Over the next few days Sarah and I spend our coffee and lunch breaks scheming and planning. We’re assisted by Joan who has to word her contributions carefully, and even write them discreetly on post-it notes, and she shows that her certified lady mind works in anything but a ladylike manner. We are of course designing the ultimate man trap. A scenario so sexy that Rob won’t be able to contain himself and will have to seek release in the dubious paradise that is my bottom. I find it all rather exciting and naughty and it lifts my spirits to a high that they haven’t achieved for a long time. But through it all is a nagging doubt. A worry about myself and about the world we seem to be uncontrollably heading into. Why am I, Jemima Melstrom even contemplating such a perverted and debauched action, and with the express intention of achieving a result that only weeks ago I considered totally disgusting. I try to tell myself that I’m just scoring victories. They lock me in all this bondage to make my life miserable and I thwart them by making it fun. But is it really that simple? Was I always a pervert underneath and it’s just being brought to the fore by my current circumstance? Or is all the state-imposed bondage turning me into some sort of wannabe sex slave? Is that their real plan? Does it happen to everyone? Sarah seems to be revelling in her corrective restraints. Is it something fundamental in the psyche of women that we’re all submissive and want to be dominated? It’s certainly been that way throughout most of human history. Women have always been downtrodden and subjugated. Perhaps that is the natural way of things and we should go back to it. Of course it’s ridiculous, but yet, were we really any happier when we were equal? Deep down, do we really just want to make babies and be looked after by a man? Has my twenty-first century upbringing and education made me desire a life that goes against my own biology? Was my high flying career really stolen unjustly from me, or was I just not good and tough enough to make it in a man’s world? The horrible nagging thought that maybe, just maybe the government might be right haunts me, even though it is totally absurd.

 

But then a little thing happens that has a profound effect on me. I’m riding Mable to work through the rush hour traffic, weaving in and out of the stationary cars like I always do. I roll up the gap between the lanes queuing for a traffic light and stop at the front, right under the red light. I don’t even have to put my foot on the ground because Mable automatically deploys a little stabilizing stand as soon as she stops, which is really handy if your thighs happen to be chained together. I look idly around and from my relatively high vantage point I can see into the cars on either side of me. To my left is an old BMW I3 driven by a middle aged man with a ginger beard. And to my right is a big, swish-looking Tesla. I can’t see much of the driver on the far side of the car, just the lower half of a suit jacket and some pinstripe trousers, but it is the lady in the passenger seat who catches my eye. She looks to be about forty and is pretty, with a nice dress and high maintenance-looking hairdo. And around her neck is a collar. Not a delicate necklace, but a substantial and tall collar, almost as high as mine. I press my throat against my own piece of unyielding neckwear to get a better look, and I see a delicate-looking chain hanging from a ring on the woman’s collar. I follow it downwards to where it leads to a pair of handcuffs joining a pair of neatly gloved hands that rest in her lap. But there’s a huge difference between this woman’s restraints and anything I’ve had to wear since my brush with law of the land began. Whereas everything I’ve had to wear has been stark, utilitarian metalwork, hers is all beautifully crafted and decorated. Her collar is gold and embellished with patterns and glinting gems. The chain and handcuffs are also gold and adorned with gems and coloured markings. These are no government punishment, these are a statement of wealth and beauty.

 

As I gawk at the woman she moves her head and looks straight at me. I can see the point where she notices my collar and her expression changes to one that speaks of solidarity and understanding. And of sadness. It tells me that her situation is not a happy one. She has not willingly subjected herself to what she is wearing, but yet she must endure it, just as I must endure what I am wearing. Our moment of one-ness is brought to an abrupt end by the traffic light which changes to green and the Tesla speeds off down the road to the right. For a moment I am left dumbfounded, until I’m brought out of it by the honking of irate car horns behind me and I have to get Mable moving.

 

For the rest of my journey to work my thoughts are filled with that woman and her gold chains. Is this really the Brave New World we are living in? A world where a woman can be chained up, not only by the state as criminal punishment, but by her husband just because he likes it? And she has to just endure it, not because she’s like Sarah and enjoys it, but because our new society deems it acceptable? And what else must this poor woman endure? Does he beat her if she complains? Does he keep her prisoner in his home, safe in the knowledge that he is doing nothing illegal? All those nagging doubts I had are swept away. This is wrong, absolutely wrong. And I will fight to my last breath to stop it. I don’t care whether we’re equal or not, but we deserve better than this. It will not stand. Jemima Melstrom will see to it.

 

Of course it’s easy to become a great revolutionary leader during your morning commute. Rather more difficult to keep that notion alive when you’re shut away in darkness and isolation whenever you get home from work. Rob, who obviously sees a lot more of the world than I do these days, tells me he’s seen a few women being led about by a collar and lead, and even one riding in the passenger seat of a car wearing a hood. If that’s true then I think we’re all seriously fucked.

