Elite Pain Bondage Caning Bench
We’ve seen this excellent bondage caning bench before, in other Elite Pain movies:
This is a screencap from Special Case: The Colonel.
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We’ve seen this excellent bondage caning bench before, in other Elite Pain movies:
This is a screencap from Special Case: The Colonel.
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This is how rebellious slave women were punished in late-19th-century Japan. Or not:
Brrrr!
From UseNet.
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You’ve got to like this topless and playful Slave Leia from Dr. Sketchy’s Anti Art School:

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From Sex And Fear at Romance And Bondage:
Fear is an adrenaline rush. It gets your heart pumping, your skin sweats and you breathe faster. It’s like you’ve started having sex before you take off your shoes. No wonder so many people go to horror movies and read all those books. What they really want, is sex. That blood pounding, slick with sweat feeling you get when you let go, take that leap of faith into the bedroom (or wherever you end up naked, hot and bothered).
Part of BDSM is bringing that fear into sex. If you’ve ever wondered why someone would like being tied up wonder no more. I’m telling you what the attraction is right now. It’s fear and sex. Even if the bondage is all agreed to there is still that element of danger, that reason to fear. You’ve given up control now you’re going to get it.
It’s Thanksgiving! Actually, that was yesterday. This is (actually) Friday — so it must be time for some bondage links!
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Monmouth has all the best kinds of fun:
I reached for the pink, girly ball gag she’d brought with her. Sturdy, designed for the kind of ball-gag-fancying fetishist who really wants to make sure the thing stays put no matter the strenuousness of the action. The leather straps closed under the chin as well as at the back of the head.
She put up a token display of resistance when I told her to open wide. Unconvincing. I know just how much she likes the gag. Ms T watched, amused, not entire sure where this was going, but paying close attention.
Once the gag was in, I hogtied Jessica. Her wrists, secured with rope cuffs, tied to her ankles, and then the position was fixed by attaching the wrists and ankles to the knot in the halter between her breasts. This had the pleasing effect of spreading her legs and putting her pussy on explicit display.
A very efficient design for catching whatever liquid might happen to be spraying around, and making sure it gets in her mouth:
From Device Bondage.
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Kaya sez: “Do not assume that you are safe because he didn’t bring the toy bag. You are not.”
All I can think is this: “She’ll never again whine about needing to stop and go potty…”
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Looks to me like this bondage woman is being paraded, naked and helpless, through the halls of her school, or perhaps it’s an office building:
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The cartoon penis is blurred out, but the whip marks on her boobs? They tell us she’s about ready to suck it. Ready, I said … but not willing:
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It looks like the mysterious lady of shadows is about to whip all the nipples:
Art is by Leon Frollo, I do believe.
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You’ve got to enjoy the expectant, slightly-fearful look:
From Wired Pussy. More here.
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This is why it can be a bad idea to let your wife and your dominatrix get acquainted:

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It was recently Friday. Bondage links abound:
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This little fragment of a sex comic is something I’ve had in a UseNet download directory on a succession of hard drives dating back to forever. The file date on this is 1996 if you can believe it:

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From @DouglasKent23:
My girl, naked but for chastity belt, drops plate. Now she’s sweeping shards, wearing rubber boots. This is how fetishes start.
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It’s somewhat unclear why Tia Ling is yelling in this photo; there doesn’t seem to be anything cruel being done to her. But we cannot see Maitresse Madeline’s left hand, can we?
From this photoshoot at Whipped Ass.
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Artist is the extremely productive Zimmerman:

