Russkaya Rapunzel

Part One

Most of us don’t get to experience complete darkness very much in the modern world. Our houses are filled with electronic gadgets which illuminate the night hours with their standby lights and their digital clocks, adding to the light of the moon and the stars and of course the ever present orange of the streetlights. To get complete darkness, you really have to cover your eyes and probably your whole head with something opaque, like for example a coat, or a thick blanket, or a leather hood that was bought from the internet which is laced up tightly and squeezes every part of your head from every angle. And if for some bizarre reason you did this, you would find that complete darkness is rather strange and not as a dark as you might think. For in the blackness there is texture, a rich, velvety texture that seems to shimmer with colours which sometimes grow into patterns that you can see, but you can’t look at. And these patterns are odd in another way. They don’t change when you move your eyes. Look up, look down, left or right, the patterns are still the same. And the brain finds this all a bit disorientating after an hour or two, and you start to think you might be losing your mind.

 

The hood that I’m wearing right now is particularly effective at scrambling my brain. The pressure all around my head is strong, but even. No stretchy, overgrown swimming hat this one. This is a finest lambskin leather hood, made especially for me, and the fit is truly perfect. It runs right down to the bottom of my neck and is laced tightly at the back. Only my hair escapes its confines, squeezing out through a small tube above the laces and cascading down in an impressive pony tail. I can feel my eyelashes stroke the lined inside surface of the hood every time I blink. The last time I wore it, I managed, with some difficulty, to take some photos of myself. Other than a few small ones around my neck, there wasn’t a wrinkle showing anywhere and the features of my face were pressing through the blank, black mannequin surface. I have spent so much time staring at those pictures and wondering if it’s really me that stares back, but does not see.

 

I wonder how long it’s been now. An hour? Two? There’s just no way to tell. Maybe I’m nearly there, or perhaps I dozed off and missed the alarm. No, the alarm on my phone keeps repeating every few minutes till it’s cancelled. I’m not done yet. I’ve heard a few sounds from outside the room, a horn in the car park and some voices from the corridor, but people come and go all the time in a motel so there’s no clue to the time from them. The leather of the hood is soft, yet very strong and it muffles any external sounds, but that doesn’t mean it’s quiet in here. The pressure on my ears causes a continuous low rumble and every time I move the leather creaks and crackles.  I can hear my heart beating and there’s also the sound of my breathing. The wheezing, hissing the air makes as it fights its way through the two tiny, metal-rimmed holes under my nostrils. If I try to breathe hard I can actually make them whistle slightly.

 

I can feel another bout of claustrophobia coming on, but I’ve weathered a few of these now and know how to deal with them. Relax and breathe hard and deep. It amplifies the feeling of the restriction of the air, and logically one would expect that to worsen a panic attack, but somehow it seems to calm me until the claustrophobia passes. And of course logic doesn’t belong anywhere near this whole situation.

 

To explain how and why I have come to be lying on the bed in a Travelodge motel room, naked except for the tightest and blackest hood imaginable, waiting for the sound of my phone’s alarm, I think I will need to tell a little of my life’s story. My name is Nadezhda. That’s a Russian name if you didn’t guess. My father was a sailor in the Soviet Navy who defected to The West when his ship was on a good will visit to Portsmouth during the height of the Cold War. I doubt if that visit created much good will. He settled in Britain where he met my mother and they had me, their only child. He wanted me to have “a proper Russian name” and while there are many of those that are also English names, he had to go and choose Nadezhda which instantly marked me as a foreign enemy and caused no end of grief for me at school. Apart from this, I had a pretty normal and happy childhood. I turned out to have something of a talent for drawing and painting which my father encouraged, buying me all sorts of artists’ equipment. He also taught me to speak Russian and we would usually speak it together if my mother wasn’t around.

 

When I left school I went to work as a translator for the security services who were very eager to acquire my somewhat rare skill. It might seem very glamorous and exciting to work for MI6, but actually it was really boring. In the whole time I was there, I don’t think I translated anything that sounded the least bit interesting. Perhaps little messages like “Commissar Grigoryev’s wife will be travelling with him” were actually code for “launch the nukes at midnight”, but it never seemed like it to me. Being half Russian, I sometimes felt a little uncomfortable about my work, but my father would say that working against the communists was not working against the Motherland. My career as a backroom spook got off to a flying start and soon there was talk of promoting me to “other duties”, unheard of at my young age, but then the Cold War came to an end, and a lot of people in the security services were very upset about that, because the country started asking if it really needed to spend all this money on them. In the subsequent reorganisation of MI6 I was transferred to GCHQ and my much rumoured promotion never materialised. But this turned out to be rather a good thing for me as it was at GCHQ that the apparently erotic sound of my stiletto heels on the corridor floor attracted the attention of a wonderful man who would become my husband. At the tender age of twenty seven I gave up my stagnating career as a spy to become the mother of our first child. A daughter whom we named Kristina, another proper Russian name but one that wouldn’t get her called “Comrade” or “Babushka” at school and when she got older wouldn’t make her suffer the jokes about the “pair-o-stroikers” on her chest.

