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I have a right to march.  To express myself.   To disagree with their lying “alternate facts”.  And they want to make it illegal to protest?!

We were standing across from my Senator’s office, quietly holding signs.  Quite respectful signs, considering what he had just done.

Suddenly the cops were all around us.  On us.  Violently shoving people to the ground.  I yelled angrily as two burly guys grabbed me, dragged me down, hands grabbing where they shouldn’t.  One with a knee on my butt, his weight pinning me painfully against the concrete, knocking the wind out of me, while the other kelt astride my head, clamping it between his thighs as he twisted my arms behind my back and zip-tied my wrists.  Way too tightly, the hard plastic cutting into my skin.  I yelled.

Hauling me upright, another tie went around my elbows, pulling them together behind my back.  Way too much.  Shoulders burning.  Skin already abraded by hard plastic.  The two cops dragging me by my arms to a paddy wagon.  Ordered me to climb up into it, snickering as my butt wiggled.

Inside, I began protesting again as a young cop pushed me down onto a bench along the wall.  Hiked my skirt up and pulled a seat belt over my lap, his hands groping my bared thighs.  Tried to push between them even as I screamed and clenched my legs together.  Clicked the belt shut, then put his hand over my mouth and slammed my head back against the wall while his other hand felt me up.  

Only my legs were free, and I used them.  Came close to kneeing him good.  Kicked his shin.

Stepping out of range, he pulled another zip-tie from his belt.  “That the way you want to play it princess?”

Suddenly lunging for my legs, he stifled my attempts to kick.  Cinched the plastic viciously just below my knees.

Shoving my skirt up over my waist, his hands on my bare thighs, he leaned into my face. “No more of that PC crap, bitch,” he whispered.  “Things are going back the way they’re supposed to be.”  

His fingers slid up into my crotch, his thumbs digging into my soft flesh until I howled into his hand.

“Got it?”  he hissed, giving my thigh a squeeze so hard that tears welled in my eyes.  

I sat there trying not to cry while they rounded up eleven other girls.  Got them all strapped down on the benches.  Some zip-tied like me.  Some handcuffed.  One bound with straps.

All girls.  None of us “white”.  I shuddered with fear.

Finishing belting in the last girl, the cop stood and looked around at us all, making no effort to hide his tight little leering smile.  As he walked down the aisle, he spread his arms wide so his hands brushed slowly across our breasts.  And there wasn’t a damn thing we could do about it.

“Eeney, meeny, miney, mo,” he chanted, squeezing a tit with each word.  “Catch a beaner by the toe.  If she hollers . . .fuck her!”  He gave a barking laugh and jumped out, slamming the door.

They took us somewhere.  Dragged us out of the van and inside the building.  The tie around my knees pulling one leg in front of the other, making it almost impossible to walk.  Though their hands “encouraged” me.

Our shoes were removed “for our own safety”, the concrete cold on my squirming feet.  Leading us one by one through a room full of men, we were made to stand and be patted down.  Very thoroughly.  Like being strip-searched with your clothes on.  Turned around like slaves at auction so everybody could see what our bodies looked like.  Extremely degrading.  I complained, in as calm a voice as I could muster, that the plastic bands were hurting me, that i could barely feel my hands, but all I got were catcalls and lewd comments.

Then we were brought down here to a holding cell and forced to sit on the heavy wooden benches with our arms hung over the backs.  Another zip-tie from our wrists was attached to something behind the bench, stretching our arms down.  We weren’t going anywhere.  Painfully.

Once we were all helpless, the cops left, and we could see them talking in a group, apparently having an argument.

“This sucks,” one girl said.

“My arms are killing me.” This from the big black girl whose arms were strapped together.

I said, “I don’t know how long I can take this.”  Summoning courage I didn’t have, I yelled out, “HEY!  YOU CAN’T DO THIS!  WE HAVE RIGHTS!  Come on, girls, let’s all yell.”

“That’s right, sister,” someone said.  But no one joined me in yelling.

I was still at it when they came back in.  Three beefy guys.  I remembered to look for their shield numbers so I could sue later.  Realized with a sickening feeling that the shields were all taped over.  No numbers.  They were coming for us.

