<![CDATA[Like Ra's Naughty Forum - Bondage Stories]]> https://www.likera.com/forum/mybb/ Sat, 16 May 2026 17:20:57 +0000 MyBB <![CDATA[Kidnapping and BDSM plan for a gay masochist]]> https://www.likera.com/forum/mybb/Thread-Kidnapping-and-BDSM-plan-for-a-gay-masochist Fri, 29 Aug 2025 06:15:52 +0000 Gitefétichistes]]> https://www.likera.com/forum/mybb/Thread-Kidnapping-and-BDSM-plan-for-a-gay-masochist  
His requests included food deprivation, water deprivation, uncomfortable restraints lasting for hours, sleep deprivation, suffering from the cold while completely naked, exhibitionism and hardcore BDSM. It's always easy to do this virtually behind a computer...
 
‘Just that...’ replied Malicia when TSM told his wife.
 
‘Another guy with fantasies who's going to waste my time. I'm going to make him pay for the fetish lodge rental if he wants to continue chatting. That'll calm him down!’ replied TSM, sending her the association's registration form. He added that since it had been a long time since he had had fun with a gay man, he would like the guy to be serious.
 
The following week, Paul had sent back the registration form, chosen the date and paid the €450 by bank transfer + €100 for food and nappies!
 
‘He accepts his fantasies and has the courage of his convictions!’ TSM told his wife. It's going to be a hot week, I can feel I'm going to have a blast!
 
It's going to be a very long week for you!
No, a kidnapping plan doesn't mean I'm going to look after him 24/7. Kidnappers don't look after the people they've kidnapped, they just give them food and drink when they feel like it. Don't worry, sweetheart, our life won't be too disrupted and he won't take up all my time, but I'm going to spoil him, if you know what I mean...
As a precaution and to avoid problems, TSM asked Paul to send an email summarising everything he really wanted to experience during his holiday at the fetishist guesthouse.
 
He also asked him about his limits, his taboos and whether he had any health concerns or medication to take.
..........
 
When fantasies become reality! (But without danger)
 
When he arrived at the fetish guesthouse by taxi, Paul was invited into the reception room to finalise the administrative details. Less than a minute later, his head was pushed down onto the table and he was handcuffed. A thick cloth bag was placed over his head, depriving him of his sight. Standing upright and pressed against a wall, Paul, less proud than he had been behind his screen, felt TSM unzip his trousers and pull them down with his knickers.
 
‘Take off your shoes!’ TSM ordered, holding him against the wall with his hand firmly around his neck.
 
His trousers, knickers and shoes remained in the reception room, and so it was in his socks and blindfolded that he was led to the dungeon. As soon as he entered, TSM put a chain around his neck, which he locked with a padlock before attaching it to the electric winch with a large carabiner. When the winch began to rise and strangle him, Paul became truly frightened.
 
‘I'm going to take off your handcuffs and you're going to finish undressing. If you try to free yourself, I'll hang you!’
 
Needless to say, Paul didn't try anything!
 
He removed the last remaining piece of fabric. He didn't resist when TSM put him in a straitjacket before lowering the winch hook to unhook him and lay him down on the cold floor. A chain and padlocks were placed around his ankles with very little slack to allow him to take small steps.
 
‘Welcome to the fetishists' lodge!’ TSM said with his offbeat humour before telling him that they were going to visit the green park.
 
The word ‘visit’ is not very appropriate since Paul still had a black bag over his head. So, with small steps, they left the dungeon, passed by the swimming pool and then onto the terrace to reach the lawn. Invited to lie down, Paul almost fell, but TSM caught him just in time.
 
‘It's time for a welcome drink, stay lying on your back!’ TSM told him as he removed the black bag.
 
The sun made him squint, but it didn't stop him from seeing that TSM had a large BDSM whip in his hand and was unfastening his trousers. Paul immediately understood what was going to happen and opened his mouth. Without hesitation, TSM urinated on Paul's face, aiming for his mouth. Delighted, he tried to drink as much as possible, not because he was really thirsty, but because it was part of his fetish. The Master of the house had not forgotten this.
 
After placing his foot on Paul's chest, TSM began to whip Paul's penis, which was beginning to ‘grow’.
 
‘You've made two mistakes. You've wasted my champagne and you're getting hard without permission. Where do you think you are, you bastard?’ shouted TSM, whipping the penis moderately, which, instead of shrinking, grew to its full size!
The intensity of the lashes increased and, reflexively, even though he liked it, Paul turned on his side. His buttocks became a prime target for the highly motivated leather straps... A few minutes later, after receiving a couple of slaps, he was tied to a tree and left there.
 
THREE HOURS LATER
 
Paul had finally fallen asleep when TSM woke him up with a whip. Using a dog leash, he was gently guided to the orchard and asked to squat down to defecate in order to make fertiliser. After a couple of slaps, he was finally convinced to forget what little modesty he had left. Once back in the building, he was washed with a jet of water instead of toilet paper.
 
Following a well-established procedure, Paul found himself hanging by his neck from the winch hook so that the straitjacket could be removed. Indeed, when you are hanging by your neck and far from the remote control, you don't try to escape! TSM passed the handcuffs through the neck chain and locked them onto Paul's wrists before unhooking him.
 
Quickly pushed onto the bed in the Love Room, Paul had to lift his legs so that TSM could put a nappy on him. To prevent it from slipping or coming off during the night, it was reinforced with several layers of packing tape.
 
‘On your knees, bitch, it's cocktail hour!’
 
Without hesitation, TSM took out his cock and put it in Paul's mouth, warning him that if his precious champagne was wasted, the whip in hard mode would make him regret it. Needless to say, Paul applied himself and, though we shouldn't say it, savoured this nectar of the Master! Pushed into the cage under the bed in the Love Room, he had to take his place in this 4-star bed for submissives. Once the cage was closed, TSM left the premises to join his wife and spend a quiet evening.
 
What Paul discovered during the night was that a timer turned on a spotlight and a magic wand vibrator stuck in a tin can. Suffice to say that the light and noise every hour for fifteen-minute sessions did not make for a peaceful night's sleep, especially without having eaten since the morning.
 
Contrary to what most people might think, Paul often got hard in his bed during what we might call a ‘special’ night. In his eyes, this lodging was better than a four-star hotel.
To keep this text from getting too long, I'll just tell you about the highlights of Paul's week-long holiday.
 
The next day, he was put in a chastity cage and forced to impale himself on the spring-mounted wooden horse in the garden. He remained there for several hours, even when the gardener (a friend) came to mow the lawn.
 
He spent an afternoon (during the Master's nap) shackled to the St. Andrew's cross with weights attached to his balls and nipples. Needless to say, the removal of the nipple clamps was painful...
 
He spent a difficult (divine?) night shackled to the bed in the Love Room. A Magic Wand vibrator was wedged between his nappy and the plastic pants, which were put on to protect the bed. Plugged into the timer, it vibrated intermittently on the nappy and --> on the chastity cage. With a large plug in his bum, he only peed in his nappy.
He spent some time under the commode chair for another round of champagne and a thorough arse licking, conditioned by a whip on his balls, before being allowed to eat hard bread once he was released.
 
The release from his period of abduction was not sad! It was done as follows:
 
Chain around his neck with handcuffs locked inside.
Legs bent over by ropes.
A weight attached to his chastity cage.
A treasure hunt to find the keys to the handcuffs.
So he had to move around like a dog to find a piece of paper telling him that the keys were in the dungeon. His knees and elbows suffered a little, but he just had to take his time.
 
The removal of his chastity cage on the last day of Paul's holiday: a big TSM frenzy.
Paul discovered that everything is negotiable at the fetishist lodge. To retrieve the keys to his chastity cage, he had to agree to be handcuffed behind his back. TSM then inflated a balloon and tied it to the poor submissive's balls. He then learned that the keys to the chastity cage were at the bottom of the pool.
 
The reader should know that with your hands handcuffed behind your back, it is very difficult to grab anything at the bottom of the pool. If, on top of that, a balloon is attached to your precious parts, it is even more difficult. Lying on a deckchair, TSM and Malicia watched him struggle for nearly an hour. As Paul couldn't manage it, the sadist introduced him to the joys of water bondage to help him. (Note: an adult standing in the pool at the fetishist's holiday home cannot drown, even with their hands handcuffed).
 
On the last day, Paul gladly agreed to experience a TSM whipping session. When the latter used his eight whips at the same time, Paul discovered subspace. Lying on the floor, it took him over an hour to come to his senses.
 
Delighted and in good health, albeit a little streaked by the whips, he was very sad to leave when he hit the road again on Saturday.
 
END
 
This story is true. I have slightly romanticised it rather than giving a factual account.
 
The name ‘Paul’ is not the person's real name. At his request, no photos were taken. This is also part of respecting taboos.

The fetishist guesthouse really exists and is located in northern Spain.]]>  
His requests included food deprivation, water deprivation, uncomfortable restraints lasting for hours, sleep deprivation, suffering from the cold while completely naked, exhibitionism and hardcore BDSM. It's always easy to do this virtually behind a computer...
 
‘Just that...’ replied Malicia when TSM told his wife.
 
‘Another guy with fantasies who's going to waste my time. I'm going to make him pay for the fetish lodge rental if he wants to continue chatting. That'll calm him down!’ replied TSM, sending her the association's registration form. He added that since it had been a long time since he had had fun with a gay man, he would like the guy to be serious.
 
The following week, Paul had sent back the registration form, chosen the date and paid the €450 by bank transfer + €100 for food and nappies!
 
‘He accepts his fantasies and has the courage of his convictions!’ TSM told his wife. It's going to be a hot week, I can feel I'm going to have a blast!
 
It's going to be a very long week for you!
No, a kidnapping plan doesn't mean I'm going to look after him 24/7. Kidnappers don't look after the people they've kidnapped, they just give them food and drink when they feel like it. Don't worry, sweetheart, our life won't be too disrupted and he won't take up all my time, but I'm going to spoil him, if you know what I mean...
As a precaution and to avoid problems, TSM asked Paul to send an email summarising everything he really wanted to experience during his holiday at the fetishist guesthouse.
 
He also asked him about his limits, his taboos and whether he had any health concerns or medication to take.
..........
 
When fantasies become reality! (But without danger)
 
When he arrived at the fetish guesthouse by taxi, Paul was invited into the reception room to finalise the administrative details. Less than a minute later, his head was pushed down onto the table and he was handcuffed. A thick cloth bag was placed over his head, depriving him of his sight. Standing upright and pressed against a wall, Paul, less proud than he had been behind his screen, felt TSM unzip his trousers and pull them down with his knickers.
 
‘Take off your shoes!’ TSM ordered, holding him against the wall with his hand firmly around his neck.
 
His trousers, knickers and shoes remained in the reception room, and so it was in his socks and blindfolded that he was led to the dungeon. As soon as he entered, TSM put a chain around his neck, which he locked with a padlock before attaching it to the electric winch with a large carabiner. When the winch began to rise and strangle him, Paul became truly frightened.
 
‘I'm going to take off your handcuffs and you're going to finish undressing. If you try to free yourself, I'll hang you!’
 
Needless to say, Paul didn't try anything!
 
He removed the last remaining piece of fabric. He didn't resist when TSM put him in a straitjacket before lowering the winch hook to unhook him and lay him down on the cold floor. A chain and padlocks were placed around his ankles with very little slack to allow him to take small steps.
 
‘Welcome to the fetishists' lodge!’ TSM said with his offbeat humour before telling him that they were going to visit the green park.
 
The word ‘visit’ is not very appropriate since Paul still had a black bag over his head. So, with small steps, they left the dungeon, passed by the swimming pool and then onto the terrace to reach the lawn. Invited to lie down, Paul almost fell, but TSM caught him just in time.
 
‘It's time for a welcome drink, stay lying on your back!’ TSM told him as he removed the black bag.
 
The sun made him squint, but it didn't stop him from seeing that TSM had a large BDSM whip in his hand and was unfastening his trousers. Paul immediately understood what was going to happen and opened his mouth. Without hesitation, TSM urinated on Paul's face, aiming for his mouth. Delighted, he tried to drink as much as possible, not because he was really thirsty, but because it was part of his fetish. The Master of the house had not forgotten this.
 
After placing his foot on Paul's chest, TSM began to whip Paul's penis, which was beginning to ‘grow’.
 
‘You've made two mistakes. You've wasted my champagne and you're getting hard without permission. Where do you think you are, you bastard?’ shouted TSM, whipping the penis moderately, which, instead of shrinking, grew to its full size!
The intensity of the lashes increased and, reflexively, even though he liked it, Paul turned on his side. His buttocks became a prime target for the highly motivated leather straps... A few minutes later, after receiving a couple of slaps, he was tied to a tree and left there.
 
THREE HOURS LATER
 
Paul had finally fallen asleep when TSM woke him up with a whip. Using a dog leash, he was gently guided to the orchard and asked to squat down to defecate in order to make fertiliser. After a couple of slaps, he was finally convinced to forget what little modesty he had left. Once back in the building, he was washed with a jet of water instead of toilet paper.
 
Following a well-established procedure, Paul found himself hanging by his neck from the winch hook so that the straitjacket could be removed. Indeed, when you are hanging by your neck and far from the remote control, you don't try to escape! TSM passed the handcuffs through the neck chain and locked them onto Paul's wrists before unhooking him.
 
Quickly pushed onto the bed in the Love Room, Paul had to lift his legs so that TSM could put a nappy on him. To prevent it from slipping or coming off during the night, it was reinforced with several layers of packing tape.
 
‘On your knees, bitch, it's cocktail hour!’
 
Without hesitation, TSM took out his cock and put it in Paul's mouth, warning him that if his precious champagne was wasted, the whip in hard mode would make him regret it. Needless to say, Paul applied himself and, though we shouldn't say it, savoured this nectar of the Master! Pushed into the cage under the bed in the Love Room, he had to take his place in this 4-star bed for submissives. Once the cage was closed, TSM left the premises to join his wife and spend a quiet evening.
 
What Paul discovered during the night was that a timer turned on a spotlight and a magic wand vibrator stuck in a tin can. Suffice to say that the light and noise every hour for fifteen-minute sessions did not make for a peaceful night's sleep, especially without having eaten since the morning.
 
Contrary to what most people might think, Paul often got hard in his bed during what we might call a ‘special’ night. In his eyes, this lodging was better than a four-star hotel.
To keep this text from getting too long, I'll just tell you about the highlights of Paul's week-long holiday.
 
The next day, he was put in a chastity cage and forced to impale himself on the spring-mounted wooden horse in the garden. He remained there for several hours, even when the gardener (a friend) came to mow the lawn.
 
He spent an afternoon (during the Master's nap) shackled to the St. Andrew's cross with weights attached to his balls and nipples. Needless to say, the removal of the nipple clamps was painful...
 
He spent a difficult (divine?) night shackled to the bed in the Love Room. A Magic Wand vibrator was wedged between his nappy and the plastic pants, which were put on to protect the bed. Plugged into the timer, it vibrated intermittently on the nappy and --> on the chastity cage. With a large plug in his bum, he only peed in his nappy.
He spent some time under the commode chair for another round of champagne and a thorough arse licking, conditioned by a whip on his balls, before being allowed to eat hard bread once he was released.
 
The release from his period of abduction was not sad! It was done as follows:
 
Chain around his neck with handcuffs locked inside.
Legs bent over by ropes.
A weight attached to his chastity cage.
A treasure hunt to find the keys to the handcuffs.
So he had to move around like a dog to find a piece of paper telling him that the keys were in the dungeon. His knees and elbows suffered a little, but he just had to take his time.
 
The removal of his chastity cage on the last day of Paul's holiday: a big TSM frenzy.
Paul discovered that everything is negotiable at the fetishist lodge. To retrieve the keys to his chastity cage, he had to agree to be handcuffed behind his back. TSM then inflated a balloon and tied it to the poor submissive's balls. He then learned that the keys to the chastity cage were at the bottom of the pool.
 
The reader should know that with your hands handcuffed behind your back, it is very difficult to grab anything at the bottom of the pool. If, on top of that, a balloon is attached to your precious parts, it is even more difficult. Lying on a deckchair, TSM and Malicia watched him struggle for nearly an hour. As Paul couldn't manage it, the sadist introduced him to the joys of water bondage to help him. (Note: an adult standing in the pool at the fetishist's holiday home cannot drown, even with their hands handcuffed).
 
On the last day, Paul gladly agreed to experience a TSM whipping session. When the latter used his eight whips at the same time, Paul discovered subspace. Lying on the floor, it took him over an hour to come to his senses.
 
Delighted and in good health, albeit a little streaked by the whips, he was very sad to leave when he hit the road again on Saturday.
 
END
 
This story is true. I have slightly romanticised it rather than giving a factual account.
 
The name ‘Paul’ is not the person's real name. At his request, no photos were taken. This is also part of respecting taboos.

The fetishist guesthouse really exists and is located in northern Spain.]]> <![CDATA[Chattel]]> https://www.likera.com/forum/mybb/Thread-Chattel Tue, 11 Mar 2025 22:26:57 +0000 Obsidian]]> https://www.likera.com/forum/mybb/Thread-Chattel
Table of content
Part 1
Part 2
Part 3


Chattel
by Obsidian
Part 1:  The Pickup

Chad’s ego knew no bounds.  He considered himself to be the World’s gift to women.  Born to an upper-middle-class family, he had wanted for nothing.  In highschool, he had become captain of the football team—the premiere alpha male.  He had the perfect body, the perfect hair, the perfect jaw...  Add to this, ample finances and plenty of the right connections.

However, he had managed to squander all of it.  He treated everyone like dirt—lovers and friends alike.  In his eyes, the entire world was beneath him.  He saw intimate relationships as little more than military campaigns—a great tally of conquests and body counts.  The feelings of potential partners were nothing but inconveniences.

Now, as Chad neared the age of thirty, dates and pick-ups were becoming a rarity.  Women had outgrown his abrasive and narcissistic personality.  Still, he refused to change his attitude.  It did not matter how many drinks were thrown in his face.  He would all-but-demand that they sleep with him.

Eventually, all of Chad’s friends had moved-on.  Yet, just as he appeared to be on his own, he received a curious invitation to a cocktail-party.  Everyone knew that he loathed such events.  He saw them as tediously boring—“The same boring people, having the same boring conversations.”  Little did he know, that this particular evening would be different.  This night, She would be at that party.

She was tall and slim, yet voluptuous, in an athletic way.  Her white blouse, unbuttoned just far enough to show cleavage, accentuated her dark, olive skin.  Her straight, jet-black hair flowed down her back, nearly to her waist.  The shine on her skin-tight, black-leather pants highlighted every curve of her hips and thighs.  Her gleaming, black, stiletto boots were cuffed just above the knee.  And, her hands were almost magical in those tight, black, kid gloves.

Chad could not take his eyes off of this mysterious lady.  He had never had trouble talking to women.  Yet, this goddess had him speechless.  He tried to forget her, and tell himself that she was out of his league.  Still, every time that she moved, his eyes were immediately drawn to her.  There was something about the assertive way that she carried herself.

Toward the end of the evening, she suddenly walked over and sat down next to him—uncomfortably close.  With a firm, yet soft tone, she spoke into his ear, “I’ve seen you watching me.”  Her voice was deep and sultry.  “You like what you see?”  Chad was transfixed, unable to speak.  “You know, men who stare at me too much, end up paying the price!”, she whispered, while dragging her leathered forefinger down the inside of Chad’s thigh.  Chad squirmed and stared in disbelief.  Her voice now took-on a more playful tone.  “Let’s go somewhere and have some fun.  I promise you a night that you’ll never forget!”  With that, she took his hand, and began leading him toward the door.

It was a miracle that Chad kept his car on the road, as he followed her taillights.  Her beauty and extreme confidence had him intoxicated.  They drove to the edge of town, and into the hills—finally pulling up to a large house with elaborate 1920’s architecture.  The nearest neighbor was almost a quarter-mile away.

“It’s only a four bedroom”, she remarked, as she unlocked the massive oak-and glass front door.  The rooms may have been few, but, they were also huge.  She led Chad to her upstairs bedroom, which was larger than most living rooms.  The décor was done in shades of red and beige, with accents of black.  A single table lamp bathed the room in a warm glow.  The centerpiece was a king-size canopy bed, whose sturdy, ornate, oak posts had large, polished, brass rings mounted at regular heights.  There were also brass rings bolted to the floor, by the foot of each post.  This last feature should have grabbed Chad’s attention.  But, he was too busy thinking about the pleasant aching in his groin.

“Why don’t you get undressed, while I change?”  She gently pushed him to a sitting position on the edge of the bed.  Chad could not shed his clothes quickly enough.  In a sudden attack of politeness, he decided to push his things into a neat little pile.  He was sitting on the bed, buck naked, when the lady of mystery emerged from her adjoining dressing room.  She was now in a sheer black negligee, with long, shiny, black-kid opera gloves that reached nearly to her armpits.  Were these the same gloves that she had been wearing at the party?  The sleeves of her blouse had hidden their length.

She was carrying a small, black duffel bag, which she set on the bed.  “Just some incidentals”, she reassured Chad, as she sat down next to him.  She took his hands into hers, and began to look deeply into his eyes.  As they exchanged glances, Chad could feel her massaging his hands.  Or, was she?

Suddenly, he felt an odd tugging at his wrists.  His hands became cramped, and he recoiled.  “Wha... wha... What the..?", he stammered.  He stared at his hands, which had been forced into a pair of tight black-leather bondage mitts.  The tug had been the cinching of the straps at his wrists.  He tried to bat at the buckles with hands that were now helplessly pinned into fists.  But, his mysterious companion stopped him—grabbing the D-rings that protruded from the fronts of the mitts.  “Nuh, uh!”, she whispered, as she gently shook her head.  Chad watched in horror, as she pulled two small padlocks from her bag, and locked the wrist buckles.

“Come”, she said—standing, and pulling on the D-rings.  Despite this cue, Chad remained seated.  She jerked at the rings, as her voice became more stern.  “You’re not gonna defy me, are you?”  She again pulled on the rings, to remind Chad who held the keys to his captive hands.  Dutifully, he rose, and followed her to the foot of the bed.

She turned him around, so that he was facing one of the bedposts.  “Raise your hands!”, she commanded.  Chad raised his arms, as he would in a robbery.  “No...UP!”, she barked.  Chad stretched toward the sky, as the woman stepped onto a short stool.  Reaching up, she clipped the rings on Chad’s mitts to the highest brass ring on the bedpost.

Chad’s situation had gone from bad, to worse.  “Who are you?!  What is this?!”  He jerked at his mitts, in a futile attempt to free himself.

In response, she slapped him across the face with her gloved hand.  The leather stung more than her bare palm would have.  “From now on, you will speak only when spoken-to!”  There was a brief pause.  “Better yet...”, she mumbled, as she reached into her satchel—producing a formidable-looking head harness with a ball gag.  With on hand, she pinched Chad’s nose closed.  When he opened his mouth to breathe, the ball was abruptly shoved between his teeth.  In a flash, she was tightening the straps behind his head—giving them aggressive jerks, to remind Chad of his new position.  She pulled four more small padlocks from her bag, and held them up for Chad to see.  Chad shook his head and tried to rock his shoulders in defiance.  This only resulted in another slap, and the gag harness was still locked.

The woman now stepped back, to admire her naked prize.  She examined the muscles, the trim waist, the tan lines, and the enormous erect cock.  “We’ll have to do something about that, as well.”  She left the room, and returned with an ice pack.  This frigid pack was pressed against Chad’s offending member, until it no longer stood at attention.  Chad grimaced in pain and shock.  He wanted to see what was she was doing.  But, with his arms pulled tightly above him, he could not lower his head.  She continued to freeze his penis, until it had almost crawled-up inside of him.

With that, she produced a small leather cinch-sack—one that could not hold anything larger than a tennis ball.  In place of a drawstring, it had a thin leather strap, with eyelets and a post.  Chad’s genitals were forced into this small leather sack, as the strap was cinched and padlocked behind his balls.  The look in Chad’s eyes was no longer one of defiance.  It had become more of a pathetic plea.

She again strutted around him, admiring her handiwork.  “Now, to answer your questions, which were so rudely spoken out-of-turn.  I am known to many as ‘Mistress Celine’.  But, you will simply refer to me as Mistress!  I am a professional Domina—what you vanillas would call a ‘dominatrix’.”  She could see the fear in Chad’s eyes.  So, she calmed him with a gloved caress of his shoulders and upper back.  “Don’t worry.  No harm will come to you.  And no, I’m not going to bill you for this.  I am off the clock.  It is just you and me, having a little fun!”

Mistress Celine sat on the bed in front of Chad.  Her sheer, black negligee did little to conceal her gorgeous breasts and dark nipples.  Chad could not look away, as she again spoke.  “Or, if you wish, you can leave right now.  Just let me know, and you will be released.  I would normally suggest a ‘safe-word’.”  She laughed, as she playfully touched Chad’s gag.  “But, right now, it would appear that words are beyond your means.”

Standing, she and again strutted back-and-forth around Chad.  “Of course, you could blink at me really fast, like this.”  She gave a quick demonstration.  “Or, you could rattle your bonds in short bursts, like Morse Code.  Just give the signal.  I’ll get the message.  You can be on your way, and we will never see each other again.  Only one chance to a customer.”  She now placed her gloved hands on his shoulders, and whispered into his ear.  Her breath was sweet.  “Or, you can remain here, as my slave!  You may find delights beyond your wildest dreams.”

Chad could feel his arousal returning.  His throbbing member began demanding room to grow.  But, the tightly-locked leather sack proved unyielding.  The pain in his leathered genitalia became unbearable.  Yet, in a way, it was almost pleasurable.  What was he thinking?  His arousal was only magnified by the soft, leathered hands now stroking his sides and naked buttocks.  The more his cock strained painfully against its leather prison, the more he became aroused.  Unconsciously, he began to sway and buck his hips.  Mistress cupped her hand on one his writhing butt cheeks, and allowed that hand to go along for the ride.

“Well?”, she asked, her tone sounding slightly annoyed.  As much as Chad wanted, he could not demand release.  What spell did this woman have on him?  “Do you wish to go, or not?”  The writhing of his hips gradually stopped, and he no longer tugged at the mitts that imprisoned his hands.  “No?”  Chad’s body now slumped, in a sign of sad resignation.  “Good”, Mistress said, “We can begin.”]]>
Table of content
Part 1
Part 2
Part 3


Chattel
by Obsidian
Part 1:  The Pickup

Chad’s ego knew no bounds.  He considered himself to be the World’s gift to women.  Born to an upper-middle-class family, he had wanted for nothing.  In highschool, he had become captain of the football team—the premiere alpha male.  He had the perfect body, the perfect hair, the perfect jaw...  Add to this, ample finances and plenty of the right connections.

However, he had managed to squander all of it.  He treated everyone like dirt—lovers and friends alike.  In his eyes, the entire world was beneath him.  He saw intimate relationships as little more than military campaigns—a great tally of conquests and body counts.  The feelings of potential partners were nothing but inconveniences.

Now, as Chad neared the age of thirty, dates and pick-ups were becoming a rarity.  Women had outgrown his abrasive and narcissistic personality.  Still, he refused to change his attitude.  It did not matter how many drinks were thrown in his face.  He would all-but-demand that they sleep with him.

Eventually, all of Chad’s friends had moved-on.  Yet, just as he appeared to be on his own, he received a curious invitation to a cocktail-party.  Everyone knew that he loathed such events.  He saw them as tediously boring—“The same boring people, having the same boring conversations.”  Little did he know, that this particular evening would be different.  This night, She would be at that party.

She was tall and slim, yet voluptuous, in an athletic way.  Her white blouse, unbuttoned just far enough to show cleavage, accentuated her dark, olive skin.  Her straight, jet-black hair flowed down her back, nearly to her waist.  The shine on her skin-tight, black-leather pants highlighted every curve of her hips and thighs.  Her gleaming, black, stiletto boots were cuffed just above the knee.  And, her hands were almost magical in those tight, black, kid gloves.

Chad could not take his eyes off of this mysterious lady.  He had never had trouble talking to women.  Yet, this goddess had him speechless.  He tried to forget her, and tell himself that she was out of his league.  Still, every time that she moved, his eyes were immediately drawn to her.  There was something about the assertive way that she carried herself.

Toward the end of the evening, she suddenly walked over and sat down next to him—uncomfortably close.  With a firm, yet soft tone, she spoke into his ear, “I’ve seen you watching me.”  Her voice was deep and sultry.  “You like what you see?”  Chad was transfixed, unable to speak.  “You know, men who stare at me too much, end up paying the price!”, she whispered, while dragging her leathered forefinger down the inside of Chad’s thigh.  Chad squirmed and stared in disbelief.  Her voice now took-on a more playful tone.  “Let’s go somewhere and have some fun.  I promise you a night that you’ll never forget!”  With that, she took his hand, and began leading him toward the door.

It was a miracle that Chad kept his car on the road, as he followed her taillights.  Her beauty and extreme confidence had him intoxicated.  They drove to the edge of town, and into the hills—finally pulling up to a large house with elaborate 1920’s architecture.  The nearest neighbor was almost a quarter-mile away.

“It’s only a four bedroom”, she remarked, as she unlocked the massive oak-and glass front door.  The rooms may have been few, but, they were also huge.  She led Chad to her upstairs bedroom, which was larger than most living rooms.  The décor was done in shades of red and beige, with accents of black.  A single table lamp bathed the room in a warm glow.  The centerpiece was a king-size canopy bed, whose sturdy, ornate, oak posts had large, polished, brass rings mounted at regular heights.  There were also brass rings bolted to the floor, by the foot of each post.  This last feature should have grabbed Chad’s attention.  But, he was too busy thinking about the pleasant aching in his groin.

“Why don’t you get undressed, while I change?”  She gently pushed him to a sitting position on the edge of the bed.  Chad could not shed his clothes quickly enough.  In a sudden attack of politeness, he decided to push his things into a neat little pile.  He was sitting on the bed, buck naked, when the lady of mystery emerged from her adjoining dressing room.  She was now in a sheer black negligee, with long, shiny, black-kid opera gloves that reached nearly to her armpits.  Were these the same gloves that she had been wearing at the party?  The sleeves of her blouse had hidden their length.

She was carrying a small, black duffel bag, which she set on the bed.  “Just some incidentals”, she reassured Chad, as she sat down next to him.  She took his hands into hers, and began to look deeply into his eyes.  As they exchanged glances, Chad could feel her massaging his hands.  Or, was she?

Suddenly, he felt an odd tugging at his wrists.  His hands became cramped, and he recoiled.  “Wha... wha... What the..?", he stammered.  He stared at his hands, which had been forced into a pair of tight black-leather bondage mitts.  The tug had been the cinching of the straps at his wrists.  He tried to bat at the buckles with hands that were now helplessly pinned into fists.  But, his mysterious companion stopped him—grabbing the D-rings that protruded from the fronts of the mitts.  “Nuh, uh!”, she whispered, as she gently shook her head.  Chad watched in horror, as she pulled two small padlocks from her bag, and locked the wrist buckles.

“Come”, she said—standing, and pulling on the D-rings.  Despite this cue, Chad remained seated.  She jerked at the rings, as her voice became more stern.  “You’re not gonna defy me, are you?”  She again pulled on the rings, to remind Chad who held the keys to his captive hands.  Dutifully, he rose, and followed her to the foot of the bed.

She turned him around, so that he was facing one of the bedposts.  “Raise your hands!”, she commanded.  Chad raised his arms, as he would in a robbery.  “No...UP!”, she barked.  Chad stretched toward the sky, as the woman stepped onto a short stool.  Reaching up, she clipped the rings on Chad’s mitts to the highest brass ring on the bedpost.

Chad’s situation had gone from bad, to worse.  “Who are you?!  What is this?!”  He jerked at his mitts, in a futile attempt to free himself.

In response, she slapped him across the face with her gloved hand.  The leather stung more than her bare palm would have.  “From now on, you will speak only when spoken-to!”  There was a brief pause.  “Better yet...”, she mumbled, as she reached into her satchel—producing a formidable-looking head harness with a ball gag.  With on hand, she pinched Chad’s nose closed.  When he opened his mouth to breathe, the ball was abruptly shoved between his teeth.  In a flash, she was tightening the straps behind his head—giving them aggressive jerks, to remind Chad of his new position.  She pulled four more small padlocks from her bag, and held them up for Chad to see.  Chad shook his head and tried to rock his shoulders in defiance.  This only resulted in another slap, and the gag harness was still locked.

The woman now stepped back, to admire her naked prize.  She examined the muscles, the trim waist, the tan lines, and the enormous erect cock.  “We’ll have to do something about that, as well.”  She left the room, and returned with an ice pack.  This frigid pack was pressed against Chad’s offending member, until it no longer stood at attention.  Chad grimaced in pain and shock.  He wanted to see what was she was doing.  But, with his arms pulled tightly above him, he could not lower his head.  She continued to freeze his penis, until it had almost crawled-up inside of him.

With that, she produced a small leather cinch-sack—one that could not hold anything larger than a tennis ball.  In place of a drawstring, it had a thin leather strap, with eyelets and a post.  Chad’s genitals were forced into this small leather sack, as the strap was cinched and padlocked behind his balls.  The look in Chad’s eyes was no longer one of defiance.  It had become more of a pathetic plea.

She again strutted around him, admiring her handiwork.  “Now, to answer your questions, which were so rudely spoken out-of-turn.  I am known to many as ‘Mistress Celine’.  But, you will simply refer to me as Mistress!  I am a professional Domina—what you vanillas would call a ‘dominatrix’.”  She could see the fear in Chad’s eyes.  So, she calmed him with a gloved caress of his shoulders and upper back.  “Don’t worry.  No harm will come to you.  And no, I’m not going to bill you for this.  I am off the clock.  It is just you and me, having a little fun!”

Mistress Celine sat on the bed in front of Chad.  Her sheer, black negligee did little to conceal her gorgeous breasts and dark nipples.  Chad could not look away, as she again spoke.  “Or, if you wish, you can leave right now.  Just let me know, and you will be released.  I would normally suggest a ‘safe-word’.”  She laughed, as she playfully touched Chad’s gag.  “But, right now, it would appear that words are beyond your means.”

Standing, she and again strutted back-and-forth around Chad.  “Of course, you could blink at me really fast, like this.”  She gave a quick demonstration.  “Or, you could rattle your bonds in short bursts, like Morse Code.  Just give the signal.  I’ll get the message.  You can be on your way, and we will never see each other again.  Only one chance to a customer.”  She now placed her gloved hands on his shoulders, and whispered into his ear.  Her breath was sweet.  “Or, you can remain here, as my slave!  You may find delights beyond your wildest dreams.”

Chad could feel his arousal returning.  His throbbing member began demanding room to grow.  But, the tightly-locked leather sack proved unyielding.  The pain in his leathered genitalia became unbearable.  Yet, in a way, it was almost pleasurable.  What was he thinking?  His arousal was only magnified by the soft, leathered hands now stroking his sides and naked buttocks.  The more his cock strained painfully against its leather prison, the more he became aroused.  Unconsciously, he began to sway and buck his hips.  Mistress cupped her hand on one his writhing butt cheeks, and allowed that hand to go along for the ride.

“Well?”, she asked, her tone sounding slightly annoyed.  As much as Chad wanted, he could not demand release.  What spell did this woman have on him?  “Do you wish to go, or not?”  The writhing of his hips gradually stopped, and he no longer tugged at the mitts that imprisoned his hands.  “No?”  Chad’s body now slumped, in a sign of sad resignation.  “Good”, Mistress said, “We can begin.”]]> <![CDATA[The Cursed Boots]]> https://www.likera.com/forum/mybb/Thread-The-Cursed-Boots Tue, 28 Jan 2025 02:10:35 +0000 Obsidian]]> https://www.likera.com/forum/mybb/Thread-The-Cursed-Boots

The Cursed Boots
An Erotic Tale of Enchanted Leather 
by Obsidian


Brian was shopping for a new pair of jeans.  He had grown tired of the cheap junk sold at the big-box outlets.  Their clothes never seemed to last more than a month.  So, he decided to try that large apparel shop, down on Main Street.  Sure, he would pay more.  But hopefully, he would also get more.

Main Street was ominously deserted.  The mega-marts and super-stores had killed-off most of the downtown mom-and-pop businesses.  Even the clothing store appeared eerily empty.  There were but three people inside, and they were all employees—two men and a woman.  Now, as Brian looked around, he saw only women’s clothes.  He feared that this had been a wasted trip.  At that point, one of the male employees noticed Brian’s confusion, and approached.  “Can I help you?”

“I’m looking for a pair of men’s jeans”, Brian muttered, while still glancing around.

“They’re right over here.  Follow me!”  This employee was rather casually dressed, as were his two coworkers.  He led Brian to a side wall, where numerous shelves held jeans of every size and brand.  “Do you know your size?”

For too long, Brian had been buying cheap garments that only came in “Small”, “Medium”, “Large”, and “Extra Large”.  He had almost forgotten how to purchase pants in numbered sizes.  “I think it’s this one”, he said, pulling a pair from the shelf.

“Well, if you want to make sure, our fitting rooms are right over there.”  The employee pointed toward a couple curtained cubicles at the back of the store.

In the fitting room, Brian saw an unusually-large, white, shoe box on the bench seat.  It had no tag, no brand, no markings of any kind...  People are always leaving stuff in these rooms, he thought to himself.  He pushed the box to the side, sat down, and proceeded to remove his shoes.

Once in his new jeans, he checked the fit in the mirror.  They looked and felt just right.  Still, to be sure, he took a walk around the store, while in the jeans and his stocking feet.  “Find everything you need?”, the female employee asked.

“I was just checking to make sure these fit OK”, Brian replied.

“They do look good on you”, she commented, trying not to let-on that she was admiring his butt.

Once back in the changing room, Brian could not resist the temptation to peek into the mysterious white shoe box.  There, he discovered a pair of lady’s black-leather boots.  These were not just any boots!  The leather was incredibly butter-soft and supple.  Its sweet aroma filled the changing room.  With their four-inch stiletto heels and pointed toes, these had to be the most awesome lady’s boots that he had ever seen.  He began pulling one of them from the box—finding that he needed to reach quite high, to reveal the whole thing.  The shaft of this boot had to be close to three feet tall!


.jpg   Boots 23a.jpg (Size: 207.67 KB / Downloads: 56)

Brian set the foot of the boot on the floor, while laying its top on the bench next to him (yes, it really was that tall).  He planned to put it back in its box, once he had dressed.  However, as he removed his new jeans and folded them, he noticed something surprising.  That boot appeared to be his size!  One his shoes happened to be sitting next to it, making comparison easy.  Suddenly, he could not resist the enticement.  He had to try-on these boots!  “What could it hurt?”, he thought to himself.

While still in his underwear, Brian examined the boot.  It had no zipper on the side or back.  Nor, were there any laces.  It appeared to be a straight pull-on.  So, he began slipping his right foot into the boot.  His foot slid-in easily, as the boot was lined with the softest, smoothest, yellow pigskin.  Still, it took some time to work his foot down the great distance to the bottom.  When his heel finally popped into place, he found the boot to be quite comfortable.  Quickly, he pulled the other boot onto his left foot.

Brian fought for balance, as he hobbled to the mirror.  Tall stiletto heels were a new experience for him.  Truly, these boots were far more amazing than he had imagined.  He became instantly enamored with the reflection in the mirror.  The tops of these boots reached all the way to his crotch.  And, their incredible leather was astonishingly shiny and supple.  Yet, the boots never bunched or sagged.  Nor, were they stiff.  They perfectly hugged every contour of his legs.  He began to caress the luxurious leather on his thighs—getting himself seriously aroused.  It wasn’t until he noticed the bulge in the front of his underwear, that he forced himself to stop.

However, when he sat down to remove the boots, he found that their snug leather made it nearly impossible to bend his knees.  He had to stretch to reach his ankle, and pull at the first boot.  But, in that position, he had no leverage.  He could not get the boot to budge!  The same was true with the other boot.  He began grunting and groaning in frustration.  There seemed to be no way out of these boots!

The female employee heard Brian’s groans, and came to see what was happening.  “Are you alright in there?”, she called through the curtain.

Brian peeked around the room’s veil.  The look on his face was one of utter humiliation.  “I need your help.”  The tone of his voice was deadly serious.

The lady clerk feared that she was dealing with yet another pervert.  Still, she was hardly prepared for the sight that awaited her.  “Whoa!”, she exclaimed, as she entered the fitting room.  Here was a man in his underwear, wearing women’s crotch-high, shiny, black-leather boots, with lofty stiletto heels.

“I... I can’t get them off!”, Brian stammered.  He stuttered and hesitated, as he tried to explain how he had ended-up wearing them in the first place.  He then sat down, and showed her how he been unable to pull his feet free.

The woman let out a sigh.  “Don’t sweat it, Hon.  This ain’t nothin’ unusual.  I have a boyfriend who likes wearing women’s heels around the house.”  She directed Brian to hold his right foot out-straight.  “Problem is, you’re pinching the leather when you bend your knee.  It’s no wonder you can’t get them loose.  You need a boot-jack if you’re gonna wear really-tall boots like these.”

Brian tried to explain that the boots were not his—that he had found them in the room.

“Bet you won’t try that again!”, she snickered, as she began tugging on the right boot.

Yet, no matter how hard she pulled, the boot would not budge.  No luck with the left boot, either.  She examined the boots for a hidden zipper.  There was none.  “How did you get these on?”, she asked.  “Never mind.  We need to head over to the shoe department, where we’ll have more room to work.”

Brian followed the woman across the store.  The clicks of his stiletto heels on the hard floor, echoed off the walls.  As they reached the shoe area, Brian heard a loud wolf whistle.  “NICE BOOTS!”  It was the male employee who had helped Brian when he had first arrived.

“Shut up, Robbie!”, the woman exclaimed.  “No one asked your opinion.”  As she turned back to Brian, her voice took a more friendly tone.  “My name’s Linda, by the way.”  She held up her name-tag for Brian to see.  “This loudmouth fool is Robbie.  And, that’s Scott.”  She pointed to the third employee, who was now walking toward them, to see what the commotion was about.  She then turned back to Robbie.  “Why don’t you make yourself useful.  Try to get these boots off of this poor man!”

Brian sat down, as Robbie began tugging on the right boot.  But, Robbie only succeeded in dragging Brian from his chair.  Robbie  now directed Scott to hold onto Brian, as he yanked.  Somehow, the boots responded, by becoming brutally tight.  Brian’s foot went numb, as his hip joint started to ache from the strain.  “STOP!”, Brian cried-out in pain.

Robbie threw up his hands.  “I don’t know!  They must be locked, or something.”  This last remark drew cold stares from his two coworkers.  “Whatever.  Guess you’ll just have to wear ‘em home.”

“I can’t afford anything like this!”, Brian pleaded.

“Those aren’t ours” Linda commented.  “We don’t sell anything near that nice!”

“In that case...”, Robbie interjected, as he grabbed a box cutter.

“Oh no, you don’t!”, Linda exclaimed, stepping between Robbie and Brian.  “You two no-class animals wouldn’t think twice about ruining such a gorgeous pair of boots!  Besides, you’d cut the hell out of this man’s leg.”  Linda showed how she could no longer get even finger between the top of the boot and Brian’s bare thigh.

“We could always call the Fire Department”, Scott remarked.  Linda flashed him a dirty look.  Scott stared at Brian’s defiant leather boots, and shook his head.  “Damn things seem to be alive.”

As the minutes passed, Brian’s boots slowly relaxed their iron grip.  He could feel the circulation finally returning to his feet.  “If they’re not from your store...”, he asked, “Where did they come from?”

Robbie stated the obvious.  “Customer must’ve left ’em.”

Linda glowered at the two men.  “Have either of you two seen anyone in here, who could actually afford such luxurious boots?  These obviously came from an expensive boutique.  They were probably custom-made.  Even if they were accidentally left, why didn’t the person come back for them?”

The two men pondered for a moment, before a thought occurred to Scott.  “What about that woman that Robbie helped?  He claimed that she was either a Gypsy, or a middle-aged hippie chick.  You said that she had ‘cat eyes’”, pointing at Linda.  “Wasn’t she wearing boots kinda like that?”

“Yeah, I remember her”, Linda replied.  “I hate women like that”, she muttered.  “You do know, that was over a week ago.  Again, why hasn’t she been back?”

“I’ll bet Robbie’s right”, Scott continued.  “I’ll bet she’s a Gypsy, and she put a curse on those boots!”, pointing at Brian’s feet.  “I’ll also bet that she intended to trap a woman!”  He now looked Brian straight in the eye.  “You may have to find that lady, if you ever want out of those boots.”

“Isn't’ she the one that reads tarot cards, down on Second Street?”, Robbie asked.

“But, I can’t go out on the street like this!”, Brian pleaded.

“Hang on”, Linda said.  “I think I can help.”

“If nothing else...”, Robbie smirked, “You could always get a matching leather corset, and a pair of those kid gloves that reach above the elbow.  I’ve heard there’s plenty o’ dirty old men willing to pay good money for a spankin’.”

Both turned his direction.  “Shut up, Robbie!”

Linda returned with a dusty pair of really baggy jeans and some black galoshes.  Robbie grabbed the jeans and read the tag.  “That’ll be fifty-nine ninety-five, plus tax.”

Linda grabbed the jeans back, and handed them to Brian.  “Here, you can just have ‘em.  The legs should be wide enough to pull over those boots.”  She sneered at Robbie.  “It’s not like we’re gonna sell ‘em.  They’ve been out-of-style for a couple years now!”  She turned back to Brian.  “I also brought these galoshes, to hide the heels.  The rubber should also muffle the clicking.”

Brian’s thoughts raced, as he stepped from the store.  He was gripped by sheer terror.  Yet, at the same time, he felt strangely aroused at the thought of being forever captive in fine stiletto boots.