 

 

oOo

 

 

But all this doom and gloom doesn’t put a stop to planning for Rob’s birthday and the big sodomising. With three days to go the last of the stuff Sarah has ordered arrives and Jack has been round to my house to check out the structural situation. He’s pronounced it all fit for purpose. I actually feel better about things now that my nagging thoughts have been somewhat silenced, although I still worry about my mental state and if I’m turning into a sex slave. I just need to cum. It’s as simple as that. Once I’ve had an orgasm I’ll be back to normal, whatever that is.

 

Rob’s birthday is actually on Tuesday, but our secret conspiratorial little group has decided to go for it on the preceding Saturday, partly to make it more of a surprise for him, and also because I think I might need at least Sunday to recover before facing work. And so Jack spirits Rob away for an afternoon of secret man stuff to allow Sarah and I time to get everything ready. We’ve got until six-thirty. Plenty of time.

 

I am of course in my hood and so I’m going to be something of a passenger through all this. Sarah’s going to get me ready and then it’s going to be down to Rob to be driven mad by what he finds when Jack brings him home, and then hopefully buggers off. I like Jack and we’re good friends now, and while I don’t mind him knowing exactly what’s going on, I don’t want him actually seeing any of it.

 

The first thing to sort out is my hair. It’s outside of my hood in its big ponytail and Sarah’s going to do it like it was for our club outing. Dangerously big and curly and framing my blank face. I have to kneel on the floor so she can work sitting down with some slack in her chains. Of course, as with any great hairdo it takes forever to achieve, and while I sit passively being groomed I get more and more nervous. That thing that was just a dirty bit of fun is now becoming real. Very real. Am I really going to go through with it?

 

Eventually Sarah pronounces my hair done and we move on to the next phase. She squirts me with perfume and gets me into a pair of stockings and shoes, the same shoes I wore to the club, the ones with the fuck-me-right-now heels. So that’s the comfy stuff done. Everything else is going to be distinctly un-comfy, and so it’s a matter of timing. Go too late and we might not be ready in time, but too early and I might not be able to stand it all until Rob comes in. And so it’s a matter of weighing up which bits are most un-comfy and leaving them till last. I decide that the armbinder doesn’t sound too onerous and suggest we start with that. Of course we don’t look at such things on the college internet and I’m very limited in how much time I have for such browsing at home, and so I’ve only seen it on the little screen of Sarah’s phone. It’s just a sheath that holds my arms. That shouldn’t be too hard to wear.

 

Wrong. As Sarah laces the thing up, my elbows are drawn together behind me and my shoulders pulled back most uncomfortably. It’s almost an hour until Rob is due home and that feels like a long time to wear this thing. I wriggle around in the binder and find that it confines my arms completely. My hands are squeezed together, palm to palm, with my fingers flat, and I can actually feel my elbows touching. How long I’ll be able to feel anything in my arms is open to question. Will it be good if they go numb, or does that mean I’ll never move them again? I feel Sarah tighten straps that go over my shoulders to make sure the binder can’t be pulled off, even if I were to be hanging from its ring at my fingertips. Hypothetically speaking of course.

 

My bedroom is lit by a big Victorian chandelier which hangs from a pulley so it could be lowered in the days when it was loaded with candles. Jack’s been up in the roof and checked the pulley. It’s screwed to a big roof joist. Apparently I’m not going to be pulling it down, no matter how hard I try. Jack’s also secured a rope so that it dangles from the chandelier and Sarah now ties the other end of it to the ring at the end of my armbinder. When she raises the chandelier, my hands will be pulled upwards and I’ll have to bend over to relieve the pressure on my shoulders. And that’s the sight that Rob is going see when he comes in. My arse, staring him right in the face, held securely in position, and pre-stretched open by a large rubber dildo plug from which a sign will be hanging saying “PLEASE REMOVE AND ENJOY”. I thought long and hard about those words and I reckon they’re smoking sexy. How could he refuse?

 

The rope is tightened and as planned I have to bend over a little. It increases the pressure on my already challenged shoulders. I wriggle about uncomfortably, trying to find the exact spot under the chandelier that hurts the least. And here Sarah ties my feet. My left one to a rope that goes to the radiator under the window, and my right to one of the bedposts. When she tightens the ropes, I’m forced to spread my legs until my thigh chain is tight. And that seems to tighten the pull on my arms and I have to bend over a little more. It’s all becoming rather scary. I wriggle about and my worst fears are confirmed. I’m completely stuck. The only way out now is to beg Sarah to release me. But I’m not doing that. My bloody ego again. The last time it got out of control I ended up in this hood. Fuck only knows what sort of mess it’s getting me into this time.

