Quiet, peaceful. Those weren’t words Rhonda would often call her bar, but today was Monday and Mondays were the one day that she kept the bar closed. Once upon a time, long before she inherited the place from her mother, the bar was closed on Sundays as well, thanks to antiquated blue laws. At least those things are gone these days, Rhonda thought, running her hand along the familiar worn bar top. This was home, safe. The damn place had been in the family since her grandmother opened it, scandalous as that had been for a single mother to do back in those days. It was hard work keeping the place going, but under Rhonda they had never had a month in the red. She was proud of that. She worked hard six days a week, and on the seventh she played hard. One might wonder why then she was back here in the bar on her singular free day. Well, that’s because of one very old and very modified mechanical bull. She poured herself a shot, throwing it back quickly before turning her attention to the mechanized bovine.
She grabbed her gym bag of goodies for the day and walked over to the aging attraction. She’d ridden the thing for the first time when she was 18 or 19, but 15 years later her rides had evolved slightly. She dropped her bag next to the padded fence surrounding the mechanical bull, but not before pulling out some metal anchor points. Over the years, Rhonda had added a few extra features to the fake bull to enhance her frequent clandestine rides, subtly drilled holes patrons would never notice, but that served Rhonda’s personal desires.
See, Rhonda had figured out at an early age she enjoyed bondage. Sadly, being one of the only lesbian women in a small rural town meant her options for play partners were basically nonexistent, but that was okay. Her passion for enjoying bondage, like so much in life, was something she could handle herself. Self-reliance was a trait the ladies of her family had in spades, she thought proudly, as her practiced hands set to work prepping her soon to be terrible tormentor.
First the anchor points she’d need for particular restraints, a pair behind the saddle where a real steer’s hips would be, and that would keep her soon to be cuffed ankles pulled back. Another set directly in front of and behind the saddle along the robot’s spine. Next were the first of a few more lewd items for the day’s frivolities. A phallic friend she’d used many times before that she affixed to the inside of a pair of specialized panties to be worn when riding. Before slipping it on, Rhonda, despite being alone, stifled a laugh as the floppy facsimile bounced back and forth like some obscene metronome. It was more flaccid than she would like, but she had learned her lesson early on that a more rigid intruder could do some real damage as she was thrashed about by her counterfeit bull. Hence why she had searched and found something that would feel good, but that wouldn’t threaten to destroy her body from the inside. She set it aside for now.
Rhonda turned her attention to the electronic side of things; a laptop and program she used to control the bull for her. She reviewed the settings for today. She planned a full hour session, alternating between one to three minutes of bucking and five-minute breaks. It had taken a couple of years of trial and error, but the improvised controls she’d Frankensteined to regulate the bull worked perfectly now, well, most of the time. Occasionally, something would go awry, but really, that rarely ever happened anymore. Besides, she had her human failsafe.
Speaking of which, she pulled out her phone, and rechecked for the eleventh time today that she had texted the right time to Regan and that she had confirmed it in return. Rhonda felt the faintest pang of guilt. Regan worked part time for her as a bartender, so she was technically an employee. Even after two years of helping Rhonda with her personal pastime, the bar owner worried she was taking advantage of the slightly younger woman. Regan was only three or so years her junior. Rhonda had hired her while she was supposedly working on a PhD at the university a couple of towns over. That was nearly six years ago. She’d never heard about Regan graduating, so she supposed that must not have worked out and she would never have pried into something so personal, anyway.
It was sad. Regan might not look the part at first glance, but Rhonda had learned early on she was about as intelligent as they come. Well, at least by the standards of Rhonda’s public high school education. Still, Regan was a hell of a good bartender and supplemented that by working at the local tattoo parlor as an artist. She was a lean, inked woman, pretty in her own way. Memories encroached on Rhonda's mind as she thought about the woman; memories of the way the dim bar light danced across Regan’s full color sleeve tattoos, the sheen of sweat on her brow on a bustling night, her smartass smile, the real one she never showed to patrons.
