directed self-bondage story: a tale of rope and restraint under a mistress's guidance

I’m uncertain whether this counts as self bondage or standard bondage. I performed the work on myself, yet solely under my wife’s direction. We both have a strong liking for bondage; she knows that even before we met, I tied myself up frequently and still enjoy doing so when she is away. Often during a session, she’ll instruct me to fetch some rope and tell me how to arrange it around myself. She then secures the knots to ensure escape is impossible. This story covers an occasion where she guided me via something like remote control.

It began at breakfast on a Friday. We were teasing each other, exchanging banter, when she announced that Mistress was due for a visit. I agreed with her assessment. She added that upon returning home, I would discover instructions waiting for me and should adhere to them closely. With mock deference, I replied “Yes, mistress.” She warned that I might regret such an adorable slip of the tongue. After more playful teasing, it was time for my commute.

I spent most of the day in a state of heightened excitement. We engage in this type of play regularly, and I knew she takes her dominatrix persona seriously. I felt confident I would be well cared for and genuinely dominated. It proved difficult to focus on work, and I struggled hard not to masturbate.

I arrived home before her, as usual. It was roughly 5:30 PM, while she typically returns around 6:30 or slightly later, giving me at least an hour’s head start. True to the promise, an envelope sat on the kitchen table addressed simply to “slave”. My hands trembled slightly as I opened it. Even without her physical presence, I knew this marked the beginning of something significant. Inside lay a handwritten note instructing me to proceed to the bedroom, strip naked, and shower while shaving. It further noted that a box awaited on the bed, which I must not open until fulfilling these initial commands.

I followed directions precisely: heading to the bedroom, removing my clothes, and putting them away neatly. As promised, the white cardboard box sat prominently on the bed—the kind found in upscale department stores for nice shirts. I left it unopened. I lingered over my shower, achieving a razor-smooth shave, and applied her preferred cologne. Though not explicitly required by the instructions, I felt she would appreciate it. Returning to the bedroom, I gazed at the box briefly as anticipation built, then lifted the lid.

Within lay the attire designated for me, along with another note. This message directed me to dress in her chosen outfit and descend to our ‘play room’, where yet another box and note awaited. The garments were familiar from my time as a sub: a garter belt, black seamed stockings, black high-heeled pumps with ankle straps, and long black gloves.

I pause here for clarification. I am not a transvestite regarding identity; in the context of bondage, I identify as a switch. I relish both topping and submitting roles, and when submitting, I prefer to go all the way. The clothing serves as part of the humiliation that helps me fully embrace the sub role. Additionally, she becomes aroused seeing me dressed this way. Our cross-dressing habit began after I complimented her on looking hot in heels and suggested she wear them more often. Her retort was simple: “Why don’t you wear them if you like them so much?” When I mentioned needing a pair of my own, she gifted me these exact shoes weeks later. We have since added other items to the mix.

I started dressing in the clothes from the box, feeling excited by two distinct factors: the fetishistic quality of the garments and the knowledge that she had dedicated time and effort to planning this scenario for which I was truly grateful. First came the garter belt made of black satin. I pulled up the deep, opaque black stockings with seams running down the back. Next were the shoes; I slipped them on and buckled the straps securely. These straps ensured I couldn’t kick off my footwear until she permitted me to do so. The gloves followed—soft leather in black, pulled up nearly to my armpits as I smoothed them out, savoring their texture against my arms. Standing before a full-length mirror, I looked quite the part with my cock hard and pointing straight ahead.

I walked down to the basement ‘play room’, taking care on the stairs since walking in high heels is not second nature yet. Our play room was essentially a large finished living space rather than a stark dungeon—a family room adapted for fun. Few people ventured downstairs, so we didn’t worry about being discovered. Several eye-bolts secured the ceiling and walls with minimal furniture: just a sofa and an upholstered footstool. The carpeted floor provided comfort. Being near the furnace in winter kept it warm, while its partial underground location maintained cooler temperatures in summer. A small adjoining room housed only a bed featuring a sturdy wooden frame with excellent tie points; we had both spent time spread-eagle on that bed. Located at the rear of the house with a window facing the backyard, the area offered privacy and muffled external noise.

