Excerpt for The Bound Beauty by , available in its entirety at Smashwords

This page may contain adult content. If you are under age 18, or you arrived by accident, please do not read further.

The Bound Beauty

By JJ Argus

Copyright 2009

Smashwords edition

This ebook is licensed for your personal enjoyment only. This ebook may not be re-sold or given away to other people. If you would like to share this book with another person, please purchase an additional copy for each reader. If you’re reading this book and did not purchase it, or it was not purchased for your use only, then please return to your favorite retailer and purchase your own copy. Thank you for respecting the hard work of this author and encouraging him to continue.

This story is a work of fiction. All characters are over eighteen.


Cover photo courtesy of Restrainedelegance.com




The radio clicked on, and the melodic sounds of Mozart began to rise in the shadowy room. The sounds slowly grew in volume until, with a groan, the white duvet shifted and pushed back. A pale, slender arm emerged, the hand reaching for the bedside table and grasping a small remote control. The mound shifted, rolled, and the arm pointed it across the bed at the other table. The music continued, but softened.

Sierra grunted and buried her face in the down pillow. Her gleaming red hair was sprayed across it as she greedily clung to the last few minutes of rest. Then, with a sigh, she pushed the covers back and sat up, blinking. Beneath the covers she wore a tiny cropped camisole, the spaghetti straps all but baring her slender shoulders, the thin white fabric laying lightly across her breasts and baring her trim stomach and lower chest.

She swung long legs out of bed and her bare feet touched the small green rug beside it as she stood. Aside from the cami she wore only a matching thong as she made her way across the room to the door and pulled it open. The air was still chilled and her nipples were already starting to harden as she checked the thermostat.

She liked the house kept chilly at night, but warmed in the day. She adjusted the thermostat and passed on to the bathroom, where she reached down and peeled the cami up and off, dropping it on a hook, then skinned out of the thong.

She yawned and checked her face in the mirror, satisfied at the unmarried and unblemished smoothness of her skin. She turned on the radio, then slid open the shower door and turned on the water. Then she was underneath, and the hot water poured down around her head and face, rivulets streaming down her body, over and around her firm, outthrust breasts. She washed her hair quickly, then soaped up with practiced ease, her hands moving swiftly, smoothly over her breasts, then down her body and between her legs.

No need to shave, she thought with more than a little smug pleasure, and not for the first time by any means. The laser hair removal had been – embarrassing – at times, but it had done wonders, and there was not a trace of hair around the tight, neat slit of her sex, nor anywhere down the length of her beautifully contoured legs, nor, for that matter, under her arms. She briefly wondered how much time that would save her over the course of her life.

Done, she braced herself, then reached out and adjusted the water. She shivered a little as it grew cool, and gave herself a minute to adjust. Then she turned it again, and the water became cold. She hugged herself, squeezing her arms against her breasts as the water poured over her, shifting from foot to foot and turning around slowly. Then she shut it off with a gasp and pulled the door open, reaching for a towel.

She toweled off the wet mass of her hair first, then ran the towel down her body. Overhead, the fan whirred, as the radio played Brahms. She left the room, naked, padding up the hall to the kitchen. The coffee maker had already done its timely job, and she poured herself a cup, adding sugar and milk before heading back to the bathroom.

She brushed out her hair. It was a foot and a half long, or thereabouts, hanging well past her shoulders. Cut in waves, it would curl in awkward ways if not properly tamed each morning. Fortunately, the taming was relatively easy, and as she wielded the blow dryer her hair puffed up and hung straight and sleek around her head, parted in the middle and flowing past her shoulders, with long bangs also parted in the middle covering much of her forehead.

* * * *

Minutes later, she sat cross-legged on her sofa in thong and cami as she ate and flicked through the news. She wasn’t a big fan of the news but little else was on at that time, even with the hundred or two channels the satellite afforded.

She lived alone and liked it that way. She lived her life however she felt, doing whatever she wanted, going where she would. She had her own house, a bungalow, left to her by her grandfather, fully paid, with a large back yard she was in the process of sculpting into something – special.

