She slipped on her government-issued hoodie and sweats, black (thankfully) with "Juicy" written on the seat of her sweatpants in large pink script (she'd never be caught dead in them normally), grabbed her camera and headed to the location where she saw the...creature...last night. Crosschecking with the video, she found it was right near the hard-packed, rocky ground of the trail. A few partial boot prints could be found in the softer earth nearby, including one set of boots with a rather odd spiked pattern to the sole, but they could easily be leftover from people using the trail. None of the tracks appeared to be all that fresh, making it debatable whether they were from last night, and there were none of the giant barefoot tracks one expects to see from a squatch. She had nothing.

The tree limb, which awoke her during the night, was about 16 feet long and heavy. No human could have thrown it; maybe a squatch couldn't even throw it. The broken end had a trace of rot and had landed hard enough to embed in the ground. The leafy turf bore no sideways scuff marks to indicate a direction of travel other than straight down, and the leaves and bark matched the trees above, even though she couldn't see a matching stub or split. She had to conclude the most likely answer was that the branch fell naturally, just a coincidence--one that could have been deadly if the timing had been different.

To complete her investigation, Tasha checked the camper and found a round dent in the metal siding high above the rearmost passenger-side window, same side as the door and facing the direction of the trail. On the ground in front was a tennis ball sized rock, lying on top of freshly fallen leaves. Climbing the attached service ladder in back, she found another rock like it on the roof. Clearly both had been thrown last night. Interestingly, she found a third rock behind the camper. It matched the other two and was also on top of recently fallen leaves.

In the question of man or beast, the evidence, though not conclusive, leaned towards man, or possibly men, which only raised more questions...and fears; the beast having been the preferred option. She didn't try to answer the individual questions, yet knew they could be answered collectively: she was getting too close to someone--but to who (or what)? Stryker need not be the only one up to something in these woods. For starters, plenty of poachers, pot growers, and moonshiners considered this their backyard too.

After collecting the rocks for potential further analysis, Tasha was anxious to get going. Today was the third day, so after she ran the trail, she could head back to town to report her findings then take a short break before picking up the next list of suspected locations. Despite her anxiousness, she could not cut corners. Mission parameters were quite clear: explore at least the first three miles of each trail (deemed effective coverage by the intelligence team); look for signs of subject movement or patrols, report back any found; attempt to lure subjects into open; validate subject association with Harcourt Stryker; allow capture and infiltrate. 

The day promised to be perfect, not a cloud in the sky, and the cool air was much to her liking; the ground was dry and hard, so the trail would be fast. The hills, though, were going to be a challenge. At least this mission was really getting her in shape if nothing else. That small, but stubborn, tummy bump she hated was finally gone, and her ass looked spectacular.

As she got ready, her training kicked in and the residual jitters of last night faded. This was something she had to do. Besides, no one would setup a still or planting near the main trail. Just another day on the trail, she assured herself.

The comfortable pattern of her morning routine was so firmly ingrained that it seemed as if she had been doing it her whole life. Soon, she was on autopilot. She didn't eat before running. Instead, she took time to savor her coffee, decadent with cream and sugar by her otherwise strict dietary standards, along with some no added sugar organic peach mango juice. She only planned to go the minimum three miles (one way) so preferred a light stomach. 

Tasha changed into her running gear, each article of which was a compromise between her own preferences and those of mission command: very short, tight, black lycra shorts (her choice); slightly loose, neon blue tank top (their choice); bright pink and purple trail running shoes (her brand, their horrible colors).

Her shoes and socks were the end of the ritual. She took extra care putting on her low-cut toe socks, working each toe into its sock finger carefully--especially her second toe, uncharacteristically the longest, which had a tendency to catch the toenail. She tied each shoe lace precisely so that her shoes didn't slip, but weren't too tight.

She filled her water bottle then tucked it into the special pocket of her streamlined, teardrop backpack. The pack was too heavy to ever be comfortable, but she would have hated running with it even if empty. Normally, she ran without any pack, not even a fanny pack.

Before heading out, she setup her camper according to the mission parameters. She never changed the book rack full of bondage erotica, "how-to" guides, cryptozoology books and field guides, so they were OK as is. During training, they were all effectively programmed into her memory anyways; she hoped she remembered everything after the mission, especially the knots and ropes guide. Monitoring system in "away mode," check. Curtains and blinds open, check. RV seats converted to a bed, check. Spritz of perfume in the air, check. Drawer beside the bed open three inches, check. Keys in ignition, check. Purse with identification behind driver's seat, check. Laptop on table and open, check. Journal...she forgot to update the journal, so quickly dashed out an entry: Thrown rocks and indeterminate bipedal thermal images at 00:50. No further contact. Nighttime foray aborted. Answering knocks recorded, indeterminate origin. She tried to sound like some kind of professional wannabee-type that thinks they know all the lingo.

