Note: As before, the subject depicted is a fictional creation and claims no relationship to any living person or persons. No character's thoughts or actions should not be taken as any kind of commentary on or depiction of any actual person or persons.
As many note with these sorts of stories, this is all well and good for fantasy and stories but the real world demands consent and respect.
This is a series, it would be best to read the parts in order to fully appreciate things. That said, what we have is a young lady who didn't quite realize what might happen if she went and tracked down the reclusive producer of the finest, most indulgent BDSM pornography the world has ever known.
He took her arrival in stride and soon found himself with the very sort of scenario his porn work had played at, and he is taking full advantage. She found ways to give a bit of that energy back, to take some ground (and some orgasms) where she can, but she's still playing defense and he's still a sadist.
We open on Day 7. She has been tethered to the outside of the barn and scrubbed down and left to dry in the sun. He is inside, resting up after masturbating and trying to figure out what about her is bothering him.
She assumed her time in the sun would be short-lived, and she was correct. Something was bothering him, and so he emerged from the house determined to bury the feeling by playing with his new toy.
He knew he had made his point, returning to the barn in the middle of the night. But he wasn't so lacking in self-awareness that he would miss the fact that the root of his unsettled feeling was her humiliating him with her "please fuck me" gambit.
Why overthink it?
he asked himself on the way to the barn. Something she said had bothered him. Best to aim for a stretch of something other than speech.
He entered the barn through the side door and quickly grabbed the pieces of gear that he wanted, then returned to where she was standing in the sun. Her eyes were closed and he could tell she was soaking in the warmth.
It gave him an additional thrill, to plunge her from what was a present moment back into the reality of being his plaything. He felt himself swell.
Her eyes opened as he approached and she had a neutral, curious look on her face. He wasn't quite sure what to make of it but elected to just brush it aside and continue with what he had planned.
Unlocking the handcuff that was attached to the pole, he drew it behind her back and clamped it on to her other wrist. He turned her so she was facing him.
Drawing a ring gag out from his pocket, he quickly worked it between her teeth and then spun her further to tie it behind her head. He liked ring gags. Uncomfortable, able to mess up a lot of speech, but they did so without impeding noise at all.
He had listened to so many women scream, and moan, and scream and moan. So many. He knew it would make him sound ridiculous so he had never said it out loud, but he considered himself almost...a sommelier of terror and eroticism.
There was so much that could be packed into a scream - ranges of fear, of uncertainty, of terror, which was different than fear, of resignation, of anger, of ecstasy, on and on.
And moans could be small, hesitant, reluctant, or they could be indulgent, deep, guttural things, sounds with a life of their own.
Ring gag in place, he reached out and grabbed one of her nipples. He pinched with his finger, softly at first, the pressure ramping up slowly. She squeaked, and he backed the pressure off slightly then ramped it back up, listening carefully to the successive squeak.
There was no grunt to it, no quality of endurance. If this was hurting her, it was a level of pain she had experienced before. On a hunch he reached down and dragged a finger across the lips of her cunt, feeling them part slightly, feeling his finger move along a wetness. He murmured his appreciation.
"You like that," he said, stating rather than questioning. He worked the other nipple for a moment, eliciting another squeak, then moved back and forth between them with no real pattern or grand design.
Every so often he stroked her cunt again, and when his finger came back substantially wet he took advantage of her open mouth and rubbed the finger on her tongue.
That made him realize he had come here to focus on her mouth, her ability to speak or communicate, and her nipples had been a distraction. He reached back into his pocket.
"Tongue out," he told her, and he paid close attention to see how quickly she complied. She was...deliberate in her speed, not hesitating but distinctly not rushing. He admired the carefully calibrated level of defiance and elected not to respond.
He pulled two chopsticks and two rubber bands out of his pocket. He used one rubber band to join the chopsticks about a third of the way up their length, then slid her tongue between them. A rubber band on the other side clamped things down nicely, and he adjusted the bands to get the tension just right.
There,
he thought,
she can get a few words out if she's dumb enough to try, but she won't be bothering with that soon enough.
