Bondage Blog

She got strung up for punishment, but while she was there and her mouth was at a convenient height…

I suspected what was to come next and it was confirmed when he tossed the rope over the beam. All that was left to do was to pull on the rope and I was slowly lifted into the air by my ankles. It’s a strange feeling to have your legs rising before your eyes, and to have them keep on going. The worst part is when only you head is still left on the ground. You want very badly to reach down and touch the ground with your hands but you can’t. He stopped pulling when my feet were almost touching the beam, then tied the rope off to a tree. It was a most strange experience for me. I was slowly twisting in mid-air, everything upside down to my vision. My ankles hurt some but not too bad at all. But the position did make me feel very helpless. I had never been hung upside down in my life and I can tell you, it really makes a girl feel helpless.

Suddenly he had a riding crop in his hand. My heart sank, which was hard while hanging upside down. It might have been inverted but I didn’t like the leer on his face. “You must learn to please a man in every way,” he began the lecture. “It is the duty of all women to please all men. It is their only purpose on earth.” Was this guy for real? “Those who forget this have to be reminded.” He swished the crop before my face, probably to scare me. It worked.

It’s bad enough being whipped on your bare bottom, but at least there it’s padded. The first stroke, even though expected, was still a shock. This man had a strong hand and that crop delivered quite a sting on bare girl flesh.

The strokes came slowly. After each he paused to watch me writhe at the end of my rope like a fish dangling at the end of a line. The impact of the blows plus my jerking away reaction made me twist and sway, and he waited each time until my body was hanging still before delivering the next stroke of pain. It was unpleasant, grossly unfair, and I hated the man. I don’t know how many strokes had impacted upon my flesh before he stopped. A lot. I was crying, sobbing actually, and my bottom felt on fire.

A burning bottom and the discomfort of hanging upside down were not to be the total of this punishment. Oh, no, Don Mendosa had more in mind. Dropping the riding crop to the ground, he stood before my face and unbuttoned his pants. It didn’t take much imagination to figure what was coming next. I mean, hanging there my face was just about the height of his rod. I wondered if he had arranged for me to be at the right distance from the ground for just that purpose, then decided that this had to be the case. I had to take his disgusting rod in my mouth. The riding crop was nearby and he hinted, not too subtly, that my breasts could easily be as marked up as my ass. Now, that scared me! It was awkward trying to slide my mouth up and down a penis while hanging upside down but I got the knack of it pretty quickly. I was pumping away on his rod and he was making grunting sounds like he was enjoying this something fierce. I wasn’t, but at least it was better than being whipped on the breasts…

From Valley of Captive Maidens by F.E. Campbell.

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An innocent enjoys the feeling of having her hands and elbows tied for the first time:

He unlocked the handcuffs from my wrists. For a moment I was able to massage my wrists in front of me, about the only time they had been in front of me for days. The sudden thought of hitting him over the head with something and running leapt into my mind. But there was still the handcuffs on my ankles, and I wouldn’t be able to get very far with those on. When he took my hands and pulled them behind my back, I didn’t protest.

But I was surprised when he placed my hands palm to palm rather than cross them as they had been all that time when tied with rawhide. But I was too busy thinking about the new rope, which although soft but still very strong, to wonder about why the chance in position of my hands. He wrapped the rope around my wrists, not too tightly, then passed the rope between my arms and around the other ropes, cinching them down. Everything tightened down with those cinch windings, so that, when he tied the final knots, my wrists were pretty tightly bound together. But it was much more comfortable that rawhide — thank heaven for small favors.

Just as I was wondering how it would be to sleep like this, I felt a loop of rope going around my elbows and tightening. “No!” I started to protest, but suddenly his arm pulled my elbows together and then the rope tightened around them. Quickly he was wrapping more rope around my arms just above the elbows and I was becoming quite helpless. It was a strange feeling. I had never touched my elbows behind my back, and certainly never been tied with them like that. It was uncomfortable, yes, but not terribly so. I could see where it would be okay for a while but had a feeling that it would grow more and more uncomfortable as time passed. It was quite a strain on my arms and shoulders.

