Rubber bands | Plaything 5 | gag bdsm stories

From a distance it didn't look so awful. Certainly the strips of white tape covered her lower face-- from

just under her nose to just over her jaw. Certainly her elbows were restrapped behind her, but her wrists were unbound. They were merely held by the brother and sister, one on each side of her.

Her cotton shirt was gone, but she wore a new one-the school shirt, which adhered to her tightly, being two sizes too small. It left almost three inches of her midriff uncovered. But at least they had pulled her skirt off her hips.

They had smoothed and cut it so the hem was just below her crotch. They had also left her stockings and shoes on. So why was her face so screwed up in pain? Why did she move so gingerly? Why were her steps so small? Why did her breasts move so oddly beneath the shirt?

The rubber bands.

For the millionth time she opened her mouth, distending her jaw, trying to force the balled shirt sleeve off her tongue. But under the tape, under her hair, between her lips, the rubber bands Audrey had snapped there kept the padding in tight-- digging into her skin.

For the thousandth time, Justine arched her back, trying to make at least one of the rubber bands they snapped around the base of her tits pop ff. The orbs were squeezed, getting red and purple, the nipples hard, full, and pointing. Their sensitivity was increased a dozen fold. Every time they scraped against her shirt was like nails on the blackboard of her mind.

For the hundredth time, Justine took a step. The rubber bands around her ankles, twisted so each was in a separate loop, kept her from running. Finally, for the tenth time, Justine moved her hips. She groaned pleadingly to her captors. Her hands twisted in their grip as they shepherded her forward.

On the closest of inspections, flesh-colored rubber bands could be seen digging into Justine's waist, just above her skirt's waistline. What couldn't be seen was how other rubber bands had been affixed to those-knotted under her navel so they swept down, through her cunt lips, in her crack, and affixed to the rubber bands going horizontally across her back.

They were super tight and super thin-- crueler than any rope could be.

They moved her forward, like chaperones for the prom queen. They kept her slow, painful progress down the darkened school hall, holding her wrists just above her clawing hands. She grunted with each step, twisting and undulating then sucked air into her nostrils to gain the strength for the next step-her back arching with each inhalation-Finally they emerged into the school's main hallway. Justine’s eyes widened at the sight of the front doors-- nothing but empty yard beyond-- but the brother and sister maneuvered her toward the door of the auditorium instead. It was directly across the hall from the main office, but that, like the rest of the establishment, was empty and dark.

Audrey let go of her right wrist to look inside the auditorium door. Justine's hand went immediately for her own chest. How she wished she had long nails now, as her hands scratched and picked at the rubber bands through the shirt. Oswald stood and watched bemused as the young, pretty, brunette teacher kneaded her own tits, trying to pull the bands off her chest through the tight molding shirt.

"All clear," said Audrey, turning. She too watched in wonder for a few seconds at the intent, preoccupied girl, before re-clutching the right wrist and doing the job for Justine. "There," she said as the teacher cringed. "That's the way you do it."

"Money for nothing, and your tit's for free," Oswald muttered as his sister squeezed and massaged Justine's agonized breast. Then they led her into the darkened auditorium.

They got the slouched-over, struggling, crying girl down the aisle, then pressed her tits against the stage. Audrey held both her wrists behind her, to the sides, as Oswald kneeled. He picked the lock of one of the storage areas beneath the stage, then swung the door open-Justine's eyes widened as the opening did. She shook her head no with increasing frenzy. Oswald cut open the rubber bands at her ankles. They snapped, stinging her. She cried out, then screamed as they made her crouch down. Oswald pulled and Audrey pushed her into the dark storage area.

It was low-- they all had to move on their knees. It was filled with old rolled-up theater curtains. One had been stretched across the dirty concrete floor. Oswald pulled the squealing, sobbing girl down and hugged her to him. He hugged her middle, then lay her on her back, moving over to straddle her.

Justine couldn't stop moving even then. She cringed more, her shoulders coming down. The heels of her pumps dug into the curtain cloth. Her legs bent. Her fingers spasmed as the rubber bands dug in, pinched, and smarted.

