Bondage Place

by Bruce McLachlan

  The two wide planks closed gracefully and were locked with a padlocked bolt. The structure now appeared as a tall table, with Lydia emerging from its middle as some mode of centerpiece decoration. She ran her hands along the wood all around her, tracing the varnished smooth timbers and absently touching the lock that she had no way of defeating.

  The woman moved below and took her ankles, yanking them apart and using a thin cord to lasso the joints and stretch them down and to the bottom beam, pinning her in place and confining her to this lewd split.

  Striding over to the wall, the dominatrix opened a mirrored door while Lydia could only stand there and watch what the woman was doing, her body helpless.

  The shelves within bore neatly arrayed piles of clothing and small collections of devices placed in revered poses. Grabbing a box of strip wax she returned to Lydia and began to remove the lengths, peeling off their coats and then smoothing them onto Lydia’s legs. Once a full coating was in place, she returned to the start and with a sudden yank, tore one free. Lydia gave a yelp of shock as the flare of sharp pain peaked and then began to settle down into a less fervid pitch. Another strip was torn free, and another. The woman ripped her hair free and left her stretched legs bald. Having only ever shaven them, the unexpected ferocity of the suffering was more than she could take. The tearing suggested that skin was coming away too, and her inexperience refused to tell her that it was not so.

  Throwing herself forward she tried to reach below the lip of the pillory and stop her tormentor, but the width of the wood denied her access. It was even more frustrating to have this allotment of movement, for she could fling herself to and fro, slam her fists to the wood and try and prize it apart, and claw at the lock - all to no effect. The promise of escape was dangled before her if she could just find it. But there was none to be found.

  Once the entire complement was removed, more strips were added to extract what remained and finish the gaps the previous layer had missed.

  With her legs left barren, Lydia fell limp in her bonds. She breathed in soft drawn hisses, the fires of her ordeal having exhausted her and her face lying on the wood. The drained stupor was torn aside by concern as she felt strips being smoothed across her loins. The woman applied them to her pubic hair and then took hold of the edge of a line. Lydia had already been mercilessly plucked, the slow process almost driving her mad. To have it all concentrated into one hideous blast was unthinkable. Her hair had grown back enough to be gripped by the wax and she had no wish to feel the effects again, but before Lydia could solicit a reprieve the woman wrenched aside and brought a nova flare of response from the afflicted roots.

  Throwing her head back and spasming in her restraints, Lydia unleashed a wail of unprecedented levels. The sheer mayhem of such a barbarous shearing made her abdomen vanish amidst rolling clouds of caustic sensation. Another strip was grabbed and torn free. The snap of ripping hairs vanished amidst her howls.

  In the moments between removals she begged for the woman to stop, her incoherent verbal strands of imploring being corrupted as another pane of the wax was torn from her.

  The harsh shearing of her entire abdomen continued as the woman tore free the pelt across Lydia’s buttocks, the hair of her rear and sex, and then stripped her inner thighs. The sensitive skin reacted with indignant wrath to such treatment.

  Once the last of her follicles were robbed, she slumped into a mass of indolent wreckage, her skin flecked with a thin glaze of sweat, her torment pounding in her temples as her ears rang with the residue of her screams.

  The delirium started to pass, her scrambled senses starting to distinguish her surroundings once more. The woman lifted her arms and closed manacles about her wrists; the restraints hanging from chains that had been lowered from an automated panel above her. Dazed, she had failed to notice anything.

  After opening the jaws of the pillory to leave her stretched between fetters and cuffs, the woman removed a corset of white leather from the cupboard, the thick sheath reinforced with steel to make it a garment of ferocious power.

  The cool touch of the leather slipped around her waist and the laces hauled in until it was pressed snugly to her flesh, the material running from beneath her breasts to her hips. The woman stepped astride her, locking her fingers around the lowest laces and dragging tighter, hauling the excess upward until she reached the top.

  The experience was intensely erotic for Lydia: the feeling of being smothered up by the dense sleeve, every new degree of compression accentuating her submission, making her feel more controlled and servile to the whims of others.