It was then that I realized what else being tied this way did to me. It made my breasts stick out! Forcing the arms back behind me sort of pushed my chest out and I could look down to see my breasts straining against the fabric of the blouse. I also noted that my nipples were rather enlarged and had to wonder about that. I knew from some times when I had experimented with touching myself that the nipples do get larger. But I wasn’t touching myself then and didn’t know why they should be doing that. But there they were, little bumps showing through the thin material.

From Valley Of Captive Maidens by F.E. Campbell.

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Sent to a women’s prison by a vengeful and powerful politician, our heroines get in trouble for slacking off on the hard labor, and are punished with a little extra humiliation:

Continuing the motions of hoeing, Gail frankly watched Emma grasped Grace’s hair and pulled forward and down. “Bend well over, honey,” she invited.

The unfortunate girl had no choice but to obey. A moment later her head was between Emma’s ample thighs, her neck held as in a vice. Her bottom was reared, her legs were rudely kicked as wide apart as their chain would allow. Gail began to guess what was in store.

But she had underestimated the resources of the Prison Farm. From the bag, a gleefully grinning Thelma produced a huge tuft of what appeared to be ostrich feathers spouting from a sizeable rubber prong. She also produced vaseline.

Grace struggled and protested. But to no avail. She was held. The operation that would degrade and render her ludicrous before her fellow prisoners went competently forward. Admittedly, it was done with reasonable care. The ugly protrusion entered its warm sheath under skilful guidance and practiced hands. But to a girl who had never been spread it would be agony. Its frontal knob would ensure the sphincter muscle’s firm retaining grip upon the mockery of a bird’s plumed tail. But it would be bitterly painful to the girl within whose rectum it found refuge. The beastly work was concluded when Grace’s handcuffs were removed so that the sack could be discarded to leave her nude, and then locked back on her wrists with an extra tight grip. Scarlet faced, she stood in her plumed nakedness, uncertain what to do.

“Reach round and pull it out if you don’t like it, sugar,” Thelma suggested cheerfully.

For a moment Grace stood, undecided, off balance, not knowing. Then, following a natural instinct, she did the wrong thing. She reached back to tug the intruding alien thing from her body.

The laughter was not limited to the merriment of the wardresses. Most of the captive girls found it hard to keep a straight face. Even the agonized Gail could appreciate the comic absurdity of what she beheld. No matter how she tried, Grace could not reach the thing she sought. The handcuffs tight upon her wrists defeated her. She could touch a fingertip to a feather. But could grip nothing with sufficient force to achieve her purpose. With or without permission, she would have no choice but to wear her badge of shame.

Blushing vividly she picked up her hoe. Tears of chagrin bedewed her eyes…

Excerpted from Strange Captivity by F.E. Campbell.

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Just a reluctant bound girl with a buttplug up her ass:

Ma Billings had done the awful thing to her with typical goodwill. There had been no warning. The command to “Bend over, honey,” had been her first inkling of something untoward. The careful and skilful insertion of the plug in her rectum had been so outrageous, yet so clinical; she had failed to protest until after the bizarre impalement had become a fait accompli. Even then she cherished the illusion of some medically normal reason for what had been done to her. That the woman who had done it failed to respond to question or complaint was no more than normal for the Bar-B. There had even been the possibility of vulgar humour. But all hopes of rationality had died when Ma Billings produced the harness.

The whipping had been too recent, her wounds from it still too sore, for Gail to have the courage to resist. She accepted Ma’s cheerful, “Don’t worry none, honey, you’ll live,” and stood passive while the straps were buckled about her loins. One ’round her waist, another from back to front between her legs. The latter, passing through a slot in the base of the thing within her, held the plug inexorably pressed home, divided her sex and made walking painful. Ma tightened buckles thoughtfully until Gail flinched within the cutting embrace of the leather bands. The thing was neat and cruel.

“But why . . .?” Gail was genuinely puzzled.

“Well, this ain’t supposed to be no summer vacation,” Ma reminded.

“But, is it a punishment? Or have I got something wrong . . .?”

Ma Billings guffawed. “I ain’t never seen a gal’ got less wrong than you, honey. Let’s say I don’t want you to feel lonely. With little Peter up your ass you’ll always have a friend.”

“There’s nothing little about what I’m feeling.”

“Come night you won’t know he’s in there, kid.” Ma found amusement in referring to the intrusion as a personality.

“It all hurts. Is it supposed to?”

