Alone again. She won’t be back until around midnight. I have several hours to do by myself what she won’t do with me. Time alone with ropes and straps, gloves and corsets, stockings and high heels. Time to meditate, relax, enjoy my sexual self.
I walk out to the store room to get my special suitcase. Neighbors walk by and we exchange smiles. I wonder how they would react if the case fell open, exposing my collection under the lights of the car port.
Inside, I lock everything on the door, the button on the handle, the dead bolt, and the chain. The chain catches my attention and holds it. What if I struggle fruitlessly to release myself? What if I’m still bound when she comes home? She can’t get in because of the chain on the door. I’m unable to unhook it. How would we explain things if she needed outside help?
I unhook the door chain. The dead bolt will have to do.
Swinging the suitcase up over the end of the bed, letting it drop flat onto the blanket cover, I’m already beginning to feel different. There’s a charge of excitement in the air. For a moment, I’m standing high on the steep sand at Waimea Bay, waiting for a lull in the thunderous shore break, awed by the thirty-foot waves off the point. As the time comes, I adjust the long board under my arm and I start the slow walk that will become a powerful run, launching into danger and excitement.
Then I’m here again, and the excitement is in the suitcase. Unbuttoning my shirt, I walk into the bathroom. I can imagine the sequence of dressing and bondage while I’m under the shower. I can imagine the silk of stockings as I’m soaping my legs. As I get closer to the nozzle by standing tip-toe. I can anticipate the lift of high heels.
Showered, dried, my naked skin feeling hungry for sensation, I return to the bedroom and open the suitcase. All that fascinating potential for feeling alive. A pair of black pumps with four-inch heels. A pair of dark brown sandals with five-inch heels. A plastic bag full of silky nylons, and another full of pantyhose. Several pairs of long gloves, including one in white kid and another in black stretch satin. A red satin hourglass corset, with black trim and black laces. Garter belts, Merry Widow Corsets, panty girdles, longline girdles. Tucked behind them there are coils of straps and soft white rope. A pair of handcuffs and a red ball gag, all that potential for fascinating fantasy.
I shake the plastic bags empty, so that I have a pile of stockings and a pile of pantyhose. There is one pair of pantyhose that I’m particularly fond of. I wish they were grey or black, instead of light beige, but I like their smooth and silky feeling on my legs and the slit in the crotch panel fits perfectly. Besides, the color doesn’t matter when I’m wearing stockings over them.
Before sorting through the pile, I check my fingernails to make sure they won’t snag or catch on anything. Gloves protect the hose but they also prevent the pleasure of glossing fingertips on nylon, silk, and satin.
Wearing pantyhose is like shaving, they make the legs smooth and hairless, fit to be sheathed in nylon stockings. Sometimes I think of them as a foundation garment for the legs. This pair is delightful.
After scrubbing my toenails in the palm of each hand, I shake the hose out and let them dangle so that I can find the back of the panty. Transparent heels towards me, transparent toes away. I’m about to draw this skintight covering over my feet, my legs, and my buttocks. And when I’ve done that, I’m going to feel different and look different. There will be that gentle pressure from the waist down. my self-image will change, and so will the quality of my self-esteem. My legs will look smoother and longer. And there will be other changes.
The fantasy is beautiful. You can wonder how beautiful its plunge into reality will be. You can wonder about that, and I know that I have to know. Will the realization of the fantasy be more beautiful than the fantasy itself? The only way I know of knowing… is acting it out.
I hold the left leg open. The right hand gathers material near the crotch, and the left hand gathers material which will cover high on the outside thigh. Pointed toes centering between my hands, entering the hose. My toes can enter almost all the way down to its toes. I can pull the hose almost all the way up on my thigh. Some slight adjustments at the toes and heel, some sensuous smoothing, from toes to hip and crotch… with just a little attention to detail the fit is perfect and the feeling’s wonderful.
Holding the right leg open is different. The material I gather in my right hand includes the waistband of the panty. I have to balance as my right toes stretch my leg into the hose.
