Secrets of the Women's Self-Bondage Cult (24 page)

       "You know how this goes, Miss, don't you?” he asked, making me turn around to face one wall while he applied some oily gel to the dildoes and then, putting his hand on my waist, aligning the slightly smaller rear dildoe with my anus and putting pressure on it, slowly forcing open my back portal. The initial discomfort was as it always was for me. He manipulated the dong slowly, pushing and then backing off, forcing more and more of its increasing length and thickness into me. I tried to accept this, mentally urging my anal sphincter to relax and accept the inevitable. Meanwhile, my cunt was already dripping and some of the fluid was getting worked into the ass plug as it was shoved further and harder into me. Finally, the widest part of the plug was past the tight little flesh ring on my back door and the rest sort of slid in. I breathed slowly in relief, amazed that I could accommodate such a monster, but of course, in the small remnant of reality that my brain continued to provide, I knew well how this went. I had put this same plug up my ass many times and it always fit, eventually, usually depending on what lubricant I used and what my mental state was that day.

       My captor was enjoying himself, I knew, because he was already lubing up the other faux dick and pushing it between my ringed lower lips, driving it home much more quickly and without any resistance. He pulled up on the crotch chain which ran through the base of each dildo, snugging it up in front, splitting my sex in two while driving the double dildoes deeper. He locked the front of the chain to the waist belt and made sure there was no slack.

       "How's that feel, Honey?" he asked as he busied himself with more chain and straps. I groaned and moved my hips in a vain effort to ease the penetrations.

       Of course, in reality, I was pretty steamed up with the two prongs locked inside me and held there by the waist and crotch chains. My manacled hands were shaking and I needed a break, so I eased back down and sat on the cool concrete floor, breathing hard around the gag and through my nose. That was when he put the metal band around my right boob and tightened it. This was a large size, stainless steel hose clamp and he pulled the breast through it and then held the flesh while he closed the clamp, the band compressing the tit close to my chest wall and squeezing the rest of it outward. He kept tightening until I thought my tit was going to burst. It was all red and swollen and the surface skin was shiny. The ringed nipple stood out like it was starched stiff and the pain I felt was worse than the thing he had just shoved up my ass.

       As I gasped in pain from the breast clamp, he attached a second one to the left boob and tightened it as well. I was blowing air through my nose like a whale sounding. For a moment, I considered removing the gag. I felt I was not getting enough oxygen, but I settled down after a minute. That was when he tightened each tit clamp a bit more, then used a small double-ended spring snap to clip another chain to the side of the clamp, pulling the chain around behind my back and hooking it to the other clamp. This created tension on both breasts and pulled them to the side. To complete this tormenting tit bondage, another large padlock was snapped to the clamps between my breasts, joining them and pulling the back chain tighter, forcing the entire, horrible device to compress my whole chest and again, making it hard to breath.

       "I think you'll do better with this hood," he said as soon as he finished the chest harness. I had nothing to say about it, of course, and he quickly unlocked the back of the gag strap, let the fat, saliva-soaked penis thing fall to the floor and substituted a bright red ball gag for it. This new ball was attached to the inside of the leather discipline hood which he slowly pulled over my head, stuffing my hair into it and pulling the top and sides down until it fit very tight, totally encapsulating my head with the bottom of the hood fitting neatly under my collar. The hood was then pulled tight. He took out all the slack in each lacing cord on top and behind. I could feel my skin compressing under the subtle, soft leather and it felt like my head was suddenly no longer attached to my body. It was floating somewhere, compressed into a much smaller space, with only my harsh breathing to be felt or heard. The ball gag had a small, hard plastic tube through the middle of it and this tube greatly helped my breathing through the wide, flared, nose holes of the hood.

       Once again, I was acutely aware of how I feel each time this hood is in place. There are few B/D tools that work so effectively for me as the hoods. I cannot explain why this is, but I know from talking to other BDSM people that they feel the same way.

