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Sandra Gets Off Line

By: Karen Kraft



The week of her 13th birthday, Sandra decided to become a model. Her mom subscribed to numerous fashion magazines and had herself been a runway model years before Sandra's birth. Sandra took a dispassionate look at herself in the mirror and decided that she would never be tall enough to model high fashion, but she was determined to work in front of a camera if her life depended on it. With her mother's non-judgmental guidance, Sandra determined that her niche would be girls' swim and sports wear. She had lovely long legs and as a young girl, the fact that her breasts were nothing more than mosquito bites didn't matter in the least. 

Sandra's first job was in her home town, Los Angeles. She tried out, along with several other girls her age, to be the season's model for the My Little CupCake line of party dresses, tee shirts, sweat shirts, shorts, and sleepwear. When her mother received the phone call, informing her that Sandra had earned a call-back with the clients and the photographer's chief assistant, Sandra was thrilled. Although the shoot was in Los Angeles, the client was French and the line of clothes was to be marketed in Latin America. None of this made any sense to Sandra, but she didn't care. She was off to an exciting career as the print model teen princess of the world. Her second big job was for VacationGirl, a line of mid-teen blouses and shirts that flew off the stores' shelves.

For seven years, Sandra and her mother traveled from country to country, staying is every imaginable kind of motel, hotel, estate and villa, depending on the budget and the importance of the clients. Every time one of her lines would post display ads at the bus kiosks in Paris, London, or Rome, or in an international teen-oriented magazine, or even in the Sears catalogue, her face and petite body not only appeared in print, but on the Internet as well. This was almost as exciting to Sandra as the ever-increasing amounts of money she earned each successive year. Where once she and her mom would take the bus from the airport to an inexpensive motel, now limousines would pick them up and take them to fancy five-star hotels in the best parts of town. Sandra and her mom expected and always receive a huge fruit basket waiting for them whenever they arrived at their hotel room. By the time she was 17, Sandra had not only amassed an enormous amount of money, all of which was scrupulously saved for her college fund, but she actually had the public notice and adoration any girl her age would want. 

Sandra's modeling quote was $5,000 per contract. Some contracts involved a single day shoot at an indoor swimming pool, petting zoo, or horse ranch, while others were tedious week-long studio shoots with numerous changes of clothes and hair styles. The secret to Sandra's remarkable success was simple: She always did what she was told. It was rare for a girl her age to work such long hours under the lights and never, ever complain or become petulant. Often she would have to work with such jet lag that she had no real idea what country she was in, the time of day, or whether she had eaten or not. Nothing mattered to her but to do exactly what was asked of her with sincere grace and cheer. Everyone loved the fact that she never asked for a break, never complained that the creek water was nearly freezing or that the desert heat was making her delirious. Indeed, her mother had to be there to monitor Sandra's shoot since she would often outlast the photographers, who would platoon the shoots, giving each other a rest while Sandra always stood ready for more and more. 

Many girls are excited to get their first training bra, wear make-up to make them look older or even whorish; it's a natural phase they experience. Not Sandra. Early on, she realized that the longer she could "look twelve" the longer she would last in the business. At home or in their hotel room, Sandra would spend hours in front of the mirror exercising her facial muscles and perfecting pre-teen expressions. "Cute" was her bread and butter, and she knew it. When Sandra first learned of JonBenét Ramsey and saw the late girl's pictures, she started to cry, not because the other girl was murdered -- although that certainly saddened her as well -- but because it was clear to Sandra that the people handling JonBenét had "the kid thing" as Sandra called her craft, completely upside down. The idea was not to make a sweet six year old look like an Army base whore or a pedophile's wet dream, but to work the sweetness, fitness, and innocence angle. Maybe the creeps who ran the types of circuits Ramsey worked made some money, but from Sandra's viewpoint, her own seven-figure bank account attested to the accuracy of her judgment. 

"JonBenét is a poodle!" Sandra told her mom after reading the stories and seeing the embarrassing video tapes.

"Oh, Sandy! That's not like you!" her mother said, one eyebrow raised in disapproval. "That sweet little girl was murdered, for godsakes!"

