A Walk in the Park

Moumou's directions were exact, and I know I need to follow them exactly. My hands are trembling a little. I start with a drink. I don't usually drink at 4 in the afternoon, but this is different.

The makeup he specified is bold, garish. A prostitute's look, with very red lips, dark blue eyeliner, heavy mascara. Rouge on my cheeks, and on my nipples too.

I put the sweater on the table, in easy reach. I thread my apartment key on a chain and hang it around my neck. The handcuff and padlock keys go on the table. Not the CB key. If I had the key to the CB--if I hadn't let Moumou lock me into a chastity belt I couldn't open--I wouldn't be doing any of this.

Yes, I did ask Moumou for excitement, for submission. I felt the need of it in my life. But not something as fearsome as this.

I pull the t-shirt on. It's very tight. On the back it used to say, "Bad girls have to wear chastity belts." But now it's cut off so short that all you can see is "Bad girls have to ...", with the top of "wear". It comes just down below my small, firm breasts. The chain that links my nipple rings hangs down below the edge of the cutoff t-shirt, in clear view.

The skirt amounts to scarcely anything. I have to wear it pretty high on my hips to cover the top of the CB. The CB crotch will be in full view if I sit down.

The shoes have two-inch platforms and four-inch heels. They're enormous for someone as short as I am, much more lift than anything I've ever worn. I try walking in them. I can do it, but barely.

That's all the easy part. Next I put in the mouth piece. It clips firmly over my lower teeth, its bridge holding my tongue firmly against my lower jaw. It's uncomfortable, and I have no idea how long I may have to wear it. I try to say a few words, but they're completely unintelligible.

Next thing is to take my contacts out, leaving me all but blind beyond a distance of a few feet. Then put a black eyepatch over my bad eye.

With the little padlock, I lock the chain of the handcuffs to the D-ring on the front of the CB. Then I click the cuffs on, and double-lock them with the key, which I set on the table. I can move my hands only an inch or so.

I stand up, work the sweater over the cuffs to conceal them. It hangs down in front of me and gives me a little bit less of a sense of nakedness. I totter over to the door. Even with the platforms, I have to strain to get my hand up high enough to reach the knob. It's trembling and slick with sweat. I wipe my palm on the skirt, then grasp the handle. It's the moment of truth, the point of no return.

No, that's wrong. The point of no return came weeks ago, after we'd made love, when Moumou asked if I were ready for real adventure. The little blonde accountant from the small Midwestern town and the big, sophisticated African. I had played with adventure, said I wanted it. Did I really? I still don't know, but I said yes. He had taken me weeks before to be measured and now he pulled from his bag a gleaming CB. The full works, with shield. He locked it on me and said I was his.

And now he has ordered me to do this. He's in Africa, but his e-mail was explicit. I step through the door and let it swing shut behind me. I have the key, but can't reach it, and can't ask anyone to reach it for me. I have to go through with the plan.

I can't reach the elevator button. It's just too high. I turn around and probe for it with my elbow. Finally, it lights.

There are others in the elevator. I can't really see their expressions clearly, but I know they are shocked, disapproving at my floozy appearance. Not at all what they expect. I manage a frozen smile. Fortunately I don't have to push the button for the lobby.

I walk very carefully down the five marble steps from the lobby to the entrance, feeling as if I'll topple or skid at any moment. I don't usually sweat a lot but now I'm bathed in it. My nipples stand out clearly against the damp fabric of the t-shirt, staining it with rouge. Everyone in the street is staring--can feel them, even though I can't see them clearly.

I can't go through with this. Panic is rising within me, choking off my breath. Even if I can't speak I can scream! I will scream, I will!

I fight against it, struggle to regain some composure, and to keep from falling. I have to go through with it. There's no choice; I've left myself no choice.

My chest is still heaving, but I manage to keep going. Six blocks to the park.

The spring air is warm and humid. The wind blows my hair in my face, but there's nothing I can do about it except keep walking.

