8 comments/ 47879 views/ 8 favorites Dorei By: ViperVenom About the author: I'm a twenty-something from Europe, writing short stories and narrations (erotic and non-erotic) for several years. About the story: A longer narration of mine deals with certain Japanese elements. To get in the mood for a sequel, I wrote this short story. Dorei "What could it be?" That she knew not. Delighted to present her some new and exciting bondage toy, I made Illaun sit up and removed the chain from the septum clamp. The clamp itself stayed. "You put it on like a pullover -- a very tight-fitting pullover." Once her head appeared from the contraption's neck-hole, I chained her nose up again. Only then I opened her cuffs, removing them completely instead of just disconnecting them like before. "Now your arms go into the sleeves," I continued, only waiting for her to resist. There was indeed a good deal of hesitation in her moves, and I reached out for the chain. "Your arms go into the sleeves, dorei." Illaun kept her eyes closed as she finally obeyed. Maybe she tried to block out the fact that she was following my orders after all, that she was indeed obeying. The sleeves ended in closed leather cones, similar to those bondage mittens, so her hands did not appear again. I flipped her over onto her belly. By now my trainee had realised -- to her dismay -- that this fashionable item was some sort of straightjacket. Yet with a nasty difference from its medical counterparts, as Illaun was about to learn. Since I had no intention to remove the jacket from my charming victim any time soon (or any other item, to that matter), I snapped a rubber-lined steel collar around her neck. It was a fine piece of craftsmanship, and more practical than the posture correction device she had worn until this morning. Plus, it was fully compatible with the straightjacket. The jacket sported straps and laces, belts and buckles at every strategic spot thinkable, and while some were designed to tether arms against each other or against her body, others needed strong external anchor points. The two straps from Illaun's mittens found said anchor points at the back of her new neck-long collar. I pulled, and her arms rose from small of her back up her spine. I pulled more, and her encased hands reached her shoulder blades. I pulled again, and Illaun replied with a whole lungful of screams. Her fingertips had reached the base of the collar, which explained the intensity of my trainee's reaction. The tendons in her shoulders and arms immediately started to ache under the stress. To make things worse, I buckled her elbows together. A new cascade of high-pitched shrieks confirmed that this bondage position brought even a young, limber woman to the limits of her endurance. A perfect reverse prayer was downright beautiful to look at, but it took its toll without mercy. Soon her muscles would fatigue, and her vulnerable ligaments had to bear the horrid strain accumulating in her joints. The grinding pain Illaun was experiencing now would heat up to true suffering, a sensation she better got used to quickly. Most of her upper body was now covered by two layers of rubber. Unlike normal straightjackets, this model wasn't bulky at all, and since her arms were neatly stowed at the back, Illaun's torso was gorgeously emphasised. It was easy to decide what to use on her next. "It's a corset, sensei." "Ever worn one?" "Yes, sensei." This one took her breath away nonetheless. Heavily boned, it covered the lower part of the jacket, and I had quite some difficulties to get it under her belted elbows. She gasped and moaned as the black item shaped her into an hourglass. Bonus round: Illaun started to cry openly when she identified the bondage paraphernalia I was holding up, one in each hand. The suffocating hours inside the box, agonising and endless, had left scars. Finally, she managed to answer. "A hood." "And this?" I raised my left hand. "A... a gag," she sobbed. "And what did you forget?" "The correct address, sensei." Illaun didn't resist as I removed the septum clamp and rolled the smooth latex down her head, covering the last free part of her. I did not take this as a sign of her being broken. I had had trainees who had cracked during the boxing or after their first night in bondage. But what the blonde kneeling in front of me performed was another kind of not resisting: Illaun was gathering strength to endure the inevitable. An oval mouth-hole was the only facial opening the hood provided. I carefully adjusted the latex rim around her lips before feeding her the gag. Like the majority of the gags she would wear in the future, this again came with a head-harness. But far more fetching was the design of the mouthpiece itself: It could be named by several terms, such as pump