© Copyright 2006 - The Third Thane - Used by permission
Storycodes: Sbf; fantasy; cons; X
Her wrists and shoulders began to ache. This was tight, but then Leigh had been in tight spots before. She was kneeling with her back to a metal column in a darkened basement. Her wrists were handcuffed over her head, behind the pole. Her ankles were tied and cinched, forming an X behind the pole as well. The rope tightened over her white vinyl boots. More rope, again knotted and cruelly cinched, looped around her waist and held the small of her back firm to the unforgiving steel.
Her costume ordinarily included bright red boy-style shorts. These had been casually thrown in a pile across the room. A vibrator, strung snug to her pussy, took its place. The vibrator's cord was plugged to a clicking timer. 20 minutes?… 2 minutes? She could only guess how long before it joined the party. Her mask was long gone. The fiend had left her tight T-shirt, white and emblazed with "DL" in a lightning symbol. The bottom of the shirt was rolled up to reveal her round 35C breasts. They were perfect. Her swollen nipples painfully reminded her of the biting hanger clamps. Likely, her nipples had turned bright red. She couldn’t look. The harness forcing the ball-gag tight between her teeth was tied to the metal pole as well. A 6 inch length of rope stubbed the top of her head fast to the column.
Leigh could look slightly up at her impending fate. The ball-gag was pierced by a narrow rubber tube. The clear tubing snaked up three feet to a hanging medical bag. The skull and bones warned of its toxic yellow contents. Only a sliver of melting ice plugged the poison’s journey to her helpless throat. A moment of struggling might dislodge the icy dam. Her legs tensed with the sound. The fucking vibrator clicked ON!
Justine was starting to actually enjoy being divorced. Married at 22, her life just couldn’t get on track. Not that her ex, Jason, was a jerk. He was really a swell guy. He was careful, calculating. Extreme for him was permitting their gas tank to get below a quarter empty between refills. Not Mr. Right, but Mr. Steady. Sex was routine and fun, but seldom approaching wild. She could never really share, not her big secret anyway. How do you let drop across the breakfast table that you long to be a heroine, tied and ravaged by a super villain? That bondage and peril make you cum? They remained friends. He still mowed her small yard, and there was even the occasional booty call. 27 and happily divorced. Justine was now free, totally free to explore the dark.
Her preoccupation with being tied up had been with her for as long as she had memories. A constant mental shadow. As a girl, she would watch old shows, Dudley Do-Right, Penelope Pitstop, The Man from Uncle. She would sneak glances at the other kids. Was it only her waiting anxiously for the tied damsel?
For Justine, a defining moment was seeing Linda Carter as Wonder Woman. Every week she wound up bound with her own golden lasso, helpless and in distress. The mortal peril was the money shot. Heroines loved life, doing Justice was risky and sexy. She got wet just letting her mind caress the thoughts. Battles with evil, a life lived dangerously. "Dangerous Leigh" It became her own secret identity, an alter ego. Mild mannered Justine, hiding Dangerous Leigh.
Self bondage always begins as a necessary inconvenience. Justine crafted the art when she had her own small apartment in college. Boyfriends would indulge her bondage fantasies at times. She worried that they would get spooked if she revealed her full fetish. Real live Super Heroine action. Impending sexual peril. She continued to practice while she was married. Unfortunately, the vigilance and precautions needed to prevent Jason from discovering her hobby cut into the realism. He would have freaked. Single, she could again refine and enhance her adventures.
Justine purchased a townhouse in the city. They used to be called row homes. Now it was pitched as an end unit. An alley ran behind the buildings, with two small garages. Built in the 40's, it had been renovated by the last owner. To Justine's delight, the narrow cellar remained untouched. Creaky open stairs, cold brick walls, exposed ceiling boards and several naked bulbs with pull strings. She later covered the high windows looking to the sidewalk. A wall and a closet with a locking door, fashioned from old wainscoat boards, covered the rear portion of the space. There were even three metal support columns. It was Silence of the Lambs heaven. Her realtor worried that the basement would hurt resale. For our heroine, it closed the deal.
The vibrator hummed its magic. It worked into that very goddamn spot. Her conscious started to swim when she tasted the first trickle. Just cold water. Not much time. Must get busy. She could lower her hands somewhat. Red fingernails could touch the ropes tying her head to the pole, but the knots were far out of reach. She figured maybe 10 minutes. Likely less. She tasted the water constantly now. No flavor yet.