The expected box rested on the sofa. I opened it to reveal another note alongside some restraints. The note detailed how to apply them. Following its guidance, I removed a pair of leather ankle shackles from their packaging. Buckling them just above my shoe straps, each was secured with a small padlock; notably, the keys were missing from the box. Positioning an upholstered footstool several feet behind where I would stand and placing a wooden bench directly in that spot, I sat down. Two chains attached to wall-mounted eye-bolts lay ready, their ends spaced about a foot apart with open padlocks on the final links. I snapped these onto my ankle shackles, leaving my feet chained approximately a foot apart.

Over my gloves, I buckled wrist straps and locked them in place using matching small padlocks provided for this purpose. The short chains attached to the wrists had additional padlocks included in the box. Picking up the final item—a leather helmet of perfect fit—I double-checked that all necessary items were within reach and re-read the note to ensure nothing was overlooked before donning it. I pulled the hood over my head, lacing down the back from crown to neck. The fit was precise, encasing my entire head and neck with only a nose opening for breaths. After smoothing it out to avoid pinching ears, I tightened the laces snugly until total darkness enveloped me. It sat tight under my chin and across my mouth, restricting jaw movement and muffling sounds. Had she been present, she might have stuffed cloth in my mouth for silence, but thank goodness she did not require that; keeping a large wad of fabric while alone would be unsafe. I finished tightening the laces behind my neck, where a built-in strap doubled as a collar when needed, buckling it over the knot and securing it with another padlock found within.

The next phase promised to be challenging. Grasping the last two padlocks, I surveyed the area to ensure clear paths. Standing up carefully on the wooden bench…

