Isabel 2 | bondage story | nipple clamps, ball gagged

The door of the bathroom clicked shut, and Isabel was almost relieved to hear Ron depress the lock on the knob.

Deep breath, girl, she told herself. This was getting too intense.

First, he damned near tore her nipples off with those clamps attached to the bedroom door. Then he had proceeded to lick her newly-shaved pussy with languid strokes of his tongue that delivered a climax within minutes.

Then he found her clitoris and began to rub it.

Knead it.

Pinch it.

And to think she didn't use to believe in multiple orgasms.

Afterwards, he had untied her with a surprising lack of urgency, almost like he wanted her savor the stringent ropes that once held her in a deluxe spreadeagle.

Isabel turned the faucet to its hottest setting and let the tub fill almost to the top.

With steam rising like a fluffy cloud on a summer day, she slipped naked into the water.

The shock of the heat on her much-abused erogenous areas soon dissipated, and she finally closed her eyes in a state somewhere between bliss and a coma.

She was practically asleep when the door creaked open, so she paid no attention to the dinner tray on top of the gaily-wrapped box that Ron slid onto the tile.

When the temperature dropped to tepid, Isabel sat up, stretched, and surveyed the bathroom's unfamiliar terrain. Her eyes peered through the mist until they locked on the festive parcel on the floor.

Food. And a present.

Shit.

She clambered out of the tub and squished across the floor to where the package sat silently by the door.

"Merry Christmas," she whispered.

Isabel was almost disappointed when all she found inside were open-toe high heels with at least ten straps, including two for around her ankles.

She slipped them on and started buckling. A perfect fit. Of course.

This thought made her laugh out loud. Based on what happened the night before at the bachelor party, who the hell did she think she was kidding?

After she finished eating, she picked up the empty box off the floor. Something shifted under the tissue paper.

Digging in, she pulled out a rubber ball attached to a web of leather strips. When she turned the box upside down, a tiny padlock clattered onto the tile floor.

Isabel shivered as anxiety did battle with excitement in her groin.

You don't have to do this, said a little voice in the back of her head.

Yes, I do.

He wants you to make yourself his slave.

He's doing a good job.

She put the ball between her teeth and wiped away some moisture from the mirror. After some adjustments, she figured out where the straps were supposed to go. Under her chin. Across her cheeks. Around her forehead. Over the top. Behind her neck.

She pulled everything tight and snapped the padlock around the hasp on the side.

Gulping was out of the question, so Isabel settled for another involuntary shudder.

Now what?

Without really thinking about it, she grabbed the doorknob and twisted. To her surprise, the door swung open easily in her hand.

The hallway was dim, but Isabel could see the blue illumination of the television down the hall.

Sounds like football.

She left the bright, damp sanctuary of the bathroom and stutter-stepped toward the flickering light.

Ron looked so relaxed in his overstuffed chair. With a beer in one hand and the remote control in the other, he was the picture of suburban comfort. It was almost like a Norman Rockwell painting, except for the two metal rods and thick leather cuffs neatly laid out on the couch.

Isabel shivered slightly in the archway to the hall.

Come on, say something.

But Ron seemed to be totally engrossed in the game on television.

She didn't know what to do. Should she just stand there? Did he want her to sit on his lap? Kneel between his legs? How are slaves supposed to act anyway?

He wouldn't even tear away for a glance from the proceedings on the screen.

So Isabel just stood there and watched the two teams march up and down the field.

When the announcers proclaimed halftime, Ron finally turned to her and pointed to the opposite side of the room.

"Go stand over there."

Isabel obediently trotted across the hardwood floor until she came to the wall.

"Take down the picture in front of you."

She grabbed the painting's sides and lifted it off the hook. Underneath was a thick iron ring mounted on a metal plate.

"Put it down against the chair. Now, stand up straight and face me."

Isabel's heart began racing.

"Hold your hands so your palms face up. Cross your wrists."

Here we go . . .

"Now, reach up and grab your nipples."

