My Daring Self-Bondage Public Walk

The lower floors of the parking garage are completely full, but I find an empty parking space on the third floor in front of a concrete wall and thankfully head into it. It is late Saturday morning so I surmise there are a lot of people shopping. I turn the engine off and try to relax; the journey has been quite interesting. Driving for the first time in my extravagantly high-heeled boots was an initial challenge, and then the two large plugs buried deep inside me increasingly made their presence felt.

I am about to start my third public bondage walk. In the first two, which seemed daring and adventurous at the time, my only bondage was a leather chastity belt holding two plugs inside me, the belt concealed by shorts. For my first walk I simply went grocery shopping, and for my second I strolled around an indoor mall without speaking to anyone or buying anything. All I had to do to end these walks was to get in my car and drive home.

This walk is different; it will be a lot more adventurous and perhaps a little dangerous. After my first two walks I searched the Internet looking for new public bondage ideas and discovered that my walks had not really been adventurous or daring at all: there was no restrictive bondage and little chance of discovery. I dared myself to push myself beyond my limits, to do a walk in real bondage and sexy clothes.

And that is what I plan to do this morning: to walk through the center of a busy town in restrictive bondage wearing high-heeled boots and a short skirt (the highest heels and the shortest skirt I have ever worn in public). The bondage hopefully will be invisible, or at least not noticeable, to passers by. The bondage will be real and, once I start the walk, inescapable. I will have to walk to where I have hidden my spare car key, retrieve it and return to the car before I can release myself. My home is too far away to walk; more than 20 miles. I chose this town because I cannot afford my adventure to be witnessed by any of my friends or coworkers, and I don't think any of them live here. Quite apart from my sexy clothes, the protrusion of my breasts caused by my breast bondage would be the topic of office gossip for months, and the last thing I want is for some friend to hug me or try to shake my hand (for reasons which will soon become clear).

'Am I ready?' I ask myself. 'Yes' I reply with determination. I have spent too much time and energy to reach this point to chicken out now. I have already chickened out once, a week ago, and if I chicken out again I will never forgive myself.

I place my car key in my pocket book and take out my two thumbcuffs and their key. I encircle each thumb with a cuff and carefully click it closed. The closure of the cuff is very critical, there is only one position that is a happy medium between being able to escape and being too tight, so I carefully count the clicks as I close the cuff. I double lock the cuffs and place the key on the passenger car seat. I am now breathing hard with excitement and feel the restrictions of my corset and other bondage. I lean forward to place my pocket book on the floor fighting my collar which is trying to choke me. Looking around to check that no one is watching, I remove the protective towel from my lap and drop it over the pocket book to conceal it. My skirt is so short that my garters and the shiny brass padlock under my crotch are now fully exposed. I carefully maneuver myself out of the car and stand up. Smoothing my miniskirt down I check that the two black threads are still intact. They are. These threads are attached to belt loops on my miniskirt, pass down through holes I have cut in the bottoms of its two front pockets and are tied to two steel rings, holding them up. These rings are at the ends of a short chain under my miniskirt. The middle of this chain is padlocked under my crotch to another chain that runs up my backside and is padlocked to the back of my leather chastity belt.

I place one hand on the open car door and wonder if I have forgotten anything. I can't think of anything so lock and close the door. I am now committed to my walk.

Feeling aroused, I put my hands in the two front pockets of my miniskirt. Leaning forward to reach down, I click the open cuffs through the rings at the bottom of my pockets. I feel an instant rush of arousal tinged with panic! I have done it! I have really done it! I cannot now use my hands and am now committed to walking through the center of the town in full bondage to where I hid my spare car keys. I even have to walk back the same way, for the key to my thumbcuffs is locked in my car.

Standing up straight I test my bondage. My black leather collar, which is snug around my neck, is locked to a back strap that runs down under the top laces of my corset and is then padlocked to the back of my chastity belt with the same padlock that secures the chain running under my crotch. My bondage is nicely balanced. To avoid pressure on my throat I have to stand with good upper body posture (my tightly-laced boned corset ensures good lower body posture); I cannot hunch or lean very far forward. My thumbs are held firmly down so that I can't even remove them from the pockets of my miniskirt. I pull gently up on my thumbs and feel the chains press on my leather chastity belt and the plugs inside me.