She took her extra-wide yoga mat outside to stretch. Sitting down, she spread her legs wide for her first stretch, nearly a split. Stretching was not specified in the mission parameters so she just used the same exercises she had been using for years. As she bent at the waist towards her right leg, she realized she might be giving someone a show--paranoia or wishful thinking? She wasn't sure. If she was being watched, a high-powered scope could be zoomed in on her crotch right now--in her current position, the fabric was stretched tight over her mound. As she flattened her body tight along her leg, giving her hamstrings and lower back a good stretch, she made sure to keep her arm clear--no use obstructing the view. Those men had been out in the woods for well over a month now. That's bound to get a man thinking about sex. It was her task to get them thinking even more. Before a predator takes the bait, he has to want it. The more he wants it, the bolder he will get. Still, her actions had to appear natural. How suspicious and cautious they were had drilled that into her over and over again during training. She had to stick to the plan--but that didn't mean she couldn't take extra time on a few of the more potentially wanton stretches, especially when bent over so that her ass was up above her head.

Halfway through her set, she could feel her body responding. Her nipples were hardening, and things were getting a little wet down there. Exercise and running always made her horny. Back in her teens, with hormones raging, the sexual urges would be so strong that she used to sneak off into the woods during track practice to masturbate. At least those urges had helped her stay motivated and in shape over the years. Little did she expect that her secret fantasies and sexual responses would be probed, measured and analyzed in such great detail, or that they would become fundamental elements of a top secret mission; her body classified as a Department of Domestic Counter Terrorism strategic asset (identification number DCT00593-342-06991). If she had sexual relations with a subject, known terrorist or otherwise, it could not be held against her. She would just be deploying a government asset. She was an object, a weapon, in official terms. James Bond had a license to kill. Tasha Cassidy had a license to fuck.

Finally, she could get started. She left the mat out for cool down stretching upon her return, punched in the deliberately simple security code to lock the camper door (2580, straight down the middle), then started off slowly. Not far from the spot she where she sighted the creature, the trail started to narrow and steepen.

She took it at a cautious jog, giving her muscles time to warm and adapt. Besides, she needed to be alert and ready as she ran--which wasn't easy. The temptation was to watch the ground all the time. There might be tracks or signs along the trail for one thing, but the frequent patches of treacherous, ankle twisting, embedded rocks that she had battled since the beginning of the mission were the main focus. She was used to picking through them now. Nevertheless, they still commanded attention and respect; the last thing she needed was a sprained ankle. At the same time, she also needed to keep her eyes up to watch the forest. She needed to see anyone, human or otherwise, before they saw her. She was directed to be as quiet and as fast as possible, for the advantage of surprise. As if that wasn't enough, she had to keep a special eye out for her arch nemesis: brush overhanging the trail. Trail running with bare legs is not the smartest thing. Plain branches were bad enough, but a surprisingly large amount of foliage had little needly thorns. Fortunately, she hadn't seen any poison ivy yet.

Today's run was going to be difficult. The top of the hill was just the first part of a series of upward slopes separated by stretches of flat trail and short downhills. The combined climb might be the highest of the mission; she didn't know. The trail course wasn't on her map and mission command thought that it would be too risky for her to be seen using a GPS. From a distance, it could look like a radio or something similarly suspicious.

Using a short stepping stride and leaning in towards the hill, like they had taught during training, was essential on the steep parts of the slope. Since proper technique involved using the balls of her feet, it reminded her of stepping in high heels and only encouraged her urges.

By the time she reached the summit, she was hot and sweaty. Her nipples were hard, a consequence of her autonomic arousal. Past experience told her they would stay that way for the rest of the run. Pausing for a sip of water, there was no rare air vista, just more trees, a few large rocks and some undergrowth. The top of the hill turned out to be the top edge of a low mountain ridge. Now the trail headed slowly downwards into a hollow.

Aside from an earlier pair of deer and lots of squirrels and birds, she seemed to be alone. No tracks or other signs of recent human passing. An accidental encounter with recreational hikers was highly unlikely, so she decided it was time to proceed with phase 2.

The summit was a perfect location to start: good line of sight and the right distance, about a mile, maybe a mile and a half from the road. Tasha gratefully set down the backpack--it felt so good to be free of the weight of the damn thing--stretched her back, then took off her sweaty tanktop. The air was a little chill at first in just her black lycra sports bra--described by the manufacturer as having an ultra-tight, second-skin fit that delivers a locked-in feel (they said the same thing about her shorts). She had been wearing the same brand for a number of years. Under the circumstances, it was as reassuring as an old friend.

