Author's Foreword

 

Several years ago, a man of my acquaintance introduced me to the salacious world of BDSM video. These vignettes enthralled me with their audacity, but their thin and sometimes non-existent storylines were a disappointment.

Here I was, literally salivating over their visual onslaught, but forced to invent my own backstory in real time. I wanted more meat: I wanted to know the plot and the characters; I wanted to know what the submissive heroines were thinking as they suffered so deliciously; I wanted a tale I could remember not just a clinical collage of well-tethered bodies.

The following is the story I imagined behind the video "Jenny2" staring Sarah Jane Ceylon. Think of it as an accompaniment or a remix of the original. If you follow this video genre, you will quickly recognize the name and hopefully recall the original's suggestive imagery as you read.

To those who are disappointed that it's a short story rather than a novel, please consider the following. My goal was to write "the story behind the video" not to author a different story, one vaguely inspired by the video. More words, in my view, would have taken me too far from the original.

 

DP

 

 

Introduction

 

Jenny stared at the ceiling gasping for air. Every breath was a desperate struggle; every movement a stabbing pain. Her bondage was extreme even for this company. Usually, they tied their models in a tight but painless position then tortured them mercilessly with a whip or cane. She had seen it repeated over and over on the website. The girls always emerged happy with the experience and none the worse for wear.

This was different. Cyd had gone far beyond the usual "tight but painless" bondage she expected. For some reason, he had put her in a bondage position that was horrendously painful all by itself. Why...? Why break the mold with her? She had expected their session to be tough, but not ... different. It was disconcerting; what other surprise was he planning for her?

In a way though, she was happy for his special attention. She enjoyed being different; she got a kick doing the unexpected, surprising people. She also suspected that, for some reason, which was a mystery to her, he wanted to test her, to see how far he could push her. Whatever, it was all good, so far.

Could she handle it...? The question had been on her mind all day. This was no sham, no trick of perspective or timing, no form of "playful" acting-out of a fantasy. This was real. Could he be doing this because she had challenged him during their interview, because she told him that she could take whatever he could dish out? Was he making her prove it?

Why ... why had she challenged him that way? Was she crazy?

He had positioned her on the floor, on her haunches, naked, except for the fetish boots on her feet. He had tied her nipples to the short metal pole that rose up between her legs with strings, forcing her to push out her tits. He had tied her hair to a floor cleat near her boots with a cord that pulled her head back, making it hard to breathe. To ensure she remained in place, he had strapped her calves and thighs together then pulled her thin arms behind, squared them off, and tied her wrists to the opposite forearms and biceps. For good measure, he had wrapped the binding ropes tightly around her chest above and below her tits, keeping her ribs from expanding.

In short, she could not put her head up, lean forward or back, stretch her legs, or draw a deep breath. The extreme nature of the bondage surprised her, but what surprised her even more was the cruel look on his face as he drew her head back. He was smiling, enjoying her pain, getting off on her fear. For some reason, she had thought that bondage riggers were clinical, dispassionate about their models' feelings.

"I want you in distress, Jenny," he had said, guessing her thoughts. "I think your fresh face is going to draw huge amounts of pity from our audience while your smoking-hot body plays on their lust. But I must do it right, you can't be just bound, you need to suffer, to plead with me for mercy."

She had stared up at him. Plead with me for mercy...? The words didn't sit right with her: she didn't beg anyone, for anything. She had never been in a situation like this though. The bondage was beginning to produce real hurt. Why was he pushing her so hard? Cyd had a fresh baby-face, a quick smile, and a pleasant disposition. They had spent time joking and lightly flirting when she first came to the studio. Clearly, he had been trying to make her comfortable. Why was he being so miserable now? Surely, it wasn't his job to make her feel bad.

"You okay...?" he asked, standing over her.

He was smiling again, the same idiotic sadistic smile he had when he slipped the strings' loops over the barbells in her nipples.

"I am going to leave you like this for a little while so that the sounds are authentic ... when you beg me to let you out."

Again, with the begging...!

"You ... you want me to ... beg? I'm not sure I am that good an actress, Cyd," she was speaking in a hoarse whisper, unable to marshal enough air to speak normally. It made her feel ... weak, dependent. She didn't like the feeling.

"Don't worry about it," he said lightly, "getting you to beg convincingly will be up to me. You just do what you feel you need to do when you need to do it, okay?"

She closed her eyes and grunted. It wasn't "okay," but this was not the time for a debate. Her neck and back muscles were burning; her breathing was labored and shallow; and it was impossible to keep her swaying torso from causing her to periodically pull her hair or her nipples. Still, she could not just leave him to do whatever he wanted with her.

"I ... I, ah, I don't feel comfortable ... begging you ... to be released. Couldn't we just ... end it at some point, you know, a mutual thing?"

He looked surprised even a little annoyed then he shook his head and moved away.

