It is surprising how, given a little time, the bizarre and terrible can become normal and tolerable. It’s weekend number four in the hood. I’ve made it through my first month of Corrective Restraint without screwing up and getting my sentence doubled, and I’ve even weathered the unpleasantness of my first period in a chastity belt. That wasn’t nice, but everything else I seem to be getting used to. And so tonight we’re going out to celebrate. At least Rob, Jack and Sarah will be celebrating, I’ll be getting frustrated at being kept isolated from it all. And surprisingly, I might even be getting more than just a little bit horny about that, something that four weeks ago I would never have guessed would happen.

 

At Sarah and Jack’s suggestion we’ve joined a fetish club so we can go somewhere where no-one gawks at us or makes rude remarks. I’ve not been there yet but apparently lots of people will be wearing all manner of stuff. Chains, gags and even perhaps hoods will be the norm. We’re not going to stand out as freaks in a room full of other freaks, or at least that’s the idea.

 

I’ve agreed to let Sarah style me for our night out. I’m not sure that’s a safe idea after what she dressed me up in on our shopping trip. I knew that outfit was tight and revealing, but not that it was shiny. Yes shiny! I’m thirty five for fuck’s sake. But I suppose as we’re going to a fetish club, whatever she chooses I’m not going to look too tarty. As instructed, I pulled my hair through the little hole in the top of the hood when I put it on last night, making what I imagine must be a pretty impressive ponytail, but Sarah’s been here styling my hair for almost an hour now. I can feel her pulling some of it forward over my head and lots of hold spray and clips are getting used. And she’s refusing to tell me exactly what I’m going to be wearing. I’m intrigued, and a little worried.

 

At last she pronounces my hair ‘done’ and I’m allowed a gentle touch at it with my hands. It feels big. It feels like she’s covered my head as if there’s no hood and so I guess I look pretty normal except for my blank, black face. A curious way to look, but perhaps not without some degree of style. Sexiness even?

 

Rob takes over for the next part of my preparation. I have to stand and bend over for him to rub lube into my arse. I really wish he’d just shove himself in there but he’s still being a gentleman about it. I know what’s coming next. We’ve talked about this bit and I’m rather excited about it. In goes the recently acquired enema thingy and Rob pumps it up inside me so it won’t come out. Christ it’s sexy. I still haven’t got to cum in this belt but I’ve been close a few times. And this is another of them. If only I could get a little stimulation somewhere I’d be away. Ah, but the moment passes and I’m left with just a full feeling bottom and a dangling tube. Maybe next time…

 

Sarah returns to start dressing me. I feel like a princess being prepared for her wedding, or perhaps for ritual sacrifice, I’m not sure which. Well I’m no virgin so it must be a wedding. The first part of my outfit is gloves. Very tight gloves with padded fingers that seem to get laced tightly all the way up to my elbows. And it’s pretty dam obvious what that’s all about. She’s not going let me feel the rest of my outfit. It’s going to be shiny, I just know it. I’m going to be a bloody rubber doll with a skirt so short my thigh bands will be on show. Even in a fetish club that’s surely going to stand out.

 

But it turns out my preconceptions are wrong. Once my legs are graced with stockings, they are fed into a very long skirt. It feels like it goes right down to my ankles. And it’s tight. Very tight. There’s going to be no running about in this skirt that’s for sure, hood or no hood. The skirt turns out to be a dress of sorts. I think it maybe covers just about enough of my breasts to be legal in public. It’s off the shoulder and it’s so low-cut that the sleeves join the bodice halfway down my biceps. It feels very rigid and snug here, so snug that my arms are virtually pinned against my sides. Nothing feels very stretchy so I guess I’m not a rubber doll after all, but I certainly feel like a bondage doll. Especially when Sarah puts my shoes on. Strappy sandals. Nothing remarkable about that until I try to stand up. How high are these heels? A quick wobble reveals that they’re stilettoes too. I can feel a challenging evening coming.

 

At last I’m ready and Sarah leads me tottering out of the bedroom to the stairs. Of course there’s no way I can climb down them in this skirt and Rob has to carry me down. And the steps at the front door, he has to carry me down them too. What must the taxi driver be thinking?

