Chapter 5
It wasn’t long, after the straitjacket incident, before the status quo between Rachel and I became completely untenable.
Keeping her overnight unlocked the temptations that had been growing with each session. She was too delicious not to enjoy. Her requests for rubber encasement were always polite, tentative even. In turn, the pleasure I took from binding, wrapping, and using her lithe, rubber-clad form was addictive. There was an illicit thrill from having her wriggling in a sleep-sack, locked in a chest, while I had my way with my clients. I told myself it wasn’t a distraction, but it almost certainly was.
I retained some measure of self-control, just, sending her back out into the world to attend to her life, work, and other friends, even when it would have been so very easy to keep her locked and under my thumb. And I continued on with my own habits, using the reliability of routine and the practiced ease of my work to try and fend off the temptation. Because that’s what it was: to lock her in the house with me and devote my whole being to carnal pursuits was a hot, horny dream that came to me over and over as I slipped down into bed at night.
One of those routines was that I needed to have my own alone time, just as I told her she needed to have her own space, even though she whined and wheedled in the hope that I would bag her and bind her and dangle her from my ceiling. I did not ask her what she would do with her time, nor did she ask what I did with mine. Not that I would have admitted it to her if she had.
I am not immune to the allure of the bondage I apply to others, I will admit that freely. I’m not sure I fully trust any dominant who tells me they are. When you understand the pleasure that helplessness can bring, it seems naive to think that it would not affect yourself. I have had friends, lovers, whom I trusted enough to lose control with. The memories are seared into my consciousness, and they taught me no end of tricks that I use to this day.
But those I trusted are few, and they were all currently far away. So I have always had my ways to indulge those same desires, in self-bondage. Not the same thrill, lacking that personal touch, the unknown of another’s control, but enough to take me away from that mental frame of being in charge. Rachel needed to remind herself that there was more to her life than to be my wriggling, rubber plaything, and I needed to remind myself that pleasure could come from something other than controlling the fate of my lovely playthings.
In some ways the power of a dominatrix is a facade, I find. I am not physically powerful. Most of my clients are taller and stronger than me. They do not do what I say because I am forcing them. They do it because they want me, fear me, or fear that I might deny them, a pleasure that only I can give. A large part of that is the projection of an image that puts them in their place, makes them trust me, gives them confidence in my ability to choose for them.
For that reason, my indulgences in self-bondage were something I kept hidden. Not because I am in any way ashamed; self-pleasure, in whatever form that takes for each of us, is a rich, deserved seam that everyone should get to mine. I kept it hidden because I know from experience that it would taint that image of power in the eyes of my submissives. Is she really feeling in charge today? Or could I get away with being a brat? Or maybe she’s the one who wants to be strapped to the cross this time, and I’m being selfish making her tie me up.
Those I play with deserve to be confident, assured that they are in their right place. My sessions are best when they are a place of sanctuary for those who might question all their other decisions, outside in their regular lives. No doubt. No second guessing. Just obedience. So sometimes, I would put aside a morning, or even a whole day, lock the doors to the playroom wing, and put all thoughts of others out of my mind.
Dressing up was always the first step towards changing my headspace. Rachel had never questioned the extent of my rubbery wardrobe, even though she had rummaged through it thoroughly. Had she been a little more thoughtful, she might have asked why I had so many restrictive outfits, tailor made to my measurements. Perhaps she thought that they were for others who came to visit me. Perhaps she was simply overwhelmed by how good they felt on her.
Naked as a jaybird, I loved to take my time, pulling my way into one of my tightest catsuits. The crackle of the rubber, the slipperiness of the lubricant on my skin. Later I would be annoyed at it, and how hard it was to get clean, but for now it was the slick, shimmery coating that let the thin latex slide over my skin, and grip me everywhere. Adjusting and tucking it into every crevice, I revelled in the sensations, looking at myself in the long mirror as I transformed into a sleek, black, creature, free from imperfections in the skin. The long, slow pull of the zipper tightened it around my body, hugging every curve. It sent a shiver through me, every time, as the pull reached my neck.