From her perspective Audrey could clearly see up Justine's skirt and the way the teacher's cunt was divided and invaded.

"That’s it, then," Oswald told her softly and quickly.

"February is almost over. It's a short month ... not nearly enough time for you to have gotten everyone completely off. So we'll just have to rush."

Justine threw her head back and started screaming as Oswald cut the crotch rubber bands, plunged the knife into a roll of curtains, yanked out his cock, yanked up Justine's new T-shirt, and filled his hands with her pinioned, pointy tits. He plunged his stiff, long rod into her weak, raw, abused hole, her luxurious thatch damp with secretions.

There was no thought of her this time. This time his only concern was satisfying himself. Audrey watched as he used the teacher for girl meat, forcing her cunt to suck him, using her breasts as violently mashed play-dough. She watched as Justine contorted on the floor, her legs bending and twisting, her arms behind her, her hands trying to push him off-- only to flop pathetically on the curtains like a fish out of water.

She watched the brunette stop screaming into her gag in an effort to keep breathing. She watched Justine's chest swell, the T-shirt bunched across her upper chest. She watched the girl's round, fat tits get mashed as Oswald plunged into her.

And she watched Justine sit up-- actually sit up-- when Oswald did a pushup off her, his face flushed with effort. The brunette felt his member swell. She felt the heat of his gathering blood. She felt his balls sink down, off her inner thighs. She felt the flood of cum surging up his shaft.

He hadn’t ejaculated during either of his previous rapes. He had made her orgasm, each more powerful than the last, but he hadn't reciprocated. She knew this explosion would completely fill her with his disgusting seed. She had to get away.

So she sat up. She dug her high heels into the makeshift carpet. She straightened her legs. She hurled herself back.

She screeched with the effort and the release as the shaft was yanked out of her. She felt it exiting like a log coursing out a channel. She fell to her side, gagging in triumph, then tried to curl away.

They were all over her. Audrey had leaped as soon as she saw Justine sit up. She fell upon the girl, scrambling beneath her as she had with her own blond stepsister. She yanked the brunette's arms back.

She pushed her legs between Justine's. She forced them wide.

Justine was laughing hysterically. They could do what they wanted. She knew she had gotten away clean. There was no way Oswald could have contained her lust.

She knew men. He wouldn't have the strength or desire to build it all up again.

Justine stilled, her muffled hysteria choked off, and looked up in horror.

Oswald stood on his knees before her, holding his member in one hand. It was distended, almost purple in color. It actually throbbed in his fingers.

She didn't know this man. He had cut off his ejaculation as soon as she had moved. He had held it in with superhuman effort. He held it in now, although it looked like it was going to explode.

"Nice try," he said. "But no cigar."

Audrey let go of Justine's arms and grabbed her tits. She took a mouthful of Justine's hair between her teeth and yanked back. She fell back, pulling her legs as wide as they could go.

Justine screamed so loudly it could almost be heard in the hall. It turned into a disbelieving, frightening wail as Oswald crammed his huge cock all the way into her.

All her tit bands snapped as he came.

Oswald and Audrey Rowland stood on either side of the storage space entrance.

Justine Grayson lay inside, on her side.

The T-shirt was pulled down. The skirt was still on. But her shoes were off, thrown to the side. "Can't have her kicking with those, can we?" Audrey had said.

Her stockings were also off. Audrey had separated them and pulled one over Justine's head. She used the other to tie around the girl’s head and over the re-anchored tape gag.

Justine's arms were behind her, the wrists finally tied together. Her elbows were also tied, but not quite as tightly as before. Instead, ropes went around, under, over, and through her tits, locking her arms to her torso.

Audrey couldn't resist the tit rope, tied tightly over Justine's nipples. "Those boobs are just to too good not fuck with" she told Oswald. He had done her legs-- her ankles were crossed and bound. Her knees were bound. Then he affixed her ankles to her wrists.

"Too low a ceiling," he said. "Can't have her standing or kicking."

