Author's Note: The story is based on a true bondage session and therefore it is safe to say that any resemblance to a living person is entirely intentional.


You would never suspect it if you saw her at the shopping centre. She would probably seem to you like the soccer mum of the month. One could imagine her standing in front of the cooker while preparing a meal for her family consisting of a husband and the proverbial 2.3 children. The dog would be in the garden waiting to be fed after the family had finished their dinner.
It's not like she was bad looking, but she was surely not one you'd turn your head to look at if you passed her on the street.

She did, however, have secrets or perhaps we should just call it "a secret life".

If you should happen to possess the gift of mind reading you'd be very surprised at what you percieved. You would see glimses of rope. Pain. Helplessness. Solitude. Dark rooms. Hunger for release. I'm sure you would be surprised and at the same time I'm sure you would feel yourself become aroused. Just as she was getting at the moment in her life where we join her...

She had a week of from work and she left home late friday with the last bus from her home town.

She had travelled alone to this site. First by bus and then on foot the last few miles and now she waited for the morning to begin and it being light enough to see what she was doing. The light summer dress had been disposed of and she was now waiting in her birthday suit. She was standing by a wall in a barn, her hands handcuffed behind her back. She could hear the slave trader coming back to prepare her for the next part of her ordeal. They would make sure she couldn't escape, but she was determined to give them a run for their money – so to speak.

Oh NO! There they were. Two big men and a woman and they set to work tying her up while they joked amongst themselves on this particularly wicked tie they would be using.

Duct tape first.

The duct tape she used to create a pair of knickers and deny herself access to her smooth shaven pussy and not least, her clitoris. She used plenty of strips to make sure that all access was out of the question. In a weird way it felt naughty and exiting. The tape covered everything from her navel to the top of her buttocks and she did her best to smooth out crinkles. It looked sexy and she was glad that she had choosen the red duct tape. Even if she liked pain she also knew that duct tape tends to hurt a lot when removed from bare skin. The longer you wait the more it hurts. She had no idea how long this session would last. So she had taken the precaution to use a plastic bag as a layer underneath the duct tape. Two holes for the legs and then the knickers were created on top. She carefully folded any loose ends in and taped them over so that it looked like all she wore was red tape.

When she applied the tape she had left a small opening for peeing and a bigger opening for "number two". The small opening was not big enough to "fiddle" through and the other opening was off limits anyway. She had always been disgusted by the thought of anal sex and anal play.

She admired her handywork. While the style of the knickers were that of "granny knickers", they looked and felt much better than her best lingerie. Running her hands over the smooth tape made her feel hot and bothered. Better keep hands and fingers off and get on with the next part.

The slave trader woman commented on the red knickers and said that they were sure to prevent this little cunt any way to pleasure herself. The men laughed.

She had thought long and hard about how to include her minimal breasts in the bondage session. Having such small breasts were a drag. She couldn't tie them, couldn't lave them hanging (they wouldn't hang however much she tried). So after searching the net for good ways to apply breast bondage, it seemed that A-cups only allowed for strick tie around the torso or (and?) mistreating her nipples. Again there was a problem. Her nipples were rather flat and she could hardly get them to stand out when she tried to arouse them. Bugger!

She ended up using the duct tape around her torso in such a way that the nipples got squeezed out through holes in the tape. Almost as good as the now famous "pencil eraser nipples". Now her nipples (or at least the part of the breasts where the nipples were) stuck out a good half inch. That would work. She didn't bother with a plastic bag this time. Her upper torso was nowhere as sensitive as the soft skin of her sex. She thought of the torture the nipples would receive on the second part of her journey and it made her shudder and she felt her pussy contract slightly. There wasn't really room to contract very much stuffed as she was. Delicious. And the pain when she eventually got to remove the tape. She moaned and quickly continued with the task at hand.

The female slavet trader flicked her protruding nipples. To get her attention? Or just because she liked it? But our helpless victim was most uncomfortable with a woman tuching her. She felt violated. Humiliated.

Her tie would be simple, but Oh so effective. She had exchanged the handcuffs for some home made leather strips cut from a heavy duty belt just long enough to circle each wrist and be fastened with a padlock for each cuff. The keys were at a clearing a 2 miles into the forest which started a mile away across the fields. Phew. This was going to be a challenge.

