Self bondage at the park
Chapter Three - The Choice
Ten minutes later, Emma collapsed onto the damp grass at the crest of the hill, gasping ragged breaths around the leather bit. Sweat slicked her body beneath the harness, mixing with dew and the lingering chill of night. Her legs burned, her hipbones felt bruised from the relentless drag of the ankle chains, and the deep hook inside throbbed with every heartbeat. Before her, anchored securely onto a low, weathered wooden park signpost, sat a thick-walled glass jar. Inside, unmistakable, lay another brass key. She could see its teeth clearly, mocking her. Just out of reach behind the unyielding glass. Miss Vera was nowhere to be seen. The park below was still quiet, mist clinging to the lower paths. Emma twisted, straining against her wrist cuffs, trying uselessly to smash the glass against the post with her bound hands. The jar barely budged, firmly secured. She kicked at it with her hobbled feet, the chains rattling furiously, but the glass was thick, designed for public spaces. Hopeless. A choked sob escaped around the bit. Frustration boiled over into sharp, burning tears.
Suddenly, a soft, melodic chime pierced the morning air. A phone ringtone. Emma froze, scanning the grass frantically. Near her discarded chains curling beside a patch of dandelions, a sleek, unfamiliar smartphone lay face-down. Heart pounding against the harness straps, Emma shuffled painfully towards it. Using her bound wrists clumsily, she nudged the phone onto its back. The screen lit up. A single text message dominated the display: ANOTHER TRADE. I GIVE YOU THE KEY NOW. YOU WEAR THE BOOTS. FAIR? Below the text, a photo loaded: impossibly tall, thigh-high boots made of sleek, gleaming black patent leather. They looked like hooves, complete with a lifted heel and exaggeratedly pointed toe, tapering sharply. They were straps and buckles and dark, polished menace. Below the photo, two stark buttons glowed: YES and NO. No sender ID. Just Miss Vera’s invisible hand tightening the knot. Emma stared, transfixed. The boots weren't just footwear; they were shackles in disguise, designed to hobble and adorn. They screamed 'owned'. They promised deeper transformation into Miss Vera’s creature. The key in the jar glinted, a lifeline. Dawn’s light grew stronger, illuminating the slopes below. The choice was agony. Wear the symbol of permanent submission... or wait for the world to see her naked and chained? Her finger hovered over the cold screen.
The distant rumble of a sanitation truck echoed from the street beyond the park gates. A car door slammed. The city was waking. Time bled away. Emma pictured joggers cresting the hill, phones already raised. She imagined gasps, laughter, police sirens. Her name trending online. Her career shriveling. The harness felt heavier than iron. With a choked gasp behind the bit, she jabbed her knuckle hard against YES. The screen flashed green: GOOD GIRL. THEY ARE UNDER THE BENCH NEAR THE SIGNPOST. Emma twisted, spotting a weathered wooden bench ten feet away. Beneath it, partly hidden by long grass, lay a polished black leather bag. Hope and horror warred as she dragged herself towards it. Every movement scraped her knees raw on the damp earth. She hooked the bag’s strap with her elbow, pulling it out. Inside, the boots waited. Heavy. Cold. Smelling sharply of new leather and submission. She shuddered.
Emma kicked desperately at the bag, tipping it sideways. The boots tumbled onto the wet grass. Straps like spider legs splayed open. Getting them on felt impossible. She jammed her heel into the toe of one boot, twisting her body sideways on the ground like a landed fish. The slick leather resisted. She strained, muscles screaming, the anal hook wrenching inside her. Finally, with a wet, sucking sound, her foot slid deep into the constricting embrace. The pointed toe forced her foot into an unnatural angle. The heel lifted her ankle chain clear of the ground, putting agonizing pressure on her knees. She repeated the torturous process with the other foot. The boots clicked together. They felt like lead. They looked like grotesque parody. Miss Vera wasn't just decorating her prey; she was reshaping her silhouette into something jagged and sharp-edged. Emma pushed herself back onto her knees, towering awkwardly now atop the elevated heels. The harness forced her chest high; the boots locked her posture into a perpetual, painful arch. She was a puppet on stilts, displayed for the gathering dawn. The jar holding the key mocked her newfound height – still inches beyond her straining, bound fingers. She scanned the park below frantically. Where was Miss Vera? Where was the key?
