RopeBunny wrote: ↑2 weeks ago
And obviously I won't be quoting you and....
Oh.
Oops
RopeBunny wrote: ↑2 weeks ago
I actually have this- the What If -book or at least I kinda do, the title isn't so longwinded.
It's quite a good/interesting subject/read.
Have always personally been a little wary of such things - hypothetical 'what-ifs' in regards to history often trend towards being quite reductive. Specifically in terms of assuming things happen for straightforward/simple reasons, or assuming everything happens purely because of single individuals, or that changing the outcome of a single event would necessarily change events on a large scale, often ignoring broader context such as prevailing social movements or other factors/trends/realities in the process.
One could say it often ends up much akin to an adult playing with dolls, except in a historical context (to be fair, that probably sounds meaner then I intend it as)
-
An interesting change of pace with how Brooke 'seduces' Piper. Different then her usual manner, which makes sense, given she is a model around a fan, and therefore has an inherent position of power. Navigating different contexts, different worlds as it were.
RopeBunny wrote: ↑2 weeks ago
Got to keep dropping those hints and who knows....
Some day someone might answer.
Would argue multiple people already have
RopeBunny wrote: ↑2 weeks ago
"You do that." Starting to laugh. "Although." Semi serious but still amused. "Obviously, officially I'm not condoning that sort of behaviour at all."
"Obviously." Smiling wider.
Obviously
And it seems Sonya was thinking much the same as Brooke... Although I suppose a heavy dose of alcohol helps.
Ironic to say, but quite the 'casual' hookup, at least by Plymouths standards. At least in terms of the things she loves - bondage and submission. Not a criticism to be clear, it is a good scene and fits/flows perfectly from the situation. Just different from her usual.
RopeBunny wrote: ↑2 weeks ago
Part of that, the uncertainty is stemming from the fact I'm not sure what she wants. Yet.
Ahh the age old 'method writing' technique. I suppose being just as uncertain as the character helps in writing said uncertainty (just poking fun)
RopeBunny wrote: ↑2 weeks ago
Got to keep dropping those hints and who knows....
Some day someone might answer.
Would argue multiple people already have
Indeed. Current (which may change) plan is to offer up a poll soon, because I'm interested to see which of the potential females in Brooke's life have captured my readers imagination.
Am interested to see whom people might like to read more of.
But not yet. I'll do the poll when it's time.
Totally understand your point on the What If subject, it is all very based on a particular person's views, and all open to all sorts of interpretations.
Okay so he did that instead but what if she went that way because of it? And so on, the further you go the more it branches.
My bedroom, light spilling and leaking around the closed curtains casting everything into shadow: furniture, the almost but not quite closed doorway.
Sonya, laid on her side across the bed head resting on the second pillow.
Sleeping, and I consider letting her. We aren't dating, so there's no reason to assume a fuck last night extends to a cuddle this morning. But, screw it.
Moving slowly, gently and I do need to work, at least do some work today but it'll keep awhile longer.
Maybe another half hours rest first.
Bringing my naked body into soft contact with hers, reaching around to hug Sonya placing a hand atop her breast, my other on her belly. Reeling her in and she stirs.
I freeze. Not guilty, but waiting.
"Too early Brooke." Mumbled, after which Sonya pushes back against me, burrowing closer placing a hand over mine on her belly.
A soft kiss to her shoulder is answered by a content murmur, but Sonya doesn't stir.
Asleep, or trying to be. I close my eyes to join her discovering some unknown time later that Sonya had been right.
It- blaring alarm, mine which is automatically set each day at oh seven hundred hours, perfect for an early start working or jogging -really was too early.
"....The fuck?" Whole body jumping and I can't help the smile creeping in, used to these starts I'd been semi fooled before by the morning summer sun, dawn arriving at a truly silly hour.
"It's still too fucking early."
"Come on." Taking pleasure in sliding out of bed, whipping the duvet off. "Full attack let's go."
"Monster." Curling up around her single pillow, eyes tightly shut. "Why did I come here again?"
"Indeed." Amused, but curious because we didn't actually talk a whole lot yesterday.
Too busy getting drunk and fucking.
"In the Commission we rise early." Loudly opening drawers, my voice and word choice becoming military like. "To do otherwise is wasteful."
Pulling on a simple white bra and pants with 'Not Guilty' scrawled graffiti style across the butt in pink. Dark green Forestry Commission issued tee hugging my bust and small faded blue demin shorts complemented by a black canvas belt, tied off and hanging because it's way too long.
A style I favour.
"The Commission is not a job. It is a calling. A way of life."
"Fuck the Commission." Playful not mean, her thrown pillow catching my shoulder and bouncing off. Sonya, sitting up rubbing sleep from her eyes. Yawning.
Looking amazing: curving body topped by those E cups, not perfectly rounded and stabbing like my F's but large all the same, pert and- I know from experience -firm, only a slight natural downwards slope. Dyed red hair sleep messy.
"Alright. I surrender." Shaken head as she climbs off the bed, I leave her hunting clothes, brushing teeth and washing my face, hair tidied and downstairs to make coffee.
Sonya gratefully accepting a mug as she wanders in some ten minutes later: shorts to match mine though hers are faded black and belted by brown leather, grey 'Les Miserables' tee and her hair tied back.
"Thanks." Taking a sip, smiling. "Breakfast?"
"Help yourself." Gesturing.
"Fucking." Outraged, and I can't not laugh. "Fruit?"
"Best way to start the day." Polishing off my banana, reaching for an apple to take for later.
Grumbling, but smiling as our eyes meet, showing she isn't mad really. Or not too mad, Sonya takes an orange, peeling and eating, discarding the skin as we walk around outside the house to my barn.
"But I don't know how to kill trees." Holding up the orange hi-visibility vest I've handed over, turning it left and right the garment hanging from one finger, peering at it as you would a foreign thing. "But. Okay."
"Not killing any trees today." Not bothering to correct her, to launch into a- likely boring to her -longwinded explanation regarding proper tree care and how you only 'kill' the select few. And only when necessary.
"Just." My own vest shrugged on but not zipped up, picking up random tools: two different saws and long handled three pronged fork, pack of black bags. "Doing an inspection check today, drive and walk the wood, pick up any litter we see. You'll need the vest." Everything slung in the works pick-ups flatbed I turn to face Sonya, tugging the vest she's now wearing. "Because we've got to cross the railway line."
Of course I can't help slipping into tree geek mode whilst we're patrolling, pointing things out, explaining. And to her credit Sonya listens, commenting, showing an- I don't get the impression it's feigned -interest.
We drive, following the main trails, slowly and with the hazards on my gaze sweeping left and right and left. Looking and checking. We stop to pack up various drifting or accumulated litter: the remains of gatherings or just leftover KFC, clearly dropped out a car window.
We walk too, leaving the pick-up to venture deeper, checking the stream and the small lake it feeds. Parking at the railway crossing, dutifully using the post mounted phone, much to Sonya's amusement listening to me spout all the correct terminology, repeating things back to the signaller.
The railways preferred method of communications: listen, repeat, understand.
And as we go forth, point to point, enjoying the sunshine our pace easy. We talk, in fits and starts, a flowing conversation often broken.
"So." Glancing across at her as I drive. "I doubt you came all this way."
"Spontaneously."
"Spontaneously came all this way." Nodding, swapping smiles. "Just for a drunken fuck."
"A good drunken fuck."
"That it was." No shame, in tone nor a further swapped smile, from either of us.
"But you didn't?"
"No." Climbing out and slamming her door, picking up one of the saws as I grab a couple of black bags. I don't stop her. "It's a little complicated."
"Right." Locking the pick-up, pointing and Sonya nods, falling into step beside me as we set off. "Well, take your time."
"Thing is I missed you." Small blush as I glance, seeing me look and Sonya waves it off. "Not like that. I'm not here to declare undying love or some shit."
"Not here to drag me away in chains then?"
Having to laugh, quickly to cover up the slip as Sonya's gaze darts back. Mouth briefly going wide.
But she laughs too.
"Maybe if I had a car." Dismissive shrug, and was that a joke or...?
Taking deep breaths to calm my heart.
"I wanted to work with you again, and." Stopping, bending to scoop a half crumpled beer can off the floor. "I didn't feel like waiting."
"That good am I?" Half teasing, inflating my own ego all whilst cleaning up the other seven cans I've just spied.
"Meant what I said." A shrug, standing beside me, close enough to squeeze my upper arm, look me in the eye. "You're the best I've ever worked with, the most." Thinking, searching the word. "Real."
"I liked working with you too." Truthful, even the unspoken part, that she'd left me tied and gagged post shoot, had been planning who knows what fate for me before her rational self stepped back in.
Quieting the Domme that sits in Sonya's core.
And, obviously I'd not minded that part at all. I just can't tell her so because Sonya's natural Domme could, would, swallow up and spit out my naturally submissive inner core. She'd ruin me.
And I'd let her.
"So I've done a shit load of thinking." Back in the pick-up, half of Owl Wood travelled we're at the approximate apex preparing to dive back down the far side. "Trying to come up with the perfect shoot. For us."
"Should've rung. Emailed me." Gentle nudge across the space between us. "I'd of been happy to brainstorm."
"Yeah. But. Well." Showing me a grin. "I wanted to surprise you. And I've been trying to think of a very specific kind of shoot."
"Right?"
Interested. Curious.