  After knotting the lengths she returned to the base and began to steal away even more. The form-controlling apparel hauled in at Lydia’s waist and made her ribs ache, the tight fist restricting her breaths, the dregs of every inhale fighting the power of the leather.

  The woman commenced the withering of Lydia’s waist once more, this latest process crushing her torso, the pressure making her moan. As the two sides of the corset met and enforced an extreme hourglass figure, Lydia was left to endure its devastating grip.

  Her head was light and swimming from the powerful effects of the corseting; her need for dominance curling through her, fueled by the arousing command of her torso.

  The buckled collar of her leash was removed and a polished steel band closed about her throat before being padlocked into position. The lock was situated opposite a riveted ring that rose out to accept the leash at the front. It was strange to see the loss of her leather band. It had been part of her since her arrival at the prison and its fleeting loss made her neck feel strange. The steel version was much more distinct, the metal pressing to her skin and making it known with every movement of her head.

  The woman removed the upper restraints and let her captive tumble to the floor, her back rigid and unable to defeat the steel boning. Lydia looked up from her lowly position and saw the woman standing over her. The creak of leather sounded as she bent over and started to free Lydia’s ankles. The sight of the curvaceous legs adorned with glossy boots and the tight leather spread across the cleft of her semi-exposed buttocks had inspired Lydia’s carnal lust.

  The aftereffects of her torment gave way to a dark relish for the trial she had just endured and she was yearning for more.

  Her ankles were set free and the view of a salacious rear was traded for a licentious peer into the woman’s cleavage as she bent over to attend her.

  The loss of her bonds still left Lydia deprived of movement, the rigors of her confinement and the immobile corset having pilfered all capacity for motion. Sitting bolt upright, her legs crossed, her arms holding her tightly packed stomach, Lydia stared blankly at the radiant barber,

  The female lifted up and moved back before rubbing the sole of a boot across the smooth human skin she had created. It was as though she could feel through this medium, the insensitive sole being her means to assess a satisfactory level of grooming.

  “That should suffice,” uttered the woman, her foot moving inward to settle between Lydia’s legs and start to feel the level of plucking there. Lydia tightened her thigh muscles to try and deny ingress. The woman responded by turning her toe into the air and digging the stiletto into her inner thigh. Pushing aside, the sharp dagger forced her to spread her legs.

  Sitting with her legs apart, unable to bend, Lydia’s breath quickened as the woman stepped into the splayed ‘v” and nudged her toe into Lydia’s vulva, plowing a route through the moist lips with the point of her boot.

  “Very smooth,” commented the woman, continuing the motion to make Lydia’s eyelids flutter. Her chest heaved against the corset as her arms clutched to herself, her fingers itching to caress the boot or her own nipples.

  The warm pleasure being installed continued to grow, and as her eyes closed with rapture Lydia started to drape forward, her arms still entwined to herself as her lips brushed the boot. The vinyl under her kiss caused her mouth to open and her tongue to emerge, s
tealing a lap as she panted onto the gloss and continued to kiss it.

  “I think you should see how smooth this is, slave,” announced the woman, pulling back to leave Lydia’s wanton kisses suckling at empty air.

  Her eyes flipped open and she looked up to see the woman standing back, arms folded.

  The need for relief was a pressing one that had a hand starting to snake down, but the opening of such a private and taboo act to public view was hampering her efforts to comply. She wanted to caress herself more than anything but could she do it while another watched?

  “Come on, you can do it, slave,” goaded the female.

  Taking a soft gasp of courage, Lydia closed her eyes to try and deny the presence of another person and let her fingers slide across her pudenda. She was startled to find how wet she was, her arousal revealed at a fulgent peak. Tracing small swirls on her clit she moaned softly and shuddered, her senses giddy from pleasure.

  “Look at me as you do that, slave,” snapped the female, forcing Lydia to regard her oppressor. Now that she was committing her onanism, it was easier to surrender herself to being viewed; the influx of rhapsody from her masturbation eased her worries and embarrassment.

