Puppet on a Rope
by Jennifer Harrison
Part 1 - Puppet Master
I am a stupid, stupid girl. I have got myself into a terrible, incredible, impossible situation, and I have no idea how to get myself out of it. I'm not sure whether I'm writing this as a cautionary tale or therapy, to try to come to terms with everything that has happened to me and to work out a way forward. But here goes.
My name is Kelly, and I'm heavily into the ‘damsel in distress’ fantasy. I always have been, from an early age, well before puberty and the whole sexual angle came in. I would always be pestering my friends - boys or girls, I wasn't fussy - to play the villain to my damsel heroine and to tie me up, preferably leaving me in some real or imagined peril.
Of course, when the hormones kicked in, it all got a bit more interesting. I started to find the feel of the ropes against my skin erotic, and I wanted them tighter, more difficult to escape, more tactile as I struggled. I began to shed my clothes before being tied up, often stripping down to my bra and knickers, which occasionally spooked my friends. The danger of exposure, of discovery, became the main peril now, and I began to take more and more risks.
I would lock myself in the bathroom, strip naked and tie myself up in the bath or shower, struggling vainly to free myself until my parents were banging on the door, wondering if I had drowned. Or I would tell them I was going to tidy up in the basement - which I did, except that while I was pushing the broom, I was in the nude with my hands tied and my mouth gagged, imagining myself being held at gunpoint and forced to perform these menial tasks.
As I got a little bit older, I took to going on long walks, apparently aimed at getting fit and losing my puppy fat. I did get fitter and slimmer, but that wasn't the main objective. I would find a secluded spot in the woods, or a deserted barn on some vast farm and, taking what I thought were huge risks, prance around with rope wrapped around my naked body.
It was all very exciting but, ultimately, extremely sexually frustrating. I did have boyfriends, and lost my virginity at the healthy age of sixteen, but my DiD fantasies were now so extreme, there was no-one I could trust to play them with me. I wasn't about to ask any of the boys I knew to tie me up, and I knew that the girls would think I was sick, perverted, weird - why don't you just want to kiss boys and have sex, they would have said, just like everyone else.
So, I reached the grand old age of nineteen, away from home for the first time at college, horny, frustrated, and with Wi-Fi broadband for the first time. I was in nerd/pervert heaven! I could Google images of women in exactly the kind of trouble I wanted to be in, I could watch videos of them struggling, mmmphing and writhing just as I wanted to do. And best of all, I could trawl the chat rooms for like-minded souls.
Actually, I wasn't looking for like-minded souls, I wasn't interested in talking to other girls who wanted to be tied up like me. I wanted to talk to men who wanted to tie me up, to do awful, disgusting things to me, who would describe them in great detail as I sat in front of my screen, imagining myself in these situations they described, hands between my legs, masturbating.
Of course, there were many, many men out there who wanted to talk to me, and I spent many happy hours holed up in my room in front of my computer, leading my fantasy life.
I had made a great friend when I arrived at college, Bethany, and she would nag me to leave my computer and get out into the real world occasionally. We had fun together, but I couldn't wait to get back to my room and to my ‘admirers’. Some of them were quite gentle in their particular desires, describing how they would tie me to the bed and make sweet love to me. I found these rather dull. I was much more interested in, and turned on by, the ones who seemed to be driven by an overwhelming hatred of women, telling me what a cunt and a slut I was for even being on the website, then describing how they would whip me until my skin flayed off, then fuck me until I couldn't take anymore. Good fiddling material in my book!
I lapped it all up, safe in the knowledge that I was anonymous behind my tag as DiD_grrl_911 – no-one knew who I really was or where I really was, so they could do whatever they wanted to me in their imagination, entertaining me at the same time. I loved it so much, I was the centre of all this attention, and I played up to it mercilessly, flirting and teasing outrageously, knowing that I had them in the palm of my hand, their tongues hanging out.
And then I met… Him.
