006.
I've never been to Wales. Had I been asked if it would look any different to England though, I would've said. "Yes, it'll be more hilly."
Certainly, so far, the view from my window seat only confirms this.
This is my second train today, but unlike when I head to see Zak this time both are large multi coach high speed trains, all pointy noses and seemingly endless speed.
It's a Sunday morning, and raining.
I'm heading West of Cardiff, to a small town overshadowed by a sprawling steelworks with actual fire spouting from one of its many chimneys. According to the map on my phone, a twelve minute walk from the train station should bring me to Lower Vale Rise, where I'll need to find number fifty-seven, the house that doubles as a workspace for Dragon Bound, my employer for today.
I've heard of them, a bondage site focused on photosets only, no video content. And, whilst the style and method of tying the girls is good, I wanted to do video work, at least to begin with, which is why I didn't come here first.
But through Zak they've reached out to me. So, after a pleasant over the phone discussion with Eddie, the sites owner, of what he's after, which sounded too fun not to agree to, I'm hopping the border, heading for my third job.
Surely I can start calling myself a bondage model now?
"Hi. Um." I am, at a loss. A woman has just answered the door. A young woman, who looks vaguely familiar for some reason. She's wearing a black dressing gown, the tiny silk kind that barely covers a girls butt, belted, though not tightly, over nothing but skin, out of which a pair of E cups are almost spilling, and in her hand is a large multi knotted bundle of white rope. Added to which a loosely buckled ballgag is hanging around her neck.
She grins at me. Nods. "It's Plymouth right?"
"Um." Get it together, and stop staring at her tits. She looks down, looks back up, her grin widening. "Don't mind me," her accent, Welsh, is thick, sounding playful, "Ed and me were just setting up."
"Oh." I try on a smile. "Right. Um."
"Come in." Throwing the door wide, stepping back. "Nasty weather today. Did you find us okay?"
"Yes."
"Good. Well." Shutting the door. "Come on through. Let's find you some tea."
The house is mid terrace, the whole neighbourhood made up of long marching rows of old houses. Old enough to be stone, and not brick, built. There are no front gardens either, just a front door, the footpath, then the road.
The front door opens directly into a large lounge, large enough that the ground floor is just this one room, plus a kitchen tacked lengthways at the back, giving the house a footprint like a chess knight's move. Running up one side of the lounge are stairs, which a slim messy blonde haired young guy- both the girl who greeted me, and this guy, can't be older then twenty-five -is descending. He looks, I decide on first impressions spotting his black tee with huge wizard print on the front, like someone who plays Dungeons and Dragons, or Warcraft. Most likely both.
"Plymouth," he smiles, pulling the girl into a sideways hug, kissing her cheek, "you made it."
"Yes. Um." Confused. Is she the model? And, is he the. What was the word I found in my research?
Rigger.
Is he going to hug and kiss me in a moment?
Should I let him?
I'm panicking, and all whilst the two share a second kiss, on the lips this time, then give me matching amused smiles.
"Right." His grin widens. "Ha. Sorry." Shaking his head. "Plymouth. Let me explain."
"No no." Please. "Um. It's fine."
"I'm Eddie. Ed. And this," releasing the girl, giving her butt a friendly pat, "is Samantha. Sam." He winks, whilst she giggles. "My wife."
"Oh."
Oh indeed, although the pieces are now, at last, falling into place in my head. On dragonbound roughly four out of every five preview images features Samantha. Her curvy size twelve- I've recently managed to drop back down to an eight by dieting with Mum -pixie cut black haired body is splashed all over the site in a variety of tight ties and outfits. Which makes sense if her husband, and apparent site co-owner, is the rigger.
"Sorry." I giggle, stepping forward to shake hands, and in Sam's case exchange a hug. "I just didn't know that," I point, from him to her then back, "um."
"Not to worry." He gestures me into the lounge proper, to an armchair opposite a small sofa, which the two of them sit down on. "We're both really glad you agreed to work for the site."
"Well." I grin back, Sam still hasn't made any effort to tuck her large breasts away, and whilst I've never considered myself bi, the occasional flash of nipple is very distracting. "Thanks for inviting me."
"You're still okay with the plan?" Tapping the contracts, laid out on the small table between armchair and sofa, with a pen resting ontop. "Feel free to have a read, there's no rush."
"Yes." Scanning the pages, three double sided per contract this time, full up of laws where Zaks simply state the codes, making sure to carefully read the long description of what I'll be doing soon. I'd like to think nobody in the industry would ever try to fuck someone else, a model new to the game say, over. But once I'm tied up, and gagged, it'll be too late to question or argue the toss over just what I signed to do.
So I check.
"Happy." I state, signing on the line, on both copies. Ed nods, adding his scribble below. I fold and place my copy in my messenger bag whilst he takes the other upstairs.
Now we can begin.
"Which one?" I ask, holding three different coloured nighties: blue, white, and purple, in one bunched fist. "Purple." Ed answers, with Sam nodding agreement before adding. "Bathrooms upstairs, then straight on."
"Thanks."
"Just." Ed's voice stops me with one hand on the bannister. "Yes?" I turn, finding him giving me a semi embarrassed half smile. "No other clothes," he nods, "okay?"
"You want me naked beneath this?" I wave the purple nightie, having stuffed the others back into my bag, which is on my shoulder. "No thong?"
"Please."
"Sure." I give him his half smile back, secretly thrilled that I'll be wearing so little, and continue up the wooden stairs.
There are only three rooms upstairs. Through open doors I can see the master bedroom at the houses front, behind me now, whilst what must be bedroom two, but seems curently to be largely empty, is to my left. Ahead, above the kitchen, is a lengthways bathroom.
The looks I receive from Ed- approving - and Sam- a mischievous smile spreading across her face -when I return to the lounge are enough to make me blush.
I used to wear a stretch fit vest top and pants to bed, until sometime around sixteen when, after a run of, I seem to recall, two weeks of super hot nights in a row, I started climbing into bed naked. I haven't worn clothes at night since. And I've certainly never dressed up for either of the two guys I've fucked.
The nightie feels smooth against my skin, like a gentle caress. Thin grey straps over each shoulder lead down to grey lace triangles which cup my breasts separately, though the fabric is cut low, barely above the nipple, allowing for a teasingly large amount of breast and some great cleavage. Below my breasts the lace gives way to purple silk, cut to hug my skinny body rather then puff out, able to do so because the stretchy grey lace continues in a thin strip down each side. The nightie is short, like Sam's robe, barely covering my butt. The near exposure of my pussy, I can feel a gentle breeze from somewhere brushing across it, makes me smile.
Sam has changed, swapping the robe out for a pair of tiny black spandex gym shorts and a zip front hoodie the colour of a summer sky.
"Ready?"
"Yes." Swallow, breathe, try and fail to control the rush of adrenaline that's got me unable to stand still. "Up against the post?" I ask, not quite able to keep the waver from my voice. Ed smiles, shakes his head. "Not yet. Some introduction photos first."
My first photoshoot, quite a different experience to the videos, but no less fun.
First up Ed has me pose. Standing against the white painted wall. Sat on the sofa and armchair. All whilst folding my arms, or letting them hang loose. "Like to start a set off with some untied stuff." He explains, walking around me, expensive camera in hand zooming in and out, taking two dozen photos just to find that one perfect shot. "So should I wave?" I wave, Ed grins. Click. Goes the cameras shutter each time. Click.
Next Sam joins me, on the sofa. We sit side by side, her hoodie brushing my bare arm we're that close. More poses. Click. Then we stand, her arm around me, my head resting on her shoulder. Click.
Finally, for these unbound photos anyway, I stand, hands up in surrender, facing off with Sam, who holds several bundles of white rope. Click. She wags her finger, with the hand not holding rope, at me, and I try not to smile at the teasing wink she drops, a wink Ed can't see from his current position. Click.
"Now the post?"
"Now the post."
The stairs, bolted to the wall, have a rounded support post two thirds of the way up that runs down to the floor. Dark wood just like the stairs themselves, polished to a dull shine. There's easily enough headroom to walk under, and around. Enough space too, for Ed to shoot the coming action from every angle.
I position myself facing the room, back against the post, and am surprised to find Sam, not Ed, advancing on me with a coil of rope. "Oh." Looking from him to her. "I just thought?"
"Usually yes." Ed nods. "But, some shoots. Girl girl stuff like this," Sam giggles, he grins, and I can't help but smile, "my wife is actually pretty good at doing her own ropework."
I knew the plan, because of the contracts, that part one of the shoot was Sam ties me. But I'd assumed that simply meant Ed the rigger would tie me, then she'd step in and simply hold the rope ends for the photo.
Guess not.
"Relax," Sam, crossing around behind me, whispers, "just have fun."
"Right." Voice shaky, I hadn't thought I'd be tied by a girl, especially not one as pretty, and busty, as Sam. The sudden turn of events has my heart accelerating like a top fuel dragster, which she clearly just misinterpreted as worry when in actual fact it's nothing but the good kind of nerves. The excited kind.
Sam ties me up, with Ed circling the action as though he were the bee, and me the nectar filled flower, all the while taking photo after photo of the action.
My wrists are tied first. On the far side of the post to my body. Tied side by side before being lashed to the post. Click.
Next, using a really long length of rope, Sam binds my upper body in place. To begin she binds my elbows together, but not since they remain quite far apart, but they are linked and pulled tight by rope, which also lashes them to the post. Click. That same rope is then wrapped around both me and the post, several times both above and below my breasts. With each pass Sam, by somehow feeding the rope through itself behind me, changes its direction. She finishes this rope off by bringing it over my shoulder and down, between my by now obviously erect nipple topped breasts, then back up over the other shoulder. Everything is tied off, very securely based on how much she yanks on the rope, behind me. Click. Click.
During this chest tie, passing the rope around my body, Sam is forced several times to touch my lace covered breasts. To lift each in turn as she presses the rope up snug beneath them. Or to readjust my nightie once when the act of tying me up causes a nipple to slip free.
Each time her attentions are purely business like, each time I find myself wishing they weren't. Every touch sends my arousal another notch higher up the scale, closer to the summit. Every accidental brush of her hand only increases my frustration, a fact I do my best to hide. To bottle up and not show.
Because this isn't a video. So my moaning, or squirming, would be pointless.
Sam moves on to my legs. Wrapping up my ankles, binding them to the post. Click.
She follows this up with ties above and below my knees, attaching these to the post too, making that five points where my skinny and now very helpless body is secured in place. Click.
"Okay?" Moving around to stand in front of me, Sam looks me up and down, then in the eyes, offering me a half smile. "All okay so far Plymouth?" I nod, swallow, not trusting my voice right now. "Good." Sam nods, then steps back, allowing Ed to do a complete lap of me, taking photos of my bound body from every angle whilst I try my best to look worried- because that, a girl who doesn't want to be tied up and possibly abandoned, is how they want me to look -and not turned on.
Click.
Click.
Click.
"Got everything?"
"I do." Ed nods, answering his wife's question, then looking to me. "Plymouth, still okay to continue?"
"Yes." Yes yes yes yes yes yes. Of course I'm ready. Because next, part two of three in this photoset told storyline that Sam and Ed have cooked up as dragonbounds next update, is for Sam to molest me.
And, of course, as a professional model being felt up by Ed's beautiful wife is simply work, so I won't enjoy this one bit.
Ha.
Plymouth rising (MF+/F+)
I enjoy Plymouths Journey into Bondage very much, [mention]RopeBunny[/mention] !
-
tickletied84
- Centennial Club
- Posts: 490
- Joined: 6 years ago
- Location: Scotland
Glad to hear that Brooke has read the details, and that Plymouth isn’t going to mind the molesting too much...
007.
My purple and grey silk nightie feels very short, its hem occasionally tickling, it feels like, at my already damp pussy lips.
And, my breasts feel exposed, my sexy outfits lace cups, which are really more like half cups, show off plenty of skin through the grey lace. Plus the rope chest harness Sam expertly tied has pulled the material taut against my erect nipples, and down lower then the nightie sat when I put it on.
Not that I'm complaining. I am, after all, currently trussed up pretty tightly to a wooden post, for a bondage shoot, which means I'm both getting paid and living the dream. My dream.
Plus I'm about to get felt up too. By Sam, a very attractive girl with a very impressive pair of E cups.
My first time being touched whilst bound.
I'm trying real hard not to smile. Honest.
"Have you ever played with a girl before?" Sam's expression is only semi playful, she's working too, so is checking. "I." Calm, breathe, try to ignore all the tight ropes, how good it feels to be helpless. "No." Shaking my head. "Um. Is that okay?"
"Of course." Now the smile is definitely teasing. "But you're happy, to play now?"
"Stop teasing the poor girl." Ed, Sam's husband and the other half of dragonbound, gives his wife's spandex shorts clad butt a playful slap. He looks at me. "She signed the contract, she's good." He winks, at me. "Right, Plymouth?"
Apparently my nervous giggle, and accompanying blush, are answer enough. Ed checks his camera over, gives his wife a thumbs up, and, with a grin, she advances on my helpless body.
What happens next is all just a blur. Of sensation. Of wanting more more more. Of frustration too, but, sometimes and especially when it's linked to tight bondage, frustration can be good.
Really fucking good.
Sam, kissing me on the lips. A chaste kiss. On her end anyway. If I live to be one hundred I'll never forget her look of surprised delight when, getting carried away, my tongue quests out and begins prodding at her pressed together teeth. Click, goes Ed's camera, thankfully missing my embarrassed blush, the first of many as Sam works my restrained body over. But he captures the kiss, and my closed eyes. Click.
Sam's hands on my breasts, cupping them through the lace. Squeezing just enough to force out a moan. Click.
A moan which grows louder moments later as I feel gentle but firm pressure on my pussy. Click. Sam, leaning in, kissing me again as her left hand squeezes my breast, fingers pinching the nipple, whilst her right is up inside my nightie, two fingers deep within the warmth of my soaking pussy. Thank fuck for the kiss, which acts like a gag against my sudden gasp. Click.
And, somehow, Sam holds this pose, waiting whilst her husband walks calmly around us both, zooming in on our locked lips, on my teased nipple. I feel her grin as he kneels, capturing her invasion of my pussy, his camera no doubt exposing my wetness, my arousal, for all to see. Click.
Did I say frustration? Well.
A phone rings, upstairs. "Honestly." Sam tuts, removing her mouth from mine, but not her hands. "I know, I know." Ed, shaking his head as he puts the camera down on the sofa. "Won't be a moment." He calls, to us, jogging up the stairs. Gone.
"Would you like me to...?" Sam's tone is teasing, it always seems to dance on the edges of this tone anyway, but, now it's all the way in. Her face is still inches from mine. "To." I swallow, the feel of her fingers inside me, right there yet unmoving, is maddening. "What?"
But instead of replying verbally, Sam instead flexes those same two fingers, at the same time bringing her thumb down, gently but firmly, onto my clit. And I guess my answering moan, half sigh half whimper, is permission enough. Because she doesn't stop.
I. Almost. Orgasm just from that first move. Almost. As it is I barely last a half minute of Sam's playing. Her renewed kissing, only this time with tongues. The steady rhythm of her fingers, working me over like a pro. And, Sam's other hand, squeezing my nipple, rolling it.
For the second time her mouth, locked onto mine, plays the roll of gag. As an orgasm, only the second not self given, the first one whilst bound. Easily the best, most intense, thing I've ever felt. The orgasm rips through me, causing my whole body to shudder as I moan and whimper.
If not for the ropes binding me to the wooden post I'd be a puddle on the floor now.
A puddle with a huge grin.
After, spent, I'm only half aware of Sam pulling away, of her fingers slipping free. Of her whispered. "Don't worry, Ed doesn't mind." As she steps back. As footsteps sound, on the stairs.
"Okay then?" Looking from Sam to me, an amused smile on his face. Amused at me? Is my recent orgasm written so clearly on my trussed body? "Plymouth," I do my best to focus, on Ed, "are you ready to continue?"
"Huh?" I lick my lips, give my head a quick shake. Take a breath. Continue?
Right. Part three.
"Yes." I nod. "Sorry. Um."
"Not to worry." Ed gives me a friendly smile. Maybe he, who must see, reading between the lines, and especially if it's a normal thing, what just transpired, truly doesn't care? "Let's finish up though, get you heading home."
"Okay." Another nod. "Yes. Thank you. I'm. Um. Ready."
"Good stuff." Walking to the sofa, to the bundle of rope piled there, Ed glances at his wife, a smirk on his face. "And you, wife, are you ready?"
"Almost." Winking back, at him, the back and forth exchange of two people very much in love.
Sam strips naked, tossing her clothes, what little she was wearing, onto the sofa, before coming to stand naked in front of me. She sidles up close, enough that her nipples are almost brushing against my own, which still feel super sensitive after Sam's recent attentions. Her breasts aren't fake, with only the larger size making them less pert then my own, a slight teardrop hang. And she's tattooed. Just one, a red Welsh dragon on her right side, just above the panty line.
As the final twist to this photoset, Ed ties Sam to both me and the post. But mostly to me.
Stepping closer still, squashing her breasts into mine, Sam puts her arms around me, allowing Ed to bind her wrists together on the far side of the post, and then to the post, down at around butt height. Holding her in place. Next are Sam's legs, tied to my own at ankles and knees.
As a final touch we're gagged by something resembling a double headed dildo. Each end, shaped like a thick and long, but smooth, black cock, goes into each of our mouths, whilst at the gags centre is a double belt arrangement. Ed straps me in first. The cock is definitely an equal to the one blowjob I've given, almost forcing its way far enough down my throat to make me cough. It fills my mouth up, pushing my tongue down, with the black leather belt ensuring it'll stay in place.
With me buckled in Sam, like a girl who's worn this gag before, takes the full length slowly but completely into her mouth, bringing our faces together. Ed buckles her in too, then retreats back across the room to his camera, to take a final circuit of photos.
Afterwards, paid, heading for home, I can't keep my mind from wandering to the events of today.
The post tie. My third time in bondage, and no less tight then the previous two. At no time, so far, could I of escaped without help. That, perhaps, has been the biggest thrill. The utter and complete helplessness of the ropes. My willing surrender each time. That small wish, barely even acknowledged to myself, and likely something I'll never voice out loud, that Zak, or Ed. That someone would go off script. Would prove my vulnerability by doing. I don't know what.