  The woman maintained a lifeless observation. She watched like a cold statue of ice as Lydia squirmed and panted. She used the image of the woman to fan her passions. The visual stimulation accentuated the physical, and the scenario of forced masturbation magnified it even more.

  “That’s it, you little slut. I want to see you come. Keep going,” purred the woman, increasing Lydia’s euphoria with verbal humiliation. “And make sure you ask for permission before you climax, or I’ll have you in a chastity belt for the rest of your life,” warned the female.

  Could she do this? Had she that much authority here? Lydia wasn’t going to take the chance. The emphasis of complete control over her brought her closer to fulfillment in leaping bounds, and as explosive release beckoned she blurted her words. “Mistress! May I finish?”

  “No! Slave, you may not!” she growled with a villainous smirk.

  Lydia’s face warped into an imploring confounded expression and her hand slowed but could not stop, she was too close.

  “If you finish without my permission, remember - you’ll never have another orgasm again!” reminded the woman, and with a strain of will Lydia managed to stop, her fingers pausing in their manipulation.

  “Please, mistress! Please let me finish?” she whimpered, her belly quaking as her sex screamed for more attention.

  “No! We’ll wait for a moment, slave. Control yourself you’re far too wanton, you need to learn self-discipline,” said the woman.

  “Yes, mistress,” sobbed Lydia, her breath slowing as the swelling pressure of imminent release started to ease and retreat.

  After a few minutes of tense silence between them the woman spoke again.

  “Continue, slave!”

  Once more Lydia started her work, acting quickly, the frustration making her motions frenzied, the temptation to ignore any command to stop becoming more irresistible. Would this orgasm be worth eternal chastity? Of course it would not, but the more her animal lust took over, the more her commitment to obedience crumbled.

  Gasping, her mouth agape, her eyes watering, her loins churning with sensation, Lydia wept her plea for permission, unsure whether she could deprive herself a second time. She made sure she spoke a little early, hoping that if denied, she could stop more easily, but the denial had increased her sensitivity and had fed on her submissive nature to make this second session of self-abuse even more intense.

  “Please, mistress! Oh please, please, please let me finish! I’ll do anything you want!” she howled.

  “Anything, slave?” asked the woman, causing Lydia’s eyes to snap up to meet her gaze and seize the offered chance.

  “Yes, mistress! Of course! Anything! May I finish then, mistress?”

  “No,” came the soft but sharp reply.

  “Oh please, no! Please let me climax, I can’t… I…I—”

  “I said no!” she repeated with tones that were more forceful.

  With lines of sweat and tears adorning her face, Lydia moved her hand from her sex; her body convulsing as it stalled at the brink of orgasm. The temptation was like a monster within her, making her mind fight with utmost strength to hold back the act of finishing her masturbation. Words that spun her thoughts like cotton made her heedless of the consequences; words that demanded she finish, that lifelong chastity wouldn’t be that bad, that the woman was probably bluffing. But the fear that she would never feel this sensation again had enough awful gravity to convince her to obey yet again.

  Once she had calmed herself and thanked her own conviction to remain subservient and loyal to the woman’s wishes, she was commanded to continue once more.

  “You may begin again, slave. The same rules apply.”

  With funereal effort Lydia started to attend her sopping wet sex, a small pool of her juices beneath her. The moment she started to touch her hot belly, all resignation vanished and she sank into the warm comfort of her onanism.

  “Good, slave. Keep going,” added the woman upon seeing Lydia’s obvious dismay.

  She wanted to work slowly, to try and ease the decision to frustrate herself. But the sheer power of the exquisite ordeal soon made her speed her efforts, and she was respiring in pants once more as she worked her way steadily toward orgasm.

  Acting early, she tried to exaggerate her motions, offering the pretense that she was almost there.

  “Please, mistress! Please! Please God! Let me finish! I’m losing my mind!” she wailed.

