The Straitjacket (F/f, bondage, human furniture, rimming, vibrators, musk)
The bullet vibes are cool on your skin as your Mistress tapes them over your nipples. You keep your hands behind your back until she’s finished, like a good girl, and wait silently until she presents your special nightwear. She smiles kindly as she holds it up: a long-sleeved tunic made of red crushed velvet with absurdly long sleeves, almost long enough to reach the floor. You allow her to put it on you, and as it slides over your arms you find the inside is woven of a coarse sackcloth.
Only your Mistress will feel softness tonight.
You cross your arms over your chest, pressing the plastic toys against your nipples, and once your Mistress ensures that your grip is sufficiently tight, she takes the long ends of the sleeves, pulls them tight around your back, and knots them together. She requests that you test it. You struggle to move your arms and wriggle out, flexing and contorting before her, but only succeed in chafing your skin on the rough fabric. The praise she gives you for obedience warms you almost as much as her intense stare scares you.
Next comes the plastic wrap. First she wraps it around your knees, pausing after the first layer to adjust you slightly, before running another fifteen layers around. She prepares to wrap your ankles in the same fashion, but stops, tells you to wait—not that you could do anything else in your current state—and leaves the room. You hear the sound of her rummaging around in the kitchen before she returns with a pair of splints from a first-aid kit. She tells you to point your toes and uses the splint to fix both of your feet en pointe, before binding them in place with half a dozen layers of wrap.
She giggles, and tells you that even if you were to wriggle out of her grasp and off the bed, it would be literally impossible to stand up. You thank her, and squirm your thighs together as she fetches her next set of toys: another bullet vibrator, and a buttplug as thick as a tennis ball. A whine escapes your mouth as she tapes the vibrator to the tip of your dick, and you feel your heart beating in your ears as she drizzles lube all over the plug. It’s been a while since she’s used anything this thick on you.
Her lubed-up fingers press into your ass, and your squeal is muffled by her lips as she kisses you. The kiss is hard and deep, drinking in your shock as she finger-fucks you. You’re left whining and panting as she wipes off her hands. You brace yourself for the plug, but it does not come. Instead, you hear a clinking sound, moments before a ring gag is forced between your teeth. She pulls you upright as she straps it in tight, and you can’t stop yourself from drooling down your chin and chest. She wipes up the spit and rubs it into your face, cooing at your humiliation. Three more things, she whispers.
Something yellow and plastic descends from above, and as the rigid front molds over your chin, neck and collarbone, you realize that your Mistress wants to see you in the posture collar. You hear the soft, sussurating sound of lace over lace as she secures the corset-esque back of the device, holding your chin high and your neck straight, unable to turn your head half an inch in either direction. You can bend your knees and wriggle your torso, and that’s really it. You can blink too, though as she pulls the blindfold over your eyes you know that there isn’t much of a point to it.
She rolls you onto your stomach, and you taste the cotton sheets as your open mouth presses into the bedding. It’s uncomfortable and you want to move, but she put you there for a reason, and good girls don’t go against their Mistress’s wishes. You drool onto the sheet, disorientated and helpless, squirming awkwardly. Your whole body tenses up as she grabs your butt, squeezing a cheek in each hand, digging in her nails and spreading your ass wide.
A shrill whine comes from your throat as she buries her face in your ass.
Every flick and lick runs a current of sensory overload through your entire being, each soft, wet slep is a wave of goosebumps across your skin, tensing your muscles and flexing your toes. Your heart thumps and knots of nervous energy twist within you, but your fruitless struggles only intensify the feeling, a hundred threads of need and want and fear drawn taut through your soul. When your Mistress pushes her tongue inside you, your whole body freezes up. It is as if a cold hand had reached inside you, grabbed those threads and twisted. Your mind slips, paws scrambling over polished granite, and it is a moment before you realize that she has stopped licking.