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Clarisse Thorn has a long post up about BDSM roles and role policing. I’ve never had much time for people who seem unduly concerned about who is doing BDSM correctly (by their lights) and who is not:
There are two common BDSM community phrases that are often deployed in tones of disgust and irritation. One of those phrases is “topping from the bottom”. The other phrase is “service top”.
“Topping from the bottom” indicates a person who exercises power in the relationship, despite being in the “bottom” position. There’s nothing wrong with doing that, as long as both partners consent. But some people talk about “topping from the bottom” like it’s bad — as if power ought to belong to one side or the other; as if the bottom should never express preferences or make decisions about what’s going on. Which is ridiculous.
I’ll grant that it can be annoying if I’m trying to be a top, and my partner isn’t listening or isn’t doing what I want. But in those cases, it’s important to pay attention to what is actually going on. Is my partner resisting because he actually doesn’t want to do what we’re doing? In that case, I should respect his preferences. Or maybe my partner is resisting because he wants me to punish him. Or maybe we just have bad chemistry! Whatever. The point is, “topping from the bottom” isn’t inherently a bad thing. “Topping from the bottom” doesn’t make the bottom into a “bad submissive” or whatever. It just means that either the person is trying to communicate, or the person is looking for a certain kind of push-pull dynamic.
(I am hardly the first person to notice that “topping from the bottom” is a badly-used phrase; here’s a rant from another BDSMer on the topic.)
Simultaneously, there’s the phrase “service top”. It’s basically the same thing in reverse. A “service top” is a top who enjoys topping in line with his partner’s desires. And once again, some people act like this is a bad thing — as if service tops “aren’t dominant enough”. But it’s not inherently a bad thing! If a service top is doing things just because her partner likes them … then good for her!
Check out Violet Blue’s gallery of photos from A Taste Of Rope. Looks like a fun good time!
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It’s often fun to set the slave girls against each other. If they’re good slaves, they’ll enjoy it too:
From The Upper Floor.
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This would be more convincing if they weren’t letting her hold the loops of rope to prevent them from tightening:
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So this guilt-plagued writer for GQ is disgusted by his own pornography preferences, and feels guilty about watching it, and all that. Really, I’d forgotten that people could be so conflicted about their porn. But this guy is so worried about it, he decides to go and interview Max Hardcore, who is still in federal prison on an obscenity beef, and then write an article about how to hate yourself for watching porn. It’s an interesting read, even if it is basically an extended loop of authorial self-loathing. Here’s the writer’s description of the first time he saw a bondage movie (or maybe it was a gang-bang movie, he coyly hints but doesn’t say for sure):
God, my rabbis told me, could only grant me forgiveness for the sins I had committed against Him; sins I had committed against my fellow humans could only be forgiven by them personally. If they didn’t forgive me, my rabbis said, when I died and went to heaven, God would cause me to suffer in the exact way I had caused them to suffer.
At the time, though only 14 years of age, I had already tired of the porn magazines I found in my house and decided it was time for full-motion video. I went to Times Square, where a group of women stood outside a porn shop, protesting and carrying placards. On one placard was a picture of a naked woman tied to a bed. She had a ball gag in her mouth and clamps on her nipples. I ducked into the store, spent every dollar I’d stolen from my father’s wallet, hurried home, and hoped the videos wouldn’t work.
They worked.
Fuck.
I wondered what was wrong with me. I wondered how many gang bangs I would have to suffer in heaven. Was it like an eye for an eye—a gang bang for a gang bang—or was it some sort of eternal gang bang that never ended? Would I be anally violated? Would I be spanked? Did they have ropes and ball gags and Ron Jeremy in heaven?
I can’t resist! Here’s another excerpt from The Green Door. There are worse things than an unwelcome lesbian kiss, when you’re all tied up:
Tara took Betsy’s face gently in both hands and kissed her on her full pink lips. This time Betsy didn’t try to consider what her reaction should be. She pulled back and turned her head away.
“No please, don’t!”
Tara turned Betsy’s face to her. “Now Betsy, now you’ve really pissed me off. Kneel!”
Betsy lowered herself quickly to the floor and stared a a spot in the thick carpet just in front of Tara’s feet. Tara stood very still for a moment, then spoke to Robert.
“I’m going to need a pole, Robert.”
Robert rose and opened yet another of the many cabinets. Betsy ventured a look as Robert removed a three foot chrome plated pole. It had threads on one end. He walked near to the wall with the eyebolts and screwed it into a plate counter-sunk into the floor. Meanwhile Tara had made a trip to the supply side of the room herself. Stood behind Betsy now and went about her task. The first implement was as the others, leather. A four inch wide collar was buckled around Betsy’s neck. It was designed to keep the head erect, and the slightly wider parts on the left and right sides made turning her head nearly impossible. With great relief Betsy felt Tara remove the strap holding her arms in their now painful position.
“Go over to the pole.” Betsy began to rise in obedience but Tara’s hand on her head prevented her. “On your knees!”
Robert guided her to the desired position. Her back was placed firmly against the pole. A second pair of handcuffs were placed around her ankles. A padlock secured the pair on her wrists to the pair on her ankles. Tara stood before Betsy now with a second padlock. Gently now Tara reached behind Betsy’s head to secure a grip on the ‘D’ ring at the back of the collar. She smiled brightly in to Betsy’s face as she forced her head back and down to meet with the eye bolt welded to the top of the pole. The padlock clicked into place.
Tara stood back and inspected the girl. “I love that position. Take a look, dear.”
With some effort, Betsy inched her head around to see herself in the mirrored wall. She could see why Tara liked her this way: her arms were taut by virtue of being attached by the wrist to her ankle cuffs. She was forced to bow her back considerably to afford her neck being attached to the pole with no leeway. Her firm breasts jutted up toward the ceiling and her beautifully proportioned pelvis was now the forward most part of her body. She looked back at Tara now with a little trepidation. “She’s goin to beat me! My God, I can’t take that! This has to stop…”
Tara stands before her now, freezing her thoughts. She clinches her eyes shut waiting for the first blow. Nothing. She ventures a breath, two, three, four. Nothing. Silence. Now a scent. Now a bit stronger. Her eyes open to a wall of leather one inch from her nose. Tara’s skirt. Tara’s grin looks A lot like Robert’s from Betsy’s perspective. Now Betsy realizes what Tara plans! Without a word Tara unzips first the right zipper then the left. Another step places her over Betsy’s upturned face. “Now my dear, you’re going to make me cum.”
Betsy knew that struggling was useless, but she struggled anyway. The scent of leather was replaced now by the faintly musky odor of Tara’s womanhood. Betsy opened her eyes and was confronted with a perfectly trimmed pubic mount of jet black hair. Tara’s thighs, firm and strong closed on each side of Betsy’s head preventing even the
modicum of movement allowed by the collar…
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Bad Bad Girl wanted some rough play. And she got it:
He released my hair and pushed me back down, instructing me to lay forward, ass up and arms in front of me. I complied as I felt him pushing his cock against my ass. Lube is a luxury, and not one I would be afforded tonight. He entered me roughly, and after a few strokes, told me to kneel back up. I did so, carefully, as so not to disconnect us. At this point, he gathered all of my hair in his hand and told me to lean forward again.
I did so slowly, cautiously as to not yank my head in the process. I used all the strength my thighs could hold to lean forward until I was leaning forward in a 45 degree angle, being supported by my hair. I could feel more strands breaking but I complied. When he started fucking me again, each thrust pulled on my scalp. My thighs burned and occasionally I had to simply allow his grip on my hair to hold me up while he fucked my ass deep and hard. It was intense and violent. I stayed as quiet as I could, but could not deny how the angle of his cock penetrating me felt amazing. My whole body was shaking, and while I wanted to come, I could not. He instructed me to reach behind me and pull my ass open, so he could watch his cock disappear in my ass. It was humiliating and seemed physically impossible, but yet so owned and controlled. I could no longer balance my body on anything but my hair since my center of gravity was off, and as I leaned into the exquisite pain from my hair, I came so close to orgasm, but it escaped me. There was no way my body could get there, so I simply slipped away, back into my dark corner. From the outside, I suppose it looked as violent as it felt, but from the inside, I was in a deep headspace that made me feel somewhat like flying. He kept going, telling me what a delicious little slut I was, how he owns my whole body and if he wants to break it, he can. I replied with the only words I could get out, “Yes Master.”
The bondage quality isn’t the best, but it’s still a fun vintage bondage photo:

