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  • Selfie (a.k.a. Rogue Tie)

Selfie (a.k.a. Rogue Tie)

123

You are always so good at making lists, Becca!

This is a compliment I hear a lot from colleagues and friends alike. Always meant sincere, it does have a backhanded element to it. It labels me organised, bureaucratic, predictable. Rebecca, the Excel Queen. Rebecca, mind you. Not Bec or Beckie. Not Becca, either. But people are so quick with shortening my name. Just as quick as with making list-related compliments.

A list, then -- old-fashioned with pen and paper, in my girly handwriting:

* Restrains, 3 pairs (handcuffs, elbow cuffs, hobbles)
* Latex hood
* Ball gag
* Posture collar
* Nipple clamps

I was giggling at the last item, even more so as I specified the entry:

* Nipple clamps (the nasty ones, chickenshit!)
* Latex opera gloves
* Chastity chain
* Butt plug

Now I was blushing. Grow up, Rebecca! I hesitated at the final point I had in mind, not so much out of prudery but out of my sense for practicability. I jotted it down nonetheless:

* Ballet boots, lockable

Self-bondage is something I has been experimenting with for the last half year or so, and something that allows me to break my own stereotypical behaviour patterns. Freeing me, if you will. When I am tied up, nobody expects me to organise birthday parties or to have the monthly balance ready by four -- actually, we need the numbers by three, Beckie. And some coffee would be nice, too.

Now the next big step in my pervy hobby was neigh. The long weekend. Come Friday evening my company, at least the part I slaved at, would be literally deserted until next Tuesday. Ideal circumstances to expand my operation area. Never before I had laid myself in iron outside the sanctuary of my own flat. This was bound to be a most intense experience. My first ever rogue tie.

By Thursday I had the list neatly ticked off. The packed gym bag was waiting ready next to my chest of drawers. The one with the evil drawers. Somewhere a girl has to store her smut.

The last hours before the bank holiday weekend were nothing short of white torture. The combination of excitement and time dragging on doesn't leave marks, but even a masochist like my humble self can suffer unduly. My watch showed 16:11. Half an hour later it was 16:12.

By running perfectly flawless numbers again, loading the photocopying machine to the brim and sorting my paper clips, I willed the magic 17:00 to happen. I'm normally not the person who drops everything on the stroke of five. But today I grabbed my stuff not one second later and, wishing a nice weekend to my fellow thralls without even looking back, stormed out.

Freedom! And better still, in three hours' time: Captivity!

A light supper was followed by a refreshing shower, and again I was counting the minutes. At a quarter to seven I couldn't take it anymore and left my flat, gym bag in hand (I had once more double-checked its content, of course -- an activity that hadn't done any good to my heat level). To the casual bystander I was just a lass on her way to her workout. Running shoes, yoga pants, tank top over a training bra. Two water bottles in the extra bottle pockets of the bag. None of the items were meant to deceive, though. The clothes I would be able to loose quickly. More importantly, they would be easy to put back on again -- after a serious bondage session my body tends to be a bit sore. It also tends to be a bit dehydrated due to the loss of various fluids. You know what I mean.

My office complex is located in a corner of the Digital Apex premises. For the sake of corporal identity it shares the same architectural style of glass, adonised aluminium and polished concrete with the important buildings. But we are a bit more every day. Just like the development headquarters we have got a reception desk (normally with Smiling Molly behind it), but to reach ours a visitor don't need to cross a foyer the size of Greenland. We, too, have an illuminated DA logo in the entrance area, but ours is one metre tall and wall mounted, whereas Development greet their guests with a rotating three-dimensional letter sculpture outweighing a Mini Cooper, yet seemingly floating in mid-air. The company's higher echelons don't even know we existed, let alone set foot into our cosy near-cubical six storey cottage.

The car park was empty, as even the most notorious workaholics had dissipated by now. Some orientation lights in the stairwells was all that shone through the glass façade. Just what I had hoped for. From the boot of my (t)rusty rice burner I took the gym back, locked the car and waited for second thoughts to arrive.

Nope, nothing. Operation TieUpRebecca was a go!

