Gromet's PlazaSelf Bondage Stories

Take The Girl

by Cailyn

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© Copyright 2010 - Cailyn - Used by permission

Storycodes: Sbm; rope; cuffs; fem; motel; stuck; cons; X

As I step out of my car, a flood of emotions washes over me. At only 24 years old, I think it’s safe to say I’ve been through my fair share over the past year. Between discovering that my “passing interest” in what mainstream media would call “BDSM” was more of a visceral need, and deciding that fulfilling that need was enough reason to leave the wife I once thought to be completely devoid of understanding towards said need, I’ve been living one hell of an emotional roller coaster.

A long story short, my wife turned out to be willing to at least try to meet my needs/desires, and we’re still hashing things out. Be that as it may… I still find myself here, tonight. It’s okay, you can say it. Call me names… I can take them. I deserve them. Despite knowing all that, still, here I am. The circumstances are so typical I can’t help but feel like I’m in some cheap porno, taking advantage of the fact that my wife is out of town, and the Mistress whom I’ve never quite gotten over, just so “happens” to be coming in to town.

Gathering my nerves, I swallow hard and force one foot out in front of the other, knowing that the first step is always the hardest. By the time I reach the front door of the motel, I find myself comfortable enough with the situation to start noticing details. The place seems nice enough. Nondescript would probably be the most fitting word… everything was clean and orderly, if perhaps a bit less than new. Far enough out of town to be away from the prying eyes of anyone I might just happen to know, I’ve never been here before. The place even smells clean, and anyone who’s traveled knows that alone can merit a good review.

I step up to the counter, surprised that my voice isn’t shaking when I ask the clerk for my key, handing her my reservation notice. It feels like the whole world can see right through me, as if even the pictures hanging on the wall know why I’m here. Nevermind that there isn’t anyone else in the lobby… the feeling remains. As she hands me the keys to the room, I hand one back to her, saying, “I’m expecting a friend, soon. She’ll likely need this.”

The expression that flashed across the girl’s face was one of those priceless moments you never forget. One part confusion, two parts concentration. She was earnestly trying to reason out why a friend of this guest wouldn’t just meet them at the room. Oh, if she only knew. I start to walk away when I remember something. Turning back to the girl, I find my voice once more, “There wouldn’t, um, happen to be a package waiting here for me, would there?”

The furrow on her brow deepens as she tries to recall the nightly parting instructions from her boss that she rarely listens to. As recognition flashes across her face, she perks up, “Oh! Room 219. Yes, I nearly forgot… here you are.” She straightens from behind the desk, handing me a decently sized box. I take it as a deep blush stains my cheeks, a murmured, “Thank you,” escaping my lips.

I hurry out the door, my head down to try to hide the blush in my cheeks. I can’t help but feel a bit foolish. I don’t even know what’s in this box; how could she? Nevertheless, I find myself trying to sink away from the thought that everyone knows the reason for this evening rendezvous. As I come to door 219, I fidget for a moment, feeling like my last chance to walk away will be stripped away when I cross the threshold. Taking a deep breath, I slide the keycard into the reader, and twist the doorknob open. A bit warm, but the room mirrors the lobby: clean, and functional. I set the box on the bed, and walk over to the a/c unit, turning it up to max, fully intending to leave it there, and knowing I’ll probably regret it.

“Now then,” I think to myself, “Let’s see what she has in mind for me… ” Opening the box, I sit down on the edge of the bed and empty it, quickly noting the leather cuffs, the multiple lengths of rope, the handkerchief – presumably for a blindfold – among other things. I smile, mostly to myself, as I pick up a pair of pink silk panties, with little bows on the thin waistband. Seeing her note, I set the panties down, picking it up to study the details. A mental checklist begins to form in my mind’s eye – shower, shave, panties, blindfold, cuffs to each corner… These are my instructions for the night, and to miss the slightest little part of it would not go without consequence.

First on the list is a shower, so I strip down and hop in. The water is a bit warm, at first… but it feels nice as my skin slowly grows accustomed to it. I take my time, here, sure to scrub every inch of me. My hands linger over my crotch as I do, but I force myself to move on, knowing I’m forbidden to please myself, at least for now. My shave is completely thorough, including a rarity that I’m sure will raise my wife’s eyebrow when she notices my smoothly shaven valuables. Satisfied that I’m clean, I stand for a few minutes longer, enjoying the hot water cascading down my body.

The shower shuts off with a faint squeak as the handle turns, and I step out, toweling myself off. Hanging my towel on the rack, I walk out into the room almost timidly… half expecting her to have arrived, despite knowing I should have at least a couple hours before she gets here. An almost relieved sigh makes its way past my lips as I let go of the breath I hadn’t realized I was holding when a scan of the room tells me she isn’t early, and I walk over to the bed, scanning her instructions once again. The panties, unsurprisingly, are for me, and I can’t help but blush faintly as the cool fabric slides over my legs, settling into place as the only thing I’m allowed to wear. The cuffs follow: one for each ankle and wrist. I snug them up nearly to the point of cutting off circulation. Another level of finality settles over me with each audible click of a small lock into each cuff. Arousal stirs as it strikes me that I found no keys in the box. By the time the fourth lock clicks into place, my manhood is more than simply noticeable underneath the pink silk.