They headed right at me.  One behind grabbed my hair, his meaty fingers tugging it back like he was trying to pull it out by the roots. Wrenching my head back.  One of the two in front clamped his paws around neck.

I screamed for real, scared to death.  Hands shoved something into my mouth, something that wedged back between my teeth, holding my mouth open, lips stretched in a giant O, my screams guttural squawks. Until he began pushing some cloth into my mouth.

I squirmed and jerked like.a crazy person, but they were too strong for me.  And the hands tightened around my neck, the blood pumping hard in my head.  Dizziness like a fog.  

Maybe I blacked out for a moment, because the next thing I knew they were slapping duct tape over my mouth.  My very full mouth.  

My choking squeals made them laugh.

“The bitch likes it!” one said.

“Of course,” another one added.  “They like having their mouths full.  Don't matter with what!”  More snickers.

One put his hand on my blouse as if to rip if open.

“Hey. Hey.” one yelled. “No ripping.  No evidence, know what I mean?”

“EXCUSE me,” the other one said, carefully unbuttoning my blouse.  Smirking as my breasts pushed out into his hands.  I shook for all I was worth, but he just laughed, pumping away on my round flesh as the hard plastic burned into my wrists and arms.  I yelled and yelled some more, squealing like a pig into the gag.

Suddenly the guy behind me looped something around my head.  Some kind of cloth.  Started wrapping it around and around.  Tightly.  Pulling my cheeks in.  Pressing the gag cloth deeper into my mouth.  Starting to choke me.  I howled desperately.

“Mouthy meat hole, ain’t it.  Wrap another one over her eyes and nose.  So we can get started.”

*     *     *

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How long have I been waiting here?

Long enough that my wrists are already sore, even though I’ve been trying not to yank against the ropes that pin my hands behind me.  And growing rapidly more painful as I twist, trying to find a more comfortable position.  Or when they grope my all too available flesh.

Then there are the other ropes, the ones that keep my legs pulled up, leaving me no way to stand, to try and get away.  Not that I could, with all of them just outside, but I would certainly like to try.  And the single one around my neck, loose enough not to choke, but holding me fast all the same.

I know this game, and I don’t like it.

They come, singly or in couples, into the room where I'm being held.  Close the door to start their time alone with me.  No, not me.  Just some zaftig girl yanked off the street.  Not even a girl.  Just a body, a very female body.  One that they will get to play with if their idea is sick enough or painful enough to beat out the other ideas.  No pun.

The couples aren't so bad, whispering to each other intensely, the women often staring wide eyed, perhaps wanting to be in my place, perhaps just wanting my body.  Eyes full of lust or envious anger, I can't tell which.

I fear the single men who come knowing that this may be the only time they get to use this body, their one miserable idea to penetrate me as often as possible in as many orifices as possible.  An idea they’ll never get to carry out.  But still I fear their hands, their grabbing, squeezing, pinching hands.  Hands that make me bleat muffled grunts of protest as they use me in spite of the rules.  

Ah, the rules.  The rules are that they can’t actually do anything to me as long as I’m in here.  No actual cigarettes pressed against my big round mounds, for instance.  Though it’s clear what they have in mind.

Their hands are busy, teasing the bottoms of my bare feet with their nails until I writhe and squeak in protest.  Squeezing my thighs, the jeans preventing them from reaching my cunt.  Tugging my blouse up to assess the weight of my still bra-enclosed breasts.  Pinching my nostrils shut until my body shudders against the post and I keen desperately into the gag.

But now, out in the room, they're discussing the possibilities, each person advocating to be allowed to do their idea.  I can hear some of it, sickeningly.  Electrodes pushed into my nostrils?  Having a hairdryer held between my legs?  

Some even sound exciting - tied standing spreadeagled, impaled in my ass, with everyone licking me.  I could go for that, but it doesn't sound like they will.

Same standing spreadeagle but with an entire pack of burning cigarettes applied to my thighs.  Dragged hissing across the moist flesh between.  Please please God not that.