gag, butterfly gag, inflatable. But the one I preferred -- and what described the severest aspect of this particular implement -- was throat gag. Operating the harmless-looking hand pump caused her tongue to be squashed under the main rubber bulb. It made her cheeks bulge out as the butterfly's "wings" grew. The former sensation Illaun had already experienced, the latter was new to her. But what finally caused her struggle against her bondage was the phallic element forcing its way down her throat (hence the name "throat gag"). The layout came closest to completely mute a victim (which would require to block the vocal cords), but the sexual symbolism was evident. Illaun was semi-deep-throating. Naturally, her gag reflex kicked in after the forth squeeze of the bulb. "You aren't going sick on me, dorei, are you?" I taunted. She managed to overcome the convulsions of nausea, and I gave her two more squeezes. After all, she was in training. "If you think you can't take it anymore and have to puke, better think again..." Right now, the gag invaded her to tip of her epiglottis and wouldn't go much deeper by design, so there was no risk of it to obstruct the entrance to her trachea. "Calm down and breathe, dorei. There is a hose running through the gag." What I concealed from her was the existence of an adjustable valve at the hose's outer end. Currently, it was completely open. But it could reduce and eventually shut down the air flow, thus making it very easy to control Illaun's breathing. She had successfully fought the second wave of gagging. Brave girl. I caressed her rubberised face. Without the thick hood, her cheeks might positively burst from the pressure. It was quite an extreme gag; I had trained many who hadn't been able to stand it physically and/or psychologically. I took the pump again and tweaked it, just to let her know I was holding it. "Is your mouth now full enough to make you remember how to address me, Illaun?" She produced frantic noises. Of course they were completely unintelligible and severely muffled -- yet I understood enough to know that she had reacted to her old name. A punishable offence. Sure, it was a perfidious trick, not to say a setup. But she was here to learn, and learn she would. I gave more squeezes and only stopped when I heard something crunch in her jaw joints. The bulb dangling on its hose gave Illaun's face an even more degraded and controlled appearance. Yet I disconnected it, for it hampered me polishing the hood to the same perfect blackness as her suit. My trainee commented my task with strange guttural moans, occasionally interrupted by retching noises. (When I touched her collar during those retchings, I could sense her convulsing throat through it.) To keep her happy, I parted the double crotch strap of the jacket and opened the notorious zipper. Her body, still half-lying, half-sitting, stiffened as I ran a chrome dildo along her private parts. The cool metal's touch elicited an inchoate yelp from her rubber-filled pharynx. "Front or back?" Embarrassed silence. Or maybe she was just playing on time. "One grunt or two grunts? Quick, or I get a bigger one and decide myself." She uttered a choked sound. Front. Illaun (I kept thinking of her as Illaun, I couldn't help it) took the whole length in one slow and steady push, but it would have made her gasp even if her breathing weren't hampered. My trainee would soon come to cherish those ministrations, for her days of unearned orgasms and free self-pleasuring were over. Sexual slavery had a very unfavourable pain-to-pleasure ratio. I closed the zipper and re-tightened the crotch straps. Better be sure... The chain that had held her nose clamp found a new counterpart in the strong ring at the top of the head-harness. I worked the pulley and listened to the sweet sounds of pain and distress as the rising chain forced Illaun onto her ballet-booted feet. If you have seen a girl prancing around en pointe in ballet boots, you know what sexy dance I was watching at. If not, you have something to look forward to. Even in the lying position, the cruel fetish footwear had been harsh to Illaun's calves, insteps and toes. Standing in them was draconic. But teeter in them in order to keep balance -- blind, breathless and without the help of one's arms -- was torture. "This is the basic outfit for a fetish pet," I informed her, emphasising the word "basic" not without a trace of sadistic Schadenfreude. Unlike during her time in the box, her blonde mane wasn't trapped underneath the hood. So her now freely falling hair was glowing in great contrast against the dark splendour of the latex. Every mincing, tottering and near-overbalancing sent it in new waves over her armless shoulders. I savoured her tip-toe torture for the rest of the morning.