Selfie (a.k.a. Rogue Tie)

I squeezed myself through the crack and fished for the handle at the outside with my bound hands (not easily done in wrist and elbow restrains). I shut the door as softly as I was capable of with panic rising and adrenalin boiling in my system. Eight metres to the reception. I dashed across the foyer, faster than I had ever thought it possible in ballet heels. I kid you not, my hobble chain turned out to be the limiting factor! The punishment I was receiving from my hyperextending footwear, sawing chastity and flailing nipple chain was no less explosive than my sprint itself. Reaching the reception table, I threw myself into a mid-run spin, bumped into the counter bum-first (mercifully not dead-right on the plug for once), grabbed the key box (wrist and elbow restrains, the second) and darted back across the foyer -- this time a little to the left, straight towards the lift. With hands not only cuffed but now also full I punched the stainless steel inlay in the wall until I hit the call button.

"Ohgn-ohgn, ohgn-ohgn, ohgn-ohgn!"

("Come on, come on, come on!")

The 2 in the display utterly ignored my haste, so did the 1.

"Ohgn-ohgn!"

"Doors are opening."

The lift door -- in spite of its sliding elements a singular in my definition -- gave the way free into the cabin. I stumbled in, slammed down on my knees and pushed the touchscreenish control panel with my latex-clad nose tip.

"The time is 22:07."

A little bit down, where the digitalised button for the second floor was taunting me.

"13° Celsius, slightly cloudy."

With squinting eyes I aimed again.

"You have chosen the voice command mode."

"Uck!"

(I haven't got to translate that.)

"I am sorry, I could not understand you."

"Uhgt eh uck uhgp!"

("Please be quiet.")

"I am sorry, I could not understand you. If you wish to enter the language select menu, please press the 'help' field. If you wish to return to the tactile control mode, please press the 'return' field. If you are being held hostage, not been able to communicate verbally, and wish to send a distress signal to the police service, please press any field on the panel for longer than three seconds."

What sort of bell-end had programmed this nonsense?!

I hammered with my smarting nose like a woodpecker on meth.

"Second floor. Doors are closing."

I nearly wet myself with relief. I just hoped 4x4 still hadn't been down the stairs far enough to hear the crash course in lift operating. It was my intention to ride to the second floor. That storey he had already checked, so it was less likely to be visited by him again. Plus, he would become even more suspicious if he saw another number on the display than that of the floor he had left the cabin on.

On second I slipped out of the lift and pressed my ear against the door to the stairs. All I could hear was my own blood pumping through me in excitement. My laboured panting, enhanced by the collar and gag. No security bloke storming up in hot pursuit.

I didn't have to gather much courage to enter the stairwell again. The fierce clamps having their way with me took care of that. Climbing stairs didn't make it any better. Burning pain was spiking with every step, with every breath, with every pounding of my heart. My leg muscles were now officially cramped up. And I was horny beyond believe. The now very real danger of being caught had triggered a sexual overload. I was almost melting the chastity chain. But the prospect of release and relief kept me going. Only a couple more stairs now. Climbing up was easier than walking down, but the fatigue was hard on me. My hands were trembling, the too-tight cuffs causing a crippling numbness. I was sweating heavily inside the latex gloves. At least the material was improving my grip on the box. Letting go of it, sending it rattling down the stairwell, maybe even cracking it and spilling the sixteen keys to my freedom noisily all over the flight -- that would be the ultimate disaster of the evening.

I had to put the key box down to open the glass door to the third floor, though. Holding the door open with my manacled hands, stabilising myself on the handle at the same time, I performed the fetish boot version of a back-heel to kick the box inside. With it resting safely in my latex grip again, I stumbled down the corridor like a drunken gimp girl. Past the copier niche and the conveniences. Past Conference Room C and Conference Room B.

