Part I

This was going to be a long night for Kimberly. It wasn't planned that way, but it was headed in that direction. It had started out as an evening of self-bondage for Kimberly, an evening not unlike many others. But she had made a mistake, one that would result in her self-imposed bondage continuing until the morning when her roommate came home from her nightshift work.

Which presented another problem: Kimberly's roommate did not know about the selfbondage games; but she would find out in the morning unless Kimberly could find a way to get the key to the handcuffs that were now around her wrists.

And then there was that pesky vibrator, between Kimberly's thighs, stuffed deep inside her. She had, earlier in the day, installed new batteries so any hope of the vibrator stopping on its own were slim. Yes, it was going to be a piece of soaked carpet under Kimberly's butt; soaked carpet and a still-bound Kimberly.

How she got to this moment, this frustrating yet sexually invigorating moment, bears explanation. Kimberly was a statuesque young lady of just over 5' 7", with an attractive, and proportional body. Her dark hair had those streaks of blonde that provided enough contrast for her. She had no trouble attracting the opposite sex; in fact, when she went out on a Saturday evening she usually had her choice of suitors for the night. But none of them, not a single one, knew of the other side of Kimberly, the young lady who craved bondage to the extent that she would voluntarily, and eagerly, place her body in the tightest position possible. It was a matter of trust, she often told herself, finding someone she could truly trust when she was to be in such a helpless position. She had not found anyone like that, not yet anyway.

Several nights a week, when her roommate was at work, Kimberly would begin her selfbondage games, always sure that she could eventually release herself. But when she was in the bondage her mind would wander, sometimes to being a kidnapped damsel in distress, perhaps the victim of a robber whose intention simply was to place her in tight bondage until he could ransack her apartment. Other times, those rare moments, she would imagine that she had found "him," whomever he would be, and that they had begun the first step in their lifetime of bondage games.

Tonight, however, her mind did not wander. It was grounded in reality, the reality of gaining freedom from the self-imposed bondage.

She often used handcuffs with her bondage. She would tie her ankles, sometimes in a cross tie, and laying on her stomach would use the handcuffs to create a hog-tie. And always with a gag, usually the head-harness ballgag, with the large two-inch ball, that she had been ordered from one of the online fetish stories. The large ball would force her to open her mouth wide; with the head-harness straps from front to back and from top to bottom, the gag was staying in place until she could free her hands and unstrap it. And only her soft moaning noises would ever escape.

Other times she would wear a posture collar, forcing her to keep her chin up. On those occasions, she would usually tie her ankles while sitting in a lotus position. The cuffs would be attached to her collar, usually by a lock that she had as a part of her bondage toys. Release was not supposed to be easy; it would only come only when she slid across the floor on her back to the corner of the living room where the cuff key awaited her. It usually took some intensive struggling, first to make it across the floor, then roll on her side while trying to make sure that she did not hit her head on anything as her body would slam to the ground with no arms to break her fall. On one occasions she fell on her back, which forced her wrists closer together and, at the same time, caused the cuffs to ratchet tighter. She remembered that, especially the stabbing pain of the cuffs very tightly around her tender wrists, and would always take care not to do that again. Always before, however, no matter how tight the bondage, she found the key and gained her freedom.

Tonight, however, was different. She had purchased a new set of handcuffs from a local police supply store. She told the clerk at the counter, when he questioned the purchase, that they were for her boyfriend, a police officer. Of course it was not true, but Kimberly was sure that the clerk had bought the story. She guessed that him asking her for her name and address was just part of their record keeping. After she paid for the purchase she thought nothing more of it and left the store.

She had prepared for this night like she had prepared for many other nights. She never did her selfbondage without clothing. To Kimberly, clothing was often more erotic than total nudity. She would usually would wear one of those skimpy little T-shirts and her daisy dukes. But other times, like tonight, she would wear a bra and panties, usually one of the more frilly sets. Tonight her nipples, hardened from the eroticism of the moment, were pressing on the flimsy material of her bra. And her panties were already soaked, first from the crotch rope that she had added to the bondage, and to the vibrator that she called "the silver bullet" held inside her by the crotch rope.

