Bondage a la Carte

by Jurgen von Stuka

  This was not, as he put it, going all that well. I didn’t train that easily, I guess, but I knew that if this kept up, he’d have no one left to train because I was on the edge of losing it right now.

  Day four was nipple ring day. It was the same thing all over again. Out came the bloody waxed threads, in went two more rings; one in each nipple. He was now applying some sort of antibiotic salve to all pierced parts three or four times a day. This made sense as I had expected the piercings to become infected and I fantasized that the infections would spread and I would end up dying in the cage and no one would ever know what had happened to me. The crotch chain holding the dildoes in place was yet another nuisance because it rubbed and irritated the new clit ring. Surprisingly, he invented a fix for this by putting a large steel ring into the chain between where it exited the front of the vaginal plug and where it joined the waist chain. This ring was centered directly over and around my clit, and when all the chains were tightened and in place, the whole assembly drove the plugs further into their places and my poor little ringed clit remained centered in the ring, untouched by the links of chain.

  Day five was like the others, only he’d stopped putting rings and holes in my flesh and was concentrating on making me a more obedient little slave so that he’d get more money for me later. Clearly, he intended to use me in some kind of test before he auctioned me off and he showed this daily by making sure I was unmarked, and unhurt. He would remove the double dildoes once a day, let me clean myself up with a towel and warm water and then relube and reinsert the gross rubber things before putting me back in the cage. He also made remarks about us having some “fun” to break the tension between us.

  So…day six was sex day. We had sex. He and I, there in the cellar lab. It was a pretty well orchestrated event, not something he had simply decided to do at the last minute. He took out the rubber cocks that by now had taken up what seemed to be permanent residence in my cunt and ass, remarking while he slid them out that my nether openings were now much better suited for what he had in mind.

  He had changed the sheets on top of the mattress on the twin bed, attached sets of hand cuffs to the four corners and even rigged a strap at waist position so that I wouldn’t flop around too much if and when I resisted his advances. He opened the eye flaps of the hood, but left the rest in place, so I was going to get fucked while wearing the bondage hood and gag…not an altogether pleasant prospect but one that didn’t seem all that bad, considering the alternatives, such as his getting his bull whip out again. He pushed me down on the bed and fastened my hands to the top corner cuffs, then put the lower cuffs on my ankles. I hummed and whined and tried to get him to take the ankle cuffs off because, after all, I was going to have a tough time accommodating him well if I was chained down to the bed at all four points. He had none of that. Just stripped and climbed onto the bed and on top of me, his prick already huge and red.

  “Want some foreplay?” he asked, putting his mouth close to my hooded ear. I nodded and hummed a yes.

  “Want me to wear a condom?” he asked, laughing. Again, I nodded hard and hummed in a positive fashion, hoping he was serious.

  “Oh, alright,” he whined and hopped off the bed, walked over to a shelf and returned with a handful of wrapped condoms.

  “Now, bitch, which color would you like?”

  “Hummm, Muun mummm…” was all I could offer.

  “Red’s nice,” he said and tore open a red package, put the rubber on and climbed back on top of me.

  “Screw the foreplay,” he said, sounding more annoyed than I think he was. “You got your request. Now I get mine.”

  With that, he pushed his way into my already well-lubricated vagina and we went at it. He wasn’t bad. His technique was probably better than that of most rapists and I have to admit it wasn’t, after all I’d been through, exactly traumatic. After a brief recovery, during which we both concentrated on getting our breathing back to normal, he played with me, gagged and hooded as I was, for a long time and I knew what was coming because I was being warmed up for it. He wasn’t too crude. He rubbed and stroked my thighs and ass and the sides of my ringed breasts. He didn’t hurt me that much, but my ringed sex was in no condition to take this sort of thing this soon and he knew it. The second time he came took longer for both of us…me moaning into the gag inside the leather hood and him breathing hard next to my head. It wasn’t consensual sex, but then again, I wasn’t putting up much of a fight.

  It always seemed to me that girls who complained about rape, or near rape by guys they knew and had really encouraged, were usually misplacing their anger and distress. After all, if they hadn’t gone out with the guy, worn skirts with a hem that was a millimeter below their crotch, worn a thong instead of sturdier panties, and had not been shoving their tits in the poor guy’s face, they wouldn’t have encountered what they later seemed to complain about. No doubt, I was in the female minority, but I had also argued in female company that the present day phenomenon of women blaming men when they got pregnant was an asinine and misplaced indictment. My point, which always got shouted down in group discussions, was that sex is a two part event, unless it is clearly rape. Assuming that both parties got in bed together and both were sober and not stoned simple, the resulting pregnancy could hardly be blamed entirely on the male.

  I had further illuminated this thesis with the argument that there was no reason why, in this society where women had fought for and more or less won equality, that the man should have to end up with the double penalty of paying child support and alimony when the woman had, of her own free will engaged in the sex act and probably enjoyed it. Boy, did that argument go over well in mixed, cocktail party company. The guys instantly bought into it and the women conspired to have me lynched later.

