04

CHAPTER 2

Part Two: The Locking

**MASTER**

I have you kneeling on the bed. I am dressed in my work suit, minus the jacket, purple necktie knotted at my collar, dress shirt with French-cuffs in place.

You, by contrast, are naked.

I like the heady things it does to me, feeling that tension of power an dpowerlessness where I am clothed and my slave is completely nude.

And I know for a fact, you do not, Kelli-slut.

I hold your willing arms folded up behind your back, hands grasping opposite elbows, just like

At-Attention.

Except this time, Kelli, what I want from you isn't willing. I mean to enforce it with rope.

"This is bondage," I whisper into your ear.

You gasp, but say nothing.

I pass a doubled-up loop of Japanese hemp rope over your wrists. The loop at the end, I thread the long part of the rope over that and twist it around, once, and pass it once more over your wrists, finishing in a slip-knot with a loose loop on top -- the larkshead -- free and dangling at the end of the knot on top of your wrists. I yank the long end up from the larkshead and wrap it around your upper chest, back around to the larkshead over your wrists, the back again the other way across your upper ribcage under your perky young tits, pulling the rope tight, then wrap it twice more over your upper chest. I come back from the larkshead and thread the rope over the strands that encircles your chest, in between your arms and your side, loop it over and around, and cinch it tight.

I hear you gasp, I hear the faint, moist sound of you licking your lips.

"

Shhhhhh

, slut.

There, there

..." I whisper. I draw back the slack end, take it over to the cross-ropes on the other side, passing it over and over the space between your upper arm and body, as I did on the other side, and again, cinch it.

You feel it now, don't you, Kelli?

The rope is not especially tight, but the cross-tension of your folded-up wrists, the loops of rope tightened around your chest, and the cinch-ties hugging those loops between your upper arms and ribcage, combine to make this bondage inescapable. Again, not especially tight, just well-engineered. You already know this.

"

Oooh

," you sigh.

"

Shhh

."

I could stop here, and you'd never get out of this in a week of struggling ... but I don't, I go on.

There is plenty of rope-length left for me to work with. I pass the strand around the spot underneath where your wrists meet the cross-ropes that go around your chest, wrap it twice and tighten, further cinching your wrists close to the middle of your back. Then I take the end up, under your left armpit, over your shoulder and back behind your neck, then over your right shoulder, under your right armpit, and back to the larkshead. I pass the end under the larkshead and up to the strand that runs behind your neck, pull it back down and tighten -- increasing the tension of the cinch under your wrist-bonds and against your back, also lifting your wrists slightly higher, further immobilizing them -- and just behind your neck, I tie off the end.

You don't know it, but the final tie is another slip-knot, which will facilitate my job when I am ready to untie you. And if you could get your squirming fingers on it, you'd find you could undo the terminal knot, and the whole project would eventually unravel. ... But you can't, of course.

You are panting heavily, partly from slightly restricted breathing ... but mostly from unbridled lust ...

... Sorry, I should say "bridled" lust. That's the whole point of bondage: To restrain your passions even as it enflames them, and to put you under the control of your Master.

... Your first time in rope bondage at my hands is apparently going to be quite memorable. I could be wrong, but I think you had no idea before we began how much you needed this. Or at least, that's what I take from your panting, eyes-clenched-shut expression as I help you down onto your back and ease your head onto a pillow ...

I select another, shorter coil of hemp from the collection of rope I have piled on the bedstand. I take gentle hold of your left ankle and lift it, bending your knee and pressing your lower leg against the back of your thigh. Now, when I tied your wrists, I worked around the steel cuffs, moving them comfortably out of the way. But here, I am going to use the rings of your ankle-cuffs. I pass the doubled-up end of my new rope through the cuff-ring and thread it through. I wrap the rope four times around your upper thigh, securing your lower leg to your upper, pass a cinch-rope around the wrapping strands, tightening your calf to your hamstring. Then I pass the slack end up to the upper-chest strand the crosses under your armpit, and when I thread that through and pull back, your doubled-up leg rises, your knee nudging up close to your shoulder. I tie off the slack end at the ring of your ankle-cuff.

