It is so simple, so foolproof, so completely effective that I don’t have a ghost of a chance. It consists of two lengths of light but strong nylon strap, such as they use for large dog leashes. They are both about seven feet long and have chrome rings sewn onto both ends.

One minute I was free, the next I was his prisoner, my arms harnessed up into the middle of my back, useless to me and completely out of his way. My ankles were crossed and tied up so that I could not even close my knees. Life was reduced to one simple equation; to fight the straps was to give up breathing.

I usually don’t go out on blind dates but my best friend set us up and I trusted her. I won’t make that mistake again, if I ever get the chance.

That evening I wore my classic little low cut black dress, nylons, garter belt, push up bra and black lace panties. On my feet were a pair of strap-on patent leather pumps with the highest heels I can manage with my tiny, size four feet.

I liked what I saw when I first walked into the four star Manhattan restaurant. My date was nearly nine inches taller than me, about five eleven, broad shouldered, small hipped and tight in the ass. His dark good looks reminded me of Pierce Brossman on a good day. He was, I’d guess in his mid thirties. He was dressed in a nicely tailored dark gray jacket and contrasting light gray slacks. He was the model gentleman, jumping to his feet and holding my chair for me as I sat down. I’d been told that his name was Thomas Robertson and that he was a successful Wall Street investment banker.

He was smooth as silk and had the longest fingers I’d ever seen on a white man. He didn’t so much talk as listen, letting me tell him far more about myself than I ever do on a first date. There was something about him that made me want to impress him with my accomplishments and intelligence. Little did I know that it wasn’t my mind that interested him but my body.

I am five foot two, fifty kilos and what my big brother calls stacked. At twenty-three I am a graduate student at Columbia, studying for my Law degree.

Or was, I should say. Right now I seem to be a sex slave.

My conversion from law student to sex slave started in the back of his chauffer driven limo. We were being driven out the Long Island Expressway on our way to his beach house in East Hampton. I hadn’t had a lot to drink, perhaps two glasses of wine with dinner and a small brandy after. I was feeling relaxed and just a little light headed. He offered me some champagne from the limo’s fridge but I declined, saying I’d had enough to drink.

Then, just as we were passing Patchogue and without the slightest warning, it all went very, very wrong. It started with him kissing me so sweetly that I closed my eyes and kissed him back. Before I knew what he intended he was slapping a rectangle of tape across my eyes, blinding me and making me easier to handle. I was forced over onto the seat, face down and screaming. I felt something noose down on my right wrist and a sharp pain in my shoulder as my arm was twisted high up behind my back. I felt the strap on my wrist being looped over my left shoulder, down through my armpit, across my back, up under my right armpit, over my right shoulder and then my left arm was yanked up beside its mate and noosed the same way, leaving my arms in a double hammerlock and as useless to me as if they were on the moon. The car’s driver must have been in on it for we never even slowed down. I know he must have heard me screaming.

The second strap was just mean. He noosed my crossed wrists, wrapped the thin nylon strap up around my windpipe twice and then took it down to noose my crossed ankles, hogtying me. When I was completely helpless he stuffed my screaming mouth with what tasted and felt like a Nerf basketball before sealing my lips with more of the tape. In less than two minutes I’d been gagged, bound and blinded. I could not kick, scream or escape. There were no knots to pick at, no way I could wiggle free, no way to protest, nothing.

I felt his hands slipping up under my dress and suddenly my panties were shreds of expensive black lace rags. A few seconds later my little black dress and push-up bra met the same fate, cut off with a pair of emergency room scissors and tossed aside, leaving me dressed in only my shoes, garter belt and nylons. Armless and tightly hogtied there was nothing I could do except struggle and try my best to breathe. My head was swimming and there were flashes of light under my taped down eyelids before I calmed down enough to relax and let myself draw in air through my cinched windpipe.

Robertson sat beside me, one hand down between my legs, toying with my suddenly extremely sensitive labia, not intrusive as yet but letting me know that he could do as he wished with me and that there was nothing I could do to stop him. I tried pleading with him but the gag reduced my protests to a wordless humming that probably only gave him a better hard-on.

At one point he picked me up and balanced me straddling his lap, his big hot organ sliding up into my wet vulva like it belonged there. I discovered then that he was hung like a python, large in girth and long enough that my bent knees barely touched the seat cushions on each side of his butt. Gripping my bare bottom in his big hands he began bouncing my helpless body up and down, driving his huge organ deeper with every stroke. Blind, half starved for air and as well fucked as I’ve ever been, it did not take me long to begin screaming out in helpless, gag blocked orgasm.

