Right now I am thinking of you. Sipping my Coffee, I look from my kitchen window across my small backyard, to that small patch of garden, and smile. I am thinking of you, and it fills me with satisfaction, with pleasure, that I know you are probably thinking of me. Actually, I am sure you are, its been 24 hrs since my last visit. I make breakfast, eggs bacon, toast for me. Two dry cereal biscuits for you. ...
Right now I am thinking of you. Sipping my Coffee, I look from my kitchen window across my small backyard, to that small patch of garden, and smile. I am thinking of you, and it fills me with satisfaction, with pleasure, that I know you are probably thinking of me. Actually, I am sure you are, its been 24 hrs since my last visit. I make breakfast, eggs bacon, toast for me. Two dry cereal biscuits for you. ...
Sometimes it just happens. Passions cool. Personalities drift. Relationships change. Sometimes people just stop loving someone, even when the other still loves them. So it was with us. I still loved Master. But he no longer loved me. Cared for me, yes. Looked after me still, yes. But the desire, the interest in me was gone. He never had to say it, but it was there, after nearly 10 years this slave no longer could command his interest. Used up. Discarded. And I knew that I could do nothing to change that fact, or even challenge it. After all I was his slave, and if he was no longer needing my submission, then that was his right. But because he still cared for me, and because he knew me so well, he listened, and with out argument agreed to my proposal. Slavery is for life. And we had a contract, to be broken by death only. But this was real, real life. You can’t just sell a slave. You can’t just “snuff” them. That is fantasy, and I have no desire to die. But something was needed, something to denote; this marks the end of that life. It is finished. So I offered. Death without dying, Mourning without grief. Freedom from contract but still in slavery. He agreed. Besides, he said, it would be a great party, a good scene. And a final test of my submission. We made our plans. Gathered our friends. Came the day. It begins simply, My deepest friend Mary, fellow slave, agrees to help. We are in the parlour, to one side of the main room, where already a low murmur of voices rises. I am shaking badly. “Are you sure you want this?” she asks, “ It seems such a risk” I nod. My mouth is too dry to speak. “ Ok, let’s do it” I dress, a full-bodied wedding dress, white and flowing. It has a stiff bodice that squeezes my breasts, lace. White seamed stockings, suspender. No panties, as a slave requires none, ever. Very high, impossibly high heels. I have to lean on the wall. But I won’t be walking far. A veil. I have never married, and briefly regret that I never have. But I quickly dismiss this thought. My life has been one for the rod. A white leather belt is padlocked around my waist. Tight. Today was the 1st day in 10 years I have not been bound in some way; I welcome the belt, welcome back my natural state. Wrist cuffs, white, tight, attaching to the belt at the front. Mary laces a beautiful bunch of carnations about my wrists, they hide my bonds, my hands. Mary fusses. She smiles. “Ready?” Yes. I have no other words. Thank you Mary, and If I never see you again, never forget how you helped me. The gag is a simple white ball gag, it seals my silence. I bite down, oh so used to the feel and taste of the submission it denotes. Mary takes the lead from my Cleopatra collar, and leads me to the chamber. The murmurs grow silent. I stare at my Master, looking deep, but there is no love there, just amusement. I am such a silly slave. I’m sure he can feel the heat I generate. I kneel at his feet. He speaks to the crowd, a short speech, retelling of a slaves training by her master, of her collar, her vow. He explains what today means. So it is finished. Then he turns to me, and addresses me. “Do you Slave accept your fate? Do you place your life into the hands of an unknown one here? Knowing that you are a failed slave, failed in retaining the interest of your master.” I nod. “Then I remove your collar, and consign you to your fate” How I delighted I was the day we had purchased it, when Sax Leather was just a shop - not a symbol of our lifestyle. But thats over now. I cry a small tear as my neck sees daylight for the first time in oh so many years. To lose his love is one thing. To fail as a slave is another. I will understand if nobody feels I am worthy of restoration. I stand. My coffin is startling white. It is not a casket, and it is not opulent. Just a traditional white box, cheaply lined. Only a silk cushion gives it any softness, and they hardly offset the stark white straps that festoon its interior. But the lid is glass. And 