Fair & Square · Part 1

Fair & Square · Part 1 (1/2)
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I can’t say that he wasn’t fair.

He did say a week before tonight that I should start exercising, perhaps catching up on my sleep if I felt drowsy. Besides which, I’d seen him tinkering with the porch for weeks so I knew he was up to something. In fact, he’d been so busy with his amendments that he’d neglected to punish me all month, and the usual pattern of welts on my bottom, breasts and rest of my body had cleared.

All in all, it had been an easy month for me. Until tonight that is.

It began, as Jeff had promised, in the dusk of an early autumn evening.

The only preparation I’d had to make was to put on my corset and my thigh length boots. I love the boots, but they take an age to put on. Although they are used almost exclusively in our bondage games, and do have buckles for chaining up, they only have one special feature – adjustable heels.

By unscrewing the heel you could replace it with a higher one or a shorter one. This way, Jeff could see me stand still in 7 inch heels, normally unwearable, or I could switch to a more manageable 4-5 inch. This would be used when I had to walk a lot in a short period of time.

"Tonight, however, dear Stacy," Jeff said as he unscrewed the left heel, the second, "there will be no need for heels at all."

He led me to my feet, and I stumbled briefly. The sole of the boot wasn’t meant to be worn flat on the ground and it was a strange sensation. I felt like I was wearing clogs. It wasn’t uncomfortable, I could walk, but I was puzzled. Jeff normally likes me up on my toes.

He moved to the corset, which wasn’t much more than a waist cincher.

At its top, it was an inch or two below my breasts, and it’s bottom left a lot of room for panties, skirts, what have you. As a waist cincher, however, it’s one of the best. I’m normally a 23 inch waist, 24 if you insist, but after my grunting and Jeff’s assistance, it sliced me down to a 19 inch waist.

"Arms up behind your back."

I was prepared for Jeff’s signature piece – the hammer lock. It’s the one thing I DO always do stretches for, as even for our standard games it’s the norm to have my wrists dragged up the centre of my back until my elbows touch. This makes my 37DD breasts, my best feature if I say so myself, jut proudly stand out like balloons. I’m petrified of them sagging as

I grow older – they’re heavy enough at the moment! So I’m not too distressed by the hammerlock at all. He’s even made a glove for my forearms, and apart from tighter lacing than normal, there was nothing special about this particular constriction. I was disappointed.

Fortunately for me, or was it unfortunately, everything else was new.

First up was a pair of panties with attachments galore! I couldn’t make out what half of them were until he slipped them on. Then I made out a short, stubby butt-plug, and a thin-based, bulbous dildo. That puzzled me – I was used to uniform, cylindrical devices, not one whose girth changed.

As soon as everything was in, everything was removed.

"I’ve forgotten something," said Jeff before adding pointlessly, "wait here, love."

He rushed off to the bathroom and return with my enema.

"How much do you think you can hold?"

"About two pints I think, darling," I replied. It was so nice of him to ask.

"Three pints it is then."

I shan’t bore you with the intricacies of the enema, suffice it to say that duly, I had three pints of warm water sloshing around inside me, held in by a plug so tight it could have saved the Dutch boy a thumb. Turning round to check for seepage, I noticed there was a wire coming out of it.

"Love," I began with a moment of concern in my voice, "is that electrical?

Won’t that be dangerous next to all that water?"

"No, it’s alright Stacy," he soothed, "the inside’s insulated from the outside. You’ll be fine. Well, you won’t, but you won’t be electrocuted.

Go up to the toilet and try peeing."

It was an unexpected order, but not one I wasn’t going to disobey, even when he followed me. I stood astride the bowl, not knowing where to aim, and let rip with the most perfectly straight stream of pee. It shocked me, but pleased Jeff.

"Perfect."

I realised that the panties were designed this way, with a small hole at the base of the dildo that could aim straight down. Why this would be useful I could only guess.

There was no need to wash my hands, so I followed Jeff downstairs and mentally prepared myself for the next, unexpected part of my bondage.