This is not my only bondage. The base of each of my breasts is bound with several turns of braided nylon rope. This breast bondage, as well as the short skirt and high heels, was suggested by some public bondage dares I read on the Internet. My breasts are not tightly bound; pain is not the objective of this adventure, but I can certainly feel them. Preferring chain bondage to rope bondage, I wrapped two thin chains over the ropes and secured them with two small padlocks, one under each breast. To conceal this bondage from public view I wrapped bandages over the chains and am wearing two tops. The first is stretchy and a little too small for me (particularly now that my breasts stick out more), but it helps keeps my breasts in place. The outer top is loose fitting with a high collar to help conceal the lock at the back of my leather choker.

My boots are also a form of bondage. I wanted to bind my legs, which for me normally means chaining my ankles together with a short chain. In public this would be only possible in a floor-length skirt, but then the bondage would be revealed by the tiny steps I would be forced to take. Instead I decided to wear very high heels that could not be removed. These, in combination with a short skirt that would be too revealing if I sat down, seemed a reasonable substitute. Since my hands would not be free to protect me if I fell, I decided to wear boots that give ankle support. Since I didn't have boots with very high heels I went online and searched.

I found some killer ankle boots on ebay. They had 5 ½-inch stiletto heels (according to the seller, I have never measured them). But what really attracted me, and turned me on, was the ankle strap that was secured with two silver padlocks that prevented their removal. I bid on them and bought them. When they arrived I was surprised to find how comfortable they were.

But when dressing for the public walk last weekend I decided that the very visible padlocks were a bit too much, and might lead people to discover my other bondage. I told myself that my dare required me to wear high-heeled boots for the walk so didn't do it. That night (while in painful self-bondage as a punishment for my cowardice in failing to do my public walk) I thought of another way to fasten the boots on so they could not be removed. After zipping them up I could thread black cable ties through the zipper pulls and secure them around my ankles over the boots. After trimming the ends I could cover them with the ankle straps and could secure these with small black shoelaces. The bondage would be just as effective, but no longer visible. And that's just what I did this morning.

To bind my arms in public I invented my present thumbcuff bondage (it possibly has been invented earlier by someone else, but I haven't read about it). I wanted to get a leather skirt as suggested by a dare I read online, but couldn't find one that was suitable (two front pockets, belt loops, and short length). I found a substitute; one made in black twill that met my requirements. It is also stretchy (3% spandex) so hugs my curves closely (perhaps too closely; if one looks carefully one can detect the small bump made by the padlock at the back of my chastity belt).

My attire is intended to have a Goth look: black leather collar with short silver spikes (these were meant to match my silver ankle padlocks, belt buckle, and my secret thumbcuffs), black top, black miniskirt with black leather belt, black stockings held up by my corset garters and black ankle boots.

As I finish checking the balance between the pull of my thumbcuffs and that of my backstrap (not that I can do anything about it if I've somehow made a mistake), I hear someone approaching. I freeze and keep my back to them; I am not prepared to meet anyone yet. As the footsteps die away I take several deep breaths, or as deep as my corset allows, and tell myself, 'This is it. The sooner you start the sooner you will finish. Every journey begins with a single step.'

I walk away from the car and almost immediately foresee my first problem. My miniskirt is so short (some would call it a micro mini) that it barely conceals the shiny padlock hanging under my crotch. (I couldn't pull the skirt down even if my hands could grasp its hem since it is held up by a sturdy leather belt.) I had planned to take the elevator down rather than walk down the stairs and risk someone looking up my miniskirt and seeing the padlock. But with my thumbs securely imprisoned I dare not take the elevator since I might not be able to reach the floor buttons. Imagine being trapped inside an elevator and being unable to reach the buttons! By bending my knees I can reach lower, but there is no way to raise my hands. Not knowing how high the elevator buttons are, I decide to take the stairs down.