But she was not, by any means, wealthy, and so, as the clock ticked over, she rinsed off her dishes, put them into the dishwasher, and headed back to her bedroom. There before the mirror she pulled on a black silk thong, then picked up the box of adhesive bandages on the dresser and pulled out two. They were round bandages, and she peeled off the backing of one, then raised her jade eyes to the mirror and looked at her nipple rings.

She wasn’t quite sure how she’d become fascinated with the idea, perhaps pictures she’d seen. Her nipples were small and pink, with areolas no larger than a dime. But both nipples were pierced by very thin gauge stainless steel rings the size of silver dollars. Studs would have been less noticeable beneath her clothes, but she disliked studs, and she liked to know she was wearing the rings. It was her little secret at work; one of her little secrets.

She slipped on the black bra which matched her thong, and adjusted her breasts in the lacy half cups, then reached for the dress.

Often, she wore blazers or jackets, or heavier clothes, so they wouldn’t show. Today, she pulled on the green dress; one of her sweater dresses. It was soft and elastic, and hugged her lithe, slender frame like a second skin, pulling in tight around her narrow waist, flaring out around her hips and across her buttocks, and, of course, across her firm breasts.

The dress fell well past her knees, almost to her ankles, restrictive, somewhat, but stretchy enough her legs could move freely underneath. She bent and stepped into the boots, long black boots with two inch heels, smart, sexy, but mostly hidden under the dress. Then, her heels clicking lightly on the floor, she turned off the light and went back to the front room.

She paused, hesitated, licked her lips, then went back to her bedroom. She looked at herself in the mirror, at the sweater hugging her body all the way up to its turtleneck top. The turtleneck pulled in softly beneath her jaw, hiding her throat entirely. She let out a small smile, and reached for her jewelry box. She took from it a thin chain attached to a very thin silver plaque.

She pushed the turtleneck low and slid the plaque inside, laying it flat against her slender throat as she drew the chain behind her and clipped it behind her neck. The plaque had one word on it, in graceful script; whore.

She let the turtleneck slide back up to hide it and smiled coyly at herself. Then she took a thicker gold chain from the box. The necklace was attached to a golden emblem of a flower and a bee. She fastened it behind her neck outside the sweater, and let the flower fall to hang against her chest just above her breasts.

She turned and left the room, then, with purse in hand, walked downstairs and up the hall to the garage. The flick of a finger on the key popped the locks, and she slid into the Mazda RX8. It was a sleekly beautiful and expensive car for someone her age with her salary. But with no mortgage or rent to pay she could afford it.

She adjusted the music, then clicked the garage door opener. The door slid up, the lights on the Mazda came on, and she drove up the steep paved driveway to emerge at street level. The sun shone bright above, even through the tinted glass, and she reached for a pair of designer sun glasses, slipping them on, then pulled out onto the quiet residential street and headed for work.

She quickly reached the parkway and her foot pushed down on the accelerator. With a low, barely heard growl, the Mazda sped up. Sierra’s brother was a city cop. That didn’t make her immune to traffic tickets by any means, but he had imparted a certain amount of knowledge to her regarding how many police where likely to be where and at what time. She rarely failed to exceed the speed limit, but had never gotten a ticket.

Not that she hadn’t been stopped on occasion, but girls as beautiful as Sierra, as long as they had a talent for charm, rarely got ticketed.

She slowed at Riverside, then turned onto it and accelerated rapidly. There were no cars in sight, before or behind her, and the Mazda quickly reached a hundred on the long, empty road. She couldn’t maintain that speed long, of course. She raced past the first green light, then the second, then saw traffic ahead and began to slow.

She was still doing eighty as she passed a Ford Suburban and approached a red light. But the roads were wide open here and she could see for blocks in both directions. No traffic approached, and she breezed through the red light as if it weren’t there, though continuing to slow.

Traffic picked up as she approached Smyth, and was heavy as she turned onto it. She followed the four lane road to the highway, then raced along for the three exits it took her to reach her ramp. She slid down it into the city center, and in among the mix of blocky concrete and graceful glass and steel towers. City traffic slowed her now, as Rachmaninoff flowed from the car’s expensive speakers, and, bored, she raised her eyes, examining the buildings and people around.

Her eyes lit briefly on a series of waist high posts before a post office. The posts were rounded, with shining metal balls on top.


