Gromet's PlazaSelf Bondage Stories

Cocked and Locked!

by Gowenlock

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© Copyright 2008 - Gowenlock - Used by permission

Storycodes: Sbf; garage; susp; cuffs; gag; chast; chain; nipple; toys; insert; caught; M/f; bdsm; spank; mast; climax; cons/reluct; X

I’m a police officer, a blond girl in my late 20s, and I am single by choice. I am very career oriented, taking extra training courses and continuing my education in law enforcement. I like my job and I work hard at it, often putting in extra hours after my shift is over.

Being a girl in a male-dominated profession, I have to be a bit of a “ball-buster”. I may not be model material but I look good in uniform, and the other cops are always trying to hit on me. Most of them are married, and I prefer not to date my colleagues anyway, so my social life is a little slow.

Dating men outside the law enforcement profession is difficult because of the changing schedules and other factors, so I have trouble maintaining a personal relationship with the opposite sex. Which might explain my obsession with self-bondage as a way to release my sexual urges and also a way to force myself to sit still for a while on my day off.

I own a pair of tight denim shorts. They would make Daisy Duke proud. I have found that I can thread a light chain tight through the belt loops and padlock it in front or in back and the denim shorts are as good as a chastity belt – they won’t come off without the key.

There is a device called a “mag-lock” or magnetic lock. They are installed on entrance doors in secure facilities like police stations and courthouses where only persons with a “swipe-card” are allowed to enter. They are essentially a big electro-magnet mounted at the top of the door. There is a 110-volt AC power supply that is combined with a step-down transformer (usually 24 volts) so they are classified as a low-voltage appliance. If the power fails, the door immediately unlocks (at least in the older models of “mag-locks”). And the technology is constantly evolving, so there is a constant supply of outdated “mag-locks”.

At our police station, they updated the security procedures, and installed new doorlocks. I scarfed up one of the old mag-locks and brought it home for use in self-bondage. My house has a two-car garage that I keep fairly clean, and so it has become my dungeon for self-bondage. I even installed a portable air-conditioner and a ceiling fan for comfort (I’m pretty handy for a girl).

I installed the stationary part of the mag-lock on the garage ceiling, anchoring it carefully to an overhead ceiling beam so that it is bomb-proof. The flat plate that is the other half of the locking mechanism has holes in it for mounting screws, and I substituted an eye-bolt that I could attach a steel cable to. I played around with the length of the cable, and installed a pulley at just the right location so that I could just reach the loop in the end of the steel cable when I am standing on tip-toe on the garage floor. The pulley (and a strategic bungee cord) also serves as a guard so that when the power is turned off suddenly the flat plate doesn’t hit me in the head.

After the electrical connections are made, I test out the mag-lock. It works just fine. When the electricity is turned on, the plate (with cable attached) is held firmly against the electro-magnet, and when the electricity is turned off, the plate (and the cable) release far enough to give me about eight feet of slack. I plug in an automatic timer (similar to the ones that are used to turn lights on and off in a vacant house) and test the whole set-up by suspending a gallon jug of water from the loop at the end of the cable. This particular timer has a maximum time of three hours. I set if for one hour, and sure enough in an hour I am rewarded by the sound of a wet “thud” as the mag-lock releases the cable and the gallon water jug drops as planned.

My next day off finally arrived. I had had some busy shifts, and was looking forward to some R & R. I showered and shaved my legs and my armpits and my crotch and did the things that most girls do about once a week.

Most people assume that cops play with their handcuffs on their day off. Nothing could be further from the truth. The handcuffs have been on drunks and dirt bags, and police handcuffs are heavy and uncomfortable and just not well suited to bedroom bondage.

My favorite cuffs are leather, with a sewn-in, riveted “D” ring, and with a buckle that can be locked with a small padlock. Standing naked in my bedroom, I buckle on my ankle cuffs and my wrist cuffs. I have two sets of four padlocks that are keyed alike, and so I only need two keys. I hang the keys around my neck with a string.

Picking up my gym bag with my other bondage gear in it, I take a last look around – doors are locked, coffee pot and stove are turned off, etc. I head on out to the garage. I set the timer in mid-range without looking at it – maybe an hour, maybe two hours.

I have an electric vibrator that is a perfect replica of a male sex organ. I purchased it on the internet. It runs on 115 volt house current, so batteries are not necessary, and it has a computerized control box that randomly varies on and off times and intensity of operation. The control box is about the size of a model train controller, and I place it on the floor. I lube up the vibrator (not really necessary – my crotch is already soaking wet). I slide the vibrator into my vagina (it feels so good I almost orgasm right there).

I resist the urge to come right away and I step into my tight denim shorts. I work the shorts up over my hips and run the wire for the vibrator through a strategic opening and slide the small chain around through the belt loops and lock it in place with one of my padlocks. Now I cannot remove the denim shorts or the vibrator – these shorts are as good as a chastity belt. The control box for the vibrator is plugged in and turned on – the first vibe may come at any time now.