She found a horizontal branch alongside trail and hung her top on it by the shoulder straps, making it a sort of flag, in her case more like a bread crumb--or a welcome mat. The hideous neon blue really did stand out. The thought of leaving it behind was heady. Having the fantasy and actually living it were quite different, the reality had such a greater intensity to it, even if the fantasy had played a thousand times in her head. Just the thought of a guy--or curious squatch, she reminded herself, trying to keep her head in the mindset of the mission--finding a trail of musky, sweaty clothes in the woods and tracking her down...God. Those urges were getting significantly more urgent. She had to get moving.

Backpack in place, she continued down the trail, faster than before, nipples proudly pointing the way. Out of sight of the tanktop, about a half mile further down the trail, Tasha took off her shorts, wrestling them over her shoes without falling down. Training had definitely helped her balance. She was left a skimpy hot pink spandex exercise thong for coverage; she wore it a size too small to make sure it was snug.

The debate over her panties had been heated. It seemed that every member of mission command had his (there were no other females) own ideas. Eventually, another of her secret fantasies got the better of her, and she "succumbed" to insistent requests, veiled as half-joking suggestions, that she model the different options, walking down the main conference room table barefoot like an awkward lingerie model on a walnut catwalk. (She wondered if real models got horny doing their job.) It was cute how a couple of them tried to spare her "the humiliation" of "dressing like a tramp" while openly gawking. Little did they know. At least it showed that they hadn't seen Peters' video of her "interview." One said that the thong was too sexy to be believable, she wanted to give him a medal--after she got done blushing. To resolve the issue, Timor himself had picked: another historical matter of monumental importance affecting the fate of the nation decided in the Domestic Counter-Terrorism Task Force Board Room.

The fascination with hot pink was beyond her comprehension. She had always hated the color. It is a terrible match for her skin tone and hair color, even worse than the neon blue top, but despite the different opinions on style of panties, it was almost unanimously preferred. To make matters worse, the pink didn't conceal enough. Anyone looking could already see wetness soaking through, despite the quick drying fabric. Once wet, the fabric was rendered translucent, and her engorged pussy was plainly visible. The pink was also as bright as a surveyor's tape, so her crotch was probably visible at least a half mile away against the earth tones of the forest.

She hung her shorts on a small sapling that stood on the very edge an otherwise straight section of trail. They would be plainly visible for quite a ways, even though black. She wondered if a squatch really could smell her scent (and lust) on them. Supposedly, they have a keen sense of smell and both the males and females are rather curious about human women, but whether in a sexual way or not was unknown.

Tasha was preoccupied with lust as she continued down the trail. From this point forward, her exposure was undeniable to anyone she encountered: she was definitely running in her underwear. This wasn't a California volleyball beach where a thong might go unnoticed.

Indulging her inner pervert's depraved fantasy was immensely erotic and a powerful aphrodisiac, but her socially programmed inhibitions still had it so repressed that making it real was completely surreal with an I'm-not-really-here-and-doing-this quality to it. Part of her might even believe nothing bad could ever happen; she would just wake up from the dream.

Less than a half-mile further down the trial, when she took off her bra, she could barely concentrate on the mission. Perhaps it was a coping mechanism, or perhaps it was just another time where duty was an excuse to liberate those pent up desires previously suppressed, but with dignity and modesty no longer options, her body had its own mission from here on--a strictly biological one. It had no concerns of fantasy or reality. It just wanted to get fucked.

She left her bra hung by a single shoulder strap, a 34C guidon of black, thinly trimmed with white, to mark her incursion into enemy territory. Topless, her pace automatically slowed a bit to compensate for the lack of "mid-impact support" and "locked-in feel."

Around the curvature of a low hill, a little over a quarter mile further, a mountain stream crossed the trail. The water was cold, clear, and fast moving; the kind that makes good moonshine, or a good water source for men hiding in the backwoods. In theory, following it might be a better and more direct approach, but it would automatically look suspicious, like she was searching, so was specifically prohibited; she was to keep sight of the trail at all times.

The muddy ground near the water showed no squatch or human tracks, despite a few raccoon and deer tracks, both classic matches to the field guides. She didn't expect to find any since a set of deliberately placed stepping stones made an easy, hard-surfaced, crossing for bipedal passersby.

The stream crossing seemed like a good place to leave her last shred of modesty. She found a small tree, safely clear of the water--returning to find that her panties had disappeared downstream would not be good. As she hung up her thong, she smiled at the subtle innuendo of the tree being a prominent, stiff, ironwood inside her panties. 

Truth be told, she didn't feel a significant change in physical exposure without the small patch of cloth over her bald mound, but mentally, she had thrown the switch to full-on Naked! A number of neural circuits were now engaged, several of them hardwired to her vagina. As she continued to run, her nakedness became more and more final and a particular fantasy became more and more real. The nymph in flight. The barbarian stalking her.