It was only in front of the large glass doors that I asked myself why I had carried the heavy bag all across the car park. I could have parked literally anywhere, namely closer to the entrance. But of course I had stowed my conveyance on the exact same designated spot I left it on every morning for the last two years.

"Seriously...?"

I rolled my eyes at myself.

We aren't sporting the security overkill of Development or Production. A handful of internal sluices in sensible areas, some CCTV around the archives on fourth and fifth floor. Sometimes security blokes drive by in their self-important 4x4s. All you need to open the entrance door is a swipe card with your mug printed on it. I loathe the picture on mine. It has been taken on my second day, when I was battling a sudden attack of the flu with a bit too many Ibus. I looked baked out of my mind.

I knew my opening the electronic lock would be duly documented, and that there were cameras eyeing the foyer's entrance area. But even if somebody could be bothered to check on the recordings -- so what? I was allowed to be here. The situation would turn a bit trickier if I actually ran into somebody. Forward-thinking as I am I'd left my notebook in my desk. If asked, I would have a plausible explanation for my return at hand.

Reaching the reception, I placed a small box with jangling content on the desk top behind the futuristic front panel. It was a cheap strongbox one might use to stow money in at garage sales or flea markets. Yet I could not pry its lid open, and its key was not to stay in my possession. As I walked away I couldn't help myself but take a look over my shoulder to check whether the box was still there.

The lift was across the foyer, to the left. I called the cabin, and as the door slid open, I blocked it with a chair from the waiting area. I had done the same to the second lift in the rear part of the building, past the reception and some non-descript storage rooms, utilising a large potted plastic plant.

I took the stairs, sticking my head into each storey to listen to any sound. There was none, safe for the faint swoosh of the ventilation. The third floor was mine, both in that it was here where I push my zeroes and ones day in, day out, and in that it would be the starting venue for tonight's kinky activities. Crossing the open office space, I fetched my notebook and stuffed it in a side pocket of my bag. I didn't look like I would need my back-up plan, but it was good to have one all the same.

Already in the early phase of my planning I had decided upon the exact spot of my changing. Down the corridor with its anthracite carped I marched, past the copier niche and the conveniences. Past Conference Room C and Conference Room B. Which led me consequently to the gates of Conference Room A, a.k.a. Main Conference Room, where I am regularly subjected to the ancient capital punishment of Death by Meeting.

There is quite a number of elements in my job at DA I am rather fond of. Wasting hour upon end in utterly inconclusive meetings isn't one of them. The room offered a nice view both to the north and to the west -- which of course was blocked out during work, so everybody could see the ultra-important pie charts thrown at the far wall. My gym bag found its place at the head of the long table. I did not need to switch on the lamps, the room was dipped in moonlight. The silver rays created a surreal otherworldliness, the perfectambience for my endeavour. I took my tank top off.

Still no second thoughts.

A minute later my clothes were neatly stored in one of the chairs, strongbox key put on top. Standing here in the buff, cold moonlight on my skin, gave me my first wave of weak knees. Running through the complex at night with a gym bag full of "not safe for work" stuff had been but shady. Now I was doing something forbidden, something punishable. And I wasn't planning on stopping just now. From the bag I pulled my BDSM paraphernalia, lining them up on the table to a piquant array. After a quick draught of water I was readied both physically and mentally. First item to be donned was the latex opera gloves. Thrilling due to their material rather than to their ability to restrain, I incorporated them into every session. I relished the feeling of my rubberised hands on myself, the promising material between my fingertips and the parts of my body they were visiting. With their insides already lightly sprinkled with talcum, I quickly rolled them up past my elbows. For a moment I allowed myself to be carried away from the reflexions in their perfectly polished surfaces. Continuing the latex theme, the discipline hood came next. If it really was a discipline hood, it was a merciful one -- as long as you weren't claustrophobic. It had openings for the eyes, mouth and nostrils as well as for the hair near the crown of the head. Most importantly, it had an opening for the neck, yet descriptions routinely disregarded that one. There's no shame in being precise. I had to fiddle about to thread my pony tail through the corresponding hole, but other than that the hood went on easily and was snug in due time. The cool material quickly heated up on my skin. I knew I was blushing beneath it. I also knew I was becoming alarmingly aroused.