 

As I stand in my awkward and uncomfortable pose, Sarah starts to dribble lube onto my arsehole. With my regular weekend enemas I’m quite used to having things up there now, but this feels different. Something altogether more challenging is going in there this time. Even if Rob doesn’t oblige me, the rubber dildo’s going in anyway. It takes Sarah several minutes of gentle pushing and persuading, and a lot more lube too, but eventually she gets the rubber monster through the hole in my chastity belt and into my bottom. Christ but it feels fucking huge. I can feel string being tied to the waistband of my belt and I know that the monster is now tied inside me. There’ll be no pushing it out. Of course that was the plan. Make sure I can’t chicken out and fuck the whole thing up. But now that it’s happening I think I’d rather like to chicken out. Will my arsehole ever recover from this? Am I going to have to wear a nappy for the rest of my life? Fuck it hurts. I should tell her. Tell her I can’t do it. Just a few words and I can be out of this. Just a few words…

 

The next part of the plan was Joan’s idea. The certified lady said that if Rob is giving me a good anal seeing to, then I’ll be bouncing and jiggling about no matter how tightly I’m tied. And we could use that to help me cum by hanging weights on my nipples so that they bounce and jiggle about too and give me some extra stimulation. Well I casually agreed to the idea. At the time it seemed like anything that might increase my chances of getting to cum was worth including. Now that Sarah’s actually applying the fucking things though, I don’t think it was such a good idea after all. It’s all too much and I can’t take it anymore. As my second nipple is agonisingly pinched and stretched, I succumb and ask Sarah to release me. I can’t go through with it. I start to cry inside the hood. I have failed. I have failed Rob and I have failed myself. What a pathetic excuse for a woman I am.

 

But the next thing I know is that the rope to my hands in being tightened. I’m forced to bend right over as my arms are pulled upwards. What the fuck is she doing? I said release me, not make it worse. I start whining uncontrollably and begging Sarah to let me out of this nightmare. But instead of releasing me she just pulls that horrible gag strap over my mouth and silences my protests.

 

“Jemima Melstrom, I’ve been through far too fucking much to get this far and I’m not letting you bugger it all up now. Have you any idea how tough it is for me having to do all this to you and not getting to play afterwards? It’s like a fucking lake under this belt you know. And there’s no way I’m going to suffer you winging for months to come about how you fucked up and let everyone down. You’re going through with it and you’ll bloody well enjoy it. And if you don’t get to cum I’ll get myself a strap-on and ravage your arse personally until you do. Now much as I would like that, I would still like this night to be a great thing for you and Rob. And so I’ve made a little change that I think will guarantee success for you both.  That stupid little sign you made, “PLEASE REMOVE AND ENJOY”, how fucking lame is that? Is that supposed to drive him wild? You’re hopeless Jemima. Now listen to this replacement that I’ve written:

THIS SLUT HAS BEEN BAD.

THIS SLUT NEEDS TO BE PUNISHED.

THIS RIDING CROP NEEDS TO MAKE THIS SLUT’S ARSE AND THIGHS BURN.

THIS SLUT NEEDS TO SCREAM INTO HER GAG.

THIS SLUT’S DILDO NEEDS TO COME OUT AND THEN THIS SLUT’S ARSEHOLE NEEDS TO BE RAVAGED BY A REAL MAN.

THIS SLUT NEEDS ALL THIS AND MORE.

THIS SLUT WISHES YOU A HAPPY BIRTHDAY.

What do you think of that? A bit better than your token effort. Now stop your snivelling and take it like a real woman.”

 

I struggle to understand what’s happening to me. What’s got into Sarah? Why isn’t she untying me? And what the fuck was all that about a riding crop? I can feel her fiddling with my arse-filling dildo. Is she really changing that little sign? What the fuck?

 

“Now there we are,” she says. “Much better. My sign is a pretty pink colour too. And it’s great that these whips have a little loop on the handle so they can be hung on things and be really handy when they’re needed. Right then, you’re all ready. Good luck Jem. Whatever happens, you are not going to be excused from your promise about my living room floor. I don’t know how I’m going to survive this night. Never been so fucking horny. Bye-Bye Lovely.”

 

I can hear her footsteps and then the bedroom door closing. What the fuck has she done? Crazy bitch, how dare she do this? I start to panic and thrash about, trying to get free but it’s hopeless. All it does is swing the dangling weights around and hurt my nipples even more. And through my writhing about I can feel the awful truth of what Sarah said. There’s something long hanging from the dildo in my arse. I can feel it swinging against my legs as I struggle. Jesus Christ has she really left a whip hanging on me and a sign begging Rob to use it? He wouldn’t do that, would he? He’s too much of a gentlemen to even fuck my arse let alone whip it. He won’t do it. But those words were pretty specific, something about whipping this worthless slut’s arse until it burns. But he won’t do it. He can’t do it. He mustn’t do it.