What’s @pandorablake thinking when she exercises?
I always indulge the galley slave fantasy when I’m using the rowing machine at the gym.
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Remember this post featuring a man, his mast, and a tied-up lady?
Well, Pat Powers has his own funny riff on that image… but what’s more, he’s got an attribution! Turns out it was cover art from a paperback by John Slater called Woman Of Blood Island.
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“I love you, but I will hurt you…”
That’s just the first thing on the list.
Bondage links. Not Friday. Don’t ask:
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The Hentai Horror Band? Groupies? Yes, they do them. Yes, they do:
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I purely love thumbcuffs. Cheap, simple, and extremely effective:
As they say at The Stockroom: “These thumbcuffs really work!”
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Here’s another excerpt from The Green Door, previously quoted here:
In her excitement she spoke before thinking. “I do learn fast, don’t I?” His eyes opened slowly, and she was frightened at the cold glare that came from under his perfect brow.
“Some things perhaps, but not others.” He rose from the chair and retrieved a thick leather strap from his seemingly endless supply behind the chair. He stood behind her now looking down at her imploring face.
“I’m sorry… please…”
“Too late. Open your mouth.” He had bent down now, grasping the slim strap holding her cuffed wrists in one hand and a threatening looking contraption in the other. The strap was nearly five inches thick at its widest point and was fashioned from very sturdy leather. A leather pear-shaped protrusion attached at the center was poised before her full lips. He was speaking again: “Open your fucking mouth!”
“That won’t fit in my….” A sharp pain in both shoulders interrupted her. He was pulling her wrists up toward her shoulder blades by means of that damned strap. She opened her mouth to both comply and to release a sharp squeal of pain. The leather pear did indeed fit in her mouth, but barely. She had no idea her jaws could stretch that far. He carefully pulled up her long flowing hair to buckle the gag snugly at the back of her neck. She could make absolutely no sound. The pear forced her tongue to the bottom of her mouth, and the strap sealed her lips and trapped them against her teeth. “That should remind you not to speak without permission.
I believe this is a screen capture from a movie called South Of The Border 6: Interrogations.
The indignant heroine demands to be unchained, in Georges Pichard’s Paulette:

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The next person I meet who needs to be restrained in order to keep him or her in the jacuzzi will be the first. But still, it’s pretty:
From Water Bondage.
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Maybe it’s just me, but wouldn’t it have been easier to take off her high heels and then forgo the whole “standing on a stool” part?
Art is by Bill Ward, from an old stroke book called A Very Private Dick.
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