  “Pardon, slave? Did you say something?” The woman asked absently, casually examining her nails as though distracted. The woman was on to her ruse, knowing that she would try such a ploy either from personal experience, knowledge of her own gender, or from having inflicted this torment many, many times before. “Mistress! Please! I need to finish! I have to!” Lydia groaned. Her body reached the level she had been trying to avoid by her trick; the woman’s deliberate delay in reply brought her into the zone where it was hardest to obey.

  “Let me think…” She muttered, rubbing her chin with phony contemplation.

  “Oh God! Mistress! Mistress! I’m…I,” she stammered, her body tightening in expectation. A few more swirls of her finger and she would be done.

  “No, slave, you may not!” she growled sternly.

  “No! Please!” she howled, her finger involuntarily pausing. Her soul was aflame with need, praying for a change of heart from the woman.

  “You have my answer! It is no! Now stop!” she snapped. The severity in her voice made Lydia hesitantly give in and move her hand away. Her abdomen was jolting in convulsive fits, her body shocked and torn by denial, unable to cope with the reservoir of building energies within her. It felt like her sexual appetite was growing to such levels that she would detonate if she didn’t bleed it off. Could one die of frustration? Maybe it would be akin to spontaneous human combustion - she’d burst into flames and be consumed by her own ferocious libido? She clung to the notion to help distract her from the hunger and endure the cold turkey of withdrawal from personal paradise.

  How could this woman be so cruel? She was a woman, she knew just how terrible this must be and yet she was continuing to exact her foul sadistic pleasure from Lydia’s travail. Yet this in itself helped her find new admiration for the mistress and sink deeper into her mire of masochistic relish in this unbearable rota of teasing.

  “Time to begin again, slave,” she ordered, straightening her leotard and looking back to Lydia who had failed to comply, her hand unable to ferret into her sex again.

  “I gave you an order, slave. If you don’t do it, you’ll earn the same fate as if you climaxed without my express permission,” she threatened, and with a sigh of exasperation Lydia trailed her hand back into place and began to work her sore but still ravenous clit.

 
; The woman moved forward as she toiled and stopped right before Lydia’s face, the crotch of the leotard an inch from the nose of the diligently masturbating slave, the scent of leather spilling into her senses along with the aroma of intense prurience.

  A finger hooked the thong and pulled it aside, revealing that the woman was flooded with her own desire. Lydia’s frustration had aroused her intensely.

  “You may climax, slave, but only once I have,” she pronounced, and looked up with aloof disdain by way of a command to begin.

  With maddened haste, Lydia buried her face into the hot rampant sex and fawned on it with every particle of skill and exuberance she could manage. The woman twitched as she was serviced, her spare hand drifting into Lydia’s short hair, clasping at it and pulling her deeper into her pudenda. Lydia had to slow her own efforts, the lascivious act of cunnilingus on this exemplary sexual tormentor making her succumb too quickly to her own touches.

  As she worked, twice she had to pause and deliberately frustrate herself without order so she could calm and continue, patiently waiting on the prescribed moment.

  The woman panted softly, her chest heaving against the leather, her fingers pawing at Lydia as she worked.

  “Good, slave, that’s it, keep going, I’m almost there,” she moaned.

  Spilling the flat of her tongue against the woman, Lydia felt the succulent wet tracts spring with jerks of tension and the mistress began to rhythmically gasp. She was almost there, almost sated, and Lydia’s fingers danced upon her own sex with new zeal, conducting a sonnet of rapture.

  “That’s it, slave. Service your mistress,” she said on an ululating breath.

  With a muted cry the woman flashed with bursts of response, her body quaking as she clutched at Lydia, holding her in place, her form torn with bliss. The feel of the woman succumbing to orgasm broke Lydia into a long delayed and ultimately desired copy, her howls of rhapsody spent on the woman’s womb, singing her joy into the mistress’ sex. Her rear bounced on the ground, her legs kicked and strained out as she fought to continue her oral service, the woman lapping up the full measure of her relief from the slave’s tongue.