Trying to calm my pounding heart, I think that of course my Partner, my Mistress, is out there, and She will prevent them doing anything I really can't stand.  At least I hope so.  

And, as I hear more of their ideas, I pray. . . .

*     *     *

For the twentieth time, Sara tried unsuccessfully to pull her aching tongue out from under the cloth filling her mouth.

With her mouth stuffed, she could only breath through her nose - and that with difficulty, the little button squashed by the tight cloth bag that encased her head like a second skin. Preventing sight and all but guttural grunts.

Aside from the growing discomfort, it galled her that she couldn’t use her mind to think of a clever way to get free.  Her body was telling her - loud and clear - that it didn’t like being tied in this position.  And she wasn’t sure whether it was worse when they left her alone, like now, to be aware of all the little pains - in the corners of her jaw, and her wrists where the ropes chafed them together behind the pipe, and her knees, oh so tired of resting on the hard floor - or when they came back to her, their hands, and worse, on her body.

She always thought of her life as BB and AB - before boobs and after boobs. Before, she had been happy; after, perpetually embarrassed at how they stuck out, swaying and attracting vulgar attention, as if there were some kind of sexual spotlight on them that she couldn’t avoid.

She had tried wearing tight bras to flatten her mounds, but that - aside from being really uncomfortable - had made HER all too aware of them. Other times, she tried to hide by going braless and wearing oversized, drapey blouses or sweatshirts like the one she had on today. Or HAD had on. Although the bag kept her from seeing (which in an obscure way she was glad about) she was pretty sure that her sweatshirt had been pulled up over her head, leaving her flesh hanging out for all the world to see. Or handle, lift, slap, pinch, twist . . .

The other thing she tried was to wear pretty shoes.  Well, OK, attention-grabbing shoes like today’s heels, to make guys look down instead of up. She wasn’t sure how well this was working, but sometimes they made her feel a little better about herself.

It had all happened so suddenly. One minute she was standing with a group of friends shouting their protests, and then the cops are all over them. Someone grabbed her arms, twisting them behind her. Another cop was in front, raising something, and for a brief moment she could see a willowy blond, her head covered with a grey bag stretched tight over her face, being held by another cop.  Then something was forced over her own head and she couldn’t see anything.

She remembered screaming for help, her head shaking blindly. Then a hand grabbing her hair, wrenching her head back. As her mouth opened to scream again, the cloth had been stuffed into her mouth, between her teeth, stretching her lips wide. Then the bag was pulled down, covering her mouth and chin, the tight fabric sealing the cloth into her mouth.

In her terror, she almost hadn’t noticed the hands cupping her chest meats.  Jiggling them for a moment.

“Oh yeah, this one’ll do. Get her into the van.”  

*     *     *

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Mid winter, a good time for a party.  Mistress said we were going, so of course I dressed to dance and please.  Well, and to show myself off, too.

But when we got there, she tied me up, shoving a huge ballgag into my mouth before telling me I was to be a party favor.  THE party favor.

I can only stand here, moaning and wiggling as the guests start trying to figure out what all they can do with me.  To me.  What they can get away with.  Mistress watches lazily, paying more attention to her snickering girlfriends than to me, squirming in distress.

As their hands grope and squeeze, pull me into another room, away from Mistress, I shut my eyes and retreat into my head - not always a very pleasant place.  But I’m remembering my poor Mami, and her struggles to take care of me.  Of my being locked in the closet when I was little.  Told to keep silent while she . . . entertained . . . to keep a roof over our heads.  Pobrecita Mami.

And here I am, not so different.  Pobrecita yo.

*     *     *

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More of "Rented” here!

Today there must have been at least ten of them, and the “first round” had taken several hours - hours of humiliation and pain for the sweaty girl. Hours of being forced to kneel and work her way around the circle of laughing men, their cocks hanging voraciously, always ready for more. Her neck ached from having to throat their knobs vigorously or face yet another spanking on her already burning thighs.

And there was more coming. She could hear the men drinking and eating in the other room, boisterously talking about what they were going to do to her next – talk of rope, and straps to whip her already painfully sore flesh . It didn’t sounded good. In fact, it sounded a lot like torture.