I head towards the stairs relieved that no one is around. At the top of the steps, which are concrete, I listen, but no one seems to be coming up. I haven't walked down steps wearing these boots before; this was never part of my plan. The steps are steep so I will have to be careful not to fall. I try to hold the iron handrail but can't get a get a good grip with my fingers alone. Using my thumb causes the handrail to touch my skirt and this would probably cause it to ride up as I descend the stairs. These things are hard to foresee; I wonder how many more surprises are in store for me?

Releasing the handrail, I turn sideways and begin a cautious descent, one step at a time. Suddenly I hear voices, someone is coming up! Panic strikes me, what to do? I freeze with both feet on the same step and press my knees together hoping to conceal the padlock. A young couple, both maybe in their mid twenties, round a corner of the stairs. She is beautiful with long flowing hair, but he looks a little scruffy, an oddly matched pair. As soon as they see me they stop talking.

As they pass the women asks, "Are you alright?"

"Yes I'm fine, I'm waiting for someone," I reply nervously. I don't think the words even went through my conscious brain; the excuse just seemed to pop out. I realize that the woman must have seen, or sensed, my fear.

The man, who was looking at my legs and then at my breasts, nods at me, and the couple continues their ascent. When they have disappeared and I can no longer hear them, I continue my cautious descent to street level, fortunately meeting no one else.

As I enter the sunlit street I instinctively try to smooth my miniskirt down, but can't do it even with my fingers at full stretch. Keeping my thumbs in the pockets, but with my fingers outside (this hides the outline of the thumbcuffs and I think presents the most casual look) I set out towards the old town center. I can feel the constrictions on my bondage, my corset, chastity belt, breast ropes, collar and back strap, and the two plugs inside me. I am in a heightened state, aroused and excited, yet nervous about my appearance and afraid of discovery. I am breathing rapidly and shallowly, and consciously try to slow my breathing and calm myself. I wonder what passers by think of me, and avoid looking at them. I try to reassure myself that they cannot detect what's under my clothes.

I am also taking very short steps. I tell myself this is no way to walk. I should walk with confidence; step out boldly, or at least as boldly as I can in these boots. I should look up and stop looking down. I should not care about what people think of me, the thoughts of strangers will never hurt me. I look up and take longer steps, rolling my hips a little (the corset prevents my rolling them a lot) and try to walk like a model down a runway showing off my clothes. I immediately feel better, I am no longer afraid of people, and feel that I could even make eye contact if I wanted to.

Quite apart from the novelty of the bondage it feels strange walking without my pocket book. I have a strong feeling that I am forgetting something, but no idea what it is. Am I really forgetting something? I am quite capable of doing so, as those of you who have been following my self-bondage adventures know. But I don't think so; all I need is a car key to get back into my car, and I have two to choose from (plus a third escape method that is, as I now realize, perhaps too far away to be practical). What can go wrong?

I walk the two blocks into the town center and find the streets blocked off for an outdoor art exhibition. This is a pleasant surprise. The day is sunny and not too hot, perfect for a stroll around the exhibition to absorb some culture. With many artists around, even my outlandish attire will not seem too out of place. I decide to walk around the exhibition rather than going directly to my hidden car keys.

There are a variety of artists; painters, potters, woodworkers, crafters, and at least one sculptor. I stroll slowly around examining the booths from a safe distance. But as time passes and no one hassles me, I gain confidence in my appearance. As I walk around looking at the various paintings and crafts, I feel perfectly safe. My confidence in my appearance increases and my main concern is that I have to be careful where I place my feet.

Stopping opposite one artist's booth, I pull gently upon my thumbs, keeping my fingers pressed down on the skirt to prevent it riding up, and feel the chain press up on my chastity belt. Mmmm, it feels good! But the thumbcuffs are digging into my thumbs and I begin to wonder if anyone nearby can see what I'm doing. Becoming concerned, I weigh the tradeoff between the short-term pleasure and the possible long-term damage to my poor thumbs, and decide to stop. Orgasms will have to wait till the adventure is over. (And I'm not sure that this small stimulation is capable of getting me there anyway).