My t-shirt is soaked. My nipples, fully erect, strain against it, emphasized by the rouge that stains the shirt around them. The nipple rings are clearly visible. The shoes force me to sway as I walk and the nipple chain dances against my tummy. I feel as if I'm in a nightmare, walking naked down a street and unable to find any clothing.

I come to an intersection. I can't tell whether the light says "walk" or "wait" -- it's just an indistinct blur. Others seem to be crossing, so I go too.

A few faces come close enough to emerge from the nearsighted mists. Staring, leering, with expressions scornful, lustful, or predatory. What will I do if someone begins to paw me? Would anyone pay any attention to wordless screams from a girl who looks like this?

"Hey, Baby--you want to do it, huh?" The man steps right in front of me, forcing me to halt.

I shake my head. "Unh, unh," I manage, my voice vibrating with terror.

"What is this? You come to me dressed like this and then give me this 'unh, unh'? What is this supposed to be, huh?"

I shake my head again, violently and step around him. I'm terrified he'll grab me, but he lets me go.

Tears are streaming down my cheeks and I sob with each breath. I can't stop it. What must I look like?

The park. Thank God I've finally reached the park. It's not a very safe park and ordinarily I avoid it, but it's where I have to be. I'm supposed to walk around in this little park. I long to sit down, but I'm supposed to walk.

I'm on my third slow circuit when suddenly I'm pulled backward, a hand over my mouth to stifle my scream.

"Don't look around, don't make any noise." He has an accent, but not like Moumou's. Middle Eastern, maybe?

He sets me back on my feet, then reaches around my head and switches the patch from my bad eye to my "good" one. My vision goes from bad to almost nonexistent.

"You come with me." He keeps his hand on my arm as we walk. I can't tell where we're going. Then we're descending steps toward subway noises. It might be either of two different stations on two different lines.

We reach the platform as a train comes in. His hand tightens on my arm and I feel a moment of heightened panic. What if he pushes me in front of the train? But we simply climb aboard.

He pushes me into a seat. Then he puts plugs in my ears. Even in the noisy train, my world falls almost silent.

What is going to happen? I have never in my life felt so anxious, so near to panic for so long. Is this the man I was supposed to rendezvous with, or someone else who intercepted me? Will I ever be free again? Is this a white slaver, taking me to be sold into bondage? Will they kill me for sport? Or will I simply be left, bound and helpless, to die?

I can't very well be raped with the chastity belt on. But maybe Moumou sent them the key, or maybe they know some way to get it off.

I never thought I needed sex until forced to do without it for six weeks. Even in my terror, I can feel the need. If anything, the terror -- excitement of a kind -- makes it more urgent. For the millionth time I try to get a little stimulation by rotating my hips. A little, a very, very little. Rape might not be so bad.

At the fifth stop we get off. I'm led through the station, but not out of it. Finally, we stand on another platform, board another train. I haven't been able to hear any of the station announcements because of the plugs and have no idea where we are.

Four more stops and we get off. This time we do exit the station. Outside, night is falling. I can scarcely make out the ground in front of my feet. Twice he has to restrain me as I stumble.

We climb a flight of stone or brick stairs to a doorway. My legs are so sore and cramped from the heels that I can scarcely walk.

Down a hall, through another door. While one set of hands holds me, another pinches my nostrils shut. I open my mouth involuntarily and a hand reaches in to take out the mouth piece. But before I can say anything or even feel the relief of having it gone, something is forced between my teeth.

It's a ring of hard plastic that holds my jaws open, uncomfortably so. But it doesn't close off my mouth.

"'lease, 'lease!" I plead, unable to form the "p" sound.

My head snaps to the side as I get a vicious slap. I choke back my words, lest I get another.

A harness is fastened around my head with several straps. The patch is lifted from my eye. I get a glimpse of a man, a younger and more vigorous Saddam Hussein. Then a blindfold is strapped across my eyes.

