Complicated Predicament Bondage

This is from a story called Dismaid by Adrian Hunter, as found in the Kristen Archives:

As she studied her reflection, he collected his duffel bag and a few accessories from the closet.

Spirals of black rope tumbled to the floor next to her feet. He selected one, uncoiled it and begin wrapping it snugly around her ankles.

Then, another coil just above her knees.

The top of her thighs.

Her waist.

And especially her breasts.

He pulled her wrists behind her back, positioned them so her hands touched their opposite elbows, and bound them accordingly.

He supposed he would need a chair to reach the hook over her head with the excess line from her arms. He wanted to be sure he provided enough support to keep her upright under any circumstances.

Still somewhat dismayed at her insolence, he decided to ensure her continued silence with the pump gag, held in place by the training hood that encased her entire head in smooth calfskin.

He was pleased she took the deflated bladder in her mouth without her customary debate. As a reward, he didn’t bother with the eye coverings. Besides, seeing would help her appreciate what he thought might prove to be a most difficult task.

He held the butt plug in front of her eyes so she could take a good, long look. Its brushed aluminum finish gleamed dully in the soft light from the lamps scattered about the room. With its long nose that widened considerably halfway down, it looked rather like a model of a space capsule from the Gemini era. Just the thing for re-entry. Or rear entry.

He unfurled a long coil and tied one end to the back of the rope around her waist. After giving the plug a generous coating of lubricant, he threaded the line through the metal loop screwed into its base and pushed its tip maybe an inch into her rectum.

The other end of the cord soon ran between her legs, then up her waist and around and over the knot between her breasts.

Leaving the end hanging in front of her, he ambled to the bookshelf that covered an entire wall and selected a weighty tome. The bible. Of sorts. “Emily Post’s Etiquette.” 864 pages of detailed instructions on how to master the art of civil obedience.

“Proper poise in a young lady’s carriage is so very important,” he pretended to read from a page opened at random.

He closed the book and began to wrap it with the rest of the rope dangling from her chest.

When it was secure, he carefully balanced the book on top of her head. He hardly needed to tell her that were it to tumble down from its perch, an opposite reaction would occur to the plug.

He didn’t like to put new holes in the hardwood floor, but the metal eyelet was so small, he didn’t even need to get out a drill to screw it in place in front of her feet.

A piece of twine soon connected her big toes to the chrome loop.

“En pointe,” he commanded.

As she raised her heels with the utmost deliberation and care, he placed a long vibrator under her arches and taped its ends to the floor.

It made a ghastly noise when he twisted it to its highest setting.

Fortunately, he wouldn’t have to endure its grinding for long.

He resisted the urge to say something about keeping her on her toes. Instead, he informed Yvette that he would be in the kitchen preparing their dinner, which she would also enjoy, presuming she maintained her comportment as obviously instructed.

Of course, she would be expected to wash the dishes afterward. He might even allow her to use her hands.

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