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| Isabel | Back to F | Back to main page |
Collected by Djian
Other stories by adrian hunter, Rubbermaid , claustrophobia, Out of Commision
day 161: the indiscretions of isabel
by adrian hunter
Shit!
Why is everyone slowing down?
Isabel pumped the brakes to avoid merging her
bumper with the rear end of some dork's Acura.
Fuckfuckfuck. Already late. Not good.
Should've left on time. "One last phone call"
turned into 15 minutes of useless chitchat with
a client she could barely stand.
There was no chance now of getting home before
Ron.
Second time this week.
Isabel felt a small shudder work its way up her
spine. She pressed hard on the horn in anger,
fear and frustration. But the cars in front of
her sat motionless as if trapped in a
photograph.
Usually she raced home to make sure dinner was
on the table when Ron walked through the door.
Sometimes she even managed a shower. But not
tonight. No, tonight was going to be different.
A break in the routine.
She smiled a little when she caught herself
thinking of her life with Ron as routine. Their
relationship wasn't exactly the typical
portrait of domestic bliss. Somehow, she
couldn't see Harriett willfully binding herself
in a strict hogtie to please Ozzie when he came
home after a long day doing whatever it was he
did. Who knows? Maybe she was an Emma Peel fan,
too.
Isabel closed her eyes for a moment. She had
planned something simple for tonight, maybe the
wide cuffs, a matching collar, a suitable gag
(yes, the penis one with the four straps),
heels and that super-short leather dress that
barely fit. She was going to sit on the couch
with the front of her collar padlocked to the
cuffs around her thigh so her chin hung right
over her knees. But first, her ankles. Next,
the gag. At the end, wrists cuffed and
padlocked behind her back.
Simple, but suitably uncomfortable. She
couldn't take any chances.
Isabel was never sure what to expect from Ron.
Some nights when he came home, he untied her
(well, most of her) and they acted something
like a normal couple. Other times, he left her
tied in the position he found her in, with
perhaps a small improvement...like the time she
was lying on the coffee table with her legs
suspended from a spreader bar tied with twine
to her nipples, and he taped a vibrator to the
surface so its tip just barely touched her
helpless asshole.
And then there were the evenings when he had
something planned.
The cars inched forward maybe a foot, then came
to another dead stop.
Ron didn't act like a stereotype bondage
"master," nothing like the ridiculous actors in
the videos, but he did have three rules he
expected to be followed without mistakes. She
was always to be bound and gagged in his
presence unless he decided otherwise. She could
never use the word "no." Oh yeah, and she
wasn't allowed to wear underwear anymore, at
least not in public.
When she moved in with him back in January, she
had readily agreed with his requests, and even
added three of her own: no blood, no permanent
marks, no piercing. She remembered him laughing
at the time. He wasn't going to be laughing
tonight.
Isabel checked the clock and sighed. Unless he
was running late, she was cooked. Again.
On Tuesday night, a meeting had run over
schedule, and she missed beating him home by
maybe five minutes. Unacceptable.
He had stood in the middle of the living room
holding a handful of leather. "Strip. Now."
As soon as she was naked, he strode behind her
and jammed a thick ball gag in her mouth. A
minute later, her wrists were pulled up high
behind her back, cuffed and strapped to the
back of the gag so she had to stare at the
ceiling.
Heavy nipple clamps and a butt plug soon
followed.
"Downstairs," he barked.
Isabel trotted down to the basement and stood
quivering in the center of the room while Ron
pawed through the rack of outfits against the
wall. He finally selected a hanger and brought
it over for her inspection. With some effort,
she shifted her eyes down far enough to see her
fate.
"Victoria's real secret," he said with a
malicious grin.
Isabel felt her guts tighten as she remembered
the awful corset, thick black leather with
metal stays to create an exaggerated hourglass
figure that made Scarlett O'Hara look like
Roseanne. Ron had buckled every strap as tight
as it could go, leaving her feeling like her
torso was trapped in a vise.
Unfortunately, he had had a surprise for her
that night: a matching arm binder and a special
sheath that locked her legs together in what
looked like a single thigh-high boot with only
one heel to balance on. Both were stiff and
heavily boned, as was the new discipline collar
that stretched her neck painfully and kept her
chin pointed up.
Once everything was secured, Ron had picked her
up and carried her bound frame to a post with
four metal rods sticking out. Each one held a
specially-sized metal cuff: one for her neck,
one for her waist, one for her thighs and the
last for her ankles. After she was locked in,
she couldn't do much besides flap her arms. Ron
rewarded her first and only attempt at this
with a weight chained to the loop on the end of
the arm binder.
Isabel had known she was in serious trouble
when Ron plastered a wide strip of clear
plumber's tape across the ball gag already in
her mouth, sealing off any chance of
complaining or begging.
When he dug out the butt plug and took off the
nipple clamps, she felt the familiar clamminess
of too much perspiration trying to escape
through the leather smothering her pores.
She could see the cars in front of her fitfully
coming back to life. Good. Well, maybe bad.
As she started to drive, memories of the nipple
trainers Ron had used on her that night made
her shiver despite the hot, still air in her
car.
They were these two little metal cones maybe an
inch high. First, he had pulled her nipples
taut. Then, he snapped the cones around them so
they stayed stretched to the limit.
Oh God, then he had put new clamps on the
protruding tips. Clamps with thin wires
trailing off.
She never saw the new butt plug, but she
definitely felt it. Hard. Metal. Huge.
Isabel hadn't dared try to turn her head to see
what Ron was doing behind her. She had found
out soon enough.
An unpleasant tingling sensation erupted in her
breasts and her bottom as Ron set the
electrical current at its lowest level.
She remembered screaming soundlessly as she
heard his footsteps up the stairs. Minutes
later, he had come back down, but only to tape
a feather to the rod holding her neck so it
just barely touched one of her breasts.
Then he increased the current a notch.
Isabel was back up to full speed on the
freeway. Soon she would be at the exit.
She had lost track of the time she spent in the
basement Tuesday night, but she definitely
remembered how hard it had been to get to work
on Wednesday.
She clicked on her signal and merged to the
right. Maybe she should just keep going, she
found herself thinking.
Maybe he's having a drink with someone after
work.
Isabel gunned her engine and shot down the
offramp. You never knew with Ron.
Well, yes, you do, she reminded herself. And
that's why you stay.
Isabel allowed herself a smile and hummed a
tuneless song.
No blood, no permanent marks, no new holes.
She was almost pleased to see the lights on
when she swung into the driveway
copyright © 1999 by adrian hunter. all rights reserved.
please do not repost nor repurpose without permission.
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