Sierra stood in an empty room, nude, legs well apart, ankles bound in metal attached to chains. Her arms were behind her back, shackled together. A post was beneath her, a rounded metal post. Atop it sat a glistening metal ball the size of a baseball. It glistened because it was slick with lubricant. And it was pressed tightly against the smooth opening of her sex.

She groaned into the ball gag filling her mouth as the chains clicked, pulling an inch further apart, and her pussy came down against the rounded ball even more firmly. She could feel the pressure against her opening, could feel the strain on the lips of her sex as they pulled in and back.

Directly before her was another post, quite narrow. A horizontal spike sat atop it, the sharp, gleaming point of it directly at the level of her clitoris, a scant half inch, if that, away from it. If she tried to shift her hips forward, it would impale her sensitive, swollen clitoris.

There was no such spike behind her to prevent her from pulling back, only a narrow chain attached to the post which held the spike, the chain reaching up tautly to the silver ring which pierced her clitoral hood. The ring was identical to those piercing her nipples, and it was pulled out tautly now, preventing her from pulling her buttocks back and removing her pussy from atop the fat silver ball.

The pressure was heavy. She ached, but dully. The ache had a tinge of sharpness to it, though, and that tinge grew as, slowly, slowly, her sex lips were stretched apart by the remorseless pressure. She groaned as the strain fed pain into her system Slowly, the lips of her sex spread further apart than they ever had before, the ache growing, and then the silver ball pushed up through her straining entrance, and into the tight, pink, elastic sheath of her sex.

Sierra gasped with relief now, head hanging back as she gulped in air. She realized she was sweating, and the shackles around her wrists were now slick with her perspiration.

Her pussy was tight, but much more elastic than her opening. She could feel the fat ball nestled firmly inside her there, and then, as the chains attached to her ankles slowly pulled them apart, she sank lower, and the ball pushed higher into her pussy. She groaned as it pushed higher, and then higher still. The lips of her sex had closed behind her, and now slid slowly across the length of the stainless steel post underneath. The post was only narrow in comparison to the ball, yet still it was thicker than any cock she’d ever had within her.

And she had had – many. More than she could count, more than she could remember.

Her sex lips slid slowly down as her ankles were pulled farther and farther apart, and the silver ball pushed deeper into her belly. The spike which had threatened her clitoris was now pressed against the flesh of her stomach eight inches above her groin. Fortunately, the chain attached to her clitoral hood was on a ring which circled the post, and which sank down as she did.

But she had now come to the end of her descent, for the post, though well above the floor, now had held a branch, or rather, two branches of steel on either side. The steel was a sharp, triangular wedge which protruded out four inches on either side. Sierra’s glistening pussy now slid down to press against the narrow wedge of steel, and was held firmly in check from any further downward descent.

That was a good thing, for the silver ball – by no coincidence, had reached the very end of her vaginal tube and was now pressing demandingly against the entrance to her very womb.

The chains clicked, pulling her feet wider still.

Sierra cried out, back arching, as her pussy was jammed even more powerfully against the wedge of metal on either side of the post.

The chains clicked, another link pulling in, and then another, and Sierra’s ankles, already spread extraordinarily wide beneath her, were forced still further apart. Her trembling feet were lifted entirely off the floor now as the tendons in her thighs strained and ached and burned. Almost all her weight now came down on that narrow wedge of metal pressed against her pussy

The longer she sat atop that wedge of metal the more she felt the pressure against her sensitive mons. Her tailbone, too, pressed down against it, with nothing but a slender strip of flesh between the bone and hard steel. She began to ache, the ache growing in strength, throbbing and burning.

And then, deep inside her, the metal ball – sparked.

The jolt of was not severe. One might easily get the same from touching a bit of metal while wearing a sweater and getting a little snap of static electricity.

Even so, one might gasp, or yelp, and draw ones finger back from such a shock.

The ball was deep inside Sierra’s belly.

And the little jolt was followed by another, and another, and another – and another, in rapid, but irregular intervals.

Wide eyed, gasping, yelping, twisting and writhing atop the wedge of metal, her eyes darted to the figure before her, the figure who had been present the entire time, who had moved slowly around her, camera in hand, snapping pictures. There was no look of recognition in that figure’s face, no sign the figure knew or cared about Sierra’s startled reaction.

