"Bondaged, debilitated and distressed."

 

I repeated those words in my mind time after time because they were factual words. But so too was the word I added on, 'trouble'. I knew I was in trouble. Deep down I knew that I needed to do something about it. At some point I had realised that this bondage modelling job was not what I signed up for. And that there was something dark about it - sinister even.

But I was torn. Yes I knew the negatives - most of them anyway. But as well I needed the positives. In my swirling mess of a mind I tried to count the positives. But surely that can't have been right - just one positive? And that was the collective pleasure and the orgasms. Even if I split them, pleasure and orgasms, that was only two. Whereas the negative count was way up. I didn't need a fully functioning mind to work that out. Just half, or less of my brain cells was enough.

"This is where it gets tough honey. I just want you to know that. But I also want you to know that I'm with you. That I will be with you the whole way. I'm here now, and I will be here when you finally 'break'."

And she emphasised the word break. To me she did that deliberately to remind me of it, and what she'd talked about with that woman. I was hearing her words, every one of them but it was different now. I had more to deal with now.

The tighter, impossible way I was debilitated, the pain in my shoulders and the fact I was impaled via my vagina on an inflated dildo that kept nudging into my cervix providing me more discomfort. And the fact that I was prevented from taking adjustment steps because my overly arched, booted feet were anchored to the platform.

And then of course the arousal. The throbs in my stretched nipples, and my dripping clitoris. But now I was just standing in this exaggerated position. I knew I was wet - and I knew my juices were oozing down the dildo and then dripping down to the foot of the pole I was impaled on. Some of those juices just sliding to the insides of my latex sheathed thighs, making the whole area down there the focus of filth. Most of this I could only imagine in my head. And yet most of that I could imagine was not the full picture. My nipples throbbing as they were stretched more and more in little increments. Those throbs acting as amplifiers to the throbbing of my clitoris.

And this was being a bondage model? This was what had excited me so so much? Yes it had. And yes it did excite me. But now that excitement was different. It wasn't an excitement or an arousal that I couldn't simply dip in and out of. It was one that was there all the time. And it was an excitement that morphed with the despair. And yes there was despair - a lot of it simmering. I must have looked a sight secured the way I was. Probably an obscene sight, or worse than obscene.

"Brace yourself honey, the orgasms are on the way."

 

My brain was foggy, but it was fully alert at the same time and I didn't get that. The orgasms were like weapons slicing through my femininity. I say 'orgasms' like I mean the plural. But in reality it was one orgasm. Just one orgasm that was a constant. It had peaks and troughs, but it was there all of the time. The bondage held me rigid and regulated me like I was someone, or something that needed to be controlled for its own good. I wanted the orgasm to stop, but I didn't at the same time. But I was aware that it was eating away at me - at my mind, and my sanity.

My nostrils were flared as I tried to keep the right side of sane. My juices had flowed like a tap and had been turned on inside of me. Those juices dripping to the base of what I was secured to, and pooled there. Every so often I got a whiff of myself. I stank of sex. Stank of filth, and I was ashamed. But the shame just made my arousal even more so.

A then there was Belinda, standing, watching me, as casual as you like, her nylon sheathed ankles crossed. Her stare intense. I'd like to think she was looking out for me, that I was ok, or that I needed to rest, but something inside my mind made me doubtful of this, somehow.

"Now are you getting what it takes to be a bondage model sweetheart?"

She called me sweetheart like an aunt might call her niece that. It was like she didn't or wasn't taking into account what I was going through. But she did, I knew she did. This was her testing me. Seeing how far gone I was. I can't believe I was so casual about this, given what I was feeling throughout my femininity and throughout my head.

That orgasm had to be spent at some point. It just had to be. There needed to be a point when my nerve endings, my receptors and my libido got burnt out, right? But it didn't feel like it. I was the damsel in distress. I got that about bondage. The pink fluffy handcuffs, and the squealing delight of a girl cuffed. That was like the fairy tale of bondage. That was like the soft version. I'd only ever really thought that there was the soft version and now I got that.

The dark version hadn't occurred to me. If it had then I wouldn't have followed up on that advert, would I? Or would the lure, and the pull of it have dragged me in anyway? Maybe without the knowledge of these mind bending orgasms I would have stayed away. But now that I knew what those orgasms were and what they could do to me, there was no way I was going to walk away. I couldn't - I just couldn't. Maybe this was just the way it was supposed to be for me. Like Belinda had said, maybe I was 'born to do this'.

"P-please, please Belinda, p-please....."

I wanted to answer her question, but my mouth was full of rubber dildo, so I thought the words instead. But the orgasm kept peaking - like little throbs that took it to its peak. The troughs between were minuscule and didn't give me enough time to use my regulated breathing so that I could recover. I was just plunged into peak after peak and it was exhausting me. It just ate away at me and I remember thinking that this couldn't have been good for me. Not on the long run.