 

My panic recedes and I stop struggling. It’s not achieving anything other than hurting me more. I wonder what time it is. I wonder how long till Rob finds me like this. I wonder what he’ll do. I wonder what the whip will feel like. I wonder what I’ll do when I can’t bear it. I wonder how loud I can scream through my nose. I wonder if I’ll cum. I can feel my nipples throbbing in the clamps. My arse hurts. My shoulders hurt. Everything hurts. I’m trussed up and helpless and awaiting my unbearable fate. I think even my clit hurts.

 

What was that? The front door? Fuck, is this it? I hear voices, Sarah’s and Rob’s. Laughter. How can she laugh when she knows what she’s done? Her living room floor, that’s a promise I’m going to keep. And I’m going to keep it with a whip. Fucking bitch.

 

I have a last desperate struggle but of course it has no effect. Whatever is going to happen will happen with no further input from me. I’m just the meat on the plate now. I hear Rob’s footsteps on the stairs.

 

“Jem?” he calls. “Sarah said you need me in the bed…………….room.  …   …   … Oh.   …   … Fuck.”

 

There’s a long pause. I can hear him slowly walking around me. I can feel the floorboards move slightly. It seems like all my senses are cranked to full volume but the music hasn’t yet started. Then he touches me. Touches my bottom, and I feel the dildo move.

 

THIS SLUT HAS BEEN BAD.

THIS SLUT NEEDS TO BE PUNISHED.

THIS RIDING CROP NEEDS TO MAKE THIS SLUT’S ARSE AND THIGHS BURN.

THIS SLUT NEEDS TO SCREAM INTO HER GAG.

THIS SLUT’S DILDO NEEDS TO COME OUT AND THEN THIS SLUT’S ARSEHOLE NEEDS TO BE RAVAGED BY A REAL MAN.

THIS SLUT NEEDS ALL THIS AND MORE.

THIS SLUT WISHES YOU A HAPPY BIRTHDAY.

 

He reads it all out slowly. Whip, burn, slut, ravaged. The words that linger in my head.

 

“Jem, is this for real?” he asks quietly. “If this is not for real then give me a sign. If it’s just a joke or something stupid then shake your head and I’ll let you out of this. But if it’s for real, if you want to do this then give me a nod. Give me a nod and I’ll give you what you want, but if I start I don’t think I’ll be able to stop. Give me a sign Jem, one way or the other.”

 

My heart is racing. Give him a sign. Just shake your head and you’re out of this. It’s that easy Jem. He’s giving you a chance. A chance to be out of all this nightmare and agony. A chance to not be whipped and not be sodomised. A chance to fail and hate yourself forevermore. A chance to not be able to look Sarah in the eye again. A chance to let Rob down. Or you can give a little nod. One little nod and it’s out of your hands. One little nod to be a woman again, to satisfy your man, and yourself. Do it girl. Give him a nod. Do it.

 

 

oOo

 

 

“Do I take the stony face and the fact that you ignored my calls all through yesterday as signs that I went too far? Have I overstepped the mark?”

 

“Overstepped the fucking mark? That’s an understatement.”

 

“I’m sorry Jem. I got carried away. Can you forgive me?”

 

“You had no right Sarah. No fucking right at all.”

 

“I’m so sorry Jem.”

 

“I err, I did get to cum though.”

 

“You did?”

 

“Just a little bit. Or maybe quite a lot. Well actually it was biblical. Once I started I couldn’t stop. Even after he finished I just kept cumming and cumming. I squirt a bit you know, when I cum hard. The carpet is ruined.”

 

“Oh Jem.”

 

“So yes, you overstepped the mark. Yes you went too far. MUCH too far. And yes, you are going to pay for it big time, probably on your living room floor. And yes, there will be a whip involved. And thank you. Thank you, you mad, crazy bitch. Now get your chained up arse over here so I can hug you.”

 

Oh, details Jem. I want details. Did he…?”

 

“Let’s just say I won’t be sitting comfortably on anything for quite some time.”

 

“Can I see? Please Jem, you have to show me.”

 

“At work in the staffroom? Hardly the place.”

 

“Oh go on. Just a quick peek. I’ll lock the door.”

 

“If you insist.”

 

“I do. Come on, get that skirt up. Oh my god, Jem!”

 

“Oh my god indeed. I think I’ve earned my tiger stripes.”

 

“Do they hurt?”

 

“Of course they fucking hurt. I got fucking whipped you know. You ever been whipped?”

 

“No, never.”

 

“Ah, but you push me off into the unknown land of extreme without even knowing what it’s like yourself. Well that’s gonna change for sure. And I’ll be the one changing it.”

 

“On my living room floor?”

 

“On your living room floor. And that’s another promise.”

 

“Oooh.”

 

 

Continued in The Accidental Feminist, Part Thirteen