You feel your helplessness and exposure, Kellislut. But your other leg is free still, and it squirms and fumbles about, as if trying to protect your naked cunt with your knee. Well, not for long. I grab another coil of short rope, open it out and double it up, and thread it through your other ankle-cuff ring.

You are moaning now as I do this, Kelli, and your eyes are squeezed shut as if you don't dare look at what is happening to you ... as if it would humiliate you to participate in your bondage with open-eyed consent ...

"

Sssss-stehhhhh... Phhhh-plee

..." you hum. You are speaking in tongues for me now.

Utter rapture.

When I am finished tying your doubled-up right leg to your chest, you are open and vulnerable. I have all the access to you a man could want. And you know it. You wriggle and writhe on the comforter, head back on the pillow, gasping, until you have finally convinced yourself you can't escape ... and then you wriggle and writhe some more.

"Look at me," I whisper.

Your eyes pop open.

I brush a knuckle quickly over the wet slit of your cunt. You jerk. I smile. I kneel above you on the bed, dressed in my expensive clothes -- in contrast to you, nude and clad in rope --but I mean to address the clothing distinction between us, starting with the cuff-links.

"This is bondage," I repeat. "What we've done up to now, you've done willingly -- and beautifully -- at my command. From now on, though, I want you to start understanding

restraint

. What I want to do to you

now

, will be

against

your will, not at my command. But because I simply

take -- because I want it.

"

My cuff-links set aside on the bedstand, I unknot my tie next and slip it off. But once it's loose in my hands, I knot it again, a fat granny-knot in the middle.

"This is bondage," I whisper, tracing a gentle finger along the strands of rope binding your left leg, before I lean in a shove the big knot between your teeth, " -- and so is this."

Your eyes widen with surprise, a shade of alarm, but then flutter languidly. I think you like the gag. Yes, Kelli, I think you're going to settle quite nicely into the spirit of "

restraint

."

"And this ..." I say, slipping off my belt, doubling it over in my hand.

*WHAK!*

I slap your bare, exposed pussy sharply.

Mmmgh!

Your eyes pop open, shocked, the languor swiftly gone.

This is the first time I have hit you, Kelli, shown you Corporal Punishment. It was short and sharp, wasn't it?

"This ..."

Do you like it?

"... is Discipline."

**slut**

My father never spanked me, not once. He also never hugged me. I never felt the physical contact of his discipline nor his love.

This is bondage,

Master whispers into my ear. His voice is tender, his ropes are tight and strong. Of course, there is discomfort, but the inability to move even a muscle is also pleasurable. I feel helpless, secure, and yes, loved.

I yield to Helplessness. I submit to the security of my bondage. It is beyond my experience. I submit to Master, who knows my body and its needs far better than me.

Take what you wish, Master.

My three holes are all I can offer when in your bondage.

My pussy is on high alert! But you know this, you know all about me. You pass a finger over my dripping cunt, it spasms for you. It begs you for more. Patience is always your message. Thank you for teaching me this, Master.

Now only two holes. I love being gagged. Any sounds I wish to make are not human, they are primeval. Words get in the way, since no words are adequate to explain what these days with you have been. I accept your gag and offer you my two holes. Take them, please.

*

WHAK!

*

Wait! Why, Master? What did I do wrong?

I have turned my back on those my age. I have placed you. Master, before my studies. I have offered you all that I own, my body, my holes, without conditions. What have I done wrong?

This ... Is Discipline.

Discipline is for bad girls. Am I a bad girl? My brain is processing. If Master disciplines me, that must be the reason. I am trying to think. I think well in school. Even under pressure, my brain responds. But now my brain is moving on another level, trying to understand your words and beg your forgiveness for whatever I have done to deserve your belt.

Though never spanked, I have felt pain. The basketball jammed my fuck-you finger and I cried. Except as a young child, I had never cried before. But now that I am thinking between swipes of your belt, I don't think I cried from pain, but from the disfigurement, or the looks of my teammates. Is crying a reaction to others more than a reaction to pain?

I process the belt and am convinced I do not feel pain. In fact, is it possible I feel the opposite? Pleasure?

Master swipes his finger along my pussy and leans over my bound form. He wipes my juices under my nose, along my lip. "Smell your reaction to pain, slave," he whispers.

