Getting The Angles bondage story | chains, ball gag

He's a nice guy and he has always treated me well. But sometimes, just sometimes, I could wish... well... I don't disapprove of his kink... in fact I share it... and to be truthful... I enjoy it as much as, or possibly more than, he does. It's just that he NEVER tires of it. It would be great if, say, just one evening a month we could have a normal stay-in, perhaps cuddle together on the couch and watch a film ... or just cuddle? Perhaps one morning a month we could have a lie-in; just enjoy each other doing...? Well... nothing. Why have to do anything at all?

But, if we stop to watch a film, I'm always tied up or tied down or tied in a ball or a hogtie or... whatever his latest idea turns out to be. If ever we lie-in of a morning its because I wake up to find myself in some kind of a pickle usually involving cuffs or chains ... anything he can get me into without waking me before it's too late. I'm still curious about his feat of several weeks ago when I awoke to find myself trapped in a net bag! Exactly how that came about is still a matter of which I'm in the dark... and therefore it's sure due for a repeat ... but I know only too well about the four hours I spent thereafter hanging nude from the "chandelier" hook like an angler's prize. Yeah, he fed and watered me but...?

The escapade I'm about to recount surely takes the biscuit. He had been working in the basement playroom for several days which involved banging and drilling and, I thought, a spot of cement mixing. I was not allowed in there; he kept the door locked although I'm not into the business of spoiling his surprises. As I was to discover it would have meant nothing at all to me had I got a look in there.

On Saturday morning I awoke to find nothing at all unusual. I was neither bound nor shackled; not blindfolded nor gagged - not netted nor even bagged! It was a real and pleasant surprise. But then, of course, I'm naive; the simple fact that nothing had happened to me - on a Saturday morning of all times - should have put me on my guard?

We arose in leisurely fashion and breakfasted in the same manner. That day the Sun shone with unusual brightness, the birds were singing with gusto in the garden through which a gentle breeze was cavorting. Nick disappeared and I spent a leisurely half-hour clearing away and straightening out the kitchen after which I wandered out and, for once, enjoyed the beauties of our horticultural efforts.

A pair of arms encircled me; a well-known voice murmured some gentle things at my ear; a pair of lips nuzzled my neck and for several minutes we immersed ourselves in a very personal world. Finally he stood upright, turned me around and asked: "Ready for my latest?"

"Oh," I pouted, "and I was beginning to think that, at long last, you had come to love me."

"Hussy. I know full well that you're as hot as any tin-roof cat. Hold out those hands."

Seconds later I was back in handcuffs and, as he fished the inevitable black bag from his pocket, my world disappeared into darkness. Blinded I may have been but it was not difficult to divine, as I followed the tug on my wrist-chain, that he was leading me to the scene of his recent labours. Inside the dungeon he warned me of a small step then, removing the handcuffs, he began to reduce me to my birthday suit. I was ordered to lie down and then he spent a long time arranging me as though I was some kind of display.

My right arm was up and across the top of my head; the left arm was doubled at my side with the hand level with my left ear. My legs were separated and arranged in a sort of running position which necessitated lying half on my left side. Yes, I was consumed with curiosity.

He left me a moment and I tried to decipher the sounds of his movements. Back by my side he warned that he was going to make a loud bang and then something did just that somewhere, it seemed, under my chin. It was quickly followed by another. A third bang came from the vicinity of my right hand and then, with the fourth bang, came a touch on my wrist which aroused a suspicion. Before I had worked out any conclusion however there came two more almost against the left side of my neck and - I sensed rather than knew it - it was becoming clear that he was endeavouring to work swiftly. The bangs were repeated down near my feet.

It was at that point that I started to struggle - I tried to sit up. Something around my neck forbade it and I realised too that my right hand couldn't move more than an inch or so. My right leg was immobilised and he was holding down the left one as once again came two more of those bangs. Now they followed in quick succession and I knew that I was being rapidly pinned down.

When eventually the banging ceased something solid thumped down beside me and I felt him start to remove the hood. The strange machine beside me, he was obliging enough to inform me, was a builder's staple gun; it fired U-shaped nails into almost anything. I was not able to rise nor roll nor kick nor do anything very much but not by any means could I be described as strapped down. Strips of webbing were looped about me in - I suppose you should call them strategic - places and clearly he had been stapling them to the thick panel of plywood on which I was lying.

It was a diabolical conception. A loose strip around my right wrist allowed movement but, to extract my hand, I needed to pull to the right. Such movement was denied me by another webbing strip that was stapled loosely around my upper arm just above the elbow. The first two bangs had been establishing a loose band across my throat which limited any shoulder movement.

My left arm, doubled against my body, was held by a similarly slack loop about the wrist but extraction, of necessity downward, was forbidden by the neck strap. He had added another loop too about the elbow joint which encircled both lower and upper arms. There was another about my waist and both legs were free to move but unable to escape because of bands about the ankles and just above the knees. As I bent my head forward to get a better look at what he had done to my lower extremities, I discovered yet another loose band around my forehead. In short the only thing holding me captive there on that board was the argument between webbing strips which were angled against each other in a sort of giant catch-22 puzzle.

