
Mf, dom, heavy bond, s&m, fetish, incomplete            งงงงงง
From: adrhunt@aol.com (Adrhunt)
Subject: REPOST: The Induction of Isabel
Date: 10 Dec 1994 06:20:02 -0500

THE INDUCTION OF ISABEL: Prologue
By Adrian Hunter

        First dates always made Isabel nervous, but this one
was going to set the record.
        She tugged nervously on the hem of the micro latex
miniskirt that encased her hips like electrical tape.  But try as
she might, she couldn't budge it down a millimeter.
        She felt cool air circulate around her naked crotch.
Hope I don't drop anything at the restaurant, she thought to
herself.
        Not that she could bend down in these thigh-high boots
with heels that turned walking into a tightrope act.
        Well, he had insisted on dressing her.
        And she had most definitely asked for it.
        Isabel was tired of dating lukewarm men who
practically curtsied when they talked to her.  She knew she
was good looking, but she really didn't need all the fawning
that seemed to define masculinity in the 1990s.
        She wanted steak, and life kept serving her artfully-
arranged fish sticks.
        So she tried the personals.  Same old story, only the
men were older.
        Then a friend recommended computer dating.
        At first, Isabel laughed.  She had thought getting fixed
up by a microchip went out with Earth Shoes and mood rings.
        But then her friend explained the concept of on-line
services, and Isabel became very, very interested.
        Talking through a keyboard to anonymous paramours
sounded like a science-fiction version of the old CB radio fad,
but Isabel admitted the concept had definite possibilities.
        So she bought a modem for her old computer, jacked
into a bulletin board she saw advertised in a magazine, and
signed on.
        A few days later, she sat down and scanned the
possibilities.  Swingers, fetishists, gays, piercing . . . nothing
clicked until she saw the bondage "room."
        Isabel had always harbored a secret longing for what
some discreetly called "rough trade."  Good girls don't
fantasize about total submission, she had always told herself.
        But she knew better.  The mere sight of handcuffs
would send her mind buzzing in a million dark directions.
And the thought of being bound and gagged by a man to do
with as he pleased made her shiver with electric desire.
        And here it was, a digital dungeon where she could be
the princess in peril for hundreds of anonymous
disciplinarians.  Isabel soon found herself to be a most
popular chat partner as she willfully disengaged her rational
sense of proprietary and let her newfound friends spin webs
of dominance and erotic torture around her responses.
        She soon learned the sinful secrets and dreadful
surprises of the bondage world . . . butt plugs and nipple
clamps, the infinite variety of whips, paddles, canes and
crops, thick leather and rubber, and the burn of the rope.  She
played the slave, the hooker, the mistress, the harem girl, the
spy, the wayward wife and the bitch who needed a lesson, all
with equal gusto.
        While many tried to arrange a face-to-face rendezvous,
Isabel was wary of the consequences of reality beyond the
modem.  Most of her on-line suitors lacked that certain
something she felt she needed if she was going to put her
pussy on the line.  She wanted her dream date to fulfill her
needs, not treat her like a blow-up doll.
        Late one evening, she found him.  His handle was
MARLBORO (hers was PLAYWITH), but she soon knew
him as Ron.
        When they first chatted, he never once mentioned
bondage, or even sex.  This was a first for Isabel, and it
definitely intrigued her.
        In on-line subsequent conversations, they simply got to
know each other.  Hobbies, likes, dislikes . . . they seemed to
discuss everything but why they were using the bulletin board
in the first place.
        Then he popped the question.
        "Would you like to spend a week with me?" he asked.
        Isabel's fingers shook as she held them motionless over
the keyboard.  On the one hand, she wasn't sure she wanted to
meet anyone from the BBS in person.  On the other, if she
was ever going to explore her fantasies beyond the bulletin
board, Ron was definitely the man to help her find her way.
        "Yes" was her one-word reply.
        "Yes ??" was his response.
        The game had finally begun.
        "Yes, master," she dutifully typed back.
        "Who's 'master'?  I was merely expressing shock,
disbelief and no small degree of wonder at your unexpected
reply."
        Isabel typed back :), the universal computer smiley.
        During their exchanges before their rendezvous, Ron
asked Isabel for her measurements.  After she gave him the
basics, he messaged back requesting a detailed breakdown,
including her shoe, neck, head, thigh, calf and shoulder sizes.
        This conversation made Isabel swoon, especially when
he advised her to "pack light . . . you won't really be needing
your own clothes."  Visions of leather and lace circled in her
brain like sharks smelling blood, her apprehensions colliding
head-on with her mounting excitement in a trainwreck of lust
and panic.
        As she struggled with the laces running up the front of
the jet-black bustier Ron had selected for her, Isabel realized
its too-small size was intentional.  She had to pull the two
ends of the string together as tight as she could just to keep
her nipples covered, and when she finally succeeded in
knotting them, her breasts were half-exposed and bulging
over the top of the garment like balloons.
        Long latex gloves completed her evening's ensemble.
        She stared at the unfamiliar reflection in the hotel
room's full-length mirror.  Who is this little tramp, she asked
herself, and why is she smiling?
        She had expected Ron to pick her up at the airport, but
instead she was greeted by a driver holding a sign with her
name.  He had whisked her through the outskirts of the city to
a nice midtown hotel where she was already registered.
When she got into her room, she had found a box that
contained her outfit and a bouquet of roses.  Black, of course.
        Not knowing what else to do, she had gotten dressed.
Ron had thoughtfully provided everything she would need,
including a tight-fitting pearl choker and matching earrings.
Everything, that is, with the notable exception of underwear.
        Her nervousness increased exponentially as she
teetered around the room on her tall spike heels.  Was he
coming here?  Was she supposed to go somewhere dressed
like this?  What in the world had she gotten herself into?
        Her reverie was interrupted by a gentle knock on her
door.
        She pulled it open a crack, and saw a bellhop standing
outside.
        "Ma'am?  A gentlemen has asked me to escort you
downstairs."
        He held a full-length fur coat open for her.
        "Th-thank you," she said as she stepped out of her
room and slipped her arms into the luxurious sleeves.
        Here we go, she told herself.
        When the elevator doors opened, she quickly scanned
the lobby, but no one matched her vision of Ron.  The bellhop
led her through the foyer and out the front door to a limousine
waiting at the curb.
        The driver opened the door as she approached.
        She peered into the blackness, and felt a huge surge of
relief.
        The man she presumed was Ron smiled warmly as she
crawled into the luxurious interior of the stretch Cadillac.  He
looked, well, normal.  Regular build, nice features, pleasant
face, sharp suit, clean shoes, no apparent deformities, discrete
cologne  . . . what was his problem?
        After exchanging awkward greetings, Isabel couldn't
believe what she blurted out next.
        "Why do you waste your time on a bulletin board?"
        "I was going to ask you the same question," he calmly
replied.  "I could be mistaken, but I think it has something to
do with the way I hope you're dressed underneath all that
lovely fur."
        Despite the darkness, Isabel was sure he could see her
blush.
        "Actually, I'm probably as relieved as you are," he
continued.  "You're far prettier than I could have ever
expected.  Did everything fit well?"
        Isabel was surprised to hear herself laugh as she
described her struggles with the bustier laces.
        "My apologies.  Women often exaggerate their chest
measurements, so I thought it would be safer to err on the
small side."
        Isabel was thrilled how instantly comfortable she felt
around Ron.  He entertained her by pointing out the local sites
as they whisked down the road, and she found herself almost
forgetting she was dressed like a top-rate hooker on a date
with a man she first met while trolling for trouble on a
bondage bulletin board.
        Then it hit her . . . what was his trip anyway?
        Throughout their computer courtship, Ron had
carefully avoided any mention of his desires or his plans for
her.  Unlike all the other guys she had encountered on-line, he
had talked about everything but dominance and submission.
No tales of imagined torture.  No "are you wet yet?"  No
orders.  No nothing.
        The costume he chose for her was elegantly wicked,
and she loved it, but it was nothing really out of the ordinary,
at least in this neighborhood.
        "Isabel?  Earth to Isabel . . ."
        "Huh?  Oh, I'm sorry, I was thinking to myself."
        "About what?"
        "About you."
        "I'm flattered.  Care to be more specific?"
        Isabel paused.  "I was wondering . . . just what you had
in mind for tonight."
        "Oh, nothing extreme.  Dinner and maybe a show
afterward."
        Isabel was now more confused than ever.  Was Ron
just being annoyingly coy?
        But she had to admit, she was tingling from the tips of
her latex-enclosed fingers to her straining toes at the bottom
of her boots.
        They finally arrived in front of the restaurant, and
Isabel began to understand the game.
        Elegantly-coiffed couples shared intimate tables
illuminated by soft candlelight.  What in the world were they
going to think of her slinky slutwear?
        "Let me help you with your coat," Ron said as they
stood by the maitre d's station.
        As she slid out of the bulky fur, the restaurant grew
ominously quiet.
        Isabel felt her entire body blush as all eyes swiveled in
her direction.
        The maitre d' arched an eyebrow high enough to
qualify as a rocket launch, and led them to a table in the
middle of the floor.
        As Isabel sat down, she could feel the stunned disbelief
in the room.  For his part, Ron jauntily ordered champagne
and acted as if nothing was out of the ordinary.  But Isabel
could barely read the menu as a sense of shame and
humiliation overwhelmed her.
        Do they think I'm his mistress?  His prostitute?  His
slave?
        Then she realized that she was all three.
        Ron smiled at her across the table.
        "You look absolutely ravishing, Isabel."
        She felt another blush creep into her cheeks.
        "Can you imagine what every man in this room is
thinking right now?  You've blown their circuits, my dear.
And their wives will probably despise you later tonight after
the lights go out."
        This concept magnified Isabel's mortification to the
point where she could barely croak out her order to the leering
waiter.
        After they had finished their salads, Ron reached into
his pocket and slipped something round and hard under the
table to Isabel.
        "Why don't you excuse yourself to the ladies' room?" he
grinned.
        "Oh, and you may need some of this."
        He reached into the butter dish, scooped some out, and
passed it to her as she stood up.
        Isabel hurried across the restaurant and followed the
signs to the restrooms.  She was relieved when she found the
women's lavatory empty.
        Once safely inside a stall, she examined the object in
her hand.  It was a wooden ball about an inch around.
Attached to it was a flat round base the size of a quarter.
        She looked at the butter in her other hand.
        It slowly dawned on her that she was holding her first
butt plug.
        Isabel began breathing heavily as she greased the
sphere.
        Reaching underneath the miniskirt, she positioned the
ball against her puckered hole, gulped, and eased it into her
rectum.
        Her virgin ass clenched tightly around the intruder,
sending new, indescribable feelings of fullness through her
gut and groin.  When she stood up straight, she uttered a soft
moan of pain and pleasure.
        "Are you all right?"
        The strange voice jolted her back to the reality of her
situation.
        "Yes, thanks," she replied.
        The woman fixing her hair at the sink glared at Isabel
as she washed the excess butter off her gloved hands.
        "You should be arrested," the woman hissed.
        "So should your husband," Isabel replied.
        The matron's chin dropped and her mouth formed a
perfect "O" as Isabel strutted out the door and did her best to
feign indifference to the stares and her own internal
discomfort.
        "Hope everything went in all right," Ron said as she sat
down.
        "Oh yes," Isabel chirped breathlessly as she shifted
uneasily in her chair, trying to find a position that she could
bear for more than a minute.
        "Good.  Ah, here's our dinner."
        Isabel forced herself to eat at least half of every serving
on her plate, but it took extreme effort to keep her thoughts
focused on her fork, Ron's casual conversation and the
immense discomfort boiling in her groin.  She squirmed
involuntarily and soon felt tiny beads of sweat popping out
beneath her arms and across her forehead.
        When dinner was over, Ron mercifully waved off the
waiter and called for the check.
        Isabel stood up uneasily and threaded her way between
the other diners as she headed toward the door.  She felt the
eyes of every male mentally undress, no, rape her.  Every
male, that is, except her date, who continued his witty banter
as she struggled into her coat.
        The limo was waiting outside.
        "I thought it might be nice to get a little culture
tonight," he said as they pulled away from the curb.
        "I do hope you like opera."
        After three hours of incomprehensible arias, Isabel was
beyond detonation and rapidly approaching complete
meltdown.  Of course they were seated in a box with some of
the town's swankiest citizens, all of whom had massive
coronaries when she had removed her coat.
        Ron seemed to thoroughly enjoy both her predicament
and the bellowing divas.  At some point, Isabel realized she
was in the clutches of a bonafide professional, a torturer who
made the Marquis de Sade look like Pee Wee Herman.
        And she literally had to sit on her hands to keep herself
from the sweet relief she so desperately craved.