The stiff, black, latex corset I put to the side, for now. From experience I knew that putting it on too early makes everything harder, as much as it called to me. Instead I tied back my dark hair, bundling it up into a ponytail that could be fed through the opening at the top of the hood. I love that hood, with its little mesh of pinholes over the eyes, and the little holes for me to breathe through at the nose. There is no opening for the mouth, and today that would form part of my bondage.
From a drawer came the first step in my restriction. A Silencilicone tongue gag, in a deep purple colour. The hole that would capture my tongue always seemed too small, but biting down onto the flexible material quickly pulled it into my mouth, and I couldn’t help but let out a little moan, testing for the umpteenth time how it muffled me, taking away my voice.
On its own, not really bondage, easily spat out. Until the soft, black material of the hood was tightened onto my face as I closed the zip. My lips barely made a bump in the front of the latex, pressed down as they were. I would regret its tightness later, when I was hot and sweaty and ready to escape my bondage, but I knew it was needed, to feel right. The rubber clung to my face and mouth, holding the gag firmly in place.
My world had been reduced to a dim, fuzzy bubble around me, squinting through the holes. In the mirror I saw my reflection, glossy and featureless. It looked like I had no eyes at all, just a reflective, black head. You could barely see the nose holes, and the tiny mesh of holes allowing vision were black specks on a black surface in a dimly lit room. Any trace of my identity was slipping away from that image. You might, if you knew me well, have recognised my curves, breasts and bum straining against the latex, or my hands, as they roamed my rubberised form, smoothing out any little wrinkles, tugging down the hood until no trace of skin was visible between hood and catsuit.
I needn’t have concerned myself with that little detail; the next step was to cover my throat with the little, black, neck corset. Having fingertips free made the fussy little laces much easier to manipulate. Soon, I could feel the fabric tightening around me, forcing my head up a little straighter. The zipper for both the hood and the catsuit were now firmly hidden from view.
Now my feet and hands were the only skin on show. The former was easily dealt with: calf-length rubber boots, zip-up, not lacing, thankfully. There are laces, but they are very much for show. The heels were three inches or so, walking was slow but not impossible. The hands would have to wait until I got the hard part out of the way: the corset.
Fortunately this was a ritual I had practiced. Donning the loosely tied corset was easy enough, as was the first pass on the laces. But a loose-fitting corset is worse than no corset at all. Now came the laborious task of tightening. A strategically placed hook on the doorframe was my friend. Working my way from the middle, down through the laces, one hole at a time, until I had enough slack that I could loop it around the hook, grasp the handles of the wardrobe in front of me, and pull it tight. After a couple of passes, the rigid bones of the rubber corset were gripping my waist firmly. It felt glorious, but from experience I knew that I would be aching soon.
My boots might as well have been on the other side of the door now; leaning down was out of the question. This was an ordering I’d learned the hard way, after an undignified attempt to put my boots on post-corset, and eventually giving up.
Finally, it was time for my hands to disappear, and they were treated to shoulder-length opera gloves, just as black as the catsuit itself. The fingers were tight, hard to get on, and would have robbed me of the fine motor control I needed for the laces.
A last inspection in the dressing room mirror brought a happy little moan from behind my gag. Gone was Mistress Kate, gone even was just regular Kate. In her place was a rubber creature, faceless, featureless, silent. A creature of lust, and shine. And gods, that waist, mmmm.
I was already starting to float, on the feelings of constriction. Even walking to the green room was a careful struggle. I had prepared most of my toys already, before mobility became my enemy. All were arranged around the chair which would become my prison for this session, except for the most critical piece, which I retrieved from a discreetly hidden freezer in the cupboards. Two rods of ice, shaped quite particularly, and easily slid into two recesses underneath each armrest of the chair, where they would melt slowly into the drip-tray underneath.
On the seat of the chair were two plugs, one for each of my most intimate holes. The shorter and squatter of the two trailed a tube, but both had wires, all leading to a magical little box of electronics and power on a table behind the chair. While I unzipped my catsuit and lubricated them for their insertion, I woke up the laptop that would be the orchestrator of my fate today.