*     *     *

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It was luck, really, that She was hanging there and not me.

When they made me strip, chuckling as I peeled off what little I had on, I was terrified that they were going to torture me.  She was, too, and put up a pretty good fight, considering She’s only 105 pounds and there were six of them.  A couple of them just held Her while another one stuffed Her mouth and taped it over.  Then returned to watching me get naked.

Oh, I stopped at all the usual places, protesting and crying until my mascara ran down my cheeks, but they just laughed.

“Off with the brassiere, puta.”  That kind of thing.

Forced to stand with my hands braced behind my head, my feet spread, nude to their hands “searching” me, playing with all my girlie bits.

But in the end, it was She that wound up on the parrot’s perch, ankles and wrists lashed, a tie that looks so simple but is in fact terrible to endure minute after minute, the bar digging into the backs of your knees, your neck tiring quickly from trying to hold the head up.

As She watches, helpless to intervene, my wrists too are lashed together in front of me.  Another rope cinches in my waist painfully, knotted in front and brought down between my legs and up in the back.  Pulled up to a pulley.  Forcing me to stand almost touching my Partner’s weaving butt.  Hoisted slowly, the rough hemp sinking into my girl slit even as I writhe and go up on my toes trying to reduce the burning pressure.  But they raise it still more, until my straining feet can just toe the floor.  

Hands pull my head back, and a long strip of cloth is slowly worked into my mouth, puffing my cheeks out and stretching my jaw open, clear plastic tape scritching off the roll and wound around and around, compressing the cloth until it presses into my throat.  I choke, and the tears well in my eyes.  Choke some more.

A pair of scissors is pressed into my wavering hands.

“Cut her open, puta.”

“Yeah, strip her down, you slimy cunt.”

I can’t do it.  Turn what little I can, imploring them with my dark, teary eyes.  A man laughs.  Something hard presses against my ass and there’s a burning sensation so fierce that my legs wobble and shake, dropping my weight onto the crotch rope.  I howl into the packed gag, but before I can even suck in another breath a shock sears my other ass cheek.  I hang on the crotch rope, my legs limp and quivering, unable to bear the roughness cutting up into my crotch, but unable to lift myself up.

The hard thing presses up again, ruthlessly, between my shuddering thighs, jamming all too hard against my exposed flesh, and another horrible bolt of fire explodes, searing my moist flesh with a faint hissing sound.  I writhe, hanging on the rope, unable to breath or hold myself upright.

One of them pulls me up, wraps turns of rope around my neck and the suspension rope so I hang there by my neck and crotch, tears sliding wetly down my cheeks and dripping onto my breasts.

“Leave’em there,” one says.  “She’ll do it eventually.”

*     *     *

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I was promised something additional for tonight’s punishment, but of course She didn’t tell me what it would be.

I quit writing early to get ready, hoping She wouldn’t notice.  I chose a form-fitting blue top that, while revealing, could also be pushed up easily if She was inclined to punish my top-meat. Below that, in keeping with my bad-girl behavior, I had an extremely short, leopard-print skirt that was slit almost all the way up.  Now, normally the slit is supposed to go on the side, but I twisted the skirt round until the slit was perfectly lined up with . . . well, mine.

Slinky fishnet stockings that ended mid-thigh cased my legs, and of course hooker heels that make my hips jiggle when I walk.

Fully an hour before I expected Her home, I began getting into position.  First, I ran a belt around and around my ankles, buckling it loosely.  I then tied cord around the belt between my ankles, cinching it down until the leather gripped my ankles - not pleasantly, but bearable (I hoped). And making it very difficult to move around, should I wish (or need) to.

A leather collar went around my neck, buckled loosely enough that I could breath - a little.  Knowing that one of the first things She’d do would be to tighten it until my face flushed a nice shade of pink and my breathing got scared and raspy as the leather bit into my throat.

Inspired, I hung two nipple clamps from the collar, though I didn’t put them on.  For one thing, I didn’t know how long I would have to wait for Her to come home.  And for another I hate them because they HURT.

In back, a pair of handcuffs hung from the collar, waiting.