THE INDOCTRINATION OF ISABEL: Day 1
By Adrian Hunter

        Isabel flinched as Ron wrapped the wide leather belt
around her waist and began securing it behind her.
        She held her hands behind her head and stared at the
wall as she had been instructed, but she could not stop her
quivering body from betraying her fear.  Being completely
naked didn't help either.
        This is what you wanted, she reminded herself.  Total
submission.
        And Ron had proven to be more than she had bargained
for.
        After their first date, she had been willing to do anything
he commanded.  He had dressed her up like a latex wet dream,
taken her to a fancy restaurant, then made her sit through an
opera with a hard wooden ball in her butt.  And that had been
it.  No ropes.  No whips.  Just extreme humiliation and brain-
numbing arousal.
        "Put your hands down at your sides," he ordered.  When
Isabel complied, he began rolling long lace gloves over her
fingers, her forearms and her elbows.
        After he dropped her off at her hotel that first night, she
practically ran to her room.  Once inside, she plunged her
fingers deep into her crotch, setting off a series of climaxes that
practically knocked her unconscious.
        This is it, she thought as he worked on the gloves.  He's
finally going to make me his slave.
        But what had she been last night?  She had willfully
submitted to his every request, no matter how embarrassing or
humiliating.
        And truth be told, she had loved every sinful minute.
        Isabel heard what sounded like the beginning of a party
starting in the apartment above Ron's, but all her attentions
were focused on the various black undergarments he held in his
hands.
        She felt a surge of electricity bounce through her body,
and her arms stiffened as she instinctively tried to stop him.
        But the cuffs chained to the sides of the leather belt put
an immediate end to that fleeting thought.
        With her wrists subdued, Isabel could do nothing more
than watch Ron as he dressed her.
        He wrapped the bustier around her torso and hooked it to
the innermost row of fasteners.  Her breasts were thrust up by
its stiff quarter-cups so they stuck out like rubber balls.
        Next came the garter belt with six straps dangling down
her hips.
        "Lift up your foot," Ron commanded.  "Now the other
one."
        After he slipped on the snug, sheer and quite crotchless
panties, he rolled black lace stockings up the length of her legs.
        Then came the steep high heels with ankle straps.
        Isabel imagined she must look like the perfect Playboy
fantasy date.
        "Open your mouth, darling."
        Unlike the rest of her outfit, the gag was white.  She
was surprised by the large hole in the middle of the wide piece
that apparently fit over her mouth until she saw it was actually
a short rubber tube.
        She supposed it was a little late to tell Ron that she
wasn't all that hot on oral sex.
        The collar had a long strip of leather hanging from two
rings on its sides.  Once he buckled it around her neck, the
curved strap hung down her back.
        Finally, he placed a black mask over her eyes.
        "Trick or treat," he said with an appreciative emphasis
on the last word.
        Isabel tested the height of the heels with an uncertain
step, but Ron quickly picked up the strap hanging from her
neck.
        "Giddyup," he commanded as he cracked the reins
behind her.
        Isabel lurched forward until Ron pulled sharply on the
left strap, redirecting her steps toward the front door of his
apartment.
        Oh, no, she thought.  Is he really going to make me go
outside dressed up like a bondage pony?
        "Open the door."
        He was.
        Isabel trotted obediently down the thankfully-deserted
hallway.  When they reached the elevator, Ron pulled back on
the reins to bring her to a halt.
        She stared up at the elevator's direction indicators, and
was taken aback when the up arrow lit up with a cheerful ding.
        They were going upstairs?
        The party.
        "Giddyup," he said again, this time with a smart crack
on her naked ass with the lash of a riding crop.  Isabel hadn't
seen this coming, and practically flew forward into the waiting
car.
        They only traveled one floor up.  When the doors drew
back, Isabel heard loud music and much raucous conversation
emanating from an apartment at the end of the hall.
        When they reached the door, Ron didn't bother to knock.
        "Showtime," he whispered to her as he pushed her
forward into the party.
        "Bon Voyage Fred," read the banner stretched across the
far wall of the living room.  Around 20 men stood around in
groups, the largest being the one huddled around the keg of
beer.
        It didn't take long for Isabel to figure out what kind of
gathering Ron had invited her to.
        "Hey, Ron!" one of the men called out.  "All right!  You
brought the hooker!"
        With a shudder, she realized she was about to become
the featured entertainment at a bachelor party.
        "Nice . . . very tasty indeed," said another.  "Ron, how do
you do it?"
        "Gentlemen, meet the meat," Ron announced.  "As you
can see, she's very much prepared to fulfill your every need.
But first, I need a beer."
        While someone got Ron a plastic cup filled with suds
and foam, Isabel sneaked a peak at herself in a mirror.  To her
horror, she realized the tube gag made her mouth look like
something you would find on a blow-up sex doll.
        "A toast," he said as he raised his glass.  "To Fred, a
man who's about to become a mouse by willfully subjecting
himself to the whims of a woman.  May his golf clubs never
rust."
        The men applauded heartily as Fred took a bow.
        "Come over here, Fred," Ron said.  "Let me formally
introduce you to the girl of your future wet dreams."
        Fred stumbled forward as his friends hooted and howled.
        "Down," Ron barked at Isabel as he cracked the reins.
"That's right, on your knees."
        Isabel, mortified at her unenviable fate, did as she was
told.
        Ron dropped the leather strap while Fred unzipped his
jeans.
        "Let her fish it out with her mouth," someone called out.
        "Yeah, let her suck it out," yelled another.
        Fred thrust his crotch into the tube.
        She hesitated for only a second, which earned her a hard
blow from Ron's crop across her bare tits.
        "Do as you're told," he ordered.
        Isabel put her gagged mouth against Fred's gaping fly
and began to work his dick free.
        When it finally popped out, she manuevered its tip into
the hole and started inhaling it.
        "Oh . . . Jesus," Fred gasped as Isabel worked his
rapidly-stiffening member with her tongue.
        Within a matter of seconds, he was shuddering
compulsively as his seed spurted down Isabel's throat.
        "Who's next?"
        Isabel spent the next half-hour on the floor servicing the
groom's ushers while the party swirled drunkenly around her.
As she finished her sixth blowjob, she overheard Fred
whispering something to Ron while he pointed to an archway
between the living room and the dining room where a solitary
plant hung down from a hook in the center.
        Ron nodded and laughed as Fred dashed into the
kitchen, only to return a moment later with a coil of rope and a
handful of clothespins.
        "Get up," Ron ordered.
        Isabel stood as directed.
        Ron unlocked the cuffs from their chains and quickly
secured her wrists behind her back.  She felt him wrapping the
rope around her arms in stacked coils.  Around and around he
sheathed her limbs in hemp until they were completely covered
and pinned together over her elbows.
        Isabel arched her back to take off some of the strain,
which caused her breasts to jut forward even more enticingly.
        Ron smacked her ass with his crop to propel her toward
the archway, where Fred had already removed the plant,
leaving its hook hanging empty.
        But not for long, as Ron tied a length of rope to her
wrists and threaded its end through the metal hole.  Isabel felt
her arms rise, and bent over to accommodate.  When she
reached a 90-degree angle, Ron knotted the end to the top of
the rope around her arms..
        "Get me a broom and a mop," he yelled to the boisterous
throng.
        When someone returned from the kitchen with both, he
ordered Isabel to spread her legs apart as wide as she could.
When he was satisfied, he tied the broomstick to the back of
her ankles so its ends overlapped the wall on either side of the
archway.
        He then took the mop and tied it to the front of her
ankles, pinning them between the two rods.  His ropework
pulled the wooden shafts together against the sides of the wall
on either side of the archway so they effectively locked her legs
in place.
        "Seems like a pity to waste rope," he said as he held up
the remainder.
        "Tie up her tits!" someone yelled from the back.
Thunderous cheers and applause was all the encouragement
Ron needed.
        Isabel couldn't help yelping as a hand began stroking her
pussy from behind while Ron busied himself knotting tight
coils of rope around her dangling tits.
        "Would someone please fill her mouth with something
besides complaints?  Fred is going to hear enough of that
starting tomorrow."
        One of the men soon had his cock jammed deep down
Isabel's throat.
        When Ron had used up the last of the rope, Isabel's
breasts looked like two overinflated footballs as the cord cut
deeply into their tender flesh.
        "Gentlemen, it's time for a game," Ron announced.  "It's
called 'Pin The Clothespin On The Party Girl'."
        He handed each attendee a clothespin as he continued to
explain the rules.
        "Everybody gets to attach one of these to a part of her
body . . . the more sensitive, the better."
        He demonstrated by snapping his directly onto one of her
nipples.  The rest were soon clamped to her breasts, her inner
thighs, her stomach and especially her pussy.
        "Now, Fred, here comes the good part," he said as he
handed the groom-to-be his riding crop.  "I want you to remove
them one by one."
        Fred looked at the crop curiously.
        "Like this," Ron said as he took back the leather rod and
expertly snapped it against Isabel's crotch, causing one of the
clothespins to fly off into the kitchen.
        Isabel practically bit off the dick in her mouth.
        "Hey!  Go easy on the johnson, bitch."
        Isabel did her best to do as she was told, but the
combined pain of the pins and the lash were almost more than
she could bear.
        The game mercifully came to a conclusion as Isabel
continued to suck off various members of the wedding party.
        "Look what I got for a present," Fred exclaimed as he
brandished a foot-long dildo.
        Isabel groaned as he slipped it deep inside her sopping
pussy.
        "Ready for another round?" Ron asked the guest of honor
as he pointed to Isabel's gaping asshole.
        As she clenched her cheeks around the tip of his
invading rod, she caught a glimpse of Ron out of the corner of
her eye.
        He was smiling and holding up all five digits on one
hand, and a solitary finger on his other.
        As in the number of days she had left as his slave.
        Fred rammed his member deep into her rectum, and
Isabel didn't remember another thing until Ron carried her limp
body back to his apartment and laid her to sleep on his bed.
        She awoke the next morning to a volcanic orgasm as
Ron's cat licked away the butter smeared on her newly-shaved
pussy.  When she struggled to escape the animal's sandpaper
tongue, she found herself tied in a strenuous spreadeagle.  Not
only were her wrists and ankles bound to the bedposts, her
knees, elbows and waist were also tied down tight, making it
impossible for her to move much more than her head.
        She tried to yell for help, but the ball gag in her mouth
smothered her cries into a pitiful moan.
        Then she noticed the clamps on her nipples, and decided
to shut up when she saw that they were tied to a piece of taut
rope that shot straight up to a hook in the ceiling and then
down to the knob on the door to the bedroom.
        Upon closer inspection, she realized they were more like
tongs than clamps.  With the ends of the cord knotted to their
handles, the pressure on her nipples would increase
dramatically if anyone pulled harder on the rope.
        When Ron opens that door . . .
        Isabel closed her eyes and thought back to the bondage
bulletin board that had gotten her into this mess in the first
place.  None of her digital suitors and their fetish fantasies held
a candle to her present reality.  She realized this situation was
exactly what she had hoped to find when she gave herself to
Ron for a week.
        And, despite her anguish, she had to admit to herself
that, deep down inside, she was loving every painful minute of
it.
        Her reverie was interrupted by a knock.
        "Yoo hoo . . . anyone home?"
        The door began to swing open.