Again, all I need is some slight adjustments at the toes and heel, some leg smoothing to the crotch and hip, and some buttock smoothing, left and right. My legs feel silken already. They feel vaguely voluptuous as they slide together. I feel my mouth soften, and I know that the feelings will grow on me.
I notice that my breathing is becoming slower and deeper.
Around the bedroom, into the living room, down the hallway to the front door, into the kitchen. I walk lightly through the apartment. I imagine myself invisible, the tightly shaped pantyhose walking around empty like a TV commercial. From the smooth embrace of nylon on skin I can feel the moving shapes of my legs. I feel that my walk is becoming more graceful and refined.
If she were to see me like this, I’m afraid she’d become embarrassed, uncomfortable, tense. If only she could accept it, and then enjoy it. I know we’d be more relaxed with each other, and more intimate. I wish she could enjoy me like this.
I find myself walking high up on my toes, thrusting strongly up to the hips, and yet relaxing down from the shoulders, letting my upper body be free. I see images of gloriously high heels, extravagantly arched. I wish I had shoes, knee boots, and thigh boots, with heels like that. I see a pair of knee length toe boots in polished black patent. Incredible heels, at least nine inches high.
My five-inch sandals are way below the fantasy. But I know they’re going to help me feel really good right now. I also know I’m going to be balancing on higher and higher heels in the future. I’m looking forward to that.
But all I’m wearing now is a perfectly fitting pair of pantyhose. I’m walking on my toes, but my heels are free to touch. Before I perch them high on heels, I want stockings, gartered to a girdle.
Many have taught that you must become who you are. For me, self-realization must include bondage, and erotic dressing. And that’s one interesting feature of becoming your being… you might become what most would consider a pervert. Courage helps, and self-esteem.
I pick out a long-line girdle in black Lycra with a panel of smooth satin down the front. It has six garters. Three for each stocking. As I free it from the suitcase, the suspenders rattle lightly together, like leaves on leaves.
They rattle, too as I step into the girdle, like stepping into a very tight skirt. The legs going in are a creamy sliding sensation. The thrill reminds me, I really like these pantyhose.
I pull the girdle, creamy sliding, up to my thighs. Then, pulling much harder, I wriggle my hips even deeper into the tightness. When I have it smoothed all the way, it reaches up my torso, it comes to where the bottom of a bra would be.
I breathe slowly and deeply for a while, reveling in the clinging pressure. I find myself stretching high up on my toes again, but this time standing still. I can feel nylon and Lycra clinging tightly from my soles to my breast. As I breathe out, I tighten the muscles in my calves, thighs, and torso, and I try to lift higher on my toes. I wanted to be even higher, by balancing on slender heels. I'd take a few steps on fantasy heels. The suspenders bounce lightly against my thighs.
My excitement is growing.
I return to the bedroom and pick out two pairs of nylons. Like a connoisseur of fine wines, I have learned to make very fine sensory discrimination's. I have learned that different combinations of pantyhose and stockings give different sliding sensations, leg on leg. All are exciting, but some far more so than others. The black seamed stocking over the seamless grey. I’ve tried that twice, and memory tells me the combination is exquisite.
Thumbs inside the tops of the seamless grey, my fingertips draw the nylon up into a rolled ring, with enough transparent foot to insert my toes. Toes inserted, the ring unrolls as I pull it up towards the garters. I tug gently on the stocking tops, adjusting for sensation of even pressure. When I reach for the other stocking, the seamless grey does not slide down. It clings to the pantyhose. Soon I’m wearing two seamless greys, and they both cling to the pantyhose.
The seamed black stockings are very soft and silky. As I stretch my toes into them, they slide smoothly and easily up my legs. It’s like a prolonged caress. When I reach for the second stocking, the first falls down around my knees. I garter them carefully, adjusting for even pressure. It’s a delight to straighten the seams, and to reach around to attach the back garters. Now there are three layers of nylon on my legs and Lycra on my torso.
I sway gently on my feet, enjoying the smooth pressure. My face relaxes more. I feel marvelous. I wish she could enjoy being with me when I’m like this. I feel soft, and warm with love, and lonely for her.
I lift myself tall on tip-toe again. I’m ready to be lifted by those heels, and I definitely want the five-inch sandals.
