Fathers gag | Plaything 12 | bdsm stories

Kirby Andrews was gripped by hysteria. She felt like a human slinky. Each move she made was loose enough, but it got her nowhere. Every time she tried to coordinate her actions, her elbows would flail, her fingers ripple, her neck bend, her body snap like a whip, her thighs shake, and her hair fly. But her wrists remained cinched, the ripped summer dress remained in her mouth, and the band of tape remained over her eyes.

She lay half on her stomach, half on her side, the ropes still tight in her cunt, ass crack, and across her tits. Her hands were still high up her back. Her legs were still bent, her knees close together. Drool had completely soaked her gag, and now moisture dripped from the cloth, which looked like a painting trying to force itself out between hemp jail bars.

Kirby continued to fight. She knew that the moment she stopped, she would grow tired, then exhausted, then comatose, then unconscious. Soon she would defecate, urinated, and menstruate. Then she would dehydrate and starve. Then she would die. So Kirby Andrews fought. She fought so hard she didn't hear the front door open downstairs. She didn't hear the footsteps covering the entire house, from the cellar on up.

She finally heard them when the attic door opened. She started to call out. She asked for help. She begged the person to untie her, ungag her, unblindfold her.

Bobby, her bartender friend, stood above her, unmoving.

I knew it, he thought. I knew she hadn't gone away. Not without her precious car. No, that bastard Calvin was keeping her for himself. But now he was missing too. Probably out getting more fucking clothes for his little stepdaughter.

Probably out buying enough goods to play with her for weeks.

Well, that wouldn't do. It was time; to teach him a lesson ... him and Kirby both.

The bartender leaned down and started undoing some of the ropes. He released Kirby's legs and unraveled her hemp "panty." He undid enough arm ropes so she could lower her bound wrists to the small of her back. Throughout, Kirby just kept begging for further release. Ungag me, she pleaded through the gag. Take off the blindfold so I can see you.

But the bartender wouldn't. He wanted her to think it was still Calvin toying with her. Finally he undid the rope-bra crisscrossing her incredible breasts. He watched them sag down, sloshing like big water balloons. He grabbed one and hefted it. Kirby threw back her head and groaned.

He felt like talking then-putting out a patter of hatred that was worthy of Calvin-- but, he knew Kirby would recognize his voice. So, instead, he dragged her up and helped her sit at the top of the stair steps.

He had come prepared. He pulled out the tiny tube of spandex he had gotten at the bar. A lot of the waitresses used the new form fashion as a cover-up after swimming or stripping. It was just a small tube of different colored spandex which could be stretched from mid-chest to knee, or folded up to the top of the thigh.

The bartender slipped the aqua material over Kirby's legs and up her body until it became a light blue miniskirt.

After that, he got out a pair of her own bright yellow high-heel pumps and forced them on her feet. Only then did he help her down the stairs, through the house, and out the back door where his car was waiting. The house and garage blocked any neighbors' view as he forced her to sit in the front seat. He moved her hair so it covered most of her gag and blindfold. Then he went around to the driver's seat. Once in, he pulled her head onto his lap.

Kirby lay across the front seat, her hands up as far as they could go, her palms open in a 64stop'9 gesture. She started scissoring her legs, kicking. He put a hand to her neck and squeezed threateningly. Her agitated, tired limbs stilled.

He leaned over and seat-belted her waist in. Then he took his own seat belt and put it around her neck. Kirby's knees were together, but her ankles were apart, one foot at the mid-car bump, the other at the door.

Finally his hand went from her neck to her breast, squeezing it through the low dress top. Kirby moaned anew, her head rubbing his lap.

The bartender started the car. He backed out of the driveway. He put the car into forward gear. He slipped his hand inside Kirby's dress. Then he drove away from the house.

Harold Ellsworth had Cyndi Rowland standing in front of her bed's backboard. She was in a black-and red rose-patterned bustier with garter straps. The stockings were also black, with lace tops. The high heels were shiny black pumps that were four-inches high. Her wrists were cinched behind her with black tape. Her ankles were affixed to a thin black pole that kept her legs spread by more than twenty-four inches.

In her mouth, between her red-painted lips, under her teeth, was a thick black pad. Over and through it was an elastic strap which held it deep inside.

Her blond hair-all of it-was freshly washed, dried, and scented. Her chest, above her lace enshrined tits, was glistening from the drool which fell over her tremulous lower lip.

Ellsworth was resplendent in a blue pin-striped, three-piece suit-with his zipper open and his schlong hanging out. That was the first thing I tended to upon entry.

We were all in Cyndi's father's house. The old man was dying down the hall, and Cyndi was still a Cinderella slave in her own room. Her evil stepbrother and stepsister were nowhere to be found, however.

I placed the blade of my knife against his slimy penis and spoke gently but firmly in his ear. . "We check the comings and goings of magazine models as a matter of course." I shrugged. "Call it a habit. So when last year's crop started disappearing from view, some get excited, some get concerned. In any case, an alarm goes out."

"Who ... who are you?" Ellsworth stammered, daring not to move. When I put a blade on a prick, that prick knows it hasn't long for this world.

"Not important," I replied. "What is important is that I am one of many who are extremely interested, for a variety of reasons, why Ms. February disappeared from her teaching job. Ms. March never showed up for her weekly manicure, facial, and haircut; Ms. April never arrived at the destination of her holiday; and why Ms. May's red Mustang convertible was found abandoned and stripped some miles from her stepfather's home."

"I... I don't know anything, about that," Ellsworth said, his mouth dry.

"No," I agreed. "But you do know why Ms. January never returned to her previous lifestyle many miles away from her estranged father's home, don't you?"

I didn't wait for an answer. I merely took the blade from his dick and slid it between his third and fourth rib.

I pulled it out and let him fall face first to the thick carpet. That would help soak up the blood. Then I cleaned the knife on his suit and tended to the Rowland woman.

"Is he dead?" was the first thing she asked when I pried the gag out of her mouth.

I resisted a sarcastic impulse and started cutting the tape from her wrists.

"With any luck," I replied honestly. With her arms free, I helped her sit on the edge of her bed, which had lately become a torture chamber. She gripped me convulsively.

"Did you ... did you get Audrey and Oswald?" she asked.

I kneeled to undo her feet. "No," I said.

She sat, trying to comprehend what had and was happening. "Oh my god," she finally breathed. "It's them." She had heard my little speech to the late lawyer.

"Most probably," I said, picking up the unattached leg spreader. "But now they aren't alone. Other perverse rapists and kidnappers are out there stalking them now. They are all over the town you live in. They will be here soon, no doubt."

My father," she gasped.

"Don't worry," I said quickly. "Reputable doctors and nurses will see to him.

It's possible his other children saw to it that his condition worsened. In any case, he's in good hands now." I was not lying. Snoot, my computer whiz Wall Street contact, had been working overtime since Black Monday. It was he who found the Playthings pattern and sent me in the fight Rowland direction. It was also he who recommended the proper medical authorities.

"Besides," I continued, "they're not after your father. They're after you."

More awareness dawned on Cyndi's face. "Justine," she realized. "Megan, Clarissa

...

"And all the others," I completed for her. "Your step-siblings are hiding them, and now they have shadows ready, willing, and able to seek them. And if they do locate them before the authorities, your friends will never be seen again."

Cyndi Rowland looked from the window to me. I looked back into her deep, concerned blue eyes.

"What can we do?" she asked.

"Let's find them first," said I.

Yes, Tyler 12 ended on a cliffhanger. To be continued folks… sooner than you think!

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