THE INDICTMENT OF ISABEL: Day 2
By Adrian Hunter

        The door of the bathroom clicked shut, and Isabel was
almost relieved to hear Ron depress the lock on the knob.
        Deep breath, girl, she told herself.  This was getting too
intense.
        First, he damned near tore her nipples off with those
clamps attached to the bedroom door.  Then he had proceeded
to lick her newly-shaved pussy with languid strokes of his
tongue that delivered a climax within minutes.
        Then he found her clitoris and began to rub it.
        Knead it.
        Pinch it.
        And to think she didn't use to believe in multiple
orgasms.
        Afterwards, he had untied her with a surprising lack of
urgency, almost like he wanted her savor the stringent ropes
that once held her in a deluxe spreadeagle.
        Isabel turned the faucet to its hottest setting and let the
tub fill almost to the top.
        With steam rising like a fluffy cloud on a summer day,
she slipped naked into the water.
        The shock of the heat on her much-abused erogenous
areas soon dissipated, and she finally closed her eyes in a state
somewhere between bliss and a coma.
        She was practically asleep when the door creaked open,
so she paid no attention to the dinner tray on top of the gaily-
wrapped box that Ron slid onto the tile.
        When the temperature dropped to tepid, Isabel sat up,
stretched, and surveyed the bathroom's unfamiliar terrain.  Her
eyes peered through the mist until they locked on the festive
parcel on the floor.
        Food.  And a present.
        Shit.
        She clambered out of the tub and squished across the
floor to where the package sat silently by the door.
        "Merry Christmas," she whispered.
        Isabel was almost disappointed when all she found
inside were open-toe high heels with at least ten straps,
including two for around her ankles.
        She slipped them on and started buckling.  A perfect fit.
Of course.
        A little on the slutty side, perhaps.  She stood up and
tottered uncertainly on the long spikes.  No, make that a lot.
        This thought made her laugh out loud.  Based on what
happened the night before at the bachelor party, who the hell
did she think she was kidding?
        After she finished eating, she picked up the empty box
off the floor.  Something shifted under the tissue paper.
        Digging in, she pulled out a rubber ball attached to a
web of leather strips.  When she turned the box upside down, a
tiny padlock clattered onto the tile floor.
        Isabel shivered as anxiety did battle with excitement in
her groin.
        You don't have to do this, said a little voice in the back
of her head.
        Yes, I do.
        He wants you to make yourself his slave.
        He's doing a good job.
        She put the ball between her teeth and wiped away some
moisture from the mirror.  After some adjustments, she figured
out where the straps were supposed to go.  Under her chin.
Across her cheeks.  Around her forehead.  Over the top.
Behind her neck.
        She pulled everything tight and snapped the padlock
around the hasp on the side.
        Gulping was out of the question, so Isabel settled for
another involuntary shudder.
        Now what?
        Without really thinking about it, she grabbed the
doorknob and twisted.  To her surprise, the door swung open
easily in her hand.
        The hallway was dim, but Isabel could see the blue
illumination of the television down the hall.
        Sounds like football.
        She left the bright, damp sanctuary of the bathroom and
stutter-stepped toward the flickering light.
        Ron looked so relaxed in his overstuffed chair.  With a
beer in one hand and the remote control in the other, he was the
picture of suburban comfort.  It was almost like a Norman
Rockwell painting, except for the two metal rods and thick
leather cuffs neatly laid out on the couch.
        Isabel shivered slightly in the archway to the hall.
        Come on, say something.
        But Ron seemed to be totally engrossed in the game on
television.
        She didn't know what to do.  Should she just stand
there?  Did he want her to sit on his lap?  Kneel between his
legs?  How are slaves supposed to act anyway?
        He wouldn't even tear away for a glance from the
proceedings on the screen.
        So Isabel just stood there and watched the two teams
march up and down the field.
        When the announcers proclaimed halftime, Ron finally
turned to her and pointed to the opposite side of the room.
        "Go stand over there."
        Isabel obediently trotted across the hardwood floor until
she came to the wall.
        "Take down the picture in front of you."
        She grabbed the painting's sides and lifted it off the
hook.  Underneath was a thick iron ring mounted on a metal
plate.
        "Put it down against the chair.  Now, stand up straight
and face me."
        Isabel's heart began racing.
        "Hold your hands so your palms face up.  Cross your
wrists."
        Here we go . . .
        "Now, reach up and grab your nipples."
        Isabel's eyes grew wide as she did as she was told.
        "Squeeze them.  Hard."
        Her chest began heaving as she brought her thumbs and
forefingers together.
        "Good.  Now twist them."
        Isabel felt a surge of sexual energy shoot down her torso.
        "Pull them."
        The rubber ball in Isabel's mouth only partially stifled
her groans.
        "Farther."
        Isabel pulled her hands back until she thought her
nipples were going to snap off.
        "Very good."
        Ron returned his attention to the start of the second halr.
        "And don't stop."
        Isabel felt beads of perspiration pop out all over her
naked body as she continued to abuse herself.
        A ball of fire began building deep within her abdomen.
She desperately craved something...anything...a finger, a cock,
a dildo...buried deep into her pussy.
        The noise from the TV was reduced to background static
as Isabel's mind began to ponder what dreadful, wonderful fate
Ron was planning for her.
        She found herself virtually attacking her nipples, doing
things she would have slapped a man for even thinking, while
she conjured up images of ropes...plugs...clamps...on her
knees, tightly bound in leather...rubber...severely gagged into
unwielding silence...Ron flexing a whip...suspended...bent
over...violent fucking...now from behind...no, please, not
there...oh, no...oh, yes...yes...oh, god, ohgod, ohgod,
ohgodohgodoh...
        With her eyes closed, her mouth firmly gagged, her
thighs squeezed together and her hips gyrating in slow circles,
Isabel was scarcely aware of Ron as he watched her writhe
passionately against the wall.
        Meanwhile, the football game droned on and on.
        Sometime during the fourth quarter, Isabel's eyes
suddenly popped open.  Had she been asleep?  Hypnotized?
She remembered to hold on to the throbbing buds atop her
breasts, but her fantasies were starting to merge dangerously
with her present reality.  Was this a dream?  OK, it's a dream.
Then why wasn't she tied up?  OK, it's not a dream.  So why
was she standing naked and gagged in sleazy fuck-me pumps?
        Ron chuckled appreciatively, and stood up.
        "That's enough for now, Isabel.  Put your hands down."
        Isabel let go of her nipples and let her arms hang limply
at her sides.
        "Turn around.  Toes against the wall."
        She found herself staring at the metal ring as she listened
to Ron walk across the room.
        First she felt the leather collar being wrapped around her
neck.  Like her head trainer, it was attached permanently with a
padlock.  A moment later, her wrists were bound in cuffs with
more of Masterlock's finest holding the hasps secure.
        Isabel didn't really notice the posture bar connecting the
collar to her wrist restraints until Ron lengthened it as far as
her arms would allow.
        She felt her spine straighten and her chest thrust forward
like a private in the presence of a general.
        It didn't take him long to bind her thighs and her ankles
with leather straps that were also connected with an adjustable
metal rod.  Once he had extended it, she could no more bend
her knees than she could fly.
        As Isabel tested the unforgiving iron, Ron took a short
piece of chain, looped it through the metal ring on the wall, and
padlocked it to a D-ring on the front of her collar.
        Then he walked away without a word.  Seconds later,
Isabel heard the TV set go dead.  Footsteps leaving the room.
Silence.
        Oh, this is just great, she said to herself as she bounced
impatiently on her toes.  My pussy is soaked, my tits are on
fire, and Bondage Boy puts me in traction.
        Isabel struggled valiantly, but the only result was
repeated bumpings of her nose against the wall.
        How long is he going to keep me like this, she
wondered.
        Surely he was coming back soon.  Maybe he just stepped
out to find a whip or something.
        She waited.  And waited.  Nothing.
        He can't leave me like this indefinitely, she decided.
        Can he?
        Isabel let her mind wander.  Was she going to put up
with this?
        Apparently yes.
        What did he have planned next?  She found herself
fantasizing about extreme situations...giant dildos rammed
deep into her ass and her pussy...breasts bound with layers of
rope...nipples in clamps...no, vices...with weights...then, the
whips...all over...defenseless...in ecstacy...
        She felt herself clawing to reach around and pleasure
herself from behind, but the posture bar held her hands too far
away.
        Damn.
        And when was he going to fuck her anyway?
        She yelled into her gag, but all she heard was the sound
of distant traffic.
        Come on, come on, come on...
        Isabel squirmed desperately.
        Please...


The Incarceration of Isabel: Day 3
By Adrian Hunter

        "So are you going to fuck me or what?"
        Ron smiled and put down the fork he was using to feed
Isabel her breakfast.