Before movement becomes a luxury I no longer have, I slip my Bluetooth into my ear, setting my phone on the table after making sure I enabled the voice-answering feature. This is a safeguard… both for the “just in case” she doesn’t show up, whether intentionally or not, and in case my wife calls, to avoid suspicion when I don’t answer. After a couple years of sneaking around, little things like this come to mind without thought, for me. Sad to say, it’s nearly a second nature to me, at this point.

Moving on with my preparations, lest she arrive before I’ve finished, I take four lengths of rope, each with a small ring affixed to the end, and attach them to each corner of the bed, leaving just enough slack for my inflexible self to reach them all without help. Folding the handkerchief, I lay it on the bed along with the remaining four padlocks before climbing on to it, myself. I take a deep breath and run things through my mind again. The lack of a key to these locks strips away any remaining possibility of going back. I swallow hard, simply out of a nervous habit, fingering the first lock… staring at it like I’ve never seen one before. The brand-name, “Master” emblazoned along the bottom of it makes me smile, wondering if that was an intentional purchase on her behalf.

Gathering myself, I reach down and snap the first lock into place, securing my left ankle to the bed. Feeling a bit bolder, encouraged by the seemingly deafening click, I quickly do the same with my right ankle. I pause for a moment, to tie the blindfold over my eyes, making sure it’s tight enough to stay put, even if I struggle. I lay back, my left hand groping blindly for the rope at that corner. Finding it, I slide the next lock through the ring on the rope, and through the one on my cuff. I hesitate, knowing I’m rapidly approaching absolute point-of-no-return. Taking a deep breath, I force it shut. With my vision now gone, it amazes me just how much of an impact every sound has. The metal of the lock sliding through the rings… the metallic snick-clack-click as the lock slides shut… the fan of the air conditioner doing its job to cool the room. My realization of the latter brings an instant wave of goose bumps over my flesh, as the warmth of my shower has long since faded.

My fingers close around the final lock, and I find my pulse quickening. My rationalistic mind can’t help but think that if I tried hard enough, still, I could probably manage to reach the knots securing my wrist and ankles. I still have time to walk away. I blush, a crimson wave flooding my cheeks and washing over me, taking some of the chill away, as I realize quite unsurprisingly that I have no desire to walk away from this. I manage to slide the last lock through my cuff, and, my breath catching as it does, I click it shut.

Time seems to stop.

My manhood, unhindered by thought, makes its hardness known to me as it strains against the silk… aching for attention. This brings me out of my silent reverie as a smile splits my lips, knowing that it could be some time before it gets the attention it so desperately craves. I tug gently at my ropes, knowing I did my job well but still longing to feel the restraint. And feel it I do: the cuffs are padded, and I’m thankful for that as I abandon myself and pull almost savagely at my bonds, knowing that as I do so, the knots will tighten further, merely securing myself more completely. I settle down after a minute or so, my heart racing as my chest heaves with each rapid breath.

Grateful that I remembered to place a pillow behind my head, I settle into it as the impact, the completeness, of my situation settles in on me. My mind inevitably wanders to an inescapable fear: What if she doesn’t come? What will the cleaning lady think, finding me here like this? But, I trust her… she’ll come. But then what? I’ve never met this woman, not really. Stereotypical internet scenarios cross my mind as I picture an overweight male truck driver (in dire need of a shower and a shave, no less), being the one to open that door. Shaking my head to clear my thoughts, I force myself to relax as much as my bonds will allow, and my mind, unbidden, wanders off to a more pleasant memory…

The weekend had rolled around, and I found myself with time on my hands. More specifically, I found myself with time, home alone, with my wife out of town. Some guys would run to the bar, maybe hang out with the guys… some may even try to sneak in some quality time with another woman. But, no, not me. I was a good boy. I didn’t drink, or smoke, or even cuss. Hell, I’d never even stepped foot in a bar, unless you count sports bars, for some wings. And no, I haven’t been to Hooters, not even for their “world famous” wings. Nope, my posterior would be firmly planted in front of my computer for the majority of this time. I don’t even remember where I stumbled across the link… only that it caught my eye enough to make me click on it. You know, one of those ads scattered throughout your web browsing that you usually pay just enough attention to to find what you’re actually looking for. Call it fate, or dumb luck, perhaps… but one night, I found myself installing a chat client that seemed one part AIM, one part “Sims 2.” Never in my wildest dreams did I imagine that it would lead me down a path I’d never forget.