A carefully crafted dashboard on xtoys.app filled the screen, ready to go, an array of reds and purples with a devious plan built in; not that I could make out the details without squinting through the hood. As I like to be thorough, I gave both toys a little buzz to make sure they were properly connected; if they were found to be inert later I would be most disappointed. I would always forget just how powerful they could be, between sessions, and the deep breath I took as I considered how they would feel was brought short by the corset’s grip. Already I could feel myself giving in to the lush thoughts of pleasure and restriction.
Hitting the start button began a timer. Ten minutes to complete my restriction, before my automated torment would begin. But the toys went in easily, nestling into place with a moan into my gag. So freeing, to be able to moan and groan without worrying about how much noise I make. The flat bases of the toys were easily enclosed inside my catsuit, and once I was sitting in the chair, they were going nowhere.
I could no longer see the laptop screen, by design. In front of me was a bare, rough brick wall, nothing to fixate on, nothing to distract, and no clue as to what fate would bring me next.
Of course, I haven’t properly described the chair for you. Another of my fabulous wood-worker’s creations, to my design. Rich, so dark as to be almost black, and most importantly, solid; it was firmly bolted to the floor. Plain in design, more straight edges than curves. If you were seeing it for the first time, you might think it evoked an electric chair more than a comfortable throne. A high, straight back, with bulky uprights on either side, and matching uprights for the front legs which came up past the seat to substantial armrests. Those were less arm-rests than U-shaped channels, in which your arms would nestle. A board joined the front legs at calf-height, and protruding pieces formed a similar U-shape in which one’s ankles would nestle. And most importantly of all, into the sides of those U-shapes were holes, through which bars of the same, dark wood could be slid.
Given my inability to bend, the ankle bar was the hardest to get into place. Perching on the edge of the seat, some amount of blind fumbling was needed to work it across, in front of my ankles, through the centre holes and out the other side. It wasn’t tight against my legs, but then it didn’t need to be, it just had to remove my ability to unbend my knees or step out of the chair’s embrace.
The second bar was easier, sliding across my lap and into place above my knees, preventing me from lifting my ankles out from behind the first bar (even had my stiff boots allowed such a thing). For this one I could reach the end of the bar, and flip up the little retaining peg. It was cunningly hinged so that it could be threaded through the hole but, once turned ninety degrees, would drop down and prevent the bar from being slid back through the hole. My woodworker, always keen to question my designs, queried the need for the fine work required to make a rotating peg, given all the other ways that this chair would restrict its occupant. The look I gave him was withering. He knew my desire to be thorough very well, and shouldn’t have asked. So, to hell with the additional cost, he took the time to make sure that all of the bars operated exactly as I intended.
The third bar sat across my lap. This one was quite deliberately much more snug than the others. It probably wouldn’t have been in the right position for anyone else but me, but then, this chair wasn’t intended for anyone but me. Once locked in place, my back was quite firmly nestled into the back of the chair, and my bum was firmly planted into the seat. The upholstery was rich, red velvet, but the cushioning was minimal. I didn’t want any give in the seat that allowed too much squirming.
The fourth bar fitted across my torso, just below my chest. I could feel the rigid corset being pressed in slightly as I slid and locked it into place. I was becoming one with the chair, pressed firmly into its solid shape, and it had very little slack to offer me.
The next step was to nestle my neck into place into a circular piece of wood attached to the back of the chair. In the first prototype, we had experimented with a similar bar here, but I found that it didn’t hold my throat as firmly as I wanted. It had also, under shall we say ‘rigorous testing’, shown to be prone to bruising my neck as I thrashed around. So instead a matching circular piece of wood slotted into place. Both sides were lightly padded, and the diameter was only just enough to accommodate me. With the neck corset on, I was held completely still. Two more pegs, these ones simply attached with cord, passed through holes in both sections to prevent it from being removed. He had offered me all sorts of mechanisms and latches for these fasteners, but given my intent to use this solo, I wanted the simplest, purest design, with the fewest possible parts to fail. So plain, simple pegs it was.