        "Now, now.  Mustn't whine, my dear.  Speaking is a
privilege only for very good little girls."
        Isabel squirmed on her chair and gave Ron a precocious
pout.  What was his problem?  He'd manacled her hands up
high to a metal collar around her neck.  There was nothing
between her naked body and his carnal desires save a filmy
white peignoir that would probably rip if he breathed hard on
it.
        He picked up the fork and scooped another bite of
scrambled eggs.
        "Open up, sweetheart.  Got to keep your strength up."
        Isabel leaned forward and did as she was told.  If truth
be told, being fed by Ron wasn't the worst thing that had
happened since her "vacation" began two days ago.
        Not by a long shot.  She shuddered as she remembered
the hours she had spent with her nose pasted to the wall the day
before.  And the bachelor party...
        She decided maybe she would enjoy the tame
domesticity.  After all, it wasn't going to last forever.
        Isabel shuddered again and felt a familiar dampness
creeping between her thighs.
        "Cold?"
        "Urmph...no, the eggs are just perfect, thanks."
        Ron shrugged and fed her another bite.
        "I trust you're enjoying your stay with me.  You certainly
haven't led me to believe otherwise."
        Isabel chewed and swallowed before answering.
        "Oh, yes."
        "Is there anything you want to tell me?  Anything I
should be doing differently?"
        Isabel shook her head, and then reconsidered.
        "There is one little thing."
        "Name it."
        "Can I have some more toast, master?"
        Ron laughed out loud.
        "You're really something, Isabel."
        She batted her eyelashes and gave him her best come-
hither gaze.
        "I thought we might play a little game today.  But first I
must go run some errands."
        Ron brushed away the crumbs from Isabel's lips and
stood up.
        "Can I come?" she asked innocently.
        "You can certainly try," he replied as he held up the
collection of leather straps and cuffs he'd hidden behind the
door.
        When Isabel saw Ron lubricate the butt plug with the
remains of the butter, she decided more coffee was probably a
bad idea.
        "Let's go into the den, shall we?"
        Isabel rose to her feet and followed Ron into the
darkened room.  Somehow, she wasn't surprised to see a new
piece of furniture when he turned on the light.
        It looked a little like a coffee table, but Isabel doubted
most interior decorators would recommend one with a hinged
stockade panel on one end and three strategically-placed holes
where a woman's breasts and crotch might fall if she were to lie
on top of it.
        Just as she had expected, the straps formed a harness
around her crotch...a "spanker's delight," she recalled from her
bondage catalogs.  Ron first encircled her waist with a thick
belt, then cinched a second strap between her legs.
        A small moan escaped her lips when the hard plastic slid
upward into her.
        Cuffs hung down her hips for her wrists and thighs.  But
first, he quieted her with a soft leather bit between her teeth.
        She closed her eyes as he unlocked her wrists, then the
collar.
        "Take off your nightgown and lie down on the table," he
instructed.
        The plug plunged even deeper as she flattened herself
against the hard wood and adjusted herself so her neck lay in
the half-circle depression of the lower stock and her breasts
hung down through the holes.
        Thunk.  Click.  Isabel's head was now separated from
the rest of her body by an inch of polished mahogany.
        Ron cuffed her hands to her thighs, then bent her legs
over double and secured her ankles to the same padlocks.
        Isabel made a guttural noise as she arched her back to
lessen the depth of the intruder jammed between her cheeks.
        She felt her head being lifted up and a thin strapped
being buckled across her forehead.
        "Look straight ahead."
        Isabel did, and was rewarded with the click of a hasp as
he connected the back of her head to the top of the stockade.
She found herself staring at the TV, unable to move her head
more than a few inches.
        Ron completed her bondage by looping a long belt under
the table and across her back
        "I didn't want you to be bored while I was gone, so I've
arranged a little entertainment."
        He walked to the TV and pushed "play" on the VCR next
to it.
        "Enjoy."
        With that, he left the room.
        Isabel thrashed uselessly on the table, her legs splayed in
a wide "V" and separated by the band of leather between the
cheeks of her creamy ass.
        Ron suddenly came back into the room.  Flashes of silver
danced off something in his hand.
        "Oh, I almost forgot."
        He reached underneath the table, felt around for her
nipples, and crushed them between the pincers of two heavy
clamps on a chain.
        "See you soon."
        Damn him, she thought, as she fidgeted against her
bonds.  The ache in her bottom was nothing compared to the
red alert in her chest.  And nothing she did was going to get her
out of the stocks until Ron decided otherwise.
        And what the hell was he making her watch?
        The static soon dissolved into a shot of someone's feet.
"How does this thing work?  Oh, there we go," a voice said.
        The camera jerked upward, and Isabel felt herself go
clammy and cold.
        She saw a crowd of men drinking and laughing.  It was
the bachelor party.  Someone had videotaped the bachelor
party.
        Jesus.
        Mortified, she waited for her inevitable arrival as the
guest of dishonor.  Finally, she made her entrance, dressed like
someone's fantasy version of a Victoria's Secret model.
        She watched herself give blowjob after blowjob to the
groom and his friends, then closed her eyes when they
imprisoned her in the doorway and started in with the dildo.
        But she couldn't help looking at herself as the
clothespins were attached all over her body, then whipped off.
        Isabel was suddenly aware that she was grinding the
butt plug deep into her hole as she tried to rub her shaved pussy
against the leather strap.
        At first, she was ashamed that she was getting turned on
by her own debasement.  But that didn't matter for long.
        She grunted loudly as her stomach rose and fell
rhythmically against the table.  Harder, harder, harder...must
come, must come, must come...oh...oooooohhh...
        The video played on and on.  Isabel soon lost track of
who was doing what to her on the screen as she continued her
futile workout on top of the table.
        When Ron finally returned, he found his willing slave
drenched in sweat as she lay exhausted, panting and quite
unsatisfied.
        She looked at him pleadingly, but he soon disappeared
out of her view.
        Isabel couldn't see him sit down on the couch, but she
definitely felt the table shift 45 degrees as he pulled it closer.
        And there was no mistaking the snap of his riding crop
across her behind.
        Isabel let out a yelp as her hips bucked involuntarily.
She felt herself tense up in anticipation of the second blow, but
she wasn't ready for the stab of pain from below when the crop
connected with one of her dangling breasts.
        His blows came slowly, and always where she least
expected them.  The back of her legs, the sweet spot between
the thigh cuffs and the chastity belt, even the soles of her feet
eventually met the sting of the lash.
        But what really hurt was the fire blazing out of control
inside her.
        Fuckme, fuckme, ohpleasefuckme...
        "What's that?"
        Ron was standing in front of her.
        Isabel practically screamed "fuck me!" into her gag.
        "That sounded something like 'fuck me.'  Well, trust me,
my pretty wench, you will soon find yourself thoroughly
fucked."
        Once freed of her bonds, Isabel offered no resistance as
Ron helped her off the table and led her through a door and
down a flight of steep steps.
        Once at the bottom, she playfully nipped his ear and
grabbed at his crotch.
        "Take...me...right...now," she whispered hotly.
        "Are we horny?" he asked as if he were addressing a
child.
        She looked into his eyes and nodded quickly.
        "Good.  You'll like this game."
        He flicked on the basement lights to expose a large
wooden frame that resembled the framing for a house.  Ropes
and pulleys hung from its beams and posts.
        "Go stand in the middle," he instructed.
        Isabel had a bad feeling about the pulleys, not to mention
the spreader bars by her feet.
        Her fears were confirmed minutes later as she swung
naked several inches off the floor, her legs and arms held far
apart by the unforgiving shafts and then stretched even further
by the ropes attached to the thick restraints around her wrists
and ankles.  As usual, her mouth was filled with a wad of
horrible-tasting rubber.  Upon closer inspection with her
tongue, she determined it was a replica of a very large penis.
        At least the gag had a breathing hole, she thought.
        "We've neglected your pussy long enough," Ron
announced as she hung motionless from the frame.  "This
should solve that problem."
        He held up what looked like a pair of silver tweezers
tipped in black with a small ring around the arms.  A beige
tube dangled from the joint.
        Reaching between her velvety folds, he found her clitoris
and clamped it tight.
        Isabel sucked in a huge gulp of cool air through her
nose.  Looking down at Ron's hands between her legs, her eyes
grew wide.
        Then she closed them when the little vibrator started
humming.
        "Exquisite, isn't it?" Ron said as he stood back to watch
his captive twist and turn.
        "You'll be glad to know I put it a brand-new battery," he
added as he started walking up the stairs.
        But his words barely registered in Isabel's brain as she
found her full attention dedicated to the imminent explosion in
her lower abdomen.
        By the sixth or seventh, she remembered.