A sharp whistle sliced the air. Emma snapped her head towards the weeping willow far below. Miss Vera stood beside the pond, small and impossibly distant, holding a brass key aloft. Sunlight glinted off it. She gestured towards the jar on the hilltop, then deliberately tossed the key she held into the dark water. It vanished with a tiny splash. Miss Vera’s smile was white and cruel against the distance. She pointed emphatically at the jar trapped before Emma. The message was deafening: The key you need is still locked away. This was never freedom; it was just another leash. Miss Vera pivoted and vanished along a mist-wreathed path. Emma stared at the jar, then down at her gleaming, imprisoning boots. The distant sounds of traffic thickened. A bicycle bell chimed faintly somewhere on the lower path. The city outside was fully awake now. And she was kneeling atop its highest hill, transformed into Miss Vera’s patent leather nightmare, staring at an unbreakable jar while the sound of approaching footsteps climbed the slope behind her.
A shadow fell across the wet grass beside her. Emma flinched violently, chains clanking, boots scraping against the earth as she twisted. Miss Vera stood there, unnervingly silent. Her dark eyes scanned Emma from the absurd pony ears perched askew atop her head, down the tight leather harness thrusting her breasts forward, over the gleaming patent leather boots locking her awkwardly onto her knees, to the twin keys hanging uselessly on chains against her sternum. Miss Vera held another brass key casually between her fingers. "Apologies for the misdirection, my dear Emma," she murmured, her voice a low rasp that cut through the morning stillness. "I needed you... properly styled. Pony girls require discipline." She moved with predatory grace, kneeling beside Emma’s hobbled legs. With swift, sure motions, Miss Vera inserted the key into the locks binding Emma’s ankle chains. The heavy iron links clattered free onto the grass. Relief flooded Emma’s legs—until Miss Vera seized the patent leather boots. She yanked the straps viciously tighter, buckling them higher and tighter against Emma’s trembling thighs. The pointed toes dug deeper, the unnatural arch intensified. Miss Vera snapped small padlocks onto each boot’s top buckles, sealing them shut with a sharp, metallic click-click. Emma gasped around the leather bit, the sudden constriction stealing her breath.
Miss Vera rose, brushing dew from her knees. She gestured towards the park meadows stretching below. A lone figure walked a small dog near the distant gatehouse, oblivious. "Two keys remain," Miss Vera stated, her voice chillingly matter-of-fact. She pointed towards the dog walker. "One near them." Her finger swept towards the main gate, visible as a dark archway at the park's edge. "And one by the gate." Miss Vera’s gaze locked back onto Emma, sharp and assessing. "But," she offered, her tone softening into dangerous silk, "I possess copies. All of them. Safely stored at my residence." She stepped closer, her shadow enveloping Emma. Her hand rested possessively on the harness strap digging into Emma’s shoulder. "Accept my lead," she breathed, her scent—tobacco and expensive perfume—filling Emma’s nostrils. "Submit fully. Walk where I guide you, adorned as you are. Do this willingly... and I will escort you home. There, you will receive every key. Freedom awaits." Her fingers traced the chain holding the bridle’s throatlatch key against Emma’s collarbone. "Choose now, pony. Dawn's audience grows." Below, the dog walker paused, seemingly looking towards the hilltop. Emma trembled, caught between the abyss of public exposure and the velvet snare of Miss Vera’s promise. The patent leather squeaked softly as she shifted her weight, the newly locked boots anchoring her to Miss Vera’s cruel design.