The cuffs are unlocked, but my arms remain held. They're lifted over my head while someone removes the t-shirt and the chain with my apartment key on it. Then my wrists are cuffed again, this time behind my back. My skirt is pulled down and cuffs are locked around my ankles. I can't move my legs at all -- the cuffs must be linked solidly rather than with a chain.

I'm made to kneel, sitting on my heels. Then the handcuffs are linked with a chain to the ankle cuffs. It's not a comfortable position, but I'm almost completely immobilized and can't shift it at all. I'm lifted bodily into the air, then set down again in new position. Someone tugs on my nipple chain, strokes my breasts, then pinches my nipples. I feel excited and also dirty.

Nothing happens for a time -- I have no way to tell how long. My jaws are starting to ache and cramp from being forced into an unnatural position, but I can do nothing about it. Some sort of plug has been put into the ring, closing off my mouth. The blindfold is tight and I can see nothing at all.

The plugs are removed from my ears. Another accented voice says, "We're going to let you hear so you can do what you're told. Have you done blowjobs before this?"

I shake my head vigorously. A man laughs, a nasty, leering laugh.

"This will be a good time for you to learn. Tonight you're a blowjob machine. That's all. Someone sticks his dick in and you suck it. That's all. You just make sure you do a good job of blowjobs. All you have to do. Everything will be OK. You understand?"

I nod my head, but I feel terrified and disgusted. My boyfriends have all wanted blowjobs, but I've never been able to do it. The thought revolts me. I just can't.

The plug is pulled out of the ring. A warm, soft thing invades my mouth. On the verge of retching, I pull back. But he has a firm grip on my head harness and pulls me into his crotch. I gag.

I feel a sharp sting, acutely painful, on the left side of my belly, followed at once by another. "Suck, you little cow, suck hard!"

Another voice says, "See, we have cow prod for the little cow. You suck or get the prod."

Another sting, this time on my left breast. Sobbing, I try to suck as demanded.

In and out, in and out. The man pulls my head back and forward to meet his need. The rhythm becomes firmer, more urgent. Finally a stream of sticky liquid spurts into my throat. I gag, try to spit it up.

Two more fire-strokes on my breast and side. I gasp, swallow the liquid.

"Swallow, little cow. Swallow it all. No spitting it out!"

I'm sobbing uncontrollably. This is a nightmare beyond my imagining.

Yet it's also exciting. I'm being raped in a way I never thought of, degraded as I could never have conceived. My body aches from the demands being made of it. But it also sings with erotic fire. I fear the stings yet also long for them.

Another penis, another blowjob to be given. Then they laughingly declare my "training" to be complete.

People come into the room, gradually fill it with conversation. I can't understand most of what they say, but I can hear male and female voices. Many men -- about two dozen, but I lose count -- and three women make me give them oral sex. My tongue aches from the unaccustomed effort.

The women are the most demanding, taking far longer. All have completely hairless pussies. The idea is exciting.

The party winds down, dies away. I feel absolutely exhausted, actually doze off, frozen in position.

My handcuffs are unchained from my legs. I'm lifted up and laid across the back of a chair, my head hanging down into its seat. My legs, still cuffed, are forced far apart and then locked in the spread position.

Fingers probe my anus. I try to squirm away, but cannot.

"Tight. Virgin ass, I bet. Well, we have to get you ready for next week."

Something pushes against my anus, hard and greasy. "Push, push down hard. Hard!"

I try to comply as the thing enters me. It grows bigger, bigger, and more insistent. It's the worst thing I've ever endured, bursting me apart.

"Push! Hard! Harder! As hard as you possibly can!"

It bursts me open and finally pops in. My sphincter can relax, but only a little. It feels more tightly stretched than it's ever been. I feel as if I can scarcely breathe with this huge thing taking up so much of my body's space. Something is clipped to the crotch of my chastity belt, across my anus, and then locked to the waist belt at the back, locking in the plug.

The head harness is loosened, the gag withdrawn. I make no attempt to speak as the mouth piece is put back in. The blindfold is removed and my good eye again patched. I'm freed from my restraints, dressed again as before. My apartment-key chain is not replaced.