"So." Pausing, nodding thanks as Sonya hands over the water bottle. Mid-way through cutting up a small tree we've discovered fallen across one of the side paths. "Thanks." Taking a swig, handing it back and continuing cutting. "Since you're here can I assume you've discovered this specific shoot?"
"I."
Glancing up at the pause, noting her nerves.
"Have."
"So then." Stepping back as the trunk separates one half falling with the thump the other rising slightly. "Going to hit me with the grand plan."
"Well."
And she tells me, eyes- mine -widening and arousal- also mine, but probably hers too given the uneven shaky voice and constant fidgeting as we talk -growing like a slowly fed fire. Sonya tells me the bare bones: that she wants to Domme me, and then pretend an end to the shoot, only to continue as though taking advantage.
Basically a recreation of what happened, only for a shoot.
And in return she's willing. Offered up like some huge favour, some rarely bestowed gift.
Which, knowing her, conversations had, it is.
In return Sonya wants, is willing to do a second shoot. Me binding her.
We talk, throwing scenarios and thoughts back and forth, and there's no question from either side whether we're doing this.
We are.
And what if having finished the shoot, only to keep shooting, she then- again -feels too far gone to not keep going some more. With me.
Danger. Risk. But I.
Don't.
Care.
Eventually we've fine tuned things to our liking, and with my house approaching why not today. Now.
We can shoot, use up what's left of today, and tomorrow I'll take a turn binding Sonya.
Part the first.
Plymouth and Flame.
Plymouth the submissive.
"Almost done."
"Which you've said three times now." Teasing to cover the rising tension, rising arousal as each drawn out moment, the forever amount of time Sonya seems to be taking to bind me.
Though she isn't drawing it out, is just showing due diligence to a complex operation.
Teasing to mask my quickened breath, my already budded nipples. And Sonya's quick smile shows she's affected too, binding me bringing forth her Domme self and we haven't even turned a camera on yet.
We're in the barn, pick-up left outside and most of the equipment- tools -of my forestry job have been moved, rearranged to make the background. What can be seen behind me in shoot, seem less.
Full of sharp blades.
But the whole place is still dirt and oil stained. Not clean. Fitting in its way.
We're in the barn because so far Flame has spread-eagled me and hogtied me, but this time she wants to show off, flex her rope skills and suspend me, a form of tie I've very little experience of.
The centre of me, with Sonya, Flame now, finally finishing up, tugging on the various ropes, checking. And my centre: upper legs, crotch and belly are hanging in a roughly straight line, roughly three feet clear of the floor.
I'm wearing a white dress, plain with thin shoulder straps and a plunging neckline. Backless. The hem is quite high, barely covering my crotch and butt, the whole dress tight fitting, hugging my bra and thongless skinny frame.
My legs are bound separately like a frogs, upper thigh to ankle and then off each Flame has run two of the four ropes securing me in place, using a ladder to hoist them up and over the various beams running across the barns ceiling.
The third rope runs beneath but not above my breasts, less to bind me and more to provide an anchor, supporting my weight and taking the strain off my arms.
Which is where the fourth rope runs from. Wrists bound in front then lifted up, up, and as Flame carefully reeled each of the four in, lifting me slowly clear of the workbench we'd manoeuvred over into the barns centre, which I'd laid on. As she'd worked the ropes, raising me clear to dangle and slowly rock, spin, my legs and belly have remained level, horizontal but with a noticable angle that puts my knees lower, whilst my upper body curves almost sharply, arms being lifted and forced to rise vertically, my forearms actually bent backwards.
All of this puts my crotch level with Flames, my head- should I raise it -slightly below hers.
Grunting with the effort Flame pulls and shoves the bench away, whilst I spend a moment, alone and unwatched, taking stock.
The ropes are tight of course, but there's thankfully no undue pinching, no loss of feeling associated with the fact these ropes are supporting my weight. She's done a good job, I'm comfortable.
As much as someone bound can be.
"Okay?" In front of me, grinning. Wearing the outfit I recall from the hotel. Her Domme clothes: black one piece with a zip running from neck down and under, fully sealed of course. Tight fitting enough to show off every curve, her complete lack- like me -of underwear. Latex gloves hugging from fingertip to bicep and thigh high boots she took days to lace up, heels making her a giant.
Red hair cascading, hanging freely.
"Yes." Nodding confirmation, slow spin taking me left about a hundred degrees, then back. The ropes suspending me not allowing for a full rotation. "It's." Tight? Comfortable? Making my body tingle and getting me wet? "I'm fine, thanks."
"Perfect." Nodding. "So I just turn on all the cameras, then launch the thing on your laptop?"
"Other way round." Smiling. "Laptop first, then it picks up the camera feeds as you add them."
"Right."
And off she goes. We're filming everything, easier to press play now and leave it to editing- me, later or next week or whenever -to strip out the excess.
"We're filming." Back, and a thumbs up gag dangling like a soon to be fulfilled promise from her hand. "Red blinking lights on the cameras, and the laptop looks like how you showed me, earlier."
"Good. Okay." Deep breath, small shudder running through me, the knowledge I'm about to take the plunge into a very different kind of shoot.
Something long.
Possibly- depending on Flame, on how well she can control her various urges -even longer then the agreed script.
"Carry on. Flame."
"Understood." Flashing me a grin, in charge now and loving it. "Plymouth."
It's a ballgag, not a full harness just the red ball and a black leather strap. Familiar taste in my mouth, jaws forced wide and Flame stepped close, moving my hair and buckling it tight. Pinch where top lip meets bottom, digging in.
Putting my hair back in place, cascading free like hers, running twin lines down either side of my face.
"Now." Stalking- no other word for it and the sight makes me shiver inside -a circle of me, one latex clad finger trailing across my skin and dress from shoulder down the back and over a butt cheek, down one leg and hopping across to the other, back up.
"We agreed to begin the video. The." Pausing at my butt, coming back up finger becomes hand. Squeezing. "Plan."
"Fffmmmngggg." Too soon. Too soon for moaning we aren't even at the official start yet. But her touch, my helplessness.
I can't stop it.
"Like that do you." Amused, and seemingly forgetting the subject Flame instead continues massaging my butt cheek, hand up inside the dress. "This getting you wet. Plymouth?"
"Dddgghh mmmnngggppss."
"How about we take a look and see."
Finger sliding down, slipping easily inside and I buck against the ropes, legs spreading wide and attempting to thrust my crotch backwards.
"As I was saying." Startled back to myself by a harsh stinging slap to the butt, Flames finger then continuing the trace upwards, finishing at my shoulder. "We're starting at the end of a shoot. Officially. So." In front, hand gripping my chin, head lifted and as I blink she steps in. Kissing my gagged lips, sucking, biting down on the rubber.
"Let's get you all used and abused."
There's a table, out of shot where Flame's set up an array of toys. Things she can use, agreed things. From it she returns, ever present- it seems -grin on her face, wireless wand vibrator in one hand riding crop in the other.
"Plymouth?" Voice barely audible over the pounding of my heart. "Alright?"
"Fffrrrsssgg mmnndddlllsss tttffddmm."
Blinking. Covered in sweat hot flushes and pleasurable tingles chasing all across me. Butt cheeks stinging and pussy spasming, throat dry, everything made into drool running down my chin to puddle in my cleavage, dripping onto the floor.
The orgasm, coming fast Flame not needing long to make submissive slut me scream and buck, limbs aching from the hopeless fight against my rope prison.
Looking at her now, hunkered down eye to eye. Concerned.
Because.
The script, slow dawning realisation, memory returning and yes, two or three times during what just happened she'd walked away. Out of shot waiting before stepping back in, giving me entry points for the edit.
Right, get it together Plymouth.
I blink, slow and deliberate. Nod.
"Dddgghhhffff."
"Great." Stepping back giving me a thumbs up. "Hold on." Stepping in and unbuckling the gag, letting it drop to the floor. "I'll just go shut off the cameras."
Lies, obviously, but it's part of the script.
She leaves me, slowly spinning left to right and back, pushed by unseen forces and invisible winds. Gentle, and I remain mostly still, breathing hard, head lowered not having to fake my all round feeling of being used. Wasted. Spent.
A single stretch, an attempt at such crotch and breasts pushed forwards, legs back feigning discomfort.
"Fuuuuuuuuccccckkkk." With a grimace. Look at poor me all trussed up. Still. "Flame?"
"Just a moment." Raised voice, off screen.
"Come back here and sort these fucking ropes out." Another stretch, shaking my chest too. "Get me out."
"Coming."
Wandering back into shot, all casual as though she wasn't now sporting a thick black strap on cock, bobbing with each step.
"Hey you."
"About time." Pretending to ignore the cock, not easy given my pussy is now shouting for it. "Come on, shoots over."
"Yes. But." Hands on hips facing me. "I was just thinking, you look really cute in those ropes."
"I look..." Disbelief. "What?"
"Cute." Reaching forward and popping both my F cups free of the sweaty clinging dress. "I said you make a cute slave."
"Hey." Wriggling, proving my inability to stop her as Flame begins groping, running a thumb across one nipple and I. Acting but not close my eyes. Moan.
"Stop that."
"Make me." Tossed back like a challenge. "I think I might keep you."
"But...." Struggling, fighting and losing against the ropes and Flame steps back. Waiting. "You can't...."
"Oh dear." Mocking, and I collapse, the fight over, head dropping. "It appears I can."
"Bitch." Venom, and Flame reacts instantly, slapping my breast hard, catching the nipple.
