The Birthday Present | pixie, kay, chain, ball gag | free bondage stories

I growled out my standard first-today imprecation, rolled over and banged my hand down on top of the alarm clock. The damned clangour ceased and I began the task of winding up my mind to make that first effort to get out of bed and start the day.

It required an appreciable number of seconds before the truth banged home: "Hey. Wait a minute. This is Saturday!"

For five days each week, I toil hard and long in the process of earning a very comfortable living. I can live well because I inherited from my parents a substantial house which I sold and used the proceeds to buy this old mansion. Most of the original grounds had been sold off, and so much of its original splendid isolation is a dream of the past, but it still glories in a modern version of splendid isolation. Most of the rooms too had been butchered, sub-divided, re-decorated and generally buggered about with that modern eye for the tasteless and vulgar. All except this one "Master" bedroom.

That room, and a deal of the old house, has been rescued by Elsie. She is a colleague from university days who studied, and now works in, things artistic and purely design and who fell in love with the place at first sight. She set herself to restore its former glories and she did it as a labour of love - it cost me only the materials and the added objects and furniture for which she scoured the country. No! Quite the contrary; it was NOT for love of me but for love of the house and the challenges it promised. We were good friends, of the platonic variety, and never were lovers.

The bedroom is truly enormous and dominated by the huge four-poster bed. Elsie had fallen upon that bed with delight, repaired and refurbished it, made new curtains for it in traditional form and lovingly surrounded it with appropriate furniture and furnishings. By the time she had finished with it I too was converted and could not contemplate sleeping anywhere else. Beside which, when I entertained lady friends, the bed was ideal for mixing my two loves; the sensual and the erotic - love with bondage.

As I said, I toil for five days a week; each day starts with that devilish alarm clock crowing in triumph at 6.40a.m. I manage to shower, shave, dress and breakfast in about fifty minutes before departing and I seldom return before 7.30 p.m. Thus I insist that the weekends - Saturday and Sunday - a smidgin more than 48 hours - shall be mine in which to preserve my sanity and humanity. Each Friday evening I set that alarm to "OFF" and assiduously turned its face to the wall.

So how come it had roused me so rudely that Saturday morning at 7.55? And why 7.55? Then it occurred to me that, as I had smacked down on it, I had not felt that familiar click as the "Alarm Off" button depressed and brought about a blessed silence.

Then, in pure sadistic mockery, the ringing started again. It was not the clock, which sniggered quietly as it faced into the wall, but the front-door bell. At this unearthly hour of the morning - and Saturday morning at that - someone needed an amputation at the neck. That, of course, was apart from the unreasonable interruption - no termination - of a most exquisite dream. I had been gazing down at the wide-open grey eyes of the little pixie-like girl as they peered in increasing panic over her pink ball-gag with its tight velcro straps disappearing behind her luxurious thick red-gold hair that flowed easily to cover those freckled shoulders. Two delightful mounds were discreetly covered by a bra top that consisted of no more than a three-inch wide elasticated shoulderless strap. Above that ran my inch-wide rubber strap that, together with others around her slim waist and hips, knees and ankles held her securely to the table. In my hand was the double-edged curved knife which was holding her gaze as I lowered it slowly over her; I had just tucked the tip under that boob-band and hardened my grip to make a severing cut when ... some fool had rung my door bell. Now I would never know...?

Clad in no more than my customary pyjama legs I had rolled half-asleep out of bed and thundered in a black bad-temper down the stairs. On opening that door, I was greeted by a man in delivery-driver uniform holding the handles of a sack-barrow on which was a wooden crate measuring about 30-inches square and maybe 3-feet in length.

"James Forrester?" he enquired.

"That's me... but what the hell have you got there at this hour of the morning?"

"Sorry mate... but I've been at it since six. Sign here, please."

"But I'm not expecting anything. What... ?"

"No idea, sir. I just collect and deliver. Maybe you've got an unexpected birthday."

"Very funny." But, at a loss for an alternative, I signed and he helped me lift it inside. In truth it was not all that heavy.

Then he thrust into my hand a sealed envelope. "Delivery note and other things, I think," he said, touched his cap and left.