 

The ride in the taxi lasts for perhaps twenty minutes and Sarah keeps a running commentary of street names going. I wonder if it’s for my benefit or if she just likes the sound of her own voice. Perhaps I shouldn’t be the only one with a gag strapped over my mouth. At last the commentary announces that we’ve arrived and it’s time to leave the relative safety of the taxi. I feel a breath of cool breeze on my bare shoulders as the door is opened and at Rob’s instruction I swing my sheathed legs out and feel for the pavement with my feet. And it’s now that I find a little nugget of information has been kept from me during all the planning of this night out. The club is in a pedestrianized street and the taxi couldn’t drop us off at the door. There’s a walk along the pavement involved. That might be easy enough for Rob and Jack with their unencumbered legs and sensible man shoes. And I’m sure Sarah isn’t going to find it too difficult even though she’s no doubt wearing heels and has her generously long hobble chain. But for me in this skirt, well it would be a nightmare even without the heels and the hood. What the fuck was Sarah thinking when she got this bloody thing for me to wear? Well actually I suppose I know what she was thinking.

 

The walk is probably only thirty or forty yards but it seems to take forever. The skirt is so tight I can only just get one foot in front of the other. The material has a very slight stretch to it and with each step I have to make sure it’s fully pulled tight otherwise my heel will land on my other foot’s toes. I can’t tell how fast I’m going, but I suspect progress is really slow despite the fearfully fast rate I am trying to make my tiny steps at. I’m kept from falling by a firmly holding hand on each arm, one I know is Rob’s, the other I assume to be Jack’s but I can’t be sure. I know it’s not Sarah’s because she can’t raise her hands that high and walk at the same time in her restraints, but the sound of jingling chains tells me she’s not far away. Eventually the air against my shoulders and chest, the only parts of me that are exposed to the air, becomes warmer and the sound of music and chatter tells me we might be in the club.

 

I think I must look like some sort of bizarre penguin as I shuffle along, half guided and half lifted by the hands at my shoulders until I’m gently deposited onto what feels like a soft sofa. And I’m glad it’s soft because I’ve got a none too comfy tube sticking out of my arse. I feel the others sit down and the banter starts. What a cool place it looks, and look at some of the outrageous looking people and their outfits. I’d like to join the conversation, not that I can make any witty comments on the way anyone looks, but the gag strap is still in place and no one seems to be making any moves to take it off. I try to moan indignantly but to no avail. The bastards are ignoring me. And that’s not fair because we discussed the fact that the club is not technically a public place and so I wouldn’t have to be gagged here. I try to reach up and remove the bloody strap myself, but my arms are too tightly held at my sides by the dress. I let out a huge snort of anger through my nose. Bloody hell Sarah, you bitch. You knew this was going happen didn’t you.

 

As if excluding me from the conversation isn’t rude enough, the three of them now start to talk about me as if I’m not here. Specifically how they’re going to get me drunk. Sarah favours spirits as she doesn’t want to have to help me to the toilet all night, but the men think that spirits won’t have enough volume to fill up my rectum and something bulkier like beer would be needed to make sure it gets into my bowels. They make a point of not asking me what I think. The bastards decide to compromise and use wine. Just cheap house plonk will apparently do as I’m not going taste it anyway. Jack is despatched to the bar and only now does Rob finally remove my gag. It’s probably a good thing there’s music playing to drown out the mass of expletives that erupt immediately from my mouth as I tell them exactly what I think of their little game, but of course it’s not real anger. It’s just me pretending I’m not getting off on being abused so rudely.

 

Jack returns, apparently armed with a tray of drinks. Someone, and I hope it’s Rob, fishes around in my cleavage and finds the end of the enema tube that was routed up there when I was dressed. And then I yelp as something very cold is pressed against my bare chest. Jack laughs and says he got the barman to put some ice in my wine. The wine has been transferred to a bag which is hung on the ring on the front of my collar.

 

I can feel the line of cold start to work its way down from my chest, between my breasts, down my tummy and between my thighs. It feels much colder when it reaches my bum, but there’s something else I feel too.

 

“Fuck. It tingles,” I say.

 

“Tingling?” says Jack. “I’ll have to ask for a refund. I ordered sparkling.”

 

“What? You bastard, you haven’t gone and got sparkling wine? What the fuck’s that going do? Give me a dose of wind?”

 

“Well we’re here to celebrate. Nothing like a bit of Prosecco to celebrate.”