 

Kristina was only two years old when my nice, comfortable life started to unravel. I was pregnant for the second time when my placenta failed and the baby died inside me. The body of my second daughter had to be removed from me, along with my womb and ovaries. But the real blow came three years later when my husband was diagnosed with Leukaemia and he died three days short of his thirty second birthday. At the time I thought my whole world had collapsed, but I had to hold it together and care for Kristina. In the years that followed, I had a number of men-friends, and went to bed with a few of them, but no matter how attractive she looks, I guess a barren single mother isn’t much of a catch for a man looking to spread his genes into the future. And for me, no one could match up to the saintly image of my late husband. I gave up on love and concentrated on being the best mum ever to my lovely daughter.  

 

When I was a little girl, I was fascinated with fairy stories about princesses and damsels being carried away by evildoers. I would play at being Rapunzel, imprisoned in my tower with my long hair my only hope of rescue. As I got older and became sexually aware, my fantasies turned darker. I was not just imprisoned, but bound or chained and forced to serve my evil master. At the time I thought my mild obsession with bondage was weird, possibly even a bit sick, and kept it strictly to myself. I never even told my husband of my secret desires, believing them to be quite shameful. Sex with him was a joyous act for me, but my satisfaction came more from the pleasure I gave him, than from any electricity in my own loins. My craving was to be dominated and surrender all control to another, and it went unfulfilled and supressed. In my years as a widow, whenever I felt the need, which was fairly often, it was images of myself, stringently bound, gagged, imprisoned, tortured, even executed sometimes, that filled my head as I closed my eyes and held a vibrator against myself.

 

I kept up with my drawing and painting, and sold a number of pictures over the years, although by the time the shop or gallery’s commission was deducted, I doubt I ever made much more than a few pence an hour for the work I put into them. It was only when I got the occasional commission to do a portrait that I made anything significant enough to form a welcome windfall for a single mum. This all changed when we got the internet. It gave me a worldwide shop window for my work and allowed me sell and take commissions directly. It also allowed me to work at home as a freelance Russian translator, which gave me a real and steady enough income to get me off the state benefits for single parents and pay my own way. The internet did something else too. It showed me that I was not alone in my taste for bondage. Far from me being a sick, perverted weirdo, it seemed that half the world was longing to be tied up and whipped, and the other half was longing to do the tying and the whipping, but most of us were just too shy or ashamed to do anything about it. I started to unload some of my darker fantasies into my paintings and showed them on a site called Deviantart. I soon developed quite a following and the comments, far from accusing me of perverted sickness, were full of praise and requests for more. Of course I also got loads of messages from men saying they wanted to fuck me or whip me or whatever, but who in their right mind would reply to one of those?

 

As Kristina passed her seventeenth birthday and transformed from a girl into a beautiful young woman, I began to realise that she would soon be flying the nest and heading out to find her own life, and I would be left rather alone. The prospect really frightened me but it also awakened thoughts of love and companionship and sex that had lain in a box at the back of my mind for so long. I resolved to do something about it and look for a new partner, and this time it would be different.

Different because now I was no longer an impoverished single mum with a young child, but a woman of independent, though modest means.

Different because now, at my age, my barren loins were rather less likely to be the kiss of death for a relationship.

Different because now I stood ahead of much of the competition, having actually aged rather well. In my mid-forties I was still pretty shapely, still had my Rapunzel length hair, and still had my considerable enthusiasm for high heeled boots.

And different because now I knew I wasn’t some sort of weird sicko, but just a perfectly normal, suppressed and kinky bondagette.

 

This time I would get it right. Instead of finding Mr Perfect and then not be able to confess my kinky side to him, or find that he’s a vanilla as plain ice cream, I would seek out someone who shared my taste for bondage and then see if he turned out to be Mr Right as well. And how would I achieve this miracle? I would use the internet of course. I started to browse forums and dating sites, looking for that promising lead to pursue, but as it turned out, it pursued me. And from an unexpected direction.

 

Sometimes when I uploaded one of my paintings to Deviantart, I would write a short story to go with it. Usually this was just a little tale of how the subject of the painting happened to end up in such excruciatingly tight or devious bondage, but one occasion I wrote the story before doing the painting. The story was longer and more complex than my usual fare. It was basically a love story and told of a woman who was in an intense, loving bondage relationship with her husband, and while I’m sure many submissives have a discreet tattoo somewhere that says something like “Property of….”, this woman had a craving to go further. She longed to be branded, and for her husband to do the deed. Of course, he refused, but slowly she talked him round and made him realise that it was what she wanted more than anything else. They talked about the design of the brand and how it wouldn’t be possible to do intricate detail like in a tattoo. They got a blacksmith to make it up. They got a lawyer to witness her statement that she wanted it. They researched how to look after the wound. They bought a real brazier that their friends thought was just a patio heater. They had the large oak tree in their garden cut down and ensured that the lumberjack left the top of the stump at her waist height. Together they screwed a myriad of leather straps to that stump so that she could be held more securely than ever before. And on the evening of their tenth wedding anniversary, the loudest scream she ever made bottled up like a caged lion behind her three inch ballgag as the smell of her burning flesh filled the air and her husband’s mark etched itself into her bottom. The story was quite intense, and I did an equally intense painting to go with it. The painting and its story got thousands of views, hundreds of favs, and seemed to cause quite a stir amongst my band of followers. And it was from this that the private message came that started me on the road to my date in a motel room with a leather hood. Normally I would have ignored it, but it came from someone who I had “spoken” with many times before. They had been thoughtful and sensitive in their comments on my paintings and had helped me learn some of the techniques for retouching and finishing my work electronically. And some of their own artwork had really caught my eye too. I already regarded them as a sort of friend.