Finally I gagged myself.  This took a bit of time, because I wanted to pack my mouth nice and full but leave the gag neat and flush with my lips.  My punishment position is in front of a large mirror, so I don’t have to miss anything She chooses to do - assuming I’m not blindfolded.  I used some of my panties that I knew She would recognize - and maybe give me credit. They weren’t just thongs, and filled my mouth snugly, puffing my cheeks out where I pushed them between my teeth.  Tickling the back of my throat rather more than I would have liked.

The last step was to reach back behind myself and grab the cuffs.  People make this look easy, but it isn’t.  The first wrist goes right in, but then you have to wrench your own arm up in order to let the second cuff drop low enough to reach it.  This took some finagling (not to mention cursing) and many tries before I got the cuff on my wrist and clicked it home.

Only to realize that I had hooked it too high on the collar, so my arms were twisted uncomfortably high behind my back.  Where they would stay until She released me.

And then I waited.  And waited, my strained arm muscles twisting uncomfortably.  Standing on my heels, without the use of my arms to help balance, I had to squirm for balance every few seconds, quickly tiring my legs.

By the time I heard the door, my legs were shaking with fatigue, the sweat filming my belly.  As usual, She paid no attention to me, but headed for the kitchen.  I may even have groaned at Her, because I heard Her say sharply, “What’s that you said?!”

I could hear Her getting a drink, and realized that my mouth was dry as a brick.  Possibly I started to snuffle.  She went into the bedroom and did something, finally coming out with just Her shirt on, panties in hand.  Moving behind me, She put Her arms around me, and I leaned back against Her strong body thankfully.

“No, no,” She said sternly, “No leaning.”  So I struggled to stay upright as her hands pulled my skirt open, baring my puffy, glistening girl parts to the mirror.  I thought She might have decided to do me nicely, and I almost swooned, but was jerked upright by Her forcing the panties between my legs, then, with one hand in front and one in back, She sawed them up into me, pulling them back and forth.  

“You know, babe,” She drawled, still raking the cloth across me, “It’s been a hell of a hot day, and I must have sweated a TON.  So I’m gonna let you know what that’s like.”

Her panties went over my head easily, the smell unmistakable and pungent as she adjusted them over my nose, then did something in back that pulled them snug.  The nose hook was a nasty surprise.  Not only does it pull on a girl’s nose uncomfortably, but in this case it forced the fetid cloth right inside my nostrils, both intensifying the smell and making it difficult to breath. I could feel myself starting to hyperventilate, my chest heaving as she tightened the hook cord behind my head.  Tried to calm down so I wouldn’t pass out.  Almost didn’t notice her pushing my shirt up, baring my girls.

Her fingers circled my dark, sensitive nubs, making me watch in the mirror as She teased them into stiffness. I wiggled and jerked, my heavy round meat bouncing from side to side nervously.

Knowing what was coming.

*     *     *

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“Are you sure?” he had said before clicking the handcuffs around my wrists.

“Yes”, I said, my voice shaking only a little.

“Are you sure?” he had said before filling my mouth with the scarf.

“Yes,” I had said, excitement overcoming my fears.

His fingers worked the scarf in between my teeth, spreading my mouth open, making me feel even more vulnerable.

“Now,” he said.  “I’m going to put a muzzle on you, and once I do that there is no going back.  Are you OK with that?”

“ESH” I said, grunting through the cloth.

“Just to be sure, please nod your head for yes or no.”

I nodded yes.

He hand lifted my chin gently, and he patted my cheek.

“Good girl,” he said.  Was it my imagination, or was his voice a tiny bit harder now?

And then I turned.

And saw, really saw, the table.  The table covered with implements - chains and manacles to hold me.  Things to invade my holes. To beat me.  Short whips, long whips, whips with one strand and whips with many, whips of leather, of wire, plastic tubing, electro-shock boxes, a prod, a taser.

OR

My Partner, my lover, standing there, several thick hanks of rope hanging from one hand, a big dildo vibrator in the other.  Staring at me with half-closed eyes as she pushed the vibrator up into her crotch, riding it.  

