The wire web is just one of many SB routines I use. I certainly enjoy attaching weights to my nipple rings and also to the lower ones. I reserve, (most of the time), the clit ring for a long chain leash that might go to a ring on the wall or ceiling. Once again, the Goth life has allowed me to put handy rings and chains in otherwise questionable places in my house. If there happens to be a candle lantern hanging from the ring on the wall, that works, but I don't find it necessary to camouflage my in-house accessories. There are nights when it has been very entertaining to kneel in front of the brick fireplace with this or similar script:
I wear dark black or fish net hose, garter belt, ultra-high black heels, black lace bra with built-in tit corsets and a jeweled leather collar linked to my nipple rings with chains. My elbows are chained behind my back and wrists closely cuffed with custom-made manacles, a thick leather gag holding an inflatable pear in my mouth and my clit ring is locked to a short chain that goes up to an imbedded steel ring on the face of the fireplace.
That's just for starters. I fantasize a story to go with my situation. I am of course, alone. I don't want any company and couldn’t talk to them if I did. I can kneel here for awhile, visualizing the evil assembly of medieval, ghostly inquisitors gathered around me, forcing me to bend forward and shoving things up my ass. They press their point by attaching electrical, (yeah, I know. They didn't have electricity back then), contacts to the inside of my pussy and letting the electricity flow endlessly while I jump around in my chains, tugging helplessly on the places connected to the chain network. If I don't provide them with what they want and they aren't tired from the constant demands my recalcitrance provides, they unlock my hands. The clit chain becomes a leash while I am led down the imaginary dank corridors and to the cellars where they hang me up by my wrists and flog my back, buttocks and legs until they tire of that sport. The corridors are a hallway in my apartment and the cellar is the basement. The flogging is virtual as I seldom can or want to actually beat myself.
Some of this is pure fantasy, but in the early morning hours, I may recover and unfasten myself, go back upstairs and tumble into bed, some chains still attached, and the gag still in my sore mouth. After dawn, I'll unhook the chains and clean up, only to revisit the same scenes later that day when I get back home. If it’s a work day, I'll ponder a bit about what to wear that won't scare the hell out of the customers and geek managers, but usually I vote for the more scandalous outfit or combination that no one has yet seen in the office. Even though the company is part of the film industry and we see a lot of strange outfits, I am treated there like a sort of novelty and with a mixture of jealousy, envy and pure hate, depending on the sex and social persuasions of those doing the observing. When the office manager decided to put me on the reception desk while the nerd-like wimp who usually was there was on vacation, the office staff went a little nutso, especially the sales people, who complained that my being there presented a negative impression to visitors and customers. However, there were enough customers who ogled me and asked me out to counteract that situation and in the end, I got the job permanently, which may not seem like much, but was far better than my former job in the mailroom. The office manager, who was a nice, easy-going middle-aged woman, asked me to try to "look respectable, that's all", She amplified that request by pointing out that while she found my attire and overall appearance fascinating, some visitors might be offended if they should feel that my attire was not appropriate. On that particular day, I was wearing a fitted see-through top and knee length skirt with a slit up to my hip and my chastity belt was, as she put it, perhaps a bit too obvious.
"There is no formal dress code here," she elaborated. "And frankly, I enjoy your presentation, but let's keep it reasonably civil. Okay?"
I agreed with her and would have given up the transparent clothes except that several other young women in the office blew out the door at lunchtime that week and went to Razzberry's, a popular nearby store that featured very chic styles, and bought even more interesting apparel. After that, we all got along fine, but I have worn panties to work ever since. It just seemed fair, given that I have been told by enough people that my looks are excellent, my figure "more than dynamic" and my appearance in general is show-stopping. So, it works for all of us. They enjoy me and I enjoy me too.
Chapter Twenty-Two
This chapter is a direct transcript of a translated session
in which the Asian speaker was interviewed in her native language, although she spoke good English and used many English phrases.
Pony Up
I grew up on a farm, a long train ride from the nearest big city. Perhaps for this reason alone, I became very close to the animals, especially the horses. My father was a well to do American who married my mother when she was quite young, but he left her when she was pregnant with me and never returned. We never learned what happened to him, but since my mother was certain that he worked for some government agency, it was likely he died during the war and we were never notified because we were not officially his family. Fortunately, my grandparents moved to the farm with us and we lived in a manner and fashion well above the normal standard in the area.
When I was about eighteen, a girl who we knew came and worked with us on the farm. She was a bit older than me and we played together and eventually, discovered sex together, with the usual teenage nuances. I recall that we were both astonished to discover that we looked very much alike without our clothes on.
In time, our innocent play led to inquiring experiences with sex and we again discovered that we could get excited by tying each other. In the beginning, it was just tying hands and feet and tickling each other. One of us was dominant and the other happily succumbed to the attention. In a very short time, we were experimenting with objects as well as our hands in each others' sex.