The first thing that made him stand out from the herd was his chosen username. Most of the guys call themselves after Roman, Greek or Viking gods, heroes, or they make up something related to particular fetishes of theirs – whip_king, ass_fucker or something. Very macho, very obvious, very dull. But this guy turns up with the name The_Puppetmaster - rather unusual, a little bit quixotic, possibly playful. I was intrigued, and started up a conversation with him.
DiD_grrl_911: so what do you want to do with me, puppetmaster?
The_Puppetmaster: what would you like me to do with you?
This threw me immediately – no-one ever cared what I wanted, they usually wanted to describe their superb technique and oversized equipment. I couldn’t think of a smartass comment, and ended up with a lame reply
DiD_grrl_911: um, don’t you want to tie me up and teach me a lesson?
The_Puppetmaster: the lesson you need to learn, young lady, is a degree of respect. I know you’re used to talking to lecherous morons, but I’m not one of those and you should behave accordingly
DiD_grrl_911: respect? What, you think I should call you sir or master or something?
The_Puppetmaster: that is precisely what I mean. Good things happen to polite girls who do as they’re told. Bad things happen to rude sluts
DiD_grrl_911:are you for real?! Maybe I am a slut, maybe I want bad things to happen to me
The_Puppetmaster: believe me, you don’t want the bad things that I can make happen. Now, are you going to show due respect?
DiD_grrl_911: what are you going to do about it if I don’t
I waited, but no response came, though I could see he was still logged into the chat session.
DiD_grrl_911: what’s this, you’re giving me the silent treatment? Fuck you!
Still no response.
DiD_grrl_911: oops, I’m sorry, I meant Fuck you, Sir!
The_Puppetmaster: Cut out the cursing and we can talk.
DiD_grrl_911: now you’re trying to tell me how to ‘talk’? Unreal!
DiD_grrl_911: more silence? What makes you think I care what you think?
The_Puppetmaster: better. So why don’t you tell me what you’re looking for?
DiD_grrl_911: what, on here, or in life?
The_Puppetmaster: you describe yourself as DiD girl. What sort of ‘distress’ fires your imagination?
I was the one who hesitated this time.
DiD_grrl_911: well, being forced to do stuff I suppose
The_Puppetmaster: what sort of things?
DiD_grrl_911: suck cock. Or lick pussy. Sir
The_Puppetmaster: that seems rather tame. What if you were made to do something a little more humiliating?
DiD_grrl_911: like what, Sir?
The_Puppetmaster: like having to stick your tongue into the anus? Force it through the sphincter as deep as you can?
DiD_grrl_911:that’s disgusting, Sir!
The_Puppetmaster: but does it turn you on?
DiD_grrl_911: sort of… Sir
The_Puppetmaster: yes or no?
DiD_grrl_911: yes, Sir, if I was forced to do it
The_Puppetmaster: what else turns you on?
And so it began. We chatted for about two hours that first night. Calling him ‘Sir’ went from ridiculous, to awkward, to second nature quicker than I expected. We talked mainly about my fetishes and desires – well, he interrogated and I confessed.
Our chats became a nightly event, and we quickly moved to a private chat area to avoid interruptions and eavesdroppers. I looked forward to our cyber-dates, enjoying describing my darkest thoughts, while he pushed me darker still. This had been going on for over a month when he pushed me a little further.
The_Puppetmaster: I enjoy talking to you , DiD girl, but I’m aware that you could still be some middle-aged bloke in a bedsit, taking me for a ride. We should exchange photographs
DiD_grrl_911: I’m not really comfortable with that, Sir
The_Puppetmaster: nevertheless, you will send a picture of yourself holding a piece of paper with my username on it, just to show it’s genuine, and I will do likewise in response. Send it to email@example.com
DiD_grrl_911: yes, Sir
I had been expecting this demand at some point, but I worried that it would be the start of a slippery slope – a plain photo only bringing a demand for topless, then nude, then… more. At the same time, I was intrigued to find out what the Puppetmaster looked like, whether he would match up to my fantasy.