The next pieces in line weren't exactly helpful in that matter, either. High heels as sexual signals are commonly believed to aim at men first and foremost. But when the heels in question are twenty centimetres high and force the wearer's helpless feet into a severe en pointe position, a girl can get weak knees, too. The ballet boots were evil; knee-high, demanding and unforgiving, they had me landed on my bum or nose more than once. Over the last few months I had taught myself to manage them, and I could walk quite steadily in them by now. Not as good as the fetish models on the interweb, but I didn't need a wall within reach anymore. The limiting factor was my calves and insteps. Despite my training they would eventually cramp up, and severely so. Twenty minutes tops.

Sitting on the desk, stress-positioned feet resting on one of the chairs, I indulged in the tedious task of lacing the boots. They had no zippers, not even hooks for the last parts. These boots were eyelets all the way up. Being a leading BDSM supplier, their makers knew how to make their customers suffer. Centimetre by centimetre, grommet by grommet I worked my way up. The patent leather owned a certain stiffness by itself, but the strong lacing made it even more rigid. More restrictive.

Was this but a gratuitous moonlit dressing scene? It was gratuitous for me, to be sure. It was also a ritual, a highly stylised transformation. During daytime I might be a medium-easily exploitable accountancy lass, but by night I was Bondage Girl -- if I ever got those bloody laces up...!

Finally! I finished each boot with a neat bow, only to cover it with a broad leather flap, which in turn was secured by two small padlocks, one above the other. Hearing them click shut sent another unladylike wave of heat through my body. I was now unable to undo the laces and take the boots off. Not having the keys around, I was trapped in my cruel footwear.

I reminded myself to drink again, even if that meant risking an uncomfortable urge to urinate. I had not embraced the erotic aspects of bladder control yet, but that was on my list -- I know, lists. On the table my favourite item was waiting, the huge red ball gag that would make me drool uncontrollably in no time. Hydrating before stuffing my mouth with it was strongly recommended. I worked my jaw in preparation, limbering up muscles and tendons. I have a small mouth, and Big Red was on the mean side of two inches in diameter (size queen!). To say I love or like being gagged as such may be beside the truth. Being gagged is nasty, debasing, and more often than not painful. What I can't get enough of is enduring these hardships, giving myself up together with my human ability to speak. One can't endure what they already love, for enduring always demands the presence of suffering.

Wow, great chain of thought. I've got to write that down...!

It took a bit of work to jam the silicon sphere past my teeth. Instantly a slight ache in my muscles and joints introduced itself, of which I knew would increase over time to a very unsexy level. I would be able to tolerate the gag longer than the boots, though. A smaller version I had worn for over three hours. It was a most visited phantasy of mine being gagged indefinitely, tormented and humiliated by instruments of oral discipline. Sometimes it was "only" Big Red, then again obscene spider gags, spiked steel balls or mediæval branks. Now and then they took on phallic forms or characteristics of vicious horse bits.

Wedged behind my teeth and putting considerable pressure on my tongue and palate, the ball gag was already doing its job even before I buckled the head harness. Harnesses are a must-have. A girl isn't properly gagged without an unyielding set of leather straps encircling her head. I had too many useless gags I could work out of my mouth with my tongue or jaw movement. Very disappointing when you are in otherwise perfect bondage. One could argue I just should stop trying to push the gag out -- but what would be the point of that? I want to be gagged without escape. Not pretending to be. I felt the first tickles of saliva gathering in the corners of my mouth.

Tilting my head I buckled the various straps. I had customised the broad one running from my forehead across the crown of my head. It was now interrupted by an additional ring for my ponytail. The harnessing was an iterative process. Buckles I had already closed I opened anew, because slack appeared once I had worked some other belt. Tightening the main strap across my cheeks pulled the gag even deeper in my mouth, and the chin strap sealed the deal by forcing my jaw against the ball. I always felt a little silly stuffing a silicone thingy into my mouth, but that passed the moment I saw myself in all my bound glory. It was too dark in the conference room to have a mirror image in the glass walls, but I knew it looked great, especially in combination with the glossy latex hood. Three more padlocks clicked, pushing the level of head restrains towards bondage overkill.