A click elicits an involuntary whimper. You’ve heard it enough times to recognize the sound of a bottle of lube snapping open. She drizzles the cold liquid onto your ass and rubs it in with her palms, massaging your buttocks before rubbing it up and down between your cheeks, pouring more lube and teasing your hole with the tips of her fingers. The tips press inside you as she implores you to relax, slow and gentle, pulling out to add more lube before pressing back inside, two fingers pushing in and out, slicker with each thrust until they’re all-the-way deep. She pulls out to the fingertips and glides all the way back in with one slick thrust, giggling at your pathetic moans.
The first inch of the buttplug meets no resistance as she pushes it inside you, but as it widens your ass clenches down against it, slowing its entry. Mistress holds it in place to allow you to adjust and relax before pressing it further, though you can’t stop yourself from tensing up as it reaches its thickest point. You cry out in shock and pain as she pushes, but the pain is over in a moment as it slips inside, leaving you feeling… filled. She touches your dick, and as you writhe the tip of the plug touches your prostate. In a moment you become painfully stiff, and your cheeks burn with embarrassment.
As she stands up, the spring of the mattress rolls you onto your side. Drool runs down the side of your mouth as you turn, cooling on your cheek. Your Mistress tells you not to go anywhere, snickering softly as she walks away.
For the next while you are alone with your thoughts, jumbled as they are. The rough inner lining of the straitjacket tills a hundred little scratches on your soft skin, which soon bloom into maddening itches. Each wriggle soothes a handful of spots and plants a dozen more, and every twitch in your hips bumps the plug directly against your sweet spot.
You hear sounds from across the apartment, the dull creak of floorboards under carpet, glass and cutlery clinking, thuds and knocks that you cannot place, and stretches of curious, maddening quiet. An electric toothbrush buzzes for a time, and then stops, and then your world turns over as Mistress crashes down next to you on the mattress sending you bouncing and rolling. She muffles your panicked squeaks by shoving her tongue in your mouth. After finishing her kiss, she informs you she will read for a while before she sleeps.
She pulls you close at first, snaking an arm over your shoulder and letting your head rest on her chest. For a while she reads her book. You hear her heartbeat, and every so often the crisp rustle of a page being turned. At some point she sets the book aside for a moment and apparently decides it would be fun to shove your face in her armpit, which is exactly what she does. You whine from being shoved around, her underarm stubble rough against your lips, the faint taste of salt and the smell of antiperspirant and the day’s sweat. Once comfortable, your Mistress tells you to be a good girl and lick.
Salt mixed with the cloying smell and bitter taste of deodorant aren’t the most pleasant things, but the murmurs of enjoyment from above give you a warm feeling of duties fulfilled. She shifts, presumably picking her book back up, and you lick away mindlessly. A while later she clambers over you to give you access to her other armpit. As soon as you’re reacquainted with the taste of fresh sweat and old antiperspirant, she giggles and starts rubbing your face up and down her armpit, seemingly taking pleasure in seeing your face covered in sweat and saliva.
You’re shoved away again, licking your ring-gagged lips as Mistress puts her book away on the bedside table. The light clicks off, turning the dull orange fuzz at the edges of your blindfold into blackness, and then she seizes you in an embrace, dragging the thin sheet over both of you. You swallow. It’s a warm summer night, and the way she’s all but climbing over you makes it feel positively sweltering.
She peppers your cheek with kisses before snuggling into you, content and relaxed, her hand idly stroking the outer velvet of your straitjacket. Instinctually you want to touch her arms, meet her caresses with your own, but you find yourself tugging against your bonds. You can only lie in place as her arms wrap around you. She hooks a leg over yours, her heel pressing into the tightly-wrapped flesh of your calves. Her strokes become squeezes, and you feel her pressing her groin against your body, pushing and pulling you as if she can’t decide whether to mount you or drag you on top of her.
She tells you that you’re made for this, whispers into your ear, hot breath and sharp words. No more whining, she says, no more talking, no petty insecurities, you can’t get away, can’t fight, can’t say no can’t even shake your head. All you can do is writhe for her, she tells you.
Your Mistress kisses you on the cheek, once and then twice, and then nibbles your ear. She starts with teasing little nips and licks but slowly, maliciously bites harder and harder, until she’s pressing your flesh between her teeth and you can’t hold back from crying out. The moment the noise leaves your throat she slaps you on the cheek, a dozen short, stinging smacks until you shut up. She giggles, again.
