Bondage: The Burden and the Fate

Thread 1, Part 1:

Laysan, The Memoirs of a Lesbian Bondage Love Slave

Bondage: The Burden and the Fate

(here) - recently

The woman awoke on the hard, wooden floor of a cavernous room. Dust motes and pollen danced through the space above, glittering in early morning sunlight which streamed through tall, narrow, open, arched windows. A light breeze pressed through the open doors and tickled the woman's naked flesh.

There were no furniture or other comforts, just wood, stone, and angles. The woman had no memories of anything before.

As she began to move she felt an odd shifting of some sort between her legs. She looked down to find a sturdy chain of polished steel make its way between her legs up to her crotch. The links passed between her nether lips and continued on up within her.

Alarmed, she grasped a link of cold metal between several fingers and attempted to pull the chain out of her sex. It did not move at all. Nonplussed, she wrapped the chain once around her hand for leverage and pulled again. She did not feel, as she expected, a shifting of any kind within her, nor did her insides deform in any way under the strain. The flesh of her sex moved with the angle of the chain, but otherwise the steel tether remained as it was, embedded. The chain that fed into her vagina seemed to be anchored somehow to the very structure of her body. She felt she would more likely pull off an arm or leg before freeing herself of this cold, foreign appendage. The chain was not going to come out of her.

With her soft gray eyes, she followed the line of chain links as they ran down between her legs, past her feet, across the room, and out the door into the glare of the new morning. She climbed to her bare feet and made her way towards the door with short, cautious steps. As she walked the chain scraped across the floor, tugging down between her legs. She grabbed the chain and pulled it up to relieve the odd sensation. The tug did not cause any sort of physical discomfort. But, regardless, it did not seem to be natural in any sense.

When she arrived at the door, it took a moment for her eyes to adjust to the bright morning light outside. The sky was the deepest of blue, but with streaks of white clouds high overhead splayed about like cracks in the windows of heaven. She pushed a handful of long dark hair out of her face and looked out across the landscape. The terrain was flat; a prairie of some sort, grassland, no trees. In fact, there was no prominent feature other than the striking, wind-weathered edifice in which she had awoken.

The woman lifted and pulled at her chain which appeared to continue across the yard. As she did, a steady string of links rose through the stalks of grass. But within ten meters the weight of the chain pulled the links down into the thick vegetation. The other end of her strange tether was nowhere in sight.

She glanced back into the building. The chain dangling from her crotch trailed halfway to where she had arisen and then looped back towards her across the floor, through the door, and away across the prairie. She set off into the grassland following the glittering metal, her tender feet poked and tickled by the soft plants as she searched for the other end. With every step, she found that she had to work a little harder to pull the growing mass of chain that she dragged along behind. She had barely escaped the shadow of the building when she found herself leaning into her task, straining her muscles. She had to turn back and advance the trailing chain along in sections to enable herself to progress further across the plain.

A week later, in the evening, the woman sat in a soft patch of cool, green and chewed on seeds and berries that she had found throughout the grassland. She could still see the building far in the distance, framed against a darkening sky; its bright walls glowing in the last orange rays of light. She stood up and turned around to face the setting sun and let the comfortable wind tug at her long tresses. Flexing her tired, sore muscles, she made her way around a large pile of chain which she had accumulated over the past seven days and looked out over the endless prairie before her. Through the tall stalks of grass, she could see an occasional sparkle of light where the links of chain reflected the rays of the sun running ever on into the distance.

Each day was the same. She advanced until the weight of the chain she had to carry became too heavy. Then she went back and systematically pulled, carried, or yanked the ever growing collection of hard steel links through this featureless sea of grass.

Each night she went to sleep in a bed of grass tired and sore. Sometimes she would dream of the most wonderful creatures, unbound by chains, or gravity, or perhaps, even the laws of physics. With colorful wings they would flit high and low around the rocky crag where she stood. They would dive into a choppy ocean below only to emerge again soon after, free and happy.

Each morning, though, she awoke to the same grassy plain. She arose and continued on.

Three years passed, though time seemed meaningless in this world. The scenery of the endless plains had barely changed.