I moan into my gag, because it confirms my thoughts. He is not inflicting pain; he is offering pleasure. I have not done anything wrong.

In fact, he is rewarding me for being me.

The swipes of the belt cease and he moves to the side, lifting a string of steel beads from the bedstand. I had seen them before. I did not comment, because I was not sure if they were for me or left over from a previous encounter with another female.

I hear the beads as they click together, making a music of tonality, but not harmony. And then his wet finger is at my anal hole, and I gasp. Master has never used this third hole, though he had claimed it was his and that he would take it some day.

What is he doing? As I feel a small, cold object inserted into my rectum. It does not hurt, in fact just the opposite. There is a pause and then another cold, round duplicate of the first object is pushed into my hole.

The beads!

I shout the joy of discovery into my gag, and Master chuckles.

Does he think I am protesting?

No, Master,

I moan.

And a third passes the resistance of my puckered anus. And a fourth, and soon I lose track of the numbers, as they march like soldiers into my welcoming rectum. I am feeling full, but not uncomfortably so.

Finally he stops, perhaps at the end of the strand. "Do you like your new ass jewelry," he speaks lovingly to his slave.

"

'Sssss, srrr

," I respond in sibilant sounds.

He tugs lightly on the string and I contract my muscles. He has bound the exterior of my body, but my muscles within are free. I am free to hold onto his gift, refusing to let go.

And now only one hole remains free to his use.

"

'Ssssss-stehhh ... 'leeeese,

" I beg.

CHAPTER 3

The Locking ... Continued

**MASTER**

I await my slave a block away from the BART station. This is so I can get a good long look at you as you approach, observing your growing mastery of the public version of your "slave-walk." Also, just to watch you be you, Kelli -- the pretty, petite, raven-haired jewel of my eye. And most of all, to spot whether any of your passers-by catch a glimpse of your ankle-cuffs and give them a double-take. They do. I count three men and one young punkette glancing back at you and down after they pass you. You are dressed in the short-skirted, pink polka-dotted, summer dress I bought you (and nothing underneath, I know), legs bare, sandal pumps on your dainty feet.

And yes, ankle-cuffs.

As slender and attractive a set as I could find -- a matched chrome pair, glistening in the brilliant sunlight. I also see the riot of bangles on your right hand, the single shiny cuff on your left. Looking at your graceful, erect posture and self-assured gait, I can see that, true to your word, you wear my slave-anklets with pride.

When you reach me, you give me your subtle, public "lower-my-eyes, then-my-face" head-bow, before I lean in for a quick peck on your cheek.

What I say is, "Good afternoon, Kelli."

What I

want

to say, but don't, is,

Today is the day when I will show you what it truly means to be a shackled and

locked

slave.

The shop is a one-block walk up Mission, a turn up 26th and one more turn down a narrow side street. Inside, one of the body-artists is at work on a hipster-boy's upper pec, coloring in the red hair on a portrait of Max from

Stranger Things

. The other, idle artist, with his tat-adorned smooth-shaved head, is slumped in an armchair playing with his phone. This one looks up, a little puzzled to see the young Asian hottie with the older dude in the suit and tie.

I hand him the card, my exclusive admission ticket. "Vladic is expecting me."

The guy nods, looking at the card. "Dude."

He shows us to the back of the shop and through a curtain. Despite the curtain, he takes a precautionary glance back at the front of the shop, before he opens the side door, and gestures us in. After we pass, he shuts the door behind us.

As we descend the steps, you can't help yourself: "Master, what --?" you whisper.

"

Shhhh

," I cut you off. "Silence from now on. Not a word or noise will pass my slut's lips for the duration of this procedure."

I hear your faint, excited gasp, see the décolletage of your chest flush red.

Procedure?

you wonder. I can sense the uncertainty and anticipation are making you hot, and I have a good mind to reach under your dress and check ... but I prefer to keep you focused.

I go on, "You will keep your eyes down unless instructed, move in 'restricted slave-walk,' keep as still as possible, and obey all instructions instantly. My slave likes to obey, yes?"

You tip your face down, and nod.

"Any lapse in your slave-comportment will result in punishment later. By which I mean, the types of punishment I've learned you don't like."