After a few times of using this chat client, and getting my admittedly female avatar looking presentable, if not quite the way I really wanted her to look, I ventured into the world of public chat rooms. Scrolling down the list for something that caught my eye, one room stuck out from among the “C0m3 1n h3r3 4nd cyb3r”’s and “Romantic Getaway – Couples Only!!!!!!!!!!!” ‘s. “Mistress Jayne’s House of Gor.” I had no idea what “Gor” was, but the prospect of meeting people who shared my closet interest in the Dominant/Submissive (D/s) scene intrigued me. So, I let my cursor hover over the link…


My eyes shoot open, a brief moment of panic washing over me as my mind struggles to figure out why I’m tied to a bed. As my mind catches itself up on the last half hour or so, I vainly search for a clock until I realize that I’m blindfolded, as well. I smile at my grogginess as the last of it fades, and my breath suddenly catches as I hear the unmistakable click of a woman’s high heels coming down the hallway outside. It isn’t until they begin to fade beyond my door that I remember to take a breath.

“Nervous much?” I think to myself, lightly pulling at my self-imposed bonds. A shiver runs through me, again making me wish I’d put some thought into the setting on that air conditioner, which was still blowing away. I shake my head, getting as comfy as I can… and before too long, sleep tugs at my eyelids once more. Knowing that sleep will only shorten the time spent waiting, I let it wash over me…

Little did I know, that innocent little click would change my life. It bears telling that it wasn’t that specific room that would bring the change… but rather, indirectly, two people that I would meet there. Not only did I find people who were interested in the “D/s scene,”… I stumbled rather meekly into a rather literal virtual world where countless people pursued it as a lifestyle, even if only virtually. To me, a married man who had long since given up on the prospect of his wife sharing his interest in bondage and domination… it was like finding an answer to prayer, or hitting the lottery, winning big in Vegas, a dream come true… pick your cliché. “Mistress Jayne” had turned out rather harsh, for my tastes, not to mention far too busy for the “slaves” she had taken… much less me or any of the others she seemed to accept daily. She thankfully had passed me off to one of her associates, for lack of a better term, to be trained. Long story short… it was a short step from there that I met Her.

I lived my life in this virtual world embracing a feminine side of myself that I had always wished to fulfill. It wasn’t until a few shocked reactions and one very harsh “release” (that is, being told by a Dom/me, a Mistress in my case… that she no longer wishes you to serve her), that I decided I was who I was, and anyone worth associating with would embrace my half-and-half nature as fully as I had.

So, history lesson concluded… the weekend had rolled around. With time on my hands, and a few failed attempts at finding the “right” Mistress behind me… I had planned on experimenting with a timer, a vacuum, and a homemade vac-bed. It seemed the easiest way to experience complete, inescapable bondage without having to explain ropes stashed in a drawer, or the purchase of some handcuffs to my “less-than-understanding” wife. I’m not sure what told me to visit the public room I’d been frequenting, lately… but before I settled in with my vacuum, I did. The friend of a dear friend so happened to be there, that night… and I remembered that dear friend once telling me that I’d, “Get along great with Heather.”

On a whim, I told the Mistress of the room that I was seeking a Mistress… just on the off chance that she might know someone worthwhile who was looking for a pet. Heather, collared slave of a respected Master, surprised everyone there when she spoke up. I’ll never forget her words… it’s almost as if they seared themselves into my memory. “I may be interested… ”, she said, rather simply. Heather… straighter-than-straight-can-be Heather, had just said she might be interested in having a female pet of her own. A few rather involved private chats later, I found myself kneeling before her master to accept a collar of my own.

A collar isn’t just an accessory to a slave in the D/s world. It’s a vivid proclamation to everyone that the wearer isn’t simply a submissive, but that they belong to someone else. It’s a token of ownership, a symbol of respect, and for any Dom/me worth serving, it isn’t something easily attained, or anything to be taken lightly.

I was nervous. Before the ceremony, I asked Heather… Mistress Heather, now, to me… if there was anything I should know. She smiled simply, but seriously, at me, and merely reminded me that my actions represented her and her Master, and that she trusted me to speak and act with respect. Despite coming to this point unusually fast – less than two days, when it can take weeks, or more – she trusted wholeheartedly that I would bring her pride, and honor. The details of the ceremony are lost to me, now… but the emotion and feeling that washed over me when she bent over me, fastening my collar, will remain with me so long as there is breath in my lungs. An overwhelming sense of completion… trust… comfort… unusual words considering they’re referring to a woman ceremoniously collaring me not unlike I’ve collared my own dogs, I suppose, but anyone even half-heartedly involved in anything similar will understand entirely.

Waking up from such a warm memory brought with it some small relief from the air conditioner’s relentless efforts to draw every bit of warmth from my body. I smile to myself as I remember asking my Mistress some time later, what made her speak up that one fateful night. Her reply was shockingly simple, and heart-felt. “I don’t know, really. Something just spoke to me… something told me, ‘Take the girl..’ So, I did.”


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