Rhonda shook her head, trying to push those memories away. In other circumstances, she might have made a pass at Regan. Lord knew she was both entertaining and beautiful, but that’d be improper since one was employer and the other employee. Rhonda did lament the dynamic. She often daydreamed about the bartender. The way she could pick apart any dumbass with her wit. The way she didn’t take shit from anyone, but also how caring she could be, watching over the patrons who got too far gone or didn’t know their own limit. How easily she’d caught that bastard who’d been trying to roofie women in the bar last year. The kindness she’d shown Rhonda not judging her pastime.
If only we had met some other way, Rhonda thought wistfully. Besides, Regan had never shown any interest in either men or women that Rhonda had noticed. Sure, she flirted in the noncommittal way any good bartender would to garner some extra tips, but it was obvious to someone like Rhonda who grew up in a bar that it was all a show, a front with a purpose. At this point, she had started to suspect the bartender was ace.
The bar owner started stripping down. She needed to be nude for the next stages of her self-bondage preparations. Her rides were liberating despite the restraints. A moment when she could be free of the weight of expectations and enjoy simple carnal sensations. The clothes dropped about her in a lazy pile, but her mind kept creeping back to Regan. It was foolish, but she often couldn’t help herself, like today.
Rhonda’s thoughts turned to the first time Regan had found her in self-bondage. I mean if she were interested in me at all she’d have made a move then when she first found me trussed up like a Thanksgiving turkey, she reminded herself. She chuckled out loud at the memory from a couple of years ago. It’d been another Monday self-bondage session. Thankfully, just a simple nude hogtie on the bar top. Regan had left her jacket behind the bar, something Rhonda had failed to notice when setting up herself. Then perhaps a half hour in, and not long after a delightful climax, Regan had casually walked in looking for the missing article of clothing.
Rhonda still remembered how she had held her breath as an utterly oblivious Regan walked behind the bar, completely missing the naked woman frozen in mortified horror. The tattooed bartender had crouched looking for the jacket, and it had taken a full thirty seconds for her mind to register what she had at first missed or dismissed. Regan had jumped up with a surprised ‘oh.’ In retrospect, Rhonda found the shocked exclamation adorable, but she had been in full panic originally, especially when the bartender had asked if she needed help. A reluctant Rhonda had shaken her head admitting this had been of her own doing. At that point Regan had walked backwards out of the bar, stiff as a board, closing the door behind her without another word.
The two didn’t speak for a week after that. Rhonda terrified she’d be slapped with a sexual harassment claim, or worse, for the rumor mill in town to start up. But nothing had happened until finally a week later Regan stopped by her house to talk. It had been a shockingly mature conversation in which the bartender had apologized for her reaction, not that she should have apologized as Rhonda had pointed out, and then she had offered to be Rhonda’s safety moving forward. The bar owner had been hesitant for a million and one reasons, but somehow Regan knocked down each until it started sounding like a good idea. The results since had proven the validity of the suggestion.
With a human safety, Rhonda could indulge in her hobby with more gusto, though she couldn’t say what Regan got from it. The bartender had never been willing to share why she was so eager to assist. Maybe she finds it entertaining to watch her boss struggle and embarrass her perverted ass, Rhonda guessed. All the same, it allowed Rhonda to really cut loose. She could even go as far as inescapable predicaments since she knew she could get Regan to release her. That was the plan for today, in fact. There was just something about knowing she couldn’t escape her bondage that made it all the more alluring for Rhonda. A need to be helpless, to let the worries and anxieties of life fade to blissful, if bound, delight. To have no choice but to give into her baser desires.
Having reminisced enough, she worked on the next steps to her fun. Soft padded leather cuffs were locked around wrists and ankles. A matching wide leather belt with heavy anchor points wrapped and buckled around her waist. She then liberally slathered both the phallus with lube and herself. It was a wet, cold, and goopy feeling. Not exactly sexy, but she had learned the hard way yet again that it sucked to be thrashing about on a dry intruder. She pulled the enhanced panties up with a comical squelch. She never quite got used to it, or how the things had a cutout for her clit to remain exposed. They were an oddity for certain.