He did not let me stop until we reached our destination, which as it turned out was a deserted dock somewhere in eastern Long Island.

Time is a tricky thing to a helpless, hogtied, naked, well fucked female but it seemed to me that we must have been at sea for a couple of days, maybe as many as four.

All I know for sure is that we were on a sailboat and that every so often someone came and fed me cold oatmeal washed down with what tasted like diet shakes. Each time, as soon as I’d finished my meal I was placed upon a toilet and left there, my neck strap attached to the wall behind me, to do my business. Afterwards I would be cleaned up and taken back to my bunk to await whoever might want to have sex with me. None of them spoke in my presence.

There were at least three men and a woman on that boat, each with a different style of lovemaking. The first was a big burly man with a very hairy pelt and a taste for rough, no holds barred, buggery. I thought of him as Zorba the Greek. The second was a much smaller man who smelled of patchouli and who liked to dose me with what I think was LSD before stringing me up by my ankles and giving me head until I could come no more. The third man might have been Roberts but it could have been any well-hung sex maniac. The woman was into using an incredibly painful multi-thronged whip and a large vibrating dildo to force me to give her head. Between the four of them I didn’t get a lot of rest. The tape over my eyes and the nylon harness on my arms was never removed, even when they were bathing me.

When we finally got where we were going I was taken off the boat in some kind of canvas sack, probably a sail bag, once again hogtied, gagged and still blinded by the tape on my eyes. Slung over someone’s shoulder I was carried to a car and put into a trunk.

We drove for what seemed like forever but was probably no more than twelve hours. Several times I felt my ears pop so I know we were climbing into some mountains. When they opened the trunk I was desperate to relieve my painfully distended bladder but instead my bag was simply hung up on some sort of hook and left, swinging in the breeze, the air, what little reached me, smelling of pine trees.

The tape on my eyes is the worst part I think. Stuck directly to my eyelids I know that it is meant to keep me blind and defenseless for as long as they leave it in place. The gag is bad enough when they remove it, seeming to peel the skin from my lower face as they peel it away and pry that sodden foam rubber out of my mouth. The harness on my arms is so completely effective, so perfectly designed, so simple that I know I will wear it until they decide remove it. With my arms held up in their double hammerlock I am completely at their mercy, which is funny because they have yet to show me any.

I’m going to have to piss pretty soon, there simply is no alternative. Hanging head downward in a canvas sack, I do not look forward to that.

I hear footsteps and a new voice saying, “I bet you’d like to get out of there, huh bitch?”

I hum a desperate plea, knowing that he will do as he pleases in any case.

I feel myself being lifted down and carried over a shoulder again. My bladder is bursting but I hold on, afraid that if I piss all over this guy I’ll be punished.

Finally, I am lowered to the ground and then a few seconds later I feel the rush of cool air as the sack is opened and I am dumped out onto what feels like pine needles. My ankles are released and I am lifted and steadied in a squatting position so that I can at last relieve myself.

Then, using the choker strap as a leash, I am led, stumbling, barefoot and blind, down a rocky trail for several hundred paces before we enter what feels like a building of some sort. I am sat down on a straight-backed chair and feel my ankles being noosed again and lifted up on each side so that my toes no longer touch the floor.

“Mary Carter, you are now the property of the Carlyle Group. You will learn to serve your Masters.” Robertson’s smooth voice says, his long fingers toying with my nipples.

I feel the tape on my mouth being peeled away again and hope for something to drink but instead feel what I soon learn is a ring gag being inserted behind my teeth and, soon after the buckle is set, I hear a zipper, smell head cheese and know I am about to have my face fucked.

When the first cock has come and gone there comes another, and another, and yet another. Each one leaves my propped open mouth coated with essence of man. I really can’t tell you how many there are, only that it goes on for hours, one after another, each one wringing as much pleasure out of me as he can.

Some time later, I will never know how long, I am left alone, the ring gag still holding my drooling mouth wide open, my bondage forcing me to remain sitting in the chair. The woman from the boat comes and feeds me, then takes me to a large hot tub where she cleans me up and then forces me to give her head, still wearing the ring gag, before removing it and putting me to bed. I fall asleep even as she clicks a steel shackle around my ankle.