, so as not to fall. With my ankles bound spread apart and blindfolded, it was quite a challenge, but I managed it. Holding an open padlock in the final link of the chain on my wrist shackle, I reached up toward the ceiling until I located one of the eye bolts. I looped the lock through the bolt and (the moment of truth) snapped it closed. I repeated this for the other wrist chain. Stepping down from the bench with confidence that falling was now impossible, I realized I had installed those eye bolts myself, so they were secure. I kicked the bench forward, having followed every instruction to a tee. I was a good slave. My arms hung above me and spread wide. The ceiling eye bolts sat about 4 feet apart and high enough above my hands that I couldn’t reach them. I could grip the chain and feel its unyielding steel links without being stretched too tightly. My feet were planted firmly on the floor, slightly more than a foot apart. Had she been there to bind me, she would have spread them wider, but if they had been any farther apart, I wouldn’t have managed to get up onto the bench to lock my wrists. Feeling around with my toes, I couldn’t locate the bench I’d kicked forward, nor could I feel the footstool behind me. Perhaps when she arrives, I thought, she’ll notice how close my legs are and fix it. Ah, when will that be? Upon getting home, I guessed I had an hour or a bit more. But how long did all those preparations take? And how much later than usual might she be? It struck me then that I could have waited on the final steps until I heard her car pull up, standing to lock my wrists in place right then. However, that wasn’t in the instructions, and I was proud of having followed her orders precisely. Regardless, it wasn’t particularly uncomfortable. Nothing was pinching, and while my position wasn’t stretched as hard as it could be, my feet were a bit sore in the heels—not unbearably so—and I could always hang by my wrists for a few minutes to relieve them since the wrist straps were quite comfortable. All things considered, it would be an acceptable wait. I spent that time wondering what she would do and indulging in fantasies of the revenge I’d take later. The best part about switching is doing to your partner exactly what you want done to you. Thinking back on her planning and effort so far, I was again impressed, filled with love and longing. I wanted her here now, despite what I guessed was coming next. I felt gravity tugging at the weight of my erect cock; my libido wanting it horizontal while its weight pulled it down. Of course, I don’t know exactly how long I waited, but probably less than an hour. I heard the car and the garage door opening. Then her footsteps crossing the floor above me. After that, nothing for a while as I wondered what she was doing. Finally, the sound of water, signaling she was showering. She was teasing me diabolically, knowing exactly what she was doing and enjoying every minute. Then, the water stopped, silence followed for a bit, then her steps on the stairs, and finally the door opening and closing behind her. Act I of this little drama ended, with the curtain rising on act II. I could smell her before I felt or heard her words. She usually wore a light floral scent, but for these occasions she chose a heavier musky fragrance that knew how to excite me. The scent brought back every memory of our bondage adventures and set the stage for more. She stood behind me, wrapping one arm around my torso, stroking my chest and stomach. I could tell she was wearing gloves too. As I said before, she takes this role seriously; I guessed she had dressed the part. So far, only the gloves gave it away, but I knew there was more beneath them, longing to see what else. We were both young then—she was 28—and we were both into fitness. She had short black hair and dark eyes. To me, she was the hottest woman on earth. I could feel her gloved fingers rolling and twisting my nipple a little hard. Still behind me, she pressed her body against mine, bringing her mouth close to my ear. I can recall her exact words even today. “Aren’t you tarted up nicely tonight, you little slut.” I squirmed, and she held me tighter. Her gloved hands explored—feeling my ass, inner thighs, nipples—but carefully avoiding my cock, which frustrated me. She continued teasing with both hands and words, commenting on how I looked, what a slut I was, and congratulating me for chaining myself up so well. Noticing that my feet were close together, she unlocked each ankle one at a time and re-chained them slightly wider apart. This lowered my body further and stretched my arms more as well. It was less comfortable, certainly, but not painful or awkward. “I see you’ve followed my instructions exactly. Don’t think that gets you out of what’s coming. You’ve been a very bad boy, and don’t bad boys get punished?” Then came the words that scared me: “Remember putting these nipple clamps on me last month? You remember that, right?” With that, she took one nipple between her fingers and applied the device; within seconds, the other was on. The pain was sharp and excruciating. They were connected by a short, light chain. She tugged and twisted them to ensure they wouldn’t slip off. “You know, slave,” she said, “I just knew you wanted to experience these. Let’s see if wearing them is as much fun as putting them on. And, to make sure you have the full treatment, I’m going to get a glass of wine while you wait here for me. You will wait, won’t you? Oh, and I have a few things to do upstairs. Try to be patient.” I shook my head “no” and mumbled through the hood, but the door opened and closed behind her as she left. Here is the thing about pain: when it’s happening, it really hurts—which is why they call it pain. Right then, I would have done anything to get those clamps off. Just like when being whipped, you’d do anything for it to stop. But with the chains and leather straps, there was nothing I could do. Afterwards, reflecting on it, I always wish it had been a little more, a little harder, a little longer. Right now, though, I was suffering. I won’t bother describing the sensation; if you want to know, just try it yourself. If you don’t have fancy nipple clamps, a clothespin works too. Open it wide and catch as much flesh as possible—it’s almost bearable. Place it right on the nipple itself, though, and it is true torture. She had gone somewhat middle-ground. I twisted and writhed for several minutes before realizing futility set in. I hung still in my bondage. The cold chain of the clamps rested against my chest. Gradually, the pain dulled as my brain did me a favor by getting bored and ignoring the signals from my nipples. It could have been 15 minutes or an hour. Then I heard steps on the stairs again. She was behind me once more, feeling me up and talking low and dirty in my ear. Telling me what a bad boy I was and how I deserved just this for being so naughty. Then she removed both clamps at once and started rubbing and massaging my nipples. This too is hard to describe; you have to experience it yourself to understand. Try the clothespin again, but leave it on for 30–40 minutes. Remove it then twist and rub your nipple as blood rushes back in. Believe me, this aftermath is almost as bad as attaching them initially. I sagged in my chains, nearly going limp. She backed up, and then I felt the first lash of the whip. We had two whips at that time…

It was an oot laces with a braided handle. It stung fiercely, but the user could wind it up and exert all her strength without causing any lasting harm. It hurt, yet couldn’t injure. She told me she found satisfaction in being able to work out using everything she had. The other tool was a thin flexible riding whip, constructed of leather braided around a stiff core. I’m not entirely sure, but the core might have been something like a fiberglass fishing rod. It was about two feet long and capable of doing some damage; one had to be careful with it. We never tried pushing its limits, but we agreed that irresponsible use could draw blood.

She started with the flogger—firmly and painfully at first, not using her full strength but certainly not playing around. She worked her way across my body, stimulating every inch of me. Most of her time was spent on my buttocks, inner thighs, chest, and nipples. She didn’t aim directly for my cock, though an occasional leather thong found that sensitive area. Gradually, she increased the intensity, flogging harder until I was straining to move out of the way—which, naturally, was impossible. I mumbled pleas for mercy through the leather covering my mouth, but they fell on deaf ears.

