Bondage Erotic Sex Stories

Sometimes your life work is handed to you. Sometimes you fall into it. Sometimes it comes to you in a kind of religious experience. That’s how it was with me.

I worked for Joe Conner’s Custom Van and Detail on a string of car shows. After the shows ran out I went to work for their photographer, Justin. You can read that as lighting man, gofer, agent, model, or lover. Charlie Conner needed a portfolio of the vans to take back to California, so Justin and I had been working closely during the shows. Much as I wanted to get back to the coast, and to my board, Justin’s offer was to good to turn down. It shows how much a simple decision can lead you to unexpected places. A few months later I found myself, gagged, tied up like a turkey, hanging by my arms from a wall, staring at a totally beautiful witch as she stretched her catlike legs on a ballet bar.

Then she looked at me, and my world changed.

***

The car shows had been going smoothly till we hit Syracuse. Charlie dropped the ball and left us without any bikini girls. In a fit of desperation we had a contest. We went to the college hangouts and posted announcements for model tryouts. The lucky winners would receive immediate work and a professional portfolio shoot. It worked like a dream. We got six very hot girls, eager to work for a quarter of what we were prepared to pay agency models. After the show, five of the fashion shoots went smoothly. Then came Gina: age 23, college senior, and high price call girl. Her portfolio was not intended for Madison Avenue. After 30 minutes of watching her undress for the camera, I was ready for a cold shower and Justin was ready for me. He blew me on the elevator, and then had me ream him out when we made it back to our room. That was to become something of a pattern.

It became clear as we moved through the Midwest that word had gone before us. Jodi followed Gina. Candy and Bambi followed Jodi, then Carmen and the twins Melissa and Marissa. By Dayton I was turning away more pros than amateurs, even with the benefits they offered on the side. More than that, Justin was getting photo-shoot offers on the side. His voice mail was wall-to-wall hookers wanting publicity shots and Madams wanting catalogs. When the last show wound down in April, Justin’s studio was booked through Labor Day.

It was a hell of a summer, but that would be another story. Suffice to say that I had enough on camera sex to keep a teenager happy, and enough off camera experience to run a gigolo college. It is amazing what working girls want to do on their own time, especially if they pay you. If that was insufficient, Justin was available to blow me at any time, in any place, not to mention giving me his tight ass. I kept a tube of KY with in reach at all times and learned to go without sleep.

Eventually the flood slowed to a stream and Justin started fishing for other work. What he found was a beauty. Two big name firms had tried and set it aside already. Time was short, and the sponsor of the shoot was getting desperate.

The project was an auction catalog. Justin’s summer of slut and smut may have given him the inside track. Everything in the sale was either erotic, sexually oriented, or by someone famous for something sexually related. And expensive. The centerpiece of the sale was a collection of Bondage and Domination wear from a Hollywood brothel of the 1920s. The minimum bid on that item was $500,000. Justin was beside himself with excitement. I would have been too, except for two things.

The first problem was Peter, the equipment nerd we were hired to work with. Peter and I disliked each other on sight. Within a week we had moved past not speaking to not even acknowledging each other.

The other problem was the man with the checkbook, Sean Richards. With him it was not a like/dislike problem. What he wanted, we wanted to get for him, but we never could figure out what he wanted. He was a really literal kind of guy: just facts, never ideas. If we brought something to him, he would like it or not, but never could tell us why or why not. It drove all three of us nuts. We worked three weeks getting every item shot a dozen times, in all kinds of light, against all kinds of settings. Nothing worked. Then Mr Richards brought in Her.

We had been having a typically unproductive day. Peter and Justin were arguing something technical about film speed and light flux, when a message came from Mr Richards to come to his office. We had been waiting about 10 minutes when she walked in. I love the old song “Long Cool Woman in a Black Dress.” That was she. I think the line about “tall walking big black cat” is especially close: smooth, sinuous, and dangerous.

Cynthia, Mr Richards introduced her with no last name, was tall, dark haired and moved with a dancer’s grace. She was conservatively dressed, but she made it talk. As I said she came across as dangerous. Mr Richards introduced the three of us, by full names, and left us alone with her. I felt outnumbered.