Despite the distractions, her training eventually asserted itself, and she was back on task: scanning the forest, picking a path through rocks and looking for a location for the next phase. For phase 3, she would bind herself for anyone to find, helpless. In the cover story version, a squatch would feel it safe to indulge their curiosity and approach, knowing she was harmless. For the mission, the story was much the same--safe to approach, harmless, exposed, vulnerable...available--but the motives were, hopefully, a lot less innocent than simple curiosity; success depended on it.

She had to run further away from her panties than she would have liked before finding a good spot, but it was worth it. The location she found was perfect. The trail ran through a wider, open area with good visibility. To one side was a steep slope topped by a flat terrace, the kind of vantage point that gave a tactical advantage. Opposite of it was a small hillock with a gradual slope--a good stage for her show. Best of all, on the side of the hillock were two stout chestnut trees, about a foot in diameter, with just the right spacing. She would practically be leaving a written invitation.

Tasha laid the contents of the backpack out on the ground in the prescribed arrangement, all twenty-six and a half pounds of strong, lightweight gear. The layout mirrored the final setup, with some adjustments for order of use, so made it easier for her keep track as she worked. Closest to the trees were the climbing stirrups, then four rows in order: wrist restraints, topmost cable, motor unit, pulley, pulley strap and ratchet strap receiver brackets; waist belt, two long ratchet straps and two more receivers; ankle restraints, bottom cable and another motor unit, pulley, strap and pair of receivers; lastly, bigfoot "howler," ball gag with chin strap, motion sensor camera, bumblebee vibrator, control box and remote controls for each.

She could take the self-bondage rig apart and put it back together again like a Marine Corps sharpshooter cleaning a rifle. After all, she built the thing herself as part of mission prep training. (She still wondered where they got the plans, and who did the research. Probably had been a great internship project for some engineering student.) You couldn't find a rig like this on the internet, but you could find all the parts to build one easily enough. The tree climbing stirrups and ratchet strap receivers were straight from a hunting supply store and were normally used for tree stands. The small motor units, aircraft cable and aluminum pulleys came from theatre and movie supply companies. The restraints and vibrator...well, any pervert already knows a few websites for those.  

Realizing that she was getting ahead of herself, she did a quick check of the area. No signs of human or squatch activity. No anthills, bee's nests or dead tree branches overhead ready to fall on her. She did a few more stretches and took a few more sips of water, that last thing she needed was a muscle cramp.

She set up the motion sensor camera on the trunk of a small hemlock tree about 15 feet away--not as easy as it sounds when naked. The small needles might be soft, but the branches were scratchy. Anytime the camera detected movement it would snap three pictures then wait two minutes. Between the tree bark pattern camo case and the abundant branches, the camera was practically invisible. She'd get some extra pictures when the branches swayed in the wind near the sensor, but that was OK. The angle was good. She'd get her own backside from an angle (she could live with that) and should get the face of anyone or anything that approached her from the front.

Next, she started to rig the chestnut trees. The stirrups were little more than small steps that strapped to the tree trunk. Normally a series of them would make a ladder, but she only needed to reach a foot or two above her tip toes. She ratcheted the stirrup straps tight, about two and a half feet from the base of each tree. All the straps in her kit had a small metal clasp with an integrated ratchet, like the bigger versions commonly used to strap things down on trucks. The clasp also acted as a lever for the ratchet. Each time the clasp handle was pulled, the strap tightened a notch or two as the ratchet made distinctive click sounds. Pushing the clasp closed locked the strap in place. A little metal tab released it.

Using the steps, she strapped three receiver brackets tightly to each tree. She positioned the first pair as high up as she could reach while standing on the step; the second pair lower down, just above the height of her waist; and the last pair at the base of each tree, just above the root flare. It was simple, really: hands, waist and feet. The receivers were just metal mounts with a hole that accepted a number of attachments (such as a tree stand seat or gun holder for a hunter, originally). 

The top cable and motor unit was the hardest to position. The motor unit was a little bigger than a beer can and had a mounting tab that slid straight into the right-hand receiver bracket. Opposite the motor was a pulley which mounted to the other receiver bracket via a longer ratchet strap. Since the cable between the motor and pulley was a fixed length, the ratchet strap adjusted to make up the remaining distance. Fortunately, the two chestnut trees were almost perfectly spaced so little adjustment was needed.

The design of the top and bottom cables was clever in its simplicity; a simple loop around two pulleys, the standalone pulley and the main one inside the the motor unit, all rigged horizontal to the ground. The clever part was the two fixed "travelers," or mounting rings, permanently fixed to the cable on opposite sides of the loop. Because they were on opposite sides, they moved in opposite directions. Both would move towards the middle if the cable was turned clockwise while they would separate during counterclockwise movement.  The arrangement was often used for theatre draw curtains so that both sides could be closed and opened in unison. In this case, her arms and legs would be the curtain. 