My instinct was to abandon it there in the hall and go back to bed but... I was intrigued. A stout wooden crate that size...? For me or was it a mistake? No! I turned to the stairs only to stop, come back and bend to examine it more closely. Too dark... and so I dragged it into the lounge where the morning sun shone brightly upon it. Now I saw that it had a hinged lid secured by two case locks. Keys? Ah, the envelope.

Sure enough there was a delivery note and a key. I opened the locks, raised the lid and ... was brought abruptly wide-awake and then hurled into a pit of stupefied stupidity by the sight that greeted me.

Curled into the bottom of the box and retained by three leather straps was a small pixie-like girl not at all unlike the one in my dream. The first thing to take my eye was the great shock of red-bronze shining hair that must fall all the way to her waist. Not quite a match therefore. Also I saw that this one had the most amazing green eyes that watched me - surely with amusement - over a cherry-red ball gag that exactly matched the cherry-red lips which formed a perfect O around it. The ball was threaded on a thin jewellery-style chain that was grooving her cheeks and which disappeared under her hair; such a fine and tight chain must surely be created from steel and secured with a lock?

Like my dream pixie, which was purely a result of too-long contemplation of Dea's dames, she was pleasantly plump without being fat - she curved in and out in all the right places with a perfectly-sized bust covered by a green halter-necked bikini top. This was just not feasible and I pinched myself. And I pinched myself again. Yet she was still there. In a pocket beside her was a "spare" set of normal handcuffs, a bit gag and a blindfold. A kidnapper's kit complete with auxiliaries?

I set to work to free her from the retaining straps and lifted her from the box. Below the bikini top, which surely was designed to put any man's hands on autopilot, her waist was girdled by a steel band from which hung, over each hip by a single link of chain, a handcuff which imprisoned a hand. My eyes flipped downward and her ankles were joined with bright shiny steel cuffs which gave her barely three-inches of freedom. A pixie in bondage indeed; someone clearly knew my instincts. On the more leisurely upsweep my startled eyes discerned too that the waistband was part of a very-efficient looking steel chastity belt. A left-handed present?

As I began go recover from the numbing impact of all this, I noticed that, just above her cleavage and suspended on a small jewellery chain, there was a pale-green square of card. I bent closer and on it, in a bold flowing hand, was the message: "Happy Birthday. Enjoy."

"Birthday," I snorted. "You're three weeks too early!"

Under the paper my fingers felt something hard; I turned it over to reveal a small key and the message: "Gag key. The rest are in the post."

To pull the chain around her neck was a simple operation, which revealed that it was indeed just a jewellery chain held by a normal spring-hook and ring. With the key in my fingers I moved behind the pixie and began to part her hair in search of the lock. No doubt but that was a steel chain and the padlock, though small, was definitely not a toy.

I eased the ball from her mouth and let it drop around her neck. She first licked her lips and then said, in a low and pleasing voice: "Thank you. Those things are not the best company I have kept."

"But in God's name what... who... how did you... what IS going on?"

She grinned at me as any self-respecting pixie should: "Have you heard of a Kissogram? A Greetings singing telegram?" I nodded. "Well... I'm a fetish-o-gram. I am sent to fulfill your most ardent dreams. I understand you like to tie-up your girl friends? I will allow you almost anything except, I'm afraid, sexual intercourse. I'm sure you agree THAT would be extremely foolish. For me."

"What does the note mean... keys are in the post?"

"Just what it says... I'm all yours until the Monday morning post delivery."

"But you can't stay locked up like that for forty-eight hours."

"Oh yes she can... and will."

I turned. If the voice startled me, then no less did the sight of a huge man standing in the doorway of my lounge with, just in front of him, a young girl who was not a bit like my pixie-present but who, at any time, would make an excellent substitute.

"Who the hell might you be?"

He grinned - in good-humored fashion - but it was the girl who answered me: "You might say we are her guardian angels."

"Just as long as you're not Charlie's Angels. How did you get in? I'm sure I closed the door properly."

"That," said the young lady, "is where we go out on a limb." She held up a key: "With a caper like this we can't afford to take chances on the word of someone who commissions such goings on?"

She looked at the Pixie-girl: "You all right, Honey?"

My pixie-present nodded vigorously. "Yeh. I'm sure."

"Well, you've had enough experience ... and experiences." She turned to me: "This is a copy of your key. Never mind how we got it but... do you want to collect?"

"With visions of policemen carrying handcuffs, I think I'd prefer that you keep it... at least while this young lady remains here. What am I supposed to do with her? Suppose you take her back to where you got her?"