The obsession wants to have me fully bound. It also wants me to put a female into total bondage. It wants us to be mistress and master, slave and slave. It is surprised that she has no interest in being mistress and slave. The obsession thought she was the right woman for the roles.
It’s not exactly a magnificent obsession; indeed, its qualities are definitely superior to magnificence. Its radiance transforms experience. Warmth and Light. Its energy brings joy to the bondage relationship. The bondage obsession, when harnessed with love, releases an abundance of creative energy.
The five-inch heels are in a plastic bag near the several pairs of long gloves. I am pleasantly surprised by the desire to draw a pair of long gloves on first, and then a pair of glove sleeves, to glove the arms all the way up to the shoulders. A pleasant, time-consuming diversion.
I choose the gloves in black stretch satin. The only pair of glove sleeves is in black satin. They were my first gloves of stretch satin in that color. I ordered them too small, and when the fingers began splitting, I cut the glove hands off just above the three-button opening. A few snips with scissors and I have a pair of hands and a pair of sleeves. I throw away the hands and keep the sleeves.
I pull the sleeves up over the long black gloves, all the way up my shoulders. They look dramatic, bizarre. Wearing them is sensational. I take plenty of time to smooth them from the fingertips to the shoulders.
I watch the glossy black index finger, stretching for the delicate heel straps in dark brown leather. With my other hand, I brush the transparent plastic clear of the shoes. As I try the weight, dangling them from the hook of my curved finger, it worries me that she says her husband has become a stranger to her. I’m worried because I’m finally showing her who I really am. There is a very real possibility that she will leave me.
Our friends must think I’m crazy. I’m married to a gorgeous, brilliant, sensitive woman, and our lives have become separate because bondage is a problem. She refuses to meet my sexual needs and so I refuse to meet hers.
She’s seeing another man and I’m coming to terms with the compelling attraction of the bondage passion. I need a truly bizarre relationship with a truly exceptional woman, one who looks stunning in black leather, rubber, heels, gloves, corsets, and in dominance and submission. How can I find her?
Maybe I’m going to have to create her myself, as I’ve been creating her since early teens. The dominant part of me can tie the submissive part of me, as erotically as possible. I know it’s not the real thing, but I’ve thoroughly enjoyed it for about 20 years now.
To enjoy the real thing, I need a loving woman in a dominant mood. For a little touch of heaven on earth, I need to be completely at her mercy, to be teased, tormented, perhaps even tortured.
I sit on the bed and reach down to fit the right shoe on my foot. With the strap tightened, the buckle rests on the nylon just inside of the outer ankle. I point my toes, to make the line of the leg more graceful. The height of the heel is dramatic, and so is the arch of the shoe. Before putting on the left shoe, I walk around the apartment for a few minutes. I try balancing my walk by standing high enough on the left toes. It’s a little bit thrilling that my left leg and foot are not strong enough to match the arch over the long tapering curves of the heel. The best I can do is to limp with erotic overtones.
I sit on the edge of the bed again. I reach down, holding the left shoe in the left hand. The dark brown leather, the delicacy of the narrow straps, the highlights on the black satin on the fingers that thread the strap into the buckle. The tine of the buckle fits easily into the widened hole. I’m worried that the strap will break at that point. These shoes are too exciting to throw away.
It’s always a fresh experience, always a new experience. Walking in high heeled shoes gives me a dramatic sense of pleasure. It excites me. There’s a titillation in the muscular play of balancing on the heels. There’s a real satisfaction in mastering graceful movement. I imagine a dancing queen, entrancing me with her high-heeled foreplay.
I walk carefully around the apartment. I pace back and forth. I sit down and stand up. I rub my legs together. I feel now that I’m properly prepared. The preliminary ritual steps have been taken. I’m ready for bondage.
Why am I alone? I’m bringing out my sexual self, and my emotional self. Why can’t I share myself with somebody? What’s wrong with me?
And from more than two decades out of the past, as clearly as that day when it imprinted me, my father’s warning, “if you don’t stop doing this, we’re going to have to take you to a doctor, to find out what’s wrong with you.”
What is wrong with me?