He clipped a leash to her collar, unlocked the larger steel hoop that held her to the barn, and headed off dragging her behind.
As she stumbled at the end of the leash she mused over the score. The morning had been a wash, she had to conclude. He had been in total control over what was happening, of course, but nobody had an orgasm and she had enjoyed the nipple torture.
She had always enjoyed the nipple torture, and a morning full of it helped her return to a thought from the previous night.
I've been kidnapped into my own fantasies
, she thought again.
There were other parts of her that felt very, very differently about what was happening, but as they attempted to approach her conscious mind she realized they were not very useful feelings, and she did her best to set them aside.
I've been kidnapped into my own fantasies
, she repeated to herself, thinking of it now as a brick.
I've been kidnapped into my own fantasies
.
I've been kidnapped into my own fantasies
. Brick after brick, sealing off every not-useful and tender feeling that she had.
Her concerns were somewhere between practical and philosophical as she was dragged back into the barn. His were something like logistical.
It was clear to him that this girl was experienced in BDSM at some level, she hadn't just been a passive consumer of his work. He wondered what he could throw at her that would be unfamiliar, unsettling.
He swung his free hand, causing the shock collar remote to arc up from its wrist strap and settle into his hand. He tapped the button idly, not depressing it. She glared at the back of his head, cursing and noting that she hardly needed the reminder; she had gotten used to the collar but any amount of focus could call the two prongs against her neck back to her attention.
The movement had the intended effect, though, as when they arrived at their destination and he dropped the leash to get things set up she made no motion to run, not even glancing around. That gave him time to drag the metal cot frame to the back wall of the stage and grab the roll of wire from the gear box.
It was ordinary copper wire, 10 gauge, 30 amp. It had plenty of flex to it in a single strand, when it was loose, but looped around a part of the body and twisted off, there was no stretch to the material.
Rope looked good, had earned its place in BDSM iconography, he thought, but it had flex and looseness to it, even in perfect shibari form. Steel was unforgiving but most of his pieces had to be adjusted for each model, which took time, often a lot of it.
But wire was quick and could be looped like rope, run first in one direction and then crosswise to cinch things tight. Neither sweat nor body oils would cause it to loosen up. You just took the body you had in your control, placed it against a frame, and after a little bit of effort you could sit back and you could watch as the squirming died in infancy.
She was just like anyone else you restrained, once it was done there was a settling in, a testing. He watched her arm flex, the muscles rippling slightly as her arm, which he had fastened to the bedframe at the wrist and elbow, simply didn't move. Couldn't move. He smiled, and stroked himself slightly.
His next move was to stand the frame on its end, leaving her standing with her weight supported by being lashed in place. He added more wire, tethering her thighs, knees, calves and ankles in place.
Her tits poked through two spaces in the metal frame and he looped each in wire, drawing them into tight, swollen circles. Finally, he wired each end of the chopsticks to the frame, holding her tongue in place.
He stepped back to admire the sight of it. Her flesh, tender and pale, pulled and cinched at points and altogether held fast. She let out a small groan, a noise bearing no relationship to a word. He returned to the gearbox and grabbed his favorite vibrator, plugging it in and then returning to his toy.
The vibrator was a small cylinder with a smaller, flatter head. He knew that the industry had gone in the direction of the wand style, or god help him, the big engine the girl sat on, but he hated those.
It was like using a mac truck to open a can of soup, all power and no chance for artistry. Useful for ripping orgasms out of somebody, he supposed, if getting it over with was the idea.
That wasn't his idea. He clicked the vibrator on to its lowest setting and sat down in front of her, pushing it through a gap in the frame and brushing it softly against the hood of her clit. She made a noise, and he registered it as halfway between a grunt and a moan, and then he brushed her hood again.
And so began a relentless, remorseless teasing. The vibrator played in and out, around, across, every which way in relation to her clit, every which way except sustained, direct pressure. Her noises built, receded, built again, various grunts, and moans, and sharp intakes of breath and squeaks.