It took a while to get ready for ‘my close-up’. I showered and then spent a good while doing my auburn hair - normally just tied back in a long ponytail - so that it cascaded just so over my shoulders and down my back. I rarely wear make-up, but I did my eyes and applied lipgloss until I looked, even though I say it myself, better than presentable.
Choosing what to wear was a trial – not too slutty, not too prudish – but in the end I went for a strappy top, showing the contrast between my reddish hair and bare white shoulders, and a skirt, short but not too short, to show off my legs, which I think are one of my best features, long and shapely.
I had decided to take my selfie in the wardrobe mirror, which allowed for a full-length image, and I tried out a few poses, setting my hips at a jaunty angle, standing with feet apart or legs crossed, full frontal or with back turned and looking over one shoulder coquettishly, all the while holding up the piece of paper with ‘Puppetmaster’ scrawled on it. When I had chosen my favourite, I attached it to an email and, taking a deep breath, hit send.
The wait for a reply was tense and, although it was only a few hours, it felt like an eternity. I kept checking my inbox obsessively until, at last, I saw his response waiting for me
Dear DiD girl,
Thank you for sending me your picture. I only required proof that you were, indeed, a girl, but your image shows that you are, in fact, a young and beautiful woman, which is, frankly, unexpected and leaves me gratified that you would spend so much time online with me, when you could be out in the world being courted by surely a myriad eligible suitors.
It makes me think that, perhaps, I satisfy a need in you not met elsewhere, for which I am extremely pleased. I hope we can continue to explore those depths together. As promised, I attach a picture for you, I hope it will not disappoint.
I read the message with a smile on my face, pleased at the praise and also impressed by the way he had diagnosed my dilemma – I was often hit on by boys in college, but never felt they could understand me in the way that he obviously did. And then I steeled myself for disappointment as I opened the attachment.
I’m not sure what I was expecting, but I was certainly pleasantly surprised when I saw his image. Young, tall, powerfully built, he had a winning smile and bright blue eyes under short-cropped black hair, offset by designer stubble and stylish clothes. Indeed, I would have wondered if he’d sent me a fake image of a male model, except that he was holding a card with ‘DiD girl’ clearly printed on it. I had lucked out!
My fears of further demands for revealing pictures were unfounded, and our chats continued and deepened, exploring just as he had promised, his prompting opening up unexpected layers of submissiveness in me, just as he expanded on his dominant, controlling personality, merely through the power of his words.
He began to give me little tasks, to be performed and reported back to him. An early one was to go to the shopping mall wearing a raincoat and nothing else, wandering around, going into different shops, spending at least an hour in full public view. As he said, he had no way to make me do these tasks, or to know one way or the other whether I had performed them, but I did, feeling tremendously aroused by the idea that I was being ‘forced’ to do them. Afterwards, he would quiz me on exactly how I felt while doing them, exactly how aroused I became, how recounting and recalling the experience now made me hot all over again.
I had to admit to my intense stimulation at the feelings of danger, of transgression. He made me strip and masturbate in my room, then immediately describe it to him on the chat. With my hands still trembling from my orgasm, I told him about how I had fingered myself, pinched my nipples until I hurt myself, how my thighs were now slick with my juices. He complimented me on my powers of description, saying he almost felt like a spectator.
I revelled in these lewd and humiliating acts, feeling extremely daring, very slutty, and more alive than I had ever felt before. I looked forward to his commands now with a heady mixture of apprehension and excitement, constantly in a state of arousal whenever I thought of my ‘cyber-master’, as he now became in my mind.
Another task he gave me was to go into a sex shop in the city, dressed in a short skirt and tight crop-top, and to browse the shelves, noting and examining the full range of goods on sale for at least twenty minutes.