I had no sense of the passing of time, but I knew that I shouldn’t dawdle. The last step was to secure my arms. Right now, I could nestle my forearms into the channels of each arm-rest, as they had no top. But at the end of each, attached by another cross-bar that acted as a hinge, was a piece that would form a top. It extended part-way along the channel, essentially turning the U-shape into an O, a tube in which my arms would lie. With them in place, there would be no way to lift my arms back out of the arm-rest, and no way to withdraw my wrist from the tube. With clever notches, the tops rested at a forty-five degree angle, awaiting my final choice.
I stopped and took stock, running through my plan, double-checking that I had ticked every box, and followed every step. It wasn’t until I was satisfied I hadn’t forgotten anything, in my increasingly lust-addled mind, that I grasped the first arm cover to lower it gently into the groove that would seal my fate. Gripping the bar at the end, I pulled it upwards, out of its notch, then let the piece rotate downwards, gently and slowly, watching the rod that was inserted into a hole at the top which was the key to my restriction. Gravity was to be my gaoler, and this part required care. If I knocked the rod out and onto the floor, I faced an arduous job to reset all of this.
Fortunately, my care was sufficient. As I slid the cover backwards in the groove, the rod found the second hole, through the side of the arm-rest, and dropped down with a satisfying tap, the sound of which told me that the rod was now fully through the arm-rest, and was sitting on top of the block of ice. I repeated the process with the left arm cover. Tap.
There it was.
I moved the cover back and forth, testing that the rod was free to move in its hole and not binding up between the two bits of wood. I had no way to lift the rod back up, and with it slotted through the cover and the arm-rest, no way to push the cover forward again. The only way out for me was when the ice melted enough for it to drop all the way through.
I tried to lift my arm out of its wooden cage, twisting it, pushing and pulling to see if I had enough leeway to escape.
Nope.
There is something about binding yourself. Even though you know what is going to happen. Even though you know you’ve done it to yourself. Your heart still races. Your breath still quickens.
Completely. Fucking. Trapped.
No amount of squirming was going to release me. And I did squirm. Straining against the bars, shifting and stretching, looking for any mistake, any opportunity.
You’re too good at this now, to leave an escape. You can’t stop what’s coming.
I was really feeling the corset by this point, crushing my ribs as my breath tried to come, faster and faster. My mind was racing.
What if there’s a fire? What possessed you to do this without a backup release? You know better than that.
I did know better. But I think part of me wanted the thrill, the danger. It wasn’t a big danger, my house had sprinklers, my electricals were thoroughly checked, regularly, and I just didn’t have the sort of life that brought any real fire risk. But your monkey brain doesn’t listen to reasoning like that. I had to force myself to slow my breathing, calm my mind, to remind myself that everything would be fine.
That was why it was such a surprise when the first thing the toys did was shock me.
Fuuuuuuuuuuck!
I didn’t even scream out loud, just bit down hard on the silicone gag filling my mouth. I chose xtoys because it had all sorts of scripting options to control the toys, but the one that appealed to me most was the ability to randomise it. I started the program, yes, but I didn’t know what it would do. I knew what it could do, but the human mind is not good with true randomness. I expected that the first action would be mild, perhaps a little buzzing, perhaps some big buzzing, and the electrodes within the toy would be saved for later. But the random number generator had made no such promises.
Calmness was very difficult to achieve after that, but my mind quickly forgot about the risk of something happening outside of my bonds, and very quickly focused on what was going to happen inside of me. Waiting for a second shock was thwarted by a sudden, strong buzzing in the toy inside my pussy. I knew all of the vibration patterns off by heart, the waveforms they made on the screen, the devilish, tingling sensations they would transmit through me. But figuring out which one this was takes time, and my concentration was very much interrupted by the hiss of the pump from behind the chair. The toy in my rear inflated quickly, and I panicked in a different way. It was a primal response. Intellectually I knew that the safety valve would kick in before the plug reached any sort of dangerous size, but my base instincts were convinced that something must have gone wrong, and I was about to be exploded from the inside.
It wasn’t until the hissing stopped that I realised I had been holding my breath. Which, wearing a corset this tight, was not a sound strategy. I strained against my bondage as I tried to take a few, short, quick breaths.
Has it ever been this intense at the start before? Did I mess with the program somehow?