 

Danskkage: As you know, I have been following your art for some time and I am something of an admirer. Your latest piece, it seems to have come from a much darker place in your heart. I hope you are okay.

 

RusskayaRapunzel: Yeah, I’m okay. Thanks for asking. Something a bit different came to me, that’s all.

 

Danskkage: I am glad to hear that. You seem like a lady who has already had much tragedy in her life.

 

RusskayaRapunzel: What makes you say that?

 

Danskkage: I can see it in your paintings. There is a lot of most kinky art on this website. Some of it is rubbish and some of it is excellent, is it not?  But there is no other that has the intensity of feeling that yours displays. There is a deep sense of longing, and loss that I see in it.

 

RusskayaRapunzel: Well I suppose I’ve had my share of both of those.

 

Danskkage:  It is a curious thing is it not, that when we break up with a lover, how easily our love turns to hate or contempt. In the anger and pain, our memories push into the shadows any merits of our former partner and they shrivel into a stunted imp. We can end up wondering what it was we ever saw in them in the first place. What a ‘jerk’, or ‘bitch’ they were. Against this demonised caricature, any forthcoming suitor shines like a beacon of hope and we can rebound off into our next romantic adventure.

It is very a different thing though when a partner is taken by death. As the departed lover is mourned, their faults and shortcomings are pushed aside to make way for their virtues and memories of the good times. An almost saintly image is brought to the fore, against which no future admirer can ever really compete. We long for company, but there is none who can replace our loss. Does this make sense to you RusskayaRapunzel?

 

RusskayaRapunzel: Well that’s very deep, but yes, I can relate to it.

 

Danskkage: I thought as much. My condolences. Has it been long?

 

RusskayaRapunzel: Thirteen years.

 

Danskkage: I am only at two years myself. She was a wonderful lady, and she had a great passion for the side of sexual expression that you and I also understand.

 

RusskayaRapunzel: I’m sorry for your loss. It gets easier as time goes on. I don’t forget, but I don’t mind remembering.

 

Danskkage: Thank you. And you are still on your own?

 

RusskayaRapunzel: I have my lovely daughter.

 

Danskkage: Ah good. And she must be almost grown up now if it has been thirteen years.

 

RusskayaRapunzel: Doing her A levels.

 

Danskkage: Ah, then soon to be heading off to university or some such? And then what for you? Forgive me for being so bold, but is this what drives you to write such a compelling tale of companionship and togetherness?

 

RusskayaRapunzel: Maybe. I don’t know. You seem to know me better than I do. Why don’t you tell me?

 

Danskkage: Forgive me again for being so bold, but I would love to do a picture of you. I know nothing of what you look like, other than you are a lady and I could take guess most approximate at your age, but I would love to try to capture some of your emotions and fantasies in a picture. I would of course seek your approval before showing it and you need not associate your name with it if it is not your desire to do so.

 

RusskayaRapunzel: I really like your art. It would be an interesting experience to see myself in one of your situations. I could be up for that.

 

Danskkage: I am so happy to read that. Can I ask you please to send to me some photographs of yourself, and some measurements too perhaps? You need not send anything too personal, but the more I have, the more realistic I can make you.

 

And that’s how it began. A little chat between two artists and a request to pose for a picture. It seemed like it was quite the thing for lady artists on Deviantart to offer themselves as models for kinky computer generated artwork. I wondered if it was because they were exhibitionists, or maybe they were alone or bored and this was their way of getting thrills, or if they were like I used to be; happily married to a loving husband but unable to confess their real desires to him. Or maybe he didn’t share their passion for the kinky. Or perhaps it was just a bit of harmless fun and the thrill of seeing oneself in a kinky picture. Whatever the other ladies’ reasons, my own started out firmly in the bit of kinky fun category, but as I took my various selfies and waited the three weeks it took Danskkage to come up with his picture, my feelings about the whole thing deepened markedly. After all, this was the closest I had ever come to having someone place me in any sort of bondage. And after I uploaded the photos and sent him the link and password for them, I had no control whatsoever over what he was going to do with them. With me. It was like I was helpless and in his power, with no choice but to await my fate. Isn’t that what submissive bondage is all about? I found the wait for the picture frustrating and arousing and very exciting.

 

Danskkage had an interesting style of art. I think that his pictures must have started as some sort of computer modelled scene for they had that perfectly posed, lit and shaded, technically perfect look that only comes from a computer, but I suspected that he rendered the various elements of the scene separately and then composited the layers together, adding his own hand-made elements, and then used this as a base to draw and paint over. The result was a curious, but wonderful blend of the hyper-real and the artistically painted, and every one of his pictures invited the viewer to extract their own story or scenario. When I finally got his note to say my picture was ready, I started shaking so hard I could hardly click on the link to open it. It did not disappoint.