Each motor unit had high-powered compact lithium ion batteries and electronic controls that synced with the wireless control box. Inside were two pulleys, a main load bearing one and a smaller one spring loaded to ensure tension and friction. The combination firmly gripped the shoelace thin, high-strength aircraft cable even if wet. Though slow, the high torque motor in each unit was more than powerful enough to tear her joints apart so had a built-in electronic strain gauge cut-off for safety.

With the hard part of the preparation done, her body was beyond rational control and thoroughly flushed with arousal; she could feel the heat radiating off her bare skin. Her fantasy was supposed to have been one of those dark fantasies that one never shares, that stays deep in one's own mind and is never even talked about, much less lived for real; a simple, primal urge to masturbate to and nothing more. Real life had no place for such things, too many consequences, too much real horror behind the lust. Yet, here she was about to bind herself, naked and helpless, hoping to be found by random strangers; her body offered up--begging to be taken.

Each time the feelings got more and more intense. She dreamed of being found, but at the same time dreaded the possibility deep down in the pit of her stomach. She couldn't take much more--like putting a hand back into the fire. How much longer could she keep doing it? Did Timor and the others knew that she was starting to crack up? Did they even care?

Tasha calmed herself down the same way she had the last couple of weeks: she went faster. She knew that once bound, once the choice had been removed, the stress and fears would float away. The forced meditation would allow her to forget, for a while, what she could not control.

She placed the howler on a fallen log down in the clear area at the bottom of the slope, a ways from the chestnut trees. It was one damn annoying little box. At random 15 to 45 minute intervals, it would screech out a randomly selected bigfoot call from a rather extensive set of recordings. Sticking to the mission parameters, she picked up a thick dead branch and whacked a tree three times. 

Now that the squatches were notified, and anyone else for a half mile or more, Tasha stepped into the leg straps of the bumblebee vibrator. Sliding it up into position, she tightened the waist strap so that the black and yellow striped hemisphere of silicone was tight against her pussy. The cupped underside of it fit her contours nicely, even if the honeybee motif, along with the crudely molded insectoid shape, was rather graceless. She moved around a little to make sure the bumblebee was settled into position and not likely to shift (that happened once and it was a horrible tease), but she didn't turn it on yet. 

She clipped the empty wrist restraints to the short steel cables that dangled from the travelers on the upper cable so that she could reach them later. The remote for the control box dangled about six inches from the right restraint by a lanyard, while the remote control for the bumblebee dangled from the left. She hooked the ball gag strap on the right-hand restraint as well. She always waited until the last minute to put it in and would have preferred to skip it all together, but (supposed) computer simulations showed a much higher probability that she would be approached if she was gagged, especially with an easily seen bright red gag ball. Tasha wasn't buying it. Even though Southworthy wasn't on the mission command team, he had to be behind it, laughing about it; she just knew it.

She clipped the straps for the waist belt into position ahead of time too, then set the release time on the control box for 11:00, giving her a little over two hours. The display on it showed that the motor units were synced wirelessly, so she double-checked everything then hit "set."

Her self-bondage began in earnest with the ankle restraints. They were essentially heavy nylon cuffs with a few stout D-rings along the outside and a sewn-in attachment strap that was terminated with an O-ring. The cuffs were tapered so that tension from the attachment strap was distributed evenly. Her trail running shoes did not interfere as she closed the buckles, but she would have preferred to wear high heels, like in her fantasy.

The attachment strap O-ring clipped directly onto the travelers on the bottom cable with a snap link, leaving very little slack for movement. No need for a lock since she would never be able to reach them anyways. For now, her feet were close together. She double-checked that she had the correct rings clipped to the correct travelers so that her legs would be pulled apart and not crossed when she activated the motor.

The waist belt was simply a wide, reinforced nylon belt that cinched around her waist with a large buckle in the back. D-rings were sewn into each side, with an extra large ring in the front. Normally, handcuffs would be threaded through the front ring if the belt was being used for its primary purpose.

At first, she hated the belt since it wasn't what she envisioned during her fantasy and seemed to ruin the curves of her slender, sculpted waist, but in practice, she found that it really did help stabilize her body and made long bondage sessions much more comfortable--the added feeling of helplessness turned out to be a nice bonus as well. The straps were already hooked into the receivers and clipped to the side rings so she reached behind her back and awkwardly buckled the belt snugly around her waist, then pulled the straps tight, careful to stay centered under the cable, before ratcheting them a several clicks. Her body wasn't going to sway in the middle now.  

