A Slave to Fashion · Part 1 (1/3)
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Story based on an original story entitled “The Trap” by Wanda
Tara and I had been co-workers for a few months. We worked together at a clothing company that specialized in latex, leather and bondage wear. Even though we both landed our jobs at around the same time, Tara always told everyone that she had seniority over me. Truthfully, from the moment that we started we had been competing with one another in all of our projects. Let’s face it, niche companies like ours needed to watch its expenses, and we both knew that the company really only needed one fetish fashion designer. I tried not to be overtly competitive, but I knew that she was doing everything in her power to keep her job.
Our boss encouraged us to work together, even become friends, but we both knew the company wasn't big enough for both of us. I think that they were trying to evaluate us side-by-side to decide which of us to retain and which to let go. To ensure that we worked together, the owner of the company decided to send us both to host a fashion show for some of our customers in Cuffield Heights, a neighboring city. We were told to share the assignment which included: designing and selecting the products to exhibit; booking the venue; hiring the talent; and composing and narrating the presentation.
Any hope that we could both secure a position within the company faded away as soon as we began working on the assignment. We couldn’t agree on anything without arguing. After a heated discussion, we decided to keep the expenses to a minimum. Instead of using experienced, highly paid models, we would use lifestyle slaves; and instead of renting a hall or banquet room, we would use a local fetish shop. We also hammered out the format of the show. It would be a detailed exhibition of three outfits, each demonstrated by a different model. Unlike a traditional fashion show, our models would not easily be able to change in and out of their outfits and equipment.
Dividing up the tasks was just as difficult as deciding on the details of the show. Eventually, we decided to use designs that we had each just completed – two of Tara’s and one of mine. Tara said that she knew players in the area, and she insisted on lining up the talent. So, I agreed to research and reserve the venue. Finally, we flipped a coin to decide who would write the program and who would narrate the fashion show. I won, and I picked the narrating task figuring that it would give me more exposure.
We only had a week to get everything ready for the show. I quickly selected a fetish shop based on Internet research. It was pretty easy since there was only one fetish shop within 50 miles of Cuffield Heights. Tara contacted a Mistress who was able to arrange for three slave girls to act as our models. Then everything ground to a halt while Tara completed her designs and wrote the narration script. I couldn’t believe how slowly she worked.
I had my design completed before we were even assigned the project. In fact, I had several finished designs from which to choose. I ended up going with my second best outfit. My best outfit was amazing, but probably too strict for a model to endure for the time it would take to describe and demonstrate all of the features. Besides, if things didn’t work out well for me with the show, I wanted to keep an ace in the hole to impress the boss afterwards.
Tara finally finished the script on Thursday morning. I think that she held back on purpose just to limit my preparation time and make me nervous. In a way, it worked, too. I really only had the afternoon to rehearse, and she was with me the whole time criticizing and correcting me. Of course, Tara called it “coaching.”
On Friday, Tara and I drove together to the fetish shop in Cuffield Heights. It was the first time that we ever had a chance to get to know each other outside of work. She actually seemed likable – not at all what I expected. We took our time driving. We stopped for a long lunch, and we talked about things we liked and disliked. We talked about our past, and we completely avoided talking about work. I think it was the most enjoyable time I had ever spent with her.
Friday evening we arrived at the fetish shop. It was everything I expected it would be. It was a large retail store on the outskirts of a commercial district, and it was a one man business. We introduced ourselves to the owner, Dave, and he showed us around. Dave had rearranged his freestanding clothing racks in such a way as to create a kind of runway and stage. From the stage, I could point out the features of our three designs. The presentation area was surrounded by cocktail tables and chairs, and the audience would be close enough to examine, and even touch, the products.
The owner took us to the back room to show us where the girls would be dressing and undressing. It was perfect. Dave prided himself on providing the proper atmosphere for his patrons, and his changing rooms were actually four 6 x 6 jail cells with barred ceilings and locking doors. Tara and I were very impressed. How cool!
We were running short on time, so we unloaded the bags of gear from the car. Before we had left, we prepared each bag with a different set of restraints that we would be presenting. We placed each of the bags in a separate cell. We had also brought bags of gear to sell, and we gave all of those bags to the owner to display along the periphery of the store. That way, the audience could buy our merchandise following the show. Of course, Dave would receive a portion of the sales to compensate him for the use of his shop.
I tested the microphone installed in the podium that the store manager had rented for the occasion, and everything seemed to be in order. I was reviewing the script, and I was refining my pacing when the first Mistress arrived with her slave. Their appearance shattered the calm confidence that I had been building.