She had, as before, sat down on the carpet in the center of the living room, after she had tied the crotch rope tightly; she then tied her ankles in a lotus position. At that moment, she slid the silver bullet inside her; that it went in easily told her that her mind had already begun to cause the reaction her body desired. The control mechanism was slid between her waist and the rope that was part of the crotch rope tie. Next came the posture collar. Yes, tonight was going to be the "complete treatment," as she often referred to it.

That, and several suggestions she had received from those unnamed individuals on the Net who found her online profile both a challenge and exciting. Selfbondage, her profile screamed, and always looking for a challenge.

Hanging from the collar, down her back, was a chain and her new handcuffs. The chain, also part of the items from her bondage toybox, was padlocked to both a silver link on the back of her posture collar and around the cuffs. She had to use a larger lock on the cuffs, since there was no chain between the cuffs. Rather, these were the new hinge-type cuffs, that folded and then opened, keeping the wrists in place. The cuffs hung at the center of her back, so that her elbows would be pointed outward from her back where her wrists were held fast by the metal toys.

Next came the head-harness ballgag. She would, later in the evening and into the morning, ask herself why she did that, why she had pulled it tighter than she ever had before. The ball was pulled deeper into her mouth; yet she still enjoying wrapping her lips around the bright red invader in her mouth.

Almost there, she had thought to herself. Almost there to the moments, perhaps even hours, of erotic bliss. As she usually did when she was using the handcuffs, she took hold of the key and tossed it over her should across the room. That meant that part of the challenge was finding the key.

One more addition to the selfbondage for tonight was a rope from the front of her posture collar to the rope around her ankles, pulled tight until she was sitting forward her upper body leaning forward, halfway down to her thighs. She was sure that she could still move and still roll onto her side for the key to the handcuffs.

Taking one long breath, and before she changed her mind for the night, she reached around behind her back, and with a degree of difficulty slid her right wrist into the cuff, and then her left wrist. While pressing the cold steel against her soft warm skin on her back, she heard the ratcheting sound as the cuffs tightened around her wrists.

It was an awkward position, her legs tied in a lotus position, her upper body leaning forward, and her wrists pulled up to the middle of her back, palm facing palm. It was then that it hit her, the difference in these handcuffs. Normally she could move her hands, and with her fingers feel the small hole for the key. These cuffs hand hinges, and severely limited any movement of her wrists. And it was also at that moment that the panic-induced orgasm, helped along by the silver bullet on its highest setting, hit her like a speeding locomotive. Hit her and kept on rolling, and rolling, and rolling.


Part II

Kimberly was unable to tell how long she had been sitting there. With her upper body pulled forward, and the posture collar around her neck, it was impossible for her to look up and over to see the clock on the wall across the room.

But she had another way of counting the time. Six. Six orgasms. Each one lasting longer than the one before it. The last two were caused by Kimberly trying to slide, or bounce, across the room to the location where she thought the key to the handcuffs would be. Each time that she would slide a little, and then try to bounce, to move in that direction, the silver bullet -- she swore that the little beast was acting on its own -- slid inside her, and each time it hit that special g-spot causing another volcanic eruption inside her.

Her body was now covered with perspiration. The carpet beneath her showed a trail of wetspot, even from her minimal movement. If she could talk she doubted if she could say more than small whimpering noises. On the last orgasm, her mind began to fade, to go to that special place where a woman's mind travels when she is once again getting hit by that orgasmic locomotive, rolling through her body. It was only through intense concentration that she could still focus on what was of ultimate importance: her freedom from this self-imposed bondage before her roommate returned home from work. When she really focused on it, her roommate's return was not of such importance, her freedom was what mattered most to her at that moment.

As she worked her way to her seventh orgasm, again caused by the sliding and bouncing and her now overactive imagination, she was sure that she heard the apartment door open. No, she thought, it was too early for her roommate to be coming home. It was dark outside; it was not even close to being dawn. Those thoughts, the imagined person now in the room looking at her bound and helpless form, pushed her into Number Seven. A sound that she had never heard before, almost a wailing not unlike that of a small animal caught in a trap, escaped from around the oversized ballgag, as Kimberly shook her head -- even the small amount permitted by the posture collar. No, she thought, in the last lucid moment, I cannot take any more of these, I cannot handle another orgasm.