 

“Prosecco? Oh you fuckers, you know I wouldn’t touch that stuff with…”

 

“With your arse?” interrupts Rob. “Drink up darling. Happy one month done, five to go.”

 

“Yay! I’ll drink to that,” says Sarah.

 

“Prosecco! You fuckers. Have you no shame?”

 

It seems that pumping alcohol directly into one’s guts is a much faster way of getting it into the blood than the more usual route through the stomach. I quickly realise that I’m starting to babble and swear a lot, a sure sign that I’m on the way to being drunk. Another sure sign is that I become keen to show off my moves on the dance floor, even though I don’t have any moves. So when Sarah declares she wants to dance, I naturally offer to join her. After all, she’s in chains and so I’m going to look like a pro next to her. But of course, there’s a problem.

 

“Sarah, how am I going dance in this dress? I can’t even fuckin’ walk in it.”

 

“Oh, that’s no problem,” she replies. “There’s an easy solution. Come on, let’s hit the floor.”

 

“Yeah? Well let’s fuckin’ go then. Somebody get this bag off my tits.”

 

“We’ll fill it up for you while you’re dancing,” says Rob as he removes the wine bag from me.

 

“Yeah well no more fuckin’ Prosecco. Get me something decent.”

 

Sarah pulls me up from my seat and starts to lead me to the dance floor. And suddenly I realise how precarious I am in my insane skirt and heels. Now I have only Sarah’s restrained arms to support me and I’m convinced I’m going to end up sprawled on the floor. But she guides me on, and I only tread on my own toes three times along the way.

 

“There’s two steps up onto the dance floor,” she says.

 

“Oh, well that’s it fuckin’ fucked then. I’m never getting up them in your dress am I.”

 

“Never say never,” she replies.

 

Sarah’s hand leaves my shoulder and I sway unsteadily. Then I feel something tugging at the hem of my skirt and then sliding up my left leg all the way up to my thigh.

 

“Look at that,” says Sarah. “A handy zip. Now you’re good to dance.”

 

“What the? You mean I just struggled to hobble all the way here and the skirt’s got a fuckin’ zip. Of all the dirty fuckin’ tricks.”

 

“Shut up Jem. Or I’ll gag you again. Now let’s dance.”

 

“Oh fuck. Yes Madame. Lead me up those fuckin’ steps.”

 

And so I dance with Sarah. With my legs freed of the skirt I don’t feel like a penguin anymore. I think I’m more like a T-Rex with my arms still pinned in, but is that bad look? After Sarah I dance with someone else, a man I think, but I’ve no idea who. And then someone else again. A woman this time, and she gets all hands-on before I’m rescued by Sarah again. She leads me back towards our comfy sofa, but as soon as we’re off the dance floor she zips my skirt closed again. Apparently I’m only allowed freedom if it’s to dance. The night continues with bouts of dancing and chatting and drinking. Lots of drinking. I get completely drunk and very full too. Sarah takes me to the loo and I find that there’s an unexpected upside to wearing a chastity belt. I don’t have sit on nightclub toilets anymore. Just pop the little hose in my handbag onto the belt’s little tube and pee through it standing up, just like a man. Who said equality is dead? Sarah touches up my hairdo and we head back out to join the party, with my skirt zipped shut of course.

 

 

oOo

 

 

 

It’s Monday morning and one of my students is giving a rendition of a piece he’s written on the trumpet. I think it might be quite good but it’s hard to tell because the sound of the trumpet is adding new venom to the stinking headache that is still extracting its toll for Saturday night. From what I’ve been told, it was quite a night, although my memory stopped working halfway through and a lot of it is just a black hole. I can remember the early part and some crazy, blind dancing with total strangers. I also remember our little group being joined by various unknown others and some rowdy drinking games which apparently involved shot glasses and resulted in all manner of alcoholic liquids finding their way into my bottom. God, was I drunk. When I woke up in the morning I had no idea where I was. I worked out that I was on a sofa, squashed up with someone else and further feeling about revealed that it was a woman who was completely unconscious and was wearing chains on her wrists. Perhaps if you’re going to drink yourself into a virtual coma then a chastity belt is a good conscience saving accessory. In my defence I should say that I was not really in control of what was being poured into that bag hanging from my neck the night before.

