Self bondage at the park
Chapter Two - Self (?) bondage
Emma flinched away, terror warring with the frantic need for those keys. The horizon was unmistakably pale now. Miss Vera reached into her coat pocket and pulled out something soft, dark leather. She shook it gently – a bridle with elegant cheek straps and gleaming chrome bits. Adorning it were a pair of sleek, velvety black pony ears. A sickening thrill shot through Emma’s core. "Much prettier," Miss Vera whispered, her breath hot on Emma’s ear. She let the bridle brushes Emma’s cheek. "And far quieter. Trade?" She gestured dismissively towards the vanished keys. "I help you grab that one... if you accept this pretty muzzle willingly. Takes the urgency out of dawn, doesn’t it? We play my way." Emma stared, paralyzed. The bridle meant submission, a deeper trap. But dawn meant exposure. Miss Vera smiled, reading the defeat in Emma’s wide, desperate eyes. She leaned closer. "Nod once."
Emma squeezed her eyes shut. The gag felt like a suffocating parasite, the collar chain a leash to humiliation. Beyond Miss Vera, the park path was visibly empty... for now. The thought of joggers, children, phones, pictures... Her shoulders slumped. She didn’t nod. She bowed her head, pressing her gagged mouth against Miss Vera’s thigh in silent, abject surrender. Miss Vera chuckled, low and triumphant. "Good girl."
Emma lay impossibly still as Miss Vera deftly undid the sturdy O-ring gag’s padlock. Emma spat the rubber bit out, gasping for air, her jaw aching. Before she could protest, Miss Vera guided the leather bit between her teeth. Emma tasted supple leather and metal. Miss Vera buckled the straps tight behind Emma’s head, the cheekpieces pressing firmly against her jawbone. The black pony ears sat perched atop her head, ridiculous and demeaning. Miss Vera draped the bridle's tiny throatlatch key – brass and gleaming – onto a delicate silver chain. With deliberate cruelty, she fastened this chain securely around Emma’s neck. The key rested directly against Emma’s sternum, cold metal on bare skin, impossible to grasp with her hands still locked behind her back. Miss Vera patted the hanging key, letting it swing gently against Emma’s breastbone. "Symmetry," she murmured. "Collar key near the collar." She traced the chain with a fingertip. "Don't lose it." Turning towards the thinning shadows near the pond, Miss Vera paused. "I see you at the next key," she called back, her voice echoing slightly. "Near the weeping willow. Don't dawdle, pony." Then she strode away, vanishing into the mist curling lazily above the water.
Emma pushed herself painfully onto her knees, the bridle’s bit shifting awkwardly in her mouth, muffling her ragged breaths. The key dangled heavily against her chest, a constant, mocking weight. Miss Vera helped her retrieve the lost key, but hung it out of reach on here collar. Her legs were still hobbled, her wrists bound and her collar as secure as ever. Dawn's light painted the dew on the grass silver. Cold, sharp awareness cut through the haze of pain and fatigue: Miss Vera wasn't just hunting. She was decorating her prey. And she intended Emma to crawl, bridled and laden with her own key, towards the next impossible trap. Every step would be agony. Every movement displayed her grotesque adornment. The park was waking up. With a choked gurgle around the bit, Emma began the excruciating shuffle towards the weeping willow, dragging her chains through the wet grass. Her reflection shimmering in the pond water ahead promised horror.
The weeping willow's branches wept lace-like shadows onto the grass near the water’s edge. There, suspended by a thin wire from a low branch, hung the next brass key—gleaming impossibly high, seven feet above the ground. Out of reach even if Emma could jump, which her chains made unthinkable. Below it, stark against the damp earth, lay an open-fronted leather harness. Thick straps designed to wrap tightly around her torso, shoulders, and throat, leaving her breasts fully exposed. Two small brass rings gleamed near the collarbone. Emma stared, frozen. The harness wasn’t just bondage; it was deliberate display. Miss Vera wanted her adorned, highlighted, transformed into a spectacle even before the park filled. Panic flared, sharp and hot. She could turn, drag herself away... but turning meant exposure elsewhere, discovery by early walkers, permanent ruin. Miss Vera had calculated this perfectly. The key mocked her. The harness promised deeper submission.