 

It was me all right. A slightly stylised and unreal version of me, but still unmistakably me. Every little feature of me was there. Every curve, wrinkle, hair, blemish. It was uncanny, and the detail, atmosphere and instantly implied stories made it, for me anyway, a masterpiece. The scene is a dark and moodily lit room, perhaps a basement, but more likely an old industrial building. Rusty pipes run along the walls and there is the debris and the detritus of decay lying around. The main subject is of course me. I am naked except for two items; a tall, leather looking collar and a waspie style corset that looks both from its size and from my flesh bulging from its edges, to be very, very tight. I have been installed on a fairly standard piece of bondage equipment; the metal pole with a U-shaped top, upon which rests my crotch taking my whole weight. My legs are held straight and splayed apart by my ankles being locked into cuffs on the ends of a horizontal bar near the bottom of the pole. The height has been carefully set so that my legs and feet are clearly stretching and straining to reach the floor, but my immaculately red painted toenails remain just a few tantalising millimetres above it. It is a sort of oblique, front view of me, but the often used trick of strategically placed mirror in the background shows that my arms are pulled up behind my back with my wrists crossed and shackled between my shoulder blades to a strap descending from the back of my collar. My thumbs have been tied together and my fingers seem to claw uselessly at the empty air behind me. Though my bottom is not visible in the mirror, the tell-tale lines from a thin weapon curl around my flank and thigh, hinting at agonies my cheeks have recently endured. The welts across my breasts are much more obvious, being only partly obscured by my hair, but here again there is subtlety in the way the lines converge on my nipples, speaking of a skilfully accurate and sadistic hand. Beside me is a small table upon which various implements tell of previous, or still-to-come elements of my ordeal. Nipple clamps, ball and penis gags, pinwheels, a perforated paddle, a thin cane and a selection of different sized butt plugs and dildos. A curious looking attachment is fitted to each of the plugs and dildos whose purpose is not immediately clear, until the viewer notices that it matches the section of the U-shaped bar on which I am perched, and it then becomes a question of how large is the torment inside me. But my crowning glory is my face, looking away from the viewer towards a heavy looking door and watching the activity there with a haunting expression that demands the viewer’s attention. Fear, pain, despair and bewilderment are all there, but so is rage and the certainty of revenge. The door is open and a shadowy figure is ushering another woman into the room. She is naked and in chains and it seems like the sight of me as she is pushed through the door has just confirmed her worst fears are about to come true. Her eyes are wide, her mouth slightly open and downcast, her head leans back and she seems to be trying to resist, but is powerless in her chains and paralysed by fear. The last shreds of hope that this is all some sort of mistake or joke have just left her, and her fate is now laid out before her.

 

I stared at the picture for hours, taking in every detail and extracting every possible story. For thirty odd years I’d dreamed and fantasised about exactly this sort of experience and now here it was, shown to me like a photo of a scene that really happened just yesterday. The feelings it stirred within me were so powerful and I lost myself in the world it portrayed. I remember hearing Kristina arrive home from school, but still I sat in my mesmerised state and it wasn’t until she was actually opening the door to my room that I managed to snap out of it and close the picture in the nick of time. I can’t imagine how I would have explained it all to her if she’d seen it. I went through the motions of being a normal mum for most of the evening, but I couldn’t wait to get back to my room to look again at the image of my darkest desires. The solution to the immediate flames it had started inside me lay in my bedside drawer, but this was now a fire that would burn and burn and I knew I would have to find a way to feed it.

 

I thought long and hard about whether to allow Danskkage to name me as the model for his picture. The likeness of me was certainly very good, but the styling and moody lighting still left room for just enough doubt that if someone I knew saw it, they would not be able to be certain it was me. But my online name, RusskayaRapunzel with its obvious Russian reference would surely give me away. I thought about how Kristina might feel if one of her friends found the picture and showed it to her. But in the end, my pride and ego won out over my caution and I was revealed to my tribe of fellow online kinksters in all my glory. The little band of my followers was very excited to at last see the lady who created the paintings they loved, and in such a powerful and erotic scene too. And of course there was a fresh deluge of messages offering to make it all come true for me. Most were light hearted and jokey, but there was also the serious, and the dam right disgusting. And I ignored them all of course, except for a couple of the funnier ones.

 

A few weeks later I started up my computer to find a note from Danskkage in my inbox.

 

Danskkage: I want to thank you again for posing for me, and I thought you might like a copy of the full resolution version of your picture. There is a link below so you can download. I enjoyed very much making your picture, especially creating your hair. It is not without a good reason that you call yourself Rapunzel. You might like to know that a number of people have bought prints and I feel I should owe you some commission, but as you probably know, we do not make a fortune from selling our work on here.

 

RusskayaRapunzel: Hi and thanks for the link. And thanks again for making the picture. It’s certainly been an interesting experience to see my dreams somewhere other than inside my head. It’s nice of you to offer me a share of your sales, but not necessary. It’s your art and you keep the proceeds, no matter how small or large they might be. Maybe if you send me some photos of yourself I can return the compliment.

 

Danskkage: Well that is very kind of you, and perhaps we should do it sometime, but first I would like to be rather forward with you again if you will forgive me. I would like to make you a small proposition. It seems that we have much in common, so what would you say to the two of us indulging our respective desires in a small way? Do not worry, I am not about to ask you where you live so I can arrive at your house with a big box of chains and handcuffs.

 

RusskayaRapunzel: Who’s to say I wouldn’t like it if you showed up at my house with a big box of chains and handcuffs?