For a while I refused to believe that such loose bondage could hold me and I struggled and wriggled, tugged and pulled and pushed, writhed and bounced. As I twisted around I happened to catch a glimpse of his face as he watched my efforts to break free and I realised the depths of his depravity; he had me mounted helplessly and was standing there enjoying the show as I thrashed like a fly on a fly-paper.

"You horrible bastard!" I exploded. "Let me go."

Have you ever tried to tell a storm to get lost? He seemed not to have heard me. I cut loose again; he turned to the bench and came back to me with another new device. One end looked as though it terminated in a ball-gag; the other end sported a crosspiece. "This," he explained in a kindly voice, "is my latest construction in the line of ball gags. This end, with which you are familiar, goes into the mouth. This end has been designed to accommodate two more webbing straps which will prevent it from being expelled. No doubt you have already realised that you cannot pull your head back away from this darling little device? Now, can we have an end to the weeping and wailing and gnashing of teeth?"

He didn't enunciate the threat. I didn't require it. Indeed, as I looked at that thing, my imagination provided a much more definitive explanation. I lay there quietly absorbing my situation but came to the inevitable conclusion that, this time, he had come up with a winner. Suddenly a burst of fury overcame me and I fought his webbing strips with every ounce of energy I possessed. The end result was that I became exhausted, covered in sweat, no closer to freedom than when I had started and had descended to a state of quiet submissiveness.

When next I took an interest in my surroundings I found that he had assumed a seat in a comfortable chair and had been watching my display with one hand suspiciously close to his crotch!

So you think he had exhausted the idea? Not by any means. As I lay there quietly awaiting my fate I heard the sound of chains. "What the hell next?"

I gathered from various signs that he was attaching a chain to the edge of the board above my head. Then came the unmistakable sound of his geared chain hoist - I had heard that too often to be mistaken! Slowly my board began to rear up and that was when I discovered yet one more webbing strap. It passed under my derriere and, as my display panel transferred from the horizontal toward the vertical, so it took my weight - a truly thoughtful bastard this my husband?

The board rose more and more and eventually began to scrape along the floor until it reached the wall. Then it started to rise. The noise of the chain stopped and he began to manhandle things. There was nothing at all that I could do about it except to watch as he fitted me back against the wall and worked the hoist eventually to slide me on to two rag-bolts that he had set into the masonry. He followed up with two large steel washers and then nuts which were tightened down with a spanner.

Now indeed did my indignation arise but ... well admixed with a familiar old tingle. My dearly loved husband had a bastardly mind with an inexhaustible bent for kinky doings but he knew how to push my buttons. He had mounted me on the wall like a decorative sculpture and I was crying out for that one thing which I could not get in my present state. Moreover I knew, from long experience, that he would wring every last drop from the situation before I could hope to be returned to terra-firma and the freedom - or partial freedom - that would enable him to administer that physic the need for which was beginning to dominate my helpless existence.

He sat again in his chair and, for perhaps fifteen minutes, watched in fascination as I writhed and twisted in a determined attempt at escape. Not that I had the slightest hope but, by giving him a good show, I hoped to trigger his own need and that would drive him to take me down from my place of adoration.

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Eventually he left the room only to return with a cup of coffee and then resumed his seat. "As the one doing all the work ... don't I deserve a coffee?"

"Now that you come to mention it... yes, possibly so. But, in that position, how am I supposed to administer it and how can you possibly drink it."

"You rotten selfish ... ": I had better not write down the remainder of my monologue. He abandoned his drink and, retrieving something from a corner beside the workbench, crossed to stand immediately below me. As he held it up I could see that he had attached a feather duster to the end of a broom stick. "Don't you dare."

But I knew the next period in full detail; he knew very well not only that I was very ticklish but where my most sensitive spots were to be found. And we both knew that they were exposed! We both knew also that - not at all unusual - I couldn't cover them! And he repaid me in full for the personal history I had directed at him. Obviously, as he moved from area to area - inside my thighs, between my legs, just above my hips, under the armpits, just below each ear and, his most beloved of all, the soles of my feet - so he controlled me to obtain exactly the motion he craved. I danced, thrashed and whirled to his unspoken commands like any well-trained puppet on the end of its strings.

Eventually, as my efforts wound down through sheer exhaustion he stopped, put away his tickling-stick and fetched a small stepladder. He came up close to me: "That was very good, my sweet. I couldn't have asked for a better performance had you trained for a week. I wonder how much improvement we shall see at the end of a week. Hmm?"

I just didn't believe it; he had to be bluffing, right? But he fetched me a drink and checked over my bondage webbings. "Good. Nothing seems to have come loose. Now, I suggest that you rest for a while."

I wailed out a plea for mercy but, clearly, he needed a rebore job on his ears. Reaching up he loosened something and then a curtain descended to cover me. He had put his prize specimen away under its dust cover and I fumed in vain.