He produced a pair of studded dog-collars, and approached my tits, still defying gravity due to my arm lock. Carefully avoiding catching any skin, he looped the first of the collars around the base of my left breast, and began to tighten it. At first, I thought he was having a little trouble.

"It’s inside out," I said helpfully.

No response.

"I said…" and then I realised. I’m usually much quicker than that, honest!

The studs were (deliberately) pinching painfully into my bosom, and it was the first painful part of my experience. My only question was why it took so long in coming.

He spent some considerable time checking the tightness of that first collar, releasing it a half inch, feeling underneath it, tightening it again. Not once did he ask me whether it was too tight. Not once did I expect it. I was starting to get a warm glow as my constriction increased.

The right collar was in position a lot faster, as the left indicated my tightness threshold.

"This will hurt," he suddenly said.

He was right about that! My right nipple exploded with pain as he snapped on a clip. I looked down and saw that the clamp grabbed my nipple from all angles, not just at the side like our normal clothespins. Whether that was the reason for the pain, I just don’t know. Firstly, I didn’t have time to ponder as he snapped on the second one, and secondly, it hurt!

"Time to gag you I think."

Again, he had me off balance. I was expecting a gag, indeed a deep one, but he fastened one on me which, not only being smaller than expected, had a hole running through its middle. I normally love the grunts I produce from a really filling gag, and adore the sensation of having to breathe through my nose. I looked at him with a puzzled glance. That couldn’t be it, surely?

He moved around my back and started to work on my hammer lock. First, he checked the circulation, just as a final precaution, and then he tied something to the glove – a lead weight of about four pounds or so. It was on a long string, and he pulled it between my legs, getting the length right by leaning me backwards and forwards. He took an age to get this right, but seemed to be happy and let it hang. It puzzled me intently!

What could it be for?

He had made one attachment to the string, however, by threading it through the middle of three foot-long pinwheels, fixing it in place so if I bent forwards, my bottom would be teased by the sharp metal of the pinwheels.

The pain was increasing.

He seemed to be running out of items, for which I thanked my lucky stars

– there were still a few areas he hadn’t touched. Not many though.

The next constriction was pre-empted by his amateur hairdressing skills.

Actually, all he did was tie my hair in a firm knot, he wasn’t too sophisticated, which he then fastened, via a short rope, to my hammerlock. There was a little give in the rope – I didn’t have to look straight up in the air, but I certainly couldn’t look down.

This meant that I couldn’t see him creep between my legs, gradually shoving them apart two feet until he had enough room to work. It was now that I found the reason for the narrowness of the base of the dildo. It was so he could get at my labia! He teased them either side of the panties, tugging them down (how I missed my silent gag! here I had to hold my tongue) until there was plenty for him to get hold of.

This time, I was expecting the clamp, but it still hurt as he slipped on a purpose-made peg. As he slipped on the second one, I heard a little tinkle of chains colliding. Where would he attach the chains to?

I expected my nipples, but I was wrong. Instead, he fastened it to something between my legs which I couldn’t see. All I knew was that it was a container of some kind – and I only found this out when he dropped the lead weight into it. This time, I fear even a tight gag would have been useless as

I let out a huge growl of pain.

Be fair to him, though – he got his measurements pretty much right.

If I bent forward at the waist, two important things would happen – my arms would go up, and my bottom would jut out. (One less important thing is that the pinwheels pricked my butt-cheeks with added vigour.) This meant that the weight would go up, indeed it would be lifted off the base of what I imagined to be a light tin bucket. On his order, I raised myself briefly to tiptoes, still leaning forwards, and the bucket was lifted off the floor, mercifully light. He seemed a little smug with his achievement.

Well, why not? I would be.

"You’re just about finished, Stacy, let’s have a drink to celebrate."

It was an unusual toast – he had a glass of wine, I had a half-gallon of water, poured slowly, via a funnel, into my gag and on into my mouth.

He didn’t want to drown me, so this took about half an hour, and as he dropped the last of the jugs I was already bursting to pee. He knew this.

"Don’t you dare go yet, young woman."

I wouldn’t pee after a warning like that.

"We’ve got to get you outside where you won’t make a mess, first."

