Bound To Be Bound Story code: M+F+/f, BDSM, cons
Sure, sometimes it hurts. But the incredible pleasure I find in bondage is so powerful that I just can’t give it up. In fact, I’m always excited to discover a new form of restraint and am forever hoping that a new Master or Mistress will find some novel ways to control me. This is the honest truth, not something I’ve been ordered to write! Humiliation, abasement, and degradation are exactly what I love. Some of my bondage adventures have been truly exquisite, and recounting them, as you will see later, provides another kind of pleasure for me.
My name is Torianne. I’m 25, stand about five-eight, and my measurements are figures I’m really proud of (yes, they do describe my figure!): 40-23-35. In other words, I have a very impressive pair of high, wonderfully firm breasts with thick, strong nipples, a really narrow waist below them, and hips that are nicely curved and lead down to a pair of long, attractively shapely legs. My hair is glossy black and cut in a pageboy style so that thick bangs hang halfway down my forehead, Betty Page style. I’m not bragging -- this is simply the way I am. Perhaps this information will help you to understand why I never have difficulty in finding a Master or Mistress, and why I am sold every few months for truly large amounts of money. When an owner buys me simply as an investment, I may go for several weeks in only the simplest bondage, but when I’m bought because of my physical attributes, I know I can look forward to some deliciously stringent bondage. And that pleases me, for this gives me the most physical and sexual satisfaction I‘ve ever had.
I suppose my bisexuality adds to my value, for I can get it off with either a man or a woman and love to satisfy either gender just as much as I enjoy the action myself. The sex of my owner, in other words, makes no difference to me. I must admit, though, that mistresses are usually more creative in their bondage designs than are masters, who tend to be more into just demonstrating their masculine power. But as long as I can feel the chains, straps, ropes, and/or other devices that hold me helpless, I don’t really care if it’s a man or a woman who owns me at the time.
Whether I’m nude or in skin-tight leather, fish-net, rubber, or latex, makes no real difference to me. As long as my owner likes me bare or, more often, in some sort of constrictive, revealing garment, I’m happy.
Another thing that adds to my value is the fact that my breasts have been tunneled for breast-rings. These are always D-rings, for the tunnels are well back and below my nipples so that they need about three inches of a flat steel rod in order to pass through my breasts and to anchor the curved rods that hang beneath my breasts.
The operation took place four years ago, leaving me in considerable misery for a week or two while Teflon-coated rods were secured in the new tunnels to prevent them from closing up. By the time I had recovered from the ordeal, the rings the surgeon had inserted through the tunnels seemed to be quite a natural part of me. Of course it took me a while to get used to being leashed by my rings, but soon I was honestly pleased to be made this much more vulnerable to whoever owned me.
For some reason, the rings have also made my breasts much more sensitive to erotic stimulation. This is another advantage for me, of course, and I will be forever grateful to the surgeon who managed so skillfully to raise their potential for sexual pleasure. I find it hard to hold back my moans of arousal whenever the rings are put on (or in) me, which certainly adds a lot to the gratification of my current owner. Even when the rings anchor a leash and my owner jerks or tugs at it, the pain is almost erased by the thrill that I feel. Bondage has been even more delicious for me after the operation, despite what most slavegirls think. I guess I’m just much more “into it” than they are.
Speaking of other slavegirls, I must say that I don’t have a lot of contact with them. Either I am my owner’s sole slave or else I and my sisters-in-slavery are gagged and thus have no chance to communicate with each other. When my owner happens to own two or more girls, we can be hitched to each other in a number of ways, which always adds to my enjoyment of our restraints. I’m always glad to be paired with the other girl, having our “inner” legs strapped together from crotch down to ankle so that we must coordinate our steps. I’ve had enough experience with this sort of restraint so that I try to take command and teach my partner how to move without stumbling. Being led about an estate’s grounds by a leash is difficult enough, but when we are harnessed to a sulky the arrangement causes more problems. This unavoidable fact, however, promises more satisfaction for me, no matter how much my partner suffers. Eventually, we learn to cooperate and to pull the sulky with some speed and skill.
I have had owners who really wanted me to suffer rather than to enjoy my bondage, but generally they came to recognize my enthusiasm for restraint and then looked for ways to increase my obvious gratifaction. When I was first introduced to the laced single-glove at my back, I could not define it as pleasant. With my forearms squeezed firmly together from elbows to wrists in a tight-laced sheath, including straps over my shoulders to keep it in place, the strain on my shoulders was awful. More experience with this form of restraint, however, loosened the muscles so that I could wear the glove without pain. The sense of total helplessness the glove imposed added more to the stress. And when a short chain from my palm-to-palm imprisoned hands is drawn down to my eight-inch hobble, this quickly makes it one of my favorite binds.