.jpg   Boots 12.jpg (Size: 433.26 KB / Downloads: 60)

Nearly two weeks had passed since Brian had become trapped in the accursed boots.  He had yet to locate the mysterious woman.  Did she even exist?  His vacation and sick time had been nearly exhausted.  But, he had to keep searching—venturing into the seediest neighborhoods and back alleys.  The denizens of these dark districts laughed at his clownish baggy pants and galoshes.  They mockingly asked why he was walking so funny.  Even passing motorists harassed him with sarcastic wolf whistles.  He could conceal his stiletto heels.  But, he could not conceal the fact that was trying to walk in those heels.  On top of that, every step that he took in those boots, somehow kept him painfully aroused.  Was it the towering heels?  Or, the fact that the boots kept him tightly leathered up to his crotch.  He feared that violence was only a matter of time.  Still, he had to keep searching.

In desperation, Brian had gone to his doctor—who had referred him to a surgeon.  Hopefully, he could be cut free of these boots.  But, even this surgeon had no luck.  That leather defied his sharpest scalpel.  It instantly healed itself—leaving no trace of the attempted incision.  The boots then reacted, by tightening around Brian’s legs, to the point of excruciating pain.  They seemed determined to punish Brian, for any attempt to remove them!

At first, Brian’s live-in girlfriend, Amy, had wanted to help.  However, she had soon grown ambivalent.  Ever since Brian had become trapped in those boots, their love-life had never been better!  She was now addicted to caressing his tightly booted thighs, while they cuddled on the couch.  She began demanding that Brian strip-down in the evening, so she could enjoy the feel and smell that leather.  It made her so horny!  In bed, she now wanted to be on top, so that luscious leather would glide against her bare legs, as they made love.  Afterward, she would send Brian to the kitchen, for a glass of water—knowing how walking in those boots would affect him.  Within a few steps, he would once-more be fully erect, and ready for another round.

However, Amy did not like getting jabbed by those stilettos, while they slept.  She wondered if there was a way to secure Brian to his side of the bed.  This new thought got her strangely aroused.  She fantasized about converting their bed’s footboard into locking stocks for his feet.  Her kinky coworker and closest confidant, showed Amy a bondage catalog, full of ideas.  Amy found the concept of tight leather restraints to be quite delicious.  She even dreamed of getting a matching pair of crotch-high boots for herself.  She told her confidant, “If I had known that our sex would be this good, I would have kept Brian locked in fine-ass, high-heeled boots, years ago!

            ]]>

The Cursed Boots
An Erotic Tale of Enchanted Leather 
by Obsidian


Brian was shopping for a new pair of jeans.  He had grown tired of the cheap junk sold at the big-box outlets.  Their clothes never seemed to last more than a month.  So, he decided to try that large apparel shop, down on Main Street.  Sure, he would pay more.  But hopefully, he would also get more.

Main Street was ominously deserted.  The mega-marts and super-stores had killed-off most of the downtown mom-and-pop businesses.  Even the clothing store appeared eerily empty.  There were but three people inside, and they were all employees—two men and a woman.  Now, as Brian looked around, he saw only women’s clothes.  He feared that this had been a wasted trip.  At that point, one of the male employees noticed Brian’s confusion, and approached.  “Can I help you?”

“I’m looking for a pair of men’s jeans”, Brian muttered, while still glancing around.

“They’re right over here.  Follow me!”  This employee was rather casually dressed, as were his two coworkers.  He led Brian to a side wall, where numerous shelves held jeans of every size and brand.  “Do you know your size?”

For too long, Brian had been buying cheap garments that only came in “Small”, “Medium”, “Large”, and “Extra Large”.  He had almost forgotten how to purchase pants in numbered sizes.  “I think it’s this one”, he said, pulling a pair from the shelf.

“Well, if you want to make sure, our fitting rooms are right over there.”  The employee pointed toward a couple curtained cubicles at the back of the store.

In the fitting room, Brian saw an unusually-large, white, shoe box on the bench seat.  It had no tag, no brand, no markings of any kind...  People are always leaving stuff in these rooms, he thought to himself.  He pushed the box to the side, sat down, and proceeded to remove his shoes.

Once in his new jeans, he checked the fit in the mirror.  They looked and felt just right.  Still, to be sure, he took a walk around the store, while in the jeans and his stocking feet.  “Find everything you need?”, the female employee asked.

“I was just checking to make sure these fit OK”, Brian replied.

“They do look good on you”, she commented, trying not to let-on that she was admiring his butt.

Once back in the changing room, Brian could not resist the temptation to peek into the mysterious white shoe box.  There, he discovered a pair of lady’s black-leather boots.  These were not just any boots!  The leather was incredibly butter-soft and supple.  Its sweet aroma filled the changing room.  With their four-inch stiletto heels and pointed toes, these had to be the most awesome lady’s boots that he had ever seen.  He began pulling one of them from the box—finding that he needed to reach quite high, to reveal the whole thing.  The shaft of this boot had to be close to three feet tall!


.jpg   Boots 23a.jpg (Size: 207.67 KB / Downloads: 56)

Brian set the foot of the boot on the floor, while laying its top on the bench next to him (yes, it really was that tall).  He planned to put it back in its box, once he had dressed.  However, as he removed his new jeans and folded them, he noticed something surprising.  That boot appeared to be his size!  One his shoes happened to be sitting next to it, making comparison easy.  Suddenly, he could not resist the enticement.  He had to try-on these boots!  “What could it hurt?”, he thought to himself.

While still in his underwear, Brian examined the boot.  It had no zipper on the side or back.  Nor, were there any laces.  It appeared to be a straight pull-on.  So, he began slipping his right foot into the boot.  His foot slid-in easily, as the boot was lined with the softest, smoothest, yellow pigskin.  Still, it took some time to work his foot down the great distance to the bottom.  When his heel finally popped into place, he found the boot to be quite comfortable.  Quickly, he pulled the other boot onto his left foot.

Brian fought for balance, as he hobbled to the mirror.  Tall stiletto heels were a new experience for him.  Truly, these boots were far more amazing than he had imagined.  He became instantly enamored with the reflection in the mirror.  The tops of these boots reached all the way to his crotch.  And, their incredible leather was astonishingly shiny and supple.  Yet, the boots never bunched or sagged.  Nor, were they stiff.  They perfectly hugged every contour of his legs.  He began to caress the luxurious leather on his thighs—getting himself seriously aroused.  It wasn’t until he noticed the bulge in the front of his underwear, that he forced himself to stop.

However, when he sat down to remove the boots, he found that their snug leather made it nearly impossible to bend his knees.  He had to stretch to reach his ankle, and pull at the first boot.  But, in that position, he had no leverage.  He could not get the boot to budge!  The same was true with the other boot.  He began grunting and groaning in frustration.  There seemed to be no way out of these boots!

The female employee heard Brian’s groans, and came to see what was happening.  “Are you alright in there?”, she called through the curtain.

Brian peeked around the room’s veil.  The look on his face was one of utter humiliation.  “I need your help.”  The tone of his voice was deadly serious.

The lady clerk feared that she was dealing with yet another pervert.  Still, she was hardly prepared for the sight that awaited her.  “Whoa!”, she exclaimed, as she entered the fitting room.  Here was a man in his underwear, wearing women’s crotch-high, shiny, black-leather boots, with lofty stiletto heels.

“I... I can’t get them off!”, Brian stammered.  He stuttered and hesitated, as he tried to explain how he had ended-up wearing them in the first place.  He then sat down, and showed her how he been unable to pull his feet free.

The woman let out a sigh.  “Don’t sweat it, Hon.  This ain’t nothin’ unusual.  I have a boyfriend who likes wearing women’s heels around the house.”  She directed Brian to hold his right foot out-straight.  “Problem is, you’re pinching the leather when you bend your knee.  It’s no wonder you can’t get them loose.  You need a boot-jack if you’re gonna wear really-tall boots like these.”

Brian tried to explain that the boots were not his—that he had found them in the room.

“Bet you won’t try that again!”, she snickered, as she began tugging on the right boot.

Yet, no matter how hard she pulled, the boot would not budge.  No luck with the left boot, either.  She examined the boots for a hidden zipper.  There was none.  “How did you get these on?”, she asked.  “Never mind.  We need to head over to the shoe department, where we’ll have more room to work.”

Brian followed the woman across the store.  The clicks of his stiletto heels on the hard floor, echoed off the walls.  As they reached the shoe area, Brian heard a loud wolf whistle.  “NICE BOOTS!”  It was the male employee who had helped Brian when he had first arrived.

“Shut up, Robbie!”, the woman exclaimed.  “No one asked your opinion.”  As she turned back to Brian, her voice took a more friendly tone.  “My name’s Linda, by the way.”  She held up her name-tag for Brian to see.  “This loudmouth fool is Robbie.  And, that’s Scott.”  She pointed to the third employee, who was now walking toward them, to see what the commotion was about.  She then turned back to Robbie.  “Why don’t you make yourself useful.  Try to get these boots off of this poor man!”

Brian sat down, as Robbie began tugging on the right boot.  But, Robbie only succeeded in dragging Brian from his chair.  Robbie  now directed Scott to hold onto Brian, as he yanked.  Somehow, the boots responded, by becoming brutally tight.  Brian’s foot went numb, as his hip joint started to ache from the strain.  “STOP!”, Brian cried-out in pain.

Robbie threw up his hands.  “I don’t know!  They must be locked, or something.”  This last remark drew cold stares from his two coworkers.  “Whatever.  Guess you’ll just have to wear ‘em home.”

“I can’t afford anything like this!”, Brian pleaded.

“Those aren’t ours” Linda commented.  “We don’t sell anything near that nice!”

“In that case...”, Robbie interjected, as he grabbed a box cutter.

“Oh no, you don’t!”, Linda exclaimed, stepping between Robbie and Brian.  “You two no-class animals wouldn’t think twice about ruining such a gorgeous pair of boots!  Besides, you’d cut the hell out of this man’s leg.”  Linda showed how she could no longer get even finger between the top of the boot and Brian’s bare thigh.

“We could always call the Fire Department”, Scott remarked.  Linda flashed him a dirty look.  Scott stared at Brian’s defiant leather boots, and shook his head.  “Damn things seem to be alive.”

As the minutes passed, Brian’s boots slowly relaxed their iron grip.  He could feel the circulation finally returning to his feet.  “If they’re not from your store...”, he asked, “Where did they come from?”

Robbie stated the obvious.  “Customer must’ve left ’em.”

Linda glowered at the two men.  “Have either of you two seen anyone in here, who could actually afford such luxurious boots?  These obviously came from an expensive boutique.  They were probably custom-made.  Even if they were accidentally left, why didn’t the person come back for them?”

The two men pondered for a moment, before a thought occurred to Scott.  “What about that woman that Robbie helped?  He claimed that she was either a Gypsy, or a middle-aged hippie chick.  You said that she had ‘cat eyes’”, pointing at Linda.  “Wasn’t she wearing boots kinda like that?”

“Yeah, I remember her”, Linda replied.  “I hate women like that”, she muttered.  “You do know, that was over a week ago.  Again, why hasn’t she been back?”

“I’ll bet Robbie’s right”, Scott continued.  “I’ll bet she’s a Gypsy, and she put a curse on those boots!”, pointing at Brian’s feet.  “I’ll also bet that she intended to trap a woman!”  He now looked Brian straight in the eye.  “You may have to find that lady, if you ever want out of those boots.”

“Isn't’ she the one that reads tarot cards, down on Second Street?”, Robbie asked.

“But, I can’t go out on the street like this!”, Brian pleaded.

“Hang on”, Linda said.  “I think I can help.”

“If nothing else...”, Robbie smirked, “You could always get a matching leather corset, and a pair of those kid gloves that reach above the elbow.  I’ve heard there’s plenty o’ dirty old men willing to pay good money for a spankin’.”

Both turned his direction.  “Shut up, Robbie!”

Linda returned with a dusty pair of really baggy jeans and some black galoshes.  Robbie grabbed the jeans and read the tag.  “That’ll be fifty-nine ninety-five, plus tax.”

Linda grabbed the jeans back, and handed them to Brian.  “Here, you can just have ‘em.  The legs should be wide enough to pull over those boots.”  She sneered at Robbie.  “It’s not like we’re gonna sell ‘em.  They’ve been out-of-style for a couple years now!”  She turned back to Brian.  “I also brought these galoshes, to hide the heels.  The rubber should also muffle the clicking.”

Brian’s thoughts raced, as he stepped from the store.  He was gripped by sheer terror.  Yet, at the same time, he felt strangely aroused at the thought of being forever captive in fine stiletto boots.


.jpg   Boots 12.jpg (Size: 433.26 KB / Downloads: 60)

Nearly two weeks had passed since Brian had become trapped in the accursed boots.  He had yet to locate the mysterious woman.  Did she even exist?  His vacation and sick time had been nearly exhausted.  But, he had to keep searching—venturing into the seediest neighborhoods and back alleys.  The denizens of these dark districts laughed at his clownish baggy pants and galoshes.  They mockingly asked why he was walking so funny.  Even passing motorists harassed him with sarcastic wolf whistles.  He could conceal his stiletto heels.  But, he could not conceal the fact that was trying to walk in those heels.  On top of that, every step that he took in those boots, somehow kept him painfully aroused.  Was it the towering heels?  Or, the fact that the boots kept him tightly leathered up to his crotch.  He feared that violence was only a matter of time.  Still, he had to keep searching.

In desperation, Brian had gone to his doctor—who had referred him to a surgeon.  Hopefully, he could be cut free of these boots.  But, even this surgeon had no luck.  That leather defied his sharpest scalpel.  It instantly healed itself—leaving no trace of the attempted incision.  The boots then reacted, by tightening around Brian’s legs, to the point of excruciating pain.  They seemed determined to punish Brian, for any attempt to remove them!

At first, Brian’s live-in girlfriend, Amy, had wanted to help.  However, she had soon grown ambivalent.  Ever since Brian had become trapped in those boots, their love-life had never been better!  She was now addicted to caressing his tightly booted thighs, while they cuddled on the couch.  She began demanding that Brian strip-down in the evening, so she could enjoy the feel and smell that leather.  It made her so horny!  In bed, she now wanted to be on top, so that luscious leather would glide against her bare legs, as they made love.  Afterward, she would send Brian to the kitchen, for a glass of water—knowing how walking in those boots would affect him.  Within a few steps, he would once-more be fully erect, and ready for another round.

However, Amy did not like getting jabbed by those stilettos, while they slept.  She wondered if there was a way to secure Brian to his side of the bed.  This new thought got her strangely aroused.  She fantasized about converting their bed’s footboard into locking stocks for his feet.  Her kinky coworker and closest confidant, showed Amy a bondage catalog, full of ideas.  Amy found the concept of tight leather restraints to be quite delicious.  She even dreamed of getting a matching pair of crotch-high boots for herself.  She told her confidant, “If I had known that our sex would be this good, I would have kept Brian locked in fine-ass, high-heeled boots, years ago!

            ]]> <![CDATA[Debbie's Desire]]> https://www.likera.com/forum/mybb/Thread-Debbie-s-Desire Sun, 01 Dec 2024 17:44:39 +0000 Obsidian]]> https://www.likera.com/forum/mybb/Thread-Debbie-s-Desire not written by me.  I found it online, back in the 90's.  This is one of many downloaded stories that I hope to post.  Perhaps, soon, I will also compose a few of my own.  I really have no disclaimers for this one, other than my only contributions being proof-reading and copy-editing.  So, Enjoy:



Debbie's Desire
by R.S. Sherwood

Debbie had always craved the taste and feel of latex.  She and her spouse, David, had been into the latex scene for nearly two decades.  The two of them had enjoyed many latex sessions—that is, when David had not been traveling for his job.  They had but one daughter, named Bonnie.  For her sake, their sessions had always been late at night, or when Bonnie had been staying at a friend's house.  Though they both loved latex, Debbie had been especially turned-on by it.

During business trips, David had always tried to bring home something made of latex.  Over the years, Debbie had acquired quite a selection of latex clothing and bondage gear.  She had dresses, catsuits, gloves, and hoods.  You name; it she had it!  Moreover, she had an uncontrollable desire to “satisfy herself”, whenever David was away.  By now, the daughter had grown and left for college.  Moreover, this particular week, David was on the road.  The house was now eerily quiet, which left Debbie feeling horny.  She could not stifle the delicious urge to dress totally in latex.

Debbie went to her closet, and selected a catsuit with feet, as well as a long pair of gloves and her favorite hood.  She then went to her dresser, and pulled out a pair of latex underwear, with a built-in dildo and butt plug.  Her hands shook, as she shivered with anticipation.  Another drawer held her bondage gear.  She selected a pair of leather wrist cuffs, ankle restraints, and thigh restraints. She also grabbed three double-ended “quick snaps”.  These were like the clips on a dog leash, but with a snap at both ends.  The most fearsome item though, had to be the 5-inch, leather, neck collar.  All of these items were carefully laid-out on the bed.  She could not wait to be in them.

Debbie began by sprinkling powder all over her body.  This would make it much easier to slip into her waiting latex.  Suitably powdered, she began with the latex underwear.  The dildo and butt plug were lubed with K-Y Jelly, before she slowly inserted the intruders into their proper places.  Next came the catsuit.  Debbie stepped into the suit’s feet, and took her time pulling it on—making sure that there were no wrinkles.  Once her arms were finally into the suit, she reached around to her back, and closed the zipper.  The gloves were then applied with equal care, coming on smooth and unwrinkled.

Debbie took a moment in front of her full-length mirror, to admire her latex-encased body.  Still, she was anxious to get to the fun!  She examined the leather restraints that she had set on the bed.  The wrist cuffs fastened with heavy roller-buckle straps.  The tongues of the buckles ended in special metal loops, allowing the buckles to be locked.  “Locking” was an option available on all of their bondage gear.  Each cuff also had a metal ‘D’ ring securely attached.  The sturdy thigh cuffs were similar, except that the pair were permanently fastened together, with a connecting metal ‘O’ ring.  The ankle cuffs were just like those for the thighs.  Debbie stared at the terrible, yet wonderful restraints.  Just thinking about her next move caused her juices to flow!  Of course, those two plugs didn’t help—especially, now that they were sealed inside of her, under layers of tight, unrelenting latex.

She began by buckling a cuff onto each wrist, and clipping a double-snap onto each D-ring.  The dangling clips rattled, as she buckled one of the thigh cuffs to her left thigh, and an ankle cuff to her left ankle.  She attached the third double-snap to the O-ring connecting the thigh cuffs.  Debbie now climbed onto the bed, into a kneeling position.  She strapped the other thigh cuff to her right thigh, and the remaining ankle cuff to her right ankle.  Both legs were now securely locked together.  This only got her more excited.

In a nearly-frenzied hurry, Debbie grabbed her favorite hood.  This was a full hood, with no eye holes or mouth opening.  It had only nose tubes for breathing, and a built-in inflatable gag.  Carefully, she installed the nose tubes, before pulling the rest of the hood over her head.  With relish, she grabbed the zipper-pull at the top of her head, and closed zipper, all the way down to the back of her neck.  Debbie was now totally enclosed in tight latex.  Not one bit of skin was showing.

She had to fumble blindly around the bed, to find the 5-inch collar.  Upon retrieving it, she wrapped it around her neck, and tightened the two big roller-buckle straps.  This collar was very rigid, and she could no longer turn her head. It also forced her chin and head upward, into a submissive position.  She had shown herself no mercy, and she was in heaven!

Debbie was now wearing all of her latex, as well as all of her selected bondage gear.  There were only a couple more steps to total helplessness.  But, she could wait no longer.  “Perhaps, a quickie...”, she thought to herself, “...to relieve the pressure.”  She began rubbing her crotch with her right hand, while squeezing the inflating bulb for the gag, with her left.  As the gag filled her mouth, she could feel herself rushing to climax.  Her body became quite hot, as countless beads sweat now squirmed under the latex.  It was over all-too-soon, as she collapsed onto her side.

However, Debbie was far from done.  She quickly gathered her second wind, with a fresh resolve to complete her bondage.  After deflating the gag with the pump bulb’s release button, she moved back to her kneeling position.  She sat back onto her heels, and reached behind to find the double-snap hooked to her thigh restraints.  She pulled and tugged, until she was able to hook the snap’s other end onto the ring between the ankle cuffs.  Her bound ankles were now tightly secured to her thighs.  She then used the snaps hanging from her wrist cuffs, to secure both wrists to the same ring between the ankles.  No longer able to move, she fell forward, onto her stomach, helplessly hogtied!

Or was she helpless?  Debbie used snap fasteners because she could undo them with her fingers.  David had also used these, at first—figuring that Debbie would be unable to escape.  That is, until he had learned of Debbie’s dexterity.  After that, he had begun using locks.  He would lock everything, including the buckles on the cuffs and collar, as well as any chastity device that she happened to be wearing.  That’ll hold her!  One time, after a session, David had released her from everything, except the collar and hood—just to see how she would react.  When Debbie had discovered the locks still in-place, she had made only muffled sounds, while pointing to the problem.  David had merely responded with a couple more pumps to the gag.  Debbie had then frantically pulled at the locks, while David had laughed at her predicament.  Trapped in darkness, she had tried to dig for the zipper on the hood.  But, that zipper had been securely locked-away, under the collar.  It was the same collar and hood that she was now wearing!  No wonder these had become her favorites.

Today though, Debbie was all alone.  She had all of the time in the world, to enjoy her helpless position.  She began rocking back and forth on the bed, to drive the dildo in and out of herself.  But, this only sent her into a frenzy.  Perhaps, that first “relief” orgasm had not been a great idea.  The second one seemed to remain frustratingly beyond her reach.  She added swaying and bouncing to her motions. But, it all became just a cruel tease.

Worse, her gyrations had thrown the pump bulb between her ample chest and the bed. Now, with each forward rock, the gag inflated further.  Soon, it was pumped to the point that speech became impossible, and her breathing began to feel restricted. She tried to twisting and bouncing, to dislodge the bulb from beneath her breast.  All, as her sexual frustration continued to grow.  Then, as if things could not get any worse, the doorbell rang.

Debbie immediately thought about being caught by David.  Once before, he had come home, while she had been trying to pleasure herself with extreme bondage.  As punishment, he had locked everything, before she had had a chance to release herself.  He had left her that way, on the bed, while he had sat at the foot of the bed, watching the ballgame.

The doorbell rang again.  For a moment, Debbie felt relieved, as it could not possibly be David.  But then, she heard a voice yell from downstairs, “Mom!  Are you home?”  It was Bonnie, their daughter, visiting from college.  Bonnie had seen her mom’s car in the driveway, and had assumed that she was here.  Panic resumed, at the new thought of her daughter seeing her this way!

Bonnie began to walk through the house, sensing that something was amiss.  She went from room to room, searching for her mom.  Debbie could hear the opening and closing of doors, accompanied by the calls of, “Mom? Mom?”  Debbie fumbled with the snaps holding her wrists to her ankles.  But, the mixture of panic and extreme arousal interfered with her dexterity.  She now heard footsteps in the hall, outside the bedroom.  Debbie was still trapped in her situation, when the bedroom door swung open.

As Bonnie stepped into the room, she could not believe her eyes.  Someone was lying on the bed, bound completely in black latex and leather.  Whoever it was, had been left in a helpless hogtie position.  “M...M...Mom?  Is that you?”, Bonnie stammered.

Debbie tried to reply.  But, the overinflated gag would not allow her to make a sound.  She could only rock back and forth, frantically.

Bonnie undid the snaps that held her mom’s wrists, thighs, and ankles together. With her hands now free, Debbie deflated her gag, and felt for the edge of the bed. She was still encased in the hood, as she swung her still-bound leg's over the side of the bed, and tried to stand up.  She didn’t get very far.  Bonnie caught her, and began to loosen the collar.  With the collar removed, Bonnie unzipped Debbie’s hood.  As Bonnie pulled the hood from the captive head, she again stared in shock. Here was her mom, bound tightly in leather and latex, soaked with sweat, and apparently enjoying it!

Debbie meanwhile, had been dreading this moment—a moment that she had hoped would never arrive.  The two of them now sat on the edge of the bed, to have “The Talk”. As Debbie loosened her leg restraints, she described to Bonnie, how she had gotten into the latex scene.  Bonnie listened intently, before suddenly interrupting. “Mom, I’m a big girl now.  I’ve heard all about this stuff!”

Bonnie strutted over to her mom’s closet, opened the door, and began inspecting the contents.  Debbie’s worst fear filled her head—the fear that her daughter now thought that her mom was a freak.  Debbie certainly wasn’t prepared for Bonnie’s actual question.  “Mom can I try on some of your latex?”  Bonnie had grown to be the same size as Debbie.  So, this was not an unreasonable request.

Still, Debbie could not believe what she had just heard from her twenty-two-year-old daughter.  It was now Debbie’s turn to stammer.  “Wh...what would you like to wear?”

“I dunno...”  Bonnie thumbed through the closet items.  “What’s it like to wear latex?”  She stopped at a low-cut dress with sleeves.  “How about this?”

Debbie showed Bonnie how to apply talcum powder, before attempting to wriggle into the dress.  Debbie also helped Bonnie to smooth-out the wrinkles, as the dress slid slowly into place.  Once the back zipper was closed, Bonnie was amazed at how it felt.  She spun around in front of the mirror, caressing her latex-covered sides with her palms.  She could no longer help herself.  The words simply slipped past her lips.  “If this was mine, I’d never take it off!”

"See what I mean about the feeling of tight latex?", her mom added.  Sure enough, to this day, Bonnie has remained hooked.

*      *      *

I would like to thank the above folks, for allowing me pen their story.  Needless to say, their names have been changed.  But, the latex and leather are still the same.

R. S. Sherwood
]]> not written by me.  I found it online, back in the 90's.  This is one of many downloaded stories that I hope to post.  Perhaps, soon, I will also compose a few of my own.  I really have no disclaimers for this one, other than my only contributions being proof-reading and copy-editing.  So, Enjoy:



Debbie's Desire
by R.S. Sherwood

Debbie had always craved the taste and feel of latex.  She and her spouse, David, had been into the latex scene for nearly two decades.  The two of them had enjoyed many latex sessions—that is, when David had not been traveling for his job.  They had but one daughter, named Bonnie.  For her sake, their sessions had always been late at night, or when Bonnie had been staying at a friend's house.  Though they both loved latex, Debbie had been especially turned-on by it.

During business trips, David had always tried to bring home something made of latex.  Over the years, Debbie had acquired quite a selection of latex clothing and bondage gear.  She had dresses, catsuits, gloves, and hoods.  You name; it she had it!  Moreover, she had an uncontrollable desire to “satisfy herself”, whenever David was away.  By now, the daughter had grown and left for college.  Moreover, this particular week, David was on the road.  The house was now eerily quiet, which left Debbie feeling horny.  She could not stifle the delicious urge to dress totally in latex.

Debbie went to her closet, and selected a catsuit with feet, as well as a long pair of gloves and her favorite hood.  She then went to her dresser, and pulled out a pair of latex underwear, with a built-in dildo and butt plug.  Her hands shook, as she shivered with anticipation.  Another drawer held her bondage gear.  She selected a pair of leather wrist cuffs, ankle restraints, and thigh restraints. She also grabbed three double-ended “quick snaps”.  These were like the clips on a dog leash, but with a snap at both ends.  The most fearsome item though, had to be the 5-inch, leather, neck collar.  All of these items were carefully laid-out on the bed.  She could not wait to be in them.

Debbie began by sprinkling powder all over her body.  This would make it much easier to slip into her waiting latex.  Suitably powdered, she began with the latex underwear.  The dildo and butt plug were lubed with K-Y Jelly, before she slowly inserted the intruders into their proper places.  Next came the catsuit.  Debbie stepped into the suit’s feet, and took her time pulling it on—making sure that there were no wrinkles.  Once her arms were finally into the suit, she reached around to her back, and closed the zipper.  The gloves were then applied with equal care, coming on smooth and unwrinkled.

Debbie took a moment in front of her full-length mirror, to admire her latex-encased body.  Still, she was anxious to get to the fun!  She examined the leather restraints that she had set on the bed.  The wrist cuffs fastened with heavy roller-buckle straps.  The tongues of the buckles ended in special metal loops, allowing the buckles to be locked.  “Locking” was an option available on all of their bondage gear.  Each cuff also had a metal ‘D’ ring securely attached.  The sturdy thigh cuffs were similar, except that the pair were permanently fastened together, with a connecting metal ‘O’ ring.  The ankle cuffs were just like those for the thighs.  Debbie stared at the terrible, yet wonderful restraints.  Just thinking about her next move caused her juices to flow!  Of course, those two plugs didn’t help—especially, now that they were sealed inside of her, under layers of tight, unrelenting latex.

She began by buckling a cuff onto each wrist, and clipping a double-snap onto each D-ring.  The dangling clips rattled, as she buckled one of the thigh cuffs to her left thigh, and an ankle cuff to her left ankle.  She attached the third double-snap to the O-ring connecting the thigh cuffs.  Debbie now climbed onto the bed, into a kneeling position.  She strapped the other thigh cuff to her right thigh, and the remaining ankle cuff to her right ankle.  Both legs were now securely locked together.  This only got her more excited.

In a nearly-frenzied hurry, Debbie grabbed her favorite hood.  This was a full hood, with no eye holes or mouth opening.  It had only nose tubes for breathing, and a built-in inflatable gag.  Carefully, she installed the nose tubes, before pulling the rest of the hood over her head.  With relish, she grabbed the zipper-pull at the top of her head, and closed zipper, all the way down to the back of her neck.  Debbie was now totally enclosed in tight latex.  Not one bit of skin was showing.

She had to fumble blindly around the bed, to find the 5-inch collar.  Upon retrieving it, she wrapped it around her neck, and tightened the two big roller-buckle straps.  This collar was very rigid, and she could no longer turn her head. It also forced her chin and head upward, into a submissive position.  She had shown herself no mercy, and she was in heaven!

Debbie was now wearing all of her latex, as well as all of her selected bondage gear.  There were only a couple more steps to total helplessness.  But, she could wait no longer.  “Perhaps, a quickie...”, she thought to herself, “...to relieve the pressure.”  She began rubbing her crotch with her right hand, while squeezing the inflating bulb for the gag, with her left.  As the gag filled her mouth, she could feel herself rushing to climax.  Her body became quite hot, as countless beads sweat now squirmed under the latex.  It was over all-too-soon, as she collapsed onto her side.

However, Debbie was far from done.  She quickly gathered her second wind, with a fresh resolve to complete her bondage.  After deflating the gag with the pump bulb’s release button, she moved back to her kneeling position.  She sat back onto her heels, and reached behind to find the double-snap hooked to her thigh restraints.  She pulled and tugged, until she was able to hook the snap’s other end onto the ring between the ankle cuffs.  Her bound ankles were now tightly secured to her thighs.  She then used the snaps hanging from her wrist cuffs, to secure both wrists to the same ring between the ankles.  No longer able to move, she fell forward, onto her stomach, helplessly hogtied!

Or was she helpless?  Debbie used snap fasteners because she could undo them with her fingers.  David had also used these, at first—figuring that Debbie would be unable to escape.  That is, until he had learned of Debbie’s dexterity.  After that, he had begun using locks.  He would lock everything, including the buckles on the cuffs and collar, as well as any chastity device that she happened to be wearing.  That’ll hold her!  One time, after a session, David had released her from everything, except the collar and hood—just to see how she would react.  When Debbie had discovered the locks still in-place, she had made only muffled sounds, while pointing to the problem.  David had merely responded with a couple more pumps to the gag.  Debbie had then frantically pulled at the locks, while David had laughed at her predicament.  Trapped in darkness, she had tried to dig for the zipper on the hood.  But, that zipper had been securely locked-away, under the collar.  It was the same collar and hood that she was now wearing!  No wonder these had become her favorites.

Today though, Debbie was all alone.  She had all of the time in the world, to enjoy her helpless position.  She began rocking back and forth on the bed, to drive the dildo in and out of herself.  But, this only sent her into a frenzy.  Perhaps, that first “relief” orgasm had not been a great idea.  The second one seemed to remain frustratingly beyond her reach.  She added swaying and bouncing to her motions. But, it all became just a cruel tease.

Worse, her gyrations had thrown the pump bulb between her ample chest and the bed. Now, with each forward rock, the gag inflated further.  Soon, it was pumped to the point that speech became impossible, and her breathing began to feel restricted. She tried to twisting and bouncing, to dislodge the bulb from beneath her breast.  All, as her sexual frustration continued to grow.  Then, as if things could not get any worse, the doorbell rang.

Debbie immediately thought about being caught by David.  Once before, he had come home, while she had been trying to pleasure herself with extreme bondage.  As punishment, he had locked everything, before she had had a chance to release herself.  He had left her that way, on the bed, while he had sat at the foot of the bed, watching the ballgame.

The doorbell rang again.  For a moment, Debbie felt relieved, as it could not possibly be David.  But then, she heard a voice yell from downstairs, “Mom!  Are you home?”  It was Bonnie, their daughter, visiting from college.  Bonnie had seen her mom’s car in the driveway, and had assumed that she was here.  Panic resumed, at the new thought of her daughter seeing her this way!

Bonnie began to walk through the house, sensing that something was amiss.  She went from room to room, searching for her mom.  Debbie could hear the opening and closing of doors, accompanied by the calls of, “Mom? Mom?”  Debbie fumbled with the snaps holding her wrists to her ankles.  But, the mixture of panic and extreme arousal interfered with her dexterity.  She now heard footsteps in the hall, outside the bedroom.  Debbie was still trapped in her situation, when the bedroom door swung open.

As Bonnie stepped into the room, she could not believe her eyes.  Someone was lying on the bed, bound completely in black latex and leather.  Whoever it was, had been left in a helpless hogtie position.  “M...M...Mom?  Is that you?”, Bonnie stammered.

Debbie tried to reply.  But, the overinflated gag would not allow her to make a sound.  She could only rock back and forth, frantically.

Bonnie undid the snaps that held her mom’s wrists, thighs, and ankles together. With her hands now free, Debbie deflated her gag, and felt for the edge of the bed. She was still encased in the hood, as she swung her still-bound leg's over the side of the bed, and tried to stand up.  She didn’t get very far.  Bonnie caught her, and began to loosen the collar.  With the collar removed, Bonnie unzipped Debbie’s hood.  As Bonnie pulled the hood from the captive head, she again stared in shock. Here was her mom, bound tightly in leather and latex, soaked with sweat, and apparently enjoying it!

Debbie meanwhile, had been dreading this moment—a moment that she had hoped would never arrive.  The two of them now sat on the edge of the bed, to have “The Talk”. As Debbie loosened her leg restraints, she described to Bonnie, how she had gotten into the latex scene.  Bonnie listened intently, before suddenly interrupting. “Mom, I’m a big girl now.  I’ve heard all about this stuff!”

Bonnie strutted over to her mom’s closet, opened the door, and began inspecting the contents.  Debbie’s worst fear filled her head—the fear that her daughter now thought that her mom was a freak.  Debbie certainly wasn’t prepared for Bonnie’s actual question.  “Mom can I try on some of your latex?”  Bonnie had grown to be the same size as Debbie.  So, this was not an unreasonable request.

Still, Debbie could not believe what she had just heard from her twenty-two-year-old daughter.  It was now Debbie’s turn to stammer.  “Wh...what would you like to wear?”

“I dunno...”  Bonnie thumbed through the closet items.  “What’s it like to wear latex?”  She stopped at a low-cut dress with sleeves.  “How about this?”

Debbie showed Bonnie how to apply talcum powder, before attempting to wriggle into the dress.  Debbie also helped Bonnie to smooth-out the wrinkles, as the dress slid slowly into place.  Once the back zipper was closed, Bonnie was amazed at how it felt.  She spun around in front of the mirror, caressing her latex-covered sides with her palms.  She could no longer help herself.  The words simply slipped past her lips.  “If this was mine, I’d never take it off!”

"See what I mean about the feeling of tight latex?", her mom added.  Sure enough, to this day, Bonnie has remained hooked.

*      *      *

I would like to thank the above folks, for allowing me pen their story.  Needless to say, their names have been changed.  But, the latex and leather are still the same.

R. S. Sherwood
]]> <![CDATA[Public Punishment Uniform by Pervmont.]]> https://www.likera.com/forum/mybb/Thread-Public-Punishment-Uniform-by-Pervmont Thu, 19 Sep 2024 12:19:34 +0000 Culmor]]> https://www.likera.com/forum/mybb/Thread-Public-Punishment-Uniform-by-Pervmont Public Punishment Uniform
by Pervmont

Pat(ty)
My given name is Patrick. I’m twenty-three, I’m into self-bondage, and I’m a cross-dresser. Not all the time, you understand; I have to work for a living, but cross-dressing is my fetish, and for lack of interest in almost anything else, my one hobby. I’m sure that I probably spend more time and money shopping for shoes & clothes than the average female, but it’s what I like. I’m lucky that I have a body that lends itself to female attire; I’m five feet eight inches tall and slender, at one hundred thirty pounds. My almost-black hair is cut in a ‘page-boy’ style, which I hide by wearing it pulled up into a ‘man-bun’ or up under a hat. With my hair down and make-up on, I’m quite passable as a girl and I often go out dressed as one. I’m not gay, but I love flirting with men while I’m dressed in something sexy.

Cross-dressing is fun, sexy, and a real rush out in public, but my absolute greatest fantasy-driver is when I occasionally spot a woman who’s incarcerated in one of my state’s ‘Get tough on morality’ public-humiliation corrections uniforms; you may have seen one of these women, wearing a too-short little stretchy gray prisoner’s dress. This is worn over large, plastic breast forms mounted to a chest plate. She’ll have a high-security chastity belt keeping two big, bright-orange dildos locked up inside her, her knees are hobbled together with stainless bands and she’s wearing locked-on, super-high-heeled pumps with bright orange stiletto heels. What makes this corrections option legal and morally acceptable is that these women have all volunteered to wear these outfits, out and about in ‘public incarceration’. This form of punishment is offered as an option to going to jail or even prison for some crime that they’ve committed. They’re not just wearing the state’s punishment uniform, they’re also having to pay a pretty high monthly service/maintenance fee for the honor. It’s terribly uncomfortable, expensive and humiliating for them, but they’ll all tell you that it still beats going to prison.

I close my eyes and imagine what it must be like for these women, wriggling along, forced to walk very high on their toes (some of them even wearing ‘ballet-toe’ high heels), their legs sheathed in thick, tight, glossy, back-seamed tan hosiery, their thighs forced to remain four or less inches apart by the short bar between the cuffs just above their knees, this staying located by a vertical bar that tees into the hobble bar and attaches to the crotch piece of their chastity belt, just between the visible ends of the two ‘safety’ orange punishment dildos that protrude out two inches through the belt. To maximize public humiliation, the prisoner’s gray lycra uniform dress is cut very short, too short to cover the crotch panel of her chastity belt and the ends of the bright orange dildos. Can you imagine? Two huge ‘punishment’ dildos are stuffed in her pussy and ass, locked in place with a chastity belt, and her tight little lycra dress is too short to cover it? Anybody who so much as glances at them can see the double penetration that’s part of the punishment uniform.

I try to imagine what having one’s breasts tightly cinched around their bases feels like; that’s what uniformed girls endure, their breasts forced through small openings in the uniform’s locked-on chest plate, and into transparent, high-impact plastic breast forms. These are diabolical; they’re lined throughout with small, conical points that press into the wearer’s swollen, hurting, spherical breasts. Every uniform-wearing female’s nipples are pierced and the piercings are reinforced by permanent grommets as part of the uniform. The grommets are stainless steel and are flared by a machine after they’re pushed through her piercings, making them irremovable. Her nipples, now equipped with reinforced piercings, are pulled painfully through inch-long tubes at the tips of the plastic breast forms and are fitted with ‘D’ shackles to avail them as attachment points, or simply convenient, instant compliance-gaining devices for anyone who cares to slip a finger through them. When (and if) a girl completes her sentence*, these grommets and D-rings are left in place. Opening the D-rings requires a proprietary, state-held tool. It’s as if the State assumes that she’ll be put back in uniform. If she wants to have them removed it’s an expensive procedure that has to be done by a machine shop. Removing the grommets would require disfiguring surgery. As such, the vast majority of post-uniform women simply elect to remain ringed.

* [The conditions of uniform wear are very strict; the slightest slip-up, tardiness for an appointment, fee payment or other infraction carries strict and some say cruel additional time-of-sentence penalties. It’s typical for a woman to end up serving at least twice the amount of time of her original sentence, and often more. As it’s a ‘for-profit’ program and quite lucrative, the state has been inventive and even devious in its positioning of pitfalls to extend the length of incarceration of uniformed women.]

Whenever I see an ‘outmate’ (as a woman on public release in a State punishment uniform is known), what first draws my eye is her collar. ‘Morality program’ uniformed girls all wear a tall, close-fitting stainless-steel collar with leash rings at the front and rear. Their crime is deeply engraved into the metal at the front with a laser. While they’re serving their sentences, their hair is cut short, usually a ‘page-boy’ (I wear my own hair cut this way) style, so that the State’s collar is visible from all sides. The absolute best sightings, the ones that keep me in a weird state of erotic ‘high’ for days and weeks are the felons; seeing the welds running up the sides of a collar that’s around a woman’s throat and knowing that she must wear that collar for the rest of her life makes me absolutely giddy.

These women are the long-timers in the system; they’re the ones who you’ll see with impossibly small waists, closely hobbled and teetering along in ballet-toe shoes. The punishment dildos forced up inside them will invariably be huge. It’s a special treat to see a felony girl after seven in the evening as, like all ‘Morality program’ prisoners, she’ll have an enormous, tubular penis gag locked in her mouth, and additionally, because she’s a felon, her arms will be sheathed tightly together behind her back, pressed together from fingertip to elbows in an extremely tough, flexible, plastic shrink-tube that’s applied to her every night by a machine in her residence. She’ll spend every night gagged from six o’clock and arm-sheathed from seven o’clock until seven o’clock the next morning when the gag is released, and her arms will, providing she gets them into the machine within the allowed five minute window at seven o’clock, be released from behind her. If she is late, the machine resets, locking her out; she will wear the arm sheath for another twenty-four hours before the next opportunity for release comes. As for the gag worn by all uniformed women, felon or not, if it’s not removed by ten minutes after seven o’clock it simply relocks itself until the same time the next day. The gag will only unlock on weekday mornings; it remains locked in her mouth from Friday evening until Monday morning. Over the weekend, the ‘outmate’ can only take liquid meals, squirted down her throat through the half-inch hole in the gag.

I wanted one of these uniforms. I wanted to wear it, helpless, bound, displayed, painfully penetrated and deliciously, utterly, completely humiliated as I wriggled around in public places, high on my toes in the uniform stilettos, on display in a State-sanctioned bondage and fetish punishment uniform. I dreamed of having a big pair of tits so I could suffer in the breast forms with my nipples agonizingly stretched, I wanted my jaw to ache around a long, fat, bright-orange-so-everyone-sees-it penis gag, and I especially wanted to be locked into a too-tight chastity belt, unable to cum, with a great big, safety-orange punishment dildo locked up my slutty little ass.

Phew. Wow. Deep breath. Okay, I need to take a step back. The genuine, official State public punishment uniform was my fantasy, my absolute favorite fantasy, but in reality, I didn’t think I would actually like (or could even endure) wearing it for more than a few minutes.

That said, I still bought myself equipment and hosiery and super-short, stretchy-see-through gray lycra dresses that mimicked the punishment uniform. I had chastity belts that would secure my boy-parts into inaccessible little containers while keeping any of a variety of butt plugs in my bottom. I had my nipples pierced and grommets fitted and wore terribly uncomfortable nipple stretchers under the plastic breast forms of fake State-discipline uniforms. I had collars, knee-hobbles, a number of bright orange penis gags, ‘winghouse’ waitress thick pantyhose, and a variety of pairs of very high, ‘lockable’ (sort of) high heels.

I would wear a combination of the above for hours, sometimes for a full day and even into the next on weekends. I never wore one of these faux-uniforms out in public though, and as good as it was, it was never enough.
Reality be damned, the heart wants what the heart (or more likely some lower part of me) wants, and I really, really wanted a genuine prisoner uniform. I dreamt about wearing a full ‘felony level’ punishment uniform (complete with the high-security ankle hobbles), out in public, and particularly to a Halloween costume contest at a bar I like. I fantasized about taking two weeks off from work before the event, spending all of it continuously locked and suffering in a real punishment uniform, unable to take it off, bound, penetrated, displayed and humiliated, just like the real ‘Morality Program’ outmates were, before finally competing in the bar’s costume contest. In other fantasies I would often climax while envisioning myself being dog-whipped by one of the cruel guards as I did ‘public service’, chain-ganged at the collar with eleven other gagged and uniformed girls as we picked up litter along roadsides.
As I said earlier, Not Realistic.

I mentioned this interest (toned down a long way) conversationally in a cross-dressing-themed online chat-room, and was sent a private message by one of the other users.
“Are you serious about a real uniform?”
 “Yes,” I replied reluctantly, thinking someone wanted to get into some one-on-one fantasy thing that I probably wasn’t going to be interested in.
“I know someone who knows someone. It won’t be cheap and the pieces are fitted for women’s bodies. If you have a masculine build, you won’t be able to wear one.”
Now I was interested, but still smelling ‘scam’.
I cautiously typed, “I’m interested.”
“I’m going to send you a form. Make the required measurements using a fabric measuring tape. You’ll need to be very accurate. Send the completed list to (they gave an email address) with your email address. If items in your size are available, you’ll get photos of them and pricing in one to three days.”
A moment later, a form listing the required measurements for me to make appeared in the text column. I took a screenshot of it and saved it. Okay, now I was interested. I carefully took the measurements, all over my body, resisting the urge to write down what I’d like them to be, and sent them to the email address I’d been given from a throwaway one I only used for going on sites that I knew were going to spam me.

