I've been working with Mr. Ogre for a couple of weeks now attempting to find the perfect location for him. We're at our third stop of the day, and I have a good feeling about it as he seems interested in some of the features. As we glance around and idly chat, he reveals that he is a fetish photographer, and explains what that means. Not wanting to loose the sale, I try not to seem shocked and let the information roll off my back.
"I guess everybody's got their thing right?" I shrug.
He continues to explain how he really needs to take some photos in the space in order t...
I've been working with Mr. Ogre for a couple of weeks now attempting to find the perfect location for him. We're at our third stop of the day, and I have a good feeling about it as he seems interested in some of the features. As we glance around and idly chat, he reveals that he is a fetish photographer, and explains what that means. Not wanting to loose the sale, I try not to seem shocked and let the information roll off my back.
"I guess everybody's got their thing right?" I shrug.
He continues to explain how he really needs to take some photos in the space in order to gauge if it will suit his needs. Needless to say, I'm less than thrilled about the prospect of scheduling another visit to this house which still may not result in a sale.
"You look pretty flexible. I could tie you up real quick." Mr. Ogre states rather flatly.
Unsure exactly how to respond, I merely restate what I believe I'm hearing. After a few exchanges (and perhaps some desperation on my part), I agree. Mr. Ogre runs out to his vehicle and returns with several bundles of rope and a red ballgag. He wastes little time binding my wrists and elbows together and anchoring it around my shoulders. My arms are then pinned and cinched to my slender waist. With some difficulty, I manage to seat myself on the table, and gasp as the cold surface presses against my bare thighs. A rope is then secured around my ankles and below my knees, and I am lowered to laying on the tabletop. I can't help it and small protests quickly issue forth from my mouth as Mr. Ogre lowers and slides me around. Sounds continue to escape from me as another rope is wrapped about my thighs, pressing them even tighter together. The rest of this length is then loopped through my ankles and elbows pulling me up into a tight hogtie.
Mr. Ogre decides he is tired of my snarky comments and jams the ballgag into my mouth. Finally, it's time to take some pictures. I wiggle and shift around on the tabletop. On my back, my side, pushing my ass up into the air, any way I can manage to manuver into for even a moment of comfort. Mr. Ogre seems pleased with the pictures he's previwing on the camera display. Suddenly, he declares that he's going to retrieve his checkbook and leaves! I call after him requesting to be released when I heard the door slam.
"Oh my fucking god. I can't believe I agreed to this..." I mutter around the big red ball in my mouth.
I strain against my bonds trying to loosen them. Arching and pressing up, slinking and sliding, grunting and moaning with effort.
Keywords: damsel in ballgag, gag, DID, high heels, gal friday, secretary, rope, bondage, hemp