And. Maybe. Sam's molesting of me was in some ways just that, a small wander off script. She did ask, admittedly, and I wasn't gagged, so could've easily refused, but I'm glad I didn't. The whole experience was mind blowing. Literally. My intense orgasm only heightened by my bound state. It's definitely something I want again, in some form, to be taken advantage of in a sexual manner whilst tied up.
Not to mention that the experience has raised several questions regarding my, before today, preference for men over women in the bedroom.
Not forgetting, either, that we were tied together for a short while. An experience not on a par with my bound orgasm, but intense in its own way. To feel another girls nipples, pressing into the soft flesh of my breasts as I felt mine squashed into hers. Plus our shared moans, caused by the large fake cocks we each had rammed down our throats. Even Sam, bondage pro that she is, was moaning as her husband captured our state on camera.
This too, being tied to another woman, needs to be repeated.
Later, the sky already turning dark, the second train begins to slow. My home station is approaching, finally. Standing up, collecting and shouldering my messenger bag, I nod to myself. Decision made.
I've come up with three goals, to aim for, to attempt to make real.
One. To be tied up again. And again. And again. With another girl, or two, at some point.
Two. To be fucked, or at least to be teased and toyed with in a sexual manner, in bondage.
Three. Somehow, I have to be taken advantage of, whilst bound. It doesn't have to be in a serious 'against my will' manner. Dangerous to actively seek out such anyway. I guess. But, I want someone to tie me up and then do something to, or with, me, that wasn't agreed beforehand. Fuck knows how I'll get that to happen though?
Outside, it's still raining, but I decide to walk, wanting time to myself. This last chance to mull things over, then to put everything carefully away for now, before I arrive home, and see Mum.
My purple and grey silk nightie feels very short, its hem occasionally tickling, it feels like, at my already damp pussy lips.
And, my breasts feel exposed, my sexy outfits lace cups, which are really more like half cups, show off plenty of skin through the grey lace. Plus the rope chest harness Sam expertly tied has pulled the material taut against my erect nipples, and down lower then the nightie sat when I put it on.
Not that I'm complaining. I am, after all, currently trussed up pretty tightly to a wooden post, for a bondage shoot, which means I'm both getting paid and living the dream. My dream.
Plus I'm about to get felt up too. By Sam, a very attractive girl with a very impressive pair of E cups.
My first time being touched whilst bound.
I'm trying real hard not to smile. Honest.
"Have you ever played with a girl before?" Sam's expression is only semi playful, she's working too, so is checking. "I." Calm, breathe, try to ignore all the tight ropes, how good it feels to be helpless. "No." Shaking my head. "Um. Is that okay?"
"Of course." Now the smile is definitely teasing. "But you're happy, to play now?"
"Stop teasing the poor girl." Ed, Sam's husband and the other half of dragonbound, gives his wife's spandex shorts clad butt a playful slap. He looks at me. "She signed the contract, she's good." He winks, at me. "Right, Plymouth?"
Apparently my nervous giggle, and accompanying blush, are answer enough. Ed checks his camera over, gives his wife a thumbs up, and, with a grin, she advances on my helpless body.
What happens next is all just a blur. Of sensation. Of wanting more more more. Of frustration too, but, sometimes and especially when it's linked to tight bondage, frustration can be good.
Really fucking good.
Sam, kissing me on the lips. A chaste kiss. On her end anyway. If I live to be one hundred I'll never forget her look of surprised delight when, getting carried away, my tongue quests out and begins prodding at her pressed together teeth. Click, goes Ed's camera, thankfully missing my embarrassed blush, the first of many as Sam works my restrained body over. But he captures the kiss, and my closed eyes. Click.
Sam's hands on my breasts, cupping them through the lace. Squeezing just enough to force out a moan. Click.
A moan which grows louder moments later as I feel gentle but firm pressure on my pussy. Click. Sam, leaning in, kissing me again as her left hand squeezes my breast, fingers pinching the nipple, whilst her right is up inside my nightie, two fingers deep within the warmth of my soaking pussy. Thank fuck for the kiss, which acts like a gag against my sudden gasp. Click.
And, somehow, Sam holds this pose, waiting whilst her husband walks calmly around us both, zooming in on our locked lips, on my teased nipple. I feel her grin as he kneels, capturing her invasion of my pussy, his camera no doubt exposing my wetness, my arousal, for all to see. Click.
Did I say frustration? Well.
A phone rings, upstairs. "Honestly." Sam tuts, removing her mouth from mine, but not her hands. "I know, I know." Ed, shaking his head as he puts the camera down on the sofa. "Won't be a moment." He calls, to us, jogging up the stairs. Gone.
"Would you like me to...?" Sam's tone is teasing, it always seems to dance on the edges of this tone anyway, but, now it's all the way in. Her face is still inches from mine. "To." I swallow, the feel of her fingers inside me, right there yet unmoving, is maddening. "What?"
But instead of replying verbally, Sam instead flexes those same two fingers, at the same time bringing her thumb down, gently but firmly, onto my clit. And I guess my answering moan, half sigh half whimper, is permission enough. Because she doesn't stop.
I. Almost. Orgasm just from that first move. Almost. As it is I barely last a half minute of Sam's playing. Her renewed kissing, only this time with tongues. The steady rhythm of her fingers, working me over like a pro. And, Sam's other hand, squeezing my nipple, rolling it.
For the second time her mouth, locked onto mine, plays the roll of gag. As an orgasm, only the second not self given, the first one whilst bound. Easily the best, most intense, thing I've ever felt. The orgasm rips through me, causing my whole body to shudder as I moan and whimper.
If not for the ropes binding me to the wooden post I'd be a puddle on the floor now.
A puddle with a huge grin.
After, spent, I'm only half aware of Sam pulling away, of her fingers slipping free. Of her whispered. "Don't worry, Ed doesn't mind." As she steps back. As footsteps sound, on the stairs.
"Okay then?" Looking from Sam to me, an amused smile on his face. Amused at me? Is my recent orgasm written so clearly on my trussed body? "Plymouth," I do my best to focus, on Ed, "are you ready to continue?"
"Huh?" I lick my lips, give my head a quick shake. Take a breath. Continue?
Right. Part three.
"Yes." I nod. "Sorry. Um."
"Not to worry." Ed gives me a friendly smile. Maybe he, who must see, reading between the lines, and especially if it's a normal thing, what just transpired, truly doesn't care? "Let's finish up though, get you heading home."
"Okay." Another nod. "Yes. Thank you. I'm. Um. Ready."
"Good stuff." Walking to the sofa, to the bundle of rope piled there, Ed glances at his wife, a smirk on his face. "And you, wife, are you ready?"
"Almost." Winking back, at him, the back and forth exchange of two people very much in love.
Sam strips naked, tossing her clothes, what little she was wearing, onto the sofa, before coming to stand naked in front of me. She sidles up close, enough that her nipples are almost brushing against my own, which still feel super sensitive after Sam's recent attentions. Her breasts aren't fake, with only the larger size making them less pert then my own, a slight teardrop hang. And she's tattooed. Just one, a red Welsh dragon on her right side, just above the panty line.
As the final twist to this photoset, Ed ties Sam to both me and the post. But mostly to me.
Stepping closer still, squashing her breasts into mine, Sam puts her arms around me, allowing Ed to bind her wrists together on the far side of the post, and then to the post, down at around butt height. Holding her in place. Next are Sam's legs, tied to my own at ankles and knees.
As a final touch we're gagged by something resembling a double headed dildo. Each end, shaped like a thick and long, but smooth, black cock, goes into each of our mouths, whilst at the gags centre is a double belt arrangement. Ed straps me in first. The cock is definitely an equal to the one blowjob I've given, almost forcing its way far enough down my throat to make me cough. It fills my mouth up, pushing my tongue down, with the black leather belt ensuring it'll stay in place.
With me buckled in Sam, like a girl who's worn this gag before, takes the full length slowly but completely into her mouth, bringing our faces together. Ed buckles her in too, then retreats back across the room to his camera, to take a final circuit of photos.
Afterwards, paid, heading for home, I can't keep my mind from wandering to the events of today.
The post tie. My third time in bondage, and no less tight then the previous two. At no time, so far, could I of escaped without help. That, perhaps, has been the biggest thrill. The utter and complete helplessness of the ropes. My willing surrender each time. That small wish, barely even acknowledged to myself, and likely something I'll never voice out loud, that Zak, or Ed. That someone would go off script. Would prove my vulnerability by doing. I don't know what.
And. Maybe. Sam's molesting of me was in some ways just that, a small wander off script. She did ask, admittedly, and I wasn't gagged, so could've easily refused, but I'm glad I didn't. The whole experience was mind blowing. Literally. My intense orgasm only heightened by my bound state. It's definitely something I want again, in some form, to be taken advantage of in a sexual manner whilst tied up.
Not to mention that the experience has raised several questions regarding my, before today, preference for men over women in the bedroom.
Not forgetting, either, that we were tied together for a short while. An experience not on a par with my bound orgasm, but intense in its own way. To feel another girls nipples, pressing into the soft flesh of my breasts as I felt mine squashed into hers. Plus our shared moans, caused by the large fake cocks we each had rammed down our throats. Even Sam, bondage pro that she is, was moaning as her husband captured our state on camera.
This too, being tied to another woman, needs to be repeated.
Later, the sky already turning dark, the second train begins to slow. My home station is approaching, finally. Standing up, collecting and shouldering my messenger bag, I nod to myself. Decision made.
I've come up with three goals, to aim for, to attempt to make real.
One. To be tied up again. And again. And again. With another girl, or two, at some point.
Two. To be fucked, or at least to be teased and toyed with in a sexual manner, in bondage.
Three. Somehow, I have to be taken advantage of, whilst bound. It doesn't have to be in a serious 'against my will' manner. Dangerous to actively seek out such anyway. I guess. But, I want someone to tie me up and then do something to, or with, me, that wasn't agreed beforehand. Fuck knows how I'll get that to happen though?
Outside, it's still raining, but I decide to walk, wanting time to myself. This last chance to mull things over, then to put everything carefully away for now, before I arrive home, and see Mum.
-
slackywacky
- Millennial Club
- Posts: 2616
- Joined: 5 years ago
- Location: Canada
Great story, loving the detail and the thoughts.
Looking forward to the next chapter.
Looking forward to the next chapter.
Thanks for reading. Feel free to comment.
Slackywacky, also @DeviantArt
My active stories:
Slackywacky, also @DeviantArt
My active stories:
- All in the family - Updated 21/03
- Bondage model by choice - Updated 10/04
- Hitchhiker - Updated 29/03
008.
For a month, nothing happens.
Nothing from Zak. Nor Eddie and Samantha, aside from a confirmation that part one -up to the surprise twist of Sam being tied up too -of my photoset is live on dragonbound.
No fresh enquiries come in from other sites either. Should I go to them, offer myself up for work? I decide no, or not yet anyway. I want to work, because working means being tied up, but I need to exercise patience. Something will come, in time.
As for the modelling site. I'm getting messages, but nothing that goes beyond window shopping. People trying for a discount, people asking after this day or that, offering vague descriptions of just that they'd like from me, only to vanish like smoke as the day draws near and I return to them in search of a confirmation.
The whole thing, the weeks of waiting, leaves me feeling strung out. Deflated and frustrated.
So. I make a command decision. It's time to fire the gun on my next tattoo. And on something else too, a big change, something I've spent this long month debating- with myself -and am finally ready to commit to.
It figures that, having decided to take advantage of the lull, to make these changes, I would of course then receive work offers.
I ring Trevor on my lunch break, because, in his email, he'd said that was the best time. Back at the compound which serves as home base for the small litter picking and general plant care gang I'm part of- I don't have to return but working alone means that an hour of company is welcome -I step outside, and punch his number into my phone.
"Smalls." The voice, an older male, is gruff, the word near barked out. A busy mans greeting. "Oh." Caught off gaurd by his tone. "Hi. It's Bro...." Stupid girl. "Plymouth. Hi."
"Plymouth." And just like that calmness takes over, the voice slows, quietens, the tone becoming pleasant. "Good of you to return my email."
"Good of you to send it." I smile. "Thanks for getting in touch."
"Not at all." A brief pause, I hear a door click shut. "Are you ringing me to accept? Or do we need to discuss things?"
"Only one or two things. I'm." I begin to walk, slowly, heading further away from my workmates, gaining extra privacy. "I'm happy to do what you've asked. I just wondered really...."
"Wondered?" Trevor prompts. I'm blushing, which he can't see. Silly really, it's just a word, but it means so much. I sigh, close my eyes, stop walking. "Sorry. I'm. Um. Kinda new to this."
"Nothing to apologise for." His calm tone helps, makes me smile. "Whatever it is, that needs discussing, just say. I'd really like to hire you, so, I'm happy to work through any issues."
"Oh." Inside someone is letting off fireworks, holding a party. Me. He really wants to hire me. "Thanks. Good. Well." Swallow, just say it. "I was wondering about the sex."
"Ah." I swear I can hear his nod. "You're wondering, I think, why I don't want anything sexual?"
"Well." Yes. "Yes."
"This, what I've asked you for, what I've done many times before now. It's. Well. It's like a rest for me. And," his voice drops to a whisper, "I don't think sex is very restful, do you?"
"No." I laugh.
"I could give you some sort of discount?"
"Because of the no sex?"
"Exactly." I think. "I'm happy to see you, do what you're asking, for less."
"That's very decent of you to offer Plymouth. Thank you."
We haggle, briefly and in good humour, over a lower price, before agreeing on a figure. I end the call with Trevor promising to email me details of his address, and a confirmation of when he'd like me to arrive.
This takes place on the Monday. On Tuesday, booking another day off work, I visit Arthur for my second tattoo.
This time it's my left arm getting inked up. Arthur draws a mermaid on my bicep. She's in side profile, done like a silhouette in shades of grey. Very busty, and skinny, curving tail angled down towards my elbow, long hair flowing out behind. Her wrists are held out in front, and wrapped in black chains, whilst chains wrap her above and below the breasts too, plus around her neck and the tip of her fish tail. The chains spiral and cross each others path down my arm, heading towards my wrist, though all of them fade to nothingness at different points before reaching it. There are enough gaps between the chains for more things, random small things, to be added as and when I feel like it.
For an extra fee Arthur also writes 'Here Be Dragons' in old gothic looking black script just above, and to the left of, my shaved pussy. A phrase that, apparently, only ever actually appeared on one map, but which always amused me.
On Friday, walking home from work, with a night out clubbing ahead, and my Sunday meeting with Trevor looming on the horizon, Zak phones.
"Hi Zak."
"Brooke. How are you?"
"Good thanks. You?"
"Keeping busy. I'm sorting out the sets for another big special."
"Oh. Cool." Damn damn damn. "That's great."
"Yes." A brief pause, I curse myself some more. And then Zak makes the offer I wish were coming a month or two from now, not today. "I'd really like you to be a part of this Brooke."
"I'd love to." Shit damn fuck my bad timing. "But," I sigh, "I can't."
"Oh." Faintly I hear Zak scratch his chin. "Have you quit modelling?"
"No."
"Are you just," voice dropping to a playful whisper, "not going to be working for me anymore then?"
"It isn't that." I smile, and tell the truth. "I'll be out of commission for the next month is all."
"You will? Is everything okay?"
"Yes. Thanks. I'm getting my breasts done this coming Monday."
"You are?"
I am.
The idea, to get implants, began back when I was doing research. Since they grew I've always been happy with my girls, my C's, but a developing interest in bondage has changed that. Looking at pictures, watching videos, I was just more impressed by, more yearning and wanting to be, the tied girls sporting fake breasts. I found myself returning again and again to those videos, fascinated, and more then a little turned on, by how they looked.
I realised too, at some point, that whenever I lay in bed, using either fingers or my dildo to get myself off, imagining myself tightly bed stretched or hogtied, I was always picturing a pair of huge E plus cups sprouting off my toned body.
The hardest part had been telling Mum. Yes I'm an adult, I can, and recently have been, doing whatever I choose, but I like to have. Well. If not her approval then at least her blessing.
In the end it turned out I needn't of worried. Her love for me, that strong shared connection that comes from growing up as two against the world, meant that, because she could see I wanted this, she wanted it too.
And luckily I had money. My car fund, cash I'd been stashing away since I began working. Add to that the leftovers from my three bondage jobs, and I was, after a consultation in Manchester- which Mum attended with me bless her -all booked in and ready.
"I'll be good to work. After." I clarify, to Zak. "But," hopeful yet knowing a missed opportunity for what it is, "I don't suppose the special will wait for me huh."
"No." Another chin scratch. "But...."
"But?" Please please please.
"I have a script, a rough draft already."
"Okay. What's the setting?"
"Cheerleaders."
"Cheerleaders?" I laugh, picturing tiny skirts and tops, maybe a sports field. Some kind of tall goalpost ringed by tied up girls. "That's. Um. Different."
"I try to mix it up each time. Anyway. Brooke. Here's my offer."
"Offer?" I am, listening, because offer means work. And work means tied up. "Go on."
"I always do the special in two or more parts, shot a week or two apart. So. How about I slot you in for part two?"
Zak waits, patient and amused, through my screams of joy. "I'd love to. Please." Trying to slow my breathing. "If. Um. If it isn't too much trouble?"
"It's easy enough. And besides, you're a rising star, Plymouth, having you on board will be a huge draw. I think."
"I'm a..." Rising star? "I am?"
"Sure you are. Spoke with Ed. Eddie, last week, that shoot you did for him and Sam, easily one of their most viewed sets. In fact...."
"In fact...?" I can hear the teasing tone, the leading me on, playing just for fun. "Come on man," I gesture around at the street I'm walking down, "out with it."
"There's a. Convention I guess would be the right word."
"A convention for bondage?"
"Maybe in the US. But here in wet old England it's for porn, adult stuff, in general."
"Okay. And?"
"Well. It's for adult stuff, but more general. But every year a bunch of us bondage sites and suppliers take over a corner of the hall. Anyway. This year I'm going. So...."
"So?"
"Would you like to come along, be my official weekend model?"
"Wow." It sounds fun, despite knowing none of the details beyond being a model all weekend at some porn show. "Yes please."
"Excellant. We'll give these new tits of yours a run out." I can almost hear his wink. I laugh, he joins me, before continuing. "I'll pencil you in, and we can discuss details later. Okay?"
"Okay."
"Good. Talk soon Brooke."
Much better.
For a month, nothing happens.
