You Can and You WillbyIndustrial_Bondage©
The story that follows is based on actual events; the facts are as accurate as I can recall them some 15 years later, changed only by the fondness of time and the deletion of the boring bits. The names have been changed to protect the privacy of those who I have cared about. I've been active in the lifestyle for over twenty years. While it started before the events recounted here, the time before these events was just wading in the kiddy pool. It was when these events occurred; it was when I joined a small circle of very special people that I learned to accept who I was.
My thanks to JtoHisPB for her services as a Beta Reader and MakeYourWhore for her thoughts and typo net!
"I understand your discomfort with the idea, but I think you should consider the potential," Dr. Hall, Linda, studied me across the rim of her white porcelain mug. "It's a natural extension of what we do; of who you are. Who you have been and who you are becoming."
I focused on the half inch of tea left in bottom of my cup. She'd been down this road more than once and I wasn't really interested in a repeat performance. Still, she'd taught me so much about myself. How could I discount what she was saying? I was twenty seven years old when I learned a truth about myself. I had hoped myself a man of unusual predilections, to borrow a phrase from my mentor; I shy away from the word mistress because ours had little in common with the traditional dominant/submissive relationship. She was the priest and I her acolyte. She imparted knowledge and I hungered for all she could show me.
I had spent nearly a decade in the Navy prior to attending college in a small Midwestern town; where I had majored in engineering but took creative writing classes out of interest and a desire to write. It was in one of those classes that I first met Dr. Hall. She opened my eyes to a much larger world than I knew existed, to truths about myself that were at first disturbing; my passions ran to whips and chains, to the infliction of pain on a willing recipient. The problem was, the objects of my attention had not always been willing partners in a scene choreographed to fire the passion of both the participants and those who watched. While in the service I had been trained as an interrogator. I knew the techniques for extracting information from those unwilling to provide me the answers I needed.
"If you've taught me anything, you taught me the difference between BDSM and violence," I sat the cup down heavily. I did not want to have this conversation. "What you're asking me to do is violence, plain and simple."
"You did what you did for the protection of those you served along side," she sat her own cup down and placed her hand gently on mine. "I think you could do this. I think you could make the act of a genuine interrogation into the truest extraction of submission I've ever seen."
"You don't understand," I looked for the words that would allow me to explain my truth without inviting her to judge me by it. I regretted ever telling her what I'd done; cook, I should have told her I was a cook. "It's violence, a focused, intense assault on the subject meant to tear them apart. To reduce their mental and emotional defenses until they will tell you --in complete honesty- the truth."
"Sounds a lot like submission to me," she pressed relentlessly.
I closed my eyes and exhaled. She had been on this for well over a year; she wasn't going to let go. I had two choices, go where she pushed to go or leave her and the group. It was a simple, reluctant, choice, "Who do you have in mind?"
"This isn't something I could ask someone else to do," she looked into my eyes, powerful and confident as ever.
"You," I was stunned? "You want me to-," the words hung in my throat, "you want me to hurt you?"
"I do," she squeezed my hand. "But I want it t be just between us; no one else from the group."
I studied her face intently; I'm pretty sure my mouth was hanging open because she lowered her eyes from mine in an effort to hide a giggle. In our time together I'd never touched her sexually; in point of fact I'd never seen her naked. But we'd spent a great deal of time in deep conversation both in highly sexual situations and in simple intimate conversations like this one.
Dr. Hall, Linda, was older, in her late forties but alive in a way that I'd never seen in younger women. She wasn't what most men would call beautiful but she had a style and grace about her that drew you to her. On the short side, she had a voluptuous figure, curvaceous though slender with firm breasts that belied her age. Her hair was a mannish mane of tasseled gold touched by the faintest hint of silver, which she wore with pride.
She was a larger than life figure on campus; a subordinate dean who taught an eclectic catalog of courses. A self proclaimed witch and generally vocal in opposition to any element of the established norms; her "in your face" frankness on so many subjects seemed at odds with the degree to which she greedily guarded her privacy. She treated the secrecy of her lifestyle and the anonymity of those who twice a month congregated at her farm, as if they were the contents of Fort Knox. As dedicated to those secrets as she was, they were a distant second to the jealousy with which she guarded the privacy of the women of her coven.