Four days later (a Friday, fortuitously), having heard nothing, I’d given up hope. The whole thing had surely been a scam, or just some pervert playing a little game of his own invention with me. If it was real, maybe they just didn’t have anything that would fit me.

I was at work when the email tone went off on my phone, and I saw that a message had come on the address I’d given. I nearly chewed my nails off waiting for break time so I could read it. I left work early to go to the bank when I saw the pictures. They were clearly genuine uniform articles and there was an entire set. The message stated that the whole uniform could be mine for $5,000 dollars, one electronic key included. They also said that they had a set of felon’s ankle hobbles with the eight-inch chain available in my size, if I was interested.

I met them in the large, well-lit parking lot of a big store that evening, cash in hand. I was shown the uniform by a large woman who couldn’t seem to stop smirking at me as I carefully examined all of the items which were laid out in the back of her minivan. Her male companion stayed in the front of the car. I was terrified that I was going to be beaten and robbed, but there were a lot of people around, and to my delight, the uniform was the real thing. It even included the enema device, necessary but loathed by those who were forced to use it. They had no choice, their asses were inescapably plugged by the State’s anal punishers.

Via email, I’d counter-offered for two extra pairs of the unique, thick, glossy, back-seamed, open-crotch tan pantyhose, an extra uniform dress, and the ‘felon’ ankle hobbles to be thrown in for the $5,000, and they’d accepted. I paid the woman, she counted it, and I couldn’t be away from there with my prizes fast enough.

My stomach was so clenched and full of butterflies that I could only squeak a reply when she mockingly said, “Have fun, sweetie” as I departed.

Safely home I laid out and carefully examined my purchases. The shoes were fantastic; classically styled pumps with no platform, heels fully seven inches high, and they only showed minimal wear. I marveled at how heavily they were built, the inch-wide, springy metal straps that would encircle their prisoner’s ankles and I absolutely quivered at their color combination of penal gray with black soles and safety orange stiletto heels. Where they touched the ground, the orange tips of the stilettos were only a thumb's breadth from the soles of the shoes.

Examining them closely I saw how they were designed to allow soapy shower water to wash down inside them, around the wearer’s feet and toes before draining out of a series of clever little decorative-looking holes in the toes of the shoes. The high-security ankle hobbles were two-inch wide, quarter-inch thick polished stainless cuffs with eight inches of permanently attached chain between them. They were designed to lock on over the shoes’ ankle straps and even incorporated an extra ‘stirrup’ that looped down under the shoe in front of the stiletto heel, doubly securing the shoes in place. The thick, glossy, tan hosiery was simply scrumptious, with its heavy ‘Cuban’ style reinforcement at heels and toes, and its ample amount of lycra to keep them fitting tightly, as they would be worn day and night for two week stints. These special pantyhose (and the dress) were made with hydrophilic and anti-bacterial properties that wicked moisture away from the wearer, keeping her skin clean and dry underneath. You were supposed to take hot, soapy showers while wearing the uniform to keep the material clean, and the remarkable material would dry in minutes.

The chastity belt was positively fear-inducing; its waistband was clearly too small for me to wear without intense discomfort and it was equipped with a pair of punishment dildos that must’ve completely ruined its previous wearer. The front intruder (these were always fitted with a stainless leash ring at their base) was fully twelve inches long, the rear invader (fitted with an enema port) was a merciless ten incher and each was as thick as a soda can. I groaned with frustration at this, I’d hoped that I might be able to somehow take the rear one, but there was no way I could fit this monster up my ass.

The half-inch thick, solid stainless rod that connected to a place between the front and rear dildos on the chastity belt was just the right length, connecting to the three-inch bar between the knee-hobble bands. When closed, these were a little tighter than I’d have liked, but hobbled me very effectively, locking in place just above my knees. Both bars were attached by clever ball-swivel mounts which would eliminate any binding, while still providing total bondage.

The dark gray, thick plastic breast-plate was a very good fit to my small chest, though its wide straps seemed a little short and had no adjustment. After a lot of effort, I managed to put it on, finally getting the straps locked around my torso and shoulders. They bit well into me, and the shoulder loops forced my shoulders way back; it felt like my shoulder blades were touching. My nipples and surrounding flesh pushed out an inch through the three-inch openings in the breast plate, and were immediately engorged with blood and super-sensitive. I loved it, blissfully touching them in front of the mirror.
The heavy, clear plastic breast forms came next, their tubular nipples pointing arrogantly up and out once I’d clicked them into their locking receiver slots on the chest plate. Oh, how I wished I had a big pair of double-‘D’ breasts to fill these torture chambers, I wanted to have my nipples painfully stretched in those tubes and I wanted to feel each and every one of the hundreds of cruel, conical points that lined the breast forms push deeply into the skin of my tender, swollen, root-cinched tits!

The gag was going to cause me problems, something I’d realized as soon as I’d seen it. It was huge, almost as thick as the punishment dildos in the accompanying chastity belt, and it was clearly too long. The slightly smaller ‘head’ of the safety-orange, phallus-shaped device would actually rest in the opening of the wearer’s throat when locked in place with its wide, mesh-steel reinforced strap.

I’d read about this, the reasoning behind the ‘too long’ gag was so that the wearer could not swallow her own tongue and choke to death while gagged. I’d also read that the ‘felony’ version of the gag was an even longer design that extended a few inches down the wearer’s throat. It typically took at least a year for the woman to work her way up to wearing the felony ‘deep throat’ gag.

The dresses were penal gray, short-sleeved, and kind of boringly cut, except for their obscenely tight fit and short length. They were made of the same lycra-based material as the pantyhose, and became semi-sheer when stretched. Like the other items, they were superior quality, heavily sewn, and looked very durable.

Last and most important came the collar; it was tall, more than three inches at the front and two on the sides and back. It was designed to encumber the wearer’s head movement, and it was equipped with thick, inch-diameter attachment rings front and back. Its finish was polished stainless, and I giggled with delight as I read the front, ‘Habitual Prostitute’ and in smaller letters ‘Public Punishment Uniform Program, Florida Department of Corrections’.

The lettering had been deeply burned into the thick collar by laser, and the letters were filled in with durable, bright safety-orange porcelain.

I’m lucky that I’ve never grown much body hair and whatever tried to grow I’ve had removed by laser. As such, I didn’t have much ‘cleanup’ to do before trying on my new prizes. First, I unlocked and removed the breast forms, so that I could see what I was doing below my waist.

The pantyhose were everything I’d fantasized they’d be; squeezing my toes, slightly-too-tight all the way up my legs, with a very tall waistband to prevent chafing under the chastity belt. The much darker seams running up the back almost aligned themselves up my legs, and their length was perfect for me. My boy parts sprung out through the hole at the crotch and were very excited about the goings-on.

The high heels went on next, and like the rest of the uniform they were a perfect (if somewhat snug) fit, their high arches matching mine to perfection. Their ankle straps locked and fit perfectly with no gaps. I stood up and wobbled a little atop the seven-inch heels then wriggled around the room, delightedly admiring myself in the full-length mirrors I’d had installed.

The chest plate and its tight fitting straps were a struggle to deal with, keeping my shoulders way back. I loved the effect though and before locking the breast forms in place over them I put on my most punitive pair of nipple stretchers, then coated the entirety of my already aching ‘titties’ with capsaicin (hot pepper) oil. They began to sting and burn almost immediately and I knew from past experience that this would go on for hours and hours.

I decided to have a try at the too-small appearing chastity belt, first removing (reverentially) both of the huge intruders it had come equipped with. Oww, my poor titties were really suffering now. I pulled my very excited boy parts through the opening (where the end of the front dildo would normally protrude) in the front of the wide stainless steel crotch strap and then spread my bottom to pull the strap up tight. The waist belt looked impossibly too small, but I knew that was how the State fit them on the girls who wore them, so I’d give it a try.

Just pressing with my hands didn’t get the ends of the belt closer than three inches, so I tried using a heavy leather belt with a roller buckle. I routinely used this belt as part of my self-bondage, pulling it as tight around my middle as I could get it and then locking the buckle with a small padlock. Hard pulling on the leather belt allowed me to get the steel waist band within an inch and a half of fastening.

I had an idea; I used a hammer to drive a screwdriver through the tip of the leather belt. Next, I pulled the two halves of my heavy old dining table slightly apart, just wide enough to slip the entire screwdriver up through the gap and turn it like a toggle. I laid on my back and slid under the table, then arched up and stuck the screwdriver up through the gap, managing to turn it so that it lay across the gap. Now I put my weight on the belt, tentatively at first but soon pushing upwards on the underside of the table. I was about to give up, but with one last push and a hard bounce, Click! The chastity belt was locked around my waist.

Getting back on my stiletto-heeled feet was a challenge and trying to breath against the horrible constriction around my waist was an effort as well. Looking in the mirror would have made me gasp if I wasn’t doing so already; my waist was tiny. I measured myself with the fabric tape, twenty inches around the outside of the belt.
I fell in love with my hourglass image in the mirror. I never wanted to take this belt off, except that it was killing me, and my saner self wanted it off right now.

“Beauty requires suffering, you kinky little slut” I said to my reflection in the mirror, hand on my hip and waggling an admonishing finger at my image.

First hooking their stirrups under my stiletto heels, I squeezed the ankle hobbles closed around my ankles; they fastened with a deliciously scary ‘Click!’ and I relished their weight, quality and the fact that they made my already-locked-on stilettos doubly inescapable. I then fastened (with more squeezing) the knee bands closed just above my knees. I could no longer open or close my upper legs more than the three inches that the spacer bar dictated. I practiced walking for a few moments, delighted that I now had the same forced, rolling, writhing sway that I found so intoxicating when I watched the outmates walk.

I pulled one of the little dresses on and giggled at how its hem stopped halfway down my bottom. I loved how it looked stretched across my hugely-nippled breast forms and savored the burning, stinging, nipple-stretched dull ache that was coming from inside them. The way the dress formed to my figure made the not-inconsequential pain of the chastity belt’s too-tight waistband totally worth it. The steel-cinched hourglass of my body even made me appear to have hips.
Now I had to deal with my very aroused boy-parts as they were ruining the feminine illusion of my uniform. I keep a two-pound bag of frozen peas in the freezer for just this purpose, and soon my ardor had retreated before the freezing onslaught. Once small and soft, I stuffed myself into my favorite, smallest and most unforgiving chastity device. It was a narrow, curving, stainless steel tube that forced my parts back between my legs. Except for a small hole to allow urine to escape, it was closed at the terminal end. I had to use a small piece of string, threaded through this hole, to pull myself fully into the small tube. My glands were not very big to begin with, but they were compressed uncomfortably smaller within the attached, hinged-opening cavity that they were sealed into. The device fastened with a built-in, high security lock that closed a heavy ring snugly around where my parts joined my body. There was absolutely no possibility of escape from this device, and I was very, very careful not to mislay its key.

Now, boy parts locked safely (and uncomfortably) away, I took some time to do my make-up and fuss with my hair. In minutes I was gorgeous. I then stood in front of the hall mirror, bobbing, posing, batting my eyes and making little kisses with my mouth. I am so cute.

“I’ll be right back!” I flirted with myself, and wriggled off to retrieve the collar.
“Do you think I should?” I asked the girl in the mirror, who had a wide-eyed, open-lipped, super-sexy look on her face.
She nodded emphatically.
“Ooo, it’s a little tight,” I told her, as I closed it with a deliciously loud ‘click’ around my throat. I could almost hear my chastity tube creaking with the strain of holding me in, down and very small. I moaned and ground my hips in ecstasy and frustration, the collar looked so good, and it felt just like I’d imagined it would. I reveled in how it controlled me when I tried to turn or nod my head and how it fit skin-tight, making its presence constantly known. The safety-orange lettering glowed out at me in the mirror and I read it (backwards) again and again, ‘Habitual Prostitute’ (the sluttiest of sluts!) while I squirmed and writhed while running my hands up and down my body. I was in heaven.

“Two more items to go,” I said, tearing myself away from the erotic vision in my hall mirror.
The first was an inflatable butt plug. I had modified it so that the hand-squeeze pump was removable and so that a small, hinged plate with a locking hasp covered the needle valve (like on a football) air-release valve. The result was that the plug could be pumped up bigger and bigger as I relaxed and was able to take it, but releasing any air from it required a key. When it was even moderately pumped up inside my small bottom I could not take it out without releasing the air first. Reading this, you’d think that I was an old hand at taking toys in my tush; I’m not. I love the idea and I do wear a plug often, but they’re usually small. The much-bigger, lockable, inflatable plug was an anomaly in my collection and I rarely used it.

Tonight I was going to use it though, and I had it in my mind that I was going to be using it a lot more, as it was the only toy I had that could be locked inside me.
It took me a while to get relaxed enough (back there) to admit even the still non-inflated plug, but once in place I began pumping it up. The little lock was already secured on the ‘deflate’ valve and I pumped until I squealed and danced around, flapping my hands. Oww, my poor ring felt like it was stretched tight as a tennis racquet string.
The last item was pretty daunting. I set the big, safety-orange gag on the table to contemplate it as I drank a glass of wine. I saw that the middle of the thing was bigger than its base, and that if one were able to get that huge center part past one’s teeth…

Another glass of wine had me licking it, and pushing it into my mouth a little way. Then I was back in front of the mirror with it, hips grinding as I sucked on it and started fucking my mouth with the huge thing, trying to push it in a little farther and a little farther. I thought my jaw had certainly been damaged when I finally gave the big gag a hard push and forced its fat center section past my teeth, and I spent a good number of seconds shrieking “Mmm! Mmm! Mmm!” through my nose, and minutes rubbing the hinge muscles of my jaw.

I tried to moan, “Oww” but the gag was extremely effective and all that got through it was “Mmm!”. The next obstacle I had to overcome was not gagging on the head of the thing as it sat against the opening of my throat. I was disappointed as I saw that it still needed to go another inch into my mouth, and therefore into my throat, before I could get its wide strap all the way around my head and back into its locking mechanism at the front.

I spent the next two hours wriggling around, dancing to music, learning to knee-hobble-walk, mastering the fabulously high heels, and slowly, more and more deeply, throat-fucking myself with the huge orange penis gag in my mouth. Using a turkey baster I shot squirts of wine into the hole that ran the length of the thing and ended up pretty soused. I believe it was because of this that I kept adding occasional pumps of air to the plug in my bottom, each time causing myself to writhe around flapping my hands in distress. Finally, I was finally able to push the head of the gag deeply enough into my throat to get the locking strap pulled around my head and fastened with a last, yelping push and a ‘click’.

I stood there, stunned, in front of the mirror. It was in. I’d done it. Almost immediately I wanted out of it, all of it, as I was hurting all over. I had the keys in my hands when my little inner voice, the one that causes me all kinds of trouble, said “No, slut. You are locked in your punishment uniform, and you will stay locked in your punishment uniform.” I mewed through the gag. I then did something that I almost immediately regretted; I have a small, time-lock safe with a tamper-proof drop slot on its top. I use it to lock up my self-bondage keys, leaving me helpless for hours in whatever sex-induced predicament I’ve dreamed up. I put the uniform key, the chastity key, and the inflatable butt-plug key into the safe, closed it and, noting the time, midnight, my inner voice said “You may present your slut self at noon tomorrow to see if you qualify for release.”

I set the safe’s tamper-proof timer for twelve hours.

I gasped at what I’d done. While I often used the key safe to lock myself up in some little outfit, even stayed handcuffed, hobbled and gagged for a few hours, I had never done anything even remotely this extreme, or for this length of time before. My heart raced as I took it in; I was genuinely being punished by all these things that I had locked onto and into myself, and there would be no relief whatsoever, no possibility of escape, no sexual gratification until mid-day tomorrow. Everything suddenly hurt so much, especially how tight the chastity tube had just become.
That night and all the next morning were torture; my waist ached in the hose-clamp-like steel grip of the chastity belt, my nipples were terribly tender and throbbed in the tension of the nipple stretchers I wore under the locked breast forms. My jaw felt like it was about to dislocate, and my poor bottom was stretched tight around the over-inflated (do not drink and butt plug) anal toy inside it. It took all of the rest of the day and that evening to recover from the self-inflicted ordeal. When the key safe clicked open, the first key I went for was the one to my chastity; seconds later, I was back in front of the mirror, freeing my poor boy parts from their tiny isolation cell and then spending a few minutes gaining the sexual relief I’d been needing for so long. It was incredible, and I honestly thought I would pass out.

Sunday morning found me waking up, secured again in the too-small chastity device and still in the collar, uniform hosiery, heels and ankle hobbles, as well as the little gray prisoner’s uniform dress. Although I was without the gag and butt plug, my nipples were again in the terrible stretchers as I still wore the breastplate and forms with a pair of handcuffs holding my wrists behind me.

I looked at the clock. It read seven a.m. “Five more hours until the key safe opens,” I thought. I made myself spend the time cleaning house as best I could in my bondage, really enjoying myself despite the pain of being steel-cinched around my waist.
 
This, and soon an ‘every-possible-minute’ schedule became a pattern for my weekends, and while it was good enough for a while, I began to become obsessed with the idea of actually making a foray out in public while locked up in my punishment uniform. I spent a lot of hours researching, and found a company in Germany that would machine (out of surgical stainless steel) a very special chastity device for me; it would have the exact appearance of the protruding end of the uniform’s front punishment dildo. It would look like a short, orange can with a lockable opening in its top, and the State-style, welded on leash ring at its bottom. I would pack all my boy parts into it and click it shut. The opening in the top was quite small (I sent them a measurement) barely closeable around the base of my boy parts, and there would be no way that I could extricate myself from it once it was in place. It would require a special, one-of-a-kind key for its high-security lock to be opened. A small rim (or flange if you like) would run around its circumference, allowing it to fit into, but not pass completely through, the uniform’s front chastity belt opening. With the chastity belt in place, the keyhole for the ‘chastity can’ would not be accessible. For cleanliness and urination, a series of tiny holes and slots were drilled and machined in strategic places, allowing cleansing water to be flushed through it during extended wear. The German company would even powder-coat the device in the correct ‘safety orange’ color for me. I ordered it immediately, maxing out my credit card in the process.

With that ordered, I ramped up my training for the second item that would have to be in place for me to go out in public; I’d need to be able to get the ten-inch long, soda-can-thick monster anal punishment dildo up my tight little ass. My nasty little inner voice informed me that a worthless little cross-dressing slut like me should be made to keep a training device in her bottom at all times, and that the device should always be every bit as large as she can possibly take. Not one to argue with my little inner voice, I obeyed.

Walking around my workplace first with an achingly-large plug and then later with an even larger dildo in my bottom was surreal, I never got used to it. Worse, the stimulation and embarrassment caused my boy parts to get and stay hard. To contain myself I had to wear my chastity device to work, as well as whenever I went out in public, cross-dressed or not. Unfortunately, out of my collection of such items, only the unpleasantly tight chastity device had a low-enough profile to not create an odd bulge under my clothes. My little voice informed me that ‘tight’ was going to be my new, personal theme. Sluts like me not only deserved embarrassment and discomfort but should also be made to wear a tight little corset and some tight, shiny pantyhose at any time that I wore boy clothes. I obeyed. I spent all day, every day cinched in a tight corset (with a tight belt locked on over it), my ass stretched drum tight around a long, thick dildo, my lower body wrapped in slippery, shiny pantyhose and I was locked (keys at home in the safe) in tight chastity. Being at work while breathlessly cinched, locked and stuffed was surreal-feeling and caused me to have a couple of small panic attacks. My two frantic escape attempts in the company bathroom were wholly unsuccessful. After a couple of minutes of clawing at my corset belt and chastity, I calmed down and returned to my desk, still corseted, chastised and with the dildo still up my ass. The way the pantyhose felt sliding around against the inside of my slacks was erotic, but I was sure everyone could hear the swishing sound it made when I walked.

I kept a pair of very high-heeled shoes in my car, and per my little voice, I was not allowed to even move the vehicle until they were on my feet.

It took eight very long weeks, but the chastity ‘can’ finally came from Germany and it was all I’d hoped it would be. It was a perfect visual match to the bottom two inches of a large punishment dildo, the part that would stick out through the punishment uniform’s chastity belt. The welded-on leash ring was an exact replica and I shivered as I imagined being led, leashed at this attachment point, or worse, secured by it to something immobile out in a busy, public area. I had read about this being done to outmate girls by cruel pranksters, leaving the unfortunate girls chained at their dildo to street signs and light poles or padlocked to fences, bike racks, even shopping carts.

The available space inside the device was very small and I had to apply the bag of frozen peas to myself for some time before I was small enough to be stuffed into the can. The high-security ‘click’ from multiple hardened pins engaging when the lid closed actually sent shivers up my spine. I made repeated mental notes about being extremely careful with those keys; I doubted that anyone could cut me out of this chastity device without damaging me irreparably. With that in mind, I took one of the two keys to the bank and secured it in my safe-deposit box.

Halloween was only a week away and I was thinking constantly about the costume contest at the bar I mentioned earlier. It’s a long drive over there, but worth it because it’s very ‘T-girl’ friendly. In order to wear my ‘outmate’ uniform in the event, I needed to get that huge dildo up my poor little bottom. I’d been making myself take bigger and bigger toys every day, keeping them in, day and night, but the genuine, safety-orange State punishment dildo was still thicker and longer than anything that would fit up me.

For the following week, I cleaned myself out with enemas each morning, then continued my regimen of lacing myself as tightly as my waist cincher would go, wearing my very smallest (oww) chastity device, my shiny hosiery and the inflatable anal ‘trainer’ (punisher?) dildo with the lock securing the air-release valve. It would all be in place under my clothes before I left for work and it was very distracting as I drove. Before I’d walk in from the car, I’d give the inflatable dildo in my ass as many pumps as I could take without bursting into tears or screaming, then detach the inflation ball and hose and waddle in from the parking lot. The key to the little lock on the dildo’s air-release valve was at home in the key safe, ensuring that a certain little slut wouldn’t be tempted to let some air out of her anal trainer.

I started to hate going on my lunch break because my cruel little inner voice would always insist on an ‘Afternoon ass-training session for naughty girls’ that meant me going out to my car and using the pump to make the dildo even longer and fatter inside me. Leaving work meant inflating it still more for the ‘Evening ass-training session for sluts’ and I’d be stuck with it blown up like that until the key safe finally opened at midnight. The slut that opened that safe was always in very high heels, full makeup, wrist and ankle chains and an uncomfortable pair of nipple clamps. She’d have put all of this on when she got home (except the clamps) five hours before and spent every night in it.

Saturday arrived, Halloween morning, the day of the costume contest. I wanted to be on the road at six o’clock in the evening and at the bar by seven. I was excited and terrified and generally freaking out, the prospect of being inescapably secured in a full State punishment uniform for a whole evening, gagged, hobbled, chastised, helpless, and paraded around on a stage in front of hundreds of people. My heart pounded from just thinking about it. Adding substantially to my anxiety was the specter of somehow, finally managing to get the ten-inch long, soda-can thick, bright orange, State-issue punishment dildo all the way up my ass and locked in place. Once it was there, I’d have to endure it for hours until I got home and could release myself.

I went to work on the project at seven in the morning, first with two enemas to clean me well out, and then a final, agonizing session of ass-stretching with the inflatable dildo. I used the ‘between pumps and dancing around moaning’ time to make sure that I was as hairless and perfectly feminine as I could be. Now, to try something that I’d just read about online, this was what was done to smaller-breasted girls who didn’t fill out the clear plastic breast forms. I opened my nipple rings and attached a four-inch length of chrome, dog-leash chain to each one. This felt kind of yummy, with the chains sliding back and forth on my smooth breast-skin as I walked around. After make-up, I put on the first parts of the uniform, the special open-crotch pantyhose and high heels. It was too early to be wearing the shoes already, and I knew it would cause me suffering by the evening, but my little voice insisted that “Sluts should be well up on their toes, and those ankle straps better be locked.” I’m no good at arguing against my little voice and obediently locked the ultra-high heels onto my feet.

Now forced up high on my toes, locked into my fetish heels and hose, I was desperately horny, and I doubted that I could even touch myself without cumming. I didn’t want to let that happen yet as it would kill some of my determination to get fully outfitted in my prisoner’s uniform, and I also wanted to let my sexual need build until I got home, probably well after midnight. For these reasons, I secured myself in the new, bright orange ‘can’ chastity that would resemble the bottom of a dildo protruding through the front opening of the uniform’s chastity belt. Doing so required a very lengthy and very uncomfortable application of the two-pound bag of frozen peas from my freezer.

To ensure that I wouldn’t be allowed to succumb to temptation before the event, I locked my key safe, setting the timer for midnight and then dropped the uniform key and the chastity key in through the one-way slot in its top. The rattle of the keys hitting the bottom of the heavy steel box made my still-cold boy parts surge painfully against the inside of their high-security prison. At that point it was only nine o’clock and I was a conflicted combination of excited and panicky at the fifteen-hour chastity sentence I’d just imposed on myself. I know, fifteen hours doesn’t sound like much, but try it when you’re strictly bound in a State public humiliation and bondage uniform, and absolutely dying to cum.

Knowing that the huge anal punisher would be debilitating if I managed to get it inside me, I progressed with struggling into the other parts of the uniform. First was the very difficult waistband of the chastity belt. I was able to get it closed now (due to diet and constant corset training) with only the use of the leather bondage belt, although it still required every ounce of my strength to do it. Next came the breast bondage plate with its relentless, posture-enforcing shoulder straps. I installed my long, cruel, spring-tension nipple stretchers onto their victims, moaning as my nipples were pulled by their grommets into painful points, leaving the attached lengths of chain dangling in space.

Next came the ankle hobbles; I paused to admire how closely the ‘under-shoe’ stirrups and thick ankle manacles fit, encapsulating the shoe’s locking ankle straps inside in grooves mortised into them for that purpose. I took a walk (if you could call it that) around my house, hobbled to eight-inch-steps and I shivered as I thought about the tens of thousands of poor girls and women who spent years and years in bondage identical to this, most of them ending up doing so in ballet-toe shoes. Some playtime on weekends locked in these hobbles and seven-inch stilettos was plenty for me, thanks.
I would wait until everything else was in place before installing the breast forms, as they interfered with my ability to see what I was doing on my lower body. The same was true for the tall steel collar; it limited my ability to look down, so it would be the last thing I locked in place.

That meant it was time to somehow get that big, orange punishment dildo up my slutty little ass.
I released the air pressure on the inflatable trainer and withdrew it. I tossed it into the sink, and immediately pushed the head of the well-greased orange monster up against my still-relaxed sphincter. With a firm push and a short scream from me, the tennis-ball sized head of the thing popped past my ring, and was inside me!

“Ohhh! Ohhh! Ow!” I breathed as I sank to my knees and positioned myself in front of the full-length hall mirror.
I knew that watching myself do this would help and so I knelt with my face on the floor, arched my back and pointed my bottom at the ceiling. My waist looked so tiny in the mirror. The huge orange dildo looked out of scale, too big to be real as it protruded from my upturned butt. Using both hands, I began to push it into me, and pull it back, and push it in, in strokes perhaps a quarter-inch long. That was all I could take at first. I worked and worked and worked, and finally gained an inch of penetration. Sweaty, moaning, crying out minutes went by as I pushed, pulled and pushed again, countless short strokes that gained me another inch, and another. An hour went by.

The last two inches were exponentially harder to achieve than the first ones and I believe it took me another full hour to get the last part of the enormous thing up my poor ass.

When it was in place, I pulled and pulled on the chastity belt’s wide stainless crotch strap. Its front opening popped over the chastity ‘can’, and I admired the extremely realistic illusion it created, appearing for all the world to be the end of a fat dildo that was jammed up inside an unfortunate little punishment slut.

Pulling the strap’s rear opening over the end of the very-real, genuine, State anal-punishment dildo was almost more than I could manage, but with yet another short scream, it was in place. Hands shaking, I snapped the end of the crotch strap into it’s fitting on the belt, and with a loud ‘Click’ I was literally and figuratively fucked. A wave of panic washed over me, could I really do this? I pulled ineffectually at the end of the huge invader and moaned as the realization that I no longer had a choice sunk in. I would be ‘doing this’ whether I wanted to or not.

Moving very slowly, cautiously, I got to my feet. This is not easy with a giant dildo in your ass and only eight inches of chain separating your ankles. Wobbly and a little dizzy, I made my way to my drawer of torments in the bedroom. On went my knee hobbles, which had been dangling from their attachment point on the crotch plate of the chastity. I walked to the other side of the room and back, testing the strict limitation on my gait; I was forced to mince along in a silly, sexy, ass-wriggling manner or not move at all.

Still in a daze, I pulled my breasts a little further through the openings in the breast plate, and then coated them and my nipples with a generous layer of the thick capsaicin pepper oil. I tied a few inches of thread to the short lengths of dog leash chain that I’d put on my nipple rings, and then held up the first breast form for installation. I guided the thread through the open nipple, and clicked the breast form in place. I pulled on the thread, drawing the end of the dog-leash chain that was attached to my nipple ring out through the plastic nipple. I pulled it a little harder than was comfortable and then snapped a small, heavy, brass-bodied lock closed through the chain where it came out. My left nipple was now under even more tension than the spring-loaded nipple stretchers could apply. I repeated the process with the right breast form and my right nipple, made sure the tension was about even, and locked its tension chain as well. In a perfect example of supreme stupidity, I dropped the keys to my nipple-chain locks into the key safe, sentencing myself to many hours of whimpering-level nipple torture.

Again in front of the mirror, on went the collar. I was actually whining out loud about how badly my poor titties were hurting, stretched tight and burning, coated with the pepper oil. I knew within minutes that locking the keys to my nipple chains in the key safe had been a mistake; I was really suffering. Even so, locking the tall, snug collar around my throat and reading the words ‘Habitual Prostitute’ made my boy parts test the strength of their steel cell.

I pulled and wriggled my way into the lycra uniform dress, re-applied my make-up, and looked at the clock. Oh fuck. It was only twelve-thirty. I had five and a half hours left until I even planned to leave the house. If I wanted to leave the house earlier than that, as it was the weekend, I’d have to wrestle the huge gag into my mouth (and throat) because, as you’re well aware, all uniformed girls wear their gags from six Friday evening, until seven on Monday morning. Trying to ignore the din of protests coming from my titties, my crushed waist, my bound-back shoulders, my aching, dildo-stuffed ass and my overworked toes, I made myself lunch.

Only an hour later, the big gag was in place, locked, stretching my mouth to its limit and violating my throat with its head. Getting it in place really tested my ‘tear-proof’ mascara. I wasn’t going to put it on so early in the day, but immediately after I ate, my cruel little inner voice spoke up. It informed me that my uniform was incomplete and that lazy little sluts should not be allowed to lie around the house all day. I was to lock that gag in my mouth where it belonged, then go grocery shopping and run any other errands that I could think of. When the lock clicked shut on the gag strap, I shivered all over; this was it. I was wearing every item of my own, genuine State public punishment uniform. Chills ran up and down my body as I reminded myself again and again that I couldn’t take it off, not any of it. I hurt all over, but it was still delicious.

Fortunately, my small rental house has an attached one-car garage so I never had to show off my various alter-egos to the neighbors; just get in the car, put on a hat, use the electric garage door opener and I’m off. Getting into the car elicited a series of short, gagged screams (through my nose) and moans, and I struggled with getting the seat into a position that didn’t torture me. It turned out there wasn’t one.

I slowly and carefully drove to the local shopping center. Thank goodness I had an automatic transmission as working a clutch in seven-inch stilettos with my knees and ankles hobbled wouldn’t have been good. I was bracing myself to get out of the car and attempt grocery shopping when the nail salon sign caught my eye. Oh, how I’d always wanted to! So I did. I struggled out of the car, clutching a little purse containing my essentials, including a small pad and pen to communicate with. The stares as I wriggled, dildos showing below the too-short hem of my dress, knees hobbled, ankle chain jingling, across the parking lot.

This was it, I was really out here, in public, collared, chained, gagged, high-heeled, chastised, nipples tortured and deeply ass-fucked. It was all really locked on, I really couldn’t get to the keys and I couldn’t escape from a single bit of it. My nipples hurt and my breasts still burned dully from their coating of capsaicin oil. Heart pounding, panting, blushing from scalp to toes, I very nearly turned around to go back to the car, but I didn’t. Breast forms heaving, I made it to the door of the nail salon, and upon opening it, was assaulted by both the chemical smell of the place and the acrid stares of the staff and customers. I should have expected this, people not wanting a uniformed criminal around, especially one whose crime was habitual prostitute! My hand flew to my collared throat.

“What do you want?” said one of the beauticians.
I quickly dug out my pad and pen, and wrote ‘Please do my nails? I’ll pay double.’ She read it, and gave me a narrow-eyed look.
“All right, toots. For double the usual, but only because we’re slow today. We don’t normally take your kind in here”.
I had not been ready for this kind of meanness. She saw the tears brimming in my eyes, and softened up.
“Alright sweetie, I’m sure you get plenty of abuse as it is. I guess I don’t have to be part of it.”
She patted the chair in front of her, gesturing for me to sit.

A hundred and forty dollars (I’d brought cash, as I didn’t want to have to show identification with a credit card) and an hour and forty-five minutes later, I was on my way out the door sporting a long, glistening, safety-orange set of acrylic nails. I had not wanted acrylics, nor had I wanted the safety-orange nail polish (at least at first), but when you’re gagged, you get what you get. I had no idea about how I was going to get the things off of me so I could go to work on Monday, but I’d worry about that later. For right now, I’d enjoy my beautiful, sexy new nails. The convenient thing about being gagged was that I hadn’t had to take part in the obligatory chit-chat that comes with getting anything done at any sort of a salon. All I had to do was nod or shake my head to enquiries about being in the public incarceration program punishment uniform. These came at first from just the girl doing my nails and then from about everybody in the place.
“Do they do this to you? What about that? I heard you have to…”
Fortunately, I knew a lot about the punishment uniform program and didn’t give myself away by not being able to answer, at least with ‘yes’ or ‘no’.

Grocery shopping in knee and ankle hobbles and seven-inch stilettos was slow (this was exacerbated by being super-careful with my new nails) and despite how nervous I was, it was actually just as I imagined it would be, humiliating and very sexy. Doing the forced ‘bimbo-wiggle’ in my bondage and ultra-high heels up and down every aisle was really embarrassing, especially because the punishment dildo moved a little in my ass with every gyration. I was terribly aware that people could see the end of the dildo, they would be staring at it, knowing I was being fucked by it right in front of them. I was mortified but also very turned on.

After what happened at the salon, I’d been braced for being scowled at and expected some unpleasant comments as well. It turns out that people in grocery stores aren’t as catty as people in nail salons (go figure), and while I got some disapproving looks from women, that was about it. Men, on the other hand, found me quite interesting. I got watched, leered at, propositioned, and my bottom was squeezed – twice! Both of those came with smiles and winks. It was unnerving, but being smiled at, hit on, and even the unsolicited touches were in the fantasies I’d had about really doing this.
Home again with the groceries I was on cloud nine. I had done it. I’d gone out and done errands and interacted with others while locked up in a genuine State punishment uniform! I couldn’t wait to get the chastity unlocked (and touch myself with these amazing new nails) but the key safe timer still had many hours left before it would grant me parole. The euphoria faded and I was really uncomfortable now; I tried to nap but sleep wouldn’t come. I wished I could get the dildo out of my bottom, or take off the oversized gag, but there was no way. Besides, even as terribly uncomfortable as I was, I was totally wound up to go to the costume competition that night.

Trying to distract myself, I handcuffed myself (behind my back, per my cruel little inner voice) for an hour and struggled through cleaning the house, doing laundry, and vacuuming. Finally I released myself from the cuffs to fiddle with my hair and re-do my make-up. I was so horny I thought I might cum just from watching myself dance in the big hall mirror, but it wasn’t to be. Eventually, finally, it was time to go.

The drive there took a lifetime but the evening at the bar was a blur; somebody (“to go with your costume!”) put my wrists in handcuffs behind me almost as soon as I walked in, I was lifted up to wriggle my painfully overstuffed ass back and forth across the stage again and again, the announcer getting huge cheers when he validated my gender with my photo id. There was lots of dancing (oh, my poor feet) drinks (via a small funnel), a cute trophy for second place (I lost to a dead ringer for Marilyn Monroe, so I didn’t feel too bad) and a gift certificate for a nice bar tab.

The dancing was amazing, hot men and sexy girls were all over me, my little purse got stuffed with phone numbers on little pieces of paper from both genders, I got lingeringly felt up, petted, squeezed, spanked, stroked, and I loved it all.
Finally released from my admirer’s handcuffs, I drove home in a dream-like state. I was very careful; I did not want to get pulled over dressed as I was.

As I pulled into my garage and clicked the button to close the door behind my car, everything came crashing back into sharp focus. The back garage door, the one I’d checked before I left, was standing open, its window broken.
“Oh, fuck! Fuckfuckfuckfuck Fuck” I squealed unintelligibly through the hole in my gag. “Shit! What if they were still here? Oh no, no, no!”

I thought about calling the police (they’ll come if you dial 911, you don’t have to say a word into the phone), but I couldn’t bear the idea of facing them while dressed and secured as I was, and having to stand out in the street answering awkward questions with pen and paper while flashing red and blue lights woke up everybody for a mile around. I honked the horn to make sure whoever might still be there got every chance to leave before I came in. I struggled out of the car and up onto my high heels. I grabbed the broom from by the door to brandish. Ankle chain rattling and heart pounding, I wriggled slowly through the whole house. I turned on all the lights, checked the kitchen, living room, bedroom, its closet and the bathroom; no burglar. Phew!

I locked the doors and went to assess the damages. My laptop was gone, shit. My old television was still there, as well as all of my old-ish stereo stuff, no surprise. My bedroom drawers had been pulled out and dumped, the mattress moved, and the contents of my closet were in shambles. A sick feeling clenched my stomach and I began digging in the closet, mmmphing out what was supposed to be “NO! Nononono Oh please, please, NOOO!”

The horror flooded over me. My key safe, which looked very much like any other little valuable-containing safe, was gone. The keys that would unlock my punishment uniform, my chastity, and the awful little brass locks that were keeping terrible tension on my nipple-ring-chains were all gone! I shrieked through my nose and collapsed to my hobbled knees, my sobbing muffled by the huge, locked-in gag in my mouth and throat.

The night was long and awful. At one point I had a panic attack, screaming and thrashing around like crazy, trying to escape. The reality that my keys were gone, and I was really, helplessly locked up in the punishment uniform kept washing over me, crashing on me like a wave and making my heart pound. It had gotten very real, I hurt everywhere, and I wanted it all off of me and out of me. I clawed ineffectually at the collar, the gag, the chastity belt and for a long while at the end of the huge dildo up my ass.

“I want it out! Please,” I begged incoherently through the gag to no one in particular, “I just want it out!”
I wept while straining to spread my knees and kicking against the hobble chain. There was nothing I could do, there was no escape from a single item of my punishment uniform. I had no choice, I would remain nipple-tortured, gagged, ass-fucked, chastised and chained until someone else released me, and I had no idea when or who that would be. Finally, exhausted, I passed out. I had terrible dreams where the burglar came back and taunted me with the keys before destroying them with a hammer in front of me. I also had dreams about sex in which I got sooo close, but couldn’t cum. It was maddening.
 
Morning finally came and despite all my soreness, my boy parts fought like crazy to escape their orange, high-security prison and give their customary morning salute. There wasn’t a chance of that happening and I was left with an aching sexual need that I couldn’t do a thing to relieve. Staring at my reflection in the various mirrors in my little house didn’t help at all as in every mirror I looked simultaneously miserable and very sexy. By late morning I decided that enough was enough (forcing the liquefied breakfast through the hole in the gag was awful and using the official State enema kit was even worse) and I would go down to the police department to get myself released. I was now desperate to get the huge dildo out of my ass. Fresh make-up in place I tried to brace myself for the slings and arrows of the total humiliation that I was surely going to face. I had no doubt that pictures (and probably video) would be taken and that I would be giving a long, detailed account of exactly what I was wearing and how it all got there. The part that I was really anxious about was whether or not they’d take away my (very) expensive uniform? And even if they didn’t, where could I possibly get another key? Thank goodness there was another key to my chastity or I’d have been in real trouble. As it was, I’d have to be late for work on Monday so that I could get it out of my safety deposit box.

With all this in mind I wriggled my hugely gagged and dildo-stuffed self nervously into the police building (my steel-tipped stiletto heels and the rattling hobble chain were so loud on the tile floor!), my ID and my pen and paper at the ready, as well as a bag of clothes to change into. After a half-hour’s wait (while being stared at by a couple dozen other people) to see a detective so I could also report the break-in at my house, I was seated uncomfortably atop my dildo ends on a hard, wooden chair, typing rapidly on a Bluetooth-linked keyboard that had been provided. It seems that I wasn’t the only gagged person in a punishment uniform to ever have needed to speak with the police and they’d bought a number of the keyboard-communication devices.

The first thing I had typed was “Can you please let me out of this? I’m really suffering!” That answer was a “No, not until you’ve given a full interview so that we can verify that you’re who you say you are.” All was going well at first, my ID, fingerprints and story all checked out, I wasn’t some girl trying to pull a trick and get out of her uniform. I typed out the story about how I’d obtained it, and blushed furiously while writing why. Deeply embarrassed, I asked if I could please at least have the dildo out of my ass now. “Not until I get clearance from the records department, probably another twenty or thirty minutes.” I squirmed, feeling totally impaled on the huge thing and humiliated to the core. I wrote out the statement about the break-in, really wishing we could’ve done that part after they released me from my uniform.

Forty-five minutes later the detective finally said, “All right, let’s go see about getting you out of that. Don’t feel too bad, you’re not the first person to come in after losing the key to a decommissioned uniform. (They’re only sold to the women who’d worn them) You are one of very few males to do so, however. You’re very convincing by the way.”
I blushed with embarrassment, but was still pleased with myself.

The detective brought me into a glass-walled room that adjoined the women’s holding area, and had me stand while he scanned the faint barcodes that were laser-etched into each part of my uniform. The look on his face clouded over as he read the notation that appeared, blinking urgently on the computer screen.

“Where did you say you obtained this uniform?” he asked, the friendliness gone from his voice.
Now I was scared. I took one of the keyboards from him, and trembled as I typed everything I could remember about the purchase.

“I see. Here’s the situation; the uniform pieces you’re wearing are stolen. I’m placing you under arrest while we pursue the information you’ve given us.”

The room swam around me while he read me my rights.
“You’ll be able to speak to a prosecuting attorney at the beginning of the week. Because of the severity of the additional crimes that were committed during the theft of what you’re wearing, as well as a good deal of other State property that was stolen, you will remain in your uniform and its restraints, and you will additionally be placed into felony-level security”.
“Nooo!” Shaking my head frantically, I needed the dildo out of my ass right now! I needed all of this off of me! I keened and shrieked through my nose and gag as I was led from that small room out to a row of wall-mounted machines the like of which I’d only seen in pictures. These were the felony-level arm restraint application machines, and all the silly fantasies I’d ever had about trying one went right out the window when faced with their stark reality in person. I freaked out and tried to pull away, not that my hobbled, stiletto-heeled resistance meant much to the two-hundred-pound officer. He caught hold of my nipple-chain locks through the front of my stretchy dress, and made me stand up on my toes, squealing and hands flapping in submission.

“Do you want to cooperate, or would you like to add ‘resisting arrest’?” I was asked.
I frantically nodded my intent to cooperate, and my nipple-locks were released. Meekly, eyes streaming, I went to the machine, turned around, and pushed my arms into the funnel-shaped opening in its front. Immediately my wrists were caught, I was pulled further in, and then my arms were forced painfully together. I squealed through my nose and the hole in the gag and stamped my feet; I was not limber enough for my elbows to touch together! The machine decided otherwise and a moment later I was released from its clutches with my forearms welded together behind me from mashed-to-a-point fingertips to elbows.

I was positively racked with pain, both new and cumulative, and I was in such a state of shock that I couldn’t even cry as the detective snapped a short leash on my collar and marched me, holding the leash closely in his left hand and gripping the end of my anal dildo with his right. I was totally, helplessly under his control. It was a long, whimpering, bimbo-wiggling, close-hobbled walk to the cell, stared at along the way by other inmates and ignored by other officers and staff. My breath caught in my throat when I saw that the cell was already occupied by eight or nine girls. Like me, they all wore full State public release punishment uniforms; their mouths strained around huge gags, their asses and pussies were stuffed full and stretched tight around huge, locked-in punishment dildos, their breasts were root-cinched and then encased in point-lined breast forms with their nipples pulled painfully through inch-long tubes at the tips and ringed, their arms were all pressed tightly together behind them in tough, shrunk-on plastic mono-sleeves, they were all knee-hobbled, and like me, their ankles were hobbled with heavy, stirrup cuffs connected by an eight-inch chain. I saw that I was one of only two of us that weren’t in ballet-toe stilettos. I looked at their collars and my heart pounded as I saw that every single one was welded permanently closed around its wearer’s throat. This was the single greatest example of fully-secured felony girls I’d ever seen in one place, and my boy parts fought desperately to get out of their painfully small, solitary confinement.
What I didn’t understand was why all these incredibly sexy girls and women, strictly bound and high on their toes in the most difficult shoes imaginable, were all on their feet and slowly milling about. Not one of them was sitting, lying down, or even leaning on a wall. This was answered by the detective who ordered me to ‘bend over ninety degrees at the hips, legs straight, ass high’. Frightened, I did as commanded. He waved a ten-inch long, inch-thick, polished steel bar in front of my face. I could see that it had threads at one end, and a key dangled from that end. The detective unscrewed the enema-attachment plug from the end of my anal dildo, and slid the bar up into the hollow dildo and locked it in place with the key.
“I guess you probably don’t know about this device,” he said. “A few years ago, it was decided that the punishment-uniformed inmates were too sedentary, and that it was doing them harm. Walking was deemed good enough exercise by the experts. The device I’ve just installed in your backside will trigger and give you a very nasty shock if you don’t move at least two feet every six seconds, or it comes within thirty inches of the floor, or twenty inches of a wall. In addition to the shock, you earn an extra thirty days in uniform for the violation. Punishment uniform girls are kept on their toes and moving in here, from seven in the morning until ten at night, seven days a week. The only time during the day that you’ll stop walking is when meals and clean-outs are done.”

