I suppose it was
There was, is, more. But I realised it was better broken up and the separate parts padded out to include more detail.
Hopefully the three chapters below will make up for it.
Plymouth and Deborah (MF+/F+) *FINISHED*
There was, is, more. But I realised it was better broken up and the separate parts padded out to include more detail.
Hopefully the three chapters below will make up for it.
DP021.
It's.
"Hi."
Not the shadows, made real and come to visit or claim me.
Claim?
Instead Mum's smile makes dawning sense as I find the cute pink haired King, helmet in hand, dark blue not chunky- likely a 250 not the full whack -but cool looking Honda tourer leaning on its kickstand behind her.
"Morning." Her own smile brings out mine as I lean into the doorframe, arms crossed beneath my swelling F cups, trying for casual when all I'm feeling is a rising heat.
Because she's cute, and potentially not here- given the semi flirt before -just to say hello.
Skinny, a ten to my eight but lacking the toning, her belly the smallest of humps as it peeks from between a red halter top that doesn't need a bra, B cups filling it out nicely. And black jeans tucked into chunky motorcycle boots that buckle and zip closed.
Her pink hair is mostly straight, long fringe and only just coming down over the ears. Silver ring piercing on the left side of her lower lip, and the tip of inkwork sticking out her black leather jacket- no belts and a proper turned down collar -at left wrist.
For a handful of moments we stand in silence, me suppressing a shiver as she quite obviously looks me up and down.
"Morgan."
"What?" Slow thoughts catching up even as I reply, noting that she'd gestured with her helmet, at herself.
"Right." Small shake of my head as she smiles slightly. "What's up, Morgan?"
"Day off." Looking up to scan the mostly blue sky. "I thought," gaze dropping back to me, "you might want some company wandering around bike shops?"
"Right." Me the broken record, did I have plans for today?
No. I don't work, seems, after some digging and phonecalls from Roman, that I quit a plant nursery job weeks, over two months, ago.
Why? Not a fucking clue.
At some point, whether I pluck up courage enough to approach Daniel or not, I'm going to need a job. But.
You know, bike shopping, having been treated to a new helmet by Mum recently, sounds great.
Bike shopping, and, maybe.
Unless I'm bad at reading signals?
More?
"Yes." I don't think I'm bad? "I'll fetch my helmet?"
"Awesome." Grinning, a thumbs up as she steps back.
Waiting beside her bike five minutes later as I, army boots laced up, jacket zipped up and belted closed at collar and waist, black helmet in hand, walk out and lock the front door, stashing the key with bankcard and phone.
My new, still mostly blank, phone.
"Bike shops that sell bikes?"
"Bikes." Cheeky grin. "Not cars."
I tut, she grins wider as I smile too.
"There's a couple." Looking up then down my road. "A Japanese specialist quite some way out, plus Ducati and whatever shit," a dismissive gesture, "kinda the other way."
"Not that you're playing favourites or anything?"
Teasing, Morgan laughs.
"Just not a fan of the Italian stuff."
"But we should give it a chance anyway." I nod. "Unless," asking, because this might still not be the semi date I'm seeing Morgan so far telegraph, "all this back and forth is too far?"
"Nah." Leaning in to give me a playful nudge. "Looking at bikes all day, riding, with you for company. Sounds like a win to me."
She winks, I blush slightly at the compliment.
And off we go.
To the Italian. "Shit." First.
Small attack of nerves as Morgan kicks the bike into life, as I climb up behind her, settling, finding and grasping the handles. Panic at the first corner, roundabout, that first long sloping down dual carriageway.
Thank fuck Morgan can't hear my breathing.
However. She drives, not slowly, but there's an element of care. She doesn't slalom through traffic, doesn't punch it up through the gears, doesn't make the engine sing or scream. Morgan takes it easy without being a snail.
And I, by gradual steps, relax back into being in the saddle. The rushing wind, the sense of freedom. The ever present vulnerability that you're smiling too much to really worry too much over.
I am. Definitely. Getting a new bike.
"It's not all bad." Walking the lot, close but not touching helmets in hand. It's sunny but there's a strong breeze, enough that I've tied my lopsided- on purpose, I'm not planning to grow the scarred left side back out -hair into a loose tail. Morgan's isn't long enough to bother her.
"True." Thoughtful, a little too much to be serious. I wait. Morgan points. "There's a nice Honda over there."
"Over...." Playing along, following her finger out to the customer parking, where a Honda. Her, Honda, sits next to a Ford saloon and a Volkswagon.
I tut, Morgan grins. But, she's right. There's nothing here grabbing my attention.
"What got you into bikes?"
"Ex boyfriend." Pulling a face, I laugh.
Wonder if, in fact, I'm wrong. Does she even like girls?
"I was fourteen." Pulling a packet of cigarettes from her coat pocket, asking with a gesture, with her eyes too. I shake my head but follow her off the lot towards a patch of grass.
"Ahhhh." Leaning back against the lone tree, a sycamore. Doing quite well if my leaning to be professional again eye is any judge. Morgan plumes smoke between us, our helmets on the grass nearby.
"Fourteen." Waving her cigarette for emphasis. "Dating a seventeen year old with a moped, thought it was a fucking Ninja." She laughs. "Like I knew any different back then." A shrug. "Anyway. Prick tanked it late one night taking me home."
Another plume of smoke, she shivers.
"Both of us shit faced, I was lucky to only wind up with scarring." Brief locked gaze, scar on my head itching, I reach up, slowly. Run nails gently along it.
Morgan shivers again. Blinks. Shakes her head and stamps out her half smoked cigarette.
"I was into it by then."
"Bikes?" Or boys? But Morgan nods, half smiles eyes darting to my jacket half unzipped and there they are pushing the fabric apart breasts. I smile back.
"Bikes. So...."
"So here you are." Bending to collect our helmets, handing hers over. "Rolling with a gang and everything."
"That's me." Smile becoming a grin. "Proper badass."
We both laugh, head back to her bike.
"Are you single?" At her bike but not on it, yet. I fight back a smile, having watched Morgan talk herself into, something, the whole short walk over here. Psyching herself up, small shakes and mouthing silent words.
The something being this.
I turn to face her, let some of my smile leak out.
"Are you?"
"Ha." Amused. "Thing is, Brooke."
"B."
"B?"
"If you like." I shrug, noting how her eyes track the up/down of my breasts as I do.
And I must be single, because Mum would've known if I had, anyone, in any capacity between fuck buddy and husband/wife.
Surely?
"B." A nod. "Off to the Japanese place, and all that."
"To see the better bikes?" Raised eyebrow.
Morgan laughs. Nerves making it too high and quick.
"Exactly. But, maybe after we could grab some food?" Giving me a look, searching. Asking if there can be more.
"Sure." Taking her hand and giving it a small squeeze, letting go. "I'd like that."
She's got a cute smile.
And at the Japanese dealership, plenty of bikes out on the lot but a larger indoor space too, likely some inside? Once we're off her bike, feeling nervous myself but wanting to show willing, to do some of the work back.
I reach out and take Morgan's hand as we walk, making her jump slightly at the contact, look down at our hands, back up at my face. I smile, she smiles back.
Neither of us letting go.
We look around. Outside, taking our time Morgan, half serious, trying to sell me on the benefits of Japanese. Which she appears to be quite the fan of.
But, outside, nothing.
"Not even one?"
"Well." Stood close by the doors inside, ghost bike shadows visible but we've both turned back around, facing the lot. "There's some nice stuff." Using my helmet to point.
A green Kawasaki tourer.
A white Honda sports bike.
A red Yamaha, spoilt in my opinion by the full race livery.
"But nothing you want?" Slight teasing edge, which. Slow, out of practice. I almost miss.
Almost.
"No." Stepping a half step closer, slipping an arm around her waist and pulling Morgan against me, hip to hip. "Bikes I want."
The feel of bare skin, the slight bulge atop her jeans waistband, feels good beneath my hands. Warm.
How long was it, before the accident, that I slept with or even cuddled anyone?
Feels, blurred and half lost for sure, like forever.
The moment stretches, I don't even realise until after that I'm holding my breath as Morgan tilts her head, looking at me.
But instead of a kiss, the start of a slide that could because for damn sure I'm feeling it wind up with us both in bed. Morgan leans in, resting her head on my shoulder.
And I remember to breathe again as we stand a moment.
A nice moment.
Before we head inside.
Where.
"That one."
"Oh, wow." Probably seeing it the same moment I do Morgan nods. Impressed.
A sports bike, not on a plinth or standing separately under spots, and yet it still manages to dominate the showroom. Fat rear tyre bracketed by large bore pipes, the fairing and fuel tank are matt black and appear to suck in the light rather then reflecting any of the overheads. On the side facing us, the kerbside were you riding, a single Japanese character sits large and ghostlike in dark luminous green.
It.
Crazy, but I can feel it, almost hear it calling to me. Just standing there, looking at the flowing swooping lines, and there's a tug inside me, a base line tingle I swear is in part sexual.
I want it.
"It means falcon." The salesman, appearing like a magician at or side, takes a step forward to point out the symbol. "That's the translation of Hayabusa."
"Hayabusa?"
"The bikes name."
"Oh." Damn but that's cool.
"This model," brief frown and grimace, about to deliver bad news, "we're selling as is."
"As is?" Morgan frowns, stepping forwards whilst I remain in place, frowning too.
"It's unfinished." Stepping to the side to pat the exhaust, which now I look harder, trying to see passed the general awesomeness.
"I see." Gesturing. "No backboxes."
"Right." He nods. "There's." Another grimace. "A list," looking from Morgan to me, unsure of who, "if you're interested?"
"Please." I nod.
He smiles, nods back.
"Like they had the cash to spray it and sod all else?"
"Looks that way." Nodding agreement as Morgan and me look over the list, the salesman standing back but hovering. Aside from the fairing and wheel assembly, the metal frame, everything else needs replacing.
The engine, present yet it needs a full strip down and refit. The suspension and brakes are seized, the tyres bald.
"So," addressing her question somewhere between me and him, "why this bike and not." Morgan gestures at several other good looking racers. "Any of them, that I'm assuming aren't technically in pieces, and only cost a small amount more for being drive away not cart away?"
"Because this is a first generation Hayabusa, a ninety-nine original."
"Which is," silly clueless Brooke, "good?"
"It's as perfect as it comes." A shrug. "To some. However this example has, as you can see, been modified. Or will have to be modified given it's half built state, which loses points with the diehards."
Of which I'm not. It looks fucking a. Mazing.
Sensing a sale he fetches, hands over, the rest of what the dealership has: proof it really is a ninety-nine, the logbook. A ton of receipts and service stamps stretching back from new until almost eight years ago when, tallying and putting things together, the original owner sold up, and Mr number two decided to tinker.
But. "Eight years and it's just been sat there?"
"Yes." A nod. "And we took it as part exchange almost a year ago. But," an apologetic shrug, "it's just too much work. And." A cough. "Cost, for most to consider."
Which is all well and good. However.
"I'll take it."
"You." Blinking. "Will?"
"You will?" Morgan, turning to me with a massive grin. "Oh my fuck, B." Without thinking she flings her arms around me, kissing me full on the lips. "It's going to be so awesome."
Freezing moments later, arms still wrapped around my neck, face still very close to mine. I watch realisation dawn.
"Awesome." I quietly agree, putting my hands on her jeans clad butt cheeks, feeling the firmness, the roundness of them. Pulling her un-resisting closer.
Pausing to.
"Can you start the paperwork?" Tilting my head to regard the salesman. "I'll be along in a moment."
Turning back to Morgan as he walks off, who, tentative, careful as though I'm a dangerous animal, reaches up to trail fingers down the left side of me, across my cheek and down my jacket clad arm.
Making me shiver.
I kiss her. Not long, no tongues. But we both come away grinning.
Holding hands I lead the way towards the sales office.
Time for paperwork, because it sounds like tomorrow I'm going to be doing a shit ton of phoning around.
It's.
"Hi."
Not the shadows, made real and come to visit or claim me.
Claim?
Instead Mum's smile makes dawning sense as I find the cute pink haired King, helmet in hand, dark blue not chunky- likely a 250 not the full whack -but cool looking Honda tourer leaning on its kickstand behind her.
"Morning." Her own smile brings out mine as I lean into the doorframe, arms crossed beneath my swelling F cups, trying for casual when all I'm feeling is a rising heat.
Because she's cute, and potentially not here- given the semi flirt before -just to say hello.
Skinny, a ten to my eight but lacking the toning, her belly the smallest of humps as it peeks from between a red halter top that doesn't need a bra, B cups filling it out nicely. And black jeans tucked into chunky motorcycle boots that buckle and zip closed.
Her pink hair is mostly straight, long fringe and only just coming down over the ears. Silver ring piercing on the left side of her lower lip, and the tip of inkwork sticking out her black leather jacket- no belts and a proper turned down collar -at left wrist.
For a handful of moments we stand in silence, me suppressing a shiver as she quite obviously looks me up and down.
"Morgan."
"What?" Slow thoughts catching up even as I reply, noting that she'd gestured with her helmet, at herself.
"Right." Small shake of my head as she smiles slightly. "What's up, Morgan?"
"Day off." Looking up to scan the mostly blue sky. "I thought," gaze dropping back to me, "you might want some company wandering around bike shops?"
"Right." Me the broken record, did I have plans for today?
No. I don't work, seems, after some digging and phonecalls from Roman, that I quit a plant nursery job weeks, over two months, ago.
Why? Not a fucking clue.
At some point, whether I pluck up courage enough to approach Daniel or not, I'm going to need a job. But.
You know, bike shopping, having been treated to a new helmet by Mum recently, sounds great.
Bike shopping, and, maybe.
Unless I'm bad at reading signals?
More?
"Yes." I don't think I'm bad? "I'll fetch my helmet?"
"Awesome." Grinning, a thumbs up as she steps back.
Waiting beside her bike five minutes later as I, army boots laced up, jacket zipped up and belted closed at collar and waist, black helmet in hand, walk out and lock the front door, stashing the key with bankcard and phone.
My new, still mostly blank, phone.
"Bike shops that sell bikes?"
"Bikes." Cheeky grin. "Not cars."
I tut, she grins wider as I smile too.
"There's a couple." Looking up then down my road. "A Japanese specialist quite some way out, plus Ducati and whatever shit," a dismissive gesture, "kinda the other way."
"Not that you're playing favourites or anything?"
Teasing, Morgan laughs.
"Just not a fan of the Italian stuff."
"But we should give it a chance anyway." I nod. "Unless," asking, because this might still not be the semi date I'm seeing Morgan so far telegraph, "all this back and forth is too far?"
"Nah." Leaning in to give me a playful nudge. "Looking at bikes all day, riding, with you for company. Sounds like a win to me."
She winks, I blush slightly at the compliment.
And off we go.
To the Italian. "Shit." First.
Small attack of nerves as Morgan kicks the bike into life, as I climb up behind her, settling, finding and grasping the handles. Panic at the first corner, roundabout, that first long sloping down dual carriageway.
Thank fuck Morgan can't hear my breathing.
However. She drives, not slowly, but there's an element of care. She doesn't slalom through traffic, doesn't punch it up through the gears, doesn't make the engine sing or scream. Morgan takes it easy without being a snail.
And I, by gradual steps, relax back into being in the saddle. The rushing wind, the sense of freedom. The ever present vulnerability that you're smiling too much to really worry too much over.
I am. Definitely. Getting a new bike.
"It's not all bad." Walking the lot, close but not touching helmets in hand. It's sunny but there's a strong breeze, enough that I've tied my lopsided- on purpose, I'm not planning to grow the scarred left side back out -hair into a loose tail. Morgan's isn't long enough to bother her.
"True." Thoughtful, a little too much to be serious. I wait. Morgan points. "There's a nice Honda over there."
"Over...." Playing along, following her finger out to the customer parking, where a Honda. Her, Honda, sits next to a Ford saloon and a Volkswagon.
I tut, Morgan grins. But, she's right. There's nothing here grabbing my attention.
"What got you into bikes?"
"Ex boyfriend." Pulling a face, I laugh.
Wonder if, in fact, I'm wrong. Does she even like girls?
"I was fourteen." Pulling a packet of cigarettes from her coat pocket, asking with a gesture, with her eyes too. I shake my head but follow her off the lot towards a patch of grass.
"Ahhhh." Leaning back against the lone tree, a sycamore. Doing quite well if my leaning to be professional again eye is any judge. Morgan plumes smoke between us, our helmets on the grass nearby.
"Fourteen." Waving her cigarette for emphasis. "Dating a seventeen year old with a moped, thought it was a fucking Ninja." She laughs. "Like I knew any different back then." A shrug. "Anyway. Prick tanked it late one night taking me home."
Another plume of smoke, she shivers.
"Both of us shit faced, I was lucky to only wind up with scarring." Brief locked gaze, scar on my head itching, I reach up, slowly. Run nails gently along it.
Morgan shivers again. Blinks. Shakes her head and stamps out her half smoked cigarette.
"I was into it by then."
"Bikes?" Or boys? But Morgan nods, half smiles eyes darting to my jacket half unzipped and there they are pushing the fabric apart breasts. I smile back.
"Bikes. So...."
"So here you are." Bending to collect our helmets, handing hers over. "Rolling with a gang and everything."
"That's me." Smile becoming a grin. "Proper badass."
We both laugh, head back to her bike.
"Are you single?" At her bike but not on it, yet. I fight back a smile, having watched Morgan talk herself into, something, the whole short walk over here. Psyching herself up, small shakes and mouthing silent words.
The something being this.
I turn to face her, let some of my smile leak out.
"Are you?"
"Ha." Amused. "Thing is, Brooke."
"B."
"B?"
"If you like." I shrug, noting how her eyes track the up/down of my breasts as I do.
And I must be single, because Mum would've known if I had, anyone, in any capacity between fuck buddy and husband/wife.
Surely?
"B." A nod. "Off to the Japanese place, and all that."
"To see the better bikes?" Raised eyebrow.
Morgan laughs. Nerves making it too high and quick.
"Exactly. But, maybe after we could grab some food?" Giving me a look, searching. Asking if there can be more.
"Sure." Taking her hand and giving it a small squeeze, letting go. "I'd like that."
She's got a cute smile.
And at the Japanese dealership, plenty of bikes out on the lot but a larger indoor space too, likely some inside? Once we're off her bike, feeling nervous myself but wanting to show willing, to do some of the work back.
I reach out and take Morgan's hand as we walk, making her jump slightly at the contact, look down at our hands, back up at my face. I smile, she smiles back.
Neither of us letting go.
We look around. Outside, taking our time Morgan, half serious, trying to sell me on the benefits of Japanese. Which she appears to be quite the fan of.
But, outside, nothing.
"Not even one?"
"Well." Stood close by the doors inside, ghost bike shadows visible but we've both turned back around, facing the lot. "There's some nice stuff." Using my helmet to point.
A green Kawasaki tourer.
A white Honda sports bike.
A red Yamaha, spoilt in my opinion by the full race livery.
"But nothing you want?" Slight teasing edge, which. Slow, out of practice. I almost miss.
Almost.
"No." Stepping a half step closer, slipping an arm around her waist and pulling Morgan against me, hip to hip. "Bikes I want."
The feel of bare skin, the slight bulge atop her jeans waistband, feels good beneath my hands. Warm.
How long was it, before the accident, that I slept with or even cuddled anyone?
Feels, blurred and half lost for sure, like forever.
The moment stretches, I don't even realise until after that I'm holding my breath as Morgan tilts her head, looking at me.
But instead of a kiss, the start of a slide that could because for damn sure I'm feeling it wind up with us both in bed. Morgan leans in, resting her head on my shoulder.
And I remember to breathe again as we stand a moment.
A nice moment.
Before we head inside.
Where.
"That one."
"Oh, wow." Probably seeing it the same moment I do Morgan nods. Impressed.
A sports bike, not on a plinth or standing separately under spots, and yet it still manages to dominate the showroom. Fat rear tyre bracketed by large bore pipes, the fairing and fuel tank are matt black and appear to suck in the light rather then reflecting any of the overheads. On the side facing us, the kerbside were you riding, a single Japanese character sits large and ghostlike in dark luminous green.
It.
Crazy, but I can feel it, almost hear it calling to me. Just standing there, looking at the flowing swooping lines, and there's a tug inside me, a base line tingle I swear is in part sexual.
I want it.
"It means falcon." The salesman, appearing like a magician at or side, takes a step forward to point out the symbol. "That's the translation of Hayabusa."
"Hayabusa?"
"The bikes name."
"Oh." Damn but that's cool.
"This model," brief frown and grimace, about to deliver bad news, "we're selling as is."
"As is?" Morgan frowns, stepping forwards whilst I remain in place, frowning too.
"It's unfinished." Stepping to the side to pat the exhaust, which now I look harder, trying to see passed the general awesomeness.
"I see." Gesturing. "No backboxes."
"Right." He nods. "There's." Another grimace. "A list," looking from Morgan to me, unsure of who, "if you're interested?"
"Please." I nod.
He smiles, nods back.
"Like they had the cash to spray it and sod all else?"
"Looks that way." Nodding agreement as Morgan and me look over the list, the salesman standing back but hovering. Aside from the fairing and wheel assembly, the metal frame, everything else needs replacing.
The engine, present yet it needs a full strip down and refit. The suspension and brakes are seized, the tyres bald.
"So," addressing her question somewhere between me and him, "why this bike and not." Morgan gestures at several other good looking racers. "Any of them, that I'm assuming aren't technically in pieces, and only cost a small amount more for being drive away not cart away?"
"Because this is a first generation Hayabusa, a ninety-nine original."
"Which is," silly clueless Brooke, "good?"
"It's as perfect as it comes." A shrug. "To some. However this example has, as you can see, been modified. Or will have to be modified given it's half built state, which loses points with the diehards."
Of which I'm not. It looks fucking a. Mazing.
Sensing a sale he fetches, hands over, the rest of what the dealership has: proof it really is a ninety-nine, the logbook. A ton of receipts and service stamps stretching back from new until almost eight years ago when, tallying and putting things together, the original owner sold up, and Mr number two decided to tinker.
But. "Eight years and it's just been sat there?"
"Yes." A nod. "And we took it as part exchange almost a year ago. But," an apologetic shrug, "it's just too much work. And." A cough. "Cost, for most to consider."
Which is all well and good. However.
"I'll take it."
"You." Blinking. "Will?"
"You will?" Morgan, turning to me with a massive grin. "Oh my fuck, B." Without thinking she flings her arms around me, kissing me full on the lips. "It's going to be so awesome."
Freezing moments later, arms still wrapped around my neck, face still very close to mine. I watch realisation dawn.
"Awesome." I quietly agree, putting my hands on her jeans clad butt cheeks, feeling the firmness, the roundness of them. Pulling her un-resisting closer.
Pausing to.
"Can you start the paperwork?" Tilting my head to regard the salesman. "I'll be along in a moment."
Turning back to Morgan as he walks off, who, tentative, careful as though I'm a dangerous animal, reaches up to trail fingers down the left side of me, across my cheek and down my jacket clad arm.
Making me shiver.
I kiss her. Not long, no tongues. But we both come away grinning.
Holding hands I lead the way towards the sales office.
Time for paperwork, because it sounds like tomorrow I'm going to be doing a shit ton of phoning around.
Back to work.
Trees.
"Well." Looking me, dressed smart in white shirt with rolled up sleeves and black wet look leggings, steel toed boots, up and down. Checking me out but in a professional sense.
Can she toe the line?
I wait, tense inside, trying not to let it show.
"You're certainly qualified." Speaking more to himself, finger tracing lines down my application.
More silence. He, Stan, a big boss here in Forestry Commission headquarters, which I took several different trains to reach. Hoping.
Stan glances up again, I try on a smile, hoping- because of my canons, which are doing a good/bad job of forcing my shirt front open -that I don't look too much like a porn star doing some kind of secretary shoot.
Stan, is that good? Smiles back.
"Can you start Monday?"
"I." Caught out by the offer, expecting to have to wait on some committee like process. I smile, reach out to take his offered hand. "Of course. And, thank you."
"You come highly recommended Brooke." A shrugged smile. "I know Jeff from awhile back, we still keep in touch."
"Jeff."
Eighteen, fresh out of college with a certificate that swears I do know the Latin for Oak, I managed to score a local council job working in a tree gang, riding the mower, terrorising the highway verges. Jeff had been my boss. A good man, I recall in the spaces between holes, someone who'd had my back.
Although through what ups and downs? Not a clue.
Unable- due yes to memory but I just couldn't realistically put a bondage producer down as a reference for a non modelling job -to remember anyone else I've worked for, Daniel aside, I put Jeff down.
And it seems he came through.
"Take it you own jeans?" Glancing down at my feet. "Those boots are steels?"
"Yes, and yes."
"Perfect." You'll get top half uniform, pack of t-shirts." Making notes. "Plus the hard hat and gloves, hi-vis. All the junk that goes in the van." A smile. "A van too of course."
"Of course." Smiling back at the humour.
A van, plus a tractor, a barn like shed full of tools next to a small house, itself in the middle of a Commission owned woodland, one they preserve rather then farm for the wood.
A job that comes with its own house. How could I, wanting a change and fresh start, something, some not right feeling surfacing each time I contemplated going home to Wales. How could I not want to be the sole person in charge of Owl Woods, which isn't so far from everything and everyone that certain people couldn't come visit me.
Or me them.
Okay. Yes. I'm talking about Morgan, and more on her later.
So, the house in Wales already sold, snapped up within days. My stuff, what little I chose to keep, waiting in boxes whilst the money sits in the bank.
Put away for the future, because someday I'll likely need to buy a house again. Put away safely, aside from.
Well.
That Hayabusa is just too awesome not to fix up.
Quickly.
Walking back to the station, aware of the looks I'm drawing, smiling inside. It's nice to know that, despite the scar on my head, which I will not cover.
It's nice to know I'm still pretty enough to draw attention.
A new job, not so well paid, but then I don't exactly need the money to pay most bills, given the house is a free perk. A job that'll give me sufficient free time for my other, second, job.
Speaking of which.
Trees.
"Well." Looking me, dressed smart in white shirt with rolled up sleeves and black wet look leggings, steel toed boots, up and down. Checking me out but in a professional sense.
Can she toe the line?
I wait, tense inside, trying not to let it show.
"You're certainly qualified." Speaking more to himself, finger tracing lines down my application.
More silence. He, Stan, a big boss here in Forestry Commission headquarters, which I took several different trains to reach. Hoping.
Stan glances up again, I try on a smile, hoping- because of my canons, which are doing a good/bad job of forcing my shirt front open -that I don't look too much like a porn star doing some kind of secretary shoot.