 

Danskkage: Well quite. But of course, what we long for in our fantasies and what we want to happen in real life are two rather different things, are they not? I am sure you have had all the messages offering to make your picture come true, I get them too, and of course we are not going to reply “Oh hi. Yes, this is where I am. Please come and abduct me to your dungeon.” I wish I could say that I am not just some pervert you met on the internet, but I suppose that is exactly what I am, and you must treat me as such, but maybe there is a way we can indulge our darker sides a little through our keyboards, and have a little harmless fun along the way. If you do not want to, then that is fine. I will not be offended and we can just go on appreciating each other’s art.

 

RusskayaRapunzel: Well Mr pervert I met on the internet, don’t take this as a green light, but what have you in mind exactly?

 

Danskkage: Well for example, here is a short list of some items of, shall we say, fetish apparel.

A tall, stiff posture collar.

A pair of ballet heeled boots.

A leather hood with no eye or mouth holes.

A stiff, tight corset, not like the one in your picture, but a long one that holds the breasts and reaches down over the hips.

A locked chastity belt to which you have no key.

A latex catsuit.

Now, please imagine that in order to achieve a night of kinky bondage sex, you have invited your favourite dominant person to come to your house. Tell me which item you would most like to be wearing when your guest arrives and why? You can choose only one.

 

RusskayaRapunzel: So, you really are a pervert I met on the internet! Okay, well the chastity belt isn’t going to make for a great night of kinky sex unless my master has the key, so I’ll pass on that. The corset and catsuit are very sexy, but they don’t really shout “take me master” without some additional bondage. The collar is quite submissive, and I like the idea, but on its own it’s a bit mild really. So it’s between the boots and the hood. I should go with the boots as I have something of a minor neurosis about high heels, but I actually bought a pair of ballet boots off ebay once, just to see what they’re really like. They were cheap, nasty, very uncomfortable and a heel broke off the first time I tried to stand in them, so unless they’re posh, expensive boots I’ll have to pass on them. So that leaves the hood. Very submissive and sexy, and my master can instantly start to take advantage of me. I’ll go for the hood.

 

Danskkage: Ah, an interesting choice. I was thinking that perhaps you would choose the boots, because high heels they often feature in your paintings and I was feeling that perhaps you have a passion for them. But it is the hood you have selected. So a little task for you if you wish to accept it. Go and buy yourself a hood like the one I described. Make sure it is a good one and it fits you well. Please tell me when you have it and I will reimburse you for its cost, whatever amount it is. You may choose. And you will have to decide if you trust me to pay you. Trust is an important thing and I must have an opportunity to earn it from you, must I not?

 

Danskkage: It has been two days since I messaged you. I hope I have not caused offence. Please reply, even if it is just to say “no”.

 

RusskayaRapunzel: I’m still thinking about what you said. Are you serious?

 

Danskkage: Absolutely.

 

RusskayaRapunzel: You’re saying that I buy a hood and you’ll pay me for it?

 

Danskkage: That is correct. I wish only to return what you pay. I do not want to pay you for anything else. That would be distasteful.

 

RusskayaRapunzel: And what do you get out of it?

 

Danskkage: I will get the pleasure of thinking about you wearing your hood, and maybe even of seeing a picture of you in it. Perhaps a piece of art it will inspire.

 

RusskayaRapunzel: That sounds a bit creepy. What if I blow hundreds on the hood?

 

Danskkage: A limit on your budget is set only by how much you trust me to repay you, although I suppose there is a natural limit as to what you could pay for a hood, unless you had it studded with diamonds or something similar, but that would be rather tasteless would it not? And as for creepy, well, I am just a pervert you met on the internet, remember? And is it any creepier than the hundreds of people who have been aroused by the picture of you in a considerably more compromising situation?

 

RusskayaRapunzel: I need some time to think about this.

 

Danskkage: Please take the time you need. I will be here.

 

Over the next couple of days I kept re-running the same argument through my head. I’m not stupid and I knew exactly what any sensible person would do. Tell the guy to fuck off of course. He was obviously just an old pervert, or worse, he was a psycho eying up his next victim. In fact a sensible person wouldn’t have flippantly analysed his list of fetishwear while half pissed on Pinot Grigio in the first place. But on the other hand, wasn’t this exactly what I had resolved to seek out? To find someone with whom to share my kinky desires? And here was someone who wanted to do just that. And if, a big if, all he said was true, then maybe we had much else in common. He was certainly a brilliant artist, whom I had sort of known for a while and he had always been very pleasant. But I didn’t relish the thought of him jerking off over pictures of me, although it was probably too late to prevent that as he already had some. And what about the picture he’d made? I’d happily placed my name with it for the whole world to masturbate over if that’s what the world fancied doing and I didn’t feel odd about that. And then there was the thought of this hood, which was increasingly occupying my mind.