Nothing from Zak. Nor Eddie and Samantha, aside from a confirmation that part one -up to the surprise twist of Sam being tied up too -of my photoset is live on dragonbound.
No fresh enquiries come in from other sites either. Should I go to them, offer myself up for work? I decide no, or not yet anyway. I want to work, because working means being tied up, but I need to exercise patience. Something will come, in time.
As for the modelling site. I'm getting messages, but nothing that goes beyond window shopping. People trying for a discount, people asking after this day or that, offering vague descriptions of just that they'd like from me, only to vanish like smoke as the day draws near and I return to them in search of a confirmation.
The whole thing, the weeks of waiting, leaves me feeling strung out. Deflated and frustrated.
So. I make a command decision. It's time to fire the gun on my next tattoo. And on something else too, a big change, something I've spent this long month debating- with myself -and am finally ready to commit to.
It figures that, having decided to take advantage of the lull, to make these changes, I would of course then receive work offers.
I ring Trevor on my lunch break, because, in his email, he'd said that was the best time. Back at the compound which serves as home base for the small litter picking and general plant care gang I'm part of- I don't have to return but working alone means that an hour of company is welcome -I step outside, and punch his number into my phone.
"Smalls." The voice, an older male, is gruff, the word near barked out. A busy mans greeting. "Oh." Caught off gaurd by his tone. "Hi. It's Bro...." Stupid girl. "Plymouth. Hi."
"Plymouth." And just like that calmness takes over, the voice slows, quietens, the tone becoming pleasant. "Good of you to return my email."
"Good of you to send it." I smile. "Thanks for getting in touch."
"Not at all." A brief pause, I hear a door click shut. "Are you ringing me to accept? Or do we need to discuss things?"
"Only one or two things. I'm." I begin to walk, slowly, heading further away from my workmates, gaining extra privacy. "I'm happy to do what you've asked. I just wondered really...."
"Wondered?" Trevor prompts. I'm blushing, which he can't see. Silly really, it's just a word, but it means so much. I sigh, close my eyes, stop walking. "Sorry. I'm. Um. Kinda new to this."
"Nothing to apologise for." His calm tone helps, makes me smile. "Whatever it is, that needs discussing, just say. I'd really like to hire you, so, I'm happy to work through any issues."
"Oh." Inside someone is letting off fireworks, holding a party. Me. He really wants to hire me. "Thanks. Good. Well." Swallow, just say it. "I was wondering about the sex."
"Ah." I swear I can hear his nod. "You're wondering, I think, why I don't want anything sexual?"
"Well." Yes. "Yes."
"This, what I've asked you for, what I've done many times before now. It's. Well. It's like a rest for me. And," his voice drops to a whisper, "I don't think sex is very restful, do you?"
"No." I laugh.
"I could give you some sort of discount?"
"Because of the no sex?"
"Exactly." I think. "I'm happy to see you, do what you're asking, for less."
"That's very decent of you to offer Plymouth. Thank you."
We haggle, briefly and in good humour, over a lower price, before agreeing on a figure. I end the call with Trevor promising to email me details of his address, and a confirmation of when he'd like me to arrive.
This takes place on the Monday. On Tuesday, booking another day off work, I visit Arthur for my second tattoo.
This time it's my left arm getting inked up. Arthur draws a mermaid on my bicep. She's in side profile, done like a silhouette in shades of grey. Very busty, and skinny, curving tail angled down towards my elbow, long hair flowing out behind. Her wrists are held out in front, and wrapped in black chains, whilst chains wrap her above and below the breasts too, plus around her neck and the tip of her fish tail. The chains spiral and cross each others path down my arm, heading towards my wrist, though all of them fade to nothingness at different points before reaching it. There are enough gaps between the chains for more things, random small things, to be added as and when I feel like it.
For an extra fee Arthur also writes 'Here Be Dragons' in old gothic looking black script just above, and to the left of, my shaved pussy. A phrase that, apparently, only ever actually appeared on one map, but which always amused me.
On Friday, walking home from work, with a night out clubbing ahead, and my Sunday meeting with Trevor looming on the horizon, Zak phones.
"Hi Zak."
"Brooke. How are you?"
"Good thanks. You?"
"Keeping busy. I'm sorting out the sets for another big special."
"Oh. Cool." Damn damn damn. "That's great."
"Yes." A brief pause, I curse myself some more. And then Zak makes the offer I wish were coming a month or two from now, not today. "I'd really like you to be a part of this Brooke."
"I'd love to." Shit damn fuck my bad timing. "But," I sigh, "I can't."
"Oh." Faintly I hear Zak scratch his chin. "Have you quit modelling?"
"No."
"Are you just," voice dropping to a playful whisper, "not going to be working for me anymore then?"
"It isn't that." I smile, and tell the truth. "I'll be out of commission for the next month is all."
"You will? Is everything okay?"
"Yes. Thanks. I'm getting my breasts done this coming Monday."
"You are?"
I am.
The idea, to get implants, began back when I was doing research. Since they grew I've always been happy with my girls, my C's, but a developing interest in bondage has changed that. Looking at pictures, watching videos, I was just more impressed by, more yearning and wanting to be, the tied girls sporting fake breasts. I found myself returning again and again to those videos, fascinated, and more then a little turned on, by how they looked.
I realised too, at some point, that whenever I lay in bed, using either fingers or my dildo to get myself off, imagining myself tightly bed stretched or hogtied, I was always picturing a pair of huge E plus cups sprouting off my toned body.
The hardest part had been telling Mum. Yes I'm an adult, I can, and recently have been, doing whatever I choose, but I like to have. Well. If not her approval then at least her blessing.
In the end it turned out I needn't of worried. Her love for me, that strong shared connection that comes from growing up as two against the world, meant that, because she could see I wanted this, she wanted it too.
And luckily I had money. My car fund, cash I'd been stashing away since I began working. Add to that the leftovers from my three bondage jobs, and I was, after a consultation in Manchester- which Mum attended with me bless her -all booked in and ready.
"I'll be good to work. After." I clarify, to Zak. "But," hopeful yet knowing a missed opportunity for what it is, "I don't suppose the special will wait for me huh."
"No." Another chin scratch. "But...."
"But?" Please please please.
"I have a script, a rough draft already."
"Okay. What's the setting?"
"Cheerleaders."
"Cheerleaders?" I laugh, picturing tiny skirts and tops, maybe a sports field. Some kind of tall goalpost ringed by tied up girls. "That's. Um. Different."
"I try to mix it up each time. Anyway. Brooke. Here's my offer."
"Offer?" I am, listening, because offer means work. And work means tied up. "Go on."
"I always do the special in two or more parts, shot a week or two apart. So. How about I slot you in for part two?"
Zak waits, patient and amused, through my screams of joy. "I'd love to. Please." Trying to slow my breathing. "If. Um. If it isn't too much trouble?"
"It's easy enough. And besides, you're a rising star, Plymouth, having you on board will be a huge draw. I think."
"I'm a..." Rising star? "I am?"
"Sure you are. Spoke with Ed. Eddie, last week, that shoot you did for him and Sam, easily one of their most viewed sets. In fact...."
"In fact...?" I can hear the teasing tone, the leading me on, playing just for fun. "Come on man," I gesture around at the street I'm walking down, "out with it."
"There's a. Convention I guess would be the right word."
"A convention for bondage?"
"Maybe in the US. But here in wet old England it's for porn, adult stuff, in general."
"Okay. And?"
"Well. It's for adult stuff, but more general. But every year a bunch of us bondage sites and suppliers take over a corner of the hall. Anyway. This year I'm going. So...."
"So?"
"Would you like to come along, be my official weekend model?"
"Wow." It sounds fun, despite knowing none of the details beyond being a model all weekend at some porn show. "Yes please."
"Excellant. We'll give these new tits of yours a run out." I can almost hear his wink. I laugh, he joins me, before continuing. "I'll pencil you in, and we can discuss details later. Okay?"
"Okay."
"Good. Talk soon Brooke."
Much better.
-
slackywacky
- Millennial Club
- Posts: 2616
- Joined: 5 years ago
- Location: Canada
Brooke/Plymouth is going places (body wise and scenery wise). Great chapter.
Thanks for reading. Feel free to comment.
Slackywacky, also @DeviantArt
My active stories:
Slackywacky, also @DeviantArt
My active stories:
- All in the family - Updated 21/03
- Bondage model by choice - Updated 10/04
- Hitchhiker - Updated 29/03
Hey, [mention]slackywacky[/mention] thanks for the double comments. Glad you enjoy the detail, it's something I've always liked thinking up and putting in 
009.
Trevor's booked me for the entire day, which means I have to wake up not long after the sun decides to light up the sky in shades of pink and pale blue, and walk my sleepy self to the train station, to catch the first high speed service up line. To London.
I showered the night before, so, having stepped into faded black, almost grey, jeans, and pulled a plain white vest top over my head. Plus whatever thong and bra happened to be at the top of the pile in my drawer- matching lingerie isn't something I'll need today -I brush my long dyed red hair into it's natural straight falling halfway down my back shape, and tie it up into a loose tail. Shrugging on a blue Animal hooded jumper, I grab up my messenger bag, into which I've already placed my breakfast, then leave.
I do my make-up on the train, which is only pale red lipstick and some styled black around the eyes anyway.
One proper train, and two tube trains, later, I'm approaching Trevor's building. Which is a building not a house, a tall very posh and modern looking building of stacked apartments, beside the actual Thames, in central London. Wow.
The building, the whole area, reeks of money. This building is one of three, the other two apparently unworthy of river views, and between the three is a well landscaped area of grass, and trees, with a large and expensive all wood playground, enclosed by a fence whose gate has an actual number combination lock.
"Yes, madam?" Enquires the shirt and tie wearing doorman, having opened the door from the inside as I was approaching, some hidden camera no doubt alerting him of my arrival. The pause between yes and madam, plus his tone, makes it clear he's fairly certain I'm lost, and am just too stupid, and poor, to of figured that out yet.
"Hi." I give him my best smile, which he doesn't return. "I'm here to see Mr Smalls, up in forty-two."
"Are you expected?"
"Yes."
"Then," he as good as sneers, a: you might know a name, but that won't get you inside voice, "might I ask who it is calling on Mr Smalls?"
"Plymouth."
"Very well, Plymouth." The same pause as before, the same open disdain for not posh looking, and very clearly fake named, me. "Wait here."
"Please." An actual smile, and he's holding open the door, gesturing me inside. "Come on inside, Plymouth."
"Thank you." I smile back, not being the vindictive type I can forgive this man his somewhat petty one-upmanship. He leads me to the lift, waits with me, then points out the button for the top floor.
"Plymouth, it's good to see you."
"Thanks again for the invite."
The top floor, sometimes known as the penthouse. The best the building has to offer, which is definitely the case here. There are only two apartments, the lift letting out on a short left/right corridor, identical dark wooden double doors with gunmetal silver trimmings and handles at each end. Trevor, no doubt because the doorman already phoned to check the legitimacy of my appointment, is waiting for me, stood leaning in the open doorway to my right, number forty-two.
His appearance matches his voice, I decide. The untidy but short white hair, the fresh stubble, also white, of someone yet to shave, the lines on his face. Trevor is an older man, prehaps late fifties if I had to guess. His body, what I can see of it given he's wearing dark blue jeans paired with a loose red and white striped football shirt, is stocky, like an old boxer or a career army man. He smiles, I smile back, taking the offered hand, being led inside.
Prehaps I'll get a chance to explore later, but, even on first impressions it's a big apartment, with high ceilings apparently the norm. The large entrance hall, complete with an actual hat and coat stand- like a wooden tree -beside the door, has several doors leading from it, we take the nearest right hand one.
Which is a study. Bookshelves line one wall, the bottom shelves full of expensive and important looking thick leather bound books. An arch topped window lets in plenty of natural light, some of which falls on a wooden chest that wouldn't look out of place being dug up by pirates on a far off beach. In the rooms centre, turned side on to the window, is an impressive black metal and curving light coloured wood desk. Atop the desk, which looks recently tidied, are two things. A laptop, and what seems to be a piled heap of chain with several metal rings fastened to it.
Just the sight of the chain is enough to make my heart stutter jump, to send a rush of happy thoughts through my brain. But, before we get to business, I'm paid.
Rather then handing over cash Trevor uses his laptop to transfer money from his bank to mine. There's no secrecy, no hiding his screen. He sits on a chair, I perch sideways on the desk beside him, and after several minutes of tapping and scrolling it's done. I am, admittedly, dubious, having never done an online cash transfer before, but am fairly certain he can't steal the money back without my own pass codes.
And he seems trustworthy, enough that I'm willing to do, what's about to happen. And if I'm trusting him to release me, after, then surely I can trust him to actually pay me. For it not to be smoke and mirrors.
Yes?
Right?
Right. Good. Because there are no contracts for this, nothing signed to say 'I will do....' or 'I promise not to stick my....' or any other such guidelines. Nothing beyond our email exchange, which I have saved. There's a lot of trust I'm placing in Trevor, enough to make me nervous.
I mean, as a back up, for what it's worth, Jennifer is going to ring me at nine, one whole hour after I'm supposed to be done here. And there is a codeword: Pizza. Which I can casually drop if I need her to send help. Because she has Trevor's address. So, I'm as prepared as I can be. The nerves, I'm not really afraid, are mostly adrenaline and excitement at what's coming anyway.
Coming now, in fact.
"Happy to begin?"
"Yes." I nod, hopping my butt off the desk, then stripping.
Naked.
'Plymouth' Trevors email had begun. 'I should very much like to make use of your services, this next but one Sunday, the fifth, to be specific. I would like to book your company for the entire day, and, if you find my requirements acceptable, I shall happily pay you the fee as stated per hour on your profile. I can explain more on the day, but, to put simply what I want. From you. Is something along the lines of a naked chained servant. Nothing sexual will be asked of you, I simply find myself in need of some attractive female company, a lady willing to be chained, naked as I said, and to undertake small tasks for me: such as fetching us both drinks and listening to my, prehaps wandering at times, old man stories. Are you interested? Are you free? I await, I hope, your reply without too much delay.'
Below which he'd included, I remember, smiling now as I remove my white bra, at least two different email addresses, plus three phone numbers.
"Just in case," Trevor points to his desk, "this is one of two keyrings. For this." Giving the mass of chain in his other hand a shake, smiling as he does. "The other will be on my person for the day."
"Okay." Standing naked, feeling the pre tie up butterflies increase in speed as they circle the inner wall of my stomach, I give the key a prod. "Just," I shrug, "why do I need to know though?"
"Just in case, my dear girl." Nodding. "Should some emergency arise, then, now you know how best to free yourself. Should you need to."
"Right." I nod back, unsure of just what emergency may occur, but, showing me the key is, I can see, a good idea.
The chains then. I can almost picture some girl, or guy, in some history book, some old time slave, wearing similar.
At one end, a thick collar, like a ring of steel, fastened with some kind of special hexagonal headed tool, which is on the same ring as the other, more normal looking, key. On the desk. The collar is a snug fit, and cold where it presses into my flesh, but warms up quickly.
At the collars front a single ring, sprouting a thick chain which hangs down my body, between my pert C cups, and in front of my recently tattooed pussy. Below the knee this chain splits in two, each short length ending in a thick cuff, which Trevor fastens one to each ankle. These cuffs too are a snug fit, making me wonder whether the whole thing were, somehow, made to measure? Did he guess my dimensions, other then height and dress size, just from my pictures? The cuffs lock with small padlocks.
Halfway down the chain, at waist height, are my wrist cuffs. They to, like the collar, like the ankle cuffs, are thick, and snug once locked on with more small padlocks. Thick chains run out from the main one, at right angles, to connect these wrist cuffs to it.
Trevor doesn't gag me, which is both a good and bad thing I muse, but the whole chain arrangement is definitely feeding my helpless girl hunger. The heaviness is something I can feel. The clank and rattle as I walk, testing out my mobility, discovering that my leg chains allow for a kind of half normal pace walk, a slow walk, and my wrist chains allow for limited movement. I can't extend either arm to straight, but, should I need to, I will be able to wipe my own butt.
"Come on through to the lounge." Trevor half offers, half appears to command, setting off ahead of me, not waiting. My nipples harden in response. To his casual maybe order. To his, for today, ownership of me. I could, because he's already left, and it's right there, take the key and free myself. I could. But, feeling the weight of the chains and rings locked around my body, the whole thing a dull dark silver, the whole thing making my body tingle, like a low hum, at my helpless on display state. And put this way by a stranger too. No. I follow, I don't even glance at the key, clanking my way across the thick dark red carpet, seeking the lounge.
Which is large, and square. One wall is just glass, windows flanking double doors, which lead out onto a plant scattered roof terrace complete with barbecue. A second wall supports quite possibly the largest flatscreen I've ever seen, with some very large subwoffers sat on either side. Positioned in front of all this is a pale blue fabric sofa, which Trevor gestures me to sit beside him on.
"Well, Plymouth." Giving me a small smile, prehaps liking all the exposed flesh he can see. "It's time to indulge an old man by listening to one of his stories."
"I was married. She was a great girl, my first love. Married at twenty, two children, we had a good life." A shadow passes over his face, temporarily wiping off the smile. "She died five years ago."
"I'm sorry."
"Thank you." The smile, smaller, but still, returns. "I am," gesturing around him, "a man of means. Rich by most standards."
"What is it you do?"
"I started my own company, nearly fourty years ago now." Trevor points, to the wall, on which sits a framed photo. It's old. Shot landscape style it shows two men, both young, stood shaking hands in front of a large truck, the kind with a seperate trailer. On the trailer is written 'It's a Smalls World' and below, in smaller type 'Global Logistics'. One of the two men is, I see later, when I look closer, a young Trevor.
"So." Trevor continues. "Here I am, rich but alone. Just what is a man to do with his life?"
"Oh." Caught out, because it's been framed as a question, which means I'm being expected to come up with options. "Um? He. You." I smile, Trevor smiles back. "You could meet a new Mrs Trevor?"
"No." A shake of the head. "Prehaps it's very old school of me, but, I believe she's out there." A vague wave of his hand. "Waiting for me."
Which sounds lovely, so I nod. "Well. Um." And then I smile. "You seek out people who aren't looking for any kind of attachment." Trevor nods, but I go on. "People," I take a guess, "who you know will be willing to play how you want to play."
"Indeed." Another nod. "Easier, especially given the funds I've access to, to simply book a willing young girl whenever the mood for company takes me."
