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| caprycorn |
I wonder if my love of predicament bondage (applying, not receiving) is related to my childhood fascination with Bond villains. Whilst James was prodding buttock and swashing his buckle through a variety of scenarios, wooing the lady because all she loves is a box of milk chocolates delivered with a raised eyebrow, it was always the villains that intrigued me most. Nervous twitches, white cats, smug laughs and a "SO! Meester Bond, now I have explained my plan to dominate / destroy ze vorld, you vill die!" delivered in a bizarre accent, with the method of despatch being something complicated with a laser. Look, just shoot the bastard. Don't talk, just shoot him. It's much easier although obviously more final.
I wouldn't be a particularly good villain though. One apparently needs a white cat to stroke frantically during key moments. A small white terrier doesn't have the same cachet. "So, Yappy, you vill keel Meester Bond by chewing at the trousers of hees seventies safari suit!" isn't the accepted method of death. No laser, you see.
However enough of the urges to prepare a complicated scenario remain. And so the object of my desires - as always in these cases - is a short, tousle headed blonde. And the equipment? Collar, cuffs, spreader bar. Clamps. String. A small fishing weight. A china dish. A cane. And a paper clip. One always needs a paper clip.
So there she was, spreader bar attached to her ankle cuffs. Nipple clamps applied; these are tweezer clamps but with a third clamp attached by a chain that can be applied to the clit. No, another use for it. I bent her forwards until the clamp sat nicely inside the china bowl, and then attached the fishing weight. Not heavy but it kept the chain tight, like a plumb line. Hands were then cuffed behind her back. And I then ran a piece of string from her collar to the spreader bar, and tied it off tight.
The premise was simple. Her body was already strained unnaturally from the bend, and would only get more so. But she had to maintain it because my instructions were simple. If she wanted to avoid a caning, she must keep the string tight and also stop the weighted clamp from hitting the sides of the bowl. Every time the string slackened or every time I heard a "chink" from the weight hitting the bowl, she would earn herself ten stripes from the whippy cane. So unlike Meeester Bond, her salvation was in her own hands, so to speak. All she had to do was keep still.
Her thighs and calves were utterly taut, muscles shaking after a while from the strain of standing legs apart in an unnatural bend. No help from her hands which were cuffed behind her back. Her cunt was humiliatingly exposed to us - and getting wetter by the second - and we either ignored her or discussed her as though she was nothing more than an object. Which, at that time, she was. Her breathing became more and more laboured and she started to sweat. As her legs shook more, there was the occasional "clink" of clamp hitting bowl where she couldn't keep still any more.
Lovely.
Except I grew bored after a while and decided to take her mind off it by applying something else. Small shiny silver clips attached to labia and inner thighs. And THEN I realised that if I attached a pair of clover clamps to her labia, I could suspend the (rather heavy) metal spreader bar to aforementioned clovers, to give her some slowly increasing additional pain.
She became so aroused that her wetness was soaking the chain of the clamps. It was running down her thighs. I suppose it was rather mean of me to finger fuck her to almost-climax before making her suck my fingers clean. I enjoyed it though. I also enjoyed twisting off the small clips, leaving bee-sting lines and welts behind (and making her jump and either slacken the string or hit the chain against the bowl).
After a while of such delights, her knees were giving way. Being the kind and affectionate facilitating person that I am, I finally released her. Not for her comfort but because, by now, I was so horny that I could have won a headbutting duel with a ram. J and I decided to make use of her - mouth and cunt - before winding ourselves around each other. She was there for our pleasure, after all. Just the way we all like it.
Her welts - of which she'd earned eighty - looked wonderful. A scarlet ladder up and down her thighs and over her buttocks. They weren't hard enough though; they faded after only a few days.
I have an urge to welt her deep and hard. Welts that last for weeks; cane marks that take months to fully fade. It's been a while since I've been so brutal. And it's long overdue.
Supervillain complication and subtlety is all very well. But sometimes what I want is direct and savage and leaves her a bleeding, shuddering wreck, used, taken and adoring every minute of it. It's one of the things that we live for, after all. And not a laser or white cat in sight.
