Birthday Bondage

I walk out of the bathroom wearing nothing but a towel wrapped around me; the apartment is comfortably warm this evening. Anyway, there's little point putting clothes on just now. They'd be coming off again in a few minutes.

As I walk into the kitchen, my eyes are drawn again to the large box on the table placed against one wall. The box has been there all day, wrapped in pretty paper and with a golden bow on the top. It's my birthday present from Charles.

I glance up at the clock on the wall: two minutes to eight. Almost time.

I don't know exactly what's in the box, not exactly. But I do know what sort of thing it is.

Bondage.

For my birthday, my boyfriend is giving me the gift of bondage.

–––

I first developed – or, at least, first became aware of – an interest in bondage back in college. As part of my course, we had to watch some tedious old movie. I can't remember its name, or what it was about. All I can remember is one scene. There was a woman who'd been gagged and tightly tied up by the bad guy. She was lying on the floor, making mumbling noises through the gag as she wriggled around and tried unsuccessfully to escape. Eventually the film's hero – the woman's boyfriend – found her. Before he released her, her gave her a playful pat on the cheek and said: "You look damn hot like that, it kinda suits you, I think I might leave you there for a while."

It was a corny line, but it was a corny film. I didn't care about that. For me, the line and the scene were hot. I hardly noticed anything that happened in the rest of the movie, I was too busy thinking about that woman and wishing I was her. Wishing that I could be bound and gagged, unable to escape and completely at the mercy of my boyfriend.

I failed that unit of the course.

Instead of fading, my interest in bondage grew. I began surfing the web looking for kinky pictures and reading stories of women in tight bondage. I always wanted more: one more story, one more video. I made a habit of clearing my browser history often!

Over time, I began to realise that my interest in bondage wasn't just the physical side – though of course that was a major factor. It was also the element of trust. Allowing a man to tie you up, letting yourself become his helpless plaything... that was the ultimate act of trust.

If a relationship didn't have that level of trust, was it worth having? I came to the conclusion that bondage wasn't just a fun game, it was an essential part of any serious, long-term relationship.

Which sounded great in my head, but didn't work so well in real life. Most of my boyfriends I simply didn't trust enough. Those that I did tended to go cold when I mentioned bondage; believe it or not, not all guys get turned on by the idea of a bound woman. Most just thought I was weird.

So despite my growing desire for bondage, I never actually experienced it.

Until Charles.

Of all the men I've known, he's the one I feel most connection with. I trust him totally. After we'd been going out for a few months, I suggested that we could add a little bondage to our sex. To my surprise his answer was simply: "If that's what you want." Hardly enthusiastic, but better than I expected.

I told him all about my obsession and the film that had started it. Over the next weeks we began to experiment with improvised bondage: a cloth round my head as a blindfold, a clothesline to tie my ankles together, a pair of plastic toy handcuffs.

It was wonderful.

And the best thing was that the more we played, the more he got into it. It turned out that I'd 'unlocked' a side of him that he didn't know was there.

It was the greatest sex I'd ever had. No, it was better than that. Slowly the bondage became more important that the actual sex. Sometimes, Charles would tie me up and tease me to distraction, then simply masturbate in front of me and leave me horny and frustrated.

Of course, we wanted more, much more than we could get with home made gear. When I showed Charles some of my favourite online sites that sell bondage equipment, his eyes almost bulged out of his head!

We did a lot of 'window shopping', talking about what we'd like to get for him to use on me. But we never bought anything; the good stuff is expensive. We both work, but don't live together. So our salaries have to support two homes. The gear remained a fantasy.

Until three weeks ago, when Charles said: "I've had an idea. It's your birthday soon, how about I buy you some of that bondage stuff?"

"Wow! That would be... no, it's too expensive. You can't."

"Hey, it's not just for you. Remember, it's for my pleasure as well. And since your birthday is on Saturday this year, you won't have to worry about getting up for work the next day."

I didn't take much further persuasion. Charles said he'd order something for my birthday but refused to tell me what. He wanted it to be a surprise.

–––

And here it is, sitting in a box in front of me. My birthday surprise.

Charles came round early this morning and left it with me. "Open the box at exactly eight this evening," he said. "Then follow the instructions I've written on the note inside. I'll be back to see you at nine."