The Mistress entered the shop with her back to me, tugging and berating her slave all the while. I was shocked. I had only assumed that the slaves that Tara had lined up were doing the show willingly, but clearly I was misinformed.
The Mistress was impeccably dressed in a revealing, but commanding, leather halter top and leather mini skirt. The slave wore leather, too, but it was in the form of a full body harness with an integrated collar. She fought against thick leather wrist and elbow cuffs that were locked to the harness at strategically placed D-rings. Her mouth was completely covered by a half-hood, and although her speech was utterly unintelligible, she effectively communicated her contempt for the Mistress.
The slave’s ankles were also wrapped in thick leather cuffs, and they were connected by a short leather hobble. The hobble, maybe 18 inches long, prevented the slave from getting any significant leverage on the Mistress, and she stumbled in whatever direction the Mistress pulled the leash attached to her collar.
“Where can I put this?” the Mistress asked as she dragged the slave toward the back of the store.
“Um, there are dressing rooms, uh, I mean holding cells just through that door,” I said, dumbfounded.
I watched as the two passed through the door to the backstage area, and I could hear the Mistress cursing at and threatening the helpless slave. Eventually, after the sound of a heavy metal door closing and locking, the commotion subsided. The Mistress reemerged from the back area looking perfectly calm and controlled, as though nothing unusual had happened. She strode over to me and looked me over from head to toe before speaking.
“I’m Mistress Madison, and who might you be?”
“Hi, I’m Wanda,” I said managing a strained smile.
“I see. I thought Mistress Tara was putting on this little show,” she responded, ignoring my outstretched hand.
Before the situation could get more awkward, Tara came through the front door.
“Madison!” she called out.
“Tara!” the Mistress responded as she turned away from me to greet Tara.
After a brief hug, the Mistress regained her stern expression.
“I was concerned after meeting your little pet, here, that you might have caught the same thing that the twins have.”
I was confused. The twins?
“Yes, I heard,” Tara said, shaking her head in concern.
“Please excuse us for a moment. I need to talk to Wanda about this,” Tara continued as she grabbed ahold of my upper arm and pulled me toward the front door.
As we hurried toward the exit, Tara looked back over her shoulder and asked “But, Brooke is still coming tonight, right?”
“She wouldn’t miss it for the world,” Mistress Madison called back as the front door closed behind us.
Tara grabbed both of my shoulders and faced me. Then she dropped her head toward the ground.
“What's wrong?” I asked. “Who are these twins?”
Tara took a deep breath, and she explained that the twins are the other two models for the show. They had come down with the flu, and their Master wouldn’t let us use them to model our designs at the show tonight.
I was at a loss for words.
I looked at my watch, and the audience would start arriving at any time.
“That’s it then,” I said. “We don’t have a show. There’s no way that that Mistress is going to be able to get her slave in and out of our designs quickly enough to have a cohesive show.”
Tara looked away.
“There must be some way to salvage this,” she said with frustration in her voice.
After a moment, her eyes lit up, and she said “Wait a minute, there is one way that we could still do the show.”
“What, just ask for volunteers?” I joked.
“Well, kind of…” Tara said with a twinkle returning to her eyes.
I was really hoping that she had come up with a workable solution. I had worked tirelessly on this collection – even harder than Tara – and now everything was going to be ruined because we didn’t have enough models to put on the show. Tara's solution was simple: we needed someone to replace the missing slavegirls. Of course, I agreed with that, but how could we possibly replace two of them?
Tara explained that we didn’t need to replace them both. We just needed one. If we had one other model, she could show the first outfit. And while Mistress Madison’s slave modelled the second outfit, the replacement would have enough time for a costume change, and she could then model the third outfit.
It sounded like it could work.
“Can you call up one of your contacts and get us a replacement?” I asked.
“There’s no time for that. They would have to be here already. Besides, all of my other contacts will be in the audience,” she explained.
Then she dropped the bombshell. Who did she have in mind as the replacement? None other than me!
"You can't tell me this 30 minutes before we are scheduled to unveil the collection, Tara!” I protested, my voice rising to a high-pitched whine. I was hysterical.
“You insisted on lining up the talent. This is on you, not me. You should have had the models in their cells already!" I complained.
"And now you want ME to fill in for the missing slave?!" I couldn’t believe this.
"Why can't we get a local girl to fill in?" I asked, grasping at straws.
"You know the owner wouldn’t like that. We're on our own here, and we need to come up with a solution fast," she explained.
Of course, I knew that our boss had a strict policy against using potential customers as volunteers. He was always concerned that they might complain during or after the demonstration, and that he could lose sales.