I had never been more embarrassed in my entire life! The man behind the counter never took his eyes off me, and there were half a dozen customers, all solitary men, who stared at me with a combination of fear, alarm and lust. And the shelves! They were stacked with magazines and DVDs, illustrating every fetish I had ever heard of, as well as quite a few I hadn’t, or could even credit as being genuine.
There was an extensive range of sex toys on display, as well as a whole section of bondage equipment, which particularly attracted my attention. I had been given another task to complete, which was to buy a pair of handcuffs. I felt the eyes boring into my back as I perused the array of restraints, picking up and examining several items intently, even placing some against my skin as if assessing their aesthetic impact, knowing that I was inflaming the passions of my surreptitious audience.
I took my time selecting my purchase, not because I knew one set of cuffs from another, but because I was enjoying myself playing with the men around me, reaching down low for something, then stretching up high, feeling my top ride up and my hemline rise. Eventually, I went to the counter with a bog-standard pair of metal cuffs and paid cash – I didn’t want that appearing on my credit card bill!
The_Puppetmaster: it sounds like you were a teasing slut
DiD_grrl_911: is that a problem, Sir?
The_Puppetmaster: just don’t do it with me! I think you should try your new toy out. Will you wear them in front of you or behind your back?
DiD_grrl_911: if I wear them behind, Sir, I won’t be able to type my responses?
The_Puppetmaster: you would still be able to talk though
DiD_grrl_911: how do you mean, Sir?
The_Puppetmaster: create a Skype account and send a contact request to ‘puppetmaster94’
DiD_grrl_911: is that an order, Sir?
DiD_grrl_911: okay, Sir
Now, I was even more nervous. We were moving to another level - from chat rooms to e-mail, and now to voice and video. But I'm still safely anonymous in my room, I told myself as I set up my account, searched for puppetmaster94, and sent my contact request. A minute later, sound burst from the computer and the incoming call was displayed. I realised that I could accept the call with or without allowing video access and, after a few moments deliberation, I decided to go for voice only - one step at a time, I thought.
"Good evening, DiD girl, it is the puppetmaster here."
"Good evening, Sir," I said nervously.
"Are you uncomfortable with this new form of communication?"
"A little, Sir," I admitted, feeling rather self-conscious.
"You will get used to it. Do you have the handcuffs on?"
"Not yet, Sir."
"Switch on the video camera so that I can watch you." I really wasn't sure about this - I noticed he wasn't sharing his image either - but I did it anyway.
"That's better. Place the cuff around your left wrist," he ordered. My hands were shaking as I placed the metal band around my wrist and slowly tightened it, listening to the clicks of the ratchet as it closed, trapping me in inescapable bondage - no, I told myself, don't be so melodramatic, the key is right there in front of you!
"Well done. Now stand up, turn around and put your arms behind your back." I did as he commanded, presenting him with a perfect view of my wrists.
"How do you feel right now?"
"Excited, Sir. Nervous… frightened."
"Good. You should always feel like that in bondage, whether at your own hand or another’s. Now lock the other cuff." After some fumbling, I finally got the bracelet around my wrist and, after a long hesitation while I tried to calm myself down, I clicked it shut.
"I can tell you that that looks good. How does it make you feel when you pull and can't get your arms free?"
"It feels… good, Sir… it makes me feel… horny…"
"I bet you would like to touch yourself right now, wouldn’t you, slut? Why don't you try?"
"I so want to touch myself, Sir!" I moaned, wriggling my arms and pulling on the cuffs, loving the feeling of them biting into my skin.
"Okay, now pick up the key and remove the cuffs, just so you know you can." I felt a little disappointed that my bondage adventure was to end so soon, but I looked behind me and found the key. It took me quite a bit longer to unfasten them than I had expected, but I finally got the key into the lock and released my wrists.
"You're going to need practice at that, I can see. Now, turn and face the computer. Are you still horny?"
"Yes, Sir!" I breathed - that was an understatement!
