The keeper - illustrated bondage story, part 16

She bent over from the waist, and he went with her, lying on her back and bound arms. It took all her strength to remain upright on her high heels. He squeezed and embraced. They stayed that way for several seconds, wavering between the bed and the door. Then she felt the single drop of cum sliding down her inner thigh.

All she could hear was a roaring in her ears, which grew louder the lower the cum drop went. Her legs began to shake uncontrollably. She was only dimly aware of his continued yanking on her tits. She tried to step forward, but all she could do was surge -- and he surged with her.

When the drop of cum reached the top of her stocking, she collapsed.

She was laying across the bed when she woke up again. Her head was at the left top corner, and her feet were on either side of the right bottom corner. She was almost immediately aware that she was rebound, regagged, and redressed.

She felt her feet frst. She was still wearing shoes, but they weren’t the same shoes. If anything, her toes were even more pointed ... her heel even more curved. She recognized the feeling

.

He had gone into her closet and gotten what she called her frehouse shoes. They were the ones she wore when she was on the prowl. The heels were a mind-numbing four and a half inches, with an ankle strap for added secure ft. The heel and toes were completely enclosed so she couldn’t slip out or off them. Her foot was imprisoned in a toe-dancer’s position. She raised her woozy head and saw fuzzy red. She tenderly moved her shoulders, feeling pain at her elbows and wrists, and tight cloth on either side of her neck. She recognized all that too.

Her elbows and wrists were bound again, behind her. The cloth at her shoulders was from the satiny, spandex/cotton dance club dress he had also found in her closet. Dana had loved the thing, but never wore it. It was also red: a minidress whose material molded as well as covered. Barely covered: the neckline was a plunging V which shaped and lifted her breasts, and the hemline was at least a full eight inches off the knee.

Dana tried to move. Her legs stopped only three inches from each other. She could feel the knots at her lower thighs, her knees, her shins, and her ankles; but she couldn’t see the network of ropes which limited her movement.

She closed her eyes. Her head fell back. She curled onto her side with a groan. Her eyelids futtered, then opened. Her mouth had given in a different way. The beanbag was no longer inside. Something else was in there (she didn’t see the open pack of panty shields beside the bed). Although it was just as bad, it didn’t pry her jaw apart. Her lips were closed around it ... and her mouth was stuck shut.

She looked beneath her nose, just making out the line of thick, clear plastic tape that now covered the bottom half of her face. She tried to open her mouth, to talk, but all she heard was the crinkling of the opaque gag. He saw the smeared, fattened lips trying to move beneath the obstruction. He was pleased to hear the lack of volume.

“There we go,” he said, reaching down and grabbing her by her now completely free hair. He forced her to sit up, moaning all the way. He then stepped back and admired his handiwork.

Not only were her elbows and wrists tied together behind her back, but more rope connected her elbows to her waist. Not only were her hands facing each other, but he had taped her fngers together in a sticky mitten. And while she could bend her knees, the ropes which crisscrossed there wouldn’t allow her to do anything but take careful, dainty steps.

There was a rope tied tight around her right middle thigh, a connecting strand that went down to her left lower thigh, another connecting strand that went to her right knee, then another which went to her left upper shin; and so forth from her right mid-shin to her left lower shin to her right ankle.

He took her by the arm and stood her up. She looked to the ceiling and moaned quizzically. “I think you’re ready,” he said. “Don’t you?” Then he squeezed her right tit -- his thumb on the breast and his fngers kneading through the dress. All she did was bleat and pull away slightly. No screaming, no cursing, no hurling herself around. Yes, she was ready. Holding her by the arm, he “helped” her to the stairs. Then he swept her into his arms. She gave a little cry, then stayed quiet until they reached the main foor. He stood her up next to the closet between the living room and kitchen. From it he took a long raincoat.

“Here we go, babe,” he said, wrapping it around her, buttoning it up, and cinching the waist tightly. It cov- ered her from the neck to her mid-shin. He pulled up the collar, obscuring most of her lower face. “That’ll do it.”

He “helped” her to the back door,, grabbing a pair of sunglasses from a bowl of stuff on the kitchen table. He pushed her against the side of the fridge, then slipped the shades on. “Bitchin’,” he commented, as she shook her head.

“Shut up,” he advised, then opened the back door and got her out.

The back stairs were the only real problem, but he got beside her, put an arm around her waist, and “helped” her to the car. She had a small Chrysler, but it was big enough. She groaned and sagged and mumbled, but she didn’t try to screech or escape. He began to think she really didn’t know where she was.