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Disobedient Slave – femdom / femsub story

Femdom/femsub, B/D, feet slavery, bondage

 

 

 

"Now, slave, don't whine. You knew that this would be your punishment

when you didn't obey the rules."

 

  That Saturday afternoon, you had taken me for a walk and a bite to eat,

wishing to enjoy the sight of my obedience without ankle or wrist restraints.

You wished to see my face blush, as I was trained: that in public, I was

still a slave. I had been told that whenever I was not walking, my running

shoes were to be tightly together, and my wrists clasped behind me. I was

to keep my eyes down, never to look into those of another person unless my

chin was lifted by you.

 

  We had paused to wait for a traffic light to change, and my feet were

separated by just a fraction of an inch... but you noticed, and scolded me,

saying, "Feet tightly together, slave! I'm disappointed in you." I quickly

forced my running shoes together as tightly as I could at the stern reprimand.

It was the only transgression that I had allowed of myself during the outing.

 

  As soon as we had gotten home, you had strapped a ball gag tightly onto

my head and mouth, the large ball forcing my mouth apart so that I could

not speak. When I had squealed, you had just tightened it by another notch.

You had then locked a wide, black leather collar onto my neck, and attached

a leash to it. "Into the basement, slave," you had commanded.

 

  I felt the tug on my leash, and I was dragged over to the stairway that

led to the dark, damp basement. You held my leash low to force me to look

down at my feet. We reached the bottom of the stairs, and I stood with my

feet together and wrists clasped behind me. You roughly stripped me of my

shorts and T-shirt, saying, "disobedient slaves have no right to wear clothes."

I was left standing there, with nothing but my black thong, and my white

running shoes and socks to protect me from the cold and damp. I had shivered.

Even with the light on in this part of the basement, it was still almost

dark. The single window up high near the ceiling was splattered with dirt,

allowing only a dim shaft of sunlight from the beautiful day outside to

stand against the gloom.

 

  You dragged me over to a far corner of the basement, amongst wooden support

beams, and, tugging on the leash as well as grasping my hair at the back of

my neck, you forced me into a sitting position on the cold concrete floor.

I whined.

 

  "Now, slave, I am going to train you that disobedience will not be tolerated!"

 

  Sitting between two of the support beams, I watch you take some thick,

white nylon sailing rope from the wall. You put a slip knot into the middle

of the 50' length, and tell me to lift my feet. I obey, and you slip it

around my ankles, pulling it tight. I feel my running shoes forced together.

 

  I watch you wrap the rope around my ankles four times, each time pulling

the loops tight. Then, you wrap it three times between my ankles, each time

pulling hard to cinch the already tight loops around my ankles.

 

  You take the other part of the rope that was not used to cinch my ankles,

and tell me to shift on my bottom. When I do so, you pull the rope under me,

through the crack on my bottom. You pull this rope tight, and tie it to the

ring placed at the bottom of the support beam behind me. You then take the

cinch part of the rope, and pull it through the ring at the bottom of the

support beam in front of my feet, pulling hard so that my legs are parallel

to the floor, my feet in front of me, heels on the ground, and immovable.

You tie this rope to the ring.

 

  "There, slave, that is how tightly your running shoes should be together,"

you tell me cruelly.

 

  I try to protest through my gag, and you say, matter-of-factly, "Oh, you

want them tighter!" You untie the rope, pull as hard as you can, causing my

feet to be cinched closer together, and retie the rope to the ring, keeping

it taut.

 

  "Now, bad slave, I cannot leave your wrists free, can I?" you smile wickedly.

You get another nylon rope from the wall, shorter this time, and once again

make a slip knot in the center of it. "Extend your hands together, palms together,

behind you," you command. I obey and feel the rope encircle my wrists and

being pulled tight. You tie my wrists as you have done with my ankles, painfully

tight. "There, that's better... but you still have too much freedom." You take

the piece of rope from my wrists not used to cinch the loops and pull up on it,

making my elbows bend slightly. You put this rope through the ring on the back

of my leather collar, and tie it there. I squeal in protest into my gag, and you

say, "Yes! This is the way you should be tied." You then take the rope used to

cinch my wrists, and pull it through the ring in the support beam behind me,

about 4' up the beam. You pull on it hard, and I try to cry out. My head and

shoulders are forced forward towards my feet as my wrists and arms are forced

upwards behind me, over my head. The weight of my body keeps my bottom on the

cold damp cement floor, cinching my wrists even more.

 

  You stand back to admire your work. "Ah, one more thing!" you exclaim gleefully.

You take another nylon rope from the wall, and tie one end to the ring on the

front of my collar. The other end you pass under my hogtied ankles, and extend

to the ring on the support beam in front of my feet. You pull hard on this rope,

and my neck is pulled forward towards my feet until my arms are straight out

behind me. By this time, my face is only about a foot away from my Tretorn

running shoes, and they fill my field of vision. I cannot move my head to look

up, or sideways. I stare at the tight laces, knotted in front, wrapped around

each ankle, and knotted in front again. I stare at the canvas, the tread marks

on the toes and the heels. I stare at the painfully tight ropes tying my feet so

that they cannot even wiggle. I think about shifting a little on my bottom, but

I am tied too tightly and painfully to even try. I squeal in protest.

 

  You look as me with joy, and squeal as well, but your squeals can be heard,

while mine cannot. You walk around me, pull on a rope here and there, making

sure that they are painfully taut, and thrill to hear cries of protest coming

through my gag. You stand in front of me, looking down, making note of the

differences between us.