He ushered me into the cell, said “Enjoy your stay” and left, the thick steel door closing with a deep clang and multiple clicks as it locked.

I remembered seeing a clock in the other room and sobbed; it was only just noon, I’d be walking (hobbling in seven-inch heels, my arms welded together behind my back, a huge dildo up my butt and gagged) for the next ten hours.
I wanted to panic, I shouldn’t be here. I wanted to tell somebody, have somebody listen to me, get this stuff off of me and out of me. No communication was possible with the other women in the cell. I realized that I was including myself as female, and why not? I sure looked and felt like one, and it seemed that I had been doing a lot of crying and squealing and was anything but masculine and tough. I needed to try to suck it up as I had to get through this, somehow. The other women weren’t whining even though most of them were ‘en Pointe’, and had been in their punishment uniforms for some time. I already hurt so much though. I felt there was no way I could do this. I wiggled along with the group in their slow circle, my heart pounding and my head spinning. My shoulders hurt so much, pinned back to where my elbows were touching inside the unforgiving arm binder, I was sure that I’d faint at any minute and get horribly shocked by the punishment device in my ass.

Offsetting my panic and misery were my cellmates. As terrible moment by terrible moment passed, I was totally riveted by the amazing sight of all these tiny, steel-cinched waists. I was transfixed at how the girls’ thin, gray lycra dresses were stretched to sheer over their transparent plastic breast forms, and how I could clearly see even the color of each and every stretched, ringed, tormented nipple through the see-through fabric. The women were different races, sizes and ages, I guessed from nineteen years old up to a woman in her mid-fifties (and what a cougar she was, wiggling along prettily on ballet toes!), their builds from slender to very curvaceous, and each of them was intensely erotic in her bondage and punishment uniform. I was mesmerized by the way the other girls (and I) were forced into a back-arched, butt out, tits up and shoulders way back position by the combination of the arm binders and the posture-enforcing shoulder straps of the lexan chest plates. After only a half an hour (or was it two hours? I couldn’t see a clock) I found myself trying not to grind my hips in sexual need and frustration, watching and moving with all of them. Their (our) legs all looked so long up above the amazingly high heels, wrapped in the shiny, back-seamed hosiery, each of us wonderfully, helplessly hobbled at the ankles and knees. The resulting ass-rolling hobble-walk caused the bright orange ends of the enormous dildos that penetrated all of our lower orifices to move with an almost hypnotic metronome swing. I could feel the huge dildo in my own ass move a little bit inside me with each step, and it occurred to me that we were all being made to slowly torment and arouse ourselves with our forced walk. This was soon confirmed; to my delight one or another of the women would frequently moan while thrusting and grinding her hips in sexual frustration. I was glad I wasn’t the only one going out of my mind.

I tried to stay out of everyone’s way, especially after I saw a dispute break out between two girls who had bumped into each other. It quickly turned into a grunting, squeaking, plastic-breast-form shoving match, at the end of which the loser was pushed too close to a wall. From the way her whole body clenched and vibrated for five long seconds, the shock that ripped through her from the bar in her anal dildo must’ve been really intense. She screamed through her nose and gag for the whole time, hitting a weird, warbling, animalistic note. I don’t know how she didn’t collapse. I thought about the fact that she’d also just earned another thirty days in her uniform, and renewed my efforts to stay away from the walls and floor. When I accidentally bumped into one of the other girls, I backed away wide-eyed, and not knowing what else to do, I kipped. This was good enough and she gave me a wink and a sexy little hip shake. I batted my eyes at her and relaxed a bit.
The days dragged by, a combination of boredom, exhaustion, frustration, aches, pains and anxiety, all while stewing and simmering with sexual titillation and need. The nights were spent on foam-rubber mats that were spread out on the floor for us. There were no pillows or blankets, but the cell was kept pretty warm. To my delight, the personal-space issues of the long day were put on hold, and it was considered perfectly okay to cuddle. All of us spooned as best we could in our bondage and used each other as pillows. It was awful when we were awoken sometime far too early by a recorded voice that gave a five-minutes-before-anal-shocker-activation warning. It was very difficult to get to my feet in the hobbles and the way my arms were held. I was so sore. I didn’t want to walk another step, but walk I would, all day.

The only breaks in the monotony of standing and slowly walking around in the cell happened twice a day when we were taken out and linked together collar to collar with thirty inch sections of chain into a coffle. We were ‘encouraged’ to walk in step, double-time, by a female officer wielding a short whip, which she used as punishment, reward, and even to punctuate her sentences. I could feel the stripes she’d lay across my bottom for hours afterwards. We were marched to a courtyard area, and stood in line to be hooked up to an automatic enema dispensing/retrieving machine. We were unclipped from the coffle chains, the standing/moving enforcement sensor rods were removed from our anal dildos, and a two-hose apparatus was inserted and attached into them. I gasped and trembled as I felt a good deal of liquid suddenly fill me. It seemed to keep coming and coming, and I was starting to get panicky about how full I was when it stopped, and reversed. The enema didn’t just gravity feed back out of me, it was suctioned. When I was all the way empty, I got the unpleasant surprise of a second filling and emptying, and then a third. Now completely cleaned out, we each received a liquefied meal. This was about a quart of thick liquid that was squirted down our throats via a dispenser hose that dangled down from above and was stuffed into our gag opening. No swallowing was necessary, the stuff just shot down my throat in a disconcerting and suddenly very filling way. ‘Mealtime’ (all ten seconds of it) over, freshly-charged motion-inducing shock rods were reinstalled in our anal dildos. I noticed how compliant and even eager my fellow inmates were about any activity that involved any contact with one of the guards or service people. For instance, each girl turned and bent way over, presenting her bottom for the insertion of the shock rods, and upon having it inserted and locked in place, gave a happy-appearing little wiggle and flirty look at the guard who’d put it in place. I quickly figured the situation out, the guards were very nice and physically attentive to girls that were sweet, giving them light swats and squeezes on their bottoms, helping move annoying hair out of girls’ eyes, smiling, and generally being pleasant. I made sure that I bent well over, legs straight, ass high, arms up in strappado position to receive my rod. Once it was in and locked, I turned, wiggled sexily and kipped to the guard while batting my eyes.

“Well aren’t you a little sweetie?” she asked. “Come here, Honey, and turn around.”
 I did so, and enjoyed a moment of pure heaven as the guard massaged my aching shoulders for a few seconds.
“There you go, Honey. Be a good girl now!” said the guard, giving me a swat on my bottom to send me on my way to be re-chained into the coffle.

Sunday came and went, and then Monday arrived. I was a little surprised and very relieved when the guards came in the morning and removed our arm binders and gags, making sure to label and bag each gag separately. One woman, the tall, large-breasted, tiny-waisted and very sexy fifty-something cougar did not have her gag removed, and I wondered why. Stretching our shoulders and working our jaws to get them to close again, we walked slowly around in the cell. Conversations started, and I was actually grateful that the gag had left me somewhat hoarse, as it helped disguise my voice. I had spent many hours practicing speaking in a feminine timbre and was pretty passable, but I still didn’t want to be found out.

I found the girl who’d wriggled and batted her eyes at me after I’d accidentally bumped into her and shyly started asking her questions about how all of this worked, and why were girls in public punishment/release uniforms being kept locked up in jail? Her voice was a whisper as she explained that this group of girls had either gotten into some kind of additional trouble and were waiting to see the prosecutor and/or go before a judge, or they were unable to get or keep a job and couldn’t pay their monthly service fee for being allowed to be on public release in a punishment uniform. These girls had turned themselves in so that they could take advantage of shelter, meals, enema service (she giggled hoarsely), and the program counselors who would help them find jobs and housing.

“Why are you and some of the other girls whispering?” I asked.
“Oh, that’s called the felony girl whisper. You get it after you’ve been wearing the deep-throat gag for more than about six months, your vocal chords are permanently damaged.” I was simultaneously horrified, and terribly, guiltily, very turned on.
“Woww,” I stammered then asked “Why did they leave us in the arm binders all weekend? I was afraid that they weren’t going to let us out of them at all.”

“In here you wear them all weekend, just like your gag. We have a little joke, ‘Thank god it’s not Friday.”
I indicated toward the still-gagged woman and asked “How come they left her gagged?” “Oh, she’s married, and her husband leaves her off here while he goes out of the country on business trips. She’s in here for two or three weeks a month. The story is that he caught her having an affair, and to avoid divorce, she agreed to voluntarily wear a uniform. I’m sure she didn’t expect for her husband to stipulate that she wear it for life and remain deep-throat gagged around the clock, though. Her gag is only ever removed to suck his cock, and then it’s immediately locked back on.”

It wasn’t until Tuesday that I finally got to meet (my hands cuffed and waist chained behind me) with the prosecuting attorney. She was an unpleasant, humorless woman who kept a lot of religious paraphernalia on her desk and it was obvious that she thought any male who enjoyed dressing as a female was a pervert and degenerate. She grilled me at length for details on how and where I’d obtained the uniform pieces that I’d bought, and still wore.
Finally, she said “I don’t think you’re being entirely honest with me. Your little house-burglary and stolen laptop story are too convenient by half.”

I was completely bowled over by this and protested vehemently that I was the victim here, and that I had no idea that the uniform pieces were stolen, and how could she not see that? Her eyes narrowed at me, and I was frightened by the look of disgust and even hate on her face.

“Did you know an officer was wounded in that heist? No? Well here’s what I am going to offer you, princess. We’re pretty backlogged with cases right now, so even though I think you deserve to go straight to jail, I will allow you to go without prosecution in exchange for your signing up to do two years of voluntary uniform wear. You wanted to wear a genuine State punishment uniform? Well now’s your chance.”

“NO! Please!” I began to beg, and she held up her hand to stop me.
“If you don’t want to wear the uniform for two years, out in the world with all your little friends and a job and all of that relative freedom, I am going to prosecute you for possession of stolen State property, accessory after the fact to a violent felony with injury to law enforcement personnel, and impeding the investigation of that crime. The minimum of any of those is two years, with a range of up to ten years, each. Oh, and you won’t do that time out in public, mincing around in high heels with a dildo up your ass, no, you’ll do that in prison. They’ll like someone who looks like you in prison won’t they? They’re going to pass you around and use you as currency.”

I was openly sobbing now, and repeating “I didn’t do anything! Please! Please!”
“Make your choice right now, cupcake. I won’t make the offer again.”
She slid a piece of paper across the desk to where it rested in front of me. It was a voluntary public punishment uniform wear form.
“No, I don’t want to…” I started to say.
“Fine, prison it is.” the prosecutor barked.
“Okay! Wait!” I sobbed. “I’ll do it.”
“Ask nicely to be allowed to wear a uniform, and thank me for the opportunity” the awful woman demanded in a hard, snarky voice. I broke.
“P-Please may I be allowed to voluntarily wear a punishment uniform? Thank you for offering me the chance.” My voice cracked as I wept.
She glared at me and then said “Alright, but I’m putting your gag back on you first, I can’t stand any more of your disgusting sniveling.”

She stuffed the big gag back in my mouth, none-too-gently, and locked the strap. She then removed the cuff from my right wrist to allow me to fill out the voluntary wear form. I shook and trembled as I did so, carefully filling out all my information and writing ‘2’ in the space for years of wear. I noted that I was agreeing to pay the state six hundred dollars a month for equipment and service fees, and my stomach clenched as I read that each month that went unpaid would cause two months to be added to my duration of wear, as well as the addition of disciplinary measures to the uniform. It was all I could do to make myself sign it. This was observed by a second woman in the office, who counter-signed it and then punched the form with a notary stamp. My life was over, if I wasn’t already fired for two days of ‘No call, no show’ at my job, I would be the second I walked in dressed as I would be for the next two years.

The next day, after enemas and feeding, my ‘walk or shock’ device wasn’t put back in my anal dildo. I was leashed and led from the cell (still in uniform, gagged, and again hands cuffed up high behind my back to a waist chain) down to the uniform fitting room. My leash handle was hung on one of a row of hooks at just above head height and I waited, standing in line with a variety of other, also gagged, leashed and similarly handcuffed women for a turn with a ‘fitment’ officer at a workstation. Some of these women were already in uniform, there for their two-week maintenance and possibly a uniform ‘adjustment’ (waist band reduction, dildo and/or gag size increase, heel height increase) all done to keep the level of torment fresh for the wearer. A few other women were there for their first fittings. We were all nervous, but the pre-uniform, fully naked newbies were really freaking out. I saw that they wore panel gags with inflatable inserts (pumped quite full) to keep them from creating a disturbance. More than one was visibly trembling. Those in line got to watch those ahead of them go through the process, and even though I was freaking out about my own situation, I was enthralled by the show. My poor, squashed boy parts made yet another unsuccessful attempt at escape from their orange-painted steel isolation cell.

Watching the myriad of expressions cross the faces of the ‘veteran’ uniform-wearers as they were secured (hands in shackles overhead) and then stripped of their punishment implements was riveting. Seeing a woman react as two great big dildos pulled are out of her pussy and ass after they’d been locked deep inside her for two weeks (and for previous months and years before that) was yummy. The horror on their faces when they were shown how big the replacement intruders would be made me pant. The dildos weren’t just pushed up into these women, who were secured bent over a bench to receive them; each dildo was thrust into and pulled out of the suffering, overstretched opening a couple of dozen times before finally being pushed in deep and locked there with a much-too-small chastity belt. Even gagged, their screams were pretty loud. I must’ve somehow been in denial that I would soon be facing the same kind of fresh hell as the women I was watching. That said, I actually dribbled a little bit of liquid from the slots in my chastity as I watched a tall, curvaceous, thirty-something brunette woman get fitted into her first pair of ballet-toe, orange-stiletto-heeled bondage pumps. Oh how she begged not to wear them.

“You know I’m a waitress!” she wailed, “Please don’t make me wait tables in these! I’m begging you, I still have eight more years left on my sentence!”
The fitment officer just laughed at her. Watching the attractive woman take a hard dildo-fucking up each of her openings then wobble tearfully and awkwardly away, up on her tip-toes in her new shoes, also wearing a new, longer, fatter gag and stuffed with two larger dildos was almost enough to make me climax, chastity can or not.
Watching the newbies get put in uniform was just as delicious; they were so nervous about every little touch, and oh the notes that one of them (a slender, natural-ginger girl with very white skin) hit when her tight little ass got filled for the very first time! She was almost as loud again when she was pierced and the stainless grommets were inserted into the new holes her raspberry-colored nipples and flared, making them irremovable. When the new girls’ fitment into their uniform was complete and they were released, their reaction was adorable; wobbling in their new, locked-on six-inch stiletto heels, they would try ineffectually to pull the too-short little dress down to cover their new dildo-stuffed chastity belt, they would try to cover their painful, freshly pierced and now stretched nipples that showed through the tight, sheer tops of their uniform dresses, they would try to pull the too-big, locked-in gag out of their mouths, and finally, unable to stop crying, they would do their very first knee-hobbled, bimbo-wiggle-walk on their way to the exit.

My turn came. The officer unhooked my leash and I followed obediently. At her station, I wriggled into place and kipped submissively. I did not want to do anything to arouse the ire of the fitment officer and was relieved when she gave me a little smile. I was released from the handcuffs, my dress was removed and then my hands were shackled out of the way up above my head.

“Oh, you’re the ‘special’ one, aren’t you?” the officer said, reading the paperwork in what was apparently my file. “Hey!” she called the other guards over. “Here’s that ‘special’ case’.”
My stomach clenched. I did not want any extra notoriety. Leaving the girls they were working on manacled (high on their toes, or secured bottoms-up, bent over benches) where they were, the other officers came over and watched while my chastity belt was removed. Then the comments started.
“Wow, how did she, I mean he, get all of himself into that little can?”
“Must not be much of a man!” “That’s pretty obvious.”
“He-she sure looks female, except for those itty bitty titties, (giggle)”
“He bought one of those stolen uniforms and managed to get into all of it by himself? What a little pervert!”
“That’s exactly what she is, look at this work order.”
The officers crowded around the document, and shook their heads.
“That’s a serious little pain-slut you’ve got hanging there. Well, give him her money’s worth.”
When my gag was removed a moment later, I raspingly begged (in my girl voice) to know what the work order said.
“You know what it says, it’s the voluntary wear contract you filled out and signed,” said the fitment officer, not unkindly.
“Please ma’am, I didn’t think I asked for anything special, may I just peek?”
She pursed her lips but held the paper up where I could see it. It was indeed the paper that I had filled out, but instead of being mostly blank, it now had every single option box (there were dozens of them) checked off, and I almost passed out when I saw that next to the ‘2’ I had written on the ‘Years of wear’ space, someone had, imitating my handwriting and using the same pen, added a ‘5’. My ‘Voluntary wear’ contract duration was now twenty-five years at ‘Felony restraint level plus’ and would incorporate every punitive accessory and appliance that could be added to it, adjusted for the highest level of severity. Apparently I started inhaling and screaming over and over, because my gag was jammed (oww!) right back in my mouth and re-locked. After I was re-gagged, I guess I went into shock because everything became kind of a blur. I vaguely remember being coated with hair remover, including my face and into the slots in my chastity, and then having it scrubbed off.

I didn’t have any hair on my body anyway, but whatever” I thought, as I floated along.
I was brought back to full consciousness when the fitment officer cleaned my boy parts with them still locked in the chastity device. To do this, she directed a strong stream of cold water at the devices’ top and side vent-slits, added some liquid soap, and then rinsed until there were no more bubbles coming out of the bottom slits. Next came a jet of compressed air from a hose which she used to blow every drop of water out of my chastity can. It was the only contact that part of me had experienced for days, and it was traumatizing. She then pulled the huge anal-punishment dildo out of me, which elicited a good deal of noise on my part. Oh, did it feel weird to be empty back there.

She measured me all over, and then said “Whoever fit you for this stuff did a pretty good job, it’s right about what I’d have started you at. You must be a little butt-slut, this is pretty big for a first timer (she waved the anal dildo around in front of me), and looking at your narrow little pelvis, it might be as big as you can take. Don’t worry though sweetie, we’ll make sure that whatever gets put up your ass really has your attention, even if we can’t go much bigger with it.”
I shuddered and writhed in fear.

“We’re going to get a start today on getting your waist size down, and seeing how well you do in those seven-inchers, I’m going to go ahead and put you in Pointe shoes.”

Wide-eyed, I squealed through my nose and shook my head ‘No! No!’
Hours later, when I finally stumbled out into the daylight, ‘released’ into the public, the ballet-toe, stiletto-heeled shoes I now struggled in weren’t as toe-crushingly awful as I’d feared; they were designed so that my feet couldn’t slide all the way forward in them, leaving my weight supported by my heels, insteps and arches, not completely on my toes. A cruel design element I hadn’t known about was the stiff ‘tongue’ of the shoes that extended up my lower shins. This prevented my feet from moving to any position other than full ballet pointe, and my feet ached while learning to accommodate the demanding position. The strict toe shoes were only one of my problems. I was also trying to come to terms with the permanent grommet and the thick, inch-diameter ring that now pierced my tongue. Also new were the gray plastic bondage gloves that I had been informed could not be cut. These left my fingers free, but curled my thumbs into the palms of my hands where they were now useless. Perhaps worst and most alarming was the fact that my collar, the one that proclaimed me to be a ‘Habitual Prostitute’ was now welded permanently in place. The collar had been the reason I was put into the thumbless gloves; apparently this was done to repeat offenders so that they couldn’t give their customers hand jobs. It made no difference that I wasn’t really a prostitute, I’d arrived locked in a collar that said I was, and then I’d “voluntarily” agreed to stay locked in it. Hot tears ran down my face as I traced the new welds running up the sides of the collar with my fingertips. My neck and head had been protected by special silicone anti-heat mats that fitted so tightly under the collar that I felt as if I were being strangled while the automatic welder welded both the hinge and then the joint. The collar was quickly cooled and released from the mechanism that had held me absolutely motionless. I was permanently collared, permanently marked as a felon and a prostitute. Waves of panic-induced nausea and terror washed over me as I tried to rationalize what this meant for me.

I wore a fresh pair of the heavy crotchless, back-seamed, shiny tan pantyhose. I wore the same breast plate and cups that I’d come in with and my nipples were once again chained under tension with little locks (they’d cut mine off and used stainless-steel State versions), pulling the chains out one agonizing link further than I’d had them. My chastity belt was basically the same as what I’d worn, except for the belt being a torturous half-inch smaller. My knee-hobble link had been reduced to two inches and I again wore the heavy, stirrup-equipped ankle cuffs with the eight-inch hobble chain. I would be doing a lot of walking, as the new, same-sized anal punishment dildo (having screamed into the gag as I received a couple dozen full-length in-and-out strokes with it) that now violated me was fitted with orientation and movement sensors, as well as proximity sensors to the heels of my shoes. If I didn’t stand and walk in my new ballet-toe stilettos for at least six hours a day I would receive punishment shocks, and an extra week on my ‘voluntary’ sentence for each violation. There was no indicator to let me know if I’d made it to six hours for the day, so I’d always have to be sure that I was well over that amount. Bound, punished, freshly butt-fucked and suffering with the huge new intruder locked inside me, I made my way with tiny, knee-and-ankle hobbled ballet-toe steps to where my car was parked. Well, to where it had been parked, as it was gone. I assumed it had been towed.

I finally made it home (hitchhiking is scary, and doing it in what I was wearing was terrifying) and just collapsed onto the nearest piece of furniture, my weeping and wailing almost completely stifled by my gag. I couldn’t take another day, much less twenty-five years of this. My mind tried to reject the possibility that I could really be spending twenty-five years in strict bondage and continuous torment. Who could I go to for help getting this situation fixed? It was obvious that the hateful, angry prosecutor had altered my paperwork (after she’d coerced me into signing it in the first place), so who could I talk to that was above her? A Judge? How could I get to talk to a Judge, and why would they care about helping me? After I ruminated on this for a long while I began to have a terrible feeling that I could be truly stuck in this horrible predicament. My heart pounded and my body shook. I felt like I was going to have another panic attack, clawing at my uniform and thrashing around like an animal, but it never came. I managed to get a little food down and then slept. In the morning the time-lock on my gag released and I finally got to call (lisping around my heavy new tongue ring) into work.
I was curtly informed that I had been fired. No, they would not mail my last check to me. The next day I had to take a number of buses to get to my ex-workplace to clear out my personal belongings and sign a termination form to get my last check. The stares, glares and comments from my former co-workers were every bit as bad as you can imagine and included some loud, stinging slaps on my dildo-stuffed ass that came from the sales guys as I bimbo-wiggled my way past their desks. Everybody guffawed at this as I stumbled, trying to keep my balance. Now carrying a box of stuff while trying to balance in the toe shoes, I had to take another bus to get somewhere near my bank, and then walk (if you can call it that), still carrying the box, six blocks (with lots of honking from passing motorists) more to get the check cashed, and collect my backup chastity key from my safe-deposit box. At first, based on my photo ID they were not going to let me access my safe-deposit box. Thank goodness the bank had a fingerprint-identification machine. Having the key to my chastity was an exercise in futility as I could not get it anywhere near its keyhole while the State’s chastity belt was locked in place on me.
More walking (or rather wriggling like a demented, hobbled, anal-dildo slut) slowly and painfully to the next bus stop, another transfer, another long walk, and I finally made it to the impound lot. Collecting my car took all of my remaining money. The lot attendant apparently saw a number of uniform girls come for their towed cars and was ready to take advantage of them. He handcuffed my hands behind me, snapped a short leash onto my collar and held it as he walked me the long way to my car (“No unsupervised criminals wandering the lot!”), his other hand alternately holding the end of my anal dildo or cupping my ass the entire time. I didn’t dare protest. When I finally made it home, I did so just in time for my appointment to have a State arm restraint application machine put in place in my living room.

Every morning, waking up painfully bound, gagged, chastised and impaled on a huge dildo was shocking.
I’d think blurrily “What a night! Time to get out of all of this” and then the realization would hit that there would be no release, this was what I’d be wearing all day, every day for the foreseeable future.
The worst day was one where I overslept and missed the arm binder release time window. I had to wear it all day and through the night again, thirty-six hours straight. To compound matters, it was a weekend, and I was gagged. I managed to get some water, but no food. I was miserable, hungry, lonely, depressed and unrelentingly horny with no relief available for any of my woes.

The sexual stimulation and denial turned out to be amongst the worst of my torments. It seems that a person can gradually become accustomed to physical discomfort and restraints, at least to the point where you’re not on the verge of a screaming, begging fit at all times. Unfortunately, with this acclimation comes the return of one’s sexual urges and needs. I was helplessly secured in the outfit that had been the very pinnacle of my fetishes, cross-dressed, anally stuffed, humiliated, helpless and increasingly, desperately turned on. I hated my predicament, but knowing that I was really wearing a state punishment uniform and that I was stuck in it with no possibility of escape kept me at a high simmer. I believe the word is “conflicted”. I needed an orgasm so badly I could’ve died, but there was absolutely no chance of getting one.
 
A month went by and my losing streak compounded. My socially conservative and very religious parents disowned me, as did my siblings. I didn’t have a lot of friends and the ones I had weren’t the kind that would understand about a friend having an apparent gender change and getting locked into a State punishment uniform, complete with extra bondage toys. I was alone. I was out of money and I’d had to turn my car in at the dealership to avoid having it repossessed. Jobs were hard to come by for a person in a State punishment uniform, especially one who is without the use of their thumbs and is wearing a welded-on collar that proclaims them to be a habitual prostitute. I found that I couldn’t qualify for a manufacturing job, due to my lack of thumbs. I’d shuddered as I looked at the uniformed girls out on the assembly floor; they were made to stand in their ultra-high or even ballet heels, short-leashed to an overhead ring at their stations all day, no sitting*. Worse than that, their employment contract stipulated that they were to wear their uniform gag (to eliminate time-wasting chatter) while at work, seven-thirty to five-thirty, Monday through Friday. Because they were already gagged overnight and on weekends, this meant that these poor girls were kept gagged at all times, twenty-four-seven, three-sixty-five. The resulting liquid diets were working though, there wasn’t a fat girl anywhere to be seen.

*[Even the pretty company receptionist, a very buxom uniformed girl, had to stand en-pointe (and short-leashed to an overhead ring) at a glass-topped, counter-high mini-desk. I watched in amazement as she stood smiling and at attention while passing male employees would casually tug and stroke her nipples through her uniform or give her bottom a squeeze or a slap, to which she would always kip, giggle and exclaim “Thank you sir!” Jobs were tough to get, and she was doing what it took to keep hers.]

Even the strip clubs were no good, they were staffing all the ‘outmate’ girls they could handle to bartend, bus, work the door, etcetera, and there was a six month wait to even apply. How I envied them after I’d been told to try again in a few months. I watched them struggling in their bondage, hurrying to perform their duties, and wished for a job or a break of any kind. I received a letter informing me that two months had been added to my uniform time due to non-payment of monthly State service fees. My lights and water were turned off and I was evicted.

That was on a Saturday and the early afternoon found me gagged for the weekend, discarded and out at the curbside with my belongings. I had no idea what I was going to do or where I was going to go. I sat awkwardly on one of my wooden kitchen chairs, balanced on the two orange projections from my chastity belt. People pulled up in cars and asked if they could have things from the pile and I nodded. Somebody even took the chair I was sitting in (they wanted the whole set) and I was left standing, then finally kneeling by the curb. I didn’t know where I was going to spend the night but I guessed that it would be in voluntary lockup back down at the police station, stuck in an armbinder and tip-toeing en-Pointe in endless circles with the other homeless outmate girls.]]> Public Punishment Uniform
by Pervmont

Pat(ty)
My given name is Patrick. I’m twenty-three, I’m into self-bondage, and I’m a cross-dresser. Not all the time, you understand; I have to work for a living, but cross-dressing is my fetish, and for lack of interest in almost anything else, my one hobby. I’m sure that I probably spend more time and money shopping for shoes & clothes than the average female, but it’s what I like. I’m lucky that I have a body that lends itself to female attire; I’m five feet eight inches tall and slender, at one hundred thirty pounds. My almost-black hair is cut in a ‘page-boy’ style, which I hide by wearing it pulled up into a ‘man-bun’ or up under a hat. With my hair down and make-up on, I’m quite passable as a girl and I often go out dressed as one. I’m not gay, but I love flirting with men while I’m dressed in something sexy.

Cross-dressing is fun, sexy, and a real rush out in public, but my absolute greatest fantasy-driver is when I occasionally spot a woman who’s incarcerated in one of my state’s ‘Get tough on morality’ public-humiliation corrections uniforms; you may have seen one of these women, wearing a too-short little stretchy gray prisoner’s dress. This is worn over large, plastic breast forms mounted to a chest plate. She’ll have a high-security chastity belt keeping two big, bright-orange dildos locked up inside her, her knees are hobbled together with stainless bands and she’s wearing locked-on, super-high-heeled pumps with bright orange stiletto heels. What makes this corrections option legal and morally acceptable is that these women have all volunteered to wear these outfits, out and about in ‘public incarceration’. This form of punishment is offered as an option to going to jail or even prison for some crime that they’ve committed. They’re not just wearing the state’s punishment uniform, they’re also having to pay a pretty high monthly service/maintenance fee for the honor. It’s terribly uncomfortable, expensive and humiliating for them, but they’ll all tell you that it still beats going to prison.

I close my eyes and imagine what it must be like for these women, wriggling along, forced to walk very high on their toes (some of them even wearing ‘ballet-toe’ high heels), their legs sheathed in thick, tight, glossy, back-seamed tan hosiery, their thighs forced to remain four or less inches apart by the short bar between the cuffs just above their knees, this staying located by a vertical bar that tees into the hobble bar and attaches to the crotch piece of their chastity belt, just between the visible ends of the two ‘safety’ orange punishment dildos that protrude out two inches through the belt. To maximize public humiliation, the prisoner’s gray lycra uniform dress is cut very short, too short to cover the crotch panel of her chastity belt and the ends of the bright orange dildos. Can you imagine? Two huge ‘punishment’ dildos are stuffed in her pussy and ass, locked in place with a chastity belt, and her tight little lycra dress is too short to cover it? Anybody who so much as glances at them can see the double penetration that’s part of the punishment uniform.

I try to imagine what having one’s breasts tightly cinched around their bases feels like; that’s what uniformed girls endure, their breasts forced through small openings in the uniform’s locked-on chest plate, and into transparent, high-impact plastic breast forms. These are diabolical; they’re lined throughout with small, conical points that press into the wearer’s swollen, hurting, spherical breasts. Every uniform-wearing female’s nipples are pierced and the piercings are reinforced by permanent grommets as part of the uniform. The grommets are stainless steel and are flared by a machine after they’re pushed through her piercings, making them irremovable. Her nipples, now equipped with reinforced piercings, are pulled painfully through inch-long tubes at the tips of the plastic breast forms and are fitted with ‘D’ shackles to avail them as attachment points, or simply convenient, instant compliance-gaining devices for anyone who cares to slip a finger through them. When (and if) a girl completes her sentence*, these grommets and D-rings are left in place. Opening the D-rings requires a proprietary, state-held tool. It’s as if the State assumes that she’ll be put back in uniform. If she wants to have them removed it’s an expensive procedure that has to be done by a machine shop. Removing the grommets would require disfiguring surgery. As such, the vast majority of post-uniform women simply elect to remain ringed.

* [The conditions of uniform wear are very strict; the slightest slip-up, tardiness for an appointment, fee payment or other infraction carries strict and some say cruel additional time-of-sentence penalties. It’s typical for a woman to end up serving at least twice the amount of time of her original sentence, and often more. As it’s a ‘for-profit’ program and quite lucrative, the state has been inventive and even devious in its positioning of pitfalls to extend the length of incarceration of uniformed women.]

Whenever I see an ‘outmate’ (as a woman on public release in a State punishment uniform is known), what first draws my eye is her collar. ‘Morality program’ uniformed girls all wear a tall, close-fitting stainless-steel collar with leash rings at the front and rear. Their crime is deeply engraved into the metal at the front with a laser. While they’re serving their sentences, their hair is cut short, usually a ‘page-boy’ (I wear my own hair cut this way) style, so that the State’s collar is visible from all sides. The absolute best sightings, the ones that keep me in a weird state of erotic ‘high’ for days and weeks are the felons; seeing the welds running up the sides of a collar that’s around a woman’s throat and knowing that she must wear that collar for the rest of her life makes me absolutely giddy.

These women are the long-timers in the system; they’re the ones who you’ll see with impossibly small waists, closely hobbled and teetering along in ballet-toe shoes. The punishment dildos forced up inside them will invariably be huge. It’s a special treat to see a felony girl after seven in the evening as, like all ‘Morality program’ prisoners, she’ll have an enormous, tubular penis gag locked in her mouth, and additionally, because she’s a felon, her arms will be sheathed tightly together behind her back, pressed together from fingertip to elbows in an extremely tough, flexible, plastic shrink-tube that’s applied to her every night by a machine in her residence. She’ll spend every night gagged from six o’clock and arm-sheathed from seven o’clock until seven o’clock the next morning when the gag is released, and her arms will, providing she gets them into the machine within the allowed five minute window at seven o’clock, be released from behind her. If she is late, the machine resets, locking her out; she will wear the arm sheath for another twenty-four hours before the next opportunity for release comes. As for the gag worn by all uniformed women, felon or not, if it’s not removed by ten minutes after seven o’clock it simply relocks itself until the same time the next day. The gag will only unlock on weekday mornings; it remains locked in her mouth from Friday evening until Monday morning. Over the weekend, the ‘outmate’ can only take liquid meals, squirted down her throat through the half-inch hole in the gag.

I wanted one of these uniforms. I wanted to wear it, helpless, bound, displayed, painfully penetrated and deliciously, utterly, completely humiliated as I wriggled around in public places, high on my toes in the uniform stilettos, on display in a State-sanctioned bondage and fetish punishment uniform. I dreamed of having a big pair of tits so I could suffer in the breast forms with my nipples agonizingly stretched, I wanted my jaw to ache around a long, fat, bright-orange-so-everyone-sees-it penis gag, and I especially wanted to be locked into a too-tight chastity belt, unable to cum, with a great big, safety-orange punishment dildo locked up my slutty little ass.

Phew. Wow. Deep breath. Okay, I need to take a step back. The genuine, official State public punishment uniform was my fantasy, my absolute favorite fantasy, but in reality, I didn’t think I would actually like (or could even endure) wearing it for more than a few minutes.

That said, I still bought myself equipment and hosiery and super-short, stretchy-see-through gray lycra dresses that mimicked the punishment uniform. I had chastity belts that would secure my boy-parts into inaccessible little containers while keeping any of a variety of butt plugs in my bottom. I had my nipples pierced and grommets fitted and wore terribly uncomfortable nipple stretchers under the plastic breast forms of fake State-discipline uniforms. I had collars, knee-hobbles, a number of bright orange penis gags, ‘winghouse’ waitress thick pantyhose, and a variety of pairs of very high, ‘lockable’ (sort of) high heels.

I would wear a combination of the above for hours, sometimes for a full day and even into the next on weekends. I never wore one of these faux-uniforms out in public though, and as good as it was, it was never enough.
Reality be damned, the heart wants what the heart (or more likely some lower part of me) wants, and I really, really wanted a genuine prisoner uniform. I dreamt about wearing a full ‘felony level’ punishment uniform (complete with the high-security ankle hobbles), out in public, and particularly to a Halloween costume contest at a bar I like. I fantasized about taking two weeks off from work before the event, spending all of it continuously locked and suffering in a real punishment uniform, unable to take it off, bound, penetrated, displayed and humiliated, just like the real ‘Morality Program’ outmates were, before finally competing in the bar’s costume contest. In other fantasies I would often climax while envisioning myself being dog-whipped by one of the cruel guards as I did ‘public service’, chain-ganged at the collar with eleven other gagged and uniformed girls as we picked up litter along roadsides.
As I said earlier, Not Realistic.

I mentioned this interest (toned down a long way) conversationally in a cross-dressing-themed online chat-room, and was sent a private message by one of the other users.
“Are you serious about a real uniform?”
 “Yes,” I replied reluctantly, thinking someone wanted to get into some one-on-one fantasy thing that I probably wasn’t going to be interested in.
“I know someone who knows someone. It won’t be cheap and the pieces are fitted for women’s bodies. If you have a masculine build, you won’t be able to wear one.”
Now I was interested, but still smelling ‘scam’.
I cautiously typed, “I’m interested.”
“I’m going to send you a form. Make the required measurements using a fabric measuring tape. You’ll need to be very accurate. Send the completed list to (they gave an email address) with your email address. If items in your size are available, you’ll get photos of them and pricing in one to three days.”
A moment later, a form listing the required measurements for me to make appeared in the text column. I took a screenshot of it and saved it. Okay, now I was interested. I carefully took the measurements, all over my body, resisting the urge to write down what I’d like them to be, and sent them to the email address I’d been given from a throwaway one I only used for going on sites that I knew were going to spam me.

Four days later (a Friday, fortuitously), having heard nothing, I’d given up hope. The whole thing had surely been a scam, or just some pervert playing a little game of his own invention with me. If it was real, maybe they just didn’t have anything that would fit me.

I was at work when the email tone went off on my phone, and I saw that a message had come on the address I’d given. I nearly chewed my nails off waiting for break time so I could read it. I left work early to go to the bank when I saw the pictures. They were clearly genuine uniform articles and there was an entire set. The message stated that the whole uniform could be mine for $5,000 dollars, one electronic key included. They also said that they had a set of felon’s ankle hobbles with the eight-inch chain available in my size, if I was interested.

I met them in the large, well-lit parking lot of a big store that evening, cash in hand. I was shown the uniform by a large woman who couldn’t seem to stop smirking at me as I carefully examined all of the items which were laid out in the back of her minivan. Her male companion stayed in the front of the car. I was terrified that I was going to be beaten and robbed, but there were a lot of people around, and to my delight, the uniform was the real thing. It even included the enema device, necessary but loathed by those who were forced to use it. They had no choice, their asses were inescapably plugged by the State’s anal punishers.

Via email, I’d counter-offered for two extra pairs of the unique, thick, glossy, back-seamed, open-crotch tan pantyhose, an extra uniform dress, and the ‘felon’ ankle hobbles to be thrown in for the $5,000, and they’d accepted. I paid the woman, she counted it, and I couldn’t be away from there with my prizes fast enough.

My stomach was so clenched and full of butterflies that I could only squeak a reply when she mockingly said, “Have fun, sweetie” as I departed.

Safely home I laid out and carefully examined my purchases. The shoes were fantastic; classically styled pumps with no platform, heels fully seven inches high, and they only showed minimal wear. I marveled at how heavily they were built, the inch-wide, springy metal straps that would encircle their prisoner’s ankles and I absolutely quivered at their color combination of penal gray with black soles and safety orange stiletto heels. Where they touched the ground, the orange tips of the stilettos were only a thumb's breadth from the soles of the shoes.

Examining them closely I saw how they were designed to allow soapy shower water to wash down inside them, around the wearer’s feet and toes before draining out of a series of clever little decorative-looking holes in the toes of the shoes. The high-security ankle hobbles were two-inch wide, quarter-inch thick polished stainless cuffs with eight inches of permanently attached chain between them. They were designed to lock on over the shoes’ ankle straps and even incorporated an extra ‘stirrup’ that looped down under the shoe in front of the stiletto heel, doubly securing the shoes in place. The thick, glossy, tan hosiery was simply scrumptious, with its heavy ‘Cuban’ style reinforcement at heels and toes, and its ample amount of lycra to keep them fitting tightly, as they would be worn day and night for two week stints. These special pantyhose (and the dress) were made with hydrophilic and anti-bacterial properties that wicked moisture away from the wearer, keeping her skin clean and dry underneath. You were supposed to take hot, soapy showers while wearing the uniform to keep the material clean, and the remarkable material would dry in minutes.

The chastity belt was positively fear-inducing; its waistband was clearly too small for me to wear without intense discomfort and it was equipped with a pair of punishment dildos that must’ve completely ruined its previous wearer. The front intruder (these were always fitted with a stainless leash ring at their base) was fully twelve inches long, the rear invader (fitted with an enema port) was a merciless ten incher and each was as thick as a soda can. I groaned with frustration at this, I’d hoped that I might be able to somehow take the rear one, but there was no way I could fit this monster up my ass.

The half-inch thick, solid stainless rod that connected to a place between the front and rear dildos on the chastity belt was just the right length, connecting to the three-inch bar between the knee-hobble bands. When closed, these were a little tighter than I’d have liked, but hobbled me very effectively, locking in place just above my knees. Both bars were attached by clever ball-swivel mounts which would eliminate any binding, while still providing total bondage.

The dark gray, thick plastic breast-plate was a very good fit to my small chest, though its wide straps seemed a little short and had no adjustment. After a lot of effort, I managed to put it on, finally getting the straps locked around my torso and shoulders. They bit well into me, and the shoulder loops forced my shoulders way back; it felt like my shoulder blades were touching. My nipples and surrounding flesh pushed out an inch through the three-inch openings in the breast plate, and were immediately engorged with blood and super-sensitive. I loved it, blissfully touching them in front of the mirror.
The heavy, clear plastic breast forms came next, their tubular nipples pointing arrogantly up and out once I’d clicked them into their locking receiver slots on the chest plate. Oh, how I wished I had a big pair of double-‘D’ breasts to fill these torture chambers, I wanted to have my nipples painfully stretched in those tubes and I wanted to feel each and every one of the hundreds of cruel, conical points that lined the breast forms push deeply into the skin of my tender, swollen, root-cinched tits!

The gag was going to cause me problems, something I’d realized as soon as I’d seen it. It was huge, almost as thick as the punishment dildos in the accompanying chastity belt, and it was clearly too long. The slightly smaller ‘head’ of the safety-orange, phallus-shaped device would actually rest in the opening of the wearer’s throat when locked in place with its wide, mesh-steel reinforced strap.

I’d read about this, the reasoning behind the ‘too long’ gag was so that the wearer could not swallow her own tongue and choke to death while gagged. I’d also read that the ‘felony’ version of the gag was an even longer design that extended a few inches down the wearer’s throat. It typically took at least a year for the woman to work her way up to wearing the felony ‘deep throat’ gag.

The dresses were penal gray, short-sleeved, and kind of boringly cut, except for their obscenely tight fit and short length. They were made of the same lycra-based material as the pantyhose, and became semi-sheer when stretched. Like the other items, they were superior quality, heavily sewn, and looked very durable.

Last and most important came the collar; it was tall, more than three inches at the front and two on the sides and back. It was designed to encumber the wearer’s head movement, and it was equipped with thick, inch-diameter attachment rings front and back. Its finish was polished stainless, and I giggled with delight as I read the front, ‘Habitual Prostitute’ and in smaller letters ‘Public Punishment Uniform Program, Florida Department of Corrections’.

The lettering had been deeply burned into the thick collar by laser, and the letters were filled in with durable, bright safety-orange porcelain.

I’m lucky that I’ve never grown much body hair and whatever tried to grow I’ve had removed by laser. As such, I didn’t have much ‘cleanup’ to do before trying on my new prizes. First, I unlocked and removed the breast forms, so that I could see what I was doing below my waist.

The pantyhose were everything I’d fantasized they’d be; squeezing my toes, slightly-too-tight all the way up my legs, with a very tall waistband to prevent chafing under the chastity belt. The much darker seams running up the back almost aligned themselves up my legs, and their length was perfect for me. My boy parts sprung out through the hole at the crotch and were very excited about the goings-on.

The high heels went on next, and like the rest of the uniform they were a perfect (if somewhat snug) fit, their high arches matching mine to perfection. Their ankle straps locked and fit perfectly with no gaps. I stood up and wobbled a little atop the seven-inch heels then wriggled around the room, delightedly admiring myself in the full-length mirrors I’d had installed.

The chest plate and its tight fitting straps were a struggle to deal with, keeping my shoulders way back. I loved the effect though and before locking the breast forms in place over them I put on my most punitive pair of nipple stretchers, then coated the entirety of my already aching ‘titties’ with capsaicin (hot pepper) oil. They began to sting and burn almost immediately and I knew from past experience that this would go on for hours and hours.

I decided to have a try at the too-small appearing chastity belt, first removing (reverentially) both of the huge intruders it had come equipped with. Oww, my poor titties were really suffering now. I pulled my very excited boy parts through the opening (where the end of the front dildo would normally protrude) in the front of the wide stainless steel crotch strap and then spread my bottom to pull the strap up tight. The waist belt looked impossibly too small, but I knew that was how the State fit them on the girls who wore them, so I’d give it a try.

Just pressing with my hands didn’t get the ends of the belt closer than three inches, so I tried using a heavy leather belt with a roller buckle. I routinely used this belt as part of my self-bondage, pulling it as tight around my middle as I could get it and then locking the buckle with a small padlock. Hard pulling on the leather belt allowed me to get the steel waist band within an inch and a half of fastening.

I had an idea; I used a hammer to drive a screwdriver through the tip of the leather belt. Next, I pulled the two halves of my heavy old dining table slightly apart, just wide enough to slip the entire screwdriver up through the gap and turn it like a toggle. I laid on my back and slid under the table, then arched up and stuck the screwdriver up through the gap, managing to turn it so that it lay across the gap. Now I put my weight on the belt, tentatively at first but soon pushing upwards on the underside of the table. I was about to give up, but with one last push and a hard bounce, Click! The chastity belt was locked around my waist.