Keep in mind this is completely consensual. We have both experienced being on either side of the whip many times, and we always discuss it afterward. We’ve learned each other’s limits and desires. I knew she liked light strokes applied over a long period, while she knew I wouldn’t be satisfied unless flogged thoroughly. When we first began, it was difficult to get her to go far enough; she was either afraid of hurting me or worried about the emotional consequences. Gradually, she learned my desires and accommodated them.

The whipping continued for several minutes. Try to imagine how it felt, and you’ll agree that ten minutes feels like a long time in such a situation. She paused periodically to tease me with mocking words and by caressing me with her hands. Eventually, she stopped, played with me some more, then unlocked the collar and unlaced the helmet before removing it. As she did so, she told me not to speak. She walked around to stand in front of me. Finally, I got to see her.

She was wearing boots, a leather skirt, and opera-length leather gloves. Her top was off, with a black silk scarf tied around her neck. The boots were black leather with a nice heel, rising just below her knees. The skirt was well-tailored, showing off her rear nicely. Nothing was overly fetishistic; it was all high-quality, nice stuff you could buy in any good department store. She wore dark red lipstick. No longer holding the flogger, she now had the riding whip and was flexing it menacingly in her hands. The sight excited me anew while filling me with anxiety.

“You’ve done well so far, slave,” she said. “I have just a few more tasks for you. We are going to play a little game. I think you will like it.” She explained the rules. We had played this before, but she went over them anyway. She was going to give me ten strokes with the riding whip. My task was to say, “Thank you mistress, may I have another.” If I said these words, she would count the stroke; if not, she would simply whip me again. I invented this game when she was afraid of using the whip too hard. If it wasn’t enough for her liking, I wouldn’t say the line, and the whipping would continue. Often, I tried to wait until I couldn’t stand it any longer before speaking—though by then ten strokes were already gone. If I didn’t say the line, she made the next one a bit harder; this was how she learned my limits.

She walked behind me and brought the whip down sharply across my buttocks. I lurched, caught my breath, and said the words. She replied, “One.” Compared to this flogger had been mere stimulation. The flogger made an area red, but the riding whip left welts that we would both admire tomorrow. We continued through the ten strokes, with me missing only a couple of requests for another. It was just pride keeping me from saying it after each one; I always wanted to show that I could take even more.

When she reached ten, she put the whip down and walked in front of me to kiss me. “Very good, slave,” she said. “I have a reward for you.” She unlocked my ankle shackles from the wall and locked them together again on a short chain with a few links. Then, she unlocked my wrists from the ceiling and re-locked them behind my back. I let her do this naturally as a slave would. She led me to kneel in front of the sofa and sat down there before me. “Because you have been so good, I am going to let you satisfy me with your tongue.” She lifted her skirt and pulled my head into her.

I love the smell of women, especially when I can give her an orgasm using just my tongue. She held my head, guiding me gently while talking softly. Eager to please her, I felt the movement in her body that signaled the start of an orgasm. She came, then relaxed back onto the couch. I continued licking and kissing her sex and inner thighs. When she recovered, she got up, helped me to my feet, and led me toward the bed in the other room, taking short steps due to my heels being hobbled by the short chain. She unlocked the wrist cuffs, laid me on the bed, and chained them to the two posts at its head. Lying down was somewhat uncomfortable because of the welts on my ass. She did the same with my ankles so that I was spread-eagled.

I had been in some sort of bondage for perhaps two hours now. I was ready for a climax, but could see I would have to wait. One of my favorite things is long teasing and denial of orgasm. This process had gone on for a while, and I was truly ready. Unfortunately, she was an expert at it. She knew me well enough to tease and then stop right when needed. Using her fingers and mouth, she brought me to the brink only to back off again. I was nearly mad until finally, she straddled me and lowered herself onto my cock. Almost immediately, I exploded inside of her. Quivering and almost crying, she sat on me for a bit until I relaxed, then slid off and released my chains. She unlocked the small padlocks on the four shackles and unbuckled them.

I think I spent the next ten minutes thanking her, praising what she had done, and repeating over and over that I loved her. We both undressed and rested in each other’s arms. I promised her that I would put even more effort into planning her next session as my slave—and I did. But that is another story.