She drew out her favorite feature for this particular predicament, a set of nasty nipple clamps. They would bite beautifully, and she had crimped fishing weights to the end of each, so when the mechanical bull bucked, they would whip about in unspeakable pain. Rhonda wouldn’t call herself a masochist, even if it were technically true, but she loved the contrast of pain and pleasure, particularly when lost in the wild throes of riding the bull.
She closed her eyes and began massaging her chest, hands kneading and fingers tracing. She pictured her favorite celebrity as she did, an actress who played a red-haired witch years ago on a soapy monster of the week supernatural show. Her nipples began to harden and point, lust building. The mental image slowly transformed from the actress crush of her youth to Regan’s slender, honestly, shockingly delicate, features. Rhonda sighed as one hand slipped to her most sensitive of spots. A vague erotic sequence she shouldn’t be entertaining ripped through her mind. Regan, standing over her, pulling tight on a body harness of rope, as she herself rode a vibrator. She tried to stop, but the mental image seemed too strong. This was inappropriate. To dream such unattainable things was a self-inflicted cruelty.
As the sighs turned to heady moans, Rhonda finally managed to halt herself. She’d have enough stimulation down there soon enough; her nipples were plenty prepared to receive their jewelry. She hissed when the first one twisted and clamped around her right nipple. The weight pulled towards the floor. For the second, she let out a very unladylike “fuck.” She gathered the last of her supplies, the weighted clamps swaying and tugging with each move she made, eliciting a near constant grimace of pain from her.
Rhonda pulled herself atop the bull after carefully placing the items she still needed in strategic locations around the artificial creature. She settled herself on the saddle; the pressure pushing the dildo in her panties slightly deeper into herself. Embarrassingly, it made another squelching noise from the copious lube she had used. Thankfully, no one was around to hear it, another advantage to her self play. She then secured rope from the anchor points in front and directly behind the saddle to the heavy rings on her padded leather belt. They were pre-cut lengths she had used many times before. All the same, she tested the give. The slack allowed her some movement, but ensured she couldn’t rise too far.
She then loosely tied a wand vibrator to the front of her belt. It rested limply just over her clit, but once the mechanical monstrosity bucked, the wand’s buzzing touch would be fleeting and maddeningly erratic. Another sensation in a chorus of bliss and agony. She reached up and unfurled her long hair from its tight bun, shaking it loose. It would soon be a blur of motion whipping about in a liberated mass. Now it was time to truly restrain herself, to give up one freedom to enjoy another kind entirely.
Moving her cuffed ankles into place up and behind her wasn’t easy, but manageable. She padlocked them to restraints with some give and tossed the keys over the padded fence to the wooden floor beyond. No escaping now, not until Regan gets here at least, she noted excitedly. It was nearly time. She could feel the exhilaration and fear building in her as it always did. She moved quickly now, seizing two remotes and a padlock. She moved her hands behind her back, using the padlock to connect her leather wrist cuffs, the key for the lock already residing back in her bag. She pressed a button on the first of the remotes, then let it slide down to the padded floor below. The wand on her front side hummed alive, but intermittently. She had set it to a series of random settings.
Her heart was racing now in anticipation. The moment was here. She sucked in a deep breath and hit a button on the second remote, letting it drop as with the first. This time, Rhonda’s world began to move. The mechanical ride rumbling to life. Slow undulating movements, then the first rapid jerk. Her body slung to one side, the rope and ankle shackles keeping her from tumbling off, but doing nothing to prevent a cacophony of sensations. The pleasant buzzing at her clit vanished in an instant. The internal intruder shifted against her insides. The weights at her nipples swung wildly, weightlessly for a breath before gravity and motion tugged them taut in opposition to Rhonda’s body.
