Sandra Gets Off Line

Sandra plucked her artificial lower eyelash from her mirror and, placing it under her right eye, she held up her toothbrush, evoking an evil-grinning parody of Alex in A Clockwork Orange. "Oh, you can be sure, my brothers and sisters, that the stinking old pyahnitsas whacking their oozhassny pan-handles while they viddy these molodoy nadsat devotchkas don't know that!" She decided to postpone her shower for the moment.

She Googled the name of one of the torture sites to check out her theory. Sure enough! There WAS a menu! She clicked to "apply" as a model and found each and every depravity performed clearly described on the form. Next to each obscenity, the model could indicate what she would and would not have done to her body, and to what degree or intensity. The choices included: "Live for it," "Like it a lot," "Will tolerate it," "Don't care for it," "Hate it but will try it," "Absolutely won't do it," and "Don't Even Ask!" The list included atrocities Sandra could never imagine a sane person ever doing to another, let alone someone sitting in an office clicking to choose these things to be done to their bodies. The eastern sky was brightening; it was going to be a lovely cloud-free day! She logged back on to NOL.

The second she logged back on there was a QuickMessage from Darkest Daddy. Sandra hovered over the screen name and right-clicked her mouse. She dropped down to "Block QuickMessages" but didn't click. Her finger lightly tapped the mouse button but something was stopping her from banishing Darkest Daddy and his clothespins from her virtual world.

Sandra clicked to read the message. "You into clothespins? A/S/L please." She responded simply, "No," and logged off NOL. Five minutes later, Sandra found herself logging back on. Sure enough, a QuickMessage from Darkest Daddy.

"You afraid of clothespins?" Sandra's head dropped to her chin. What the fuck was she doing?

"No." This time she didn't log off. "You sell clothespins for solar clothes dryers?" she snarked.

"A/S/L please."

Sandra paused. YakPus could be a crusty old perv in Pretoria. But she answered, "20/ girl / Big Apple."

"Excellent."

"That I'm 20, a girl, or do you really like the Yankees?"

"You have a smart mouth. I like that in a slave." Sandra clicked off NOL and made some cinnamon toast. The sun would be up shortly.

As she nibbled on the toast she poured herself a large glass of milk. She decided to print out the bondage web site preference form but not send it in -- just get all the choices in front of her and, in the unlikely event she actually wanted to model for these people, determine what she would and would not want them to do to her on camera.

But instead of clicking her generic search engine, Sandra logged back on to NOL. She waited. No message from Darkest Daddy. She waited some more. Still nothing. Good. Even the old perv in Pretoria doesn't need creeps like that. Then it popped up. "You have a spastic colon or are you riding the bus with your laptop?"

"Hello," Sandra typed, already not liking the direction of the conversation. What conversation?

"I'm Mike. 30 / Male / Des Moines."

"Congratulations," she typed, hoping the big city sneer came through loud and clear. Perhaps it did, but if so, it was ignored.

"Are you naked?" Sandra moved the mouse back over to the Block QuickMessages field but again, she failed to click.

"Yes," she replied.

It turned out that Mike was married to a registered nurse, moved from Los Angeles to Iowa because his wife landed a great job there. He was a technical illustrator by profession and thus, he could work anywhere. They had a couple of kids and a new puppy that required some sort of medical attention. What had once appeared to be a walk on the wild side turned out to be a life even more dull than Sandra's own self-incarceration. Mike sent pictures of himself in tennis shorts, several pictures from the couple's wedding album, and a few of the kids blowing out birthday cake candles. Mike was trained at MIT and wanted to return to Los Angeles to pursue his Ph.D. in something-or-other. Sandra was getting more and more bored and depressed.

"Let me see you," Mike typed.

"Sorry, I don't do that," she replied.

"Sure you do. Please?"

Sandra put on her robe and opened a video session with Mike.

"Oh my! You are adorable, Yak," mike said. His voice was nicer than his typed chat. "But are you sure you are over 18? Not into kids, thank you very much!"

"Yeah, I'm 20."

"Jeees, Yak...."

"Sandy. I'm Sandy, Mike. Call me Sandy."

"Okay, Sandy, you are one lovely lady!"

"Thank you."

"Let me see all of you," Mike suggested, standing and taking off his shirt and trousers.

"Sorry, I don't do that," Sandy replied, toying with the knot on her robe belt.

"Yeah, I know. Just like you don't Cam2Cam," Mike laughed. His laugh seemed sincere and his laugh was both natural and infectious. "Let me see your breasts. I'm a breast man, myself. My favorite part."

"You and Colonel Sanders, right?" Sandra said, feeling the strength to resist this bullshit seriously waning. "Nothing there to see, Mike. Sorry."

"Oh! I'm so sorry, Sandy. I didn't know. My wife works at the woman's clinic..." Mike's voice was both sad and truly concerned.