 

Although I had had many dreams and fantasies of myself in bondage situations, a hood was not an item that had ever really featured much. But now, thanks to my semi-drunk analysis of Danskkage’s list, a hood was now right up at the top of my dirtier thoughts. I searched the internet for images and videos. The helplessness and vulnerability enforced by being in a hood seemed fairly obvious and I loved watching how the slightest touch to a hooded woman made her jump and squirm as she obviously couldn’t see it coming. But there was also something else. A hood not only robbed the wearer of their sight and possibly their voice, it also seemed to take away their very identity, reducing them to an anonymous toy, to be used for their master’s amusement. The more I looked, the more I became fascinated with the idea of wearing a hood. But not just any hood. Although it performed its function perfectly well, I saw nothing sexy in a canvas sack over the head, nor in any of the fancy stuff adorned with straps, buckles, removable blindfolds, gags and the like. For my taste, the sexy hoods were the simple ones. Tight fitting to the point where I could see the features of the wearer’s face, and with the minimum of seams, openings or any other paraphernalia. I tried to imagine what it would be like to wear such a thing, but it was extremely difficult. I tried placing a bag over my head and pulling the slack into my hands to make it tight, but it just felt stupid. I tried putting a coat on backwards, pulling the hood up over my face and holding it tight behind my head. Perhaps that gave me some inkling as to what it would be like, but there seemed only one way to be sure. Was I really going to buy one and give Danskkage his wish? Surely not.

 

As I sat at my computer, thinking of my dilemma and getting increasingly horny, two things happened in quick succession that resolved my indecision. The first was an email that arrived from one of my regular translation clients. They had a long and complex scientific paper they needed translated into English. It would be several weeks work and would top up my bank account nicely, leaving me able to afford a frivolous treat this month. As I clicked ‘send’ on my message to accept the translation work, the email window on my screen closed and revealed the image search window I had been just been browsing. It was of course a search for hood images and I clicked idly on one of the thumbnails that looked interesting. The image that appeared was the second event that sealed the deal. I stared at it, taking in the subtle detail and my eyes grew wide with amazement for it was one of the most erotic images I have ever seen. After looking at it for some considerable time, I decided my hand in my panties was no longer enough and I had to adjourn to my bed and get out my Hitachi. As I cooled down after the vibrator had done its stuff to me, I knew what my frivolous treat was going to be.

 

The picture in question was a photograph which showed a woman, naked except for a hood and the ropes that bound her arms behind her. The hood was just how I like them: clean, black, tight, and no openings, save for a pair of tiny breathing holes. I could clearly make out the features of her face and her squashed ears. She was situated in a wood and appeared, with obvious difficulty to be trying to walk over the rough, branch strewn ground, blind and in bare feet. The incentive for this walking was a thin string that was held at one end in someone’s hand that was just visible at the edge of the picture. The other end of the string disappeared into the woman’s crotch and the hint of a knot implied it was tied to something in there. Exactly what could not be seen, a clit or labia ring seemed the most likely options, but a dildo, clamp or even a butt plug were all possibilities. It was the simple thought of being this woman, forced to march over the painful ground with only the cruel pull on my most sensitive and intimate parts for guidance, that tripped me from my state of horniness into wanton desperation.

 

And so I began shopping for a hood. Mindful of my previous bad experience with the cheap and nasty ballet boots, this time I was looking for a quality item. It was surprisingly hard to find what I wanted. You would imagine that a simple, tight, plain bondage hood would be a standard in any fetish shop, but not so. It was no problem if you wanted your hood to be puppy shaped, or look like the Devil, or be covered in straps and buckles, or even god forbid, attach a urinal to your mouth, but a simple, sexy hood seemed to be a lot to ask. And as I searched, there was also the question of what to do about Danskkage. Could I stand the thought of him wanking while thinking of me? Would I feel like a whore if I took his money? Would he even send me any money? As I browsed through the fetish shops I decided that there were two ways of looking at things. One was to accept that I was bored and alone, soon to be even more alone, and was sadly shopping for something that would probably just give me a fleeting glimpse of the sex life I was starting to crave. Or alternatively, I was being submissive and carrying out my master’s instructions, searching for an accessory to bring him, and me sexual pleasure. Ok, so that was hyping it up a bit, but it was a lot more appealing than the first option, and feeling like I was doing someone’s bidding and complying with their will, brought a new aspect of excitement to the quest for my hood.

 

And then I found it. It was perfect, exactly what I was looking for. “Lambskin Leather Bondage Hood – Nero Black  USD175  Our hoods are hand made, custom sized to order items, made specifically for your measurements.” All hail to the gods at Restricted Senses dot com.

 

RusskayaRapunzel: Are you still there?

 

Danskkage: Yes, I am still here and glad to hear from you again. I was beginning to think that you had dumped this old pervert.  

 

RusskayaRapunzel: I’ve been thinking about what you said and I’m intrigued by the idea of wearing a hood. I have been looking at some on the internet. A lot of them are to me, not sexy and some are just plain silly, but I have found one that I really like and am minded to buy it. If I go through with it, I will send you a picture to say thanks for getting me interested, but I’d rather not take your money. Thanks all the same.

 

Danskkage: It makes me very happy to read that you would like to get yourself a hood, and also that you appear to have done much research and probably made a discerning choice. I am sure that it will add to your already considerable charm. However I must ask if you are doing this just for yourself, or are you accepting the little task I suggested for you?

 

RusskayaRapunzel: I’m not sure. Maybe a bit of both.

 

Danskkage: Well let us for a moment assume that you wish to accept my task. In this case I must insist that you comply with all the conditions of the task and allow me to reimburse you for your costs. I understand how this may feel uncomfortable for you, but is it any worse than for example, allowing me to pay the bill if we were to meet in a restaurant? If you are still uncomfortable with accepting my money then you can always give it away to a good charity. I would suggest one that looks after dogs. They are supposed to be man’s best friend, but yet so many are treated so badly do you not think? And if you complete this little task, and we both arrive at a little excitement from it, then I have some others in my mind, and we cannot have you picking and choosing which parts please you to do, and which do not. That would be a bad way for a slave to behave.