The throbbing from the front toy was transmitting itself through the grossly inflated plug in the rear, and it was intense. I don’t know how long it lasted, only that the deflation happened to coincide with the shift to another, milder pattern, and I let out an involuntary mew into the gag as my body shivered with the respite.
Two hours of that is going to kill me.
Two hours-ish, anyway. Ice releases are fickle things. Reliable, but not entirely predictable. Not that I had any real sense of the passage of time, once the teasing started. I knew I could endure it, probably. Or at least I had, in the past. But now I was questioning whether I had been particularly lucky the last two times, and wondering if my luck had run out.
The next phase of teasing was much gentler, thankfully, but it went on so much longer. I was already squirming, struggling and tugging vigorously. The fire between my legs, ignited by that first shock, was being stoked into something much hotter. I could feel my arousal coating the toy between my legs, as my muscles clamped down firmly around it.
And so it continued, and I dropped deeper and deeper, into a soft, fuzzy headspace. I know I didn’t climax, the teasing was too unpredictable and maddeningly cruel. But that was part of the design too. I wanted to let my control slip away, and to let my mind go with it. At the mercy of this electronic mistress. It was so easy to fill in that mental gap with a figure, out of sight behind me, in control of my fate, choosing the intensities, the patterns, deliberately bringing me to the edge and then denying me. My brain was picturing a rubber-clad figure, buxom and imposing. I was just a plaything for her, another of her drones, being trained, conditioned…
Good drones obey the Hive Mxstress.
A little combined pulse in front and back, just as I playfully thought those words, made me moan. Just enough pleasure to feel like a reward. And from there my lust-filled mind started to spiral, embracing the notion of conditioning, interpreting all the pleasurable sensations as rewards for my compliant drone thoughts. Each wicked little shock through the plug was a correction, for thinking too much. Each period of inflated pressure in my bum, a test of my endurance.
This drone will comply.
In retrospect, there might have been a bit of hypoxia going on; the corset-restricted breathing was very shallow and my body was doing a lot of work. So it didn’t strike me as strange, when my latex-clad Hive Mxstress stepped into my field of view, in front of the wall. I simply squirmed in my bondage, watching her, moaning a little into the gag when the sensations got too intense. She, in turn, could not keep her hands off her own body, sliding gloved hands over her tight suit. Her face was hidden behind a reflective mask, black visor and exhaust port giving her a definitively mechanical vibe.
Good drones obey. It feels good to obey.
I was hoping for a reward, to be pushed over the edge, and for it to feel like my controller had decided I was allowed to cum. It felt like I’d been teased for hours, I was so ready to climax. And as the plug inflated inside me, and the toys surged in unison, I thought that my wish was going to be granted.
Suddenly I was aware of the Hive Mxstress’s globular mask by my face, snuck around behind me, leaning over the chair.
“You look so fucking hot like that. And the laptop says there are toys in here that have been buzzing away inside you for ages.” It was Rachel’s voice. Muffled by the mask, yes, but unmistakable.
Fuck! No! She can’t see me like this!
I started mumbling into the gag, trying to communicate that sentiment to her, but the silicone shape swallowed up all of the words, I might as well have been gargling with mouthwash for all the sense it made.
“I’ve been watching you a while. I don’t think it was going to let you go over the edge. And given that I’ve already had my orgasm, that really didn’t seem fair.”
She’s been wanking over me like this? Nononononono!
I was thrashing in the chair, now genuinely trying to escape, and not just to enjoy the feel of it. But the toys kept climbing, their pattern growing faster, the amplitude growing stronger. There wasn’t enough air, whistling through the noseholes in the hood, to fuel this effort, and I could feel my head getting fuzzy.
This is going to ruin everything.
The only coherent thought I could focus on was that she shouldn’t be there, couldn’t be there. I’d locked the doors. I’d sent her away. This was supposed to be a secret. I had to be strong. I had to be her mistress.
I cried out into the gag, incoherent and primal.
“Shhhh, it’s okay. I’m going to make it happen. You deserve it.”