  But there I was, cuffed to a metal bed, being held against my will, (or at least most of my will), by someone I didn’t even know, in a basement somewhere at the edge of the earth and about to again have sex with him. In any discussion, the conclusion would have been that I was nuts.

  So we screwed for about fifteen minutes, he fired his second salvo and I moaned accordingly, getting pretty close to the edge, but of course, not in synch with him. The third time, he unlocked my ankles from the bed frame and then put a long chain on the left cuff, threw it under the bed across to the other side, pulled it up and locked it to the right leg cuff. Now, at least, I had limited freedom for my legs and I used it. He got my legs up on his shoulders and, all the while talking quietly to me, drove his member into my ass. Wearing the dildoes for the last few days certainly made this easier for both of us. In spite of that, he didn’t get to plunge right in. He did it with some degree of tact and patience, as my butt wasn’t quite ready for this intrusion, but in time, slowly, he got his thing into the hole and pounded away while I yelled and screamed into the gag. The sounds were pretty much lost in the hood.

  He had his orgasms and I, I must admit, had mine. I was chained to the metal bed, my wrists to the headboard and my ankles to the foot.

  “You’ll do,” was all he said at the time of climax. “You’ll do. I certainly find you more stimulating with your mouth sealed,” he said after the third time. Behind that comment, I thought, lay what would have been, in other circumstances, an interesting discussion.

  The next week, after displaying me gagged and hanging by my cuffed wrists from an overhead beam, he sold me to a woman who came to the cellar, looked at me as though I was a piece of furniture and left. He had me drink some wine with a drug in it and I was out like the proverbial light in two minutes. The next thing I knew, I was in someone else’s cellar, on my knees, chained with my nipple rings locked to rings on a cement wall, a heavy chain pulled through my mouth and tightly locked behind my head and a chain from there going to my crossed ankles. My hands and feet were all chained close together as well and the position was most uncomfortable. They put me in here as soon as I started to come around from the wine and drugs, but I felt terrible. Outside
the room I heard other people and I could hear someone, a woman, moaning and babbling loudly in another room not too far away.

  “Ohhh. Ohhh. Please, please stop. This is killing me. Please. Please. Ohh, no. Oohh,” she moaned over and over. I wondered if she was attached to a wall like I was to the floor and how long she had been there. It wouldn’t be long before I started to complain too, as the posture was not one I wanted to hold for very long.

  “We’re going boating, sweet thing,” the woman said as she entered my room. I could have cared less. But then, in a moment or two, at least the locks were off the nipple rings and the head-to-feet chain was slackened. She eased me up and two men came into the room and picked me up by my feet and shoulders and out the door we went. Up the stairs, down a hall and out to a garage. It wasn’t really a garage, but rather a small boathouse with two motorboats tied up under the roof and a large garage door leading to the water. I was then blindfolded, and loaded into one of the boats. I lay on the floor. The deck, I guess. It was wet. I was naked, except for my chains and the blindfold. They threw a canvas cover over me, started the engine and we left the boathouse. We motored for some time, perhaps an hour, and then stopped. I was handled up and out of the boat and carried to another room. From the motion, I assumed we were now on another boat, probably a bigger one. When the blindfold came off, I saw that it was a boat with lots of bright polished wood and nice furniture.

  Pretty cozy, I thought, wondering if they’d leave me chained for the night again, but they had other things in mind. In the corner of the small room was a machine on wheels. It looked like a large, portable vacuum cleaner with some large hoses and a circular can-like chamber on the side.

  No one said anything until they got me up and fastened to the wall. The chains came off and they used straps to hold my wrists and ankles spread wide on the wall of the varnished, wood-paneled room. A fifth strap went around my throat. The straps had been there all along, but I hadn’t noticed until they dragged me over and started fastening me to them. Then I noticed.

  “This will clean out all that dirty scum that your friend probably gave you,” the woman said. “We have to have a clean little toy if we are going to let you play with us.”

  What the hell was she talking about, I wondered. Scum? My friend? Then she went to the corner and started to wheel the machine towards me. The men were taking hoses from the rack on the machine and moving back towards me as well. One hose was red, another white and a third was black. Suddenly I was more terrified than I’d been since the initial kidnapping. I looked at them and I looked at the vacuum and knew what was coming. I shook my head and yelled through the sponge ball gag. “No, no, no,” I shouted, but they didn’t hear much and they obviously didn’t care.

  “How much?” one of the men asked the woman.

  “Oh, start her off with a few liters. We’ll work up from there.”

  The next few hours are hard to recall clearly. It was a torture that I have trouble relating even now. Using a greasy plug with a ninety degree curve in it so they could fit it between my butt and the wall I was fastened to, they fitted one end of the black hose into my anus, slowly and painfully driving the hard nozzle up inside me until I thought I’d split in two. They fastened it there with a leather strap around my waist and another through my crotch, fitted around the base of the nozzle. Because I was tightly secured to the wall, they had to pull my hips away from the wood paneling to get a good fit for their device. The black hose then tailed out below me from between my legs and connected to the top of the machine. A second hose, red in color, was inserted into my other lower opening and secured the same way. They didn’t bother to lubricate this massive plug and I assumed it was because, as I discovered a few days before, there was plenty of lubrication already there. They wanted me to suffer but I was beating them at their game by getting hot and wet as they tampered with my sex and jammed their hoses up my cunt and ass.