"And the chains?"
"My late wife and I did enjoy our little games."
"Oh. Well." There's a sly smile on his face as his mind no doubt takes a quick trip down into some choice memories. "Well." I give my chains a rattle. "I'm here, for the day. And." On impulse I give my body a shake, wiggling my breasts, pleased to see Trevor's eyes track the move, his smile widen. "I'm naked. And all chained up. So." I shrug. "Whatever you need me to do, I say let's have ourselves a fun day doing it."
"You know," looking me up and down, reaching forward to pat my leg, definitely closer to my pussy then my knee, "I can see I made the right choice with you Plymouth."
The rest of the day, I'm enjoying myself so much, getting in the spirit of the game, I barely check the time on one of the apartments many clocks more then a half dozen times.
I fetch Trevor and me drinks. Tea for him, with milk and sugar. Water for me.
At my suggestion we spend nearly two hours touring the apartment, Trevor talking me though some of the wall mounted artwork, and other shelf perching curios, dotted around the place. I am genuinely interested, and he warms to the task after realising I'm not simply trying to fill time, moving closer to me too as we stand and talk over his things, prehaps happier again at my presence. On several occasions his arm goes around me, stroking fingers across my firm butt cheeks, or up and down my side just under a breast.
We end the tour out on the roof, again at my suggestion, feeling carefree enough right now to not worry about who can spy on my naked chained body.
Let them look I think, let them see me as I prefer to be.
"So why no sex?" I ask, back on the sofa, having just finished my half of the sandwich. Cold pork and stuffing. Delicious. "Well." Trevor swallows the last of his own, washes it down with more tea, all of which I made whilst he, amused mostly it seemed, watched. "I fear you'll think me weird."
"Hmm." I mean, I can't promise I won't, and I don't want to lie. But I'd like to know. "I mean," I do a half shrug, all the chains will allow, "maybe. I guess. But. I'd like to know. Because. Well."
"Because if I'm not having sex with all of you beautiful young girls, then how am I not exploding?"
"Well." I laugh. "Yeah."
"I'm afraid it's only me being old fashioned again. Nothing terribly exciting."
"I still don't follow?"
"I've paid you to be here, yes?"
"Yes."
"And, on your profile, there were at least some sexual practices listed, yes?"
"Some."
"Well. It just seems. Rude. To me. To expect a girl to sleep with someone having only just met them. There." Waving an arm at me, at my sudden attack of giggles. "You see." But he's smiling, not angry at my finding humour in him. "You do think me old fashioned."
"Well. I mean. Sex on the fist date is a thing. And you did pay for me, if we're going to be blunt about it. Which does mean yes, if you wanted it I'd oblige." I smile, spreading my legs wider apart, my smile quirking up at one corner as I see his eyes widen, tracking down to my shaved pussy. "But. I do think it's very gentlemanly of you."
"Thank you."
"So that means you see the same girl more then once?"
"If we get on then yes."
"So it's sex on the second date?" I tease. Trevor winks back, his own gruff voice doing it's best to match my tones. "Only, as I said, Plymouth. Only if myself and the girl in question get on well."
After washing up I return to the sofa, and we talk.
Mostly Trevor talks, which is fine. He's a wealth of stories from a life well lived. Driving his trucks all across Europe back when the business was just starting out. Tales of events he's attended, a trip on Concorde and his career as an amateur boxer. Which explains the muscular physique.
After some coaxing I tell him about myself. My job driving the mower, my life with Mum. Being, apparently, very interested in machines, Trevor has me shuffle over to the dining room, where, sat in one of six posh dark wooden chairs, he has me act out and show the positions of all my mowers controls. Asking after what each does. This takes nearly a half hour, and he almost makes it through the whole thing without laughing. But can't help himself near the end when, for the third time he has me pretending to raise and lower the three cutting decks. I tut. "Honestly." But am smiling, because if he's having fun then it means I'm doing my job right.
Trevor announces, sometime around dinner, that it's time to watch the football.
A game I've never followed, but his team are, I'm told with great enthusiasm as we watch everybody warming up on the pitch in glorious ultra super hi def, chasing promotion this year. And this is a crunch game, a six pointer. Whatever that is? So. "You must only cheer for the team in red and white stripes." Fingering his own shirt, giving me a serious look. "Got it?"
"Got it."
But at half time, which explains itself I feel, in the name, the red and whites are two goals down, having scored none themselves.
"Time for drastic measures." Trevor, standing, gestures me to follow. "Come on."
First stop his bedroom, where a long red and white scarf is tied, loosely, around my neck, one end draped down between my breasts in mirror of the thick chain I'm already wearing. Then the bathroom, to paint red and white stripes down our faces, in echo of the shirts. Having a steadier hand I do us both. We look, I decide, eying myself in the mirror, like we're off to pick a fight.
But it works. By some magic the effort is rewarded as, in the space of twenty action packed minutes, at the end of which both of us have shouted ourselves raw, Trevor's team score three times, ending the game one goal up on the opposition, who never score a third.
"Keep it."
"Are you sure?"
"Yes." Smiling, pushing the scarf back across the desk at me. "You bought us luck today."
It's all over, the chains have been removed, my clothes are back on, and the scarf is safely tucked away in my bag. Trevor bids me farewell with a final hug. He doesn't say it, but, I'd like to think I'll be hearing from him again soon. Not just for the money another day being chained up would bring, I have, genuinely, had a blast today.
Such a surreal experience, to spend so long naked and chained up, clanking my way around, feeling Trevor's eyes on my body, not minding. I'd be happy to do it again. Not forgetting either that a second appointment would, according to what was said earlier, involve at least some kind of sexual element.
The idea, of teasing Trevor's cock with my hands, or mouth, whilst in that same chained state, or any kind of helpless bondage, has a smile creeping onto my face.
Returning home I find Mum still awake, and it's only her half shocked half confused expression that alerts me to the red and white stripes, my warpaint, which I forgot to wash off.
A long shower takes care of that, then it's off to bed. To sleep. Because tomorrow I'm going for surgery. Tomorrow my C cups are getting super sized.
Trevor's booked me for the entire day, which means I have to wake up not long after the sun decides to light up the sky in shades of pink and pale blue, and walk my sleepy self to the train station, to catch the first high speed service up line. To London.
I showered the night before, so, having stepped into faded black, almost grey, jeans, and pulled a plain white vest top over my head. Plus whatever thong and bra happened to be at the top of the pile in my drawer- matching lingerie isn't something I'll need today -I brush my long dyed red hair into it's natural straight falling halfway down my back shape, and tie it up into a loose tail. Shrugging on a blue Animal hooded jumper, I grab up my messenger bag, into which I've already placed my breakfast, then leave.
I do my make-up on the train, which is only pale red lipstick and some styled black around the eyes anyway.
One proper train, and two tube trains, later, I'm approaching Trevor's building. Which is a building not a house, a tall very posh and modern looking building of stacked apartments, beside the actual Thames, in central London. Wow.
The building, the whole area, reeks of money. This building is one of three, the other two apparently unworthy of river views, and between the three is a well landscaped area of grass, and trees, with a large and expensive all wood playground, enclosed by a fence whose gate has an actual number combination lock.
"Yes, madam?" Enquires the shirt and tie wearing doorman, having opened the door from the inside as I was approaching, some hidden camera no doubt alerting him of my arrival. The pause between yes and madam, plus his tone, makes it clear he's fairly certain I'm lost, and am just too stupid, and poor, to of figured that out yet.
"Hi." I give him my best smile, which he doesn't return. "I'm here to see Mr Smalls, up in forty-two."
"Are you expected?"
"Yes."
"Then," he as good as sneers, a: you might know a name, but that won't get you inside voice, "might I ask who it is calling on Mr Smalls?"
"Plymouth."
"Very well, Plymouth." The same pause as before, the same open disdain for not posh looking, and very clearly fake named, me. "Wait here."
"Please." An actual smile, and he's holding open the door, gesturing me inside. "Come on inside, Plymouth."
"Thank you." I smile back, not being the vindictive type I can forgive this man his somewhat petty one-upmanship. He leads me to the lift, waits with me, then points out the button for the top floor.
"Plymouth, it's good to see you."
"Thanks again for the invite."
The top floor, sometimes known as the penthouse. The best the building has to offer, which is definitely the case here. There are only two apartments, the lift letting out on a short left/right corridor, identical dark wooden double doors with gunmetal silver trimmings and handles at each end. Trevor, no doubt because the doorman already phoned to check the legitimacy of my appointment, is waiting for me, stood leaning in the open doorway to my right, number forty-two.
His appearance matches his voice, I decide. The untidy but short white hair, the fresh stubble, also white, of someone yet to shave, the lines on his face. Trevor is an older man, prehaps late fifties if I had to guess. His body, what I can see of it given he's wearing dark blue jeans paired with a loose red and white striped football shirt, is stocky, like an old boxer or a career army man. He smiles, I smile back, taking the offered hand, being led inside.
Prehaps I'll get a chance to explore later, but, even on first impressions it's a big apartment, with high ceilings apparently the norm. The large entrance hall, complete with an actual hat and coat stand- like a wooden tree -beside the door, has several doors leading from it, we take the nearest right hand one.
Which is a study. Bookshelves line one wall, the bottom shelves full of expensive and important looking thick leather bound books. An arch topped window lets in plenty of natural light, some of which falls on a wooden chest that wouldn't look out of place being dug up by pirates on a far off beach. In the rooms centre, turned side on to the window, is an impressive black metal and curving light coloured wood desk. Atop the desk, which looks recently tidied, are two things. A laptop, and what seems to be a piled heap of chain with several metal rings fastened to it.
Just the sight of the chain is enough to make my heart stutter jump, to send a rush of happy thoughts through my brain. But, before we get to business, I'm paid.
Rather then handing over cash Trevor uses his laptop to transfer money from his bank to mine. There's no secrecy, no hiding his screen. He sits on a chair, I perch sideways on the desk beside him, and after several minutes of tapping and scrolling it's done. I am, admittedly, dubious, having never done an online cash transfer before, but am fairly certain he can't steal the money back without my own pass codes.
And he seems trustworthy, enough that I'm willing to do, what's about to happen. And if I'm trusting him to release me, after, then surely I can trust him to actually pay me. For it not to be smoke and mirrors.
Yes?
Right?
Right. Good. Because there are no contracts for this, nothing signed to say 'I will do....' or 'I promise not to stick my....' or any other such guidelines. Nothing beyond our email exchange, which I have saved. There's a lot of trust I'm placing in Trevor, enough to make me nervous.
I mean, as a back up, for what it's worth, Jennifer is going to ring me at nine, one whole hour after I'm supposed to be done here. And there is a codeword: Pizza. Which I can casually drop if I need her to send help. Because she has Trevor's address. So, I'm as prepared as I can be. The nerves, I'm not really afraid, are mostly adrenaline and excitement at what's coming anyway.
Coming now, in fact.
"Happy to begin?"
"Yes." I nod, hopping my butt off the desk, then stripping.
Naked.
'Plymouth' Trevors email had begun. 'I should very much like to make use of your services, this next but one Sunday, the fifth, to be specific. I would like to book your company for the entire day, and, if you find my requirements acceptable, I shall happily pay you the fee as stated per hour on your profile. I can explain more on the day, but, to put simply what I want. From you. Is something along the lines of a naked chained servant. Nothing sexual will be asked of you, I simply find myself in need of some attractive female company, a lady willing to be chained, naked as I said, and to undertake small tasks for me: such as fetching us both drinks and listening to my, prehaps wandering at times, old man stories. Are you interested? Are you free? I await, I hope, your reply without too much delay.'
Below which he'd included, I remember, smiling now as I remove my white bra, at least two different email addresses, plus three phone numbers.
"Just in case," Trevor points to his desk, "this is one of two keyrings. For this." Giving the mass of chain in his other hand a shake, smiling as he does. "The other will be on my person for the day."
"Okay." Standing naked, feeling the pre tie up butterflies increase in speed as they circle the inner wall of my stomach, I give the key a prod. "Just," I shrug, "why do I need to know though?"
"Just in case, my dear girl." Nodding. "Should some emergency arise, then, now you know how best to free yourself. Should you need to."
"Right." I nod back, unsure of just what emergency may occur, but, showing me the key is, I can see, a good idea.
The chains then. I can almost picture some girl, or guy, in some history book, some old time slave, wearing similar.
At one end, a thick collar, like a ring of steel, fastened with some kind of special hexagonal headed tool, which is on the same ring as the other, more normal looking, key. On the desk. The collar is a snug fit, and cold where it presses into my flesh, but warms up quickly.
At the collars front a single ring, sprouting a thick chain which hangs down my body, between my pert C cups, and in front of my recently tattooed pussy. Below the knee this chain splits in two, each short length ending in a thick cuff, which Trevor fastens one to each ankle. These cuffs too are a snug fit, making me wonder whether the whole thing were, somehow, made to measure? Did he guess my dimensions, other then height and dress size, just from my pictures? The cuffs lock with small padlocks.
Halfway down the chain, at waist height, are my wrist cuffs. They to, like the collar, like the ankle cuffs, are thick, and snug once locked on with more small padlocks. Thick chains run out from the main one, at right angles, to connect these wrist cuffs to it.
Trevor doesn't gag me, which is both a good and bad thing I muse, but the whole chain arrangement is definitely feeding my helpless girl hunger. The heaviness is something I can feel. The clank and rattle as I walk, testing out my mobility, discovering that my leg chains allow for a kind of half normal pace walk, a slow walk, and my wrist chains allow for limited movement. I can't extend either arm to straight, but, should I need to, I will be able to wipe my own butt.
"Come on through to the lounge." Trevor half offers, half appears to command, setting off ahead of me, not waiting. My nipples harden in response. To his casual maybe order. To his, for today, ownership of me. I could, because he's already left, and it's right there, take the key and free myself. I could. But, feeling the weight of the chains and rings locked around my body, the whole thing a dull dark silver, the whole thing making my body tingle, like a low hum, at my helpless on display state. And put this way by a stranger too. No. I follow, I don't even glance at the key, clanking my way across the thick dark red carpet, seeking the lounge.
Which is large, and square. One wall is just glass, windows flanking double doors, which lead out onto a plant scattered roof terrace complete with barbecue. A second wall supports quite possibly the largest flatscreen I've ever seen, with some very large subwoffers sat on either side. Positioned in front of all this is a pale blue fabric sofa, which Trevor gestures me to sit beside him on.
"Well, Plymouth." Giving me a small smile, prehaps liking all the exposed flesh he can see. "It's time to indulge an old man by listening to one of his stories."
"I was married. She was a great girl, my first love. Married at twenty, two children, we had a good life." A shadow passes over his face, temporarily wiping off the smile. "She died five years ago."
"I'm sorry."
"Thank you." The smile, smaller, but still, returns. "I am," gesturing around him, "a man of means. Rich by most standards."
"What is it you do?"
"I started my own company, nearly fourty years ago now." Trevor points, to the wall, on which sits a framed photo. It's old. Shot landscape style it shows two men, both young, stood shaking hands in front of a large truck, the kind with a seperate trailer. On the trailer is written 'It's a Smalls World' and below, in smaller type 'Global Logistics'. One of the two men is, I see later, when I look closer, a young Trevor.
"So." Trevor continues. "Here I am, rich but alone. Just what is a man to do with his life?"
"Oh." Caught out, because it's been framed as a question, which means I'm being expected to come up with options. "Um? He. You." I smile, Trevor smiles back. "You could meet a new Mrs Trevor?"
"No." A shake of the head. "Prehaps it's very old school of me, but, I believe she's out there." A vague wave of his hand. "Waiting for me."
Which sounds lovely, so I nod. "Well. Um." And then I smile. "You seek out people who aren't looking for any kind of attachment." Trevor nods, but I go on. "People," I take a guess, "who you know will be willing to play how you want to play."
"Indeed." Another nod. "Easier, especially given the funds I've access to, to simply book a willing young girl whenever the mood for company takes me."
"And the chains?"
"My late wife and I did enjoy our little games."
"Oh. Well." There's a sly smile on his face as his mind no doubt takes a quick trip down into some choice memories. "Well." I give my chains a rattle. "I'm here, for the day. And." On impulse I give my body a shake, wiggling my breasts, pleased to see Trevor's eyes track the move, his smile widen. "I'm naked. And all chained up. So." I shrug. "Whatever you need me to do, I say let's have ourselves a fun day doing it."
"You know," looking me up and down, reaching forward to pat my leg, definitely closer to my pussy then my knee, "I can see I made the right choice with you Plymouth."
The rest of the day, I'm enjoying myself so much, getting in the spirit of the game, I barely check the time on one of the apartments many clocks more then a half dozen times.
I fetch Trevor and me drinks. Tea for him, with milk and sugar. Water for me.
At my suggestion we spend nearly two hours touring the apartment, Trevor talking me though some of the wall mounted artwork, and other shelf perching curios, dotted around the place. I am genuinely interested, and he warms to the task after realising I'm not simply trying to fill time, moving closer to me too as we stand and talk over his things, prehaps happier again at my presence. On several occasions his arm goes around me, stroking fingers across my firm butt cheeks, or up and down my side just under a breast.
We end the tour out on the roof, again at my suggestion, feeling carefree enough right now to not worry about who can spy on my naked chained body.
Let them look I think, let them see me as I prefer to be.
"So why no sex?" I ask, back on the sofa, having just finished my half of the sandwich. Cold pork and stuffing. Delicious. "Well." Trevor swallows the last of his own, washes it down with more tea, all of which I made whilst he, amused mostly it seemed, watched. "I fear you'll think me weird."
"Hmm." I mean, I can't promise I won't, and I don't want to lie. But I'd like to know. "I mean," I do a half shrug, all the chains will allow, "maybe. I guess. But. I'd like to know. Because. Well."
"Because if I'm not having sex with all of you beautiful young girls, then how am I not exploding?"
"Well." I laugh. "Yeah."
"I'm afraid it's only me being old fashioned again. Nothing terribly exciting."
"I still don't follow?"
"I've paid you to be here, yes?"
"Yes."
"And, on your profile, there were at least some sexual practices listed, yes?"
"Some."
"Well. It just seems. Rude. To me. To expect a girl to sleep with someone having only just met them. There." Waving an arm at me, at my sudden attack of giggles. "You see." But he's smiling, not angry at my finding humour in him. "You do think me old fashioned."