 

RusskayaRapunzel: A SLAVE???? And just what exactly gives you the idea that I want to be your slave?

 

Danskkage: Because if you were not at least interested in the idea, then I think that some time ago you would have told me to, how would I say this in Russian, yebat pokinut?

 

RusskayaRapunzel: Well it’s not a phrase my father ever taught me, but I think идти и ебать себя might be what you’re looking for.

 

Danskkage: Ah, my thanks for your correction. I do not have the Cyrillic characters on my keyboard, but I can copy and paste. So should I now идти и ебать себя and leave you alone, or do we have more to talk about?

 

RusskayaRapunzel: You keep asking questions to which my answer is, I’m not sure. Maybe a bit of both.

 

Danskkage: Well that is good is it not? It shows that we are stimulating thoughts and feelings that need to be explored. And now I would like to make a little addition to my task. Assuming you go ahead and buy your hood, when it arrives, you are not to put it on until I give you permission to do so.

 

RusskayaRapunzel: That’s not fair. You can’t change the rules when the game has already started.

 

Danskkage: Ah, but it is completely fair because you have not yet consented to play the game.

 

RusskayaRapunzel: Then I have a counter task for you. The hood I like is made to measure and it says it will take two to three weeks to make. And then it will need to find its way all the way from Australia to darkest Wales. If I order it tonight, you have until it arrives to convince me to play your game. Do you accept my task?

 

Danskkage: It is made to measure? You are indeed proving yourself to be a lady of sophistication. And while it is not the place of the slave to be the one making demands, I will overlook this and accept your task with great pleasure. And I wish to know no more details of your hood. I want it to be a surprise when I see you in it. Now you appear to have let me know that you live in ‘darkest Wales’. You should be careful about letting out small details like that.

 

RusskayaRapunzel: Maybe I meant to let that little detail slip out. Maybe it’s you who needs to remember that I am also just some pervert you met on the internet.

 

Danskkage: My dear Rapunzel, you surprise and delight me with every note you send. Well I shall return the compliment by letting you know that I live at the moment in Germany. Now in order for me to fulfil the task you have set me, I must know more about your feelings and desires. Tell me, in my picture of you, what do you think is the relationship between yourself and the other woman?

 

That night, I spent over an hour staring at the pictures of the hoods on the Restricted Senses website. They were incredibly beautiful. Simple, wrinkleless and incredibly tight looking. Somehow they also looked incredibly feminine and there was even a gender selection box on the order form. I knew I had to have one. I took my measurements and sent the order along with a note asking if the hood could be modified slightly and have a hole for my hair to exit above the laces. And so the long and frustrating wait began, and through it, I became increasingly excited and horny. Not just because of the thoughts of my hood, but also because of the regular chats I had with Danskkage in which he constantly pushed my buttons and probed my intimate secrets. I soon knew that I was going to give in and accept his task, but of course I wasn’t going tell him that until the last possible moment. I think I my emotions might have got slightly out of control if it had not been for the big translating job I had to wade through, which turned out to be incredibly complex and difficult with all its tecky jargon. Even so the effect on me was apparently obvious to my daughter.

 

“Mum, have you got a boyfriend?”

 

“What? What on earth makes you ask that?”

 

“You seem very, well err, happy all of a sudden. And you’re wearing make-up and heels all the time. Even around the house. You don’t normally do that. You’re in love aren’t you?”

 

“No, that’s ridiculous. And just what would my little girl know about love anyway? Err, actually no. Don’t answer that. I don’t want to know.”

 

“Good on you Mum. Go for it.”

 

 

oOo

 

 

Restricted Senses were as good as their word and sixteen days, nine hours and forty three minutes after I ordered it, the postman brought me a boring little red card. It said that they were holding a package pending payment of a customs charge of £23 and then the Post Office wanted another £9 for the privilege of collecting the money from me. Well that wasn’t entirely unexpected, but still bloody annoying. To be honest it wasn’t so much the £32 that bothered me, it was more the delay to my package, which took another two days, one hour and three minutes to finally arrive. And then, to my considerable relief, I held in my hands a dull-looking, brown cardboard box with a customs declaration discreetly labelled as just “clothing” and not a gaudy, transparent package labelled “bondage gear”. Like a kid at Christmas I rushed up to my bedroom, which in our small house doubled as my office, and tore the box open. Inside was the most beautiful and fabulous piece of leather I have ever seen, and speaking as someone with a bit of a boot fetish, that’s saying something. It was shiny, yet not shiny. Soft, yet strong feeling. Beautiful, but somehow evil. I peered inside and it was totally black. I pushed my hand into it, felt the sensual lining and my fingers explored the distinct shape of the nose and the tiny, metal-rimmed breathing holes. I shuddered as I thought about how my life would depend on those little holes. To my delight, they had incorporated my request for a pony tail hole, except that it was not just a hole, it was a short tube around which the top lace was wound so that it would clamp my hair securely as the laces were tightened, or if I chose to let my hair splay out from the bottom of the neck, the lace would close the tube and pull it flat, ensuring there was no gap in my head’s confines and no unsightly lump on the hood. Perfection. I pulled the laces fully open and offered the neck up to my head, but there I stopped. I knew it was time to decide. Was I just doing this for myself, or was I following Danskkage’s task, for he had forbidden me to put the hood on without his permission. I groaned with frustration, for I knew I had already made that decision some time ago, but to have the hood here in my hands and not be able to wear it was a lot to ask. I sent him a note to say the hood was here, but I could see he was offline and it was several incredibly frustrating and horny hours before I got a reply. Much of my arousal came from the hood itself, but there was fair amount that came from obeying my instructions, even though I desperately wanted to ignore them. This was me being truly sexually submissive for the first time, and it felt amazing, but I didn’t know how long I could keep it going. I could of course have just put the hood on anyway and lied to Danskkage. He would never have known. But I would have known, and I would have failed at my task and deceived him. Not sexy.