Early the next morning I am awakened by my old friend Zorba who helps me to empty my bladder and colon into a chamber pot, butt-fucks me for a while then departs, leaving my poor stretched asshole burning and dripping with his come.

A short while later the woman comes in and says, in my best friend’s voice, “The time has come to begin your pony training, slave.” as she releases the shackle on my ankle and takes me out into the open air. I am led to what feels like a coral fence and tethered, my naked body shivering in both cold and fear. I am hungry, cold and thirsty. I am blind, sore and helpless. I am more than half way to where they want me, a state of slavish servitude, a thing to provide my masters pleasure on demand and nothing more.

I feel steel shackles being closed around my ankles and with an experimental kick find that I have been closely hobbled to a six-inch step.

For the first time since the night of my abduction I feel the slip noose on my left wrist being loosened and removed. I try to straighten my arm but squeak in sudden agony as my shoulder and elbow protest the unaccustomed movement. When the strap is peeled away from the groove it has left in my shoulder a second gasp of painful protest escapes my lips. Soon I am free of the harness but still under its discipline. My arms remain bent and useless, up behind my back. Before I can manage to straighten them, a second pair of police style handcuffs ratchet closed around my wrists, trapping them behind my back. Then, a soft but strong leather bag is pulled up around my folded arms and buckled to my shoulders trapping my arms up where they were before but this time in slightly more comfort.

“I am going to remove that blinding tape now, brace yourself.” My former friend says, not unkindly, picking at a corner of the rectangle of what feels like surgical tape stuck to my forehead. Two pain-filled minutes later I am free of the tape at last, at the cost of both my eyebrows and most of my eye lashes to boot. It does me no good, however. Unaccustomed to light I cannot open my eyes in the bright sunlight before a soft leather half helmet is pulled down and strapped to my head, covering my eyes and keeping me in the dark.

When the last buckle is tightened I hear the click of a small padlock behind my neck, telling me that even if I had the use of my hands I would not be able to remove the hoodwink without something sharp to cut the leather.

When the buckle is set, my hands are again as high as they were in the strap harness, completely useless to me. I feel the shackle on my left ankle opening and a second later closing again on my right ankle, just above the other one. I realize this is so that my captors will always have the means at hand to hobble me if they wish.

I am unhitched from the coral fence and led, the shackles on my right ankle jingling with my every tentative step onto what feels like concrete. A belt is strapped tightly around my waist and when I move I realize I have been attached to something that moves with me but with resistance, as if I were pulling some kind of load. There comes a fumbling at the top of my head harness and soon my head is pulled up and attached to the same bar that holds my waist belt, forcing me to bend my neck back.

The first crack of the whip across my bottom comes as a complete surprise. The pain is amazing, causing me to lunge forward, pulling against the waist belt. I find that I am attached to some kind of not-so-merry-go-round. I can run but I cannot escape. The whip soon becomes the center of my universe, its constant popping laying stripe after stripe of burning agony across my bare bottom. I scream out in pain at each impact, lunging into my harness, trying to do whatever they want so they will stop whipping me.

What they want, apparently, is to turn my poor bottom into a stop sign. At some point a man’s voice says, “Whoa, there Dobbin, time for a little stump breakin’.” and the whipping stops. I feel two nooses cinch around my ankles and suddenly my feet are hoisted up off the ground and attached to the carousel bar above my back so that my knees are bent and my legs are spread, leaving me hanging below the bar and open for all comers.

It does not surprise me when my rapist chooses my asshole. What does surprise me is that he makes me come, twice. And when the next man slides into my creamy vulva I discover myself unable to stop gripping on his organ as if it were a lifeline.

When, in the middle of this fucking, someone inserts tha ring gag again and begins feeding me his cock I suck it in, desperate to please these people in the hope of mercy.

And so it goes, hour after mind numbing hour. My burning, welt covered butt is theirs, my asshole is theirs, my pussy is theirs, my mouth is theirs, my big, aching, long, swollen-nipple breasts are theirs, my sexuality is theirs, my very soul is theirs.

By sunset I am a pony girl, lock, stock and head harness. I am taken back inside, bathed, anointed in pain relieving cream and put to bed, still in my arm harness and hoodwink. Tomorrow will be another day in harness. I wonder at how much that thought makes my sore and over-used vulva cream.