Isabel, Interrupted: Day 4
By Adrian Hunter

        When she finally woke up the next morning, Isabel
started having her first regrets about her week with Ron.
        Her entire body ached from the brutal suspension of
the day before.  She didn't think her crotch would ever
recover from the vibrating clamp on her clitoris.  And her ass
felt like someone had poured concrete into it.
        At least her bed was soft, she thought as she drifted
back to sleep.  A little drafty, though...
        An hour or so later, she rolled over and tried to stretch,
but her limbs wouldn't extend.
        A familiar ball of apprehension started rolling through
Isabel's insides.
        She found her wrists shackled to her thighs with
maybe 18 inches of criss-crossed chain links for slack.  Her
mouth was filled with a hard rubber ball zipped tight behind
some kind of leather mask, and her hands were encased in
leather mittens lacking even the benefit of thumbs.
        Then she realized her whole body was wrapped in
leather.
        And she was lying in what looked like a large wicker
basket on the floor.
        Isabel rolled onto her back and tested her bonds.  The
chains formed an X over her midsection as she held up her
hands and pulled.  She rolled the other way so she was
kneeling with her hands in front of her, and struggled to
crawl out of the basket.
        Once on the floor, she looked around the room and
saw a full-length mirror.  With some difficulty, she crawled
into its reflection.
        Oh, now he's gone too far, she told herself.  This is
ridiculous.
        Every inch of her body save her breasts, her crotch and
the cheeks of her ass was covered in dark leather.  What
must have been a mile of laces molded it to her every curve.
Even her feet were bound in what looked like leather
ballerina slippers with the longest spike heels she had ever
seen.
        She almost laughed when she caught herself thinking
about Nancy Sinatra singing "these boots weren't made for
walking..."
        As suspected, he had wrapped her face in a discipline
helmet with a zipper across the mouth.  Curiously, it had two
little triangle flaps sticking up on top that almost looked like
the ears of a cat.
        Then she saw the long black tail sticking out of her
behind.
        Reaching around with some difficulty, Isabel grabbed
it as best she could with the mittens and tugged.  Her regret
was immediate as the thick butt plug attached to the tail
shifted dangerously inside her rectum.  She tried to dislodge
it, but it wouldn't budge.  Feeling around her groin, she
realized there was a thick strip of leather holding it in place
between the holes that exposed her private parts.
        And what was that tinkling sound?
        Isabel looked down at her chest and saw the tiny bell
dangling from a collar.
        She heard footsteps coming toward the door.
        "Here, kitty, kitty.  Time to use the litter box."
        The door opened and Ron walked in, holding a leash.