The camera snapped, and snapped again. At several places around the room, video cameras sat silently recording.

Dozens and dozens of shocks rattled Sierra’s mind, and when they finally halted she was gasping, sheeted in sweat, gulping in air through her nose. Her hair was matted against her skull now, and her bright eyes were glassy and slitted.

Sierra was alone now as the minutes passed. Her mind slowly fit itself back together again, yet the pain from her groin was relentless and growing. The longer she sat atop the narrow wedge of metal, the more bruised her soft flesh felt, and the more pain came from it.

After a time the figure returned, and reached for the spike atop the post. She unscrewed it, slid it down lower, directly before the gasping, moaning girl’s clitoris, then pushed it slowly forward.

Sierra gasped as she felt the pin prick of pressure against her sopping wet, swollen clitoris. Then the spike began to buzz, to vibrate. A small, almost gentle buzz of electricity slid into Sierra’s body even as the metal itself vibrated powerfully.

Slowly, despite the pain, Sierra’s body began to tremble in time to that spike, her breaths becoming more ragged, her chest heaving as the siren call of lust and passion which rarely hovered far from her mind grew and strengthened. For long, long minutes she trembled in the throes of a near feverish sexual heat, muscles spasming and body trembling.

Then the ball began to spark deep inside her again, and the vibrations grew even stronger. The orgasm rose like a hurricane and swept over her, and her mind descended into glorious madness as she screamed into the gag, screamed and screamed, her body thrashing and shaking and jerking spastically.

Her hips bucked frantically, and while the rod impaling her allowed for very little movement in any direction, it allowed for some.…

The spike pressed directly against her clitoris, and as her hips bucked and jerked, it thrust into her, stabbing directly into the soft, burning core of her being. Her screams rose in pitch as the agonizing sharp pain added its fiery sensations to the raging storm within her mind and body.

What little there was left of Sierra’s mind was battered down. Now nothing remained but a howling animal gnashing its teeth against the latex ball in its mouth, its limbs straining and spasming, its body arching and twisting in mindless ecstasy. The orgasm went on and on, astonishingly long, and then she collapsed unconscious, her mind unable to handle the power of the sensations sweeping through it.

* * * *

Sierra pulled the Mazda into the inner lane, then turned down into the access ramp to the garage. It was hot outside – apparently, from the looks of those she’d passed on the way in. But it had been cool at home, and, of course, within the luxurious interior of the car, and it was cool now as she emerged, two levels down, turned on the alarm, and strode purposefully towards the elevators.

She rode up to the lobby, and got out, heading across the polished marble floor to the bank of elevators which would take employees higher. She was aware that eyes were upon her, but eyes had always been upon her in public. The attention beauty drew was something one got used to and came to almost ignore.

She rode up in near silence as eyes flicked over her, appreciating her soft curves and slender feminine form. Some knew who she was, though none knew her. The elevator rode straight up forty stories, then began to make stops. Sierra was the last to emerge, on the fiftieth floor.

The carpeting was thick here, the walls of marble and red oak. She nodded at the receptionists without stopping, and went down the broad corridor to the end, then turned towards the corner office.

And the office outside it, her office.

The desk was L-shaped, wide, beautifully shaped. She opened a drawer and slid her purse into it, then turned on the computer and sorted the mail while waiting for it to warm up. She crossed to the credenza and made coffee, checking her watch as she did.

At quarter to eight she opened one of the large double doors which led into the interior office, turned on the lights, and carried the mail to the enormous mahogany desk set before one of the windows. She turned on the computer, checked the temperature of the room, and turned on the radio, then she returned to her desk and checked for phone messages before reviewing email.

At eight O’clock sharp Ellen Cooper walked through the outer door, and Sierra rose and took her coffee off the warmer, following her into the interior office as another day began at Bitterman-Jones.

Chapter Two

Sierra was an intelligent girl, had always known it, and took some pride in it. But people had described her as quirky, when polite, strange, when not. She had hated school. She was simply too hyperactive to sit still listening to boring civil servants lecture her on things she had no interest in and could foresee no use for.

