Bondage Fake · Part 1

Bondage Fake · Part 1 (1/2)
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Author's Note: I would like to thank those who helped proofread this work, and I especially appreciate Dannysuling (dannysuling.deviantart.com) and f-alexander (f-alexander.deviantart.com) for their valuable editorial contributions.

Prologue

From 2002-2005, Courtney Artison’s image was unavoidable in any grocery check-out line. She was the undisputed queen of the tabloids. Virtually every gossip magazine published a photograph of her with some insane headline, like “Courtney Secretly Gives Birth to Triplets! Uses Body Double to Hide Weight Gain!” or “Courtney’s Mystery Illness and Her Deathbed Confession!”

Her sitcom’s ratings had never been higher, and her decision not to renew with the network gave her a blank check for her next project. Surprisingly, the demand for her talent didn’t interest her. If her plans had worked out, she would have married John Pittman, her movie star fiancé, settled down in her ocean-view mansion, and raised a cute little family. But sadly, the constant presence of photographers took a toll on Courtney and John’s relationship.

The beginning of the end came when an enterprising young photographer lowered himself down from Courtney’s roof onto the elevated deck in the back of her mansion. The glass doors separating the deck from the house provided an unobstructed view through an upstairs entertainment area all the way into her bedroom. The photographer made a fortune with an artistic shot that showed the silhouettes of Courtney and John making love in the background while capturing a pair of handcuffs on a table in the foreground. Even though the handcuffs were just a prop from John’s latest movie, the tabloids had a field day.

Within a week, the headlines read “C&J try S&M” and “Courtney Cuffs Cute Co-Star!” and the stars’ relationship was never the same. Pittman couldn’t handle the negative publicity, and he abruptly broke off their engagement. Eventually, he married one of his action movie co-stars, leaving Artison to deal with her heartbreak, her suddenly stalled career, and her stalking photographers.

Naturally, Courtney despised the paparazzi and the publishing industry. After her breakup, she began a public crusade to avenge herself and her fellow celebrities against the tawdry rags that had sullied the good names of so many. She filed dozens of lawsuits against photographers, writers, publishers, and website operators, demanding that they take down, retract, and/or apologize for the wrongs they had perpetuated.

Even with her career on hold, she had more than enough resources to fight and win her legal battles. A number of entertainment attorneys donated their time just to call her a client, and she won every case. Even so, she considered her success rather limited, since judges typically ordered the defendants to remove the offending stories and/or photographs from publication. On occasion, the defendants would be required to issue an apology, but the apologies often ended up at the back of the offending publications. One clever tabloid actually turned the tables on Artison, and made its court-ordered apology the subject of one of its own headlines in order to sell more magazines. Eventually, all of the losing tabloids followed suit, turning their legal failures into marketing successes.

Moreover, in the rare cases where damages were awarded, they were donated to charity, and the tabloids even took credit for that. So, Courtney was left with a simmering anger that the legal system was ill-equipped to resolve.

Bondage Fakes

Perhaps the worst fallout from publication of that fateful handcuff photograph was the subsequent proliferation of so-called ‘bondage fakes’ — Photoshopped images of bondage. Usually, an image involved Artison’s head atop another model’s bound body, but occasionally an image was of Artison overseeing the bondage of some unfortunate male. It had been easy for Artison to track down and punish the people in the publishing industry, but it was nearly impossible to catch the Photoshop geeks who created the bondage fakes.

The phenomenon started slowly, but it steadily grew. Bondage fakes of Courtney ended up all over the Web and, years after the incident, more continued to be created. The practice began with simple photographs, but it spread to GIFs, memes, desktop backgrounds, manipulated videos, and fake movie posters. Just when Artison thought the fad had peaked, that damned Fifty Shades of Grey book came out, and then they made a movie!