Isabel's eyes grew wide as she did as she was told.

"Squeeze them. Hard."

Her chest began heaving as she brought her thumbs and forefingers together.

"Good. Now twist them."

Isabel felt a surge of sexual energy shoot down her torso.

"Pull them."

The rubber ball in Isabel's mouth only partially stifled her groans.

Isabel pulled her hands back until she thought her nipples were going to snap off.

"Very good."

Ron returned his attention to the start of the second half.

"And don't stop."

Isabel felt beads of perspiration pop out all over her naked body as she continued to abuse herself.

A ball of fire began building deep within her abdomen. She desperately craved something...anything...a finger, a cock, a dildo...buried deep into her pussy.

The noise from the TV was reduced to background static as Isabel's mind began to ponder what dreadful, wonderful fate Ron was planning for her.

She found herself virtually attacking her nipples, doing things she would have slapped a man for even thinking, while she conjured up images of ropes...plugs...clamps...on her knees, tightly bound in leather...rubber...severely gagged into unyielding silence...Ron flexing a whip...suspended...bent over...violent fucking...now from behind...no, please, not there...oh, no...oh, yes...yes...oh, god, ohgod, ohgod, ohgodohgodoh...

With her eyes closed, her mouth firmly gagged, her thighs squeezed together and her hips gyrating in slow circles, Isabel was scarcely aware of Ron as he watched her writhe passionately against the wall.

Meanwhile, the football game droned on and on.

Sometime during the fourth quarter, Isabel's eyes suddenly popped open. Had she been asleep? Hypnotized? She remembered to hold on to the throbbing buds atop her breasts, but her fantasies were starting to merge dangerously with her present reality. Was this a dream? OK, it's a dream. Then why wasn't she tied up? OK, it's not a dream. So why was she standing naked and gagged in sleazy fuck-me pumps?

Ron chuckled appreciatively, and stood up.

"That's enough for now, Isabel. Put your hands down."

Isabel let go of her nipples and let her arms hang limply at her sides.

"Turn around. Toes against the wall."

She found herself staring at the metal ring as she listened to Ron walk across the room.

First she felt the leather collar being wrapped around her neck. Like her head trainer, it was attached permanently with a padlock. A moment later, her wrists were bound in cuffs with more of Masterlock's finest holding the hasps secure.

Isabel didn't really notice the posture bar connecting the collar to her wrist restraints until Ron lengthened it as far as her arms would allow.

She felt her spine straighten and her chest thrust forward like a private in the presence of a general.

It didn't take him long to bind her thighs and her ankles with leather straps that were also connected with an adjustable metal rod. Once he had extended it, she could no more bend her knees than she could fly.

As Isabel tested the unforgiving iron, Ron took a short piece of chain, looped it through the metal ring on the wall, and padlocked it to a D-ring on the front of her collar.

Then he walked away without a word. Seconds later, Isabel heard the TV set go dead. Footsteps leaving the room. Silence.

Oh, this is just great, she said to herself as she bounced impatiently on her toes. My pussy is soaked, my tits are on fire, and Bondage Boy puts me in traction.

Isabel struggled valiantly, but the only result was repeated bumpings of her nose against the wall.

How long is he going to keep me like this, she wondered.

Surely he was coming back soon. Maybe he just stepped out to find a whip or something.

She waited. And waited. Nothing.

He can't leave me like this indefinitely, she decided.

Can he?

Isabel let her mind wander. Was she going to put up with this?

What did he have planned next? She found herself fantasizing about extreme situations...giant dildos rammed deep into her ass and her pussy...breasts bound with layers of rope...nipples in clamps...no, vices...with weights...then, the whips...all over...defenseless...in ecstasy...

She felt herself clawing to reach around and pleasure herself from behind, but the posture bar held her hands too far away.

Damn.

And when was he going to fuck her anyway?

She yelled into her gag, but all she heard was the sound of distant traffic.

Come on, come on, come on...

Isabel squirmed desperately.

Please