Followed by two more, the sting like a rocket down to my pussy and back.
"Here." Unzipping her one piece, breasts pushing at the skintight latex, seeking and gaining freedom nipples suddenly right there. "It's pointless to fight. Here." Offering up a breast, holding the nipple against my lips and after a moments hesitation I begin licking, sucking.
"That's better." Voice soft. "You're mine now Plymouth. Just surrender, and I'll be good to you."
"I." Breathless, and then I begin struggling again. And here the script isn't written.
Shoot over and I make you mine. Or something like that we agreed. So I decide to fight some more, dare the tiger, let's see what she's got.
"No." Bucking, head shaking. "Fucking. Let. Me. Go."
Flame regards me a moment.
Nods.
"Fine." Jamming the dropped gag back in my mouth, buckling it savagely tight. "If you won't be mine willingly. Plymouth. I'll make you mine."
Stalking off, only to return moments later carrying nipple clamps. And I can't stop her.
Don't want to stop her.
Moaning, louder as Flame pinches and tugs each nipple in turn, louder as the metal clamp bites down. Pinching like the worst fierce bite, unrelenting. Nipples throbbing, ten times worse as Flame flicks the clamps. Tugs on them.
Pain. Loving it.
Out comes the riding crop. Again. Flame walking a continuous slow circuit, several circuits directing precision strikes as she pleases: breasts, belly, butt and pussy.
And me sometimes immobile, statue like and sometimes struggling, hopelessly seeking escape from the torment I'm secretly loving every second of. Begging around my gag and the words are all slurred nonsense but the meaning is clear.
Please.
Finally, grinning Flame tosses the crop away, stepping up behind me and sliding the strap on cock effortlessly inside my soaked, hyper aroused pussy. Pounding me hard and fast, no slow start no care given for my feelings. One hand on each of my legs she bounces me on and off her.
Making me scream. Slapping my butt as I climax, pinning me to her cock as my body locks.
Sliding out of me, walking with a wide victory smile around in front. Removing my gag.
"Now." Hand on my chin, forcing me to look at her and I'm panting. Genuinely exhausted no longer just acting it. "Say it."
"I." Stopping, letting a large amount of drool leak out, run down and off my chin feeling humiliated.
Feeling really fucking turned on.
"Surrender."
"Good girl." Bending to kiss me, forceful. "And whose are you?"
"Yours."
"Say it." Tone hard enough to make me shiver.
"I'm your slave." Small nod. "Mistress Flame."
Her eyes, something like a shark seconds before biting down in them.
"And I promise to behave."
"Perfect." Nodding. "However." Suddenly jamming the ballgag back on, and I struggle but only briefly before going still. Limp. Knowing I've lost.
"I'm keeping you here, for awhile." Tugging on a nipple clamp. "So that you'll always remember your place."
For five minutes she'd kept me there, bound and gagged, hanging helplessly. Waiting. Long enough I'd begun to wonder, scenarios turning over lazily in my surrender fogged mind.
What if?
"Okay." Walking back in latex unzipped to the waist, letting her skin breathe, strap on discarded. "That's. Um. Long enough so the footage makes out I left you."
Which, didn't you?
Freeing me, quickly it seems. Stepping back and busying herself with putting away the ropes whilst I tend to the cameras and laptop. Shutting down and packing up in almost total silence.
After which, back to the house and I set dinner cooking: chicken with yorkshire puddings and veg, gravy.
Heading upstairs to shower as Sonya comes back down having taken first turn to freshen up and change, clearly still braless beneath a blue 'Loch Ness' tee and black drawstring joggers.
Post shower I slip on a yellow 'Kawasaki' tee, not bothering with a bra either and slide black spandex gym shorts up over a grey and pink thong.
I cook, we eat. Making occasional small talk: Sonya telling me, after prompting about the Loch, which she visited just last year.
"I've never been."
"Well." A shrug, fingering the chest of her tee, black monster silhouette printed atop her E cups. "Come back to Scotland, I'll take you."
"Sounds good."
"Yeah?" Surprised, smiling and maybe she thinks she overstepped.
Again.
Opening my mouth to set her straight, somehow without saying too much but Sonya beats me to it. Asking after the origins of my bike, glimpsed when I visited her and again these last days, kept safely in the barn.
She helps me wash and tidy up, following which we collapse onto the sofa, channel surfing.
"Brooke?"
"What's up?" I've noticed her fidgeting, working up to something. There's a movie, a horror just starting though the volume isn't so loud.
"About the shoot...."
"I thought it went great." Letting her see me smile. Genuine and I nod. "Just needs editing to cut out the beginning."
"I." Biting her lip. "I thought I'd gone too far?"
"Definitely not." Not far enough. "It was perfect. Really."
Believable.
"Great."
"If you're sure?"
"Yes." Playfully side nudging her. "Quit worrying, I've been watching you fidget for a half hour now."
"Oh." Grinning. "Sorry."
Sonya fetches a drink, just Pepsi, and a giant chocolate bar she bought along, which I manage to ignore beyond begging a couple of chunks having grabbed myself a water.
We watch the first half of the movie in silence.
"Brooke."
"I'm still here." Turning to face her, finding Sonya looking back, a certain kind of look on her face.
"I didn't want to let you go."
"I know." Nodding. "But you did."
"Yes. But." Still looking at me. "I didn't, want, to."
Electricity jumping the gap, and she hasn't actually said anything, really. But.
But.
I stand, Sonya- brooding -not watching me leave.
Jumping as I drop the coiled ropes into her lap, blinking up at suddenly- to her -naked beneath a loosely belted very short black silk robe me. Green and yellow Chinese dragon climbing the back.
Watching now as I lay down, on the sofa on my belly head close to her. Hands placed behind my back.
Waiting in silence, not looking at or acknowledging her.
Offering.
Sofa shifting as Sonya stands.
Pinch and digging feel of rope, tightly wrapped around first wrists then ankles. Yank of my limbs as knots are sealed and finally the familiar pulling sensation, legs forcibly bent back and around, body arching as the hogtie brings my ankles to meet my wrists.
Sofa shifting again, Sonya sitting back down body tilted sideways one leg up and running the sofa length against the back cushion, her other out at right angles. Leaning back.
I look up at her and smile. I'm okay. In response Sonya smiles back, pats the cushion between her spread legs.
"Come here." Halfway between offering and telling, and I can feel her eyes on me as I wriggle and squirm across the distance, staying on my belly until reaching her at which point I struggle and roll over, onto my side, bound limbs pressed against her facing the flatscreen.
"Good." Resting a hand down inside my robe, gentle pressure on an F cup.
Which is how we stay. Sonya calmer now, content and why shouldn't she be with bound me willingly in her lap.
And yes I'm content too, only don't tell anyone.
She doesn't attempt to fuck me, or gag me. Doesn't leave to fetch more rope or any of the toys- torture implements -she bought along.
She sits, I lay. Her hand on my breast.
Watching whatever Sonya flicks and channel hops to.
"Thanks." Much later and laid in bed, freed of the hogtie and my robe cast aside along with Sonya's clothes. Facing each other across a short distance and I can just about see her smile in the dark. "Brooke."
"Happy to help." Smiling back, an easy shrug.
Part the second.
Plymouth and Flame.
Schoolgirl Flame meets the Jester.
Awake.
Of course I am, it's early afternoon and we've spent the morning working: driving from verge to grass verge in the pick-up, letting Sonya push the mower at each whilst I follow behind, strimming around fence posts and sign bases.
But that's not the kind of awake I mean.
Yesterday, talking, making plans and Sonya agreeing to be tied, by me. And as we'd talked I'd felt something, an idea and an answer, growing.
Taking shape.
The Jester. As in Jester's Revenge, the name of my site whilst- in my opinion -cool was never meant to be just a name. The Jester was supposed to feature, somehow and in some form.
And now I know how.
Awake, because I can feel it swimming a lazy upward drifting paddle. Rising, the urge and it isn't that she asked me to tie her. Again. It's.
In truth I don't know what triggered the appearance of my buried deep and rarely seen Domme side. I only know that, discussing options things had clicked, aligning and suddenly I'm grinning, shaking my head no when Sonya, frowning asks what?
Laughing.
I'm- going to be -the Jester. The curse the thing the shadows fear.
In the bathroom, tidied and cleaned a tripod and camera set up to point at the belly upwards showing mirror whilst not itself being reflected. And Sonya, understanding she isn't. Under. Any. Circumstances. To talk or utter a word. Standing in the far corner well out of shot.
A witness, someone I trust to tell me if what I'm doing looks right.
Because.
"I want to have an introduction." Ordering my thoughts this morning, working. "Each Jester shoot, each time I'm the Jester I want to tag on something, the same something at the beginning of each."
"Okay." Helping me lift the mower back onto the pick-ups flatbed. "Like what?"
"A transformation."
Knowing, until I worked it out nothing more, only that I wanted to show people Plymouth becoming the Jester.
And- camera recording -now.
Topless, faded blue jeans cinched with a black canvas belt and black steel toed boots you can't- the mirror only shows me from the waist up -yet see, hair falling and cascading down around my face, mouth set into a hard line. Eyes impassive.
Reaching forwards and taking up a small wide black pot, into which I dip three fingers that emerge stained black. Special makeup paint.
Three fingers, drawing a line down my left side from collar bone to belly, over one humped and perfectly rounded breast stopping just shy of my waistband. Dipping a second time and drawing a shorter horizontal line across the bottom of my ribcage, starting and ending roughly level with each nipple, a little beyond.