Isabel, Interactive: Day 5
By Adrian Hunter

        Isabel scrunched and squirmed, but it was no use.  The
heels of her thigh-high leather boots dug painfully into her ass
as she knelt on the floor with a long belt wrapped around her
doubled-over legs.
        And her back ached from the stress of the arm binder
that pinned her elbows together.  But, all in all, she considered
herself fortunate it wasn't worse.
        Of course, that assessment would depend on one's
opinion of holding one's master cock in one's mouth for more
than an hour.
        Ron absentmindedly twisted one of Isabel's nipples as
he continued working at his desk.  Like I need more
stimulation, she thought to herself as she concentrated on
keeping her lips tight around his soft member.
        He had been very explicit about this.  She was to remain
motionless at his feet with his dick in her mouth.  If she failed,
he said he would hang her from the ceiling by her nipples,
lock her legs in a spreader bar, and use her shaved pussy for
target practice with a very nasty-looking whip.
        Isabel was convinced he wasn't kidding, and not just
because he had the cat-o-nine-tails resting next to his
computer.  He had made it clear he knew all sorts of
correctional methods that could inflict great suffering on a
woman.
        Remember, you asked for it, she reminded herself.  You
agreed to spend the week with him as his willing slave.
        And every day, she found herself slipping deeper and
deeper into her new role.
        After spending yesterday on her hands and knees
dressed up like the Catwoman, Isabel had dared to complain
to her captor.
        "I don't want to sound ungrateful," she started after he
unlaced the discipline helmet and removed it, "but I wouldn't
mind, you know, some bondage.  Ropes, chains, tied up tight
and helpless, maybe even a good fucking on occasion."
        Ron had simply laughed at her, then kissed her
forehead.
        "If it's bondage that you want, it is bondage you shall
have," he told her in his best Clark Gable voice.
        She spent last night on a bed in a fetal position with her
legs tied together and her arms bound at her wrists and elbows
in front of her.  A short piece of rope knotted to a collar held
her hands inches away from her chin.
        "Not bad," she told him this morning.  "Now what?"
        She should have learned by now that posing this kind of
question to Ron inevitably delivered a fateful answer.
        He had led her naked body into the basement where a
vast assortment of cuffs, straps, coils of rope and related
impediments were laid out on a table.  On the floor next to a
heavy chair and a tall stool was a gymnast's workout pad.  The
large wooden suspension frame stood silently in the shadows.
        An army of hangers was suspended from a clothesline
with all sorts of black lingerie and leather, with matching
footwear lined up underneath.
        But Isabel's full attention was focused on the Styrofoam
head holding a black-haired wig with bangs straight out of
1956.
        "Have a seat, Betty," Ron said as he gestured toward the
stool.
        "Betty?  Who the hell is Betty?"
        "You mean you've never heard of Betty Page?  She's
only the most popular bondage model in history.  Her photos
have inspired millions.  She singlehandedly put S&M into the
mainstream of American sex.  A true goddess."
        Isabel gave Ron a quizzical glance.
        "Well, you said you wanted classic bondage.  So we're
going to do it right."
        Isabel smiled and sat down as instructed.  What the
fuck, she told herself.  Besides, what choice do I really have?
        "Put your hands behind your back," he instructed as he
walked around her swinging a thick coil of rope.
        Isabel felt her wrists being bound together.  Then her
forearms.  Then her elbows.  Then her biceps.
        She moaned involuntarily as he knotted the ends, and
was rewarded with a ball gag jammed deep in her mouth.
        Ron went to work on her legs, sealing them together
with more rope around her ankles, a few loops just above and
below her knees, and several yards for her thighs.
        Isabel's heart began to race when he picked up another
coil of rope from the table, pulled a length between his hands,
and circled her ribcage just below her chest.
        By the time he was finished, her breasts were crushed
between an elaborate series of twists and knots.
        Ron went back to the table and returned with yet
another coil of rope.
        And two small mousetraps.
        Isabel was thankful they weren't set to snap, but that
didn't make them any less effective once Ron slipped her
nipples between their wooden bases and spring-loaded metal
bars.
        He tied one end of the rope to her ankles and pulled
them back under the stool.  Next, he looped it over the knot
between her wrists, then worked it under her bottom and up
over what used to be her pubic hair.  He pulled it up and over
the rope between her breasts, then brought the other end down
to the nylon around her knees and knotted it.
        Isabel wriggled her feet, but she couldn't relieve any of
the pressure caused by the suspension of her lower legs under
the stool.  The rope dug deeper and deeper into her crotch as
she found out that bending forward simply made things worse.
        "Be careful what you wish for," Ron told her as he
picked up the wig and placed it on her head.
        After a few adjustments, he stood back and whistled.
        "The spitting image," he said admiringly as he pulled a
chain hanging from the ceiling that turned on extra lights in
the basement.
        Then he picked up something that looked like a camera,
only it was attached by a cable to the large computer on his
desk against the wall.
        "Smile."
        Fifteen minutes later, Ron untied the discipline cord at
the knot between Isabel's legs, removed the mousetraps
(thankfully) and picked her still-bound body off the stool with
the long piece of rope still trailing from her ankles.
        She soon found herself lying on her stomach on the floor
in a strenuous hogtie with the discipline cord binding her feet
against her hands.  It snaked up to her pinned elbows, then
doubled back into the crack of her ass and up her torso to her
distressed chest.
        Ron took a few more pictures, then took off all her leg
restraints and stood her upright with her arms and breasts still
tightly bound.
        Isabel felt her thighs tense when she saw the black
metal spreader bar with two thick cuffs bolted to its ends.
        Once her ankles were separated by three feet of steel,
Ron took the discipline cord dangling from her breasts,
brought it up over her pussy, then pulled it up and over a beam
in the ceiling and tied it to her elbows so Isabel was bent over
at a 90-degree angle.
        After he clamped her nipples with clothespins, the
photo session continued.
        "Time to play dress-up," he finally said as he selected a
hanger of lacy black lingerie from the clothesline.
        Isabel was starting to feel a little woozy, so she didn't
fight Ron as he first untied her completely and helped her into
the bra, panties, garter belt and stockings, not to mention the
arch-breaking high heels.  Once finished, he wrapped her
wrists in leather cuffs, then tied them together with a long
piece of rope.  Up in the air went her arms.
        "Hold up your right foot," he instructed.
        Isabel soon regretted her obedience after Ron grabbed
her ankle and tied the other end of the rope around it.  She
wobbled uncertainly as she stood with one foot suspended
high above the floor and the other teetering on the spike heel.
        From then on, Isabel had trouble remembering exactly
what was being done to her.  She recalled being tied to the
chair wearing a black PVC teddy with two holes cut out for
her breasts, plus matching gloves and leggings.  At one point,
she was suspended from the ceiling by her wrists with her legs
pulled back and off the ground in the spreader bar.  And she
definitely couldn't forget lying on her back with her legs high
in the air and a piece of rope stretching from her ankles to
nipple clamps.
        And all the while Ron had continued to take pictures
with his strange camera attached to his computer.
        Finally, he had positioned her in front of his cock,
removed the gag, and told her to get to work while he did
likewise.  He had already come twice in her mouth, which left
Isabel feeling both angry and relieved.  How dare he leave her
unfulfilled after a day of torture?  On the other hand, there
might be something to say for one less session with the ropes,
especially given the raw condition of her pussy.
        Ron hummed a tuneless song as he continued to fuss
with the keyboard and the mouse.  What in the hell was he
doing?  Isabel was exhausted, but her curiosity kept her alert.
        When he stood up, Isabel felt a bolt of panic flash
through her ravaged frame.  Oh, Christ!  His dick!
        Relief flooded her senses when he bent over, smiled,
and unbuckled the strap around her legs.
        "Ready to see?" he asked.
        Isabel just nodded silently.
        "Well, I'm sure you're familiar with the Internet," he
began to explain as he manipulated the mouse and started
launching programs.
        "Lots and lots of people have designed what they call
'home pages' on the World Wide Web.  And now, so have I."
        She heard the familiar squeal and fingernails-on-the-
chalkboard rasp of a modem.  Ron typed for a second, then
pointed to the monitor.
        After a few seconds, a photograph of Isabel in the black
wig appeared on the screen.
        "Welcome to the Betty Page," read the text underneath
it.
        At first, Isabel was horrified.  What if someone
recognized her?  Then she realized that the wig was a most
effective disguise.
        Besides, given the rather graphic image of her trussed
body, nobody was going to be looking closely at her face
anyway.
        Ron picked up what looked like a comic book from the
desk and showed her the cover.  "The Betty Pages," it
announced.  Isabel had to admit that her picture on the
computer did bear more than a passing resemblance to the
cheesecake model in the magazine.
        "Not bad, eh?  Check out the way I set up the table of
contents."
        Ron scrolled down to reveal a series of small images, all
showing Isabel as Betty in various states of bondage.
        "See, if you click on one like this..."
        The little pictures disappeared, and a new image began
loading.
        "You can check out the rest of the photos in this series."
        Images of Isabel/Betty bound to the stool filled the
screen.
        "Then we jump to the home page like so...and we're
back to the table of contents, ready to enjoy another
adventure."
        Isabel smiled, and then started to laugh.  This guy was
simply too much.
        "I'm glad you like it.  I certainly enjoyed creating it."
        Ron gave Isabel a tiny kiss on the cheek, then shut
down the connection.
        "Instead of making some grand announcement, I'm just
going to let it run and see if we get any hits," he told her.
"Even so, by the end of the night, I'll bet there will be
messages about it in every newsgroup on the net.  You'll be
the bondage queen of the Information Highway."
        "My mother will be so proud," Isabel said with more
than a little sarcasm in her voice.
        "Well, I'm exhausted, but I did make you a promise, and
I intend to keep it.  Follow me."
        Isabel took a deep breath.  Was this finally it?  Was Ron
finally going to make a dishonest woman out of her?
        He led her to the mat, and told her to turn around.
When she was facing away from him, he unzipped the binder
and freed her arms.
        Her mind began to race.  Right here, right now, right
here, right now, right...
        "On your knees, please."
        "Please?"
        "All right, on your knees, slave."
        "That's better," Isabel said as she got down on the mat,
her head still facing away from him.
        "Hold up your arms."
        A spreader bar like the one he had used earlier on her
legs, only shorter, soon separated her hands.
        "Open wide."
        He stuffed a wad of cloth between her teeth, then sealed
her mouth shut with a wide piece of duct tape.  Before Isabel
could react, he slipped a rubber training harness over the top
of her head.  Once he had it adjusted, it covered the lower half
of her face from under her chin to just below her nose.
        Uh, oh.  Isabel suddenly realized he had something
more on his mind than getting laid.
          Isabel's boots suddenly felt very clammy against her
perspiration-soaked skin.  For the first time all week, she
found herself starting to panic.
        "Keep those arms up," he said as he did something to
the spreader bar which sounded like it involved some kind of
chain.
        She felt a tug, and then her back straightened as Ron
pulled the bar up toward the ceiling.
        At least I'm still kneeling, she thought until Ron used
thick leather belts to double over her legs and lock each of her
ankles to the back of its respective thigh.
        This is not good at all, Isabel told herself as Ron pushed
her legs apart, then walked away.  The weight of her body
rested entirely on her knees, and it didn't take her long to
realize that bringing them back together was quite impossible.
        She heard what sounded like a cabinet opening.
        "I have a very special present for you," he said.
"Something that should alleviate your frustrations once and for
all."
        Isabel still couldn't see what Ron was doing, but she
certainly felt the head of the rubber dildo pierce her tender
folds.
        "Now, now, stop fussing," he scolded as she tried to
twist away from the invader.  "You asked for a good fucking,
remember?  Well, now you shall have one."
        Isabel heard the sound of a small motor, then gasped as
the dildo plunged deep into her vagina.
        Much to her surprise, it pulled down, then thrust
upward again.  And again.  And again.
        The machine was a simple one: a small wheel attached
to an electric motor that rotated it, plus a short arm bolted to
the rim that held the dildo on a pivoting joint.  As the wheel
turned, the rubber cock went up and down like a piston, while
the pivot kept its path straight.
        But Isabel didn't know this.  All she felt was a giant rod
ramming her pussy relentlessly.  Even at its lowest point in the
cycle, the damned thing was still buried a good three inches
inside her.  And at the top...
        She tried to beg him to turn it off, but no sound escaped
her thrice-gagged mouth.
        "Think what they'll say when I apply for the patent,"
Ron said as he headed up the stairs.