Why in Gods name would she care what length a river was in Argentina anyway? The ability to conjugate verbs in Spanish had a certain utility, but knowing the chemical composition of sulfur was rather pointless. As for mathematics, she’d despised it since Algebra had reared its ugly head in junior high.

Her teenage years had had more than enough things to explore. She had never gotten involved in what she considered to be “hard” drugs, except for a one-off experiment with cocaine. But she’d done a lot of pills, a lot of weed, and a lot of mushrooms. And she’d gotten into raves in a big way, dancing wildly through the night and into the early morning hours, dazed by ecstasy, her body twisting and writhing to the music.

Sex had come with that, of course. She was a beautiful girl and much lusted after by boys. There was not a heterosexual boy in any class she took who had not masturbated to pornographic fantasies of mounting her soft, slender body and riding her for all he was worth.

For her part, Sierra had taken the sex in stride. It was – something to do, something she knew her parents would hate, something she didn’t particularly enjoy most of the time, but was quite easy and not time consuming. She had a peculiarly male attitude, as well, chalking up boys as conquests, one after another.

And then at eighteen, she’d gone to college, and then almost accidentally rediscovered Aunt Sabrina. She wasn't really her aunt, of course. Sabrina, though, had been a constant in her life for much of her childhood. She had babysat for Sierra all the time, and was often around the house watching TV with her mother and father, or just hanging out.

And then... she had simply disappeared, stopped showing up when Sabrina was around ten. If there had been a falling out her parents wouldn't admit it. They simply said she had moved away, and cut her off whenever she asked for more information.

Running into her at the university was a shock. At first she'd felt a vague sense of memory, a memory which had gotten stronger the more she'd stared at the woman in the line at the book store. Then as she'd become more and more certain of who the woman was she'd had to introduce herself.

Now in her thirties, Sabrina was quite beautiful, but there was something – hard, about her. And she was dressed in low slung, skin tight jeans and a tight tank top that strained against her breasts, breasts which were clearly braless, and, from the way they moved, or rather, didn’t move, were fake. She fidgeted and her eyes darted about. Sierra thought she might be on welfare from the way she looked and dressed.

Thinking she could help, she had pestered the woman to allow her to accompany her home. Sabrina had not wanted to, but had given in, and Sierra found her living in a quite expensive loft not far from the city core, with huge windows letting in streams of sunlight.

Sabrina was an artist, apparently well-known within certain narrow segments of the artistic community. She was, however, an emotional mess. She was living with another artist, a tall, broad shouldered Black man with a heavy beard who sculpted.

Sabrina took pictures.

Sierra was no virgin, but she was shocked by the pictures. They were unquestionably beautiful, artistically lush and well-lit. The forms in the pictures were gorgeously laid out and displayed in softly lit curves and angles.

They were also nude – and in many cases, in bondage.

Sierra had some limited experience with bondage, that is, the casual way lovers would tie one another up playfully for brief periods of time. But she’d never experienced anything like this, and despite herself, despite the sense of uneasiness and disquiet which crept over her, she was fascinated.

And then she’d come across an older picture of Sabrina. It was unquestionably her. The picture had clearly been taken many years back, perhaps before Sierra was born. Sabrina, with her long red hair, looked very much like her then, and Sierra, at first embarrassed, felt a strange sense of appreciation as she looked at the picture. Sabrina was nude, her body rather resembling Sierra’s except that her breasts were much smaller and her nipples larger.

The picture was taken from the side, and Sabrina’s body was bent back across a wheel, the wrists tied to one spoke, her ankles to another. Her back was bowed, her breasts thrusting up and out, nipples hard. The look on Sabrina’s face was hard to fathom, either arousal or pain.

Sabrina grumblingly explained her work, that it went to galleries and private collectors, sneering disdainfully at the concept of pornography and almost as much at erotica, and the difference, if any, between them. She had been animated enough as she spoke, but had ushered Sierra out soon enough, and had rebuffed further advances to the point Sierra had simply dropped in on her unannounced.

Sabrina was in a rage, when she arrived, storming back and forth in the apartment, phone in hand, yelling at someone on the other end. Her hair was drawn back in a pony tail and she wore a pair of very short shorts and a tube top. She slammed the receiver down, and then hurled the phone across the room as Sierra stared at her, nonplussed.