Then I bend over and lock a 36” spreader bar between my ankle cuffs. My spreader bar has a piece of Velcro in the middle, and the control box has a matching piece of Velcro, and I secure the control box to the middle of the spreader bar just so everything is nice and tidy.

I clip a wooden clothespin on to each nipple (they were already erect). The clothespin may seem a little less sophisticated than a fancy nipple clamp, but it delivers just the level of discomfort that I am seeking, and it makes me laugh to look down and see the clothespins tremble when I take a deep breath.

I slide a penis gag into my mouth and buckle it tightly. I like being gagged when I am tied, and there is something special about having a penis locked in my mouth, even if it is only 2” long. It has an air hole to breathe through.

Then I lock a 6” length of chain to each wrist cuff, and take a last look around. The point of no return is at hand. I take a padlock in my hand, and stretch up on my tiptoes. Reaching as high as I can, I lock the end of the chain from each of my wrist cuffs to the loop in the end of the cable hanging from the ceiling pulley.

And now I am cocked and locked!

I look like an inverted “Y”, with my legs spread wide and my hands pulled up tight above my head. The keys to my padlocks are hanging around my neck, but I can’t reach them, and so I now have no choice but to stand in this position until the timer cuts the electricity to the mag-lock in an hour or two. My measurements were correct - I can just get my heels on the floor but if I go up on tip-toe I generate an inch or two of slack in my cable and chains.

And I love being tied hand and foot! When I was a kid and we played “Cowboys and Indians” I was always the girl that got tied to the stake and groped by the boys. There is a sense of security when you are locked up and can’t move and you are no longer in control – I sometimes think it is the only way I can relax.

And the vibrator kicks in. I moan and groan through my penis gag and squirm as much as my chains will allow and probably make a fool of myself. God, it feels great! Unfortunately, the vibrator shuts off again and I grimace in frustration as orgasm escapes me. I hump the air and grind my hips to no avail.

But a few minutes later the vibrator kicks in again and this time it is a longer run. I can feel my orgasm coming from the tips of my toes and it blasts through the top of my head and washes over me in waves and I moan and groan and soar to the moon and beyond. If you have never had a great orgasm when you are chained hand and foot, you just don’t know what you are missing!

For probably an hour I hang there in my self-imposed bondage. The vibrator comes and goes, and I reach orgasm twice more (Mother Nature may have given men the advantage of an external penis, but she gave women the gift of multiple orgasms). The air reeks of sex. I daydream about sex and captivity and tall handsome strangers that overpower me and force me to do their sexual will.

Suddenly my sub-space daydream is interrupted by the sound of the electric garage door opener. The overhead door starts to go up, in response to an electronic impulse from somewhere. It could be a two-way radio in a passing police car, it could be a signal from an overhead satellite – but the real truth is that my garage door is now open and I am stuck standing there almost naked! Anybody that walks by can look in and see me in chains and cuffs wearing only my denim shorts!

Shit – I meant to disable the garage door electric motor and forgot about it. What are the chances of this happening? In any case, it has, and I am stuck in plain view. I jerk and pull on my chains, but nothing gives.

An old lady walking her dog passes by. She has thick glasses and probably can’t see into the gloom of my garage. The dog smells something and tugs on the leash but she drags him on down the street.

The mail truck drives by and stops and puts mail in my mailbox by the curb but apparently the mailman is intent on his work and does not happen to look into the garage.

A jogger runs by without incident. But just at the limit of my field of vision I see him stop and stretch as though his morning jog is over. He starts to walk back past my house, taking deep breaths, and he looks directly into my garage and right at me!

I know him vaguely – he lives in the neighborhood and I have seen him jogging before. I guess he works nights or something.

But he has seen me and my predicament and he walks into my garage and takes in the whole scene – me, the chains and cuffs, and the cable and the mag-lock device on the ceiling.

I blush all over, and try to mumble through my gag. Drool runs down my chest, and just at that time the vibrator decides to kick in. I try to ignore it, but I can’t, and I squirm and groan and sweat in spite of my best intentions.

My visitor reaches over and hits the button and closes the garage door. He has been jogging and his shirt is wet, but now that we are close up I also notice his tight buns and flat stomach and a nice set of shoulders. I shiver involuntarily.

“Are you alright?” he asks.

I mumble into my gag and shake my head up and down.

Walking around me, he takes stock of my bondage equipment. “You did this to yourself, didn’t you?” he muses out loud.

Alas for me, I can only mumble some more.

Inspecting the mag-lock device, pulley, and cable that holds my chains and keeps me a prisoner, he whistles and shakes his head. “Very clever – I’m impressed” is his comment.