"Well. I mean. Sex on the fist date is a thing. And you did pay for me, if we're going to be blunt about it. Which does mean yes, if you wanted it I'd oblige." I smile, spreading my legs wider apart, my smile quirking up at one corner as I see his eyes widen, tracking down to my shaved pussy. "But. I do think it's very gentlemanly of you."
"Thank you."
"So that means you see the same girl more then once?"
"If we get on then yes."
"So it's sex on the second date?" I tease. Trevor winks back, his own gruff voice doing it's best to match my tones. "Only, as I said, Plymouth. Only if myself and the girl in question get on well."
After washing up I return to the sofa, and we talk.
Mostly Trevor talks, which is fine. He's a wealth of stories from a life well lived. Driving his trucks all across Europe back when the business was just starting out. Tales of events he's attended, a trip on Concorde and his career as an amateur boxer. Which explains the muscular physique.
After some coaxing I tell him about myself. My job driving the mower, my life with Mum. Being, apparently, very interested in machines, Trevor has me shuffle over to the dining room, where, sat in one of six posh dark wooden chairs, he has me act out and show the positions of all my mowers controls. Asking after what each does. This takes nearly a half hour, and he almost makes it through the whole thing without laughing. But can't help himself near the end when, for the third time he has me pretending to raise and lower the three cutting decks. I tut. "Honestly." But am smiling, because if he's having fun then it means I'm doing my job right.
Trevor announces, sometime around dinner, that it's time to watch the football.
A game I've never followed, but his team are, I'm told with great enthusiasm as we watch everybody warming up on the pitch in glorious ultra super hi def, chasing promotion this year. And this is a crunch game, a six pointer. Whatever that is? So. "You must only cheer for the team in red and white stripes." Fingering his own shirt, giving me a serious look. "Got it?"
"Got it."
But at half time, which explains itself I feel, in the name, the red and whites are two goals down, having scored none themselves.
"Time for drastic measures." Trevor, standing, gestures me to follow. "Come on."
First stop his bedroom, where a long red and white scarf is tied, loosely, around my neck, one end draped down between my breasts in mirror of the thick chain I'm already wearing. Then the bathroom, to paint red and white stripes down our faces, in echo of the shirts. Having a steadier hand I do us both. We look, I decide, eying myself in the mirror, like we're off to pick a fight.
But it works. By some magic the effort is rewarded as, in the space of twenty action packed minutes, at the end of which both of us have shouted ourselves raw, Trevor's team score three times, ending the game one goal up on the opposition, who never score a third.
"Keep it."
"Are you sure?"
"Yes." Smiling, pushing the scarf back across the desk at me. "You bought us luck today."
It's all over, the chains have been removed, my clothes are back on, and the scarf is safely tucked away in my bag. Trevor bids me farewell with a final hug. He doesn't say it, but, I'd like to think I'll be hearing from him again soon. Not just for the money another day being chained up would bring, I have, genuinely, had a blast today.
Such a surreal experience, to spend so long naked and chained up, clanking my way around, feeling Trevor's eyes on my body, not minding. I'd be happy to do it again. Not forgetting either that a second appointment would, according to what was said earlier, involve at least some kind of sexual element.
The idea, of teasing Trevor's cock with my hands, or mouth, whilst in that same chained state, or any kind of helpless bondage, has a smile creeping onto my face.
Returning home I find Mum still awake, and it's only her half shocked half confused expression that alerts me to the red and white stripes, my warpaint, which I forgot to wash off.
A long shower takes care of that, then it's off to bed. To sleep. Because tomorrow I'm going for surgery. Tomorrow my C cups are getting super sized.
That was, pardon the expression, sweet - and I mean that as a sincere compliment. I hope she does meet Trevor again.
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slackywacky
- Millennial Club
- Posts: 2616
- Joined: 5 years ago
- Location: Canada
I like how you portrait the more human side of this meeting. As an elderly gentleman of roughly Trevor's age (but not his means) I could relate. Very well written.
Thanks for reading. Feel free to comment.
Slackywacky, also @DeviantArt
My active stories:
Slackywacky, also @DeviantArt
My active stories:
- All in the family - Updated 21/03
- Bondage model by choice - Updated 10/04
- Hitchhiker - Updated 29/03
It's really good to work hard on a thing, on making it a certain way, to then have readers comment specifically regarding the angles you tried to write in.
Thank you both. I'm super happy the chapter worked.
Thank you both. I'm super happy the chapter worked.
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TightsBound
- Centennial Club
- Posts: 589
- Joined: 6 years ago
- Location: CT, USA
I meant to comment sooner, but I must’ve been a bit tied up 
I love this story. It’s sweet at times. Hot at others (that post tie definitely required a cold shower.) But always genuine. It’s always felt real. Her journey and growth, both professionally and personally, feel like what an aspiring model and woman coming into her own would actually experience. The fact that there’s great bondage is bonus. Thanks for writing!
I love this story. It’s sweet at times. Hot at others (that post tie definitely required a cold shower.) But always genuine. It’s always felt real. Her journey and growth, both professionally and personally, feel like what an aspiring model and woman coming into her own would actually experience. The fact that there’s great bondage is bonus. Thanks for writing!
[mention]TightsBound[/mention] thanks for the comment It's good to read you're enjoying the story.
Here's the next part....
It's good to read you're enjoying the story.Here's the next part....
010.
"Hey. Phil. Look, it's.... I think, over there. That's Plymouth."
It's taken hours, from late morning until after dinner, to get here, to Edinburgh. Scotlands capital. Hours spent on the train: reading, snacking, playing Sim City on my phone. At least I was comfortable, having booked well in advance, making a first class return, booked seats up here and back, affordable enough that I was willing to splurge. So I'm arriving in style.
That said I'm still walking to the hotel. A Marriott half an hours gentle stroll, suitcase gliding along behind me, from the station. With the hotel being less then ten minutes on foot away from the arena that'll play host to the convention, which begins tomorrow.
I could get a taxi, but, it's a nice day. Shorts and unzipped hoodie weather. Plus I've been sat down way too long now.
"Name?"
"Plymouth."
"One moment please." The receptionist, a young man about my age with messy brown hair and an eyebrow piercing, doesn't even miss a beat at my strange name. Here, according to Zak, is where a fair chunk of the people working at this convention will be staying. So, for the next few days odd names are the norm.
"Your key, Plymouth. Lifts to the right, stairs just beyond. Anything you need, just dial one on the phone in your room. That'll connect you to this desk."
"Thanks." Quickly hiding my smirk- having spotted the, several, not so subtle looks he's been casting at my chest -he probably requested this shift, is most likely here all weekend just for the chance to eyeball a bunch of adult models. I give him a proper smile instead, sign for and take my key, before heading towards the stairs.
It's kinda my fault anyway. I mean, if I didn't want the extra attention, then I should've left my breasts at a natural C.
Should've not worn a really low cut top either, I think, climbing up to the fourth floor, my smirk back.
Really. I decide, still stuck on this train of thought, now at my room. If I didn't want the attention then I shouldn't be getting tied up for money.
Good thing I don't mind. Either the tying up or the attention.
Zak isn't staying here. He and some industry friends have rented a half dozen large motor homes, more bus size then van size. They're pitched up at a caravan park just outside the city proper, staying the whole week, making a holiday of it with family and assorted pets all present. He's paid for my room though, as part of the deal we thrashed out over the phone. Travel and food costs are on me, accommodation, plus my fee for the two days work, are his to pay.
Tired, I decide against the hotel bar, or going out. Maybe tomorrow. Instead I pop down to the on site restaurant, eat a quick chicken wrap with chips, washed down with a diet Pepsi, then retire to my room. Tuning the wall mounted flatscreen in to a local radio, I spend an hour soaking in a hot bubble filled bath, then channel hop until I feel my eyes getting heavy, at which point I turn in, and sleep.
Which brings me to Saturday morning, and. "Phil." Near shouted, from behind me. I smile, slowing my pace, letting myself be caught up, if that's their plan.
The convention centre is like a large dome, with several smaller bubbles and cubes attached around it's circumference. I've been told to turn up early, at half eight since the event begins at ten, and to make my way around the back, to a spot highlighted on an emailed then printed map Zak sent over. The back doors, where trucks unload.
I wasn't expecting to run into anyone though, not this early.
"Morning guys." Having stopped, and turned, because I can hear at least two people, slightly out of breath, closing in. It is, I see now, two guys. Prehaps thirty somethings, wearing Sci-fi themed tees and blue jeans, plus matching lanyards, which are purple with some kind of black wording that I can't make out. As they stumble down from a run to a walk, finishing their approach across the empty- save for several boxy truck trailers -tarmac, I flash my best smile at them.
In the end, after much internal debating, I went for F cups. Of course my skinny size eight frame makes them appear bigger. I love how they look on me, sitting high and rounded, pert to the point of gravity defying. I haven't changed my hair, maybe some day, but I like the red, and the style: straight and long, falling down around my shoulders, wandering down my back. It's a warm morning, so, with my favourite black hoodie tucked away in my camo messenger bag, all I'm wearing is a simple white dress. It's sleeveless, with a deep scooped neckline and very thin shoulder straps, and hugs my figure from breasts to waist, then flares out slightly below, with the hem being a couple of inches above the knee. Due to the dresses colour my lingerie: boyshort style pants and a plunge bra, are white too. On my feet are black and pink Adidas.
"Hi." One of them responds, giving me a small wave. "Sorry. We're, um. Well. Are you Plymouth?"
"I am."
"Wow." Both of them are grinning, nodding. "I mean." The one doing the talking blushes slightly. "We're both big fans."
"Why, thank you."
"Like to see a pretty girl all tied up sometimes, one who knows how to have a good struggle, like you. Don't we Phil?" His companion nods. I giggle, which makes him blush.
"Bondage fans are you?"
"We like to dabble, Miss. Don't we Phil." Another nod, accompanied by a shy smile. The talker, Phil has yet to say a word, continues. "Truth is though, we almost didn't recognise you today."
"Ah." I nod, making the connection quite easily, giving my left arm a shake. "Because of my new tattoo."
"That's right."
I step closer, holding my arm out for inspection, both of them nodding at my inkwork. Impressed. "We didn't know about your. Um." Making vague chest grabbing motions, of his own chest. "Either."
"Didn't know I'd gotten my boobs done." I laugh at their joint shocked expressions. "All very hush hush." Patting my nose. "Secret plans and clever tricks."
"Well. They look...."
"Amazing?" I offer up. "Pert?" Unable to resist I do a couple of small not leaving the floor hops. "Bouncy?"
"Um." Now they're both blushing.
"Sorry." I resolve to behave. "Can I help you chaps anyway?"
"We were hoping for an autograph."
"Really?" Do people still do that? Apparently yes, as Phil is digging an old looking book out of his bag, handing it to the other, who holds it out to me. "We're kinda regulars here, Phil and me, you see. Come every year. We like to arrive early, see who we can see. Have a talk."
"Does your friend have a talk too?" I can't resist the playful question. But a frown crosses his face. "Phil," bringing his friend, Phil, into a sideways hug, "he can't talk."
"Oh." And now I feel bad. "I'm sorry."
"That's okay. Miss. Plymouth. You weren't to know. We're just grateful you stopped for us. Aren't we Phil?" Phil gives me a nod, and a thumbs up, appearing happy, not at all upset by my badly aimed joke.
Taking the offered book, and pen, I flick quickly through, seeking a blank page. On it I write 'Kidnap me, please
. Plymouth' followed by five kisses. I pose for selfies too, putting my arm around them each in turn whilst the other captures the moment. My duties thus taken care of, I give the two a cheeky wave, before continuing towards the arena's back entrance.
Inside everything looks ready. Despite being circular on the outside the arena is square shaped. A huge high roofed square. From the map I know the various bubbles and cubes all house things like a bar, or toilets, and in one case a small suite of offices for those who run this building. But the square is where almost everything's taking place. Stalls have been arranged into a kind of grid like network, with a stage built up on one side. The grid isn't perfect, some stalls or exhibitors are larger then others. And of course one whole corner, like he said it would be, is nothing but bondage stuff.
It's here I find Zak.
The bondage corner has been arranged with a clear plan in mind. It has a definite entrance and exit, each one marked by tall mock stone arches, high enough to be seen across the arena. Inside stalls and exhibitors flank the central path through from one arch to the other, creating a kind of main street. Halfway along that street opens out into a square, which is where Zak is stood, next to a wooden cross, talking to two other models.
I've heard of them both, from research, two of the bigger names in UK bondage work. First is Dominique: dark skinned and flat chested, a skinny size six with her thick black hair wrapped and woven into shoulder brushing dreadlocks. A Maori style tattoo covers her left arm and shoulder, tracing a curving outline of, but not touching, her A cup breast. Next to her is Syn. Curling blonde hair cut shaggy and messed up, longer on one side. A curvy but toned size twelve her breasts are D cups, fake like mine. Her body is covered in tattoo's, like a multicolored patchwork of ink. A full sleeve on each arm which links, on one side at least, to some currently half hidden design across the top of her chest. Her jeans are hiding what I remember are well inked legs. Snake bite piercings complete her bad girl rocker look.
Syn actually runs her own site, where she ties as often as being tied. Dominique, like me, is just a model.
I'm expecting to be snubbed, or otherwise not welcomed. The newbie trying to muscle in on the old guard- both these girls are mid to late twenties -or something similar. But it's smiles and hugs all round, compliments on my ink from Syn, so maybe we're friends after all.
"Okay ladies." Zak, made spokesperson by some vote I'm not aware of, claps for attention as some of the other bondage people present wander over, making this appear more like the meeting it no doubt is about to be. The three of us, the models, despite having only just met are already talking amongst ourselves. Loudly. Comparing ink and make-up. It takes Zak several claps to get our attention, to shut us up.
"Thank you. Ladies." I giggle, Syn flips him off, laughing too when Zak returns the gesture. "Let's run over the plan again shall we."
"You three girls will work in a rota pattern, spending roughly two hours each on the cross. Plymouth, you get the extra shift today. Dominique, you tomorrow." I look to the dark skinned girl, who gives me a nod, and a grin. I grin back. "Two hours here." Zak pats the wooden cross. "Tied up. Basically, you'll be the centrepiece of this whole bondage area. Something to show the visitors what we're all about."
"The rest of the time, breaks aside, we'll make sure you're kept busy, and visible. Any questions? Not from you." Zak points, at Syn, who acts mock offended, asking. "What did I do?"
"What didn't you do."
"Honestly." Still trying to act pissed off, but her smile, plus the general laughter, from half of the people around her and Zak, ruins the effect. "You're supposed to be polite to the models Zachary."
"I was," Zak grins, scoring a point, "perfectly polite to both Plymouth and Dominique."
After which Syn goes to push him, a move he dodges easily, both of them laughing now like old friends.
We head off to change. One of the toilet areas has been set aside for this, the posh one I'm told, not open to the public and being taken over this weekend by the army of barely clothed models who'll be spread out all over the arena. Inside it's a total boob fest. There are girls everywhere in various states of undress, plus a handful of guys.
And nobody seems to mind the nakedness. Everybody's talking and laughing. Hugging, despite in some cases that involves someone's cock pressing against someone else's pussy. There's a really good atmosphere. Friendly, even extending to a newbie like me.
I receive several shouted greetings and waves. A hug from a very curvy, but short, Asian lady with dyed blue hair. And then, in the middle of getting changed, some six foot plus white guy, his head shaved ontop but an impressive beard remaining, sporting a very muscular physique and a large cock dangling between his legs. Because he's naked. This male model wanders over, gives Dominique a hug, then leans against the wall next to me, openly eying up and complementing my boob job. Of course the whole thing makes me blush, because at that point I'm naked too, until Syn saves me by shooing him away, though she laughs whilst doing so.
The three of us, the bondage models, are all wearing camouflage bikinis. Tie side thong style bottoms, with tie side triangle halter style tops. Dominique's bikini is green, for jungle or grass based warfare. Mine is shades of blue, for fighting beneath the waves, or in Antarctica prehaps. Syn, hers is red. I'm not really sure how much call there is for hiding out in and around an active volcano? But she, we all, look pretty damn hot, especially since we're all wearing big chunky goth style knee high lace up boots too. Black, with no heels but stacked soles that add a couple of inches of height.
Ready, we join the other models, heading out to the arena floor. It's time, soon, to open the doors.
"Hey. Phil. Look, it's.... I think, over there. That's Plymouth."
It's taken hours, from late morning until after dinner, to get here, to Edinburgh. Scotlands capital. Hours spent on the train: reading, snacking, playing Sim City on my phone. At least I was comfortable, having booked well in advance, making a first class return, booked seats up here and back, affordable enough that I was willing to splurge. So I'm arriving in style.
That said I'm still walking to the hotel. A Marriott half an hours gentle stroll, suitcase gliding along behind me, from the station. With the hotel being less then ten minutes on foot away from the arena that'll play host to the convention, which begins tomorrow.
I could get a taxi, but, it's a nice day. Shorts and unzipped hoodie weather. Plus I've been sat down way too long now.
"Name?"
"Plymouth."
"One moment please." The receptionist, a young man about my age with messy brown hair and an eyebrow piercing, doesn't even miss a beat at my strange name. Here, according to Zak, is where a fair chunk of the people working at this convention will be staying. So, for the next few days odd names are the norm.
"Your key, Plymouth. Lifts to the right, stairs just beyond. Anything you need, just dial one on the phone in your room. That'll connect you to this desk."
"Thanks." Quickly hiding my smirk- having spotted the, several, not so subtle looks he's been casting at my chest -he probably requested this shift, is most likely here all weekend just for the chance to eyeball a bunch of adult models. I give him a proper smile instead, sign for and take my key, before heading towards the stairs.
It's kinda my fault anyway. I mean, if I didn't want the extra attention, then I should've left my breasts at a natural C.
Should've not worn a really low cut top either, I think, climbing up to the fourth floor, my smirk back.
Really. I decide, still stuck on this train of thought, now at my room. If I didn't want the attention then I shouldn't be getting tied up for money.
Good thing I don't mind. Either the tying up or the attention.
Zak isn't staying here. He and some industry friends have rented a half dozen large motor homes, more bus size then van size. They're pitched up at a caravan park just outside the city proper, staying the whole week, making a holiday of it with family and assorted pets all present. He's paid for my room though, as part of the deal we thrashed out over the phone. Travel and food costs are on me, accommodation, plus my fee for the two days work, are his to pay.