Leigh had picked handcuffs before, but only with a wire, and only with her hands in front. Had to concentrate. Hard. If she could just see the keyholes. The tube and bag danced slightly as she strained to look. Bubbles inside, that can't be good.
Her nipples burned in protest. No shaking those vicious clamps off, their serrated teeth bit too deep. She could feel the keyholes on the top. Could she find some bit of room to work. Maybe. She worked the cuff... suddenly her knees buckled from the withering organism. Her inner thighs tremored. An involuntary yank on the cuffs dug into already sore wrists. Mother of God, her body felt it to the marrow. It stroked her taut frame for almost a full minute. She would have slumped forward if she were not roped and chained. Her head pulled down with a gagged, desperate moan. Man those clamps hurt.
The hum continued in the dim light.
Wait. That, that taste. Could it be...
Genuine struggling started. That quick taste, it was harsh, acidic, it lingered on her tongue. Leigh had to work fast. The muscle fatigue from the wrenching orgasm was wearing off, but the buzz tethered to her leg whispered the promise of yet another. And not too long. A second taste came. Damn, it was nasty. It was supposed to be. She twisted her wrists, causing them to yelp painfully back for each smidgen of slack she earned. It wasn’t enough. Her jagged movements caused the clamps on her tits to bounce and nip. She still couldn’t see the cuffs, couldn’t form a plan to free their ratchet. Two quick pulls on the cuffs, born of frustration, did no good. The tub to her gag was filling with the acrid liquid. Another taste passed, stronger this time. She needed time to think, to manage the problem. There was no time left, yet time itself hung in stillness. The cuffs had no give for her chaffed wrists. That buzzing intruded with the beginnings of a tingle, a sting on her etched nipples. She could feel her blood moving, marching against her. A flicker was building in her thighs again. She had to escape. She closed her eyes and bit into the hardened rubber. Everything pulled to nowhere. Must escape before the end came. But only Leigh came, a second aching assault.
Justine was rather plain in high school, but blossomed in college. She grew to 5'7'', and much of that legs. Her hair was curly and dirty blond, flowing down to below her shoulders. That color got a little help. If she were not shaved clean, her bush would have betrayed a darker shade of brown. Her eyes were the color of coffee, big and electric. The main attraction was her round, tight ass. Smooth, it was shaped like a summer-plucked peach. Just this side of J Lo's, it demanded notice but didn't shout for it. No guy walked passed without stealing a second look. She received lots of attention when she entered a room. One hair flip, and any audience was hers.
Self bondage is an acquired skill. It is inspiration, sparked by primal desire, but tempered by trial and unforgiving error. Over the years Justine amassed an impressive collection of cuffs, both leather and metal. She had gags of every variety, some with crossing straps literally encasing her head. Her tool box had duct tape, packing tape, and ace bandages. Tiny clamps from various sources made her smirk with pride. Blindfolds, butt plugs, padlocks old and new, and hundreds of feet of well maintained rope completed the equipment. These could be mixed and matched for any predicament. Numerous "I" bolts and rings were screwed discreetly about her basement. Justine tried scores of vibrators and dildos, literally filling a drawer. The electric model from Brookstones made those all but obsolete.
Justine was diligent about realism, but fanatical about safety. A fetish isn't fun if you’re not around to enjoy another try. Every session had two separate release mechanisms. Ice was her escape method of choice. It did not rely on electricity or a clock. It always turned to water... eventually. Experimentation had produced a fool-proof release system, flexible in its uses and passingly predictable for timing. A casual visit to a yard sale had turned up a unique set of Tupperware containers. There were 5 containers, with several clearing missing and no tops. Each was shaped like a cylinder on its side. They varied in length and width. Justine found that they could be used to freeze a shaft of ice with varied sizes to control timing. At the time of freezing, she placed pieces of cut straw into the water at each end. Once frozen, the straws could be pulled out, leaving small tunnels near each end of the shaft. String was then threaded through both holes separately. The ice stick would melt, gradually releasing the strings. Since the strings never touched, there was no possibility of a foul or tangle. She would always set up two ice strings. The possibility of a problem was all but eliminated. Multiple trials had proven the system's merits.
