The Props Man

What is wrong with me! I haven't felt like this since my first deflowering! Deflowering? What a perfectly delicate euphemism. My body is on fire with lust, but for whom? My heart is pounding. My nipples feel like bullets. I'm panting like a bitch on heat. I feel that my knickers are squelching inside my slacks.

It's not even that I'm in a situation conducive to thoughts of sex. I can't think of anything even remotely romantic about what is happening to me. My wrists and ankles are manacled and linked by a chain. I can barely take a step that's two thirds the length of my normal stride. Two very unsympathetic men are forcing me along faster than I can comfortably walk by long poles attached to the metal band locked round my throat. And still I'm as horny as rabbit in season! I must concentrate!

Oh it's so hard to do that. At the end of this frog-march, the man will want answers. I must speak the words that I have to, and mean every word of them if they are to be believed.

The interview is over. Despite my inner struggles, I had remembered what had to be said and how it had to be said. I think everyone is pleased with me. I hear the word that will allow me to relax. Relax as much as is possible in my chains and collar.

"Cut" shouts the director.

Will we have to shoot the scene again? My bonds are getting decidedly uncomfortable, but more important I need to get back to my dressing room to try and make sense of why I'm feeling so strange, why I don't mind being uncomfortable in these restraints and even though I almost dare not think it, why I'd be so disappointed to be relieved of my fetters.

"That's a wrap, everyone!"

Damn! The previously unsympathetic men are suddenly very sympathetic and are freeing me from my 'ordeal'. Why is it that I'm almost in tears? As soon as I am freed I rush away to my sanctum, my dressing room.

Shooting is over for today. I've just finished taking my make-up off. There is a knock on the door. I'm not sure that I want company, but I guess I must be polite.

"Come in..." I respond.

There's Reg. Reg is the Props man. He sources, obtains, maintains and delivers everything that is used on the show, barring costumes, make-up and technical equipment such as camera's and microphones. If you want a sword, a suit of armour, a bicycle, a bunch of roses, Reg is your man! Talking of roses, Reg is standing there with a bunch of obviously fake flowers, a bottle of wine and two glasses.

"Evening Gwen! I'd give you fresh flowers but it's too late for the florist. Will these do?" Reg is sweet. Romantic in a way. His smile is radiant, so I'm quite happy to accept the fake flowers with a conspiratorial laugh.

"I hope too, you'll join me in a glass of wine, Gwen. I've a suspicion that you need one." Despite believing that I need time to think, the thought of a glass of wine is appealing. Besides Reg is a nice person to kill half an hour with.

Reg makes small talk for a while, until I've finished my first glass and he's poured me a second. The seriousness of his conversation ratchets up a notch.

"That was a very difficult scene for you to play today. I couldn't help but notice how it effected you..."

"It wasn't so bad really," I bluster.

"Tell it to the marines, dear! You kept your voice and your face straight, but you couldn't hide the prominence of your nipples, the pace of your breathing, a slight flush to your face and a crafty wriggle of your hips when you thought no one was watching you."

I'm furious with him! He's seen right through my mask of objectivity. It's as though he's just stripped me of all self respect. I want to tell him to go, to leave me, but my mouth won't obey the brain. I just sit here feeling very vulnerable that he's pierced my armour so effortlessly. Indeed, I sense the possibility, no, the definite start of the itch that could so easily flare up into the kind of need that I'd felt on set, when ensconced in the chains and was being manhandled so.

Reg leans forwards oh so gently, as though to kiss me. If that's what he wants, I'll give him a gentle peck on his cheek. His lips however don't touch me! I'm quite startled when suddenly he reaches for my left wrist. Grabbing it, he pulls it round to the front by my right one. In less time than I can conceive, I feel cold metal encircling my wrists and hear the clack-clack-clack of the ratchets of the handcuffs! I'm startled and consequently not as sharp and cutting with my wit as I would normally be. I can barely croak out the cliché.

"What are you doing? Why have you handcuffed me?"

Suddenly the sweet innocent friendship that Reg normally embodies is no longer there. Instead I'm sensing depths in him that most people wouldn't see and I'm suddenly apprehensive.

"How long are you going to lie to yourself Gwen? It was plain for all to see that your passion was ignited by your chains during today's shooting. How Bill can direct a show like this when he's clearly so blind as to miss the obvious, is beyond me". He waits a moment and continues "Look yourself in the heart and tell me you want me to remove the handcuffs. I'll do so if you truly want me to."

My mind is telling me

"Yes, tell him! Get him to take the handcuffs off. This is a dangerous situation. He could be Jack the Ripper, the Boston Strangler or Norman Bates! How can you know?..."

However, I'm in a fugue because my heart and my sex is telling me

"Ohhhh yes! Let him wrap me in chains, let him take me against my will (especially as it isn't truly against my will). Perhaps he is the one in my dreams, whose face I can never see, who carries me off to his castle to serve him as his slave."