"The truth is that if we don't find a replacement, we don't have a show. You said so yourself!" she said giving me a concerned, pleading look.
She was right. There was no way we could do this show with only one slave.
The truth was we needed at least one other slave. Of course, we did have 2 Mistresses helping us – one to oversee and dress the slaves in the back room, and the other to parade them down the runway. As soon as I considered asking one of them to be the replacement, I realized that they would never accept the role of a slave.
"But who's going to narrate the show if I agree to fill in as a model?" I asked, worried.
I was in charge of the presentation, and I couldn't risk messing it up.
"Don't worry about it. I wrote that presentation, remember? And I was there the entire time you rehearsed it. I can fill in for you, but as much as I want to, I can't fill in for the missing slaves. You're much better suited for that role," she concluded.
She was right. Tara was a lot older than me. She really couldn’t pass for a slave. The missing twins were 21 years old, 5’ 7” tall and blonde. I saw photos of them back at the office. Their Master kept them at a demanding 105 lbs. I analyzed the situation, and I came to the same conclusion as Tara: I was the only candidate to fill in for the missing slaves. I had pretty much the same statistics as the twins. I was 22 years old. I stood 5’ 6”, and I was a little more curvaceous at 115 lbs.
Of course, I had a list of objections a mile long, but my biggest objection was my low tolerance for pain. As one of the designers of the collection, I knew this clothing line was as strict as they came. It included higher heels, tighter corsets, bigger gags, dildoed panties, and more restraints than our previous fetish collections. Tara and I considered our “Severe Discipline Collection” a challenge for even the most flexible and experienced slaves.
"So, what do you say?" Tara asked me. "Are you willing to step in and save the company?"
I stared into her hopeful eyes with a thousand thoughts running through my mind. I couldn't believe what I was about to do, but I couldn’t come up with a better solution.
"OK. I'll do it. I'll do it… but you owe me big!" I replied.
"Thank you, Wanda! You just saved both of our butts!" Tara said beaming.
“Do a good job, and I might have a special treat for you after the show," she smiled and winked at me.
That was a bit weird. I didn’t know what she meant by that, but being caught up in the urgency of the moment I didn’t really care.
We hurried inside before the audience began to arrive. Once we were in the back of the store, I accompanied Tara into one of the holding cells. It seemed smaller once you were inside it. Across from my cell was the cell where the other slave was being kept. She sat sullenly on a bench along the far side of the cell. She was still gagged, but the body harness had been removed.
In fact, she was completely naked except for a pair of handcuffs and leg irons. The chain of the handcuffs was threaded through the bars of the cell to hold her arms out of the way. Similarly, the chain of the leg irons snaked through the bars to keep her from going anywhere. Although I knew they existed, I had never seen a real-life slave before. Handcuffed, and gagged as she was, she looked like she had a lot to complain about. Her face spoke volumes as she sat quietly waiting to be used like a doll in our hellish fashion show.
I felt a little guilty. I knew that my designs might be used unwillingly on many such girls. I would be lying if I didn’t admit I often fantasized about slaves like her. Many nights I wondered what it would be like to be treated like that. I never thought that I would be so close to living out that fantasy.
Her tone dripping with arrogance, Tara ordered me to strip. I was surprised that she wasn’t a bit nicer about it since I was covering for her mistake, after all. Nonetheless, I complied with her command, and I removed all my clothing and my high heels. I folded up my belongings and set them on the bench in the cell.
Tara stood in front of me with a smile.
"You know something, I've been wanting to say this for a long time," she confessed.
"Turn around, slave," she commanded.
There was an undertone of victory in her voice, but I wasn’t going to play her little game. I simply ignored her arrogance and turned around so she could lock my hands behind my back with a pair of handcuffs.
"I'm sure you're going to enjoy this as much as I am," Tara whispered in my ear as she secured the handcuffs.
It was a strange feeling. Even though I worked as a bondage gear designer, I had never been fully restrained. Oh, I had tried on leather cuffs, one wrist at a time, but I had never had my wrists fully restrained before, let alone behind my back. I tested the cuffs, and they weren’t going anywhere. My adrenaline increased. It was definitely a strange sensation.
After I was handcuffed, Tara took me by my shoulders and spun me around to face her. She looked me up and down just like Mistress Madison had done a few minutes earlier. Tara stared into my eyes and told me that I would be treated the same as the other slave in every sense of the word. She and I were the only representatives of our company, and we needed to keep this little foul-up to ourselves.
“What about the store owner and Mistress Madison?” I asked. “They’ve seen me. They’ll know that something happened.”