If you’re going to be a Super Heroine, you need the right costume and toys. The clothes make the girl. Justine knew she wanted boots, knee high and shiny white vinyl. She chose a pair with a wide heel, a concession for standing. She found bright red shorts at Victoria’s Secrets. Buying a size small insured they squeezed her buns, and that both cheeks peeked. Would it be sexy if the of a hint a thong showed? She thought the better, opting for no underwear. She would wear a belt, but saved its purchase for later. Ribbed white wife-beaters were three to a pack at Wall-Mart. With a computer and a trip to the craft store and she had stenciled the front of each with a logo she had been musing over for a decade. Black “DL”, set in a gray rain cloud, with lighting striking down. It looked dangerous enough. The red mask was the trickiest. She cut an oval piece of red plastic with eyeholes. Justine heated it in water until it was soft, a technique she learned when molding her karate mouth guard. While warm, she pressed the mask over her eyes, letting it shape flush to her face. Once stiff, a little facial cream on the back held it fast to her head. She struck a pose in front of the mirror, Dangerous Leigh.
Here was real peril. The second orgasm was bad, but number three caused her to gulp and gag the liquid. There was no stopping its bitter flow. Her knees and thighs screamed like she had stair-mastered to Brazil and back. She simply could not pick cuffs without some tool, somewhere. Leigh stopped fussing with the shackles, settling as much as her bonds would allow. Time was running, running out. A girl might as well enjoy those final seconds. The Deuce had worked awfully hard to make her body her enemy. Resolution set in. Number four and it was coming like a train with a conductor behind schedule. She welcomed its impact, shuttering. She savored the fierce bit on her titties. The ropes to the pole flicked tight again. Leigh came with abandon.
Leigh's fourth orgasm flowed into the fifth, almost as if the energy never stopped. She kept her eyes closed to fully absorb the power. She was getting weaker. When would it stop. The end had to be soon. Tired as she was, her body wilted along the metal of the pole. Would she survive for yet another? She got a precious few minutes before the vibrator fanned her fires anew. A sixth!? Dangerous Leigh had experienced her share of dire times, but six! She had never weathered such a pounding before. Her arms couldn’t fight anymore. Her eyesight was actually getting fuzzy at the edges. That buzzing had settled into her head, causing it to swim. Her back just started to tense when she heard ice smack the back of the column, and caught a quick spit of frigid spray from behind.
People have all types of bizarre pastimes. A video tech in Justine’s office collected vintage hotel room keys. But if her co-workers truly knew, they would be shocked by their senior reporter’s transformation. Justine began to genuinely gather the gear necessary for a super hero.
Luck didn’t smile on our heroine by providing her alien super parents or a radioactive spider bite. Dangerous Leigh would have to fight crime without special powers. She chose the tired and true method of the handy utility belt. She bought a wide white belt from Goodwill. It had two rows of chrome grommets, a mod throwback to the sixties. She added Velcro pouches to both sides. She loaded the pockets with a nail file, a lock picking kit and metal wire, a small mirror, assorted keys, a travel size baby oil and a tiny flashlight. Everything needed for a quick escape. A razor phone was clipped in as well. For good measure, she sewed a slim pocket into both boots, each encasing a thin box-cutter blade. Her personal accessories were ready.
Every crimefighter needs wheels. To work, Justine drove a sensible BMW 3 series. But in her second garage, parked in backward for quick exits, sat a 1972 Plymouth Barracuda. The muscle car sported a giant hemi, and flat black paint job. There were small gauges below the dash reading pressures she didn’t really need to know. The car wasn’t Barrett Jackson perfect, but it was damn fun anyway. Ebay rules! Her plates read 2-DNGRS... She would drive the city at night, full costume, dreaming of villainous plans and exotic perils. The immense engine growled their collective passion for her secret life. She could almost see the beam of a spot light casting DL on a convenient passing cloud.
Now for a bad guy. Hell, you can’t really be a super hero without an arch nemesis. He would personify her desires. She chose the name The Deuce, creating him as a dark underworld figure. She would never actually see his face, adding to the mystery. She would only see the crimes, the consequences of his treachery. She had a twisted mind, relishing sexual torture and slow death. With his victims, he always left his calling card. It was a two of hearts playing card, custom printed black instead of red.