A guttural shriek, unimpeded, filled the otherwise silent bar. No gags for her. She enjoyed the euphoria of screaming through her rides until her voice went hoarse. It was one of many ways she let loose, found freedom in bondage. Her vision turned white with pain and blurred. The clamps went weightless once more as her hips rose off the saddle, the wand tantalizingly grazing past as it arced away in another direction in this maelstrom of motion. Then the agony of the weights heaving downward mixed with the sensation of her phallic friend pressing deep in her from an impact with the saddle. A shudder born of equal parts anguish and bliss convulsed through her. Her vision obscured by a curtain of chestnut hair, her hair, as it swirled uncontrolled and wild.
The wand once more bounced and rolled across her front. Her body shifted forward. Her nipples were electric with a fiery sensation as the weights pulled forward to reach their maximal point before swinging wide to either side. Her body pressing hard against the vibrating wand, the dildo shifting against new parts of her insides. Locked ankles, feeling the full strain pinned to the haunches of her robotic ride and resisting the forward momentum of the most recent dip.
Rhonda was already losing herself. She let her follicle filled vision fade to black, eyelids closing out the spinning world around her. Her existence was reduced now to only unadulterated and true physical sensations; feeling every vibration, every lightning strike of pain, and every brush of rushing air. She let her body experience it all without resistance. She was flying free, unfettered mentally, if not physically so. Screams and moans escaping her lips with the constant assault of misery and delight. Then the world abruptly stilled. Seconds passed before the bar owner registered her first break was already upon her.
Her chest heaved now, not from an automated abuser, but from her lungs trying to desperately fill her stimulated body with needed oxygen. The wand settled back into place, buzzing pleasantly, if weaker than her starving, needy body desired. She flexed her hands. She had, at some point in that first ride, clenched them into fists. Her breathing steadied just in time to hitch when the vibrator kicked into one of its higher settings and stayed there until the mechanical bull roared to life, whipping her form about once more. The second ride was far more violent and wonderful than the first. The overwhelming sensations charting a course through every fiber of Rhonda’s being. Amongst the hurricane of her own making, her body broke into a sought orgasm, though the swirling and contradictory feelings did not await her climax to finish before they tossed her against the tumult once more. The waves and convulsions of pleasure mixing with the chaos of the ride, the awful yanking at her afflicted nipples, pulsing in pain.
During the second rest, the wand mercifully dropped to one of its lowest settings, sparing her sensitized sex for a moment. Her mind, drunk on ecstasy, lolled from one incoherent thought to the next. Flashes of a sincere smile on lips she wished to kiss. It barely registered that this spectral companion had taken Regan’s form. A clearer minded Rhonda would have questioned it or denied it as a fool’s thought, but in her altered mental state she simply gave in to yet another sensation, the imagined one of what it would be like to wrap her lips around those kind ones. Would they be soft or firm? What would they taste like? Heaven perhaps? The daydream suddenly dispersed as quickly as it had appeared when her ride kicked alive once more.
And so, her session fell into a rhythm as momentum brought anguish or bliss for a moment before relenting to the restful periods that often felt anything but peaceful as the wand nestled its way back home atop her clit. Rhonda let her mind fly free on the wings of pain and pleasure. This was her heaven on earth. Her Eden. Time lost meaning. Only the careening physicality of the situation mattered. She could let the world drop away and be her inner self. No judging eyes ready to whisper dyke behind her back. No demanding customers trying their best to drive her insane. No worries about an improper relationship with an employee. Only the here and now. The wondrous agony of her nipples being pulled and the frustratingly erratic vibrations grazing her nethers.
By the end of the hour, she could no longer tell the difference between pleasure and pain. The two blending and merging into one another. Her body was drenched as a buzzer alerted her to the end of the session. A round of slow clapping echoed through the room, Rhonda’s eyes shot open. Her tired head doing its best to flick away now maddeningly obstructing hair until she saw her. Standing in flesh and blood was Regan, lean yet feminine in a tantalizing way. She was draped over the padded fence beside the control system for the ride. Yet Rhonda realized, despite her cerebral and corporeal fatigue, that something was off. Regan’s cheeky round of applause having ceased, her body was more rigid than her pose might suggest. Shoulders squared instead of a casual slump, jaw set, not in her usual smug smirk, but in a tight locked position.