Stroking your hair, she explains that she has come to a realization: you’re not her submissive any more.
It’s not that you don’t belong to her, she says, far from it. It’s rather that a submissive, well, submits. It’s an active deed, it requires intent, and even the most wretched and debased servant makes a choice on some level. Your Mistress may put a boot in your face, she says, but it is you who sticks your tongue out to lick it.
But you have no choice, she continues, your performance means nothing. You are warm and soft and hers, you can do nothing to please or even displease her. She knows you well enough that she can control your yelps and squeaks with bites and—there is a click, and all three vibrators on your nipples and dick thrum and pull a moan out of your core before a second click shuts it off—other things, she says, and you can hear the smirk on her lips as she speaks.
In your mind, she says, you might feel bliss or discomfort, you might be bored stiff or the most delighted pet, melting with joy or sunken in despair, but no matter the depth of your emotion, it is nothing I can see. For her, she says, you are not a person, not even a submissive. A submissive might turn service into their reason for existing, but you serve by the mere fact of your existence.
You are not a submissive, she says, you are furniture.
Giggling, she kisses your cheek and scooches in close to you. You whine. She turns you around, resting her face against the back of your head, her breath still hot in your ear. You can’t tell if she’s getting comfortable or groping you. Perhaps both.
You find yourself stumbling into broken sleep, long after your Mistress begins to slumber, the discomfort of your bonds and the intermittent snoring in your ear never quite letting you relax into slumber. You’re woken more than once once by your Mistress rolling over, or sleepily squeezing your breast.
You awaken with no-one beside you.
Alive, awake, on your back, nothing touching you from any direction, eyes wide under the blindfold. You are still bound from head to toe. You wriggle from side-to-side and feel nothing but empty sheets. Mistress is gone.
Still pitch-black, still blindfolded. You have no idea what time it is, or how long you’ve slept for. Is it morning? Your mind fills with uncomfortable questions. Has she left for the day? How long will she leave you for? Is she coming back?
…How are you going to pee?
The low, loud creak of a door opening makes you yelp in shock. Your Mistress—hopefully—sits down on the mattress and sends you bouncing, before she grabs your ponytail and pulls you into a sitting position. You moan before Mistress smooshes a warm, soft patch of skin against your ring-gagged mouth.
You stick your tongue out and run it over the soft bump you instantly recognize as her nipple, first tasting sweat. and a moment later tasting cold, crisp water. Drip, drap, drap comes the sound of your Mistress drizzling something on her breast.
Drink up, she tells you, she doesn’t want her pillow getting dehydrated.
You lick until she’s done, drinking down every drop as you realize how dry your mouth is, each mouthful tinged with the sugar-sweet taste that water only brings when one is desperately thirsty. As the flow peters out she rubs her breast all over your face, smearing you with water and your own saliva, before unceremoniously dropping you back down onto the bed.
Mistress slips back into her routine of snuggling, groping and grinding against you, but this time she shows no sign of settling down. You feel something stiff and warm pressing against your hip, and even in your bound and blindfolded state you know exactly what it is. Her hand pats along your side as if trying to grab your wrist and make you give her a handjob, but it meets nothing but soft velvet. She growls frustratedly as she realizes that the very bondage she put you into has now foiled her. For a moment she stops, still and silent, doubtless plotting a new way to use you as a pleasure toy. She rolls you onto your belly, and leaves the bed to fetch something.
You hear the low squelch of liquid being squeezed from a tube, then you hear the gasp she always makes when cold lube touches her cock, then you hear the moan as she rubs it in, and you hear then your own squeal as a thick serving of lubricant is poured between the backs of your thighs. There’s only a small patch of uncovered skin between the bottom of the straitjacket and the top of the plastic wrap at your knees, and she gives it a thorough coating.
Mistress climbs on top of you, pressing the air out of your lungs, kissing your ear from behind and groping you over the straitjacket. Something presses between your legs and she cries out in pleasure as her cock squeezes between your lubed-up, squeezed-tight thighs. She humps you at first like a lust-drunk teenager before shifting her position to really fuck you, using your thighs like a pussy.