Or, am I okay?
Perhaps the only thing wrong is that I think there’s something wrong.
What a bewildering state of consciousness; schizophrenic flip flops, unpredictably alternating, back and forth. In one moment, I’m deliciously entranced by the role of bondage princess. In the next I’m caught in a nightmare. Solitary, outcast, unworthy of love, afraid of discovery and ridicule.
Bondage will complete the trance. It will bring me back securely into a fantastic captivity, one which I love and want never to escape. I have just created a really delightful network of restraint sheathes. That’s what I want to pull my way and wriggle my way into. It binds me softly yet strongly, and very securely. It’s the kind of bondage you want to relax and fall asleep into. It feels wonderful.
It’s actually a network of girdles and panty girdles. I discovered how to put it together when I was trying to devise an anchor for a single glove. The single glove was a lucky inspiration.
I had seen an ad for long legged panty girdles. They come in three length; mid-thigh, below the knee, and all the way down to the ankles. I thought I saw a way of turning the below-the knee girdle into a single glove.
It’s easy to turn such a girdle half inside-out, with one leg fitting inside the other like a sleeve inside a sleeve. It’s not so easy to sleeve your arms together behind your back. I needed a way to anchor the girdle behind my shoulders, like a real single glove.
I ended up using a regular girdle, one with neither panties nor legs. I drew it on upside down, so that the suspenders that would have gartered the stockings at the front of the thighs were now passed back over the shoulders to anchor the top of the single glove. The suspenders that would have gartered the stockings beneath the buttocks were now dangling free down my back.
I turned another long-legged panty girdle half way inside out. I pulled the doubled leg over one high heeled shoe. I balance on that one foot, and work the other heel through the tube of Lycra. When I get the second shoe through, I find myself standing precariously, my legs in a Lycra hobble skirt that reaches from ankles to knees. The top of my hobble-skirt girdle comes up to my buttocks.
I take a firm hold of the top of the hobble skirt. By pulling up and wriggling my legs deeper into its doubled sleeve, I draw the skirt all the way up to my crotch. It holds my thighs and knees in a firm embrace.
Now, I realize that the arrangement works perfectly. I can attach the suspenders hanging down freely to the top of the hobble skirt girdle. That keeps the hobble skirt pulled well up and it gives a downward pull on the upside-down girdle which, in turn keeps the single glove pulled high above the elbows.
To get my right hand, in black stretch satin, into the sleeve opening, I have to force it high behind my back. Once the arm is all the way into the sleeve, though, I have little difficulty getting the other arm in there with it.
So, this is what a single glove feels like! This kind of single glove anyway. One made of black kid, designed for tight lacing, would feel much different. I want to get one. I want her to use her strength and firmly corset arm to arm behind my back, lacing the single glove’s black leather tight as a drum.
But, for now, this feels just wonderful. I struggle hard to extricate my arms from the glove. The black stretch satin of my gloves, slides against the tight sheathing of the white Lycra. Black gloves writhing snakelike within a tight white sheath.
My excitement continues to grow.
I want a slave mistress, to obey and command me.
I want to look at myself in the living room mirror. But walking is extremely difficult. The tight Lycra hobbles me in a close embrace. Small, mincing steps cost considerable effort. I move mere inches every time.
I have to be extra careful on the high heels. The hobble skirt is beginning to feel like a thigh corset. With my arms hanging down helplessly behind me, tightly confined together in that Lycra glove sleeve, I cannot afford to stumble.
I’m surprised how hard I have to work to walk. The nyloned thighs and knees, sliding strongly against each other, feel delightfully slippery and polished. I fantasize a tyrannous mistress, forcing me to walk from room to room, mocking my movements, my tiny steps and swiveling hips.
I imagine her positioning me in front of the mirror, forcing me to stand there as a punishment. I know I can move whenever I choose to and I wonder what it would be like to stay in standing bondage longer than my interest and endurance.
What if she were to return right now, for instance, finding me helpless like this and, feeling aggressive enough to take advantage of it, what if she were to tie me tighter? What a thrill it would be for her to cord my ankles together, then, tugging the ends forward, to cross them over my instep and thread them under the arches of the shoes.