She had another strip of the same belt that was measured to fit around her ankles. The key for that padlock was not that far away, but she was sure that it would feel as if it was a long way.

She sat on her knees by the wall of the barn and crossed one ankle across the other. She quickly wrapped the belt around her ankles and locked it in place with the padlock. It was now very difficult to get of without the key and to make it just that bit more difficult she used a heavy duty zip tie to bring the belt together in the middle. Now it was almost like a figure eight leather cuff holding her ankles rather tight. A chain was locked on her ankles by way of yet another two padlocks. The chain left about a foot of free chain when locked in place. It would do nicely as a hobble.

Next stage was to secure her ankles towards her buttocks. This she achieved by wrapping a doubled piece of rope around her waist. She tied a knot in the front and led the loose ends between her legs, around her ankles and back to the front where she tied a knot. The loose ends she cut to leave only an inch which she then secured to the waist rope with zip ties. There was no way she could loosen the knot with her fingers. She started to breathe heavily as her ties became strickter. Again she felt for her clitoris and could feel the smooth tape blocking her way. If she strummed the clitoris?

The female slave trader ran her hands across the red tape knickers and paid special attention to the area between the legs and, of course, the clitoris. (Why was it only the female slave trader that fondled her?)

Our victim wasn't a lesbian, indeed she considered herself far from it, but somehow most of her violators in the past sessions had been women.

Ahhhh! She nearly came and removed her hands before the impending orgasm would spoil her whole session. She was acutely aware that she had to get to the clearing to get the ankles freed and it would be a painful ordeal even tied like this. In fact she relied on her sexual arousal to be able to stand the discomfort and pain she would encounter.

Now there was only one more thing to do before she could embark on her journey. She drank from a bottle and emptied it. It would be a while before she would get a chance to drink again. There would be no food until she was home again. She didn't fancy the thought of doing "number two" through the hole in her new knickers. She was sure it would be disgusting.

She leaned against the barn wall and brought her hands to her back. She struggled a bit but eventually succeeded in closing the last padlock through the two padlocks on her wrist cuffs and around two of the four strands of rope from her ankles, between her legs to her waist line. The clicking sound was terrifying as well as intoxicating. This was it. No way back. She had to finish the trip or die trying.

Well actually dying wasn't really neccessary. She could always try crying for help. This was the very reason she had opted not to use a gag. She might end up having to call for help. Not that there were many people travelling these parts, after all that was why she choose this location, but it was a last chance if she failed in reaching the forest and the uncertainty of when any help would arrive was just another turn on.

The three slave traders congratulated each other on a job well done and told her that they would return later to take her to the market. The female slave trader fondled the protruding nipples, pinched them and told our victim that she hoped the waiting would be fun.

She leaned against the wall and tried to visualize the route she had to take. If she thrust her breast out she could feel her nipples brush against the wall and she felt another rush while she though about the weeks she had planned this venture. Hopefully it would be as fun as she had imagined. When she scouted out the route it had taken her about two hours on foot to reach the forest and place the keyes in the clearing. This time the trip would be longer and harder.
She felt her nipples fill with blood and try to stand out. Her sex was getting wet. She decided that staying in the barn would only prolong the session and since she didn't have a clue as to how long this would take, she had better move.

She walked akwardly on her knees while she used the wall for support. It was not easy but she would manage OK.

For some reason known only to them, the slave traders had left the door to her cell open. This was it. Her one and only chance of escape. Now she had to hurry.

After a few minutes she reached the open barn door and peeked out. There didn't seem to be any people around. Not that she expected anyone, but she was naked apart from her duct tape bikini and she was tied up. There was no way she could fend of a determined assailant.

As it happens she was alone apart from the birds singing their tiny heads of. They were shouting for all to hear: "Look at her. Look at her. She is a pervert."

She walked on her knees onto the gravel in front of the door. The field was less than a hundred yards away. She managed about three steps before she lost balance and fell flat on her chest. She turned her head in time so she didn't bash her teeth out. But it still hurt.

This was it. Real bondage. The stricktest she had ever tried. Not the tightest, but there was no way she could move in a natural way and there was no way she could get free until she reached the clearing.

There was no backup release. This is how she wanted it. She knew it would hurt getting to the keys, but that was part of the thrill. She would probably end up hating it, but the memories would be extraordinary.