I suppose that when a slavegirl’s pleasure in being so severely restrained is obvious, the owner feels much less guilt about what he or she is imposing on her and thus feels free to go further in making her bondage more onerous. There are limits beyond which I can't enjoy being restrained, of course, but it is rare indeed that an owner comes up with something that I cannot enjoy. Pussy-hooks and ass-hooks are devices that I despise with all my being, but they are rarely employed. Lead weights hung from my breasts down below my knees are another arrangement that I dislike, particularly when they are really heavy and simply bang at my shins when I move. And there are of course many other devices that give me no pleasure at all.
For the most part, though, it’s the position I’m in and the tightness of my bonds that give me what I really want. With my arms in a single-glove and a two-foot hamperbar between my ankles, I love to have my arms pulled up behind me until I must lean forward far enough so that without the chain to my wrists I would fall flat on my face. Being forced to stay in this pose for an hour or so, I can feel the moisture gathering between my legs. And if I have a rubber-pebbled crotch-strap tight between my legs, the pleasure is even stronger. The more I can twist my hips, making the strap tease my love-button, the closer I can come to a first-class orgasm.
But if and when it does come, I do my best to hide the marvelous explosion so that my Master or Mistress won’t think I’m done for the day. I mean, being bundled off to my cell in simple bondage just because I’ve cum is not my idea of a great time. My love of bondage is so strong that I hate being deprived of all the thrills it can give me, even after a lovely climax. And the climax, for some reason, makes me even more eager for additional restraint.
Some owners can tell when I’ve cum in spite of my efforts to hide it, and often they decide that some simple bondage in my cell will be enough for one day. In such cases, I find it necessary to be as resistant and rebellious as I can so that more bondage instead of less will be necessary. Resistance usually works, much to my satisfaction, so instead of being simply chained spreadeagle on a cot, I can count on some more punitive restriction. For example, I find a four-hole stock to be especially exciting after I have climaxed. Having both my wrists and ankles clamped into the same device keeps my body almost doubled, whether I’m seated on the floor, lying on my back, or hoisted up into the air by chains to the stock. And with my fanny so exposed, I can expect more than a few whip-whacks from my owner.
The pain, believe it or not, is also something I enjoy. It makes me realize my enslavement more intently and so adds to my enjoyment of total submission. A whip or a cane across my buns will send me into spasms of pleasure, even though I also writhe under the agony. This is not usually expected of a slavegirl and my new owner is usually surprised at my reaction to such punishment. Given my enthusiasm for bondage, however, this is the only way I can respond. My grunts of arousal tend to increase my owner’s use of the whip, which simply adds further to my satisfaction. Both the severe bondage and the sharp pain of the additional whipping work to increase my enjoyment of the experience.
Recently, an owner or two before now, I was purchased by a thin, elderly Lez who was marvelously creative when it came to bondage. One her inventions was what she called the “bicycle hobble,” and it certainly gave me a stressful (and thus exciting) time. If you can think of a regular bicycle with its two pedals that make the sprocket go round in order to turn the chain that drives the rear wheel, imagine removing the pedals from the vehicle altogether. And forget the sprocket and its cogs as well. All you have left is the long rod with a pedal on an axle at either end, one on the right side at the top of the rod and one on the left side at the bottom.
Now think of substituting ankle cuffs on axles for the pedals. Locking these cuffs about my ankles would force me to stand with my feet about six inches apart if they were together, but one of them is necessarily ten or twelve inches ahead of the other. If I am to move forward, then, I must raise the rear foot in a high arc until it is planted on the ground the same distance in front of the other foot as it was behind it in the beginning. I cannot turn my feet, nor change the distance between my ankles, and so I must move in this oddly demanding manner as long as my owner desires it. Weighted shackles, of course, only make the job more difficult, but it is hard enough to learn how to move in such restraint without them.
The one advantage this kind of hobble has is that it forces the wearer to raise her knees in proper style. A telescoping rod can require higher lifts, obviously, so the owner has some discretion in what he or she wants in terms of movement. The mistress who designed this curious hobble liked to show me off at various “bondcons” and would extend the rod to 16 inches so that I actually had to raise each knee higher than my waist. Following her on a leash, or pulling a sulky, if it weren’t for my love of such devices, I’m sure I would totally despise this one.