Her hands were next, so she had to put the gag in first. She couldn't cheat on it and leave it a little loose. Mission command was very concerned about a realistic look. The straps were deliberately cut short so that the first prong hole for the buckle could not be reached unless the straps where very tight. The chin strap was already buckled so she pushed the gag ball deep into her mouth, behind her teeth, then clenched her jaw enough to hold it in place. The hard silicone ball yielded very little, but at least it didn't taste like rubber. She slipped the chin strap into position under her jaw before fastening the strap around the back of her head. The gag was the one part of her bondage that she didn't like. Regardless, some deep down fetish reacted favorably to it, increasing her arousal.

She unclipped the wrist restraints, their design mirroring that of the ankle restraints, and put them on, one hand buckling the other. The top cable was too high to reach directly so a short length of aircraft cable with permanently crimped loops made up the difference between the travelers and wrist restraints. She took a deep breath before clipping the attachment straps back onto the cables.

Grabbing the remote for the bumblebee by its lanyard, she passed it to its host hand using the other. It had a small display with a variety of settings. The bumblebee had been specifically selected because of the programmable features and the strength of the vibrator, but she still didn't like the "stinger." Two studded metal contact strips were embedded in the silicone leaving just enough space for her clit in the middle. The bumblebee was capable of producing varying levels of electric current across them. It wasn't advertised as a punishment feature, but she couldn't see how any woman enjoyed getting shocked right there. Needless to say, she kept that feature turned off.

Getting anxious, Tasha quickly double checked that the settings were correct. She was supposed to use level 2 so that the bumblebee was not too distracting, but it was just an annoying tease turned on that low, and two hours of teasing was not what she had in mind. While she could cum on level 3, level 4 was much better. Lately even that wasn't quite as thrilling. Today she was going to graduate herself to level 5, fuck the mission parameters. Who would ever know? Besides, the setting went clear to 10 so she was still being rather conservative. All set, she pushed the start button on the "increasing happy joy" program, smiling at the poor translation on the imported toy.

She dropped the bumblebee control, leaving it to dangle on its lanyard, and grabbed the remote for the control box with her left hand and put it in her right. It was all pretty easy when one hand could help the other, but that was about to change. Tasha pushed the bottom "open" button on the remote and the lower motor unit immediately whirred to life. As she held the button, her legs were slowly pulled apart. She wiggled her feet so they didn't get caught on anything as they were dragged across the ground by the powerful motor. When her feet were a past her shoulders in a wide "V", she switched to the top "open" button on the remote and waited excitedly as her arms were spread. Once close to the right position, she adjusted back and forth between the "open" and "close" buttons, gradually tightening and loosening the rig until she was stretched tight in a spread eagle position with her feet still on the ground.

Some women might find the position difficult, but Tasha was very flexible, and holding it for two hours really wasn't a challenge for her, even though her hands always went numb from being up above her head. She waited for five minutes just to make sure everything was alright and that she was as comfortable as possible before hitting the "start" button. The control box beeped once and the motor units clicked as they shutdown and their magnetic locks engaged (which would unlock if the batteries died). 

Even though she knew she was helpless, Tasha couldn't resist testing her bonds. None of them would hurt her beyond some chaffing no matter how hard she struggled, and it felt good to struggle: a physical confirmation that her fantasy was real. Her hands could not reach the snap links above her or the buckle at her wrist. As she struggled, her nipples grew harder and her arousal grew, but the way her legs were spread wide, exposing her wantonly to the world, was the real turn on. She tried to close them just to savor the futility of the effort.

An horrific screech that reminded her of a wounded animal snapped her out of her compulsive struggling. The bigfoot howler had gone off. Once the damn thing finished, she almost laughed at her situation. Strung up naked between two trees. Her nipples like rocks and her pussy...yes, her pussy..ah, lips engorged, clit firm, but the vibrations were faint. Her "happy joy" still needed to do a lot more increasing, but it would, eventually--and there was nothing she could do to stop it; the remote was hanging below her wrist about 6 inches out of reach.

The real world fell away and her fantasy enveloped her. Every sense was keenly sharpened. She could smell the leaves, feel the breeze of pure, clean air, even hear the rushing water of the stream faintly in the distance. She was strung tightly enough that she could feel the slight sway of the chestnut trees holding her as they answered the wind with their strength. Closing her eyes, she could feel the shaft of sunlight that somehow made its way through the trees to her left leg. Bliss washed over her. She felt so alive. So sensual. So...exposed. So...vulnerable. So--holy fuck--helpless. Tasha's eyes snapped open at the thought. She scanned the woods. Is there someone out there? Someone she can't see? Was that sound footsteps walking on leaves?