He did the knots away from her limp fingers and re-enforced them with tape.

"She'll only be dimly aware of her surroundings," Audrey said. "She'll only occasionally surface from exhaustion, and then her senses will be so muffled she'll lose track Of time and distance.

"So she won't know when rescue is near," her brother translated.

"Exactly. Even if she managed to make noise, the curtains will swallow them up.

It's like natural soundproofing."

Oswald surveyed the lush, unconscious form of the bound and gagged girl.

"So it's possible I might come back and fuck her again ... undetected."

"Possible," Audrey mildly agreed.

"Perhaps when the school is putting on a play or a concert. I can crawl under here and give it to her, right in front of a full audience."

"Could be," Audrey said. "But remember, we have many months to go before this is finished. There are many more misses awaiting you. Don't blow it all on your first taste."

Oswald's eyes became unfocused as he thought.

"Megan," he breathed. "Ms. March. That could be very interesting." Audrey could see he was already forgetting about the spent brunette under the stage slats.

"Very interesting," she encouraged. She started to move him aside so she could swing shut the storage area door.

"Humph," Oswald interjected. "Should we tell the teach not to worry about the fuck? I had my tubes tied last year......"

"Shush," Audrey chided, closing the door. Justine Grayson was sealed in the dark. "You'll disturb her."

Audrey clicked the lock in place.

MEGAN ROGERS WAS VERY INTERESTING. SHE WAS blond like Cyndi Rowland, but didn't

have that look of wholesome sweetness. Nor did she have the height. Instead, Megan was a power pack of tightly wrapped sexiness, with a face that said she knew it and knew how to use it.

Her lips were small, almost cupie-doll like, with a tremulous lower lip perfect for pouting. Her top lip lifted, making it perfect for sneering-- and letting the world see her perfect white teeth, with just the slightest hint of overbite.

Her nose was also small and not quite pug. Her eyes were dark green, widely spaced, and nicely round. Perfect for looking down on you, or smoldering with a

"don't-touch" allure. Her face was also nicely circular framed in a fan of flaxen yellow white hair which rolled across he forehead and over her shoulders.

It wasn't as long as Cyndi's, but not as short as Justine’s either.

She stood only five foot-four, but that didn't make her any less spectacular.

Her legs still seemed long, but her torso was womanly. Megan was a series of roundnesses. She enhanced her natural gifts with exercise, but not the kind which made external muscle groups. Her muscles were well-formed, but bunched under a layer of feminine adipose tissue.

Her hips were round, coming off a twenty-four inch waist. Her ass was round and gloriously tight. The reason her lower body didn't get the bulk of attention was that her chest was equal to them. It was equal in measurement-- thirty-five inches-- and equaled in strength and roundness. Her breasts were nippled balloons, stuck high on her chest, filled with buoyant mulch. She was pleased the way they held the cut-off pink T-shirt up without a bra. The only thing she had on underneath was a shining silver spandex top, which hugged her tits, shoulders, and shoulder blades like second skin.

Beneath that, her torso skin stretched until her tights started just below her belly button. The highcut crotch covering was deep green, with a thong going up the back-covering her ass crack. The leggings section was a shining flesh color.

On her feet were small, white, form-fitting exercise shoes-little more than ballet slippers.

She was late, as usual. Then again, she liked to make an entrance into the aerobics class. As far as Megan was concerned, she was the goal the others aspired to-including the teacher. They knew nothing about her was faked; they had seen the pictures as he had thousands of others. They knew she was set apart from them if for that alone.

So fine, let her change in the locker room by herself. She always came to the spa at the deadest time of the day. Let her make her entrance. Let her self-consciously shape herself. Let them envy her in the showers afterward. Let her go off to a life which had no room for them.

Megan was just closing her locker door when they grabbed her.

Both her arms were swept back, locked behind her. She opened her mouth to cry out in surprise, but a handball was popped behind her teeth. Then she was pulled back. A wide stretch of something sticky was slapped and smoothed across her lower face.