As she regained her conscious state -- she had no idea how long it had been since Number Seven slammed through her body -- she thought for a moment, hoped, prayed, that it was all a dream. Yet the aching in her wrists and upper arms, the stiffness in her jaw from the oversized ballgag, brought her back to reality. As her eyes began to again focus, she looked down and realized that she had moved little more than a foot from where she began. All of that effort, sliding, bouncing, willing her body to move towards the other side of the room where the handcuff key awaited her, showed so little progress. And when she did get there, how was she to remove the metal restraints, the handcuffs, from around her wrists? The hinged design permitted little movement, and as she thought about it she was not even sure whether the keyhole was pointed down, where her fingers could perhaps push the key into the lock, or pointed upwards, where there would be no hope of escape. She had been so eager to try her new toy that she had not taken this most important precaution, ensuring that the keyhole was accessible.

It was somewhere after Number Seven that her mind began to play more games with her. She was not in self-imposed bondage. No, she had been captured, had been taken off of the street to a strange location, stripped of her clothing except for her bra and panties and placed in what she was beginning to believe was inescapable bondage. And then left alone to spend countless hours in blissful torment. But she was a strong girl, emotionally if not physically. She would escape her captors. With that feeling growing inside her body, she began to do everything she could to move, bounce, slide, to gain her freedom. In one nearly Herculean effort, she pulled back with all the muscles she had in her back and began to lift her leg legs up off of the floor.

Nnnnnnnooooooooooooo, she heard her mind saying to her, in what small part of it could still think logically and rationally, no, don't do that. If you end up on your back, you will push on your arms and your wrists and push even tighter on the handcuffs. It seemed like hours, but she knew that it was at most seconds that she balance on her buttcheeks, trying to stop the backwards movement. Her mind again raced to will her body to slide forward. And after what seemed like an eternity of her balancing act, her knees slammed forward, hitting the ground, and jerking forward on her posture collar, pulling her upper body back down.

It was then that the ringing phone startled her, bringing her even more into the reality of the situation. "Hi, Kimmie" said the voice on the answering machine, the voice she immediately recognized as her roommate. "I guess you're asleep already. Paul asked me to go away with him for the day, so when I'm done with work I'm going his place, catch a few hours sleep, and then he and I will be spending the day together. I'm also taking off from work, so I'll see you tomorrow morning. Buh bye."

It was at that moment that Number Eight hit.


Part III

She wasn't sure which brought her back into a state a semi-consciousness, the light shining in through the window or the sound of the telephone ringing, piercing the otherwise quite room

It was at the same time she realized that she must have passed out from the strain and exhaustion of the almost constant orgasms. She would have liked to have thought that she had fallen asleep, but the buzzing sound and the vibrations inside her quickly convinced her that it was not sleep. If she could have spoken at that moment she would beg for that silver invader to stop, to move no more, for the batteries to stop their work. She would actually beg for the orgasms to stop. She had never experienced that feeling before; in her love life she always craved that one more orgasm. But not this morning.

And the phone. There it was, up on the counter, barely halfway across the room. But it could have been a million miles away. The bondage had done its work, kept her restrained, both inescapable and immobile. The cramps, the muscle strain, had set in. Movement was now only a dream. There she sat, her legs in the lotus position, her upper body bent forward, and her arms restrained at the middle of her back in the metal cuffs.

Then there was the voice on the answering machine, this time a different voice. "Hi, Kimberly, this is Brad" said the disembodied voice. "You don't know me, but I sold you those handcuffs. And I'm betting that you don't have a cop boyfriend."

With renewed energy, Kimberly began making any noise that she could around the ballgag. Her lips, almost parched from spending the night around the rubber ball, could barely move. But they did move enough for the sound to come out, the pleading sound, as if she could answer him, to beg him to come and rescue her.

"I'm really not sure how to say this," the voice continued, "but I am betting that you like something like, well, being tied. It's actually called bondage. From the look in your eyes I could tell."

Tell what, she thought. Tell that she was now a totally helpless young lady, bound at her own hands. Was that the look in her eyes?

"I'd like to meet you sometime, so please call me at BEEEEEEEEEEP."