I yelped a protest, but could physically do nothing to stop him opening the front door, nor stop him guiding me out onto the porch, where he had made his amendments. He positioned me in front of a sturdy cylindrical post, about six inches in diameter, supporting the porch roof.

"This, dear Stacy, is the fruit of my labours. Here is where you will stay tonight."

"Ung-unnng?" I asked.

"Yes, all night. Once I get you tied to it, that is."

The beginning of the end of the anticipation was simple, as he guided my feet to a set position, a foot either side of the pole, with the toes level with the front of the post. I could hear buckles and chains, and guessed I wouldn’t be able to move them much.

"Lift your heels," he said, and I did so.

"Move your feet," he said, and I did not do so. Only my toes were restrained.

Next he reached up above my head, and grabbed a small, curious tube.

I knew that it would be going into my gag, but I didn’t know how far, nor what the little ‘umbrella’ at the end of the tube was for.

I didn’t have to wait for long – he guided the tube inside the gag, just enough to hear a ‘click’. Then he warned me to brace myself before trying to jerk the tube loose. It would not be freed – the umbrella had jammed it on the inside of the gag. He could put anything down the tube and I would be compelled to drink.

Next I heard him between my legs, working with the bucket, explaining himself as he went.

"I’ll tell you this now, Stacy, not because you wouldn’t have learned anyway, but because I want to see your face when I tell you. This bucket between your legs is threaded to the floor, as smoothly as the tube in your gag. Anything you pee will, as you’ve seen, go straight down into the bucket, where it will slowly go down the tube into the main element of my work. There’s a series of pumps that will take what’s in the bucket and pump it all up to a tub that’s above your head.

"Now, the tub won’t automatically empty into your gag, in fact you have to push your gag against here <he indicated a valve about two inches up the tube> and that releases the flow. Drink up, young Stacy, that’s one of the keys. There’s a water meter below, and I won’t release you until either you’ve drunk twenty four pints, or if you drain the tub. That will be unlikely, however…"

He broke off to fasten something else to me. It was a waistband that had a four inch cube at the front, wires leading off. He flicked a switch and it began to vibrate, right against my bladder. The bastard! I couldn’t hold it in any more and peed almost instantly, letting a strong jet rattle against the bucket’s floor, and I heard a murmur of a pump, He continued his speech as though nothing had happened. "but if you choose not to drink then it will eventually let loose a trickle automatically, just to prevent overflow, you understand. Right, if you’ve quite finished, I’ll return to the base of the bucket. It’s not on at the moment, but there is a switch underneath the bucket where if it is NOT raised off the ground, you’ll feel a growing pain in your butt-plug and dildo. I know you think that’s the wrong way round, but it isn’t – trust me."

You see, he hadn’t finished. There were two key items left – my nipples.

He attached a long metal rod to each of their clamps, which he then pulled upwards. He kept pulling until I felt I had to stand on tip-toe, before linking them over a hook on the outside of the post, pulling my poor breasts either side, tightly against it. I turned my head as much as I could, pleading for a release of some kind. Not a hope!

"Hmmm," he mused about something for a moment. "Yes, in for a penny, in for a pound, that’s what I always say!"

He unhitched the rods and, grabbing the pole, he turned it round. And then he pulled me up again. I was on tip-toe when my breasts again touched the pole. The shock made me jerk back, and only an expert save from Jeff prevented a loud crash. There were tips of pins jutting out of the post

– that’s why he turned it around! This time my urgent moans were filled with disbelief. "Um Ung GnGGnt Mm UngrSSs!" meaning "Oh you cannot be serious."

He tightened the rods securely to the hook, raising it about an inch in the process, which doesn’t sound much, but believe me it is. An epiphany struck me – that’s why the butt-plug and dildo would shock me when the bucket was not down, because if the bucket WAS down, my nipples would be stretched unbearably. Damned if you do, damned if you don’t.

"Hmmm," said Jeff, knowing I always hated what happened when he did that. "There’s a lot of biting flies OUT tonight, aren’t there? That could be unpleasant. Let me get something to keep them away."