Stan, is that good? Smiles back.
"Can you start Monday?"
"I." Caught out by the offer, expecting to have to wait on some committee like process. I smile, reach out to take his offered hand. "Of course. And, thank you."
"You come highly recommended Brooke." A shrugged smile. "I know Jeff from awhile back, we still keep in touch."
"Jeff."
Eighteen, fresh out of college with a certificate that swears I do know the Latin for Oak, I managed to score a local council job working in a tree gang, riding the mower, terrorising the highway verges. Jeff had been my boss. A good man, I recall in the spaces between holes, someone who'd had my back.
Although through what ups and downs? Not a clue.
Unable- due yes to memory but I just couldn't realistically put a bondage producer down as a reference for a non modelling job -to remember anyone else I've worked for, Daniel aside, I put Jeff down.
And it seems he came through.
"Take it you own jeans?" Glancing down at my feet. "Those boots are steels?"
"Yes, and yes."
"Perfect." You'll get top half uniform, pack of t-shirts." Making notes. "Plus the hard hat and gloves, hi-vis. All the junk that goes in the van." A smile. "A van too of course."
"Of course." Smiling back at the humour.
A van, plus a tractor, a barn like shed full of tools next to a small house, itself in the middle of a Commission owned woodland, one they preserve rather then farm for the wood.
A job that comes with its own house. How could I, wanting a change and fresh start, something, some not right feeling surfacing each time I contemplated going home to Wales. How could I not want to be the sole person in charge of Owl Woods, which isn't so far from everything and everyone that certain people couldn't come visit me.
Or me them.
Okay. Yes. I'm talking about Morgan, and more on her later.
So, the house in Wales already sold, snapped up within days. My stuff, what little I chose to keep, waiting in boxes whilst the money sits in the bank.
Put away for the future, because someday I'll likely need to buy a house again. Put away safely, aside from.
Well.
That Hayabusa is just too awesome not to fix up.
Quickly.
Walking back to the station, aware of the looks I'm drawing, smiling inside. It's nice to know that, despite the scar on my head, which I will not cover.
It's nice to know I'm still pretty enough to draw attention.
A new job, not so well paid, but then I don't exactly need the money to pay most bills, given the house is a free perk. A job that'll give me sufficient free time for my other, second, job.
Speaking of which.
Back to work.
Bondage.
"Plymouth?"
"Yes already." Showing Daniel a not nervous really nervous grin, accompanied by a slightly scared too high and fast laugh. "And I fucking swear if you ask me one more time I'm throwing my thong at you."
I smile, taking the edge off the threat and making it playful, if still a little forced. Daniel smiles back though. Nods.
"There she is." Giving my arm a soft fake punch. "Welcome back."
Feels odd being called Plymouth. Again, because when the ropes come out I'm no longer Brooke, a second name for a second me.
I just hope she steps forward, soon, and takes charge.
Because Brooke's running out of courage.
Beyond Daniel's book I haven't seen myself, haven't searched. The Carnival images were proof enough, to wake Plymouth enough, to convince me that yes. I have done bondage modelling, and that yes I did enjoy it.
So I reached out to Daniel, asking.
And here we are.
Strange ropes, all one word. Daniel's bondage pay site, alongside a scattering of the normal: girl next door types struggling in tight ropes, includes a sizeable chunk of the weird.
Including this.
"Do you." Thinking, finding nothing but the dark holes. I huff. "We. Always film the prep?"
"Trying something new." Fiddling with cameras, there are three set up, attempting to catch all the angles. "Thought, you know." Turning to face me, a shrug and a smile. "Maybe people will pay for a second, longer video that's just us talking whilst I get you ready?"
"Maybe?"
Still not fully sure of my selling power, what pull my name and general bondage damsel skills have?
"So I can talk?"
"Whilst we're setting up yes."
Another fiddle, though it looks like he's putting everything back where it was facing five minutes ago, to me. I struggle not to smile.
"About whatever?"
"Right."
Eventually, after I've been for a sixth pee in twenty minutes, Daniel prehaps sensing my nerves saying nothing.
We're ready.
A silent thumbs up, which I return.
Breathe in, out.
And rolling.
"Right. Hi. And welcome. Trying a new thing here so if you like it send me a comment, hit me up and I'll make some more."
Talking too fast, nerves of his own. Has Daniel ever been in front of his cameras?
"So." Deep breath, flashed smile at out of shot me, I smile back. "Got a familiar face, found her wandering and she's agreed to come let me tie her up." Daniel holds out a hand. "Come say hi Plymouth."
Deep breath of my own. Ignore the cameras and just have fun, ignore the cameras and just have fun.
I step forward, into shot taking Daniel's hand.
"Hi." Giving the camera I'm supposed to be ignoring a wave, which makes me giggle like a schoolgirl. "I'm here to play trains." Looking at Daniel. Voice pitched teasing. "That's right, isn't it?"
"Mostly." Smiling. "How about you strip, please. And I'll get stuff ready."
Which is an excuse to get out of the way, so everyone can focus on me.
Stripping.
Breathe.
Calm.
There are no cameras, it's just me and Daniel, who I don't remember save for the fact he has, many times, seen me naked before.
Making a smile for the camera I'm supposed to ignore, giggling again. I strip.
Already barefoot I start with my jeans, pulling the buckle on the khaki green canvas belt and feeding the long hanging slack through, undoing and unzipping the front.
Flash of sky blue within.
And, turning to show off my butt as I shimmy the faded black jeans down my leg, I feel confidence coming on like a rising tidal flow to banish the nerves. It's as though, stupid as it may sound, I suddenly remember that.
I'm not actually shy.
At. All.
Lifting each leg in turn I pull the jeans off, tossing them out of shot as I turn back around.
Tee next. A tight fit, cropped to show off a flat stomach, the sharks mouth inked as though about to close on my belly button like a trap. The tee is white, plain. I shrug it off to reveal F cups held in check by a white and pink lace bra, mostly lace.
Toss the tee after the jeans.
Reach behind me to unclip the bra, slide it down off my breasts, toss it.
Lastly I, pausing to wink at the camera, arms stretched and slight forward bend at the waist, a cheeky shake breasts bouncing.
A quick giggle.
Lastly I step out of the thong, turning to toss it at Daniel, who fumble swipes it away. Looks up, confused for a moment but then showing me a proper smile.
Like he knows I'm, she's, back.
Naked, Daniel in baggy jeans and a black Godzilla tee, I pat the table.
"Up here?"
"Please."
We're in Daniel's house, in the second, spare, bedroom. Largely empty, couple of plants by the window, bookcase full of comics with a large wedge of D&D manuals on the lowest shelf. The room is dominated by the table, placed in the centre and surrounded by cameras and spotlights on tripods.
And it's actually more like a workbench. The level surface is a fat slab of that glued together looking wood, flat and raised off the floor on four sturdy legs, a rectangle of roughly king sized bed proportions plus another half metre all round, but higher off the floor then a table, more like a thing you could stand at and use without bending forward.
Climbing up I get into the centre, taking a moment to line my butt and head up with the marks Daniel and me made- with much nervous giggling from me -earlier. Laid on my back, legs almost together and arms by my sides, for now, at rest with my hair all nicely positioned, I feel quite dwarfed, like a tiny person laid on a giants bed.
Daniel straps me down.
We worked on this earlier too. Shauna, Daniel's girlfriend helping, or just chatting with us whilst Daniel made marks on the workbench, whilst he bent the fixings to shape, checking.
I become doll like, allowing Daniel to move my limbs as required.
Positioning my arms and legs in turn, placing each over the pencil marks from earlier, splaying my body out into a spread wide X shape.
Each limb in turn, and at each he secures it before moving on using metal strips like half hoops, bent into shape so they fit snugly over whichever part of me. After which a power drill is used to fix two screws, one at each end of the strip pinning the half hoop to the workbench.
Pinning my limb, me, in place.
"Okay?" My left arm done, the first limb. Laid flat and straight, palm up, metal strips now pin it at wrist and above the elbow.
"Five by five." What? Fuck knows where that came from, but I smile too.
Daniel looks bemused for a moment, then nods. Moving on to my right arm.
My right leg. Each leg pinned at the ankle and above the knee.
And after my legs, a further two strips, both large, are fixed around my body at waist and snuggled right below my ceiling pointing breasts. Plus a final half hoop around my neck.
By the end of all this, some ten plus minutes work to render me pinned down and helpless, and damn but I'm horny.
Does bondage always make me so aroused?
Is this why I model?
I'm having to work on my breathing, fighting and mostly losing to keep it steady. To the point that.
"Plymouth?" Slight note of concern.
"I'm fine." Neck not yet pinned I nod, show Daniel a smile. "Forgot how fun this is."
He smiles back, carries on.
I've got tingles too, just low level but constant. I can feel my nipples standing to attention, the solidness of them like an ache, and there's an occasional throb down in my spread wide and completely exposed pussy.
I. Am. Horny as fuck.
And we're still nowhere near shooting the actual video yet.
"Why Lego?" Fighting to keep my voice steady and not aroused wavering as Daniel begins assembling the track around me. "Wouldn't. Um...."
"Hornby."
"Right." Biting my lip as his hand, accidentally, brushes across my belly. I swallow, breathe, it does no good. "Wouldn't they have more choice?"
"Sure." A nod, pausing to drill/screw track in place.
Because who knew Lego train track came with a handy hole.
"But this is easier for constructing the bridges and shit."
It takes him awhile, but eventually I'm surrounded by a circuit of track.
Starting above my head, over the left arm then running down, all the way down that side until it crosses my left leg at the ankle. Turning, coming up between my legs heading straight for my shaved pussy. Only to turn and cross over my right leg at upper thigh. Climbing up the right side of me, a sharp turn, up and over below the breasts. A one eighty turn to come back across above my breasts, after which the track crosses my right arm, turning a final time to link back above my head.
Not a busy circuit, but it still succeeds in crisscrossing me several times, making me into some sort of decoration.
Which is the point here.
Daniel adds other pre-built Lego, scenery: green basing with cleverly constructed trees in four separate places, a station platform on the long straight down my left side. At least two dozen little Lego men dotted around.
"So I'm." Small frown, can't move my head well anymore. Can't move anything, a fact that has my arousal spiking like a seismograph needle. On, off, on.
I am, very much wishing this were one of those shoots where the model gets to climax, and not what is about to happen.
Because it wouldn't take much at this point to push me off that particular cliff.
"A decoration?"
"Seemed like a fun concept." Nodding, leaning in to place. Something? I can't see and can't move my head to look. "Who knows." Straightening up, giving me a cheeky smile. "Might become a thing, you could be a...."
"Bedside light?"
"Exactly." Nodding at my half joke. Serious. The idea, because now I'm picturing it, being used, a thing.
Suddenly I'm getting hot, having to fight to slow my heart.
"Ready." Around by my head, ballgag in hand. "If you are?"
"Yes." Still far too horny, voice sounding all wavering.
Daniel, leaning in, straps the black ball in place, sorting my hair back into place afterwards.
Stepping out of shot.
"Two minutes Plymouth." Sound of clicking and tapping at keys, saving this video, prepping the next.
I, floating on a cloud, not a care just leave me here until dinner, or bedtime.
Or.
Forever?
Do I mean that?
And was it always this good? Being tied up? Because this is amazing, the feeling of helplessness incredible, like the biggest turn on and high ever. The tingles and frustration, the frustration of not being able to move is, crazily, a good thing.
Being exposed and yet pinned down, the knowledge that I couldn't stop anybody from feeling me up, pussy or breasts. I want this, again. More.
"Rolling now."
I keep still, forcing my until moments ago run away breathing back under control, calm. In, out, in, out. Shallow, long, my stomach barely moving. Eyes staring up at the ceiling, finding a point, fixing on it.
I will not move.
Because I'm supposed to be a decoration, a thing to look at and enjoy, not a thing that talks or moves or reacts.
Just a thing.
Managing to keep my eyes ahead, ceiling bound, as I catch sight of Shauna.
Dark skinned with straight black hair, a curvy size twelve, enhanced and perky C cups pushing at the thin material of her skimpy white vest top. She isn't wearing a bra. Blue jeans hugging her legs.
With a serious expression Shauna walks a half circuit of me, from head down to left thigh, below the station where Daniel placed the electronic controller that runs the train.
Pausing, looking down at me, a small smile lifting one corner of her painted red lips.
The owner, happy with her thing.
Calm, Plymouth, breathe.
Seriously getting off on the dynamic, on Shauna lording it over me, on my helplessness and.
If this weren't a shoot she could leave me here and I couldn't stop her. She could walk away and I'd be powerless to do anything save lay here, naked.
Crazy that a growing part of me wishes this weren't a shoot. Right?
With a whir I hear the train, some kind of freight a locomotive and four assorted wagons, set off from above my head, starting the circuit down my left and zig zagging up my right side.
Still serious Shauna stands a short while, watching, and then she comes closer.
Leaning in.
And I barely manage to remain still, to not moan or gasp or arch myself up towards her as she casually runs a hand across my breasts.
Followed by another moments later up the inside of my right leg, long fingernails brushing my crying out for attention pussy lips.
And all the while Daniel's out of shot, watching.
More standing and watching, and it's only for a minute but it feels like forever. And my whole body aching for just one more touch.
With a nod like confirmation Shauna leaves, the train still running. She walks out of shot, abandoning me so the script goes.
Time passes, I maintain, with an effort and I am going to need soooo much sex, preferably with ropes, after this, my neutral expression and still limbs.
Able to relax, for a moment, as Daniel swaps out the train for a thing he built, like a camera mount to capture a 'trains eye view' of me.
And after that, after the camera train runs a half dozen circuits of me, the original train back in place, Daniel spends five minutes moving around me, camera in hand, getting close up angles.
And I just want to climax. Please. And yet the continued frustration of not climaxing is only adding fuel, making the whole thing better not worse.
Only making me more horny, like a vicious spiral of amazingness.
"Perfect."
"You sure?" Because loving it, getting really fuck me now horny and enjoying every moment, isn't necessarily the same as actually doing a good job, which Daniel paid for. So, slightly nervous biting my lip, I ask.
"Definitely." Nodding as we reach his front door. "It really is awesome to see you back Plymouth."
"Great." Where did I go though? "Well," thinking, because coming here I wasn't sure I'd be any good, that I'd even like it, so I hadn't planned ahead, "if you want me again...?"
"Can't see why I won't, at some point." Nodding. "I'm sure that video will blow up once it hits. You're a popular girl in bondage world."
I blush, nod.
"Want me to put the word out," door open and me stepped through, Daniel's words like and afterthought have me turning around, "let people know you're available?"
"Sure." I smile. "Use the email on the contract you've got."
"Right." A thumbs up.
I leave, already wondering what I might get hired to do next.
Already wondering, digging out my phone, scrolling through the few to locate Morgan's number, how soon I can get laid.
Bondage.
"Plymouth?"
"Yes already." Showing Daniel a not nervous really nervous grin, accompanied by a slightly scared too high and fast laugh. "And I fucking swear if you ask me one more time I'm throwing my thong at you."
I smile, taking the edge off the threat and making it playful, if still a little forced. Daniel smiles back though. Nods.
"There she is." Giving my arm a soft fake punch. "Welcome back."
Feels odd being called Plymouth. Again, because when the ropes come out I'm no longer Brooke, a second name for a second me.
I just hope she steps forward, soon, and takes charge.
Because Brooke's running out of courage.
Beyond Daniel's book I haven't seen myself, haven't searched. The Carnival images were proof enough, to wake Plymouth enough, to convince me that yes. I have done bondage modelling, and that yes I did enjoy it.
So I reached out to Daniel, asking.
And here we are.
Strange ropes, all one word. Daniel's bondage pay site, alongside a scattering of the normal: girl next door types struggling in tight ropes, includes a sizeable chunk of the weird.
Including this.
"Do you." Thinking, finding nothing but the dark holes. I huff. "We. Always film the prep?"
"Trying something new." Fiddling with cameras, there are three set up, attempting to catch all the angles. "Thought, you know." Turning to face me, a shrug and a smile. "Maybe people will pay for a second, longer video that's just us talking whilst I get you ready?"
"Maybe?"
Still not fully sure of my selling power, what pull my name and general bondage damsel skills have?
"So I can talk?"
"Whilst we're setting up yes."
Another fiddle, though it looks like he's putting everything back where it was facing five minutes ago, to me. I struggle not to smile.
"About whatever?"
"Right."
Eventually, after I've been for a sixth pee in twenty minutes, Daniel prehaps sensing my nerves saying nothing.
We're ready.
A silent thumbs up, which I return.
Breathe in, out.
And rolling.
"Right. Hi. And welcome. Trying a new thing here so if you like it send me a comment, hit me up and I'll make some more."
Talking too fast, nerves of his own. Has Daniel ever been in front of his cameras?
"So." Deep breath, flashed smile at out of shot me, I smile back. "Got a familiar face, found her wandering and she's agreed to come let me tie her up." Daniel holds out a hand. "Come say hi Plymouth."
Deep breath of my own. Ignore the cameras and just have fun, ignore the cameras and just have fun.
I step forward, into shot taking Daniel's hand.
"Hi." Giving the camera I'm supposed to be ignoring a wave, which makes me giggle like a schoolgirl. "I'm here to play trains." Looking at Daniel. Voice pitched teasing. "That's right, isn't it?"
"Mostly." Smiling. "How about you strip, please. And I'll get stuff ready."
Which is an excuse to get out of the way, so everyone can focus on me.
Stripping.
Breathe.
Calm.
There are no cameras, it's just me and Daniel, who I don't remember save for the fact he has, many times, seen me naked before.
Making a smile for the camera I'm supposed to ignore, giggling again. I strip.
Already barefoot I start with my jeans, pulling the buckle on the khaki green canvas belt and feeding the long hanging slack through, undoing and unzipping the front.
Flash of sky blue within.
And, turning to show off my butt as I shimmy the faded black jeans down my leg, I feel confidence coming on like a rising tidal flow to banish the nerves. It's as though, stupid as it may sound, I suddenly remember that.
I'm not actually shy.
At. All.
Lifting each leg in turn I pull the jeans off, tossing them out of shot as I turn back around.
Tee next. A tight fit, cropped to show off a flat stomach, the sharks mouth inked as though about to close on my belly button like a trap. The tee is white, plain. I shrug it off to reveal F cups held in check by a white and pink lace bra, mostly lace.
Toss the tee after the jeans.
Reach behind me to unclip the bra, slide it down off my breasts, toss it.
Lastly I, pausing to wink at the camera, arms stretched and slight forward bend at the waist, a cheeky shake breasts bouncing.
A quick giggle.
Lastly I step out of the thong, turning to toss it at Daniel, who fumble swipes it away. Looks up, confused for a moment but then showing me a proper smile.
Like he knows I'm, she's, back.
Naked, Daniel in baggy jeans and a black Godzilla tee, I pat the table.
"Up here?"
"Please."
We're in Daniel's house, in the second, spare, bedroom. Largely empty, couple of plants by the window, bookcase full of comics with a large wedge of D&D manuals on the lowest shelf. The room is dominated by the table, placed in the centre and surrounded by cameras and spotlights on tripods.
And it's actually more like a workbench. The level surface is a fat slab of that glued together looking wood, flat and raised off the floor on four sturdy legs, a rectangle of roughly king sized bed proportions plus another half metre all round, but higher off the floor then a table, more like a thing you could stand at and use without bending forward.
Climbing up I get into the centre, taking a moment to line my butt and head up with the marks Daniel and me made- with much nervous giggling from me -earlier. Laid on my back, legs almost together and arms by my sides, for now, at rest with my hair all nicely positioned, I feel quite dwarfed, like a tiny person laid on a giants bed.
Daniel straps me down.
We worked on this earlier too. Shauna, Daniel's girlfriend helping, or just chatting with us whilst Daniel made marks on the workbench, whilst he bent the fixings to shape, checking.
I become doll like, allowing Daniel to move my limbs as required.
Positioning my arms and legs in turn, placing each over the pencil marks from earlier, splaying my body out into a spread wide X shape.
Each limb in turn, and at each he secures it before moving on using metal strips like half hoops, bent into shape so they fit snugly over whichever part of me. After which a power drill is used to fix two screws, one at each end of the strip pinning the half hoop to the workbench.
Pinning my limb, me, in place.
"Okay?" My left arm done, the first limb. Laid flat and straight, palm up, metal strips now pin it at wrist and above the elbow.
"Five by five." What? Fuck knows where that came from, but I smile too.
Daniel looks bemused for a moment, then nods. Moving on to my right arm.
My right leg. Each leg pinned at the ankle and above the knee.
And after my legs, a further two strips, both large, are fixed around my body at waist and snuggled right below my ceiling pointing breasts. Plus a final half hoop around my neck.
By the end of all this, some ten plus minutes work to render me pinned down and helpless, and damn but I'm horny.
Does bondage always make me so aroused?
Is this why I model?
I'm having to work on my breathing, fighting and mostly losing to keep it steady. To the point that.
"Plymouth?" Slight note of concern.
"I'm fine." Neck not yet pinned I nod, show Daniel a smile. "Forgot how fun this is."
He smiles back, carries on.
I've got tingles too, just low level but constant. I can feel my nipples standing to attention, the solidness of them like an ache, and there's an occasional throb down in my spread wide and completely exposed pussy.
I. Am. Horny as fuck.
And we're still nowhere near shooting the actual video yet.
"Why Lego?" Fighting to keep my voice steady and not aroused wavering as Daniel begins assembling the track around me. "Wouldn't. Um...."
"Hornby."
"Right." Biting my lip as his hand, accidentally, brushes across my belly. I swallow, breathe, it does no good. "Wouldn't they have more choice?"
"Sure." A nod, pausing to drill/screw track in place.
Because who knew Lego train track came with a handy hole.
"But this is easier for constructing the bridges and shit."
It takes him awhile, but eventually I'm surrounded by a circuit of track.
Starting above my head, over the left arm then running down, all the way down that side until it crosses my left leg at the ankle. Turning, coming up between my legs heading straight for my shaved pussy. Only to turn and cross over my right leg at upper thigh. Climbing up the right side of me, a sharp turn, up and over below the breasts. A one eighty turn to come back across above my breasts, after which the track crosses my right arm, turning a final time to link back above my head.
Not a busy circuit, but it still succeeds in crisscrossing me several times, making me into some sort of decoration.
Which is the point here.
Daniel adds other pre-built Lego, scenery: green basing with cleverly constructed trees in four separate places, a station platform on the long straight down my left side. At least two dozen little Lego men dotted around.
"So I'm." Small frown, can't move my head well anymore. Can't move anything, a fact that has my arousal spiking like a seismograph needle. On, off, on.
I am, very much wishing this were one of those shoots where the model gets to climax, and not what is about to happen.
Because it wouldn't take much at this point to push me off that particular cliff.
"A decoration?"
"Seemed like a fun concept." Nodding, leaning in to place. Something? I can't see and can't move my head to look. "Who knows." Straightening up, giving me a cheeky smile. "Might become a thing, you could be a...."
"Bedside light?"
"Exactly." Nodding at my half joke. Serious. The idea, because now I'm picturing it, being used, a thing.
Suddenly I'm getting hot, having to fight to slow my heart.
"Ready." Around by my head, ballgag in hand. "If you are?"
"Yes." Still far too horny, voice sounding all wavering.
Daniel, leaning in, straps the black ball in place, sorting my hair back into place afterwards.
Stepping out of shot.
"Two minutes Plymouth." Sound of clicking and tapping at keys, saving this video, prepping the next.
I, floating on a cloud, not a care just leave me here until dinner, or bedtime.
Or.
Forever?
Do I mean that?
And was it always this good? Being tied up? Because this is amazing, the feeling of helplessness incredible, like the biggest turn on and high ever. The tingles and frustration, the frustration of not being able to move is, crazily, a good thing.
Being exposed and yet pinned down, the knowledge that I couldn't stop anybody from feeling me up, pussy or breasts. I want this, again. More.
"Rolling now."
I keep still, forcing my until moments ago run away breathing back under control, calm. In, out, in, out. Shallow, long, my stomach barely moving. Eyes staring up at the ceiling, finding a point, fixing on it.
I will not move.
Because I'm supposed to be a decoration, a thing to look at and enjoy, not a thing that talks or moves or reacts.
Just a thing.
Managing to keep my eyes ahead, ceiling bound, as I catch sight of Shauna.
Dark skinned with straight black hair, a curvy size twelve, enhanced and perky C cups pushing at the thin material of her skimpy white vest top. She isn't wearing a bra. Blue jeans hugging her legs.
With a serious expression Shauna walks a half circuit of me, from head down to left thigh, below the station where Daniel placed the electronic controller that runs the train.
Pausing, looking down at me, a small smile lifting one corner of her painted red lips.
The owner, happy with her thing.
Calm, Plymouth, breathe.
Seriously getting off on the dynamic, on Shauna lording it over me, on my helplessness and.
If this weren't a shoot she could leave me here and I couldn't stop her. She could walk away and I'd be powerless to do anything save lay here, naked.
Crazy that a growing part of me wishes this weren't a shoot. Right?
With a whir I hear the train, some kind of freight a locomotive and four assorted wagons, set off from above my head, starting the circuit down my left and zig zagging up my right side.
Still serious Shauna stands a short while, watching, and then she comes closer.
Leaning in.
And I barely manage to remain still, to not moan or gasp or arch myself up towards her as she casually runs a hand across my breasts.
Followed by another moments later up the inside of my right leg, long fingernails brushing my crying out for attention pussy lips.
And all the while Daniel's out of shot, watching.
More standing and watching, and it's only for a minute but it feels like forever. And my whole body aching for just one more touch.
With a nod like confirmation Shauna leaves, the train still running. She walks out of shot, abandoning me so the script goes.
Time passes, I maintain, with an effort and I am going to need soooo much sex, preferably with ropes, after this, my neutral expression and still limbs.
Able to relax, for a moment, as Daniel swaps out the train for a thing he built, like a camera mount to capture a 'trains eye view' of me.
And after that, after the camera train runs a half dozen circuits of me, the original train back in place, Daniel spends five minutes moving around me, camera in hand, getting close up angles.
And I just want to climax. Please. And yet the continued frustration of not climaxing is only adding fuel, making the whole thing better not worse.
Only making me more horny, like a vicious spiral of amazingness.
"Perfect."
"You sure?" Because loving it, getting really fuck me now horny and enjoying every moment, isn't necessarily the same as actually doing a good job, which Daniel paid for. So, slightly nervous biting my lip, I ask.
