Bondage Blog

Every man of prudence and good sense wants a wife who fits neatly in a duffle bag:

This is Darcy, a dancer from the UK.

Elsewhere on Bondage Blog:

• Collected By Krampus
• Capturing Hotel Party Girls
• Slavegirl In A Gunny Sack
• Bondage Girl, In Luggage
• Dung Sack Bondage

In the dark BDSM romance Caged by Felicity Brandon, our hapless and helpless heroine has taken the best of several bad options to get herself out of the literal breeding cages:

I tilted my head, watching as he placed a washing-up bowl on the floor by the wall.

“It’s time.”

Trepidation twisted in my tummy as he turned and headed in my direction. Tugging at the knots he’d secured at my wrists, he freed me from the bed, jerking me to the floor with the rope still attached to the leather at my neck. I landed on my knees, scrambling toward the bowl as he led me.

“Squat over it.” He pointed to the bowl. “I need urine to run the test.”

My breathing accelerated as I realized what he meant. Not only had he taken and used me, but now he intended to denigrate me further by making me relieve myself here, in front of him. I might have begged for clemency had the dreaded gag not prevented my plea. My head fell as I clambered into place.

Dylan relaxed in his comfortable chair, gripping the end of the rope as I got into position. Surely, this was the most miserable moment of my life. Being on the run had been desperate, but it had given me meaning, but this — what was this? I was only property, bound and expended, made to perform until my sole purpose had been achieved. I shivered, trying to relax as he glanced back at me.

“Come on.” He sounded irritated. “I don’t have all day.”

I eyed him wildly, humiliated as my lips stretched around the ball, and I tried to relax. It wasn’t easy to give him what he wanted when I was this exposed, my muscles contracting rather than relaxing.

“What?” he demanded impatiently, leaning toward me as though I was being impertinent by not urinating on command.

Heaving in a breath, I closed my eyes, blocking out his glare as I tried to calm myself. Slowly, I ceded, the noise of the liquid filling the bowl mortifying.

“Finally,” he growled, pulling me back onto all fours. Securing the rope to the bedpost, he bound me before turning away. He collected the bowl and placed it on the table, fiddling with one of the new fancy pregnancy tests that would determine my fate. My breath hitched as he pulled one from the packaging, lifting it into the air. Its result would decide what became of me, whether I was fed and made to bear a child, who would become another pawn of the system, or sent back to the metal bars to be used by one of the others. It wasn’t much of a choice. Tension tore at my insides as he dipped the strip into my urine.

“It only takes a minute. This little piece of plastic is so sensitive, it can detect even the faintest quantity of hCG.”

I wasn’t sure what the commentary was for. I’d heard all the propaganda before I ran — all about how wonderful the state’s investment in the pharmaceutical company creating the tests was, about how it had revolutionized conception and was building a better world. My stomach churned at the memory of the old radio ads as I watched the side of Dylan’s face. He didn’t make eye contact with me, all his attention on the strip between his fingers while I huddled against the side of the bed. The blow-by-blow account was doing nothing to quell my nerves.

For a fleeting moment, I considered untying the knot he’d made and freeing myself, my heart racing at the idea of liberation before the thought was pulverized by a large dose of reality. Where was I going to go with my newfound freedom? Would I make it to the door before he noticed, and what would become of me when he did? That fear alone was enough to keep me in my place.

“Well, well…”

I couldn’t decide if his tone was pleased or disappointed, the suspense scratching at my stomach until I couldn’t pull in another breath.

“It looks like we did it.” Dylan flashed me a grin, waving the strip of plastic in the air. “The line is weak, but it’s there.”

My belly tightened, panic pinballing as he placed it down and wandered toward me.

“Congratulations, Mum.”

Elsewhere on Bondage Blog:

• Japanese Village Women In Breeding Frames
• Cavemen Grabbed Her For Breeding
• Strangers On A Train: Forced Impregnation Roleplay
• Arcane Bondage Sex Ritual
• Human Husbandry In Tube Cages
• Chained And Branded For Breeding

Earlier this month we checked in with Roxy DeVille as she was learning in Defiant Little Princess (a Hogtied shoot from Kink.com) that BDSM is about more than being a cute submissive little pillow princess. Here she labors to please her dom under difficult conditions, with no hope of getting more than a taste of him through the nylon hood and cloth gag:

Service for service’s sake, princess!

Elsewhere on Bondage Blog:

• Forced Orgasms And Cum For The Backyard Puppygirl
• Bondage Grudge Fucking
• Bondage Cock Worship
• Bondage Handjob
• Cage Service
• Pretty Blonde Service Slave

Bondage damsels in distress on railroad tracks are the oldest trope in the book. But this one isn’t tied in place. Couldn’t she just roll away and off the tracks, with a bit of effort?

Maybe she’s not willing to get bruised and dirty. But it seems a bit shortsighted, princess.

Artwork is by Alazar.

Elsewhere on Bondage Blog:

• Damsel Meets Train
• Train Track Bondage
• Jessica On The Tracks
• Ball-Sucking Bondage Damsel In Distress
• Chained To The Tracks By Villains

The four helpless women strung up for the appreciation of two well-dressed thugs are the decorative elements for the 1967 sex comedy Hot Girls For Men Only, which was also marketed as For Men Only and I Like Birds:

This appears to be a lobby card for the production, and although it comes from one of my ancient Usenet download directories, it doesn’t presently seem to exist anywhere else on the open web. (Given the crippled state of image search in the AI age, that’s very likely incorrect; but none of the image search engines I have access to will admit to knowing about it, anyway.)

Elsewhere on Bondage Blog:

• Well-Roped Crusader Victim
• Three Women In Prison
• Sexploitation Bondage
• Put Her In The Pillory!
• Big Snatch Bondage

This is the kind of weird 1970s BDSM photo that was pretty common in porn back when everything was at least half-underground and kink fashions didn’t have much chance to standardize. This pic is said to have come from a magazine titled Fetish (so generic I have no way to find or check it) and it’s a classic of the bizarre BDSM genre:

Shall we enumerate? Shag carpet backdrop, the “dom” has sideburns and is biting the sub’s shoulder, his whip looks homemade from a piece of bamboo and some cut strips of barn leather, she’s wearing a chain strong enough to hold a brown bear (but is it hooked to anything?), a submissive blowjob is implied but her tongue is two inches away from his cock, and last but not least that penis is limp and floppy as yesterday’s spaghetti. Who is having fun here?

She is however very pretty. “Imaginary pornocalypse-free AI in the sky, can you please crop and reframe this photo so the gorgeous submissive is alone, and then go scan all the old forgotten dead websites in the Wayback Machine to find me other photographs of this model? Thank you!”

Elsewhere on Bondage Blog:

• Big Boobs, Bad Bondage
• "Bad Bondage" Blowjob
• Bad BDSM Prose In The Stroke Books
• Vintage 1970s Bondage Leather
• The Rural Adult Bookshop

His pretty petite wife thought she was going for a cute little shopping cart ride. It was good giggly fun until he parked her with the buggy and chained it to the others to get his coin back:

“Babe! Hey!”

How many steps toward his car do you suppose he got before she started asking nicely to be released?

Elsewhere on Bondage Blog:

• A Snack For The Kenneled Slave
• Binding Johnny Bravo
• Piano Bench Bondage Buttsex
• Talking His Wife Into The Stocks
• Kenneling The Wife