That Mistress’s other invention was not quite so creative but was equally cruel. She would lay a padded rod across the back of my waist and hook my elbows over it, using ropes through holes at the ends of the rod about my arms above and below my elbows, to make sure it would not slide out on either side of me. Then straps from my wrist cuffs were pulled down to go back between my legs and then up between my lower cheeks to go up over the rod between it and my back.
This left the straps loose behind me. Sure enough, they could be used either as reins to control my movements or to hitch me to her sulky. If I were equipped with a pebbled crotch-strap, tension on the straps could be both punitive and exciting. If they were used to help me pull the sulky, the pressure was continuous except for the times when the sulky had enough momentum to give me some relief. If they were used as reins, with the sulky’s shafts locked at the sides of my corselet, I had to figure out which direction was called for, and with their positions so close on either side of my labia, it was often difficult to tell which rein was being pulled.
Needless to say, being reined this way and having to endure the whip at the same time, gave me almost more bondage than I wanted. But there was enough pleasure in being used this way so I could not really complain. Whether I am used as a ponygirl or just as a slave to be teased and tormented, my need for bondage remains in full force and I submit to whatever is done to (or with) me without resentment.
Other masters have used different techniques on me. One of them, for instance, liked to have me hop all the time rather than walk. And so my ankles were always strapped tightly together, as well as my legs both below and above my knees, and I had to follow my breast-leash by hopping along behind him. I found this quite difficult at first, especially when wearing ballet-boots, but after a few days I learned how to hop without losing my balance, and actually became quite skilled at this kind of challenging exercise. Hopping, of course, makes my breasts bounce up and down, which simply adds to my excitement.
Another owner, also male, found particular satisfaction in restricting me to my knees whenever he wanted to lead me somewhere. Tight-laced sheaths were pulled down over my knees and laced to hold each leg doubled, heels pressed into my asscheeks, and I was grateful that the knees were well-padded. With my hands forced into five-inch rubber balls that were stuffed with cotton and had cuffs that were laced about my wrists, I was indeed degradingly on all fours. But with a leash to my collar, and once in a while to my breast-rings, I could do nothing but follow him about like a dog. And when he decided to fix a hamperbar between my knees and/or my wrists, I was about as clumsy as any slavegirl could be. This meant that he had every reason to use his lash on my back and buns, adding terrifically to my sense of enslavement.
Another mistress, an Amazon in both stature and in cruelty, would often fasten me into a throat-and-wrists stock so that I had to hold my hands up level and ten inches to each side of my neck at all times. Leaving my legs free, although with ballet-boots on my feet, she would lead me by a leash to my breast-rings at exhausting speed about her spacious grounds. My feet had become used to such footwear long ago, but having to obey the leash fixed to my breasts and without the use of my arms to keep me balanced, I often stumbled and fell more than she wanted. The cuts of her whip-lash across my back and my buns provided a bizarre kind of pleasure for me, despite the pain. She never knew how much I appreciated this, and so I spent a lot of time in this arrangement and got used to her discipline. If one is truly a bondage addict, what more could one want?
And then there was the Lez mistress who wanted sex at least twice a day. She would secure me in a stock that held my head level with her crotch when she was seated, leaving my arms laced into a single-glove behind me, and then demand that I service her. That wasn’t a bad thing in itself, for I am quite used to providing such oral stimulation to another woman, but having to sit astride a low wooden “horse” without any padding but with my legs strapped double, was not exactly comfortable. It took me quite a while to bring her -- and myself! -- to climax. Being a bondage-addict is not always as easy as it might sound.
One Master I remember quite clearly was chiefly interested in my breasts, which I must admit are full enough to be very attractive. He would take them in his hands and squeeze and manipulate them until I was really aroused, and then pull my breast-rings apart and then together until I was panting with excitement. But he didn’t want me to cum so soon. Instead, he would fasten straps to the rings and then pull them down and back between my legs, jerking at them behind me until the pain was more than I could think of as stimulation. But my moans of pain did not influence his intentions, and so I had to undergo an endless kind of punishment that did not bring me to the climax I craved. Finally, though, he would ease up on the pressure and allow me the ecstasy of much-needed relief. I think he enjoyed such sessions as much as he enjoyed seeing me writhe under both the pain and then the ultimate climax.
As a true bondage-lover, I have had more than enough owners to confirm my commitment to severe restraint. No matter how I am bound, or what kinds of activities I must engage in, the sexual thrill of being cruelly confined and humiliated is enough to persuade me that this is really the most marvelous pleasure I can find in this life. My body finds true ecstasy in the most strict bondage I can find, and I can only hope that I continue to find Masters and Mistresses who can devise the kind of bondage that will make my life meaningful.