"Good, that is how you should be. Take off your panties." He said it in such a calm, matter-of-fact tone that I wondered if he realised what a big deal that would be for me. I had already gone way beyond what, just this morning, I had considered to be my boundaries, and now he was asking for this?! No, I thought, not asking, but calmly stating it as a command. Surely, I couldn’t.. I wouldn’t… would I?
With my heart pounding in my chest, I reached under my skirt, hooked my thumbs in the sides of my knickers, and slid them down, stepping out of them and holding them before me between my thumb and forefinger, like a dead rat or something.
“Good girl. Are they wet? Do they smell? Do they stink of your arousal?” I swallowed with difficulty, my mouth suddenly dry.
“Yes, Sir,” I murmured, turning an even brighter shade of red than I already was.
“Excellent! Put them in your mouth.” I stared wide-eyed at the computer screen, the smiling image he had sent me before looking back at me, challenging me. The idea appalled me, yet somehow attracted me. The embarrassment, the humiliation! Feeling yet another barrier being smashed, I slowly screwed them up into a ball and, closing my eyes and holding my breath, pushed them past my open lips.
They tasted… pungent. Not exactly revolting, but definitely an acquired taste. One I didn’t particularly want to acquire.
"Now put the handcuffs back on, in front this time." I did as I was told.
"Masturbate for me.” I couldn't believe he was pushing me like this, but I was already in a place where I would do virtually anything that he asked. It all seemed so far out of my control that it felt like someone else putting their hands underneath my skirt, touching my wet crotch, sliding up, up…
I squealed into my makeshift gag and almost had a heart attack when I heard a loud knocking on the door. In a panic, I took my fingers out of my sopping cunt and pulled the panties from my mouth.
“Just a minute!” I called out as I frantically fumbled the key, dropping it on the floor.
“What’s going on?”
“I’m sorry, Sir, there’s someone at the door,” I replied, finally getting the key into the lock and releasing the cuffs.
“Who do you think it is?”
“Probably my friend Beth, just come to drag me out for a drink.”
“Get rid of them. And, keep the cuffs on one wrist as you answer the door, it will give you that frisson of fear at your possible discovery.”
“Yes, Sir,” I said, clicking the cuff back on my wrist and heading for the door. I hid that arm behind the door, gathered what composure I could, and opened it.
I had just enough time to take in that the tall, black-clad figure before me was not Beth, but was a man with his face covered by a balaclava, before things started to happen very quickly. I found myself going backwards across my room, one gloved hand over my face, the other behind my head. My mouth, which had been open to speak and was now wide in the act of screaming, was suddenly being stuffed with a cloth until I couldn’t breathe, let alone cry out.
I fell to the floor, the man’s weight on top of me crushing me, driving the air from my lungs. A moment later, I had been flipped onto my stomach and, to my horror, I felt my ‘play’ handcuffs locking my arms behind me. Something went around my ankles, a belt by the feel of it as it was yanked tight, and I was helpless.
The man’s weight left me and I scrambled to turn around. I saw him opening one of those roll-along suitcases and taking out several coils of rope. I started screaming at the top of my voice, although it was very muffled by the cloth. I was struggling uselessly against my bonds and trying in vain to push the cloth out of my mouth.
“Shut the fuck up, cunt,” the man growled, grabbing me by the hair and plastering a length of tape across my lips and cheeks. “Keep quiet or I’ll knife you!” To make his point, he waved a vicious-looking blade in my face and, utterly terrified, I fell silent.
All I could do was watch as he used the rope to tie my ankles together, and then my knees. He pushed my legs up and tied my thighs and shins together, so I couldn’t unbend my legs, then wrapped rope around my body and legs, pinning them together, tying me into a ball. He took the belt which had been around my ankles and, pushing my head down against my knees, strapped it around the back of my neck and under my knees, keeping me in my extreme tuck position. I was starting to hyperventilate at this point, tears pouring down my face as I realised I was being kidnapped by some crazed psychopath.
Out of the corner of my eye, I saw him place the suitcase alongside me and then, picking me up with ease, put me into it.