"Definitely." Nodding as we reach his front door. "It really is awesome to see you back Plymouth."
"Great." Where did I go though? "Well," thinking, because coming here I wasn't sure I'd be any good, that I'd even like it, so I hadn't planned ahead, "if you want me again...?"
"Can't see why I won't, at some point." Nodding. "I'm sure that video will blow up once it hits. You're a popular girl in bondage world."
I blush, nod.
"Want me to put the word out," door open and me stepped through, Daniel's words like and afterthought have me turning around, "let people know you're available?"
"Sure." I smile. "Use the email on the contract you've got."
"Right." A thumbs up.
I leave, already wondering what I might get hired to do next.
Already wondering, digging out my phone, scrolling through the few to locate Morgan's number, how soon I can get laid.
-
BlissfulMisery
- Centennial Club
- Posts: 285
- Joined: 1 year ago
Back to work indeed... Brooke is starting to rediscover her old life - especially her love of bondage. In some ways unfortunate perhaps, given how much trouble she has gotten into previously due to her favorite obsession.
But fresh beginnings mean fresh chances to do things differently - perhaps even better. Maybe Morgan might turn out to be the right person to set her on a less rocky path then she had been walking previously.
Or maybe not. I suppose we shall have to see.
But fresh beginnings mean fresh chances to do things differently - perhaps even better. Maybe Morgan might turn out to be the right person to set her on a less rocky path then she had been walking previously.
Or maybe not. I suppose we shall have to see.
Maybe she will.BlissfulMisery wrote: ↑7 months ago
But fresh beginnings mean fresh chances to do things differently - perhaps even better. Maybe Morgan might turn out to be the right person to set her on a less rocky path then she had been walking previously.
Or maybe not. I suppose we shall have to see.
Next chapter, posting immediately below, should show that things in the Morgan/Brooke world are certainly moving along.
Or as you say maybe not.
Because there's no doubt that Deborah and/or Steph will resurface at some point. And then I guess we'll see what happens
Thank you, as always, for commenting here. It means a lot to find them, and I'm grateful for your effort.
DP022.
The third date is the sex date, right?
Morgan works in McDonald's. The job she had through college now taken on full time. She's twenty, and still unsure what she wants, on any front, so flipping burgers suits her for now.
And me, I work- now -too. A whole woodland to learn, to organise and familiarise myself with. Plus, the porn stuff.
We're both busy, which means there's only been shared free time for two dates so far.
Bike hunting, followed by a cooked pub lunch, holding hands across the table and trading small hopeful smiles.
The cinema. A really late showing because we'd been messaging, and neither of us tired I semi dared her into picking me up. We sat in the back row of a screen packed with eleven whole people, including us. No snacks, and we were both too busy making out, slipping hands inside tops to feel up the lace barely covering hard nipple topped breasts. Too busy kissing to follow the plot.
Around the dates we've messaged on and off, nothing regular, Morgan apparently content, as am I, to take things slowly.
Messaging, chatting, flirting.
Me sending a selfie, dressed for work in green logo stamped tee and jeans, stood beside the huge balloon like rear wheel of the red works Massey Ferguson. Grinning, because it's such a beast, and it's all mine. Morgan a half hour later, a teasing comment that she loves what I've done with the Hayabusa, but that I'm clearly not dressed for riding.
I'd replied at lunch, mornings work loading up the trailer with all the undergrowth I'd spent the previous day cutting down done. Sending Morgan a cheeky photo: boots and small faded blue denim shorts, white string bikini top doing a shit job of containing my breasts, orange hard hat with ear defenders and mesh visor flipped up. Holding a big chainsaw.
Receiving a whole string of choice- she likes -emoji back within minutes, making me grin.
A smile that widens that evening when I get a selfie back: Morgan in nothing but a white bra and matching thong, both more lace then fabric, with her unzipped Kings leather jacket worn over the top. The camera angled for maximum cleavage.
I send her a string of suggestive emoji back.
And on.
Flirting, kissing, fun times. But no nudity, and no sex.
Yet.
But, my return to porn now six days past, still feeling horny like something sloshing around inside, an opportunity arises. A third date.
A car show, all sorts of vehicles, including apparently a good scattering of bikes.
Made that much sweeter by the fact my Hayabusa is finished, back in my possession.
Dave and Allen, two brothers, both Kings and mechanics running a bike only garage. Together we'd gone over what I wanted to happen, on the phone and again in person, the specs based on a combination of my choices tempered by their expert opinions: an engine now containing uprated parts, new tighter suspension and brakes with greater stopping power, performance exhausts and a new fat rear tyre.
She looks beautiful. The matt black paintwork effortlessly deflecting the light, that Japanese character ghost like, the bike, standing still, looks like pure speed.
I spend two afternoons on a re-familiarisation course, out riding with professionals, plus a further late evening cruising circles of the dual carriageways, getting used to the speed and sheer slightly frightening power on tap.
The Hayabusa something that demands respect, and caution.
Morgan lives with her parents, a mid terrace. She's outside waiting, jacket zipped up and helmet in hand when I pull up outside.
"Fucking," having to shout over the muffling of my helmet, the high revving eager whine of the Hayabusa at idle, "wow, B."
"I know." She can't see me grin, but I give a thumbs up. Morgan nodding back.
Putting her helmet on and taking the messenger bag off my shoulders, slipping her phone and stuff inside before climbing up behind me.
Leaning in, arms reaching around, taking hold of me. Pat on my stomach and the corner of my eye knowledge of her looking over my shoulder.
She's ready.
Off we go.
Meeting the other Kings: seventeen bikes and twenty-two people in total, at a lay-by on the outskirts. We make quite a sight, a mixed convoy of customs and tourers, sports bikes. Howling and roaring, choppy idles and high pitched whining revs.
It feels good, riding with the gang.
Arrived, taking over one small patch of the field turned car park, the others head in. Plans to meet up, a spot near the food village picked and agreed.
Helmets removed, Morgan and me have a sort of smiling face off, unzipping jackets to reveal the effort at dressing up we both appear, unspoken, to of made.
Sex, the ultimate goal today on my mind at least.
Jeans for both of us, because to ride wearing anything else is fucking stupid, my faded blue tucked into black steel toed boots, Morgan's faded black and paired with her own black boots, which zip and buckle closed.
Up top I'm wearing a very small tee, khaki green the fabric hugs my F cups, fabric ending abruptly to hang off them leaving my whole flat stomach on show, plus from certain angles the bottom of my black and pink lace bra cups.
Morgan's tee is white with 'Honda' in red splashed across her chest. It's an obvious tight fit, and she isn't wearing a bra.
I can, damn tease, clearly see her nipples.
Smiling, and I'd swear I can feel the spark jumping between us.
"Amazing." Looking at me but patting the Hayabusa's fuel tank. "Felt so smooth all the way here."
"Handles well." Not taking my eyes from her either.
"You look."
"So fucking...."
"You too." Stepping in, Morgan mirrors me, her hand coming off the bike to slip around my waist, my own cupping her head as we kiss.
Slipping my bag from her shoulder as we do, moving it to mine.
We head in too.
It's a good day, walking hand in hand, checking out fast cars and fast bikes. Morgan teasing as I lead her through the tractor display, pointing out this and that. Stuff I find cool.
Meeting the other Kings for lunch, a loose congregation around three wooden benches and a low wall, chips and burgers, hot dogs dripping onions. Morgan sitting on the wall, legs spread invitingly wide bracketing me, stood facing her. Close but not touching and yet I can almost feel the connection ghost like. The spark. Sharing chips in a polystyrene tray, drizzled in ketchup.
My F cups more or less in her face, and more then once her voice wavers slightly. Affected by our close but not touching slow climb to later too.
The whole day like one long teasing build-up, like we both know, unspoken, what's coming.
A fact confirmed when.
"Come inside." Helmets off, me leaning against my bike, Morgan pressing against me. Outside her house as the sun goes down. I've got one hand stuffed inside her jeans butt pocket, Morgan reaches up with hers, running a thumb across my lips making me shiver. "Please, B."
Everything, it all feels right. Not rushed.
"Yes." Squeezing her butt cheek for emphasis, resting my forehead on hers. "I'd love to."
Morgans grin, the flash glint of her lip ring in the streetlight. She wants me just as much.
There's a garage, just for Morgan's bike and a ton of boxes, a lawnmower. Her parents car- a hulking red Nissan pick-up -too large to comfortably fit. One in a row of eight not far from the house. I wheel the Hayabusa silently in, Morgan locks it up.
Safe.
"You're back sweetheart."
"Um." We'd, Morgan near dragging me along, been making for the stairs at speed. However, bad timing or just them having heard my noise machine pulling up five minutes ago, her parents 'conveniently' emerge from the lounge just as we're passing.
"Yes."
"Evening." Not shy, and yes I'm a porn star, prehaps not exactly ideal girlfriend material? To some I suppose. But they likely don't know that.
Does Morgan know that, what I do?
And I'm not exactly dressed sensibly with my F cups all pressing at and visible beneath the tight small tee, but.
Not shy, and happy to be polite.
"I'm Brooke."
"Evening Brooke." The Dad, shaking my hand and- good for him -not even a flicked glance at my chest. Both of them are fourty something at a guess, not slim but not unhealthy looking either. The Dad looks like a trucker, ink on both arms, the Mum, curvy, hair just starting to grey, gives me a friendly smile.
"Want to join us?" Mum, a genuine invite it sounds like despite only just having met me. Very welcoming and not at all upset I'm not a guy, which would I suppose be traditional or some shit for their daughter. "We were just about to get a beer and break out the chocolate."
"No, Mum." Morgan, bless her looking like she wants to curl up and die of embarrassment. "We're. Well."
She can't say it. And, be fair, could you?
"Goodnight then girls." The Dad, nodding as the Mum half smiles, both of them continuing into the kitchen.
Fit of giggles on the landing, can't help it. Morgan, after a moment joins in.
Both of us sobering up once her bedroom door's closed though.
A metal framed single bed and wooden furniture: wardrobe and bedside unit that are two different colours. Her room is small, filled by those three items not much floor space left. Posters of bikes and anime fill the walls.
Shrugging off bag and coat, placing them plus my helmet beside the door, I turn to find Morgan having done similar. Standing quite close.
Looking at me, biting her lip.
Nervous now the moment's arrived.
Not- no shame and not shy Plymouth -me.
Stepping in I push my body into hers, pushing her back against the nearest wall, locking our lips, a proper kiss, breathing Morgan in deep as my tongue darts out, finding hers come tentatively out to meet me.
She doesn't resist as, mid kiss, I take hold of her tee and pull, our lips breaking contact for a handful of instants and Morgan's arms going up, helping me slide the tee off, tossing it away.
Revealing for the first time her B cups, small yet pert, nipples already hard.
"Bbbbeeee." She sighs as my hands find and run across them, fingers catching nipples which instantly harden under my touch, eyes closing.
Stepping back, releasing her after another kiss, Morgan lowers herself onto the bed, sitting then laying.
Whilst I.
Gaze flicking to my bag, because. I'd bought some ropes, a gag. Because I'm a horny little rope slut, and since the shoot I've been desperate for a binding and a fucking. I just wasn't sure how, when, if, I should introduce my toys into the mix.
Not for shyness, I just don't want to scare Morgan off. Because she's cute, and I'm liking her more each day.
A quiet clicking sound, familiar? Brings my attention back to the room, my gaze swinging back to discover.
Morgan, still topless, laying down on her back. And she's just used a pair of steel cuffs to pin her wrists together on the other side of the headboard, either side of the central of seven metal poles on the headboard.
Trapping herself in place.
"Oh." Grin spreading as Morgan looks up at me, breathing fast her B cups rising and falling. Nervous smile on her face.
"And what's all this for then?" Still standing, purposefully, being tall like taking charge hands on my hips, but smiling still making my words a game and a tease.
"I." Licking her lips, staring up at me and I can see my pose affecting her, throwing whatever submissive levers she has. "Thought you might like." Another pause, small shiver. Excitement? "Me?"
"Do I get to play?"
"Yes." Barely a whisper, into it. Or does she know what I do? I wonder again.
Is this for me or is Morgan into bondage already?
"You can. Play." Definitely an adrenaline shiver, Morgan wriggles her cuffed wrists which clank softly against the bed frame. "With me. B." Looking up at me, a nervous half smile. "Please."
Boots and socks, mine, off.
Then I strip Morgan, completely. Because there's a lot to be said for the tingled thrill when you're naked and the other person's still fully clothed.
I can see in her eyes, laying there cuffed and naked now as I kneel not naked between her spread legs, that she's feeling it.
Her skin is all over pale and not tanned like mine. Ink that I've already seen covers her left forearm, symbols that look like Hieroglyphs forming a line down, each design dripping red off the blackness of it.
Morgan's pussy is shaved, and seems to be staring at, calling to me.
Meeting her gaze I reach out, brushing nails up her inner leg, across her pussy, the lightest of touches, back down inside the other leg.
And back, making her squirm, bite her lip.
Clank of metal on metal, more squirming as I stroke her pussy lips, up and down, not slipping inside.
Teasing. In control.
And is she into this? Has Morgan done bondage before, more then just this simple wrists cuffed, or is this the extent of her play?
Is this just for me, because she knows?
She certainly looks into it, moaning softly, no panic on that pretty face. But.
Does she know, what I am?
Does she know she's swimming with a shark?
And, I could, show her. I could take this one cuff situation so much further.
I want to. I can feel the urge building, the beast straining to be free, to go all out and play.
With her.
But.
"You." Not this time. Morgan, cuffed to her bed, an act of self bondage her own choice. Will do.
Coming forward, sliding down to lay atop her my jeans clad crotch pressing into hers. "Look." Using one arm for balance I run the other hand, long nails, up Morgan's body from knee to wrist, not quite touching her breast on the way through. "Stunning."
Running my hand back down, Morgan sighing as my nails find her breast, her nipple.
She's putty, easily. Unable to touch me back I simply do as I please, taking my time exploring, tracing patterns all across her slender frame, the small hump of her belly. Those pert breasts and of course back to her pussy.
Using my fingers even whilst we continue to kiss.
"Please." Breathless. "B."
"What." Teasing, because I know what. I run a finger across her pussy lips again. "This?"
"Yes." Moaning as I slip a finger in.
I wonder how she'd sound gagged?
"Please let me cum."
Is she asking as a proper submissive, like permission, like I can refuse?
The thought makes me shiver, something there, in the holes. Some buried part of me both exciting and thrilling and terrifying.
Some part of me I don't yet remember.
Flash across my vision of the two shadowed girls.
Throwing myself into this, now, with Morgan. Banishing them back into the dark.
I use my tongue, licking and probing. Morgan panting, breath coming faster and faster her body bucking, her legs wrapping my face, pinning me to her crotch.
She whimpers out her orgasm, no screams just a satisfied sounding come down from the increasing moans, her body locking, then relaxing.
I, once she tells me where the key is, remove the cuffs, tossed away with my clothes as Morgan watches. Her eyes on me going wider as my breasts come out, drinking me in.
Welcoming me with wide arms as I climb back into bed.
Where we spend a happy forever exploring each other, trailing nails and planting a hundred soft kisses. Taking turns on top.
Drifting off in each others arms.
The third date is the sex date, right?
Morgan works in McDonald's. The job she had through college now taken on full time. She's twenty, and still unsure what she wants, on any front, so flipping burgers suits her for now.
And me, I work- now -too. A whole woodland to learn, to organise and familiarise myself with. Plus, the porn stuff.
We're both busy, which means there's only been shared free time for two dates so far.
Bike hunting, followed by a cooked pub lunch, holding hands across the table and trading small hopeful smiles.
The cinema. A really late showing because we'd been messaging, and neither of us tired I semi dared her into picking me up. We sat in the back row of a screen packed with eleven whole people, including us. No snacks, and we were both too busy making out, slipping hands inside tops to feel up the lace barely covering hard nipple topped breasts. Too busy kissing to follow the plot.
Around the dates we've messaged on and off, nothing regular, Morgan apparently content, as am I, to take things slowly.
Messaging, chatting, flirting.
Me sending a selfie, dressed for work in green logo stamped tee and jeans, stood beside the huge balloon like rear wheel of the red works Massey Ferguson. Grinning, because it's such a beast, and it's all mine. Morgan a half hour later, a teasing comment that she loves what I've done with the Hayabusa, but that I'm clearly not dressed for riding.
I'd replied at lunch, mornings work loading up the trailer with all the undergrowth I'd spent the previous day cutting down done. Sending Morgan a cheeky photo: boots and small faded blue denim shorts, white string bikini top doing a shit job of containing my breasts, orange hard hat with ear defenders and mesh visor flipped up. Holding a big chainsaw.
Receiving a whole string of choice- she likes -emoji back within minutes, making me grin.
A smile that widens that evening when I get a selfie back: Morgan in nothing but a white bra and matching thong, both more lace then fabric, with her unzipped Kings leather jacket worn over the top. The camera angled for maximum cleavage.
I send her a string of suggestive emoji back.
And on.
Flirting, kissing, fun times. But no nudity, and no sex.
Yet.
But, my return to porn now six days past, still feeling horny like something sloshing around inside, an opportunity arises. A third date.
A car show, all sorts of vehicles, including apparently a good scattering of bikes.
Made that much sweeter by the fact my Hayabusa is finished, back in my possession.
Dave and Allen, two brothers, both Kings and mechanics running a bike only garage. Together we'd gone over what I wanted to happen, on the phone and again in person, the specs based on a combination of my choices tempered by their expert opinions: an engine now containing uprated parts, new tighter suspension and brakes with greater stopping power, performance exhausts and a new fat rear tyre.
She looks beautiful. The matt black paintwork effortlessly deflecting the light, that Japanese character ghost like, the bike, standing still, looks like pure speed.
I spend two afternoons on a re-familiarisation course, out riding with professionals, plus a further late evening cruising circles of the dual carriageways, getting used to the speed and sheer slightly frightening power on tap.
The Hayabusa something that demands respect, and caution.
Morgan lives with her parents, a mid terrace. She's outside waiting, jacket zipped up and helmet in hand when I pull up outside.
"Fucking," having to shout over the muffling of my helmet, the high revving eager whine of the Hayabusa at idle, "wow, B."
"I know." She can't see me grin, but I give a thumbs up. Morgan nodding back.
Putting her helmet on and taking the messenger bag off my shoulders, slipping her phone and stuff inside before climbing up behind me.
Leaning in, arms reaching around, taking hold of me. Pat on my stomach and the corner of my eye knowledge of her looking over my shoulder.
She's ready.
Off we go.
Meeting the other Kings: seventeen bikes and twenty-two people in total, at a lay-by on the outskirts. We make quite a sight, a mixed convoy of customs and tourers, sports bikes. Howling and roaring, choppy idles and high pitched whining revs.
It feels good, riding with the gang.
Arrived, taking over one small patch of the field turned car park, the others head in. Plans to meet up, a spot near the food village picked and agreed.
Helmets removed, Morgan and me have a sort of smiling face off, unzipping jackets to reveal the effort at dressing up we both appear, unspoken, to of made.
Sex, the ultimate goal today on my mind at least.
Jeans for both of us, because to ride wearing anything else is fucking stupid, my faded blue tucked into black steel toed boots, Morgan's faded black and paired with her own black boots, which zip and buckle closed.
Up top I'm wearing a very small tee, khaki green the fabric hugs my F cups, fabric ending abruptly to hang off them leaving my whole flat stomach on show, plus from certain angles the bottom of my black and pink lace bra cups.
Morgan's tee is white with 'Honda' in red splashed across her chest. It's an obvious tight fit, and she isn't wearing a bra.
I can, damn tease, clearly see her nipples.
Smiling, and I'd swear I can feel the spark jumping between us.
"Amazing." Looking at me but patting the Hayabusa's fuel tank. "Felt so smooth all the way here."
"Handles well." Not taking my eyes from her either.
"You look."
"So fucking...."
"You too." Stepping in, Morgan mirrors me, her hand coming off the bike to slip around my waist, my own cupping her head as we kiss.
Slipping my bag from her shoulder as we do, moving it to mine.
We head in too.
It's a good day, walking hand in hand, checking out fast cars and fast bikes. Morgan teasing as I lead her through the tractor display, pointing out this and that. Stuff I find cool.
Meeting the other Kings for lunch, a loose congregation around three wooden benches and a low wall, chips and burgers, hot dogs dripping onions. Morgan sitting on the wall, legs spread invitingly wide bracketing me, stood facing her. Close but not touching and yet I can almost feel the connection ghost like. The spark. Sharing chips in a polystyrene tray, drizzled in ketchup.
My F cups more or less in her face, and more then once her voice wavers slightly. Affected by our close but not touching slow climb to later too.
The whole day like one long teasing build-up, like we both know, unspoken, what's coming.
A fact confirmed when.
"Come inside." Helmets off, me leaning against my bike, Morgan pressing against me. Outside her house as the sun goes down. I've got one hand stuffed inside her jeans butt pocket, Morgan reaches up with hers, running a thumb across my lips making me shiver. "Please, B."
Everything, it all feels right. Not rushed.
"Yes." Squeezing her butt cheek for emphasis, resting my forehead on hers. "I'd love to."
Morgans grin, the flash glint of her lip ring in the streetlight. She wants me just as much.
There's a garage, just for Morgan's bike and a ton of boxes, a lawnmower. Her parents car- a hulking red Nissan pick-up -too large to comfortably fit. One in a row of eight not far from the house. I wheel the Hayabusa silently in, Morgan locks it up.
Safe.
"You're back sweetheart."
"Um." We'd, Morgan near dragging me along, been making for the stairs at speed. However, bad timing or just them having heard my noise machine pulling up five minutes ago, her parents 'conveniently' emerge from the lounge just as we're passing.
"Yes."
"Evening." Not shy, and yes I'm a porn star, prehaps not exactly ideal girlfriend material? To some I suppose. But they likely don't know that.
Does Morgan know that, what I do?
And I'm not exactly dressed sensibly with my F cups all pressing at and visible beneath the tight small tee, but.
Not shy, and happy to be polite.
"I'm Brooke."
"Evening Brooke." The Dad, shaking my hand and- good for him -not even a flicked glance at my chest. Both of them are fourty something at a guess, not slim but not unhealthy looking either. The Dad looks like a trucker, ink on both arms, the Mum, curvy, hair just starting to grey, gives me a friendly smile.
"Want to join us?" Mum, a genuine invite it sounds like despite only just having met me. Very welcoming and not at all upset I'm not a guy, which would I suppose be traditional or some shit for their daughter. "We were just about to get a beer and break out the chocolate."
"No, Mum." Morgan, bless her looking like she wants to curl up and die of embarrassment. "We're. Well."
She can't say it. And, be fair, could you?
"Goodnight then girls." The Dad, nodding as the Mum half smiles, both of them continuing into the kitchen.
Fit of giggles on the landing, can't help it. Morgan, after a moment joins in.
Both of us sobering up once her bedroom door's closed though.
A metal framed single bed and wooden furniture: wardrobe and bedside unit that are two different colours. Her room is small, filled by those three items not much floor space left. Posters of bikes and anime fill the walls.
Shrugging off bag and coat, placing them plus my helmet beside the door, I turn to find Morgan having done similar. Standing quite close.
Looking at me, biting her lip.
Nervous now the moment's arrived.
Not- no shame and not shy Plymouth -me.
Stepping in I push my body into hers, pushing her back against the nearest wall, locking our lips, a proper kiss, breathing Morgan in deep as my tongue darts out, finding hers come tentatively out to meet me.
She doesn't resist as, mid kiss, I take hold of her tee and pull, our lips breaking contact for a handful of instants and Morgan's arms going up, helping me slide the tee off, tossing it away.
Revealing for the first time her B cups, small yet pert, nipples already hard.
"Bbbbeeee." She sighs as my hands find and run across them, fingers catching nipples which instantly harden under my touch, eyes closing.
Stepping back, releasing her after another kiss, Morgan lowers herself onto the bed, sitting then laying.
Whilst I.
Gaze flicking to my bag, because. I'd bought some ropes, a gag. Because I'm a horny little rope slut, and since the shoot I've been desperate for a binding and a fucking. I just wasn't sure how, when, if, I should introduce my toys into the mix.
Not for shyness, I just don't want to scare Morgan off. Because she's cute, and I'm liking her more each day.
A quiet clicking sound, familiar? Brings my attention back to the room, my gaze swinging back to discover.
Morgan, still topless, laying down on her back. And she's just used a pair of steel cuffs to pin her wrists together on the other side of the headboard, either side of the central of seven metal poles on the headboard.
Trapping herself in place.
"Oh." Grin spreading as Morgan looks up at me, breathing fast her B cups rising and falling. Nervous smile on her face.
"And what's all this for then?" Still standing, purposefully, being tall like taking charge hands on my hips, but smiling still making my words a game and a tease.
"I." Licking her lips, staring up at me and I can see my pose affecting her, throwing whatever submissive levers she has. "Thought you might like." Another pause, small shiver. Excitement? "Me?"
"Do I get to play?"
"Yes." Barely a whisper, into it. Or does she know what I do? I wonder again.
Is this for me or is Morgan into bondage already?
"You can. Play." Definitely an adrenaline shiver, Morgan wriggles her cuffed wrists which clank softly against the bed frame. "With me. B." Looking up at me, a nervous half smile. "Please."
Boots and socks, mine, off.
Then I strip Morgan, completely. Because there's a lot to be said for the tingled thrill when you're naked and the other person's still fully clothed.
I can see in her eyes, laying there cuffed and naked now as I kneel not naked between her spread legs, that she's feeling it.
Her skin is all over pale and not tanned like mine. Ink that I've already seen covers her left forearm, symbols that look like Hieroglyphs forming a line down, each design dripping red off the blackness of it.
Morgan's pussy is shaved, and seems to be staring at, calling to me.
Meeting her gaze I reach out, brushing nails up her inner leg, across her pussy, the lightest of touches, back down inside the other leg.
And back, making her squirm, bite her lip.
Clank of metal on metal, more squirming as I stroke her pussy lips, up and down, not slipping inside.
Teasing. In control.
And is she into this? Has Morgan done bondage before, more then just this simple wrists cuffed, or is this the extent of her play?
Is this just for me, because she knows?
She certainly looks into it, moaning softly, no panic on that pretty face. But.
Does she know, what I am?
Does she know she's swimming with a shark?
And, I could, show her. I could take this one cuff situation so much further.
I want to. I can feel the urge building, the beast straining to be free, to go all out and play.
With her.
But.
"You." Not this time. Morgan, cuffed to her bed, an act of self bondage her own choice. Will do.
