The Visit · Bound · Part 2 (2/2)
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TV to his feet and ushered him out of the room.
Of course, I was rather concerned as to the reaction of the mistress when she returned, especially as although I was able to remove the gag, I was unable to release myself from the rest of the bondage, so I felt pretty vulnerable.
Amazingly, she was very conciliatory! And even more surprising, she very cleverly and expertly got the session going again and it ended up quite successful in the end.
It later turned out, over a cup of tea, that the jerk, even knowing she was with a client, had demanded a session there and then – and as he was a regular and very ‘generous’ she felt obliged to indulge him and anyway, thought two ‘TV’ fantasies might be better than one. She was actually pleased that I’d thumped him as he was such a ‘creep’ and despite the fact he wasn't into pain, she’d felt like doing that herself many times.
Surely he won’t be back? Oh yes, I’m his favorite mistress, he’ll never leave me. I think I was rather lucky in Birkenhead.
It seems that Velda has sensed my hostility and is shooing blabbermouth back out and up the stairs. Surely she must release me soon?
I mentioned about twenty minutes to half an hour locked in the cage in my letter, working on the principle that the session overall would be about two hours – that’s what I’d paid for. Already, it’s been a lot longer than that and I’m getting somewhat mystified.
To most mistresses I’ve dealt with, time is money and they watch the clock fairly carefully. Right now, I wish I was with a clockwatcher because now my fantasy is ruined, I’m starting to feel wretched and uncomfortable in here. It’s impossible to find a position where I can ease the increasingly painful condition I’m finding myself in.
The crouch position I’m in is pulling the elbow straps very tight, cutting off circulation to my hands and the steel handcuffs are starting to bite into my wrists. As I'm unable to straighten up, I am starting to ache in muscles I never knew were there, especially in my back and my thighs are starting to quiver with the strain of taking all my weight in this unnatural position. The strap pinioning my knees together however, which I was very pleased that Velda had applied, is now stopping me sinking down to ease my position as it bites into the flesh above my knees and effectively stops me trying to lower myself.
I can't kick off my high heels as they fit very tight and anyway are secured with ankle straps. My ankle manacles are restricting other leg movements and being gagged so competently, which again, I was so pleased about – is now working against me as I can’t communicate with Velda.
And as I was supposed to be protesting about my plight while in the cage, I'm not sure she'd take any notice of whatever sounds came from my gagged mouth anyway. In the right circumstances this would have been arousing, the thought that I'd been forced into this horrifying situation by a beautiful female, a mere object for her cruel amusement and totally indifferent to any anguish I was experiencing – but I’ve lost the plot today and it’s becoming just very unerotically painful.
I’m trying to work out how to attract Velda’s attention when I hear the doorbell ring again. This time I can hear the caller is female, no, there’s more than one. They chat for a time, then
I hear movement and oh, no – I hear high heels clattering down the steps to my prison. Jesus!.. is she selling tickets?
I recognize them as soon as they enter the dungeon, their pictures have been in contact magazines for years advertising their services.
They’re two professional mistresses from the London area. What on earth are they doing here? This is really weird.
Velda, now in her element, becomes imperious and dominant as she motions to me in the cage.
“What would you do with that pathetic creature if you had her in your power?”
The other two dutifully come up with suggestions which are calculated to fill me with terror. Oh, Lord!
Do they really think I’m taking them seriously? I study the two with interest. I’d never contacted either of these two for a session as looking at their photos, I didn’t think I could relate to them in a session. Now I see them in the flesh, one of them has possibilities, certainly not the other. They’re dressed in their dominant mistress gear, they must have traveled like that – it must be the uniform when dominants visit dominants. I wonder if they called into a motorway café – they’d have caused a sensation if they had.
They finish mocking me and now Velda takes them on the tour she has recently given me. This must be their first visit. Suddenly the penny drops. Of course… now I know why I’m getting this prolonged session. Velda, knowing they were arriving, obviously had no more clients booked today – but it would give the dungeon more atmosphere were a slave to be imprisoned there during the tour. The cunning bitch – and all that superb make-up and gear – it wasn’t really all for my benefit at all.
I watch the tour, at least it takes my mind off my predicament for a time. I suppose it’s experience, but it’s amazing how quickly the visitors comprehend the working of the more bizarre and complicated pieces of equipment that I hadn’t understood at all. Velda demonstrates the purposes of some of the equipment by climbing on them and assuming the position of the victim. The shape of one piece had mystified me until I saw Velda on it – it forced her backside temptingly upward. The others murmur appreciatively, no doubt imagining the hundreds of bare bums to be thrashed in that position in the future.
The tour comes to an end and they make their way to the exit.
I start struggling and trying to shake the steel bars at the same time making as much noise as the gag will allow.
They all turn and look at me.
“Look at her, begging for mercy,” mocks Velda. She obviously tries to remember some part of my written fantasy.
“You’ll stay in there until tomorrow morning when I’ll be down to inflict some real pain!” So saying, she eases the other two out of the dungeon, closes the door and they go back up the stairs.
Bloody hell! What a mess I’ve landed myself in.
I’m not worried about the tomorrow morning threat, but once they get gossiping up top, it might be ages before Velda remembers to come down to release me. I feel angry at Velda, but I also rationalize that I can hardly fully blame her for my predicament. A mistress used to whipping and torturing willing slaves would hardly consider my, by many masochists standard, mild discomfort a cause for concern. I’m sure many slaves do indeed spend all night in this cage and I imagine Velda feels she’s doing me a great favour leaving me in here all this time.