The Instruction Of Isabel: Day 6
By Adrian Hunter

        The strange room was dark.  An ominous psychedelic
jam swirled in the air made smoky by candles and cigarettes.
        Completely naked, strapped tightly to a wooden frame
shaped like an X, and gagged with a rubber ball the size of a
grapefruit, Isabel could do little more than wish herself away
from the inevitable.
        Her heart raced when she caught a glimpse of her
attacker in the shadows.
        The person turned and held up something glowing.
        "You will be mine forever."
        The branding iron danced in front of Isabel's eyes.
        E-V-A-something-S.  Slave.
        It dropped and hovered just over her hairless pussy.
        "Forever."
        Isabel screamed when she saw the face of her
attacker.
        It was her.
        She woke up with a start and flew into a sitting
position.  A dream...it was only a...
        Jesus Christ.  She shivered as the sweat on her body
cooled rapidly in the still air.
        Pulling a blanket around her, Isabel tried to gather her
thoughts while the remains of her nightmare dissipated
slowly into her subconsciousness.
        She was in a bedroom.  The light was dim.  Must be
sunset.
        She stood up and fumbled her way along the wall
until she finally found a light switch.
        The bed.  A chair.  Two doors.
        Something hanging from one of them gleamed.
        And below it stood a pair of strange-looking boots.
        Visions from her nightmare flashed behind her eyes.
Then she remembered...Ron.
        Isabel was suddenly aware of her nakedness, and a
burning desire for a shower.
        Half an hour later, she felt almost perky.  Although
her groin ached from the day before, she had found her own
makeup kit on the sink, so she happily dolled herself up after
a thorough soak and shave.
        A tray with a plate of food was waiting on the
already-made bed.  But she didn't know what to make of the
bottle of talcum powder.
        It wasn't until she closed the bathroom door that she
saw the dress up close.
        This isn't latex, she decided after taking it off its
hanger.  This is rubber with a capital R.
        From the front, it looked like an ordinary strapless
dress, albeit with a very high hem line.  But there was
nothing in the back except four wide strips of rubber.  And
she almost didn't see the two zippers across the chest until
she had to roll it up so she could squirm it over her arms
and head.
        The talcum powder helped, but it still was a struggle.
        "Asshole bought the wrong size," she muttered as she
tugged it over her hips and down her thighs.
        She reached around and pulled the lowest strap under
her ass, which caused her cheeks to bulge up alarmingly.
        "Oh, my," she yelped as she looked down at the
rubber armor surrounding her body like paint.
        She caught sight of the boots.
        "Yum," she said tonelessly.
        Very Victorian, she decided as she examined one.
Laces starting around the toes.  Flaps up to mid-calf.  And
how did he expect her to even stand, much less walk, in
those preposterous heels?
        Isabel sighed.  Another night at the opera.
        She sat down on the chair and started working her
feet into the supple leather.
        "Might as well do it right," she said as she knotted the
lacing between each set of eyelets.
        When she stood up, only the tips of her toes touched
the ground.  She found she could manage tiny steps, but not
much more.  Almost like a ballerina, she decided.  A very
demented one, though...
        "Are you ready?" a voice asked from behind the door.
        A jolt of fear burst through her mouth and she
couldn't help yelping like a teenager.
        "I'll take that as a yes," Ron said as the door swung
open.
        Although he was obviously trying to be British, Isabel
couldn't help thinking he looked like, well, a preppie.  The
thought made her smile, which in turn caused Ron to look at
her quizzically.
        "Well, I'm glad to see you're enjoying yourself.  I
wasn't sure how pleased you would be to see me tonight.  In
fact, I've been wondering what's made you stay at all."
        Now it was Isabel's turn to look at him funny.
        "I mean, never in my wildest dreams did I imagine
you'd let me take you quite this far."
        Isabel didn't quite know what to say.  Then it came to
her.
        "I've never gone to so much trouble to get laid in my
life."
        Ron laughed.  "I hope I'm worth it."
        "I'm beginning to wonder."
        "Will you settle for now for more trouble?  He held
up two long leather sleeves.
        Isabel rolled her eyes.
        "Oh, I suppose," she cooed as she batted her eyes.
        "Good girl.  Hold out your hands...now, make them
into fists..."
        When he knotted the last lace, the gloves...well,
mittens, actually...reached up to just beneath her armpits..
        "Come along now," Ron said as he gestured to the
door.  "The car is already waiting."
        The car?  They were going out?
        "Here, put this on."
        Isabel turned to see a full-length fur coat being held
open for her.
        She slipped in her arms, then waited while Ron
managed the fasteners.
        "Hold up your hands."
        Ron worked a matching muff over one sleeve, then
pulled out a padlock, snapped it around the loops on the
ends of the gloves, and pulled the muff over the exposed
leather.
        She followed Ron as best she could, but the towering
heels hobbled her to a delicate trot.
        The cold air hit her face like a blast.  Outside, the
door of a long limousine was being held open by an elderly
chauffeur.
        "To the club, sir?"
        Ron nodded, and helped Isabel inside.
        She couldn't see much but the lights of the city
subdued by the darkened glass.  He sat silently, leaving
Isabel alone with thoughts that drifted uneasily back toward
the lingering threads of her nightmare.
        When the car stopped, she was surprised to see what
looked like an ordinary townhouse with a recessed basement
entry.
        The stairs were a bitch, even with Ron's assistance.
        He gave her a quick kiss on the lips, then opened the
heavy wood door.
        "Welcome to trouble."
        Isabel was disappointed that the interior basically
looked like the lobby at a nice hotel.
        "Ah, Mr. R.  Let me help you with your coats."
        A middle-aged man popped out from the front desk
and whisked Ron's overcoat onto a hanger.  Once Isabel was
unfettered, he did the same with her fur.
        She was acutely aware of her bare ass sticking out
jauntily from between the third and fourth rubber straps
holding together her dress.
        "Wait.  I need something from my pocket."
        Ron reached into his coat and pulled out a wide flap
of black leather, then dug in again and retrieved two straps,
one very long and one very short.
        She felt the warm cowhide around her neck.  One...
two...three...four buckles later, the collar was holding up her
head like a golf ball on a tee.
        "Arms up."
        Isabel's elbows bent out, then click, click, her balled-
up hands were pointing toward the ceiling as they hung high
behind her back suspended from the short strap now
attached to the back of the collar.
        Ron clipped the longer strap to a ring in the center of
the front of the collar and looped the other end around his
hand.
        "Now smile," he whispered as the man held open a set
of double doors at the end of the lobby.
        At first, Isabel refused to believe what she was seeing
was real.  A quick tug on her leash convinced her otherwise.
        A half-dozen men were chatting with one another in
what appeared to be a very large, yet cozy den.  Paneled in
deep, lustrous mahogany, the room glowed from the
cheerful light of a roaring fire and several antique wall
fixtures.
        No, everything was normal.  Except for the slaves, of
course.
        Two naked women kneeled on the floor facing away
from each other with their ankles tied to each other's.  Isabel
could see what looked like a piece of paper between their
pressed-together asses, then heard the faint hum of a
vibrator.  The drinks on their backs quivered as two men sat
talking on a couch behind them.
        "Imagine what might happen if that paper slips out,"
she heard Ron say.
        Isabel turned away, trying to absorb everything
around her.  Her eyes fell on a young girl, maybe just 18,
who was standing next to a older man dozing in an
armchair.
        Her waist was constricted into an impossible
hourglass shape by a heavily-boned corset cinched tightly
under her crotch.  Her arms hung down her back in a binder,
while her stockinged legs trembled on six-inch heels while
being squashed together by a series of wide belts with
multiple buckles.
        A simple leather harness, just a thick strap underneath
with a thinner one buckled tight across the top, squeezed her
breasts from the back.  Her nipples poked out from between
a set of thin metal bars bolted together with wing nuts.
        The chain attached to the bars went up to the ceiling,
through a heavy eyebolt, then down to the top of the leather
trainer around her frightened-looking face.  The stretching
made her breasts look like footballs standing upright for
kickoff.
        Isabel shuddered as Ron walked her past.  The girl's
heels were off the ground.  And a weight danced from the
end of the arm binder.
        Over in a corner, a drop-dead blonde wearing red
heels, stockings, garter belt and gloves swayed as she fought
the effects of gravity.  Ron noticed Isabel's interest, and took
her closer.
        The woman was suspended horizontally about five
feet off the floor. Her arms were bound together with black
rope behind her back at her wrists and elbows.  Her ankles
were cuffed, crossed and tied to her wrists so her legs were
bent at a 90-degree angle and splayed out slightly.
        The harness started with a piece of rope across her
back that traveled under her breasts, and up past her ears to
a knot just behind her shoulders.  It was joined by another
length wrapped around the top of her breasts, while a third
loop tied to the same knot held her waist aloft.
        Finally, a single cord was fastened to the middle of
the rope around the top of her chest.  It ran down the front
of her body to her groin, only to take a sharp detour at her
crotch.  It angled up to the back of her head, where it was
knotted to the strap holding the bright red ball gag in her
mouth.
        Holding her airborne was a pulley and a piece of rope
that looked like a lopsided triangle.  It passed underneath the
big knot behind her shoulders, and then back to the rope