I suspected that he would pull out the light-fly-killer that would give the neighbours more chance to notice me, should they happen to look out their windows in my direction. He wasn’t so subtle.

"Here’s some honey. Let me pour some on your breasts."

I couldn’t believe it! There were already a few biting me, and the honey would make it a hundred times worse. He had a strange interpretation of

‘some’ too – he actually gave them a good glazing!

"I’d honey your legs too but syrup should stay up better."

I wondered what all the syrup in our cupboard was for! He coated what small part of my legs were visible, pouring the remaining (but considerable) amount down my boots.

"What else? Oh yes, the joke shop," he said, scuttling inside.

The joke shop?

"I only went in for itching powder," he said, coating the rest of my body, my arms, the top of my chest, inside my panties, everywhere but my face, with the powder. "But I also discovered that they had some sneezing powder! Isn’t that great?"

He sprinkled just a pinch under my nose and I let rip with a wonderful sneeze that rattled everything and almost killed me! My head cocked forwards, tugging my arms upwards as they were tied to my hair. This pulled up the pinwheels on my bottom, sharply and violently. I remained on tip-toe, so my breasts weren’t too affected, but as I leant back in a recoil, the lead weight slammed into the bucket, tugging the clamps on my labia more severely than I thought I could stand.

"Alright, just a few more things – nothing too serious – provided you want to remain private that is. You’ll know that you can make a little noise as the gag isn’t too tight. Well, there’s a reason for that – I’ve arranged a microphone, linked up to an amplifier with speakers facing out to the neighbourhood. It’s not on now, but when it is – bless you, by the way, you should get something for that cold – it will pick up any noise you make and transmit it to all our neighbours.

"The final item is this – well, hat." It was an unattractive thing, like a tight cap with a tall, light metal spike sticking out the top. "You can’t see it, but the spike is going through the middle of a hoop about a foot wide. Should the spike touch the side of the hoop, spotlights will come on from the garden, lighting you up like the Fourth of July. Just a little incentive there. Oh, remember I told you to that if you stopped drinking that bad things would happen? Well, that’s one of them – the lights will come on."

That’s ONE of them? I thought as he went through his mental notes, trying to think if he’d forgotten something.

"Right, I think that’s it – have a nice night, Stacy. Twenty-four pints remember – it’ll get light in about eight hours, whether you’ve finished or not…"

And then he was gone. I heard him lock the door, and then waited for him to turn it all on – at the moment only the pump at the bottom of the bucket, and the vibrating box, were on. I wanted everything on so I could see if there was a position I could maintain where I wouldn’t be too uncomfortable.

I’ll never forget the moment – he teased me for a while, turning off all the outside lights and leaving me to stand on tip toe for ten minutes, doing nothing, when suddenly about five thousand different sensations hit me at once! I’d never felt such pain inside me! The electrical charge inside the dildo wasn’t too bad, and there was a little vibration – perhaps an oversight – but nevertheless, something which may give me pleasure, but the charge in my bottom was unbearable! It felt like someone had jammed a cattle-prod up me! I tested to see how long I could last on tip-toe, how long I could stand the pain. I tried to get comfortable – or at least less comfortable, but everything was against me.

To remove my breasts from the pinpricks on the pole, for instance, would involve me arching my back. This dropped the weight into the bottom of the tin bucket, still filled with a good amount of my piss, draining away.

My labia felt unbelievable pain and my eyes began to tear up under the strain. That wasn’t all, of course – by pulling away from the post I increased the tension in my nipples, and also freed up some more of my flesh for the gnats to chew. Most of them were dining on the honey, and hadn’t reached my skin, but my cleavage was free, and a few courageous flies tried their luck in there. It was more of an annoying itch at the moment, but one that would get worse as the night went on – at least I could get used to the itching powder.

I sneezed again, and managed to control all parts of my body, save for my head, which jerked forwards. There was a loud, amplified snort, as though

I hadn’t tried to mask a thing, and as the stake touched its hoop, I was bathed in light for five seconds. I panicked. It was an elderly neighbourhood, and goodness knows what they would think of someone like me in somethin

Fair & Square · Part 1 (1/2)
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