Peter opened up with a technical question. She sent it back with topspin. Justin pulled out some of the more provocative prints. Her prints topped his. Even I could see she had a great eye for depth of field. After maybe 15-20 minutes of verbal fencing, when she sent for Mr Richards, but I had no need to listen. She knew her shit and she was the boss. Mr Richards just underlined it.

After he left again, she jumped right in. I think it was the first time she had seen the entire sale inventory laid out. She had Peter and Justin walk her through it all. Then in about 30 seconds she gave us what we could never get from Mr Richards in three weeks: a theme. Her vision was art gallery meets Outer Limits, with a nod to “Rocky Horror Picture Show”. She set Peter to matting each existing photo in a frame, by period no less. Peter took the ball and ran with it. One of the items was a 17th Century letter by the Marquis de Sade. She told Justin she wanted it reshot in every conceivable light and range, including specifically candlelight. My heart sank. If Justin was in his normal mode, he might get sleep around dawn, if he got any at all. Then she turned to me.

“That brings me to you Jason. What is your dress code?” Uh-oh. She and Peter had been talking about the dungeon stuff. She had to be thinking about that. I was scared shitless, but no one had told Little Jay. My compass point had just ticked north.

“Um. I usually chose whatever was best for the shot. Justin always took my lead.” Sure. The fact that Justin wanted to see me in that stuff, is beside the point.

“Well then, why don’t you and I go look over the material? Justin and Peter have enough to keep them busy for a while.” They might still be at it next week if she gave them that much time. We went to the vault.

I never did much in the BDSM area, but I knew a few guys and a girl or two that had. This was some primo stuff. I was breathing hard just looking at it. All of it was handmade, mostly in leather. A lot of it was just restraints and lashes, but there was some really exotic stuff that I could not even put a name to. If I was going to have to pick and choose, I needed to be careful. Sure enough she threw it to me.

“Jason dear, I have in mind a little drama. Cinema in fact. My studio is equipped with four digital cameras. I think that the two of us, with a few props, might make some usable shots. I had in mind choosing a few of these for you. For my self I have a new custom made undergarment that I want to try out. A corset actually. Why don’t you pick out a few things that you find interesting?”

Corset? My compass swung toward north again. In fact by the time I had a pile of items–nothing I didn’t recognize except a nifty truss I could never get into–Little Jay was beginning to seriously ache. Down boy. We have a ton of paper to wade through.

The paperwork was an experience all by itself. Cynthia was amazing; I could watch this woman for hours. Sean’s secretary always seemed cold to me, but Cynthia worked with her like beer with pretzels. In half the time I would have guessed, two of the security guys, were loading up the van and we were heading for Cynthia’s studio.

Paul and Richard, Mr Richard’s security men, were cool. We had worked together for three weeks. I was thinking that I should be feeling a little more relaxed, but it was not happening. There was something different about those two today. It was like she owned them. Like they were her hired muscle, not Mr Richard’s security detail. Weird. It was just one more thing to set me on edge.

Then I saw her place and edgy took on whole new meanings. Even Paul and Richard felt it. Not that it was a surprise, since I had seen it all in the pictures in her portfolio, but there is nothing like seeing an BDSM studio in person. Everywhere you looked was another way to tie someone up or inflict discomfort or outright pain. I began to wonder why she bothered with the stuff we brought with us, when I found out that Cynthia had no intention of using them. She just wanted close matches from her prop room.

We were in there for an hour. We, myself, Paul and Richard that is, worked up a sweat pulling down boxes, going through a thousand items, finding things that looked right and fit me. Then, when we were done, I could hold everything in one hand. Maybe she was doing it as a tease. Somehow I would not put it past her. By the time we came out you could have sent any of us to the roof with a tap on the shoulder. As bad as being in that room was, finishing and heading for the hanging room was worse. I kept telling myself “She is a professional and so are you. Get the shot and get back to the hotel.” It was NOT working.

Did you ever hear that old song about a yellow polka dot bikini. The girl stays in the shower because she’s embarrassed to come out in public. It was like that. I took off my clothes and put on the jock and the wrist and ankle bands. Nothing new so far. Then came the harness, which was sort of like a weightlifters belt with suspenders and enough tie rings to run a horse show. It was impossible to tell the front from the back. I decided to put the belt buckle in front, which meant all the other buckles were in back. Rings were front and back either way. I pulled the straps tight and decided to chance it. The gag she gave me was not in my program. Evidently I had taken too long.