connecting her wrists to her ankles.  With her feet hanging
higher than her head, Isabel imagined most of her weight
was straining against the rope around her torso.
        But that wasn't even the worst of it.  The woman's
nipples had been pierced with large metal loops, and
someone had seen fit to snap large padlocks around them.
        "Quite unpleasant, I assure you," Ron said after
watching Isabel stare for several moments.  "Care to give it
a try?"
        Isabel thought the woman looked like she was trapped
in time during the middle of one of those awful exercises
she used to hate in gym where the coach made them lie on
their stomachs and grab their ankles.
        She shook her head.
        "Well, I'm sure we'll find something equally
troublesome for you."
        Isabel noticed several women wearing maid's
uniforms kneeling around the room.  Some held coasters in
their mouths.  Others were holding ashtrays.  All were
bound in the most awful ways.
        "Not much of a crowd tonight, I'm afraid."
        A million questions bounced crazily through Isabel's
head, but she didn't think she really wanted to know the
answers.
        The man from the front lobby suddenly appeared at
Ron's side.
        "I'm sorry, Mr. R, but there's a telephone call for you.
Would you like to take it here?"
        "No, I'd better go to your office."
        He pointed to an empty corner.
        "Go stand over there facing the wall, and don't move
until I return."
        Isabel stutter-stepped across the room as instructed
and began waiting.  She tried to listen to the conversations
behind her, but all she could make out was occasional
snippets of talk about sports, investments and vacations.
        How long was he going to make her stand here?  She
thought about the girl in the corset and wondered if she
could survive that kind of torture.  Would she have a
choice?  Anything would be better than being suspended
like that blonde, her weight of her body straining against
those inescapable ropes that bit so deeply into her tits and
especially her crotch.
        She heard voices immediately behind her, but none
belonged to Ron.
        "What do we have here, Mr. H?"
        "I believe it belongs to Mr. R."
        "It has a nice ass, doesn't it, Mr. H?"
        "Yes, a very nice ass, Mr. C.  But it looks sad."
        "How so, Mr. H?"
        "It seems so empty."
        "Forlorn."
        "Unfulfilled, Mr. C."
        "Can we help it find happiness, Mr. H?"
        "I believe so, Mr. C."
        What the hell...Isabel started to turn around until a
hard swat across her exposed cheeks stopped her cold.
        "Most unfortunate, Mr. H."
        "Yes, a novice, I'm afraid.  We'll have to take
corrective actions."
        Isabel heard what sounded like...maracas?
        "I believe this will supply the necessary amount of joy,
Mr. C."
        "May I hold it, Mr. H?"
        "Certainly, Mr. C."
        "Quite heavy, Mr. H.  Are those metal pellets inside?"
        "Yes, Mr. C.  Unfortunately, I was not able to fill it
completely, so they have a tendency to shift when you move
it."
        Isabel heard a sound like chh-chh-chh.
        "That's too bad, Mr. H."
        "Ah, well, life is a series of compromises."
        Isabel had no idea what they were talking about until
she felt the tip of the dildo penetrate her rectum.
        "To happiness, Mr. C."
        Isabel closed her eyes as the cylinder was pushed
deep into her cavity.  She felt the pellets shift to the back of
the dildo, which caused the tip to press painfully against the
top of her anal canal.
        "I do hope it doesn't pop out, Mr. H."
        "We'd best take out some insurance against that
calamity, Mr. C."
        Isabel began breathing in short huffs.
        "Oh, very nice.  I like the patterns created by the
studs."
        "Thank you, Mr. C.  It is a pity they go on the inside."
        She felt someone reaching up under her dress and
wrapping something around her waist, then gasped as the
sharp rivets dug into where her pubic hair used to be.
        "Are you sure it will fit, Mr. H?  The strap doesn't
quite seem to reach the hasp."
        "Patience, Mr. C."
        Isabel felt the studded leather disappear between the
cheeks of her ass, pushing the weighted dildo another inch
deeper inside her, then groaned out loud when the padlock
clicked home.
        "Oh, dear."
        "Shocking, Mr. C."
        "Beyond impertinent."
        Isabel froze.
        "I believe this will solve the dilemma, Mr. C."
        Isabel didn't even see the bladder until it was being
stuffed into her mouth.  As the awful taste of the rubber
mingled with the scent of the leather faceplate just under her
nostrils, she felt straps being drawn around her nose and
over her forehead, then everything was buckled inescapably
behind her head.
        "Would you do the honors, Mr. C?"
        "Thank you, Mr. H."
        Something tugged on Isabel's mouth, then she heard
the unmistakable sound of air being pumped.  As the
bladder began to inflate, she looked down and saw a thin
tube curling down from the front of the gag.
        Whoosh, whoosh, whoosh...Isabel tried to open her
mouth wider to accommodate the relentless swelling, but a
short strap under her chin, plus the thick leather surrounding
her cheeks, denied any relief.
        The pumping finally stopped, and a moment later, the
squeeze bulb swung around and dangled against Isabel's
waist.
        "Well done, Mr. C."
        "A vast improvement, Mr. H."
        Isabel's knees suddenly went weak, and she had to
struggle to keep her balance.
        One of the men sighed extravagantly.
        "Such well-sculpted legs.  Pity it doesn't know how to
hold them still."
        "Shall we help it attain a higher level of education,
Mr. H?"
        "I fear it requires remedial tutoring, Mr. C."
        Isabel couldn't decide if she was angry, or scared, or
both.  Who are these bozos?  And what happened to Ron?
        "Shall we continue the rubber theme?
        "That would be appropriate, Mr. H."
        One of the men started whistling as he picked up
Isabel's left foot, then the right, and rolled something
vaguely slimy up her legs.  When he got to the top of her
thighs, he pulled the wide band of rubber flat against her
skin.
        "Nice constriction, Mr. H."
        Three more bands were soon in place above and
below her knees, and around her ankles.
        "I think there's hope, Mr. C."
        "Yes, it does seem less likely to misbehave, Mr. H."
        "Did you happen to notice the zippers on the front of
its lovely dress?"
        "Why, no, Mr. H."
        "See for yourself."
        A pair of hands reached around Isabel and began
squeezing her chest hard.
        "They yearn to be free, Mr. H."
        "Then don't delay, Mr. C."
        Isabel hadn't really noticed that the zippers covering
her breasts were only about two inches long until they were
unzipped and the hands were tugging her soft globes
through the openings by her nipples.
        "Delightful."
        "And real, Mr. H."
        "You don't say?  Let me see."
        Another set of hands molested the hills of quivering
flesh poking out from Isabel's dress.
        "Quite right, Mr. C."
        "Such a rare treat, Mr. H."
        "We're truly blessed, Mr. C."
        Isabel didn't like the ensuing silence one bit.
        "It should be rewarded."
        "Will these be adequate?"
        Isabel thought she heard the clinking of tiny chains.
        "I think so, Mr. H."
        Isabel looked down and saw a hand holding a set of
large, spring-loaded clamps open over one of her nipples.
As he slowly released his grip, bullets of pain shot though
her chest.  But that was nothing compared to the searing
sensation caused when the hand opened to drop a weight
attached to the clamp by a long chain.
        Isabel couldn't stop herself from instinctively trying to
shake off the effects of the vicious devices.
        "My, my, my.  It doesn't seem to hear well at all."
        "I fear it's insolence, plain and simple, Mr. C."
        "We'd best continue, Mr. H."
        "Can you fetch me a chair, please, Mr. C?"
        Isabel's arms were momentarily freed, only to be
bound tightly at her wrists behind her back.  Someone
climbed on a chair next to her, then her hands began rising.
        "There, Mr. C?"
        "Up a little higher...there, that's it.  Well done, Mr. H."
        "Thank you, Mr. C."
        Oh...my...sweet...
        The pellets in the weighted butt plug shifted forward
as Isabel was bent over.
        She quickly tried to stand upright, but her wrists were
hung just high enough to make the strain on her shoulders
unbearable.  But when she bent back over, she discovered
whatever was holding her arms didn't give her quite enough
slack to find any comfort in that position either.
        "Bungee cord has so many uses."
        "A wonder of science, Mr. C."
        Isabel groaned.  The weights on her nipples
practically jumped as she desperately tried to find a
compromise between standing up and doubling over, while
the heavy, pellet-filled dildo slid back and forth deep inside
her ass.
        "Is that new, Mr. H?"
        "Why, yes, Mr. C.  Do you like it?"
        "Very thin, Mr. H.  In fact, I don't think I've ever seen
a crop quite this slender.  But it seems to hold its shape
quite well."
        "Notice how flexible it is, Mr. C."
        "May I try it, Mr. H?"
        "Be my guest, Mr. C."
        The lights suddenly flicked off, then back on again.
        "Drat."
        "I'm afraid it's time for supper, Mr. C."
        "I suppose it can wait."
        "I'm quite sure it will have no problem doing just that,
Mr. C."
        Isabel stopped struggling and listened.  Turning her
head, she watched as the men in the room got up and started
heading in groups toward a side door.
        When the last one entered the dining room, he shut
the door behind him.
        Why, that no-good son of a bitch...Isabel flailed
helplessly against the cord.
        Where did he go?  Why did he let those two men do
all these terrible things to her?
        She bent over as far as she could, but the bungee cord
pulled her back like a spring.  She resolved to stand up
straight, but she couldn't take the tension for more than a
few seconds.
        That bastard Ron...when I get out of this...
        If I get out of this, she corrected herself with a sigh.
        Breathing hard through her nose, Isabel was suddenly
aware of the other women in the room.
        With the exception of her, all were as motionless as
statues.  And the only sound was the muffled squeals of
desperate girls in severe restraint.

(To be continued)