Tired, I decide against the hotel bar, or going out. Maybe tomorrow. Instead I pop down to the on site restaurant, eat a quick chicken wrap with chips, washed down with a diet Pepsi, then retire to my room. Tuning the wall mounted flatscreen in to a local radio, I spend an hour soaking in a hot bubble filled bath, then channel hop until I feel my eyes getting heavy, at which point I turn in, and sleep.
Which brings me to Saturday morning, and. "Phil." Near shouted, from behind me. I smile, slowing my pace, letting myself be caught up, if that's their plan.
The convention centre is like a large dome, with several smaller bubbles and cubes attached around it's circumference. I've been told to turn up early, at half eight since the event begins at ten, and to make my way around the back, to a spot highlighted on an emailed then printed map Zak sent over. The back doors, where trucks unload.
I wasn't expecting to run into anyone though, not this early.
"Morning guys." Having stopped, and turned, because I can hear at least two people, slightly out of breath, closing in. It is, I see now, two guys. Prehaps thirty somethings, wearing Sci-fi themed tees and blue jeans, plus matching lanyards, which are purple with some kind of black wording that I can't make out. As they stumble down from a run to a walk, finishing their approach across the empty- save for several boxy truck trailers -tarmac, I flash my best smile at them.
In the end, after much internal debating, I went for F cups. Of course my skinny size eight frame makes them appear bigger. I love how they look on me, sitting high and rounded, pert to the point of gravity defying. I haven't changed my hair, maybe some day, but I like the red, and the style: straight and long, falling down around my shoulders, wandering down my back. It's a warm morning, so, with my favourite black hoodie tucked away in my camo messenger bag, all I'm wearing is a simple white dress. It's sleeveless, with a deep scooped neckline and very thin shoulder straps, and hugs my figure from breasts to waist, then flares out slightly below, with the hem being a couple of inches above the knee. Due to the dresses colour my lingerie: boyshort style pants and a plunge bra, are white too. On my feet are black and pink Adidas.
"Hi." One of them responds, giving me a small wave. "Sorry. We're, um. Well. Are you Plymouth?"
"I am."
"Wow." Both of them are grinning, nodding. "I mean." The one doing the talking blushes slightly. "We're both big fans."
"Why, thank you."
"Like to see a pretty girl all tied up sometimes, one who knows how to have a good struggle, like you. Don't we Phil?" His companion nods. I giggle, which makes him blush.
"Bondage fans are you?"
"We like to dabble, Miss. Don't we Phil." Another nod, accompanied by a shy smile. The talker, Phil has yet to say a word, continues. "Truth is though, we almost didn't recognise you today."
"Ah." I nod, making the connection quite easily, giving my left arm a shake. "Because of my new tattoo."
"That's right."
I step closer, holding my arm out for inspection, both of them nodding at my inkwork. Impressed. "We didn't know about your. Um." Making vague chest grabbing motions, of his own chest. "Either."
"Didn't know I'd gotten my boobs done." I laugh at their joint shocked expressions. "All very hush hush." Patting my nose. "Secret plans and clever tricks."
"Well. They look...."
"Amazing?" I offer up. "Pert?" Unable to resist I do a couple of small not leaving the floor hops. "Bouncy?"
"Um." Now they're both blushing.
"Sorry." I resolve to behave. "Can I help you chaps anyway?"
"We were hoping for an autograph."
"Really?" Do people still do that? Apparently yes, as Phil is digging an old looking book out of his bag, handing it to the other, who holds it out to me. "We're kinda regulars here, Phil and me, you see. Come every year. We like to arrive early, see who we can see. Have a talk."
"Does your friend have a talk too?" I can't resist the playful question. But a frown crosses his face. "Phil," bringing his friend, Phil, into a sideways hug, "he can't talk."
"Oh." And now I feel bad. "I'm sorry."
"That's okay. Miss. Plymouth. You weren't to know. We're just grateful you stopped for us. Aren't we Phil?" Phil gives me a nod, and a thumbs up, appearing happy, not at all upset by my badly aimed joke.
Taking the offered book, and pen, I flick quickly through, seeking a blank page. On it I write 'Kidnap me, please
. Plymouth' followed by five kisses. I pose for selfies too, putting my arm around them each in turn whilst the other captures the moment. My duties thus taken care of, I give the two a cheeky wave, before continuing towards the arena's back entrance.Inside everything looks ready. Despite being circular on the outside the arena is square shaped. A huge high roofed square. From the map I know the various bubbles and cubes all house things like a bar, or toilets, and in one case a small suite of offices for those who run this building. But the square is where almost everything's taking place. Stalls have been arranged into a kind of grid like network, with a stage built up on one side. The grid isn't perfect, some stalls or exhibitors are larger then others. And of course one whole corner, like he said it would be, is nothing but bondage stuff.
It's here I find Zak.
The bondage corner has been arranged with a clear plan in mind. It has a definite entrance and exit, each one marked by tall mock stone arches, high enough to be seen across the arena. Inside stalls and exhibitors flank the central path through from one arch to the other, creating a kind of main street. Halfway along that street opens out into a square, which is where Zak is stood, next to a wooden cross, talking to two other models.
I've heard of them both, from research, two of the bigger names in UK bondage work. First is Dominique: dark skinned and flat chested, a skinny size six with her thick black hair wrapped and woven into shoulder brushing dreadlocks. A Maori style tattoo covers her left arm and shoulder, tracing a curving outline of, but not touching, her A cup breast. Next to her is Syn. Curling blonde hair cut shaggy and messed up, longer on one side. A curvy but toned size twelve her breasts are D cups, fake like mine. Her body is covered in tattoo's, like a multicolored patchwork of ink. A full sleeve on each arm which links, on one side at least, to some currently half hidden design across the top of her chest. Her jeans are hiding what I remember are well inked legs. Snake bite piercings complete her bad girl rocker look.
Syn actually runs her own site, where she ties as often as being tied. Dominique, like me, is just a model.
I'm expecting to be snubbed, or otherwise not welcomed. The newbie trying to muscle in on the old guard- both these girls are mid to late twenties -or something similar. But it's smiles and hugs all round, compliments on my ink from Syn, so maybe we're friends after all.
"Okay ladies." Zak, made spokesperson by some vote I'm not aware of, claps for attention as some of the other bondage people present wander over, making this appear more like the meeting it no doubt is about to be. The three of us, the models, despite having only just met are already talking amongst ourselves. Loudly. Comparing ink and make-up. It takes Zak several claps to get our attention, to shut us up.
"Thank you. Ladies." I giggle, Syn flips him off, laughing too when Zak returns the gesture. "Let's run over the plan again shall we."
"You three girls will work in a rota pattern, spending roughly two hours each on the cross. Plymouth, you get the extra shift today. Dominique, you tomorrow." I look to the dark skinned girl, who gives me a nod, and a grin. I grin back. "Two hours here." Zak pats the wooden cross. "Tied up. Basically, you'll be the centrepiece of this whole bondage area. Something to show the visitors what we're all about."
"The rest of the time, breaks aside, we'll make sure you're kept busy, and visible. Any questions? Not from you." Zak points, at Syn, who acts mock offended, asking. "What did I do?"
"What didn't you do."
"Honestly." Still trying to act pissed off, but her smile, plus the general laughter, from half of the people around her and Zak, ruins the effect. "You're supposed to be polite to the models Zachary."
"I was," Zak grins, scoring a point, "perfectly polite to both Plymouth and Dominique."
After which Syn goes to push him, a move he dodges easily, both of them laughing now like old friends.
We head off to change. One of the toilet areas has been set aside for this, the posh one I'm told, not open to the public and being taken over this weekend by the army of barely clothed models who'll be spread out all over the arena. Inside it's a total boob fest. There are girls everywhere in various states of undress, plus a handful of guys.
And nobody seems to mind the nakedness. Everybody's talking and laughing. Hugging, despite in some cases that involves someone's cock pressing against someone else's pussy. There's a really good atmosphere. Friendly, even extending to a newbie like me.
I receive several shouted greetings and waves. A hug from a very curvy, but short, Asian lady with dyed blue hair. And then, in the middle of getting changed, some six foot plus white guy, his head shaved ontop but an impressive beard remaining, sporting a very muscular physique and a large cock dangling between his legs. Because he's naked. This male model wanders over, gives Dominique a hug, then leans against the wall next to me, openly eying up and complementing my boob job. Of course the whole thing makes me blush, because at that point I'm naked too, until Syn saves me by shooing him away, though she laughs whilst doing so.
The three of us, the bondage models, are all wearing camouflage bikinis. Tie side thong style bottoms, with tie side triangle halter style tops. Dominique's bikini is green, for jungle or grass based warfare. Mine is shades of blue, for fighting beneath the waves, or in Antarctica prehaps. Syn, hers is red. I'm not really sure how much call there is for hiding out in and around an active volcano? But she, we all, look pretty damn hot, especially since we're all wearing big chunky goth style knee high lace up boots too. Black, with no heels but stacked soles that add a couple of inches of height.
Ready, we join the other models, heading out to the arena floor. It's time, soon, to open the doors.
-
ducttapefan
- Forum Contributer
- Posts: 10
- Joined: 5 years ago
Excellent story and update as always
Ooh, fans! Well, we knew she was popular, so it's only logical, especially in a place like that.
I wonder, would Plymouth end up working with (as in getting tied up by) Syn at some point? Just a thought.
I wonder, would Plymouth end up working with (as in getting tied up by) Syn at some point? Just a thought.
I just found this story, [mention]RopeBunny[/mention], and have now caught up with you. A great story with a strong vibe of realism. In a recent chapter,
I must tell Trevor and [mention]slackywacky[/mention] that being a couple of decades past them I wish I still had their youth and vigor.
But to the point, you are writing a wonderful and interesting story. As I was reading it, I felt as though I was being carried along with Plymouth as things were happening to her. I wish the best for all of your characters and hope that the ink in your (symbolic) pen continues to flow with great abundance.
slackywacky wrote:As an elderly gentleman of roughly Trevor's age (but not his means) I could relate.
I must tell Trevor and [mention]slackywacky[/mention] that being a couple of decades past them I wish I still had their youth and vigor.
But to the point, you are writing a wonderful and interesting story. As I was reading it, I felt as though I was being carried along with Plymouth as things were happening to her. I wish the best for all of your characters and hope that the ink in your (symbolic) pen continues to flow with great abundance.
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
Well. I don't want to spoil anything by confirming, or denying, whether this is a part of the rough plan I've got written down for this story.
Would be fun though
[mention]GreyLord[/mention] thank you for the comment sir.
011.
Each day the convention will run for eight hours, from ten until six. There are three of us, models: Dominique, Syn, and me. But, for various reasons, instead of trying to divide eight into three we're working the cross tie as a two hour thing.
Syn has her own stall here, because Syn owns her own website, her own business, so each day the extra forth slot will be taken by either Dominique or me. Today it's me, which means I'll be going both first and last.
"Ready?" Not Zak, instead some guy I've only seen once before, from a distance, at the meeting earlier. Same late middle age as Zak, but larger built with more fat on him, hair brown and messy but clean shaven. I think his name is Andy? "Yes," I nod, both of us stood next to the cross, "Andy."
"Tony."
"Sorry." But he smiles, shakes his head. "S' cool, Plymouth. There are quite a few of us here, and, well, it's your first time." He gives me an appraising look. "Nervous?"
"No." I wave his comment away. The great bondage loving Plymouth, nervous. Ha. "Um. Maybe a little."
"Don't worry." Tony pats the cross. "I'll be here the whole time, any problems, just remember to blink a bunch." He thinks. "Or click your fingers. Okay?"
"Got it."
"Good. Come on then, let's get you in place before Zak sees us chatting and stresses out some more."
The cross is wooden, real wood, which is dark almost black in colour, not fake like the pretend stone arches. It's an X cross, not the other type, over six feet but not seven from floor to tip. The whole thing is tilted ever so slightly back, leaning on thick hidden legs, meaning that I'm actually laid back on it, not stood against it. I have to step up to climb on, there are small platforms, almost invisible wedge shaped things, to rest my chunky heels on.
In position, back against the wood, legs spread, not super wide, but enough that my bikini thong feels maybe too small. Oops. Arms held up above my head, the whole pose like I've been frozen mid star jump. I hold still, and Tony fixes me in place.
A leather cuff, black, is fixed to each leg of the cross down at ankle level. Tony buckles both tightly around my chunky boot clad legs before moving on to my arms. Here, up on the two vertically reaching points of the X, another pair of black cuffs wait. One for each wrist, buckled tightly again, though in truth all four don't feel nearly as inescapable as the rope I've been in before. But they make me look helpless, even if I'm strictly not completely so, and that's the point. These wrist cuffs aren't fixed to the cross, but to thick black cord, which runs up and through small eyelet holes atop the crosses arms, linked to hidden pulleys behind the wooden structure.
Once strapped in Tony winds the handle, turning the cross into a standing medieval rack as the ropes tug my arms out and up, stretching my body out flat against the wood.
Which makes me seem even more helpless, though in truth I could, possibly, still break free. But my body, my senses, certainly don't seem sure, because I'm feeling that by now familiar tingle. That happy buzz that comes on, making my nipples stand to attention, making my pussy and clit hyper aware of even the smallest gust of wind, making me feel more alive.
"You okay?" Tony asks, giving me a frown, because in an effort to hide my arousal I'm prehaps looking uncomfortable instead of relaxed. "I'm good." I reply, after taking a breath, flashing a smile, prehaps slightly too wide and manic, to prove how okay I am. "Right." Another frown, but he shrugs, carries on.
Which means I'm gagged. The final touch to my bondage.
The ball is small, which, I'd been told by Zak when we talked everything through over the phone, makes it more comfortable. Ideal for the two hours I'll be spending here. And it is, small enough that my jaws won't ache, that I- probably -won't drool, but large enough for it's black rubber to be visible between my painted red lips. Tony fastens the black leather straps underneath my hair, before rearranging my long red mane to tumble down around my head, framing both gagged mouth and large barely bikini clad breasts.
And, just in time, he steps back, as I hear the first sounds of convention attendees, the public, coming closer.
Showtime.
I am. Basically. A photo opportunity. Something, as will Syn and Dominique be when their turns come around, to draw people into the bondage area of this arena. We're even advertised in the program, our names and a thumbnail print of our faces, alongside a schedule and a price, which needs to be paid for the right to come and be photographed stood next to, or in front of, our bound bodies.
I'll have to make sure and get a program, maybe have Syn and Dominique sign it.
My first two hour slot passes quickly. There always seems to be a steady trickle of people, always, after the first half hour, a queue of between six and twenty six, waiting for their turn beside me. And by the time I'm released, helped down, I'm feeling very strung out. Near exhausted from having spent the whole time humming with arousal at being, mostly, the bound centre of attention.
It had felt incredible. Amazing. So many eyes, both male and female, on me. So many casually dropped comments I've heard, from people passing by or posing, talking openly about me. About my body and my enhanced chest. Telling each other, but it felt at times they were telling me too, just what they'd do to me, with me, if they only had the chance.
I'm allowed a break, thirty minutes to eat and pee. I, almost, spend the whole time in the toilet's taking care of business, but don't.
There's plenty to do before I'm put back on the cross. Always some task.
I help out on various stalls, wearing a black hoodie, unzipped of course, my presence adding an extra draw, bringing people in to look, and to buy, the various ropes and chains, or clothes. Some of the stalls sell books or DVD's. Everything bondage is for sale here.
With an escort- I'm never left alone, always someone large and muscular, someone imposing, shadows me -I wander the arena. Like a meet and greet. I shake hands, smile, flirt back. All whilst handing out leaflets offering various discounts at the bondage stalls.
Dominique does the same, helping out, the same tasks with her own imposing minder. Syn though, she does her stint on the cross, but the rest of her day is taken with her own stall. There she sells clothing, the name of her site- Rope Sluts -printed across the front of tees, the back of hoodies or onto baseball caps, like an angry pink or black slash. She sells bondage equipment too: some kind of interesting looking leather harness, rope. Various gags. Toys. From her I get, and return, plenty of cheeky waves whenever our paths cross.
And that's day one, of two. Having changed back into my dress I take a slow walk to the hotel, enjoying the sun, the fresh breeze on my face, after a day spent indoors.
I elect to eat first, despite feeling the need for a shower, not to mention the all day urge- still unfulfilled -to cum, I'm starving. So dinner in the hotels restaurant is priority one.
"Plymouth." I look around, the voice, female, is familiar, but for a moment I see nobody I recognise. Then Syn leans out from a booth towards the back of the room, her heavily tattooed arm waving. I smile, wave back. Company would be good.
She's alone. I learn whilst we eat, and drink. Whilst Syn drinks anyway, knocking back a half dozen whiskeys whilst I nurse a single vodka orange to accompany my burger. We both have the cheeseburger. Syn's single, like me, here on her own. Dominique though has a husband. How? Dominique, who gets tied up and fucked for an actual job, has a man who is okay with this career choice. Syn giggles at my look of total disbelief. Dominique's other half, and her too, are part of Zak's motor home convoy. All of them back at the campsite now, now doubt, according to Syn, sharing some huge barbecue cookout.
And, the more we eat, the more she drinks, I'm fairly certain I'm being hit on.
Little dropped hints, compliments about my body, small reaching across the table touches as she does so. Even going so far, once she hits drink number six, our food finished by this point, as to enquire about my breasts.
"Can I," flashing me a cheeky smile, gesturing with her now empty glass, "can I ask."
"Ask?" Smiling back, trying to decide whether I want to sleep with her, I mostly do. She's very pretty. It's more that I'm trying to decide what might happen if. When. We make it someplace private. More specifically I'm wondering whether she'll want to tie me up, as she so often does in her videos.
Or, causing a small flash of nerves, making my arms go cold, making me shiver, once, will she expect me to take charge? How the fuck do I tie her up, if that's what she expects?
"Syn?" I prompt, because for over a minute she's just been staring at my breasts, her empty glass waving left and right as she holds it off the table. That cheeky smile never leaving her face. "Was just." Going to take a sip, frowning, looking downright disgusted in fact, when the glass is found to be empty. I giggle, she smiles at me, licks her lips. Makes a half grab half stabbing point motion with her free hand towards my chest, but stops halfway and instead takes another drink. Frowns again, actually staring into the empty glass like a telescope.
How many did she have, I begin to wonder, before I turned up, to be this drunk?