Making no decision is sometimes a decision in itself. I remain silent whether through acquiescence to what he has done to me, or indecision as to which course to follow, I can't tell. Reg comes behind me, and reaches round me. He unlocks the handcuff on my right wrist. At once I'm both relieved and yet saddened and disappointed. Next thing I know, he has brought my wrists behind my back and refastened the handcuff. I'm even more helpless than I was! The same feelings that I had before are back, but this time reversed! This man is clearly going to do to me what he wants, not necessarily what my logical brain wants. The play with the handcuffs and my feelings of helplessness are exciting me in precisely the same way that I was earlier on, on set in my chains.

His hackneyed dialogue is so perfectly 'hammed up' that I just have to laugh.

"Now my beauty! I have you just where I want you!"

All fear seems to have evaporated. My excitement is building like a volcano. Reg reaches over me and picks up my glass of wine. Holding and tipping it for me, so I can drink is somehow so very intimate an act that it takes my breath away. Whether I realise it or not, I have now crossed the Rubicon. I am his to do with as he wishes. I neither have nor want any say in the matter. Right now I wouldn't go back to the sterile emotionless life that I have been living.

There is however a frisson of fear, or is it excitement? What is he going to do with me? Will I be able to withstand it? I realise suddenly that this uncertainty is the breeding ground for the vulnerability and helplessness that I crave for its seductiveness. He will make me be whatever pleases him most.

Oh yes, I swallowed the feminist catechism whole! I 'walked the walk' and 'talked the talk'. But now I see that it is all a sham. For the first time, I feel that I am in the place that nature has decreed for me. Every cell in my body has over countless generations, been shaped to be subservient to man. I am content, though unfulfilled.

The wine is finished. I'm quivering with excitement and foreboding. My hips are gyrating as much as the chair will allow. Reg has taken from his pocket a leather collar. It's not a lot different from a dog's collar. He buckles it round my throat, and attaches a leash to it.

"Am I going to have to gag you Gwen?"

"No Reg."

"I think that you'd better start getting used to being more respectful to your betters, bitch. You will in future refer to me as 'Master'."

I should be resentful and rebellious at this arrogance, but somehow I'm not. It seems right, fitting somehow. I respond

"Yes Master!"

"And, lovely Gwen, you shall be called 'bitch', nothing more, nothing less."

Again, my hackles should be rising at such an insult, but they are not. As before, somehow, my renaming seems natural and appropriate.

"Yes Master!" is all that is required.

"In public we will remain Reg and Gwen, but at all other times it will be as I have decreed. Is that clear?"

"Yes Master!"

My Master, tugging gently on the leash, leaves me no option but to rise and follow him. A shaft of fear goes through me as we approach the changing room door. Unwise or not, I ask

"What if someone sees me like this... Master?"

The 'Master' is almost an afterthought. My Master clarifies,

"At this time of night, there's rarely anyone around. And even if there is, you'll have to suffer the shame and embarrassment of the situation fully. I won't have you getting too proud!"

If the truth is known, my question is for reassurance only; right now I'm so horny that I really don't mind who sees me in such a compromising a situation. I just want my Master too get me somewhere where he can 'have his wicked way with me'. I'm leaking... The only things stopping my juices from dribbling down my leg are my panties and my trousers.

Leading me through a door from the area of the changing rooms, I find myself in a huge warehouse, filled to the gunwales with all sorts of common and not so common items. I wonder how my Master can find in this warehouse, just the right item that a film director could possibly want. I am taken down a narrow walkway between piles and piles of apparent junk. At a doorway my Master stops and selecting a key from a bunch in his pocket he unlocks the door.

"This is where I store the items that are needed for dungeon/torture chamber scenes."

My heart has another quick stab of fear, but is calmed by the sense of caring that I feel in him. I don't expect him to be soft with me. Doubtless he will be quite cruel, likely enough I'll come to fear what he will and can do to me, but I don't sense that he will allow me to come to serious harm by accident or design.

After having traversed such a huge shed that barely has room to add one single extra item into it, the locked room is positively spacious. It's tidy, warm, clean and has an air of efficiency about it. There's a complete lack of sound. I realise that it must be soundproofed and that the effect presumably works both ways. Its equipment however is really quite disconcerting. As a place to efficiently extract information from a person, better could probably not be found this side of the Lubyanka in Moscow or some of the jails in South America.

I'm on the point of bridling and 'bottling out'. I wonder if it's already too late for that. I can't slip my handcuffs or collar. My Master locks the door behind us after we enter. My Master, sensing my disquiet comes up behind me and starts to caress me all over. Of course much of me is still dressed, as he hasn't got round to divesting me of my garments, so it's limited the amount of access that he has at present. However, I feel comforted and the terror goes away.