OR

The door slamming open, the raucous biker chicks stalking in.  Lots of black leather, some bustiers, one supporting some truly massive breasts above equally massive hips.  Whistling at me, making lewd comments and laughing at what they planned to do to me.  How long I could hold out before breaking down in tears?

What have I gotten myself into?

*     *     *

The girls in the office have to come dressed for work.  

And I don’t mean being a secretary, either.

While waiting her turn, a girl has to do something useful, such as filing or light typing. Just nothing that will crack her nails or make her sweat.  The sweating part comes later.

Amanda here is a new girl - business is booming, so there are a lot of them - and hasn’t quite learned the ropes yet.  But she will, she will!  In the meantime, a light gag and some handcuffs is all she is allowed.

They show off her sleek, stockinged legs quite well, though, don’t they?  Especially when she’s ordered to stand and bend over her desk for an “inspection”.

Want to come work for us?

*     *     *

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Interrogation Room

Somewhere behind her, very far away, it seemed, the student’s frayed wrists tugged uselessly against the ropes as their hands squeezed and probed her body.  The last of the water - mixed with her tears - dripped slowly from her chin, each droplet pointing out a bit of exposed, sore flesh.

Her breathing came in ragged snorts, alternately trying to blow the water out and suck precious air in.

A hand burrows into her hair, wrenches her head back.

“You don’ wanna talk, hunh puta?”

A hand clamps down on her protruding chest flesh, and whimpers ooze around the gag.

“You like maybe better the cigarillo, hey?” The fingers tease circles around her left tip, indicating where a small, burning ash might be applied.

“Or perhaps the shocks?” Brutal hands crush and tug her meat flaps apart so that something large and metallic, too large, way too large, can be pounded against her until the tip sinks in, then be twisted and shoved until it fills her, seemingly pushing a long, muffled groan out through the wet cloth above. Her trim leg muscles heave and thrash futilely against the dark old straps securing them.

Hands again seize her head, straining against them in despair as the little hose once again directs a spray of water at her waiting nostrils.

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That uncomfortable moment when you realize your Mistress has something ELSE in mind for you.

My mouth makes muffled noises through the gag as She leaves the room.  Returns with a chair.  Places it carefully in front of me.  Leaves again.

I don't get it.  It's not a chair she usually ties me to, and besides, I'm already bound to the heavy beam, arms wrenched into a hard X behind my back and cinched to the ropes cutting into my belly. My legs squirm freely beneath the short, pleated skirt, bare feet nervously feeling the hard floor.  Waiting their turn to be tied.  Or not.

She comes back with another chair.  Places it next to the first one.  Smirks a little at me as if that would help me understand.  Leaves again.

More chairs, carefully arranged in a semi-circle facing me.  I catch on.  She’s having Her friends over to watch.  To sit there making snarky comments as She does things to me while I writhe and miew helplessly.  I can see them already.  There’s that slim dirty blond who always wears jeans.  She'll stare at my crotch the whole time, her own hand shoved between her legs.  Then there’ll be the two chunky brunettes with their matching boots, guffawing at my misery and high fiving each other when I make particularly pitiful noises.

Let me see, who else?  Oh, no!   I hope She hasn’t invited that big girl, Nancy something, the one with the huge arms and boobs.  The one I keep fearing She has a crush on.  It would be just TOO embarrassing to see Her looking at Nancy while working on me.  As if daring Nancy to let Her do it to her, too.

The ropes binding my neck to the beam are chafing already.  To say nothing of half choking me.  Pinning my head so I won’t be able to turn away from them.  Already I can imagine them laughing at my struggling efforts, my nasal panting, the tears filling my eyes.  Them egging her on to tie my breasts tighter, to wrench my little lips apart and use the pussy whip on me.  Already my stomach is churning nervously.

And I can't figure out why five chairs.  After all, She never sits during a session, and I can’t think of who else She might want to invite.  Some new girl she has a crush on?

She stands there, hands on Her slim hips, well aware that I’m furtively looking at Her lean arms and strong legs.  My legs squirm together, warming me shamefully.  She frowns.  Gets a hank of rope from the wall, undoes it pensively.  Unable to bend my neck, my eyes nervously follow Her back as She stoops, pushes my legs apart.  Slaps my thigh for being too slow, for not opening myself to Her.  Or just because She can.