She was pointing to me when I came out the door. “Richard, Paul, fetch that young man for me. I believe he may be a little reluctant to begin.” They definitely did not grin, but they did put a definite sense of desire into their task. Side by side, they strode up to me, and picked me up by the armpits. As they carried me to her, she smiled and my blood froze. I realized that leaving out the gag was a mistake. A very big mistake.

“Tsk. Tsk. Jason, I am put out with you. I was very sure that we had a meeting of the minds as to what the appropriate garb would be. But now, here you are unprepared. We will have to remedy that.” OK. All right. Give me the damn gag. For some reason, I never made a sound.

Much to my surprise, she did not tell me to get the gag, or send one of the guys after it. Instead she locked my ankles together, then my wrists. No sweat. Then she had Paul and Richard force me to my knees so she could lock my wrists to my ankle. The position very quickly convinced me that the human body is not meant to bend that way. I started to protest, but she gave me a tiny shake of her head and I thought better of it. I may be slow, but I’m not totally stupid.

“Paul, Jason seems to be under sufficient control for the moment. Would you be so kind as to fetch the item he neglected to bring?” She picked up a riding crop. Uh oh. “Dear boy, please understand that I only want to get the shoot to work correctly. To do that, I need your full cooperation. You do want to cooperate don’t you?” Yah. No problem. I did my very best not to move until Paul came back with the gag.

“Dear boy, I need you to open your mouth. Would you do that for me please?” I tried. It was not even close to enough. That ball looked small in my hand. By the time Paul forced it into my mouth, it felt like a soccer ball. Ouch. But she gave me no time to think about my creaking jaw. Instead she took a riding crop and stroked my compass point. I had no chance of not reacting. Her lips twitched as she walked around to release the lock the held my feet to my hands. Paul and Richard hauled me to my feet. For a moment I thought I would fall, but no chance. Richard stopped me with a jerk.

“Dear boy, you must learn to trust me to take care of these little details. If I were to want you to fall, you would fall. As you will have noticed, Richard and Paul have had training in handling hobbled men.” Then and there, I could believe it and I had thought I knew these guys.

My hands were relocked to one of the rings on that heavy belt. Well I knew what those were for, so that was no surprise. “Now it’s show time. Richard, Paul, over there if you please.” They hauled me a wall: one that was covered floor to ceiling with big, heavy rings. You could hang an elephant or a whole football team from that wall.

She had picked up what looked like a fighting stick: hard wood, four feet long, maybe an inch and a half thick. My eyes must have bugged out. I have no idea what she could do with that stick, but I knew I could put four or five people in the hospital if I had it in a bar fight. Her eyes told me she had wanted me to think exactly that. Then, with a ghost of a smile, she ran the stick inside my elbows. Uh oh. She nodded to Richard and Paul, who picked me up by the stick under my armpits.

Holy fucking shit. Levels of pain I had never dreamed in my nightmares came to visit. Richard and Paul tied the ends of the stick to the rings on the wall with my heels off the ground. My toes could just reach the floor, so I tried to take some of the load off the agony below my shoulders. It did not seem to help. As I struggled to find some way to control the screaming of my muscles, Cynthia patted my cheek.

“There. That should keep you out of trouble while I change. Don’t go anywhere.” Funny. If I were in any condition to comment, I would have come up with something sarcastic. Instead I tried to communicate “Don’t leave me here.” through my eyes. She left anyway.

Its funny how pain seems to lengthen time. After what seemed like an hour, Paul switched his weight to his other foot, and I realized it had been a couple of minutes. My legs started to cramp. When I played football in high school it was a matter of faith that nothing hurt worse than a bad muscle cramp. We were all wrong about that, because somehow it was better. It balanced the fire in my arms. Time passed and Richard leaned over to tell Paul something. It must have been a joke. They both laughed. Time passed and all the aches and pains merged into one sense of intense discomfort.

Time passed and I found myself reflecting on the day past. Remembering how things had been that morning was so ironic I had to laugh. Laughing hurt and the gag got in the way. Somehow that was funny too. I may have gone hysterical for a moment, but that kind of thing does not mix well with gags and pain. I went back to being horribly miserable.

