Tagged

Chapter 3

Finally the cleansing... more of a physical inspection... ended. I was ordered to stand. She toweled me. She pressed the nylon of the Posey cuffs, patting away to dry. And then seeming to not want me flaccid, once again led me about by my p***s, its firmness remaining.

“Time to endure for me.”

I began to extrapolate the size of her family trust income as she led me about. The apartment was huge. Another room, a second converted bedroom, had been transformed to a recording studio, I assumed initially to aid in the production of her documentary on Gompers.

Bright stage lights crowded the high ceiling; two adjoining walls appeared to be from the study of some patrician, opulently decorated to form a set. Lining the remaining walls was an array of camera equipment, electronics, video screens, and computers.

“Come. Time to suffer for me.”

She positioned me in the set. Behind me the two walls of opulence. Before me a high definition video camera of impressive size and I assumed expense.

“Lift your right foot.”

Hands remaining secured behind me, I carefully balanced myself as Elsa assisted, drawing the cuffed ankle up to my wrists. There she quickly and deftly connected the Posey ankle cuff to my wrists, presumably with another cable tie. I was to learn the thin but strong vinyl strips were ubiquitous, stored in drawers and cabinets throughout her lair of torment.

“Just a little stress for me. Boys like you so much enjoy...”

She stepped away, forcing me to balance on one foot then returned with a nasty little device.

“The first of many, Leroy. Stay still for me. It will only hurt a little, but if you move about it can be quite painful.”

How do I describe the wickedness?

Think of a simple clothes pin with thumb tacks attached or thrust through the pinching prongs. Clipped to hands, arms or legs the limited pressure of the spring loaded device would offer little discomfort, even with the sharp points. But Elsa calmly, with notable insouciance, clipped the clothes pin to my nose! Pushing a prong up each nostril then releasing so the prongs closed, the sharp points pressing within my nostrils against the septum, the overly sensitive inner tip of my nose. She then quickly moved to a far wall and unraveled a very fine string, disconcertingly delicate. I found that it was strung from a pulley above. For after attaching to the clothes pin, she returned to the wall and gently tugged, forcing my nose and face to point upwards toward the pulley above.

Balancing on one foot, it quickly became evident that I not topple, the sharp points ready to offer excruciating pain should the fine string be further tensioned.

“Good boy,” Elsa complimented, swiftly moving to the camera.

And so began my initial filming, forced to balance in a stress position, bound and restrained in place by a remarkably fragile length of twine... really just a thread.

***

Elsa seemed to revel with the first tear. My eyes watered uncontrollably with my nose so cruelly tethered. She stayed behind the camera, occasionally stepping away to check a video monitor, turning dials, I assume assuring both sound and focus were adequate. When I begged for relief she cooed comforting words, as if tending to a toddler.

Then after countless minutes she approached. I was to find the clothes pin for the nose was not the only torment to be endured. She stood before me, smirking in satisfaction. I suppose because I broke so quickly. Then she diddled my right n****e, quite sensuously toying. And when it crinkled to her satisfaction, she added another clothes pin, this one mercifully without sharp points. But the pressure there was felt, adding of course to the suffering, just when my psyche was beginning to tolerate the nose binding. She captured the meat of the n****e, adding a barely tolerable level of pain to that of the nose binding.

And her timing was superb.

She returned to the camera gleefully watching, gleefully filming.

“You should see your p***s, Leroy. You whimper, you cry, you beg, but boys like you so much enjoy pleasing a woman of my ilk.”

She tilted the camera to point a little downward then evidently zoomed in, focusing on my male package.

I had not noticed, concentrating on standing on one foot, but indeed I was erect. And I began to realize Elsa understood things about me I did not understand myself.

Sacrificing for her enjoyment aroused me! And I would learn that is ingrained. Elsa would teach me.

Meanwhile, timing again exquisite, she visited my stressed form a second time, bringing a clothes pin for my left n****e, after tweaking and teasingly bringing the nub to a point.

Many minutes. Then some mercy... relative mercy. She stepped behind me. I heard a ‘snip’ and my right foot was released. I never before realized that something as simple as standing on two feet could be so joyful. It felt wonderful... until she picked up my left foot. With both energy and fortitude depleted, I meekly allowed her to tether that ankle just as she had the right, returning me to the precarious stress position.

Then, as Elsa so sprightly proclaimed, the real fun began. Clothes pins for my ball sac, mercifully not pinching the testicles but one after another clipped onto the fleshy scrotum, for each one her fingers tenderly gathering up a sizable tuft of loose soft and sensitive flesh, thus slowly adding to the indirect pressure on my precious eggs. The timing was unbearably deliberate; minutes passing before another then another was added. And again I had to marvel at Elsa’s knowledge of the male anatomy, clipping on each pin in such a manner as to add just a modicum of suffering to the steadily increasing pain.

And I became harder, stiffer, my p***s defying my predicament... which Elsa was quite specific in pointing out.

The long evening concluded with my hard on itself. Somehow, despite its firmness, Elsa was able to gather the thin skin and clothes pin left side, right side, left side and right, up the shaft toward the tip.