2 small hose connections incourougsly break the picture at one end, they disappear into the trolley the coffin rests upon. The banks of flowers surround it, and I know hide the hoses and small fan that will connect to the surface. He nods towards it. Now that the moment has come, I feel afraid. In fantasy it seemed so easy. Now it just induces a terrible freezing of my will. How I wish he would just hug me just once more. But that is finished. Until I (if I ever) wear a mans collar again, I am dead to the world. And it is time for my burial. I step into the coffin, lay down, it squeezes my shoulders, my head rubs the end, and my heels scrape the other. Mary fusses about as I stare sightless, at the ceiling. My dress billows, flows, it rustles as I settle into place. I feel nothing as the straps begin to hold me down, make me as one with my box. Fantasy will not contain real panic. I have ashamed my status enough, I do not intend to let panic, if it comes, to destroy my beauty. Flowers fill the gaps, the scent is overpowering. The lid is lowered; it presses the flowers down, almost touches my chest, sits millimetres from my nose. I hear the sound of the screws tightening the lid into place. The glass is thick, and heavy. It says finality. Abruptly all sound ceases, only that of my breathing fills this box. Confined now maybe forever. I can feel a gentle breeze at my head. Three days the air will last. If I am not rescued by then, not felt worthy of the effort to dig six feet of dirt away, then I will not require anymore. I am a failed slave. The cart moves, wheeled through master’s house. Familiar roofs. I sense our friends following. We enter the outside air; travel across his manicured lawn; the box trembles and wobbles as we make our way across the uneven surface. I tremble with it. The sun beats down, and the glass heats me. I sweat. Reality of what is happening begins to grip me, involuntarily my body rebels. I can go no where, I cannot move, a white vision of lace and flowers, so stark against the dark hole I know we are now parked against. Familiar faces of fellow slaves come into view. They will not look at me, one I see is crying. I feel my coffin lifted, I sense an interruption to the airflow, then it resumes. There is a long pause; I wobble, for a moment I am afraid that I will be dropped. I know that my box is being aligned with rails leading to the bottom, that the discreet hoses are being connected. Master speaks. “When a slave submits her will to him, she becomes his product. To do as he will. I renounce ownership of this slave, and in this ceremony I proclaim the disposal of an unwanted product. However, we bury this product today, in the hope that someone here will think it worth restoration. We bury her in the hope of a restorated life.” I’m lowered into the hole, jerking slightly, descending from light into shadow, heat into cold. My grave will be cold, cold, cold. Bottom. I dug this hole, and made sure that my head will be higher than my feet. It is small comfort. A pause. I look at the square of sky above me. More flowers fall on the glass. I look desperately for my master’s face, but never see it. And now I know for sure. Even this last act, this last submission was not enough for him. I truly am lost, forever. I close my eyes in sorrow. The moment catches me by surprise, I never see the earth fall, just open my eyes to the thunder of the falling dirt. Darkness. Instant darkness, only a glimmer of light towards my right cheek. More noise, and it is gone. Frantically I listen to each load, each one fainter than the last. My heart beats frantically. Now I try to scream, it strangles in my throat. The silence, darkness is complete. My heart beats like a drum. My muscles are tense as solid timber, as solid as the lid above me. I know now I am buried six foot down, a patch of disturbed dirt in an anonymous backyard. Already I feel the stiffness that impossible bondage brings settle into my limbs. I know I am totally, completely held in captivity as I have never been before, a position only one born for bondage can understand, now totally dependant on a stranger to save me. If one ever does. I orgasm. I have made my choice. If I am worthy I will see the light again, if not, then this slaves submission is complete. ...
I sometimes wonder amongst us bondage lovers what we enjoy more, the anticipation of getting all our toys together, or the act itself. You all know what I mean, that little thrill, the knot in your stomach as your partner lays out the leather (all those buckles clinking away so merrily) or uncoils the rope (the delightful thud as it falls onto the floor) or unwraps the first roll of the tape (oh the crinkle, crinkle and that unmistakable scent) and you know the fun is about to begin. ...