Minutes bled away. The sky lightened from gray to pale gold. Distant birdsong pierced the quiet. Emma trembled, the cold leather bit between her teeth feeling like the seal of her fate. Her eyes darted from the unreachable key to the waiting harness. Shame warred with desperation. Miss Vera hadn't reappeared; she was forcing Emma choose the humiliation herself. The chains felt heavier, biting deeper. Every passing second brought the world closer. She couldn't be found like this – naked, hobbled, gagged like an animal. Slowly, painfully, Emma sank to her knees beside the harness. The damp earth soaked into her skin. She bowed her head low, pressing her forehead against the cool leather. It smelled of tannin and power. She remained utterly motionless, her bound hands useless behind her. Her posture – head bowed, knees bent beside the harness – was an unmistakable, silent plea. An invitation. An acceptance. Come. Put it on me.
The crunch of gravel underfoot came from behind the willow’s trunk. Miss Vera stepped silently into view, her dark eyes gleaming with predatory satisfaction. She didn't speak. She merely crouched beside Emma, her fingers brushing the harness straps with deliberate intimacy. "Good pony," she murmured, the praise laced with ice. Miss Vera lifted the harness, its weight substantial and stiff. She slid the thick central strap down Emma’s spine, the cold leather pressing against her vertebrae. The front straps encircled her ribs, pulling snug above her breasts. Miss Vera buckled them ruthlessly tight at Emma’s side. The shoulder straps followed, digging in as Miss Vera pulled them taut and secured them behind Emma’s neck, meeting the central strap. Finally, the throat strap snapped closed high on Emma’s neck, pressing against the base of her existing collar. It forced Emma’s chin up, thrusting her breasts forward obscenely. Miss Vera hooked a finger into one of the brass rings near Emma’s collarbone. "Much better," she breathed. "Now... about that key." She looked upwards, leaving Emma exposed and painfully adorned beneath the weeping willow.
With unnerving grace, Miss Vera rose and reached up towards the suspended key. Her fingers easily brushed the thin wire. A flick of her wrist, and the brass key fell into her waiting palm. She held it up, letting the first true rays of dawn glint off its teeth. Emma watched, breath hitching behind the bit. Miss Vera didn't offer it. Instead, she produced another delicate silver chain from her coat pocket. With methodical precision, she threaded the key onto it. Then, leaning close enough for Emma to feel her warmth, Miss Vera fastened the chain securely around Emma’s neck beside the first key. The new key clicked coldly against its twin on Emma’s sternum. Miss Vera traced the keys gently, letting the chains tangle slightly. "Symmetry," she whispered again, her voice barely audible. Only three brass teeth remained hidden somewhere in the waking park. Miss Vera straightened, surveying her handiwork: Emma kneeling in the harness, bridled, collared, and now adorned with two dangling keys she couldn't reach.
Miss Vera glanced at the pale sky, the sun barely cresting the treetops. "Six o'clock," she announced softly. She patted Emma's cheek, the harness’s throat strap preventing Emma from flinching away. "Not many souls stirring... yet." Miss Vera turned, her coat swirling around her ankles, and began walking back towards the path. After a few paces, she paused, looking over her shoulder. Her smile was a slow, cruel curve. She blew a kiss towards Emma’s kneeling form. "Next key," Miss Vera called back, her voice clear and carrying in the morning stillness, "is on top of the hill." She gestured vaguely towards the rise overlooking the pond. A flicker of dark amusement crossed her face. "Be glad I didn't save that climb for last, pony." Then she strode away, vanishing around a bend lined with laurel bushes.
Emma remained frozen, the harness digging into her flesh, the keys chilling her skin. The hill. Sweeping lawns led up to it, utterly exposed. The climb would be agony in her chains, dragging the heavy anal hook with every step. The harness would display her like a grotesque statue. Miss Vera’s parting words echoed – ‘be glad’. Save the hill for last? When the park was bustling? The true horror dawned: Miss Vera wasn’t just decorating her. She was designing a public spectacle, escalating the humiliation with each key. Emma shuddered, the movement making the chains clink softly. She lifted her gaze towards the hill. Its crest was bare, silhouetted against the brightening sky. A perfect stage. Tears welled, blurring her vision. The leather bit tasted like despair. Slowly, agonizingly, she pushed herself onto her knees, then forced her trembling legs to rise beneath her. The chains scraped across the wet grass. The hooks pulled deep inside. Every muscle screamed. She took a single, lurching step forward. Then another. Towards the exposed slope. Towards the next key. Towards whatever fresh torment Miss Vera had left waiting beneath the climbing sun.