It was then that the total frustration really hit her. The machine ended before he could leave a phone number. But even that was not important at that moment. The machine cut him off before she could even think about somehow getting her body over to the phone, pulling down on the cord, and at least making some sound that he would recognize as her pleading.

She didn't care if he saw her perspiration-covered body, the stain on the rug from the countless orgasms or anything. She just wanted to be free of the bonds. At that moment she did not care if she was on the 11 PM news, bound the way she was, if it meant her freedom, her release.

It was then that she again started bouncing, the strained muscles still able to lift her legs and her butt, though only one side at a time. Bouncing and screaming, though the noise was little more than a muffled sound. And it was then that the silver bullet again slid to that spot, and the train, still on the tracks, rammed into her body.


Part IV

Normally an itch is not an earth shattering event or even that bothersome. That is unless the itch is on your nose and you can neither touch your nose nor rub it against anything. That is what was driving Kimberly towards her latest battle with insanity. It had been almost twelve hours, as best she could estimate, since she snapped the metal handcuffs around her wrists. Twelve, long, mind-and-body-bending hours. She was sure of that because of the position of the sun, outside her window, and its path across her bound body. And now her nose itched.

There was nothing she could do about it. She could not bend forward any further, her back muscles having frozen her body into its current position. And her hands being free, that was, in Kimberly's mind, almost an impossibility. She was not sure if she would ever be free. Her mind, first driven to the state of unconsciousness by the orgasms, was now telling her that she would spend the rest of eternity in this position, that she had entered through the gates of hell, and this was her damnation. All now because of a nose itch. She swore that should she ever be released from this position -- she had long ago given up the thought of escape on her own -- she would never again play these self-bondage games.

Maybe it wasn't an itch. Maybe it was perspiration, from the hours of orgasms or from the sun beating down on her body, locked into its position on the floor.

And then there was that noise. She could not look behind her to tell her what it was. The position of her body and the posture collar had long ago prevented her from turning her head in that direction. It seems like it had gone on for hours, but with her mind in the state of exhaustion that it was, it could have been as little as a few minutes.

It was then that her mind nearly exploded, the sound next to her ear causing her to go into something that she would later describe as a combination of panic and shock. And it was at that point that she thought everything shut down, her mind and her body.

It would be several hours later that she would awake, her first reaction was to stretch her arms and legs. Wait, her mind screamed, she was laying in a bed, her own bed, stretching her arms and legs. How? She remembered nothing except her last position of sitting on the floor, her body aching, the sexual stimulation of the position long gone as the batteries powering the silver bullet had given up the ghost.

And then she heard it, a noise, that noise, someone else in the room, breathing. As she slowly and carefully opened her eyes, she looked to the left in the direction of the sound and gave her eyes a few moments to focus, then she saw it. Actually, not it, but him, her apparent savior. Brad, from the store, the voice she heard on the answering machine in what seemed like centuries ago.

She was still sore, her muscles still aching from their eternity in bondage. But she began to relax as she listened to him tell the story of her rescue. "After the phone call" he began, "I thought I would walk over and see if you were outside or anything like that. Thankfully, you have a first floor apartment. Okay, so I should not have looked in the window like I did, but you should not have kept the drapes open."

He had seen her body in bondage. Recognizing the cuffs, he guessed that the bondage was self-imposed. But it did not look right, something looked desperately wrong. After tapping on the window several times -- as she thought, she now recalled that sound -- and getting no reaction from her, he went to the door and, after what also seemed like him to be an eternity, he managed to pick the lock on the front door and let himself in. Thankfully, in an oversight that had perhaps saved her complete sanity -- Kimberly had not locked the door with the deadbolt lock. Only for that reason, was Brad able to use his skills to open the door, come into the room, free her body and carry her into the bedroom. One day she would ask him about those skills he used to get into her apartment, but today was not the day. Instead, Kimberly would enjoy the time under the warm covers of her bed.

"And no more self-bondage, young lady," he said, in a stern voice that even surprised her. "From now on, if you want to be tied, I will do it for you. Understood?"

As she slowly nodded her head in agreement, she again drifted off to sleep, to dream of the many days, and nights, that they would spend together.