Time passed and started to wonder how long she would be gone. That reminded me of why she left. A corset. My compass point ticked north, again. There was a kind of clarity in my mind that I might have enjoyed under other circumstances. It came to me how odd I had been acting all day. Mr Berle, my tenth grade band conductor, used to call me “Motormouth.” My job at the car shows was as mouthpiece. Half of my ex-girlfriends claimed they never got a word in edgewise when we broke up. I thought back. I could not remember a thing I had said, since I met Cynthia, that was not a short answer to a direct question. Every urge to speak had been squashed by a glance, a stern look, or a raised eyebrow. Unreal. It was such a revelation that I actually missed her return.

Speaking of revelations, she was one. White bra, panties and a large white hair bow. Nothing else, not even shoes or sandals. She had a basket, which had the shoes, stockings, and–my compass twitched again–she had mentioned a corset. As crazy as it must have looked with me hanging on the wall trussed up as I was, I struggled for a look into the basket. Little Jay stretched out for a look too. She only went over to Paul and handed him the basket.

“Paul, could you help me out a bit here. I need someone to hold my things. This is not something that can be worn”, pause to glance at me with just a twitch of the lips, “without assistance. Would you be so kind? Jason seems to have other things to do just now.” No kidding.

She pulled up a stool and set one of her sculpted legs on it. My Lord she was built. Every time she moved, muscled rippled under the skin. It was easy to make out the 38 - 24 - 36, which, if anything, looked larger but bound up a bit. I had not noticed her perfect pale skin before. Now her long dark hair and the white cotton made it luster, like polished marble. It came to her that in many ways she was like a mobile statue. Her emotions seemed so controlled; her coloring was so light and dark, her attitude so hard and unyielding. Not that I would not have bruised my prick on that unseen cunt, even if it was hard as rock. Right then Little Jay could have matched any stone for hardness.

She took a silk stocking out and for one moment stopped in place while her fingers rolled the stocking. Of everything that went on that day, that was the image of her that stays with me: standing motionless, one leg firmly on the ground, the other bent with the foot on a stool, intent on the fingers that slowly rolled a white silk stocking. A statue in life. It was like a light went on and made everything clear.

Then she bent to roll the stocking over her perfect leg and turned to take the other. I realized I had not drawn breath in some time and rejoined the living. It was a good time to do it: she was putting on the corset. I had never actually seen one before. I known that corsets were laced in back, but not that they came apart in front. She told me about corsets as she hooked it together, bottom to top. The corset covered everything from panties to bra plus a little. The discussion would probably be interesting if I could remember anything she said. She absently pinned the stockings and pulled stray bits of elastic and lace clear, then she turned to the pommel horse and gestured to Paul. Paul had been looking on very intently himself.

“Paul, don’t ask. You can not afford it. If you do the rest of your job as well as you have so far, I might give you a photo. You too Richard. I do insist, by the way, that they not be sold. Jason, my sweet, you are already being paid rather well. Let us see if you are, maybe, worth some of it.” There was no smile in her smile. I began to get the impression that she reserved pet names for her victims, and wondered how much one had to pay to become a victim.

She adjusted the corset again and calmly grasped the pommels of the horse and nodded to Paul. As aroused as I was, I almost felt sorry for Paul. His pants were straining as he reached out to pull the strings tight. Look, smell, touch, but no consummation. Then he had to do it all again, pulling hard on each string. The effect was so gradual it was almost unnoticeable, but when he was finally finished it was remarkable. Before she had been a nicely stacked 38 - 24 - 36. Now she was a Barbie-like 38 - 22 - 36. Hell, if they had Barbies that came with corsets and stockings I might start collecting.

When it was done and tied, she walked around rolling her shoulders for a few moments. That alone was worth the admission. Then she put her leg over a ballet bar like it was the most natural act in the world and stretched her hands out to grasp her ankle as her head came down to her knee. Impossible as it sounds, she seemed comfortable in that position, like she had been born there or spent hours every day stretched against that bar. Then she turned her body against the bend until she was facing parallel to the bar with one arm over her head in an arc while the other having never strayed from the ankle. Then she rolled back to the first position and held it. Then repeated the whole process with the other leg. Had I not had my mouth gagged open already, it would have hung open then. The most incredible part was the air of unconcern, as if this was casual stretching. Then she turned her attention to me and the world slipped sideways.

