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Archive-name: Slaves/angussto.txt

Archive-author: Angus Podgorny

Archive-title: Angus' Story

Greetings all.  Although I've been a lurker for 6+ years,

I've been unable to post because my only access has been 

through machines at work.  Finally I've weaseled an outside 

account and can add my meager experience to the community.

I only wish Clay was still around.

I'd like to thank everyone here for the many hours of enjoyment

and education that you've provided.  When I first discovered

asb I was surprised and pleased to find a whole Usenet group

devoted to what I had thought were my strange private kinks

(I was pretty young at the time, and naive).

So thanks everyone, and I hope that I will be able to

contribute something useful or at least entertaining.

What follows is a story I've been working on.  I've never

written anything for public consumption before, so I'm

anxious for any feedback on its quality or suggestions for

improvement.  (Don't quit your day job!)  If I'm not

quickly vilified for wasting bandwidth with dreck I'll

post the rest of it.

And now, on with the show...

"Are you ready?"

"Yes, Master."

"Kneel... spread your knees further apart... keep your back

straight... bow your head slightly... very good.  Very

nice.  Now lock your hands behind your back.  Very good."

"Thank you Master."  A slight catch in her voice, she was

nervous.  Inside my abdomen it seemed that something warm

had rolled around itself.

"Now I'm going to blindfold you."

"Yes, Master."

I wrapped the white silk around her head; it contrasted

beautifully with her curls of jet black hair.  As I wound 

the smooth, cool fabric around her head I worried that

she would be able to see through it.  That would show

weakness, inexperience.

"Can you see, Amy?"

"No, Master."

I flicked my hand towards her face -- no reaction.  The

liquid white silk was magnificent against her hair and 

shadowed skin; her lips were slightly open, and she 

trembled very slightly as her chest rose and fell.

The silence grew, and so did her trembling, until she 

started to open her mouth to speak.

"Don't forget the rules, Amy."

"I'm sorry Master."

And the trembling had stopped; she seemed to raise her head

a little, perhaps ashamed of her weakness.

"Are you ready to be bound, slave?"

She started.  The tip of her tongue slipped out to

caress her lower lip, and she moved her head to one side

slightly.  I knew she was embarrassed to hear these words

spoken, but they held a shameful, exciting mystery for her.

In her interest in submission she had reminded me of a cat

on the street, hovering near, wanting to be stroked but

ready to dart away at a quick move.  And yet, she returned

again and again to the subject, asking why I was interested

and why anyone -- meaning me, in her insular way -- would

allow themself to be degraded so.  Searching for the words

that would allow her rational mind to justify indulgence of

her passion.  I still don't know what it was that

tipped the balance; one Saturday over a late breakfast she

had mentioned casually that she would like to stay over one

night and "try some of those things, you know, the ones we

talked about."  And then a blush as I nodded. 

She raised herself slightly and took a slow breath, then


"Yes, Master."

"Ask me."

"What?", forgetting herself for a moment.  Silence seeped

between us again.

"What, Master?"

I remained silent.

"Master, I'm sorry.  I won't do it again."

I let the silence grow, as her trembling began again.

I spoke softly: "Ask me."

She drew in her breath a little and raised herself once more.

"Master, please tie me up."


"I'm sorry Master, I'm nervous, I forgot.  Master, please

bind me."

"Bind you how?"

Again, embarrassed silence, and then quietly:

"Bind my hands, Master, behind my back."

"Lie on the floor, Amy."  She let herself relax from her

proud kneeling position and then bent at the waist, raising

her bottom into the air as her chest sank to the floor.

We had agreed that despite the possibility of friction burns

we would use rope; it was her choice -- I think the texture

excited her -- but I too was pleased with her taste.  I

folded her arms behind her back so that the forearms were

parallel, wrists touching elbows.  Three ropes, each wound

four or six times, one for the center and one around each

wrist, holding it tight to the elbow.  Tight enough for her

to feel, but not digging in.  Again, I stood back a little,

lighting myself a cigarette, and looked at her.  The light,

pleated skirt hung halfway down the back of her thighs, 

riding just highly enough to entice.  Her arms were golden

against the black blouse, wound with the creamy white rope,

flexing gently as she tried her bonds.  I was the one who 

should have been trembling.

"Sit up, Amy.  You look uncomfortable."