Getting back up on her knees was not possible and even if it were she wouldn't be able to hold her balance for long. So she had to crawl like a snake without the use of her legs and arms.

She very soon figured out that the only way to move, when you are tied like that is to wriggle your way along using the knees and shoulders as pivot points. It took her only five yards to realize that it would be very painful.

She cursed her decission to let her nipples poke out through the holes in the duct tape. After another ten yards she was panting and ready to give up the whole thing. This was how it often went with her bondage sessions. She made them hard and painful and she wanted to give up early. But just as hard and painful was the fact that she had managed to make the giving up a non-option. She knew that nobody would hear her, not until she was getting to the clearing which was very close to a public path, so she persevered. Once she reached the field and the key to the padlock holding the ankle belt in place it would be less of a problem.

So she crawled. Her nipples burned and her shoulders were sore. Her knees felt like as if she wa kneeling in a cat litter box. Only time would tell how much more pain she would feel. Progress was much slower than she had hoped for and the slow progress made it a very risky crawl. No doubt the chances of someone turning up was higher than she....! WHAT WAS THAT? Did she hear a car slowly coming up the gravel track to the barn? She frantically tried to crawl faster, but it only hurt more and more. Her nipples felt like they were being ripped from her breasts. She stopped crawling and resinged to her fate.

She heard them coming for her. They had discovered her escape and they were now determined to get her back before she could call the police. They ran through the building shouting and making a lot of noise. The female slave trader called out; "Come back. We are hundreds of miles from the town and you will die in the desert. We'll let you go if you wish."

Our victim quickly crawled towards a bunch of crates left in the courtyard. She hid behind them. Trembling, she waited. Her captors looked for her and even looked in the direction of the crates. Somehow they thought that she was free and running. There was no reason to belive that she was still this close.

She heard their voices fade away as they searched on the other side of the building and down the road.

After her breathing eased and she calmed down, she realized that no car was coming up the track. She was spooked by her fears.

So she crawled some more. It was slow progress and each time she had to swing her legs however short a distance, she felt the rope between her legs against her clitoris. There was no doubt about it. Not only did she feel stuffed, but she also felt an increasing wetness and her breathing was not only laboured because of the strain.

The sun was burning in the sky and she thought more than once that she had been foolish not to use any sun block – or insect repellant.

She crawled and crawled and crawled. And she reached the edge of the field and the first key was at hand – so to speak. She fumbled with the key. Dropped it. Couldn't find it. Found it again and finally managed to unlock the padlock that held her ankles pressed firmly to her butt.

She streched her legs with a sigh and almost screamed. The blood circulation must have been more restricted than she had planned and the blood rushing back through her veins was painfull. She just laid there hissing between clenched teeth and eventually the pain eased and she could concentrate on the feeling of triumph for getting this far. Her nipples did not participate in her joy and she squinted down at them. "Raw meat", was the words her mind came up with. It would take forever and a day for them to heal enough for her to play with them again. The pain was so intense that endorphins had stepped in and taken the top of it. She watched in fascination as flies buzzed around the nipples – obviously attracted by the smell of blood. She wondered if they would lay eggs in the raw flesh and if she would feel anything when they hatched. Wouldn't it be a fantastic feeling?

Since her wrist cuffs were locked to the ropes between her legs, there was no way she could reach up and brush the flies away. She could only move her hands about six inches before the rope tightened on her clitoris. Uhhhhm! That felt good and she became lost in that feeling. NO! She had to finish the whole bondage session before she was allowed to have an orgasm.

The next part of this bondage session was to reach the keys for the padlocks on her leather wrist cuffs. That would be easy compared to the first 100 yards she thought. As it happens it turned out to be somewhat difficult to walk in a field while having the ankles hobbled. She had no idea what the crop was, but she had chosen this trip partly because the crop would be tall enough to conceal her should the need arise. She absently wondered if it was barley or wheat and laughed out loud when she realized that it made absolutely no difference whatsoever. It would still be a difficult trek.

After a while she developed a sort of sideways hopping gait. It must have looked funny and right out of Monty Pythons Flying Circus, but it was effective and she covered a lot of ground in a, relative, short time. By mid day she had arrived at the forest edge and she could search out the small path that would lead to the clearing. By now she needed a pee. Badly.

