Slave Jenny Report No. 1
by Jennifer Harrison
Author’s Comments: This is a true account of the events of 13th July 2011, which my friend SNAP has kindly, and brilliantly, illustrated. SNAP and I have formed a collaborative relationship which I call ‘Remote Control Bondage’ – from the USA, Master SNAP gives me my instructions and I, Slave Jenny, put them into effect, in England. I hope you enjoy the picture and text – if so, let me know (readers of my stories know how much I appreciate feedback!) Email me at bongopop63[at]btinternet.com Please put 'Slave Jenny Comment' in the subject line. If there is sufficient interest, we will do this again.
I am sitting in my garden on a beautiful July day, the warm breeze playing delightfully across my bare skin, which is protected from the strong afternoon sun by the oriental pine tree shading me.
The garden is walled and is not overlooked by any windows, although the neighbours to my left and behind me could, in theory, look over the fence and see me in all my naked glory – luckily, both are old ladies, so the chances are slim.
In theory, anyone could walk through the garden gate and find me, but again, it is very unlikely this will happen. But there is still the frisson of excitement at possible discovery, however remote.
I sit astride the garden chair backwards, naked other than for a pair of high heels, and my bondage. A scarf is tied across my eyes. A bright red ball glistens with saliva in my mouth, its black leather straps stretched tight across my cheeks.
My breasts are ‘root cinched’, as Master SNAP calls it – rope is tied around the base of each breast, making it swell into a distended globe. The ropes are tied to bricks which hang over the back of the chair – I have to press myself against the chair back so that the bricks can rest on the ground and reduce the tugging on my breasts.
My legs are splayed around the seat of the chair, with my ankles chained to the cross bars between the chair legs and my weight supported by my inner thighs, buttocks, and crotch area. My arms are behind me, my wrists held by cuffs. I let out a moan of pleasure and excitement.
My name is Jenny Harrison, I’m thirty five years old, have ginger hair and a 34D-33-35 figure. I’m five foot four and I’m not a supermodel – my tummy is not rock hard, my bottom is a little on the large side, and I think of my thighs as a little ‘chunky’ - though SNAP disagrees with me vehemently (nice man!). I'm basically a real woman with real curves. I’m also happily married, living in a sleepy English village near Salisbury Plain.
But as mundane as my life and appearance may seem to others, I have a secret in that I have also experimented with self-bondage in the past, up until a few years ago actually.
I’m not sure why I stopped – maybe I felt it was childish and I should act like a grown-up, as I was now a happily married woman; maybe I was frightened I would hurt myself; or maybe I thought my husband was getting suspicious - but the end result was the same in that I ceased my self-bondage activities.
I’d always enjoyed reading bondage stories, and I discovered that I could write bondage stories which not only I enjoyed, but other people wanted to read as well. This is ultimately how I came to meet SNAP.
It was just ten days ago that I started emailing this guy calling himself SNAP, about the idea that he was going to incorporate me into his story, called ‘Desperation’.
I gave him a few details about my body, as I have above, and he sent me a first draft. As I read it, I felt excited in a way I had not for years – his description of ‘my’ humiliation, degradation and bondage had my heart pounding.
He said he was an artist and would like to add a picture of me in my bondage to the story. He directed me to his work on the deviantart website and I was surprised and aroused by the quality of his work. My level of excitement went through the roof and, against my better judgement, I sent him a photograph.
All this bondage talk and mental images of me being tied up brought back all those feelings I realised I had been suppressing for years. Suddenly I felt I had to do something about it.
The idea for a self-bondage session became irresistible and I took that Wednesday off work ‘sick’ – I work from home most of the time anyway, so my husband didn’t need to know anything about it.
I decided I would share my experience with SNAP, as he had inspired it. And then I had a better idea – I would appoint him as my ‘master’, have him specify exactly what I should do to myself, giving up control of myself to him. It seemed a safe outlet for my needs.
There were logistical difficulties – he knew nothing about this, and by the time he got my message and could act upon it in the US, it was already mid-afternoon in the UK.
I waited for his response with baited breath. And then it arrived – “select a straight-backed chair … root cinch your breasts … blindfold yourself … throw the key away from you …” SNAP was careful to add plenty of truly devious details into the last minute challenge.
I dashed around the house and garage assembling what he had specified. I thought about doing the session in the dining room, or the kitchen, but then I remembered the garden furniture – good sturdy wooden chairs perfect for being tied to – and knew I wanted to do this outdoors!
As I went toward the deck at the back of the garden, I noticed the small stack of house bricks left over from some project, and knew I could use them in my forthcoming self-bondage – I was sure ‘Master’ SNAP would not object.
I moan again, more loudly this time, as the vibrator in my pussy starts to work its magic, but I know I must try and keep the noise down even though the vibrator's at it's highest, most arousal inducing setting!
In front of me to the left, behind a high wall, is the garden of the village pub, where customers are enjoying either a late lunch or an early evening drink, and I am sure they would be shocked to hear the sounds of a woman reaching a climax in such close proximity, because that is precisely what is happening!
I squirm in the chair and roll my hips forward to force the vibrator deeper inside me to stimulate my G spot. The edges of the wooden slats in the seat dig uncomfortably into my thighs and the ropes around my breasts are making them sore, but I just don’t care.
With my breasts squashed against the back of the chair, my erect nipples rub enticingly against the coarse wood, simulating me even more. I can feel the orgasm building within me and cannot stop myself starting to thrash about, arching my back and pulling the ropes around my aching breasts even tighter, raising the bricks at the other end of the ropes off the ground.
I bite down hard on the ballgag as the climax rages through my body, trying to keep quiet as a, hopefully unrelated, peel of laughter erupts from the pub garden.
I slump in the chair, exhausted. As I slowly recover, I listen to the birds twittering, the breeze blowing in the treetops, the people chatting, oblivious to my activities maybe ten yards away. I hear the clock on the village church strike five, and I know that, reluctantly, I have to end the session and free myself.
I have a string around my left wrist, and I start to reel in the key to my handcuffs tied at the end of it. The string stretches 30 feet across the garden behind me, along a concrete path, and at the end of the string, behind the key, is tied a brick.
This is designed to make the simple task of retrieving the key more challenging, and so it proves. I find it very tiring on my fingers to pull the weight of the brick, and I resort to reaching as far down the string as I can and then dragging the brick forward. It scrapes infuriatingly slowly along the concrete, making small scuffing noises and occasionally getting snagged as it comes along.
This dragging technique is effective, but it also means the vibrator, which is still buzzing away inside me, moves around, stimulating me further, and it also means the ropes around my breasts are constantly pulling and tugging as I lean backwards which makes the bricks swing freely above the ground on the other end of the ropes.
I am in a fair degree of discomfort, but I am surprised by how it affects me. Before I can get to the key, I reach another spectacular climax.
Once I have the key, I quickly free myself, get dressed, and go back into the house. I put away all the bondage equipment and sit down with a glass of wine to await the return home of my husband, who is blissfully unaware of my bondage activities. I try not to visibly wince as I feel the ache in my tortured breasts - but it is a good ache, reminding me constantly of my afternoon’s activities.
Later, I send a full report to Master SNAP for his entertainment. I hope he will be pleased by Slave Jenny’s efforts, and will approve of my additions to his instructions. I suddenly realise that I had done the session without anything up my bottom – maybe something to remember for next time …