“So you like kinky sex, and you tie yourself up?”. My visitor snaps each of my nipple clamp clothespins with his thumb and forefinger, and I jerk against my bonds in response.

“Lets get rid of these” he says, and removes the clothespins from my nipples one at a time. The blood rushes back, and I groan as the feeling returns to my nipples.

Perhaps out of sympathy for my discomfort, he massages my breasts – it feels great! I lean forward into his grasp and purr like a kitten through my gag. The breast massage continues for at least a few minutes, and I can feel my next orgasm rising in my loins.

But then he stops, and I groan in frustration. Instead, he inspects the chain and lock that hold my denim shorts in place. Removing the keys from around my neck, my visitor unlocks my ankles from the spreader bar and sets the spreader bar out of the way. In appreciation I move my legs together and stretch some tired muscles.

Next my visitor unlocks the chain around my waist and slides my shorts down over my hips and discards them also. The end of the vibrator and the wire to the control box are now visible and he smirks and shakes his head in wonder at my extent of self-pleasure.

Without the denim shorts to keep the vibrator in place (my crotch is soaking wet) it almost slides out. I clench the muscles in my groin in a futile effort to retain the vibrator and not drop it. My visitor sees my predicament and grasps the protruding end of the vibrator and removes it. Now the air really reeks of sex!

Laying the vibrator aside, he circles me once again, savoring his power and my helplessness. Now my feet are free, but it is small comfort. I am naked, and my hands are still locked to the cable above me.

Plunging his fingers into my vagina, he explores my damp hole. God, it feels good! I spread my legs and come up on my toes and lean forward and hump his hand in desperate lust. After a few minutes an orgasm starts to rise in my loins and he does not deny me – I come and come and groan and hump and gyrate and generally act like an animal in heat.

But the orgasm also tires me out. After it is over I hang limply in my chains, partially supported by my captors arms and resting my head on his shoulder. In sympathy, he rubs my shoulders and arms (and breasts) but makes no move to free me.

Looking around the garage, he spies a small bench in the corner that holds odds and ends from various household projects. Among other things, my barbeque utensils are lying there. One of the items is a big flat wooden spatula, probably 18” long and 4” wide at the widest part.

My captor picks up the wooden spatula and swings it in an arc for practice. Then, without warning, he swings it hard against my ass! It is like being paddled with a wooden paddle – my ass cheek feels like it is on fire! Another swing and my other ass cheek is on fire also – I squirm and dance in my bonds and try to kick him, but he is behind me and essentially out of reach. And just to show he can be a prick, he stops for a moment to lock my ankle cuffs together so I can’t even kick.

The blows from the wooden spatula continue to fall, first on one ass cheek and then the other. I twist around to face my captor and get a couple of whacks across the front of my thighs for my trouble.

After a few minutes of being paddled like a naughty schoolgirl, the blows stop. My ass burns – you can be sure that I will have trouble sitting down for a day or so. My captor is breathing heavily, and sweat is visible on his face, along with a bulge in his running shorts!

And my pussy burns like a hot poker. I want to be fucked in the worst way. If I wasn’t gagged I would beg him to unlock me and take me inside and fuck my brains out! Alas, all I can do is grunt through the gag.

Rummaging around on the bench again, he puts down the wooden spatula and picks up a felt-tip magic marker – the permanent kind. Returning to my side, he holds me with an arm around my waist while he writes something on my breast with the magic marker.

“There” he says. “That is my phone number, written on your right boob in magic marker. The next time that you decide to do self-bondage, call me first.”

With that, he hits the button that raises the overhead garage door and waves goodbye – blows me a kiss. Hitting the button a second time, he steps quickly through under the garage door as it is coming back down, and I am left alone again.

I hang limply in my bonds, naked, my hands still locked over my head and my ankle cuffs locked together. The orgasms and the paddling have tired me out, but I have no idea how much time has passed, or when the automatic timer will turn off the mag-lock and release me.

I pass the time by counting rivets on the inside of the garage door. My outstretched arms are getting numb and tingly and I will definitely be stiff after this session. My bladder starts to fill and become uncomfortable. Sweat trickles down my ribcage from my armpits.

I can see the phone number written on my boob – I idly wonder how much scrubbing it will take to remove the magic marker permanent ink.

And after what seems like an eternity, I hear the click of the timer, and the mag-lock releases the cable, and I almost tumble head-first to the floor. With the cable released, I can now reach the keys suspended around my neck by a string. Fumbling with the padlocks (my arms are stiff and my fingers don’t want to work), I eventually release the locks and wrist and ankle cuffs and stagger inside the house.

In the bathroom, after emptying my bladder, I see the stranger’s phone number still written on my right boob. I make it a point to write his number down on a sheet of paper before stepping into the shower. Maybe next time I will call him!


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