Somehow, I don't know exactly when or why, we ended up one day playing as horse and trainer. I was to be the pony and my friend, (I'll call her "Jan"), was my trainer. We used rope halters with bits, leather reins, and other tack that we slowly and creatively modified. Soon we had our own set of tack, including a smooth and shiny set of harnesses that we adapted for each of us to wear. The key feature to this harness was that it could hold phallic objects in our sex and later on, in our rear portal. I cannot tell you the thrills and concern we shared with each level of experiment, but it was a slow and steady progress from innocence to full scale BDSM, something neither of us ever heard of.
Jan went to the city one weekend and upon her return, came to my home and, with great secrecy and enthusiasm, took me out to one of the barns and showed me a book she had with her. She said she bought it at a small bookshop in the city and found it quite fascinating because it was about people who were either forced or wanted to become trained ponies and serve other people while doing so. There were many photos and illustrations. We stayed up late that night and other nights reading aloud and trying to grasp the true significance of the book's contents. Much of what was in the book paralleled the pony experiences we shared. It was as if someone knew what we were doing and wrote about it. We were alternately fascinated and worried that we had stumbled into something heinous and forbidden.
Meanwhile, we began a major effort to find additional literary references to our hobby. Once we peeled away the patina of social acceptability, we discovered that there was a great deal of literature in our language and in the West about the pony fetish. We were both thrilled and frustrated because we could not, as far as we could tell, ever discuss this with anyone we knew. It remained our secret.
As we grew older, we found many opportunities to indulge in the pony life. We saved our money, such as we had, and bought more equipment. One of our happiest games was to put on our harnesses and bridles, put a big sponge ball on the straight bit in our mouth, insert plugs with a tail into our rear and use real hobbles to bind ourselves hand and foot to each other in a variety of positions. Sometimes we would be back to back. At other times, we faced each other, o
ften using a fat, double-ended phallic gag held in both of our mouths. We adapted a duplicate of this gag to function as a single sex probe, attaching it to our harnesses and alternately thrusting and withdrawing as we brought each other additional pleasure. We tried nasty metal clips on our little nipples and graduated to more and stronger clamps as our breasts matured.
Jan suggested one day that we take a trip to the city. It would mean being away for nearly four days, but we got the reluctant permission of my mother who, I suspect, knew a bit about what we were up to, but said nothing. Our first stop was a tattoo shop that Jan had discovered before on her visits. We decided to get secret tattoos. I got a tiny pony's head on the hidden inside of my left thigh and Jan elected to have an equally small mare's head on hers. It was not pleasant, but we entertained each other while the artists worked. There was the pain of the needle working the inks into our soft thigh flesh and the accompanying high that went with it from knowing that these markings would remain with us until death. While we were enduring this, the artist suggested that we might like to have some body piercings as well. We didn’t have enough money for this, but a few weeks later, we returned and had our nipples and lower lips pierced and ringed. The pain of this was excruciating; far worse than tattoo. I had to be tied down while they did the procedure and they put a cloth in my mouth because I was screaming so much. Somewhere, under all the pain, was a tiny fragment of self-induced pleasure that I would relive many times thereafter.
The rings, we discovered, were something of a liability. We learned not to appear in public baths or swimming salons wearing only our underwear, because the rings, (mine were a bit larger than Jan's), could be seen outlined in our panties and bras. We found that the slightly padded bras we wore were excellent at concealing the nipple rings and we never again worried about discovery by my mother or others.
Two farm workers, who my grandparents knew, were hired so that Jan and I could go to the city and take some educational courses. We shared a tiny one-room apartment in a less than elegant part of town and went to bed each night in each other's arms, often bound together as well. We had matching metal collars that we wore all the time and at night we would chain our necks together, keeping us close on our sleeping mats. With the city exposure, we graduated from leather harnesses to chains. Now our nights were full of tight bondage with steel cuffs and chains holding us together or one of us bound down to rings we mounted in the flooring under our sleeping mats while the other did things with pinchers and probes to the bound and helpless pony writhing on the floor.
We both often wore the plugs in our ass with a full horsehair tail attached. Initially, the plugs were fastened to the harness, but on a shopping spree one day, I visited a new erotic shop, Madame Lee's Fun Shop, (a loose translation), and discovered inflatable plugs and gags. Such a discovery for two young women experimenting in kinky sex was monumentally precipitous because it had never occurred to either Jan or me that such things existed. With some blush-inducing advice from Madame Lee, the woman who ran the shop, I went back to our apartment with four costly and fascinating devices in my shopping bag. I was so excited about this and couldn't wait to show them to Jan. Needless to say, we immediately stripped off our clothing and tried to figure out exactly how to use these new toys.
With some trials and errors we fixed a set of ponytails to a pair of inflatable rubber bulbs and, using our favorite lubricant, cautiously inserted them into our behinds. Since we had been putting the fatter butt plugs in for a long time, getting these deflated balloons up our ass was easy. The inflator hoses stuck out rather obscenely, but we taped them to the base of the tail and this worked out perfectly. A few squeezes of the inflator bulb brought unexpected titillation inside our bodies and in no time at all, we were rolling about on the floor, giggling and sweating as we dragged our horse tails about and felt the pressure of the inflated balloons in our intestines.