"Oh, no, I didn't mean it that way," Sandra said, wiping a genuine tear from her cheek, "I just meant that they made her up the way people shave poodles for dog shows -- you know, so they look more like clouds than dogs."

Sandra used her Braun 3170 Silk Epilator every Wednesday to remove all hair and fuzz from every inch of her body from her neck down. She fought both acne and adolescence with vigor and discipline, knowing that the day she started to look her age, the money and fame would stop. She worked expensive lotions and homemade organic concoctions into her skin to keep "the kid thing" working. At 18, Sandra really did look 12 or 13, and she was quite proud of it. She always acted her age when she wasn't working. She matured intellectually and competed in age appropriate sports and contests through her private school, knowing that nobody really wanted an adult who acted 12 all the time. Well, almost nobody. The media loved her "just the way she is," so long as that meant she had "the kid thing" working when the cameras came out.

Unfortunately, Sandra could not fight her good fight forever. At 20, she had started to grow some very small breasts, a more womanly figure and, as she had feared at 13, the phone eventually stopped ringing for her. Sandra took all this in stride, however, and accepted the fact that it was time for her to change professions. She still looked 15 or 16 at most, so she thought she might investigate Internet porn modeling. After all, she was not a virgin, and since her 18th birthday, she had entertained clients to further her career. Her mother knew Sandra was doing that, but having come up through the fashion ranks herself, she allowed Sandra to make her own decisions.

For Sandra's eighteenth birthday party, an Eastern European client who had hired Sandra twice every year to model his line of girls' footwear, hosted a lavish party in her honor at Tokyo's finest hotel. He had the affair catered by a famous chef who only catered parties for royalty, famous gangsters and powerful politicians. True to form, Sandra outlasted everyone else at the party and still had plenty of energy, even as the cleaning crews rolled the table rounds from the ballroom and the folding seat team started stacking the chairs on their s-away pallets. The client was sitting passively in the corner, smoking a large Romeo & Julieta Robusto and clinking the ice in his drink.

"Did I do you well, my sweet?" he called across the room. Sandra ran over to him and jumped on his lap.

"It was the greatest party ever! Thank you so much!"

"Are you sleepy, little one?"

"You know me, I'm never sleepy when I'm excited."

"I know a special after hours club we can visit if you like."

The client took Sandra to ClubConquest, a members-only after-hours establishment that catered to members of the BDSM scene. The club had satellites in most large European and Latin American cities, and membership was by invitation only. As the client was part owner of ClubConquest Paris, he and his guests were always welcome at any of them. In addition to a formal and professional stage show featuring bondage and pain play on the main floor, the club also had a second floor where members would dress up and act out their fantasies while other members watched them. The second floor was divided into a dozen stalls or cubicles and members would entertain the crowd and themselves with dramas choreographed to be erotic and often a little frightening. Many of the performers made the furniture and apparatus used in their presentations themselves, proudly showing off their craftsmanship in the fine hardwoods and top grade leathers used. There was nothing vulgar about the presentations, and most of the members were accustomed to the recurring scenes or rolel-plays displayed. 

Sandra's face fell and "the kid look" disappeared when she saw the performance in the first, very darkly lighted stall. A slender naked woman (the other player's wife, in fact) stood naked in front of an ornate wrought iron construction based on a climbing rose vine theme. She stood in front of the piece while the crowd settled and then, throwing her head back, she spread her legs and threw her arms high over her head and stepped back into the grasp of the spring loaded vines. Her wrists and ankles secured, she began reciting songs from the Bhagavadita. As she sang, her partner touched her skin here and there with a violet wand, causing tiny lightning bolts to lick her skin and causing her to scream out, her wild dark eyes franticly looking into the crowd as if to summon rescue. The entire performance lasted about 15 minutes. As the stall lights brightened, the woman removed her arms and ankles from the wrought iron vines and joined her husband in graciously bowing acknowledgement of the applause. As the clapping subsided the two of them, still naked, mingled with the other members and went to see performances in other stalls. 

"I've never seen you flustered, Sweetie!" the client mused.