       I was still standing up, ankles shackled, crotch split and stuffed, tits squeezed and clamped, mouth filled to maximum capacity and head totally enclosed. My busy hands were about to go back behind me to be clipped once again when the first orgasm hit me. My knees buckled. I felt like I was falling off a cliff. The vision in my head was of brilliant lighting flashing all around and I reached out to grab the chain that held my collar to the wall to keep from collapsing. The searing waves came next, washing over me in hot torrents of lava. It seemed to last and last for hours, although I knew it was only for a few minutes at best. Finally, I sunk back to my knees, the neck collar taking up the slack and pulling me close to the wet, cool concrete wall. I quickly locked the handcuffs together and then connected them to the chain between my ankles. I sank down into a chained ball of naked flesh, bound, plugged, hooded, gagged and tormented by my erstwhile captor. I spent a long and active night there. Like so many other nights, the rewards of SB seemed to mitigate any bondage I experienced with other people participating. I suppose it's because my mind is free to do what it wants without any concern for the partner(s). Maybe that's the essence of SB. The freedom of being bound by yourself. Maybe that's it.

Chapter Twenty-Eight

Bret/Brenda is a trans-gender MTF and the only one allowed to attend this all- woman event. There was considerable debate about this before the committee decided, based on what they knew about him/her, to welcome her, as long as she remained in female character. Most attendees later indicated that they were glad she was there and able to share her TG/SB experiences.

Bret/Brenda - Photos & Video

       This is not my first SB event, so I may skip a lot of your questions and deal with the ones about videos and self-photos.

       At several points earlier in my life, I yearned, (I guess that's the right word), to go public with my cross-dressing and self-bondage. Many times, this impulse was beaten back by circumstances that seemed to dictate that I should wait. However, before U-Tube and other on-line outlets became available, there were magazines and publishing houses dedicated to the BDSM community. They would, if you met their rigid specifications, publish photos submitted by readers. So, more than once, I did this, taking Polaroids of myself in bondage as a girl, usually in rubber. It gave me great pleasure to see my photos in print, usually with a letter as well. The photos were, to me at least, excellent examples of what can be accomplished by tying yourself up. The black latex from head to toe accented the silver cuffs and chains. The full head mask, a reasonable rendition of a female face, heavily made up, plus the wig, made me just another anonymous TV in bondage. I think, looking back at some of that series of photos, that they were much better than some of the junk often shown in the mags. For one thing, I was slim, I had a small waist and was otherwise well built, (even if it was with silicone breast forms and padded butt). As I transitioned from male to mostly female, my photos became even more credible both to me and my audience.

       I also took pictures of my girlfriend of the moment in various stages of undress, also chained or tied. These too were often published and there was the problem. Nothing lasts forever, and our relationship deteriorated, but somehow, after we broke up, she decided she wanted the photos back. I, of course, no longer had them as they had gone to the publisher of the mags. She was very upset. I didn't dare tell her they had been printed, so I said they were lost in the many relocations we made. In the end, in retribution, she stole a lot of personal stuff from me when we split and moved to a different state. Needless to say, I won't submit photos or videos to anyone from now on.

       I always wanted to document my slow transition from male to female and photographs and videos were a part of my life. When I finally left my old home area and sought legal verification of my female self, I had enough graphic materials as evidence to help my case and it moved easily through the state's slow but reasonably effective system.

       Taking self-portraits in bondage and costume was not as easy. This was before digital came along. So, everything was done with either a very reliable photo processor lab that charged more, but seemed discrete, or by Polaroid. I used both and got lots of great photos. If you do this today, no one has to see your work except you because digital cameras will instantly provide displays and prints if you want them. What better way to store your SB/TV pix than on a tiny SD card or micro thumb drive?

       Anyway, I experimented with self-portraits; usually wearing a hood or mask, gag, blindfold and whatever else I wanted to be captured in. Some of the photos were terrible. I am not huge, but I am not small either. I can sometimes ease into a woman's size 12 or even a 10, but usually I qualify as a plus figure, tits included. There are some angles that just never photograph well and with digital and a remote shutter release, you can shoot dozens of pictures and then weed out the bad ones. How you store them is up to you, but you can even encode the photo files on an external disk or on your hard drive, use a password and prevent all but the most skilled hacker from getting to them.

       My favorite position? Bound with rope to an upright, a sturdy post or pillar, a massive gag stuffed in my mouth and tightly strapped behind my head. Add a blindfold and braid my hair so that it becomes a living restraint and I can do this for hours if not for days on end.