“Sure is, honey. Now we take a little walk. A get acquainted stroll you might say.” Ma Billings chortled happily.

The little stroll had ended at the usual tree and with the familiar handcuffs. Now Gail stood, hurting, shamed and apprehensive. Now she would wait.

From Strange Captivity by F.E. Campbell.

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Nothing like a bit of suburban bondage fun to liven up your marriage:

Suburban basements lack character. Their atmosphere is domestic. From where she stood she could observe the washer and dryer against one wall and the shelves holding the jars of pickles and preserves at the other. If she strained her neck enough there would be Bryce’s work bench and his treasured tools. He had mentioned them: “I can make some of the stuff we’ll need.”

But the basement was cool in the heat of summer. In addition, it possessed a facility.

The post.

Drusilla was tied to the post with neat competence.

Bryce had taken a lot of time in the binding of his wife. She had helped by standing limply passive, her naked back against the wood. They had discussed her nakedness with the same polite detachment they had employed after the initial heated resentments had been set aside and they had begun their postulation of the impossible. Bryce had suggested it diffidently. With a willingness she found suspect within herself, Drusilla had agreed.

Nudity had added a quality of deliciousness to the mixtures of Drusilla’s captivity. It had provoked awareness. It had also enabled Bryce’s rope to sink intimately in her flesh and hold her doubly secure.

After the first panics had passed she had ceased to struggle for release. The rope and her skin had found an affinity against which she could not prevail. In the first few hours of fruitless rebellion against her bonds she had repeated again and again a shocked admission: “No way… ! No way… !”

She found it necessary to constantly test her impotence. The flexings and twistings caused the rope to bite in reassurance that she was indeed tied to a post in the basement of her own home and that she was truly naked and frighteningly helpless. Her situation was real, unfeigned, not contrived. She supposed the flickerings of fear arose from imaginings of discovery, of fire, of burglars! Ruefully she recognized these alarms as implicit in the validity of her plight. They, too, were a touch of spice.

Bryce had crossed her wrists behind the post and tied them there. Drusilla could not see how it was done, only feel. Several ropes made a band round her middle. They had been painstakingly cinched to weld her bottom and her back immovably to the stanchion’s vertical authority. Her ankles had been similarly treated, but one to teach side so as to separate her legs enough that her cleft was murkily visible below its black pubic thatch.

That was the totality of her bindings. Above her strictured waist there was nothing. But her shoulders were well planted against the pillar by the compulsion of her bound arms straining against the bondage of their wrists.

From Drusilla by F.E. Campbell.

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Four pretty girls captured in an airplane hijacking are on their way to abject sexual slavery in the Arabian desert, but they’re only just now starting to figure it out:

“Do as you’re told. Get in here.” Seething in frustration and fear Stacie obeyed. Seated on the wooden seat she heeded the injunction of the hostile eyes and placed her left wrist gingerly within the open metal cuff. Rannah snapped the bands tight upon her. “Now the other!”

Stacie throttled her protest. Surely one prisoned wrist made her impotent enough for their need! But she was scared. Resignedly she delivered her right hand into a similar bondage. The clicking of the ratchets as they locked her wrist sounded a death knell to hope. This was neither aid nor deliverance. Miserably she watched her fellow captives similarly rendered helpless. She and the stewardess were locked by both wrists, the other two girls by one wrist only. It sufficed. Salim climbed in with them. Rannah left, the van door closed. “Now for nice ride,” said Salim cheerfully.

The ride was far from nice. It was rough and without concern for the passengers, their prisoned wrists took the brunt of it, chafing against the unyielding metal as they braced themselves against the motion. Salim surveyed their distress benignly like a proud parent.

“Why do I have to have my wrists fastened?” the stewardess demanded of him irritably. “Can’t you unlock one?”

Salim was shocked. “Oh, most bad to unlock. Salim not have key.” He surveyed the situation pensively and came up with a shattering conclusion. “Is now most good, both your hands are fix. Salim can have fine look at tits.”

As nearly as was possible within the van there fell a shocked silence before Stacie broke it angrily. “Leave her alone. You touch us and I’ll report you.”

“This report?” Salim examined the word. “You mean you tell what I do.” He guffawed heartily. “Everybody much laugh, they not care.”

From Chains Of Jedrah by F.E. Campbell (HIT 116).

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