The tears did not end. My begging voice became raspy. And I learned something else. My beseeching words added to Elsa’s enthusiasm.

I was in the lair of a sadist!

***

I spent Friday night hooded, lying on the floor and tethered to Elsa’s bed.

Saturday morning I was spoon fed and finally my wrists freed so I could work. Elsa showed me about, offered a list of chores which included laundering both my clothes and hers and cleaning the vast abode.

She worked, retreating to the faux study turned recording studio. But not before hobbling me by attaching and locking in place a frustratingly limiting length of vinyl, similar to the cable ties, from ankle cuff to ankle cuff.

“While here, you will always feel the effect of my governance in some manner,” she declared.

Indeed, throughout the drudgery of the day my steps were many and most dainty.

As noted, Elsa is quite the film editor. I was to learn some things about digital recording. Instead of moving about the camera and adjusting the lens, one can later edit. Once the millions of pixels are recorded, Elsa could essentially move about the focus, that ultimately to be viewed within a scene, panning within the recorded frame. At day’s end she played for me the long Friday evening of torment, tears and groveling... most humiliating to have to watch oneself in such ignominy... and I was surprised to view close ups whenever she stepped forth to add one of the many, many clothes pins... effectively cropping herself out of the picture. Nothing but a set of feminine hands was seen gently caressing and kneading my scrotal sac to coax forth another tuft of thin sensitive flesh for clamping.

I was amazed with the clarity and better understood her close examination of my privates while bathing me. My organs were vividly displayed. I thereafter knew to shave diligently.

“And look at all that fluid. You’re a randy one, Leroy.”

Yes, despite the pain and suffering, pre-ejaculatory fluid, for some reason, flowed abundantly. I would have liked to think it was because Elsa expertly diddled the underside of my erect p***s whenever flaccidity beckoned. But we both knew that the stream of stickiness evidenced the joy of the masochist. I had no words to contend with what we both knew. I entertained an amazing woman of authority and dominion... and I enjoyed it.

Saturday night, after a long day of toil, I was oddly disappointed when Elsa announced my night entertainment would be much less traumatic.

“I have a date. Vanilla. In some regards he’s boring but then again he’s more than adequate where adequacy counts when a woman desires certain special attention,” smiling devilishly with my puppy dog look of discontent.

As stated, everything with Elsa has an angle. Before leaving she secured me to her special table. Lying supine, straps made motionless my biceps, forearms, thighs, calves, ankles... with a broad waist belt added in a symbolic jest.

“Be home in a few hours. And I think you’ll be happy to see me.”

With that she gagged me. Not a mere silencing gag, but an elaborate device which buckled and needlessly locked in place. Cruelly, there was an apparatus which not only captured my tongue but could be adjusted to pinch, a wicked knob at my right jaw to be twisted.

“Think you’ll be eager to have that tongue freed when I return,” Elsa offered with sangfroid as she twisted and I futilely attempted to blurt words beseeching mercy.

She left.

***

“Time to lie on the table for me.”

Her voice ends my reverie. My consciousness returns to the present. Though her words are a defacto command, Elsa has this thing about being charming and polite. And it means I will face hours and hours of bondage and sensory deprivation. She knows I hate it. She knows I crave it. It’s mentally tormenting to realize how well she understands the psyches of males who revel in subservience.

“It’s early.”

“I decide...”

So I am led to the same table in her bedroom which ended my reminiscence of the first weekend with Elsa.

“When will I be tattooed?”

“Take some time off from the office and go during the week. I’ll give you the address of the artist and send her the tag. She’s quite good... and easy on the eyes. You’ll enjoy taking your clothes off for her.”

Yes, she knows us so well.

Directed to lie supine as with most evenings when I am tabled, Elsa begins adhering the numerous straps. Many are not needed. I once pointed out that in securing my forearms; there was no added level of restraint in strapping down my biceps... just as with the thigh and calf straps. The ankle restraints more than sufficiently hold my legs in place. And the waist belt is meaningless... physically.

“The straps are not to assure me, Leroy, they are to assure you that you’re firmly held by a woman of authority. Deep within you feel better in thorough bondage. And you know it. If I could restrain your fingers and toes I’d do it just to add to your mental comfort.”

Yes she knows us. And so I silently lie, the last few minutes of verbal exchange, discussing the tag, many more words than I am normally permitted to utter.

“The gag?”

“Of course, Leroy. It so much assures that, not only you will miss me, but be glad to see my return.”

Now well ingrained, I open widely and offer my tongue to the horrid adjustable clamp. I used to beg for moderation. A fruitless solicitation, for the device not only serves to silence, it also ever so slightly stretches the oral appendage which Elsa has come to so much relish after a night of steamy copulation with men deemed more than adequate.

Yes she twists, both tightening the clamp and stretching. I wretch. She smiles and pats my cheeks in an incongruous gesture of warmth.

“You see what the bondage does for you?”

She must point out of course that I slowly tumefy whenever her tender yet firm hands take control. So after stuffing my ears and slipping the hood over my head a soft knowing feminine finger diddles the underside of the tip of my p***s. The touch is ephemeral, nothing more than a brief tease.