A third line across the left nipple, just the front of my left breast and then a fourth, final line not far above my waistband, short too and more around the side then across the front. All three horizontal lines bisecting the vertical. Short. Long. Short.
Replacing the pot and picking up a black cloth, opening wide and placing it, reaching around to tie off the gag biting down as I do. Eyes and face still neutral.
Lastly.
The mask is a varient of that found in the anime Black Bullet: a smooth white thing flat across the top and dropping to an elongated teardrop shape, a point covering the chin, the mask fixes to me by thick black elasticated bands one above one below the ear, holding it firmly in place. Black narrow smiling mouth, simple design starting high on each side and dropping down towards the central point in a curving fashion, plus each eye is a straight black horizontal slit.
Just before I lower it, moments before covering my face. A single blink, a somewhat crazy smile leaking out through the gag.
Count to ten and.
"Gghhmmnnnddd." Pulling off the mask and removing the scarf. "Done."
"That." Pivoting off the wall, shaking her head. "Was about the fucking creepiest thing I've ever seen."
Small shiver chasing through her, and that. Me. Will soon be binding and gagging her.
"Good." Finding a smile, eyes meeting Sonya's in the mirror. I've seen horror slanted bondage before, men in long coats and masks, stalking. So why not twist it for my own ends.
Sonya, still shaking her head but she'd smiled too, pulled me into a brief one armed hug and kissed my cheek in a 'well done I'm proud of you for making this scary thing' fashion. She goes to get ready whilst I shrug on a black pullover hoodie. Head outside to make sure the pick-ups loaded with all our gear.
"Well?" Crunch of shoes on gravel behind me, following the sound of the front door closing. "How do I look?"
She'd bought numerous outfit options, knowing she wanted to do a shoot being tied but not sure of the what and how.
The schoolgirl, one choice amongst many and something her age- eighteen -plus Sonyas lack of ink, she's able to pull it off in semi believable fashion.
White shirt, short sleeved and sealed at the neck by a blue and yellow diagonally striped tie, the shirt untucked and below it the expected regulation black skirt, hugging her legs to above the knee with an elastic waistband. Below the skirt she's bare legged and wearing black Converse high tops, hair hanging loose.
"You look." Nodding. "Perfect."
"Great." Walking over to join me at the pick-up, sliding into the passenger seat.
"You're sure we won't be spotted?"
"Yes." Nodding as I engage first gear, pull away. "Beyond the railway line, that corner of Owl Wood is all private, too small to bother opening. That's why the access gate is locked."
"Okay." Looking nervous, but nodding. "Good."
Nervous, likely because doing bondage outside is always a risk, even for a legitimate shoot should you run across someone who's to say how they'll react. But nervous too because I'm binding her, something Sonya largely steers clear of. Generally doesn't even like.
And inside me, knowing what's coming the Domme stirs. I don't want to own her the way Sonya so clearly wants, when her blood is up, to own me.
But I do want, for the first time in a long time I've the very real urge to be in charge.
Of her.
Through the gate, driving the pick-up rather then carting the equipment on foot and I park up on the edge of a reasonably thick stand- group of trees for those not in the know -of tall slender conifers.
Sonya and I walk in, ambling around pointing out likely candidates: tall and straight with a trunk thick but not too much so. A tree standing relatively alone within the group, one where I can set up for good angles without other trees spoiling the view.
We set up, she takes care of dumping the rope and gag close by the tree base, sorting it so what I need first is on top, and so on. Whilst I assemble three cameras on tripods. No laptop, and each can record, store footage for hours on its own internal memory but I prefer to have them all centrally connected.
We each have our methods.
Sonya. Giggling. Nervous, stands against the tree so I can gauge the angles and camera heights.
"Happy?"
"We're ready."
"Okay." Quick shiver though it isn't cold and I briefly consider the chance she'll back out, now.
But no.
Setting everything rolling we retreat to the pick-up where I shed the hoodie.
"Okay?"
"Yes." Eying me, standing topless and painted gag in hand my mask in hers, ready to pass across. "You do look really cool, and scary but amazing."
"Thanks." Grin, blushing slightly. "Just remember I won't be talking, so...."
"Got it."
Gag on, mask on.
Taking hold of Flame by the upper arm, enough time having elapsed to set the scene and in we walk, me not leading but guiding her forwards.
To the tree.
And Flame, not used or willing to playing the complete submissive: whimpering, begging and fighting. She allows me to push her into place, turning her body and stepping back until she's in contact with the rough wood.
Face set, neutral not smiling but not unhappy. Not scared but not pleased.
Taking her arms I bind the wrists first. Not being gentle, taking charge and I had prewarned Sonya, Flame that for the Jester I would be more assertive in my binding, to which, never having experienced such before from the other side she'd nodded. Understanding but not.
Side by side, which because the trunk is slender allows me to bind her elbows next. Which Flame isn't expecting for all we hadn't talked specifically about what I will and won't bind of her.
Small gasp escaping through that closed mouth as I pull, forcing them together.
And as I walk around front, dropping down legs bending knees pointed left and right. Brief eye contact as Flame's gaze falls on the mask.
Breathing fast, E cups pushing and straining her tight shirt.
Ankles and knees, both lashed to the trunk same as her wrists. Running a hand up her leg as I stand, hitching up Flame's skirt and fingers finding her white lace panty clad pussy.
Spending a half minute teasingly rubbing back and forth, Flame unable to remain still, small wriggles and biting her lip. Eyes flicking between my masked face and the cameras.
I bind her chest, lots of rope around and looping, above and below those E cups. Squeezing. Yanking her tie loose and off, acting impatience at this thing getting caught up in my bindings. Suddenly jamming her tie into her mouth and Flame gasps, loud and genuinely shocked eyes jumping wide, forced to bite down on it as I lean in and reach around, the length just about long enough to knot first behind her head and second to the trunk.
Lastly a crotch rope, her dress already riding high I wrap rope around Flame's waist, cinching tight before passing the doubled length under from front to back.
Moan from her as I tug, forcing the rope tightly against her pussy, binding it at the back.
And she's done, I walk a slow deliberate circle, tugging various ropes. Flame's eyes following me, and as I step back too.
Nod.
Walk away.
Offer her a thumbs up out of shot, and completely unexpectedly Flame begins to struggle.
And moan.
Not to point of anger or real distress, I almost step forwards, coming in to free her and fuck the shoot. But no, she's okay.
Sort of, given how new such tight bondage not to mention how I've just lorded it over her, is.
I give her a couple of minutes, wriggling and softly moaning, eyes darting about. Shaking her body and straining helplessly against my too tight for escape ropes.
Then I walk back in, Flame going still at my approach. A single wriggle, a single low pleading like moan as I reach her, running a hand down her front, across that amazing chest.
Which I expose. Opening up her shirt and forcing both sides apart, working around the rope after which each breast is popped free of the white lace bra.
Stepping around behind her so the camera will see me looming, will see all of Flame, bound and- the Jester's -mine. Stepping in close pressing my F cups against her bound arms, my masked face level with her shoulder.
I reach around, left and right my hands finding her breasts.
Teasing.
Stroking and squeezing.
Flicking her nipples and occasionally reaching one hand down to tug on her crotch rope.
Owning her.
And I wasn't expecting it, we hadn't scripted for it given it's her. Flame, tied up.
But she climaxes, quickly and caught up in the moment I roll with it, pushing and manhandling her bound body towards and over the crest. And whilst she has climaxed before whilst bound by me that time was softer bondage, playful.
This time I'd, quite clearly been in charge. Of her.
Done though, finished. I walk away, out of shot leaving Flame panting and slowly sinking back down to reality. Walking a quick circuit I shut off the three cameras, taking off the mask and gag, placing both on the pick-ups hood and returning to Flame.
"Okay." Pulling off her school tie gag. "Let's get you freed."
"No."
"Please. Um." Licking her lips, face flushed like blushing, or that post orgasm high and she's still running hot. "Brooke."
"Sonya?" Still standing frozen in front of her, gag in hand. What's going on?
"What's going on?"
"Well. You. Um." Clearly blushing, not able to look at me. Embarrassed? "You offered to free me, and I said. Well...."
"You said no."
"Yes. I mean." Swallowing. "No."
Silence. Stretching and Sonya's eyes flick to mine, dropping away.
"Please."
Like a whisper. A plea, begging almost. And inside me the Jester hears, stepping forward and pushing to the front.
"We're not done here." Grinning as I step forward, reaching out to cup her breast. Squeeze and Sonya's body buckles within the tight ropes. She moans.
Kissing her, pressing into and taking her my other hand tugging the crotch rope, making her whimper now too.
Forcing, coaxing but impatient a second and third orgasm from her bound body. The third with her gagged again.
Because she asks- begs -me to.
And at some point, Sonya gagged I begin talking, harsh whispered threats in her ear. My blood up.
"Going to leave you here. Going to abandon your little busty body all trussed up and gagged. You're all helpless and you can't stop me walking away and I'm going to walk away. Drive away and wave, and laugh and you'll be abandoned in tight helpless bondage."
And far from upsetting her, and if I'd had a rational mind right at that moment I'd fully expect to be called out for crossing a line. Far from being angry or scared, upset.
My words only fuel Sonya's fire.