Perhaps I should add that being forced to serve as a ponygirl is another chore that I enjoy. Particularly when I am secured astride the drawbar (or “tongue”) of the sulky I am to pull, rather than having my wrists chained to its two drawbars, I find my servitude especially exciting. The drawbar, always smooth and oiled, can tease my clit until I am close to an orgasm. Wearing a bit with reins to control me, I can run just as fast as my hobble (if any) allows me. A Mistress who likes to be pulled about her garden provides a great thrill, since, as I just noted, the drawbar rubs at my puss until I am close to a real climax. But then, of course, she will call a halt to my efforts and I am left with a terrible need for relief. This is only one of the ways that my owners like to frustrate me.
Masters also find satisfaction in using me as a ponygirl, but run my reins up from my breast-rings through rings at the sides of my bit so that a correction in the direction I am to go brings pain to my breasts as well as my mouth. However, believe it or not, when I am harnessed in this way, I find that my enjoyment of bondage is wonderfully enhanced. If I give even a sign of pleasure, though, I can expect additional discipline, and this is not always welcome. A whip’s bite at my fanny is sometimes more than I want, and its cut across my back can be really painful. Yet my addiction to bondage is never decreased. A bondage-babe can never be truly satisfied!
Of course, there are other ways that I can be bound. One Mistress used to tie my arms together above my head, forcing my forearms to press against my ears and so cutting off any sound I might hear. And when my arms were bound double, wrists down to shoulders, there was always the chance that she could run a strap between my elbows and hoist me into the air. Hanging by one’s elbows is no real fun, but when one’s knees are spread apart by a hamperbar, one is totally vulnerable to a visit by a vibrator or even a super-sized dildo, and that makes it all worthwhile. I’m not sure I want to experience that again, but I do remember it now with some pleasure.
Being bound in true Willie-style, doubled over with my knees at my breasts and with arms in a singleglove behind me, is a position I always enjoy, even though it keeps me from any movement at all. Unfortunately, it also limits what my current owner can do with me, so I don’t experience it very often. Still, the position gives me a chance to rest from whatever has been done to me earlier. Actually, I’m glad to be fixed in this position, for it gives me a time to relax. But a new owner will still find some inventive way to imprison me, and I’m always glad to experience a new form of bondage.
For example, a new male owner decided that I would be more stressed if I were seated astride a wooden “pony” with my legs doubled and with only a pebbled crotch-strap between my puss and the barely-padded top of the pony. With my arms pulled up behind me in a tough forearm-X, I had to lean forward, increasing the pressure on my clit, and could only twist my arms slightly in trying to enjoy the sensation. He saw this and added to my unexpected pleasure by lashing me for a long time with a multi-strand lash across my fanny. It took a while before I tired of the pain, but there was no way I could not find pleasure in it.
I must confess that I do not know why I am so addicted to bondage and discipline, but the reason doesn’t seem important. All I know is that it brings me intense pleasure, and that I will seek it whenever I can. Luckily, enough people in the B&D community know of my needs so I am never without an owner who has something new for me. My latest owner, a woman of impressive sadism, found that I responded very well to being bound face-up over a wheel in her basement “dungeon” and simultaneously being invaded by a vibrating dildo and lashed across my breasts by her multi-thronged whip. Ooh, was I happy! The pleasure of both torments was enough to bring me right to the edge of a major orgasm. She realized this, so my tantalizing experience was cruelly extended by her pulling the dildo from my puss and letting up on the whipping. My moans of frustration made her grin with satisfaction.
What a cruel thing to do to me! I wriggled and moaned and did my best to let her know I wanted more of this, not less, but it was in vain. Her pleasure came in seeing me so seriously tantalized. And so I lay there, stretched in a stressful arch, and had to deal as well as I could with my disappointment. Her kisses, to my mouth and to my stiffened nipples, only added to my sense of deprivation. Why couldn’t she let me reach the climax that I so desperately needed? Well, she was a sadist, of course!
Later, when I was released from the wheel, she cuffed my hands together in front of me and gave me what turned out to be a disgustingly soft, bendable dildo that could give me no pleasure at all. My frantic efforts to force it up into my puss made her laugh hilariously at my frustration. Complaints, of course, would give her more reason to devise more discipline, and that’s what really happened.
