32 Hours
Here I am squatted down in somewhat of a upright fetal position in the shadows of a dirty closet on the first floor of a filthy abandoned building on Lake Street about six blocks West of downtown Chicago on a balmy Friday night in July. My name is Alicia. My black leather elbow length gloved hands are locked behind my back at the wrists with a medium sized brass “master Lock” attached to a leather lead strap that is connected to a posture collar that is locked about my neck. The posture collar is firmly holding on my head a black leather lace up hood with openings for my eyes, two small holes for my nose and a small hole where the mouth would be. Under that hood is a large red ball gag tightly buckled between my red painted lips that all but covers the mouth hole in the mask. My ankles of my black size 8 knee high lace up leather boots with a 5 inch heal are locked together with another larger brass “Master Lock” that allows for 2-3 inches of gap between the ankles. My Black pleated latex skirt has risen up to expose my sheer thigh high stockings and lace garter belts. I’m not wearing any panties. They had been replaced by a length of chrome chain that is wrapped tightly around my waist and pulled roughly between my legs and is locked just below the small of my back with another small brass “master lock.” The chain has become my steel g-string digging deeply into the soft flesh between my legs. The chain is not without purpose. Its application was to hold the large black butt plug and the 6-inch extra thick black latex dildo tightly in place. I did not use any vibrators on this trip I had been a “bad girl” and I needed punished. ...