Once again, the tabloids exploited Artison’s misfortune by suggesting she was up for the starring role. One tabloid even published a popular bondage fake on its cover with a two-paragraph article on the bondage fake phenomenon. The article, though small, allowed the tabloid to hide behind a ‘fair use’ defense, and Artison knew it.

Infuriated, Artison enlisted the help of renowned internet hacker, Allen ‘Minty’ Mintinez. Minty, a self-described Artison fanboy, agreed to track down the source of the offending manipulated photos. Courtney was impressed at how quickly she received Minty’s report with amazingly complete information. Seemingly out of thin air, he had provided a list of URLs with offending material, the originating IP addresses, names and email addresses associated with the IP addresses, and physical mailing addresses associated with the names. With Minty’s information, she could see to it that the creators of the most egregious ‘bondage fakes’ were confronted at their homes and offices.

During her review of offending material, one photo editor’s material seemed to be distributed far more often than the others. His name was Theodore Justman, but he called himself ‘The Manipulator.’ In addition to creating fake photographs of Artison in bondage, she learned that he was active in the BDSM community. She easily located his FetLife and DeviantArt profiles and learned all she could about him. With the help of a private investigator, she discovered that he lived in an expensive two-story house about twenty minutes from her own residence, just outside of Los Angeles.

To her surprise, he operated a successful, legitimate photography and photo editing business. Among other things, he created posters and advertisements for movie studios and distributors. For all she knew, she had actually met Justman at some movie premiere or awards show after-party. Regardless, with her industry connections, she knew that she could destroy him.

Since the Courts had never handed down what she considered justice, she decided to take matters into her own hands and personally destroy Justman’s career. She easily rationalized her vigilante justice: he deserved it, she figured, for misappropriating her likeness and making her life a living hell. Using a pseudonym, she created a FetLife profile, and over several weeks, she slow-played The Manipulator until she finally arranged to meet with him for a possible photo shoot.

Little did he know that she had no intention of allowing him to tie her up. Courtney’s personal trainer had often told her that she could incapacitate any attacker with the self-defense techniques that she knew. In fact, Artison had ‘choked out’ several classmates in simulated attacks during class. Without warning, she would take out The Manipulator, restrain him, and create her own portfolio of bondage photographs. Unlike his work, however, her photos would not be fakes. They would be raw and real, and he would be the unwitting model.

For her plan to work, she needed to change her appearance so that she was little more than a passable doppelganger of herself. In the week before her meeting with The Manipulator, she cut and colored her hair, and she refreshed her kickboxing and self-defense skills with her personal trainer. She focussed on self-defense techniques, like sleeper holds and striking an opponent’s vagus nerve, a nerve in the neck slightly below the ear.

On the day of the meeting, she rented a nondescript car. As Courtney drove through her victim's neighborhood, she became increasingly impressed by the upscale houses. Once she was within several blocks of Justman’s house, she removed the license plates, then placed her identification, mobile phone, and photography equipment in the trunk as a precaution. Once he was trussed up to her satisfaction, she would retrieve it to document his submission.

Her route culminated in a stop at The Manipulator’s front gate, where she was required to identify herself before being remotely allowed access. She provided her FetLife pseudonym, “Switch4Real.” She drove up the double-wide circular drive and parked near the front doors.

The house was a magnificent sculpture of frosted glass. Justman, The Manipulator, a fine looking young gentleman, opened the door for her and invited her inside.

“Welcome. Please come in,” her host said with an inviting demeanor.

Artison entered the house and was struck by the spacious layout and fine contemporary furnishings. A circular staircase with solid glass steps wound its way to the second level, which housed an office and studio. Although the studio was in the corner of the house, exposing it to two exterior walls, the frosted glass prevented any prying eyes from discerning any private activities, such as those Courtney and Mr. Justman had planned for the evening.

The Manipulator guided Courtney over to a sitting room where he had already placed a bottle of fine white wine on ice. Once he confirmed that she approved of the wine, he poured them both a glass, and they became acquainted. They each discussed their bondage preferences, and Courtney couldn’t help feeling as if he was studying every inch of her. Of course, she did the same to size up her eventual adversary.