At the bottom of the steps, I look around to find Vladic bent over the work-bench, arc-welding the finishing touches on what looks to me to be a wrought-iron head-brank.

"Ahem," I say.

Vladic stops what he's doing, turns and lifts the welding hood.

"Peter, I presume?"

********

Moments later, my slut is naked and kneeling on the vinyl bench, trembling slightly at the rattling-steel sounds behind you, as Vladic returns from the stock room and approaches you. You present

At-Attention

-- knees wide, hands clasped behind your neck, elbows out wide -- a posture you've damn-near perfected -- partly due to repetition, mostly due to the fact that it comes to you as naturally as breathing air. I wonder how it feels to you to be naked in front a stranger, at my unquestioned command.

"This is my finest stuff," says the gaunt, blue-haired, Serbian expat, "before I even put in the custom work. This is going to run you --"

"Please," I interrupt. "You don't talk money in front of a slave, not unless the topic is purchasing her."

Vladic sort of grunts in reply. He is vain, arrogant Eurotrash -- but he's

MY

arrogant Eurotrash -- with that arrogance well earned, frankly, because he's the best BDSM metal-worker known to me. He comes up behind you and goes to work.

I, in turn, have moved in front of you, but off to one side, watching you react to what is happening to your willing but vulnerable body.

I tell you, "I'll admit it, slave, you're not here for what I said it would be, so Master regrets the subterfuge. There won't be any nipple-piercing today -- or, truth be told, ever. It's another of my principles, actually, that nipple-piercing is just a waste of useful nerve endings."

The slender, silver steel band fits snugly around your waist and snaps in front. Vladic comes around and performs a brief adjustment to the clasp, then plucks a tiny key out of the joint, which he hands to me. Then he goes back behind you.

I lift the key in front of my slut's face, let you see it ... You know the reason I inspect you off to one side when you're in this posture is so there will be no confusion about whether you are to meet my eyes. Because yours are alertly straight-ahead. But you make no mistake about whether I want the key to hold your rapt attention. "The key to your permanent chastity belt, slave," I explain.

Your eyes blink, and I see the thoughts running through your mind. Funny, because those are exactly the questions I am going to address: "You're right, what you're thinking -- in the locker room, you'll either have to come up with some sort of towel trickery or something -- or quit the team."

I chuckle as I watch you react: You hold posture as still as possible, including the motionlessness of your face and open mouth, but I see a single tear well up in one eye. A moment later, I admire even more the discipline of your expression as Vladic works behind you to fit the spreader-ring between your soft, rounded nether cheeks, work it over and around your anus, and fit it up to the back of the belt with a short, slender chain.

"The gym, that could be easy," I go on, a lilt of wicked glee in my voice. "Maybe just come and go in your workout gear, skip the shower. ... Now, the beach,

hmmm

..."

You've been doing a good job so far, Kelli, but I do note that you shudder a bit as your handler fits the supple, steel front strip of the love-shield to the end of the anus-ring. He starts to bend it up over your mound -- brushing your throbbing slit as he does so -- you lick your lips, your eyelashes flutter -- settles the rubber strips that edge the band over your pelvis, easing it carefully into the creases of flesh where your rounded vulva meets your inner thighs -- you feel how flexible the soft silver steel is -- working the strip up to the locking clasp in front of the belt.

"... The

beach

?" I laugh. "You could wear a one-piece, I guess -- a fucking tragedy, though, if you ask me -- your delicious bare midriff with its lovely navel-jewelry, that's a treasure I'd encourage you to display. But I have to tell you, even if you went one-piece, um, people would see the configurations of your C-belt standing out under it, like a black eye. So ..."

I shrug with mock helplessness, "... Well, I suppose I can buy you're a few more sundresses .."

I am still holding the key steady in front of your face. It has your mesmerized, glassy-eyed attention. Not moving it from in front of your face, I lift my keychain from my pocket, and clip the new trinket on.

Vladic smoothes the flexible silver metal over your pelvis. I watch you carefully, and I think I can see a hint of sensual reaction from you as you feel the fine wire mesh of the piss-grill settle over your pussy-lips. Trying to be good and obedient and motionless as the Serb screws the steel strip into place. I go on watching as you consider the consequences of this state, running the scenarios of your day-to-day life as a chastity-belted slave.