Coming forward, sliding down to lay atop her my jeans clad crotch pressing into hers. "Look." Using one arm for balance I run the other hand, long nails, up Morgan's body from knee to wrist, not quite touching her breast on the way through. "Stunning."
Running my hand back down, Morgan sighing as my nails find her breast, her nipple.
She's putty, easily. Unable to touch me back I simply do as I please, taking my time exploring, tracing patterns all across her slender frame, the small hump of her belly. Those pert breasts and of course back to her pussy.
Using my fingers even whilst we continue to kiss.
"Please." Breathless. "B."
"What." Teasing, because I know what. I run a finger across her pussy lips again. "This?"
"Yes." Moaning as I slip a finger in.
I wonder how she'd sound gagged?
"Please let me cum."
Is she asking as a proper submissive, like permission, like I can refuse?
The thought makes me shiver, something there, in the holes. Some buried part of me both exciting and thrilling and terrifying.
Some part of me I don't yet remember.
Flash across my vision of the two shadowed girls.
Throwing myself into this, now, with Morgan. Banishing them back into the dark.
I use my tongue, licking and probing. Morgan panting, breath coming faster and faster her body bucking, her legs wrapping my face, pinning me to her crotch.
She whimpers out her orgasm, no screams just a satisfied sounding come down from the increasing moans, her body locking, then relaxing.
I, once she tells me where the key is, remove the cuffs, tossed away with my clothes as Morgan watches. Her eyes on me going wider as my breasts come out, drinking me in.
Welcoming me with wide arms as I climb back into bed.
Where we spend a happy forever exploring each other, trailing nails and planting a hundred soft kisses. Taking turns on top.
Drifting off in each others arms.
Detective Brooke.
"Sshhhiiiiit." Hissed out, and why I didn't see it, her, any of the previous times I don't know?
Black hair in a tumbling messy mohawk, skinny with a clearly fake.
Nice, but as enhanced as mine.
Chest. One of my two shadows, staring out the page of the Carnival book.
But who is she?
"Brooke." Daniel, the happy greeting down the line bringing a smile to my frowning face. Sat at the table in my woodland house, book open, fingers drumming the page.
"How's work?"
"Same old." A shrug he can't see. "Spent today liaising with the Farmer next door about thinning out the boundary hedgerow."
Daniel laughs. I smile wider, knowing anyway but asking.
"What?"
"If only your legion of fans knew you chopped wood when you weren't shooting porn."
"Hey." Mock outraged, playing along. "I'll have you know I'm an excellent Forester."
"Except you'd rather be tied to the tree then chopping it down."
"True."
We both laugh.
"I put out the word, Brooke."
"I know, thanks." There have been emails, conversations occurring. Bondage, on the horizon, coming steadily closer. "I've had a few offers."
"Great." Said like he means it. "Had a couple enquiries from sites I didn't know, fielded it all your way. Might have something for you myself too, soon."
"Good to know." Because Daniel's alternative, weird and out there approach to it, was fun. Probably the times I don't remember were fun too.
"Do you have your Carnival book to hand?"
"Hold on."
Off speaker muted words, Daniel's and Shauna's. I wait.
"Got it."
"Page twenty-one."
"Page...." Sound of rifled pages. "Yeah?" A pause. "A girl, right? One of the models?"
"One of the models." Because I don't remember, but between the book, Daniel and Shauna, I've got the bare bones. We, the five of us in charge, amongst other tasks and preparations we had to hire several dozen models.
"Does she look." Pausing, licking my lips. "Familiar?"
"Well...." Another muted conversation.
"No. Should she?"
"No." I lie, or at least choose not to explain my half formed dreams. Shadows. "I'm just thinking out loud."
"Right."
"You're okay though, Brooke?"
"Definitely." Am I? "Goodnight Daniel, come at me when you need me."
"I will. Night," voice like smiling. "Plymouth."
Another shared laugh. We hang up.
I, the following day over dinner, go through the book, pad of paper and a pen beside me. None of the models are named, so, each new face I assign a two or three word description.
Blonde inked dragon.
Asian plump.
Redhead E cups nosering.
Like that. Page by page, marking a tally each time a girl appears. Is she, mohawk girl, special?
Possibly, not. She only appears once, as do most of the girls. Myself, Shauna, are the most prolific, with several others getting two or three marks.
But not her.
There's no way, no logical sane way, that she's buried in one of my holes just off the back of one photo in a book about a bondage show I put on.
So where else do I know her?
And why isn't the plump purple haired girl shadow in the book?
That evening, sat in bed wearing a baggy black tee, Carnival book on my lap. Unable to sleep, equally unable to prise open the mystery of her, the two of them.
Looking down, studying the photo.
She's wearing a skimpy black vest top, no bra and an underbust corset, which is black too, pushing her D cups up and out, the thin straps and plunging neckline of the vest shows off an awful lot of breast and cleavage. Slash of toned stomach and black boyshorts, barefoot.
Rope has her pinned into an arms pulled back hogtie complete with chest harness. Just to make sure those- yes okay, they are amazing looking -breasts get squeezed and thrust forwards. There's a black ballgag forced between black painted lips, and she's laid on a wooden pallet on a concrete floor.
She looks, to my professional eye, not completely happy to be tied and gagged. By which I mean she's not like me, not into it.
Maybe, brief shiver though I couldn't say why, she's more dominat leaning. Only happy when in charge of another and not the tied up slut.
Slut?
Troubled, having found no answers I push the book aside, and drift off.
"Mum. Roman."
Two nights later, dinner at home.
"Princess?"
"Did I." Think, I had all this down on the way here. "Bring girls over?"
"Well." A glance exchanged, Mum carries on. "Not recently."
"Oh."
Why not?
"Truthfully, we hadn't seen you for weeks before the hospital called."
I don't think I dated her, either of them. Surely I'd remember that? And if I did, was, dating, surely I'd of been willing, happy, to introduce them to Mum and Roman?
I still don't know who either of them are?
"Sshhhiiiiit." Hissed out, and why I didn't see it, her, any of the previous times I don't know?
Black hair in a tumbling messy mohawk, skinny with a clearly fake.
Nice, but as enhanced as mine.
Chest. One of my two shadows, staring out the page of the Carnival book.
But who is she?
"Brooke." Daniel, the happy greeting down the line bringing a smile to my frowning face. Sat at the table in my woodland house, book open, fingers drumming the page.
"How's work?"
"Same old." A shrug he can't see. "Spent today liaising with the Farmer next door about thinning out the boundary hedgerow."
Daniel laughs. I smile wider, knowing anyway but asking.
"What?"
"If only your legion of fans knew you chopped wood when you weren't shooting porn."
"Hey." Mock outraged, playing along. "I'll have you know I'm an excellent Forester."
"Except you'd rather be tied to the tree then chopping it down."
"True."
We both laugh.
"I put out the word, Brooke."
"I know, thanks." There have been emails, conversations occurring. Bondage, on the horizon, coming steadily closer. "I've had a few offers."
"Great." Said like he means it. "Had a couple enquiries from sites I didn't know, fielded it all your way. Might have something for you myself too, soon."
"Good to know." Because Daniel's alternative, weird and out there approach to it, was fun. Probably the times I don't remember were fun too.
"Do you have your Carnival book to hand?"
"Hold on."
Off speaker muted words, Daniel's and Shauna's. I wait.
"Got it."
"Page twenty-one."
"Page...." Sound of rifled pages. "Yeah?" A pause. "A girl, right? One of the models?"
"One of the models." Because I don't remember, but between the book, Daniel and Shauna, I've got the bare bones. We, the five of us in charge, amongst other tasks and preparations we had to hire several dozen models.
"Does she look." Pausing, licking my lips. "Familiar?"
"Well...." Another muted conversation.
"No. Should she?"
"No." I lie, or at least choose not to explain my half formed dreams. Shadows. "I'm just thinking out loud."
"Right."
"You're okay though, Brooke?"
"Definitely." Am I? "Goodnight Daniel, come at me when you need me."
"I will. Night," voice like smiling. "Plymouth."
Another shared laugh. We hang up.
I, the following day over dinner, go through the book, pad of paper and a pen beside me. None of the models are named, so, each new face I assign a two or three word description.
Blonde inked dragon.
Asian plump.
Redhead E cups nosering.
Like that. Page by page, marking a tally each time a girl appears. Is she, mohawk girl, special?
Possibly, not. She only appears once, as do most of the girls. Myself, Shauna, are the most prolific, with several others getting two or three marks.
But not her.
There's no way, no logical sane way, that she's buried in one of my holes just off the back of one photo in a book about a bondage show I put on.
So where else do I know her?
And why isn't the plump purple haired girl shadow in the book?
That evening, sat in bed wearing a baggy black tee, Carnival book on my lap. Unable to sleep, equally unable to prise open the mystery of her, the two of them.
Looking down, studying the photo.
She's wearing a skimpy black vest top, no bra and an underbust corset, which is black too, pushing her D cups up and out, the thin straps and plunging neckline of the vest shows off an awful lot of breast and cleavage. Slash of toned stomach and black boyshorts, barefoot.
Rope has her pinned into an arms pulled back hogtie complete with chest harness. Just to make sure those- yes okay, they are amazing looking -breasts get squeezed and thrust forwards. There's a black ballgag forced between black painted lips, and she's laid on a wooden pallet on a concrete floor.
She looks, to my professional eye, not completely happy to be tied and gagged. By which I mean she's not like me, not into it.
Maybe, brief shiver though I couldn't say why, she's more dominat leaning. Only happy when in charge of another and not the tied up slut.
Slut?
Troubled, having found no answers I push the book aside, and drift off.
"Mum. Roman."
Two nights later, dinner at home.
"Princess?"
"Did I." Think, I had all this down on the way here. "Bring girls over?"
"Well." A glance exchanged, Mum carries on. "Not recently."
"Oh."
Why not?
"Truthfully, we hadn't seen you for weeks before the hospital called."
I don't think I dated her, either of them. Surely I'd remember that? And if I did, was, dating, surely I'd of been willing, happy, to introduce them to Mum and Roman?
I still don't know who either of them are?
Email correspondence.
001.
-------
Incoming.
'To: plymouth_trussedngagged
From:gothic_hell
Plymouth.
Hey girl, how's life? We've not worked together before. I'm an expat, English but half German these days.
Moved for work, long story.
I'm coming back in a couple of weeks for a wedding, thought if you're free we could thrash out a deal?
Would love to feature you on the site.
Let me know.
Thomas.'
----
'To: plymouth_trussedngagged
From: caged_sluts
Plymouth.
If you aren't (trussed and gagged) we'd be happy to help? lol
We're a new site, relatively. Would love to get you on, to do a shoot or three.
x'
-------
Outgoing.
'To: gothic_hell
From: plymouth_trussedngagged
Thomas.
Morning, thanks for reaching out, getting in touch.
I'm definitely interested, and can be quite flexible regarding free time, plus location.
What were you hoping for, from me?
Plymouth x'
----
'To: caged_sluts
From: plymouth_trussedngagged
Morning.
Happy to help (me be trussed and gagged) are you? I don't doubt it lol
What were you hoping for, from me?
Plymouth x'
-------
Incoming.
'To: plymouth_trussedngagged
From: gothic_hell
Plymouth.
The site is predominantly goth, insofar as the girls style and all round look, which I think (am I wrong?) you fit that aesthetic perfectly.
Whatever we filmed would have to be in my hotel room, which cuts the options considerably, but, there's still scope for something fun.
Something I can market.
Am attaching my travel schedule, if you're free anytime across these dates, if the location isn't too far, then prehaps we can talk more?
Thomas.'
----
'To: plymouth_trussedngagged
From: caged_sluts
Plymouth.
Caged sluts is at the far end of the scale.
Not for bondage noobs lol
x'
-------
Outgoing.
'To: gothic_hell
From: plymouth_trussedngagged
Thomas.
I can fit in with that.
Call me (number attached) and we can finalise details.
Plymouth x'
----
'To: caged_sluts
From: plymouth_trussedngagged
How many times do I gotta get trussed up before I'm not a noob then? lol
Whatever the number, I'm pretty certain I'm over it.
The far end huh? Well, given the site name I suppose you want to lock me in a cage and spank me lol
Plymouth x'
-------
Incoming.
'To: plymouth_trussedngagged
From: caged_sluts
Plymouth.
Can't spank you in a cage lol
So we'll just have to truss you (and gag you of course lol x) first, then spank you.
Then toss you in the cage.
Fair? x'
-------
Outgoing.
'To: caged_sluts
From: plymouth_trussedngagged
True lol
And.
Sure, sounds fair. After all given I'm a 'slut' I suppose the cage is where I belong lol x'
-------
Incoming.
'To: plymouth_trussedngagged
From: caged_sluts
Details of exactly what we require attached.
Alongside a proposed fee.
x'
-------
Outgoing.
'To: caged_sluts
From: plymouth_trussedngagged
Okay.
Wow. It's a little outside what I normally do.
Okay, a lot lol
But, the fee is, to be frank, very generous. So. Fuck it let's do this.
Let me know when?
Plymouth x'
001.
-------
Incoming.
'To: plymouth_trussedngagged
From:gothic_hell
Plymouth.
Hey girl, how's life? We've not worked together before. I'm an expat, English but half German these days.
Moved for work, long story.
I'm coming back in a couple of weeks for a wedding, thought if you're free we could thrash out a deal?
Would love to feature you on the site.
Let me know.
Thomas.'
----
'To: plymouth_trussedngagged
From: caged_sluts
Plymouth.
If you aren't (trussed and gagged) we'd be happy to help? lol
We're a new site, relatively. Would love to get you on, to do a shoot or three.
x'
-------
Outgoing.
'To: gothic_hell
From: plymouth_trussedngagged
Thomas.
Morning, thanks for reaching out, getting in touch.
I'm definitely interested, and can be quite flexible regarding free time, plus location.
What were you hoping for, from me?
Plymouth x'
----
'To: caged_sluts
From: plymouth_trussedngagged
Morning.
Happy to help (me be trussed and gagged) are you? I don't doubt it lol
What were you hoping for, from me?
Plymouth x'
-------
Incoming.
'To: plymouth_trussedngagged
From: gothic_hell
Plymouth.
The site is predominantly goth, insofar as the girls style and all round look, which I think (am I wrong?) you fit that aesthetic perfectly.
Whatever we filmed would have to be in my hotel room, which cuts the options considerably, but, there's still scope for something fun.
Something I can market.
Am attaching my travel schedule, if you're free anytime across these dates, if the location isn't too far, then prehaps we can talk more?
Thomas.'
----
'To: plymouth_trussedngagged
From: caged_sluts
Plymouth.
Caged sluts is at the far end of the scale.
Not for bondage noobs lol
x'
-------
Outgoing.
'To: gothic_hell
From: plymouth_trussedngagged
Thomas.
I can fit in with that.
Call me (number attached) and we can finalise details.
Plymouth x'
----
'To: caged_sluts
From: plymouth_trussedngagged
How many times do I gotta get trussed up before I'm not a noob then? lol
Whatever the number, I'm pretty certain I'm over it.
The far end huh? Well, given the site name I suppose you want to lock me in a cage and spank me lol
Plymouth x'
-------
Incoming.
'To: plymouth_trussedngagged
From: caged_sluts
Plymouth.
Can't spank you in a cage lol
So we'll just have to truss you (and gag you of course lol x) first, then spank you.
Then toss you in the cage.
Fair? x'
-------
Outgoing.
'To: caged_sluts
From: plymouth_trussedngagged
True lol
And.
Sure, sounds fair. After all given I'm a 'slut' I suppose the cage is where I belong lol x'
-------
Incoming.
'To: plymouth_trussedngagged
From: caged_sluts
Details of exactly what we require attached.
Alongside a proposed fee.
x'
-------
Outgoing.
'To: caged_sluts
From: plymouth_trussedngagged
Okay.
Wow. It's a little outside what I normally do.
Okay, a lot lol
But, the fee is, to be frank, very generous. So. Fuck it let's do this.
Let me know when?
Plymouth x'
DP023.
"What do they all mean?"
Laying in my bed on a lazy Sunday morning, time passing, hunger prodding at my stomach but I'm, we're both, too content to get up.
We weren't due to meet until today, someplace roughly half distance between her parents and my woodland, but exchanging messages last night and one thing leading to another.
Both of us becoming more flirty, more turned on.
Morgan wound up riding over here after midnight, so, because of all the sex, we didn't get to bed until late.
We're both naked under my thin duvet, laid side by side in my wooden framed double, me on my belly head resting on my hands under the pillow, Morgan on her side, head supported by a hand and bent elbow, tracing a finger up and down my back.
"My ink?" Head turned to the side so I can look at her, see those pert breasts topped by pointy nipples.
"The ink." Nodding. "Do you remember any of them?"
"Well." Feeling the shift as Morgan moves, climbing onto me her legs straddling mine, pushing them together, she lays down, head resting sideways on my back and nipples like rocks poking me. Her hands one finding mine under the pillow, holding, the other stroking the swell of my breast as it puddles between me and the mattress.
"Most of them no." Voice not too even, because the heat of her crotch is waking mine up, her brushing nails are making my breast tingle. "But," not really thinking, just answering, "the lighthouse and mermaid are to do with my job."
"To do with trees?" Morgan's voice is lazy, half lost like mine. "How?"
"My other job."
And then I realise.
Oops.
But, fuck it. I'm not shy or ashamed, worried or particularly caring what people think.
It's what I do, what I love doing.
"What other job?" Head lifted up, I can hear the frown.
I roll out from underneath, coming onto my side a small distance away so I can look Morgan in the eye, so she knows I'm serious. And.
Will this, she might not like it? Might want to walk away from this new thing growing here, between us and in my bed.
Just have to hope not.
Because I like her.
"I'm a model." Small shrug, reaching up to scratch my mermaid, the ink filling my upper left arm, a side profile, her naked body wrapped in chains that trail down to my wrist. "Adult stuff." Small smile, because I do like and enjoy it. "Bondage."
That word, a thing Morgan knows on some level I've yet to probe into, at least as deep as cuffing herself to the bed for fun. I watch, seeing her eyes go briefly wide, gaze darting from my mermaid to my canon F cups.
Joining the dots.
"You're a," small smile, no anger, "porn star?"
"A model." Because that's what I tend to say, unless I'm in a naughty or shocking mood. "When I'm not chopping down trees."
"Since when?"
"Several years now." A one shoulder shrug. "I can't remember much from before, just that it's what I did." Giving her another look.
Because she could, very easily, have a problem with my doing this whilst we're dating. Because to me fucking at work isn't cheating, but to her?
"Do."
"You've." Thoughtful. "Worked recently?"
"Yes." Face neutral. She might leave, and I'll miss her, but I won't stop or chase after her, won't apologise.
This is what I do, who I am. It might as well be today, now, that I discover whether Morgan can be okay with that.
Silence and thought, the time stretches. I wait.
"So." The small smile is back. "When I cuffed myself to the bed I guess it was kinda entry level stuff for you?"
"Fun. Entry level stuff." Emphasising the word and giving her the smile back, playfulness in my voice.
"You," asking because at the time, and still now although I guess now I know, but asking anyway, "didn't do that because of what I do?"
"No." Quick laugh. "I didn't even know."
"Then...?"
"College. Some drunk sex one time." Another laugh. "Some fucking girl, midway through she just cuffs me to the bed. Outa nowhere. And."
Morgan blushes.
"And you liked it."
"And I liked it." Nodding. "And sometimes I...."
Sometimes she wants to do it again.
"What?" Because I'm grinning, Morgan gives me a quizzical frown. "B?"
"That first time." Almost laughing. "I actually bought rope and shit with me."
"Really?"
Not outraged, grinning too at the humour of it all. That I'd been thinking of playing with her, but she'd beaten me to it.
"Wanted to tie me up did you?"
"Well...."
Actually, no. But I would've settled for that dynamic.
"With all your shiny rope?" Shifting closer and reaching out to flick my nipple playfully. Cheeky grin, sliding into it.
Getting turned on.
"Actually it's a sort of brown straw colour." Playful too.
"Going to." Lick of her lips and a quick squirm like fidget. "Bind my wrists are you?"
"And your ankles." Reaching out to flick her nipple back, Morgan's breath catches.
"Nice and tight?"
"Tight enough to make you whimper." Injecting just the smallest dominance into my voice, a slight hard edge remembering before. How she'd reacted to my towering over her pose, my removing her clothes whilst keeping mine.
Morgan's mouth drops open, she squirms again, legs pressed together against her crotch.
"You." Breath quickening. "Could...."
"I could gag you." More hard talk, sliding too feeling the urge coming on.
"Show you some real bondage."
"Yes." Quiet like a whisper. "I want to see, B." Leaning in to kiss me, properly, still breathing hard.
"Please." As she pulls away, eyes on my eyes. "Show me what you were going to do."
At my instruction Morgan, body occasionally shivering from the adrenaline overdose, lays on her belly. I, kneeling beside her, bind ankles and wrists. Both crossed not side by side. The rope is coarse, and maybe I shouldn't go too harsh but, she'd teased and goaded. Asked.
So I pull my loops and knots tight, the material digging in to her soft skin. Making Morgan gasp each time.
But she doesn't say stop. Because as carried away as I'm getting, diving into the game, if she said so I'd have her free in moments.
Using a third rope I hogtie her, loosely because I'm not super evil, plenty of slack left between wrists and ankles.
"There." Flopping down beside her onto my back, head resting on my hands buried beneath a pillow, I side turn my head to grin at her. "What do you think?"
"Um."
Looking back at me Morgan half smiles, nerves.
"It's a little loose?"
"Is that right?" Keeping my tone light, smiling. "Probably still tight enough to keep you out of trouble though."
"Well...." Making a show of moving her arms and legs.
See how much freedom I have.
Wriggling onto her side to face me, small breasts bouncing.
"Is this how you get tied?"
"This." Giving Morgan a firm, playful push and pull back onto her belly. "Is maybe, here." Waving a hand down near the mattress. "Normally, I'm getting tied somewhere...." Waving my hand again, as high as I can reach.
Doing some goading of my own, a trap of sorts. If she's foolish or horny enough to wander in.
"I mean." Struggling closer, I let her come, feeling my pussy wake up at the very pleasing sight of Morgan helpless. "I thought it would be...."
"Be...?" Looking at her and grinning, the blatant hook drop, making me ask.
Morgan grins back, mischief- except she clearly still hasn't realised she's a small fish swimming dangerously out of her depth in my ocean -in her eyes.
"I thought," finally having reached me, because despite the 'loose' hogtie it's still not easy to move, Morgan gives me a quick kiss, "you said real bondage?"
"And." Not moving, our faces close her on her side me on my back. "Isn't this real, or. Tight. Enough for you?"
I roll, sideways and into her, one hand onto her breast capturing her nipple, squeezing it between thumb and finger. My other hand grasping a handful of pink hair, making a fist. Pulling her head close as Morgan gasps.
Being dominant. Showing her the hole she's close to falling in.
A kiss, taken as I apply slight force to her nipple, not hard, but I twist it in my grip making her moan. Trying to press her crotch into mine.
"You want more?" Still holding her hair and nipple, faces inches apart. My voice pure Plymouth in Domme mode. Me already in the hole.
"Yes." Eyes half closed, coming down to join me voice very faint. Morgan lays still in my grip. "Show me. B. I want."
Having to stop as I pull her head back, planting kisses across her neck, Morgan's words becoming a moan.
"Please." Speaking whilst I kiss her. "Tie me more. Tighter."
I add a chest harness, rope above and below those pert B cups, through the armpits and behind the neck, down between her breasts. No elbow tie despite I kind of want to. Because I'm in the zone, but more can be more without being everything.
I do take in the slack on the hogtie rope though, not all the way but enough that Morgan can't move her legs now without it pulling her arms too.
Plus I ballgag her.
Laid on her side by this point, ropes all done. Morgan's eyes on the gag as her breathing quickens, as I approach and climb back onto the bed to kneel beside her head, red ball dangling by black leather straps.
She licks her lips. Looking up at me.
"Open wide you little bondage slut." Half playful half dominant, being the boss to her submissive. Not waiting I bring the gag closer, and just as the ball reaches her lips Morgan opens wide.
A sigh escaping as I buckle it tight.
And it's in my head, because I'm in a take charge mindset, to have her struggle for me. To enjoy the show her Morgan discovering just how helpless she is. It's in my head to offer up an ultimatum of sorts, some forfeit if she can't get free.
However she just looks so damn fuckable laying there I can't resist.
I fall on her like a hungry predator, coming down from kneeling to laying reaching out already to stroke and grasp at her rope squeezed breasts, my other hand tugged towards her crotch as though on a string.
And all Morgan can do under my assault is lay helpless, moaning and squirming, pushing her chest out and spreading her ankle bound legs wide.
Letting me in.
I coax, force, two orgasms from her. Using my hands and tongue on her pussy, flicking her clit even whilst planting small biting kisses across her breast and nipple. Just like before, cuffed to the bed, she's putty in my hand. She's clearly into it, being submissive, bound and used.
And now, smiling, letting her see my victory grin because she's bound and so I win. Smiling as she climaxes the second time, Morgan panting and whimpering, body fighting the ropes bucking and rocking but she can't move.
Now I've shown her a whole new level of submission.
"Fffggggmm." Mattress creaking as Morgan rocks, shifting her bound body and straining against the ropes. Something like a question in her quiet voice.
"No." Laid on my back I don't look across, instead I reach out and pull Morgan by the chest harness to me. Closer. Bringing her body side on up against mine, her still gagged head onto my shoulder and her breasts pressing into mine. I force one leg between hers to press against Morgan's crotch so she's semi straddling me.
Shaking my head still staring at the ceiling.
"You're staying tied and gagged."
"Fffdddssss ggggpphhhh mmhfffmm."
"Consequences." Still not looking, using the hand holding her against me to begin stroking her back and bound arms. My tone still saying I'm in charge, because I still feel like we're in the hole.
I still haven't climbed out or come down off my control freak high.
"You wanted to be trussed. Now you can stay trussed until I decide."
Silence. Feeling the weight of Morgan half laid on me, the heat of her crotch on my upper leg, her slow regular- not panicked -breath against my shoulder and neck.
Somewhere a small voice telling me I shouldn't. That this is prehaps more then Morgan asked for, that I'm playing a game she isn't aware of the rules to.
And I think I should.
"Mmmfffggppppp." Like a sigh, as I feel Morgan's body relax, wriggle slightly, getting comfortable as she complies.
Hogtied and gagged, apparently content to remain so, because I ordered it.
"What do they all mean?"
