by J.S.

Originally published in Bondage Life No. 30, May 1988

Transcribed by guardian46w

Story Codes: M/f, bdsm, cons, F/m turnabout, cuffs, gag, binder, hood, X

This affecting story of a couple's changing and growing bondage relationship was submitted by J.S. of Illinois.  J.S. would like to dedicate it to Terri the woman whose letters about her self-bondage adventures have electrified the pages of BL several times now.

From the first day of our marriage, we had enjoyed an ideal master-slave relationship; ideal from my standpoint as master, anyway.  As our household income increased, so did our bondage collection.  Each new issue of a bondage house catalog brought into our home a treasure chest of leatherwear, boots and bondage gear for Angie’s enslavement.  Gradually our collection outgrew the bedroom closets, so we converted one end of our basement into a bondage playroom.  Leather cuffs, harnesses and hoods adorned the walls, and with wooden storage cases I built along the walls held countless pairs of high-heeled boots, spandex and leather outfits and bondage videos.  The highlight of the chamber was a customized waterbed with heavy wooden posts at the corners.  The bed was located in the center of the room under some spotlights, and was permanently equipped with leather wrist, ankle, thigh and elbow cuffs, strategically placed to enable me to secure Angie in a spread-eagle position.  The cuffs were padded and unless al the slack was taken out, were comfortable enough to be worn for extended periods of play.  Once, I had kept Angie trussed to the bed for an entire weekend, most of the time blindfolded and gagged in a leather discipline helmet which was removed only for brief nourishment breaks.  When I finally released her late Sunday afternoon, she just lay there for half an hour, too exhausted to move.  The vibrating dildo I had locked insider her chastity belt Friday night had done its job keeping her arousal at fever pitch for the better part of the weekend before its batteries had given out.

About a year ago Angie took a job at one of LA’s B&D houses, La Maitresse, in order to earn some extra cash for a new car.  Initially hired as a submissive, she occasionally substituted as a dominatrix when the house was busy or one of the other dominants missed work.

It was a new experience for Angie, one that she found hard to reconcile with her submissive role at home.  She had discovered such talents in enslaving men that her bosses soon assigned her the task of dominating the club’s high-paying regular members.  The regulars began asking for her, and it was not uncommon for her to bring home several hundred dollars an evening in tips.  In fact, her unreported income for the year was in five figures.

Despite all this she was in turmoil.  During the day judges, professional athletes and business executives were put into humiliating bondage, made to crawl and beg for more, plead for the kiss of her whip, and beg to be allowed to kiss her boots.  Yet at home it was she who was held captive in leather cuffs and harnesses, waiting on me hand and foot although I didn’t realize it at the time, Angie had decided that the time had come to change the terms of our relationship.

For the past few months, she had become more and more insistent that I spend some time in the leather restraints that filled our basement playroom, restraints in which she had spent countless sweaty, writhing hours of sexual frustration.  She argued that only by experiencing the slave’s sensations of anxiety and helplessness could I become a truly knowledgeable, insightful master.  There was a certain logic to her argument, what with “sauce for the goose” and all that.  Besides, I had never been on the receiving end.  Maybe I could learn something new.

Unfortunately, in my haste to attain a higher degree of bondage expertise, I had failed to notice the subtle changes that were transforming my wife from a meek, subservient handmaid into an assertive woman.  Angie had never been very style-conscious, preferring a look that I teasingly referred to as ‘white trash frump’.  Lately, though, the midi-length skirts and prim starched white tops had been tossed by the wayside.  She was dressing more like a punk rocker than a suburban housewife.  Through her dress, her career and her friends she had become an assertive, even aggressive woman, and she had begun planning a way to turn the tables on me.  Earlier that week she had bluntly stated that the bondage games were at an end unless I consented to spend some time in the restraints.  And, soon!

We had shared a bottle of my favorite wine that afternoon.  Feeling amiable, I soon found myself seriously discussing her request to trade roles at the Sloan’s New Year’s costume party.

The previous year I had gone as an 18th century slave-trader, and Angie as a sort of punk-slave girl.  Rather than ware the traditional chains and manacles, Angie had been fitted with a leather single-sleeve arm binder, a chastity belt and ankle cuffs.  She’d never failed to attract the interest of all the men (as well as a few of the women) who leered and made suggestive comments as to the going rate for a night of dominating this slave.  Her long blonde hair had contrasted beautifully with the black leather of her restraints as she tossed her curls poutily from side to side.  As the evening progressed her leather prison had grown more uncomfortable, and partly due to the abundant amounts of alcohol furnished by the Sloan’s, Angie had become terribly horny.  By this time, I was off in the Sloan’s bedroom with one of the other female guests, and Angie had been left to the mercy of wicked pirates, leather bikers and other amorous costumed males, protected only by the locked chastity belt.

As we reminisced back to that heated experience, Angie’s soothing voice and the wine had the desired effect on me, and finally I’d relented and agreed to playing the part of the slave.  I was ordered to get naked and put on the white spandex bodysuit she had laid out for me.  Next came the chastity belt.  It was strapped on tightly, then locked with padlocks in front and back.  Even with my hands free, there was no way I could get it off, but it would not even have that opportunity.