You walk into the hardware store – that great cavern of delights, where so many seemingly innocent every day items have for you that second, darker, more exciting use. You told your partner that you were “going to get that mirror” you had been meaning to buy for the last – well long time. But it’s an excuse. He knows it, you know it, its all part of the elaborate ritual that has developed over the time between you. Oh, don’t get us wrong – there is no secrets between you, none but the deepest and darkest fantasies not shared and explored – and played with. But this one has only been flirted with, teased gently into the light, toyed with, and then put away again – too deep, too intense – too scary. Too selfish But the moment you smile at the attendant at the door you know where you are going to be led, the tightening knot of excitement in your stomach, the warmth gathering in your loins is going to lead you to that special isle as surely as honey attracts a bee. And you will be stuck there. You walk to that isle, sure in your mind that every single person that you pass can see straight into your mind, can discern what you want to do with those seemingly innocent items stacked there on the shelf. Uses you only half want to acknowledge yourself, uses that you have to acknowledge. Because they make you so hot just imagining them being used on you. You stare at the shelf, lost in, thought? No, lost in a blankness, transfixed by the piles of tape in front of you, the piles of “painting supplies”. Painting is furthermost from your mind. Brown packaging tape shiny, thin, non stretch, and smelling so …. Rolls of cloth duct tape, the tuff stuff, thick, heavy, sticky, in escape able….. And the Insulating tape – dark, dark, black as night, so shiny, so smooth, so….. Seductive Every time you come into this store you pass down this isle – stare at the rolls, and dream , and wish, and then dismiss from your mind. For a start they are soooooooooo expensive, and the budget is tight. And he was only half joking when… “ if you bought home that much tape I’d be forced to use it all, all at once young lady!” But now you have the money – the windfall burning in your pocket. And the fantasy burns so bright “ if I bought home that much tape –I could get him to*…**”* No, you don’t want to confront that yet, yet the excitement that makes your very limbs ache tells you that if you reach out to those piles now , if you actually purchase the instruments of your deepest dark –IT WOULD HAPPEN. He loved you enough to ensure that. And it was why you loved him –because you know he knows you. And maybe, he wants it too. Do you feel guilty as you sweep the rolls, and rolls of tape into the large plastic shopping basket, the basket getting heavier and heavier. Do you have second thoughts as the money –money that could be used so much more usefully gets handed across. No, you only feel a mind filling euphoria, you are going to do it, really do it. You almost wish the young girl at the checkout could guess what the tape is for , so that you can boast – I dare, I dare to do what my logic screams not to. You race home, prizes rolling gleefully about in the boot, soon it will happen. Lust has no logic Maybe you should think about this , before you take the plunge. But you don’t think this, you are born this. Age 5, wrapping yourself into a tight sausage in your bed sheets. Age 11, while the rest of the kids taped each others pencil cases into masses of sticky tape –you let them tape your fingers and hands. Age 17, and that 1st DVD – curse of the mummies tomb. And then he came along… No, no need to analyse, just a crushing need to do it. He smiles that wicked grin as you enter the room –your play room. He is aware as you of those betraying nipples, pointy and hard, of your scent, of your excitement. “As we agreed?” “As we agreed –no going back” You slide into the white disposable overalls, the cotton feel light and soft on your skin. The zip is loud in the silence, competing with your hard breathing. The suit looks totally out of place, dumpy, ill fitting. But you know that the tape sticks too it with an unforgiving grip, the cotton absorbs sweat, and it allows no sliding of the arms at all. No going back means no going back A few, impatient moments, as he fiddles with the packaging tape dispenser. You stare transfixed again at the instrument of your imprisonment –how can something so slim, so thin hold you so well? It begins. You lift your arms –and strips are applied around the wrists. You drop them , and the tape attaches the wrists to your hips. He is busy now, work man like, wrapping a parcel, maybe for postage, maybe for storage. It does not matter, he will be very, very thorough. You have played this game before –but not too deep, not as deep as this. You both know what to do. The tape is applied just above the breasts, and you begin to turn on the spot, the tape firmly descending down the body as you provide the resistance to pull it off the roll. You are the instrument of your own capture. Your breasts feel strange, compressed, flattened as the tape descends, further down, further down. Submission frequently means actually in control You occasionally stop, its hard not to get giddy. Strange how much you actually control this surrendering of control. Its an illusion. The moment you said “no going back” you were lost. Were found. Isn’t this what its really about? Finding yourself? ...