After having securely gagged myself, things became even raunchier in form of the chastity chain. As the term indicated quite subtly, this device would prevent me from touching myself inappropriately. Once tied up I wouldn't be able to do that anyway but besides the thrill of its sole presence there was another catch to it: Getting out of it again would be far more challenging than it would be the case with the rest of my bondage.

I picked the already untangled contraption up. It was heavy, of menacing yet downright intriguing design. A belt made of black leather with plenty of D-rings along its circumference. It provided anchorage for the actual chain that defended my honour by running through between my legs. The chain was of the same kind used for bicycles, if in a smoothly polished finish. With surprising easiness it followed the anatomic curves of my pus---... pudenda. But in direction of its pins it was unyieldingly rigid and could neither be bent away nor flipped over, denying me any chance of getting it out of position.

I was wondering whether there was a version using a chainsaw chain?

Naturally, the chain also nestled itself between my buttocks, were it took over a second, more sinister function. Leaving the metal thong dangle for the time being, I took the slim butt plug off the table, weighting it gingerly in my hand. People often describe me as "anal", yet I never had the dark pleasures of sodomy bestowed upon me (dodged that bullet so far). I also have mixed feelings about plugs. They have a very strong impact on me, psychologically more than physically. This night I would subject myself to their intrusive caressing once again -- when not pushing my boundaries now, then when?

My plug of choice was rather benign; seven centimetres of effective length, with a diameter of three centimetres at its widest, and of classic tapered form. I wasn't too shy on the lubricant, too. Yet I couldn't help but gasp into the mouth-filling gag as the thickest part slid past my sphincter. The wicked toy, all cold and invasive, lodged itself deeper still. The ring of muscles closed around the slim stem in protest, and my body kept the source of its own debasement trapped within it.

After a few deep breaths to become accustomed to the weird sensation of being filled, I put on the chastity device. To the base of my anal invader I had fitted a screw eye, through which I was now fumbling the chain before connecting it to the back of the belt. I don't have to mention that both belt and chain were to be locked, too, and separately so. I do it nevertheless, so you can keep track of the number of keys needed for my rescue.

The moonlight faded for some moments as a cloud travelled by lazily. Forecast had predicted no rain for the long weekend, yet only underwhelming temperatures. So my recreational activities would mainly involve my couch. But who knew what urges this night would trigger in me.

Although barely putting any weight on them, my feet were starting to ache in the ballet boots. Better to continue with the task at hand. Time to surrender myself to the questionable mercy of my nipple clamps. Being of the crocodile style and with distinctively narrow jaws, they ranked one step below true endurance clamps. Not so harsh their victim constantly had to uphold all willpower not to double over in anguish, but already with a rather high "take'em off!"-factor.

Welcome, second thoughts!

I had worn nipple clamps before, if only for a short time and models not this strong. And I had cheated by masturbating the edge away. With the pussy chain installed that wasn't an option tonight. Until now I had always wimped out on wearing the nasty ones. There were non-adjustable, binary in their pain infliction. None or full throttle.

"C'mon, wuss!" I taunted myself. What passed the ball in my mouth was of course mumbling.

Before Rebecca even had a chance to overthink the whole concept of nipple torture even more, Bondage Girl grabbed the clamps and applied them. One left, one right, in quick succession. Again the gag came in handy, both in providing something to bite into, and to stifle my drawn-out groan. Half doubled over, I breathed through the initial pain rampaging in my poor nips. For being initial, it took its sweet-arse time to subside to a bearable level.

These bastards were intense, and no mistake!

One last insignia had remained on the conference table. A collar was arguably the ultimate symbol of submission. And the tall leather posture collar so dramatically draped in the pale moonlight promised a strictness wiping away any thoughts of resistance. It had cost me some bob, but was as beautifully crafted as it was confining. It did not constrict me to the point of choking, but let me feel with every filling of my lungs that the most basic attribute of life was controlled by an inanimate object. It would make breathing an active act. It would also massively interfere with swallowing, and I had to swallow often thanks to my drool-triggering gag, which in itself made swallowing quite strenuous. Two more locks snapped shut in the nape of my neck. With both the head harness and the posture collar installed, it was impossible for me to remove my hood.

123
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