"I'll come back after dark, cuff your hands and collar you. Strip you and lead you back to my shed in chains. Leave you locked up in a box all night. Naked and gagged. Waiting for me and maybe tomorrow I'll bind you to my bed and fuck you raw."
Shortly afterwards, moans having grown and body bucking harder as I talk. Somehow into it. Soon after she reaches that third climax.
After which I do free her, driving us both back to the house. Cooking.
And that evening, Sonya leaving the following morning but before that, we spend the evening watching a movie.
But before it starts, getting things ready paying for and downloading what we've picked out I look up, clear surprise written on my face as Sonya approaches.
Naked.
Holding rope.
Asking, eyes on the floor and a nervous smile. Blushing.
She spends the movie hogtied in my lap, my hands gently teasing her breasts and pussy. Never taking her anywhere close to a climax but she seems content, sighing and stretching against the ropes often, turning her head to look up at me.
At which point I always bend down to kiss her.
Talking normally, only a slight waver occasionally in her voice. Normal, as though she weren't bound.
As you mentioned, quite the roll indeed. An intense set of scenes, and Brooke is definitely playing with fire (hah) the way she is almost goading Sonya to go further, more or less letting her do whatever she wants.
And we finally get the see the mysterious 'Jester' Plymouth has been teasing us with for multiple stories now! A very appropriate aesthetic for the given shoot.
A bit of a surprise ending, with Sonya perhaps getting a little too into it. Unexpected, but I suppose Brooke has a way of bringing it out of her - from both angles/directions.
Overall they contrast and complement each other nicely - Sonya is often unsure of herself, always afraid of going too far, while Brooke (at least outwardly) is relaxed and reassuring. Fake confidence, perhaps, given her own misgivings, but it definitely seems to help Sonya, and makes their combination of/blurred working/personal relationship work in a very organic fashion. Two characters made for each other (probably because they were )
BlissfulMisery wrote: ↑1 week ago
A bit of a surprise ending
For me too
I always write with a bare framework, a rough direction but the path not set. I prefer this, leaving things open and often along the way I'll write and as I'm doing so an idea will open up.
This: Brooke dominating Sonya was such a case. Hadn't planned for it, but I like it.
London. I've taken the train, can't ride the Hayabusa given the large suitcase, and I need the suitcase, need the space because for this trip I've got to be both Brooke and Plymouth.
Brooke needs to look at tractors, and Plymouth needs to do.
Something?
The Acadamie Internationale d'art pour Adultes doesn't invite everyone to these annual awards ceremonies, those up for nomination, a select few others a random scattering and industry cross section. Maybe that's all this is?
But then why the secret smile whilst denying all knowledge from Fayth? Why the insistence I attend?
The city is vast, sprawling though easy to cross and navigate. My two commitments aren't far apart: a dog leg two lines journey on the Underground. So. With a booking already made at a Best Western by the Forestry Commission, I reach out, managing to secure the room for a couple extra days.
My itinerary thus: travel up the day before so I'm rested, wide awake and smiling, not carting an overly large suitcase behind me around the EXCEL. Sleep, then a day in the capital followed by the Acadamie's big reveal.
Or not?
And after. Sleep. Or, again, not. Because at or even after the ceremony anything might happen, anyone- stop it -might be there.
Knowing I'll be away for a minimum two days I left Owl Wood late, putting in almost a full shift, chainsaw work, cutting and stacking, dragging. Enough to leave me sweaty on the train, looking forward to a long soak in the hotel room bath. After which a quick, small dinner. Determined to slightly ease my strict eating habits these next few days, to enjoy time spent, I nonetheless order a salad and not fries with my cheeseburger.
The remainder of the evening I spend firstly checking in on Jester's Revenge, which isn't- predictably for a new site -setting the porn world on fire, but I am achieving a decent hit rate. I am selling content.
The latest offerings: Sonya's pretend but not shoot over domination of me, and indeed even my first turn as Jester are doing well. Selling.
I'll have to let her know.
It could, the site just be a slow burner. Word of mouth and maybe after all this London business I should look into online banner advertising?
Maybe I should set up a model page, some form of social media which I actually do have, did set up but mine is like a ghost town: sparse on detail, only a single photo.
I'll have to think on it.
Do I want- that ever present danger and I've been literally for real caught before -to be more visible?
With the wall mounted flatscreen still tuned to music, gentle background murmurs. I take out my hardcopy printouts, already well annotated, of Stan's finance reports. Checking them over, making yet more notes wanting to get it right. To impress the boss who put this level of faith in me.
And reading, I fall asleep. Woken by my alarm in time for an early morning jog, London coming awake as I pound the streets in black sports bra under a grey tee and matching spandex shorts, yet already the never sleeping city is busy. Back to the hotel for breakfast and a shower.
Changing. A dress, one of two and this being my subtle pick where tomorrows screams 'look at me I do porn' loudly to all I may encounter.
Long, a hem below the knee and sleeves to the wrists, neckline tee like. The dress is fitted, figure hugging but not to the point my bra and thong straps can be seen. The material shifts and stretches as I walk allowing for easy movement yet hugging my legs if I stand still. The design is green camouflage, raising a smile- because, Forestry -when I stumbled across it and I just had to.
Hair down and loose, Kings leather jacket unzipped because the EXCEL is bound to have the air conditioning cranked too high so I need at least half an extra layer. Plus I need someplace to stash phone and cards, Stan's paperwork. Black Adidas on my feet because of all the walking, comfort over the style of heels or even heeled boots.
At the door I sign in, collecting a lanyard blue like the sky, small see-through pouch attached within which my passes sit. Slipping it on, feeling it bounce around and off my F cups as I walk. F cups I've covered purposefully, alongside virtually all the ink save the 'Eye of Rah' on the back of my left hand.
Because today I'm Brooke, representing the Forestry Commission. Respectable and not visibly inked across a good portion of my left side, breasts that draw the eye. Canons.
Tomorrow.
The hall is huge. Vast and cavern like space for days up to the arching ceiling, criss-crossed by piping and thick cables. Stalls, companies at each one and each a riot of conflicting or occasionally matching colours.
Stalls everywhere from the small to the large. Tractors and various machinery- an actual eighteen wheeler, some kind of new model a crane sat on the flatbed grabber arm attached. The vehicles stand out head and shoulders above everything and everybody. Waypoints for navigation.
I visit them all, finding no real joy, and not even due to personal preference. Yes, the tree geek within has her favourite brands but this is Commission business. I must do Stan proud.
And I can't help visiting the Stihl stand, can't stop myself from having a long animated conversation with one of the older gentlemen, one of two running it. Because I love chainsaws.
And throughout my wanderings.
Always there's a flash of yellow in the back corner, something repeatedly glimpsed but the hall is a maze and there's just so much here catching and drawing my eye. But. Eventually I make it through.
Finding the JCB stand, a large space dominated by four large machines: a three sixty sitting on gleaming tracks, the traditional digger which most call a JCB by way of slang regardless of who made it, plus two tractors. Fastracs.
One of which has been fitted out with what looks to be a factory standard black external roll cage. An almost must have for Forestry work.
The stand is manned by a half dozen staff, dressed in black combat trousers and white shirts open at the collar, company logo on the left breast. Those I can see appear busy but I wander closer all the same, walk a slow circuit of the cage fitted model.
Admiring the sheer bulk, the overall look so different from a standard tractor and yet it shares all the same features.
One of the staff, a girl peers. It looks to my half distracted self like she peers, around the tractor. At me, before vanishing again.
Only to reappear a minute later. Just standing, looking at me much as I'm looking at. Admiring. The tractor.
And by the time I register the fact, realise she's being odd, she's approaching me. Phone in hand held up in the manner of someone comparing something on their screen with reality.
"Plymouth?"
"It's the hair." Shaking my head. "Isn't it?"
"The ink too." Pointing out my hand, which I clench into a fist.
One. Damn. Visible tattoo, all it took.
"Right." A shrug, gesturing at her phone. "Go on then, show me what you've got."
A video, from my site yet old. Not shot by me and I'd been unsure whether to use it. My footage, my equipment, and yet not shot by me. And by adding it, uploading and putting it out into the world there's a chance I'm raising a flag of sorts.
Attracting attention, the shoot comes from that hazy part of pre crash memory. I don't remember the exact circumstances, but can guess.
Will she even see it?
Will she care?
She's paused it for ease of- her -comparison. I'm naked, sat inside a small steel cage, something heavy duty not pet store bought and only room enough to sit, to curl up. No stretching out allowed. I'm ballgagged, wrists cuffed laid in my lap and ankles locked together.
The video is, I recall almost a half hour long. Just me, caged, occasionally moving- struggling -within the tight confines but mostly sitting and occasionally drooling. A slave, waiting.
"I see." Smile creeping onto my face, and when I look back up she's smiling too. Not embarrassed to have this video- possibly even one of many -of me naked and bound.
"Well." Waving my pass at her. "Today I'm Brooke."
"Brooke?" Taking hold and bringing it up, closer to her. Small tug on my neck where the lanyard rests.
"Brooke. Who," Puzzled voice, flicked glance from the pass to my face, back. "Works for the Forestry Commission?"
"Yes."
"No shit?"
"No shit."
"Fuck." Whistled out breath. Impressed or surprised, or both.
"Right. Well." Arms spread wide my pass freed, falling back to land bouncing between my F cups. "What can I, and the good people of JCB, do for the Forestry Commission." Pause, flashed smile. "Brooke?"
"We need tractors." Pointing at the Fastrac, smiling back. "Lots of tractors."