But those thoughts don’t help much as I really hurt now. If only
I could sink down to my knees- but that blasted leather strap stops me trying that. And assuming that I’d only be in bondage a short time, I’d got Velda to ratchet the wrist and ankle manacles really tight and pinion my elbows well back as well. Those decisions are now coming back to haunt me as the steel bites in deeper. God
– this is a nightmare.
The playlet I’d sent to Velda involves the lesbian buying photos from a rentboy involving me in the one and only homosexual experience I’d had in my life. Threatening to show them to my wife, I’d allowed her to humiliate me in my own home by dressing me up in my wife's lingerie, wig and make up. When she’d suddenly produced the manacles and secured me with them, I didn’t protest too much as I assumed it was some sort of mild bondage game that she was getting up to.
My anxiety and concern grows as she forces me down to my basement and I see a cage I never knew was in there. Now helpless, I’m gagged and forced into the diabolical device. Then the bombshell!
My wife is in on it! While I was at work, she and her lesbian lover had soundproofed the basement, put the cage down here and had planned this scenario all along. I’m to be imprisoned down here while they live and party up top. Those photos would mysteriously appear at my workplace and the word would go around I’d left suddenly because
I had Aids.
The lesbian's chilling last words as she leaves the basement: “In time we’ll let it out you’ve died of Aids. Nobody will be bothered." She turns at the foot of the stairs, "After my visits every day, which I assure you, you won't look forward to, you’ll come to feel that dying of Aids would be a lesser fate than the one I've got in store for you.” If only Velda had acted that scene out.
Watching her very curvy, leather-clad body move to the steps, able to move at will and knowing that lovely creature had reduced me to the pathetically helpless, caged, doll-like object I could see in the mirror opposite with contemptible ease, I'd have been having multi orgasms within minutes of her leaving.
What a paradox though – the contradiction between fantasy and reality.
I’ve only been in this cage for, what? it must be getting on four hours
– and I’m ‘stir crazy’ already. God, the thought of being like this for just a day – I’d go stark raving mad in no time.
I relapse into a semi-conscious state of extreme discomfort and pain and wait. Eventually I here footsteps coming down the stairs, how long has it been? I've no idea of time now – but
I suddenly panic, what if she’s only coming down to do a bit more ridiculing and is not about to release me at all right now? I have an inspiration, I collapse as much as I can, Christ! every binding really cuts into my flesh – and act totally unconscious as if I’ve passed out.
“Are you alright!”
A worried Velda rushes over, unlocks the cage and dragging me out, unbuckles my gag.
I come to quickly, “For Gods sake Velda, undo my elbow strap, my hands have gone dead!”
Oh, the relief as I’m able to stand upright and move my unpinioned arms.
Velda seems quite mystified at my actions and obvious relief – but I now feel free as a bird as, although still manacled, I climb the steps to freedom.
Not for long though. When I reach the bedroom, Velda is searching for the keys of my manacles – they were on the bed, but not now
– it seems they’re lost! Christ! It’s like having a session with a female Homer Simpson! Velda has turned her attention to the floor and despite my bonds, I anxiously join in.
I’m recalling a mistress in Paddington who was reluctant to use my equipment.
She had reason to be as when she tried to release the last client who had supplied his own handcuffs, his keys wouldn’t open them. Irritated and, probably rightly, imagining that the fault was deliberate, she promptly marched him down to the local nick and got them to release him.
God, the thought of me appearing in a local police station dressed like this…keep looking.
“What are you two up to?” an amused voice comes from the door.
I look up, it’s one of the London mistresses. She probably imagines this is one of the weirder components of our session.
“We’re looking for the keys of his bloody hand and ankle cuffs,” says
Velda.
“Oh those, I noticed them on the bed when I was hanging up my coat.
I put them in the jar over there on the table for safe-keeping.”
Phew!…after that fright – I’m going to keep a spare set hidden in my bag.
I must have lost five pints of sweat in that blasted cage and I accept
Velda’s offer of a shower. I’m walking to the bathroom with a towel around my middle, when the door opens and out walks a very attractive, exquisitely dressed female who smiles shyly at me.
Amazing, someone in this household who hasn’t been down to gawk at me in the cage. I wouldn’t have minded with her though, I’m sure I could have fitted a pretty girl watching me struggle into my fantasy somewhere – one of the lesbian's other girlfriends maybe. I grin back.
“Hello.” She says in a deep bass voice.
Would you believe it! It’s the TV! I should have known – nothing is as it seems in this house today.
At last, I’m clean, dressed, packing my bag and supping a cold beer that Velda gave me. Look at those marks on my wrists!
I hope they don’t take too long to go. All my TV fantasy clothes are soiled and soaking wet, reason enough that I never use a mistress's own outfits. I had originally packed them very carefully so as not to wrinkle the delicate fabric – now I just bundle them in and worry about cleaning them later.
The door opens and Velda walks in.
“Well now, was that alright? Did you enjoy that?”
She looks at me, her eyes wide and innocent, eagerly seeking approval.
She’s totally unaware that the session has been a minor disaster for me.
“Oh, it was great!” I even manage to sound convincing.
Hell, I’ve always been very philosophical about unhappy sessions.
It’s really my fault expecting any mistress to instinctively comprehend my complex fantasies. I wouldn't fancy their job anyway; I've seen some of the fantasies requested and mine seem quite mild in comparison.
Velda shows me to the front door and thrusts a card into my hand.
“You've been really good, this is my private number, phone me anytime."
It’s turned dark now and I walk to my car. Jesus – I could do with a stiff drink.
The Visit · Bound · Part 2 (2/2)
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