Jan suggested that we use our favorite steel manacles and shackles to connect our wrists and ankles. We did this quickly, dancing about as the internal plugs continued to thrill us. Chained face to face, we added the inflatable gags, pumped them up until our cheeks stuck out as if we were chewing peaches in each side of our mouth and disconnected the hoses. This left the inflated balloons in our mouth and their cousins blossoming in our asses. We were ecstatic. To finish this duet, we each unlocked one wrist cuff and wrapped our arms around each other. I was about to relock the wrist cuff when Jan motioned that I should wait a moment. She motioned for me to lift my right leg and helped me place the short chain from my manacles under my knee, then lock the open cuff. We were standing at the time and now I was on only one foot with the raised right foot pulling against the shackle chain on the left. Trying to adjust, I stumbled and we fell onto the soft sleeping quilts, laughing hysterically into the mouth-stuffing gags.
Not to be outdone, Jan raised her right leg and locked her wrists under it. A photo of our situation would have told the story much better, but because of this nonsense, we lay on the bed mats, without any clothing, our mouths full of inflated rubber and our asses similarly packed. Our arms encircled each other's waist and were held quite rigidly by our own bent right leg, which was pulled downward by the chain connecting it to the other ankle. What an odd, but thrilling condition to find ourselves in!
It was only later, after we tired of grinding and rubbing our thighs into each other's cunt, that it occurred to us that this position might be hard to escape. After all, the keys we always kept nearby were still in the special locked cabinet on the other side of the room and we were not exactly in a position to get there, open the cabinet, extract the keys and use them to free our chained hands and feet. As we jointly realized our mistake, we were overtaken by fits of laughter, muffled by the gags, but still causing us to sputter and choke at our own stupidity.
It sounds worse than it was. We wiggled and squirmed across the floor, I sat up and Jan opened the cabinet. Lifting her own pinioned leg until she could reach in and pull out the set of keys. In a moment, we were free and immediately removed the gags. We left the tails in a bit longer and lay giggling for an hour afterwards.
Our daily sessions with each other continued, but as time went on, we often entertained ourselves when the other was away at class or some other function. During these private torment sessions, we would fantasize that someone else was training the captive pony. Tail plugs were forcibly inserted into the submissive pony by the evil trainer or owner. The inflatable plugs became standard and harnesses no longer had to be used to hold the tails in place. Forced into harness, bridle and bit gag, I was sometimes driven about the small room with an invisible whip stinging my ass and breasts. I found that the excitement and orgasms I got doing this equaled, or at times exceeded, those that I got when Jan and played, so the SB part of my life was off and running.
We still did our dual sessions. I would be bridled and bound and forced to perform the pony movements, usually with two inflatables in me. I was whipped until I learned to perform in a tight circle while Jan wielded a buggy whip and hit my ass, instructing her pony to trot or walk or canter while the horsehair tail fluttered behind me.
Suddenly, things changed. Jan took a great new job in another city and I found myself alone. When I went home, it was only a few weeks until my mother died and the two workers had really taken over the whole operation. One day, I was discovered playing with my pony gear and that discovery led to my becoming essentially a pony sex slave to the two workers who now ran the farm. I was in fact the owner, but they turned me, somewhat willingly, into their private sex toy. They kept me chained in a small stall, fed me only what they didn't want and had endless sex with me, often against my will, but knowing that deep inside, I wanted and needed this. The most common event was for them to chain me with my hands spread to the stall walls and my legs well wide apart with an iron spreader bar. A huge rubber dick gag was forced into my mouth and bound there with leather thongs. They used my cunt and my ass as they wanted and then left me
there for the night. In the morning, they would unlock my chains and allow me to sleep in the straw with my hands bound behind me and my ankles pulled up and connected to my wrists. The many weeks I spent in that isolated stall, chained, harnessed, roped and gagged, were another monument in my SB life.
In time, they grew tired of me and wanted more entertainment, so they released me and left the farm. I remained alone, the land and property having passed to me with no other relatives involved.
I took up where Jan and I left off. I now had full pony attire and wore it while I studied and worked each day, then changed and wore something equally pony-like to bed at night. I slept in chains, often with my harness cinched tightly and the double dildoes well up inside. I had no interest in having a sexual partner and turned away all advances. I mounted a very realistic phallus, The Thing, on the bed's headboard and set it up so that once I was properly tied or chained and in bed for the night, I adjusted my position so that The Thing entered my mouth and was locked there with a short chain link to my collar or head harness. I would suck this fake cock for hours, coming along the way, straining at my chains and then falling asleep with The Thing still deep in my mouth and throat.
I developed a strong need for this kind of self-abuse and bought bigger cocks and more elaborate head harnesses, all the while wondering if this was what the rest of my life would be: a young single girl, alone in a big country home, going to bed each night bound in chains with a big dick in her mouth.
That was nearly five years ago. I joined this organization, quite by accident, after seeing an advertisement in a bondage magazine, and this is the first time I have ever told anyone my story. Now I am happy, well enough off to travel and indulge in my fetish and fantasies. I consider myself lucky, but wish I could find Jan.
Secrets of the Women's Self-Bondage Cult Page 15