The sensation is a strange one. There’s none of the stimulation of rubbing dicks together, none of the pleasure and discomfort of butt stuff—except the odd bumps that her frenzied thrusts send through your plug—and there’s not even the satisfaction of pleasing her through your own skill that you get when she fucks your mouth. She increases her pace, swearing under her breath, her sweaty thighs slipping over your plastic-wrapped legs. You taste salt and synthetic lube as she puts three fingers from each hand in your mouth, curling them around your ring gag and using your cheeks like a set of handlebars to steady her thrusts. You drool with your head fixed in place by the bondage collar, wincing from pain in your mouth while she cries out in pleasure.
Mistress lets out a long, broken moan as she climaxes, each thrust halting and jerky, her hips grinding down, coating your thighs with thin, sticky cum. You feel her body relax on top of you, and you squeak with gratitude when she releases her death-grip on your mouth. Her breasts feel so soft pressed against your back, her cock twitches as it softens between your thighs, and her lips are warm and gentle on your ear, whispering praise for her good little fucktoy. She lies like this for a while, and as the sweat and heat and rough fabric inside the straitjacket begin to grow maddeningly itchy, she dismounts you
She sits down with your head next to her crotch. Mistress does not wish to be sticky all night, she says. Will you be a pet and lick her clean?
You don’t enjoy the plasticky taste of lubricant as her softening cock slips into your mouth, but the taste of her jizz and the knowledge that you’re pleasing her more than makes up for it. It’s difficult to suck it properly without being able to close your lips around it, but Mistress is apparently happy enough with your tongue that she sees no need to remove your ring gag just yet. Once you’ve cleaned it—or at least replaced the jizz and lube with saliva—she pulls you up, feeds you a little more water from a cup, and lays you down to snuggle.
She soon falls asleep beside you, leaving you awake and uncomfortably horny.
Your whole being rings with vibrations, buzzing through your nipples and dick at a speed and strength you can scarcely comprehend. Moans echo in your ears, perhaps your own, as your mind scrambles to deal with the sensation. You want to push away from the sensation but your hands strain against a cloth prison, each movement pressing the buzzing toys harder onto your nipples. As you fruitlessly and foolishly try to back away from the vibrator on your dick, you feel your plug bump against your g-spot.
Through the haze of humiliation, confusion and sensation, you hear a soft laugh. You make an excellent alarm clock, says your Mistress. She leaves you to writhe for a while longer before switching the vibrators off, leaving you weak and gasping for air.
Soft hands remove your blindfold, and as the brightness recedes you see your Mistress for the first time since the night. She looks radiant and full of energy, a devilish smile on her lips and a pink tint to her cheeks, as every muscle and neuron in your body begs for more sleep. After planting a peck on your forehead, she gets out of bed, and you watch as she slips on sweatpants, a tank top, and pink running shoes.
It’s time for her morning run so sit tight until she’s back she tells you, and don’t worry, she’ll let you lick her feet clean of sweat before she showers. You can sleep until then, she adds, not unkindly.
She blows a kiss as she leaves the room, you gargle a plaintive goodbye through your ring gag, and hear steps and stomps and the front door closing shut. You’re bound tight as ever, skin rubbed raw from the rough fabric of the jacket, and despite your tiredness the light is enough to stop you from drifting back to sleep. It’s almost enough to make you wish she’d left the blindfold on. You really wish she’d let you use the bathroom before she left.
You flop around from side to side, bored and increasingly desperate to pee. On the bedside table you spot Mistress’s phone, which is odd. It’s unlike her to leave it behind. You blink, and see a pastel-pink dongle coming off the phone, one you’re sure you’ve seen before.
Wriggling up the bed a few inches, you see the screen of the phone, just enough to see that your Mistress has accidentally snoozed her alarm, not switched it off. For a moment, you can’t remember hearing the alarm go off in the first place. Then you remember what the dongle is. It’s a wireless control panel.
Your eyes go wide as the phone lights up, and all three vibrators roar to life.
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