Laying in my bed on a lazy Sunday morning, time passing, hunger prodding at my stomach but I'm, we're both, too content to get up.
We weren't due to meet until today, someplace roughly half distance between her parents and my woodland, but exchanging messages last night and one thing leading to another.
Both of us becoming more flirty, more turned on.
Morgan wound up riding over here after midnight, so, because of all the sex, we didn't get to bed until late.
We're both naked under my thin duvet, laid side by side in my wooden framed double, me on my belly head resting on my hands under the pillow, Morgan on her side, head supported by a hand and bent elbow, tracing a finger up and down my back.
"My ink?" Head turned to the side so I can look at her, see those pert breasts topped by pointy nipples.
"The ink." Nodding. "Do you remember any of them?"
"Well." Feeling the shift as Morgan moves, climbing onto me her legs straddling mine, pushing them together, she lays down, head resting sideways on my back and nipples like rocks poking me. Her hands one finding mine under the pillow, holding, the other stroking the swell of my breast as it puddles between me and the mattress.
"Most of them no." Voice not too even, because the heat of her crotch is waking mine up, her brushing nails are making my breast tingle. "But," not really thinking, just answering, "the lighthouse and mermaid are to do with my job."
"To do with trees?" Morgan's voice is lazy, half lost like mine. "How?"
"My other job."
And then I realise.
Oops.
But, fuck it. I'm not shy or ashamed, worried or particularly caring what people think.
It's what I do, what I love doing.
"What other job?" Head lifted up, I can hear the frown.
I roll out from underneath, coming onto my side a small distance away so I can look Morgan in the eye, so she knows I'm serious. And.
Will this, she might not like it? Might want to walk away from this new thing growing here, between us and in my bed.
Just have to hope not.
Because I like her.
"I'm a model." Small shrug, reaching up to scratch my mermaid, the ink filling my upper left arm, a side profile, her naked body wrapped in chains that trail down to my wrist. "Adult stuff." Small smile, because I do like and enjoy it. "Bondage."
That word, a thing Morgan knows on some level I've yet to probe into, at least as deep as cuffing herself to the bed for fun. I watch, seeing her eyes go briefly wide, gaze darting from my mermaid to my canon F cups.
Joining the dots.
"You're a," small smile, no anger, "porn star?"
"A model." Because that's what I tend to say, unless I'm in a naughty or shocking mood. "When I'm not chopping down trees."
"Since when?"
"Several years now." A one shoulder shrug. "I can't remember much from before, just that it's what I did." Giving her another look.
Because she could, very easily, have a problem with my doing this whilst we're dating. Because to me fucking at work isn't cheating, but to her?
"Do."
"You've." Thoughtful. "Worked recently?"
"Yes." Face neutral. She might leave, and I'll miss her, but I won't stop or chase after her, won't apologise.
This is what I do, who I am. It might as well be today, now, that I discover whether Morgan can be okay with that.
Silence and thought, the time stretches. I wait.
"So." The small smile is back. "When I cuffed myself to the bed I guess it was kinda entry level stuff for you?"
"Fun. Entry level stuff." Emphasising the word and giving her the smile back, playfulness in my voice.
"You," asking because at the time, and still now although I guess now I know, but asking anyway, "didn't do that because of what I do?"
"No." Quick laugh. "I didn't even know."
"Then...?"
"College. Some drunk sex one time." Another laugh. "Some fucking girl, midway through she just cuffs me to the bed. Outa nowhere. And."
Morgan blushes.
"And you liked it."
"And I liked it." Nodding. "And sometimes I...."
Sometimes she wants to do it again.
"What?" Because I'm grinning, Morgan gives me a quizzical frown. "B?"
"That first time." Almost laughing. "I actually bought rope and shit with me."
"Really?"
Not outraged, grinning too at the humour of it all. That I'd been thinking of playing with her, but she'd beaten me to it.
"Wanted to tie me up did you?"
"Well...."
Actually, no. But I would've settled for that dynamic.
"With all your shiny rope?" Shifting closer and reaching out to flick my nipple playfully. Cheeky grin, sliding into it.
Getting turned on.
"Actually it's a sort of brown straw colour." Playful too.
"Going to." Lick of her lips and a quick squirm like fidget. "Bind my wrists are you?"
"And your ankles." Reaching out to flick her nipple back, Morgan's breath catches.
"Nice and tight?"
"Tight enough to make you whimper." Injecting just the smallest dominance into my voice, a slight hard edge remembering before. How she'd reacted to my towering over her pose, my removing her clothes whilst keeping mine.
Morgan's mouth drops open, she squirms again, legs pressed together against her crotch.
"You." Breath quickening. "Could...."
"I could gag you." More hard talk, sliding too feeling the urge coming on.
"Show you some real bondage."
"Yes." Quiet like a whisper. "I want to see, B." Leaning in to kiss me, properly, still breathing hard.
"Please." As she pulls away, eyes on my eyes. "Show me what you were going to do."
At my instruction Morgan, body occasionally shivering from the adrenaline overdose, lays on her belly. I, kneeling beside her, bind ankles and wrists. Both crossed not side by side. The rope is coarse, and maybe I shouldn't go too harsh but, she'd teased and goaded. Asked.
So I pull my loops and knots tight, the material digging in to her soft skin. Making Morgan gasp each time.
But she doesn't say stop. Because as carried away as I'm getting, diving into the game, if she said so I'd have her free in moments.
Using a third rope I hogtie her, loosely because I'm not super evil, plenty of slack left between wrists and ankles.
"There." Flopping down beside her onto my back, head resting on my hands buried beneath a pillow, I side turn my head to grin at her. "What do you think?"
"Um."
Looking back at me Morgan half smiles, nerves.
"It's a little loose?"
"Is that right?" Keeping my tone light, smiling. "Probably still tight enough to keep you out of trouble though."
"Well...." Making a show of moving her arms and legs.
See how much freedom I have.
Wriggling onto her side to face me, small breasts bouncing.
"Is this how you get tied?"
"This." Giving Morgan a firm, playful push and pull back onto her belly. "Is maybe, here." Waving a hand down near the mattress. "Normally, I'm getting tied somewhere...." Waving my hand again, as high as I can reach.
Doing some goading of my own, a trap of sorts. If she's foolish or horny enough to wander in.
"I mean." Struggling closer, I let her come, feeling my pussy wake up at the very pleasing sight of Morgan helpless. "I thought it would be...."
"Be...?" Looking at her and grinning, the blatant hook drop, making me ask.
Morgan grins back, mischief- except she clearly still hasn't realised she's a small fish swimming dangerously out of her depth in my ocean -in her eyes.
"I thought," finally having reached me, because despite the 'loose' hogtie it's still not easy to move, Morgan gives me a quick kiss, "you said real bondage?"
"And." Not moving, our faces close her on her side me on my back. "Isn't this real, or. Tight. Enough for you?"
I roll, sideways and into her, one hand onto her breast capturing her nipple, squeezing it between thumb and finger. My other hand grasping a handful of pink hair, making a fist. Pulling her head close as Morgan gasps.
Being dominant. Showing her the hole she's close to falling in.
A kiss, taken as I apply slight force to her nipple, not hard, but I twist it in my grip making her moan. Trying to press her crotch into mine.
"You want more?" Still holding her hair and nipple, faces inches apart. My voice pure Plymouth in Domme mode. Me already in the hole.
"Yes." Eyes half closed, coming down to join me voice very faint. Morgan lays still in my grip. "Show me. B. I want."
Having to stop as I pull her head back, planting kisses across her neck, Morgan's words becoming a moan.
"Please." Speaking whilst I kiss her. "Tie me more. Tighter."
I add a chest harness, rope above and below those pert B cups, through the armpits and behind the neck, down between her breasts. No elbow tie despite I kind of want to. Because I'm in the zone, but more can be more without being everything.
I do take in the slack on the hogtie rope though, not all the way but enough that Morgan can't move her legs now without it pulling her arms too.
Plus I ballgag her.
Laid on her side by this point, ropes all done. Morgan's eyes on the gag as her breathing quickens, as I approach and climb back onto the bed to kneel beside her head, red ball dangling by black leather straps.
She licks her lips. Looking up at me.
"Open wide you little bondage slut." Half playful half dominant, being the boss to her submissive. Not waiting I bring the gag closer, and just as the ball reaches her lips Morgan opens wide.
A sigh escaping as I buckle it tight.
And it's in my head, because I'm in a take charge mindset, to have her struggle for me. To enjoy the show her Morgan discovering just how helpless she is. It's in my head to offer up an ultimatum of sorts, some forfeit if she can't get free.
However she just looks so damn fuckable laying there I can't resist.
I fall on her like a hungry predator, coming down from kneeling to laying reaching out already to stroke and grasp at her rope squeezed breasts, my other hand tugged towards her crotch as though on a string.
And all Morgan can do under my assault is lay helpless, moaning and squirming, pushing her chest out and spreading her ankle bound legs wide.
Letting me in.
I coax, force, two orgasms from her. Using my hands and tongue on her pussy, flicking her clit even whilst planting small biting kisses across her breast and nipple. Just like before, cuffed to the bed, she's putty in my hand. She's clearly into it, being submissive, bound and used.
And now, smiling, letting her see my victory grin because she's bound and so I win. Smiling as she climaxes the second time, Morgan panting and whimpering, body fighting the ropes bucking and rocking but she can't move.
Now I've shown her a whole new level of submission.
"Fffggggmm." Mattress creaking as Morgan rocks, shifting her bound body and straining against the ropes. Something like a question in her quiet voice.
"No." Laid on my back I don't look across, instead I reach out and pull Morgan by the chest harness to me. Closer. Bringing her body side on up against mine, her still gagged head onto my shoulder and her breasts pressing into mine. I force one leg between hers to press against Morgan's crotch so she's semi straddling me.
Shaking my head still staring at the ceiling.
"You're staying tied and gagged."
"Fffdddssss ggggpphhhh mmhfffmm."
"Consequences." Still not looking, using the hand holding her against me to begin stroking her back and bound arms. My tone still saying I'm in charge, because I still feel like we're in the hole.
I still haven't climbed out or come down off my control freak high.
"You wanted to be trussed. Now you can stay trussed until I decide."
Silence. Feeling the weight of Morgan half laid on me, the heat of her crotch on my upper leg, her slow regular- not panicked -breath against my shoulder and neck.
Somewhere a small voice telling me I shouldn't. That this is prehaps more then Morgan asked for, that I'm playing a game she isn't aware of the rules to.
And I think I should.
"Mmmfffggppppp." Like a sigh, as I feel Morgan's body relax, wriggle slightly, getting comfortable as she complies.
Hogtied and gagged, apparently content to remain so, because I ordered it.
-
BlissfulMisery
- Centennial Club
- Posts: 285
- Joined: 1 year ago
Was away for a bit and I see there is a lot to come back to!
As for the chapters...
An interesting chapter with Brooke trying to figure out the holes in her memory. Remembering half fragments - can definitely feel some of her confusion and frustration coming through the text!
A bit of an amusing back and forth with the emails - Plymouth almost teasing, obviously eager to get back into her work. A fun interlude as is usual.
And things are certainly moving along between Brooke and Morgan. Ironic that Morgan accidentally 'wandered into' the same thing Brooke was into.
(Obviously dubious in reality, but quite amusing in the context of a story).
In some ways it is good that Morgan is more of a beginner (and submissive) - perhaps it might help temper some of Brooke's excesses. That or frustrate her - I suppose we will have to see.
And a great end to the chapter, with Brooke rediscovering her dominant side, all the while battling her own hesitation. Outward control, inward uncertainty - it creates a great duality to the scene.
Indeed!
You are very welcome!
As for the chapters...
An interesting chapter with Brooke trying to figure out the holes in her memory. Remembering half fragments - can definitely feel some of her confusion and frustration coming through the text!
A bit of an amusing back and forth with the emails - Plymouth almost teasing, obviously eager to get back into her work. A fun interlude as is usual.
And things are certainly moving along between Brooke and Morgan. Ironic that Morgan accidentally 'wandered into' the same thing Brooke was into.
Ahh yes, the best way to be introduced to bondage - by surprise
(Obviously dubious in reality, but quite amusing in the context of a story).In some ways it is good that Morgan is more of a beginner (and submissive) - perhaps it might help temper some of Brooke's excesses. That or frustrate her - I suppose we will have to see.
And a great end to the chapter, with Brooke rediscovering her dominant side, all the while battling her own hesitation. Outward control, inward uncertainty - it creates a great duality to the scene.
Pretty sure 'See how much freedom I have' is supposed to be 'Seeing how much freedom she has', based on the context. But maybe I am the one misunderstanding something here.
Thought I'd play a game of how much can I post before someone....
.
.
.
Comments.
Nope. It's supposed to be 'see how much freedom I have' as in Brooke imagining that by moving her arms and legs Morgan is saying just that.BlissfulMisery wrote: ↑7 months agoPretty sure 'See how much freedom I have' is supposed to be 'Seeing how much freedom she has', based on the context. But maybe I am the one misunderstanding something here.
See how much freedom I have, that it isn't really tight at all.
Bondage.
Good.
"Miss?"
"Miss?" Louder, a hail I, definitely without causing a scene can't ignore. Reception doing his job.
Because I don't right now- sensible tee and jeans, helmet in hand and messenger bag over one shoulder, Kings jacket unzipped -look like a porn star. But nor do I- shaved on one side hairstyle, jeans and not a pretty dress, tee not a shirt and visible ink on my stomach -look like someone who'd frequent this posh looking hotel.
I'd made it through the doorman, but apparently reception are more alert to potential interlopers.
Or prehaps reception, because I'd passed very close by the doorman and therefore given a close up viewing, isn't as distracted by my canon like chest.
"Morning." Smiling as I wheel hard left and approach the desk, not too wide happy and friendly.
See I'm not any trouble, such a good girl.
"I'm here to visit with a friend."
"Very good Miss." Showing me half my smile back. Professional. "I'll just need the name and room number."
"Castle." Summoning memory, I will not check my phone emails. "Room...."
Slightest smirk from him.
"Three-oh-eight."
"Very good Miss." One hand up, finger extended. Wait. "Wait please."
Thinking he's won, that, whatever he thinks I am, whatever tricks got me genuine room and guest information, I'm about to be turned away.
Phone to his ear.
"Yes. Mr Castle, I'm sorry to bother you Sir, however there's a young lady at reception. Here to visit with you."
Pausing. Listening. I keep my smile neutral, I will not be a bad winner.
"Yes Sir, of course." Phone down, gaze shifting to me. "Go right up Miss, stairs and elevator just through those doors."
"Thank you." A nod, and off I go.
"Plymouth." Thomas: middle aged and average build, a dark blonde buzzcut left to grow out and styled with gel into something sideswept. Long sleeved pale yellow shirt open at the collar, sleeves rolled up to reveal skull tattoos on both arms. Expensive looking dress trousers. He smiles, holds the door open wider. "Find the place okay."
"Sure."
Quite the drive, stopping halfway so I'm not too long in the saddle. The Hayabusa making short work of the miles through, gliding along dreamlike, maintaining an easy eighty-five when the road allowed it.
I'd- blue with white tips hair streaming out behind me, slim figure and very obvious large bust even under a padded jacket, especially in start/stop town traffic -drawn plenty of attention from other motorists.
Not always, despite having Morgan, a bad thing. It's nice to be noticed.
We sort out the contract, Thomas transferring payment whilst I double check and sign, scribble my details.
"Bathroom." Pointing. "I'll get set up whilst you're changing."
"Right." Taking all my stuff so Thomas doesn't have to clear it out of shot, my helmet and jacket will be fine in the bathroom, along with what I'm currently wearing.
Which isn't Goth enough for Thomas's site.
Stripping naked I lay everything over the bath edge, or leave it on the floor, then I dress.
Thong first, black with lace covering my pussy, the thong mostly string like, tiny.
Thigh high socks, black and purple horizontal striped, slipping and lacing my black steel toed work/motorcycle boots back on after.
A skirt, very short. Pleated and with a tartan pattern largely black and white, hints of grey and green. The skirt barely covers my butt, and is a slip on with elastic waist.
Lastly my corset. The real deal and quite expensive. Black with dark smoky purple stormcloud at sunset coloured detailing, hint of colour between the vertical bones constricting and sealing me in. I need Thomas's help lacing me up, because it's a back lace. It, the corset, takes inches off my waist squeezing me to the point breathing is something to do carefully, and it pushes my F cups up and out something amazing, actual mountains of cleavage.
There isn't much scope as far as what Thomas can do. It's a posh room, but a hotel room all the same. Which really only leaves the bed, the floor, or a chair.
Between us, more Thomas but he did ask what I thought, we've settled on a bed hogtie.
"I'll come up with some small backstory." Talking whilst he laces me up. "A sentence or two describing the video, the why of it all."
"Does it need a story?"
"Well."
Glancing back over my shoulder, Thomas shrugs.
"On my site I like to make up little reasons why the girls are tied, how and where they are. So."
"So my bestie stole my Iron Maiden gig tickets or something?" Naming the first rock band that pops into my head, the first scenario I think of.
"You know," pausing to tug the laces, I wince, "I just might have to steal that one."
There's really no point doing a chest harness, the corset is too ridged to allow the rope to squeeze anything, so I lay down on the bed, giving Thomas the ability to move around me, binding.
Wrists and elbows, behind me as I lay on my belly, tied side by side Thomas's rope is white, softer then the coarse stuff I use. My wrists are bound to my waist, above the waistband of my skirt but below the curved bottom of the corset, that flash of stomach and hint of sharks mouth ink.
Legs, pinned together at the ankle, above and below the knee, the upper thighs just below the skirts hem.
A ball gag, a. Large. Ballgag. Black ball and black straps, the ball definitely a plus size model, filling my mouth more then usual, stretching my jaw extra wide.
"Okay." Hunkered down to make eye contact. "The gag okay, Plymouth?"
"Fffmmmggpp." Nodding. Yes, I mean, I'm laid here getting pretty damn turned on, as per usual. So, everything's just peachy.
Lastly Thomas connects my ankles and elbows. He wanted an extreme hogtie, something properly tight looking, nothing basic. So, kneeling behind me, using his strength Thomas pulls, leaning in to lift my upper body off the bed, arching me then tying the rope off, forcing me to remain curved. My corset squeezed breasts on show.
"Okay." Climbing off the bed and fetching his camera, only the one. "Let's film. In three. Two. One."
Still, silent. I wait. Laid as flat and resting pose as the rope forced curve to my body will allow, head flopped forwards hair covering my face. Breathing slowly, quiet.
Counting to a slow ten in my head. Something I've learned to do, something I remembered I'd learned how to do halfway through that first- not first but first since I forgot most of myself in the accident -shoot with Daniel.
When the camera starts rolling, stay still and count to ten, it gives the producer a clean start, a chance to fade in or to pick how much they want you still at the beginning.
Plymouth, just an all round helpful little submissive model.
Vaguely aware without looking of Thomas moving around me, capturing my stillness from other angles, I remain so.
Waiting.
Gauging the moment he's done.
And.
Go.
I begin to move, slowly. Testing my bondage. Stretching limbs, legs and arms barely moving given how I'm tied, but I shuffle and wriggle them, individually and together. Wriggle my whole body whilst remaining on my stomach.
Long low moan, head turning side to side. Finding Thomas coming around from my- a close up no doubt -barely covered butt. I stare into the camera. Blink slowly. Moan again.
Thomas grins, shows me a thumbs up of approval. Does a cicle gesture.
Roll over.
I begin to struggle more actively. Like waking up, my moans becoming louder and more insistent. More pleading with the already vanished 'friend' who tied me.
If Thomas keeps the idea.
On the fourth attempt I manage to roll onto my side. Thomas, having been on one side of the bed, is treated to the sudden appearance of my stomach and trying very hard but the corsets too tight to let them pop out breasts.
Another grin, another thumbs up.
I struggle some more. Wriggling, thrusting my crotch and chest at the camera, letting Thomas get close-ups of both cleavage and thong covered pussy where the skirt is now all bunched and even more useless then it was. Moaning, forcing myself to drool as he zooms in on my face.
Turning myself on more and more, the harder I struggle the stronger my buzz.
After maybe fifteen minutes Thomas has enough footage.
I, back in jeans, a hug goodbye, head for home.
Still fucking- can see a pattern here -horny.
Good.
"Miss?"
"Miss?" Louder, a hail I, definitely without causing a scene can't ignore. Reception doing his job.
Because I don't right now- sensible tee and jeans, helmet in hand and messenger bag over one shoulder, Kings jacket unzipped -look like a porn star. But nor do I- shaved on one side hairstyle, jeans and not a pretty dress, tee not a shirt and visible ink on my stomach -look like someone who'd frequent this posh looking hotel.
I'd made it through the doorman, but apparently reception are more alert to potential interlopers.
Or prehaps reception, because I'd passed very close by the doorman and therefore given a close up viewing, isn't as distracted by my canon like chest.
"Morning." Smiling as I wheel hard left and approach the desk, not too wide happy and friendly.
See I'm not any trouble, such a good girl.
"I'm here to visit with a friend."
"Very good Miss." Showing me half my smile back. Professional. "I'll just need the name and room number."
"Castle." Summoning memory, I will not check my phone emails. "Room...."
Slightest smirk from him.
"Three-oh-eight."
"Very good Miss." One hand up, finger extended. Wait. "Wait please."
Thinking he's won, that, whatever he thinks I am, whatever tricks got me genuine room and guest information, I'm about to be turned away.
Phone to his ear.
"Yes. Mr Castle, I'm sorry to bother you Sir, however there's a young lady at reception. Here to visit with you."
Pausing. Listening. I keep my smile neutral, I will not be a bad winner.
"Yes Sir, of course." Phone down, gaze shifting to me. "Go right up Miss, stairs and elevator just through those doors."
"Thank you." A nod, and off I go.
"Plymouth." Thomas: middle aged and average build, a dark blonde buzzcut left to grow out and styled with gel into something sideswept. Long sleeved pale yellow shirt open at the collar, sleeves rolled up to reveal skull tattoos on both arms. Expensive looking dress trousers. He smiles, holds the door open wider. "Find the place okay."
"Sure."
Quite the drive, stopping halfway so I'm not too long in the saddle. The Hayabusa making short work of the miles through, gliding along dreamlike, maintaining an easy eighty-five when the road allowed it.
I'd- blue with white tips hair streaming out behind me, slim figure and very obvious large bust even under a padded jacket, especially in start/stop town traffic -drawn plenty of attention from other motorists.
Not always, despite having Morgan, a bad thing. It's nice to be noticed.
We sort out the contract, Thomas transferring payment whilst I double check and sign, scribble my details.
"Bathroom." Pointing. "I'll get set up whilst you're changing."
"Right." Taking all my stuff so Thomas doesn't have to clear it out of shot, my helmet and jacket will be fine in the bathroom, along with what I'm currently wearing.
Which isn't Goth enough for Thomas's site.
Stripping naked I lay everything over the bath edge, or leave it on the floor, then I dress.
Thong first, black with lace covering my pussy, the thong mostly string like, tiny.
Thigh high socks, black and purple horizontal striped, slipping and lacing my black steel toed work/motorcycle boots back on after.
A skirt, very short. Pleated and with a tartan pattern largely black and white, hints of grey and green. The skirt barely covers my butt, and is a slip on with elastic waist.
Lastly my corset. The real deal and quite expensive. Black with dark smoky purple stormcloud at sunset coloured detailing, hint of colour between the vertical bones constricting and sealing me in. I need Thomas's help lacing me up, because it's a back lace. It, the corset, takes inches off my waist squeezing me to the point breathing is something to do carefully, and it pushes my F cups up and out something amazing, actual mountains of cleavage.
There isn't much scope as far as what Thomas can do. It's a posh room, but a hotel room all the same. Which really only leaves the bed, the floor, or a chair.
Between us, more Thomas but he did ask what I thought, we've settled on a bed hogtie.
"I'll come up with some small backstory." Talking whilst he laces me up. "A sentence or two describing the video, the why of it all."
"Does it need a story?"
"Well."
Glancing back over my shoulder, Thomas shrugs.
"On my site I like to make up little reasons why the girls are tied, how and where they are. So."
"So my bestie stole my Iron Maiden gig tickets or something?" Naming the first rock band that pops into my head, the first scenario I think of.
"You know," pausing to tug the laces, I wince, "I just might have to steal that one."
There's really no point doing a chest harness, the corset is too ridged to allow the rope to squeeze anything, so I lay down on the bed, giving Thomas the ability to move around me, binding.
Wrists and elbows, behind me as I lay on my belly, tied side by side Thomas's rope is white, softer then the coarse stuff I use. My wrists are bound to my waist, above the waistband of my skirt but below the curved bottom of the corset, that flash of stomach and hint of sharks mouth ink.
Legs, pinned together at the ankle, above and below the knee, the upper thighs just below the skirts hem.
A ball gag, a. Large. Ballgag. Black ball and black straps, the ball definitely a plus size model, filling my mouth more then usual, stretching my jaw extra wide.
"Okay." Hunkered down to make eye contact. "The gag okay, Plymouth?"
"Fffmmmggpp." Nodding. Yes, I mean, I'm laid here getting pretty damn turned on, as per usual. So, everything's just peachy.
Lastly Thomas connects my ankles and elbows. He wanted an extreme hogtie, something properly tight looking, nothing basic. So, kneeling behind me, using his strength Thomas pulls, leaning in to lift my upper body off the bed, arching me then tying the rope off, forcing me to remain curved. My corset squeezed breasts on show.
"Okay." Climbing off the bed and fetching his camera, only the one. "Let's film. In three. Two. One."
Still, silent. I wait. Laid as flat and resting pose as the rope forced curve to my body will allow, head flopped forwards hair covering my face. Breathing slowly, quiet.
Counting to a slow ten in my head. Something I've learned to do, something I remembered I'd learned how to do halfway through that first- not first but first since I forgot most of myself in the accident -shoot with Daniel.
When the camera starts rolling, stay still and count to ten, it gives the producer a clean start, a chance to fade in or to pick how much they want you still at the beginning.
Plymouth, just an all round helpful little submissive model.
Vaguely aware without looking of Thomas moving around me, capturing my stillness from other angles, I remain so.
Waiting.
Gauging the moment he's done.
And.
Go.
I begin to move, slowly. Testing my bondage. Stretching limbs, legs and arms barely moving given how I'm tied, but I shuffle and wriggle them, individually and together. Wriggle my whole body whilst remaining on my stomach.
Long low moan, head turning side to side. Finding Thomas coming around from my- a close up no doubt -barely covered butt. I stare into the camera. Blink slowly. Moan again.