She sat down on her heels and felt the usual relief of starting to urinate. But something didn't go as expected. The pee didn't splash on the ground. Instead she felt the pee spread inside the red tape knickers. She couldn't stop peeing, the pressure was to great in her bladder. It was when the pee started to fill her up inside her sex, that she realized that although she had left a hole in her tape knickers, she had forgotten to make a hole in the plastic bag underneath. Now it was too late and she couldn't reach in to tear at the place where the hole should be. She felt herself filling up and overflow. The pee seeped around inside the plastic bag and soon her knickers were awash inside and she decided there and then, that no matter what she would NOT attempt a "number two".

She, a grown woman, had peed herself. It was so disgusting and she could feel her cheeks turning red. She felt very humiliated and shameful. She experimented with patting herself where she could reach on her red knickers, and it went squish squelch everywhere.

She could feel her inside sex expanding further by the amount of pee and it reminded her of the last part of her bondage session – the "getting home from the forest" bit. Not good.

Better hurry up and get to the clearing where her keys would set her free and allow her to remove the tape and clean up in a nearby stream.

By now she had forgotten all about the slave traders and there was no need to draw her attention to them.

She hurried along the narrow animal track and the chain between her ankles were only a minor inconvenience. The trip across the field had been good for learning an akward way of walking. But of course there would be problems along the way.
For one thing there is the inevitable fact that an animal trail isn't wide and comfortable to walk on and when it narrows to a small path that's where you'll find the nettles. This wasn't a problem when she last went this way. But then she was wearing trousers and hiking boots. Now, because of her hobble chain, she couldn't even walk around them by going through the undergrowth. The one redeaming part was that the chain allowed her to walk over the nettles without having them brush her inner sensitive thighs. This was however, no remedy for the nettles which brushed against her sides.

She quickly discovered that her sides above the bikini line were very sensitive – much more so than her outer thighs. Moving sideway was no option as her stomack and lower back were even more sensitive. She had almost forgotten her abused nipples but the nettles enticed her to experiment. It was as if they were talking to her; "Come closer. What lovely nipples you've got. Can we touch?". How could she refuse such a polite request?

So she obliged the nettles, panting and groaning while she was abused by the vicious plants. Sometimes she let a small scream find it's way across her lips, but not too loud. What if there was a hunter out in the forest who might hear her screams?

The slave traders were fooled only temporarily by their faulty logic. They soon realised that she had not run down the country road and were now following her trail across the field. They were in no hurry and had been back to the house for a change of clothes. Now they relied on the fact that they were sensibly dressed with hiking gear and as far as they knew their pray wasn't. One of them played the part of tracker and relished in his role while he explained the clues to the two others.

Our soccer mum kept on through the forest wearing her sexy bikini and soon enough she reached the clearing where she located her last keys. It was a struggle to get the wrist cuffs of. For some reason the key wouldn't slide into the padlock. It took a number of tries before she finally had one hand free. By then it was only a matter of minutes before she had the other padlocks opened. She was finally free from bondage and it was non too soon either. If she didn't hurry up she wouldn't catch the late bus back home.

Her stomack, lower back, thighs and nipples were itching terribly from the nettles and underneath her red tape knickers she was cold and wet - and itchy. While she could scratch her thighs and stomack she would have to remove her tape bikini before she could scratch the important parts.
The nipples were not really painful – they felt tingly if anything.

Biting your nails is never a good idea, and it does give the impression that you are less than interested in your general appearence. At a job interview nail biting is a minus, but in the forest wearing a duct tape bikini it is down right a considerably problem.

She tried again and again to get a hold of a tape end, so she could tear the tape of. She discovered two things while trying; One – duct tape is extremely durable especially when applied in several layers and Two – she couldn't get enough of a purchase to get it of.

CRAP!

She sat down and was getting very close to tears. While she might be very into humiliation it was only in private and she did not fancy catching the bus while wearing her red bikini. Walking back to the farm would gain her nothing.

The pain in her nipples seemed to grow as she lost the sexual arousal that had carried her this far. Gone were her imminent orgasm and gone were the slave traders. This was serious. If she didn't get the tape knickers of she couldn't catch the bus, she would be arrested trying to get home and her life would basically be over. Everyone would know about her perversion. Everyone would laugh. No-one would ever marry her.