I can feel her finishing the tie by pulling the cord firmly up, almost lifting my heels off the ground. She crosses the cord behind my ankles, pulls it around in front, and uses the remaining length to cinch the network together.
But she’s not really here. And if she were to return right now, she’d just be upset. I’d end up feeling guilty and ashamed of myself, out of place in an awkwardly relationship.
A bondage slave master needs a bondage slave mistress, and she needs him. How can they find each other?
My arms feel well bound. The single glove holds them with even pressure from above the elbows to below the fingertips. Looking over my shoulder, I can see the reflection of the black satin glove sleeves, and the contrast with the white single glove. The single glove completely encloses the hands and fingers. It dangles heavily on my back, like an elephant’s trunk.
I can feel the body embrace of the inverted girdle that anchors the single glove and the hobble skirt. I can feel the body embrace of the longline girdle that garters my stockings. I love the silken sensations of sliding my thighs together in the tight embrace of the hobble skirt.
I start paying attention to the play of balance on my high heels. I can visualize the curve of the heels, recapitulating on another scale the curve of my calves, smoothly sheathed in silky nylon. In the mirror, I can see light playing along the curves.
I can clearly feel now that my weight is distributed on four points. A small proportion may be taken by the arch of the foot resting on the arch of the shoe, but most of the weight it taken on the heads of the metatarsal bones and on the heels. The heels and the metatarsal heads. By swaying gently, I can play my weight on them.
If you can’t enjoy doing what you really want to do, how crippled is your capacity to enjoy the rest of life?
I am really absorbing myself in this feminine play. It is simultaneously fascinating and subtly exciting. I wonder how many women can enjoy their heels as deeply as I can, and as high. How many women have mastered even four-inch heels, let alone the five that I’m wearing now? I see exciting images of the classic six-inch pump, in black patent, the six-inch boot to the knees, in black and red patent, the towering ballet boot, that laces tightly over shins, knees, and thighs. One of these days.
It’s an exploration, and it’s always an exciting one. My heels are together, and my toes. I focus on the slight bend in my knees. My weight is forward, on the toes and the metatarsal heads. I can feel some of the arch and the whole of the heel, the unweighted sole in contact with the shape of the shoe. Since the sandals are open-toed. I can lift my toes so that almost all my weight is balanced on the metatarsal heads. As I do that, the soles of my feet increase the pressure on the arches of the shoes.
I try straightening my legs, pulling my weight shifts back onto the heels, and the soles of my feet press more firmly against the arches of the shoes. I tighten my buttocks, and make my legs equally rigid.
I feel the urge to enjoy my hobbled, high-heeled walk again, so I dissolve the imaginary cords around my feet and ankles. I am now a high-heeled slave girl, confined from my knees to my shoulders, and from my shoulders to my fingertips, in layers of tightly clinging Lycra. My stockinged legs rub against each other in an orgy of sexual sliding.
Tiny step by tiny step, learning better balance on the way, I move back into the bedroom. I center myself on the bed by falling onto it and then improving my position with caterpillar-style wriggling. Resting my cheek on a pillow, I take time to breathe, relax and organize my thoughts and feelings.
There’s a little bit of paradise in being bound like this. The sheathing on my body and limbs is soft and comfortable, yet strong and secure. I wonder how long it would take me to fall asleep. Would I be able to surrender to this pressure holding me, or would I want to struggle against it, to escape it?
My excitement continues to grow deeper and richer. I know I can reach orgasm quickly, so I’m careful not to trigger a sensory sequence that will lead to release. If I trip an orgasm, I know I’ll want to free myself. The edge of excitement will have been blunted, and the entrancement of bondage will become irritation.
It makes more sense to be patient, to let the excitement develop naturally and slowly. Teased by my slave mistress, I might be able to go from orgasmic height to orgasmic height. By myself, I’d rather play the edge of orgasm. Playing it beats plunging headlong over it.
I lie for a long time flat on my stomach, my left cheek on the pillow. When I start getting into the depths of a fantasy, my sense of time changes. Time goes sometimes slowly and sometimes fast.