Thomas grins, shows me a thumbs up of approval. Does a cicle gesture.
Roll over.
I begin to struggle more actively. Like waking up, my moans becoming louder and more insistent. More pleading with the already vanished 'friend' who tied me.
If Thomas keeps the idea.
On the fourth attempt I manage to roll onto my side. Thomas, having been on one side of the bed, is treated to the sudden appearance of my stomach and trying very hard but the corsets too tight to let them pop out breasts.
Another grin, another thumbs up.
I struggle some more. Wriggling, thrusting my crotch and chest at the camera, letting Thomas get close-ups of both cleavage and thong covered pussy where the skirt is now all bunched and even more useless then it was. Moaning, forcing myself to drool as he zooms in on my face.
Turning myself on more and more, the harder I struggle the stronger my buzz.
After maybe fifteen minutes Thomas has enough footage.
I, back in jeans, a hug goodbye, head for home.
Still fucking- can see a pattern here -horny.
Bondage.
Bad.
but Good.
but in a Bad way.
My second shoot, with Caged Sluts occurs four days after seeing Thomas. I spend the morning working in Owl Wood, making a start on a stand of cedar, thinning out the stunted and leaning specimens.
A quick shower and lunch, clean jeans and tee.
Not that I'll need clothes for the shoot.
And off.
Arriving at a semi detached house, long front garden but no driveway. A black Cooper S parked on the road outside that I keep glancing at, frowning at, as I lock my Hayabusa up to a lamppost.
Something?
Receiving a shock when, having knocked, the door is opened by the purple haired shadow.
Made real.
And here.
"Plymouth." A smile, genuine, on her face. Watching me it feels like, closely. "Will you come in?"
"Hi." Managing a half smile back. "You're...?"
"Stephanie." A nod. "Steph."
"Steph?" Thinking, and it still feels like she's watching me.
Stepping back to let me in, I, on autopilot mostly, cross the threshold and follow her through to the kitchen.
Receiving my second shock finding the black mohawk shadow leaning against a kitchen counter.
"You...?"
"Hello Plymouth." Smiling at me too, and her seeming like she's watching too. Waiting?
"Do I." Feels like I'm tripping on something, like I've walked into a dream. "Know you?"
"Do you?"
Almost like a challenge, slight edge to the voice.
And, again it feels, seems, like they're both watching, waiting on my answer.
"We met at the Carnival of Chains?"
"We did." A flicked glance shared between them, Steph nods and the black haired girl gives a single tight nod back. "Guess it's awhile since we saw each other huh?"
"Yeah." Small laugh to cover the sense of unrealness I'm feeling. Because I feel like I know Steph, and the other, far better then off the back of one old meeting.
"I'm Deborah."
"Right." Nodding. "Deborah."
Is that familiar? Is Steph? Names and faces. That car outside. What am I missing here?
"What happened to your head?"
"Oh." Reaching up to run a finger across the scar, visible due to my shaved on the left side style. I turn to Steph who'd asked, shrug. "I came off my bike pretty bad awhile ago. Broken arm. Gaps in my memory."
Another flicked glance shared. Deborah, I'm sure I see it, nodding at Steph this time.
I steal a moment to take a good look at them both. In the flesh and no longer half shadows.
Steph: something like a size twenty plus, think upper arms and legs, a large belly overhanging her jeans waistband and truly huge breasts pressing against her grey tee. Purple hair tumbles around her shoulders.
Deborah: slimmer, of a size and muscle mass with me, though she, they both, are pale skinned. Enhanced D cups sitting high and rounded she's wearing a blood red dress and black underbust corset, no bra and a plunging neckline with thin shoulder straps. Black hair still a messy mohawk, shaved across the sides.
Steph is barefoot, but Deborah wears chunky lace up black knee highs.
Honestly. I feel like, I know there's more. But I don't remember, and seeing them both now, here, isn't bringing on any kind of revelation.
So.
"Shall we get on?"
"Sure." I shrug as Deborah pushes herself off the counter.
Might as well do the job I came here for.
Out into the back garden, where the garage is apparently located. It's bigger then normal, roof pitched, slightly higher, the roll up door replaced by more stone and brick, a smaller normal door.
Through which we enter, into a.
Dungeon.
Basically.
Or at least a bare room in the process of being converted into such.
Just the one door and no windows. Against one wall is a chest, open to reveal a good ton of rope and various gags, whilst a second chest contains whips and other assorted toys. A long wall has metal eye fixings screwed and fixed in place to form a very obvious shape.
Around the room cameras are already set up on tripods, spotlights on stands.
"Get yourself naked Plymouth." Deborah, at the rope chest, rummaging. "Whilst I take care of other things."
"Right."
Watching whilst I strip as Deborah binds Steph to the wall.
Having first stripped off her tee and bra, breasts now hanging invitingly, her belly exposed, both of them at the wall Steph puts on a latex hood. It's a total coverage type, nothing but nostril holes, a tube running out the front connected to a pump gag, an inflatable ball that'll fill Steph's mouth once Deborah chooses.
The mask laces up at the back, with a neck strap that buckles to ensure it can't simply be pulled off.
With Steph laced and strapped in, unable too see or talk, with me naked arms crossed beneath my breasts, feeling like a voyeur but unable to look away.
Deborah, turning to glance at me. A smile as her eyes, it feels and looks like, roam across my body before she turns back around.
Binding Steph in place.
Using rope to pin the topless plump girl to the four metal eye fixings, forcing Steph into an X shape legs spread and arms up either side.
A typical slave pose.
Steph, facing out into the room belly and chest rising, falling, acting as background according to the plan they'd sent over.
"Does she always get tied?" Asking, fishing for information, some hidden fact that could prove to, key like, open the mystery of them to me.
"We take turns." Not looking around, pumping the gag up, checking the ropes are tight.
Giving Steph a small kiss on the cheek, the hooded girl moaning softly, giving a small nod in return.
"When you come back it'll be her turn to play."
When.
Not if.
Said so casually, like assuming, knowing that I'll be back. Almost implying, or am I reading too much into this, that she's talking like my returning will have sod all to do with modelling work?
"Right." Fidgeting under Deborah's somewhat intense gaze, her eyes lingering on my scarred left leg. She almost looks thoughtful.
Then, a shrug.
"Ready?"
"I'm." Too late to back out, and there's something some warning bell, but, I've signed and yes it is more extreme then I usually do but.
On some level it, what they'd specified wanting to do, had called to some part of me.
Wanting to accept.
So.
"Yes." Nodding. "Let's go."
Deborah binds my ankles together using a special leather sleeve. A snug tube gripping each limb from halfway along each foot to just above the ankle, the two tubes inside a larger tube which buckles closed in three places, sealing and tightening. Making sure my feet can't or won't slip free.
A similar sleeve binds my wrists together in front of me, hands and just over the wrists.
A full head harness, red ball matching my painted lips, Deborah, standing close and reaching around, her chest barely touching mine and yet she's setting off fireworks, making me tingle the closeness of her.
Surely we've some kind of history, but, why would she, either of them lie?
As she buckles the gag Deborah arranges my hair around the multiple straps that run over my head.
"Right, lay down and arms out."
I comply, laying on my belly, the floor cold enough to harden my already aroused nipples, placing my arms out in front of me flat to the floor.
Deborah, the clank and rattle of chain's as she attaches two separate lengths running down from the ceiling to metal hoops on my wrist, and ankle sleeves.
She stands up, retreats to the wall and takes hold of a small box.
Smiles, flicks a switch.
And with a whir, a click clack, I'm slowly raised up off the floor.
I wind up dangling at chest height, swinging gently back and forth. My legs are bent at the knee, feet angled back towards my body, that and the way the sleeve pins the ankles forces my legs wide open, exposing my shaved pussy.
My arms are bent upwards too, as far back as being technically in front of me will allow, upper arms close to vertical and forearms angled that little bit further towards my legs, arms open wide either side of my head.
Breasts dangling free. My body tilted, breasts higher then my butt like a gentle downwards slope from neck to crotch.
Completely helpless, suspended. But in no pain the sleeves effectively supporting my weight.
I could probably hang here all day and not suffer any loss of feeling.
"You look great." Deborah suddenly- I'd been daydreaming -beside me, running a hand possessive like, we aren't even filming yet, over my breast.
Making me squirm, moan. That same casual assumption as earlier, that she can do what she wants, to and with me.
I should be angry, maybe, but it's calling to something inside.
I just want to roll over and let her?
"Maybe," leaning in and dropping to a whisper, "I'll have to keep you."
"Mmmmfffdgggghhhhdddd." Moaning, unconsciously pushing my chest out.
Deborah's smile widens.
"Rolling film." Across the garage at a laptop, tapping keys. Out of shot. Giving me a thumbs up she stands.
Waiting.
Letting the video have a few minutes of Steph and me, but mostly me. Steph's background. Letting me fill the screen alone, a slave strapped up and gagged, made ready.
Awaiting her Mistress.
I, during that time, hang my head limp, staying still and allowing the gentle slight spinning to do as it pleases. Slipping into the role, being the slave. Broken, owned.
In my place.
Enter Deborah, looking so much the Domme: her clothing, her strutting walk and head held high, her small smile yet still serious face. Owning the space.
Making me tingle in anticipation.
She goes to Steph first, running a hand across the plump girls breasts. Steph sighing, her body shifting at the sudden contact. Deborah leans down to kiss one large nipple, then straightens.
Pressing herself, body to body into Steph, making her moan again as Deborah kisses her hooded and gagged lips.
Stepping back.
Turning to me.
No words as she approaches. Walking a slow circuit. Two. Her hands exploring me, teasing and groping at breast and crotch. I moan at each contact. Shifting inside my bonds, trying- good slave -to offer myself.
Deborah isn't being soft or gentle, she's squeezing and probing, taking.
The Mistress. Domme. Owning.
She walks away, retuning with a riding crop.
Soft strikes at first, a half dozen in a row at a time. Gentle slaps to nipples and butt cheeks, pussy lips. Gentle but they still sting, like a low level baseline, like the promise of more to come.
And my body, quite unexpectedly, reacts.
Loving it.
I haven't, thought I hadn't, ever been whipped before. Somewhere in my head is the- apparently false -knowledge that whips and spanking is a line I've never crossed, a depth of bondage I've no interest in exploring or trying.
Honestly I'd only agreed to this shoot to prove myself right. One session, a good paycheck to cover for the stinging cuts and whatever else I may wind up with. A thing proved and on I go. Having confirmed something about me.
Except. Not?
Deborah's attentions have me panting and whimpering, arousal spiking and pussy getting wet.
And then she starts hitting harder, and I lose all sense of coherence.
She manages to bring me almost to a climax just from the crop, timing and alternating strikes between pussy and butt, nipples now on fire.
Near exploding in pleasure/pain as Deborah fetches, attaches, metal clamps. Biting, tight and quite fierce, the metal teeth like actual jaws as each one closes on my nipples in turn.
Using a wand vibrator she brings me to a screaming climax, my whole body bucking and fighting the chains. Whipping my butt cheek raw, it feels like, as she presses the vibrator tight into my pussy.
Clamps off, Deborah lifts my head up by the hair, forcefully kissing my gagged lips before letting go.
Strolling out of shot, letting the tape run on me, exhausted and a complete sweaty mess. Even more broken.
Head all messed up, swooning, not even sure of reality anymore my whole body still on fire, ghost pinching and stinging seeming to randomly light up then die away.
"You'll stay here."
Steph, did I black out, zone out, vanish that deep I wasn't even aware of Deborah freeing her.
Steph, suddenly Domme like too. Despite still being topless she oozes command into the room, her harsh tone and arms crossed pose, her serious face.
Struggling to raise my head, seeing her and Deborah standing behind her, a matching pose and a smirk on her face.
I blink, a quiet whimper escaping through the ballgag, suddenly feeling ten times more helpless locked up in this two Domme dungeon. My complete vulnerability sends a spike of cold fear, but instead of worry my body, turning traitor surely because I shouldn't want this, laps it up.
They, Steph and Deborah, have all the power here. And my fogged brain seems to have no interest in fighting.
"Plymouth." Reaching out to cup my breast, running a finger across it, my nipple lighting on fire- pleasure running through me - at her touch. "The shoot is done."
"Dddffffmmmmpp." Nodding, slow, eyes half lidded. Like a dream.
"You're staying here awhile though. Bound and gagged." Steph let's go my breast. Nods. "Because we wish it."
"Understand."
Not a question, that much gets through my fogged full of pleasure mind.
The work, the shoot, is over. Done. I should, could, leave. Go. But these two are keeping me awhile.
And I.
"Ppphhhgggffffffffffffff." A single nod, dropping my head down in.
Defeat?
Submission?
I can't fight. I feel, owned. As though of course these two have the right to keep me here, suspended and gagged.
"That's a good slut." Deborah.
I hear them both leave, the door closing and locking behind them.
Abandoning me.
Returning only as the sun's going down. Freeing me wordlessly.
I, paid already, a bank transfer as all my modelling jobs tend to be, leave.
And I don't have to go back. I don't have to and I don't- because that shit had been pure craziness -want to.
Right?
Bad.
but Good.
but in a Bad way.
My second shoot, with Caged Sluts occurs four days after seeing Thomas. I spend the morning working in Owl Wood, making a start on a stand of cedar, thinning out the stunted and leaning specimens.
A quick shower and lunch, clean jeans and tee.
Not that I'll need clothes for the shoot.
And off.
Arriving at a semi detached house, long front garden but no driveway. A black Cooper S parked on the road outside that I keep glancing at, frowning at, as I lock my Hayabusa up to a lamppost.
Something?
Receiving a shock when, having knocked, the door is opened by the purple haired shadow.
Made real.
And here.
"Plymouth." A smile, genuine, on her face. Watching me it feels like, closely. "Will you come in?"
"Hi." Managing a half smile back. "You're...?"
"Stephanie." A nod. "Steph."
"Steph?" Thinking, and it still feels like she's watching me.
Stepping back to let me in, I, on autopilot mostly, cross the threshold and follow her through to the kitchen.
Receiving my second shock finding the black mohawk shadow leaning against a kitchen counter.
"You...?"
"Hello Plymouth." Smiling at me too, and her seeming like she's watching too. Waiting?
"Do I." Feels like I'm tripping on something, like I've walked into a dream. "Know you?"
"Do you?"
Almost like a challenge, slight edge to the voice.
And, again it feels, seems, like they're both watching, waiting on my answer.
"We met at the Carnival of Chains?"
"We did." A flicked glance shared between them, Steph nods and the black haired girl gives a single tight nod back. "Guess it's awhile since we saw each other huh?"
"Yeah." Small laugh to cover the sense of unrealness I'm feeling. Because I feel like I know Steph, and the other, far better then off the back of one old meeting.
"I'm Deborah."
"Right." Nodding. "Deborah."
Is that familiar? Is Steph? Names and faces. That car outside. What am I missing here?
"What happened to your head?"
"Oh." Reaching up to run a finger across the scar, visible due to my shaved on the left side style. I turn to Steph who'd asked, shrug. "I came off my bike pretty bad awhile ago. Broken arm. Gaps in my memory."
Another flicked glance shared. Deborah, I'm sure I see it, nodding at Steph this time.
I steal a moment to take a good look at them both. In the flesh and no longer half shadows.
Steph: something like a size twenty plus, think upper arms and legs, a large belly overhanging her jeans waistband and truly huge breasts pressing against her grey tee. Purple hair tumbles around her shoulders.
Deborah: slimmer, of a size and muscle mass with me, though she, they both, are pale skinned. Enhanced D cups sitting high and rounded she's wearing a blood red dress and black underbust corset, no bra and a plunging neckline with thin shoulder straps. Black hair still a messy mohawk, shaved across the sides.
Steph is barefoot, but Deborah wears chunky lace up black knee highs.
Honestly. I feel like, I know there's more. But I don't remember, and seeing them both now, here, isn't bringing on any kind of revelation.
So.
"Shall we get on?"
"Sure." I shrug as Deborah pushes herself off the counter.
Might as well do the job I came here for.
Out into the back garden, where the garage is apparently located. It's bigger then normal, roof pitched, slightly higher, the roll up door replaced by more stone and brick, a smaller normal door.
Through which we enter, into a.
Dungeon.
Basically.
Or at least a bare room in the process of being converted into such.
Just the one door and no windows. Against one wall is a chest, open to reveal a good ton of rope and various gags, whilst a second chest contains whips and other assorted toys. A long wall has metal eye fixings screwed and fixed in place to form a very obvious shape.
Around the room cameras are already set up on tripods, spotlights on stands.
"Get yourself naked Plymouth." Deborah, at the rope chest, rummaging. "Whilst I take care of other things."
"Right."
Watching whilst I strip as Deborah binds Steph to the wall.
Having first stripped off her tee and bra, breasts now hanging invitingly, her belly exposed, both of them at the wall Steph puts on a latex hood. It's a total coverage type, nothing but nostril holes, a tube running out the front connected to a pump gag, an inflatable ball that'll fill Steph's mouth once Deborah chooses.
The mask laces up at the back, with a neck strap that buckles to ensure it can't simply be pulled off.
With Steph laced and strapped in, unable too see or talk, with me naked arms crossed beneath my breasts, feeling like a voyeur but unable to look away.
Deborah, turning to glance at me. A smile as her eyes, it feels and looks like, roam across my body before she turns back around.
Binding Steph in place.
Using rope to pin the topless plump girl to the four metal eye fixings, forcing Steph into an X shape legs spread and arms up either side.
A typical slave pose.
Steph, facing out into the room belly and chest rising, falling, acting as background according to the plan they'd sent over.
"Does she always get tied?" Asking, fishing for information, some hidden fact that could prove to, key like, open the mystery of them to me.
"We take turns." Not looking around, pumping the gag up, checking the ropes are tight.
Giving Steph a small kiss on the cheek, the hooded girl moaning softly, giving a small nod in return.
"When you come back it'll be her turn to play."
When.
Not if.
Said so casually, like assuming, knowing that I'll be back. Almost implying, or am I reading too much into this, that she's talking like my returning will have sod all to do with modelling work?
"Right." Fidgeting under Deborah's somewhat intense gaze, her eyes lingering on my scarred left leg. She almost looks thoughtful.
Then, a shrug.
"Ready?"
"I'm." Too late to back out, and there's something some warning bell, but, I've signed and yes it is more extreme then I usually do but.
On some level it, what they'd specified wanting to do, had called to some part of me.
Wanting to accept.
So.
"Yes." Nodding. "Let's go."
Deborah binds my ankles together using a special leather sleeve. A snug tube gripping each limb from halfway along each foot to just above the ankle, the two tubes inside a larger tube which buckles closed in three places, sealing and tightening. Making sure my feet can't or won't slip free.
A similar sleeve binds my wrists together in front of me, hands and just over the wrists.
A full head harness, red ball matching my painted lips, Deborah, standing close and reaching around, her chest barely touching mine and yet she's setting off fireworks, making me tingle the closeness of her.
Surely we've some kind of history, but, why would she, either of them lie?
As she buckles the gag Deborah arranges my hair around the multiple straps that run over my head.
"Right, lay down and arms out."
I comply, laying on my belly, the floor cold enough to harden my already aroused nipples, placing my arms out in front of me flat to the floor.
Deborah, the clank and rattle of chain's as she attaches two separate lengths running down from the ceiling to metal hoops on my wrist, and ankle sleeves.
She stands up, retreats to the wall and takes hold of a small box.
Smiles, flicks a switch.
And with a whir, a click clack, I'm slowly raised up off the floor.
I wind up dangling at chest height, swinging gently back and forth. My legs are bent at the knee, feet angled back towards my body, that and the way the sleeve pins the ankles forces my legs wide open, exposing my shaved pussy.
My arms are bent upwards too, as far back as being technically in front of me will allow, upper arms close to vertical and forearms angled that little bit further towards my legs, arms open wide either side of my head.
Breasts dangling free. My body tilted, breasts higher then my butt like a gentle downwards slope from neck to crotch.
Completely helpless, suspended. But in no pain the sleeves effectively supporting my weight.
I could probably hang here all day and not suffer any loss of feeling.
"You look great." Deborah suddenly- I'd been daydreaming -beside me, running a hand possessive like, we aren't even filming yet, over my breast.
Making me squirm, moan. That same casual assumption as earlier, that she can do what she wants, to and with me.
I should be angry, maybe, but it's calling to something inside.
I just want to roll over and let her?
"Maybe," leaning in and dropping to a whisper, "I'll have to keep you."
"Mmmmfffdgggghhhhdddd." Moaning, unconsciously pushing my chest out.
Deborah's smile widens.
"Rolling film." Across the garage at a laptop, tapping keys. Out of shot. Giving me a thumbs up she stands.
Waiting.
Letting the video have a few minutes of Steph and me, but mostly me. Steph's background. Letting me fill the screen alone, a slave strapped up and gagged, made ready.
Awaiting her Mistress.
I, during that time, hang my head limp, staying still and allowing the gentle slight spinning to do as it pleases. Slipping into the role, being the slave. Broken, owned.
In my place.
Enter Deborah, looking so much the Domme: her clothing, her strutting walk and head held high, her small smile yet still serious face. Owning the space.
Making me tingle in anticipation.
She goes to Steph first, running a hand across the plump girls breasts. Steph sighing, her body shifting at the sudden contact. Deborah leans down to kiss one large nipple, then straightens.
Pressing herself, body to body into Steph, making her moan again as Deborah kisses her hooded and gagged lips.
Stepping back.
Turning to me.
No words as she approaches. Walking a slow circuit. Two. Her hands exploring me, teasing and groping at breast and crotch. I moan at each contact. Shifting inside my bonds, trying- good slave -to offer myself.
Deborah isn't being soft or gentle, she's squeezing and probing, taking.
The Mistress. Domme. Owning.
She walks away, retuning with a riding crop.
Soft strikes at first, a half dozen in a row at a time. Gentle slaps to nipples and butt cheeks, pussy lips. Gentle but they still sting, like a low level baseline, like the promise of more to come.
And my body, quite unexpectedly, reacts.
Loving it.
I haven't, thought I hadn't, ever been whipped before. Somewhere in my head is the- apparently false -knowledge that whips and spanking is a line I've never crossed, a depth of bondage I've no interest in exploring or trying.
Honestly I'd only agreed to this shoot to prove myself right. One session, a good paycheck to cover for the stinging cuts and whatever else I may wind up with. A thing proved and on I go. Having confirmed something about me.
Except. Not?
Deborah's attentions have me panting and whimpering, arousal spiking and pussy getting wet.
And then she starts hitting harder, and I lose all sense of coherence.
She manages to bring me almost to a climax just from the crop, timing and alternating strikes between pussy and butt, nipples now on fire.
Near exploding in pleasure/pain as Deborah fetches, attaches, metal clamps. Biting, tight and quite fierce, the metal teeth like actual jaws as each one closes on my nipples in turn.
Using a wand vibrator she brings me to a screaming climax, my whole body bucking and fighting the chains. Whipping my butt cheek raw, it feels like, as she presses the vibrator tight into my pussy.
Clamps off, Deborah lifts my head up by the hair, forcefully kissing my gagged lips before letting go.
Strolling out of shot, letting the tape run on me, exhausted and a complete sweaty mess. Even more broken.
Head all messed up, swooning, not even sure of reality anymore my whole body still on fire, ghost pinching and stinging seeming to randomly light up then die away.
"You'll stay here."
Steph, did I black out, zone out, vanish that deep I wasn't even aware of Deborah freeing her.
Steph, suddenly Domme like too. Despite still being topless she oozes command into the room, her harsh tone and arms crossed pose, her serious face.
Struggling to raise my head, seeing her and Deborah standing behind her, a matching pose and a smirk on her face.
I blink, a quiet whimper escaping through the ballgag, suddenly feeling ten times more helpless locked up in this two Domme dungeon. My complete vulnerability sends a spike of cold fear, but instead of worry my body, turning traitor surely because I shouldn't want this, laps it up.
They, Steph and Deborah, have all the power here. And my fogged brain seems to have no interest in fighting.
"Plymouth." Reaching out to cup my breast, running a finger across it, my nipple lighting on fire- pleasure running through me - at her touch. "The shoot is done."
"Dddffffmmmmpp." Nodding, slow, eyes half lidded. Like a dream.
"You're staying here awhile though. Bound and gagged." Steph let's go my breast. Nods. "Because we wish it."
"Understand."
Not a question, that much gets through my fogged full of pleasure mind.
The work, the shoot, is over. Done. I should, could, leave. Go. But these two are keeping me awhile.
And I.
"Ppphhhgggffffffffffffff." A single nod, dropping my head down in.
Defeat?
Submission?
I can't fight. I feel, owned. As though of course these two have the right to keep me here, suspended and gagged.
"That's a good slut." Deborah.
I hear them both leave, the door closing and locking behind them.
Abandoning me.
Returning only as the sun's going down. Freeing me wordlessly.
I, paid already, a bank transfer as all my modelling jobs tend to be, leave.
And I don't have to go back. I don't have to and I don't- because that shit had been pure craziness -want to.
Right?
-
BlissfulMisery
- Centennial Club
- Posts: 285
- Joined: 1 year ago
I suppose. Reads a bit awkward, which makes one go back and read it again, which makes one question the meaning.
Either way it is not important, just something that stood out as being somewhat unclear.
Liked the chapters, as usual!
To be fair, a proper, expensive corset should not actually restrict breathing at all - if it does it is done far too tight/is not of good quality. Really despite a lot of the somewhat exaggerated depiction of corsets in popular culture, the main 'restriction' of wearing one is not being able to bend down/far to the sides as much due to the rigid bones (literal whale bone back in the day, but of course that is illegal now so these days usually steel is used). A good corset conforms to the body and molds the figure in the desired manner - historically corsets came in many shapes and sizes and their design (ie the practice of corsetry) was actually quite complex.RopeBunny wrote: ↑7 months ago Lastly my corset. The real deal and quite expensive. Black with dark smoky purple stormcloud at sunset coloured detailing, hint of colour between the vertical bones constricting and sealing me in. I need Thomas's help lacing me up, because it's a back lace. It, the corset, takes inches off my waist squeezing me to the point breathing is something to do carefully, and it pushes my F cups up and out something amazing, actual mountains of cleavage.
Modern corsets actually tend to be quite terrible to wear because they are made poorly, (which gives people trying them the wrong impression, adding to the myths). They are also generally worn over (for appearances rather then practicality), rather then under clothing (historically corsets were underwear), which can add to the constriction. It also does not help that while most modern clothes are made to fit as many people as possible, and this *really* does not work for a corset, which *has* to be tight, and therefore actually has to fit properly.