Sierra had been much taken with Asian philosophy, and preferred not to show emotions, as the Asians did, believing that one should be in control of themselves at all time. She looked askance at those who behaved emotionally, especially without reason.

“What the fuck are you doing here?” the woman snapped.

Sierra blushed. “The door was unlocked,” Sierra said.

“And do you walk into every house that has an unlocked door?” Sabrina demanded, closing on her.

“I – was worried about you.”

“Why? Did you think that suddenly I couldn’t get by without your presence?”

Sierra decided to leave, and turned to go.


She turned back and the woman scowled at her, eyes flicking up and down.

“My model backed out at the last second, said she’s sick, the bitch, and I haven’t been able to find a suitable substitute. That’s why I’m angry. I have a showing in Paris next month and I need to work. I can’t afford to spend days looking and calling around for another model. That’s why I’m angry.

“I uhm, understand,” Sierra said.

The woman reached out and placed the palm of her hand against Sierra’s cheek.

“You have extremely soft skin,” she said.

“Thank you,” Sierra said politely.

“Your complexion is marvelous, “ Sabrina said, growing more animated. “Your skin is soft as butter, smooth as silk. And that hair, those red strands… oh yes, you must be very photogenic indeed.”

Sierra looked at her in alarm.

“Why don’t you stay a bit, and let me take a few pictures of you.”

“Oh no!’ Sierra said anxiously. “I uhm, have to be going anyway.”

“You came here to see me. Suddenly you have to be somewhere else?” Sabrina said challengingly. “You haven’t told me much of how you were raised. Were you raised to be ashamed of your body?”

“Of course not,” Sierra said irritably. “But that doesn’t mean I want people to see me naked, much less have pictures of myself all over the internet.”

“The internet?!” Sabrina snorted disdainfully. “My pictures, girl, are developed by me, here, in my studio, and turned into a very select number of highly priced, high quality prints to be placed behind glass and sold in the better arts shops in New York, London, Paris and Tokyo. None of them are on the internet, nor will be. I have the negatives and I have the copyright.”


“Oh come now. How much easier do you think something could be? You simply have to hold still while I do all the work. It won’t take long.”

“What uhm, kind of pictures?” Sierra asked hesitantly.

“Mostly the kind that won’t even show your face. How does that suit you?”

“Well… “

She should have said no, but she had been looking for a way to do something, to find a topic that might bring them closer together, that might bridge the time they had lost between them, and if the pictures didn’t even show her face, well… what was the harm?


The picture was taken from behind and a little to the side. Sierra was wearing a thong and loose crop top. She was bending forward as if reaching for something. The picture was in low light, yellow shifted, showing her skin as golden.

Her bottom was very nicely displayed in just the thong, especially as she’d been up on the balls of her feet and pushing her hips back. It also showed the soft curve of her hips and then a clear view up beneath the short crop top, which hung low as she bent over, baring her breasts from underneath as gravity pulled them down. Her hair could be seen hanging low, and a bit of her cheek, but not her face.


She lay across a mound of dirt, arms stretched out above her, head turned up and back. She was entirely nude, and the picture showed that, in black and white, and in softly lit color. Every contour of her body was well-displayed, including, embarrassingly, her small, neat, hairless sex, but as her head was drawn back, her chin and jaw blocked her face.


The picture was taken from the side as she lay back across pillows on a bed, her knees bent, drawn well apart, her hands – touching herself, her back arched, and head turned away. Again, it was an embarrassing picture, but again her face was not in it. It had, nevertheless, been quite embarrassing to have taken with Sabrina looking on and impatiently calling directions.

“Go on. Don’t tell me you’ve never touched yourself like that, girl. Put your fingers on your clit, cover it up, now arch back, stick those pretty tits out.”


Again taken from the side, showing her entire body in silhouette, her breasts thrusting out proudly, nipples hard. She was holding a flower in her hands, looking down at it, a curtain of red hair blocking most of her face from the camera’s eye.

“Are we uhm, done yet?