"I'll do it, for you," I looked her in the eye and tried to screw on my best dominant face, "but there are some issues --logistics- that have to be worked out. It's going to take some time to make happen." My mind was running a hundred miles an hour as I tried to determine how to execute her wish without ended up in jail just setting the stage.
"I understand," she smiled. "Do whatever you need. I trust you."
That had been almost three months ago, just before Halloween. I'd been busy wracking my brain and calling in favors ever since I'd decided -really decided- that I was going to do it. There wasn't just the issue of where to carry out the scene but how do turn violent techniques into safe, sane and consensual activities. But the biggest problem was motivational. For the scene to evoke what my beloved mentor wanted it to, there had to a motivation on her part to resist. There had to be information that I wanted from her that she didn't want to surrender. Without that single element, there was no interrogation, just a fancy bit of stage dressing. It took me more than six weeks, but I finally figured out how to make the scene real for her.
Armed with a plan I sat in the darkness of the third level of a quiet parking garage. Christmas was behind us and the mall was nearly dead late on a bleak, miserably cold Friday evening. Linda was a creature of habit, which made my life easier. Twice a month, like clockwork, she drove an hour to a nearby city where she served on an advisory council for the arts. The meeting went an hour, rarely longer, and then she drove cross town to the mall for a few hours shopping that our small town didn't afford her. It had taken me nearly an hour to find the optimum parking place near her car from which to put my plan in action. She'd repeated it like a mantra, "Good bondage is sexual theater." The stage was set, I was scared witless, and she was crossing the dingy, dimly lit paring garage.
She fumbled for her keys, juggling a large coffee and a larger purse. I came out of the back of the white van backed into the space behind hers with a violent speed that gave her no time to react. I wrapped one arm around her and with the other I pressed the ether soaked rag to her nose and mouth. She kicked and struggled for a few heartbeats and then she was dead weight in my arms being drug toward the open rear doors of the van. I laid her down on the floor of the van and scrambled to collect everything she'd dropped: keys, purse, styrofoam coffee cup.
Closing the doors behind me I checked on her, the ether made me nervous but I'd used less than half the dose a friend --a veterinary science major- had suggested. She was ok. I breathed easier but stayed on track. A strip of duct tape sealed her mouth; panicked outcries would be --at the very least- embarrassing. The black velvet bag had been a quick do-it-yourself project; I pulled it over her head and drew the cord snug about her neck. Zip-ties bound her ankles, her wrists behind her back. Making sure she was steady and as comfortable as possible, I dropped into the driver's seat, fired up the engine and drove as calmly and as leisurely as I could manage with a woman bound in the back of the white, windowless van.
Fifteen minutes later I was across town and parked in a well lit, but empty, corner of a shopping mall; waiting for her to stir. I didn't have to wait long.
"It's me, doc," I knelt beside her, leaning close. "Do you remember the safe word?"
She nodded. I pulled her upright and cradled her close.
"I'm going to take the tape off your mouth; if you've changed your mind, just say the word, and we'll replace that coffee. OK?"
She nodded. I loosened the draw string on the hood and reached inside, gently pulling the tape loose. Applesauce. That simple word would send us on a merry jaunt to the nearest coffee shop. She said nothing. I waited a little longer, giving her the chance to change her mind. She stayed silent. The trip would be a lot darker.
"I'm going to change the rules, doc," I held her close. "I'm going to change the safe word. Is that ok?"
"Yes," she whispered.
"This is your last chance to change your mind, if you don't use the old word now, then nothing will stop the scene until you use the new word. Do you understand?"
"Going once, going twice," I paused. She stayed silent. "Done," I put the tape back in place, pulled the string snug.
"I'll tell you the word when we get where we're going," I laid her out on the floor of the van and climbed back in the driver's seat.
Good bondage is like a scene from a well written play, she'd lectured on that point more than once. Its success depends on the same elements. It must be dressed, set, scored and paced just as the director and the writer stage a theatrical event. You must enable your submissive to accept the reality that you write for them; enable them to freely suspend their disbelief and revel in the moment you provide them. Your truth must become theirs.
