Gromet's PlazaSelf Bondage Stories

My Tail

by S. M. Ackerman

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© Copyright 2010 - S. M. Ackerman - Used by permission

Storycodes: Sbf; chain; cuffs; gag; outdoors; mast; caught; cons; X


My Tail.


‘What an odd way to start this story but apt in some ways and certainly quite polite I believe, so hello it is’.

‘Now where to begin? 

‘The end is probably the best place to start, as you the reader should have some idea where this, my story, is going, if you are to have any chance of understanding anything at all’.

‘The end is now, it is this place, this room, this metal cage in which I am sitting, this keyboard at I which I am typing my sorry tale, and of course you the reader.

This room is a prison, into which I volunteered my captivity eventually, in the vague and distant hope of salvation from my desires. My name does not matter it has by dint of necessity been removed from me by circumstance. I am the prisoner, the girl, the subject and subjected, but beneath this situation I am still myself or at least I hope that I am’.

‘So reader, now you have the end of my story and it is time to continue to the beginning and my life before this gilded cage’.

‘I woke in a hospital bed, bandaged and in pain, with four young doctors standing around my bed discussing me, the survivor.

Four days later I was discharged from the hospital into the care of my adoptive parents, adoptive because my real parents had both died in the tragic accident or so I was told and believed until my sixteenth birthday.

That was then but now I am twenty-three and have a much clearer understanding of my life and its threats and needs’.

‘During the last seven years since I ran away from my step-parents home, and the shackles they kept for me in the dark basement, I have moved home fourteen times and I intended to continue to move as often as I needed for my own safety. Though not anymore, that need at least is no longer a problem for me, I am better hidden now than I have ever been.

Every time I hit the third week of my cycle the need in me begins to grow, the desire to run naked, to explore my sexuality explodes and drives me and every third week since I ran away I begin to make certain preparations.

Wherever I live I have sought out a private place in which I can escape to salve my growing lust. Sometimes it has been a locked basement, at others it has been an open moor or woodland, but always there has been a place, and always since I purchased them there have been chains and locks, and of course my custom made gag and harness. This time should have been no different, but how wrong I was, how naive my feelings of safety were to be.


‘With a last glance around my flat just to check everything was as it should be for the next few days, all windows closed, blinds drawn, doors shut etc, I am almost ready to leave. My bag waits by the front door filled with the shackles my desires demand, I stand over my computer with my finger hovering over the send button. One click and this E-mail will fly to my employers, once again informing them that I will be off-line for three days, and also sending the last paragraphs of interpreted text that they pay me to translate’.

‘I work from home transcribing documents; it does not pay well, but I manage, and it allows me to remain invisible. I have an accountant who knows of my desire to be invisible and she pays all my bills, utilities, tax etc, so I can reside at any place so long as I have a computer link, and so work when or where I choose, all of which suits me perfectly. Click, the E-mail goes, “Uh”, the bag swings to my shoulder, both heavy and cumbersome. Click and the door is closed and the lock key turned, the keys I slip into an outside zip pocket of my bag, I will not need them again for a while’.


Today is the sixth month in a row that I have stood looking towards the farm type cottage with its shed like cabins circling it, wondering if I am safe to enter and carry out my intent. For the sixth time I walk up the drive, (the front door opens) before I reach out for the door knocker and Madelyn stands there smiling at me in greeting. She knows that I will be arriving as I have booked my usual cabin. The smallest they have, but also the nearest to the woodlands, and the furthest away from prying eyes.

“Hi, back again I see, well come on in the kettle has just boiled.”

She steps back allowing me to pass into the dark hall and from there into the large but cosily warm kitchen. As she has said the kettle was still steaming on the range and as I sit Madelyn makes two welcoming mugs of hot tea, she even remembers to put half a sugar into mine. She is getting to know my likes to well, an alarm bell screams in my head demanding that I run, I ignore it, but all the same I might have to find a different place for my monthly escape. With tea and pleasantries over I take the key and depart, telling Madelyn I will see her in three days time, as I really needed some solitude and peace. She nods, smiles and says goodbye.

I am alone and deep inside of me I can feel the swelling of a demanding lust, the weight of my chain filled bag digs into my shoulder as I approach my cabin. Soon I will be free of the chains that bind me for three weeks of each month; soon I will feel the harsh steel of the chains that will constrain my urges for the last few days of every month.

Darkness falls on day one of my journey; I slip on silent feet from the rear window of my cabin, certain that no one can see me leave. My chains clink in my bag, but I squeeze it tight to my side to silence their noise and creep towards the fenced conservation area behind my cabin.

Madelyn and her husband John own the twenty acres of forest and fields surrounding their cottages. She works as a government research vet, he as a woodsman and coppiced, both care intensely for the nature that surrounds them and that they can help and protect, so they purchase land when and as they can, fencing it in and protecting it passionately.

Wild creatures live within their fences, each living out its life as nature intends and in protected safety, John maintains the grounds, the trees, the life blood of the land, always with a desire to enhance nature’s freedom.

Madelyn works full time to provide the money to buy more land and so they live in harmony.

The cottages provide some income but not as much as they could, as they are very selective of whom they rent them out to. Nature groups mostly fill the shacks, but I have somehow convinced them that I am deserving of entry into their lives. So for the last six months I have rented a cottage each month, a specific cottage, and my indulgences have been kept secret.