Getting back on my stiletto-heeled feet was a challenge and trying to breath against the horrible constriction around my waist was an effort as well. Looking in the mirror would have made me gasp if I wasn’t doing so already; my waist was tiny. I measured myself with the fabric tape, twenty inches around the outside of the belt.
I fell in love with my hourglass image in the mirror. I never wanted to take this belt off, except that it was killing me, and my saner self wanted it off right now.

“Beauty requires suffering, you kinky little slut” I said to my reflection in the mirror, hand on my hip and waggling an admonishing finger at my image.

First hooking their stirrups under my stiletto heels, I squeezed the ankle hobbles closed around my ankles; they fastened with a deliciously scary ‘Click!’ and I relished their weight, quality and the fact that they made my already-locked-on stilettos doubly inescapable. I then fastened (with more squeezing) the knee bands closed just above my knees. I could no longer open or close my upper legs more than the three inches that the spacer bar dictated. I practiced walking for a few moments, delighted that I now had the same forced, rolling, writhing sway that I found so intoxicating when I watched the outmates walk.

I pulled one of the little dresses on and giggled at how its hem stopped halfway down my bottom. I loved how it looked stretched across my hugely-nippled breast forms and savored the burning, stinging, nipple-stretched dull ache that was coming from inside them. The way the dress formed to my figure made the not-inconsequential pain of the chastity belt’s too-tight waistband totally worth it. The steel-cinched hourglass of my body even made me appear to have hips.
Now I had to deal with my very aroused boy-parts as they were ruining the feminine illusion of my uniform. I keep a two-pound bag of frozen peas in the freezer for just this purpose, and soon my ardor had retreated before the freezing onslaught. Once small and soft, I stuffed myself into my favorite, smallest and most unforgiving chastity device. It was a narrow, curving, stainless steel tube that forced my parts back between my legs. Except for a small hole to allow urine to escape, it was closed at the terminal end. I had to use a small piece of string, threaded through this hole, to pull myself fully into the small tube. My glands were not very big to begin with, but they were compressed uncomfortably smaller within the attached, hinged-opening cavity that they were sealed into. The device fastened with a built-in, high security lock that closed a heavy ring snugly around where my parts joined my body. There was absolutely no possibility of escape from this device, and I was very, very careful not to mislay its key.

Now, boy parts locked safely (and uncomfortably) away, I took some time to do my make-up and fuss with my hair. In minutes I was gorgeous. I then stood in front of the hall mirror, bobbing, posing, batting my eyes and making little kisses with my mouth. I am so cute.

“I’ll be right back!” I flirted with myself, and wriggled off to retrieve the collar.
“Do you think I should?” I asked the girl in the mirror, who had a wide-eyed, open-lipped, super-sexy look on her face.
She nodded emphatically.
“Ooo, it’s a little tight,” I told her, as I closed it with a deliciously loud ‘click’ around my throat. I could almost hear my chastity tube creaking with the strain of holding me in, down and very small. I moaned and ground my hips in ecstasy and frustration, the collar looked so good, and it felt just like I’d imagined it would. I reveled in how it controlled me when I tried to turn or nod my head and how it fit skin-tight, making its presence constantly known. The safety-orange lettering glowed out at me in the mirror and I read it (backwards) again and again, ‘Habitual Prostitute’ (the sluttiest of sluts!) while I squirmed and writhed while running my hands up and down my body. I was in heaven.

“Two more items to go,” I said, tearing myself away from the erotic vision in my hall mirror.
The first was an inflatable butt plug. I had modified it so that the hand-squeeze pump was removable and so that a small, hinged plate with a locking hasp covered the needle valve (like on a football) air-release valve. The result was that the plug could be pumped up bigger and bigger as I relaxed and was able to take it, but releasing any air from it required a key. When it was even moderately pumped up inside my small bottom I could not take it out without releasing the air first. Reading this, you’d think that I was an old hand at taking toys in my tush; I’m not. I love the idea and I do wear a plug often, but they’re usually small. The much-bigger, lockable, inflatable plug was an anomaly in my collection and I rarely used it.

Tonight I was going to use it though, and I had it in my mind that I was going to be using it a lot more, as it was the only toy I had that could be locked inside me.
It took me a while to get relaxed enough (back there) to admit even the still non-inflated plug, but once in place I began pumping it up. The little lock was already secured on the ‘deflate’ valve and I pumped until I squealed and danced around, flapping my hands. Oww, my poor ring felt like it was stretched tight as a tennis racquet string.
The last item was pretty daunting. I set the big, safety-orange gag on the table to contemplate it as I drank a glass of wine. I saw that the middle of the thing was bigger than its base, and that if one were able to get that huge center part past one’s teeth…

Another glass of wine had me licking it, and pushing it into my mouth a little way. Then I was back in front of the mirror with it, hips grinding as I sucked on it and started fucking my mouth with the huge thing, trying to push it in a little farther and a little farther. I thought my jaw had certainly been damaged when I finally gave the big gag a hard push and forced its fat center section past my teeth, and I spent a good number of seconds shrieking “Mmm! Mmm! Mmm!” through my nose, and minutes rubbing the hinge muscles of my jaw.

I tried to moan, “Oww” but the gag was extremely effective and all that got through it was “Mmm!”. The next obstacle I had to overcome was not gagging on the head of the thing as it sat against the opening of my throat. I was disappointed as I saw that it still needed to go another inch into my mouth, and therefore into my throat, before I could get its wide strap all the way around my head and back into its locking mechanism at the front.

I spent the next two hours wriggling around, dancing to music, learning to knee-hobble-walk, mastering the fabulously high heels, and slowly, more and more deeply, throat-fucking myself with the huge orange penis gag in my mouth. Using a turkey baster I shot squirts of wine into the hole that ran the length of the thing and ended up pretty soused. I believe it was because of this that I kept adding occasional pumps of air to the plug in my bottom, each time causing myself to writhe around flapping my hands in distress. Finally, I was finally able to push the head of the gag deeply enough into my throat to get the locking strap pulled around my head and fastened with a last, yelping push and a ‘click’.

I stood there, stunned, in front of the mirror. It was in. I’d done it. Almost immediately I wanted out of it, all of it, as I was hurting all over. I had the keys in my hands when my little inner voice, the one that causes me all kinds of trouble, said “No, slut. You are locked in your punishment uniform, and you will stay locked in your punishment uniform.” I mewed through the gag. I then did something that I almost immediately regretted; I have a small, time-lock safe with a tamper-proof drop slot on its top. I use it to lock up my self-bondage keys, leaving me helpless for hours in whatever sex-induced predicament I’ve dreamed up. I put the uniform key, the chastity key, and the inflatable butt-plug key into the safe, closed it and, noting the time, midnight, my inner voice said “You may present your slut self at noon tomorrow to see if you qualify for release.”

I set the safe’s tamper-proof timer for twelve hours.

I gasped at what I’d done. While I often used the key safe to lock myself up in some little outfit, even stayed handcuffed, hobbled and gagged for a few hours, I had never done anything even remotely this extreme, or for this length of time before. My heart raced as I took it in; I was genuinely being punished by all these things that I had locked onto and into myself, and there would be no relief whatsoever, no possibility of escape, no sexual gratification until mid-day tomorrow. Everything suddenly hurt so much, especially how tight the chastity tube had just become.
That night and all the next morning were torture; my waist ached in the hose-clamp-like steel grip of the chastity belt, my nipples were terribly tender and throbbed in the tension of the nipple stretchers I wore under the locked breast forms. My jaw felt like it was about to dislocate, and my poor bottom was stretched tight around the over-inflated (do not drink and butt plug) anal toy inside it. It took all of the rest of the day and that evening to recover from the self-inflicted ordeal. When the key safe clicked open, the first key I went for was the one to my chastity; seconds later, I was back in front of the mirror, freeing my poor boy parts from their tiny isolation cell and then spending a few minutes gaining the sexual relief I’d been needing for so long. It was incredible, and I honestly thought I would pass out.

Sunday morning found me waking up, secured again in the too-small chastity device and still in the collar, uniform hosiery, heels and ankle hobbles, as well as the little gray prisoner’s uniform dress. Although I was without the gag and butt plug, my nipples were again in the terrible stretchers as I still wore the breastplate and forms with a pair of handcuffs holding my wrists behind me.

I looked at the clock. It read seven a.m. “Five more hours until the key safe opens,” I thought. I made myself spend the time cleaning house as best I could in my bondage, really enjoying myself despite the pain of being steel-cinched around my waist.
 
This, and soon an ‘every-possible-minute’ schedule became a pattern for my weekends, and while it was good enough for a while, I began to become obsessed with the idea of actually making a foray out in public while locked up in my punishment uniform. I spent a lot of hours researching, and found a company in Germany that would machine (out of surgical stainless steel) a very special chastity device for me; it would have the exact appearance of the protruding end of the uniform’s front punishment dildo. It would look like a short, orange can with a lockable opening in its top, and the State-style, welded on leash ring at its bottom. I would pack all my boy parts into it and click it shut. The opening in the top was quite small (I sent them a measurement) barely closeable around the base of my boy parts, and there would be no way that I could extricate myself from it once it was in place. It would require a special, one-of-a-kind key for its high-security lock to be opened. A small rim (or flange if you like) would run around its circumference, allowing it to fit into, but not pass completely through, the uniform’s front chastity belt opening. With the chastity belt in place, the keyhole for the ‘chastity can’ would not be accessible. For cleanliness and urination, a series of tiny holes and slots were drilled and machined in strategic places, allowing cleansing water to be flushed through it during extended wear. The German company would even powder-coat the device in the correct ‘safety orange’ color for me. I ordered it immediately, maxing out my credit card in the process.

With that ordered, I ramped up my training for the second item that would have to be in place for me to go out in public; I’d need to be able to get the ten-inch long, soda-can-thick monster anal punishment dildo up my tight little ass. My nasty little inner voice informed me that a worthless little cross-dressing slut like me should be made to keep a training device in her bottom at all times, and that the device should always be every bit as large as she can possibly take. Not one to argue with my little inner voice, I obeyed.

Walking around my workplace first with an achingly-large plug and then later with an even larger dildo in my bottom was surreal, I never got used to it. Worse, the stimulation and embarrassment caused my boy parts to get and stay hard. To contain myself I had to wear my chastity device to work, as well as whenever I went out in public, cross-dressed or not. Unfortunately, out of my collection of such items, only the unpleasantly tight chastity device had a low-enough profile to not create an odd bulge under my clothes. My little voice informed me that ‘tight’ was going to be my new, personal theme. Sluts like me not only deserved embarrassment and discomfort but should also be made to wear a tight little corset and some tight, shiny pantyhose at any time that I wore boy clothes. I obeyed. I spent all day, every day cinched in a tight corset (with a tight belt locked on over it), my ass stretched drum tight around a long, thick dildo, my lower body wrapped in slippery, shiny pantyhose and I was locked (keys at home in the safe) in tight chastity. Being at work while breathlessly cinched, locked and stuffed was surreal-feeling and caused me to have a couple of small panic attacks. My two frantic escape attempts in the company bathroom were wholly unsuccessful. After a couple of minutes of clawing at my corset belt and chastity, I calmed down and returned to my desk, still corseted, chastised and with the dildo still up my ass. The way the pantyhose felt sliding around against the inside of my slacks was erotic, but I was sure everyone could hear the swishing sound it made when I walked.

I kept a pair of very high-heeled shoes in my car, and per my little voice, I was not allowed to even move the vehicle until they were on my feet.

It took eight very long weeks, but the chastity ‘can’ finally came from Germany and it was all I’d hoped it would be. It was a perfect visual match to the bottom two inches of a large punishment dildo, the part that would stick out through the punishment uniform’s chastity belt. The welded-on leash ring was an exact replica and I shivered as I imagined being led, leashed at this attachment point, or worse, secured by it to something immobile out in a busy, public area. I had read about this being done to outmate girls by cruel pranksters, leaving the unfortunate girls chained at their dildo to street signs and light poles or padlocked to fences, bike racks, even shopping carts.

The available space inside the device was very small and I had to apply the bag of frozen peas to myself for some time before I was small enough to be stuffed into the can. The high-security ‘click’ from multiple hardened pins engaging when the lid closed actually sent shivers up my spine. I made repeated mental notes about being extremely careful with those keys; I doubted that anyone could cut me out of this chastity device without damaging me irreparably. With that in mind, I took one of the two keys to the bank and secured it in my safe-deposit box.

Halloween was only a week away and I was thinking constantly about the costume contest at the bar I mentioned earlier. It’s a long drive over there, but worth it because it’s very ‘T-girl’ friendly. In order to wear my ‘outmate’ uniform in the event, I needed to get that huge dildo up my poor little bottom. I’d been making myself take bigger and bigger toys every day, keeping them in, day and night, but the genuine, safety-orange State punishment dildo was still thicker and longer than anything that would fit up me.

For the following week, I cleaned myself out with enemas each morning, then continued my regimen of lacing myself as tightly as my waist cincher would go, wearing my very smallest (oww) chastity device, my shiny hosiery and the inflatable anal ‘trainer’ (punisher?) dildo with the lock securing the air-release valve. It would all be in place under my clothes before I left for work and it was very distracting as I drove. Before I’d walk in from the car, I’d give the inflatable dildo in my ass as many pumps as I could take without bursting into tears or screaming, then detach the inflation ball and hose and waddle in from the parking lot. The key to the little lock on the dildo’s air-release valve was at home in the key safe, ensuring that a certain little slut wouldn’t be tempted to let some air out of her anal trainer.

I started to hate going on my lunch break because my cruel little inner voice would always insist on an ‘Afternoon ass-training session for naughty girls’ that meant me going out to my car and using the pump to make the dildo even longer and fatter inside me. Leaving work meant inflating it still more for the ‘Evening ass-training session for sluts’ and I’d be stuck with it blown up like that until the key safe finally opened at midnight. The slut that opened that safe was always in very high heels, full makeup, wrist and ankle chains and an uncomfortable pair of nipple clamps. She’d have put all of this on when she got home (except the clamps) five hours before and spent every night in it.

Saturday arrived, Halloween morning, the day of the costume contest. I wanted to be on the road at six o’clock in the evening and at the bar by seven. I was excited and terrified and generally freaking out, the prospect of being inescapably secured in a full State punishment uniform for a whole evening, gagged, hobbled, chastised, helpless, and paraded around on a stage in front of hundreds of people. My heart pounded from just thinking about it. Adding substantially to my anxiety was the specter of somehow, finally managing to get the ten-inch long, soda-can thick, bright orange, State-issue punishment dildo all the way up my ass and locked in place. Once it was there, I’d have to endure it for hours until I got home and could release myself.

I went to work on the project at seven in the morning, first with two enemas to clean me well out, and then a final, agonizing session of ass-stretching with the inflatable dildo. I used the ‘between pumps and dancing around moaning’ time to make sure that I was as hairless and perfectly feminine as I could be. Now, to try something that I’d just read about online, this was what was done to smaller-breasted girls who didn’t fill out the clear plastic breast forms. I opened my nipple rings and attached a four-inch length of chrome, dog-leash chain to each one. This felt kind of yummy, with the chains sliding back and forth on my smooth breast-skin as I walked around. After make-up, I put on the first parts of the uniform, the special open-crotch pantyhose and high heels. It was too early to be wearing the shoes already, and I knew it would cause me suffering by the evening, but my little voice insisted that “Sluts should be well up on their toes, and those ankle straps better be locked.” I’m no good at arguing against my little voice and obediently locked the ultra-high heels onto my feet.

Now forced up high on my toes, locked into my fetish heels and hose, I was desperately horny, and I doubted that I could even touch myself without cumming. I didn’t want to let that happen yet as it would kill some of my determination to get fully outfitted in my prisoner’s uniform, and I also wanted to let my sexual need build until I got home, probably well after midnight. For these reasons, I secured myself in the new, bright orange ‘can’ chastity that would resemble the bottom of a dildo protruding through the front opening of the uniform’s chastity belt. Doing so required a very lengthy and very uncomfortable application of the two-pound bag of frozen peas from my freezer.

To ensure that I wouldn’t be allowed to succumb to temptation before the event, I locked my key safe, setting the timer for midnight and then dropped the uniform key and the chastity key in through the one-way slot in its top. The rattle of the keys hitting the bottom of the heavy steel box made my still-cold boy parts surge painfully against the inside of their high-security prison. At that point it was only nine o’clock and I was a conflicted combination of excited and panicky at the fifteen-hour chastity sentence I’d just imposed on myself. I know, fifteen hours doesn’t sound like much, but try it when you’re strictly bound in a State public humiliation and bondage uniform, and absolutely dying to cum.

Knowing that the huge anal punisher would be debilitating if I managed to get it inside me, I progressed with struggling into the other parts of the uniform. First was the very difficult waistband of the chastity belt. I was able to get it closed now (due to diet and constant corset training) with only the use of the leather bondage belt, although it still required every ounce of my strength to do it. Next came the breast bondage plate with its relentless, posture-enforcing shoulder straps. I installed my long, cruel, spring-tension nipple stretchers onto their victims, moaning as my nipples were pulled by their grommets into painful points, leaving the attached lengths of chain dangling in space.

Next came the ankle hobbles; I paused to admire how closely the ‘under-shoe’ stirrups and thick ankle manacles fit, encapsulating the shoe’s locking ankle straps inside in grooves mortised into them for that purpose. I took a walk (if you could call it that) around my house, hobbled to eight-inch-steps and I shivered as I thought about the tens of thousands of poor girls and women who spent years and years in bondage identical to this, most of them ending up doing so in ballet-toe shoes. Some playtime on weekends locked in these hobbles and seven-inch stilettos was plenty for me, thanks.
I would wait until everything else was in place before installing the breast forms, as they interfered with my ability to see what I was doing on my lower body. The same was true for the tall steel collar; it limited my ability to look down, so it would be the last thing I locked in place.

That meant it was time to somehow get that big, orange punishment dildo up my slutty little ass.
I released the air pressure on the inflatable trainer and withdrew it. I tossed it into the sink, and immediately pushed the head of the well-greased orange monster up against my still-relaxed sphincter. With a firm push and a short scream from me, the tennis-ball sized head of the thing popped past my ring, and was inside me!

“Ohhh! Ohhh! Ow!” I breathed as I sank to my knees and positioned myself in front of the full-length hall mirror.
I knew that watching myself do this would help and so I knelt with my face on the floor, arched my back and pointed my bottom at the ceiling. My waist looked so tiny in the mirror. The huge orange dildo looked out of scale, too big to be real as it protruded from my upturned butt. Using both hands, I began to push it into me, and pull it back, and push it in, in strokes perhaps a quarter-inch long. That was all I could take at first. I worked and worked and worked, and finally gained an inch of penetration. Sweaty, moaning, crying out minutes went by as I pushed, pulled and pushed again, countless short strokes that gained me another inch, and another. An hour went by.

The last two inches were exponentially harder to achieve than the first ones and I believe it took me another full hour to get the last part of the enormous thing up my poor ass.

When it was in place, I pulled and pulled on the chastity belt’s wide stainless crotch strap. Its front opening popped over the chastity ‘can’, and I admired the extremely realistic illusion it created, appearing for all the world to be the end of a fat dildo that was jammed up inside an unfortunate little punishment slut.

Pulling the strap’s rear opening over the end of the very-real, genuine, State anal-punishment dildo was almost more than I could manage, but with yet another short scream, it was in place. Hands shaking, I snapped the end of the crotch strap into it’s fitting on the belt, and with a loud ‘Click’ I was literally and figuratively fucked. A wave of panic washed over me, could I really do this? I pulled ineffectually at the end of the huge invader and moaned as the realization that I no longer had a choice sunk in. I would be ‘doing this’ whether I wanted to or not.

Moving very slowly, cautiously, I got to my feet. This is not easy with a giant dildo in your ass and only eight inches of chain separating your ankles. Wobbly and a little dizzy, I made my way to my drawer of torments in the bedroom. On went my knee hobbles, which had been dangling from their attachment point on the crotch plate of the chastity. I walked to the other side of the room and back, testing the strict limitation on my gait; I was forced to mince along in a silly, sexy, ass-wriggling manner or not move at all.

Still in a daze, I pulled my breasts a little further through the openings in the breast plate, and then coated them and my nipples with a generous layer of the thick capsaicin pepper oil. I tied a few inches of thread to the short lengths of dog leash chain that I’d put on my nipple rings, and then held up the first breast form for installation. I guided the thread through the open nipple, and clicked the breast form in place. I pulled on the thread, drawing the end of the dog-leash chain that was attached to my nipple ring out through the plastic nipple. I pulled it a little harder than was comfortable and then snapped a small, heavy, brass-bodied lock closed through the chain where it came out. My left nipple was now under even more tension than the spring-loaded nipple stretchers could apply. I repeated the process with the right breast form and my right nipple, made sure the tension was about even, and locked its tension chain as well. In a perfect example of supreme stupidity, I dropped the keys to my nipple-chain locks into the key safe, sentencing myself to many hours of whimpering-level nipple torture.

Again in front of the mirror, on went the collar. I was actually whining out loud about how badly my poor titties were hurting, stretched tight and burning, coated with the pepper oil. I knew within minutes that locking the keys to my nipple chains in the key safe had been a mistake; I was really suffering. Even so, locking the tall, snug collar around my throat and reading the words ‘Habitual Prostitute’ made my boy parts test the strength of their steel cell.

I pulled and wriggled my way into the lycra uniform dress, re-applied my make-up, and looked at the clock. Oh fuck. It was only twelve-thirty. I had five and a half hours left until I even planned to leave the house. If I wanted to leave the house earlier than that, as it was the weekend, I’d have to wrestle the huge gag into my mouth (and throat) because, as you’re well aware, all uniformed girls wear their gags from six Friday evening, until seven on Monday morning. Trying to ignore the din of protests coming from my titties, my crushed waist, my bound-back shoulders, my aching, dildo-stuffed ass and my overworked toes, I made myself lunch.

Only an hour later, the big gag was in place, locked, stretching my mouth to its limit and violating my throat with its head. Getting it in place really tested my ‘tear-proof’ mascara. I wasn’t going to put it on so early in the day, but immediately after I ate, my cruel little inner voice spoke up. It informed me that my uniform was incomplete and that lazy little sluts should not be allowed to lie around the house all day. I was to lock that gag in my mouth where it belonged, then go grocery shopping and run any other errands that I could think of. When the lock clicked shut on the gag strap, I shivered all over; this was it. I was wearing every item of my own, genuine State public punishment uniform. Chills ran up and down my body as I reminded myself again and again that I couldn’t take it off, not any of it. I hurt all over, but it was still delicious.

Fortunately, my small rental house has an attached one-car garage so I never had to show off my various alter-egos to the neighbors; just get in the car, put on a hat, use the electric garage door opener and I’m off. Getting into the car elicited a series of short, gagged screams (through my nose) and moans, and I struggled with getting the seat into a position that didn’t torture me. It turned out there wasn’t one.

I slowly and carefully drove to the local shopping center. Thank goodness I had an automatic transmission as working a clutch in seven-inch stilettos with my knees and ankles hobbled wouldn’t have been good. I was bracing myself to get out of the car and attempt grocery shopping when the nail salon sign caught my eye. Oh, how I’d always wanted to! So I did. I struggled out of the car, clutching a little purse containing my essentials, including a small pad and pen to communicate with. The stares as I wriggled, dildos showing below the too-short hem of my dress, knees hobbled, ankle chain jingling, across the parking lot.

This was it, I was really out here, in public, collared, chained, gagged, high-heeled, chastised, nipples tortured and deeply ass-fucked. It was all really locked on, I really couldn’t get to the keys and I couldn’t escape from a single bit of it. My nipples hurt and my breasts still burned dully from their coating of capsaicin oil. Heart pounding, panting, blushing from scalp to toes, I very nearly turned around to go back to the car, but I didn’t. Breast forms heaving, I made it to the door of the nail salon, and upon opening it, was assaulted by both the chemical smell of the place and the acrid stares of the staff and customers. I should have expected this, people not wanting a uniformed criminal around, especially one whose crime was habitual prostitute! My hand flew to my collared throat.

“What do you want?” said one of the beauticians.
I quickly dug out my pad and pen, and wrote ‘Please do my nails? I’ll pay double.’ She read it, and gave me a narrow-eyed look.
“All right, toots. For double the usual, but only because we’re slow today. We don’t normally take your kind in here”.
I had not been ready for this kind of meanness. She saw the tears brimming in my eyes, and softened up.
“Alright sweetie, I’m sure you get plenty of abuse as it is. I guess I don’t have to be part of it.”
She patted the chair in front of her, gesturing for me to sit.

A hundred and forty dollars (I’d brought cash, as I didn’t want to have to show identification with a credit card) and an hour and forty-five minutes later, I was on my way out the door sporting a long, glistening, safety-orange set of acrylic nails. I had not wanted acrylics, nor had I wanted the safety-orange nail polish (at least at first), but when you’re gagged, you get what you get. I had no idea about how I was going to get the things off of me so I could go to work on Monday, but I’d worry about that later. For right now, I’d enjoy my beautiful, sexy new nails. The convenient thing about being gagged was that I hadn’t had to take part in the obligatory chit-chat that comes with getting anything done at any sort of a salon. All I had to do was nod or shake my head to enquiries about being in the public incarceration program punishment uniform. These came at first from just the girl doing my nails and then from about everybody in the place.
“Do they do this to you? What about that? I heard you have to…”
Fortunately, I knew a lot about the punishment uniform program and didn’t give myself away by not being able to answer, at least with ‘yes’ or ‘no’.

Grocery shopping in knee and ankle hobbles and seven-inch stilettos was slow (this was exacerbated by being super-careful with my new nails) and despite how nervous I was, it was actually just as I imagined it would be, humiliating and very sexy. Doing the forced ‘bimbo-wiggle’ in my bondage and ultra-high heels up and down every aisle was really embarrassing, especially because the punishment dildo moved a little in my ass with every gyration. I was terribly aware that people could see the end of the dildo, they would be staring at it, knowing I was being fucked by it right in front of them. I was mortified but also very turned on.

After what happened at the salon, I’d been braced for being scowled at and expected some unpleasant comments as well. It turns out that people in grocery stores aren’t as catty as people in nail salons (go figure), and while I got some disapproving looks from women, that was about it. Men, on the other hand, found me quite interesting. I got watched, leered at, propositioned, and my bottom was squeezed – twice! Both of those came with smiles and winks. It was unnerving, but being smiled at, hit on, and even the unsolicited touches were in the fantasies I’d had about really doing this.
Home again with the groceries I was on cloud nine. I had done it. I’d gone out and done errands and interacted with others while locked up in a genuine State punishment uniform! I couldn’t wait to get the chastity unlocked (and touch myself with these amazing new nails) but the key safe timer still had many hours left before it would grant me parole. The euphoria faded and I was really uncomfortable now; I tried to nap but sleep wouldn’t come. I wished I could get the dildo out of my bottom, or take off the oversized gag, but there was no way. Besides, even as terribly uncomfortable as I was, I was totally wound up to go to the costume competition that night.

Trying to distract myself, I handcuffed myself (behind my back, per my cruel little inner voice) for an hour and struggled through cleaning the house, doing laundry, and vacuuming. Finally I released myself from the cuffs to fiddle with my hair and re-do my make-up. I was so horny I thought I might cum just from watching myself dance in the big hall mirror, but it wasn’t to be. Eventually, finally, it was time to go.

The drive there took a lifetime but the evening at the bar was a blur; somebody (“to go with your costume!”) put my wrists in handcuffs behind me almost as soon as I walked in, I was lifted up to wriggle my painfully overstuffed ass back and forth across the stage again and again, the announcer getting huge cheers when he validated my gender with my photo id. There was lots of dancing (oh, my poor feet) drinks (via a small funnel), a cute trophy for second place (I lost to a dead ringer for Marilyn Monroe, so I didn’t feel too bad) and a gift certificate for a nice bar tab.

The dancing was amazing, hot men and sexy girls were all over me, my little purse got stuffed with phone numbers on little pieces of paper from both genders, I got lingeringly felt up, petted, squeezed, spanked, stroked, and I loved it all.
Finally released from my admirer’s handcuffs, I drove home in a dream-like state. I was very careful; I did not want to get pulled over dressed as I was.

As I pulled into my garage and clicked the button to close the door behind my car, everything came crashing back into sharp focus. The back garage door, the one I’d checked before I left, was standing open, its window broken.
“Oh, fuck! Fuckfuckfuckfuck Fuck” I squealed unintelligibly through the hole in my gag. “Shit! What if they were still here? Oh no, no, no!”

I thought about calling the police (they’ll come if you dial 911, you don’t have to say a word into the phone), but I couldn’t bear the idea of facing them while dressed and secured as I was, and having to stand out in the street answering awkward questions with pen and paper while flashing red and blue lights woke up everybody for a mile around. I honked the horn to make sure whoever might still be there got every chance to leave before I came in. I struggled out of the car and up onto my high heels. I grabbed the broom from by the door to brandish. Ankle chain rattling and heart pounding, I wriggled slowly through the whole house. I turned on all the lights, checked the kitchen, living room, bedroom, its closet and the bathroom; no burglar. Phew!

I locked the doors and went to assess the damages. My laptop was gone, shit. My old television was still there, as well as all of my old-ish stereo stuff, no surprise. My bedroom drawers had been pulled out and dumped, the mattress moved, and the contents of my closet were in shambles. A sick feeling clenched my stomach and I began digging in the closet, mmmphing out what was supposed to be “NO! Nononono Oh please, please, NOOO!”

The horror flooded over me. My key safe, which looked very much like any other little valuable-containing safe, was gone. The keys that would unlock my punishment uniform, my chastity, and the awful little brass locks that were keeping terrible tension on my nipple-ring-chains were all gone! I shrieked through my nose and collapsed to my hobbled knees, my sobbing muffled by the huge, locked-in gag in my mouth and throat.

The night was long and awful. At one point I had a panic attack, screaming and thrashing around like crazy, trying to escape. The reality that my keys were gone, and I was really, helplessly locked up in the punishment uniform kept washing over me, crashing on me like a wave and making my heart pound. It had gotten very real, I hurt everywhere, and I wanted it all off of me and out of me. I clawed ineffectually at the collar, the gag, the chastity belt and for a long while at the end of the huge dildo up my ass.

“I want it out! Please,” I begged incoherently through the gag to no one in particular, “I just want it out!”
I wept while straining to spread my knees and kicking against the hobble chain. There was nothing I could do, there was no escape from a single item of my punishment uniform. I had no choice, I would remain nipple-tortured, gagged, ass-fucked, chastised and chained until someone else released me, and I had no idea when or who that would be. Finally, exhausted, I passed out. I had terrible dreams where the burglar came back and taunted me with the keys before destroying them with a hammer in front of me. I also had dreams about sex in which I got sooo close, but couldn’t cum. It was maddening.
 
Morning finally came and despite all my soreness, my boy parts fought like crazy to escape their orange, high-security prison and give their customary morning salute. There wasn’t a chance of that happening and I was left with an aching sexual need that I couldn’t do a thing to relieve. Staring at my reflection in the various mirrors in my little house didn’t help at all as in every mirror I looked simultaneously miserable and very sexy. By late morning I decided that enough was enough (forcing the liquefied breakfast through the hole in the gag was awful and using the official State enema kit was even worse) and I would go down to the police department to get myself released. I was now desperate to get the huge dildo out of my ass. Fresh make-up in place I tried to brace myself for the slings and arrows of the total humiliation that I was surely going to face. I had no doubt that pictures (and probably video) would be taken and that I would be giving a long, detailed account of exactly what I was wearing and how it all got there. The part that I was really anxious about was whether or not they’d take away my (very) expensive uniform? And even if they didn’t, where could I possibly get another key? Thank goodness there was another key to my chastity or I’d have been in real trouble. As it was, I’d have to be late for work on Monday so that I could get it out of my safety deposit box.

With all this in mind I wriggled my hugely gagged and dildo-stuffed self nervously into the police building (my steel-tipped stiletto heels and the rattling hobble chain were so loud on the tile floor!), my ID and my pen and paper at the ready, as well as a bag of clothes to change into. After a half-hour’s wait (while being stared at by a couple dozen other people) to see a detective so I could also report the break-in at my house, I was seated uncomfortably atop my dildo ends on a hard, wooden chair, typing rapidly on a Bluetooth-linked keyboard that had been provided. It seems that I wasn’t the only gagged person in a punishment uniform to ever have needed to speak with the police and they’d bought a number of the keyboard-communication devices.

The first thing I had typed was “Can you please let me out of this? I’m really suffering!” That answer was a “No, not until you’ve given a full interview so that we can verify that you’re who you say you are.” All was going well at first, my ID, fingerprints and story all checked out, I wasn’t some girl trying to pull a trick and get out of her uniform. I typed out the story about how I’d obtained it, and blushed furiously while writing why. Deeply embarrassed, I asked if I could please at least have the dildo out of my ass now. “Not until I get clearance from the records department, probably another twenty or thirty minutes.” I squirmed, feeling totally impaled on the huge thing and humiliated to the core. I wrote out the statement about the break-in, really wishing we could’ve done that part after they released me from my uniform.

Forty-five minutes later the detective finally said, “All right, let’s go see about getting you out of that. Don’t feel too bad, you’re not the first person to come in after losing the key to a decommissioned uniform. (They’re only sold to the women who’d worn them) You are one of very few males to do so, however. You’re very convincing by the way.”
I blushed with embarrassment, but was still pleased with myself.

The detective brought me into a glass-walled room that adjoined the women’s holding area, and had me stand while he scanned the faint barcodes that were laser-etched into each part of my uniform. The look on his face clouded over as he read the notation that appeared, blinking urgently on the computer screen.

“Where did you say you obtained this uniform?” he asked, the friendliness gone from his voice.
Now I was scared. I took one of the keyboards from him, and trembled as I typed everything I could remember about the purchase.

“I see. Here’s the situation; the uniform pieces you’re wearing are stolen. I’m placing you under arrest while we pursue the information you’ve given us.”

The room swam around me while he read me my rights.
“You’ll be able to speak to a prosecuting attorney at the beginning of the week. Because of the severity of the additional crimes that were committed during the theft of what you’re wearing, as well as a good deal of other State property that was stolen, you will remain in your uniform and its restraints, and you will additionally be placed into felony-level security”.
“Nooo!” Shaking my head frantically, I needed the dildo out of my ass right now! I needed all of this off of me! I keened and shrieked through my nose and gag as I was led from that small room out to a row of wall-mounted machines the like of which I’d only seen in pictures. These were the felony-level arm restraint application machines, and all the silly fantasies I’d ever had about trying one went right out the window when faced with their stark reality in person. I freaked out and tried to pull away, not that my hobbled, stiletto-heeled resistance meant much to the two-hundred-pound officer. He caught hold of my nipple-chain locks through the front of my stretchy dress, and made me stand up on my toes, squealing and hands flapping in submission.

“Do you want to cooperate, or would you like to add ‘resisting arrest’?” I was asked.
I frantically nodded my intent to cooperate, and my nipple-locks were released. Meekly, eyes streaming, I went to the machine, turned around, and pushed my arms into the funnel-shaped opening in its front. Immediately my wrists were caught, I was pulled further in, and then my arms were forced painfully together. I squealed through my nose and the hole in the gag and stamped my feet; I was not limber enough for my elbows to touch together! The machine decided otherwise and a moment later I was released from its clutches with my forearms welded together behind me from mashed-to-a-point fingertips to elbows.

I was positively racked with pain, both new and cumulative, and I was in such a state of shock that I couldn’t even cry as the detective snapped a short leash on my collar and marched me, holding the leash closely in his left hand and gripping the end of my anal dildo with his right. I was totally, helplessly under his control. It was a long, whimpering, bimbo-wiggling, close-hobbled walk to the cell, stared at along the way by other inmates and ignored by other officers and staff. My breath caught in my throat when I saw that the cell was already occupied by eight or nine girls. Like me, they all wore full State public release punishment uniforms; their mouths strained around huge gags, their asses and pussies were stuffed full and stretched tight around huge, locked-in punishment dildos, their breasts were root-cinched and then encased in point-lined breast forms with their nipples pulled painfully through inch-long tubes at the tips and ringed, their arms were all pressed tightly together behind them in tough, shrunk-on plastic mono-sleeves, they were all knee-hobbled, and like me, their ankles were hobbled with heavy, stirrup cuffs connected by an eight-inch chain. I saw that I was one of only two of us that weren’t in ballet-toe stilettos. I looked at their collars and my heart pounded as I saw that every single one was welded permanently closed around its wearer’s throat. This was the single greatest example of fully-secured felony girls I’d ever seen in one place, and my boy parts fought desperately to get out of their painfully small, solitary confinement.
What I didn’t understand was why all these incredibly sexy girls and women, strictly bound and high on their toes in the most difficult shoes imaginable, were all on their feet and slowly milling about. Not one of them was sitting, lying down, or even leaning on a wall. This was answered by the detective who ordered me to ‘bend over ninety degrees at the hips, legs straight, ass high’. Frightened, I did as commanded. He waved a ten-inch long, inch-thick, polished steel bar in front of my face. I could see that it had threads at one end, and a key dangled from that end. The detective unscrewed the enema-attachment plug from the end of my anal dildo, and slid the bar up into the hollow dildo and locked it in place with the key.
“I guess you probably don’t know about this device,” he said. “A few years ago, it was decided that the punishment-uniformed inmates were too sedentary, and that it was doing them harm. Walking was deemed good enough exercise by the experts. The device I’ve just installed in your backside will trigger and give you a very nasty shock if you don’t move at least two feet every six seconds, or it comes within thirty inches of the floor, or twenty inches of a wall. In addition to the shock, you earn an extra thirty days in uniform for the violation. Punishment uniform girls are kept on their toes and moving in here, from seven in the morning until ten at night, seven days a week. The only time during the day that you’ll stop walking is when meals and clean-outs are done.”

He ushered me into the cell, said “Enjoy your stay” and left, the thick steel door closing with a deep clang and multiple clicks as it locked.

I remembered seeing a clock in the other room and sobbed; it was only just noon, I’d be walking (hobbling in seven-inch heels, my arms welded together behind my back, a huge dildo up my butt and gagged) for the next ten hours.
I wanted to panic, I shouldn’t be here. I wanted to tell somebody, have somebody listen to me, get this stuff off of me and out of me. No communication was possible with the other women in the cell. I realized that I was including myself as female, and why not? I sure looked and felt like one, and it seemed that I had been doing a lot of crying and squealing and was anything but masculine and tough. I needed to try to suck it up as I had to get through this, somehow. The other women weren’t whining even though most of them were ‘en Pointe’, and had been in their punishment uniforms for some time. I already hurt so much though. I felt there was no way I could do this. I wiggled along with the group in their slow circle, my heart pounding and my head spinning. My shoulders hurt so much, pinned back to where my elbows were touching inside the unforgiving arm binder, I was sure that I’d faint at any minute and get horribly shocked by the punishment device in my ass.

Offsetting my panic and misery were my cellmates. As terrible moment by terrible moment passed, I was totally riveted by the amazing sight of all these tiny, steel-cinched waists. I was transfixed at how the girls’ thin, gray lycra dresses were stretched to sheer over their transparent plastic breast forms, and how I could clearly see even the color of each and every stretched, ringed, tormented nipple through the see-through fabric. The women were different races, sizes and ages, I guessed from nineteen years old up to a woman in her mid-fifties (and what a cougar she was, wiggling along prettily on ballet toes!), their builds from slender to very curvaceous, and each of them was intensely erotic in her bondage and punishment uniform. I was mesmerized by the way the other girls (and I) were forced into a back-arched, butt out, tits up and shoulders way back position by the combination of the arm binders and the posture-enforcing shoulder straps of the lexan chest plates. After only a half an hour (or was it two hours? I couldn’t see a clock) I found myself trying not to grind my hips in sexual need and frustration, watching and moving with all of them. Their (our) legs all looked so long up above the amazingly high heels, wrapped in the shiny, back-seamed hosiery, each of us wonderfully, helplessly hobbled at the ankles and knees. The resulting ass-rolling hobble-walk caused the bright orange ends of the enormous dildos that penetrated all of our lower orifices to move with an almost hypnotic metronome swing. I could feel the huge dildo in my own ass move a little bit inside me with each step, and it occurred to me that we were all being made to slowly torment and arouse ourselves with our forced walk. This was soon confirmed; to my delight one or another of the women would frequently moan while thrusting and grinding her hips in sexual frustration. I was glad I wasn’t the only one going out of my mind.

I tried to stay out of everyone’s way, especially after I saw a dispute break out between two girls who had bumped into each other. It quickly turned into a grunting, squeaking, plastic-breast-form shoving match, at the end of which the loser was pushed too close to a wall. From the way her whole body clenched and vibrated for five long seconds, the shock that ripped through her from the bar in her anal dildo must’ve been really intense. She screamed through her nose and gag for the whole time, hitting a weird, warbling, animalistic note. I don’t know how she didn’t collapse. I thought about the fact that she’d also just earned another thirty days in her uniform, and renewed my efforts to stay away from the walls and floor. When I accidentally bumped into one of the other girls, I backed away wide-eyed, and not knowing what else to do, I kipped. This was good enough and she gave me a wink and a sexy little hip shake. I batted my eyes at her and relaxed a bit.
The days dragged by, a combination of boredom, exhaustion, frustration, aches, pains and anxiety, all while stewing and simmering with sexual titillation and need. The nights were spent on foam-rubber mats that were spread out on the floor for us. There were no pillows or blankets, but the cell was kept pretty warm. To my delight, the personal-space issues of the long day were put on hold, and it was considered perfectly okay to cuddle. All of us spooned as best we could in our bondage and used each other as pillows. It was awful when we were awoken sometime far too early by a recorded voice that gave a five-minutes-before-anal-shocker-activation warning. It was very difficult to get to my feet in the hobbles and the way my arms were held. I was so sore. I didn’t want to walk another step, but walk I would, all day.

The only breaks in the monotony of standing and slowly walking around in the cell happened twice a day when we were taken out and linked together collar to collar with thirty inch sections of chain into a coffle. We were ‘encouraged’ to walk in step, double-time, by a female officer wielding a short whip, which she used as punishment, reward, and even to punctuate her sentences. I could feel the stripes she’d lay across my bottom for hours afterwards. We were marched to a courtyard area, and stood in line to be hooked up to an automatic enema dispensing/retrieving machine. We were unclipped from the coffle chains, the standing/moving enforcement sensor rods were removed from our anal dildos, and a two-hose apparatus was inserted and attached into them. I gasped and trembled as I felt a good deal of liquid suddenly fill me. It seemed to keep coming and coming, and I was starting to get panicky about how full I was when it stopped, and reversed. The enema didn’t just gravity feed back out of me, it was suctioned. When I was all the way empty, I got the unpleasant surprise of a second filling and emptying, and then a third. Now completely cleaned out, we each received a liquefied meal. This was about a quart of thick liquid that was squirted down our throats via a dispenser hose that dangled down from above and was stuffed into our gag opening. No swallowing was necessary, the stuff just shot down my throat in a disconcerting and suddenly very filling way. ‘Mealtime’ (all ten seconds of it) over, freshly-charged motion-inducing shock rods were reinstalled in our anal dildos. I noticed how compliant and even eager my fellow inmates were about any activity that involved any contact with one of the guards or service people. For instance, each girl turned and bent way over, presenting her bottom for the insertion of the shock rods, and upon having it inserted and locked in place, gave a happy-appearing little wiggle and flirty look at the guard who’d put it in place. I quickly figured the situation out, the guards were very nice and physically attentive to girls that were sweet, giving them light swats and squeezes on their bottoms, helping move annoying hair out of girls’ eyes, smiling, and generally being pleasant. I made sure that I bent well over, legs straight, ass high, arms up in strappado position to receive my rod. Once it was in and locked, I turned, wiggled sexily and kipped to the guard while batting my eyes.

“Well aren’t you a little sweetie?” she asked. “Come here, Honey, and turn around.”
 I did so, and enjoyed a moment of pure heaven as the guard massaged my aching shoulders for a few seconds.
“There you go, Honey. Be a good girl now!” said the guard, giving me a swat on my bottom to send me on my way to be re-chained into the coffle.

Sunday came and went, and then Monday arrived. I was a little surprised and very relieved when the guards came in the morning and removed our arm binders and gags, making sure to label and bag each gag separately. One woman, the tall, large-breasted, tiny-waisted and very sexy fifty-something cougar did not have her gag removed, and I wondered why. Stretching our shoulders and working our jaws to get them to close again, we walked slowly around in the cell. Conversations started, and I was actually grateful that the gag had left me somewhat hoarse, as it helped disguise my voice. I had spent many hours practicing speaking in a feminine timbre and was pretty passable, but I still didn’t want to be found out.

I found the girl who’d wriggled and batted her eyes at me after I’d accidentally bumped into her and shyly started asking her questions about how all of this worked, and why were girls in public punishment/release uniforms being kept locked up in jail? Her voice was a whisper as she explained that this group of girls had either gotten into some kind of additional trouble and were waiting to see the prosecutor and/or go before a judge, or they were unable to get or keep a job and couldn’t pay their monthly service fee for being allowed to be on public release in a punishment uniform. These girls had turned themselves in so that they could take advantage of shelter, meals, enema service (she giggled hoarsely), and the program counselors who would help them find jobs and housing.

“Why are you and some of the other girls whispering?” I asked.
“Oh, that’s called the felony girl whisper. You get it after you’ve been wearing the deep-throat gag for more than about six months, your vocal chords are permanently damaged.” I was simultaneously horrified, and terribly, guiltily, very turned on.
“Woww,” I stammered then asked “Why did they leave us in the arm binders all weekend? I was afraid that they weren’t going to let us out of them at all.”