She had taught me so much about myself. I owed her the best I could give her...
About an hour down river there was an old maintenance yard right on the riverfront. I knew the yard manager pretty well and talked him into allowing me access to an old barracks barge tied up along the riverfront to film an "art film". He hadn't been sold on the idea, but then I told him I might be able to get him a free copy of the film; he handed me the keys and told me the gate code without a moment's hesitation. The yard would be empty all weekend, maybe longer if he didn't watch the salvage crew closely.
Linda had stayed quiet through the trip and my manhandling of her aboard the old barge. She'd kicked, squirmed, and fussed when I pulled her wrists into the overhead and tied them fast to a lift point in the old machine shop. She was on her tip-toes; it got worse when I pulled her shoes off her. She screeched when I cut her clothes off her and left her naked in the poorly heated air of the compartment. I watched with a marked satisfaction as her nipples hardened in the cold air.
I pulled the hood from her head, tossed it aside. The flood light behind me blinded her as she tried to find me in the room. I knew the silhouette I would cast; fatigues and combat boots, waist tucked tight by a web belt.
"The new safe word is more than one word, more than a phrase," I circled her slowly. "It's a list, the names of your coven, every one of them."
"No," she protested, her eyes wide in fear.
"That's the information I need, it's the information you will give me."
'I can't," she shook her head, pulled at the ropes binding her to the ceilings.
"You will. Or we will be here a very long time," I stepped close to her and spoke softly, "I don't want to do this. There's no need to do this. Just tell me and we can stop now, before... Well, before."
"You know I can't."
"No," I said, walking to the water hose coiled by the deep sink on the far wall, "You will."
"This isn't fair!" She protested. Her eyes locked with mine, pleading, fearful in a way that made my gut tight.
I pushed it down and screwed on my game face. She'd asked for this. She deserved it to be as real as I could make it for her, "It never is."
I sprayed her down with the water, watched her shudder under the icy flow. I tried to stay deaf to her pained cries, tried. "The names, just give me the names and we can stop."
"I can't," she shouted.
I sprayed her again. The floor beneath her became wet and slick and she lost her traction more than once, dropping her weight onto her wrists.
"Who's in your coven?" I demanded.
"I can't!" she sobbed.
I sprayed her again. She cried harder. I coiled the hose on the hanger again and walked to her, taking a bottle of water from the work bench.
"Open your mouth," I grabbed her face and drove my thumb into the hinge of her jaw, forcing them open despite the fact that she was complying. I fumbled with the bottle, removing the top and up ending it between her lips. "Swallow it all," I barked as the water poured into her throat. She sputtered and choked slightly but managed to get the most of the bottle down.
Slipping the hood over her head I pulled the cord snug. I passed the workbench on my way to the door; with a flip of a switch the stereo there erupted at full volume; Saxon filled the room with a rancorous noise. The same track was set to repeat again and again. I closed the door behind me. In the outer compartment I flipped the dial on the timer, put my earplugs in and sat down to my calculus homework.
An hour later I pulled the ear plugs out and opened the door. Lowering the volume I crossed the compartment and looked at her. She was shivering as her body danced dangerously at the edge of hypothermia. I pulled the hood from her and studied her face; her lips were blue and her eyes were distant as she blinked against the work lights. I pulled a metal frame chair close behind her and then unhooked her wrists from the tie-point in the ceiling. I gently sat her down on the chair, gathered a grey wool blanket from my bag and folded it around her.
"It doesn't have to be this way," I whispered, gently rubbing my hands over her body through the blanket. "Just tell me the names."
"I can't," she shivered; her eyes distant, her voice weak.
"Tell me," I whisper, my lips close to her ear. I brushed my fingertips against her cheek. "Tell me and this can change, it can be so different." I kissed the side of her neck.
She looked at me, a fear and horror in her eyes that was almost too much for me to bear.
"You can trust me," I pulled the blanket closer about her, "I won't tell a soul. Just tell me the names."