I spend three days becoming one with nature, though my hosts never know of my night time forays, nor do they know of the carefully cut fence, repaired with steel sliding rings that I have created to provide my own private door into the sanctuary they so love, and through which I pass yet again this night.


Moonlight glows, gently flickering beams through the trees, adding an eeriness to the forest centre. Alone and safe at last I strip off my jogging top, on the floor scattered where I have tipped them lie my collection of carefully considered chains and straps. With a shudder to the cold I stuff my crumpled top into the empty bag in which I carried my bondage gear.

Next I pull down my jogging bottoms, thrusting them in one single, smooth, slightly hurried action to my ankles. They swiftly vanish into the bag. Naked I shiver as I glance around once more, no underwear accompanies my other clothes, my breasts are always unfettered by a bra, they are neither big enough for a bra, nor do I like the tight feeling.

I laugh at the thought of tightness as I contemplate the next few hours, and the chains which will bind me. Panties I never wear as I set out to face my testing, they are just one less thing to remove and as the night is swiftly closing in on me, speed is of the essence.

Heavy steel shackles each with its own padlock clasp tight to each of my ankles, twelve inches of chain separate each foot cuff, (just the right length experience instructs). I snap the padlocks into place, pulling hard against the unmoving metal and satisfy myself that they will not be coming open without the key. I lean back supporting myself with my arms whilst I look up at the trees, listening and smelling the first scent of my freedom.

Next I pick up the heavy leather straps which will fit around my head, each buckle tightens in order, pulling the leather into place, a metal bit slips just  between my teeth, not enough yet to gag me, but soon it will. Next I fold out and fix leather blinkers into place, thus restricting my vision to a narrow band directly in front of me. Anything to the left or right of my head will be invisible.

I pick up the single length of welded link, but very heavy motorcycle lock and chain, fixing it with the padlocked to the centre link of my leg bindings, then I affix the other end to the metal links of chain which separate my wrist cuffs using another padlock, these I then cuff to my wrists. Now my hands and ankles are linked together by two feet of chain, thus slowing my ability to crawl forward or to leap up.

A thick leather belt buckles around my waist, a single length of chain dangling down as I am now on all fours, reaching beneath me I lock it to the centre of the chain restraining my hands to my feet, I am secure at last and unable to stand at all.

Arousal at this point is something I desperately want to resist but always fail to control. Deep between my thighs the demand for pleasure swells, moisture seeps out as my sex puffs out, the demand for release increases, quickly I snap the handcuff restraints about my wrists even tighter, my hands reach back groping I am desperate to thrust my fingers deep inside of myself, my lust builds as penetration occurs, I gasp, sucking in deep gulps of air, I have only just completed my restraints as the lust that drives me each month bursts through my self-control. 

My blood feels as though it is boiling as my hormones surge in response to a primitive, almost primeval desire, orgasm floods my genitals, my nipples expand demanding attention, attention that I am too far gone now to provide. With a feral growl I crawl deeper into the woods, sniffing and smelling at the damp moss of the floor, swinging my head through a restrictive arc, hunting for company, for pleasure, for release, but to no avail.

A stabbing pain explodes in my thigh, piercing my flesh just below my buttocks, the pain and unexpectedness cause me to turn swiftly left, and with a crash into a tree, my head explodes as pain drives into my face, luckily the heavy leather of my head restraint takes most of the impact, but still my thigh hurts.

Fear rears in my thoughts as I try to retreat, to leave this place behind me, but my leg will not respond, all of my strength has slowly left me; a coldness seeps from my leg in to my belly and then beyond, undermining my natural strength, defeating my instinctual resistance, leaving only fear in its wake.

I tilt my head back intending to scream my anger to the world, but the world just vanishes.


I wake up sprawled on a linoleum covered floor, in a white world which refuses to focus. My head feels swollen, bruised and painful. I vaguely remember hitting my face into a tree but little else. My chains are still locked around my limbs and I am still naked, so I have not managed to free myself I realise.

The white room stops see-sawing and my vision clears. There is a light above me, a desk over to the side, a door which slowly opens, and there before me, smiling a greeting stands Madelyn, she is dressed in a spotless white medical coat and looking at me in my bound nakedness.

“Good morning, how are you feeling now?”

The metal bit fell from between my lips allowing me to talk, but instead I look around again, fear thrust into my mind, fear that I have been caught and Madelyn’s presence seems to confirm my feeling.

“Cat got your tongue? You weren’t this silent early this morning when John and I watched as you returned to this form. O’no, you screeched and howled so much, we wondered why at that point. The dart guns drug should have kept you under for much longer, in fact, you should still be out for the count now, but clearly you aren’t.”

Dart gun, drug, John, out for the count, all explode into my brain, along with a single much feared phrase. ‘They know, dear god they know what I am’.

“John hunted you but I supplied the anaesthetic, and guess what, we never thought to encounter you in that form. We thought the creature that occasionally hunted our land might be some sort of escaped big cat or even a wolf, but a female werewolf, and it being you as well, well that never entered our thoughts. Anyway I have work to do and you have a new life to adapt to…”


The Diary of Miss Whippy Cane is available at both:
Pegusus Publishers
and Amazon

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