Isabel. Aprologue | bondage story

First dates always made Isabel nervous, but this one was going to set the record.

She tugged nervously on the hem of the micro latex miniskirt that encased her hips like electrical tape. But try as she might, she couldn't budge it down a millimeter.

She felt cool air circulate around her naked crotch. Hope I don't drop anything at the restaurant, she thought to herself.

Not that she could bend down in these thigh-high boots with heels that turned walking into a tightrope act.

Well, he had insisted on dressing her.

And she had most definitely asked for it.

Isabel was tired of dating lukewarm men who practically curtsied when they talked to her. She knew she was good looking, but she really didn't need all the fawning that seemed to define masculinity in the 1990s.

She wanted steak, and life kept serving her artfully-arranged fish sticks.

Then a friend recommended computer dating.

At first, Isabel laughed. She had thought getting fixed up by a microchip went out with Earth Shoes and mood rings.

But then her friend explained the concept of on-line services, and Isabel became very, very interested.

Talking through a keyboard to anonymous paramours sounded like a science-fiction version of the old CB radio fad, but Isabel admitted the concept had definite possibilities.

So she bought a modem for her old computer, jacked into a bulletin board she saw advertised in a magazine, and signed on.

A few days later, she sat down and scanned the possibilities. Swingers, fetishists, gays, piercing . . . nothing clicked until she saw the bondage "room."

Isabel had always harbored a secret longing for what some discreetly called "rough trade." Good girls don't fantasize about total submission, she had always told herself.

But she knew better. The mere sight of handcuffs would send her mind buzzing in a million dark directions. And the thought of being bound and gagged by a man to do with as he pleased made her shiver with electric desire.

And here it was, a digital dungeon where she could be the princess in peril for hundreds of anonymous disciplinarians. Isabel soon found herself to be a most popular chat partner as she willfully disengaged her rational sense of proprietary and let her newfound friends spin webs of dominance and erotic torture around her responses.

She soon learned the sinful secrets and dreadful surprises of the bondage world . . . butt plugs and nipple clamps, the infinite variety of whips, paddles, canes and crops, thick leather and rubber, and the burn of the rope. She played the slave, the hooker, the mistress, the harem girl, the spy, the wayward wife and the bitch who needed a lesson, all with equal gusto.

While many tried to arrange a face-to-face rendezvous, Isabel was wary of the consequences of reality beyond the modem. Most of her on-line suitors lacked that certain something she felt she needed if she was going to put her pussy on the line. She wanted her dream date to fulfill her needs, not treat her like a blow-up doll.

Late one evening, she found him. His handle was MARLBORO (hers was PLAYWITH), but she soon knew him as Ron.

When they first chatted, he never once mentioned bondage, or even sex. This was a first for Isabel, and it definitely intrigued her.

In on-line subsequent conversations, they simply got to know each other. Hobbies, likes, dislikes . . . they seemed to discuss everything but why they were using the bulletin board in the first place.

Then he popped the question.

"Would you like to spend a week with me?" he asked.

Isabel's fingers shook as she held them motionless over the keyboard. On the one hand, she wasn't sure she wanted to meet anyone from the BBS in person. On the other, if she was ever going to explore her fantasies beyond the bulletin board, Ron was definitely the man to help her find her way.

"Yes" was her one-word reply.

"Yes??" was his response.

The game had finally begun.

"Yes, master," she dutifully typed back.

"Who's 'master'? I was merely expressing shock, disbelief and no small degree of wonder at your unexpected reply."

Isabel typed back :), the universal computer smiley.

During their exchanges before their rendezvous, Ron asked Isabel for her measurements. After she gave him the basics, he messaged back requesting a detailed breakdown, including her shoe, neck, head, thigh, calf and shoulder sizes.

This conversation made Isabel swoon, especially when he advised her to "pack light . . . you won't really be needing your own clothes." Visions of leather and lace circled in her brain like sharks smelling blood, her apprehensions colliding head-on with her mounting excitement in a train wreck of lust and panic.

As she struggled with the laces running up the front of the jet-black bustier Ron had selected for her, Isabel realized its too-small size was intentional. She had to pull the two ends of the string together as tight as she could just to keep her nipples covered, and when she finally succeeded in knotting them, her breasts were half-exposed and bulging over the top of the garment like balloons.

Long latex gloves completed her evening's ensemble.

She stared at the unfamiliar reflection in the hotel room's full-length mirror. Who is this little tramp, she asked herself, and why is she smiling?

Not knowing what else to do, she had gotten dressed. Ron had thoughtfully provided everything she would need, including a tight-fitting pearl choker and matching earrings. Everything, that is, with the notable exception of underwear.

Her nervousness increased exponentially as she teetered around the room on her tall spike heels. Was he coming here? Was she supposed to go somewhere dressed like this? What in the world had she gotten herself into?

Her reverie was interrupted by a gentle knock on her door.

She pulled it open a crack, and saw a bellhop standing outside.

"Ma'am? A gentlemen has asked me to escort you downstairs."

He held a full-length fur coat open for her.

"Th-thank you," she said as she stepped out of her room and slipped her arms into the luxurious sleeves.

Here we go, she told herself.

When the elevator doors opened, she quickly scanned the lobby, but no one matched her vision of Ron. The bellhop led her through the foyer and out the front door to a limousine waiting at the curb.

The driver opened the door as she approached.

She peered into the blackness, and felt a huge surge of relief.

The man she presumed was Ron smiled warmly as she crawled into the luxurious interior of the stretch Cadillac. He looked, well, normal. Regular build, nice features, pleasant face, sharp suit, clean shoes, no apparent deformities, discrete cologne . . . what was his problem?

After exchanging awkward greetings, Isabel couldn't believe what she blurted out next.