You walk into the hardware store – that great cavern of delights, where so many seemingly innocent every day items have for you that second, darker, more exciting use. You told your partner that you were “going to get that mirror” you had been meaning to buy for the last – well long time. But it’s an excuse. He knows it, you know it, its all part of the elaborate ritual that has developed over the time between you. Oh, don’t get us wrong – there is no secrets between you, none but the deepest and darkest fantasies not shared and explored – and played with. But this one has only been flirted with, teased gently into the light, toyed with, and then put away again – too deep, too intense – too scary. ...
Its been sitting up in our back shed room for weeks now, always there, always on my mind. Masters Box. Its really a pretty innocuous box, or well it started out that way. We call them porta robes, thick cardboard, 5 foot long maybe, 2 feet square. Innocuous. Well it was until master got to it –now it’s a fearfully reinforced creature, miles and miles of thick duct tape, cables and straps reinforce it all over.. ...
2006 Shadowplay Imaging Mummification Story Contest Entrant You walk into the hardware store that great cavern of delights, where so many seemingly innocent every day items have for you that second, darker, more exciting use. You told your partner that you were “going to get that mirror” you had been meaning to buy for the last -well long time. But it’s an excuse. He knows it, you know it, its all part of the elaborate ritual that has developed over the time between you. ...
(story continues from Sushi) Do you remember the last time I told you about Kevin taking me to dinner? No, lets amend that, the last times he had me for dinner. Why are these times so vivid in my mind? Was it the loss of control? Or the being put on display? Or the trust I have now with Kevin after literally at times putting my life in his hands? And sometimes, deep down I just remember being treated as meat, remember the heat, and wonder why I want to be a dinner again. It was Muki’s kitchen last time that ended with an oven door closing behind me for that event I would never forget. So to Muki’s kitchen I went again one quiet day, but this time I left the computer on the page, and went shopping. ...
story continued from “Sushi” Sushi Part 2 Do you remember the last time I told you about Kevin taking me to dinner? No, lets amend that, the last times he had me for dinner. Why are these times so vivid in my mind? Was it the loss of control? Or the being put on display? Or the trust I have now with Kevin after literally at times putting my life in his hands? ...
I still remember the moment very clearly. We had just finished entertaining one of my boyfriends work mates (lets call him Bill) over a few beers and a game of the footy on the Tele. It had been a great afternoon, my fella has quite a few interesting friends, and I really liked this guy too. Actually, we’d gotten to know him very well ever since the day we had met, he was the guy who had arrested me the day ‘I got burnt at the stake’, and I always suspected that he was pretty well willing to try absurd or far out things. Little did I know then how far he would go to help a friend, or how well he would really get to know me. ...
I still remember the moment very clearly. We had just finished entertaining one of my boyfriends work mates (lets call him Bill) over a few beers and a game of the footy on the Tele. It had been a great afternoon, my fella has quite a few interesting friends, and I really liked this guy too. Actually, we’d gotten to know him very well ever since the day we had met, he was the guy who had arrested me the day ‘I got burnt at the stake’, and I always suspected that he was pretty well willing to try absurd or far out things. Little did I know then how far he would go to help a friend, or how well he would really get to know me. ...
story continued from Woodies First Dinner It’s been quite a while since Kevin had me for dinner. Things were going pretty well between us, seemed like everyday he would peel some layer off me, exposing yet another emotion, freeing another inhibition. Sometimes it was scary. Sometimes it was exhilarating. Mostly though it just felt good. It helped of course to know that we weren’t alone in the world. Sometimes we’d sit together at the computer and surf various sites. We gathered our fair share of favourites, and sometimes we even copied what we saw. ...