With my hands still free, I'm pushed into a hard chair. Then the patch is removed from my eye. There are three men, but none is close enough for me to make out his features. I'm sitting at a desk, with a sheet of paper and a pen before me.

"Sign your name, six times," one of the men orders. "This will save a lot of trouble. We have other samples of your signature. They aren't enough for our purposes, but we'll know if you try to distort it."

I'm too exhausted and sore to try to resist. Sitting on the plug adds to the agony. I may be signing my own death-warrant, but I just want to get it over with.

As soon as I'm finished, my wrists are cuffed again to the front of the CB while another man puts the patch over my good eye. My shirt is lifted at the front. I feel a very painful bite on my right nipple. Then the shirt is allowed to fall again. The pain continues.

"Your apartment key is dangling from your right tit. You can reach it with your hand."

I try. I can, just barely, by tilting my body to bring it closer to my bound hand. When I tug very lightly on the key, the pain in my nipple intensifies.

"The plug stays in. Take it out to shit, but put it right back in. Use lots of lube and push down real hard. It will get easier. It's attached to the belt now, at the crotch. You unlock it at the back and it swings down. You can sit on the john with it that way, but you won't be able to sit on a chair or get any clothes on over the belt when the plug is out. Keep it in all the time. We'll be able to tell if you try to leave it out to sleep, or try to loosen it from the belt."

Again my shirt is lifted. This time the bite is on my left nipple. "The key to the plug is dangling from the left tit. Makes balance." The men laugh.

I try to shift in the chair to relieve the pressure on my anus. There are no comfortable positions. My body is on fire with aches and stabs of pain.

"In case you hadn't noticed, your freedom is gone. Moumou has done this for you because he knows your nature and knows you can never be happy when you are not bound. You will never be free again. We are Moumou's partners and we hold our slaves together with his, all in one.

"You will be moving to the slave quarters. On Monday, you will give notice to your landlord. In the meantime, you will come to the park in exactly the same way as today every day after work, at 5:30pm. Tomorrow and on other Saturdays and Sundays the time will be 4pm.

"You will sell everything you own and turn over all your money to us. We will give you what you need. Tomorrow when you come to the park you will carry a purse. Pass its strap over the handcuff chain so you can't drop it. In the purse you must put the most recent statements for all of your bank and securities accounts. You will also put in it a list of everything you own -- absolutely everything -- and a plan for how you will sell it. Anything that cannot be sold will be destroyed. You will keep nothing from your old life -- that's completely dead now.

"We don't torture our slaves, whip them or burn them or anything like that. Not unless we have to make a point. You're valuable property and you will be taken care of. You'll be kept bound in one way or another at all times because that is how it is for a slave. If we need to address you, your name will be 'Slave 17'. Remember it so you will respond immediately.

"You will continue to go to work, but we will collect your paychecks. Naturally, you will say nothing to anyone about all this. Several of those you 'kissed' tonight were police officers, so we will learn immediately if you try to go to the cops."

"By the way," another voice adds, "you 'kissed' someone from your work too tonight. On Monday you can look into their eyes and see if you can tell who it is." The men all laugh harshly.

The first man continues, "When you are at work, avoid all conversation about anything but work. Unplug your phone at home never answer the door. You may stop for groceries on you way home and check your mail as you come in. Otherwise stay in your apartment except when you're making your trips to the park. Speak to no one.

"Of course, your real job will be pleasing us and our friends and clients. You won't have to walk the streets -- we'll arrange everything.

"If we can tell him you are good, Moumou will send the key to your chastity belt and we will allow you to have some pleasure. You will find much pleasure in your slavery, once you become accustomed to it. But you must grow used to the belt, for you will be wearing it 99.9 percent of the time for the rest of your life."

A painfully sharp tug on my nipple-ring chain serves to announce that I must get up. I am led out to the street for my trip back to my apartment and the end of the first night of my new life as a slave-whore.

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Page last updated 01-Aug-25 by: Altairboy@aol.com