She wraps turns of rope around my calf, just below the knee, and I make muffled noises of distress into the gag, knowing what's coming even before She tugs on the rope, pulling my leg sideways and tying it to the upright, leaving my heel off the floor, weight resting on my toes.  Without hurrying, She binds the other leg.  Stretches it out, a series of little tugs that split me open, standing on wide spread legs trying to hold my weight up.  To keep from hanging by the neck.  Doing short, slow, up and down movements, like some kind of sexual exercise.  Knowing that my thighs and feet will tire long before She lets me free.  The tiny skirt rubbing gently as I move, making me all too aware of having nothing on under it.

She goes away again, leaving me hanging.  I want so badly to cry out, to beg Her to let me go.  To not make me go through this.  Know it's useless.  Hum into the gag with frustration.

She comes back in, a small box in her hand.  I can’t see what it is, even though She swings it provocatively in front of my face before putting it on the beam near my head.  The rope around my necks tightens, threatening to choke me as I try and turn and see what it is.  Unsuccessfully.

The doorbell rings.  My Mistress steps close, Her fingers lazily lifting my skirt, sliding up to where my legs are separated, teasing until I make muffled groaning sounds.

“You want to know what’s in the box, don’t you, little cunt.”  She pets my head as if I were Her dog.

I try to nod, straining against the rope, eyes betraying my nervousness.  Her fingers slide into me, knowing what to do.  The doorbell rings again, insistently, covering my choked whimpers.

Her lovely lips kiss my eyes closed, and She whispers in my ear a single word.

“Condoms.”

*     *     *

My ever loving Partner promised to take me out to get some new shoes.  Yay!  

She also said I could get some other accessories.  Yay again!  Who doesn’t like jewelry or nice scarves?  So I’m psyched.

She dolls me up in a favorite clingy yellow top and short, swirly blue skirt with huge red and yellow flowers on it.  Nothing else.  And I mean NOTHING.

She takes me to a ritzy little store that I shop in - longingly - but never buy from.  Let’s me pick out . . . well, OK, She picks out . . . this pair of extravagant red heels.  I try them on, and She “encourages” me to walk up and down the little aisles, wobbling and wiggling more than usual.  The sales people watch while trying to make it look as if they’re doing something else, as if I were some kind of pet animal being put through it’s paces.  Passing a mirror, I notice with alarm that I’m tilted forward, my butt and tits both sticking out embarrassingly.

Satisfied, She pays and we go out - me still wearing the new shoes.  We walk down the street rather briskly, me still wiggling, and a little unsteady.  I take Her arm - Her lean, strong arm - letting my hips rub Hers.  We pause at an intersection, and I put my head on Her shoulder.  Heaven.

Except that She orders me to stand up straight.  Cold, no?  We walk a little further, and I know where we’re going.  I don’t get to go to the sex toy store - She does that without me, so I’m curious to see what it’s like inside.  But at the door, She instructs me to wait outside, using that calm, slightly distant voice that makes me shrivel up inside and obey.  She goes into the store.

I find almost at once that it’s very hard to relax and stand still, so I do a little walk back and forth, trying to look nonchalant.  Unsuccessfully.  People stare unabashedly.  A group of guys across the street slows, whistles, laughing.  I suddenly realize they all think I’m a hooker, and stare around nervously.  I catch a couple watching, him hungrily and her distastefully, like I’m something that stuck to the bottom of her shoe.   A single guy stops mid-stride and leans against a lamp post, his eyes groping me.  I try to stare him down, but he just grins, eyes my crotch and sticks out his tongue.  I turn away, desperate for Her to return.

Find She’s been standing in the doorway, enjoying the show.  In her hand is some leather thing.

Smirking slightly, She lets me take her arm again and hustles me up the street to where a little bench sits in front of a restaurant.  We sit, and she hands me Her purchase, telling me to put them on.