“In here you wear them all weekend, just like your gag. We have a little joke, ‘Thank god it’s not Friday.”
I indicated toward the still-gagged woman and asked “How come they left her gagged?” “Oh, she’s married, and her husband leaves her off here while he goes out of the country on business trips. She’s in here for two or three weeks a month. The story is that he caught her having an affair, and to avoid divorce, she agreed to voluntarily wear a uniform. I’m sure she didn’t expect for her husband to stipulate that she wear it for life and remain deep-throat gagged around the clock, though. Her gag is only ever removed to suck his cock, and then it’s immediately locked back on.”

It wasn’t until Tuesday that I finally got to meet (my hands cuffed and waist chained behind me) with the prosecuting attorney. She was an unpleasant, humorless woman who kept a lot of religious paraphernalia on her desk and it was obvious that she thought any male who enjoyed dressing as a female was a pervert and degenerate. She grilled me at length for details on how and where I’d obtained the uniform pieces that I’d bought, and still wore.
Finally, she said “I don’t think you’re being entirely honest with me. Your little house-burglary and stolen laptop story are too convenient by half.”

I was completely bowled over by this and protested vehemently that I was the victim here, and that I had no idea that the uniform pieces were stolen, and how could she not see that? Her eyes narrowed at me, and I was frightened by the look of disgust and even hate on her face.

“Did you know an officer was wounded in that heist? No? Well here’s what I am going to offer you, princess. We’re pretty backlogged with cases right now, so even though I think you deserve to go straight to jail, I will allow you to go without prosecution in exchange for your signing up to do two years of voluntary uniform wear. You wanted to wear a genuine State punishment uniform? Well now’s your chance.”

“NO! Please!” I began to beg, and she held up her hand to stop me.
“If you don’t want to wear the uniform for two years, out in the world with all your little friends and a job and all of that relative freedom, I am going to prosecute you for possession of stolen State property, accessory after the fact to a violent felony with injury to law enforcement personnel, and impeding the investigation of that crime. The minimum of any of those is two years, with a range of up to ten years, each. Oh, and you won’t do that time out in public, mincing around in high heels with a dildo up your ass, no, you’ll do that in prison. They’ll like someone who looks like you in prison won’t they? They’re going to pass you around and use you as currency.”

I was openly sobbing now, and repeating “I didn’t do anything! Please! Please!”
“Make your choice right now, cupcake. I won’t make the offer again.”
She slid a piece of paper across the desk to where it rested in front of me. It was a voluntary public punishment uniform wear form.
“No, I don’t want to…” I started to say.
“Fine, prison it is.” the prosecutor barked.
“Okay! Wait!” I sobbed. “I’ll do it.”
“Ask nicely to be allowed to wear a uniform, and thank me for the opportunity” the awful woman demanded in a hard, snarky voice. I broke.
“P-Please may I be allowed to voluntarily wear a punishment uniform? Thank you for offering me the chance.” My voice cracked as I wept.
She glared at me and then said “Alright, but I’m putting your gag back on you first, I can’t stand any more of your disgusting sniveling.”

She stuffed the big gag back in my mouth, none-too-gently, and locked the strap. She then removed the cuff from my right wrist to allow me to fill out the voluntary wear form. I shook and trembled as I did so, carefully filling out all my information and writing ‘2’ in the space for years of wear. I noted that I was agreeing to pay the state six hundred dollars a month for equipment and service fees, and my stomach clenched as I read that each month that went unpaid would cause two months to be added to my duration of wear, as well as the addition of disciplinary measures to the uniform. It was all I could do to make myself sign it. This was observed by a second woman in the office, who counter-signed it and then punched the form with a notary stamp. My life was over, if I wasn’t already fired for two days of ‘No call, no show’ at my job, I would be the second I walked in dressed as I would be for the next two years.

The next day, after enemas and feeding, my ‘walk or shock’ device wasn’t put back in my anal dildo. I was leashed and led from the cell (still in uniform, gagged, and again hands cuffed up high behind my back to a waist chain) down to the uniform fitting room. My leash handle was hung on one of a row of hooks at just above head height and I waited, standing in line with a variety of other, also gagged, leashed and similarly handcuffed women for a turn with a ‘fitment’ officer at a workstation. Some of these women were already in uniform, there for their two-week maintenance and possibly a uniform ‘adjustment’ (waist band reduction, dildo and/or gag size increase, heel height increase) all done to keep the level of torment fresh for the wearer. A few other women were there for their first fittings. We were all nervous, but the pre-uniform, fully naked newbies were really freaking out. I saw that they wore panel gags with inflatable inserts (pumped quite full) to keep them from creating a disturbance. More than one was visibly trembling. Those in line got to watch those ahead of them go through the process, and even though I was freaking out about my own situation, I was enthralled by the show. My poor, squashed boy parts made yet another unsuccessful attempt at escape from their orange-painted steel isolation cell.

Watching the myriad of expressions cross the faces of the ‘veteran’ uniform-wearers as they were secured (hands in shackles overhead) and then stripped of their punishment implements was riveting. Seeing a woman react as two great big dildos pulled are out of her pussy and ass after they’d been locked deep inside her for two weeks (and for previous months and years before that) was yummy. The horror on their faces when they were shown how big the replacement intruders would be made me pant. The dildos weren’t just pushed up into these women, who were secured bent over a bench to receive them; each dildo was thrust into and pulled out of the suffering, overstretched opening a couple of dozen times before finally being pushed in deep and locked there with a much-too-small chastity belt. Even gagged, their screams were pretty loud. I must’ve somehow been in denial that I would soon be facing the same kind of fresh hell as the women I was watching. That said, I actually dribbled a little bit of liquid from the slots in my chastity as I watched a tall, curvaceous, thirty-something brunette woman get fitted into her first pair of ballet-toe, orange-stiletto-heeled bondage pumps. Oh how she begged not to wear them.

“You know I’m a waitress!” she wailed, “Please don’t make me wait tables in these! I’m begging you, I still have eight more years left on my sentence!”
The fitment officer just laughed at her. Watching the attractive woman take a hard dildo-fucking up each of her openings then wobble tearfully and awkwardly away, up on her tip-toes in her new shoes, also wearing a new, longer, fatter gag and stuffed with two larger dildos was almost enough to make me climax, chastity can or not.
Watching the newbies get put in uniform was just as delicious; they were so nervous about every little touch, and oh the notes that one of them (a slender, natural-ginger girl with very white skin) hit when her tight little ass got filled for the very first time! She was almost as loud again when she was pierced and the stainless grommets were inserted into the new holes her raspberry-colored nipples and flared, making them irremovable. When the new girls’ fitment into their uniform was complete and they were released, their reaction was adorable; wobbling in their new, locked-on six-inch stiletto heels, they would try ineffectually to pull the too-short little dress down to cover their new dildo-stuffed chastity belt, they would try to cover their painful, freshly pierced and now stretched nipples that showed through the tight, sheer tops of their uniform dresses, they would try to pull the too-big, locked-in gag out of their mouths, and finally, unable to stop crying, they would do their very first knee-hobbled, bimbo-wiggle-walk on their way to the exit.

My turn came. The officer unhooked my leash and I followed obediently. At her station, I wriggled into place and kipped submissively. I did not want to do anything to arouse the ire of the fitment officer and was relieved when she gave me a little smile. I was released from the handcuffs, my dress was removed and then my hands were shackled out of the way up above my head.

“Oh, you’re the ‘special’ one, aren’t you?” the officer said, reading the paperwork in what was apparently my file. “Hey!” she called the other guards over. “Here’s that ‘special’ case’.”
My stomach clenched. I did not want any extra notoriety. Leaving the girls they were working on manacled (high on their toes, or secured bottoms-up, bent over benches) where they were, the other officers came over and watched while my chastity belt was removed. Then the comments started.
“Wow, how did she, I mean he, get all of himself into that little can?”
“Must not be much of a man!” “That’s pretty obvious.”
“He-she sure looks female, except for those itty bitty titties, (giggle)”
“He bought one of those stolen uniforms and managed to get into all of it by himself? What a little pervert!”
“That’s exactly what she is, look at this work order.”
The officers crowded around the document, and shook their heads.
“That’s a serious little pain-slut you’ve got hanging there. Well, give him her money’s worth.”
When my gag was removed a moment later, I raspingly begged (in my girl voice) to know what the work order said.
“You know what it says, it’s the voluntary wear contract you filled out and signed,” said the fitment officer, not unkindly.
“Please ma’am, I didn’t think I asked for anything special, may I just peek?”
She pursed her lips but held the paper up where I could see it. It was indeed the paper that I had filled out, but instead of being mostly blank, it now had every single option box (there were dozens of them) checked off, and I almost passed out when I saw that next to the ‘2’ I had written on the ‘Years of wear’ space, someone had, imitating my handwriting and using the same pen, added a ‘5’. My ‘Voluntary wear’ contract duration was now twenty-five years at ‘Felony restraint level plus’ and would incorporate every punitive accessory and appliance that could be added to it, adjusted for the highest level of severity. Apparently I started inhaling and screaming over and over, because my gag was jammed (oww!) right back in my mouth and re-locked. After I was re-gagged, I guess I went into shock because everything became kind of a blur. I vaguely remember being coated with hair remover, including my face and into the slots in my chastity, and then having it scrubbed off.

I didn’t have any hair on my body anyway, but whatever” I thought, as I floated along.
I was brought back to full consciousness when the fitment officer cleaned my boy parts with them still locked in the chastity device. To do this, she directed a strong stream of cold water at the devices’ top and side vent-slits, added some liquid soap, and then rinsed until there were no more bubbles coming out of the bottom slits. Next came a jet of compressed air from a hose which she used to blow every drop of water out of my chastity can. It was the only contact that part of me had experienced for days, and it was traumatizing. She then pulled the huge anal-punishment dildo out of me, which elicited a good deal of noise on my part. Oh, did it feel weird to be empty back there.

She measured me all over, and then said “Whoever fit you for this stuff did a pretty good job, it’s right about what I’d have started you at. You must be a little butt-slut, this is pretty big for a first timer (she waved the anal dildo around in front of me), and looking at your narrow little pelvis, it might be as big as you can take. Don’t worry though sweetie, we’ll make sure that whatever gets put up your ass really has your attention, even if we can’t go much bigger with it.”
I shuddered and writhed in fear.

“We’re going to get a start today on getting your waist size down, and seeing how well you do in those seven-inchers, I’m going to go ahead and put you in Pointe shoes.”

Wide-eyed, I squealed through my nose and shook my head ‘No! No!’
Hours later, when I finally stumbled out into the daylight, ‘released’ into the public, the ballet-toe, stiletto-heeled shoes I now struggled in weren’t as toe-crushingly awful as I’d feared; they were designed so that my feet couldn’t slide all the way forward in them, leaving my weight supported by my heels, insteps and arches, not completely on my toes. A cruel design element I hadn’t known about was the stiff ‘tongue’ of the shoes that extended up my lower shins. This prevented my feet from moving to any position other than full ballet pointe, and my feet ached while learning to accommodate the demanding position. The strict toe shoes were only one of my problems. I was also trying to come to terms with the permanent grommet and the thick, inch-diameter ring that now pierced my tongue. Also new were the gray plastic bondage gloves that I had been informed could not be cut. These left my fingers free, but curled my thumbs into the palms of my hands where they were now useless. Perhaps worst and most alarming was the fact that my collar, the one that proclaimed me to be a ‘Habitual Prostitute’ was now welded permanently in place. The collar had been the reason I was put into the thumbless gloves; apparently this was done to repeat offenders so that they couldn’t give their customers hand jobs. It made no difference that I wasn’t really a prostitute, I’d arrived locked in a collar that said I was, and then I’d “voluntarily” agreed to stay locked in it. Hot tears ran down my face as I traced the new welds running up the sides of the collar with my fingertips. My neck and head had been protected by special silicone anti-heat mats that fitted so tightly under the collar that I felt as if I were being strangled while the automatic welder welded both the hinge and then the joint. The collar was quickly cooled and released from the mechanism that had held me absolutely motionless. I was permanently collared, permanently marked as a felon and a prostitute. Waves of panic-induced nausea and terror washed over me as I tried to rationalize what this meant for me.

I wore a fresh pair of the heavy crotchless, back-seamed, shiny tan pantyhose. I wore the same breast plate and cups that I’d come in with and my nipples were once again chained under tension with little locks (they’d cut mine off and used stainless-steel State versions), pulling the chains out one agonizing link further than I’d had them. My chastity belt was basically the same as what I’d worn, except for the belt being a torturous half-inch smaller. My knee-hobble link had been reduced to two inches and I again wore the heavy, stirrup-equipped ankle cuffs with the eight-inch hobble chain. I would be doing a lot of walking, as the new, same-sized anal punishment dildo (having screamed into the gag as I received a couple dozen full-length in-and-out strokes with it) that now violated me was fitted with orientation and movement sensors, as well as proximity sensors to the heels of my shoes. If I didn’t stand and walk in my new ballet-toe stilettos for at least six hours a day I would receive punishment shocks, and an extra week on my ‘voluntary’ sentence for each violation. There was no indicator to let me know if I’d made it to six hours for the day, so I’d always have to be sure that I was well over that amount. Bound, punished, freshly butt-fucked and suffering with the huge new intruder locked inside me, I made my way with tiny, knee-and-ankle hobbled ballet-toe steps to where my car was parked. Well, to where it had been parked, as it was gone. I assumed it had been towed.

I finally made it home (hitchhiking is scary, and doing it in what I was wearing was terrifying) and just collapsed onto the nearest piece of furniture, my weeping and wailing almost completely stifled by my gag. I couldn’t take another day, much less twenty-five years of this. My mind tried to reject the possibility that I could really be spending twenty-five years in strict bondage and continuous torment. Who could I go to for help getting this situation fixed? It was obvious that the hateful, angry prosecutor had altered my paperwork (after she’d coerced me into signing it in the first place), so who could I talk to that was above her? A Judge? How could I get to talk to a Judge, and why would they care about helping me? After I ruminated on this for a long while I began to have a terrible feeling that I could be truly stuck in this horrible predicament. My heart pounded and my body shook. I felt like I was going to have another panic attack, clawing at my uniform and thrashing around like an animal, but it never came. I managed to get a little food down and then slept. In the morning the time-lock on my gag released and I finally got to call (lisping around my heavy new tongue ring) into work.
I was curtly informed that I had been fired. No, they would not mail my last check to me. The next day I had to take a number of buses to get to my ex-workplace to clear out my personal belongings and sign a termination form to get my last check. The stares, glares and comments from my former co-workers were every bit as bad as you can imagine and included some loud, stinging slaps on my dildo-stuffed ass that came from the sales guys as I bimbo-wiggled my way past their desks. Everybody guffawed at this as I stumbled, trying to keep my balance. Now carrying a box of stuff while trying to balance in the toe shoes, I had to take another bus to get somewhere near my bank, and then walk (if you can call it that), still carrying the box, six blocks (with lots of honking from passing motorists) more to get the check cashed, and collect my backup chastity key from my safe-deposit box. At first, based on my photo ID they were not going to let me access my safe-deposit box. Thank goodness the bank had a fingerprint-identification machine. Having the key to my chastity was an exercise in futility as I could not get it anywhere near its keyhole while the State’s chastity belt was locked in place on me.
More walking (or rather wriggling like a demented, hobbled, anal-dildo slut) slowly and painfully to the next bus stop, another transfer, another long walk, and I finally made it to the impound lot. Collecting my car took all of my remaining money. The lot attendant apparently saw a number of uniform girls come for their towed cars and was ready to take advantage of them. He handcuffed my hands behind me, snapped a short leash onto my collar and held it as he walked me the long way to my car (“No unsupervised criminals wandering the lot!”), his other hand alternately holding the end of my anal dildo or cupping my ass the entire time. I didn’t dare protest. When I finally made it home, I did so just in time for my appointment to have a State arm restraint application machine put in place in my living room.

Every morning, waking up painfully bound, gagged, chastised and impaled on a huge dildo was shocking.
I’d think blurrily “What a night! Time to get out of all of this” and then the realization would hit that there would be no release, this was what I’d be wearing all day, every day for the foreseeable future.
The worst day was one where I overslept and missed the arm binder release time window. I had to wear it all day and through the night again, thirty-six hours straight. To compound matters, it was a weekend, and I was gagged. I managed to get some water, but no food. I was miserable, hungry, lonely, depressed and unrelentingly horny with no relief available for any of my woes.

The sexual stimulation and denial turned out to be amongst the worst of my torments. It seems that a person can gradually become accustomed to physical discomfort and restraints, at least to the point where you’re not on the verge of a screaming, begging fit at all times. Unfortunately, with this acclimation comes the return of one’s sexual urges and needs. I was helplessly secured in the outfit that had been the very pinnacle of my fetishes, cross-dressed, anally stuffed, humiliated, helpless and increasingly, desperately turned on. I hated my predicament, but knowing that I was really wearing a state punishment uniform and that I was stuck in it with no possibility of escape kept me at a high simmer. I believe the word is “conflicted”. I needed an orgasm so badly I could’ve died, but there was absolutely no chance of getting one.
 
A month went by and my losing streak compounded. My socially conservative and very religious parents disowned me, as did my siblings. I didn’t have a lot of friends and the ones I had weren’t the kind that would understand about a friend having an apparent gender change and getting locked into a State punishment uniform, complete with extra bondage toys. I was alone. I was out of money and I’d had to turn my car in at the dealership to avoid having it repossessed. Jobs were hard to come by for a person in a State punishment uniform, especially one who is without the use of their thumbs and is wearing a welded-on collar that proclaims them to be a habitual prostitute. I found that I couldn’t qualify for a manufacturing job, due to my lack of thumbs. I’d shuddered as I looked at the uniformed girls out on the assembly floor; they were made to stand in their ultra-high or even ballet heels, short-leashed to an overhead ring at their stations all day, no sitting*. Worse than that, their employment contract stipulated that they were to wear their uniform gag (to eliminate time-wasting chatter) while at work, seven-thirty to five-thirty, Monday through Friday. Because they were already gagged overnight and on weekends, this meant that these poor girls were kept gagged at all times, twenty-four-seven, three-sixty-five. The resulting liquid diets were working though, there wasn’t a fat girl anywhere to be seen.

*[Even the pretty company receptionist, a very buxom uniformed girl, had to stand en-pointe (and short-leashed to an overhead ring) at a glass-topped, counter-high mini-desk. I watched in amazement as she stood smiling and at attention while passing male employees would casually tug and stroke her nipples through her uniform or give her bottom a squeeze or a slap, to which she would always kip, giggle and exclaim “Thank you sir!” Jobs were tough to get, and she was doing what it took to keep hers.]

Even the strip clubs were no good, they were staffing all the ‘outmate’ girls they could handle to bartend, bus, work the door, etcetera, and there was a six month wait to even apply. How I envied them after I’d been told to try again in a few months. I watched them struggling in their bondage, hurrying to perform their duties, and wished for a job or a break of any kind. I received a letter informing me that two months had been added to my uniform time due to non-payment of monthly State service fees. My lights and water were turned off and I was evicted.

That was on a Saturday and the early afternoon found me gagged for the weekend, discarded and out at the curbside with my belongings. I had no idea what I was going to do or where I was going to go. I sat awkwardly on one of my wooden kitchen chairs, balanced on the two orange projections from my chastity belt. People pulled up in cars and asked if they could have things from the pile and I nodded. Somebody even took the chair I was sitting in (they wanted the whole set) and I was left standing, then finally kneeling by the curb. I didn’t know where I was going to spend the night but I guessed that it would be in voluntary lockup back down at the police station, stuck in an armbinder and tip-toeing en-Pointe in endless circles with the other homeless outmate girls.]]> <![CDATA[Dancing on the limit - by cranksfk]]> https://www.likera.com/forum/mybb/Thread-Dancing-on-the-limit-by-cranksfk Fri, 09 Feb 2024 14:29:20 +0000 cranksfk]]> https://www.likera.com/forum/mybb/Thread-Dancing-on-the-limit-by-cranksfk  
Since you had pulled the upline on my upper body bondage taut, I felt the ropes pressing into my flesh. The countless wraps that you had pulled wildly around my chest constricted even more. Each breath gave me trouble, so my body automatically started focusing on it, turning a simple minor matter into something that took a large part of my concentration. I gave you a pleading and at the same time satisfied look as I watched you walk around me
 
I enjoyed your look that you had given me as a gift. And I rewarded it by loosening the storage knot of another rope behind your back and letting its ends fall onto the floor mat. I knew what that sound would do to you, and I could see you trying in vain to somehow turn your head so that you could see what I was doing. But when the rope fell to the floor again, this time visible to you, you could probably guess. A short time later I had tied the rope, which I had already connected to the hard point above you, to one of your leg tying. I took my time until I pulled on it unexpectedly and jerkily, which pulled your leg up and tilted your whole body slightly to the side. Your somewhat comfortable seat now became a seat on one leg and one of your buttocks, while the other was forced to hover slightly above the floor.
 
Goosebumps spread as I heard the ends of the rope fall to the ground. I could not control the reaction, my body sent out the signals of anticipation without my consent. Then seeing you, with the rope in your hand, and knowing that you were about to use it to force my leg into a partial suspension bondage, but not when, only intensified the goosebumps. But when you finally pulled hard on it, I still wasn't prepared for the moment, despite my attempts. Whether due to my surprise or because the new position was once again pushing air out of my lungs, when you pulled my leg up into the air, I made a soft surprised and pleased noise through my gag. I tried to make the new position more comfortable by doing some wriggling in my bondage, but the uplines kept pulling my body back to the starting position. Playfully I looked up at you and tried to make challenging noises in your direction while I kept squirming my body in the bondage and enjoying the feeling it was causing
 
"So, you want to play?", I thought to myself as I watched you struggle in your bondage and took a new rope in my hands. Kneeling in front of you, I used it to also restrict the movement of your second leg. After tying the rope to your leg bondage, I reached around your body and passed it around your back several times. I took my time as my hands glided around your already vulnerable body. Then as I grabbed the multiple bindings around your torso and made a junction to the rope to your leg, your second leg was also slightly lifted while at the same time your body was pulled towards your leg. At least as far as your upper body restraint allowed. Even if you were now forced to distribute your weight only on one buttock or in the suspension bondage, I still had not enough. You had asked me to bring you to your limit, and who am I to deny you this wish? While you were still exploring your new forced position, I had already grabbed your hair and made a simple bondage around it. While your uplines for your torso and one of your legs went in the same direction, I tied the rope that had a firm grip on your hair in the other direction. Due to the pain caused by the pulling of your hair, your head laid down as if by itself in the position I wanted, slightly to the side and slightly tilted down. When I was done with my work, I sat a little to the side in front of you and watched your reaction to your new situation.
 
Even when you had also forced my second leg into a position, I already felt how uncomfortable this position would be over a longer period of time. Playfully exploring the new position, by squirming back and forth in the bondage, I already realized how little room to move I still had. And even though I knew I was safe, a feeling of fear and vulnerability spread through me. But when in addition the hair bondage came, I really noticed how little freedom I still had. I couldn't breathe properly, couldn't sit properly, couldn't shift my weight onto my leg, and couldn't lean forward or backward. Any attempt to make the bondage more comfortable was punished with pain. More and more I realized how powerless I was trapped in this position. Fear, helplessness, and the effort to breathe filled my head. Pushed everything else aside. I felt my heartbeat accelerate and adrenaline flood my veins. I felt exposed and tried to make pleading eye contact with you, but you had sat down in such a way that I would have to turn my head slightly to look you in the eye. All I had left was to see your body, to know that you were there
 
I watched you carefully. Your breathing, your body language, your eyes. I could see how you were on the edge of your limit and every minute in this position pushed you further in its direction. But I did nothing else. I sat motionless next to you, gave you the feeling that I was close and let you explore your darkest places. Only when your breath became gasping and a tear rolled down your cheek did I stand up and undo the uplines, the knots that held your hands behind your body and those that secured your leg restraints. I left the remaining ropes in place, we could untie them later, and placed a blanket I had laid out ready over you. I sat down behind you, reached my arms around your body, held you tight and gave you something to lean on. Take the time you need to process what had just happened. I am here.
 
It was the complete opposite of what I felt before. A moment ago, I was in a powerless, lonely and painful position, now I was in a warm and safe one. And together with you. I could still feel the remaining ropes wrapped around me, but they were not important. The sense of security gave me the freedom to completely surrender to my feelings. So, I could no longer hold back my tears and my whole body started to tremble from the stress I had gone through mentally and physically. But I felt your closeness. Your body heat, which was even noticeable through the blanket. Your hold, which gave me security. I leaned into your body, put my head against yours and embraced the feelings it gave me. Safety, closeness, and comfort.
]]>  
Since you had pulled the upline on my upper body bondage taut, I felt the ropes pressing into my flesh. The countless wraps that you had pulled wildly around my chest constricted even more. Each breath gave me trouble, so my body automatically started focusing on it, turning a simple minor matter into something that took a large part of my concentration. I gave you a pleading and at the same time satisfied look as I watched you walk around me
 
I enjoyed your look that you had given me as a gift. And I rewarded it by loosening the storage knot of another rope behind your back and letting its ends fall onto the floor mat. I knew what that sound would do to you, and I could see you trying in vain to somehow turn your head so that you could see what I was doing. But when the rope fell to the floor again, this time visible to you, you could probably guess. A short time later I had tied the rope, which I had already connected to the hard point above you, to one of your leg tying. I took my time until I pulled on it unexpectedly and jerkily, which pulled your leg up and tilted your whole body slightly to the side. Your somewhat comfortable seat now became a seat on one leg and one of your buttocks, while the other was forced to hover slightly above the floor.
 
Goosebumps spread as I heard the ends of the rope fall to the ground. I could not control the reaction, my body sent out the signals of anticipation without my consent. Then seeing you, with the rope in your hand, and knowing that you were about to use it to force my leg into a partial suspension bondage, but not when, only intensified the goosebumps. But when you finally pulled hard on it, I still wasn't prepared for the moment, despite my attempts. Whether due to my surprise or because the new position was once again pushing air out of my lungs, when you pulled my leg up into the air, I made a soft surprised and pleased noise through my gag. I tried to make the new position more comfortable by doing some wriggling in my bondage, but the uplines kept pulling my body back to the starting position. Playfully I looked up at you and tried to make challenging noises in your direction while I kept squirming my body in the bondage and enjoying the feeling it was causing
 
"So, you want to play?", I thought to myself as I watched you struggle in your bondage and took a new rope in my hands. Kneeling in front of you, I used it to also restrict the movement of your second leg. After tying the rope to your leg bondage, I reached around your body and passed it around your back several times. I took my time as my hands glided around your already vulnerable body. Then as I grabbed the multiple bindings around your torso and made a junction to the rope to your leg, your second leg was also slightly lifted while at the same time your body was pulled towards your leg. At least as far as your upper body restraint allowed. Even if you were now forced to distribute your weight only on one buttock or in the suspension bondage, I still had not enough. You had asked me to bring you to your limit, and who am I to deny you this wish? While you were still exploring your new forced position, I had already grabbed your hair and made a simple bondage around it. While your uplines for your torso and one of your legs went in the same direction, I tied the rope that had a firm grip on your hair in the other direction. Due to the pain caused by the pulling of your hair, your head laid down as if by itself in the position I wanted, slightly to the side and slightly tilted down. When I was done with my work, I sat a little to the side in front of you and watched your reaction to your new situation.
 
Even when you had also forced my second leg into a position, I already felt how uncomfortable this position would be over a longer period of time. Playfully exploring the new position, by squirming back and forth in the bondage, I already realized how little room to move I still had. And even though I knew I was safe, a feeling of fear and vulnerability spread through me. But when in addition the hair bondage came, I really noticed how little freedom I still had. I couldn't breathe properly, couldn't sit properly, couldn't shift my weight onto my leg, and couldn't lean forward or backward. Any attempt to make the bondage more comfortable was punished with pain. More and more I realized how powerless I was trapped in this position. Fear, helplessness, and the effort to breathe filled my head. Pushed everything else aside. I felt my heartbeat accelerate and adrenaline flood my veins. I felt exposed and tried to make pleading eye contact with you, but you had sat down in such a way that I would have to turn my head slightly to look you in the eye. All I had left was to see your body, to know that you were there
 
I watched you carefully. Your breathing, your body language, your eyes. I could see how you were on the edge of your limit and every minute in this position pushed you further in its direction. But I did nothing else. I sat motionless next to you, gave you the feeling that I was close and let you explore your darkest places. Only when your breath became gasping and a tear rolled down your cheek did I stand up and undo the uplines, the knots that held your hands behind your body and those that secured your leg restraints. I left the remaining ropes in place, we could untie them later, and placed a blanket I had laid out ready over you. I sat down behind you, reached my arms around your body, held you tight and gave you something to lean on. Take the time you need to process what had just happened. I am here.
 
It was the complete opposite of what I felt before. A moment ago, I was in a powerless, lonely and painful position, now I was in a warm and safe one. And together with you. I could still feel the remaining ropes wrapped around me, but they were not important. The sense of security gave me the freedom to completely surrender to my feelings. So, I could no longer hold back my tears and my whole body started to tremble from the stress I had gone through mentally and physically. But I felt your closeness. Your body heat, which was even noticeable through the blanket. Your hold, which gave me security. I leaned into your body, put my head against yours and embraced the feelings it gave me. Safety, closeness, and comfort.
]]> <![CDATA['Cat Burglar' by Raj2842]]> https://www.likera.com/forum/mybb/Thread-Cat-Burglar-by-Raj2842 Tue, 06 Feb 2024 13:26:56 +0000 Culmor]]> https://www.likera.com/forum/mybb/Thread-Cat-Burglar-by-Raj2842
Cat Burglar - NonConsent/Reluctance - Literotica.com]]>
Cat Burglar - NonConsent/Reluctance - Literotica.com]]> <![CDATA[Bondage News Snippets]]> https://www.likera.com/forum/mybb/Thread-Bondage-News-Snippets Sun, 07 May 2023 09:39:14 +0000 Bound Whore]]> https://www.likera.com/forum/mybb/Thread-Bondage-News-Snippets tale.

.png   whoopsiedaisy.png (Size: 1.68 MB / Downloads: 258) ]]> tale.

.png   whoopsiedaisy.png (Size: 1.68 MB / Downloads: 258) ]]> <![CDATA[Story time - "The consulting job"]]> https://www.likera.com/forum/mybb/Thread-Story-time-The-consulting-job Sat, 26 Mar 2022 20:55:50 +0000 Bound Whore]]> https://www.likera.com/forum/mybb/Thread-Story-time-The-consulting-job
If you're familiar with my posts and persona, I have been a little bi-curious lately. Well, for close to a year now.
Still haven't been able to act on it, but from time to time I browse the local "Men seeking men" classifieds, on the one hand as fuel for thought and on the other hand on the off chance I find an intriguing entry and consequently, possibly a match.

A while back I came across an ad from a gay couple who were looking for a third. While that certainly would have been quite an excessive debut into the scene for me (I did not contact them), it made a train of thought leave the station that has kept me onboard and busy for quite a while now.

It started by me imagining driving out to visit them. After a short introduction, we would sit down on a couch, have some drinks and get to know each other. Eventually, they would start putting their hands on my thighs while slowly beginning to rub and stroke their (still clothed) crotches to "get the bloodflow going". In this particular fantasy, I would act surprised and reluctant, as they open their pants, pull out their (obviously) gorgeous cocks and gently, but unrelentingly start to force me taking turns going down on them until the threesome eventually shifts into a steamy spitroast with me in the middle, getting used and dominated until they finally both climax and fill me up with their hot cum from both ends.

The following story evolved around this basic idea, with some additions, alterations, twists and a considerably stronger vibe of non-consent. But given the forum's interest in extreme makeover hypnosis and submission, I figured it might tickle the one or other's fancy.

CAVEAT:
The following contains depictions of non-consenual intercourse between men, forced captivity and various methods of submission with numerous fetish aspects thrown in for good measure. Personally I don't think it's too drastic, but on the other hand, I maybe got a little carried away in parts. It's hard to tell when you're immersed in developing a story. And by "developing" I mean I made a lot of the story up as I went and added predicaments as I felt.

Also, I'm not a native english speaker. Not everything (or anything at all) concerning motivations, feasability of scenarios or other facets may hold up to scrutiny. Furthermore, I hate proofreading.
Remember, you can stop reading anytime.

@Like Ra, if anything is beyond the boundaries of this forum, feel free to delete.]]>
If you're familiar with my posts and persona, I have been a little bi-curious lately. Well, for close to a year now.
Still haven't been able to act on it, but from time to time I browse the local "Men seeking men" classifieds, on the one hand as fuel for thought and on the other hand on the off chance I find an intriguing entry and consequently, possibly a match.

A while back I came across an ad from a gay couple who were looking for a third. While that certainly would have been quite an excessive debut into the scene for me (I did not contact them), it made a train of thought leave the station that has kept me onboard and busy for quite a while now.

It started by me imagining driving out to visit them. After a short introduction, we would sit down on a couch, have some drinks and get to know each other. Eventually, they would start putting their hands on my thighs while slowly beginning to rub and stroke their (still clothed) crotches to "get the bloodflow going". In this particular fantasy, I would act surprised and reluctant, as they open their pants, pull out their (obviously) gorgeous cocks and gently, but unrelentingly start to force me taking turns going down on them until the threesome eventually shifts into a steamy spitroast with me in the middle, getting used and dominated until they finally both climax and fill me up with their hot cum from both ends.

The following story evolved around this basic idea, with some additions, alterations, twists and a considerably stronger vibe of non-consent. But given the forum's interest in extreme makeover hypnosis and submission, I figured it might tickle the one or other's fancy.

CAVEAT:
The following contains depictions of non-consenual intercourse between men, forced captivity and various methods of submission with numerous fetish aspects thrown in for good measure. Personally I don't think it's too drastic, but on the other hand, I maybe got a little carried away in parts. It's hard to tell when you're immersed in developing a story. And by "developing" I mean I made a lot of the story up as I went and added predicaments as I felt.

Also, I'm not a native english speaker. Not everything (or anything at all) concerning motivations, feasability of scenarios or other facets may hold up to scrutiny. Furthermore, I hate proofreading.
Remember, you can stop reading anytime.

@Like Ra, if anything is beyond the boundaries of this forum, feel free to delete.]]> <![CDATA[A new story: Jessie and Annie meet Ms. Dayna]]> https://www.likera.com/forum/mybb/Thread-A-new-story-Jessie-and-Annie-meet-Ms-Dayna Tue, 02 Nov 2021 15:28:03 +0000 bob_masters]]> https://www.likera.com/forum/mybb/Thread-A-new-story-Jessie-and-Annie-meet-Ms-Dayna I wrote this short story a few years ago when I was chatting with a blonde girl on Facebook. Her name is Jessie and she has a younger sister called Annie. Jessie has 'issues' with her family, in particular with her sister and father. While she clearly loves her sister very much, she is also extremely jealous of her. Jealousy to the point of destruction. Jessie has other unusual 'issues' too, for example she 'needs' to expose herself to strangers - that's how I met her. She 'needs' public degradation and humiliation, which is why she posts photos of herself, naked, masturbating, etc. on porn platforms.
She has also obtained naked photos of her sister and she posts these too. Sometimes she even pretends to BE her sister when chatting with perverts on these sites.
But I am a nice guy. I have spent a long time getting to know Jessie and trying to help her to stop endangering herself - opening herself to blackmail, or hurting her family and friends.
As I said to her, if you must expose yourself, do it with me. I will not hurt you. I will not expose or blackmail you. We can 'play' whatever games you want, but I will not do anything that will hurt you. I think I helped her. She is now married and has a young daughter.
This short story was written at her request, about her and her sister (they are not twins though). I have written other short stories for her too.
If you like this story, let me know and I can add further chapters, characters, or plots - if you have a fantasy to include, let me know.
I hope you enjoy it.
Bob
________________________

Story: Jessie and Annie meet Miss Dayna

Jessie and Annie were twins, not identical twins though, and apart from a shared birthday they had very little in common.

Both the girls were 14 and very pretty. They were also intelligent, but even in these things they were different. Annie was studious and shy, with long dark brown hair and hazel eyes. She was a straight ‘A’ student, serious and diligent, but she was small for her age and could easily pass for 12 or 13 years old. Jessie on the other hand was blonde and had blue eyes. She was smart and mischievous, and could be mistaken for being 15 or even 16, with well-developed breasts and long athletic legs.

Jessie had a wicked sense of humour and loved to play practical jokes, often getting into trouble, and usually dragging her poor sister into taking part of the blame.

And so it was on this Tuesday afternoon that the two sisters found themselves standing in front of the desk of the new school Principle, Miss Dayna. Just before lunch they had been in the swimming class, and Jessie had been first back to the changing rooms after the lesson. Before the other girls could get back, she had run around mixing up all the girls’ underwear! Of course the sports teacher had known immediately who was to blame, but Jessie had insisted that it was Annie’s idea. Unsure what action to take, and despite Annie’s protests, both the sisters had been sent to Miss Dayna’s office for punishment.

Dayna Dalton had just become the youngest school Principle in the country. She was beautiful, ambitious, and intelligent. With long dark hair, an impish smile, and a model’s figure, she knew the effect that her looks had on men and women, and she used every trick to get what she wanted.

Miss Dayna looked up at the two schoolgirls standing in front of her desk. It was hard to believe they were sisters let alone twins. She glanced down at their files lying open on the desk in front of her. Annie’s record was spotless, except for pranks like this involving her sister. Jessie though was a repeat troublemaker, constantly being disruptive and impertinent.

Dayna drummed her fingers on the wooden desktop as she considered what to do. It was obvious that in this case Annie was innocent and that Jessie and caused the mayhem in the locker room, but what to do? She looked the two girls up and down, assessing them. Annie wore her school uniform like a model student, her grey pleated skirt falling to just above her cute knees, the white, knee-high socks perfectly aligned, and black shoes gleaming. Her tie was well knotted and hung elegantly down the front of her white school blouse.

Jessie’s skirt was much too short, barely covering her smooth, tanned thighs. Her blouse was too tight and strained across her developing breasts, while her tie was insolently tied to hang barely halfway down her chest. And her shoes definitely exceeded the school limit with regard to heel height. She looked like every dirty pervert’s idea of a slutty schoolgirl!

Miss Dayna frowned and said, “You two girls are a disgrace to the school! I’ve looked at your records, and it seems that my predecessor failed miserably in keeping you under control – well I intend to correct that.”

Annie looked down at her feet, sniffing as though she was about to cry. Jessie was smirking and looking around the room, she didn’t seem to care what the Principle thought.

“I’m new here,” Miss Dayna continued, her frown deepening. “But I can tell you that I use VERY different methods to deal with disruptive students like YOU!” She raised her voice as she said this last word, leaning back in her leather executive chair.

Jessie suddenly pricked up her ears and turned back to look at the woman in front of her. There was something in her voice that sounded… threatening.

“Yes,” Miss Dayna said, a smirk playing around her pretty red lips, “I believe in old-fashioned discipline. If students don’t respond to modern teaching methods, then we must revert to corporal punishment, I’ve found that it works quite well.”

“But, but, that’s illegal!” Jessie blurted out. “You can’t do that.”

Dayna laughed. It was a pretty sound, but there was an edge to it that Jessie didn’t like. Annie just shuffled her feet and sniffled, her eyes fixed firmly on her shoes.

The Principle rose from behind her desk and walked over to the door. She turned the key and locked them in.

“Now then, I think it’s time we got things back under control, don’t you girls?” Miss Dayna said, slowly making her way back to the desk. She moved a high-backed visitors chair from the wall to the centre of the room and sat down on it.

“I think we’ll start with you Jessie, come over here,” the Principle ordered, with a vicious gleam in her eyes. 

“No, no I won’t, you can’t do this, I’ll tell my Dad!” Jessie stammered, a scared look appearing on her face for the first time.

“Your parents are divorced aren’t they?” Miss Dayna said, “Your Father is a doctor and your Mother is a Marketing Director, what do you think they will say if you are expelled? It’s your choice. Either you take your medicine and change your ways, or I will expel you and Annie. You decide.“ She sat back and crossed her arms, there was no doubt in her mind what the girls would choose.

Annie was blubbering now, big fat tears rolling down her pretty cheeks and dripping onto the carpet in front of her shiny black shoes.

“Shit!” Jessie thought to herself. “This bitch knows that we can’t get expelled. Dad and Mum will go nuts if we’re kicked out.” The girls’ parents had divorced years ago, and their mother had reverted back to her maiden name, insisting that the girls take her family name. They still saw a lot of their Dad, and they knew it would break his heart if they got into real trouble.

“Well?” The Principle demanded coldly. “What is it to be Jessie?”

Jessie looked at Miss Dayna with hatred in her eyes, but stepped forward to stand in front of her. “Okay Miss, so what do you want me to do?”

“Excellent!” Dayna thought to herself, but kept her face serious. “My first converts. Once I’ve got them broken, I can get anything from them that I want!”

“I’m going to give you a spanking,” Miss Dayna said, looking up at the tall blonde girl. “Twenty slaps across your bare bottom. Good old-fashioned punishment. Now, take down your panties and lift your skirt.”

Jessie gasped, and Annie whimpered. “Oh no, please!” Jessie pleaded.

“Do it and do it NOW, or I will have you out of this school within the hour!” the Principle hissed through clenched teeth. Dayna knew that if Jessie once took this first beating, then there would be no way back for her.

Slowly Jessie lifted the sides of her short school skirt and hooked her thumbs into her panties. Blushing madly the 14-year-old wriggled the warm cotton down over her thighs, and then pulled them off over her high heel shoes. She held them nervously in front of her in both hands, her eyes not daring to look at the strict woman sitting one step away.

“Good, now then, lift your skirt and bend over my knees. NOW!”

There was no room for disobedience in Miss Dayna’s tone, and Jessie reached down and took hold of the hem of her skirt, lifting it up to her waist. Her face was bright red, and she felt a little faint. Her legs wobbled a little as she stepped to the side of the Principle and then bent forward over the woman’s black knee-length skirt.

Annie couldn’t believe her eyes. She was watching through blurry tears as her sister bent across the young woman’s lap. There was a satisfied smile on the Principle’s beautiful face as the girl’s weight settled across her thighs. Annie had never seen anyone else but their Dad do this. Whenever they had been naughty at home he had taken them across his knee and punished them this way. He had always been nice afterwards, touching and kissing them, and making them feel better with his fingers and lips. But no one outside the family had ever done anything like this.

“Good, now then, we will start,” announced Miss Dayna, raising her right hand, and holding the girl down with her left. “This is for your own good!”

Jessie grunted when the first slap came. It wasn’t too bad; their Dad did it much harder.

Dayna loved the feeling of the young girl’s pert ass cheeks. Soft and smooth, they looked like a delicate peach. Her hand left a red imprint across the right buttock. She caressed the soft warm flesh, and let her hand move slowly over the roundness and down the girl’s thigh.

SLAP! SLAP! The sounds of the slow beating sounded loud in the Principle’s office.

After each blow Dayna allowed her hand to linger on the reddening ass cheeks. She was breathing hard, and was a little surprised at the lack of reaction from the girl on her lap. Yes she grunted a little at each slap, but she was not crying or begging for mercy.

Dayna slipped her hand between the thighs of the blonde girl and ran a finger over the smooth lips of her pussy. Jessie moaned a little and opened her legs wider. The Principle couldn’t resist a delighted smile and pressed her fingers harder against the girl’s moist slit.

SLAP! SLAP! The Principle continued the punishment. But now, in between blows, she slipped a finger inside the virgin spread over her lap. The girl was getting quite wet now and moaned loudly as she fingered her. What a slut she was!

Miss Dayna looked across at Annie and noticed that she was watching the beating from the corner of her eye. She was flushed and licking her lips.

“What a pair of sluts!” Dayna thought to herself. She dipped her fingers once again into the soft, oozing slit of the 14-year-old, and then raised the slimy digits to her lips, first sniffing the heady scent, and then licking the juice. She smiled at the delightful taste of virgin pussy – it had been quite a while since she had fucked a virgin, but now she had two at once!

SLAP! SLAP! SLAP! The punishment continued slowly, with the sound of the blows intermingled with the moans of the schoolgirl, who was clearly approaching orgasm across the Principal’s knee.

SLAP! SLAP! SLAP!

Dayna herself was now flushed and feeling incredibly horny. Her own panties were more than just damp, and the sexual arousal of the young girl was contagious.

“Enough!” husked Miss Dayna. “Now it’s your turn Annie, get over here.”

Jessie had finally reached her climax as her ass burned and her clit jerked against the intruding finger of the Head Mistress. Only her Daddy had ever made her feel this good before, but her breath was ragged as she slowly climbed off Miss Dayna’s lap. Jessie’s knees wobbled as she pulled herself upright and leaned against the desk for support, panting.

Annie stepped in front of the Principle. The woman was obviously aroused and was breathing heavily as she said, “Okay Annie, take off your panties and get down over my lap. NOW!

Annie looked at Jessie, who was still breathless and trying to recover.  “Please Miss,” she moaned, “I didn’t do anything, really. Honest. It wasn’t me.”

“You are just as bad as your sister, now, do as I say!” Dayna knew very well that Annie was innocent, but the thought of punishing her anyway was even more exciting. Her pussy twitched in anticipation.

Annie sniffled back a sob, and more tears flowed down her pretty face, but she did as she was told.

Dayna watched with horny fascination as the young girl wriggled out of a pair of sexy black silk panties.

Annie saw the question on the Principle’s face and said, “My Dad bought them for me; he likes me to wear silky underwear.” She blushed even harder than before.

“And what else does your Daddy like you to do?” Dayna asked, making a joke and not expecting much of an answer.

“Well,” Annie replied nervously, “he likes us to dress up for him. Since Mum left, he says we need to take care of him and be good to him. So, we do lots of stuff to make him happy, and sometimes he spanks us like you are, if we’re bad.”

Dayna was so surprised she almost fell off the chair. “You mean he spanks you? And you have sex with your Dad?” she stammered.

Annie nodded and said, “Well, we don’t do full sex, we’re both virgins, but we do oral and he likes us to sit on his face, play like we’re dominating him. He loves that, and he buys us lots of sexy clothes and shoes and stuff. But he gets angry if we don’t do what he wants.”