  The gag came out and before I could do more than moan, the remaining hose, the white one, was jammed into my mouth, the rubber fitting extending my jaws wide and reaching back into my throat. A wide leather strap around my face and behind my neck held this in place. All hoses connected to the machine.

  With my three critical body openings now sprouting the flexible, ribbed hoses, my captors backed away and studied me carefully. One man flipped two switches illuminated by red and green light and the machine started to whine, as if it were a small turbine. He turned some valves on the machine and others on hoses leading from the floor to the machine. Then he adjusted more switches and valves and moved away towards the couch on the opposite wall. He lit a cigar. The woman sat on the couch and crossed her long, black-stockinged legs and studied me intently. The third man stayed at the control panel of the machine and orchestrated my torment.

  The first thing that happened was water began to flow through all three hoses at once. My throat slowly filled with a small volume from the mouth hose and I could feel water entering both my rectum and vagina. The amounts were small and there was no pain, just the feeling of water entering. But the woman had said “liters” and after a few minutes it was clear to me that liters of anything in these three locations were going to be very, very painful. My vagina was the first to complain and my rear the second. I kept swallowing the water entering my mouth because there was no more choice here than for the other places being so uninvitingly irrigated. It sounds perhaps humorous here, but it was not funny. I was in pain. My stomach was filling up, my lower intestines were being turned into giant balloons and my cunt felt like I was about to give birth to the proverbial watermelon. I gurgled and howled into the white hose. Water and snot shot from my nose and more water leaked from between my legs. I jerked and convulsed against the wall and the hoses spasmed along with me. It couldn’t continue. I’d burst like a water balloon thrown against the wall, ending up just a mass of waterlogged flesh and bones. It was awful. I was dying.

  “Shut it off,” the lean woman said.

  It stopped.

  “Reverse it. Clean her out. Suck her dry,” she said tonelessly.

  The man pushed a few buttons and turned a valve. The water and pain remained. The hoses jerked again. Slowly, ever so slowly, the pressure abated and then the water started to flow backward. My throat collapsed as a vacuum formed in front of the hose and sucked air from around my sealed lips and through my abused nose. Below, the water was now charging back through the pipes. It took a few minutes and then there was the vacuum and no more water. My stomach arched inward, the walls of my intestine and everything else below the waist caved in. I was being sucked by a machine and it was no more pleasant than the earlier process of being inflated to near bursting by three streams of warm water. The machine sucked without end. The pumps cycled and sucked everything that was not part of me and then sucked on my tongue, my vaginal walls and the remains of my lower intestinal tract. This time I fainted, but only for a second. It was too much.

  “Enough,” the woman said and the pumps were switched off. The hoses went limp. I went limp. I hung there, suspended by the five straps, as flabby and motionless as a dead body. I’d been bloated like a dead water buffalo and then sucked thinner than an envelope. Liters and liters of water had coursed into me and then been sucked back out. As soon as I showed the smallest sign of recovery, nodding my head and shaking the hose sticking out of my mouth, the woman nodded to the man at the machine and he started it all over again.

  “The same three liters please, Hans,” she said in the same bored monotone.

  Hans turned the valves and threw the switches, and then, with a questioning look at the woman, he and the other man walked out the door. That left the three of us there: the woman in the black, thigh-high hose, the industrial enema machine and me, naked and stapled to the wood paneling with three hoses stuck into me.

  The second time was worse. The third time I was in and out from time to time, but mostly unconscious and after that I have no idea what they did. I wasn’t mentally there. />
  Awakening was, as usual, a painful process. What else can I say? Painful is painful. Everything hurt. I was chained. It was dark. I felt the boat rocking and heard the engines running somewhere nearby. The chains were attached to me and then to a ring mounted in the deck. I had a lot of chain attached to me. My nipples had chains that ran to my collar. My feet were closely chained together and attached somehow to my waist chain from behind, so that my legs were tightly bent behind me. Just above my knees, a loop of chain with a single cinch link held my legs tightly together, exaggerated by having them bent back. My nose ring was connected to a ring on the floor with a few short links and my hands were behind me, in heavy thick manacles, linked to the back of my collar and pulled up behind my shoulder blades. More metal shackles held my upper arms snugly against my back.

  The flushing out and enemas had been the most terrible experience I had ever undergone. Secretly I yearned for simpler tortures like those invoked by the man who kidnapped me. These boat people were accomplished sadists. He was just some guy who wanted to fuck a bound girl. It took no great intellect to figure out which type I would last longer with. Another round with El Machino the Great and I’d be sucked dry and dead. My insides were raw and cramped. My outsides were, as usual, well restrained and unresponsive to any efforts I made to move more than a few inches on the hardwood floor. I slept that way. I don’t know how long. And, oh yeah, I almost forgot. For the first time in weeks, I wasn’t gagged. I wondered why.