"Please what 'slut'?"

Like she'd read my mind or something since I hadn't, or couldn't say any words. That tone to her voice was kind of nasty but I felt like I deserved it. I know, I know that's stupid. How could I 'deserve' it? But what I was going through was making me feel wretched. I'd never have known what wretched meant, or that it would apply to me. But now that I was feeling it, I knew it.

I'm an attractive twenty year old woman, with everything going for me. I'd done university and got my degree - ahead of time I might add. I was pretty sure I could get any man, or woman I wanted to - not that I was lesbian of course.

But now this wretchedness was filtering through me. Through all of me, and settling in my brain and staying there. The thought of anyone I knew, seeing me like this was almost too much to comprehend. And that was the shame adding fuel to the wretchedness. My mouth full of dildo cock, my lips stretched to accommodate, that had to be very unladylike, very unbecoming.

My breasts out of the latex and into the air, my nipples, each of them, harnessed and screwed out into a full thick stretch, had to have been obscene to look at - and yet they excited me - sexually. And the sight of me, in my entirety - latex sheathed, tippy toed and in this orgasmic status that just wouldn't burn out. And that dildo nudging and reminding my cervix of its presence, constantly.

I could only look at Belinda my eyes teary, pleading. Maybe if I was successful with my pleading eyes I would get some respite? But she just came closer to me, to look into my eyes. She was looking to see if I'd broken yet. At least this was what I thought.

I had this panic attack that went through me - what if she turned off the orgasm and cut me loose? The immediate answer to myself was she couldn't do that. She wouldn't do it. If the orgasm wasn't there any more then I wouldn't cope surely? I wanted it to stop, but only until the next time. I had these visions of going through some kind of cold turkey if the orgasm was switched off and not turned on again.

Maybe this was the start of me breaking? I didn't want to break. To me breaking was a bad thing. But Belinda was letting this thing roll now. She was letting me roll into this feeling that I couldn't do without what she was doing for me. 'What she was doing for me' - she'd showed me this acute pleasure that I was now becoming addicted to. She showed me what bondage was. She'd showed me what giving up my body and mind to her could achieve. But had she? I mean had she showed me what could be achieved? Maybe a little. But I felt there was more to come from her - much, much more. And in her words she was making me not breaking me. I wasn't believing that now.

That orgasm. On and on and on. It didn't stop. It just kept eating into me, fucking me up. I knew it was fucking me up. I didn't need Belinda to tell me that. It was this 'breaking' thing that had me baffled. I didn't know what 'broken' would look like or feel like. I didn't feel broken right at this point. I just felt humiliated I guess. Degraded even. And ashamed that I had gone into this willingly. And more to the point 'guilty' because I was so turned on by it. But 'broken' - what did that even mean? I guess I'd find out.

 

Now the orgasm was gone but I was still in the bondage. And there was this sound - like a pathetic sound. It took some time to realise that what I could hear was my own sobbing. A bitter, bitter sobbing that I couldn't curtail. It didn't matter how much I thought I could save face by stopping that sobbing, I just couldn't. And when Belinda pulled the inflated dildo gag out of my mouth, there was saliva stretched like drool between it, and my lips. And the removal of that gag meant that my sobbing was not muffled any more. It was raw and it was unhindered.

'What did you want to say to me, slut?"

Belinda's tone was very acute, sharp even. It was like she knew how I felt at that precise time and was wallowing in my distress. But I couldn't see how a woman like her could know how I felt. There was this 'I'm fucked' vibe going through me that no-one else could possibly know about. I'd never been through a bad time where I hated myself. But this was close to that. And yet it wasn't enough to think that I hated myself. There was this self-loathing that ran through the core of me. Like how could I let this happen to me?

"Please. Orgasm. More?"

They were the three words that dripped out of my mouth and I heard them like it was someone else saying them. They were words that quite simply conveyed how I felt, and what I needed. I didn't want a whole conversation. I just needed the orgasm to be back even though I knew what the orgasm had done to me thus far.

"That's negotiable."

Her words back to me were equally as short and to the point. Fucking 'negotiable'? I didn't want to negotiate - I just wanted that pleasure back. I needed that pleasure to be flowing through me again. I needed it, whatever it took.

"Please Belinda, I need it."

That made me feel even more wretched. Begging for that orgasm to be given again. It was like I was begging for something that rightfully belonged to me, and yet that was controlled by this woman. My head was in a mess. It was spinning.

"What would you be willing to do, for that orgasm to be back inside you, now?"

Despite what I was going through, I processed her words. It didn't take me long to come to the conclusion that I would do anything, for that orgasm to be a part of me again.

"Anything."

I knew what I was saying. It wasn't as though I was 'drunk' with the arousal, and my judgement was impaired as a result. I was acutely aware of what I was saying and why. I knew I was offering myself, to be on the rack, as it were.