Angie reached into a storage closet and pulled out the heavy-duty single-sleeve we had nicknamed “The Spanish Inquisition”.  I knew, just from her comments while held in it, that it was very narrow and held the elbows closely together.  It was equipped with straps that crossed under the armpits and buckled to the top of the binder to prevent the wearer from slipping it down the arms and gaining their freedom.  It also had been equipped with three-inch wide straps that reached around the torso and buckled in front.  As if that weren’t enough security another strap connected the bottom of the binder to the lower belt by coming up through the crotch.

This was quite a challenge for Angie to secure, since I was already in the chastity belt, but by connecting a shorter strap she was able to complete the link, thus pinioning the binder to my body.  Finally, a thick collar was placed around my neck and joined to the top of the binder.  Just the sight of it would have discouraged Houdini, so you can imagine how I felt as Angie tugged, strapped and buckled me into utter helplessness.

Not intending to allow me any more mobility than I had allowed her, she locked a pair of three-inch patent leather cuffs on my ankles and connected them with a one-foot chain.  I was effectively hobbled.  I assumed this was sufficient restraint, as any more would prevent me from moving easily to and from the car.  But Angie was not done yet.  She buckled a set of thigh cuffs on, then reached for the leather discipline helmet.

“Hold it!” I protested.  “That wasn’t part of the costume you wore last year.”

She just smiled and replied something to the effect that slaves don’t give masters orders.  The hood was placed on, zipped down the back and padlocked.  I was beginning to get scared.  After all, this was the first time I had worn any kind of restraint, and Angie was giving me the full treatment the first time out.  I began to voice my objections when she wedged the leather gag into my mouth and snapped it in place.  I panicked and began thrashing about n my bonds.  It was then that I discovered how well Angie had learned the art of restraint.  I could neither escape nor request release, and Angie knew it.

She pushed me onto the bed face down, and I learned the reason for the thigh cuffs.  Sitting on my back, Angie unlocked the hobble chain connecting my ankles.  Next, she reached down and pulled first one ankle, then the other, back to my thighs and tethered them to the thigh cuffs, left ankle to right thigh and vice-versa.  I found myself in a highly immobilizing cross-legged hogtie which was growing stricter with each new application of straps.  Angie clipped a leash to the D-ring at the top of the helmet and tied the other end to the headboard of the bed.  She ran a second strap from the bottom of the armbinder to the other end of the bed, pulling tight to remove any hint of slack.  Two other straps ran from the sides of the bed to my chastity belt to prevent lateral movement.  Angie stood up, examined her handiwork, and proceeded to explain what was in store for me.

“Well, slave, haw does it feel to be on the receiving end for a change?  Not quite as much fun, huh?  Tonight, we begin a new chapter in your little black bondage book.  Let’s call it ‘Evening the Score’, shall we?  I’ve done a little research on our games.  Do you know how much time I’ve spent in these restraints since we were married?  At five hours a week for three years, it adds up to 789 hours, or 32 days.  Let’s jut call it an even month.” Circling the bed as if eyeing a caged animal on display at the zoo, she went on, “In order to balance the ledger, you are going to spend an equal amount of time in bondage.”

When I heard that, I knew my worst fears were confirmed.  I thrashed wildly in my bonds, but Angie had been thorough and I was held fast.  “Since your next job doesn’t start for a few weeks, we will start counting down your sentence from this evening.” She walked into the dressing room to complete her dominatrix ensemble.

I tried to yell out to her, but the spongy black leather gag was much more effective that I had imagined.  All that emerged were unintelligible groans and grunts.

When Angie returned to the bedroom, she posed in front of me, one hand on her hip, the opposite leg thrust out provocatively.  She had squeezed into a pair of skin-tight black jeans, the kind with the zipper at the bottom of the legs to allow an even tighter fit (I had always commented before that she would have to scrape those jeans off at the end of the evening).  A silky red top, red belt and red high-heeled pumps completed the outfit.

Even tethered, hogtied and gagged, I was becoming aroused.  I had never seen her looking so sexy!  And when I thought of tagging along after her on a leash at the Sloan’s party, watching her flirt with other men, or even more, it affected me profoundly.  Suddenly I wanted her, yearned for her more than ever before.  She must have seen something in my eyes, for she leaned close and whispered, “There’ll be plenty of gorgeous men at the party, so I want to look my best.  It’s a shame you won’t be there to see what a splash I’ll make!”

I groaned and struggled desperately, my lust for Angie quickly turning into intense frustration.  Then she dangled the final touches of my punishment before my eyes.  One was the blindfold attachment to my discipline helmet, and the other was the stereo headset connected to the VCR.

“I thought you might like to experience what my customers go through every day at the club.” Over my muffled protests she snapped the blindfold on, consigning me to total darkness and isolation.  “I videoed the highlights from several of our sessions.  You’ll have to use your imagination on the visual part, but I’m sure you'll have no difficulty.  The audio will come in loud and clear the minute I leave for the Sloan’s.”

I let out what must have been a cross between a cry and a gurgle as Angie began taping the headphones to the helmet.  I was totally cut off from the outside world and would be until Angie released me.  As a last gesture of mastery, she ran a sharp fingernail up the inside of my thigh, then leaned over close to my leather-encased head and said, “Happy New Year, slave!”