He's evil, in a good way. He could have waited and brought the box with him this evening, but he knew the effect it would have on me. Sitting there all day on the kitchen table. Its presence searing itself into my mind as I wonder what's in it. It's certainly bigger than I expected, Charles must have spent a lot of money. I've been trying to imagine the contents, trying to develop X-ray eyes. Of course, I could simply have opened it earlier, but as I said, this is about trust. He needs to trust me as much as I trust him.

The hands on the clock have been crawling slowly. Finally they reach eight o'clock. It's time.

I take the bow from on top of the box and place it safely in a drawer; it'll make a good souvenir. Then I tear away the wrapping paper to reveal the brown cardboard inside. This is sealed tightly and I wonder if there's a message in that. Using a pair of scissors, I remove the box's bindings. Then I open it carefully.

As I do so, the first thing that strikes me is the smell of new leather. I breathe in the sensuous perfume as I look down at the box. Inside is a cornucopia of black leather, dotted with shiny metal. My eyes widen as I realise quite how much he's bought for my birthday gift.

I take out the hand-written note and read it slowly. Once every word of his instructions are imprinted on my mind, I put the note aside and unpack the rest of the contents. Each item is placed on the kitchen table, in the order they'll be needed.

The sight of so much bondage gear along with the dark smell of the leather and the clinking of metal already has me turned on. Without thinking, I reach a hand beneath the towel wrapped around my waist. It would only take a slight touch and I'd orgasm right now. But no. Not yet. I pull back the offending hand.

It's time to start applying the restraints, to get myself ready for Charles. Glancing at the clock, I'm surprised to see that it's already ten past eight. After going so slowly for hours, time is now accelerating. Just handling the metal and leather has almost left me in a trance.

Everything is in place. First I remove the towel and lay it carefully on the floor; the room is warm, but the tiled floor probably isn't.

That done, I turn back to the table and pick up the first item. Unlike the rest of the gear, this is more decorative than functional: a red leather breast harness. How to put it on isn't obvious, but fortunately I've spent enough time on the internet to recognise it.

A soft leather strap goes from the base of each breast around to the top. These are then buckled in place, encircling and slightly squeezing my breasts. I pull the straps tight, not enough to hurt but enough that I won't be able to forget their presence. A stiff piece of leather joins the loops together and also acts to keep my breasts apart: the classic lift and separate, but in red leather. Another strap runs from each breast loop round the side of my body and these buckle together at the back. For all the apparent complexity of the harness, most guys would probably find the buckle easier to undo than the classic bra catch!

Once the harness is securely in place, I look down at my breasts. They're definitely perkier than normal in their leather enclosure. But I can't get the full effect from this angle. So I leave the kitchen and pad, naked except for the red leather, to the bedroom. Here I stand and view myself in the full-length mirror. The effect is, if I say so myself, stunning. My breasts look better than I've ever seen them and the red of the leather goes perfectly with the colour of my skin. My wandering hand sneaks into action again, this time stroking my already firm nipples. A few tweaks later, I force myself to stop. I walk back to the kitchen with my bound breasts and their steel hard nipples thrust out proudly before me.

Stroking my nipples wasn't just for fun. Having them hard will make it easier to apply the next item from the box: a pair of nipple clamps. These are small yet powerful. Several blunt prongs go around each nipple then a screw tightens them in place. I put them both on and, as with the leather breast harness, tighten them so that the sensation is strong without being painful.

Now it gets serious; the next item on the table is the first piece of true bondage equipment.

A pair of metal ankle cuffs.

I pick them up and the two rings – I guess they're made of steel – are cool to my touch. The metal is wonderfully solid and unyielding. The cuffs are designed to close smoothly then be locked by small padlocks, which Charles has thoughtfully left looped through the clasps. A short length of heavy chain, maybe three inches long, connects the rings.

I sit down on the ground and fit one of the cuffs around my left ankle. I take the padlock from the clasp and remove the piece of tape over the lock hole; Charles has not, of course, left any keys for me, so the tape ensured that the padlock wouldn't accidentally close too early. Well, that time has past. The loop of the lock slips easily through the ring on the cuff and it takes only a gentle squeeze for it to slip into place with a quiet yet deeply meaningful 'click'.

The right ankle cuff goes on next and another 'click' confirms it too is now securely locked.

Locked.

My ankles are locked in steel and I don't have the keys.

The blood is rushing through my body as my heart beats fast. This is it, this is real. These cuffs aren't coming off my ankles until Charles decides to remove them. It occurs to me that like this I wouldn't even be able to put on a pair of jeans to cover myself.