“The FUCKER!” thought Dayna angrily. “What a perverted BASTARD!”

“Well, we’ll have to change that,” Dayna said to the girls, looking from one to the other. “That’s not right. I think I’ll have to call your Dad in for a meeting.” She was furious that the two girls were being molested and sexually abused by their father.

“Oh no, please don’t tell him we told you,” Annie whimpered. “He’ll be mad, and he’s really a nice guy, he doesn’t hurt us, not really!”

“We’ll see,” Miss Dayna said. “Now then, get down over my lap.”

As Annie moved to bend down, Danya decided to change position. She wanted some relief herself, and with the usual position there was no pressure on her pussy or clit, so it was almost impossible for her to climax.

To help get herself off, Dayna lifted her skirt up to her waist, displaying to the two schoolgirls the wonderful sight of slim, silky thighs. She opened her legs and let Annie bend over her left thigh, then she closed her legs and pulled the young girl’s hip into her crotch, her damp panties pushed tight against Annie’s left thigh.

Annie was bent almost double over the Principle’s left leg, but she soon forgot the discomfort as Dayna started stroking her plump, satin-smooth ass. The sight of her sister being beaten, and then reaching her orgasm had already aroused Annie, and she could feel a deep heat growing between her legs. As the Principle raised her hand to begin the thrashing, Annie opened her legs as far as possible, offering her virgin pussy up for Dayna to abuse.

“I want you to count out loud each slap Annie,” the Principle said, her voice husky and breathless from her arousal. She pressed her pussy hard against the young girl, feeling the firm flesh hard against her sopping cunt.

“If you lose count, we will have to start all over again, so…let’s start,” Dayna hissed at the vulnerable girl, raising her hand.

SLAP! SLAP! Echoed around the room, and Annie grunted with each blow. She jerked as Dayna’s palm delivered a stinging slap, and Annie’s thigh rubbed wonderfully against the front of Dayna’s soaked panties.

“Mmmm…” the Principle moaned, as her juices flowed. She had always been highly lubricated when she was aroused, and many of her boyfriends and girlfriends had struggled to swallow the huge quantities of sweet nectar that flowed from her hole. Now the slippery lubricant was oozing out of her drenched panties, trickling down her thighs, and dripping onto the carpet.

SLAP! SLAP! Annie’s head was almost resting on the floor, and she was using her hands to support her weight, but the fire in her ass was growing, and the heat in her pussy was getting out of control. She groaned with each slap, but she wasn’t counting.

Dayna paused in the beating sweat dripping from her brow. Her arm was aching, but it was a good ache! She ran a finger down between Annie’s tight ass cheeks, between the girl’s thighs, and up and down the soft, wet lips of her pussy.

“You’ve made a mistake Annie,” the Principle sniggered; you haven’t been counting. Now we’ll have to start all over again!”

“Oooooh…nooooo!” little Annie wailed. But a part of her wanted more, and harder, and that part of her was burning between her legs.

SLAP! SLAP! “One. Two,” hissed Annie, as the hard blows restarted on her angelic ass.

Miss Dayna pressed the young girl harder into her crotch and manoeuvred her clit into just the right position to benefit from the girl’s wriggling.

SLAP! SLAP! “Three. Four,” Annie gasped. Her ass was on fire. The blows were almost as hard as when Daddy did it, but Miss Dayna’s fingers were much more skilled in finding her virgin clit among the soft folds of her soaking pussy. She was getting dizzy from the waves of pleasure pulsing up from her teased slit.

“You, Jessie, come and stand here in front of me. And lift your skirt for me,” the Principle ordered. She was almost at the point of reaching her own sweet climax now, but she wanted it to last a little longer yet.

SLAP! SLAP! “Five. Six.” Miss Dayna was able to ease two fingers deep inside Annie now. Her juices soaked the Principle’s hand.

Dayna pulled her slippery fingers from the girl’s soaking pussy and held them to her nose to sniff. “Wonderful,” she breathed. Then she put the fingers in her mouth and tasted her second virgin of the day.

SLAP! SLAP! “Seven. Eight.”

The Principle slipped her fingers back inside the young girl and felt for her hymen. Yes, she could just feel the blockage deep inside the schoolgirl. She pulled her hand away, juice coating it from fingertip to palm. She looked up at the flushed face of Jessie, standing barely a yard away, her skirt up around her waist, her bald pussy lips glistening with slime.

“Here you are slut,” the Principle said, offering her fingers to Annie’s sister. “Taste this. Clean them for me!” There was a fiendishly perverted look on the woman’s face that made Jessie quiver with excitement. She hadn’t met anyone this perverted since her Dad!

Jessie took a step forward, bent, and took the slimy fingers in her mouth. Her eyes were locked on those of Miss Dayna. She slowly sucked and licked the Principle’s fingers and hand clean of her sister’s sweet cunt juice.

Watching Jessie sucking her own sister’s pussy juice off her hand caused Dayna’s pussy to go into overdrive, pumping out so much liquid that her legs were soaked in it. She decided that it was time to go for orgasm.

SLAP! SLAP! SLAP! SLAP! The blows rained down on Annie’s ass so hard and fast that the poor girl couldn’t keep up. She moaned and grunted with the fire in her ass, and somehow Miss Dayna’s left knee was pressing against her pussy.

“Oh GOD, I’m cumming!” Screamed through Annie’s brain as the pain mounted in her ass, and the pleasure exploded in her pussy.  She groaned and bucked as she came.

As Annie wriggled and squirmed, she rubbed against Dayna’s liquid pussy, and pressed irresistibly onto the woman’s clit.

Dayna came… HARD! She threw back her head and opened her mouth in a silent scream of total pleasure, finally stopping the beating that had driven Annie over the edge.

Miss Dayna released Annie from between her legs and the girl fell in a breathless heap at her feet.

Jessie was totally in shock. It was amazing! She had just watched her sister spanked to orgasm by the school Principle. And the Principle had just masturbated on the leg of her sister… AWESOME! Her own juices oozed down her thighs, and she needed to cum again, but she knew that she would have to wait.

“Alright you two bitches,” Miss Dayna panted as she stood up and removed her dripping panties. “Get yourselves dressed, and go back to class. And I want you both back here at the end of school…we have some… special lessons for you to catch up on.”

As the two schoolgirls pulled their panties back up their smooth legs, and adjusted their skirts, Miss Dayna took out a clean pair of knickers from a drawer and pulled them on. Her pussy still throbbed and oozed, but at least the flow had slowed. She put the soaked pair in a plastic bag and into her desk, she would use them later as a gag for the girls who were now turning to leave her office.

The Principle slumped exhausted into her leather chair and waited for her next appointment to arrive.

“Jesus!” she thought, “I’ve hit the jackpot here. Two sluts already under control, and their Daddy available as well. I wonder if I can get Mummy too?”

She was smiling contentedly when her phone rang to tell her that her guests had arrived for their meeting.]]> I wrote this short story a few years ago when I was chatting with a blonde girl on Facebook. Her name is Jessie and she has a younger sister called Annie. Jessie has 'issues' with her family, in particular with her sister and father. While she clearly loves her sister very much, she is also extremely jealous of her. Jealousy to the point of destruction. Jessie has other unusual 'issues' too, for example she 'needs' to expose herself to strangers - that's how I met her. She 'needs' public degradation and humiliation, which is why she posts photos of herself, naked, masturbating, etc. on porn platforms.
She has also obtained naked photos of her sister and she posts these too. Sometimes she even pretends to BE her sister when chatting with perverts on these sites.
But I am a nice guy. I have spent a long time getting to know Jessie and trying to help her to stop endangering herself - opening herself to blackmail, or hurting her family and friends.
As I said to her, if you must expose yourself, do it with me. I will not hurt you. I will not expose or blackmail you. We can 'play' whatever games you want, but I will not do anything that will hurt you. I think I helped her. She is now married and has a young daughter.
This short story was written at her request, about her and her sister (they are not twins though). I have written other short stories for her too.
If you like this story, let me know and I can add further chapters, characters, or plots - if you have a fantasy to include, let me know.
I hope you enjoy it.
Bob
________________________

Story: Jessie and Annie meet Miss Dayna

Jessie and Annie were twins, not identical twins though, and apart from a shared birthday they had very little in common.

Both the girls were 14 and very pretty. They were also intelligent, but even in these things they were different. Annie was studious and shy, with long dark brown hair and hazel eyes. She was a straight ‘A’ student, serious and diligent, but she was small for her age and could easily pass for 12 or 13 years old. Jessie on the other hand was blonde and had blue eyes. She was smart and mischievous, and could be mistaken for being 15 or even 16, with well-developed breasts and long athletic legs.

Jessie had a wicked sense of humour and loved to play practical jokes, often getting into trouble, and usually dragging her poor sister into taking part of the blame.

And so it was on this Tuesday afternoon that the two sisters found themselves standing in front of the desk of the new school Principle, Miss Dayna. Just before lunch they had been in the swimming class, and Jessie had been first back to the changing rooms after the lesson. Before the other girls could get back, she had run around mixing up all the girls’ underwear! Of course the sports teacher had known immediately who was to blame, but Jessie had insisted that it was Annie’s idea. Unsure what action to take, and despite Annie’s protests, both the sisters had been sent to Miss Dayna’s office for punishment.

Dayna Dalton had just become the youngest school Principle in the country. She was beautiful, ambitious, and intelligent. With long dark hair, an impish smile, and a model’s figure, she knew the effect that her looks had on men and women, and she used every trick to get what she wanted.

Miss Dayna looked up at the two schoolgirls standing in front of her desk. It was hard to believe they were sisters let alone twins. She glanced down at their files lying open on the desk in front of her. Annie’s record was spotless, except for pranks like this involving her sister. Jessie though was a repeat troublemaker, constantly being disruptive and impertinent.

Dayna drummed her fingers on the wooden desktop as she considered what to do. It was obvious that in this case Annie was innocent and that Jessie and caused the mayhem in the locker room, but what to do? She looked the two girls up and down, assessing them. Annie wore her school uniform like a model student, her grey pleated skirt falling to just above her cute knees, the white, knee-high socks perfectly aligned, and black shoes gleaming. Her tie was well knotted and hung elegantly down the front of her white school blouse.

Jessie’s skirt was much too short, barely covering her smooth, tanned thighs. Her blouse was too tight and strained across her developing breasts, while her tie was insolently tied to hang barely halfway down her chest. And her shoes definitely exceeded the school limit with regard to heel height. She looked like every dirty pervert’s idea of a slutty schoolgirl!

Miss Dayna frowned and said, “You two girls are a disgrace to the school! I’ve looked at your records, and it seems that my predecessor failed miserably in keeping you under control – well I intend to correct that.”

Annie looked down at her feet, sniffing as though she was about to cry. Jessie was smirking and looking around the room, she didn’t seem to care what the Principle thought.

“I’m new here,” Miss Dayna continued, her frown deepening. “But I can tell you that I use VERY different methods to deal with disruptive students like YOU!” She raised her voice as she said this last word, leaning back in her leather executive chair.

Jessie suddenly pricked up her ears and turned back to look at the woman in front of her. There was something in her voice that sounded… threatening.

“Yes,” Miss Dayna said, a smirk playing around her pretty red lips, “I believe in old-fashioned discipline. If students don’t respond to modern teaching methods, then we must revert to corporal punishment, I’ve found that it works quite well.”

“But, but, that’s illegal!” Jessie blurted out. “You can’t do that.”

Dayna laughed. It was a pretty sound, but there was an edge to it that Jessie didn’t like. Annie just shuffled her feet and sniffled, her eyes fixed firmly on her shoes.

The Principle rose from behind her desk and walked over to the door. She turned the key and locked them in.

“Now then, I think it’s time we got things back under control, don’t you girls?” Miss Dayna said, slowly making her way back to the desk. She moved a high-backed visitors chair from the wall to the centre of the room and sat down on it.

“I think we’ll start with you Jessie, come over here,” the Principle ordered, with a vicious gleam in her eyes. 

“No, no I won’t, you can’t do this, I’ll tell my Dad!” Jessie stammered, a scared look appearing on her face for the first time.

“Your parents are divorced aren’t they?” Miss Dayna said, “Your Father is a doctor and your Mother is a Marketing Director, what do you think they will say if you are expelled? It’s your choice. Either you take your medicine and change your ways, or I will expel you and Annie. You decide.“ She sat back and crossed her arms, there was no doubt in her mind what the girls would choose.

Annie was blubbering now, big fat tears rolling down her pretty cheeks and dripping onto the carpet in front of her shiny black shoes.

“Shit!” Jessie thought to herself. “This bitch knows that we can’t get expelled. Dad and Mum will go nuts if we’re kicked out.” The girls’ parents had divorced years ago, and their mother had reverted back to her maiden name, insisting that the girls take her family name. They still saw a lot of their Dad, and they knew it would break his heart if they got into real trouble.

“Well?” The Principle demanded coldly. “What is it to be Jessie?”

Jessie looked at Miss Dayna with hatred in her eyes, but stepped forward to stand in front of her. “Okay Miss, so what do you want me to do?”

“Excellent!” Dayna thought to herself, but kept her face serious. “My first converts. Once I’ve got them broken, I can get anything from them that I want!”

“I’m going to give you a spanking,” Miss Dayna said, looking up at the tall blonde girl. “Twenty slaps across your bare bottom. Good old-fashioned punishment. Now, take down your panties and lift your skirt.”

Jessie gasped, and Annie whimpered. “Oh no, please!” Jessie pleaded.

“Do it and do it NOW, or I will have you out of this school within the hour!” the Principle hissed through clenched teeth. Dayna knew that if Jessie once took this first beating, then there would be no way back for her.

Slowly Jessie lifted the sides of her short school skirt and hooked her thumbs into her panties. Blushing madly the 14-year-old wriggled the warm cotton down over her thighs, and then pulled them off over her high heel shoes. She held them nervously in front of her in both hands, her eyes not daring to look at the strict woman sitting one step away.

“Good, now then, lift your skirt and bend over my knees. NOW!”

There was no room for disobedience in Miss Dayna’s tone, and Jessie reached down and took hold of the hem of her skirt, lifting it up to her waist. Her face was bright red, and she felt a little faint. Her legs wobbled a little as she stepped to the side of the Principle and then bent forward over the woman’s black knee-length skirt.

Annie couldn’t believe her eyes. She was watching through blurry tears as her sister bent across the young woman’s lap. There was a satisfied smile on the Principle’s beautiful face as the girl’s weight settled across her thighs. Annie had never seen anyone else but their Dad do this. Whenever they had been naughty at home he had taken them across his knee and punished them this way. He had always been nice afterwards, touching and kissing them, and making them feel better with his fingers and lips. But no one outside the family had ever done anything like this.

“Good, now then, we will start,” announced Miss Dayna, raising her right hand, and holding the girl down with her left. “This is for your own good!”

Jessie grunted when the first slap came. It wasn’t too bad; their Dad did it much harder.

Dayna loved the feeling of the young girl’s pert ass cheeks. Soft and smooth, they looked like a delicate peach. Her hand left a red imprint across the right buttock. She caressed the soft warm flesh, and let her hand move slowly over the roundness and down the girl’s thigh.

SLAP! SLAP! The sounds of the slow beating sounded loud in the Principle’s office.

After each blow Dayna allowed her hand to linger on the reddening ass cheeks. She was breathing hard, and was a little surprised at the lack of reaction from the girl on her lap. Yes she grunted a little at each slap, but she was not crying or begging for mercy.

Dayna slipped her hand between the thighs of the blonde girl and ran a finger over the smooth lips of her pussy. Jessie moaned a little and opened her legs wider. The Principle couldn’t resist a delighted smile and pressed her fingers harder against the girl’s moist slit.

SLAP! SLAP! The Principle continued the punishment. But now, in between blows, she slipped a finger inside the virgin spread over her lap. The girl was getting quite wet now and moaned loudly as she fingered her. What a slut she was!

Miss Dayna looked across at Annie and noticed that she was watching the beating from the corner of her eye. She was flushed and licking her lips.

“What a pair of sluts!” Dayna thought to herself. She dipped her fingers once again into the soft, oozing slit of the 14-year-old, and then raised the slimy digits to her lips, first sniffing the heady scent, and then licking the juice. She smiled at the delightful taste of virgin pussy – it had been quite a while since she had fucked a virgin, but now she had two at once!

SLAP! SLAP! SLAP! The punishment continued slowly, with the sound of the blows intermingled with the moans of the schoolgirl, who was clearly approaching orgasm across the Principal’s knee.

SLAP! SLAP! SLAP!

Dayna herself was now flushed and feeling incredibly horny. Her own panties were more than just damp, and the sexual arousal of the young girl was contagious.

“Enough!” husked Miss Dayna. “Now it’s your turn Annie, get over here.”

Jessie had finally reached her climax as her ass burned and her clit jerked against the intruding finger of the Head Mistress. Only her Daddy had ever made her feel this good before, but her breath was ragged as she slowly climbed off Miss Dayna’s lap. Jessie’s knees wobbled as she pulled herself upright and leaned against the desk for support, panting.

Annie stepped in front of the Principle. The woman was obviously aroused and was breathing heavily as she said, “Okay Annie, take off your panties and get down over my lap. NOW!

Annie looked at Jessie, who was still breathless and trying to recover.  “Please Miss,” she moaned, “I didn’t do anything, really. Honest. It wasn’t me.”

“You are just as bad as your sister, now, do as I say!” Dayna knew very well that Annie was innocent, but the thought of punishing her anyway was even more exciting. Her pussy twitched in anticipation.

Annie sniffled back a sob, and more tears flowed down her pretty face, but she did as she was told.

Dayna watched with horny fascination as the young girl wriggled out of a pair of sexy black silk panties.

Annie saw the question on the Principle’s face and said, “My Dad bought them for me; he likes me to wear silky underwear.” She blushed even harder than before.

“And what else does your Daddy like you to do?” Dayna asked, making a joke and not expecting much of an answer.

“Well,” Annie replied nervously, “he likes us to dress up for him. Since Mum left, he says we need to take care of him and be good to him. So, we do lots of stuff to make him happy, and sometimes he spanks us like you are, if we’re bad.”

Dayna was so surprised she almost fell off the chair. “You mean he spanks you? And you have sex with your Dad?” she stammered.

Annie nodded and said, “Well, we don’t do full sex, we’re both virgins, but we do oral and he likes us to sit on his face, play like we’re dominating him. He loves that, and he buys us lots of sexy clothes and shoes and stuff. But he gets angry if we don’t do what he wants.”

“The FUCKER!” thought Dayna angrily. “What a perverted BASTARD!”

“Well, we’ll have to change that,” Dayna said to the girls, looking from one to the other. “That’s not right. I think I’ll have to call your Dad in for a meeting.” She was furious that the two girls were being molested and sexually abused by their father.

“Oh no, please don’t tell him we told you,” Annie whimpered. “He’ll be mad, and he’s really a nice guy, he doesn’t hurt us, not really!”

“We’ll see,” Miss Dayna said. “Now then, get down over my lap.”

As Annie moved to bend down, Danya decided to change position. She wanted some relief herself, and with the usual position there was no pressure on her pussy or clit, so it was almost impossible for her to climax.

To help get herself off, Dayna lifted her skirt up to her waist, displaying to the two schoolgirls the wonderful sight of slim, silky thighs. She opened her legs and let Annie bend over her left thigh, then she closed her legs and pulled the young girl’s hip into her crotch, her damp panties pushed tight against Annie’s left thigh.

Annie was bent almost double over the Principle’s left leg, but she soon forgot the discomfort as Dayna started stroking her plump, satin-smooth ass. The sight of her sister being beaten, and then reaching her orgasm had already aroused Annie, and she could feel a deep heat growing between her legs. As the Principle raised her hand to begin the thrashing, Annie opened her legs as far as possible, offering her virgin pussy up for Dayna to abuse.

“I want you to count out loud each slap Annie,” the Principle said, her voice husky and breathless from her arousal. She pressed her pussy hard against the young girl, feeling the firm flesh hard against her sopping cunt.

“If you lose count, we will have to start all over again, so…let’s start,” Dayna hissed at the vulnerable girl, raising her hand.

SLAP! SLAP! Echoed around the room, and Annie grunted with each blow. She jerked as Dayna’s palm delivered a stinging slap, and Annie’s thigh rubbed wonderfully against the front of Dayna’s soaked panties.

“Mmmm…” the Principle moaned, as her juices flowed. She had always been highly lubricated when she was aroused, and many of her boyfriends and girlfriends had struggled to swallow the huge quantities of sweet nectar that flowed from her hole. Now the slippery lubricant was oozing out of her drenched panties, trickling down her thighs, and dripping onto the carpet.

SLAP! SLAP! Annie’s head was almost resting on the floor, and she was using her hands to support her weight, but the fire in her ass was growing, and the heat in her pussy was getting out of control. She groaned with each slap, but she wasn’t counting.

Dayna paused in the beating sweat dripping from her brow. Her arm was aching, but it was a good ache! She ran a finger down between Annie’s tight ass cheeks, between the girl’s thighs, and up and down the soft, wet lips of her pussy.

“You’ve made a mistake Annie,” the Principle sniggered; you haven’t been counting. Now we’ll have to start all over again!”

“Oooooh…nooooo!” little Annie wailed. But a part of her wanted more, and harder, and that part of her was burning between her legs.

SLAP! SLAP! “One. Two,” hissed Annie, as the hard blows restarted on her angelic ass.

Miss Dayna pressed the young girl harder into her crotch and manoeuvred her clit into just the right position to benefit from the girl’s wriggling.

SLAP! SLAP! “Three. Four,” Annie gasped. Her ass was on fire. The blows were almost as hard as when Daddy did it, but Miss Dayna’s fingers were much more skilled in finding her virgin clit among the soft folds of her soaking pussy. She was getting dizzy from the waves of pleasure pulsing up from her teased slit.

“You, Jessie, come and stand here in front of me. And lift your skirt for me,” the Principle ordered. She was almost at the point of reaching her own sweet climax now, but she wanted it to last a little longer yet.

SLAP! SLAP! “Five. Six.” Miss Dayna was able to ease two fingers deep inside Annie now. Her juices soaked the Principle’s hand.

Dayna pulled her slippery fingers from the girl’s soaking pussy and held them to her nose to sniff. “Wonderful,” she breathed. Then she put the fingers in her mouth and tasted her second virgin of the day.

SLAP! SLAP! “Seven. Eight.”

The Principle slipped her fingers back inside the young girl and felt for her hymen. Yes, she could just feel the blockage deep inside the schoolgirl. She pulled her hand away, juice coating it from fingertip to palm. She looked up at the flushed face of Jessie, standing barely a yard away, her skirt up around her waist, her bald pussy lips glistening with slime.

“Here you are slut,” the Principle said, offering her fingers to Annie’s sister. “Taste this. Clean them for me!” There was a fiendishly perverted look on the woman’s face that made Jessie quiver with excitement. She hadn’t met anyone this perverted since her Dad!

Jessie took a step forward, bent, and took the slimy fingers in her mouth. Her eyes were locked on those of Miss Dayna. She slowly sucked and licked the Principle’s fingers and hand clean of her sister’s sweet cunt juice.

Watching Jessie sucking her own sister’s pussy juice off her hand caused Dayna’s pussy to go into overdrive, pumping out so much liquid that her legs were soaked in it. She decided that it was time to go for orgasm.

SLAP! SLAP! SLAP! SLAP! The blows rained down on Annie’s ass so hard and fast that the poor girl couldn’t keep up. She moaned and grunted with the fire in her ass, and somehow Miss Dayna’s left knee was pressing against her pussy.

“Oh GOD, I’m cumming!” Screamed through Annie’s brain as the pain mounted in her ass, and the pleasure exploded in her pussy.  She groaned and bucked as she came.

As Annie wriggled and squirmed, she rubbed against Dayna’s liquid pussy, and pressed irresistibly onto the woman’s clit.

Dayna came… HARD! She threw back her head and opened her mouth in a silent scream of total pleasure, finally stopping the beating that had driven Annie over the edge.

Miss Dayna released Annie from between her legs and the girl fell in a breathless heap at her feet.

Jessie was totally in shock. It was amazing! She had just watched her sister spanked to orgasm by the school Principle. And the Principle had just masturbated on the leg of her sister… AWESOME! Her own juices oozed down her thighs, and she needed to cum again, but she knew that she would have to wait.

“Alright you two bitches,” Miss Dayna panted as she stood up and removed her dripping panties. “Get yourselves dressed, and go back to class. And I want you both back here at the end of school…we have some… special lessons for you to catch up on.”

As the two schoolgirls pulled their panties back up their smooth legs, and adjusted their skirts, Miss Dayna took out a clean pair of knickers from a drawer and pulled them on. Her pussy still throbbed and oozed, but at least the flow had slowed. She put the soaked pair in a plastic bag and into her desk, she would use them later as a gag for the girls who were now turning to leave her office.

The Principle slumped exhausted into her leather chair and waited for her next appointment to arrive.

“Jesus!” she thought, “I’ve hit the jackpot here. Two sluts already under control, and their Daddy available as well. I wonder if I can get Mummy too?”

She was smiling contentedly when her phone rang to tell her that her guests had arrived for their meeting.]]> <![CDATA[The groping of Matilda(Natasha Henstridge)]]> https://www.likera.com/forum/mybb/Thread-The-groping-of-Matilda-Natasha-Henstridge Wed, 17 Feb 2021 07:28:11 +0000 Maxine1966]]> https://www.likera.com/forum/mybb/Thread-The-groping-of-Matilda-Natasha-Henstridge
I was heavily inspired by No Exit (French: Huis clos) a 1944 existentialist French play by Jean-Paul Sartre and 8 Women (French: 8 femmes) a 2002 French dark comedy musical film



Matilda(played by Natasha Henstridge) was an attractive 44 year old divorced heterosexual upper middle class blonde. She was 5 ft 10 tall well built and well endowed(very large breasts). Although she was chubby, her body was beautifully proportioned because of her height. She have gained weight over the years, but she carried that chubbiness well. She never thought she would evolve into such a curvy women from where she was in her colledge days. She started getting weight after she gave birth to her son in April 2005. But she was happy and confident. She was rich from a wealthy family. She grew up rich. She was used to a lot of money and expensive things because of this. Also she came out as the winner during her divorce. Her ex husband was a successful businessman. They were married for over 16 years. From July 2003 until September 2019.


Since her divorce Matilda was enjoying life. For 16 years she was married to a man she thought she would grow old with and then he left her. Even though her marriage was always tough she did not want or expect the divorce. She begged him to reconsider, she offered to go to counseling, and even started going back to church. Nothing worked and she was devastated. She kept the house and the cars.


And then it happened... Matilda found herself happy and content on her own which she never expected. She made many new friendships and started going out and enjoying life. She started having sex with random young guys. Her sex life with her ex husband had died long before the divorce, so she was enjoying having sex with these young men.



August 2021. Matilda was driving home from this 50s themed costume daytime party. The party was held at this mansion in the middle of nowhere. It was a 100 minutes drive in one direction . Matilda was wearing this expensive Marilyn Monroe white dress costume(in the pictures).

.jpg   natasha-henstridge-at-photoshoot-at-the-edinburgh-royal-commonwealth-pool_2.jpg (Size: 122.04 KB / Downloads: 191)

.jpg   natasha-henstridge-at-photoshoot-at-the-edinburgh-royal-commonwealth-pool_4.jpg (Size: 238.77 KB / Downloads: 165)

.jpg   natasha-henstridge-at-photoshoot-at-the-edinburgh-royal-commonwealth-pool_9.jpg (Size: 241.15 KB / Downloads: 226) ]]>
I was heavily inspired by No Exit (French: Huis clos) a 1944 existentialist French play by Jean-Paul Sartre and 8 Women (French: 8 femmes) a 2002 French dark comedy musical film



Matilda(played by Natasha Henstridge) was an attractive 44 year old divorced heterosexual upper middle class blonde. She was 5 ft 10 tall well built and well endowed(very large breasts). Although she was chubby, her body was beautifully proportioned because of her height. She have gained weight over the years, but she carried that chubbiness well. She never thought she would evolve into such a curvy women from where she was in her colledge days. She started getting weight after she gave birth to her son in April 2005. But she was happy and confident. She was rich from a wealthy family. She grew up rich. She was used to a lot of money and expensive things because of this. Also she came out as the winner during her divorce. Her ex husband was a successful businessman. They were married for over 16 years. From July 2003 until September 2019.


Since her divorce Matilda was enjoying life. For 16 years she was married to a man she thought she would grow old with and then he left her. Even though her marriage was always tough she did not want or expect the divorce. She begged him to reconsider, she offered to go to counseling, and even started going back to church. Nothing worked and she was devastated. She kept the house and the cars.


And then it happened... Matilda found herself happy and content on her own which she never expected. She made many new friendships and started going out and enjoying life. She started having sex with random young guys. Her sex life with her ex husband had died long before the divorce, so she was enjoying having sex with these young men.



August 2021. Matilda was driving home from this 50s themed costume daytime party. The party was held at this mansion in the middle of nowhere. It was a 100 minutes drive in one direction . Matilda was wearing this expensive Marilyn Monroe white dress costume(in the pictures).

.jpg   natasha-henstridge-at-photoshoot-at-the-edinburgh-royal-commonwealth-pool_2.jpg (Size: 122.04 KB / Downloads: 191)

.jpg   natasha-henstridge-at-photoshoot-at-the-edinburgh-royal-commonwealth-pool_4.jpg (Size: 238.77 KB / Downloads: 165)

.jpg   natasha-henstridge-at-photoshoot-at-the-edinburgh-royal-commonwealth-pool_9.jpg (Size: 241.15 KB / Downloads: 226) ]]> <![CDATA[I inexplicably allowed this weird woman to grope me. Am i somehow hypnotized by her?]]> https://www.likera.com/forum/mybb/Thread-I-inexplicably-allowed-this-weird-woman-to-grope-me-Am-i-somehow-hypnotized-by-her Sun, 24 Jan 2021 03:13:41 +0000 Louisa]]> https://www.likera.com/forum/mybb/Thread-I-inexplicably-allowed-this-weird-woman-to-grope-me-Am-i-somehow-hypnotized-by-her

I've always had big boobs. I easily had the largest chest in my high school. I am big woman. I am 5 ft 11 and being well endowed well built and curvy always on high heels makes me HUGE! But I love my height and my curvy stature. About two years ago I was at Costco with my daughter and this little boy pointed at me and said something like: "Gush mom, look at her, she is giant!!!" I don’t intend to dress in any particular ‘way’ for anyone. I just wear what I like. I wear clothes that fit me properly.  I don’t wear anything vulgar but because of my body type anything i wear looks tight on me. Being tall and curvy draws attention on its own. This can be both positive and negative. I tower over plenty of men and women. I was sexualised from a very early age, and shamed for the way my body looks – something I have no control over. I can’t help how wide my hips grow or how big my breasts get.
.

My mother used to shame me for the way my body looked. If I wanted to wear a skirt or dress, she always discouraged it, she always thought my skirt was ‘too short’ or ‘too tight’, or there was something wrong with my dress-sense. There’s always guys flirting or asking me for my number. When I go out in public guys start talking to me and subtly try to ask me out. I have trouble being mean so i cant get them to leave me alone. I end up getting stressed by it. The irony is that all this time I’ve been afraid of men, perceiving any touch as a sexual advance that I should fear – when really, it was a short, skinny older women I should have feared..







I am a small business owner.  I own a  store.  About two weeks ago this skinny really short like 5 ft 3 ugly pale face creepy brown eyes thin lips light brown haired with Chin-Length haircut kinda masculine woman in her late  50s  started working at the independent bookstore next door.    2 days ago i arrived at my store. I was wearing a black and white striped long sleeve satin blouse buttoned up to the top tucked into black leather leggings and 5 inch heels black shoes. I had my long black fur coat over my shoulders. I had full make up on. This small pale bookstore clerk woman  was there outside . I got out of my car.  She was measuring me with her eyes as surely as a seamstress measures before she cuts. She walked up to me and said" Hi mrs Louisa. You have such a regal bearing. You are so shiney. You always look so glammed up.  You have a beautiful coat.  Wow. The size difference between us is beyond comical. You are sooo tall.  I wanted to meet you, we are neighbors. But you  were just too busy to talk and i didn't want to intrude. Don't be afraid. I don't wear a mask because i had covid in September. I guess i am immune now". she told me.

" Ooh, me too. I had covid in November. That is why i don't wear a mask. Also masks ruin make up. And i love make up. " i replied. .

"Listen Louisa, earlier today your employees told me that your computer is messed up. I can help you with that. I have some knowledge. "

"Thank you so much , really. I need my computer fixed. '' i thanked her.

"No need to thank me Louisa. We are neighbors. Wow  your bra size must be 40DD. On a shorter woman they would look cartoonish or disproportionately huge , but you are a giantess, so I knew that they are a double handful of natural massive breasts. !  I am fascinated with the size of your boobs. As you can see I am totally flat. My breasts are tiny. "You are such a massive woman. Your breasts look absolutely huge, even with your blouse buttoned up to the top. They are vaulting off your chest and being seen from your side and even behind you i can still see your breasts .Your breasts are sooo large. They are massive. This blouse you are wearing is so tight fitting that stretches taut across your chest, it is buttoned up to the top but the buttons are almost threatening to pop free. " The small pale bookstore clerk said with a great enthusiasm. .




I didn't know how to respond to that. .

"Those are perfect Louisa. Too perfect. Alright, I'm sorry, but they can't be left alone." Saying this, the small pale creepy bookstore clerk, started to reach for my breasts ( her face was exactly the level of my breasts).

"Hey! I am not a touchy feely person!"i replied

"Yeah, but this is too good to pass up. Let me feel them for a bit. "she said.

"Okay you.....OH!" My train of thought and almost-acceptance of her proposal was interrupted by her small hands moving onto my breasts.... eagerly groping them. She used both hands to cup and squeeze my breasts. She rubbed her hands in little circles, intensifying the pressure, then backing off, then intensifying it again. This small pale creepy older woman wasn't just grabbing my breasts.  She was lightly massaging my breasts and admiring them. I was sighing occasionally, sometimes looking away, only to look back down at her hands doing their work on my boobs. These two women my employees were watching through the glass. They were shocked. I just met this weirdo small pale woman, but for some reason i decided to tolerate her groping. I've always had big boobs. I easily had the largest chest in my high school. But I was one of the lucky ones that's never had her boobs grabbed, touched, or jiggled before. My lack of familiarity with this type of situation was not just limited to being groped either, as so far i had no involvement with lesbians at all.


It was just awkward. I was just standing there stiff as a board while she was feeling up my boobs . Also my coat was over my shoulders(balancing a coat on your shoulders isn’t easy. Your shoulders must remain lifted, keeping the luxe fabric from slipping off and down your back.) She finally  stopped rubbing my breasts, put her small  hands on my waist and suggested we should go inside.  We  went inside.

I took my coat off and hung it on a coat hanger by the door. The pale small pale bookstore clerk walked towards my desk and sat on my chair. My employees were obviously weirded out, but they didn't say anything. So i just stood there in the middle of my store, while she was fixing my computer. Then she said "Come round here.  I  fix it, but  probably you don't want to lose this document , it's not saved "

I sighed and moved around my desk to stand beside her. As i bent forward at the waist to tap at the  keyboard the small pale book clerk pushed my chair back a little to give me more room. Her re-positioning also gave her a much better view of my butt. I was  bent over, with my ass jutting out towards her.

"No idea what you've done here, but thanks" i muttered  under my breath as i tried to save the document.

I abruptly tensed, pausing my typing as i felt one of her small hands stroke over my right buttock. I grimaced slightly, but resuming my typing without saying anything to the weirdo pale woman about her straying hand.

"Come in a little closer," the pale small clerk instructed  as her other hand came up to my ass. She gave my bottom a lightly squeeze through my leggings,  filling each of her palms.

"I think that's it, thanks"  I said after a moment more, during which her groping hands squeezed my ass.

"No need to thank me" the small creepy pale clerk replied  with a grin as she gave me a pat on my bottom. .

I quickly disentangled myself and moved out from behind my desk.  Then she got up and  approached me from behind. I gasped as she put her arms around my waist.

She said, "I am admiring you Louisa. You are everything that i am not. You are a massive woman. You are much taller and bigger than me. This beautiful  clothes are so tight on you because of your body type. You are so sophisticated and elegant. I am  fascinated with you.  You look so polished. You are a sophisticated, elegant, upper middle class, tall woman. "

She then slid her hands up my stomach, and grabbed both of my breasts. I gasped, but otherwise did nothing, as the small pale old woman reached around and kneaded both of my breasts, lifting and squeezing them. My head was up and my chest heaved out, as i got goosed and tit – fondled. We were standing in the middle of my own store. My employees passed by, staring, then averting their eyes at the incongruous scene, the massive tall woman their boss standing still, letting the small skinny old woman to fondle her breasts. They saw me standing there, my breasts being lifted, squeezed and jiggled, never trying to escape or force this weirdo woman  away. 





I had no defense against her hands. I was kinda hypnotized. She just kept rubbing, lifting and squeezing my breasts.
I felt vulnerable. I don't understand why, but I offered to the small pale creepy clerk that she could feel me any way she wanted for as long as she wanted and i wouldn't try to stop her. She asked " i can grab your breasts and ass, for as long as i want, and you won't stop me?" I answered the only way i knew to avoid conflict. "yes, go ahead, touch me all you want, anywhere I swear, as long as i am fully clothed and you are touching me through clothes i don't mind. I don t feel nothing. I am totally numb. I am a heterosexual woman " She asked again," are you sure about that?"
I was near hysterics now and i answered "yes, absolutely. you can touch all you want. But I need to pee now ".

"Don t worry Louisa,  !"the small pale clerk said  and finally removed her hands from my breasts.  As i walked off towards the bathroom, she thanked me and went outside.

What is wrong with me? I’m so ashamed that I couldn’t even say no or push this short skinny old woman away. The issue i need to address is not this woman groper but my passive reaction. For some reason i cannot, do not, fight this woman off as i would some male who groped me. I even  gave consent to her. I knew EVERYTHING she did to me, but I didn't mind.  Not having the willpower nor the desire to resist.  Why?  It was almost an out-of-body experience, watching myself allowing her hands to crawl over me. I didn't get lesbian pleasure out of this. (I am strictly heterosexual - i am not a closet lesbian.) I am not scared of this woman groper. I just couldn’t verbalize a succinct “NO” to this short skinny creepy woman. I didn’t say anything or tell her to stop. Why? What is wrong with me? And this predatory woman groper is physically completely harmless. She is not tough and strong. She doesn't look intimidating. She is creepy and masculine but she is just a short, skinny, tiny old woman. I am physically stronger than her.


This creepy repulsive short skinny pale woman humiliated me and degraded me in a subtle way in front of my employees. I am starting to think that this is a way for her to humiliate me in front of them and gain power over me . Because a lot of people here in this community think that I'm stuck up upper middle class arrogant overdressed snob because I tend to ignore them. When i am in an environment where I do not know everyone I can come as arrogant and stuck up depending on the setting.Is truly a defensive mechanism though.I got the feeling that a lot of people here in this community think i am just arrogant snob.


I want to talk about this situation, because this is new to me. I am not scared of this woman groper. I just couldn’t verbalize a succinct “NO” to this short skinny creepy woman. I didn’t say anything or tell her to stop. Why? Is it possible that i was somehow hypnotized?]]>

I've always had big boobs. I easily had the largest chest in my high school. I am big woman. I am 5 ft 11 and being well endowed well built and curvy always on high heels makes me HUGE! But I love my height and my curvy stature. About two years ago I was at Costco with my daughter and this little boy pointed at me and said something like: "Gush mom, look at her, she is giant!!!" I don’t intend to dress in any particular ‘way’ for anyone. I just wear what I like. I wear clothes that fit me properly.  I don’t wear anything vulgar but because of my body type anything i wear looks tight on me. Being tall and curvy draws attention on its own. This can be both positive and negative. I tower over plenty of men and women. I was sexualised from a very early age, and shamed for the way my body looks – something I have no control over. I can’t help how wide my hips grow or how big my breasts get.
.

My mother used to shame me for the way my body looked. If I wanted to wear a skirt or dress, she always discouraged it, she always thought my skirt was ‘too short’ or ‘too tight’, or there was something wrong with my dress-sense. There’s always guys flirting or asking me for my number. When I go out in public guys start talking to me and subtly try to ask me out. I have trouble being mean so i cant get them to leave me alone. I end up getting stressed by it. The irony is that all this time I’ve been afraid of men, perceiving any touch as a sexual advance that I should fear – when really, it was a short, skinny older women I should have feared..







I am a small business owner.  I own a  store.  About two weeks ago this skinny really short like 5 ft 3 ugly pale face creepy brown eyes thin lips light brown haired with Chin-Length haircut kinda masculine woman in her late  50s  started working at the independent bookstore next door.    2 days ago i arrived at my store. I was wearing a black and white striped long sleeve satin blouse buttoned up to the top tucked into black leather leggings and 5 inch heels black shoes. I had my long black fur coat over my shoulders. I had full make up on. This small pale bookstore clerk woman  was there outside . I got out of my car.  She was measuring me with her eyes as surely as a seamstress measures before she cuts. She walked up to me and said" Hi mrs Louisa. You have such a regal bearing. You are so shiney. You always look so glammed up.  You have a beautiful coat.  Wow. The size difference between us is beyond comical. You are sooo tall.  I wanted to meet you, we are neighbors. But you  were just too busy to talk and i didn't want to intrude. Don't be afraid. I don't wear a mask because i had covid in September. I guess i am immune now". she told me.

" Ooh, me too. I had covid in November. That is why i don't wear a mask. Also masks ruin make up. And i love make up. " i replied. .

"Listen Louisa, earlier today your employees told me that your computer is messed up. I can help you with that. I have some knowledge. "

"Thank you so much , really. I need my computer fixed. '' i thanked her.

"No need to thank me Louisa. We are neighbors. Wow  your bra size must be 40DD. On a shorter woman they would look cartoonish or disproportionately huge , but you are a giantess, so I knew that they are a double handful of natural massive breasts. !  I am fascinated with the size of your boobs. As you can see I am totally flat. My breasts are tiny. "You are such a massive woman. Your breasts look absolutely huge, even with your blouse buttoned up to the top. They are vaulting off your chest and being seen from your side and even behind you i can still see your breasts .Your breasts are sooo large. They are massive. This blouse you are wearing is so tight fitting that stretches taut across your chest, it is buttoned up to the top but the buttons are almost threatening to pop free. " The small pale bookstore clerk said with a great enthusiasm. .




I didn't know how to respond to that. .

"Those are perfect Louisa. Too perfect. Alright, I'm sorry, but they can't be left alone." Saying this, the small pale creepy bookstore clerk, started to reach for my breasts ( her face was exactly the level of my breasts).

"Hey! I am not a touchy feely person!"i replied

"Yeah, but this is too good to pass up. Let me feel them for a bit. "she said.

"Okay you.....OH!" My train of thought and almost-acceptance of her proposal was interrupted by her small hands moving onto my breasts.... eagerly groping them. She used both hands to cup and squeeze my breasts. She rubbed her hands in little circles, intensifying the pressure, then backing off, then intensifying it again. This small pale creepy older woman wasn't just grabbing my breasts.  She was lightly massaging my breasts and admiring them. I was sighing occasionally, sometimes looking away, only to look back down at her hands doing their work on my boobs. These two women my employees were watching through the glass. They were shocked. I just met this weirdo small pale woman, but for some reason i decided to tolerate her groping. I've always had big boobs. I easily had the largest chest in my high school. But I was one of the lucky ones that's never had her boobs grabbed, touched, or jiggled before. My lack of familiarity with this type of situation was not just limited to being groped either, as so far i had no involvement with lesbians at all.


It was just awkward. I was just standing there stiff as a board while she was feeling up my boobs . Also my coat was over my shoulders(balancing a coat on your shoulders isn’t easy. Your shoulders must remain lifted, keeping the luxe fabric from slipping off and down your back.) She finally  stopped rubbing my breasts, put her small  hands on my waist and suggested we should go inside.  We  went inside.

I took my coat off and hung it on a coat hanger by the door. The pale small pale bookstore clerk walked towards my desk and sat on my chair. My employees were obviously weirded out, but they didn't say anything. So i just stood there in the middle of my store, while she was fixing my computer. Then she said "Come round here.  I  fix it, but  probably you don't want to lose this document , it's not saved "

I sighed and moved around my desk to stand beside her. As i bent forward at the waist to tap at the  keyboard the small pale book clerk pushed my chair back a little to give me more room. Her re-positioning also gave her a much better view of my butt. I was  bent over, with my ass jutting out towards her.

"No idea what you've done here, but thanks" i muttered  under my breath as i tried to save the document.

I abruptly tensed, pausing my typing as i felt one of her small hands stroke over my right buttock. I grimaced slightly, but resuming my typing without saying anything to the weirdo pale woman about her straying hand.

"Come in a little closer," the pale small clerk instructed  as her other hand came up to my ass. She gave my bottom a lightly squeeze through my leggings,  filling each of her palms.

"I think that's it, thanks"  I said after a moment more, during which her groping hands squeezed my ass.

"No need to thank me" the small creepy pale clerk replied  with a grin as she gave me a pat on my bottom. .

I quickly disentangled myself and moved out from behind my desk.  Then she got up and  approached me from behind. I gasped as she put her arms around my waist.