"Oh my God; I have never seen anything so beautiful in my whole entire life!" Sandra gushed.

"I should hope not!" the client laughed, "Who else but I would ever show you something like this?"

"I want it," Sandra said with uncharacteristic seriousness.

"The construction he made for her?" the client asked, knowing Sandra meant more than that.

"The whole thing. I want to be her. I want to scream out like that. I need that."

"You want the husband too or just the lady?" the client laughed.

"I didn't say I wanted her; I said I wanted to be her!"

"And the contraption too. I see. Not the wife or the husband, just their toy, right? I think I can get all three for a price."

"Oh stop. You know what I mean!" Sandra's face now had a quality the client hadn't seen. He put down his cocktail and his cigar and held Sandra's head in his hands, turning her little face up to his. 

"You're serious, Sandra, aren't you?"

"I'm freaking graveyard serious!" With that, the client roared with laughter, bringing unwanted attention from others trying to enjoy the shows in nearby stalls. The other members knew not to say anything or gesture in any unfriendly manner, however, as his power and wealth were well known, and feared. 

Sandra and the client moved to New York the following spring. Sandra's mother knew the client from years of business dealings on Sandra's behalf, but never developed a social relationship with him, as he traveled in circles she found unwelcoming. She nevertheless trusted Sandra's judgment and kept her fears about their relationship to herself.

The client had purchased what he liked to call his "artist's loft" in the Financial District of lower Manhattan. In truth, it was less an artist's loft than a luxury penthouse, but everyone who knew the client prudently avoided mentioning that to him. Indeed, the most bizarre aspect of the "loft" was that the client had installed a tiny elevator that went from the entrance hall of their penthouse straight to a small door opening on Cedar Street. That way, the two of them could come and go without running into other people. "When one or both of our faces are on ten percent of the grocery checkout stands in the world, the last thing we need is friends," the client often reminded Sandra.

It came as no surprise but was nevertheless greeting with joy when, on Sandra's 19th birthday, the wrought iron construction was delivered. She was delighted and the two of them enjoyed it often. For Sandra, having been in control of her life for so many years, she found an erotic thrill in submitting to the client, to the machine. 

Although he had more money than he could ever spend, and contributed large sums of money to what he considered to be worthy causes both in the U.S. and abroad, the client felt useless unless he personally continued to run his business. Coming from Proletarian roots, he believed that a life without work was, for a healthy person, a crime against nature. To him, it didn't matter what a person did, so long as it was benign and they worked hard at it. Much of his ethos rubbed off on those around him, including his employees and even Sandra. 

As the modeling jobs grew more and more scarce for Sandra, and the client's business kept him away for long periods of time, Sandra became restless and began to feel guilty that she had not done the work necessary to discard "the kid thing" and re-invent herself in some other productive form. The long summer had passed and Sandra got two bikini modeling jobs, a nightgown job, and a too-skimpy-to-be-decent net and lace "SexyGirl Work-Out Togs" job. It was the slowest summer of her seven-year career. She knew she had stayed too long at the fair, but inertia somehow kept her in place. 

Sandra had no vices. That was yet another reason clients and photographers liked her. She wasn't anorexic, she didn't use cocaine or any other recreational drugs, she politely sipped red wine from her glass to be social at dinner. She never understood how perfectly reasonable people would become obsessed with self-defeating and self-destructive habits. But with the client being unavailable much of the time, either physically due to travel or emotionally due to his business focus, Sandra felt lonely, even when the two of them were together. Unless his business took him abroad, the client worked but a block or two from the penthouse and on pleasant days, he would walk to his office tower, merrily greeting the regulars he saw everyday. 

Sandra had a web site which was managed for her by some people in Romania who she had never met. She had a Facebook account, but soon had 50,000 "Friends," which made her feel even more lonely. The movers and shakers at Facebook had made a special exception for Sandra, lifting the limit on the number of Friends allowed. When the number reached half a million, she quit logging on. She also had an account on National Online, which provided her with snippets of news, movie reviews, email, message boards, and chatrooms. Having learned her lesson by using her real name on Facebook, Sandra's National Online screen name was YakPus and her profile picture featured a decomposing animal hanging from a tree. That discouraged strangers from seeking her out and sending her unwanted QuickMessages, Emails, or requests to be added to her ChummyList. Her friends, of course, knew the real identity of YakPus and that kept the communication close and manageable. 