Under the hood, tears were streaming down my face, stinging my eyes. I couldn’t speak, couldn’t protest, couldn’t stop her from breaking what we had. The toys had peaked now, but they weren’t ebbing away. She’d cranked everything up to full. I could feel my body cresting the wave of pleasure, felt my muscles tensing and my body straining against the rigid wood holding me down.
I can’t lose her like this. Not like this.
As the orgasm ripped through me, my sobs and snorts could not be controlled. My body was riding this wave, and gods, it felt so good. And damn her if she didn’t leave it all on high, while she was running her hands over me, fondling and squeezing my chest. Even as the first climax ebbed away, another built up and sent my body shuddering and convulsing against the chair’s grip. It wasn’t until I was limping into a third that she let me go for long enough to push all the sliders back down, one by one, until I was left, gasping for air, with only the vibrations of my own body.
In the quiet of the room, with my thrashing subsided, as my breathing slowed, the sound of my sobs were the only things left. And as my ability to think returned to me, the obvious thing that I had completely spaced on became clear, and through the gag I tried, with what little breath I could spare, to hum Happy Birthday.
“Mmm, and how did that feel? Was it… Ohh… Shit, shit shit, hold on.”
I could barely see, through the restrictive hood and my stinging eyes, as she scrabbled at the rods and pegs holding the bars in place. I don’t even know how long it took her to free me to the point I could gesture at the neck corset, and let her unlace it enough to peel the hood from my face. She had ripped off her mask to see more clearly, and spent the whole time apologising.
By the time she was peeling the hood from my flushed, sweaty face, I had recovered enough mental capacity to confront my fears. My legs still trapped in the chair’s embrace, I gently spat out the gag into my hand, and lifted my gaze to hers.
“Are you okay?” she stammered, “what’s wrong? Did I go too far? Did I hurt you?” She had tugged her gloves off and fetched a tissue to wipe my eyes, tenderly.
“No,” I croaked. My voice was broken and hoarse, as if I’d been yelling into the gag this whole time. “I’m okay. You just… You weren’t supposed to see this, see me like this.”
“It’s… Fuck… I was going to surprise you, dress up for you getting back. But you were here and I thought, since you hadn’t asked if I was ready to play, then you weren’t really Mistress Kate right now, and…”
I started to cry again. I couldn’t help it. “I’m sorry,” I said, still struggling to catch my breath as she dabbed my cheeks. “I can’t be very mistress-like for you, right now.”
And with those words I saw her heart melt, there on her face. She leaned in and kissed me, full on the lips.
“You are, and always will be, my mistress.” She smiled, her very beautiful smile. “My super-fucking-hot, locked-in-a-chair, mistress. My straps-me-to-the-bed mistress. My whips-me-till-I-cry-mercy mistress.” She kissed me again. “My coffee-in-a-big-fluffy-dressing-gown mistress. All of you. That doesn’t stop just because I’ve seen you in a compromised position. I’m not suddenly in charge now, because I snuck in and caught you indulging in the sort of fantasies that, and let me be clear here, I’ve had pretty much every fucking night since the first time you tied me up. And I don’t want to be. I want to be yours.”
With that she laughed, her eyes bright, watching me. And in that moment I knew she was right. More than that, I knew why I’d panicked so hard. Because I’d thought I was going to lose her, thought that our perfect little arrangement might fall apart, and the thought of it had torn through me. So I leaned in and kissed her back. For a long time. Until she understood, that I was fine, that we would be fine.
Something did have to change, between us, but it didn’t have to stop. I just had to stop pretending to myself that this was just an arrangement of convenience, me educating her in the ways of kink.
I let her help me to my feet, before I had to clutch onto her arm and say, “Gods, we’ve got to get this corset off, and these toys out of me. I feel like my insides are going to want to fall out when we do, and you’re not going to say a damned thing about it, no matter what noises I make.”
“Yes, Mistress Kate.”
“Then, we’re going to give you a much deserved spanking.”
“Of course, Mistress Kate.”
“And after that, we’re going to talk about what you moving in here properly is going to look like.”
There was a long pause, as we continued to lurch slowly along the corridor to the dressing room, before she replied. “Thank you, Mistress Kate.”