She sobbed, wordlessly. I hated myself a little more.
"Alright, your way," I stood up and yanked hard on the blanket. She lost her balance and tumbled onto the floor. I tossed the blanket onto her and walked to the workbench, where I pulled a set of leg irons from my tool bag. I secured one end to her left ankle, the other to a heavy metal layout table. Snatching the seat from the chair, leaving only the cold metal frame, I flung it loudly toward the door and walked back to the workbench.
I grabbed another bottle of water, opened it as I moved back to her; kneeling beside her I roughly manhandled her face, forcing her jaws open and pouring the water down her throat despite her sputtering protests. I stood and tossed the bottle across the room as I made for the door. She curled into a fetal ball beneath the now wet blanket as I turned up the volume and slammed the door behind me. In the other room I turned the heat up, just a little, and cussed myself before I flipped the timer again.
An hour later I was back in the machine shop; it was almost tolerably warm and she had drug the wet blanket to a dry spot on the cold tile under the work bench, her bare leg stretched out from beneath the blanket. I left the volume high to cover my footsteps as I approached her. I knelt, grabbed her by the ankle and drug her roughly from beneath the table. She screamed, quick, startled; I grabbed a handful of her hair at the base of her skull and jerked her to her feet. Pulling her roughly about the room I shifted my grip on her to allow me to wrangle the bounds at her wrists over the hook in the lift point again. I dropped her weight on her wrists harder than I needed to and she squealed.
My back to her I moved to the workbench, turned the volume down and turned slowly to face her. She looked like hell warmed over. I bit the inside of my mouth to keep the pain I felt for her from reaching my face. I took the second blanket from my bag and placed it where she could see it. Her attention didn't linger on it for long; she was quickly distracted by the thin wooden dowel I held in my hand as I circled her tightly stretched body.
"One name," I drug the tip of the smooth wooden rod along the inside of her thigh and up the crack of her pleasantly shaped ass.
She shuddered, but said nothing. I struck her hard with the dowel, the rod biting into her flesh at the sweet spot where her upper thigh swept out into her plump ass. She screamed and twisted in her restraints.
She sought me out with pleading eyes. I hit her again for her trouble.
"Give me one name," I moved in front of her and let my fingertips brush the tuft of hair that sheltered her clit.
Her gaze fell to the floor; she closed her eyes and breathed heavily, "I can't."
I pressed my fingers into her, violating her sex roughly with my thick digits. She shuddered again as I finger fucked her slowly. She rocked her hips slightly against my hand, her lips becoming slick beneath my gentle touch.
"The cold, the pain... they can all end," I touched the tip of the rod to her chin, lifting her gaze to mine. "It could be the way you want it to be."
Her eyes pulled me into them; she bit her lower lip as I leaned into her.
"It can be the way you wanted it to be when you asked for it to be just the two of us," I whispered into her ear and then moved to press my lips against hers.
Her mouth opened to mine, our tongues danced together, entwining. She kissed me with a passion that I'd never known before. It was as if she wanted to devour me. I continued to press my finger into her sex. She rocked and swayed and I felt her breath grow quick and stuttered.
I broke our kiss, but continued to fuck her with my fingers, "Just one name. One name and I'll let you cum."
"Allison," she forced the word past her lips, "Allison Davis."
"Good," I smiled. "That was easy, wasn't it?"
I pulled my fingers from her sex and moved away from her.
"No, please, don't stop," the words were short and quick and heavy with the labor of her need.
Her chin fell against her chest, her eyes on the floor as I walked out of the room. I came back in just a few moments with her purse in one hand and the phone in the other; the long cord trailed behind me. She watched as I dug through her purse, came out with her tiny address book.
"What are you doing?" she asked weakly.
"Let's call her," I smiled wickedly, "Once we're sure you've been honest, well... The rest will be easier on you."
"Is there a problem?"
"Is there a problem?"
"Alison isn't one of them."
"So you lied to me?"
"That's... unfortunate," I let the moment hang between us until she raised her eyes to mine. "You would do well to depersonalize what's about to happen," I paraphrased Rickman.