In her fantasy, one of the football players, big and strong, would find her. His cock tenting his shorts like a steel rod. Sometimes a random bird watcher, binoculars and camera, a little geeky guy with a thick, stubby cock and a funny voice, "that's it baby, that's it." What would he do with the pictures? Sometimes a park ranger would find her. Like a cop, he has handcuffs. Oh yes officer, I'm guilty. I'm a very bad girl. I know, very bad. In her fantasy, they all teased her, tormented her and fucked her, then left her bound, naked, sweaty and worked over. They couldn't resist her, and how could she blame them? What else would a woman who tied herself up in the woods naked want?

The bumblebee was bringing her a little more "happy joy," but it was still far from enough. She needed lots of happy joy. Her pussy ached for happy joy. Even though it would eventually make her cum, it wasn't fulfilling enough. She wanted something inside her. Since the start, penetration had not been allowed. Mission command was very firm about it. She was not allowed a dildo or even a long handled hairbrush--nothing remotely phallic. They told her that they needed a realistic and seemingly naive reaction in the field, during the mission, but she was sure it was another head game--and it was working. Normally she was quite satisfied by clitoral stimulation alone. Now, she longed to remember what it was like to have something inside, stretching her, rubbing her walls. How long had it been? Truthfully, she wasn't sure. Since sometime way before training started, but that didn't tell her anything. She had no idea how long training had been even. Most of it was a blur despite her remembering everything she had been taught as if it were all yesterday.

The opossum is the only marsupial in North America and has such a strong immune system that it rarely has rabies. The raccoon gets its name from the Powhatan term for "one who rubs, scrubs and scratches with its hands." When tracking white-tailed deer, a buck has wider front tracks. Sasquatches are thought to be attracted to sexually aroused human females and able to detect their lust from a distance, perhaps because the pheromones are similar to a sexual aroused female squatch. You can't fight back. It will reveal your training and blow your cover. "If they want to rape you, then you put on a good show and try to enjoy it."

The facts in her head weren't content to just wait for her to remember them. Sometimes, they burst out, like pop-up messages. It was more than a bit disturbing, and she was worried that it wouldn't go away after the mission. They had definitely scrambled a few things in her brain. She was also worried about what she couldn't remember--vague wisps of things she couldn't put a name to, but that should be part of her life and who she really was.

The bumblebee increased. Now it would buzz slowly for a several seconds, then hit her with three seriously attention-getting high vibration pulses before going back to slow again. She could try to relax, but the pulses drew her attention straight back to her pussy a few times times every minute. Keeping her mind off her arousal was impossible, but that's where it ended. She was never going to get off from it.

She knew she was supposed to keep an active watch and stay focused on the mission, but in this mission, she was, after all, little more than man bait, bait that a staff of intelligence agents was trying to dangle in front of dangerous terrorists. It was better to forget the mission--thinking about it just made her anxious--and easier to just enjoy herself. Until the little control box released her, she was free to be Tasha the slut and not Tasha the agent and that's exactly what she was going to do.

The bumblebee finally switched modes. The slow vibration would steadily rise. Near the end of the crescendo, the speed would suddenly surge faster then warble up and down for several almost painful oscillations. This mode was even more attention getting than the last. During the crescendo, she knew the oscillations were coming so it was hard to think about anything else.

So far, she hadn't noticed a difference from the level 5 setting, but the "increasing happy joy" program was set to gradually increase for over an hour (with random changes to make things interesting) then maintain the peak setting afterwards. It assumed you had the remote control to turn it off when you had enough. These early modes were just to create a build up and were essentially all various forms of teasing.

Tasha could feel her legs trying to clench closed each time the bumblebee did the high frequency warble. It had a delightfully annoying tickle-like quality to it that she hated, so it was perfect for self-bondage, at least for a while. Bondage wasn't as satisfying if you didn't want to get free at least part of the time. She'd love to reach the remote to hit the ">>" button for the next mode or to free a hand to move the bumblebee just a little to the side so it wasn't directly pressing her clit. No matter how much she tried to wriggle her hips, it wouldn't move.

Soon she found herself sweaty from struggling again. She kept forcing herself to relax, but would lose focus to find her body was, once again, unconsciously working to get free. She decided to try some deep breathing yoga exercises. Out with the bad air, in with the good. Breathe in through the nose and out through the...well, breathing out through the mouth was only a partial option with the gag ball, even though she did insist on one with a breathing hole through the ball. She did what she could, heedless of the flying drool.

She closed her eyes, savoring her predicament and having a moment of reverie, feeling the sway of the trees, the slight gusts of wind, the patches of warm sunlight, the stretch of her limbs and the sudden surges of rubbery movement against her loins. She could feel the sexual energy building in her body--energy that cried for release, yet grew from the lack of it.

The bumblebee switched to the next tease. She felt nothing at all, then three pulses, short, short, long. It was slightly more annoying than the last mode. She tried to settle back into her reverie again, but a loud buzzing sound distracted her.