“So, good ride today?” Regan asked with the usual genuine amusement, but the faintest melancholy hiding among her words for the first time ever. Too tired to respond with anything more than a weak nod, Rhonda let herself collapse in her restraints. Familiar hands soon worked about her body, releasing her from the mechanical bovine with tenderness and care.
Soon she found herself on the padded floor. The fake bull obscured a portion of her view of the ceiling. Her head pulled aloft gently for a moment so a pillow could be tucked under. Her vision filled with those wonderful delicate features she fantasized so often about. Lips enticingly in her sight line. She was grateful her body was so worn from her adventure, or she might have pulled that face in for a kiss they would have both regretted. Instead, she watched the lips part for another purpose. “Rhonda, I probably need to get the clamps off. Think you can handle it?”
The bar owner weakly nodded and attempted to say something she thought were words, but were a mumbled mess of nonsense. She tried to prepare herself, but as soon as one and then the other released, her raw throat howled once more at the knife-like pain in her chest. Reassuring words dripping from those tempting lips, as Regan pulled a weak Rhonda into an embrace against her warm and inviting body. A hand patting her head in comfort. Once the pain receded once more, Regan set her head back down as if it were so fragile it might break.
Usually mirthful eyes held the same melancholy that Regan’s voice seemed to have. It was strange. Rhonda wanted to ask her about it, but she was too tired. Instead, she lay limply as Regan checked her body for any real harm before covering her in a soft, warm blanket. Rhonda’s eyes were so heavy, she couldn’t hold them open. The last thing she saw was that sweet, if for some reason, pensive face looking down at her, a bottle of water ready if needed. The bar owner probably required something to drink for her throat, but sleep was more enticing.
When her eyes fluttered back open, she still lay nude on the padded floor under a blanket, head upon a pillow. Her body ached already. Her hair messily tangled about her head. She rolled over to see the mechanical bovine had been stripped of Rhonda’s enhancements and cleaned. She sat up, clutching the blanket in some bizarre sense of propriety, looking for Regan. The bartender sat slumped against the fence, her eyes closed, her chest rising and falling slowly in shallow slumbering breaths. Rhonda took the quiet to study the other woman. One tattooed hand loosely holding a phone that was playing some video she must have fallen asleep to. The other art adorned arm resting across her stomach. She looked perfectly peaceful. Rhonda smirked to herself, barely stifling a laugh, as Regan’s eyebrows twitched and something unintelligible whispered past those inviting lips. She was dreaming of something.
If the position didn’t look like it was murder on the woman’s neck, Rhonda might have left her alone until she awoke of her own accord, but instead, she cleared her throat. She could feel the pain even before she tried to croak out some words. “R-Regan, um, Regan?” she asked between small coughs.
The sleeping beauty stirred, undignified, wiping away the spittle that had collected at the corner of her mouth. Her eyes blinked open in fits and starts. “Oh, shit…uh, um, Rhonda, sorry. Didn’t mean to, uh…sleep.” The bartender stood haphazardly, having to pull herself up along the padded fence. Her hand drifted to a stiff neck. “How’re you feeling?” She asked. Rhonda smiled and with a graveled voice said she was okay and thanked Regan once more for helping.
The bartender bashfully claimed it wasn’t anything and got ready to leave now that Rhonda seemed taken care of. Her body language, though, felt off, like something was eating at her. At first, Rhonda was going to let her depart as normal, but those melancholic moments demanded an answer. She wanted to be there for Regan in whatever way the other woman needed. She yearned both to repay her debt, but also to simply be there for someone she cared about more than anyone else besides her own blood. “Wait, Regan.” The bartender stiffened and stopped, turning slowly back. “Is something wrong? I’m sorry if I upset you. I shouldn’t be asking you to help like this…” Rhonda’s words were painful and erratic, but they tumbled forth all the same. They only seemed to bring greater sorrow to that lean, pretty face.