 

  I see beyond my feet another pair of Tretorn running shoes, these belonging

to my Owner. They are laced and tied onto your feet firmly and comfortably,

unlike mine, which are tied onto my poor feet as a kind of cruel foot bondage.

Your feet are so free, I think, seeing mine in the tight ropes. You crouch down

in front of me and run your fingers through my hair, pushing it away from my face,

contorted by the tight ball gag. The touch of your hand, the love shown with its

gentleness, juxtaposed with the cruelty of the ropes confining me, makes a

shower of tears come from my eyes. You bend close to my face to kiss them away,

and then kiss my lips around my gag lovingly, twisting my heart, wanting to kiss

you, touch you. All I can do is stare at my running shoes and my tightly tied

ankles, as you torture me with kisses that I cannot return.

 

  You remain crouching before me for awhile, lightly touching my hair, my taut

legs, my thighs... whispering loving comments about my beauty into my ear. I

can see your running shoes, your ankles, and feel your freedom. After a time,

you stand and say, "Now slave, it is getting too cold for me down here, and I

wish to enjoy the sunshine outside. Remember that you are helping me to appreciate

my freedom so much, for when I see you here, think of you here, in pain, it

heightens my awareness of the birds chirping, the sun shining warm on my face,

my freedom to run and sing. Those things are denied to disobedient slaves.

Enjoy your afternoon, and the view."

 

  I squeal into the gag as you walk away, and from the bottom of the stairs,

I hear you say, "Don't fret, slave... I will back in a few hours to tighten

your ropes."

 

  You walk upstairs, turn off the light, and lock the door.

 

 

 

  You stretch lazily in the warm afternoon breeze. The hammock in which you

lie is tied between two trees, and it reminds you absently of another piece

of property that you own, tied even more tightly, out of sight and out of the

sun in your dark, damp basement. What was the saying... "out of sight, out of

mind?" you ask yourself idly. Not true in this case, you think... but then

again, since I left her tied there, I have felt more relaxed than ever in my

life, and I have not even thought about the pain and sadness and loneliness

that she must be feeling.

 

  Well, she deserved it, you think. Allowing a fraction of an inch between

her running shoes! That sort of disobedience has to be corrected with the

strictest of punishments.

 

  You stretch again, feeling pleasantly drowsy, and drift off to sleep. When

you wake a few hours later, the sun is setting, and it is getting cool. You

gather up your glass of water and your book, and go inside for a luxurious

bubble bath. You draw your bath water, mixing some fragrant oils in with the

bubbles, and turn on the radio to listen to some soft jazz. At a thought, you

pour yourself a glass of Merlot, and place it on the edge of the tub. You turn

on the Jacuzzi jets and tentatively put a toe into the water, testing it.

Perfect, you think. This is just what I need to loosen up my sore muscles!

 

  You relax into the tub, sliding down until you are covered up to your neck

with water. Soft bubbles tickle your face, and you giggle. You feel your cares

melt away, and think to yourself, 'I really must thank her for this wonderful

feeling of freedom! If she wasn't so cruelly tied and locked away, I would

not feel so nice. It is time to reach out to her with my heart... but not this

second.' You smile. 'This bubble bath is sooo lovely!'

 

 

 

  The dim light comes on in the basement, and I see my running shoes and ropes

as if it were day. Hours ago, the feeble rays of light that had come through

the small soil-stained window near the ceiling had disappeared, though I had

not really noticed it. The sight of my feet tied tightly, the laces knotted

around my ankles, the canvas and the tread marks at the toes and heels of the

Tretorn running shoes binding my feet, was indelibly imprinted on my mind, as

if there would never be any other thing ever in my field of vision.

 

  I heard the sound of high heels on the cement, moving behind me. I felt the

rope from my wrists to the ring high in the support beam tighten, and an

approving voice saying, "Very good." Then, into my field of vision came a pair

of black high heels, looking elegant on pretty, naked feet. The contrast to the

way in which I was tied was shocking. Tears of sadness and frustration at being

confined, not able to move, a knowledge of what I was compared to my owner,

flooded me and spilled out of my eyes. I heard your voice ask sternly, "well

slave, now do you know how to keep your running shoes when you are not walking,

and where your wrists should be, and where your head and eyes should be?"

 

  I did not dare make a sound, lest it be misinterpreted. You waited, and then

said, with satisfaction, "Very good, slave! You embarrassed me today by not

keeping your feet tightly together, but I am going to forgive you, and allow

you to escape this confinement."

 

  "But first," you add, "take a close look at my feet, how they are free,

and at your feet, which are tied painfully. Listen to my voice giggle, how it

is free, and feel the tight gag that stops you from making a sound. Think of

the freedom that my hands have, to play music, to clap, and think about your

wrists, tightly tied so that they cannot move. Think about the beauties that

I can see, the flowers and the birds and the sunlit sky, and look at your

running shoes, the laces knotted tightly, the ropes from which you cannot escape,

that put you in pain. You could have no other sight on which to look, if it

weren't for my feet, my heels and my running shoes being here before you. You

are owned by me and them, and you must worship us."

 

  You pause, looking down at me, then, moving with your right heel the taut

ropes from my ankles and my collar to the bottom ring in the support beam,

you say sternly, "Is that understood, or should I leave you here to enjoy

the view?"

 

  I stay silent, swallowing a scream, for the instant additional tightness

of the ropes had been so painful.

 

  After a time, you crouch down, and whisper softly, yet with a trace of

cruelty, in my ear, "I love you, my slave. You will never escape from me."

I shiver.

 

  You stand, and run your right heel up the rope from my ankles to my collar,

pressing down cruelly, so that I am in pain. "Remember who and what owns you,

slave."

 

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