Have you ever seen a woman who seems happier about a scarf tied around her wrists? (Well, actually, I hope and expect you have.) This bondage newbie from a 1978 issue of Sex Games magazine certainly seems to be enjoying her light bondage experiment:
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I’m not convinced that the President’s Guard in this particular mythical post-colonial African country is what we’d call a professional military organization by any stretch of the imagination. But they sure do take a stern line on punishing resistance to sexual harassment:
For Trudy Ramsay the day promised to be long.
She suspected it was no more than half done. She longed to scream at the injustice of what was being done to her. But she had been warned about screaming. It would be wiser to suffer in modest silence, with perhaps just an occasional moan.
The flat top of the post was about the same diameter as her bare bottom. Obviously they had been made for each other. The post was in the middle of the Barrack Square. Naked, she sat astride it for all to see. She had disgraced the guard uniform, so it had been taken from her. She would not have sat upon this four-foot-high perch had it not been for the ankle clamps. They were metal. At a cunning angle they fastened one of her feet to each side of the post, bent so that her knees stuck out and all her weight rested on her bottom. To complete the ensemble of penitence her wrists were unkindly tied at the small of her back. Trudy Ramsay was most definitely a fixture.
But, this being Zindawba, there had to be more. Unhappily she recalled her first sight of the coarse sandpaper glued to the circle of wood on which she must sit. It would have been bad enough without Sergeant Galla’s dictum. “Sandpaper’s better with a tender rump, love. Lie over my lap.”
The spanking had been shaming and hurt more than she would have supposed.
When the sergeant was breathless there was another girl proffering her knees and the impacts of her palm. And another, and another… In all, nineteen. By the time they were through with spanking her, Trudy’s bottom was ablaze and a fiery red. There had been no animosity in any of the slaps but they had hurt just the same. They had then all helped hoist her up on the stub of timber and fastened her ankles in the clamps, tightening the bolts with a spanner. It was all very efficient, and most unkind.
Sergeant Galla had summed it all up succinctly: “You shouldn’t have bit the warrant officer’s dink, love.”
“He shouldn’t have tried to shove it in my mouth.”
But that had all been gone over at her trial. It was generally conceded she had got off lightly. W.O. Ringbolt had demanded she be flogged. He had been conciliated only by the sergeant’s insistence that she was very new to Zindawba and would probably be a more obedient girl next time she was so honored.
“We have to, love. Al of us. He’s a terror, he is! But it makes a change from getting it up the other place below.”
Trudy had gained no solace from the sophistry.
With her blazing seat solidly planted on the sandpaper, and quite unable to move it an inch, she saw no solace anywhere. The day stretched endlessly. After it there would be others. Making the best she could of her plight, she mentally reviewed her life, so far, in the President’s Guard…
From Beloved Bonds by F.E. Campbell.
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Pillory blowjobs are a staple of BDSM fiction and illustration, but they turn up in actual photographic bondage porn rather less often than you would think. But this one from Pleasure And Praise at Kink.com is worth celebrating:
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From Oglaf, that moment when you realize the bondage party got a little bit out of hand:
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It was the usual fare of a BDSM romance: a rakehell duke and an innocent bride, mutually trapped in a reluctant but necessary marriage. In the early days they managed some dubcon kinky sex, but it took them a long time to find an emotional center of mutual goodwill and admiration. But now, at last, they’ve managed the trick:
When they were packed and ready to leave on their Welsh adventure, he presented the rope to Ophelia, and told her to hold out her hands.
“Is this when the kidnapping starts?” she asked.
He took her offered hands and held them together. “Perhaps.” He met her gaze. “Or perhaps it started that night I first swept you up onto my horse. I’m glad you’re being so trusting now.”
“It’s because I know you won’t really hurt me.”
He tied the rope securely about her wrists, then swept her into his arms.
“Let the kidnapping commence,” he declared.
“May I struggle a little?” his wife asked.
“Of course. I think you’d better.”
To his alarm — and amusement — she set up an impressive fuss, squirming and beating his chest with her bound hands. Rochelle stood by the door, trying, and failing, to hide a smile.
“Help me,” said Ophelia. “The marquess is stealing me off to Wales.”
“Yes, my lady,” said the servant, dropping a curtsey. “I believe it is so.”
Wescott told her to stop struggling on the staircase, so they didn’t both tumble to their deaths, but once they were at the bottom, she put up another token fight. “My parents?” he asked a footman.
“At luncheon in the dining room, my lord.”
It was a testament to the Abbey’s servants, or his own imperfect reputation, that none of them expressed the slightest unease at their master kidnapping his trussed-up wife. He carried Ophelia into the dining room to find his parents chatting over a light lunch.
“Good morning to you both,” he said in greeting.
His father looked up and blinked at Ophelia’s bound hands, tilting his head. “Goodness,” he muttered to his wife. “The apple doesn’t fall far from the tree.”
Wescott ignored that comment, and his mother’s pink blush. “I’m just letting you both know that I’m kidnapping Ophelia and spiriting her off to Wales.”
His mother clapped her hands in delight. “Oh, Jack, what a capital idea.”
He frowned at her. “Mama, this is supposed to be exciting and dangerous, so please pretend my wife is in mortal danger.”
“Of course she is,” she agreed at once, pulling a sad face for Ophelia’s benefit. “You poor girl.”
“I don’t suppose there’s any point in resisting anymore,” his wife replied. “Wescott won’t relent.”
“How awful of him.” His mother eyed the looped ropes about her wrists. “I pray he is merciful even though he’s kidnapping you. Fortunately for you, Wales is lovely at this time of year.”
“Mama,” Wescott said in exasperation.
His father nodded. “If you asked me for kidnapping advice, son, I’d tell you to take your helpless victim to the cottage. That would be an adventure.”
“I was already going to do that.”
“Well, then, it seems you have it all in hand. Why don’t you stop for some lunch with us before you go?”
“We’ve asked Mrs. Samuelson to pack us a basket so we can get underway,” said Ophelia, who was not very good at playing a kidnapping victim.
“Go on, then,” said his father. “Before your arms get too tired, and you let your wife get away.”
“Thank you, Ophelia,” his mother added, “for being such a gracious hostess to us during our stay. If only we had the capability to rescue you. Unfortunately, those knots about your wrists look too complex to untie.”
“They are,” his wife replied. “Ah well, I suppose we’ll see you all again when we get back.”
Wescott ignored his father’s grin and his mother’s titter as he carried Ophelia from the room.
From the book Rival Desires, by Annabel Joseph.
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I’d like to see more from this photo shoot; it looks like an entertaining women-in-prison scenario. But all I have is this one photo, found in one of those cheap 1980s enema porn magazines that was a compilation/mishmash of uncredited photos from other magazines:
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Her wrists might (or might not) be shackled behind her back, but anyway she has them clasped properly behind her back as she kneels there in her fishnet stockings and collar and leash while she sucks her master’s cock:
Photo is from Anal Sluts Subjugated At The BDSM Orgy at Kink.com.
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