“Maybe that’s true, but I, uh, really didn’t mind this game we’ve played the past couple years.” Regan seemed to be launching into a longer statement, but Rhonda’s mind froze around the word ‘played,’ as in the past tense. Concern and confusion soon answered. “I’ll always remember it, but…” the look on her face giving away a conflict roiling inside. “I don’t know if I can keep doing this. I mean, I graduated with my doctorate two years ago, and I’m about to be thirty. I need to move on. I know you don’t feel the same, but I stayed around hoping maybe this…” The woman gestured to both of them. “…would turn to something more. I know it was a little idiotic, and I hate myself for taking this long to realize it was all one sided.” Regan paused, looking at a shocked Rhonda. “Sorry, I shouldn't have said that. I should have just glided out of your life instead. Please don’t feel bad. I know I was being foolish. I led myself on.”
Rhonda was stunned and surprised. Apparently, she couldn’t read the other woman for shit even after six years of knowing her. Here she had been thinking Regan was asexual, but she had feelings for her. There was also the realization, as Rhonda’s slow mind coalesced around what had been said, that Regan had graduated, but had said nothing. That she had stayed around here, probably stunting her life, hoping Rhonda would make a move. Well, damn it, that sucked, she thought. She wanted to tell Regan she felt the same way, that she had wanted them to be more, but had been afraid first by their work relationship, and then had thought Regan had no interest in her as well/
By the time Rhonda’s battered throat seemed ready to say something, Regan was already hurriedly making for the door. Despite her sore body, the bar owner stood, shedding her modesty blanket, and scrambled to chase down Regan. Adrenaline fired, making muscles strain and groan. She needed to reach Regan. She couldn’t let her go. Not after all these years. Regan must have been distracted by her own thoughts because she jumped slightly as Rhonda flung her arms around the tattooed woman, pulling her into a tight hug.
Rhonda held the embrace as jagged words, broken by the gravel tumbling in her throat, came out raw. “I’m sorry. I should have told you how much you’ve meant to me. To tell you how I feel. To give us a chance…but I was scared. Scared you didn’t feel the same. Scared because you work for me and that complicates things.” The woman in her arms worked to loosen her grip. Rhonda wanted to pull tighter, but relented. Instead of continuing her flight, though, Regan turned around, never fully breaking the hold. Face to face, lips so fetishized came crashing against Rhonda’s. They were soft, sweet. Perfect. The bar owner felt herself melt into the sensation. It was even better than the overwhelming ride earlier in the day. Two sets of arms entwined, hands dancing up and down each other’s back. Rhonda felt a jeaned leg slip between hers. The duo reeling backwards until bare skin hit against a padded fence. Lips breaking briefly from a giggle. “So, this means I get a raise, right?”
Rhonda laughed. “Oh, hush,” she replied to the flippant question. She spun them around so Regan’s back was to the railing. Their mouths fused again, hands playing at each other’s front side, Regan somehow keeping Rhonda’s sore nipples in mind, letting her hands roam elsewhere, while Rhonda’s snaked under a dark shirt to warm, flush skin. Pulling back for a second, the nude party in this sloppy exchange of passion, spoke, “I don’t know about a raise, but I definitely owe you a party for graduating, even if it’s two years overdue apparently you sneaky woman.”
Regan laughed. “Well, why don’t we start by riding the bull together for once?” The pair moved in tandem toward the center of the riding ring, a mess of flailing limbs and hastily discarded clothes. A new whirlwind of sensations and laughter. Both mounted the saddle, facing each other, the wand from earlier tightly pressed between them. Rhonda felt her arms guided behind her, a familiar click of a padlock binding her wrists as fantasized lips traced her collarbone. It seemed she was in for another ride. One long dreamed of.