Her name's Charlotte, and she's- not a problem but she is -very forward.
Which might be a problem though because I'm very forward too.
Mid twenties and a skinny toned eight with small humped B cups pushing at her shirt. Straight blonde hair tied back, long enough to brush her shoulders were it loose.
Hint of ink climbing the right side of her neck, something larger. Hidden.
The Fastrac, the cage fitted model I assume they're all unlocked but we climb up inside that one and Charlotte gestures me to sit. Of course because I'm the- potential -customer but likely since it gives her a perfect excuse to stand in the limited floorspace, therefore she's pressed against me, leaning in to point out various controls and features.
And I don't flinch, have no shame and am not easily or often embarrassed. Which only seems to make her bolder.
Fire fueling fire, and nobody's backing down.
"Never would've thought you'd do this kind of work?"
"No?" Interested. "What then?"
"Secretary." A shrug. "I'm sure plenty of models."
"Porn stars." Teasing. Flirting and she started it, standing there one arm behind me holding onto the seat, leaning in breasts pushing on my shoulder strawberry scent of her filling my world.
"I know what you are." Pulling her phone out tone playful too, scrolling and clicking. Holding it landscape fashion against the steering wheel. "See."
Another video, another classic though more recent, not a flag this time. Instead we both watch, the cab doors luckily closed. Something like a spell descending Charlotte and me both silent as on the small screen Plymouth wriggles and struggles. Moaning, trapped within the roped confines of a pretty strict hogtie wearing blue jeans and a black 'Triumph' tee.
And I can feel myself becoming aroused, can hear Charlotte's breath quickening, can feel her pressed slightly closer to me.
"Suppose I should thank you for purchasing that." Voice only a little shaky as the screen fades to black. "It's...."
"Really fucking hot." Nodding as though I've already said it and she's just agreeing.
"Can I take you out?"
"What?" Thrown, the unexpected ask despite the flirting. "I...."
"Please."
Meeting her eyes, quick flashed smile off her.
"I'll be good. Promise."
"As opposed spending the whole date attempting to sweet talk me into bondage you mean?"
"You mean the date isn't just bondage anyway?" Mock shocked and I can't help laughing.
The sheer boldness, intoxicating in its way.
Do I want dinner? Or just a fuck?
"Yeah. Sure." An easy shrug. "I'm in the Best Western off the District line, near Waterloo. You want to come around half six?"
"Really?" Surprise, but happy. "Shall I do some digging on nearby restaurants?"
"I'll be in room two-two-seven." Meeting her gaze, making sure it's sinking in. "Waiting."
"Oh." Eyes any wider and they'd pop out. "But. Really?"
"Why not?" Small nod. Yes. "You've been dropping some pretty obvious hints. So, can you back it up?"
Flushed, blushing as she pointedly stares down at my chest, tongue out to run across her upper lip.
A nod.
"Right. Yes." Charlotte's confidence suddenly swamping back in she reaches out to run a hand across my breast, making me shiver. "We'll have you bound and gagged by seven. Abandoned by eight."
"That's the spirit." Acting unphased whilst inside her words, threat or promise or just teasing, go down like a dropped charge. Making my stomach flop and my pussy throb in longing.
Climbing out, down and Charlotte isn't experienced enough to handle financial stuff. She's strictly meet and greet here holding some other roll back at JCB central. So I'm handed, with a smile and a friendly- promise filled -kiss on the cheek, over to Edward.
And together we spend well over an hour thrashing out terms. Putting together a deal we can both send off to our respective bosses.
"Six thirty." Suddenly falling in beside me as I walk away from her stand, tapping an invisible watch. "Don't be late now."
"It's," slowing but not stopping, "my room."
"Good." Nodding, letting me go and when I turn back Charlotte gives me a cheeky wave.
By half four I'm back at the hotel. Pacing the room, willing the clock to turn faster. Wanting Charlotte here, now.
Because I don't know what's going to happen.
Because she'd said 'bound and gagged by seven, abandoned by eight' and I don't know whether she'd meant it?
I want her to of meant it.
Her casual threat, promise or just dropped bravado teasing is the whole reason I can't sit still. Because I- silly and dangerous -want her.
Though not dangerous, not really and perhaps I jest, make light. But at worst room service cleaning will discover me tomorrow late morning.
I want. Always. Want. To be bound and discarded. Used and tossed out. The humiliation of being treated like a thing gets me off like nothing else save being whipped. And even that's a lesser thing.
So I pace. Turning the flatscreen on off on off, unable to settle.
Spark of an idea as six approaches, discarded within minutes. I'll just wing it.
Knock on my door at quarter past.
Early? And my stomach flip flops, butterflies enough to populate an entire house.
"You came." Beaming, pleased beyond words to see Charlotte, a girl I barely know and suddenly I'm somewhat obsessed by her.
"So did you."
"Ha." Opening the door wider. "It's, still, my room."
"Quite." A nod, and in one smooth sudden flow of motion Charlotte kicks my door firmly closed, pushing me back against the wall.
Lips finding mine. Kissing and her tongue stabbing forwards, running hands all over my figure hugging camouflage dress.
Instantly breathing faster, panting and caught out but I respond. Using my strength to switch us around and Charlotte gasping at the force of me, pressing my body to hers, capturing her hands and lifting high, pinning both with one of mine.
Kissing, whilst my free hand fumbles to open her shirt, working down and Charlotte pressing her crotch into mine.
Breaking off the kiss to bend down, turning my attentions to her white lace push up bra aided cleavage, tracing the line with my tongue her hands forgotten.
Hands I feel in my hair, gripping and pushing, firmly directing me and I comply. Kneeling.
Unbuckling her, pulling combats and thong down to the knees.
Charlotte's grip still firm in my hair, making fists and relaxing, spreading her legs for me back pressed to the wall crotch thrusting forward to meet my eager tongue.
And as the orgasm, sometime later shuddering through her I stand. Kissing some more, letting Charlotte taste herself on me.
"Where's your rope?" Between grinning kisses, between pulling my dress up and off, tossing it aside leaving a lace bra and thong. Between me removing them. Charlotte, asking.
Stepping back, walking to my suitcase and yes, of course I bought rope. Because you never know.
"Up on the bed." Eyes dancing, shirt still open breathing fast. Brief trailing hand down my arm and a gentle push. Encouraging as if I need it.
I, naked, climb up laying down in the centre, guessing.
Being proved right as Charlotte makes her way from corner post to corner post, from limb to limb. Binding each to each in turn, reeling arms and legs in, forcing me to lay still, straight.
And throughout the binding I'm outwardly calm, a roiling turmoil inside, emotion and a pleasurable tingle of fear. Loving the way Charlotte looks at me, wide eyes drinking in my inked curves, my humped F cups refusing to sink, defying gravity. She wants me, it's clear just from looking.
"Well then." Voice like a smile, and smiling. Of course. Climbing up to join me. "What do we have here?"
"Just some naked tied up girl." Butterflies, I wriggle as Charlotte lays down legs between mine and one hand on my breast.
"Indeed." Leaning in to kiss me, small squeeze of my breast. "And how did that happen?"
"Probably your fault."
"Or yours." Kissing. "For letting me."
"Just can't say no to someone offering tight bondage I guess."
Words stopped by the fact my breasts, are proving quite a distraction. Charlotte spending quite some time licking and teasing at both nipples, running idle fingers up and down, tracing cicles around all whilst laying on me.
"I want to gag you." Her face back level with mine, one hand gripping each breast my nipples awake, pussy a low throb.
"Before abandoning me?" Involuntary shiver running through me at the question, kick felt low down as Charlotte in response only smiles.
"Well," leaning in for a kiss, "I did promise to."
"You." Swallowing, the ground suddenly thin ice. "Did."
"And you didn't have to let me in."
"Maybe I." Licking dry lips, eyes meeting hers. "Wanted to be abandoned."
"Then tell me where the gag is." Kiss turning into a playful, semi hard bite of my lip. "So I can strap it on before I leave."
"Suitcase." Voice barely a whisper. Watching wide eyed and silent as Charlotte crosses the room, returning with the red balled gag.
Opening wide for her, staying still. No fight as she buckles me in.
"I'm." Waving my room key. "Heading out for dinner. "I'll. Maybe. Come fuck you or something later." Dropping a wink. "Brooke."
Leaving me. Click of the lock re-engaging as the hotel room door swings shut.
And I'm hit by such a sudden rush of sensation, a whole body tingle like being on fire, dump of adrenaline deep in the belly because it's- being genuinely abandoned -happened before but not for a very long time.
And picked up, thrown and tossed about by the various feelings inside I can't fight the sudden urge to struggle like something possessed. Slipping.
What?
Free of the ropes seconds later, Charlotte's- I'd assumed tight -knots turning to so much slack.
Clearly she can't tie for shit, the will but not the way.
And the adrenaline has me up, rope in hand and through the door in a blur of motion. Silent yet fast, naked and dashing along the corridor.
Catching Charlotte at the elevators. Waiting her back to me, turning too late some sixth sense triggering. Eyes going wide but no time to react.
No choice. In seconds I've spun and pushed her face first against the wall, using my superior- discovered by the fact she fights me, but gets nowhere -strength to pin and bind, capturing Charlotte's wrists behind her, no choice but to comply.
All but marching her back to my room, where I strip and hogtie her on the bed.