Some of the current misconceptions also come from a very small minority that practiced 'tight-lacing' back in the day, but it was controversial even back then, and certainly not the general norm. But it is a lot more interesting to talk about 'crazy' things people did back in the day I suppose, then the actual somewhat boring reality, so people talk about/remember those parts more
Apologies for the short 'rant' - not intended as a criticism, just some brief commentary on the subject.
Bringing it back around to the actual story, I suppose in this case the issue might be in part that it is not fitted specifically to Plymouth. And perhaps it is laced tighter then it 'should be', given the nature of what she is doing
Nice to see Deborah/Stephanie making their return! Although a bit strange how they are acting - they seem to know about the injury, but are being very coy with how they are testing the waters. Honestly, it actually worries me a little, for Brooke's sake - why would they not simply tell her the situation, rather then playing these games?
Well I suppose I can vaguely understand why (there is an element of control I suppose, to knowing something the other does not), but it is not what I would call responsible domming.
Honestly made me question for a moment if their website is even real (I suppose it probably is, else why the specifically large fee, but it seemed quite out of nowhere given the whole setup seemed to be one big excuse to toy with Brooke).
Reading that back, perhaps it sounds a little *too* critical - it is a fun scene, just perhaps the motivations seem confusing to me. Or maybe I have strange sensibilities
Ahh yes, the old 'trying to convince herself she does not, but deep down she knows that she does'... Brooke is truly incorrigible
Well I think I have written more then enough... Time to cut it off.
Well that told me
Not mad, it's funny. I normally research stuff I'm writing about, Japan and the Hayabusa being noteworthy examples.
But I didn't look into corsets at all, and have close to zero knowledge/experience of them.
So.
Oops
As I said, not mad at the rant, it's funny.
Deborah and Stephanie. In time explanations and truth will emerge. Sometimes hard to write everything perfectly, the ideas in my head don't always come out on paper looking right.
Probably could've done a better job but at some point you've just got to post and go with it.
So, I'll tidy things up next time paths are crossed in whatever fashion.
Should be posting again soon
Not mad, it's funny. I normally research stuff I'm writing about, Japan and the Hayabusa being noteworthy examples.
But I didn't look into corsets at all, and have close to zero knowledge/experience of them.
So.
Oops
As I said, not mad at the rant, it's funny.
Deborah and Stephanie. In time explanations and truth will emerge. Sometimes hard to write everything perfectly, the ideas in my head don't always come out on paper looking right.
Probably could've done a better job but at some point you've just got to post and go with it.
So, I'll tidy things up next time paths are crossed in whatever fashion.
Should be posting again soon
-
BlissfulMisery
- Centennial Club
- Posts: 285
- Joined: 1 year ago
To be fair was not attempting to 'tell you'RopeBunny wrote: ↑7 months ago Well that told me
Not mad, it's funny. I normally research stuff I'm writing about, Japan and the Hayabusa being noteworthy examples.
But I didn't look into corsets at all, and have close to zero knowledge/experience of them.
So.
Oops
As I said, not mad at the rant, it's funny.
As I said, there are perfectly plausible reasons as to why Plymouth might have had the experience she did - in fact as I mentioned, the 'average corset experience' today would be negative. So it is not even as if the scene is unrealistic (plus the corset being used is purely for 'looks'). But it did obviously bring up the subject, and it seemed relevant to mention some things and perhaps dispel a few myths.
To add a little more on the subject - there were even corsets worn for sports, and work, so the idea of not being able to breathe in one being the norm is simply absurd. They also assist with posture, and even today medical corsets (although I do not think they are called such) are sometimes used to help people with back problems.
Either way, lots more history and details to be gone into, but that would go far beyond the scope of what would be appropriate for the thread.
Alright. I had already expected things to become clearer with time. And yes, I can certainly understand that it is different having ideas in your head, versus for someone on 'the outside' who does not have all that information bouncing around in *their* head.
Indeed, perfectionism is the bane of actually getting anything done
DP024.
For the next handful of days I find myself slipping repeatedly into and out of a kind of funk.
Moods swinging like a pendulum no longer trusted to accurately tell time.
Hating Deborah, Stephanie. Anger and rage, the line. Unspoken rule. So blatantly trodden into the dirt, by them. The sheer brazen advantage and liberty they took.
With, of, me.
Bondage is an exact thing. To do it well, for a shoot let's ignore real life play for a moment. To do a shoot well you have to tie the model up properly, which means she'll. I'll. Be helpless. Completely at the rigger/producers mercy. Trusting in the two bitches to honour the unspoken rule.
Shoot over, free the model, and everyone walks away smiling.
And. They. (fucking bitches) Didn't. Do. That.
I could, should, will. Burn them down.
Somehow.
Although. It was.
Kinda.
Fun.
Fun, in the sense of the shivering unknown, the total surrender to strangers whom I'd swear aren't, but who must be because if not. If we have previous beyond some Carnival one time long ago.
Wouldn't they say?
I hadn't thought I'd enjoy playing the slave so damn much, that my still at times unknown internals, the holes down which lurk some of my likes and hopes and dreams. I never thought to discover a love.
Love, prehaps even all in capitals?
I. Loved. Submitting.
Left, abandoned in my place, having been quite thoroughly put there by Deborah. My love of the whipping and forced nature of her attentions, taking what she wished from me, somewhat frightening in it's power. Deborah, easily, manipulated my body and mind into that of her slave.
Sinking, so overcome by the role that, the shoot over I didn't want to come back up.
Anger, followed by want and desire, now becoming a melancholy emptiness, the world grey like, blurring at the edges as though seen through rain. My appetite lost.
Sadness. Missing what so briefly was that shouldn't of been but did happen.
And why did it happen?
Why take that ultimate forbidden advantage of me, to go that one step too far. And then several more steps for good/bad measure?
I don't know.
But.
And back to anger, damning those two bitches to all hell for forcing me up those unexpected peaks, only to send me away. Back to this grey normality.
I don't have to go back.
I. Won't, go back.
I.
Okay, I'll go back, but only so I can set their house- literally and figuratively -on fire. And I'll smile as the smoke consumes all.
No.
I.
Maybe?
Just one- two, seven, none, a hundred -more time(s).
Into my grey world comes Morgan, appearing as planned. My own end of the planning somewhat muted. On a Sunday afternoon. Coming for a small English roast I barely pick at despite loving the meal under normal circumstances, the intoxicating smell of it all. She's staying the night, a day off on Monday. Tomorrow. And being my own boss I can green light a lay-in, a late start working in Owl Wood.
Unfortunately she walks right into my funk.
"What's up?" Dinner eaten and enjoyed by at least one of us. Everything washed and put away, so we've decamped to the three seater sofa, opposite ends. Relaxing, a half dozen beers already downed, empty glass shells on the low table before us, fresh bottles in hand. More in the fridge.
"B?" Some old horror on the flatscreen, background. Morgan turns her head to regard me. "You seem...." Giving me a thoughtful look. "Thoughtful."
"B?" Having to ask again, and only as she asks a second time am I registering the first.
"Oh." Quick scattergun laugh. "Sorry. It's." Shrugging with bottle in hand.
It's.
Well.
Morgan looking at me. What can I say without saying it all?
"I had," some of the truth, "a strange shoot."
"Strange like how?" Puzzled.
"I'm into it." Managing a half smile. "You know that right?"
"Into tying." Smiling back, wider.
"Mostly I get tied."
"Oh." Surprise crossing her face, I can see Morgan's thoughts. That I've tied her but she hasn't. "You don't ever...?"
"I do." A nod. "But mostly I get tied."
"I'm just more submissive." Holding my bottle up, staring at it, through it the green glass obscuring everything beyond. "Tend to get booked more for shoots where I get tied."
"And." Thoughtful still. "Outside of shoots?"
"You look amazing tied up." Actually managing a teasing grin, Morgan blushes. "But I'd be fibbing if I didn't admit to preferring the ropes were wrapping me."
"So this strange shoot," gesturing her bottle at me, "you were tied?"
"I was." A tight nod. Memory surfacing of hanging alone, waiting. And this time it's the anger coming on not the arousal. "But it went deep."
"Deep?"
"I had to be a." Stopping, shaking my head. "Pretend. To be a slave."
"And that's." Frowning. "Bad?"
"No. But sometimes, some shoots, because I'm into it. For real. Sometimes going deep like that it leaves a...."
"Trace?"
"Trace." Saluting her with my bottle. Close enough. "Some shoots it can take awhile to settle, to remember it."
Can't help the laughter, somewhat- still angry -bitter from leaking out.
"To remember it's not real."
Silence. Morgan drains her bottle, fetches us both refills.
"So." Handing mine over and plonking herself back down, still with a cushion space between us. "You were a." Pausing. "Slave?"
"Yes." Taking a swig, feeling the need to clarify. For myself. "For the shoot."
Not- but, and damn but there's that pendulum swing again -for real.
"And you still feel like a slave?"
"A little."
I drink, finishing the bottle, trying to drown that rising feeling of missing the garage.
"You could be my slave."
I spit out my drink. Morgan laughs, a happy sound that tugs the corners of my mouth up, managing to banish the imagery of hanging from behind my eyes.
"What?"
"If you feel like one," eyes dancing, smile and her body leaning towards me. Perfect view. "Maybe you need to be one?" She winks. "Mine."
Mouth open I stare. Her crap drunk logic doing things to me, inside. Waking me up, stomach fluttering.
Maybe.
This could be fun/good.
"Wait there." Leaping suddenly from the sofa and bolting out the door. Crashing and banging on the stairs.
Again as she races back down a short minute later, several coils of rope flying over my head, the sofa, to land on the table. Morgan appearing beside me.
"You need this." Dangling a collar in my face. "Right?"
Heart beating so fast as though attempting escape from my chest. I swallow. Nod.
"Slaves wear collars." Voice playful, making a game of something that....
Familiar?
Have I?
I'd swear no, but then I swore I'd never been whipped or dominated to Deborah's levels before, and look at the revelations that occurred there. Look at my traitor body's reaction to the way she controlled and used me.
Look at my reaction now.
Was I a slave?
Was I the two bitches slave?
It's brown leather, a wide overlapping band with two buckles top and bottom, a single dull silver hoop at the front. Morgan, either not noticing or not caring or most likely- because she's far from a bondage pro -not understanding the wider implications of collaring me. She doesn't comment or see my clenched fists and quickened breathing.
And I let her collar me because?
I don't know.
Because we were talking about my being submissive and then she dangles it, the actual proof of fact, in front of me like a threat or offer or. Something. And.
My throat closed up, my body began tingling, and I felt my will just. Roll over. Leave.
Morgan may not understand the rules of this very real game, but I do.
And, basically, my internals still all shot to shit from the encounter with Deborah and Stephanie. I can't summon any will to fight.
"Slaves do as they're told?"
"Yes." Whispering, my throat gone so narrow, to answer Morgan's question, which could as well be a statement.
"Good." Beaming as she pivots and semi falls back onto her side of the sofa, picking up her bottle, taking a long swig and waving it at me. "Strip."
A black skimpy dress, because it's my house so I didn't ride here, and I'd been aiming for sexy.
Hoping sex would banish the funk.
Just, didn't expect play with this specific twist.
Slipping off the dress and black lace lingerie beneath, Morgan watching, drinking. Still clothed in faded green jeans and a white tee with 'Nintendo' in red across her braless chest.
"Go fetch two more beers." Waving her empty bottle playfully at me.
And, returning I discover Morgan moved onto the centre cushion. Taking both bottles as I sit, swapping them for a coil of rope which, leaning in, she doubles up before making a leash of it. Slipping the looped middle through the collar hoop before passing the ends through that loop, pulling tight.
Capturing me all over again. Her face and smile playful yet for me there are levels being sunk too.
Passing my beer Morgan wraps the leash around her free hand, making a fist. Relaxing back next to me, her erect nipples a clear sign she's enjoying the power trip, the game.
For awhile we sit in silence, drinking. My tingles and nerves come and go, Morgan doesn't press her dominance any further.
Until.
"Go and find a gag." Unwrapping her hand from my leash. "Put it on, and cuff those hands behind you."
"Should I." Pausing to try and control my voice. "Come back?"
"Yes." Quick frown like she's missed something. "But leave the key upstairs."
I stand, and leash dangling down at my knees, swinging left and right, walk off.
Upstairs to my bedroom. Fetching and strapping on a ring gag, silver hollowed circle of metal forced between my jaws, black leather straps to keep it in place. Making it tight through force of habit not even thinking to cut myself any slack. Locking my wrists behind with cuffs that are just two hoops, no small joining chain.
Walking carefully back downstairs.
Forgetting for three steps that it's my house, something grey climbing half out of a hole.
Was I a slave?
At the bottom, remembering where I am, who I'm with. But the unknown fear tingle doesn't fade because I, genuinely, don't know what Morgan will do.
Does she have a plan?
How much of this sometime game, sometime very real thing, all these blurred lines and sloshing feelings, does she know?
"Let me see." Standing and meeting me just through the doorway.
Shock to my system, spike of arousal to find Morgan naked too as she stands and bounces her way across the room.
Snagging my leash and wrapping it once more around her hand, smiling, eyes darting all over me, drinking me in.
Walking around behind whilst I fight to stand still, legs threatening to buckle from the adrenaline surge as I feel my cuffed wrists prodded and tugged.
Long nails running across my butt cheeks, running down between and under.
Brief tickling contact along my pussy lips. Making me moan.
"Not tonight." Swatting my butt. "The slave doesn't get to cum. You." Coming around in front of me, eye to eye and she's grinning. Drunk and clearly loving every second of this.
"Don't get to cum. B." Caressing my breast. "Not tonight. Understood?"
"Mmmffddd hhhfffpppgggg." I nod, the slight edge creeping into her voice making me feel smaller.
Morgan leads me back to the sofa.
Where she manages a passable, actually pretty fucking tight for an amateur, job binding my ankles, joining ankles to cuffed wrists, placing me on my belly in a hogtie, after which she manoeuvres us both so that she's sat leaning back on one end of the sofa, with me laid across the remaining two cushions my head conveniently in her lap.
Spreading her legs wide, one knee bent the leg resting against the sofa back her other dangling off the edge.
Giving me access.
"Make me cum slave." Beer in one hand, taking a swig even as she wriggles, making sure my gagged mouth is nestled properly in her crotch.
"Mmmffffgggppphhgg." Tilting my head to look up at her, my moan soft. Not arguing I don't feel capable of such.
"Now." Barked out, that dominant edge resurfacing in her voice, jerking my rope leash to make her point. "Be a good slave for Mistress and lick my pussy."
I set to the task. Breathing Morgan in deep as her pussy fills my world, licking, darting my tongue in and out, across her clit pressing against the soft bud.
From somewhere far off the sounds of her panting, groaning.
Twice I forget it's Morgan bossing and dominating me, the cracks I'd been fighting to patch up, not wanting Deborah nor Steph to have an in. Not wanting to submit again.
The cracks becoming gaping holes you could drive a truck through as Morgan, unknowing, has me spiralling down and down into submissiveness.
Pushing her crotch repeatedly into my face as she nears climax, breath quickening.
Crying out her body stiffening, relaxing.
But there's no post orgasm freedom, Morgan leaves me hogtied and in her lap. Wriggling I manage to roll onto my side, allowing me to look up and see her.
Sitting like a queen, beer in one hand my leash in the other.
"Fffgggmmm." Stretching my bound body, pushing breasts forwards and out. Rubbing them against her leg. Looking up at her. My moan soft yet pleading. "Ppphhhhhfffmmmgg."
Please. I want a kiss, a cuddle.
"No." A smile, not cruel but somewhere along the evil road appears at the edges. "You left me bound. So." Nodding, at me and too herself. "Consequences."
"Ffggggmmmm." Lowering my head. Defeated. And, she's right of course it's no different, mostly, from what I've done to her. But.
This isn't helping me climb out of the submission crash dive.
Morgan drinks, and watches whatever she happens to channel hop across. Beyond the occasional smirking, smiling, glance I'm largely ignored.
I give her two more orgasms, one at Morgan's insistence, harsh tone ordering me to work. The other, laying in her crotch, the smell of aroused pussy overpowering, making me horny to the point I simply begin nuzzling and licking her.
Glancing up some minutes later, feeling Morgan shift, finding her with one hand teasing her erect nipple, smile on her eyes half closed face.
Eventually, having removed my ropes and walked my by the leash upstairs. Removing the collar and cuffs once in my room. We climb into bed together, Morgan falling into a drunken sleep moments later.
Whilst I, awake, head churning full of recent events. Lay staring at the ceiling for some time.
"B."
Morning. Did I even sleep? Morgan, laid on her side facing me, biting her lip looking, worried?
"Did I. Um." Running a hand through her hair. "Was I okay, last night. Or...?"
"You." Laid on my back, turning my head to look at her and bringing one arm out and flat, inviting.
Morgan, smiling, scoots closer, pressing herself into me as I bring the arm around to hug her. Stroking her back.
"Everything's fine." I nod, pointedly ignoring the inner voice, banging and rattling, insisting that things are bad, that I'm broken.
"I had fun."
"You did?" Hopeful, a half smile.
"Yes." Leaning in to kiss her lips. "Of course." Thoughtful but spoilt by my grin. Aiming for playful and damn the consequences. "I could give you some pointers, for next time."
Morgan laughs, reaching out one arm to hug me, kissing me back her hand lingering on my breast.
"Maybe next time you'll still be tied up in the morning?"
Asking, like checking is this a thing, is this okay.
"Maybe." Letting my smile be answer enough.
Trying real hard to ignore the voices inside. My defences completely down.
Until I get angry again I suppose, and then.
Maybe it'll be Morgan still tied up when morning comes.
For the next handful of days I find myself slipping repeatedly into and out of a kind of funk.
Moods swinging like a pendulum no longer trusted to accurately tell time.
Hating Deborah, Stephanie. Anger and rage, the line. Unspoken rule. So blatantly trodden into the dirt, by them. The sheer brazen advantage and liberty they took.
With, of, me.
Bondage is an exact thing. To do it well, for a shoot let's ignore real life play for a moment. To do a shoot well you have to tie the model up properly, which means she'll. I'll. Be helpless. Completely at the rigger/producers mercy. Trusting in the two bitches to honour the unspoken rule.
Shoot over, free the model, and everyone walks away smiling.
And. They. (fucking bitches) Didn't. Do. That.
I could, should, will. Burn them down.
Somehow.
Although. It was.
Kinda.
Fun.
Fun, in the sense of the shivering unknown, the total surrender to strangers whom I'd swear aren't, but who must be because if not. If we have previous beyond some Carnival one time long ago.
Wouldn't they say?
I hadn't thought I'd enjoy playing the slave so damn much, that my still at times unknown internals, the holes down which lurk some of my likes and hopes and dreams. I never thought to discover a love.
Love, prehaps even all in capitals?
I. Loved. Submitting.
Left, abandoned in my place, having been quite thoroughly put there by Deborah. My love of the whipping and forced nature of her attentions, taking what she wished from me, somewhat frightening in it's power. Deborah, easily, manipulated my body and mind into that of her slave.
Sinking, so overcome by the role that, the shoot over I didn't want to come back up.
Anger, followed by want and desire, now becoming a melancholy emptiness, the world grey like, blurring at the edges as though seen through rain. My appetite lost.
Sadness. Missing what so briefly was that shouldn't of been but did happen.
And why did it happen?
Why take that ultimate forbidden advantage of me, to go that one step too far. And then several more steps for good/bad measure?
I don't know.
But.
And back to anger, damning those two bitches to all hell for forcing me up those unexpected peaks, only to send me away. Back to this grey normality.
I don't have to go back.
I. Won't, go back.
I.
Okay, I'll go back, but only so I can set their house- literally and figuratively -on fire. And I'll smile as the smoke consumes all.
No.
I.
Maybe?
Just one- two, seven, none, a hundred -more time(s).
Into my grey world comes Morgan, appearing as planned. My own end of the planning somewhat muted. On a Sunday afternoon. Coming for a small English roast I barely pick at despite loving the meal under normal circumstances, the intoxicating smell of it all. She's staying the night, a day off on Monday. Tomorrow. And being my own boss I can green light a lay-in, a late start working in Owl Wood.
Unfortunately she walks right into my funk.
"What's up?" Dinner eaten and enjoyed by at least one of us. Everything washed and put away, so we've decamped to the three seater sofa, opposite ends. Relaxing, a half dozen beers already downed, empty glass shells on the low table before us, fresh bottles in hand. More in the fridge.
"B?" Some old horror on the flatscreen, background. Morgan turns her head to regard me. "You seem...." Giving me a thoughtful look. "Thoughtful."
"B?" Having to ask again, and only as she asks a second time am I registering the first.
"Oh." Quick scattergun laugh. "Sorry. It's." Shrugging with bottle in hand.
It's.
Well.
Morgan looking at me. What can I say without saying it all?
"I had," some of the truth, "a strange shoot."
"Strange like how?" Puzzled.
"I'm into it." Managing a half smile. "You know that right?"
"Into tying." Smiling back, wider.
"Mostly I get tied."
"Oh." Surprise crossing her face, I can see Morgan's thoughts. That I've tied her but she hasn't. "You don't ever...?"
"I do." A nod. "But mostly I get tied."
"I'm just more submissive." Holding my bottle up, staring at it, through it the green glass obscuring everything beyond. "Tend to get booked more for shoots where I get tied."
"And." Thoughtful still. "Outside of shoots?"
"You look amazing tied up." Actually managing a teasing grin, Morgan blushes. "But I'd be fibbing if I didn't admit to preferring the ropes were wrapping me."
"So this strange shoot," gesturing her bottle at me, "you were tied?"
"I was." A tight nod. Memory surfacing of hanging alone, waiting. And this time it's the anger coming on not the arousal. "But it went deep."
"Deep?"
"I had to be a." Stopping, shaking my head. "Pretend. To be a slave."
"And that's." Frowning. "Bad?"
"No. But sometimes, some shoots, because I'm into it. For real. Sometimes going deep like that it leaves a...."
"Trace?"
"Trace." Saluting her with my bottle. Close enough. "Some shoots it can take awhile to settle, to remember it."
Can't help the laughter, somewhat- still angry -bitter from leaking out.
"To remember it's not real."
Silence. Morgan drains her bottle, fetches us both refills.
"So." Handing mine over and plonking herself back down, still with a cushion space between us. "You were a." Pausing. "Slave?"
"Yes." Taking a swig, feeling the need to clarify. For myself. "For the shoot."
Not- but, and damn but there's that pendulum swing again -for real.
"And you still feel like a slave?"
"A little."
I drink, finishing the bottle, trying to drown that rising feeling of missing the garage.
"You could be my slave."
I spit out my drink. Morgan laughs, a happy sound that tugs the corners of my mouth up, managing to banish the imagery of hanging from behind my eyes.
"What?"
"If you feel like one," eyes dancing, smile and her body leaning towards me. Perfect view. "Maybe you need to be one?" She winks. "Mine."
Mouth open I stare. Her crap drunk logic doing things to me, inside. Waking me up, stomach fluttering.
Maybe.
This could be fun/good.
"Wait there." Leaping suddenly from the sofa and bolting out the door. Crashing and banging on the stairs.
Again as she races back down a short minute later, several coils of rope flying over my head, the sofa, to land on the table. Morgan appearing beside me.
"You need this." Dangling a collar in my face. "Right?"
Heart beating so fast as though attempting escape from my chest. I swallow. Nod.
"Slaves wear collars." Voice playful, making a game of something that....
Familiar?
Have I?
I'd swear no, but then I swore I'd never been whipped or dominated to Deborah's levels before, and look at the revelations that occurred there. Look at my traitor body's reaction to the way she controlled and used me.
Look at my reaction now.
Was I a slave?
Was I the two bitches slave?
It's brown leather, a wide overlapping band with two buckles top and bottom, a single dull silver hoop at the front. Morgan, either not noticing or not caring or most likely- because she's far from a bondage pro -not understanding the wider implications of collaring me. She doesn't comment or see my clenched fists and quickened breathing.
And I let her collar me because?
I don't know.
Because we were talking about my being submissive and then she dangles it, the actual proof of fact, in front of me like a threat or offer or. Something. And.
My throat closed up, my body began tingling, and I felt my will just. Roll over. Leave.
Morgan may not understand the rules of this very real game, but I do.
And, basically, my internals still all shot to shit from the encounter with Deborah and Stephanie. I can't summon any will to fight.
"Slaves do as they're told?"
"Yes." Whispering, my throat gone so narrow, to answer Morgan's question, which could as well be a statement.
"Good." Beaming as she pivots and semi falls back onto her side of the sofa, picking up her bottle, taking a long swig and waving it at me. "Strip."
A black skimpy dress, because it's my house so I didn't ride here, and I'd been aiming for sexy.
Hoping sex would banish the funk.
Just, didn't expect play with this specific twist.
Slipping off the dress and black lace lingerie beneath, Morgan watching, drinking. Still clothed in faded green jeans and a white tee with 'Nintendo' in red across her braless chest.
"Go fetch two more beers." Waving her empty bottle playfully at me.
And, returning I discover Morgan moved onto the centre cushion. Taking both bottles as I sit, swapping them for a coil of rope which, leaning in, she doubles up before making a leash of it. Slipping the looped middle through the collar hoop before passing the ends through that loop, pulling tight.
Capturing me all over again. Her face and smile playful yet for me there are levels being sunk too.
Passing my beer Morgan wraps the leash around her free hand, making a fist. Relaxing back next to me, her erect nipples a clear sign she's enjoying the power trip, the game.
For awhile we sit in silence, drinking. My tingles and nerves come and go, Morgan doesn't press her dominance any further.
Until.
"Go and find a gag." Unwrapping her hand from my leash. "Put it on, and cuff those hands behind you."
"Should I." Pausing to try and control my voice. "Come back?"
"Yes." Quick frown like she's missed something. "But leave the key upstairs."
I stand, and leash dangling down at my knees, swinging left and right, walk off.
Upstairs to my bedroom. Fetching and strapping on a ring gag, silver hollowed circle of metal forced between my jaws, black leather straps to keep it in place. Making it tight through force of habit not even thinking to cut myself any slack. Locking my wrists behind with cuffs that are just two hoops, no small joining chain.
Walking carefully back downstairs.
Forgetting for three steps that it's my house, something grey climbing half out of a hole.
Was I a slave?
At the bottom, remembering where I am, who I'm with. But the unknown fear tingle doesn't fade because I, genuinely, don't know what Morgan will do.