Finally, one day, she found a big stone buried in the ground. A heavy, steel staple had been driven deeply into the stone. And to this staple, her chain was anchored. There was no sign of her captors, no village, no other artifacts to illuminate her condition or justify her futile trek.

The woman fell into the grass and wept. Her hope for answers or companionship or anything evaporated into the world around her... She lay in that spot for nearly two days as the grasses danced on the breeze around her.

Finally, she stood up and looked across the sea of waving stalks. It was then that she noticed some dark spot among the leaves some ten meters away. Upon investigation she found the mouth of wide hole. She walked to the edge and peered into the darkness within. She kicked some dirt over the edge with her calloused bare toes and watched it disappear into the shadows. If the abyss had a bottom, it was well beyond her ability to detect.

The woman spent the next three months moving kilometers of chain that she had collected over the past years, arranging the links in large orderly coils around mouth the chasm. Some of the piles towered almost twice her own height.

Just as she was pulling the final strands up onto the mountain of links which most directly led to her vagina, the woman heard a rattling sound at the far side of the hole. Apparently, some links from the pile most directly anchored to the stone had fallen into the hole. And the weight of those links had pulled their neighboring links over the edge as well. This pattern seemed to continue with each length of chain adding more mass to the force until what started as a sporadic clinking of links soon became a steady and accelerating cascade of ringing metal.

In a sudden panic, the woman scampered across the mountains of chain struggling to reach the other side as quickly as possible. She grabbed a strand of moving chain, but it yanked her forward onto her stomach and dragged her toward the edge of the abyss. She let go of the chain as she reached the edge and lay there staring within the hole watching the constant train of links disappeared into the darkness.

She sat up and looked out across the piles of chain coiled into high piles all around her. She looked to the links that fed up between her legs and into her vagina. Slowly, she stood and stumbled away from the hole over to the nearest patch grass where she sank to her knees. She closed her eyes and listened to the tambourine of links as they rattled over the edge of the abyss. As the evening settled in, she lay with her arms outstretched in the soft grasses and inhaled their scent waiting for the moment for the last of the chain to go over the edge and yank her by her cunt into the void...

"...The end." I looked up into the faces of my audience to see their reaction to my story. Paty was smiling, but Sandalwood's forehead was creased with uncertainty.

"Laysan! That story sucked!" Sandalwood exclaimed. Paty laughed and reached across me to the bedside table for the bottle of wine that we'd been draining.

"You always say that you hate my stories, Sandalwood, yet you always ask for me to tell you one."

"I know!" Paty agreed. "What's wrong with the story?"

"It was rotten! You should change the ending, Laysan. Maybe the woman finds a key or a lover or something... anything!"

I gently patted the soft skin of her stomach. "I just tell them like I see them. If I told them any other way, then they would be lies."

And it's true! I have no idea where these stories come from.

I once heard a Bob Dylan interview where he said the same about his poetry. He explained that the lyrics just arrived magically somehow. That's kind of the way that my stories show up for me. I might not even be looking. I should be clear, however, if Dylan's source is an ingenious and angelic entity, mine is simply crass and disturbed. That is because all the stories I receive seem to be focused on chains and bondage and sex.

Sure. I've tried to channel this apparent spring of creativity toward something useful or profitable or meaningful. But apparently creativity doesn't just have one brush. I always fail to find a decent pool of material until I come around again to the same themes once more.

These stories often just appear from nowhere. Most, in fact, I simply ignore until they evaporate under the sunlight of another day. Others linger in the shadows and haunt me. Some are amusing, some are erotic. Some are sad. Regardless, it's women, chains, bondage, and sex again and again. If the spring of creativity has a hue, I guess I drink from a well of red and black.

Unfortunately, our society doesn't seem to appreciate my hue of storytelling. Who am I kidding? Our society doesn't even really seem to appreciate people like me or my Sapphic friends.

"Next time you ask for me to tell you a story, I'm going to make you pay me somehow," I taunted Sandalwood.

"Fair enough, Laysan," Sandalwood laughed. "No matter how demented you and your bad stories are, we still love you."

Oh, well. Creativity, flighty, colorful winged creature that you are! Taunt me! Tease me some more! You are better than nothing! Yes. Certainly. Better than nothing.