"No, no," Sandra blurted out. "It's not that; they're just very small."

"Wow! Thank God!" Mike said.

"You afraid of big breasts AND clothespins, Mike?"

Mike laughed, "No, I meant..."

"I know what you meant, Mike. We're cool."

"Anyway, as you may have guessed, I like to watch girls, ummm, women, put clothespins here and there on their bodies."

Sandra laughed. "I really don't know what to say, Mike. Good for you?"

"Hey, it beats technical illustrating in Iowa. Have you done any self-bondage, Sandy? You know, with someone else telling you what to do?"

"Nope," Sandra replied.

"Do you have some rope, duct tape, and stockings handy?"

"Why no, Mike, I don't, really."

"Sure you do. Go get them please."

Mike had a fine looking body and he seemed like a nice sort of guy, except for the screen name, clothespin fetish, demanding style, and.... "Why do we need these items, Mike, if you don't mind my asking," Sandra stalled.

"For me to tie you up, Sandy!" There was a long pause. Sandra stared at the computer monitor for a moment or two. Then mike stepped back from his computer fully naked. Sandra's heart skipped a beat. Mike was well-endowed and fully erect. Sandra's hand went for the mouse but stopped short.

"I have handcuffs and rope."

"Take off your robe and go get those things. Also bring some duct tape."

"Maybe we don't have any."

"We? You married, Sandy? Does he fuck you? Does he satisfy you?" Mike's hand wandered down his body and gave his erection a stroke.

"I'll look for some tape too," Sandra said, her voice starting to quiver.

"STOP!" Mike ordered. "I said take off the robe first!" Against her better judgment, Sandra complied.

She quickly assembled the requested items and proudly announced that she also had found some clothespins.

"I like you!" Mike chirped enthusiastically.

"Ummm, yeah, I can see that."

"No, yeah, well, that too, but I like the way you think. Are you Daddy's special little slut slave? Have you been a very bad girl?"

"Look, Mike. I'm not going to listen to that crap. You want to do some bondage play, that's fine, but you can forget the daddy role-play bullshit right now. Got that?"

"Okay, Sandy. Just testing the waters. As you wish," Mike replied somewhat saddened. Sandra got cold chills thinking about what it must be like to be Mike's daughter in Iowa, but quickly vanquished the thought. The sun had just cleared the horizon; it was a beautiful fall morning.

"Sandy, I want you to put one clothespin on each of you nipples." Sandra did so, wincing as they pinched her. "Good girl... oh, sorry, Thank You! Now take one of the stockings and stuff it in your mouth. Good! Take three strips of duct tape and put them over your mouth for me, please. Thank you! Great job! Okay, now I want you to pull the other stocking over your head like a cap, pulling it all the way down to your neck. Good. Now one more long piece of duct tape goes over your mouth and all the way around your head. Fabulous!" Mike started stroking his erection but sat back down at his computer so Sandra could no longer see him doing that. She wasn't sure if she was relieved or disappointed.

"Sandy," Mike continued. "I want you to take a length of rope and tie it very very tightly around your waist. Yeah, that's good, but much tighter please. Fabulous. Okay. Now take the keys to two pair of handcuffs and put them in your left hand. Perfect. Now take a length of duct tape and put it around that closed hand with the keys in it three times. Good, good. One more, Sandy. Excellent." Mike stood and placed his erection directly in front of his camera. When it snapped into focus, Sandra gasped.

"Almost done, Sandy. Now take both handcuffs and run them through the part of the rope that's in the small of your back... so that the little chains are right under the rope and two cuffs are above and two cuffs are below the rope. Got that. Okay. Good, I think. Turn around, Sandy, let me see. That's perfect. You are very very good at this. You do exactly as you are told every time and I don't have to tell you twice. That shows that you are very obedient." Sandra started to grunt a protest at the word "obedient" but it wasn't worth the effort through the stocking gag.

"Now, Sandy, check those clothespins, please. I know they hurt right now, but that's an important part of the game here. They nice and secure still?" Sandra dutifully checked the two clothespins and nodded to indicate that the nipples were securely clamped.

"Just one more step, Sandy, and then we can play. Can you bounce on the tips of your toes a couple of times? I want to see the clothespins jump up and down." Sandy bounced but the pain was too intense for her to do so too many times. Mike stood back from the camera and began stroking his erection in greater earnest. "Now lock your wrists into the two handcuffs at the small of your back. That's two cuffs on each wrist, right? Okay, great. Now turn around; let's see. Oh my, you did everything perfectly! That's just great!'

Mike sat back down again and leaned into his monitor. Sandra could see from his arm movements that he was stroking his erection much faster now. "Bounce those clothespins, Sandy! Oh yes!" Mike was enjoying this much more than Sandra was, but he had mentioned something about "playing" once she had followed the preparatory instructions. Painful as it was, she bounced up and own on her toes to make the clothespins jump around as Mike climaxed.