 

Danskkage: I am sorry for the delay. I was not online this morning and just got your note. So you have the hood. And is it to your satisfaction?

 

RusskayaRapunzel: It looks fabulous, but I haven’t worn it yet.

 

Danskkage: Ah, so you have waited several hours without trying it. Does this mean that you choose to play the game?

 

RusskayaRapunzel: I suppose so.

 

Danskkage: Can we have that again but with a little more enthusiasm?

 

RusskayaRapunzel: Yes Master. Your slave is playing the game. Now can I PLEASE PUT THE HOOD ON?

 

Danskkage: It is gratifying that you choose to call me Master, but not necessary. I do however like that you refer to yourself as my slave. And no, you may not put the hood on yet. First you must complete the second part of your task which is to allow me to reimburse you your costs. I would suggest that you send me a bank account number so I can transfer to you. I do not need the name on the account, just the number, and I will have no way to find you from that. If you prefer, we could use Paypal, but then you would have to reveal to me your email address. There are other ways, but they are slow and might compromise your identity even more. Please choose how you would like to proceed.

 

RusskayaRapunzel: Oh God! All right, here’s a link to my Dropbox account. The password is your name. It’s a jpeg of my bank number. Please do it quickly. I don’t know how much longer I can resist.

 

Danskkage: Ah, so you are learning an important lesson about the life of a slave. That sometimes it might be better to be restrained so that you have no choice, than to have to exercise self-control. Imagine that you are wearing nipple clamps and the pain it is quite intense, but your master has ordered you not to remove them. You must not only bear the pain, but also fight against the desire to disobey and free your poor nipples. Now think of how much easier this situation would be, if your hands were tied and the option to disobey did not exist. Would it be better now for you to be tied so that your hood is no longer a temptation? I would leave you to think of this while I engage in paying you, but you have neglected to tell me how much money I need to send.

 

RusskayaRapunzel: It’s £148. Do you still want to play the game now?

 

Danskkage: But of course. That is rather less than I had thought. I will do the banking now. Message me when you can tell me the reference I use for the payment.

 

RusskayaRapunzel: The reference is YOUR DOM. I have the money. Please, please can I put it on NOW?

 

Danskkage: It is fortunate that our banks are running smoothly today do you not think? Okay, so it is three o’clock in the UK now, so we have at least a half hour before your daughter finishes school? That should be sufficient time for you to have a reward for your excellent work and self-control. Do you have with you a camera that can operate without the use of your eyes and very important, a knife or scissors to cut yourself free in an emergency?

 

RusskayaRapunzel: Yes, I think so.

 

Danskkage: You think so or you know so?

 

RusskayaRapunzel: Oh God. Yes I know so.

 

Danskkage: Very well, I am very proud of the way you have handled your first task. As a reward, you may wear your hood for, shall we say, ten minutes. Please remove it immediately if you experience any difficulty with your breathing or any other circumstance that perhaps could endanger you. If all is well, then you will take some photographs of yourself in your hood. Please enjoy your reward and message me when you are done.

 

This was it. I had rehearsed this moment many times in the horribly frustrating hours since the hood arrived this morning. My hair was already prepared into a ponytail, which I now lifted into the neck opening of the hood. I pushed a trembling finger through the small tube in the top and hooked my ponytail. I then pulled my hair through the tube to where it would enjoy freedom while the rest of my head was imprisoned.  I lifted the hood above my head and brought the neck opening down to my scalp. I looked up into the black space where I was about to confine myself and took a deep breath. In one, smooth movement I pulled it down over me. Even with the laces fully open, it was a bit of a squeeze, but I was in. I felt my nose push into its shaped pocket and took a breath. It seemed ok so I reached behind my neck and pulled on the laces. The hood grew snug around my neck first. I could feel the pressure on my throat, but it was not too tight. I pulled the rest of my hair out through the hole and it felt very strange as the hair slipped between my scalp and the hood. I began to tighten the laces again, this time starting at the top and working my way down. The pressure on my head increased pull by pull. First across my temples and forehead, then my cheeks and scalp. A dull rumbling started as my ears were squashed. My jaw was pulled up until I could hardly part my teeth, and my lips were pressed against them. Until now I had had my eyes closed but as I opened them, it made no difference at all, other than I felt my eyelashes stroke the inside of the leather. Everywhere there was pressure. And blackness. Incredible blackness. As I tied off the laces, I wondered if I looked like the photos on the shop website. A smooth, black, wrinkleless mannequin. The feeling was all I had hoped for, and more, a lot more.