When Sandra was bored, lonely, or both, she would seek amusement by searching the Unusual Interests chat rooms on National Online. As her NOL profile admonished others not to inquire as to the derivation of her screen name, she was able to wander from chat room to chat room, receiving little or no attention. For her, that was refreshing.

Sandra quickly learned that the so-called "chat" rooms on NOL actually had very little chat in them. The room occupants might number 35 but nobody would type a comment for an hour or even longer. Mostly, one would enter a room, say and do nothing, and wait for a QuickMessage from someone who might share your interests, based on the name of that particular room. She never stayed long enough in any single room but tended to frequent the same half-dozen rooms on a regular basis. 

Early one morning, the client was his usual chipper self, fixing breakfast before sunrise, humming his merry little morning tunes to himself. Sandra was depressed and annoyed with herself but, like the good companion she was, she did "the kid thing" and was sufficiently bubbly when the client kissed her good bye, reminding Sandra that they were to have business guests in for cocktails at six that evening and then walk to one of the client's favorite restaurants at eight. Sandra nodded and held her effervescence long enough to get the client happily on his way for the day.

She lazily wondered back into their bedroom and thought about masturbating, which was one of her favorite morning activities. But something was bothering her and she couldn't concentrate. She gave up and decided to check her email on NOL instead. That, too, was boring, so she browsed the chat rooms in search of amusement. 

Most of the rooms had at least six or seven people in them. One room, named "Clothespins" had but one person. Before deciding to enter the room, Sandra clicked the "Who's Here?" button to learn that person's screen name: Darkest Daddy. She knew better than to enter a room where the only other person was someone named Darkest Daddy, but before she could navigate her way from the highlighted chat room, she dropped her toothbrush on the keyboard. It hit the ENTER key and there she was, in Chat Room: Clothespins -- just YakPus and Darkest Daddy. Sandra quickly clicked out of the room and decided to look at the movie reviews.

Five minutes later, the QuickMessage screen popped up, telling her that Darkest Daddy had a message for her. 

"Oh shit!" she mumbled to herself. "I just knew that would happen." She clicked to close NOL and went to the large picture window, deciding to wait and watch the sunrise. 

"Why does he have to leave so freaking early?" she thought to herself. She knew that the client's contacts were mostly overseas, so his pre-dawn departures were designed to accommodate the mid-day business world thousand of miles away. But she didn't like that fact anyway.

Sandra sipped a cup of coffee and made the bed. She stuffed the rope, handcuffs, duct tape, TENS unit, and other toys from last night's conjugal romp, into their handmade Italian leather suitcase. She hung the suitcase by its sturdy loop handles on one of the out-poking "flowers" on the wrought iron bondage contraption and decided to take a shower.

She took off her robe and studied her naked body in the mirror. "No, honey, you aren't 12 anymore! The Kid Thing is dead. You are an old bag. You look like you must be all of 16! You're washed up. Eat shit and die on your birthday, bitch!" She laughed at her little joke and realized that she really was starting to look like a woman. Frustrated or not, she was determined to make the transition from Cutie-Pie to Internet Bondage Model gracefully. 

She has seen many of the hour-long pay-bondage-scenes. Pretty girls were briefly interviewed and then they were tied, suspended, or otherwise immobilized on a foreboding looking studio set. Then, any number of humiliating cruelties were visited upon their helpless bodies as they whimpered and drooled through their ball gags. The whole scene was disgusting, of course, but as she watched one, then another, and then another and another, she became aware that the specific cruelties administered to the girls would change from girl to girl. She realized that this wasn't just some random smorgasbord of depravity where the man doing these things decided what he wanted to each girl. No, not at all. It dawned on Sandra that the girls themselves must have chosen each and every assault from some sort of list -- a menu! During each exit interview, also part of the show, the models would extol the virtues of one or more "favorite parts!" Sandra found that delightful, in a sordid sort of way.


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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