"Can't do that. Your well-wisher paid a lot of money for the service and I'm afraid you're stuck with her until we collect on Monday morning ... same time. Of course we expect her back in exactly the same condition in which you signed for her."

"Signed for her?"

"Well, I'll admit she was inside a box but there are three witnesses apart from the little one here."

"That's all very well but she can't stay tied up like that over the entire weekend."

"Did you not read the note? The only two sets of keys to her bondage are in the post - two separate packages - and they won't arrive until Monday morning."

"But I leave for work before 7.30! You'll have to be early."

"Or you could use the telephone to make an excuse for being late."

"This is preposterous. She comes under the category of unsolicited goods and you can take her away."

"Most flattering," murmured the little pixie.

"I'm sorry but surely you can see... ?" As I turned to her she was grinning quite literally from ear to ear. "Look... ".

"No buster. You're stuck with me. Don't be such a stick-in-the-mud. How often do you get a presentable damsel in this condition?"

Exasperated, I turned back to her keepers only to find that they had disappeared as quietly as they had appeared. I turned back: "You... Are you nuts? Tied up like that... anything could happen to you."

But it won't, will it?"

"Ye Gods of little fishes. Huh .. they do say that those the gods would protect they first make mad."

"That's a misquote."

"And that's enough. I'm losing my beauty sleep. I go back to bed and you... well... you can keep very quiet." I lifted the ball-gag but she stood quietly as I pushed it back into her mouth. I hesitated but then, on impulse probably, I pulled in the chain and refixed the padlock. "You want to go back in your box or will you behave yourself down here?"

Of course she didn't answer. Sometimes I can be so dumb. Getting more and more frustrated I turned for the stairs... then looked back. She looked so cute standing there helpless, the red ball and her red lips making a red disc, that I became totally irresponsible - reckless - concerned - I don't know what the hell drove me. I returned to her, hoisted her over my shoulder and carried her up the stairs with me. But that only created another problem; what do I do with her now that she is in my bedroom? Dump her on the floor at the foot of the bed as the books say all good slaves should be? She might freeze. Wrap her up in a blanket and then dump her? I dumped her... in the bed, drew the duvet over her and climbed in beside her. "Make a sound," I said sternly, "and you go UNDER the bed with the spiders."

She wriggled deliciously into me and, of its own accord, my right arm moved around and drew her close. She was soft, except in steely places, and so warm that despite myself I began to explore. Dare I admit it? I awoke and, turning the clock back to face me, found it was 11.20? With that bundle in my arms I had fallen asleep! ! !

I looked down at her and was seized by a desperate guilt; she was sleeping like a baby but with that ball-gag still jammed in her mouth. True, had trouble arisen, it should not have been difficult for her to wake me but... when all was said and done... and just what the hell does that cliche mean?

The key? When I first removed that gag I had dropped the key into her box and it must still be there. My guilty regrets multiplied for, had she got into trouble... ? Slipping from the bed I padded quickly below, retrieved the key from its resting place and as quickly returned. She lay there looking up at me with wide green eyes just as had my pixie victim in that dream... how the devil did this creature get into my dream?

Gently I removed the intrusive beast. "I'm so sorry," I began; "that was most thoughtless..."

"Don't worry about it," she interrupted in that low-pitched voice - not at all what you might expect to come from such a small body. "I'm very used to it. To be honest... I rather like it. And anyway... I could have called you if it became necessary."

I found myself strangely at a loss; completely out of my depth. "Look, I can easily cut you out of those things. All it needs is a hacksaw through the padlocks - well, that belt anyway?"

"What, and spoil the firm's property. They'd dock it out of my fee. But I like it; the irons may make me vulnerable - and that's half the fun - but the belt makes me safe... except from morons with hacksaws."

"What about maniacs with chain saws?"

"How many have you got?"

What can you do except adore her? "Perhaps I'm only viewing it from my point of view," I said; "chastity belts are all very well as turn-ons but they were surely invented by family planners?"

"As I understand it they were invented by macho men determined to keep all the fun for themselves."

I whipped the pillow from under my head and beat her with it. She tried to roll away but, tightly hobbled and with hands locked to her waist, there was little she could do to avoid me. She became entangled in the duvet and so I tossed away the pillow and made a job of rolling her up in it. "Now," I said, in my best voice of menace: "Are you going to show some respect or do I bind this around and around with the forty miles of rope in the drawer over there?"

