Bondage Gone Bad Author: The Carrot Email: stevem@shore.net Date: 1998/12/07 Forums: alt.tasteless Bondage Gone Bad (A story about Bitches, Bondage, Booze, Bad Judgment and Fortuitous Knowledge of Iguanas) She’d been irritating me all day, and now it was time for my revenge. 'She' was actually a woman called Kathy. We’d dated on and off for a number of years, each episode of togetherness a hellish repeat of the last one, yet the sex was so good, so fine, so satisfyingly perverted that somehow we kept getting back together, each of us vowing that this time was the final chance we were going to give to the other. The day was a warm summer Saturday last August. I wasn’t working that summer, she wasn’t working that day, and it had been her idea to spend the day together. Her parents were watching the monkey-like victim of genetic drift that she called her daughter, so we’d gone to the beach for a picnic, swam, explored some tidal pools, gone back to my place for a late afternoon 'nap', and then gone out for an early dinner. Sounds like fun, right? Wrong. You see, she’d been whining all day, spewing petty complaints about everything from the coldness of the water at the beach (no shit, Sherlock, it’s goddamn Massachusetts, not Florida) to how my driving technique of one arm out the window and the other tuning the radio scared her. She whined about her parents. She whined about her Fred Flinstone-like brother. She whined about how other people at work made more money than she did. She whined about my habit of sailing away and disappearing for a week at a time (Kathy, you wench, if you’re reading this, and I know you are: I was with another woman at the time! Haha!). She whined about living in a trailer. What had started off as a promising day of fun had, by 7:00 that night, turned into a migraine-inducing horror show. I silently pleaded for a moment of silence, 30 seconds of rest, but no, she kept on kvetching, stopping only to light another cigarette. I couldn’t tune her out, either, I’d already tried that and was greeted with a piercing 'Are you listening to me?'...Christ, how could I help but listen? Her voice droned on and on, permanently scarring my auditory canal. If you were to take a turntable needle, shove it into my ear, and then scrape it along the side you’d hear the bitch’s voice come out of the speakers. The only time she stopped whining was during dinner. We parked my car at my apartment and then walked two blocks down the street to The Starboard Galley, a little seafood restaurant. I had fish and chips with a side salad. I watched her devour a large fried seafood platter with onion rings, wash the grease down with three beers, and then listened to her speculate about what our lives would be like if we ever married. A mental image of her in ten years’ time formed: fat, alcoholic, coughing her brains out, and bitching at me because I’d inadvertently had the balls to form an independent thought. I’d strangle her first, I thought, and found the idea very appealing. "Are you feeling OK?", she asked through a mouthful of onion rings, "you just had the strangest look!" "Oh, no, I’m fine", I replied, "just fine. I guess maybe I just got a little too much sun..." We finished our meal and walked back to my place. The massive amount of greasy seafood, onions and beer she’d consumed apparently was keeping her quiet. It was a perfect summer evening, cloudless skies, a light breeze keeping the bugs away, with the temperature in the high 70’s. Weather like that always makes me horny, and that night was no exception. I gave her The Look, she returned it, and we walked upstairs to my den of inequity. As I opened the door something large went *thump!* and I heard the sound of scaly clawed feet scampering across the floor. It was the monster known as Groganzilla, my pet iguana; he’d heard me coming in and jumped off of the futon and onto the floor. He scampered over towards us, took one look at Kathy, and started swishing his tail and distending his dewlap in one of the finest displays of male iguana aggression I’d ever seen. "Oh, fuck you", Kathy said to the iguana, and went to pick him up. The animal instantly slashed at her with his tail, opened his mouth, and prepared to attack her. He has never liked her. I dashed over, picked him up, and put him in his cage. This was more for her protection than his. I gave him his favorite treat, a banana, to calm him down while she lectured me about how one of these days I would have to make a choice between the iguana or her. Great, she was in full-blown bitching mode again. Give up my little green pal? I’ve known the iguana longer than I’ve known her! She then started lecturing me on how my refusal to donate some of my tree frogs to her sadistic 7 year old daughter was selfish of me. The thought of my beloved, vulnerable little tree frogs being handled by the little rugrat was the final straw. "Hey", I said, finally fed up, "do you ever stop? You’ve been bitching all day!" She turned bright red. "Look, I’m sorry", she replied, "I guess I’m PMSing, I’m expecting my period any day now. "I’ll make it up to you", she continued, grinning. "Yeah? How?" "If you tie me up you can do anything you want", she said, and walked into the bedroom. Being no fool, I followed her into the bedroom. She was already taking off her summer dress. I reached out and undid her bra and her breasts sprang free. I kissed her, one hand on her breast, and then gently pushed her down onto the bed. Wearing just her panties, she lay on the bed while I got the reached under the mattress and pulled out the ropes. I keep one under the head of the mattress and one under the foot. And what stout ropes they are, too, half inch natural fiber lines that were sold as anchor lines. I tied off her wrists, pulled her panties down (white with yellow flowers on them, and there