She was whirled around. She stared at herself in a mirror opposite. She saw her open mouth. She saw something blue and round under her teeth. She saw her red lips smooshed against a big rectangle of clear, thick tape. She saw her arms disappear behind her, then felt the tug of something across both crossed wrists.

She was whirled around again. She felt her arms freed. She stepped back, blinking, to face her attackers.

There was a big man and a big woman in sweatsuits. They both looked at her as if she were a specimen. She opened her mouth for an insult before completely realizing they had gagged her. She tried to swing her arms as defense before she realized they had tied her wrists behind her with some kind of tight, rope-like cloth.

Before she could do anything more, the man stepped forward and pushed her against the shoulder.

"You got something you want to say?" he snapped, continuing forward and pushing her again. "You got something to say? Huh?" He pushed her again. He kept pushing her, first against one shoulder, then against the other, until Megan slammed into a row of lockers.

She winced and cried out, complaining. He grabbed her by the chin, cupping the jaw, coming real close. "What have you got to say, smart girl?" he demanded insistently. Her shoulders were bunched in the effort to reclaim her arms. She tried to pull her chin from his grip. She tried to kick him. He pushed her leg out of the way.

"Smart girl, huh?" he said, pushing her chin, then grabbing her arm. "Real smart girl." He started pulling her across the room.

Megan had gotten over her initial shock to do what she always did when confronted. She started cursing and struggling; only her profanity was scrambled and muffled by the gag, and her struggles were limited by the bondage.

Incredibly, she still didn't feel fear-- only anger and confusion.

"Come on, smart girl," said the man, pushing her up against a door opposite the entrance to the aerobics class. "Let's communicate."

Megan saw the big woman who had stuck the ball in her mouth and taped it coming up behind the man. Then the door behind her swung open and she stumbled into the weight room. The man closed the door behind him and locked it. The big woman stuck an out of service" sign on the other side.

Megan was alone in the room with the big man. She looked around quickly. The floor was entirely covered with worn mats. One wall was completely mirrored. The opposite wall had a bench going along its length. The equipment was everywhere, littering the four corners of the room. They ranged from simple barbells to Nautilus machines.

Megan backed away from the man, finding herself in the middle of the room, standing hesitantly (like a human Bambi).

"So, let's communicate," he said, putting one foot up on a weight bench. "One handball, one piece of tape, and one length of cord. That's all it takes.

You’re helpless."

Megan tried pulling her hands loose. The cord had been looped around both wrists and tied cunningly.

"You can scream for help, but no one will hear you."

Megan tried it, shrieking as loud as she could-- bending from the waist, her back straight, her head her face red, her neck tendons sticking out. These rooms were made to swallow up shouts. Her cry was no more than a low lament.

"You can run, but where can you go?"

He was right. The room was large enough for her to bolt and dodge, but small enough so there was no place to hide.

"You can fight, but you can't punch," he said. "You've already seen how effective your kicks are."

Come closer, asshole, she thought. But he didn't. Instead, he just watched her from the door and kept talking.

"So there you have it," he said quietly, reasonably. "You're not getting out of here without my permission. I'll give you a couple of seconds to realize that."

He waited as Megan stared at him. He waited until she started to plead plaintively through the gag.

"Oh, none of that," he chastised. "You think I buy any of that? That's bullshit begging. You're just trying to get your way like you always do."

Megan stopped immediately, straightened, tried to pull open her mouth and tear her hands from the cord.

She concentrated Completely on that. She bent, lowered her head, worked her mouth, and yanked on her arms. The tape was too strong and sticky. The ball was the perfect size to fill her cupie mouth, and the rope attached her wrists as if they had been that way from birth.

The man kept talking. "This is no joke, Ms. Rogers. Or should I say, Ms. March?"

She stopped when she heard that. She stilled, looking at him from across the room.

"You get it now, don't you? You know you danced the dance, so now it's time to pay the fiddler. Right?" The man took a step toward her. "You've always been a smart girl, haven't you, Ms. Rogers? Twenty-four years old, but already quite the little realist." He slowly made his way toward her, while she slowly made her way back.

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