I go to stand up, only to have trouble doing so. Having my ankles chained so closely together makes it difficult to get my balance and I need to use the table to help. Once standing, I experimenting with walking. Well, moving anyway. With my feet hobbled like an animal, actual human-style walking is out of the question. The best I can manage is a slow shuffle. Just a few minutes ago I walked to the bedroom in seconds. Now it would take at least five minutes. Even if I wanted to run, wanted to escape, it wouldn't be possible.

The restriction of my movement doesn't end there though. This is just the start.
I take two long, black leather straps from the table and, as instructed, wrap both around my legs. One strap goes just above and the other just below my knees. Each buckles tightly and is locked in place, further restricting my limited mobility. Now my legs feel as if they've been welded together into a single, useless pole.

I am already helpless, and there's plenty more of my birthday treat still to come.

Next on the list of instructions from Charles is the gag. This is a large rubber ball, the same red as the straps encircling my breasts, attached to a black leather strap. I lift it off the table and hold it in front of my face, admiring it like a work of art. Then I open my mouth and press the ball in. It's bigger than it looks and I have to stretch my jaws wide to get it past my teeth. Once that's done, I'm able to close my mouth again. I take the straps round the back of my head and thread the end of one through the buckle on the other. I pull tight, then tighter still, forcing the buckle one last hole along the strap. This is definitely not comfortable, but it's not meant to be. The important thing is that there will be no possible way for me to push the ball even slightly out of position in order to speak.

Before I can change my mind I reach out and grab another keyless padlock from the table. A click and it's done. The ballgag is securely padlocked in place. Too late to worry now about the discomfort, all I can do is endure it.

I move my jaw experimentally, trying to speak. Very little sound at all comes out, what does is totally unintelligible.

This is another important part of the trust that I associate with true bondage. At a basic level, being gagged means that I can no longer scream or cry out for help. But I don't expect to need to do that anyway, not with Charles. More important is that I can't even ask him to stop – or start – doing something. I can't beg to be released. I can't tell him if I'm enjoying what's happening or hating every second of it. With this gag in place, a groan of pain sounds the same as a groan of pleasure, a groan of frustration or even a groan of boredom. With no ability to give Charles any feedback, I simply have to trust him.

Of course, at the moment I can still communicate with my hands and my eyes. But that won't be the case for much longer.

To begin the final stage of my self bondage instructions, I pick up a six inch length of heavy chain which has an open padlock slipped through the link at each end. One end is to be locked to the small length of chain between my ankles, so I bend down...

At which point I lose my balance. With my legs joined, I begin to topple over. My arm instinctively shoots forwards and I catch hold of the table. By doing so I stop myself falling, but at the cost of letting go of the chain. It flies out of my hands, hits the kitchen floor, bounces off the tiles then scuttles over to the far side of the room.

Fuck.

Now I need to get it back. I make a few tentative movements with my feet, but trying to cross the room standing up isn't going to work; I almost fell just leaning over and there's nothing to hold on to after the table.

I could simply forget about that chain, Charles would understand. But I'm not going to do that. It would ruin what's still to come. This is my birthday bondage treat and I want it to be perfect. Which means I have to get across the room.

Holding on to the table, I slowly lower myself to my knees. With my muscles stressed, the straps around my legs press in more deeply; I wish I hadn't made them quite so tight.

Once kneeling, I bend over and place my hands on the floor in front of me. Then I pull my knees forwards. Lean out and put my hands ahead, pull my knees forward. Hands ahead, knees forward, hands ahead, knees forward... The process is repeated slowly as I crawl across the kitchen floor like an animal. I can't help thinking about how I must look, a naked, crawling woman with her breasts poking out through a red leather harness. Grunting with exertion through the large ballgag that stuffs my mouth. If anyone was here to see me, it would be gloriously humiliating.

In the past, I've complained about this kitchen being too small. Just at the moment, it feels massive.

Eventually I reach the wall and retrieve the chain. Fortunately, the padlocks are still in place so I don't need to hunt for them. I take one padlock and use it to attach one end of the loose chain to the middle link of the one between my ankles; it's not going to get away again! The other padlock I keep carefully in my hand as I turn and begin the long, slow crawl back to the table.

Crawling like this is not something my muscles are used to and I'm panting by the time I get reach the table. The temptation is to spend a few minutes resting and getting my breath back, but that incident has taken up valuable time and I don't want to be late for Charles. So I hook the second padlock through the loose end of the chain, ready for later, and pull myself back up to my feet.