There is a difference between terror and fear. Terror is totally negative. It is always frightening. Fear can be either negative or positive. It can frighten but it can also stimulate. The thought that my Master can and probably will soon divest me of that psychological armour that we call clothes does frighten me, but at the same time it thrills me to the core.

Perhaps what thrills me is the thought that I will like-as-not be stripped in such a manner that I will have no say in it. It will be done to me whether I wish it or not. That is what's so wonderful and pussy-wetting. It's also what petrifies me and causes my heart to beat rapidly. That this room is more than a storehouse of dungeon equipment also indicates to me that it is a functioning room, not just a storehouse. I'm clearly not the first woman to sample the 'delights' of this place. My Master did not know until earlier in the day that I might be receptive to his power. There is no way that he could have prepared such a place specifically for me.

A stab of jealousy shafts through me. The subservience that my vulnerability and helplessness engenders in me, asks if I have the right to be jealous of those who must have been here before and doubtless will afterwards. I have to answer to myself that no, I don't have the right to be jealous. All I can do is experience, for pleasure or discomfort this event that is happening to me.

I am fitted with leather cuffs on wrists and ankles and am taken to an upright frame, with a level shelf at about waist height. My Master bends me forward over the shelf and unfastens my handcuffs removing them fully. Taking ropes, he fastens these to my leather wrist cuffs. The ropes clearly are on pulleys. I find my arms pulled up into the air behind me. In this situation I can't lift my torso off the shelf if I want to.

At this point my Master chooses to remove my trousers, tights and knickers. I am powerless to resist. My pussy which has been wet ever since my Master first handcuffed me, is now utterly sopping. My legs are spread wide. I am totally open for whatever predation my Master wishes to visit on me. Coming round to my front, my blouse is unfastened and spread wide. It can't be removed short of unfastening my wrists or cutting the blouse off me. My brassiere is pulled down, freeing my breasts to swing freely down over the edge of the shelf.

I am ready! Ready for what though? A 'Fate worse than death', i.e. my rape. Will it be rape, since I want it so much? My Master speaks,

"If you are to be mine, you must understand the discipline under which you are to be kept. I am going to give you a gentle taster of what happens if you don't please me fully one hundred percent of the time."

From the corner of my eye, I see my Master reach for a whip from a hook on the wall. He stands in front of me and dangles the whip in front of my eyes. To one who has no knowledge of whips, it looks fearsome. He continues

"This is a gentle whip; little more than a bottom-warmer. It'll not leave any lasting marks, but to an inexperienced girl such as you, it will feel quite painful. I would suggest that you learn this lesson well! Future repetitions of this lesson will be much more severe."

My Master goes round behind me. I'm quite frightened. Suddenly there is a blaze of pain across my bottom. This is gentle? Several more follow, imparting to my bottom a significant warm glow. This together with the warm dampness in my pussy is quite sublime in those moments when the lash is not actually landing on my bottom. I am informed that I have received a dozen strokes, (All my Master's dozens being 'baker's dozens'.) and that will be enough for today, unless I fail to be totally pleasing.

My Master stands behind me and leans over and round me. Caressing and tweaking my rock-hard nipples sends impulses of sensation to my pussy. I sense that my orgasm will not be long coming. My Master's cock slides into my gaping slit. I gasp! I'm sure that my eyes will have gone cross-eyed, since his tool is plentiful in both length and girth. In only three strokes I reach nirvana, but still he pumps away. This is awful! This is wonderful! I'm not even on this planet as another orgasm hits me. I no longer exist as a body. I am pure sensation. There is nothing in my universe but his cock and my sensation.

He is close now. As his warm wetness explodes inside me, I too explode into a third orgasm. I can barely stand. If it were not for the supporting shelf and the ropes securing me, I would fall to the floor.

I have my instructions. Today's filming has been perfect. My co-stars are dumbfounded. I played my part with an abandon that I'd never before been able to muster. My part would scintillate on the screen. Clearly my Master has freed up something in me that was previously holding me back. Perhaps knowing that he is watching me, and that if I don't measure up, I will be punished, has something to do with it.

As soon as the filming is over I must refresh my make-up, don whatever outfit my Master has laid out for me in my dressing room, kneel and wait. If last night has anything to do with it, I must state that if slavery is so sweet, then I no longer wish to be free. One thing for certain is that for me there'll be no 'Celebrity Wedding' that'll be splashed all over the women's magazines and will only last two and a half years. Give me the kind of slavery that the Prop man can deliver and I will be his forever. I'm sure that my wonderful Master is convinced that he has successfully 'landed' me. It's my job to keep him thinking that. It wouldn't do for him to think that I had manoeuvred him into accepting me as his plaything, would it?