What had been a cross between Barbie, Gumby and a wet dream, turned in a glance into the Ice Bitch from Nordic Hell. It seemed natural that the black riding crop she had teased me with was in her hand. I have no idea how long it had been since I had paid any attention to my body’s aches and pains, but they all came rushing back to me. Yet somehow they did not seem so important. My whole attention focused on the end of the crop, so naturally she wanted to play with it. She tickled my nose. Then it flicked lightly on my nipples. It was the first time I ever really appreciated my own nipples as erogenous points. Then she stepped close and ran the braided leather up and down the inside of my thighs and across the underside of my balls. If that was not enough, I got my first good whiff. Lord she smelled luscious. I could have her for three meals a day.

Then she stepped back and played with my ears and the hair on my neck. Even though I had no range of movement, I squirmed. She reached down and lightly slapped my bare ass. It came to me that Justin would prep up perfectly this way, before I reamed out his ass. Then she made eye contact and raised the crop high. I wanted to watch the crop, but her eyes skewered mine. Down it came and.

flicked Little Jay on the head. My compass had been pointing north so long that the relief of the orgasm almost knocked me out. My whole body surged as my wad shot through the heavy fabric of the jock strap. All my strength went with it. When it was gone, I sagged against the restraints, spent in more ways than one. She reached out and patted my cheek, like she might a child that recited his lessons well.

“Richard, Paul, please let him down. I think we have sufficient footage for our purposes. You can get him cleaned up through there.” They came and carried me to the shower room, where they dumped me on a bench and undid the locks.

I was vaguely glad someone had brought the key. All the gear came off, but they left the cum filled jock for me. It must have been five minutes before I had the strength to stand and strip it off. Even the cold water barely revived me. Eventually I managed to dress for the street and went outside to find Sean’s limo waiting. I didn’t ask. I just crawled in the back and told the driver to take me to the hotel. He never said a word, but he kept glancing to the mirror as he drove. The doorman at the hotel gave me the same expression as I waved off his offered hand. I must have made it to the bed, because Justin woke me when he came in the next morning.

*** Cynthia had indicated that she was not going to give me a picture, but when I met her back at the studio, she relented. She even offered to help me choose one from the tapes. I took her up on that. Sitting next to her as we went through the four, half hour, tapes was an experience I value. No one touched anything. It was just her presence and the stimulation of doing something shared. I think my choice surprised her. She had reserved veto power, but chose not to use it. The frame was of her with her foot on the stool and her attention on the silk stocking she was rolling. If I am not mistaken, she was actually pleased with the selection, but with her I can never tell for sure. To this day it is the enduring image in my mind.

***

The pictures we used for the catalog were mostly of me. Peter and I spent almost 10 hours choosing the exact shots and framing. Funny, we never seemed to clash after that shoot. Did it only take 30 minutes? I have been through all the tapes. Everything seems to be there, but it could not have all fit in that short a time.

What Peter did with the raw tape was pure art. Once the selections were made and approved–Cynthia had a hellacious eye for this stuff too–Peter turned them all into mid 17th century paintings and 1920’s silent movie stills. Justin finally emerged with the finished candlelight pictures of the Marquis’ letter, readable size to arms length. It was easily the best work I had ever seen him do. We used those shots as wallpaper for everything written or printed. We used shots of Cynthia and/or myself for everything else, including the cover. I understand the cover has been showing up in picture framing shops all over the east coast. That shot was of Cynthia leaning close and brushing my face with the crop. I still get chills.

The exposure has helped my career. Becoming a model for Justin had been almost an afterthought. Within a week of the release of the catalog Justin had a dozen offers to shoot me. All of them specified some form of restraint, except for one who wanted to sculpt me nude. That was the one I took first. Suddenly all the offers were from artists. Before long Justin gave up and moved on to other things, while I became the “Human Statue.”

The name is a bit much, but it expresses the nature of the posing I do. I am told sessions of over an hour are rare. Whether posing for a painter or a sculptor I usually go 4-5 hours before a break. For some reason standing frozen in place just seems right to me now. It certainly has financial benefits, but what really surprises me is what it has done for my sex life. Everyone wants to fuck the model who posed for “Greek God in Repose”.