“I thought about that,” Tara said as she picked up my clothes and carried them to a couple of bags near the door. As she put my clothes into one of the bags, I thought it was convenient that Tara had thought to bring along some extra bags.
Tara explained that she would tell Dave and Madison that I came down with the flu and that I needed to leave. They didn’t see us arrive in the same car, so they won’t know the difference.
She returned with a leather hood in her hands. I was somewhat surprised because I recognized the hood, and it wasn’t part of our “Severe Discipline Collection.” It was one of my designs that I was saving to show the boss after we returned. I was still trying to understand Tara’s plan. If she told them that I left with the flu, I realized that it would count against me with the company. I wondered whether she was going to use this mishap to make me look bad.
Tara smoothed out my hair and fed it through a hole in the back of the hood as she pulled it completely over my head. Aside from the hole in the back to accommodate longer hair, the hood had a few integrated D-rings, holes for the wearer’s eyes, nostrils and mouth, and nothing more. It completely obscured the features of the wearer, rendering the wearer little more than a leather object.
“Wait a minute, Tara,” I said with the leather hood forcing my lips into a slight pout.
“If you tell them that I left with the flu, I won’t get credit for all my work on the show,” I explained.
“Hmmm. Maybe you’re right,” Tara said thoughtfully.
Tara calmly continued her work on the hood. It was intended to be a made-to-measure piece, and it included a lace-up back. Tara stepped behind me and tightly laced up the hood. When she was done, it fit like a second skin. It appeared to be made especially for me – because it was. Whenever I designed a new piece, I would use my own measurements whenever possible to ensure that the piece looked the way I intended it to look.
This one fit perfectly, even though this was the first chance I had to try it on. Tara followed the hood with a made-to measure posture collar from the same design. She must have been looking through my office when I wasn’t around!
I could hear Mistress Madison coming into the back room.
"Now, open wide, slave," Tara said in a sing-song voice.
Even though we weren’t done talking, I instinctively opened my mouth. I knew that we couldn’t discuss the situation in front of Mistress Madison. What I didn’t know was that Tara had selected a blow-up gag that was intended to be used on unruly slaves. I recognized the bitter rubber taste as soon as she slipped the deflated bulb into my mouth. As she strapped it tightly behind my head, I tried to tell her that she had used the wrong gag, but my protest came out like a mumble.
I adjusted the bulb within my mouth as Tara locked leg irons to my ankles, and I again tried to alert Tara to her mistake to no avail. I was sure that they could understand me that time, but they both completely ignored me.
"Is everything ready, Mistress Tara?" asked Mistress Madison.
That was the second time she had addressed Tara as “Mistress.” The first time, I shrugged it off as a formality since Tara was the one who had dealt with them, but this second instance concerned me.
“I see you’ve found a replacement for the twins,” Madison said smiling.
"Yes, this one is a little feisty," she said referring to me.
“I’m sure she is,” Madison replied.
“I’d be feisty too if my co-worker convinced me to strip naked and then handcuffed me,” Mistress Madison added with a chuckle.
Well, it was clear that Mistress Madison knew what was going on. I just hoped that Dave didn’t know, or he might tell my boss, and I would surely lose my job.
“Of course, I want her head hooded the entire time she is here. The gag is not to be removed either. Is that understood?"
"Yes, Mistress Tara," answered Madison.
I began to worry that maybe I had trusted Tara more than I should have. I struggled a little again to test my bonds, but they were unyielding. Again, I tried to complain about the gag and the flaws in Tara’s plan, but she just pumped up the gag until it was inflated beyond a comfortable level silencing my complaints. Then, Tara pushed me onto the bench in the cell and locked the door. She beamed with a mischievous smile. Of course, I was worried and scared, but there was nothing I could do. I was handcuffed, leg ironed, gagged and naked in a cell far from home. It was slowly dawning on me that Tara had planned this all along, and that I had fallen into her trap!
Tara had always been jealous of me. She had graduated from a top university as a fashion designer, yet I was at the same level as her without any formal training. We even had the same salary. I couldn’t believe that she would stoop this low. With twenty minutes until the show was scheduled to begin, Tara left to take the announcer's place on the stage. Mistress Madison began to dress the slave girl in the other cell, and I thought that was strange since Tara and I had decided that I would demonstrate the first and third outfits.
I tried to get Madison’s attention. I shook my handcuffs and grunted into my gag, but she just glared at me and continued to prepare the other girl. Then, I realized that it wouldn’t be such a bad thing if the other girl we
A Slave to Fashion · Part 1 (1/3)
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