 

The trumpet finally falls silent and the round of applause from the rest of the class and generally approving atmosphere lead me to conclude that it must have been good. I wouldn’t trust my own opinion this morning. I congratulate the owner of the head-assaulting instrument on a job well done and dismiss the class early so I can get to the staff room for coffee and ibuprofen. I’m halfway through my first cup when Sarah bustles in with the characteristic jingly noise she makes when she walks. Unlike me she’s thrown off her hangover and is her usual bright and bubbly self.

 

“Don’t make a noise, I’m still suffering,” I say grumpily.

 

“Oh dear,” she replies. “It was a good night though.”

 

“Well I still can’t remember most of it.”

 

“I’ve got pictures.”

 

“Oh God.”

 

“Ah but no one can tell it’s you in them. Maybe I should get a hood too so I can misbehave anonymously.”

 

“I couldn’t have misbehaved that much. As I remember I couldn’t even walk about in that dress you put me in.”

 

“Oh, you mean this dress here…”

 

Sarah holds up her phone and the picture on it nearly stops my heart.

 

“Oh my God. Is that really me?” I ask as I take the phone from her and stare closely at the picture.

 

It’s undoubtedly a picture of a woman, although I’ve never seen a woman look quite like this before. Below a pair of pushed up breasts her body curves in at the waist and then back out over the hips before tapering away to seemingly nothing in an amazing red and black striped skirt. At her waist are a pair of black gloved hands which rise into small, puffy sleeves and then bare shoulders which are partially lost in the mass of red curls that hang down from her head. The hair frames a face which is black and blank, eyeless and mouthless, and a tall, shiny collar adorns her neck. She is completely bizarre, completely beautiful, and she’s me. I stare at the picture in disbelief.

 

“There’s more if you swipe on,” says Sarah proudly.

 

I swipe the screen and another picture slides in. This one shows me dancing with my skirt unzipped. My leg in its patterned stocking is showing all the way to my thigh where light glints off the shiny metal band. I’m apparently dancing with a skinhead woman wearing a leather mini dress and Doc Martin style boots which contrast with my delicate and precarious looking sandals. Another swipe reveals me sitting on a sofa being cuddled by Sarah while someone pours Tequila into the bag hanging from my collar. There’s a table in front of us that’s covered with glasses and bottles. I can see Rob at the edge of the picture waving his glass at someone and I wonder whose arm is pouring the Tequila. There are more pictures but they generally become less clear and focussed. The phone’s owner apparently loses the ability to compose a shot as the night progresses. There is however a good one of me lying on the bonnet of a taxi with my legs pointing straight upwards in their crazy skirt while Rob has his hands on my bottom.

 

“I won’t ask what’s going on there. Did I have to pay for damaging the taxi?”

 

“Not at all. The driver said you were very funny. I think he had the hots for you.”

 

“Hmmm. What was Rob doing to my bottom on the taxi.”

 

“You really don’t remember?”

 

“Not a thing.”

 

“Well he, err, spanked you a bit for being too drunk.”

 

“What? He spanked me? In the street? Jesus.”

 

“It was only a bit of fun. He didn’t do anything serious to you.”

 

“Yeah well, I wish he would do something serious to my arse. Like stick himself up it. I go out looking like that, and I end up on the sofa with you. No offence, but not the result I was hoping for. If all that didn’t make him give me one, then what will?”

 

“Well I got to sleep with you in a bondage dress. I’d call that a result. Next stop, my living room floor with lots of chains. I hope you haven’t forgotten.”

 

“No Tiger, I haven’t forgotten. Once we’re uncorked, you’re mine Bitch. Or I’m yours depending on how it goes.”

 

“Oh Jem…”

 

“But more immediately, how am I going to get Rob to sodomise me? If that dress, your amazing hairdo and all that booze didn’t kick him into action, what will? It’s his birthday in a couple of weeks and I want to do something special for him. Really special. But how, if he keeps playing the gentleman? I’m going to have to come up with something he can’t resist.”

 

“Plus of course you want to cum, don’t you.”

 

“Well yes, that too. If it’s possible while locked in this thing.”

 

“Well I’m sure if we put our heads together we could come up with something.”

 

“Like what exactly?”

 

“Oh, well let me think…”

 

“You’re a witch Sarah. You should be burned at the stake.”

 

“Ooh, promises, promises. But first we need to get you sodomised.”



Continued in The Accidental Feminist, Part Twelve