A Public Spectacle

I wrote this story for Kinktober 2025 (day 9, if you're interested; the prompt words were Desperate/Public). It features light bondage and some fairly gentle public humiliation.

"Say cheese!"

"Chmmphm!"

Amy grumbled as the tourist took his photo, then another, then leered at her one final time before skulking away. This wasn't at all what she'd had in mind. It wasn't what the brochure had led her to expect.

"Hey, cutie! Look at the camera, sweetheart! And give us a big smile!"

"Chmmphm!"

She did her best to smile around the cloth bandana wedged tightly between her teeth, but her heart wasn't in it. She'd been up on the plinth for 40 minutes and still had more than an hour left of her shift. She just wanted to be untied and given back her normal clothes. A bath would be nice, too.

"Look at this silly bimbo! She's got herself all bound and gagged! Let's take a video."

"Hmph."

"Squirm about a bit, can't you love? Play the damsel in distress a bit more."

Amy sighed. But she had learned by now what was expected. She wriggled helplessly in her bonds and pleaded with wide eyes for rescue.

"Nh pmmnphm, mnphphmr! Nnphnm mm!"

The man took his video. "There," he said, unimpressed by Amy's acting. "That wasn't so hard, was it? I don't think much of your customer service."

"Hmph." I'd like to see you do better, she thought.

It had been like this since Amy got here - or at least since she'd been "set up" on the plinth. It had been a terrible shock when she arrived, expecting to take part in a bold performance piece on Trafalgar Square's famous fourth plinth, and seeing instead a tawdry spectacle laid on for the tourists. A sequence of beautiful women were dressed in unconvincing historical costumes, tightly bound and gagged, then placed on the plinth for everyone to gawk at, point at, and photograph. It was deeply humiliating.

"What are you supposed to be?"

"Mn prnncmphph."

"A what?"

"Mn prnncmphph!"

The man - nearly all the visitors were men, Amy had quickly noticed - shook his head and took a photo. A princess, you idiot, she thought. A crappy generic medieval princess. She couldn't decide if this was better or worse than her predecessor on the plinth, who had been dressed as a suffragette. That was somewhat more accurate, but far less appropriate. Unless you focused on the "chaining yourself to immovable objects" aspects of that movement.

"This is supposed to be art? I don't get it. It's stupid."

Oh no, Amy thought. Not another one.

"Constable, that's real art. Reynolds. The Singing Butler."

"Plmnphm, phnr..."

"It's a disgrace, do you hear? You should be ashamed of yourself."

The man, growing increasingly red in the face, threw his lemonade in Amy's face and stalked away muttering about sick minds. She followed his wobbly progress as her handler mopped up the liquid. She was fairly sure he'd taken a photo earlier.

"Just an hour to go, Ames. You're doing great!"

"Hmph."

The handler checked all of Amy's bonds, tightening them where necessary. She was trussed up incredibly thoroughly. It was as if all the effort saved on the costumes had been diverted to ensuring absolutely inescapable bondage.

"You're good to go. Have fun!"

Amy sighed yet again, gazing dismally at the queue of tourists stretching halfway around the square. But she couldn't back out now - and not just because she was bound too tightly to escape. As bad as this was, it was worth it.

The only thing Amy had ever wanted was to be famous. Not to be rich, not to be beloved, not even to make a positive difference in the world. Just to be recognisable to as many people as possible. The problem was that Amy didn't have any of the qualities (nor the flaws) that lead a person to become famous. She couldn't sing, or act; she wasn't noteworthily wealthy, or ruthless enough to be likely to become so; she had no aptitude for social media; she wasn't related to a celebrity, nor had she succeeded in sleeping with anyone who matched that description. And while she was certainly pretty, her beauty did not reach the truly miraculous levels required to achieve fame without complimentary gifts.

But the fame machine has its compensations for the truly desperate. If you want it enough, if you're prepared to sacrifice more than the next pretty young wannabe celebrity, the market will always find ways for you to do so.

And Amy really was desperate.

"Say cheese!"

She did her best to smile around the cloth bandana wedged tightly between her teeth.

"Chmmphm!"

FIN