As I cursed the useless dildo with my knees spread apart, she forced me to accept a tight-laced single-glove behind my back that squeezed my forearms together behind me and left me totally helpless. Further, short chains from my breast-rings to my ankle cuffs made me lean forward so that I was totally open to her lash at my fanny. She used the opportunity with considerable pleasure, leaving me moaning with agony at the same time that I was enjoying the punishment. Jesus, sometimes I think that my butt will be so scarred that I should give up my so-called addiction. But that sure hasn’t happened yet.
And then there was the old man who remembered Bizarre and the stuff Irving Klaw used to sell, and he would secure me in the positions that Bettie Page used to be in. The experience was not especially exciting, but it at least put me in touch with my ancestors in the bondage business. Being tied across a coffee-table, or fixed with my arms pulled back between my legs and up to the ceiling was not what I consider real bondage, but that’s what people liked fifty or sixty years ago. Needless to say, I was very happy when he sold me to a man who was more in touch with modern bondage.
Toe-cuffs, I think, are more difficult to deal with than ankle-chains, for they can inflict more pain and really restrict one’s pace. I’ve worn them several times, always with much discomfort, and I can assure you that they really work. With a ten-inch chain between your two big-toes, you suffer real pain if you try to go beyond its limit. Toes are naturally sensitive to unnatural strain, and you know it the moment you try to go beyond the limits they allow you. I have worn them often enough so I know what I’m talking about! My new owner preferred them to all sorts of hobbles, and I soon got to know how painful they can be.
Hobbled with toe-chains and severely restrained in other ways, a slavegirl is really under her owner’s control. Her bit provides direction, of course, but when she is hobbled by her toes as well, she has no way at all to resist his or her control. All she can do is to move forward, even with limited steps, and hope that she will not displease him or her. And if I am also harnessed to a sulky, encouraged by the whip to move faster, I have to move my feet just as rapidly as I can. Continual bites of the whip across my buns remind me that I am not moving fast enough, so I must endure such punishment (and the pain of my toe-hobble), as long as my Master wants to keep riding. Still, the pressure of the drawbar between my legs only adds to my bizarre pleasure. Ponygirling is a kind of bondage that should be used more often.
Even at night, when I am secured in a stable or somewhere in my owner’s house, I get no relief from my bondage. I may be hogtied on a rough cot or forced to stand all night with my ankles chained wide apart and a chain up to the ceiling from my single-gloved arms, forcing me to bend far forward so that I really get no rest at all.
And there are nights when I am confined astride a padded “pony,” legs doubled and arms pulled up behind me, so that I cannot avoid being aroused by my crotch-strap and yet cannot do anything to reach the climax I so desire. It is evenings and nights like this that force me to wonder whether I really love bondage. But the answer is always the same: YES!, I certainly do! So I concentrate on the thrills that await me the next day and sink into a kind of slumber that will give me enough energy to get through the next day.
The next day very often brings a surprise that renews my continuing commitment to bondage. For example, my owner (male or female) will come to release me from my evening restraint and then use my breast-leash to lead me to a new form of misery. He or she will take me to a new type of stock, perhaps one which clamps my thighs far apart and holds my wrists down behind me. With my pussy so open to torment, he or she will run a long, brutally coarse crotch-strap down from the front of my corselet back between my legs and then fasten it to the collar of a large dog. The dog, of course, is given complete freedom to run whoever he wants to, and so I must endure many random pressures on my sensitive clit. There is no way I can calm the dog, or even keep him from trying to escape his confinement, and thus must accept whatever sudden pressures the dog will inflict on me through his attempts to escape his leash.
Before long, of course, I will have climaxed nicely, and thereafter I can only put up with the torment with just a bit of pleasure. It is these wonderful sexual explosions, I must admit, that confirm my total commitment to bondage. Even if they are withheld from me for a long time, I know that sooner or later my bondage will result in a glorious orgasm -- and this is what keeps me a devoted victim of artful bondage.
I must confess that at time there are feelings that I would rather not undergo these shameful experiences. But before long, my addiction to humiliation and restraint comes up and it is so powerful that I must reject the idea. No matter how stressful or painful my bondage can be, I cannot give it up. The sheer joy of being thoroughly under someone else’s control, and then being tantalized and brought to the verge of sexual satisfaction, is enough to confirm my desire to be someone else’s slave for as long as possible.
Surely, someday I will age and become less attractive as a slavegirl, but then I expect to be taken on as a guard or as a cook -- someone who will at least be involved with slavery and still in some sort of bondage. Until that happens, however, I will do my best to be a slavegirl who attracts other owners who will want me because I am so committed to bondage -- and certainly enjoy it more than most other slavegirls do.
THE END
by Nob