was no sign of the red tide), kissed her mons, and then tied her ankles. She was now spread-eagled on the bed. I turned on the window fan and the cool air blew across her body; I could see gooseflesh form and her nipples shot to attention. I ran my tongue over each nipple and then stood up in order to take my own clothes off . I stared down at the naked woman who was tied firmly to the bed. I could do anything I wanted? Myriad choices swam through my head, a virtual pornucopia of ideas involving razors, icecubes, hot wax, chocolate syrup, my riding crop, and all the other toys I could think of using. The temptation to shove hot needles under her fingernails was extremely strong. I even toyed with the idea of letting my iguana crawl over her naked body [As Ken in 'A Fish Called Wanda' would say: "R-r-r-r-revenge!!!"] but quickly ixnayed that. "Well?", she asked, and as I heard the irritated, whiny tone in her voice my decision was suddenly made crystal-clear. Ruin my day, would she? R-r-r-r-revenge.... "First, I want to gag you," I told her, and got the gag out of the closet. It’s one of the good ones with the rubber ball that goes in her mouth. Kathy’s eyes lit with a combination of fear and excitement as I tied the gag around her mouth. I could detect a faint whiff of moist pussy as I did this and I noticed her nipples were rock hard; she was clearly enjoying the experience. After satisfying myself that her bonds were firm and that there was no chance of the gag coming out of her mouth, I sat on the bed next to her. "Do you know what I'm going to do?, I asked. "Uh-uh," was all she could mumble through the gag. I reached down and gently rubbed her clitoris. Her hips slightly rose and she let out a low groan. While I stimulated her my penis hardened and I briefly thought about changing my plans, but a chance to execute what I had in mind came along once in a lifetime. "What I want to do," I said, as her eyes widened even more, "is to go out and have a beer or two on a Saturday night without having to listen to your constant whining. "I'll be back in an hour or so." With that, I stood up, went into the living room, grabbed my wallet and keys and left, locking the door behind me. It was a warm summer evening and still light outside as I casually strolled downtown to one of my favorite watering holes, Michael's Harborside. I went in and upstairs, ordered a beer, for on a beautiful summer night nothing tastes better than an ice-cold draft, and went outside onto the deck. It was pretty crowded, even by Saturday night standards, and I squeezed through the crowd and over to the railing. I looked across the harbor, quaffing my beer and admiring the sight of my boat in the harbor, when I heard a familiar voice bellow "Have you fucked your iguana in the ass yet?" in my ear. Turning around I saw my pal Capt Moe walking across the deck towards me. Capt Moe is in his late 50's, retired, resembles a scruffy version of Red Green and spends most of his time pursuing those most noble of pursuits: sailing, drinking and chasing women. Any women. Among his conquests are a one-armed woman, a woman so fat she couldn't get through the door of his boat, and a woman who, in his own words, was in her 70's but looked 90. He's declared "I'll fuck anything but the wife!" on several occasions. Having met his wife I agree with that sentiment. Oh, and Capt Moe has one other endearing trait: there's no such thing as having one drink with him. Oh, you may *think* that you're just going out for one drink, but soon you're having a second, then a third, then maybe you'll decide to order an appetizer, and before you know it it's 2 AM and you're shitfaced with a load of chicken fingers, fried potato skins, nachos or other bar food fermenting in your stomach, wondering where all your money went and how the hell you're gonna get home. That night was no exception. We ordered round after round, told each other (and any women listening) improbable but true sea stories, leered at the waitresses, ate fried calamari as if it were going out of style, ordered more drinks, and had a helluva good time, stopping only to drain our well-filled bladders. And for just a few hours, I forgot that I had a naked woman tied to the bed in my apartment. Well, OK, I confess: I didn’t actually forget. I just didn’t care. Finally, around 11:30 or so, we were both pretty shitfaced. Having decided that we weren’t going to impress any of the young ladies enough to get laid, we decided to call it quits and head back home. Here’s how we normally get home: Since we essentially live on our boats at the marina during the summer, after the bar closes (or we’re tossed out) Capt Moe and I end up taking a high-speed Zodiac ride across the dark harbor back to our respective boats. "I’ve got no running lights", I told him one night after we’d tumbled into my Zodiac and I’d realized that the battery that runs the lights was dead. With no lights there was a fairly good chance that we’d be run down by another boat. "That’s OK", Moe responded, "I’m pretty well lit!" [That was the same night that we almost got run over by a party boat, also known as a 'booze cruise'. Both of us were laughing like maniacs while I managed to swerve out of the way of the ‘Capt Red’, an 85 foot boat, only to have the party boat’s wake shove us into the path of an outgoing cabin cruiser that was heading out for some night fishing. We made it back, had a couple of shots of cheap Scotch, retired for the evening (translation: passed out stone cold on the deck of Moe’s boat), woke up, threw up, went sailing and then did it again the next night.] Well, it was sorely tempting to ride out to the boat and sleep out there, and had it not been for the fact that I had Kathy tied to my bed back at my place I would have crashed on the sailboat. As it was, instead of walking home Moe