"Ooh. Yes please."

"You're incorrigible. And I need to reinforce my caffeine habit. Do you drink coffee at this unearthly hour or would you prefer something else."

"Well..." deep in thought and, with a glance at the clock, "I do USUALLY drink coffee with lunch." Then, as I retrieved the pillow: "No! No... no. It's really a fine time for you to get breakfast."

I gave her best, pulled her complete with duvet over my shoulder and carried her down to the kitchen. In that manner we spent a very restful weekend alternating between the kitchen and the bed. Well... think about it... my little Pixie couldn't walk, couldn't use her hands, couldn't even go to the loo unless I carried her and then took her into the shower after. And I can tell you... being wet with her in the shower was perhaps the most frustrating part of those two days.

Monday came all too soon. Being of an obstinate turn I set the alarm as usual being determined to go to work as usual - which, of course, depended on the postman arriving as usual. Pixie made no comment whatever. But the Law of Maximum Perversity kicked in and the Postman failed to arrive at his usual time. At that expected time however the doorbell sounded but, when I opened, there stood yet another surprise. "Denise! What on earth are you doing here at this time?"

"I've come to collect the rest of my things."

"But you took them all when you left. What exactly are you looking for; I've not come across any left overs?"

"Well. I've some things missing and they can only be here. Can I come in and look?" And, with the words, she dodged around me and walked in. She waltzed straight into the lounge where Pixie was waiting for her release. As I followed her in, however, there came a knock and I was obliged to turn back to sign for the two packets the Postman had at last brought.

I stood a moment to open one of the packages, partly to assure myself that it did indeed contain the keys that would set Pixie free and that would then enable me to keep my habitual appointment on time. Sometimes men are such fools! The strange sound that caught my ear brought me upright - a sort of squeak, muffled and not a little frantic. I moved to the Lounge doorway and beheld a horrifying site; a helpless Pixie was on her knees bent backward into the seat of an armchair while Denise had her left hand clamped over her mouth and, with the other, was mercilessly tweaking one of her nipples.

My instant rage was immediately suppressed by another thought and I raced upstairs to the toybox in my bedroom. Armed with handcuffs and leg-irons I re-entered the Lounge to hear Denise say: "Told you I'd get back at you. How did you like a whole weekend in your precious bondage? And with a REAL bastard?"

Denise and I had been very-short-term lovers nearly two years ago but we had never indulged in bondage. I never discovered what was biting her when she stormed out - except that it was entirely my fault apparently. It would seem that Pixie had similarly earned her resentment and she must have set-up this weekend in a double payback. How wrong can anyone get it?

She was so intent on her treatment of Pixie that she failed to hear my entrance and suddenly found herself flat with her face buried in my carpet. Seconds later she was hogtied with the cuffs and leg-irons; seconds later still I had fished out the bit-gag from Pixie's box and silenced her.

I lifted Pixie to her feet, ascertained that she was OK and then, to her surprise, put her back over my shoulder and returned her to the bedroom. With another pair of handcuffs - long chain - I locked her to one of the four-poster's corner posts and then set about removing her hardware. "What the hell are you.. ?" I silenced her with a finger across her lips. "That which is about to happen is not revenge but a lesson. It's not legal but I doubt she'll file charges. But I don't want you involved. Now stay here like a good girl until I've finished."

"Does that mean I have a choice?"

I kissed her. "No. Love you."

Back downstairs I went through a routine which I cherish to this day. I decorated Denise with the hardware I had removed from Pixie and recovered my own. Then I folded her into the bottom of Pixie's crate, strapped her down and then, just before I closed and locked the lid: "You named me bastard... and I was brought up never to give a lady the lie." I was just dragging it out to the front door when the bell announced the arrival of her transport.

"Great day," said the driver cheerfully. "I trust you had a good weekend?"

"Perfect," I replied with fervour. He wrote me a receipt, which he handed over together with a key which I recognised as the copy of my front-door key, and then lifted the box on to his sack-barrow. "You're very trusting. Don't you check? You sure the girl is inside there?"

A slow reluctant smile twisted his lips. He laid a conspiratorial finger across his lips and whispered: "That's OK, mate. The box is bugged."

END