My shoulders are becoming uncomfortable. I relax them by working my arms, gloved to the shoulder in black stretch satin, against each other and against the Lycra cocoon that gloves them as one. I tense and relax in perfect harmony with the out-breath and in-breath. I become very familiar with the many feelings of tension and relaxation. I can sense tension early, and I know how to relax with the breath.
My shoulders and arms now feel warm, heavy, and totally relaxed. I surrender them to the embrace of the single glove.
I roll over on to my left side, bending
[missing line] the thighs together puts a very sexy polish on them. I surrender some more to the bondage. I notice how difficult it is, when I'm breathing in, to overcome the constriction of the Lycra sheath and expand the rib cage as a part and the torso as a whole. Expanding from inside takes real effort when your whole body’s embraced in soft, strong, Lycra sheathing.
I have a transient desire to tie my feet tightly into a network of firmly cinched cording. To free my arms, tie my feet and ankles, and then imprison my arms again would be a distraction at this point. Those high heels can be free to kick against the stricture of the hobble. Next time I'll tie my feet, strap a boll gag in (the red one, the only one I have), and pull a helmet over my head before I imprison my arms in the sleeve of the single glove.
For tonight, the shoes will be all the foot bondage I need. Delicately strapped and elegant they might be, but those shoes are delicately strapped and elegant hobbles. They seemed joined by an invisible ankle chain when I put them on, and they still do. The heels are so high that I can’t decide whether walking in them is more difficult, or standing in them. And now they’re free to kick against the stricture of the hobble.
I press my left cheek to the pillow and look back under my raised right shoulder. Kicking feet, hobbled knees, stockings and high heels. The stockings and heels look truly bizarre.
I stop kicking and let myself relax in the Lycra sheathing. I become aware again that expanding for an in-breath takes a real effort.
I think about her again. I feel that my love, my energy, and my creativity are specifically stimulated by bondage. I find it so easy to relax when I’m in bondage. I know how deeply we would feel connected, the two of us relating as sexual slave and mistress. I don’t think she can see the romantic power of the fantasy, this, or any other bondage fantasy.
There’s a lifetime of pleasure-seeking creativity behind the lifetime of bondage fantasy. I can remember, all the way back to my early teens, so many dressings and bindings, and the changes in style through the years. All those rich, colorful adventures, all that exquisite creation of excitement
Unless I’m with someone who can share that eagerly with me, I feel that I am being put up with, catered to, or humored, I feel patronized.
If people knew about me, most would say that I’m very strange. I’m also very much alive, and very real. I’m aware of
[missing text] tired. The soft girdle clings so strongly to my waist.
I want to wriggle my hands and wrists, still inside the single glove, into a more decisive bondage, a more stringent one. I work my hands to the freedom beyond the opening of the single glove. It is made easier by the sliding of satin on satin and Lycra.
Through the satin fingertips, I feel for the doubled circlet of strapping. Finding it almost immediately, I begin the delicate work of threading my hands and wrists through the circlets.
At first, it’s hard to believe that my hands will ever to through. I realize that the satin gloves might make it possible, but I remain very skeptical until my questing fingers suddenly sense a way to work through and snare my wrists. With some squirming, with the digging of an elbow and a frantic writhing of fingers, the circlets suddenly slide over my thumbs.
I am webbed in a lightening shatter of fear, like shatter lines in an impacted windshield. The fear flickers through me like energy through a flashbulb. Something tells me that my wrists are strapped for good. I’m afraid that possibility has been realized. I think I have trapped myself.
My excitement skyrockets. Am I trapped or can I free myself? I don’t want to test at first. I take time to relax and settle into the bondage. Will this turn into one of those rare episodes of genuine panic? Will I find to my relief and disappointment, that it’s a false alarm?
And suddenly it’s not a false alarm. I suddenly realize that only part of me has heard her car coming down the driveway. Now, all of me is aware that she is parking under the car port. I hear the engine die. And silence. Why is she back so early?
I am very frightened. She is about to find me helpless in my fantasy, lying bound across the bed, with the open suitcase, the piles of stockings and pantyhose, the straps and ropes, all my forbidden playthings.