gave me a ride home in his Zodiac. We were both so drunk that we were in the dreaded Cone Of Silence, where neither person is sober enough to actually carry on a conversation with the other, so we zoomed through pitch-black harbor as fast as the Zodiac would travel. For a drunk, he drove surprisingly well as he drove me to the marina at the foot of my street; we only bumped into one mooring ball as we careened through the water.. Moe dropped me off at the dock . I climbed out of the inflatable boat and waved goodbye to Moe as he loudly zoomed away into the night. I turned to walk home and got the first surprise of the evening. I was staring at a Coast Guard rescue boat. Instead of dropping me off at the little marina at the bottom of my street, Moe had dropped me off next door at the Coast Guard station, which is a fenced-in area that’s normally locked up tighter than a homophobe’s sphincter in a prison shower. Fuck, I thought, this isn’t good. I stumbled up the ramp from the dock, hoping that I might be able to sneak my way to the gate. "Halt! Halt or I’ll shoot!", yelled a voice. The pimply-faced 19 year old kid pulling guard duty was my second surprise of the evening. Not wishing to be ventilated, I stopped. The Audie Murphy impersonator approached, side-arm drawn. Having had the experience on numerous occasions, I can honestly say that I hate it when I have a gun pointing at me, especially when it’s being pointed by an excitable gung-ho enlisted man in his teens who’s bullshit because he’s pulled guard duty on a Saturday night. I suddenly had the urge to shit and my bladder was about to let go. I managed to control my bodily functions, although I did vent a large, silent fart. Must’ve been the fried calamari... "Hands over your head!" I obligingly placed my hands over my head. Carrot’s Survival Tip # 46: Always do what the man with the gun tells you to do. "You got some identification on you?", he asked. "My driver’s license is in my wallet", I replied. "Lemme see it." "If I take my hands off of my head and reach for my wallet, are you going to shoot me?", I asked. Just because I’m a drunk doesn’t mean I’m stupid. Looking back, as I remember the scowl on his face I do believe that the young man intended to shoot me. It was at this point that the headlights of an incoming car lit the area. The car drove over to us and, praise Glub, someone I know got out. It was a man I will refer to as Lieutenant X. I had met him once in the local petstore; his daughter’s iguana was sick (poor diet), he followed my advice, the animal thrived, and since then we have been nodding acquaintances. "I apprehended an intruder, sir", the kid said. "I know this man", Lieutenant X said, walking over. "What are you doing here?", he asked, a genuine sense of puzzlement in his voice. I explained that Moe had dropped me off at the wrong dock and that I just wanted to get home. I didn’t bother to tell him that I’d left a woman tied to my bed for the past couple of hours. "You smell like a brewery", he said, laughing, "follow me." I followed the lieutenant to the main gate and he waved me through, telling me that I should be more careful the next time. I snapped him a quick but sloppy salute, he saluted me back, and I left the area as quickly as my drunken feet would carry me. Relieved that I hadn’t become a victim of high-speed lead poisoning, I walked up the street and back to my apartment. There was a slight pang of apprehension as I opened the door. After all, I thought that Kathy might be a little angry with me. I walked into the bedroom and, not surprisingly, Kathy was still tied to the bed. Her eyes tracked me as I entered the room. "Honey, I’m home!", I joked, slightly slurring my speech. No response. I took the gag out of her mouth. Still no response. I untied her ankles. She flexed her legs and didn’t say a word. Had I finally broken her? Had I done what most men dream of and, in the same philosophy as taming horses, tamed a whining bitch? I untied her wrists. Dead silence. She stood up and put her underwear on. "I guess you don’t see the humor in this", I said, and then she slapped me so hard I saw stars. I sat on the edge of the bed, rubbing my sore cheek, while she put her dress on and stomped out, slamming the door for good measure. I heard her car start and then a screech of tires and then, she was gone. What the hell, I wasn’t all that horny anymore anyway. The alcohol and the stress of the evening hit me like a ton of bricks. I could feel a headache approaching, I was tired, and I just wanted to sleep. Giggling (because I did find the entire thing funny) I sat on the edge of the bed, took my shirt and sneakers off, took off my pants, turned off the light and laid down. Squish!!! I quickly sat back up, the feel of the piss-dampened sheets on my bare back. Back on came the lights. I noticed two things: first, that the sheets were soaked in urine and and second, that there was a small, moderately hard lump of shit in the sheets. I managed to grab the offending fece with a paper towel but when I did I inadvertently crushed it and the resulting foul vapors made me gag. After flushing the foreign piece of shit I came back into the bedroom and also noticed, in the middle of the piss stain, a drop or two of menstrual blood. I pulled the sheets off of the bed, intending to sleep on the bare mattress, but that was soaked as well. I guess all of those beers she had at the restaurant were now residing on and in my mattress. "That fucking pig", I muttered to myself as I crawled into the futon in the livingroom to sleep. Groganzilla eyed me from within his cage. I opened the cage door and he crawled out, climbed the futon, and sprawled across the back while I curled up below him. "Remember", I told my cold=blooded associate, "Silence is golden." And then, in golden, joyous silence, we slept.