Entry from the S(A)X leather Bondage Story competition 2005 Sometimes it just happens Passions cool Personalities drift Relationships change Sometimes people just stop loving someone, even when the other still loves them So it was with us I still loved Master. But he no longer loved me. Cared for me, yes. Looked after me still, yes. But the desire, the interest in me was gone. He never had to say it, but it was there, after nearly 10 years this slave no longer could command his interest. ...
Sometimes it just happens. Passions cool. Personalities drift. Relationships change. Sometimes people just stop loving someone, even when the other still loves them. So it was with us. I still loved Master. But he no longer loved me. Cared for me, yes. Looked after me still, yes. But the desire, the interest in me was gone. He never had to say it, but it was there, after nearly 10 years this slave no longer could command his interest. Used up. Discarded. And I knew that I could do nothing to change that fact, or even challenge it. After all I was his slave, and if he was no longer needing my submission, then that was his right. But because he still cared for me, and because he knew me so well, he listened, and with out argument agreed to my proposal. Slavery is for life. And we had a contract, to be broken by death only. But this was real, real life. You can’t just sell a slave. You can’t just “snuff” them. That is fantasy, and I have no desire to die. But something was needed, something to denote; this marks the end of that life. It is finished. So I offered. Death without dying, Mourning without grief. Freedom from contract but still in slavery. He agreed. Besides, he said, it would be a great party, a good scene. And a final test of my submission. We made our plans. Gathered our friends. Came the day. It begins simply, My deepest friend Mary, fellow slave, agrees to help. We are in the parlour, to one side of the main room, where already a low murmur of voices rises. I am shaking badly. “Are you sure you want this?” she asks, “ It seems such a risk” I nod. My mouth is too dry to speak. “ Ok, let’s do it” I dress, a full-bodied wedding dress, white and flowing. It has a stiff bodice that squeezes my breasts, lace. White seamed stockings, suspender. No panties, as a slave requires none, ever. Very high, impossibly high heels. I have to lean on the wall. But I won’t be walking far. A veil. I have never married, and briefly regret that I never have. But I quickly dismiss this thought. My life has been one for the rod. A white leather belt is padlocked around my waist. Tight. Today was the 1st day in 10 years I have not been bound in some way; I welcome the belt, welcome back my natural state. Wrist cuffs, white, tight, attaching to the belt at the front. Mary laces a beautiful bunch of carnations about my wrists, they hide my bonds, my hands. Mary fusses. She smiles. “Ready?” Yes. I have no other words. Thank you Mary, and If I never see you again, never forget how you helped me. The gag is a simple white ball gag, it seals my silence. I bite down, oh so used to the feel and taste of the submission it denotes. Mary takes the lead from my Cleopatra collar, and leads me to the chamber. The murmurs grow silent. I stare at my Master, looking deep, but there is no love there, just amusement. I am such a silly slave. I’m sure he can feel the heat I generate. I kneel at his feet. He speaks to the crowd, a short speech, retelling of a slaves training by her master, of her collar, her vow. He explains what today means. So it is finished. Then he turns to me, and addresses me. “Do you Slave accept your fate? Do you place your life into the hands of an unknown one here? Knowing that you are a failed slave, failed in retaining the interest of your master.” I nod. “Then I remove your collar, and consign you to your fate” How I delighted I was the day we had purchased it, when Sax Leather was just a shop - not a symbol of our lifestyle. But thats over now. I cry a small tear as my neck sees daylight for the first time in oh so many years. To lose his love is one thing. To fail as a slave is another. I will understand if nobody feels I am worthy of restoration. I stand. My coffin is startling white. It is not a casket, and it is not opulent. Just a traditional white box, cheaply lined. Only a silk cushion gives it any softness, and they hardly offset the stark white straps that festoon its interior. But the lid is glass. And 2 small hose connections incourougsly break the picture at one end, they disappear into the trolley the coffin rests upon. The banks of flowers surround it, and I know hide