There is an old saying that a naked woman can accomplice anything if she sets her mind to it. While she wasn't actually naked she certainly tried to be and her desperation was easily comparable to normal naked women's.
So she invented the stone knife. Well not exactly a knife but she did find a small stone that had a sufficiently sharp edge and she set about cutting of her duct tape bikini. While it might have been smartest to start with her bikini bottom, considering the itching, her modesty bade her wait as long as possible before she exposed her nether regions in their glory.

It is needless to say it, but I'll do it anyway. What she learned as a painful lesson was that the upper body is covered with small hair and the adhesive on duct tape is very strong. She actually tried to minimize the pain by pealing the tape of very slowly and we all know that this is not the way to do it. Best way is to tear as quick as one can to get it over and done with. Of course, with the pain involved it is sometimes difficult to think rationally, so she suffered the slow approach.

She trembled when she had finished with pulling of her bikini top. She was sweating and she was very very aroused. She probably wouldn't make another bikini top out of duct tape.

It was beginning to darken and she realized that she had better hurry up, if she didn't want to miss the bus home.

The red duct tape knickers were much easier to get of. Her fingers kept slipping on the wet plastic bag underneath the tape, but off it came.

When she again had access to her sex, she gently, very gently, slid her fingers across her clitoris which stood proud and swollen. She almost came and it was clearly with a great deal of selv control that she didn't climax.

She carefully opened the lips of her sex and stuck a thumb and a finger inside herself. She slowly extracted a piece of cloth which she pulled out very slowly while she moaned to herself in pleasure. More and more fabric was exposed this way and suddenly a small ball tumbled to the ground. On closer inspection we can see that in fact it was one of those plastic containers that kids get with a certain type of chocolate.

When she help up the piece of fabric it became clear that it wasn't just any piece of fabric. It was rather thin, whiteish and printed with big flowers in bright colours. As she straightened the fabric it became clear that it was in fact a dress. It was not just a dress, it was also rather damp and smelled like a public toilet. Her lovejuices were distinct as well. No doubt about that. We would be able to smell her at twenty paces up wind.

She took the dress and the plastic container and moved out of the clearing. She would come back later for her chains and padlocks. There were no way she could hide those on the bus. But first she wanted to rinse the dress and clean up a bit in a nearby stream. When she got to the stream all she could see was a muddy flat with an occasional shallow puddle of muddy water. We have to admit that she tried her best to clean the dress and herself, but honestly – it didn't help much. The muddy water stank of decaying matter and as to cleaning the dress it didn't work. The stench got slightly different but the dress was still wet and now it was also discoloured by mud.

Our soccer mum sat down and wept. This humiliation was just that bit too much. OH, she would be able to wear the dress as a secret token of how depraved she was, but on the bus? She was sure that she would rather die than do that.

The seconds ticked away at an alarmingly fast pace, and in the end she made up her mind. She stood up, slipped the dress on, gathered up the little plastic container and started out of the forest walking down a different path than she had taken to get to the clearing.

It only took her half an hour to get to the main road and another hour before the bus eventually turned up. By then her body heat had dried the dress and it now served as some protection against the weather.

The money retrieved from the plastic ball was just about enough to get a ticket to the town limit.
If the bus driver had any thoughts on why a plainly looking soccer mum would stand by the side of the road so far from the nearest town, she didn't comment on it.
She did however comment on the state of the dress and the stench. Our soccer mum had to plead to be allowed to stand by the open back door of the bus while it went on towards the town. The bus driver seemed to enjoy her distress.

Only her hints towards an abusive boyfriend who left her after a particularly viscious argument followed by physical abuse saved her.

Our soccer mum stood there by the open back door of the bus and the wind caught her dress and it kept on touching those places where it would remind her of her ordeal. Her nettle burned thighs, stomack and back. Her nipples carressed by stones and nettles alike and her shoulders and knees. They had bruises and scrapes from crawling in the farm yard. And they hurt.

The humiliation was burning her face and she wished that she could become invisible. Only a couple of people on the bus, but she was sure that they knew. And the shame made her feel aroused again. Surely they can smell it?

We leave our soccer mum here and wish her well on her next adventure into self bondage. While she might think now that this was too much and she will never do it again, we all know that once the bruises and scrapes heal, she will remember only the good parts.

The slave traders stood by the road and watched the bus as it disappeared in the distance. The bus number was clearly visible and there are only one route it takes – again and again. It should be possible to track her down...