At first, I think they’re for my wrists, and start to wrap myself.  She slaps my face, lightly, but meaningfully, says “Use your brain, little cunt.”  Glances down at my feet.

I get what She wants, reach down to wrap one around my ankle.

“It would be easier if you put your foot up on the bench,” She says.

Reluctantly, I pull a foot up, put it on the bench with difficulty because of the heel.  Trying to keep my skirt from flipping up.

“Just put it on,” She orders.  The leather feels soft and reassuring around my ankle, but I get more nervous as the light breeze keeps trying to play with my skirt.  She pulls a padlock out of her purse, hands it to me.  Numbly I slip it into the eye, pausing for a second before I have the nerve to click it shut.  Another one holds the strap under my sole.  I drop my foot back on the ground, noting already the added weight of the locks.  Wrap and lock the other ankle.

“Good cunt,” She murmurs, and I get a tiny bit of that warm feeling I have when She praises me.

“Now walk up to the corner and back.  Slowly.  Chest out.”

I pause, chewing my lip, expecting Her to stand, but She doesn’t. The corner seems a long ways away as I wobble toward it.  The locks tend to catch on each other, and I almost fall once.  Learn to walk with my legs part a little, a wiggly, embarrassing kind of walk, as if I had something up my twat.  

I’m panting a little as I approach the bench again.  Notice a definitely dyke woman sitting in my spot, watching me.  I give my Partner a plainly “WTF?” kind of look, but She just holds my eyes until I look down again.  Stand there.  Twist my hands together.

“Turn around.”  It’s a command, but low, and I can’t tell who said it.  But I turn.  Once I’m facing away, someone tells me to stop, and I stand there, trying to look normal, like I’m not being displayed in a slave market.

“Turn back.”

I turn to face them, arms clutched over my chest.

My Partner says “Hands behind your head.”  

Shakily, I obey, trying not to look at the tough woman inspecting me.  She thrusts a large leg forward, gives me a “come closer” finger wiggle.  I move a little, but not enough.  The next wiggle is slow, but full of intent.  I stand with my legs straddling hers.

“Hands behind your back.”  She says, her voice the smell of old cigarettes.  She stares at my chest, where my nippies are pushing at my blouse.  Slides her hand up my thigh.  Under the skirt.  All the way.  Gives a soundless little chortle.  Takes her hand back out, still staring at my chest.  Sniffs her fingers.  Her mouth cracks a little.  She turns and nods at my Partner.

Now I’m getting really nervous.  What the f*ck is happening?

At last, my Partner stands.  Says “Give me a hug.”

I disengage my legs and lean happily into Her, my head nestling on Her shoulder.  Pay no attention as She folds my arms behind me.

The first handcuff clicks shut around my wrist, and I jerk in surprise, but She holds me tight as the other wrist is cuffed too.

I stare up into her eyes, mutely pleading, my lips moving soundlessly.

A firm hand grabs my arm and yanks.  I have no choice but to follow the woman.  Halfway down the block I turn quickly, hoping to see Her coming after me.

But She’s already walking away.

*     *     *

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Have you heard that saying “Pretty as a picture?”

Well, my loving Mistress got it into Her head that, since I think I’m so pretty and all, She’d put me in a museum.

Which is where I am now.

Demurely clothed, but pretty exposed nevertheless.  And definitely not going anywhere.

In a few minutes, or an hour at most, my knees and shins will start feeling that burn they get from being pressed too long against something.  And even though She was MOST merciful, using many turns of rope so as not to cut into my softness too much, my shoulders will ache from being wrenched back, my back will get sore, and I’ll start moving around.  Whether I want to or not.

That’s what She’s counting on - her lovely girl, squirming helplessly as people walk around, staring at me.  Oh, I know!  Feeling me up with their eyes.  The guys all thinking of ways they can cock me, the girls pissed and thinking evil thoughts because their guys are attracted to me.

Here She comes.  What’s that piece of paper in Her hand?  She tapes it up on the wall next to me.

“INTERACTIVE TACTILE DISPLAY”

No no NOOOOOOooooo I wail through the gag, giving Her my big,teary eyes.  She just grins wickedly.  And walks away.

*     *     *

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