And then, with bad timing, as far as possible sex with Syn is concerned anyway, a shadow falls across the table.
"Ladies." I turn to look, finding a young man wearing blue jeans and a sleeves rolled up white untucked shirt smiling down at the two of us. At least half of the buttons are undone. "Can I buy you both a drink?"
"Roman." Syn looks the newcomer up and down, nods to herself. "Here to talk business I imagine."
"As a matter of fact I am."
"Hmmm." Syn looks from him to me, back to him. Appears to reach a decision. "I'm." She points, at the kitchen, not the door. "Going to bed."
"I see." A nod, as though he expected no less, Roman then smiles at me. "Plymouth, right?"
"Um." He's very tall, from down here on my seat, and, quite handsome. "Yes."
"Would you care to join me for a drink," he winks, "and a business chat?"
I look at Syn, who, looking back, gives me a smile, nods. "S' fine." She pats Roman on the hip. "Roman's a." Trying to take yet another drink. Scowling at the glass, which I quickly take before she flings it. Which she looked ready to do. "A good man." She finishes. Nodding. "Just." Leaning in close, but talking loud enough that Roman can hear, and from my angle I can see him smiling in amusement. "Whatever price he offers, ask for double."
"Double?"
"Yep." Syn, before I realise, gives me a short but firm kiss on the lips, then climbs to her feet.
For a drunk girl she walks a good straight line.
"So." Having fetched me another vodka orange, and himself a pint, Roman sits down in Syn's empty seat. He smiles across at me, dropping a sheaf of papers onto the table between us. "Plymouth. I have an offer of work for you, if you're interested?"
Each day the convention will run for eight hours, from ten until six. There are three of us, models: Dominique, Syn, and me. But, for various reasons, instead of trying to divide eight into three we're working the cross tie as a two hour thing.
Syn has her own stall here, because Syn owns her own website, her own business, so each day the extra forth slot will be taken by either Dominique or me. Today it's me, which means I'll be going both first and last.
"Ready?" Not Zak, instead some guy I've only seen once before, from a distance, at the meeting earlier. Same late middle age as Zak, but larger built with more fat on him, hair brown and messy but clean shaven. I think his name is Andy? "Yes," I nod, both of us stood next to the cross, "Andy."
"Tony."
"Sorry." But he smiles, shakes his head. "S' cool, Plymouth. There are quite a few of us here, and, well, it's your first time." He gives me an appraising look. "Nervous?"
"No." I wave his comment away. The great bondage loving Plymouth, nervous. Ha. "Um. Maybe a little."
"Don't worry." Tony pats the cross. "I'll be here the whole time, any problems, just remember to blink a bunch." He thinks. "Or click your fingers. Okay?"
"Got it."
"Good. Come on then, let's get you in place before Zak sees us chatting and stresses out some more."
The cross is wooden, real wood, which is dark almost black in colour, not fake like the pretend stone arches. It's an X cross, not the other type, over six feet but not seven from floor to tip. The whole thing is tilted ever so slightly back, leaning on thick hidden legs, meaning that I'm actually laid back on it, not stood against it. I have to step up to climb on, there are small platforms, almost invisible wedge shaped things, to rest my chunky heels on.
In position, back against the wood, legs spread, not super wide, but enough that my bikini thong feels maybe too small. Oops. Arms held up above my head, the whole pose like I've been frozen mid star jump. I hold still, and Tony fixes me in place.
A leather cuff, black, is fixed to each leg of the cross down at ankle level. Tony buckles both tightly around my chunky boot clad legs before moving on to my arms. Here, up on the two vertically reaching points of the X, another pair of black cuffs wait. One for each wrist, buckled tightly again, though in truth all four don't feel nearly as inescapable as the rope I've been in before. But they make me look helpless, even if I'm strictly not completely so, and that's the point. These wrist cuffs aren't fixed to the cross, but to thick black cord, which runs up and through small eyelet holes atop the crosses arms, linked to hidden pulleys behind the wooden structure.
Once strapped in Tony winds the handle, turning the cross into a standing medieval rack as the ropes tug my arms out and up, stretching my body out flat against the wood.
Which makes me seem even more helpless, though in truth I could, possibly, still break free. But my body, my senses, certainly don't seem sure, because I'm feeling that by now familiar tingle. That happy buzz that comes on, making my nipples stand to attention, making my pussy and clit hyper aware of even the smallest gust of wind, making me feel more alive.
"You okay?" Tony asks, giving me a frown, because in an effort to hide my arousal I'm prehaps looking uncomfortable instead of relaxed. "I'm good." I reply, after taking a breath, flashing a smile, prehaps slightly too wide and manic, to prove how okay I am. "Right." Another frown, but he shrugs, carries on.
Which means I'm gagged. The final touch to my bondage.
The ball is small, which, I'd been told by Zak when we talked everything through over the phone, makes it more comfortable. Ideal for the two hours I'll be spending here. And it is, small enough that my jaws won't ache, that I- probably -won't drool, but large enough for it's black rubber to be visible between my painted red lips. Tony fastens the black leather straps underneath my hair, before rearranging my long red mane to tumble down around my head, framing both gagged mouth and large barely bikini clad breasts.
And, just in time, he steps back, as I hear the first sounds of convention attendees, the public, coming closer.
Showtime.
I am. Basically. A photo opportunity. Something, as will Syn and Dominique be when their turns come around, to draw people into the bondage area of this arena. We're even advertised in the program, our names and a thumbnail print of our faces, alongside a schedule and a price, which needs to be paid for the right to come and be photographed stood next to, or in front of, our bound bodies.
I'll have to make sure and get a program, maybe have Syn and Dominique sign it.
My first two hour slot passes quickly. There always seems to be a steady trickle of people, always, after the first half hour, a queue of between six and twenty six, waiting for their turn beside me. And by the time I'm released, helped down, I'm feeling very strung out. Near exhausted from having spent the whole time humming with arousal at being, mostly, the bound centre of attention.
It had felt incredible. Amazing. So many eyes, both male and female, on me. So many casually dropped comments I've heard, from people passing by or posing, talking openly about me. About my body and my enhanced chest. Telling each other, but it felt at times they were telling me too, just what they'd do to me, with me, if they only had the chance.
I'm allowed a break, thirty minutes to eat and pee. I, almost, spend the whole time in the toilet's taking care of business, but don't.
There's plenty to do before I'm put back on the cross. Always some task.
I help out on various stalls, wearing a black hoodie, unzipped of course, my presence adding an extra draw, bringing people in to look, and to buy, the various ropes and chains, or clothes. Some of the stalls sell books or DVD's. Everything bondage is for sale here.
With an escort- I'm never left alone, always someone large and muscular, someone imposing, shadows me -I wander the arena. Like a meet and greet. I shake hands, smile, flirt back. All whilst handing out leaflets offering various discounts at the bondage stalls.
Dominique does the same, helping out, the same tasks with her own imposing minder. Syn though, she does her stint on the cross, but the rest of her day is taken with her own stall. There she sells clothing, the name of her site- Rope Sluts -printed across the front of tees, the back of hoodies or onto baseball caps, like an angry pink or black slash. She sells bondage equipment too: some kind of interesting looking leather harness, rope. Various gags. Toys. From her I get, and return, plenty of cheeky waves whenever our paths cross.
And that's day one, of two. Having changed back into my dress I take a slow walk to the hotel, enjoying the sun, the fresh breeze on my face, after a day spent indoors.
I elect to eat first, despite feeling the need for a shower, not to mention the all day urge- still unfulfilled -to cum, I'm starving. So dinner in the hotels restaurant is priority one.
"Plymouth." I look around, the voice, female, is familiar, but for a moment I see nobody I recognise. Then Syn leans out from a booth towards the back of the room, her heavily tattooed arm waving. I smile, wave back. Company would be good.
She's alone. I learn whilst we eat, and drink. Whilst Syn drinks anyway, knocking back a half dozen whiskeys whilst I nurse a single vodka orange to accompany my burger. We both have the cheeseburger. Syn's single, like me, here on her own. Dominique though has a husband. How? Dominique, who gets tied up and fucked for an actual job, has a man who is okay with this career choice. Syn giggles at my look of total disbelief. Dominique's other half, and her too, are part of Zak's motor home convoy. All of them back at the campsite now, now doubt, according to Syn, sharing some huge barbecue cookout.
And, the more we eat, the more she drinks, I'm fairly certain I'm being hit on.
Little dropped hints, compliments about my body, small reaching across the table touches as she does so. Even going so far, once she hits drink number six, our food finished by this point, as to enquire about my breasts.
"Can I," flashing me a cheeky smile, gesturing with her now empty glass, "can I ask."
"Ask?" Smiling back, trying to decide whether I want to sleep with her, I mostly do. She's very pretty. It's more that I'm trying to decide what might happen if. When. We make it someplace private. More specifically I'm wondering whether she'll want to tie me up, as she so often does in her videos.
Or, causing a small flash of nerves, making my arms go cold, making me shiver, once, will she expect me to take charge? How the fuck do I tie her up, if that's what she expects?
"Syn?" I prompt, because for over a minute she's just been staring at my breasts, her empty glass waving left and right as she holds it off the table. That cheeky smile never leaving her face. "Was just." Going to take a sip, frowning, looking downright disgusted in fact, when the glass is found to be empty. I giggle, she smiles at me, licks her lips. Makes a half grab half stabbing point motion with her free hand towards my chest, but stops halfway and instead takes another drink. Frowns again, actually staring into the empty glass like a telescope.
How many did she have, I begin to wonder, before I turned up, to be this drunk?
And then, with bad timing, as far as possible sex with Syn is concerned anyway, a shadow falls across the table.
"Ladies." I turn to look, finding a young man wearing blue jeans and a sleeves rolled up white untucked shirt smiling down at the two of us. At least half of the buttons are undone. "Can I buy you both a drink?"
"Roman." Syn looks the newcomer up and down, nods to herself. "Here to talk business I imagine."
"As a matter of fact I am."
"Hmmm." Syn looks from him to me, back to him. Appears to reach a decision. "I'm." She points, at the kitchen, not the door. "Going to bed."
"I see." A nod, as though he expected no less, Roman then smiles at me. "Plymouth, right?"
"Um." He's very tall, from down here on my seat, and, quite handsome. "Yes."
"Would you care to join me for a drink," he winks, "and a business chat?"
I look at Syn, who, looking back, gives me a smile, nods. "S' fine." She pats Roman on the hip. "Roman's a." Trying to take yet another drink. Scowling at the glass, which I quickly take before she flings it. Which she looked ready to do. "A good man." She finishes. Nodding. "Just." Leaning in close, but talking loud enough that Roman can hear, and from my angle I can see him smiling in amusement. "Whatever price he offers, ask for double."
"Double?"
"Yep." Syn, before I realise, gives me a short but firm kiss on the lips, then climbs to her feet.
For a drunk girl she walks a good straight line.
"So." Having fetched me another vodka orange, and himself a pint, Roman sits down in Syn's empty seat. He smiles across at me, dropping a sheaf of papers onto the table between us. "Plymouth. I have an offer of work for you, if you're interested?"
(By an incredible bit of computer wizardry, I posted this on the wrong site earlier.)
Too bad Syn got sloshed. There could have been some great fun and games. But possibly Roman will not be all business. Plymouth has put herself so out and she seems so vulnerable. I have to hope that nothing bad befalls her. At least nothing that she does not want.
Too bad Syn got sloshed. There could have been some great fun and games. But possibly Roman will not be all business. Plymouth has put herself so out and she seems so vulnerable. I have to hope that nothing bad befalls her. At least nothing that she does not want.
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
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tickletied84
- Centennial Club
- Posts: 490
- Joined: 6 years ago
- Location: Scotland
Where is this convention being held? Are there any tickets available?? 
012.
Is he Roman like I'm Plymouth? Does it matter? Not really.
Sat down in the booth at the hotels restaurant bar, opposite not next to me, he still looks tall. He's dark skinned, not the same as Dominique though. Roman, or someone back in his line, clearly hails from a different part of the world to her. His English accent makes it impossible to tell anyway. Black hair is styled in a small afro, with a well trimmed short goatee framing a still smiling mouth. No tattoo's, that I can see anyway.
"So. Plymouth." Placing a forearm flat ontop of the papers that no doubt are a contract, for whatever job offer he's about to pitch, one finger pointing at me. "How did you find the convention?"
"Well." Just what can I say? Frustrating. Awesome. Busy. An experience I'm looking forward to repeating tomorrow. All that and more. "Um." I nod. "It was. Fun."
"Fun?"
"Yes."
"Just." Giving me a sideways look, head cocked. "Fun?"
"Yes."
"Well, okay then." A small shrug, like he knows there's more, but won't push. "Anyway." Rubbing his hands together. "How about I give you my sales pitch now?"
"Sure."
"Well. Hmm." Tapping out a tattoo on the table, Roman clicks his fingers. "Let's begin with, have you heard of me?"
"No. Sorry." I add, not wanting to dent whatever ego he might have. But Roman only shrugs, waves my sorry away. "Not a big porn fan then?"
"I'm. Well." Blushing. Which is silly, given I actually do porn now. I cough, Roman laughs. "I mostly just watch the tied up stuff."
"Bondage girl to the core huh?" Nodding. "Okay. I can appreciate that. Well then, I'll fill you in. On my little empire. Such as it is."
"I make videos. Used to sell them as hardcopy, but." A grimace. "Worlds changed. Now online is best. So." A shrug. "Change with the times right?"
"Oh." I nod. "Right."
"Exactly. Now I have a website."
"Anyway. I have a series. Long running. Kinda a theme connecting about eighty percent of what I do."
"What's the theme?" Genuinely interested, because, having never heard of Roman, which means he isn't bondage. So, what could he want me for?
If it isn't bondage related stuff then he's going to be out of luck. No matter how big his cock is. Or how much cash is on the table.
He grins at me. Winks. "I call it. Roman fucks. Dot dot dot."
"He does?"
"I do." His nod, the crude title, makes me giggle. "I pick stuff," he continues, "like blondes. Or office girls. One time I did Europe. A part one anyway."
"So you pick a subject, then fuck it?" I giggle again, this time he joins in. "You got it." Clicking his fingers, turning it into a pointing gesture.
"So what do you need me for?"
"My grand plan." Spreading his arms wide, as though seeing the words written up in lights before him. "Roman. Fucks. Porn."
"Porn?"
"Yep." Sitting back, taking a long gulp of his pint, looking quite pleased. "This weekend. Porn stars all together. I had this amazing idea. What if I fucked as many different porn genres as possible."
"Wow." I am impressed. Nodding and smiling to show it. "So who've you done so far?"
"Um." Holding up a hand, counting off. "Let's see. Black girl. Flat chested goth girl covered in tattoo's. Girl with a cock."
"With a what?" I know my mouth is open, and close it with an effort. "Is that. Um?"
"I'm pretty open minded with my sexuality." Roman smiles, then gives me a serious look. "Next on my list is a bondage girl."
"Me?"
"Why not."
"So." I swallow. Everything, my frustration of earlier, which I still haven't seen to, suddenly jumps back to the fore. "You want to fuck me?"
"Almost." A grin, Roman leans forwards, drops his deep voice, almost like he's coming on to me. "I want to tie you up, then fuck you."
Which, given how horny and in need of release I've been all fucking day, has me signing on the dotted line without even thinking to check about money, let alone try to push for double.
Roman makes a phone call, and his crew, one man and one woman, both carrying large heavy looking black sports bags, meet us at my room.
"Why my room?"
"Don't want to film everything in mine. This way, your room, a different hotel, outside. Adds variety to each scene."
"Oh." I hadn't thought. But nod now. "Makes sense."
Inside Roman and the guy sort out the cameras, plus the thing I'll be attached to- which I try, and fail thanks to my by now near singing with joy pussy, to ignore -whilst the girl and me go around my room, trying to make it look. Well. Sort of lived in. And sort of like bondage. Rope and a gag on the bed, plus a small pile on the floor, where both will be in shot from certain angles. I hang a short dress, something black and slutty I plan on wearing tomorrow evening, on a hanger, hanging that on the back of the door. Again, in view from the right angle. On the desk, in front of the mirror, I lay out a half dozen perfume and moisturiser bottles, plus my hair dryer and brush. Finally we toss jeans, a tee, and lingerie, over the armchair, so it looks like I just stripped out of them.
Then I do strip, tossing my dress and the lingerie I'm wearing into my bag, so I'm naked.
"Okay?" Roman, taking my hands in his, looking into my eyes. I nod. "Good." He seems to think. "Ever do this before?"
"No." Deciding to be honest, I shrug. "But I'll be okay."
"Yeah?" Giving my hands a squeeze. "Sure?"
"Yeah." I nod, no way I'm backing out, despite the nerves. What Roman wants to do, to me, is a huge step up from what I've done up until now. But damn it's going to be one hell of a ride. "Ready when you are." I smile.
On the floor, in the middle of my impressively large hotel room, sits the thing Roman and his assistant have assembled. The base is wooden, like a large square, bolted to which is something saddle shaped, but solid. "It's called a Sybian." Roman comments, seeing me eyeballing it. "Hmm." I nod back, taking in the rest, stepping closer.
The saddle, when I hunker down, is the right height off the floor that I can kneel, kind of sit, with knees bent and lower legs flat on the floor level base, feet behind me. Attached to the saddle, which is black, is a flesh coloured cock, which sticks up into the air. The assistant is just finishing up smearing the cock in lube, so, carefully, I lower myself on, a small sigh escaping from between my lips as I feel the hard rubber shaft filling and stretching my already sensative- because I'm horny -pussy. With the cock fully inside me I'm sat on the saddle, my clit nestled against some small bumps at the fake cocks base.
Now I get fixed in place.
Each ankle is bound, lower legs and feet pinned flat to the wooden board, by way of rope, fed through metal rings in a crisscross pattern.
Behind the saddle, rising up and pressing against my back, is a black metal pole. Tall enough that it's top is at neck height, the pole is T shaped, being as long as my outstretched arms on the horizontal. The pole, all of it, is covered in metal rings. Both of the assistants use these to lash my naked body in place. Rope is passed through rings, wrapped across my body or arms, looped, when my breasts are reached, around the base of each several times, and always then fed back through another ring. Everything is pulled really tight, yanked and tied off repeatedly, causing the thin coarse rope to dig into my skin all over.