Where Charlotte let's me, no fight she lays down, offering her second foot having watched me pull off her first Nike trainer, wriggling free of her combats and thong after, laid on the bed butt lifted, bouncing as the clothes slide down. Nothing I can do about the shirt and bra, save open it back up.
Which she watches too, silent.
"The answer is." Laid on my side pulling her bound body tight to mine, faces close. "You can't tie for shit."
"Damn." Laughing, amused and I smile. "Guess you'll have to teach me?"
"Sure." Running long fingernails over her butt cheek, Charlotte biting her lip, back arching bra clad breasts pushed into mine.
"Then maybe next time you abandon me I'll stay bound."
"And helpless."
"Definitely. Helpless and...."
Thinking, distracted, easily so by the tracing patterns of my fingers. Charlotte's firm butt.
"Someplace nobody will find you." Despite being the one bound, she's getting into the fantasy, eyes going distant. Leaning and stretching forward to kiss me. Aroused.
"Like the woods." Kissing her back, feeling my own lust spark, pussy rubbing hers. "Or...."
"My car boot." A nod of finality, as though she can see, has already planned it. "Hogtied and locked away, just one car amongst hundreds."
"Naked." Kissing, desire taking over I begin to grind against her, dry humping. "Gagged."
"Sweating." Gazes locked now.
And I can picture it too: the small confined space, feel of rough carpet on my sweating skin, darkness all around and the strange far off close and then receding noise of traffic. Of people passing by.
Unawares of my plight.
"And how long will-"
"-Hours."
"Hours." Wonder in my voice, far off and dreaming, already there.
"Or I'll bind you to the bed." A shrug, mischief glinting in the eyes. "Properly this time. Leave you there all day to fuck as and when I want it."
At which point I, horny, plunge two fingers inside her, working away my other hand finding and freeing a breast. Kissing her too.
And for all the talk of her abandoning, binding, me Charlotte seems happy enough within the ropes. There's no asking for freedom, after. No hint at discomfort she's content to lay, cuddled yet hogtied exchanging kisses.
My obsession no less having been bound, having bound her and I'm still. Waving her off later. I'm still feeling drawn to her, still want her. Something about that cocky confidence, despite she couldn't back it up with rope binding skills.
Something there, and were she nor being called away. Some kind of work meeting, picking over the day. Analysing.
- Not expecting Deborah to actually get any votes, but I wanted a fifth and so there's basically a wild card option -
Please vote, let me know. Aside from the Acadamie we're almost at the end of my initial ideas for this story. I'll definitely be continuing, but it'd be great to know which girls you'd all enjoy seeing more of.
Switchgirl wrote: ↑1 week ago
Have to say - I prefer Brooke as a sub!!! But thats just me
Caesar73 wrote: ↑1 week ago
Plymouth clearly enjoys it - being the dominant Part this time
She does or rather, I do. Enjoy writing it but not too often.
I think Brooke/Plymouth prefers to be a sub, the desire for helplessness and so forth. But she does have a Domme streak which I've enjoyed and will enjoy now I've found a way to use/write it.
But likely not too often. Because I prefer her as a sub too
A fun bit of turnaround, when Charlotte cannot back up her bold words.
Well at least she has the right spirit Interesting that she seems to have picked up on Brooke's 'secret' desires. I suppose more of Plymouth comes through in the videos then she perhaps intends.
And Brooke certainly loves to play with fire with her little 'kidnapping' excursion. An amusing mental image of her half-stalking, half-running down the hallway after Charlotte.
Seems she just cannot help herself with these sorts of things. There is a joke to be made here about 'fan outreach' and how this is probably not what people mean when they say that
BlissfulMisery wrote: ↑1 week ago
A fun bit of turnaround, when Charlotte cannot back up her bold words.
One of those many (my stories tend to be littered with them) just flowed that way moments.
Did intend Charlotte abandoning Brooke, in my more 'into it' moments possibly even all night. But I liked the idea of her being, actually no good. The funny element of Brooke stalking/running naked down the corridor after her, kidnapping her right back.
Plus one. It's on the invitation and there are options. Interestingly there are numerous options.
Sonya, of course. Potentially Charlotte too, were I to ask and were either of them to be free.
But I don't, haven't asked. Nor have I asked anyone else.
The unknown of tonight, why have the Acadamie come calling? It's not to be feared, and yet I've a desire to face this unknown alone.
So no plus one.
The dress, my whole outfit a world away from yesterday's: white so as not to clash with my hair, my dyed blue cascade and extensive inkwork both stand out nicely in contrast. Sleeveless, from the back of my neck the thin soft material snakes round left and right, crossing before cupping- but only just -each breast, enough to support the bottom and cover each nipple, leaving the whole pressed together cleavage and a good portion of the top and bottom visible, plus most of the front.
No bra, couldn't hide one under such little material and besides my canons are pert to the point of stabbing without any aid.
Around the back the material meets again just above my butt, just high enough to hide the black thong I've slipped on, and below the low waistline it plunges to the ankles, split all up the left side, ink covered leg revealed with each step. And black heels, held in place by criss-crossing cord climbing each leg to the knee. I don't often wear proper girl shoes, heels for me tend to be chunky goth boots, but I felt the effort was required here.
King's jacket for my phone and bank card, my hotel room key.
And.
Plenty of looks of course, travelling across London by underground. Looks but nobody approaches.
And at the venue I hand the jacket over anyway, receiving a wristband by way of identification.
As though my inkwork and canons weren't enough, but here I'm just one enhanced girl amongst many, and my ink though it swamps the left side to almost total coverage isn't the most extreme here.
The band is black, and elasticated enough to slip over my hand yet still hang loosely about the wrist. Black, with a small barcode, scanning which later will allow the staff to locate my stuff.
Fully revealed, I step into the lobby.
"Just onto the carousel please Miss....?"
"Plymouth."
"Of course." Tapping stylus against tablet, recording my name. After which the circular disk I've stepped atop begins to- slowly -spin, being located in the centre of a nest of camera's. And being how this is an adult awards I pass no comment over the lens mounted high, obviously placed to peer down onto my breasts.
Flash of nipple? Honestly in this dress I've no clue.
"So everybody...?"
"All the models." Nodding as I step off. "We've got several thousand subscribers right now, watching the ceremony live feed and some of them will be all over this particular gadget."
"Can't think why."
Exchanging knowing smiles.
"We'll cut stills from the footage too, upload it all onto the Acadamie site in like a big dump." Doing some sort of crude hand gesture to signify. Well, exactly. "Within the week too."
"Okay." Nodding. "Cool."
Did they have this last time? Last time in Vegas that I barely remember?
How much it sucks to of won an award and not remember how it felt.
"Hey you."
"Evening stranger." Smiling and accepting the offered drink. The bar area is packed, actually two bars connected by a sweeping staircase with both allowing access to the large theatre beyond.
The theatre where we'll all go and sit, soon.
The lobby leads to the bar, a natural progression and then onwards through currently closed doors to the theatre.
Whether she was looking out for me or not, I'm glad to run across a friend. Fayth Hill, looking fabulous in a dark red clinging floor length dress, thin straps and a teasing neckline to show off her own curves and bust. Blonde hair tied into a side plait hanging down over the right shoulder.
"It's good to see you Broo-"
"-Plymouth. Here." A smiled shrug. "Surely?"
"And is Plymouth." Smile as she mentions my other, my porn name where Fayth is just Fayth, regardless. "Happy to be here?"
"She's confused." Downing half my small drink, tastes like rum. "And I assume you're still not going to reveal any secrets?"
Which gets me a- playful -laugh, a shake of her head.
Fine.
"I'll be staying awhile beyond this." Waved gesture at the bustle and noise, friends greeting friends. "Fancy helping out?"
"With a shoot?" Seeing her nod, returning it. "Course. Happy to."
"Perfect." Finishing her drink, reaching out to take mine. "I'll get us refills. We can talk after."
"Sure." Glancing at the closed doors as Fayth begins the task of navigating back through the general press towards the bar.
"I need to find my seat, go and ask someone anyway."
"You're with me." Stopping, having to shout, tap herself with an empty glass.
"Really?" Stepping to her, eyebrow arched. "This all part of the secret plans and clever tricks?"
"No." But smiling. "They like to sit known friends and groups together, but still mix things up."
"Right."
Which means, another two drinks later, pleasant buzz but no actual impairment, that the doors open and we all filter in.
Theatres tend to have three distinct areas of seating, technically four but we won't count the super exclusive and therefore expensive boxes. There's the stalls, nearest the stage and low down, then two circles upper and lower, each one balcony like extending back and up.
Fayth and me are in the lower circle, about a third back and close to but not on the left side end where an aisle runs- via stairs -all the way back to front of the seating. Fayth to my right, and a young fairly muscular guy, tanned with no visible ink and spiky black hair. Poured almost into a tight fitting suit that shows off his body very well.
Steven Hands, a model- from Germany, his accent strong -like me but working exclusively on Gay content, occasionally Trans stuff. Known as Many Hands.
Think I've even heard of him? And a likewise small frown, spark of maybe recognition as I introduce myself. That little moment of do I know her?
Maybe.
The lights dim, the ceremony begins.
Award follows award.
And my name doesn't issue from any lips, I'm not nominated, nor called upon to stand up on stage and speak the nominations of others.
Fayth, beside me and a small smile, small shake of her head when I ask.