Opening her eyes, she saw a huge green dragonfly, a giant darner, anax walsinghami, like she had seen many times in the woods, but this one was absolutely huge, over 5 inches long. It was buzzing around, hovering peculiarly like they do--the fact that they can fly close to 60 miles per hour popped into her head.

The dragonfly gave her the shivers. She didn't like bugs, even beautiful big shiny ones. All she could do was cringe and wait for it to leave, but it didn't. It kept buzzing around her. As if out of insectoid camaraderie, it buzzed near the bumblebee vibrator at her crotch before darting over to the control box and perching upon it, staring at her with its creepy red eyes.

She closed her eyes again, trying to ignore the dragonfly, in an attempt to regain her previous state of contentment. The distractions of the bumblebee came to her rescue. It buzzed: short, short, long. Short, short, long. More, more, I need more. Short, short, long.  Please, please, let me cum.

Tasha waited through several more modes and a couple of surprise calls from the fucking bigfoot howler. So far, level 5 did not seem any more intense than the level 4 setting. The "increasing happy joy" was more like "growing frustrated torment." Each mode was slightly more stimulating than the last, promising that it would eventually end--eventually being the key word. When she opened her eyes, the creepy dragonfly was gone, thankfully, but the time on the control box was still over a half hour from the 11:00 release time.

Abruptly, the bumblebee stopped. Another rest mode. Rest mode was a safety feature to prevent the constant vibration from doing damage to her nerve endings. The vibrator could cause some weird desensitization and numbing effects if used too much. The wait was just another torment, as if someone paused the movie at the start of the big action-packed finale.

Her body throbbed as it marked time. Just then, the damn howler went off again. Unlike the last couple times, it wasn't a normal call. It was some kind of terrible, haunting howl that sent a chill up her spine as she "jumped" and felt a rush of adrenaline. Her body prepared to run like hell. The shock passed, though, and within couple minutes, her body forgot about running and wanted to be fucked again--more than ever. The fading effects of the scare reignited her arousal while the ache of her hard nipples added a spice of pain to the mix of sensations. For her, frights always translated to lust.

When the bumblebee started up again, it was definitely not teasing and was definitely on level five. Slow, slow, fast, slow, fast, slow, fast, fast, slow, fast, fast, fast.  The pulsing oscillations were up and down all over the place, but never stopped. Soon she had to remember to breathe and was reminded why she had to use the gradually building "increasing happy joy" program. After several minutes of happy, happy, happy, she felt the joy. First was the tingle in her pussy, like a sneeze on the way, then the throbbing, body shuddering, scream-out-what-a-fucking-slut-you-are joy as her clit felt like it was trying to turn itself inside out.

As she hung limp, recovering, her head still spinning like a fuck drunk spider in its web, the bumblebee kept going, still happily working away and trying to bring more joy. It definitely wasn't pleasant to be stimulated after cumming, but fortunately she wasn't particularly sensitive after an orgasm. She just had to tough out the next few minutes while her pussy reset back to "pre-fucked." The next stimulation mode selected, however, was much more subdued. In fact, more "increasing" and no real "joy" was all she got for the next few mode switches. Soon, she was aching for another climax. Her arms were sore from their unbidden attempts to pull free, and her legs felt like rubber. She was going to need to stretch out good and rest before she could even think about trying to run back to her camper.

The clock on the control box was counting down the whole time, approaching release time, but the bumblebee operated independently. The next mode throbbed and vibrated powerfully. In fact, it was slightly painful and a bit too much. She would have turned it down instantly if she could have. Instead, she closed her eyes, bit down on the gag, and tried to clench her legs as she tried to ride out the mode. Within a minute, she was breathing hard as she fought against her bonds, but it was not from resisting the intensity now. It was because her body adapted and now if felt amazing. She felt ready to explode with sexual tension. The emptiness inside her vagina was like a black hole pulling in her lust, consuming it and attracting more.

Just then another loud groaning call startled her. She just couldn't get used to the howler. This time it growled out a deep guttural sound with a strangely sexual quality to it.  In the aftermath of her moment of fear, Tasha was rocked with and intense orgasm. She echoed her own growl from behind her gag. The growl of a wild female hominid experiencing pure sexual ecstasy. The resulting sound of two bigfoots cumming echoed through the woods, one more subdued than the other, but still quite loud, thanks to the gag.

Tasha opened her eyes, toughing out the post orgasmic sensitivity, when she noticed the control box. It said 11:05. What! It should have sent the signal to pull her hands and legs back together. As the panic started to surge up within her, she saw a little dot on to bottom time, next to the "11" for the 11:00 release setting. She stared in disbelief. She always checked that, but there it was, simple and undeniable: the dot for PM. She would not be released for another twelve hours!