The whole tie is very severe, the effect quite extreme, and real. By the time they've finished binding me in place I'm moaning, softly and near constantly, from the pain of the ropes pinching my skin. The only part of me I can now move is my head.
Clamps are added. The sudden bite of the metal teeth causing my breath to catch as they're applied to my already over sensitive nipples.
Lastly, I'm gagged. Not with a ball. This thing, like something an evil dentist would use, is silver, and pins my jaws wide open by way of two solid bars that push against my teeth, preventing me from closing my mouth. The various leather straps used to secure it to my head cause my hair to stick out all over, making me look somewhat crazy.
"Ready?" Roman, smiling, but looking serious too, hunkers down in front of me. He gives me a thumbs up. "Okay. Plymouth?"
"Aaahhhhhh pppff hhhhh aaaaaa." I nod, drool already leaking from my mouth. "Okay." Nodding back, the female assistant stepping in to clean me up, Roman stands, steps back, and we begin.
For five minutes I'm circled, both the assistants are holding expensive looking cameras with bolted on mics. They do laps of me, zooming in and out, capturing my lashed and rope pinched body, my clamped and jiggling breasts, my obviously filled and damp pussy, the cocks base clearly visible, and lastly my forced open drooling mouth. All of this whilst I moan, looking left and right, my gaze occasionally finding the camera.
Roman, naked, steps up to me. Stands before me, his flaccid but damn it's big cock hanging limp between muscular legs. There's a smile on his face, something like victory. Lashed in place and gagged I can do nothing, can't move, can't protest, as he steps in close, then slowly, deliberately, wipes his cock across my face.
The tip briefly tickles at my lips, and I, on instinct, and because the whole tease is making me really fucking horny, turn my head to follow the cock as he steps away.
Out of shot.
To start the machine. The. Sybian. Up.
The buzz, only low but insistent, is sudden. Making me cry out as the entire fake cock filling up my pussy instantly starts pulsing, at the same time its base is attacking my clit. Rubbing away, teasing.
I squrim, try to squrim, but of course am held firmly in place. And a moment later Roman increases the vibration speed and power to full. The buzzing not one angry bee, now a whole swarm.
My moans, quiet until now, become loud enough that next door can surely hear. I begin panting too as my first orgasm, the days built up tension rushing for release, rolls over me like a wave.
But cumming has only made my clit more sensitive, and Roman isn't done with me yet.
The machine, still at full power, is intense as it attacks me from below, even as Roman advances back into frame. My moans, now in part of pain and discomfort from my becoming sore clit and nipples, are silenced by his now hard cock, which Roman slides into my waiting mouth.
He steps close, real close, burying his length, and me powerless to stop him, bound in place, unable to pull back so I must, am forced to, gag on his cock as I feel the tip right at the back of my throat. I cough, my eyes watering, my mouth dripping saliva, as Roman grips my hair with each hand, and begins moving my head on and off his cock.
Completely in control, as though I were no more then a toy. A thing. Roman forces me to face fuck him. He almost never moves, remaining stood so close his feet are touching my knees, instead the whole thing, the fuck, is controlled by way of yanking my head forwards and back.
At times he pumps my mouth on and off his thick shaft so fast I can barely breathe.
Only to pull out, maybe a half step back. Giving me mere moments to dribble out the mixture of saliva and the juices from his cock, the whole sticky mess falling onto my large tender bouncing breasts. Mere moments to catch my breath, prehaps to moan out some half formed begging plea. Before he steps back in, his cock silencing me yet again.
At other times he holds my lips against the base of his shaft, the whole length buried down my throat. Making me gag. Making me choke and cough.
My eyes continue to water, making my make-up run.
And through it all I cum twice more. Each time my moans increase, each time the pain pleasure mix reaches a crescendo, rising to and then falling off the summit of my highly turned on state.
Because I am turned on. Very turned on. Despite the pain, the difficulty breathing. Despite, but probably because of, the fact I've been trussed up and am being used like a worthless fuck toy, I am incredibly horny. Really really fucking one hundred percent riding the high of this experience. Which I don't want to end.
But it does.
Roman pulls out, hand pumping furiously, replacing my mouth, and moments later he cums. Sticky white fluid explodes from the tip of his cock, covering my lower jaw, splattering across my breasts and down my forced open throat.
At which point he walks away, abandoning me.
And, though moments later, having had a final, forth, orgasm myself, I feel the Sybian finally shut down, I'm left in place for another five minutes. The cameras circle, one last time, capturing the ruin of my cum covered body. My panting moans as I attempt to regain control of my breathing. The red marks that cover me, visible beneath the rope that's now been digging into my soft skin for close to a half hour.
With a nod to each other both Romans assistants shut down their cameras, then set about freeing me. The rope is cut, not unknotted, but first my clamps and gag are removed.
Helped to my feet, because I feel spent, used up, wasted, I'm offered a bathrobe, which I refuse by way of shaking my head.
"Do you need anything?" Roman, his clothes back on, holding me by the shoulders and looking me over. "Plymouth?"
"Nah." I smile, because he isn't hugging me, though it feels like he wants to, but I'm covered in both my own drool and his cum. "Just a shower."
"Good plan." His grin widens my own, and we laugh.
"You did great." Having let me go, his assistants gone, stood at the door to my room himself, Roman nods. "A real pro if I'm any good judge."
"Thanks." High praise indeed, his assessment of my ability a mirror of both Zaks and Eds. So it must be true. Thinking of something to say back, I have a thought, and smile. "It was. Fun."
"Fun huh?" Eyebrow cocked. "Well." A nod. "Good." Roman points. "Cash on the table." He grimaces, his brain making the same connection as mine no doubt: fucked you, here's your pay, like a hooker. I laugh, because it's funny, after a moment he joins me.
A shower first, to wash off all the crap, then I run a hot bubble filled bath, and soak, soothing my marked body, my tender pussy and clit, my sore nipples.
"All in all," musing, to myself, glancing out the bathroom door at the, fairly large, pile of cash, "not a bad first day at the convention."
Is he Roman like I'm Plymouth? Does it matter? Not really.
Sat down in the booth at the hotels restaurant bar, opposite not next to me, he still looks tall. He's dark skinned, not the same as Dominique though. Roman, or someone back in his line, clearly hails from a different part of the world to her. His English accent makes it impossible to tell anyway. Black hair is styled in a small afro, with a well trimmed short goatee framing a still smiling mouth. No tattoo's, that I can see anyway.
"So. Plymouth." Placing a forearm flat ontop of the papers that no doubt are a contract, for whatever job offer he's about to pitch, one finger pointing at me. "How did you find the convention?"
"Well." Just what can I say? Frustrating. Awesome. Busy. An experience I'm looking forward to repeating tomorrow. All that and more. "Um." I nod. "It was. Fun."
"Fun?"
"Yes."
"Just." Giving me a sideways look, head cocked. "Fun?"
"Yes."
"Well, okay then." A small shrug, like he knows there's more, but won't push. "Anyway." Rubbing his hands together. "How about I give you my sales pitch now?"
"Sure."
"Well. Hmm." Tapping out a tattoo on the table, Roman clicks his fingers. "Let's begin with, have you heard of me?"
"No. Sorry." I add, not wanting to dent whatever ego he might have. But Roman only shrugs, waves my sorry away. "Not a big porn fan then?"
"I'm. Well." Blushing. Which is silly, given I actually do porn now. I cough, Roman laughs. "I mostly just watch the tied up stuff."
"Bondage girl to the core huh?" Nodding. "Okay. I can appreciate that. Well then, I'll fill you in. On my little empire. Such as it is."
"I make videos. Used to sell them as hardcopy, but." A grimace. "Worlds changed. Now online is best. So." A shrug. "Change with the times right?"
"Oh." I nod. "Right."
"Exactly. Now I have a website."
"Anyway. I have a series. Long running. Kinda a theme connecting about eighty percent of what I do."
"What's the theme?" Genuinely interested, because, having never heard of Roman, which means he isn't bondage. So, what could he want me for?
If it isn't bondage related stuff then he's going to be out of luck. No matter how big his cock is. Or how much cash is on the table.
He grins at me. Winks. "I call it. Roman fucks. Dot dot dot."
"He does?"
"I do." His nod, the crude title, makes me giggle. "I pick stuff," he continues, "like blondes. Or office girls. One time I did Europe. A part one anyway."
"So you pick a subject, then fuck it?" I giggle again, this time he joins in. "You got it." Clicking his fingers, turning it into a pointing gesture.
"So what do you need me for?"
"My grand plan." Spreading his arms wide, as though seeing the words written up in lights before him. "Roman. Fucks. Porn."
"Porn?"
"Yep." Sitting back, taking a long gulp of his pint, looking quite pleased. "This weekend. Porn stars all together. I had this amazing idea. What if I fucked as many different porn genres as possible."
"Wow." I am impressed. Nodding and smiling to show it. "So who've you done so far?"
"Um." Holding up a hand, counting off. "Let's see. Black girl. Flat chested goth girl covered in tattoo's. Girl with a cock."
"With a what?" I know my mouth is open, and close it with an effort. "Is that. Um?"
"I'm pretty open minded with my sexuality." Roman smiles, then gives me a serious look. "Next on my list is a bondage girl."
"Me?"
"Why not."
"So." I swallow. Everything, my frustration of earlier, which I still haven't seen to, suddenly jumps back to the fore. "You want to fuck me?"
"Almost." A grin, Roman leans forwards, drops his deep voice, almost like he's coming on to me. "I want to tie you up, then fuck you."
Which, given how horny and in need of release I've been all fucking day, has me signing on the dotted line without even thinking to check about money, let alone try to push for double.
Roman makes a phone call, and his crew, one man and one woman, both carrying large heavy looking black sports bags, meet us at my room.
"Why my room?"
"Don't want to film everything in mine. This way, your room, a different hotel, outside. Adds variety to each scene."
"Oh." I hadn't thought. But nod now. "Makes sense."
Inside Roman and the guy sort out the cameras, plus the thing I'll be attached to- which I try, and fail thanks to my by now near singing with joy pussy, to ignore -whilst the girl and me go around my room, trying to make it look. Well. Sort of lived in. And sort of like bondage. Rope and a gag on the bed, plus a small pile on the floor, where both will be in shot from certain angles. I hang a short dress, something black and slutty I plan on wearing tomorrow evening, on a hanger, hanging that on the back of the door. Again, in view from the right angle. On the desk, in front of the mirror, I lay out a half dozen perfume and moisturiser bottles, plus my hair dryer and brush. Finally we toss jeans, a tee, and lingerie, over the armchair, so it looks like I just stripped out of them.
Then I do strip, tossing my dress and the lingerie I'm wearing into my bag, so I'm naked.
"Okay?" Roman, taking my hands in his, looking into my eyes. I nod. "Good." He seems to think. "Ever do this before?"
"No." Deciding to be honest, I shrug. "But I'll be okay."
"Yeah?" Giving my hands a squeeze. "Sure?"
"Yeah." I nod, no way I'm backing out, despite the nerves. What Roman wants to do, to me, is a huge step up from what I've done up until now. But damn it's going to be one hell of a ride. "Ready when you are." I smile.
On the floor, in the middle of my impressively large hotel room, sits the thing Roman and his assistant have assembled. The base is wooden, like a large square, bolted to which is something saddle shaped, but solid. "It's called a Sybian." Roman comments, seeing me eyeballing it. "Hmm." I nod back, taking in the rest, stepping closer.
The saddle, when I hunker down, is the right height off the floor that I can kneel, kind of sit, with knees bent and lower legs flat on the floor level base, feet behind me. Attached to the saddle, which is black, is a flesh coloured cock, which sticks up into the air. The assistant is just finishing up smearing the cock in lube, so, carefully, I lower myself on, a small sigh escaping from between my lips as I feel the hard rubber shaft filling and stretching my already sensative- because I'm horny -pussy. With the cock fully inside me I'm sat on the saddle, my clit nestled against some small bumps at the fake cocks base.
Now I get fixed in place.
Each ankle is bound, lower legs and feet pinned flat to the wooden board, by way of rope, fed through metal rings in a crisscross pattern.
Behind the saddle, rising up and pressing against my back, is a black metal pole. Tall enough that it's top is at neck height, the pole is T shaped, being as long as my outstretched arms on the horizontal. The pole, all of it, is covered in metal rings. Both of the assistants use these to lash my naked body in place. Rope is passed through rings, wrapped across my body or arms, looped, when my breasts are reached, around the base of each several times, and always then fed back through another ring. Everything is pulled really tight, yanked and tied off repeatedly, causing the thin coarse rope to dig into my skin all over.
The whole tie is very severe, the effect quite extreme, and real. By the time they've finished binding me in place I'm moaning, softly and near constantly, from the pain of the ropes pinching my skin. The only part of me I can now move is my head.
Clamps are added. The sudden bite of the metal teeth causing my breath to catch as they're applied to my already over sensitive nipples.
Lastly, I'm gagged. Not with a ball. This thing, like something an evil dentist would use, is silver, and pins my jaws wide open by way of two solid bars that push against my teeth, preventing me from closing my mouth. The various leather straps used to secure it to my head cause my hair to stick out all over, making me look somewhat crazy.
"Ready?" Roman, smiling, but looking serious too, hunkers down in front of me. He gives me a thumbs up. "Okay. Plymouth?"
"Aaahhhhhh pppff hhhhh aaaaaa." I nod, drool already leaking from my mouth. "Okay." Nodding back, the female assistant stepping in to clean me up, Roman stands, steps back, and we begin.
For five minutes I'm circled, both the assistants are holding expensive looking cameras with bolted on mics. They do laps of me, zooming in and out, capturing my lashed and rope pinched body, my clamped and jiggling breasts, my obviously filled and damp pussy, the cocks base clearly visible, and lastly my forced open drooling mouth. All of this whilst I moan, looking left and right, my gaze occasionally finding the camera.
Roman, naked, steps up to me. Stands before me, his flaccid but damn it's big cock hanging limp between muscular legs. There's a smile on his face, something like victory. Lashed in place and gagged I can do nothing, can't move, can't protest, as he steps in close, then slowly, deliberately, wipes his cock across my face.
The tip briefly tickles at my lips, and I, on instinct, and because the whole tease is making me really fucking horny, turn my head to follow the cock as he steps away.
Out of shot.
To start the machine. The. Sybian. Up.
The buzz, only low but insistent, is sudden. Making me cry out as the entire fake cock filling up my pussy instantly starts pulsing, at the same time its base is attacking my clit. Rubbing away, teasing.
I squrim, try to squrim, but of course am held firmly in place. And a moment later Roman increases the vibration speed and power to full. The buzzing not one angry bee, now a whole swarm.
My moans, quiet until now, become loud enough that next door can surely hear. I begin panting too as my first orgasm, the days built up tension rushing for release, rolls over me like a wave.
But cumming has only made my clit more sensitive, and Roman isn't done with me yet.
The machine, still at full power, is intense as it attacks me from below, even as Roman advances back into frame. My moans, now in part of pain and discomfort from my becoming sore clit and nipples, are silenced by his now hard cock, which Roman slides into my waiting mouth.
He steps close, real close, burying his length, and me powerless to stop him, bound in place, unable to pull back so I must, am forced to, gag on his cock as I feel the tip right at the back of my throat. I cough, my eyes watering, my mouth dripping saliva, as Roman grips my hair with each hand, and begins moving my head on and off his cock.
Completely in control, as though I were no more then a toy. A thing. Roman forces me to face fuck him. He almost never moves, remaining stood so close his feet are touching my knees, instead the whole thing, the fuck, is controlled by way of yanking my head forwards and back.
At times he pumps my mouth on and off his thick shaft so fast I can barely breathe.
Only to pull out, maybe a half step back. Giving me mere moments to dribble out the mixture of saliva and the juices from his cock, the whole sticky mess falling onto my large tender bouncing breasts. Mere moments to catch my breath, prehaps to moan out some half formed begging plea. Before he steps back in, his cock silencing me yet again.
At other times he holds my lips against the base of his shaft, the whole length buried down my throat. Making me gag. Making me choke and cough.
My eyes continue to water, making my make-up run.
And through it all I cum twice more. Each time my moans increase, each time the pain pleasure mix reaches a crescendo, rising to and then falling off the summit of my highly turned on state.
Because I am turned on. Very turned on. Despite the pain, the difficulty breathing. Despite, but probably because of, the fact I've been trussed up and am being used like a worthless fuck toy, I am incredibly horny. Really really fucking one hundred percent riding the high of this experience. Which I don't want to end.
But it does.
Roman pulls out, hand pumping furiously, replacing my mouth, and moments later he cums. Sticky white fluid explodes from the tip of his cock, covering my lower jaw, splattering across my breasts and down my forced open throat.
At which point he walks away, abandoning me.
And, though moments later, having had a final, forth, orgasm myself, I feel the Sybian finally shut down, I'm left in place for another five minutes. The cameras circle, one last time, capturing the ruin of my cum covered body. My panting moans as I attempt to regain control of my breathing. The red marks that cover me, visible beneath the rope that's now been digging into my soft skin for close to a half hour.
With a nod to each other both Romans assistants shut down their cameras, then set about freeing me. The rope is cut, not unknotted, but first my clamps and gag are removed.
Helped to my feet, because I feel spent, used up, wasted, I'm offered a bathrobe, which I refuse by way of shaking my head.
"Do you need anything?" Roman, his clothes back on, holding me by the shoulders and looking me over. "Plymouth?"
"Nah." I smile, because he isn't hugging me, though it feels like he wants to, but I'm covered in both my own drool and his cum. "Just a shower."
"Good plan." His grin widens my own, and we laugh.
"You did great." Having let me go, his assistants gone, stood at the door to my room himself, Roman nods. "A real pro if I'm any good judge."
"Thanks." High praise indeed, his assessment of my ability a mirror of both Zaks and Eds. So it must be true. Thinking of something to say back, I have a thought, and smile. "It was. Fun."
"Fun huh?" Eyebrow cocked. "Well." A nod. "Good." Roman points. "Cash on the table." He grimaces, his brain making the same connection as mine no doubt: fucked you, here's your pay, like a hooker. I laugh, because it's funny, after a moment he joins me.
A shower first, to wash off all the crap, then I run a hot bubble filled bath, and soak, soothing my marked body, my tender pussy and clit, my sore nipples.
"All in all," musing, to myself, glancing out the bathroom door at the, fairly large, pile of cash, "not a bad first day at the convention."