They discussed the kinds of photos each of them were interested in, and they agreed to a ‘TF’ (trade for) shoot. They would shoot two scenes, and each of them would have the rights to the photographs from one of the scenes. Theodore quickly told her that he wanted to shoot a rope bondage scene. He asked her about her hard limits, and she said she didn’t have any. She wanted to appear as experienced as possible, and it didn’t really matter since she would be the dominant partner soon enough. So Courtney expressed an interest in shooting a leather bondage scene, and she playfully asked him if he had any hard limits.

“Why no. Come to think of it, I don’t,” he replied with a chuckle. “I am happy to play as rough as my partner.”

Courtney merely smiled and nodded politely.

Her host then led the way upstairs and gave her a brief tour of the office before showing her to the studio. Along one of the interior walls, there were a series of mirrored doors. Each door led into a walk-in closet. The first was filled with all manner of fetish clothing: predominantly leather, latex, neoprene, and silk, with the occasional animal print and librarian’s garb. The second contained every form of restraint imaginable: leather harnesses, straitjackets, ropes, tape, and steel stocks, among many others. There was also a section for accessories like gags, blindfolds, and nipple clips. In truth, Courtney couldn’t even figure out the intended use of some of the restraints and accessories. She made a mental note to do so once her prey was subdued.

As Courtney was moving from closet to closet discovering their contents, her host was lagging behind, collecting items for her to wear. She discovered that the last mirrored door led to a well-appointed changing room complete with dual showers, a Jacuzzi, expensive towels, and a makeup area that rivaled those of the movie studios. But as she turned to leave the changing room, she was startled by her host. He stood in the doorway, uncomfortably close to her, and he handed her a leather catsuit.

“We can do your preferred scene first. I believe that this is your size,” he said firmly but politely.

Courtney instinctively took the catsuit, turned away, and closed the door. Instead of blindly obeying her creepy host, however, she silently opened the door a crack to see what he was doing. He had his back to her, and he was obsessively laying out the restraints he had selected on a table along the opposite wall. Before placing each piece in its place on the table, he slowly and ritualistically inspected it.

Courtney knew this was her best opportunity. Staying outside of his peripheral vision, she silently approached him from behind, then attacked with an uncontrolled ferocity. She channelled all of her aggression into the self-defense techniques she had learned, and he was caught completely off guard. Just as she had in her kickboxing classes, she began to choke him into unconsciousness.

Justman dropped the few restraints that he had yet to place on the table, and he instinctively tried to pry her hands from his neck. He quickly realized that his fingers could not compete with her practiced choke-hold, and she felt his hands drift away from his neck. She redoubled her effort and continued to squeeze the life out of him when, without warning, she felt his elbow explode into her solar plexus!

Her world suddenly began to move in slow motion. She noticed his left hand covering his right fist, and she understood how he induced such heart-stopping pain. Her lungs were empty, a vacuum, and they no longer seemed to work. She pushed herself away from him, staggered, and tried desperately to inhale without success. As she doubled up waiting for the condition to pass, he grabbed a set of plastic zip-cuffs from a pouch hanging off the table. He swiftly and easily secured one of her wrists, but once Courtney realized what was happening, she fought like a trapped animal. With her breath slowly returning, she swung at him wildly with her free hand, but he easily dodged the blow.

Instead of settling for a defensive position, he lunged at her, tackling her to the ground along with a nearby photography lamp. Face down among shards of broken glass, he held fast to her zip-tied wrist, forcing his knee cruelly into the middle of her back. As she groaned in pain, she buried her free hand beneath her and tried in vain to roll over. With double her weight and his superior position, Justman immediately and painfully twisted her bound wrist high behind her back.

“It will be a lot easier if you just give me your other wrist,” he said impassively, almost inaudibly over her agonizing scream.

Bondage Fake · Part 1 (1/2)
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