"Remember," he said in his low, gruff voice, "keep quiet if you want to live." With that, he zipped the lid shut around me, enclosing me in total darkness. I was sobbing and desperately wanted to scream, but I managed to keep it down to quiet whimpers of terror.
I lay there for several minutes, wondering what was going on, before I felt myself moved to the upright position, then begin to move sideways, obviously being wheeled along. This went on for quite a while, and I'm sure I was bumped down at least one set of stairs, before the suitcase was lifted up and put down on its side. The muffled sound of an engine, the vibration, and then the movement told me that I was now in a car being taken God knows where.
The journey probably only lasted fifteen minutes, but it felt like a lifetime. At the other end, there was more wheeling and then, finally, the zip was unfastened and light flooded in again.
I was manhandled out of the case and the ropes holding my body so tightly were removed. The man dragged me to my feet, and I noticed that he was no longer wearing the balaclava. He looked as if he was in his forties, short, black hair with salt-and-pepper grey through it, and one of those neatly trimmed moustache and beard sets which made him look like Guy Fawkes.
As he dragged me across the room, I saw that it looked like an empty workshop, nothing but concrete flooring and bare plaster walls. The man unlocked the handcuffs on my wrists and pulled my arms around in front of me. My legs were still tied at ankle and knee, so I couldn't exactly run away, and all I could do was watch impotently as he now tied my wrists together in front of me. I tried to speak, wanting to beg him to let me go, but I couldn't, only a few muffled noises passed the tape over my face.
Having finished tying me, he went off to a dark corner and came back dragging a chain suspended from a rail across the ceiling. When he reached me, I saw that there was a large metal hook on the end of the chain, and he raised my arms to put the rope between my wrists onto the hook. He pulled on a chain to one side, and I felt my arms drawn up higher as the hook rose, stretching me out until I was suspended with only my toes touching the floor.
The man stood in front of me, his eyes roaming up and down my body, a slight smile on his face. He put his hand to my cheek and, with one quick pull, ripped the tape from my face. He pulled the cloth from my mouth, and I exercised my jaw, trying to work out the stiffness.
"Who are you?" I asked, my voice trembling, "what are you going to do to me?"
"What would you like me to do to you, Kelly?" he smiled. I frowned - that phrase, it seemed somehow familiar.
"Haven't you worked it out yet?" he continued, "I'm the Puppet master." My eyes widened in astonishment and horror.
"But… you can't be! You don't look anything like…"
"Like my photograph?" he sneered. "Oh, Kelly, you are so gullible! It was very easy to get that rather good looking young chap to hold that card and let me take his picture."
"But how… how do you know my name? How do you know where I live?" I still couldn't believe what he was telling me, it just seemed so impossible.
"I know all about you, Kelly," he replied, running his fingers from my elbow above my head down to my hip. "That picture not only fooled you, it also downloaded a virus onto your computer which allows me complete access to it whenever I want. I know your name, your address, where your family live, which websites you frequent - you are a dirty little girl, aren't you, Kelly?"
"But… I thought we had something special…" I sobbed, trying to come to terms with what was happening.
"Oh, but we do!" he laughed, "I am the Puppet master, and you are my puppet. A toy for me to play with in any way I wish. That seems like a very special relationship to me."
"What… what are you going to do with me now?" I asked plaintively, feeling utterly defeated and at his mercy. His hand touched my thigh and moved up, under the hem of my skirt.
"It's interesting, isn't it?" he said in a thoughtful tone, "we've spent a lot of time over the last couple of months talking about you and your fantasies, but hardly any time talking about my fantasies." His hand stroked my cheek before moving down to my neck and encircling it, pressing firmly enough for me to become frightened, but not so hard as to choke me.
"Never mind. It will all come as a wonderful surprise to you now, won't it?"
To be continued…
End of part 1
Copyright© 2014 by Jennifer Harrison. All rights reserved.