"You are wonderful, Sandy, just wonderful! Okay, now unpeel the tape around your left hand and get the handcuff keys. You may release your wrists now." Mike was cleaning up his computer area with some tissues. "Go ahead, Sandy, just remove the tape, take out the keys and unlock your handcuffs now. We're done."

Sandra felt her blood pressure start to rise. 'Done? We're done now? What part of this was supposed to be fun for me,' she thought. Try as she might, she could not get the duct tape to loosen from around her closed left hand. Mike had put his trousers and shirt back on and opened a beer.

"How we doing there, Sandy?" Mike inquired a bit impatiently. Sandra turned around so that her cuffed wrists were visible to the camera. She grunted a couple of times. "Hmmmm. That's strange. Can't you unpeel the tape? You did such a great job, following the instructions so well. I guess you make the tape too tight around your closed hand. Let me think."

'Let you think?!?' Sandra thought to herself. 'NOW you want to think? Great!"

"Okay, Sandy, I've got it. Do you have a knife or straight razor? You can cut through the duct tape that way and get to those handcuff keys, okay?" Sandra could hear in Mike's voice the realization that knifing open the tape around the two sets of handcuffs would never work. She shook her head, and Mike agreed. That wouldn't work. Fully up now, the sun and the lovely blue sky made the buildings glisten and shine.

"Is there someone I can call for you, Sandy? Perhaps a neighbor? The super of your building maybe? Help me out here, Sandy. What should we do?" Sandra grunted expletives the general direction of the camera and Mike got the idea. "Yeah, I know. I should have thought of that. Next time we'll make it so...." Sandra's wild grunts stopped Mike's rambling about 'next time.' "Alright," Mike continued, go to your telephone and knock the receiver off. Then, with your nose, punch in 9-1-1. The police or fire department or paramedics or someone will see your location and send someone over right away." The client and Sandra only used cell phones and an Internet telephone service through their browsers. Sandra shook her head vehemently to indicate that that was not a viable solution. "You have to work with me here, Sandy. Are you okay where you are right now? Will someone, like your husband come home soon? What can I tell you? You sort of screwed this one up, dear. But hey, you are in a big city. Just go out onto the street and someone will help you for sure!"

Sandra lunged toward the camera and angrily mumbled some predictable unintelligibles Mike's direction. Mike liked Sandra's spirit and took off his clothes again. "You know, Sandy, when you move around like that, the clothespins bounce so nicely on your tiny boobies!" Mike began stroking himself again. "Bounce for me, Sandy, that's a good slave, bounce for me you slut, you filthy whore!"

Sandra couldn't take it any more. She kicked the computer power cord from the wall and sat on the edge of her bed. Nasty as it may seem at the moment, she knew that she was going to have to take the tiny elevator down to Cedar Street and see if someone could get the handcuff keys from her taped fist. Solemnly, Sandra stood, went into the bathroom, and looked at herself in the mirror. 'Great,' she thought, 'In the early morning rush, I'm going to walk totally naked onto the street, my hands cuffed behind my back, a bizarre nylon hood over my head, and clothespins attached to my nipples. That's just great!'

The tiny elevator didn't actually open onto Cedar Street. It opened into an eight by eight concrete room with a panic door that opened onto Cedar. Sandra thought this through very carefully. 'If I take the elevator, I can push open the door but not bolt right out onto the street. I can stay back in the shadows until a respectable person, hopefully another woman, comes by. That might work. It sucks, but it might work.'

The self-closing panic door was very heavy. It took all of Sandra's strength to kick it open. Being self-closing, however she had to stop if from closing again by putting her foot down. There were a few people here and there, but suddenly the idea of stepping out of the concrete room didn't seem as reasonable as it did upstairs, back at the planning stage.

Sandra thought back to her seven years as a model. Unlike actors, who often have trailers and changing rooms, young models were seldom afforded such luxuries, even famous ones. They were expected to change outfits right on the set or location, sometimes their mothers holding up a towel for privacy, but more often than not, the mothers were huddled off at some distance eating the catering table food and chatting with each other. There was very little of Sandra's naked body that had not already been plastered larger than life all over Europe and Asia. Even so, this was just too much for her. She let the panic door close and pondered her situation in the dark for a while.

She walked back to the elevator and was going to press the call button when she heard a noise. Was there someone at the panic door? No, the noise came from inside the concrete room, not from Cedar Street. It was a rat.

Without hesitation, Sandra kicked open the panic door and bolted onto Cedar Street. There were many more people than she had expected. Some gasped when they saw her, some reached for the cell phones to take pictures, but none approached her to render assistance. The bang of the panic door shutting behind her was drown out, however, by the thunderous boom of the first plane slamming into the client's office building, vaporizing him instantly.

© 2009 Karen Kraft

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