I’m reposting a huge amount of text from the story told by the fantastic PINKYCRAB.  Let me tell you something, I’ve enjoyed Pinky’s art for a couple of years, just like the rest of you.  From a safe distance.  I’ve admired her cleverness.  I’ve gaped in stunned awe at some of the extreme predicaments she’s forced her subjects to endure.  I don’t use the word “submissives” because I’m not sure they’re ALL submissives.  Some might just have been too sexy hot to pass up.  Or maybe guilty of saying ‘the wrong thing’ when Pinky happened to be in a mood.  Something like that can get you taken by surprised and overwhelmed by force as opposed to submitting to it.  That’s what I hear, at least…

I’m not going to alter anything from Pinky’s text.  Not even the font.  But I AM going to insert my own point of view where needed.  And rest assured; it WILL BE NEEDED.  Because as fantastic and dominant and talented and unabashedly, uniquely, standing stark naked on the front porch and not giving a shit, BOLD as Pinky and her art both happen to be….she fucked with the wrong blonde submissive bitch this time. 

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(Pinky wrote

It was one of the last hot days of summer, and I was slouched in my chair with that lazy, bored kind of brain that just clicks through DeviantArt feeds without really thinking. Rope, hogties, cuffs… nice pictures, sure, but nothing I hadn’t already seen a hundred times. I was about to close the laptop when something stopped me.

I sat up straighter, leaned in close to the screen. My heart gave a stupid little skip.

The picture staring back at me wasn’t like the usual ones. The figure—definitely a woman, I guessed—was wrapped tight in latex from head to toe. But her head wasn’t hidden under some smooth, skintight hood. No. Her face was swallowed by a huge, inflatable balloon mask. Shiny, absurd, terrifying, and somehow… intoxicating.

Her name was Becca.

I couldn’t help myself—I dove into the comments. My fingers typed before my brain caught up. I told her how much I loved it, how much I wanted to wear a mask like that myself. Hell, I even joked—half-joked—that I’d take her place in a heartbeat.

A wish that didn’t stay a joke for very long.

Because now here I was. Not behind a laptop, not daydreaming about someone else’s ropes. I was sitting—half sitting, half straining—on the edge of my own kitchen table. My head sealed inside a balloon hood just like hers. My body cinched and locked into a cruelly neat ropework that pressed into every curve. The world outside was gone. I had nothing but the pounding of my heart and the faint crackle in my ears.

The AirPods clicked alive.

And then her voice—smooth, smug, and terrifyingly real—slipped into my head.

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(My turn!

All of that was true.  That hood got to me.  And, yes, it IS currently inflated inside my mouth and all around me in a supremely demoralizingly powerful display of head control.  Breath-FUCKING-taking, Pinky!  But unlike most giddy little nitwit subbies, I don’t fall apart when I sense a chance to endure unique domination like that.  The Hell with that.  I get to work.  I call in favors.  I pull together resources.  And as Y’all know, and as Pinky apparently does NOT know, I got me a lot of high-level, find-stuff-out, playing field leveling, catch your sorry ass off guard, resources. 

There isn’t a law enforcement agency of any significance East of Missouri that I haven’t trained in tactics and firearms.  No, not the whole dang agency.  Just their best folks who in turn take my expertise and filter it down.  Point being, the bigwigs know who I am and they owe me.  More importantly, they need me to keep them looking good.  When I text them, they respond to my text.  It’s like that. 

I won’t bore you with all the details.  Long story short, before I even made my move to get noticed by Pinky, I sent out a request to intel.  “No, I don’t want you to do compromise Pinky.  Just use the IP Address to find any other social media accounts or blogs or email addresses and work me up a profile.  Nope.  Just the analysts.  Don’t forward it to investigators.  Have them send it to me.  DIRECTLY to me.  LOL.  No.  I’m not going to violate anyone’s civil rights.  Relax.  You KNOW me…”

The dossier I got back painted a formidable picture.  Pinky has a way of finding things out too.  I need to expect the most out of her.  And I have to let her think I’m not ready when she comes.

To Pinky’s eternal credit, the day I lost consciousness and woke up like she described it above and below, YES, I knew I was being stalked.  I could feel it.  But I never actually got a glimpse of her or whomever she was using.  I may have allowed her onto my farm, and I intended to let her catch me while I slept, but she went one step further and somehow or other knocked me the hell out without so much as changing the movement of the hot summer air in the living room.

First round went to Pinky.  But it’s not like I didn’t have some tricks ready for the later rounds…)

“Hello, Tina…”

God, that whisper. My chest lurched against the ropes. She didn’t need to shout. She didn’t need to do anything. Just hearing Pinky in my ears made me twitch against the table edge, jeans straining, boots clacking helplessly against the wood.

She giggled softly, like she already knew exactly how I was reacting.

“You really should’ve been more careful what you comment online. Now look at you… sitting there, breathing into your own balloon, tied up so pretty for me.”

I groaned into the latex, a muffled sound that only made me blush hotter. Every stupid word I had typed under Becca’s picture was now wrapped around me like a trap.

And still… my whole body buzzed.

(Perfect.  Pinky underestimates me.  Of course she does.  Why wouldn’t she.  It’s not like she read all of the detailed articles I’ve published explaining my expert level tactical skillset.  She’s way too busy busting submissive’s wills to do a deep dive on the ‘next’ hapless victim.  That being said, my head is groggier than I’d like.  I need to focus on being focused and ignore that she called me pretty just now…which was nice.  Fuck.  Focus Tina.)