The picture taking had not been hard, but while comfortable and confident in her nudity, she was very unused to being watched like that, posed and positioned, even if it was art. And yet, she also felt a dark sense of exhibitionistic excitement, both at displaying herself in erotic poses before Sabrina – who was practically a stranger now, and at the thought of the pictures which would come from those poses, and the men who might see them.

“Hardly,” Sabrina said, her eyes flicking down, “What made you decide to pierce your nipples?”

“I don’t know. I just did,” she said awkwardly.

“Your pussy is as smooth as a little girl – or a porn star. You had the hair removed?”

Sierra blushed a little and nodded.

“Good, it shows your pussy better to the camera.”

She held a length of red rope in her hand and Sierra looked at it, jaw falling.

“Turn around and cross your wrists behind your back.”

“Oh… oh no, I – .”

“Don’t be a child. It’s just for the pictures. Are you afraid of me?” she asked with a smirk.

“I wasn’t - .”

Sabrina had already pressed her wrists together, and Sierra held them there uneasily, embarrassed, as she carefully lay loop after loop over her wrists and cinched them in tight.

Then she began to take pictures, mostly from behind, thankfully, and all Sierra had to do was shift the angle of her head, turn a little, and then kneel, sitting on her heels and do the same again. Sabrina moved quickly, snapped many pictures, muttering to herself as she did so. She seemed pleased, though, and excited by her work.

She stopped and produced more red rope, then tied Sierra’s ankles together and had her curl her legs beneath her, then snapped more pictures showing them together with her wrists. But she began to move over to the side now, snapping pictures of Sierra in profile, and Sierra hoped she wasn’t getting her face in the pictures.

“Lower your head, let your hair drape down. Beautiful. Excellent,” the woman said, snapping more pictures, moving around her.

She had a strange light in her eyes, and came forward again. “Fall forward onto your shoulders,” she ordered, grasping Sierra’s arm to help.

With a little gasp, she fell forward onto her shoulders, keeping her bottom raised, and Sabrina circled her snapping pictures again and again from all angles, still muttering excitedly.

What really surprised her was just how many pictures she was taking, not a few dozen, but hundreds.

“You never know which is going to be the right shot until you examine them later,” she said.

“But you take so many from the same angle.”

“I change the exposure on them repeatedly, and change filters as well.”

She got enough of that particular angle, however, and then put down the camera as she came forward and untied Sierra’s wrists.

Sierra reached for the rope around her ankles and Sabrina stopped her.

“No, I want them to stay tied. Get down on all fours.”

Sierra obeyed uneasily and Sabrina stood straddling her, playing with the rope. She doubled it up, and then bent over to feed it beneath Sierra’s belly. Sierra felt the soft double loop pressing against the underside of her hanging breasts as Sabrina pressed them carefully in place, then drew them up and around the outside of her breasts before crossing the top.

Sierra swallowed as she felt the rope tightening around her breasts, squeezing in on the sides at the base of her chest.

“You have incredible tits,” Sabrina said. “If my tits had been like this I wouldn’t have had to get them done. Would have saved me a pile of money.”

She fed the loops down beneath again, then up top, crossed them in the center of her chest, then fed the two ends up over her shoulders and behind her neck.

“Okay, up. Let me see if that’s the right pressure.”

Sierra straightened and looked down. The rope was squeezing in around her breasts from all directions, but not terribly tight. Still, the effect was obvious in that her breasts were pushed out more, tauter, firmer, and squeezed together. Sabrina pulled on the ropes a little to squeeze them in a bit more, then tied the rope off behind her neck.

“Good. Now give me your wrists.”

And her wrists were tied again, this time apart, loop after lop laid carefully around each wrist and tied firmly in place. Sabrina helped her stand, then reached up and pulled down a rope, one of many ropes and chains which hung from the ceiling to hooks placed against the wall.

She brought it over, tied it to the rope around Sierra’s right wrist, then brought over a second and tied it to her left. She was then able to pull both ropes upwards to raise her arms high and apart.

Sierra gasped as she was raised onto the balls of her feet. Then Sabrina started moving around her, snapping pictures again and again, fiddling with her camera to change the exposure and filters, pausing to change the lighting effects in the studio as well.

Purchase this book or download sample versions for your ebook reader.
(Pages 1-18 show above.)