Does she have a plan?
How much of this sometime game, sometime very real thing, all these blurred lines and sloshing feelings, does she know?
"Let me see." Standing and meeting me just through the doorway.
Shock to my system, spike of arousal to find Morgan naked too as she stands and bounces her way across the room.
Snagging my leash and wrapping it once more around her hand, smiling, eyes darting all over me, drinking me in.
Walking around behind whilst I fight to stand still, legs threatening to buckle from the adrenaline surge as I feel my cuffed wrists prodded and tugged.
Long nails running across my butt cheeks, running down between and under.
Brief tickling contact along my pussy lips. Making me moan.
"Not tonight." Swatting my butt. "The slave doesn't get to cum. You." Coming around in front of me, eye to eye and she's grinning. Drunk and clearly loving every second of this.
"Don't get to cum. B." Caressing my breast. "Not tonight. Understood?"
"Mmmffddd hhhfffpppgggg." I nod, the slight edge creeping into her voice making me feel smaller.
Morgan leads me back to the sofa.
Where she manages a passable, actually pretty fucking tight for an amateur, job binding my ankles, joining ankles to cuffed wrists, placing me on my belly in a hogtie, after which she manoeuvres us both so that she's sat leaning back on one end of the sofa, with me laid across the remaining two cushions my head conveniently in her lap.
Spreading her legs wide, one knee bent the leg resting against the sofa back her other dangling off the edge.
Giving me access.
"Make me cum slave." Beer in one hand, taking a swig even as she wriggles, making sure my gagged mouth is nestled properly in her crotch.
"Mmmffffgggppphhgg." Tilting my head to look up at her, my moan soft. Not arguing I don't feel capable of such.
"Now." Barked out, that dominant edge resurfacing in her voice, jerking my rope leash to make her point. "Be a good slave for Mistress and lick my pussy."
I set to the task. Breathing Morgan in deep as her pussy fills my world, licking, darting my tongue in and out, across her clit pressing against the soft bud.
From somewhere far off the sounds of her panting, groaning.
Twice I forget it's Morgan bossing and dominating me, the cracks I'd been fighting to patch up, not wanting Deborah nor Steph to have an in. Not wanting to submit again.
The cracks becoming gaping holes you could drive a truck through as Morgan, unknowing, has me spiralling down and down into submissiveness.
Pushing her crotch repeatedly into my face as she nears climax, breath quickening.
Crying out her body stiffening, relaxing.
But there's no post orgasm freedom, Morgan leaves me hogtied and in her lap. Wriggling I manage to roll onto my side, allowing me to look up and see her.
Sitting like a queen, beer in one hand my leash in the other.
"Fffgggmmm." Stretching my bound body, pushing breasts forwards and out. Rubbing them against her leg. Looking up at her. My moan soft yet pleading. "Ppphhhhhfffmmmgg."
Please. I want a kiss, a cuddle.
"No." A smile, not cruel but somewhere along the evil road appears at the edges. "You left me bound. So." Nodding, at me and too herself. "Consequences."
"Ffggggmmmm." Lowering my head. Defeated. And, she's right of course it's no different, mostly, from what I've done to her. But.
This isn't helping me climb out of the submission crash dive.
Morgan drinks, and watches whatever she happens to channel hop across. Beyond the occasional smirking, smiling, glance I'm largely ignored.
I give her two more orgasms, one at Morgan's insistence, harsh tone ordering me to work. The other, laying in her crotch, the smell of aroused pussy overpowering, making me horny to the point I simply begin nuzzling and licking her.
Glancing up some minutes later, feeling Morgan shift, finding her with one hand teasing her erect nipple, smile on her eyes half closed face.
Eventually, having removed my ropes and walked my by the leash upstairs. Removing the collar and cuffs once in my room. We climb into bed together, Morgan falling into a drunken sleep moments later.
Whilst I, awake, head churning full of recent events. Lay staring at the ceiling for some time.
"B."
Morning. Did I even sleep? Morgan, laid on her side facing me, biting her lip looking, worried?
"Did I. Um." Running a hand through her hair. "Was I okay, last night. Or...?"
"You." Laid on my back, turning my head to look at her and bringing one arm out and flat, inviting.
Morgan, smiling, scoots closer, pressing herself into me as I bring the arm around to hug her. Stroking her back.
"Everything's fine." I nod, pointedly ignoring the inner voice, banging and rattling, insisting that things are bad, that I'm broken.
"I had fun."
"You did?" Hopeful, a half smile.
"Yes." Leaning in to kiss her lips. "Of course." Thoughtful but spoilt by my grin. Aiming for playful and damn the consequences. "I could give you some pointers, for next time."
Morgan laughs, reaching out one arm to hug me, kissing me back her hand lingering on my breast.
"Maybe next time you'll still be tied up in the morning?"
Asking, like checking is this a thing, is this okay.
"Maybe." Letting my smile be answer enough.
Trying real hard to ignore the voices inside. My defences completely down.
Until I get angry again I suppose, and then.
Maybe it'll be Morgan still tied up when morning comes.
Email correspondence.
002.
Now with bonus commentary.
The email arrives two days later. My phone pings early afternoon, but seeing the email icon, not WhatsApp so not Morgan, I ignore it until dinner.
Focusing on work, on that hedgerow of trees. The farmer on his side, me on mine, taking turns with chainsaw or just brute strength, huffing and puffing the cut branches away.
Think he's impressed at what I can do, me being- ha -a girl and all.
Tractors eyeballing each other across the boundary mine chunky and fitted with a black roll frame, his newer but covered up one side in not dirt.
Nice odour drifting.
Eating dinner, a simple meatballs in sauce, plenty of cut peppers and mushrooms. I, fork in one hand, swipe open my phone. Read.
'To: plymouth_trussedngagged
From: caged_sluts
Plymouth.
Some excellent numbers, sales, off the video.
x'
"Is that right." Musing, shake of my head at the impersonal tone within.
Anger- fucking bitches -rising.
Putting down my fork I answer like with like, being in my opinion admirably restrained.
'To: caged_sluts
From: plymouth_trussedngagged
Deborah. Stephanie.
Well that's. Good.
x'
My phone buzzing some fifteen minutes later. I don't even need to look to know it's from them.
I, petty but who gives a fuck I'm still mad, make them wait an hour.
Checking whilst I read a book, not feeling like watching anything tonight.
'To: plymouth_trussedngagged
From: caged_sluts
Yes.
We've decided to hire you again x'
"Fucking." Laughing, the sheer brazen cheek of them.
Putting the book down, letting my feelings pour forth I type.
'To: caged_sluts
From: plymouth_trussedngagged
Right. Have you.
Well.
If.
I decided. And.
If.
I come.
Are you going to keep me locked in the dungeon again after hours?'
Fucking pair of rule breakers.
Yours.
(Flipping you both off)
Plymouth xxxx'
Smirking. Feeling good, happy. The matter put to bed and done. Over.
Slight pang which I tamp down quickly but not fast enough.
But, done now.
They won't write back, I've burned that bridge for go-
The phone's buzz and ping shutting my thoughts off like closing a steel trap.
Hands shaking slightly, because bad slaves get punished, and there's nothing good about telling Mistress to go fuck themselves.
I swipe.
Read.
'To: plymouth_trussedngagged
From: caged_sluts
Plymouth.
If you'd wanted letting down off the ceiling, you only had to ask....
It's hardly our fault that you were so happy/content being our submissive.
Deborah xx
Stephanie xx'
Shaky, nervous laugh. I swallow. Managing to find some bravado, some confidence.
Typing quickly, having to go back and correct multiple errors my hands won't behave.
'To: caged_sluts
From: plymouth_trussedngagged
You. Here.
I've got to say, you don't have any power here.
Over me.
Nice try though x'
Hoping, praying, that nothing comes back.
Because if it does I'll have to look.
I can't focus on the book, so, I have a long soak in the bath, bubbles and soft music, relaxing head back eyes closed. Water warm and soothing.
Drifting and missing the incoming ping. Finding it much later, in bed.
'To: plymouth_trussedngagged
From: caged_sluts
No?
So cocky.
So full of (false) confidence.
Prove it.
Plymouth.
Come for a second shoot.
(Details attached)
Come and submit, to us, for the shoot. And then afterwards, show us you can leave. Just.
Ask.
Once we're done filming. And we'll let you go.
Promise.
xx'
Staring. At the screen, heart beating too fast lips dry. Pussy damp and nipples hard.
Fucking traitor body.
I shut the screen off, roll over. Sleep.
Try to sleep.
Fail.
"Okay." Voicing my one word reply out loud, shaking myself. Deep breath and.
Sent.
I'll go, and I'll show them I can walk away.
I'll go, and I'll let them keep me.
I'll, go.
002.
Now with bonus commentary.
The email arrives two days later. My phone pings early afternoon, but seeing the email icon, not WhatsApp so not Morgan, I ignore it until dinner.
Focusing on work, on that hedgerow of trees. The farmer on his side, me on mine, taking turns with chainsaw or just brute strength, huffing and puffing the cut branches away.
Think he's impressed at what I can do, me being- ha -a girl and all.
Tractors eyeballing each other across the boundary mine chunky and fitted with a black roll frame, his newer but covered up one side in not dirt.
Nice odour drifting.
Eating dinner, a simple meatballs in sauce, plenty of cut peppers and mushrooms. I, fork in one hand, swipe open my phone. Read.
'To: plymouth_trussedngagged
From: caged_sluts
Plymouth.
Some excellent numbers, sales, off the video.
x'
"Is that right." Musing, shake of my head at the impersonal tone within.
Anger- fucking bitches -rising.
Putting down my fork I answer like with like, being in my opinion admirably restrained.
'To: caged_sluts
From: plymouth_trussedngagged
Deborah. Stephanie.
Well that's. Good.
x'
My phone buzzing some fifteen minutes later. I don't even need to look to know it's from them.
I, petty but who gives a fuck I'm still mad, make them wait an hour.
Checking whilst I read a book, not feeling like watching anything tonight.
'To: plymouth_trussedngagged
From: caged_sluts
Yes.
We've decided to hire you again x'
"Fucking." Laughing, the sheer brazen cheek of them.
Putting the book down, letting my feelings pour forth I type.
'To: caged_sluts
From: plymouth_trussedngagged
Right. Have you.
Well.
If.
I decided. And.
If.
I come.
Are you going to keep me locked in the dungeon again after hours?'
Fucking pair of rule breakers.
Yours.
(Flipping you both off)
Plymouth xxxx'
Smirking. Feeling good, happy. The matter put to bed and done. Over.
Slight pang which I tamp down quickly but not fast enough.
But, done now.
They won't write back, I've burned that bridge for go-
The phone's buzz and ping shutting my thoughts off like closing a steel trap.
Hands shaking slightly, because bad slaves get punished, and there's nothing good about telling Mistress to go fuck themselves.
I swipe.
Read.
'To: plymouth_trussedngagged
From: caged_sluts
Plymouth.
If you'd wanted letting down off the ceiling, you only had to ask....
It's hardly our fault that you were so happy/content being our submissive.
Deborah xx
Stephanie xx'
Shaky, nervous laugh. I swallow. Managing to find some bravado, some confidence.
Typing quickly, having to go back and correct multiple errors my hands won't behave.
'To: caged_sluts
From: plymouth_trussedngagged
You. Here.
I've got to say, you don't have any power here.
Over me.
Nice try though x'
Hoping, praying, that nothing comes back.
Because if it does I'll have to look.
I can't focus on the book, so, I have a long soak in the bath, bubbles and soft music, relaxing head back eyes closed. Water warm and soothing.
Drifting and missing the incoming ping. Finding it much later, in bed.
'To: plymouth_trussedngagged
From: caged_sluts
No?
So cocky.
So full of (false) confidence.
Prove it.
Plymouth.
Come for a second shoot.
(Details attached)
Come and submit, to us, for the shoot. And then afterwards, show us you can leave. Just.
Ask.
Once we're done filming. And we'll let you go.
Promise.
xx'
Staring. At the screen, heart beating too fast lips dry. Pussy damp and nipples hard.
Fucking traitor body.
I shut the screen off, roll over. Sleep.
Try to sleep.
Fail.
"Okay." Voicing my one word reply out loud, shaking myself. Deep breath and.
Sent.
I'll go, and I'll show them I can walk away.
I'll go, and I'll let them keep me.
I'll, go.
A brilliant example of email dialog. Poor Plymouth, so conflicted.
A List of my stories:An Unlikely Savior Completed
Spy Task Force Completed
Tale of an Archer Completed
The Bandit Scout on Newhome updated 05/30/23
-
BlissfulMisery
- Centennial Club
- Posts: 285
- Joined: 1 year ago
Well Morgan certainly takes well to being in charge - I suppose it helps having someone as willing a Brooke!
). Succinctly describes the situation.
It is a great scene between them, but in the broader scheme of things it is not exactly a healthy way to deal with Brooke's uncertainty - the solution to being unsure about her submissiveness is not to keep playing slave. What she is doing is trying to bury her feelings via satisfying her addiction (submission). And obviously such things never work out in the long run - it is how addictions become worse.
Definitely a bit of a downward spiral.
Obviously not a criticism - it certainly makes sense. But as you mentioned, a bit painful to watch.
The exchange with Deborah and Stephanie being even further along those lines. To be honest, were this reality, what Deborah and Stephanie are doing here is pretty much a 'do not ever contact this person again', far beyond even a red flag, as they are ignoring Brooke's needs and emotional well-being for the sake of their own fun (and 'well Brooke secretly likes it' is not a valid justification). And that is even without the extra context of them knowing what happened before the accident but refusing to clue Brooke in.
Continuing to act as dommes while Brooke is obviously upset about what they did, outside of the context of play like this, and then basically taunting her... It is questionable at best, and honestly utterly immoral given what they know, and what they are not telling her.
Poor Brooke obviously at least partially understands all this, but just as obviously cannot resist.
Again, I know it seems as if I am saying it is bad writing or 'needs to be changed' - it is not. It really brings out the inner conflict, the complicated emotions in such a situation. I totally sympathize with Brooke acting the way she does, understand the siren song of temptation that leads her astray. But obviously the rational part of me wants her to keep herself safe, as it does not seem that Deborah and Stephanie can be trusted to fulfil their roles as dommes in that regard.
As always, I suppose we shall have to see what happens.
A really nice line (not the only one of course, but quoting them all would be absurd
). Succinctly describes the situation.It is a great scene between them, but in the broader scheme of things it is not exactly a healthy way to deal with Brooke's uncertainty - the solution to being unsure about her submissiveness is not to keep playing slave. What she is doing is trying to bury her feelings via satisfying her addiction (submission). And obviously such things never work out in the long run - it is how addictions become worse.
Definitely a bit of a downward spiral.
Obviously not a criticism - it certainly makes sense. But as you mentioned, a bit painful to watch.
The exchange with Deborah and Stephanie being even further along those lines. To be honest, were this reality, what Deborah and Stephanie are doing here is pretty much a 'do not ever contact this person again', far beyond even a red flag, as they are ignoring Brooke's needs and emotional well-being for the sake of their own fun (and 'well Brooke secretly likes it' is not a valid justification). And that is even without the extra context of them knowing what happened before the accident but refusing to clue Brooke in.
Continuing to act as dommes while Brooke is obviously upset about what they did, outside of the context of play like this, and then basically taunting her... It is questionable at best, and honestly utterly immoral given what they know, and what they are not telling her.
Poor Brooke obviously at least partially understands all this, but just as obviously cannot resist.
Again, I know it seems as if I am saying it is bad writing or 'needs to be changed' - it is not. It really brings out the inner conflict, the complicated emotions in such a situation. I totally sympathize with Brooke acting the way she does, understand the siren song of temptation that leads her astray. But obviously the rational part of me wants her to keep herself safe, as it does not seem that Deborah and Stephanie can be trusted to fulfil their roles as dommes in that regard.
As always, I suppose we shall have to see what happens.
It is all a little 'over the line' at times, agreed. Parts of this story have been, quite often I've delved down into things beyond what I'd normally write.
Fun, but.
In reality most of this just wouldn't happen of course. So many red flags as you pointed out there's just no way.
Next chapter posting below.
Perhaps....
A change coming...?
Fun, but.
In reality most of this just wouldn't happen of course. So many red flags as you pointed out there's just no way.
Next chapter posting below.
Perhaps....
A change coming...?
Steph and Deborah.
and Brooke.
and Plymouth.
001.
As it happens, they sink themselves.
Dread and a kind of growing lust like desire have been warring within me since the email exchange.
I- don't -want to go.
Anger still bubbles, only to be swamped by my keenness to submit. Totally, completely. And damn the consequences I just want to be helpless.
I'm scared, worried and yet moments later I'm cursing the slowness of time.
I can't not go, that's the only thing I can agree on. Whether to submit, to offer myself to Steph and Deborah's mercy. Or to literally/verbally beat the shit out of them.
I have to go.
To end this one way or another.
The shoot is scheduled for late afternoon, because I need to put in a good shift down the woods first, then shower before the ride across country.
Just after lunch my phone pings.
'To: plymouth_trussedngagged
From: caged_sluts
Plymouth.
Deborah has work until late, last minute thing.
We. I. Need to cancel.
Steph x'
And it isn't relief, off the hook, saved. I'm not relieved, I'm.
'To: caged_sluts
From: plymouth_trussedngagged
Gutted.
I was really looking forward to submitting and....
Um.
I mean.
What a shame the shoot is cancelled.
Plymouth x'
Cursing my traitor self moments after hitting send. My complete lack of any ability to stay out of trouble when it comes to bondage.
Fucks sake B.
Squealing in delight moments later as another incoming ping buzzes through my phone.
'To: plymouth_trussedngagged
From: caged_sluts
You have got to be the worst/best submissive I ever met.
You absolutely suck at telling me where to go stick it.
A pity. I was looking forward to watching you beg.
As was Deborah.
Unless....'
"Such a fucking childish hook." Shaking my head but smiling, sinking and falling for the game. Steph's teasing overtures.
'To: caged_sluts
From: plymouth_trussedngagged
Unless....?
xxxx'
Again the reply is fast.
'To: plymouth_trussedngagged
From: caged_sluts
Unless....
You come. Here. Now.
Submit, if that's what you desire?
Plymouth.
No shoot, just. Submit.
Because, spoiler alert, I think you really want to.
Come. Submit. To me. And when Deborah returns later we'll have you all trussed up waiting for her.
A gift.
Come.
Or do I have to use my special Domme powers? xx'
I go. Unable to resist the pull of that image.
Steph somehow, and her choice the way. I can't stop tingling over the thought of being left as a gift for Deborah, presumably unawares until she sees me that I came anyway.
Packing up the mornings tools, not bothering to shower or change out of my oil and wood stained works tee and jeans. I shrug on my Kings jacket and helmet, fire up the Hayabusa.
Become like the wind.
Only to stop twenty miles out from Steph and Deborah's, on the outskirts of town. Pulling into a lay-by, bike shedding speed rear tyre fishtailing as I decide last minute to stop.
Here.
Shutting the bike down, near leaping off visor flipped up which isn't enough. Helmet off I need to breathe I need air.
Panicking. Gulping body bent almost double at the waist as though I'm throwing up last nights dinner.
Collapsing into a sat down heap on the grass verge, unzipping my jacket. Blinking. Heart racing as I fight for control it had all suddenly hit me, falling from a great height. The fact of what I'd been going to do.
That unknown, the fucking huge gaping massive unknown of Steph and Deborah, all the questions surrounding them like a maze.
How can I possibly submit, again, when I don't know even a small fraction of the things I'm damn sure they're keeping from me.
Because.
Again.
There is no way. No. Fucking. Shitting. Way. That I only know them from Carnival.
I stay on the grass, unable for a moment to stand. Not a clue what I'll do when I do anyway.
Go home?
And then what, wait for the next email?
For almost a half hour I sit there. Frozen in indecision. Wanting to bolt for home lock the door and never leave. Wanting Morgan, Mum or Roman. Wanting comfort and help, someone I can talk to, someone to tell me.
What do I do?
Wanting, stupid lost girl, Steph and Deborah. Wanting to submit and I don't care where it goes. Because submitting, being left to hang, had just felt right.
Like coming home.
I sit. Head mostly to the sky, cloud watching searching for answers. I sit long enough a biker, not a King but showing concern thinking I'd broken down, stops.
"You okay girl?"
"Fine." Half hearted wave, a nod and from somewhere I conjure a smile. "Just, needed a break."
"Sweet ride." He's still atop the saddle, a racer like mine, pure breed all deep blues and silver, black jeans and leather jacket matching the bike.
Young, handsome face and maybe he stopped because I'm a pretty young thing.
A damsel in.
I start laughing. He frowns, I shake my head.
"Sorry." Standing, legs working sluggishly, I wobble briefly, once. Straighten. "Appreciate you stopping though."
"Sure." A quick salute and off he goes.
I watch him.
And.
The idea hits me without warning, left field, crazy and half formed. Just the bones and besides there's no way it'll work.
Plymouth, I'm, not that good?
"Got to do fucking something." Eyes on the Hayabusa, all raw power and dull blackness, sweeping lines. A falcon fast enough to out-fly the devil himself.
Her, self. Themselves. Two of them.
Slowly nodding.
But. If I fail?
"Then I guess Deborah's going to be real pleased to find me." Laughing without humour. Committed.
I probably should be.
I get back in the saddle.
Get underway.
and Brooke.
and Plymouth.
001.
As it happens, they sink themselves.
Dread and a kind of growing lust like desire have been warring within me since the email exchange.
I- don't -want to go.
Anger still bubbles, only to be swamped by my keenness to submit. Totally, completely. And damn the consequences I just want to be helpless.
I'm scared, worried and yet moments later I'm cursing the slowness of time.
I can't not go, that's the only thing I can agree on. Whether to submit, to offer myself to Steph and Deborah's mercy. Or to literally/verbally beat the shit out of them.
I have to go.
To end this one way or another.
The shoot is scheduled for late afternoon, because I need to put in a good shift down the woods first, then shower before the ride across country.
Just after lunch my phone pings.
'To: plymouth_trussedngagged
From: caged_sluts
Plymouth.
Deborah has work until late, last minute thing.
We. I. Need to cancel.
Steph x'
And it isn't relief, off the hook, saved. I'm not relieved, I'm.
'To: caged_sluts
From: plymouth_trussedngagged
Gutted.
I was really looking forward to submitting and....
Um.
I mean.
What a shame the shoot is cancelled.
Plymouth x'
Cursing my traitor self moments after hitting send. My complete lack of any ability to stay out of trouble when it comes to bondage.
Fucks sake B.
Squealing in delight moments later as another incoming ping buzzes through my phone.
'To: plymouth_trussedngagged
From: caged_sluts
You have got to be the worst/best submissive I ever met.
You absolutely suck at telling me where to go stick it.
A pity. I was looking forward to watching you beg.
As was Deborah.
Unless....'
"Such a fucking childish hook." Shaking my head but smiling, sinking and falling for the game. Steph's teasing overtures.
'To: caged_sluts
From: plymouth_trussedngagged
Unless....?
xxxx'
Again the reply is fast.
'To: plymouth_trussedngagged
From: caged_sluts
Unless....
You come. Here. Now.
Submit, if that's what you desire?
Plymouth.
No shoot, just. Submit.
Because, spoiler alert, I think you really want to.
Come. Submit. To me. And when Deborah returns later we'll have you all trussed up waiting for her.
A gift.
Come.
Or do I have to use my special Domme powers? xx'
I go. Unable to resist the pull of that image.
Steph somehow, and her choice the way. I can't stop tingling over the thought of being left as a gift for Deborah, presumably unawares until she sees me that I came anyway.
Packing up the mornings tools, not bothering to shower or change out of my oil and wood stained works tee and jeans. I shrug on my Kings jacket and helmet, fire up the Hayabusa.
Become like the wind.
Only to stop twenty miles out from Steph and Deborah's, on the outskirts of town. Pulling into a lay-by, bike shedding speed rear tyre fishtailing as I decide last minute to stop.
Here.
Shutting the bike down, near leaping off visor flipped up which isn't enough. Helmet off I need to breathe I need air.
Panicking. Gulping body bent almost double at the waist as though I'm throwing up last nights dinner.
Collapsing into a sat down heap on the grass verge, unzipping my jacket. Blinking. Heart racing as I fight for control it had all suddenly hit me, falling from a great height. The fact of what I'd been going to do.
That unknown, the fucking huge gaping massive unknown of Steph and Deborah, all the questions surrounding them like a maze.
How can I possibly submit, again, when I don't know even a small fraction of the things I'm damn sure they're keeping from me.
Because.
Again.
There is no way. No. Fucking. Shitting. Way. That I only know them from Carnival.
I stay on the grass, unable for a moment to stand. Not a clue what I'll do when I do anyway.
Go home?
And then what, wait for the next email?
For almost a half hour I sit there. Frozen in indecision. Wanting to bolt for home lock the door and never leave. Wanting Morgan, Mum or Roman. Wanting comfort and help, someone I can talk to, someone to tell me.
What do I do?
Wanting, stupid lost girl, Steph and Deborah. Wanting to submit and I don't care where it goes. Because submitting, being left to hang, had just felt right.
Like coming home.
I sit. Head mostly to the sky, cloud watching searching for answers. I sit long enough a biker, not a King but showing concern thinking I'd broken down, stops.
"You okay girl?"
"Fine." Half hearted wave, a nod and from somewhere I conjure a smile. "Just, needed a break."
"Sweet ride." He's still atop the saddle, a racer like mine, pure breed all deep blues and silver, black jeans and leather jacket matching the bike.
Young, handsome face and maybe he stopped because I'm a pretty young thing.
A damsel in.
I start laughing. He frowns, I shake my head.
"Sorry." Standing, legs working sluggishly, I wobble briefly, once. Straighten. "Appreciate you stopping though."
"Sure." A quick salute and off he goes.
I watch him.
And.
The idea hits me without warning, left field, crazy and half formed. Just the bones and besides there's no way it'll work.
Plymouth, I'm, not that good?
"Got to do fucking something." Eyes on the Hayabusa, all raw power and dull blackness, sweeping lines. A falcon fast enough to out-fly the devil himself.
Her, self. Themselves. Two of them.
Slowly nodding.
But. If I fail?
"Then I guess Deborah's going to be real pleased to find me." Laughing without humour. Committed.
I probably should be.
I get back in the saddle.
Get underway.
Eager to discover the idea. Great suspense.
A List of my stories:An Unlikely Savior Completed
Spy Task Force Completed
Tale of an Archer Completed
The Bandit Scout on Newhome updated 05/30/23