       I tie my wrists last and have long experimented with the ideal wrist bondage which, in my mind, is one that keeps me tightly bound until some other event or action releases me. In other words, I seek the perfect restraint that I cannot get out of until a certain time in the future and then only when something happens. The standard technique for this is the key in the ice cubes, the candle that must burn down to cut the string holding the key and a dozen more creatively acceptable devices which all have risk and perhaps some fear attached to them.

       Before the wrists, though, I do everything else first, especially if I am taking pictures or video. My ankles, legs below and above the knees, thighs, waist, chest, collar and perhaps even the head harness over the hood, are all fastened and locked, if possible, first. Then, at last, I can slide the double or triple rope loop over my arms, work it up to my elbows and then put my hands into the double rope loop behind the post which neatly separates my tits. The nipple rings serve as a final attachment and if I choose to use locks and a bit of chain, I really don't need much more bondage to stay put. If you have tried this, you know what I mean. Tugging pointlessly on chained nipple rings can be frustrating to say the least. With breast implants, any chest/breast bondage is risky and I have already punctured one augmentation bag by accident, so I restrict my breast restraints to too-small, under wired bras, (which, by the way, have always struck me as bondage devices anyway), and my very lovely gold nipple rings.

       If I use cuffs and chains, I may elect to employ solid, flexible metal bands that clamp around my ankles and legs at each binding point. These clamps are cut and shaped just for me and often will not fit anyone else, but they make impressive bindings because the locking ends are not in view, so it looks like a complete metal band around my ankles, calves, thighs and waist. Using slightly wider aluminum strips, I made a simple chastity belt that is very snug around my waist and has a hinged crotch band that allows a butt plug to be mounted on it. The forward section is a multi-function front plate that either presses my diminutive dick up close to my belly and hides the "penal bulge" or has a single handcuff that locks around my cock and balls. This belt/crotch band is not very flexible and I use it in photos, but generally not in day-to-day sessions. It is still a work in progress.

       I have only really had one near-miss experience. After several meetings and friendly discussions of my past and current life, I rented an apartment that I shared with the young, very pretty, female owner who said that she simply needed a tenant to help pay the mortgage. She actually was fascinated by my TG situation and had designs, which later became obvious, on keeping me for herself as a sexual companion. The feelings were mutual and our sex life was pretty good because I adored her real and lovely tits and she coveted what was left of my package, so we got off on each other. But she had a substance abuse problem that we both tried to ignore, and on this occasion, when she was supposed to be away on a business trip, she came home late at night while I was video-taping an SB session. I was in the living room with camera and lights and a lot of bondage gear spread out around the room and me in a very tight-fitting outfit of ribbed turtleneck shirt that showed off my new hormone and saline-enhanced tits nicely, extremely tight jeans and high-heeled leather boots. I did not have a hood or face mask on, but my hair was now long enough not to require a wig and I was still taking classes to improve my make-up skills. I was working so hard to get the scene right that I was sweating and the stains were on the front and back of the shirt, so I was going to have to do a costume change.

       I was partly undressed, bouncing around the apartment in bra and jeans when suddenly I heard the garage door opening and realized that since only she and I had keys to the door, the owner was home. The flurry of activity in that apartment was record-breaking. Still with chains on my feet, I grabbed my camera and tripod and tossed them into my bedroom, then went back for the recorder and other paraphernalia still on the floor and took it all to my room. I closed the door and began freeing myself while listening to the opening and closing of car doors below in the garage, the closing of the overhead door and the thump, thump, thump of her stumbling up the inside stairs. Then there was a long pause while I was still getting my clothes off, ditching the jeans, panty hose, girdle and bra. I forgot about the make-up, but as she was used to seeing me that way, it would have made no difference. As the front door opened, I was into the bed, pulling on a T-shirt and putting a magazine on my lap, apparently dozing off. I heard her stumbling around the apartment, going to her room and shutting the door while I moved my recently shed ankle chains, cuffs and clothing around under the bed covers. Fortunately, she was pretty drunk, (as she often was), and apparently just fell into bed, leaving her room lights on. I quietly stashed my things and went to sleep as well. In the morning, she was still very hung over and never said a word about my lights being on when she got home. I had dodged the bullet.