A perfectly pitched burst of laugh escaped from behind the ball gag as the single key I had deposited on top of my clothes found the lock, and the strongbox opened. Plug or no plug, I was sitting on the long table of Conference Room A, a.k.a. Main Conference Room, where my self-bondage adventure had started the eternity of thirty-four minutes ago. I physically could not stand anymore. I had broken my record in ballet boots, though -- and most of my toes, judging by the feeling.

The key to my handcuff was easy to find blind, I had a key ring connected to it just for this purpose. As soon as the first cuff snapped open, I released my elbow ties and brought my arms to the front of my body, ignoring the deep marks around my wrists and the insane tingling in the freed hand. A moment later I was literally rolling on the carpet in pain. Removing harsh and constantly tugged-at nipple clamps after over half an hour of use tends to cause that. I had also broken my record in harsh nipple clamps, in case you are wondering.

Just show me those devils again, and I confess to anything.

As the agony from the blood returning to my maltreated nips had subsided, I used the remaining keys in a defined order.

Getting out of the boots was bliss. Getting the gag out of my mouth was messy. I had a towel ready for that in my bag. This stint hadn't seen the longest period of time I had been gagged, but I had approached my limits of oral bondage nonetheless. That was part of the deal; every device meant to restrain its wearer will be the source of pain, both during and after wearing. Intensity may vary, but with Bondage Girl involved, heavier stuff is to be expected. One by one my own restrains gave my body free. And I am happy to deny that with each item Bondage Girl diminished a bit more. That kinky lass doesn't need leather, steel and latex to come forth. But this naughty trio definitely does help to get in sync with her.

Whilst putting on my normal clothes and stowing away my not so normal ones, I kept working my jaw and rubbing my neck, wrists and feet. One part of my body I still could not rub.

The corridor was clear. I rushed out of Conference Room A, only to take cover in the copy niche. Hastily I stuffed the incriminating sheets in my bag, which became quite full and quite heavy in the process. There was no way to dispose of them in the document shredder, not with the risk of Mr 4x4 still being around.

He wasn't. At least I saw him neither on the stairs nor in the foyer. The lift was still waiting on the second floor. Maybe he was at the other end of the building, rescuing the potted plastic plant from its peril. Out into the cool night I stepped. I knew I had been on camera again for some moments whilst opening the entrance door, but doubted the watchman would go through hours of CCTV footage to prosecute the subversive tampering with the building's vertical transportation system.

On the car park Mr 4x4's mysterious 4x4 was nowhere to be seen, but I wouldn't be fooled twice. I jogged across the free area as quickly as my paper-bloated bag allowed and cursed me again for not having parked closer to the entrance. I threw the gym bag on the passenger seat and eased myself behind the wheel. I forced myself to leave the DA premises and the business quarters with its terracotta army of speed traps in an unsuspicious choice of gear and revs. As soon as I was in the clear, I floored it. Onwards to the final key. Oh, the things I would do to myself the moment the chastity chain would fall! That piece of automotive junk better not leave me in the lurch, or it could find itself another fool to refill it!

I was tired, wound up, crazing out with need, but very content. Despite all the ludicrous complications, unplanned pains and unasked-for jump scares I declared my first rogue tie a success. A victory of kink over boredom. The memory of it would spice up many a workday to come.

A next of many a workday was Tuesday, and I owned that bitch! When I left shortly after five, I was still sporting a vibrant amount of energy. My motor was again standing on its spot in the car park, and why would it not? I noticed the note tucked behind the windscreen wiper as I was about to get in. Reaching around the a-pillar I plucked it free. An A4-sized sheet of paper, neatly folded twice. My knees turned into jelly, my face first pale, than crimson as I, unfolding it, was looking at a copy of my chained-up womanhood. Wild-eyed I looked left and right. A dozen other people were on the car park, ready to drive away or chatting. Nobody appeared to be watching me, feasting on my reaction to finding their nasty surprise. I looked at the picture again, on the line in a male handwriting boldly across my photocopied left buttock.

"Had a fun weekend?"