“Mmm, don’t struggle too much, farm girl,” Pinky teased. “That table won’t hold forever. Maybe you’ll tip forward, maybe not… but wouldn’t that be fun?”

I whimpered, ropes cutting deeper as I tried to shift. The thought of toppling forward made my pulse race faster, but I couldn’t stop imagining it.

Her laugh trickled in again, low and cruel.

(She thinks I’m a farm girl.  HA!  I’m a goddamned alpha predator who just happens to live on a farm.  Shit.  Pinky is screwed and she has no idea!  -strain- I can get these ropes loose…grunt…anytime I want.   Effective rigging.  Dang it.  Pinky went against her pattern.  The dossier and my own observations indicated that Pinky favors elaborate and over-the-top rigging to create shock and awe in her subjects and incite panicked, exhaustive struggle rather than careful, targeted use of legitimate escape techniques that could compromise the random fatal flaws present in her visually impressive if imperfect bondage.  Nope.  She didn’t do one of her goofy cleavage exposing, crotch splitting, hair tie to the toes crowd-pleasing rigging jobs just to get ‘clicks’ this time. 

She simply tied me up.  Effectively.  With this insanity-inducing bubble on my head and her voice in my ear.

But it’s fine.  Like I said, I got some tricks…)

“Becca was delighted, you know, when I told her there was someone willing to take her place. She was so happy at first… but that joy didn’t last long once I explained it wouldn’t be a replacement at all. It would be an addition. A playmate.”

My breath caught inside the hood.

“You see, you and Becca might not be able to look at each other. You might not be able to touch much, either. But the simple presence, the accidental brush of latex against latex… that alone will be a feast for the senses. And all of it—” she purred, pausing just long enough to make my toes curl in my boots, “will happen without me even lifting a finger.”

Show Quoted Content

“You see, you and Becca might not be able to look at each other. You might not be able to touch much, either. But the simple presence, the accidental brush of latex against latex… that alone will be a feast for the senses. And all of it—” she purred, pausing just long enough to make my toes curl in my boots, “will happen without me even lifting a finger.”

Her words were still dripping into my ears when the floor creaked. My stomach flipped—I didn’t need to see to know she was close. The air shifted, the warmth of someone standing over me.

(Another surprise.  I expected a henchman.  This is Pinky in the flesh.  I wasn’t actually expecting to have an opportunity to go for checkmate until I’d been moved to her “facility.”  Maybe I’m the one who over-estimated Pinky.  Maybe I should have been going for a fast, easy win instead of settling in for the long game.  Maybe I didn’t need to let her rope me up.  I consider moving up my schedule and escaping to take Pinky down on the spot, but my disappointing inability to actually get loose causes me to ‘reconsider’ adjustments and I ‘elect’ to stick with the plan.)

A sharp click. Metal against leather.

The posture collar around my throat tugged as something clipped onto it. My whole body jolted when the leash snapped tight with the tiniest pull. Just a little flick of her wrist, and yet my balance in the cruel ballet heels nearly gave out. I swayed dangerously, squealing into the balloon hood, toes scrambling to keep me upright on the wooden floor.

(This is a bit uncanny.  Heels are like my kryptonite.  That and ANIMAL-PLAY.  Hate that shit!  But it’s weird.  It’s just oddly SPECIFIC that she left me in my clothes, except for these dang ballet boots.  The demoralizing effect of having my sense completed shut down along with the stupid humiliation I feel from stumbling around like a weak, incompetent…things I’m definitely NOT!...have my focus bouncing around again.  I dig my finger nails into my palms.  The pinch is enough to blink my pitch black world back into focus, so to speak.)

“Careful, Tina…” Pinky’s voice was no longer in the headphones—it was right there, close, vibrating through my collar. “It’s time to go.”

Another tug. Harder. My knees shook as I stumbled forward, every step in the tall heels a fight not to collapse.

“Come on, hurry up,” she teased, dragging me along like a pet. “We’ve got a flight to catch, and we still need to drop the luggage at the airport. Quick stop at the hotel too… I’ll need to pack the second suitcase now that we’re traveling as a pair.”

Her words twisted like barbed wire in my brain. A pair? My breath grew ragged inside the hood.

She leaned close, her whisper curling into my ear like smoke.

(I honestly was hoping for first class, but didn’t consider it likely.  I’ll cope with the bad leg room of coach.)

“Oh… but I only bought one seat, silly girl.”

I froze, the leash pulling me forward again, forcing me to stumble after her. The meaning slammed into me all at once—my stomach sinking, my body trembling inside the ropes.

“Don’t worry,” she added, almost sweetly. “You’ll fit. I’ve got just the right suitcase for you.”

 

 

(Suitcase??  Looks like I’m not even going to get a shot in round 2.  This completely goes against the profile.  She’s supposed to disguise me and parade me around helpless and unable to signal that I need help.  THAT is the mental domination game that her type craves.  That’s how she snuffs out the final crumbs of resistance from her weak-willed targets.  She overwhelms, quickly.  Where is this sense of caution coming from?  It’s totally out of character.

Fine!  I signed up for this.  I wanted to take down an opponent that wasn’t easy pickings for a change.  Looks like I’m getting me wish.  Pinky, on the other hand, is still unawares.  That’s the key.  That’s my ace.  I’ll be the one to choose when I play my cards.  And that’s why I’m going to win, like always.)

Thanks so much to @PinkyCrab and @BlindyBunny for all the fun we’re having with this!!