She said, "I am admiring you Louisa. You are everything that i am not. You are a massive woman. You are much taller and bigger than me. This beautiful  clothes are so tight on you because of your body type. You are so sophisticated and elegant. I am  fascinated with you.  You look so polished. You are a sophisticated, elegant, upper middle class, tall woman. "

She then slid her hands up my stomach, and grabbed both of my breasts. I gasped, but otherwise did nothing, as the small pale old woman reached around and kneaded both of my breasts, lifting and squeezing them. My head was up and my chest heaved out, as i got goosed and tit – fondled. We were standing in the middle of my own store. My employees passed by, staring, then averting their eyes at the incongruous scene, the massive tall woman their boss standing still, letting the small skinny old woman to fondle her breasts. They saw me standing there, my breasts being lifted, squeezed and jiggled, never trying to escape or force this weirdo woman  away. 





I had no defense against her hands. I was kinda hypnotized. She just kept rubbing, lifting and squeezing my breasts.
I felt vulnerable. I don't understand why, but I offered to the small pale creepy clerk that she could feel me any way she wanted for as long as she wanted and i wouldn't try to stop her. She asked " i can grab your breasts and ass, for as long as i want, and you won't stop me?" I answered the only way i knew to avoid conflict. "yes, go ahead, touch me all you want, anywhere I swear, as long as i am fully clothed and you are touching me through clothes i don't mind. I don t feel nothing. I am totally numb. I am a heterosexual woman " She asked again," are you sure about that?"
I was near hysterics now and i answered "yes, absolutely. you can touch all you want. But I need to pee now ".

"Don t worry Louisa,  !"the small pale clerk said  and finally removed her hands from my breasts.  As i walked off towards the bathroom, she thanked me and went outside.

What is wrong with me? I’m so ashamed that I couldn’t even say no or push this short skinny old woman away. The issue i need to address is not this woman groper but my passive reaction. For some reason i cannot, do not, fight this woman off as i would some male who groped me. I even  gave consent to her. I knew EVERYTHING she did to me, but I didn't mind.  Not having the willpower nor the desire to resist.  Why?  It was almost an out-of-body experience, watching myself allowing her hands to crawl over me. I didn't get lesbian pleasure out of this. (I am strictly heterosexual - i am not a closet lesbian.) I am not scared of this woman groper. I just couldn’t verbalize a succinct “NO” to this short skinny creepy woman. I didn’t say anything or tell her to stop. Why? What is wrong with me? And this predatory woman groper is physically completely harmless. She is not tough and strong. She doesn't look intimidating. She is creepy and masculine but she is just a short, skinny, tiny old woman. I am physically stronger than her.


This creepy repulsive short skinny pale woman humiliated me and degraded me in a subtle way in front of my employees. I am starting to think that this is a way for her to humiliate me in front of them and gain power over me . Because a lot of people here in this community think that I'm stuck up upper middle class arrogant overdressed snob because I tend to ignore them. When i am in an environment where I do not know everyone I can come as arrogant and stuck up depending on the setting.Is truly a defensive mechanism though.I got the feeling that a lot of people here in this community think i am just arrogant snob.


I want to talk about this situation, because this is new to me. I am not scared of this woman groper. I just couldn’t verbalize a succinct “NO” to this short skinny creepy woman. I didn’t say anything or tell her to stop. Why? Is it possible that i was somehow hypnotized?]]> <![CDATA[The Return of Batgirl - Hiding the Bat.]]> https://www.likera.com/forum/mybb/Thread-The-Return-of-Batgirl-Hiding-the-Bat Tue, 12 Jan 2021 19:36:29 +0000 Culmor]]> https://www.likera.com/forum/mybb/Thread-The-Return-of-Batgirl-Hiding-the-Bat Na-Na-Na-Na-Na-Na-Batgirl!


.jpg   01.jpg (Size: 109.37 KB / Downloads: 349)
.jpg   02.jpg (Size: 141.04 KB / Downloads: 316)
.jpg   03.jpg (Size: 146.2 KB / Downloads: 287)
.jpg   04.jpg (Size: 138.58 KB / Downloads: 280)
.jpg   05.jpg (Size: 166.53 KB / Downloads: 285)
.jpg   06.jpg (Size: 172.11 KB / Downloads: 335)
.jpg   07.jpg (Size: 265.33 KB / Downloads: 316)
.jpg   08.jpg (Size: 283.83 KB / Downloads: 361)
.jpg   09.jpg (Size: 288.8 KB / Downloads: 272)
.jpg   10.jpg (Size: 292.71 KB / Downloads: 272)
.jpg   11.jpg (Size: 199.1 KB / Downloads: 247)
.jpg   12.jpg (Size: 143.86 KB / Downloads: 254)
.jpg   13.jpg (Size: 319.41 KB / Downloads: 262)
.jpg   14.jpg (Size: 363.06 KB / Downloads: 270)
.jpg   15.jpg (Size: 337.27 KB / Downloads: 265)
.jpg   16.jpg (Size: 259.06 KB / Downloads: 285)
.jpg   17.jpg (Size: 94.83 KB / Downloads: 273)
.jpg   18.jpg (Size: 306.88 KB / Downloads: 271)
.jpg   19.jpg (Size: 246.74 KB / Downloads: 267)
.jpg   20.jpg (Size: 294.19 KB / Downloads: 285) ]]> Na-Na-Na-Na-Na-Na-Batgirl!


.jpg   01.jpg (Size: 109.37 KB / Downloads: 349)
.jpg   02.jpg (Size: 141.04 KB / Downloads: 316)
.jpg   03.jpg (Size: 146.2 KB / Downloads: 287)
.jpg   04.jpg (Size: 138.58 KB / Downloads: 280)
.jpg   05.jpg (Size: 166.53 KB / Downloads: 285)
.jpg   06.jpg (Size: 172.11 KB / Downloads: 335)
.jpg   07.jpg (Size: 265.33 KB / Downloads: 316)
.jpg   08.jpg (Size: 283.83 KB / Downloads: 361)
.jpg   09.jpg (Size: 288.8 KB / Downloads: 272)
.jpg   10.jpg (Size: 292.71 KB / Downloads: 272)
.jpg   11.jpg (Size: 199.1 KB / Downloads: 247)
.jpg   12.jpg (Size: 143.86 KB / Downloads: 254)
.jpg   13.jpg (Size: 319.41 KB / Downloads: 262)
.jpg   14.jpg (Size: 363.06 KB / Downloads: 270)
.jpg   15.jpg (Size: 337.27 KB / Downloads: 265)
.jpg   16.jpg (Size: 259.06 KB / Downloads: 285)
.jpg   17.jpg (Size: 94.83 KB / Downloads: 273)
.jpg   18.jpg (Size: 306.88 KB / Downloads: 271)
.jpg   19.jpg (Size: 246.74 KB / Downloads: 267)
.jpg   20.jpg (Size: 294.19 KB / Downloads: 285) ]]> <![CDATA[Out of Lockdown, At Last]]> https://www.likera.com/forum/mybb/Thread-Out-of-Lockdown-At-Last Wed, 08 Jul 2020 16:41:19 +0000 PetraJane]]> https://www.likera.com/forum/mybb/Thread-Out-of-Lockdown-At-Last
Steve and Jane were bored, they had been stuck in the house for months now, Lockdown was a bitch it had to be said.
Finally that fuckwit, Boris Johnson, the UK Prime Minister had lifted some of the restrictions limiting people to stay at home, regardless than many thought it was far too early to lift Lockdown as no matter what he said, Cornovirus was still active and a threat to so many people in the UK, and around the world, but Steve and Jane, like so many young people, didn't give a shit and wanted to get out of the house and mingle with their friends.

So, at the weekend, Jane told Steve to get himself dressed up in his feminine alter-ego and meet her in the garage and to wear his vagina panties under his tights and satin lacy firm panties.

Steve was so excited he dashed upstairs and quickly shaved himself smooth, putting on his Vagina Panties on under his black tights and green satin and lace firm panties, tucking himself into the penis tube in the VP's. His matching green lacy bra and D breast forms, complete with nipple enhancers were next, a spare set of fake nipples went inside the bra, between his breast forms and his own nipples, pressing against them by the breast forms and firm bra, after all, a little discomfort helps him feel extra feminine.
He added his red skater skirt, Ivory satin blouse and blonde wig whilst a pair of modest heels completed his outfit. Sitting in front of the mirror, he applied his makeup, eye shadow, lipgloss and a quick brush on rouge highlighted his cheekbones nicely.

After admiring himself in the mirror he made his way sedately downstairs and went to meet Jane in their attached garage. He found her tapping her feet impatiently as she waited for him to get ready.
"Finally" she snapped. "Come here and turn around!" she commanded.

'Uh oh, she's in a bad mood,' Steve thought.

"Yes dear", he murmured as he faced away from her. "I just wanted to get everything ready for you."

Jane didn't answer as she tied Steve's hands, tightly, behind his back. She then pulled another rope from her pile in the boot of the car and tied his elbows together, tighter than Steve ever remembered her doing before.
"OW! Not so tight love." He said.

"Be quiet Stephanie! Mistress is busy!" Jane said sharply.

Another set of ropes went around Steve's, sorry, Stephanie's breasts, above and below them, wrapping around them, before she was spun around and the ends of the ropes were fed up the V between her breasts and over her shoulders, before being tied behind her back.

"Get into the boot, Stephanie! We're going for a little ride out." Jane instructed her slave.
Steve looked at Jane in disbelief, they'd never gone this far before, but he was pretty much helpless to argue with Jane now, he was unable to release a hand and where was he going to go, dressed like this anyway. So, with a little help from Jane, Stephanie climbed into the boot of the car.

Jane grabbed his legs, leaving them hanging out of the boot for the time being and grabbed yet another length of rope from the rapidly dwindling pile and secured Stephanie's ankles, tying a few loops around her shoes so they would not come off until the ropes were removed. Another length of rope later and Stephanie's knees were tightly tied together.

Jane pulled a blindfold from a bag on the garage bench and slipped it over Stephanie's eyes and said, "open wide!"
Stephanie did so automatically and a large ballgag was pushed inside her mouth and the straps were fastened over and behind her head pulling the ball of the gag firmly in place and preventing the blindfold from riding up as well.

Unable to see or say more than an Mppphh! or two, Stephanie felt something rigid being placed around her neck and she could not move her head much now. Although she did not know what it was, Jane had fitted a neck brace around Stephanie's neck so she could wrap some rope around her neck before tying the ends to her ankle ropes to keep Stephanie hogtied in the boot whilst she drove Stephanie to the next stage of her plan.

Jane slammed the boot lid down and opened the garage door before getting in the driver's seat and, starting the car, set off down the road, she drove for some time, going over various speed bumps and potholes before pulling into a bumpy lane where she turned the engine off and got out.

Looking around, she could not see anyone so she opened the boot of the car, checked that Stephanie was okay, if dizzy and disorientated, and untied the rope around her ankles and lifted her legs out of the boot, telling Stephanie to stand. Using the rope around her neck brace, like a leash. she told Stephanie to start walking, not easy on a country lane, blindfolded, unable to balance herself and only to hobble as her knees were still tied, in heels!

But somehow Stephanie managed it, wondering what the hell she had done to Jane to merit this treatment.
After a long hobble, Jane felt they had gone far enough and grabbing Stephanie by the arms, turned her around and pushed her backwards and up against a tree. She then used the rope around her neck brace to fasten Stephanie to the tree, pulling another length from her bag she re-tied her ankles and wrapped it around the tree, before getting the final length and wrapped it around the tree at waist height, tightly.

"Mppphhhgggg!?" Stephanie managed to mumble.

" 'Why?' Because Steve, as Stephanie you have a better figure than me, you have longer and nicer legs than I do after giving birth to our two children, because since you discovered Stephanie, we never seem to get cosy together or have sex anymore! Now, I've had it, I want to cuddle up with you, I don't care if it's you Steve or you Stephanie, I just want some physical comfort, some hugs, some SEX! Goodbye!" and she turned and walked away crying.

Steve couldn't believe it, he thought that Jane put up with Stephanie for the sake of the children, though they didn't know about her, he wanted Stephanie because Jane didn't want to be touched by either Steve or Stephanie, he hadn't realised Jane was as desperate for physical comfort or sex as much as he was.

"Jane!" He tried to shout, but all that came out was a muffled "Mmmmppphhh!"

He struggled, tried to find any slack in the ropes, but Jane had tied him up too well. "Jane!" he screamed into the gag, but very little sound came out.

Sometime later, he realised he had dozed off somehow, although he couldn't see through the blindfold, he could tell that it was getting darker and then he felt something against his blouse and legs, and a sound of pattering.
He felt himself getting colder and realised it was raining!
'Fucking great' he thought 'how much worse can today get?'

Time passed, where the hell was he, how was he going to get out of this, what would happen if he wasn't found, what would happen if he WAS found?

"Well, well, what have we here?" a voice said as there was a rustling as someone approached through the undergrowth.
It was a male voice! Steve was worried, here HE was, tied to a tree somewhere as it got darker and dressed as a woman, and tied to a fucking tree bound and gagged, blindfolded and totally helpless.

"Mmmmppppgghhhh!" he murmured, going for the damsel in distress scenario, and hoping that it wasn't someone who was going to take advantage of what they thought was a woman totally vulnerable and helpless to resist or getaway.

"What are you doing here honey, looking for a good time or what?" The voice said, sounding nearer than before, then Steve felt a hand caressing his breasts, then groping them, grabbing them hard and pushing them, pushing the fake nipples underneath them into his own nipples, forcing a groan of pain, of ecstasy through the gag. Then one hand slip lower onto his skirt and down his leg, the other hand still groping one of his breasts, pushing the nipple harder into his own, forcing more moans through the gag. Then the hand on his leg moved upwards, softly caressing him through the nylon tights, making him hard and his cock straining in its sheath in the vagina panties and then, it grabbed him between his legs and massaged his cock in its sheath, he moaned and his legs went weak as the hands kept groping him until he orgasmed, coming hard and panting behind the ballgag.

The hands stopped their groping and he felt the ropes that fastened him to the tree being released, but not those around his knees, wrists or elbows. then he was been pulled by the rope around his neck brace once again and was stumbling weakly down the country lane but he could tell he was been led downhill this time.

After a time, he bumped up against something solid, a car, and he was pushed forward and into the boot of this car before the lid was slammed down sealing him inside in the dark. The car started up and it drove off leaving Steve terrified and lost. He missed Jane, the love of his life and just wanted to be back with her and this time he would make sure she was included with his Stephanie time or they would cuddle up as Jane and Steve or as Jane and Stephanie, or even as John and Stephanie if Jane wanted to get a strapon and be the man of the relationship for a change. Behind his gag and blindfold, Steve cried himself to sleep in the boot of a strangers car on his way to who knew where, and for what purpose?

When he woke, the car was parked, or at least there was no real sense of movement, then the car rocked and he could hear footsteps as someone walked around the car to the boot which opened letting in light that he could just see through the gap under the blindfold where the panel of the ballgag didn't quite cover.

A pair of hands pulled his legs out of the boot and with an unexpected amount of care, untied the ropes around his knees, rubbing them to help get his circulation back into his legs after so many hours of being tied. the same hands took care to untie the ropes around his breasts and then the ropes around his elbows were removed and again, the hands surprising Steve, carefully rubbed the circulation back into his arms through his satin blouse.

Something was pushed behind his legs, and the hands carefully guided him to sit down on a what turned out to be a chair, and the straps around his head, keeping his gag and blindfold on all these hours, where finally eased off, his gag was removed and a cold wet cloth pressed against his sore mouth, wiping away the hours of drool and allowing him to suck a little of the moisture off it, Squinting against the light he looked around, trying to work out where he was and who had taken him away from his bondage in the countryside.

As his eyes adjusted to the light, he realised that he was in his own garage, and his captor/rescuer was in fact none other than Jane, his wife.

"Jane!" Steve exclaimed, "Oh my God, I thought I had been found by some pervert after you abandoned me!"

"No Love, I was never far from you, you were never in any danger. We were on private land and there was no one else anywhere close by. The male voice you heard was a recording on my phone that I used a male filter on. I just wanted you to know how much I love you and even as Stephanie, I want us to cuddle, to make love and be together." Jane said through her tears. "Can you ever forgive me?"

"Forgive you, there is nothing to forgive, this has made me realise just how much I love you and want us to not only stay together, but to BE together, as Steve and Jane, or Stephanie and Jane, or even as John and Stephanie, if you want to take the male role for a change."

Jane gave that a little thought.
"Hmm, ok, well, let me untie your wrists, then how about we have a meal and Stephanie stays and we cuddle up on the sofa until bedtime and then go from there?" she said.

"Ok, but I really NEED the bathroom and wash up, down there, as it were, before that meal. But then let's cuddle and watch your favourite programme before bed, as Stephanie and Jane?"

"Deal," Jane said. "But how about bed as Stephanie and John? I have a not so little friend I'd like to introduce you to!" She said with a twinkle in her eye.]]>
Steve and Jane were bored, they had been stuck in the house for months now, Lockdown was a bitch it had to be said.
Finally that fuckwit, Boris Johnson, the UK Prime Minister had lifted some of the restrictions limiting people to stay at home, regardless than many thought it was far too early to lift Lockdown as no matter what he said, Cornovirus was still active and a threat to so many people in the UK, and around the world, but Steve and Jane, like so many young people, didn't give a shit and wanted to get out of the house and mingle with their friends.

So, at the weekend, Jane told Steve to get himself dressed up in his feminine alter-ego and meet her in the garage and to wear his vagina panties under his tights and satin lacy firm panties.

Steve was so excited he dashed upstairs and quickly shaved himself smooth, putting on his Vagina Panties on under his black tights and green satin and lace firm panties, tucking himself into the penis tube in the VP's. His matching green lacy bra and D breast forms, complete with nipple enhancers were next, a spare set of fake nipples went inside the bra, between his breast forms and his own nipples, pressing against them by the breast forms and firm bra, after all, a little discomfort helps him feel extra feminine.
He added his red skater skirt, Ivory satin blouse and blonde wig whilst a pair of modest heels completed his outfit. Sitting in front of the mirror, he applied his makeup, eye shadow, lipgloss and a quick brush on rouge highlighted his cheekbones nicely.

After admiring himself in the mirror he made his way sedately downstairs and went to meet Jane in their attached garage. He found her tapping her feet impatiently as she waited for him to get ready.
"Finally" she snapped. "Come here and turn around!" she commanded.

'Uh oh, she's in a bad mood,' Steve thought.

"Yes dear", he murmured as he faced away from her. "I just wanted to get everything ready for you."

Jane didn't answer as she tied Steve's hands, tightly, behind his back. She then pulled another rope from her pile in the boot of the car and tied his elbows together, tighter than Steve ever remembered her doing before.
"OW! Not so tight love." He said.

"Be quiet Stephanie! Mistress is busy!" Jane said sharply.

Another set of ropes went around Steve's, sorry, Stephanie's breasts, above and below them, wrapping around them, before she was spun around and the ends of the ropes were fed up the V between her breasts and over her shoulders, before being tied behind her back.

"Get into the boot, Stephanie! We're going for a little ride out." Jane instructed her slave.
Steve looked at Jane in disbelief, they'd never gone this far before, but he was pretty much helpless to argue with Jane now, he was unable to release a hand and where was he going to go, dressed like this anyway. So, with a little help from Jane, Stephanie climbed into the boot of the car.

Jane grabbed his legs, leaving them hanging out of the boot for the time being and grabbed yet another length of rope from the rapidly dwindling pile and secured Stephanie's ankles, tying a few loops around her shoes so they would not come off until the ropes were removed. Another length of rope later and Stephanie's knees were tightly tied together.

Jane pulled a blindfold from a bag on the garage bench and slipped it over Stephanie's eyes and said, "open wide!"
Stephanie did so automatically and a large ballgag was pushed inside her mouth and the straps were fastened over and behind her head pulling the ball of the gag firmly in place and preventing the blindfold from riding up as well.

Unable to see or say more than an Mppphh! or two, Stephanie felt something rigid being placed around her neck and she could not move her head much now. Although she did not know what it was, Jane had fitted a neck brace around Stephanie's neck so she could wrap some rope around her neck before tying the ends to her ankle ropes to keep Stephanie hogtied in the boot whilst she drove Stephanie to the next stage of her plan.

Jane slammed the boot lid down and opened the garage door before getting in the driver's seat and, starting the car, set off down the road, she drove for some time, going over various speed bumps and potholes before pulling into a bumpy lane where she turned the engine off and got out.

Looking around, she could not see anyone so she opened the boot of the car, checked that Stephanie was okay, if dizzy and disorientated, and untied the rope around her ankles and lifted her legs out of the boot, telling Stephanie to stand. Using the rope around her neck brace, like a leash. she told Stephanie to start walking, not easy on a country lane, blindfolded, unable to balance herself and only to hobble as her knees were still tied, in heels!

But somehow Stephanie managed it, wondering what the hell she had done to Jane to merit this treatment.
After a long hobble, Jane felt they had gone far enough and grabbing Stephanie by the arms, turned her around and pushed her backwards and up against a tree. She then used the rope around her neck brace to fasten Stephanie to the tree, pulling another length from her bag she re-tied her ankles and wrapped it around the tree, before getting the final length and wrapped it around the tree at waist height, tightly.

"Mppphhhgggg!?" Stephanie managed to mumble.

" 'Why?' Because Steve, as Stephanie you have a better figure than me, you have longer and nicer legs than I do after giving birth to our two children, because since you discovered Stephanie, we never seem to get cosy together or have sex anymore! Now, I've had it, I want to cuddle up with you, I don't care if it's you Steve or you Stephanie, I just want some physical comfort, some hugs, some SEX! Goodbye!" and she turned and walked away crying.

Steve couldn't believe it, he thought that Jane put up with Stephanie for the sake of the children, though they didn't know about her, he wanted Stephanie because Jane didn't want to be touched by either Steve or Stephanie, he hadn't realised Jane was as desperate for physical comfort or sex as much as he was.

"Jane!" He tried to shout, but all that came out was a muffled "Mmmmppphhh!"

He struggled, tried to find any slack in the ropes, but Jane had tied him up too well. "Jane!" he screamed into the gag, but very little sound came out.

Sometime later, he realised he had dozed off somehow, although he couldn't see through the blindfold, he could tell that it was getting darker and then he felt something against his blouse and legs, and a sound of pattering.
He felt himself getting colder and realised it was raining!
'Fucking great' he thought 'how much worse can today get?'

Time passed, where the hell was he, how was he going to get out of this, what would happen if he wasn't found, what would happen if he WAS found?

"Well, well, what have we here?" a voice said as there was a rustling as someone approached through the undergrowth.
It was a male voice! Steve was worried, here HE was, tied to a tree somewhere as it got darker and dressed as a woman, and tied to a fucking tree bound and gagged, blindfolded and totally helpless.

"Mmmmppppgghhhh!" he murmured, going for the damsel in distress scenario, and hoping that it wasn't someone who was going to take advantage of what they thought was a woman totally vulnerable and helpless to resist or getaway.

"What are you doing here honey, looking for a good time or what?" The voice said, sounding nearer than before, then Steve felt a hand caressing his breasts, then groping them, grabbing them hard and pushing them, pushing the fake nipples underneath them into his own nipples, forcing a groan of pain, of ecstasy through the gag. Then one hand slip lower onto his skirt and down his leg, the other hand still groping one of his breasts, pushing the nipple harder into his own, forcing more moans through the gag. Then the hand on his leg moved upwards, softly caressing him through the nylon tights, making him hard and his cock straining in its sheath in the vagina panties and then, it grabbed him between his legs and massaged his cock in its sheath, he moaned and his legs went weak as the hands kept groping him until he orgasmed, coming hard and panting behind the ballgag.

The hands stopped their groping and he felt the ropes that fastened him to the tree being released, but not those around his knees, wrists or elbows. then he was been pulled by the rope around his neck brace once again and was stumbling weakly down the country lane but he could tell he was been led downhill this time.

After a time, he bumped up against something solid, a car, and he was pushed forward and into the boot of this car before the lid was slammed down sealing him inside in the dark. The car started up and it drove off leaving Steve terrified and lost. He missed Jane, the love of his life and just wanted to be back with her and this time he would make sure she was included with his Stephanie time or they would cuddle up as Jane and Steve or as Jane and Stephanie, or even as John and Stephanie if Jane wanted to get a strapon and be the man of the relationship for a change. Behind his gag and blindfold, Steve cried himself to sleep in the boot of a strangers car on his way to who knew where, and for what purpose?

When he woke, the car was parked, or at least there was no real sense of movement, then the car rocked and he could hear footsteps as someone walked around the car to the boot which opened letting in light that he could just see through the gap under the blindfold where the panel of the ballgag didn't quite cover.

A pair of hands pulled his legs out of the boot and with an unexpected amount of care, untied the ropes around his knees, rubbing them to help get his circulation back into his legs after so many hours of being tied. the same hands took care to untie the ropes around his breasts and then the ropes around his elbows were removed and again, the hands surprising Steve, carefully rubbed the circulation back into his arms through his satin blouse.

Something was pushed behind his legs, and the hands carefully guided him to sit down on a what turned out to be a chair, and the straps around his head, keeping his gag and blindfold on all these hours, where finally eased off, his gag was removed and a cold wet cloth pressed against his sore mouth, wiping away the hours of drool and allowing him to suck a little of the moisture off it, Squinting against the light he looked around, trying to work out where he was and who had taken him away from his bondage in the countryside.

As his eyes adjusted to the light, he realised that he was in his own garage, and his captor/rescuer was in fact none other than Jane, his wife.

"Jane!" Steve exclaimed, "Oh my God, I thought I had been found by some pervert after you abandoned me!"

"No Love, I was never far from you, you were never in any danger. We were on private land and there was no one else anywhere close by. The male voice you heard was a recording on my phone that I used a male filter on. I just wanted you to know how much I love you and even as Stephanie, I want us to cuddle, to make love and be together." Jane said through her tears. "Can you ever forgive me?"

"Forgive you, there is nothing to forgive, this has made me realise just how much I love you and want us to not only stay together, but to BE together, as Steve and Jane, or Stephanie and Jane, or even as John and Stephanie, if you want to take the male role for a change."

Jane gave that a little thought.
"Hmm, ok, well, let me untie your wrists, then how about we have a meal and Stephanie stays and we cuddle up on the sofa until bedtime and then go from there?" she said.

"Ok, but I really NEED the bathroom and wash up, down there, as it were, before that meal. But then let's cuddle and watch your favourite programme before bed, as Stephanie and Jane?"

"Deal," Jane said. "But how about bed as Stephanie and John? I have a not so little friend I'd like to introduce you to!" She said with a twinkle in her eye.]]> <![CDATA[I manipulated my boss's wife into submission. True story..]]> https://www.likera.com/forum/mybb/Thread-I-manipulated-my-boss-s-wife-into-submission-True-story Sat, 07 Dec 2019 08:45:04 +0000 Maxine1966]]> https://www.likera.com/forum/mybb/Thread-I-manipulated-my-boss-s-wife-into-submission-True-story
I have a satin and silk fetish. It's something you get as a child, I don't know how. It's not a condition but it's also not a choice, so I have to live and die with it. I just can’t resist touching and stroking satin fabric because It's just so soft and smooth to touch when rubbing. For me nothing looks sexier on a woman than a shiny satin or silk outfit.

About ten months ago I had to move  in my cousin's garage. I was unemployed and broke. I am 53 year old and I have always been poor. I don't want to die poor. I was practically homeless. So i had to move here in this community. I live in my cousin's garage. About nine months ago i started working for this accounting company. My boss is horrible, arrogant and stuck up person. Nobody gets paid overtime. If we go over the 40 hours a week (and almost everyone does), we don't get paid for the rest, yet we are expected to work overtime to finish the work. If you don't finish, the boss will belittle you. Boss constantly shorts people money, so you need to constantly have a record of your hours. Sometimes your paycheck will be several days late. No calling in sick unless you can find a cover, but we don't ever have coverage because everyone works too much. 

Where is the boss through all of this? He's going on vacations with his wife. He's putting his  through private school. He's buying new cars.
He's such a fucking asshole.
I'm sick of him talking down to me. I'm sick of him being sarcastic. I'm sick of him piling work on me and chewing me the fuck out when I can't get it all done perfectly. I'm sick of him attacking me when I make small mistakes. I fucking hate him so much.
His wife is 42year old 5ft10 tall heterosexual curvy hourglass shaped attractive brunette. She has very large massive breasts and she does have a big butt. She has very olive skin. Most of her outfit are satin pant and skirt suits satin coats and satin and silk blouses. She is always on high heels and full make up on. She is curvy, tall and busty, so many clothes tend to look sexier on her than on a thin person. She wears almost always her satin and silk blouses fully buttoned to the top combined with a satin skirt or satin pants. She doesn't wear anything vulgar but because of her body type anything she wears looks tight on her. They are married for 17 years and they have a 16 year old . She is very serious, arrogant, and stuck up. My  boss is older than his wife. He is 51 year old.

Six days ago i attended this  this all female wine group meeting/party . This woman my boss's wife was there. She was wearing a red long sleeve satin bow blouse ,black satin pants, and 5 inch heels black shoes. She had full make up on. Before this wine group meeting I had only spoken to this woman my boss's wife once but I walked up to her. This woman is 5ft10 tall well built well endowed and curvy. I am 5ft3 tall skinny.She was on 5inch high heels i was in sneakers. Standing next to her i looked like a midget. So i said to her " Wow. You are such a big woman. Standing next to you i look like a midget. You are the tallest woman here. You are towering over everybody. All other women here are shorter than you. You are really towering." This arrogant woman my boss's  didn't answer me. She just turned her back on me and started talking with one woman

 I couldn't resist and i started rubbing her back with with my both hands while she was standing as i was standing behind her. I said to her "Your back is so sore"(that was just an excuse to touch her since she was  dressed in satin and silk clothes). I rubbed her back with my both hands  for like 5 minutes while she just stood there talking with other women. Than this woman my boss's wife sat on a chair. A few minutes later as  was standing behind her i started massaging her shoulders. "You are so tense. You just need to relax. Just trust me" I said to her.  I kept rubbing her shoulders for like 5 minutes, then she got up, she was very flustered, she pulled me aside and she said to me  “I’m sorry, I have a thing with personal space.”She explained to me that it is making her uncomfortable that  she feels  uncomfortable when I touch her. She said that she is straight and that she never had any desire to do anything sexual with a female and that just thinking about possibly kissing a female makes her cringe. As I was standing beside her, I just couldn't resist and   i grabbed her left hand with my left hand and I placed my right hand very low down in the small of her back (actually quite a bit lower than that). Then I said to her that she is misreading the creep factor. I LIED to her that i am an amateur spiritual healing touch therapist. I told her that she has bad energy inside of her body.The whole time while we were talking , i kept holding  her left hand with my left hand and my right hand patting her lower back and top of her butt. .
  I suggested to her body/energy work. For some reason she AGREED. .

Then i started "working" on freeing up energy in her body.  I "massaged" her back, arms, legs and her big ass(i focused a large amount of time on her ass) for like 10 minutes while she just stood there stiff as a board. Then i started   rubbing her back with my left hand while i was rubbing with my right hand her whole front side concentrating on her massive soft  boobs while she was standing stiff as a board not saying a word. At one point i placed my both hands on her massive soft breasts and moved them in a circular motion while i was facing her (My face is exactly the level of her breasts).  While  i was rubbing her back, butt, arms, legs or gently "massaging"  her massive soft breasts i got instantly wet. So i was aroused by just rubbing this woman my boss's wife through her satin and silk clothes. I was touching her, rubbing her "freeing energy in her body" for my sexual pleasure.  But I am really good at pretending. She thought that my touch is not sexual at all. .

Other women there were weirded out by our behaviour, but they ignored that and said/did nothing as if nothing was happening.I think that the women there were in shock themselves? Some people don’t like to get involved if they feel uncomfortable or not sure what is going on. These women were pretending that is not happening with confused looks on their faces. .Also it was bizarre. Standing next to her  i looked like a midget and she was letting me get by with it. 


After rubbing her whole body with my both hands through her satin clothes for like 30 minutes while she was just standing there stiff as a board, the "session" ended. I asked her if there was anything in the "session" that she considered especially helpful or enjoyable, and if the session was something that worked for her or not. She said "I must admit that  i feel relaxed. There is no doubt that your touch has incredible healing power." Then she said to me that she has to go home.  She was putting on her black satin coat and i said to her ”uuuu big woman i love your coat” and pulled up her collar for her then bolted off. .She left the wine bar. .

I manipulated this arrogant stuck up woman my boss's wife into letting me touch her. She was standing stiff as a board while i was "freeing energy in her body".   I know this sounds weird and outrageous. I am very attracted to her but only in a sexual way. With this touchable always dressed in silk and satin woman my boss's wife is about lust, not love. It is pure physical attraction, not emotional. I was touching her, rubbing her "freeing energy in her body" for my sexual pleasure. She is so radiant and tall and big and soft. It was impossible to resist the urge to touch her. The cravings for touching her were too intense. She is objectively very attractive, much hotter than any woman I've ever slept with. And this woman is physically stronger than me . She is 5ft10 tall well built well endowed and curvy.I am masculine but i am 5ft3 tall and skinny.She was on high heels I was in sneakers. Standing next to me she looked like a giant. I am physically completely harmless. But i manipulated this woman my boss's wife into letting me touch her. She  was convinced that i was helping her. She even said that my touch has incredible healing power. She probably thinks that my touch is not sexual at all. . 




I know this sounds strange and maybe even a bit sick to people.
I've posted it on here in the hope someone can understand me instead of just judging me. I am too sexually attracted to this woman my boss's wife . I just can't help myself because this is the way that I am, this is how my body react to her and her shiny satin and silk clothes.She is extremely fashionable, elegant, glamorous, and classy. I love her height and her curvy stature. She is so radiant and tall and big and soft.I want to make my boss a cuckold. This is my first time dealing with something like this, so the help is much appreciated! I am amazed at how easily this overdressed stupid stuck up woman my  boss's wife let herself be touched, rubbed and "massaged" by me in front of other women there at  wine group meeting/party .  She was just standing  there not saying a word making stupid faces while I was  "freeing energy in her body". I manipulated her into submission.  I got off on feeling her up through her satin clothes . I love standing next to her and contrasting myself against her, i come out so undesirable next to her. I admit to you that the thrill I got from touching and rubbing this arrogant spoiled stuck up woman my boss's wife in public was so powerful. It made me feel invincible -- it made me feel like I might never have to feel ashamed or insecure again. I just couldn't resist touching and rubbing this woman my  boss's wife. I love her height and her curvy stature. Standing next to me she looked like a giant. She is so radiant and tall and big and soft. I was aroused by rubbing her through her satin clothes.i manipulated this woman my boss's wife into letting me touch her. I had full access to her body. She  was convinced that i was helping her. She even said that my touch has incredible healing power. She probably thinks that my touch is not sexual at all.   I am not in love with this upper middle class always overdressed woman my boss's wife nor do i want a long-term affair, all I think about is having sex with her. I masturbate just thinking about her.  I'm going to keep "working" on freeing up energy in her body, keep rubbing her, to keep touching her big soft tits, to keep feeling that soft round ass of hers. I see no reason why i should slow my advances toward her. In fact i should use every opportunity to be with her..
.

I want to make clear that i only like women! I prefer more masculine clothing. I'm a little too butch but I I consider my self chapstick, I NEVER wear makeup. I am so fucking short, 5’3, with a slim & weak body. I literally look like a fucking 13 year old ugly boy. Added to this, i feel even worse when i see myself in pics next to other average and good looking people. I have some self esteem issues, but why lie to my self? If I'm ugly, why say I'm good looking? I am a realist. Most women don't care about your personality if you're ugly, short and skinny dyke.
I'm about 5'3", and when I'm out and about and look around myself on a typical day, most people seem well and truly taller than me (including women). . I’m flat chested, I’m not the most gifted in that area.
I wear men,,masc, unisex clothes and shoes and the only thing I get in the women’s sections of stores are bras.

I’ve noticed in some convos I had with friends that they don’t really consider me butch. They call me a soft butch or andro or just some neutral zone where I’m neither masculine or femme. but it also makes me feel insecure about my identity as a moc person.

I have a higher voice. I don’t carry myself as “masculine” and it seems that I look more masculine than I actually am. I went on a date with one femme lesbian woman a while back and she ended up not being into me because she thought I was going to be “more butch” and was disappointed. It really sucked.

My other problem is that all the women i gotten far with were not my physical type. My whole life i can’t attract the women i find attractive. I have never been with a man sexually and don't want to be at all. Nothing against men but they just don't do it for me.]]>
I have a satin and silk fetish. It's something you get as a child, I don't know how. It's not a condition but it's also not a choice, so I have to live and die with it. I just can’t resist touching and stroking satin fabric because It's just so soft and smooth to touch when rubbing. For me nothing looks sexier on a woman than a shiny satin or silk outfit.

About ten months ago I had to move  in my cousin's garage. I was unemployed and broke. I am 53 year old and I have always been poor. I don't want to die poor. I was practically homeless. So i had to move here in this community. I live in my cousin's garage. About nine months ago i started working for this accounting company. My boss is horrible, arrogant and stuck up person. Nobody gets paid overtime. If we go over the 40 hours a week (and almost everyone does), we don't get paid for the rest, yet we are expected to work overtime to finish the work. If you don't finish, the boss will belittle you. Boss constantly shorts people money, so you need to constantly have a record of your hours. Sometimes your paycheck will be several days late. No calling in sick unless you can find a cover, but we don't ever have coverage because everyone works too much. 

Where is the boss through all of this? He's going on vacations with his wife. He's putting his  through private school. He's buying new cars.
He's such a fucking asshole.
I'm sick of him talking down to me. I'm sick of him being sarcastic. I'm sick of him piling work on me and chewing me the fuck out when I can't get it all done perfectly. I'm sick of him attacking me when I make small mistakes. I fucking hate him so much.
His wife is 42year old 5ft10 tall heterosexual curvy hourglass shaped attractive brunette. She has very large massive breasts and she does have a big butt. She has very olive skin. Most of her outfit are satin pant and skirt suits satin coats and satin and silk blouses. She is always on high heels and full make up on. She is curvy, tall and busty, so many clothes tend to look sexier on her than on a thin person. She wears almost always her satin and silk blouses fully buttoned to the top combined with a satin skirt or satin pants. She doesn't wear anything vulgar but because of her body type anything she wears looks tight on her. They are married for 17 years and they have a 16 year old . She is very serious, arrogant, and stuck up. My  boss is older than his wife. He is 51 year old.

Six days ago i attended this  this all female wine group meeting/party . This woman my boss's wife was there. She was wearing a red long sleeve satin bow blouse ,black satin pants, and 5 inch heels black shoes. She had full make up on. Before this wine group meeting I had only spoken to this woman my boss's wife once but I walked up to her. This woman is 5ft10 tall well built well endowed and curvy. I am 5ft3 tall skinny.She was on 5inch high heels i was in sneakers. Standing next to her i looked like a midget. So i said to her " Wow. You are such a big woman. Standing next to you i look like a midget. You are the tallest woman here. You are towering over everybody. All other women here are shorter than you. You are really towering." This arrogant woman my boss's  didn't answer me. She just turned her back on me and started talking with one woman

 I couldn't resist and i started rubbing her back with with my both hands while she was standing as i was standing behind her. I said to her "Your back is so sore"(that was just an excuse to touch her since she was  dressed in satin and silk clothes). I rubbed her back with my both hands  for like 5 minutes while she just stood there talking with other women. Than this woman my boss's wife sat on a chair. A few minutes later as  was standing behind her i started massaging her shoulders. "You are so tense. You just need to relax. Just trust me" I said to her.  I kept rubbing her shoulders for like 5 minutes, then she got up, she was very flustered, she pulled me aside and she said to me  “I’m sorry, I have a thing with personal space.”She explained to me that it is making her uncomfortable that  she feels  uncomfortable when I touch her. She said that she is straight and that she never had any desire to do anything sexual with a female and that just thinking about possibly kissing a female makes her cringe. As I was standing beside her, I just couldn't resist and   i grabbed her left hand with my left hand and I placed my right hand very low down in the small of her back (actually quite a bit lower than that). Then I said to her that she is misreading the creep factor. I LIED to her that i am an amateur spiritual healing touch therapist. I told her that she has bad energy inside of her body.The whole time while we were talking , i kept holding  her left hand with my left hand and my right hand patting her lower back and top of her butt. .
  I suggested to her body/energy work. For some reason she AGREED. .

Then i started "working" on freeing up energy in her body.  I "massaged" her back, arms, legs and her big ass(i focused a large amount of time on her ass) for like 10 minutes while she just stood there stiff as a board. Then i started   rubbing her back with my left hand while i was rubbing with my right hand her whole front side concentrating on her massive soft  boobs while she was standing stiff as a board not saying a word. At one point i placed my both hands on her massive soft breasts and moved them in a circular motion while i was facing her (My face is exactly the level of her breasts).  While  i was rubbing her back, butt, arms, legs or gently "massaging"  her massive soft breasts i got instantly wet. So i was aroused by just rubbing this woman my boss's wife through her satin and silk clothes. I was touching her, rubbing her "freeing energy in her body" for my sexual pleasure.  But I am really good at pretending. She thought that my touch is not sexual at all. .

Other women there were weirded out by our behaviour, but they ignored that and said/did nothing as if nothing was happening.I think that the women there were in shock themselves? Some people don’t like to get involved if they feel uncomfortable or not sure what is going on. These women were pretending that is not happening with confused looks on their faces. .Also it was bizarre. Standing next to her  i looked like a midget and she was letting me get by with it. 


After rubbing her whole body with my both hands through her satin clothes for like 30 minutes while she was just standing there stiff as a board, the "session" ended. I asked her if there was anything in the "session" that she considered especially helpful or enjoyable, and if the session was something that worked for her or not. She said "I must admit that  i feel relaxed. There is no doubt that your touch has incredible healing power." Then she said to me that she has to go home.  She was putting on her black satin coat and i said to her ”uuuu big woman i love your coat” and pulled up her collar for her then bolted off. .She left the wine bar. .

I manipulated this arrogant stuck up woman my boss's wife into letting me touch her. She was standing stiff as a board while i was "freeing energy in her body".   I know this sounds weird and outrageous. I am very attracted to her but only in a sexual way. With this touchable always dressed in silk and satin woman my boss's wife is about lust, not love. It is pure physical attraction, not emotional. I was touching her, rubbing her "freeing energy in her body" for my sexual pleasure. She is so radiant and tall and big and soft. It was impossible to resist the urge to touch her. The cravings for touching her were too intense. She is objectively very attractive, much hotter than any woman I've ever slept with. And this woman is physically stronger than me . She is 5ft10 tall well built well endowed and curvy.I am masculine but i am 5ft3 tall and skinny.She was on high heels I was in sneakers. Standing next to me she looked like a giant. I am physically completely harmless. But i manipulated this woman my boss's wife into letting me touch her. She  was convinced that i was helping her. She even said that my touch has incredible healing power. She probably thinks that my touch is not sexual at all. . 




I know this sounds strange and maybe even a bit sick to people.
I've posted it on here in the hope someone can understand me instead of just judging me. I am too sexually attracted to this woman my boss's wife . I just can't help myself because this is the way that I am, this is how my body react to her and her shiny satin and silk clothes.She is extremely fashionable, elegant, glamorous, and classy. I love her height and her curvy stature. She is so radiant and tall and big and soft.I want to make my boss a cuckold. This is my first time dealing with something like this, so the help is much appreciated! I am amazed at how easily this overdressed stupid stuck up woman my  boss's wife let herself be touched, rubbed and "massaged" by me in front of other women there at  wine group meeting/party .  She was just standing  there not saying a word making stupid faces while I was  "freeing energy in her body". I manipulated her into submission.  I got off on feeling her up through her satin clothes . I love standing next to her and contrasting myself against her, i come out so undesirable next to her. I admit to you that the thrill I got from touching and rubbing this arrogant spoiled stuck up woman my boss's wife in public was so powerful. It made me feel invincible -- it made me feel like I might never have to feel ashamed or insecure again. I just couldn't resist touching and rubbing this woman my  boss's wife. I love her height and her curvy stature. Standing next to me she looked like a giant. She is so radiant and tall and big and soft. I was aroused by rubbing her through her satin clothes.i manipulated this woman my boss's wife into letting me touch her. I had full access to her body. She  was convinced that i was helping her. She even said that my touch has incredible healing power. She probably thinks that my touch is not sexual at all.   I am not in love with this upper middle class always overdressed woman my boss's wife nor do i want a long-term affair, all I think about is having sex with her. I masturbate just thinking about her.  I'm going to keep "working" on freeing up energy in her body, keep rubbing her, to keep touching her big soft tits, to keep feeling that soft round ass of hers. I see no reason why i should slow my advances toward her. In fact i should use every opportunity to be with her..
.

I want to make clear that i only like women! I prefer more masculine clothing. I'm a little too butch but I I consider my self chapstick, I NEVER wear makeup. I am so fucking short, 5’3, with a slim & weak body. I literally look like a fucking 13 year old ugly boy. Added to this, i feel even worse when i see myself in pics next to other average and good looking people. I have some self esteem issues, but why lie to my self? If I'm ugly, why say I'm good looking? I am a realist. Most women don't care about your personality if you're ugly, short and skinny dyke.
I'm about 5'3", and when I'm out and about and look around myself on a typical day, most people seem well and truly taller than me (including women). . I’m flat chested, I’m not the most gifted in that area.
I wear men,,masc, unisex clothes and shoes and the only thing I get in the women’s sections of stores are bras.

I’ve noticed in some convos I had with friends that they don’t really consider me butch. They call me a soft butch or andro or just some neutral zone where I’m neither masculine or femme. but it also makes me feel insecure about my identity as a moc person.

I have a higher voice. I don’t carry myself as “masculine” and it seems that I look more masculine than I actually am. I went on a date with one femme lesbian woman a while back and she ended up not being into me because she thought I was going to be “more butch” and was disappointed. It really sucked.

My other problem is that all the women i gotten far with were not my physical type. My whole life i can’t attract the women i find attractive. I have never been with a man sexually and don't want to be at all. Nothing against men but they just don't do it for me.]]>