There are three items left on the table. I take two of them and place them carefully on the floor next to the towel, taking a good look to ensure I know exactly where they are. Then I pick up the third and final item.

A black leather hood.

My hands tremble slightly as I lift it; it is, in a word, beautiful. The leather is thick yet soft and I caress it seductively with my fingers. The front is sculpted in the rough outline of a human face. At the bottom, there are loops running around the neck through which is threaded a leather strap in which a padlock is hanging, ready to lock. Apart from the neck entrance, there is only one gap in the leather: a breathing hole at the nose. There are no gaps for eyes or mouth. Once this is in place, I won't be able to see anything and any sounds I might mange to make through the gag will be further muffled.

Holding the hood in one hand like a precious gem, I use the other to help me lower myself to my knees. Then I position myself carefully on the floor. I take a final look at the other two items, making sure I know their exact location. Good. It's time.

I slip the hood over my head.

It's snug, but not tight. I pull it down slowly, enjoying the sensation of the leather gradually enveloping my head. A little adjustment ensures that my ears are flat and the features on the hood line up with those of my face. In particular, I make certain that the breathing hole is properly positioned. Even though there is nothing covering my nostrils, the smell of the fresh leather is intense. It's an almost overwhelming, deliciously sexy scent.

As important as what I can smell is what I can see: nothing. The hood is tight enough that what little light that gets through the nose hole doesn't make it to my eyes. With this hood in place, I am totally sightless. And, although I have no way to test it, I suspect that any outside sound is also being muffled. In addition, the leather beneath the chin keeps my jaws pressed together, pushing my mouth more tightly around the ballgag and making it yet more difficult for me to make any sound.

A hood like this is strict bondage on its own, even without the breast harness, ankle cuffs and leather straps which are also locked on my body.

Of course, I could still remove the hood; it's not true bondage if you can get out. So it's time to change that.

I reach my hands up to my neck and find the strap at the base of the hood. I remove the padlock and hold it gently whilst I thread one end of the strap into the buckle on the other than pull it through. I make sure not to tighten it too far, just enough to be secure. With the strap buckled, I take the padlock and place it through one of the holes. I give a little squeeze and feel the now familiar sensation of the lock snapping in place – though this time I can't hear the click. My fingers run across the padlock and confirm that yes, it's closed.

The hood is locked on.

I gave up the power of speech some while ago, now I have just robbed myself of sight. Until Charles releases me, I will be unable to see what is happening. Unable to prepare myself, either mentally or physically. Totally helpless. I run my hands happily across the leather that hides my face from the outside world and that hides the outside world from me.

Just two pieces left to go on. I reach out with one arm and feel around. The first is where I expect and I pick it up. It's a simple leather strap: looped round, buckled and locked; unlike the other items, this came pre-locked in my birthday box. It forms a circle perhaps eighteen inches in diameter.

Before putting it on, I lower my upper body gently to the ground, so that I am now laying face down on the towel. I pick up the strap and place one hand through the loop, then use my other to pull it up above my elbow. Now the other arm goes through. This is more tricky and takes some wriggling to get the strap correctly positioned. Eventually I manage, and now both arms are pinned behind my back by a short, leather loop above my elbows. With this in place, I couldn't reach the hood to remove it even if it wasn't locked on. Out of interest I try bringing my hands to my front, but there's no way I can reach that far. Certainly not far enough to play with or soothe my nipples that are throbbing in the metal clamps.

With my arms strapped behind my back, there is nothing to support my upper body. So my weight now rests on my breasts. These are poking out of the red leather harness, which means that the nipple clamps are pressed to the floor. I'm definitely beginning to regret having tightened them so much.

One final item to go: handcuffs. Charles and I talked about handcuffs when we were fantasising various scenarios (though none of our fantasies were as intense as the current reality!) Normal handcuffs have a 'double locking' mechanism to prevent them becoming too tight, but with my hands behind my back I probably wouldn't be able to activate this. So we found some online that have a built-in limit to how far they can close. We measured my wrists so that we could be sure they would be secure but not dangerous.

All I have to do is put them on.

I reach out to the side where I left the handcuffs, however the leather strap around my elbows limits how far I can stretch; my fingers can only just touch the floor next to me. Damn. I should have thought of that! I should have locked the cuffs on to the chain between my ankles before strappinging my arms, that way I'd simply have to raise my legs to get to them.

