As many times as I'd seen it, the sight always took my breath away and made my heart skip slightly, leaving me very slightly weak in the limbs. My Sandra, hanging from a heavy eye-bolt sunk in the ceiling rafters by her arms, thick black leather cuffs cushioning the weight supported at her wrists with a thick, soft faux-fur lining. Well - not all her weight was on her wrists - I had left the chains just long enough that the tips of her toes touched the ground, although they weren't all that useful in helping to support her.
Her petite, slender-limbed body swayed slightly as she hung there, occasionally shuffling or trying to stop her swinging with those toe-tips, mostly unsuccessfully. I just hadn't allowed her enough contact with the floor to give her sufficient traction on her feet and toes to move herself in any direction, or stop her movement in any direction in which I wanted her swaying.
Her skin glowed a soft gold in the light of the two-dozen or so candles I had lit around the room, courtesy of the half-Chinese heritage given her by her mother. Her slender limbs were long, enough so to bring her to a height of 5'8", her Virginian father's legacy. But her slightly narrow, almond shaped eyes, glinting almost black in the dim of the candlelight, were slitted, her modest, almost girlish bust lifting and falling steadily with her aroused breathing as her toes shuffled uselessly along the bare wood floor. Courtesy of me.
But I'd left her long enough - I'd finished stringing her up ten minutes ago, and I could see some strain in her eyes as I sat there in my chair in front of her, just watching the flickering shadows play along her tight little body. I delayed for just a moment longer, letting her see that I'd noticed - and dismissed - her discomfort. Her expression began to soften, and I could see that the fire and attitude in her eyes, the spark and anger and defiance that I so treasured in my little Cantonese treasure, had begun to wane, and I couldn't have that. She was always so passionate when she was bitchy. I wanted a hellcat, not a meek old moggie.
Pushing myself up out of hy armchair, I slowly approached her, my bare feet silent along the floor, my jeans snug along my lower half, my chest - rather more fair-skinned than hers, and lacking her fetching feminine curves - bare and shirtless. "Bastard," she hissed as I approached, and I drank in her curse like wine, savoring it as I stepped around behind her, taking up a thick, black leather collar and lifting it to wrap it around her neck.
She stuggled - of course she did. She snarled and spat, twisting in her restraints, but she simply didn't have the leverage to prevent me from slipping the collar about her neck. I buckled it securely, making sure to obey the two-finger rule, the same as one might do when placing a collar around the neck of a dog or cat. It didn't take long before my little treasure was not only restrained hanging from her wrists, but also had been claimed with my collar.
"Let's see if you will waste your breath on curses when you can only get precious little of it at a time, shall we?" I challenged, lifting a hand and lying it along one of her teenaged buttocks, fitting the taut curve of it into the cup of my palm. She was petite enough that her ass cheek did indeed fit neatly into my grip with almost no overflow, and I used that grip to hold her still so she didn't swing while I affixed a clip to the d-ring at the back of the collar, fixing that to another chain hanging from the same rafter to which her arms-restraints were secured.
This one was slightly different, however - rather than hooking to an eye-bolt, this chain ran through a sturdy pulley that was sunk into the rafter by with an eye-bolt, and the excess chain was fed into a heavy winch of sorts bolted to the floor behind her. I walked to the winch and started to turn the crank, the heavy clacking echoing loudly in the room as the slack in the chain was taken up. I couldn't see, but I could well imagine the widening of her almond eyes, the parting of her thin, soft lips, the slightly anxious expression across her face as the chain tightened with the loud clacking and began applying upwards pressure to that collar around her neck.
I watched carefully, eyeing the collar around her neck, to make absolutely sure that the pressure was all where I wanted it. But I had prepared well tonight, and the thick, fur-padded collar, a match to her wrist-cuffs, seemed to be applying force evenly around her throat. I paused with it pulling just enough to be uncomfortable, without being dangerous, and locked the winch, moving to walk around to stand in front of her.
I got a quick, brief glimpse of the aroused panic in her eyes before she forced her face to harden into a scowling mask that gave me nothing. She swallowed - or tried to. With the pressure on her throat from the suspended collar, swallowing was an act of will, now, rather than a reflex. It took a few tries, but she managed it, and, her voice slightly strained and hoarse, again growled "Bastard" with a sneer of victorious defiance.
I was unfazed - she could have whatever attitude she wanted, but she would break. Nodding at her curse, I simply walked around behind her again, and started turning the winch-crank once more. Two seconds. Three, Five. I watched as the collar began to stretch as more and more of her weight was taken off her arms to be applied to her neck and throat, my eyes observing her body intently for signs of actual distress.
Locking the winch in place, I walked back around her, looking into her eyes once more, this time lifting my hand to rest it along her cheek, the backs of my knuckles brushing along her cheekbone. Her eyes were more worried, now, and her breathing was strained, every slow, labored inhalation requiring an act of concentration. Swallowing had become a forgotten chore, impossible in the circumstances. "Am I still a bastard?" I asked, my glinting blue eyes meeting hers, unable to keep a smirking smile from my lips.