the hoses and small fan that will connect to the surface. He nods towards it. Now that the moment has come, I feel afraid. In fantasy it seemed so easy. Now it just induces a terrible freezing of my will. How I wish he would just hug me just once more. But that is finished. Until I (if I ever) wear a mans collar again, I am dead to the world. And it is time for my burial. I step into the coffin, lay down, it squeezes my shoulders, my head rubs the end, and my heels scrape the other. Mary fusses about as I stare sightless, at the ceiling. My dress billows, flows, it rustles as I settle into place. I feel nothing as the straps begin to hold me down, make me as one with my box. Fantasy will not contain real panic. I have ashamed my status enough, I do not intend to let panic, if it comes, to destroy my beauty. Flowers fill the gaps, the scent is overpowering. The lid is lowered; it presses the flowers down, almost touches my chest, sits millimetres from my nose. I hear the sound of the screws tightening the lid into place. The glass is thick, and heavy. It says finality. Abruptly all sound ceases, only that of my breathing fills this box. Confined now maybe forever. I can feel a gentle breeze at my head. Three days the air will last. If I am not rescued by then, not felt worthy of the effort to dig six feet of dirt away, then I will not require anymore. I am a failed slave. The cart moves, wheeled through master’s house. Familiar roofs. I sense our friends following. We enter the outside air; travel across his manicured lawn; the box trembles and wobbles as we make our way across the uneven surface. I tremble with it. The sun beats down, and the glass heats me. I sweat. Reality of what is happening begins to grip me, involuntarily my body rebels. I can go no where, I cannot move, a white vision of lace and flowers, so stark against the dark hole I know we are now parked against. Familiar faces of fellow slaves come into view. They will not look at me, one I see is crying. I feel my coffin lifted, I sense an interruption to the airflow, then it resumes. There is a long pause; I wobble, for a moment I am afraid that I will be dropped. I know that my box is being aligned with rails leading to the bottom, that the discreet hoses are being connected. Master speaks. “When a slave submits her will to him, she becomes his product. To do as he will. I renounce ownership of this slave, and in this ceremony I proclaim the disposal of an unwanted product. However, we bury this product today, in the hope that someone here will think it worth restoration. We bury her in the hope of a restorated life.” I’m lowered into the hole, jerking slightly, descending from light into shadow, heat into cold. My grave will be cold, cold, cold. Bottom. I dug this hole, and made sure that my head will be higher than my feet. It is small comfort. A pause. I look at the square of sky above me. More flowers fall on the glass. I look desperately for my master’s face, but never see it. And now I know for sure. Even this last act, this last submission was not enough for him. I truly am lost, forever. I close my eyes in sorrow. The moment catches me by surprise, I never see the earth fall, just open my eyes to the thunder of the falling dirt. Darkness. Instant darkness, only a glimmer of light towards my right cheek. More noise, and it is gone. Frantically I listen to each load, each one fainter than the last. My heart beats frantically. Now I try to scream, it strangles in my throat. The silence, darkness is complete. My heart beats like a drum. My muscles are tense as solid timber, as solid as the lid above me. I know now I am buried six foot down, a patch of disturbed dirt in an anonymous backyard. Already I feel the stiffness that impossible bondage brings settle into my limbs. I know I am totally, completely held in captivity as I have never been before, a position only one born for bondage can understand, now totally dependant on a stranger to save me. If one ever does. I orgasm. I have made my choice. If I am worthy I will see the light again, if not, then this slaves submission is complete. ...
It’s been quite a while since Kevin had me for dinner. Things were going pretty well between us, seemed like everyday he would peel some layer off me, exposing yet another emotion, freeing another inhibition. Sometimes it was scary. Sometimes it was exhilarating. Mostly though it just felt good. It helped of course to know that we weren’t alone in the world. Sometimes we’d sit together at the computer and surf various sites. We gathered our fair share of favourites, and sometimes we even copied what we saw. ...