"Yes, Master."  "Actually that was quite comfortable."

I slowly walked around her until I was facing her again.

"Oh really?  Well I'll remember that.  It certainly looked

nice enough."

"Thank you Master."

"You're welcome, tease.  Are you ready for your collar."

The flush again.

"Yes Master."

I was finding that flush rather stimulating, and starting to

wonder whether I'd have the strength to resist her for long.

It was one of those no-lose situations in which I find

myself far too rarely.  I reached around behind her neck 

and fluffed out her hair so that it cascaded around her shoulders.

She was trembling again, slightly, so I waited.  Her tongue

darted between her lipstick reddened lips, touching them

slightly with a flash of perfect white teeth.



"Master, did I do something wrong."

"No, Amy."

I waited.

"Master, I am ready for the collar."

"No, Amy, I don't think so."

Silence, again, spreading between us.

"Yes, Master, please."

"You're ready for which collar, Amy?"

A pause, and then realization.  The flush again, this time

apparent even against her bronze cheeks.

"My collar, Master.  I am ready to wear my collar now."

Again she had raised herself, lifting her head higher.  It

seemed she summoned her courage that way, her anticipation

fighting her embarrassment.

Sharply: "Head down."

She jerked, and lowered her head.

"Better.  Now ask again, properly."

"Please Master, I would like to wear my collar now."

I lifted the collar from the couch and knelt in front of

her.  She flinched slightly as the cool leather touched her

throat, but stilled herself as I buckled it behind her.

I stood and walked behind her, picking up a short leather

strap, and again knelt, this time behind her.  I wrapped the

strap around her forearms and fastened the buckle, then

lifted a length of chain from the table.  It rattled against

the glass top and she jumped again.  I smiled and padlocked

it to the strap's buckle, then pulled her arms up until she

tightened against the pressure.

"Relax," as I lowered it slightly.  Is that comfortable?"

"Yes, Master, that's better."

I gave the strap a jerk upwards again, and she voiced a tiny

gasp, arching her back further, but then relaxed slightly,

her breathing a little faster, as I released the tension a

bit.  I locked the top end of the strap to the ring on the

back of her collar.  Her arms were pulled up now, forcing

her back to arch and her chest to push out.  As I moved,

kneeling, around to her left side I saw the black silk of

her blouse pulled across her breasts, and even through the

bra beneath her nipples were visible as slight mounds.  Like

the tip of a snooker queue, I remember incongruously thinking.

"You look lovely, Amy.  Are you still comfortable?"

"Yes, Master."

A pause: she looked as though she was about to speak.  I

moved my hand so that it hovered over her left nipple.

"Master, " she began, and I took her nipple between my thumb

and forefinger and squeezed, quickly increasing the pressure

until a gasp of pain broke her sentence.  She flinched away,

almost overbalancing, but with my right hand I seized the

strap where it met her collar and pulled her back towards

me.  I took her nipple again and squeezed, slowly increasing

the pressure until she seemed about to protest and then

decreasing it.  I watched her face, fascinated and aroused

by her unabashed, passionate expressions, as I squeezed and

released repeatedly.

I noticed that I had unconsciously pulled her closer with

the strap, and this time as I relaxed my pinching fingers I

leaned forward slightly, and smelling the perfume of her

curly black hair whispered into her ear:

"Are you still nervous?"

Her breathing was heavier and she again shivered, starting

to turn towards my voice as I spoke.  I squeezed until her

mouth parted and her cheeks tightened.

"No, Master."

"Why did you break the rules, then?"

"I forgot, Master.  I'm not very good at..." and she tailed

off into a surprised gasp as I pinched harder.

"That kind of negative talk just isn't necessary, is it?"

Her speech was slightly breathy now, and a little tremulous:

"No Master, I'm sorry."

"You deserved to be punished, didn't you?"

She was calming a little, and I relaxed my grip on her

collar strap slightly.

"Yes, Master."

I squeezed again and pulled her towards me, until her head

tilted back and her lips fell open.  She moaned a little

now, as I maintained the pressure and moved my fingers in a

slight circular motion.

"Yes what?"

"Yes, Master, I deserved to be punished."

I squeezed harder again, suddenly, and she yelped and tried

to pull away, but before she could I had released her.

Intermission (brownies in the lobby).


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