Why had she said that, she wondered? Why was she provoking him? He had made it clear that this was a binary choice for her: she could endure, or she could "tap out" by using her safe-word or her grunt-signal.

Tap out... This was the phrase he used, as if she was giving in, surrendering. Why didn't he say, "demand release" or "order release?" Why put it on her by implying that she was quitting? It was stupid to care about such a small thing, but she did. She had no intention of begging him for anything. Why was he making it an issue...?

He walked back casually and repeated his question, "You okay?"

"Yes..."

YES...? She couldn't breathe. Why did she answer yes? This was crazy; she wasn't acting like herself. She twisted her body trying to move her legs, but the straps around her calves and thighs held fast. There was no escaping from this on her own. He wanted her to suffer, to beg. There was nothing in their agreement about begging, about her looking like a fucking wimp. This wasn't who she was, why did he want to make it look like she was quitting?

She flexed her muscles again testing the strength of his knots, then tried again to raise her head and get more air into her lungs, but the pull of the cord in her hair was too painful. More painful than the burning in her neck? She eased back, relaxing her neck, shoulders, and back muscles. Almost instantly, a sharp pain stabbed her in her nipples.

She was really suffering now! Every possible way to relieve one of the many pains she felt caused another pain to appear. She could choose which pain she wanted to endure, but she could not end the overall pain or reduce it. In Cyd's diabolic bondage, every small mercy had its price.

She looked up and stared into his eyes, his innocent eyes. He was waiting for her to comply, to surrender. He had specifically put her in this bondage to make her quit on camera, to make her acknowledge his dominance for everyone to see. This was why he wanted her to beg.

Her eyes narrowed. He was wrong; she was not that kind of person; she didn't quit, ever. He saw the defiance in her eyes and shrugged then he walked indifferently out of her line-of-sight again.

Fuck... Men were always trying to make her surrender something...

She remembered high school and all the jocks hanging on her like she was their fucking property, a throwaway girl just because she didn't have the same advantages they had. She had fucked them up, one after the other, one way or the other.

Then there was her first job out of high school. A friend of her mother's had hired her as a hostess at a local Philadelphia restaurant. It was on Hanover Street, between the crime-infested Westside and the ritzy neighborhood along the park. The location made it popular with men from both backgrounds, but they were all the same as far as she was concerned. They all acted as if she was a whore, as if she was on the menu: a sexy dessert for them to taste.

Why was that...? Did she have the kind of look that said, "fuck me" to men? Did she give off sexually inviting pheromones? She was generally a good person with a happy disposition; why did they treat her like shit?

Whatever the reason, she never gave in, never surrendered. It was their arrogance, their look of expectation, their fucking sense of entitlement that prompted her rejection. She had no problem having sex with reasonable men: she could suck cock and fuck with the best of them, and often did, but there was no way she was going to surrender to anyone just because they had power!

This was the reason she had become a stripper. On stage, she felt as if she was in control. She decided which men to favor with a smile, with conversation; she decided which men could touch her tits as they put their bills in her G-string. This was the reason she supplemented her stripper income with lap dancing, an activity where she felt even more control over the man. Sometimes, she fucked the men who attracted her, but always after it was clear that she was in control of the relationship.

In control...

She twisted her burning neck and felt another needle-like jab in her nipples. Cyd was standing over her once more, looking a bit unsure. He smiled again and raised his eyebrows quizzically as if confused. She bared her teeth with the pain and shook her head no. Her message was clear: she didn't need his fucking mercy. He was in for a big surprise, she thought, if he expected her to kiss his ass. She had never given in before and she wasn't about to start now. She would rather take his pain and suffer his humiliation than surrender.

At least, that was the plan.

 

***

 

Cyd stared down at the new girl. She didn't get it: this video was about his domination and her submission; they all were. She wasn't supposed to appear heroic; she was supposed to cave, to weaken as his dominance became harsher. The audience appreciated a little sassy defiance, a bit of spirited resistance, but in the end, they expected the man, the master to prevail. He had explained this clearly to her, he thought; he had described how she would suffer for a while then beg him for mercy.

So, what was her problem? She was incredibly beautiful. He knew she would be a sensation, but not if she persisted with this bullshit. She needed to follow the script!

He closed his eyes, forcing himself to calm down. Maybe she just needed some time, or a good reason to capitulate. Maybe her pride wouldn't let her surrender unless she was in real distress. The company had rules, limits, which meant that he could only push her so far, but he would do his best, he would push her as hard as he could to make her video a success.

A small voice in the back of his mind suddenly whispered a bothersome thought. Was something else going on here? Was she reacting badly ... to the scene, to him? Did she think he was ... inadequate, not enough of a man for her to surrender to him? The question festered in his mind as he watched her writhe on the floor.

Yes, the limits ... he would take her as far as he could then they would see.