I resume my walk around the exhibition and after a while feel safe enough to talk to some of the artists. They can't leave their booths and hit on me or follow me. I can flirt with them and feel perfectly secure. The main problem is that I have to keep my hands (or least my thumbs) in my pockets. At times I even forget that I am in bondage.

One artist becomes suspicious when I refer to some brushwork in a painting we are discussing and have to awkwardly describe its location rather than point to it. I have to move on rather abruptly feeling foolish and somewhat embarrassed.

Most of the painters have portrayed pretty scenes; flowers and idealized landscapes, but I find one that has painted surrealist nudes. They interest me and I enter the booth to examine them more closely. They are executed in bright colors and have lots of fine, but abstract detail, indicating that the artist really cared about his work.

I am standing close to one work that appears to represent two females on a bed, or perhaps a single female with a mirror behind, and am studying it trying to figure out the meaning of the composition when I hear a voice close behind my left shoulder.

"That's one of my favorites."

I turn and look at the speaker. He is young and clean-shaven, not the bearded artist I would have imagined. He has friendly face and pleasant voice and without thinking I reply, "Did you paint this?"

"Yes. Do you like it?"

"Yes, it's very nice," I say, rather feebly. My mind is going in two directions; one part is attracted to him and wants to flirt a little, the other part is reminding me of my bondage and warning me to walk away.

The flirty part wins and while I am trying to think of something more intelligent to say, he continues, "I'll give you a discount if you want to buy it."

"I like your use of color, and the way you portrayed the woman as a seductress." I want to point out the face of one of the females, but stop myself just in time; I can't afford to pull up the front of my miniskirt. I can't use my hands as I normally do when talking, and begin to feel more self-conscious.

"Thank you. That's very perceptive of you. Yes, she was quite a vixen, one of my favorite models."

I am surprised he uses models; his work seems too abstract. "You can really feel her personality in the way you've painted her," I say to flatter him.

"I want my work to go to someone who really appreciates it. I'll tell you what; I'll let you have it for 600 dollars."

Since the price tag shows 1250 dollars, this is less than half price. Is the artist coming on to me? "I'll think about it," I reply. My walls at home are decorated, rather sparsely, with posters and cheap prints. I prefer to spend my spare money on bondage equipment. I get more pleasure out of things that affect the sexual regions in my brain rather than the aesthetic centers.

"I'll give it to you if you model for me."

I am shocked. Does he really find me that attractive? Or is he looking for sex? Does he want me to model nude, or has he detected my fetish and is looking for a bondage model? No matter what he wants, this is far too uncomfortable. "No thank you, I don't do modeling," I reply, trying not to reject him too abruptly.

"It doesn't matter if you haven't done it before, it's very easy."

"I'm sure it is, but I'm really not interested," I say with a firmer tone getting ready to leave.

"Give me a call if you change your mind, you'd make a good model. Here, take my card," and with that he holds out a small card that appears to have one of his paintings printed on it.

I feel trapped, I can't raise either hand to accept his card, and not to accept it would not only be very rude, it might lead to questions that reveal my bondage. I can't admit I'm in bondage, not to him, and there are people close by who might also hear. I enter a state of paralyzed semi panic wondering what to do and time seems to stop. Suddenly I hear myself saying, "I'm afraid my arms don't work very well, could you put it in my fingers?"

"Oh, I see," he says, looking surprised. But he places the card between the fingers of my left hand.

"Thanks," I say and walk away feeling very embarrassed, and determined not to get into any more conversations. I don't want to risk being caught. I maneuver the card into my pocket and hold it there.

I wonder what he thought of me. Perhaps, because of my short skirt and high heels he thought I was some kind of slut. Did he believe me when I indicated my arms were paralyzed? Why would anyone go out dressed as I was if they couldn't use their arms? They would have to get someone to dress them. And that someone surely wouldn't dress me in a short skirt and boots with 5 ½ inch stiletto heels. If someone dressed me and wanted me to enjoy myself they would surely choose more sensible skirt and shoes.