielding embrace, trying to do anything, anything that would make the pain and horror go away. But then he released the pliers and the ring snapped shut and flashes of white pain rushed through my whole body and struck me in the head. I felt like I had been shot in my most sensitive, most protected place. My clit had been squeezed and pierced and violated and I blacked out.

  I awoke sometime later and was no longer on the frame. I was back in the cage, my arms were again chained behind me and my ankles chained and then connected up to the wrists in a chained hog tie. I felt a chain around my waist as well and this was fastened to the cage somewhere. I could feel the horrible rings in my hurt and swollen crotch. My nipples were on fire and I wondered if he’d put rings in them as well. I later found out that he’d pierced them, but put in waxed thread instead of rings, for the time being.

  I lay on my side, but could see nothing because he had added some sort of hood over my head and gag. The hood was leather and fit very tightly, sealing me into a cocoon of pain and remorse. I tried to move my leather-sealed head only to get a flash of pain from my nose. Any motion hurt the septum and it seemed as though he had done something to my nose as well. A ring there too? Probably so. The pain was complete, from head to crotch. I went to sleep finally. It was a long time before the next day came.

  “Hiya, honey,” he boomed, his voice coming through the ear coverings of the helmet. He sounded like he was standing next to the cage. “How’s the little ringed pussy this morning?”

  I opened my aching eyes and saw nothing. The hood sealed out all light. But his grotesque sense of humor was almost as annoying and painful as his tortures. I made no move to acknowledge his unwelcome presence, wishing he’d go away, or better yet, release me and let me go away.

  “Ready for your next lesson?”

  “Ummm, um,” I finally moaned with as little enthusiasm as possible.

  I heard the cage door being unlocked and then felt a painful tug on first the ring in my crotch and then the one in my nose.

  “Let’s roll out of there, sleepy head, and get to work. All this sleep will make you fat and unprofitable.”

  What? I thought, the surprise statement suddenly registering. “Unprofitable?” The tugs were not to be ignored as it felt like he was pulling the septum out of my nose and my clit from its warm and violated cave. “Ok, ok,” I mumbled into the gag. Outside the helmet he heard: “Ohhay, ohhay.”

  I was out of the cage and standing on the carpeted floor. Everything I owned hurt. My arms, legs, breasts, neck, crotch, nose, mouth. Everything hurt. The degree of pain went from really terrible in my impaled crotch and nose to a muscular ache in my bound limbs. He unlocked the arm bindings first, recuffing my hands in front with a short linkage to the collar. Then the securing section of the hood was opened over my mouth and the massive wet rubber gag was slowly deflated and removed. I licked my lips and tasted rubber, leather and dried blood from the ring job he’d done on my nose.

  “Don’t worry about that, honey,” he said. “We’ll get you cleaned up eventually, but the nose ring will take a few weeks to heal. You behave and do as you’re told and I’ll ease up on the nose chain for a while. Do we have a deal?” Even with the gag out, I simply nodded and wiggled my fingers, trying to get better circulation going there.

  “Want to use the toilet?” he asked
.

  I nodded and we shuffled off to the little room at the back of the cellar. When we got there, he stopped me with a hand on my shoulder. He turned me around, backed me up until my legs touched the cold porcelain edge of the toilet and I sat down. Pissing with the rings in place was going to be interesting. It was. The rings hung down and caused splatter and that brought a shot of pain to the pierced flesh. I started and jumped up off the seat, peeing on the floor and down my legs. The nose ring was yanked, hard and I pitched forward, nearly falling as my chained ankles made me trip. I went down on one knee and his knee caught me in the nose. I screamed as the blood started to run back out my nose from the blow and the piercing hole. As I stood up, my foot caught the end of the clit chain and I stopped short, mid way through the knee bend as the chain pulled on my poor pierced bud. Sitting back on the toilet, I just cried, screaming and crying as tears and blood mixed in the hood.

  He was pissed. He threw me down on the floor and brought out two monster dildoes. With a bit of some lube gel, he unceremoniously shoved one into my cunt and the second one up my ass, while I shouted and screamed into the gag, struggling to resist but only making him madder. He once again brought the end of the waist chain down through my butt crack, through a small ring in the end of the butt plug and also through the same sort of ring on the base of the front dildoe, then locked it to the front of the waist chain. This new arrangement hurt the area where the new clit ring was mounted and again I yelled to no avail. In a few minutes I was back in the cage, hands and elbows cuffed behind me and fastened to the overhead of the cage. I was on my knees, ankle cuffs closely linked together and another set of chains around my legs above the knee. The back of the waist chain was connected to the cage top as well and my hood was linked to the front bars of the cage. Pulling on the waist chain now had the additional effect of forcing the two probes deeper into my ass and cunt, so it was prudent to remain kneeling with some slack in the chains holding me to the top of the cage. Nose and clit chains were joined somewhere under me. Everything that had hurt before hurt more now. Much, much more.