"Why do you waste your time on a bulletin board?"

"I was going to ask you the same question," he calmly replied. "I could be mistaken, but I think it has something to do with the way I hope you're dressed underneath all that lovely fur."

Despite the darkness, Isabel was sure he could see her blush.

"Actually, I'm probably as relieved as you are," he continued. "You're far prettier than I could have ever expected. Did everything fit well?"

Isabel was surprised to hear herself laugh as she described her struggles with the bustier laces.

"My apologies. Women often exaggerate their chest measurements, so I thought it would be safer to err on the small side."

Isabel was thrilled how instantly comfortable she felt around Ron. He entertained her by pointing out the local sites as they whisked down the road, and she found herself almost forgetting she was dressed like a top-rate hooker on a date with a man she first met while trolling for trouble on a bondage bulletin board.

Then it hit her . . . what was his trip anyway?

Throughout their computer courtship, Ron had carefully avoided any mention of his desires or his plans for her. Unlike all the other guys she had encountered on-line, he had talked about everything but dominance and submission. No tales of imagined torture. No "are you wet yet?" No orders. No nothing.

The costume he chose for her was elegantly wicked, and she loved it, but it was nothing really out of the ordinary, at least in this neighborhood.

"Isabel? Earth to Isabel . . ."

"Huh? Oh, I'm sorry, I was thinking to myself."

"About what?"

"About you."

"I'm flattered. Care to be more specific?"

Isabel paused. "I was wondering . . . just what you had in mind for tonight."

"Oh, nothing extreme. Dinner and maybe a show afterward."

Isabel was now more confused than ever. Was Ron just being annoyingly coy?

But she had to admit, she was tingling from the tips of her latex-enclosed fingers to her straining toes at the bottom of her boots.

They finally arrived in front of the restaurant, and Isabel began to understand the game.

Elegantly-coifed couples shared intimate tables illuminated by soft candlelight. What in the world were they going to think of her slinky slutwear?

"Let me help you with your coat," Ron said as they stood by the maitre d's station.

As she slid out of the bulky fur, the restaurant grew ominously quiet.

Isabel felt her entire body blush as all eyes swiveled in her direction.

The maitre d' arched an eyebrow high enough to qualify as a rocket launch, and led them to a table in the middle of the floor.

As Isabel sat down, she could feel the stunned disbelief in the room. For his part, Ron jauntily ordered champagne and acted as if nothing was out of the ordinary. But Isabel could barely read the menu as a sense of shame and humiliation overwhelmed her.

Do they think I'm his mistress? His prostitute? His slave?

Then she realized that she was all three.

Ron smiled at her across the table.

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She felt another blush creep into her cheeks.

"Can you imagine what every man in this room is thinking right now? You've blown their circuits, my dear. And their wives will probably despise you later tonight after the lights go out."

This concept magnified Isabel's mortification to the point where she could barely croak out her order to the leering waiter.

After they had finished their salads, Ron reached into his pocket and slipped something round and hard under the table to Isabel.

"Why don't you excuse yourself to the ladies' room?" he grinned.

"Oh, and you may need some of this."

He reached into the butter dish, scooped some out, and passed it to her as she stood up.

Isabel hurried across the restaurant and followed the signs to the restrooms. She was relieved when she found the women's lavatory empty.

Once safely inside a stall, she examined the object in her hand. It was a wooden ball about an inch around. Attached to it was a flat round base the size of a quarter.

She looked at the butter in her other hand.

It slowly dawned on her that she was holding her first butt plug.

Isabel began breathing heavily as she greased the sphere.

Reaching underneath the miniskirt, she positioned the ball against her puckered hole, gulped, and eased it into her rectum.

Her virgin ass clenched tightly around the intruder, sending new, indescribable feelings of fullness through her gut and groin. When she stood up straight, she uttered a soft moan of pain and pleasure.

"Are you all right?"

The strange voice jolted her back to the reality of her situation.

"Yes, thanks," she replied.

The woman fixing her hair at the sink glared at Isabel as she washed the excess butter off her gloved hands.

"You should be arrested," the woman hissed.

"So should your husband," Isabel replied.

The matron's chin dropped and her mouth formed a perfect "O" as Isabel strutted out the door and did her best to feign indifference to the stares and her own internal discomfort.

"Hope everything went in all right," Ron said as she sat down.

"Oh yes," Isabel chirped breathlessly as she shifted uneasily in her chair, trying to find a position that she could bear for more than a minute.

"Good. Ah, here's our dinner."

Isabel forced herself to eat at least half of every serving on her plate, but it took extreme effort to keep her thoughts focused on her fork, Ron's casual conversation and the immense discomfort boiling in her groin. She squirmed involuntarily and soon felt tiny beads of sweat popping out beneath her arms and across her forehead.

When dinner was over, Ron mercifully waved off the waiter and called for the check.

Isabel stood up uneasily and threaded her way between the other diners as she headed toward the door. She felt the eyes of every male mentally undress, no, rape her. Every male, that is, except her date, who continued his witty banter as she struggled into her coat.

The limo was waiting outside.

"I thought it might be nice to get a little culture tonight," he said as they pulled away from the curb.

"I do hope you like opera."

After three hours of incomprehensible arias, Isabel was beyond detonation and rapidly approaching complete meltdown. Of course they were seated in a box with some of the town's swankiest citizens, all of whom had massive coronaries when she had removed her coat.

Ron seemed to thoroughly enjoy both her predicament and the bellowing divas. At some point, Isabel realized she was in the clutches of a bonafide professional, a torturer who made the Marquis de Sade look like Pee Wee Herman.

And she literally had to sit on her hands to keep herself from the sweet relief she so desperately craved.