Out comes our host. Tall and dark skinned, hair a mass of thick woven black dreadlocks and a teasingly half open pale pink shirt made tighter by his muscular frame. Loose white trousers hanging off skinny hips that upper body just a V shape. Some kind of Mixed Martial Arts fighter, Steven had- breathlessly, clearly a, cough, fan -explained to me earlier.
A sport I don't follow, but I know what a unified champion is.
"Gentleman. And all you crazy beautiful fuckers in-between."
Flashing a perfect smile out as answer to the general noise this creates.
"The after party awaits, of course. But first." Holding up a finger, true Columbo- just, one more thing -style. "Please welcome, here on stage the legend himself." Dramatic pause. Literally. "Mr Chester V of The House of Kings."
Fuck. Stunned silence, like a wave racing and chasing across us all. Mouths, mine included, open in wide surprise and then almost in unison, a Mexican Tsunami we're on our feet. Applause and a barrage of whistles to greet Chester as the old man strides in from stage right.
Valiant, if you cared or bothered to seek the knowledge out, but in life as in business only the first letter is written. A name and a man from the dawn of us all, Chester V, alongside a handful of others carved this empire we all draw a paycheck from out of nothing. Those brave slash foolish slash horny few not only dug but paved the road we all walk on.
And are grateful for it.
Porn. The capital letter warranted, and The House of Kings is Chester's domain within it. One of the first, a vast thing with toes dipped into many pools: magazines and toys, mail order and downloadable content. The biggest adult, porn, convention, held each year in one of Las Vegas poshest hotels is part financed by The House of Kings.
Not a tall man, nor skinny the years made apparent by a spreading at the waist. An old man's slight hunch and a dark wooden cane. White hair combed and slicked back, with a very fetching thick mustache. Tinted glasses despite we're indoors and a dark blue suit ensemble I'd probably have to work a year to afford.
At both jobs.
Handshakes with the host, a brief exchange of words and then Chester has the stage to himself.
Standing a moment, both hands on his cane smiling and nodding out at us all. Accepting the applause, his due.
"My friends." Both hands up, patting the air, calming us down to murmurs and less. "Thank you. Fifty years." One arm sweeping out like casting those years, laying them scattered at his feet prehaps to better see them and remember. Whilst the other holds his cane, supporting. "What a path we've walked."
Having to stop, rising applause.
"I am." Waiting for quiet, smiling though. "I am. Happy. To see you all, that far from walking silently into the night we continue instead to grow. To welcome new talent. My friends I couldn't be prouder to call you all my family."
This old man, one of the original dozen. Were you to seek out the Acadamie's birth his name would be right there.
"Five times in Acadamie history." Five fingers, a splayed hand held up for inspection. "And no more, have we chosen to recognise one of our own in such fashion. The Chester V Legacy award, given for outstanding contributions to this industry. And. Tonight, we make that six."
Whispered anticipation, and were I not so distracted, mind wandering idly over thoughts of just what you'd have to do to earn such an honour.
I don't even feel Fayth's hand slip into and grip my own.
"Run VT." Raised hand twirling and behind Chester, as he steps to one side allowing an uninterrupted view, the large suspended flatscreen, which has provided choice clips of the winners, alongside real time footage- for us and those paying live streamers -of each walking through a cheering crowd of us. The screen lights, but my eyes are still on Chester V, mind elsewhere.
Until.
"Are we filming?"
Suddenly jerked back to reality, back to the now by the sound of my own voice. Eyes darting down to my hand, registering her grip and when my gaze darts up Fayth smiles, nods at the screen and I look.
Seeing myself, black sports bra and faded blue jeans, hair tied loosely back. Grinning. And behind, and around me a familiar old sight: an empty warehouse space, loaned by a good- friend -man, a half dozen bondage models all dressed in a variety of gym and casual styles.
Carnival.
"Right." Old me, memory me. Film me because we'd recorded all the rehearsals for playback and critique, to see ourselves from an audience point of view, to discover what worked and what needed work.
"Let's run this bitch one more time."
What follows is a ten minute montage: The Carnival of Chains, the impossible dream I birthed, a trademarked name I own thanks to that same good man.
Originally a- not completely remembered by me -maze like experience set out, taking over a hall at the National Exhibition Centre in Birmingham. And the follow up European tour, week following week setting up and taking down, each week a new theatre in a new city. A stage show.
Glimpses of practicing, laughing at a messed up tie, two girls stood over a third offering advice on how to better hogtie a gagged and struggling me. A crazy merry-go-round with bound girls in place of horses, unfamiliar and so it must be a part of the maze. The golf course, each hole a bound girl.
Footage of me, Ringmaster Plymouth a kinky re-imagining all breast teasing red coat and black top hat. Backstage before that first sold out theatre. Peeking through the curtain and fidgeting. Waving the camera off. Overwhelmed and clearly fighting to calm myself.
Still photos, models bound and gagged, sometimes topless, sometimes imitation schoolgirls or latex clad fantasies. Belts and chains and rope, more art then extreme yet still- I remember -tight.
And inserted throughout are the interviews. Fayth, Daniel and Shauna. Trevor, the good man, looking gruff as always boxers build and an old soldiers stare. Yet his blunt tones are softened, talking me up. All of them plus a handful of others: one of the tour coach drivers, a couple of the models. A theatre owner proclaiming Carnival.
"The most crazy show, that on paper should never work and yet. An amazing thing, a privilege to host. Something unique, something magical."
All talking me up. The montage tells a story. Plymouth, leader of the good ship Carnival. Doing well. Winning.
By the end I'm close to tears, swamped by emotion, Fayth leaning in arm around my shoulder and it's. The honour so unexpected so.
Huge.
This thing I did, twice, not to be recognised but because I had the idea. The dream. And when I took, showed it to others instead of laughing, shaken heads and no we, you just can't. Instead Carnival was born.
Let loose.
And despite the sleepless nights, the endless worry and planning and checking, the deep pit Trevor and I threw money down never knowing if we'd see a return. Despite all this, the payoff of sell out crowds night following city, I look around me and.
How?
Why?
"Plymouth." Chester V, the screen now black background, the words.
'Chester V Legacy award. Acadamie Internationale d'art pour Adultes. Plymouth.'
In white, filling the void and it's all real.
"To the stage. Please." Hand out as though reaching for mine. I stand, shaky and Fayth reaching up to steady me, looking left and suddenly there's an usher, a backstage worker all in black waiting in the aisle to guide me.
Brief embrace and. "I'm so fucking proud of you girl." Whispered in my ear, threatening to bring the tears in for real this time.
Kissed cheek from Steven as I pass. Pats on my back.
The whole thing dreamlike.
Surreal.
Thundering applause like a solid wall.
Down steps and back up, a short flight to the stage and how I don't trip or stumble? Unused to heels me a boots girl and add in the fact I'm not exactly focused on such trivial things as walking.
For obvious reasons.
Finding Chester and stepping into the hug, finding strength in his arms despite the years.
"Well done." Having to shout despite being so close. "Plymouth."
"Thank you." Shaking, forcing myself by slow increments to stop, to breathe normally. "Sir."
"Chester. Please."
And smiling back.
Chester V just smiled at, knows, me.
Fucking. Wow.
Releasing me, and thrusting. Something? Into my hands before stepping back, small push to propel me towards centre stage.
And still the applause. I look down to discover, of course that I'm holding the. My, statue.
About a foot tall. Polished redwood base onto which a silver plaque is screwed. Three lines of engraved text: The year and city up top, below which 'Chester V Legacy Award' followed by my name 'Plymouth' not Brooke of course, on the bottom. The figure atop the plinth is silver too. Legs apart and hands on hips, featureless face excepting shoulder length straight hair. Large rounded breasts with pointed nipples, and an impressive stiff cock hanging down.
The Acadamie Internationale d'art pour Adultes, originally so the story goes started as some form of fuck you to the Oscars, which the status certainly back up the point.
And the wave of euphoria, the solid weight of it backing up the reality of I won.
Stepping forward, legs steady now, smiling I lift the statue high and somehow the applause doubles in volume, whistles and clapping and just. Sheer. Noise.
"I just." Speaking, stopping but now I have the applause begins to die, silence leaking in. I nod, award clutched tight in both hands.
"Thank you. All of you, for this. Those that helped." Waving back at the now largely dark screen. "And all of you." Sweeping a hand around the auditorium. "This life is crazy. But it's amazing, and I wouldn't want to be anyone else."
"I just...." But words fail me, looking out at them all, the fellows of this industry I call home. So, lift up my trophy, kiss it, raise it skyward.
And the applause follows me offstage.
After which the night is a blur: drinking and dancing. More drinking and Fayth, flitting in and out and into my orbit. Her and others strangers becoming friends. Just for this night.
Bumping into Chester, after which some kind of jump cut- blurring of my memory afterwards, the night one long wild ride -and we're out on a balcony. Him smoking as I stand beside, leaning back and unintentionally- drunk -thrusting my canons out at the London nightscape.
He'd told me, sure I'm not misremembering, to fly out to the US sometime, that I should do a shoot for The House of Kings.
Wow.
We party until the sun comes up, dawn finding me sat on a park bench, Fayth and another female some kind of producer she knows out of New York or Utah I don't remember which. A couple of men, a British model and an Italian sound mixer.
Or something?
All of us slumped, half eaten kebabs and such like strewn around. Several bottles of expensive champagne, my own of Grey Goose vodka. Feeling that gentle climb down after a wild night.
thanks.
(to be fair, that probably sounds meaner then I intend it as)