OK, I can do this. I roll gently on one side, getting one hand to the floor. After a little scrabbling around, I realise that the handcuffs aren't anywhere in reach. I think back, visualise the scene when I put them down. Work out the direction I have to move. Then I start wriggling that way, my hand sweeping back and forth over the floor gently – the last thing I want to do is knock the cuffs further away.

The irony of the situation strikes me as funny. Anyone watching would think that I'm struggling to get out of my bondage when in fact I'm struggling to make it more severe.

That's it! I feel the touch of metal on my fingertips. I wriggle a little more, then the cuffs are safely in my hand. In doing this, I've moved my whole body off from the towel and on to the cold floor tiles. Unfortunately there's no chance of getting back to my original position now, and the towel is probably laying scrunched up half way across the room. So I'll just have to stay where I am.

I turn my body back to lay on my stomach. As I do so, my breasts hit the ground and the nipple clamps bite hard. I give a little scream of pain through the gag. That felt good, but I don't want to do it again!

I fold my legs at the knees, bringing my feet up towards my back. Reaching down, I'm relieved to find that the padlock is still looped through the free end of the chain that dangles between my ankles. I grasp hold of it and lock it to the middle of the handcuffs.

Once I put on those handcuffs, there's no going back. This is it. The moment of truth.

Who am I kidding? The moment of truth is long past, there's been no going back for ages. When did my situation become inescapable? Was it when I put on the hood? The ballgag? The ankle cuffs? No, the real moment of truth was before that. From the moment I opened the box and saw the bondage gear that Charles had bought, my current position was inevitable.

Without waiting to think further, I click the handcuffs shut around my wrists. I am now laying hogtied on the kitchen floor, naked except for my restraints, with the keys to my bondage held by someone who is probably still miles away.

I start to panic. What if Charles is in an accident? What if a stranger breaks in before he arrives? All sorts of scenarios run through my mind.

Stop thinking like that. Why should he have an accident today of all days? It's no more likely to happen now than yesterday or tomorrow. Why worry about something that's almost certainly not going to happen and that I can't control?

I relax and give myself over to luxuriating in the physical and emotional feelings of bondage. Enjoying the knowledge that there is absolutely nothing I could do to escape, not even if I wanted to.

Seconds pass. Minutes. How long? I should have looked at the clock before putting on the hood. What time is it? It must be at least half-past eight. No, all that messing around with the chain and the handcuffs must mean it's more like ten to nine. Charles will be here soon.

In my dark, silent world the time passes slowly. My sight and hearing are blocked, the only thing I can smell is the leather of the hood. With my other senses nullified, every touch is magnified. I feel the cold of the tiles beneath my naked body, the pull of the metal around my wrists and ankles. I feel the pressure of the gag in my mouth, the grip of the clamps on my nipples.

The muscles in my legs are beginning to feel strained, but if I start to unbend my knees then the pressure on my wrists becomes painful. Arching my body like a human bow reduces the strains on my legs and wrists, only to move it elsewhere. All I can do is alternate between the sensations.

More time passes.

How long now? How long have I been like this? It must have been half an hour, surely? But then, with nothing changing there's no way to mark time.
I decide to count seconds and get to 200 before my mind wanders again to the feelings of my bondage. I start again, concentrating harder than before. This time I manage to get to 900 before I stop. That's fifteen minutes.

Fifteen minutes on top of all those other minutes. How long have I been here? Too long. Where is he? Where is Charles? He should have been here by now.

As I think this, there is a touch on my back. I freeze.

A finger runs slowly and gently down my spine and is then lifted. A second later there is a sharp smack on my ass. I squeal through the gag, more in surprise than pain. There is another slap, then another and another. I start squirming as my ass cheeks hot up. Then the slapping stops.

What the hell? Who? How? Did I leave the front door unlocked?

My questions are answered by a voice speaking next to one ear. "Feeling good?" it asks.

The voice is muffled but definitely belongs to Charles. I relax happily.

But how long has he been here? How long have I been here? As if reading my mind, he speaks again.

"Surprised? Good. I didn't think you hear me through the hood if I opened the front door quietly. It's quarter to ten, I've been sitting with a beer and watching you since nine. It's a very pretty sight."

Three quarters of an hour! He's left me laying here, watching me silently, for 45 minutes. The bastard. The evil, wonderful brilliant bastard. The thought that he's been in the room all this time is so exhilarating.

I feel his hand pat my cheek gently through the leather hood. Then his voice comes again:

"You look damn hot like that," he says. "It kinda suits you. I think I might leave you there for a while."

Best birthday ever.