Stories of Tie Up Games

This story explores one of my most mysterious characters, Jackie Martin. All that's ever been revealed is that she had a bad childhood, that she resorted to theft, and that she suffered some sort of abuse in prison. This story aims to be a little crazy, a lot of fun, and deeply emotional, just like Jackie. Consider this a trigger warning because Jackie finally breaks in this story and tells her own story in her own words and in an extremely immersive way. If you dare, read on and join Jackie as she finally discovers freedom from the past.

The Fridge: Jackie's Story
Saturday, September 05, 2020
CHAPTER 01: My Confession

Bondage means many things to me: fun, camaraderie, friendship, happiness, domination, captors and captives, gags and ropes and tapes and such, submission and defiance, control and danger, a whole lot of things! You can be free as a bee while being smothered yet tease a captive and have not one bit of control. Safe, consensual, considerate, loving explorations of sexuality, captivity, and so many other things. It sounds awful; it looks awful in the films we make; but it's freaking awesome. It's a source of many good things, and the favorite activity in my circle of friends.

"Jackie, get off your duff and grab the camera," Kendra orders me, and I jump up in a blink.
"On it!" and dash to grab our primary filming camera, which is most commonly my charge. It is time to start filming, which is gonna be awful yet awesome. Let's get into things, and I hope you get to learn about all of us and especially my own story through this.

Now I get the idea behind this and all that, but how did Mary-Ann even figure that this place had a walk-in refrigerator? Why does the fridge have a green ceramic tile floor? Better, how did she figure all this out before the restaurant opened? It's such an awesome gimmick, but you might be generating a million questions about the background behind all of this. It's cool but weird.

"Your bandana's too tight," is Kendra's answer to my question. Thank you, honey, but mine is, if anything, a little loose, unlike that red tourniquet you tied on your own head. I'm a lonely retired gangster who now finds her thrills in filming the voluntary suffering of curmudgeons like you, if I do say so myself. People act like I'm another blonde ditz because I'm quiet and reserved, but I crushed my SAT scores. Seriously, Kendra, I'm gonna laugh when you're gagged in the fridge. I think the setup is awful, but we're gonna have so much freaking fun with the chill-chest bondage.

Behold, the Ralstons! Liz and Leah Ralston are our debutantes, coming to us through connecting with one of our own girls who went to the same college that they did. They're fans of our work, I think, because they're too excited. Maybe they're nuts or something because they don't seem like girls who would enjoy the sadistic setting. Hey kids, you're gonna be in a refrigerator, and… Oh, I knew they were blondes, but those are the prettiest green eyes I've ever seen!

"Charmed," is my personal intro to them while firmly shaking their hands, "Don't turn away from me; I'm a retired pickpocket," I tease them and turn away with a wiggle of my eyebrows.

I only ever picked 2 or 3 pockets, actually, and just didn't feel it was necessary to go through that much trouble for money when there were corner stores that made it so freaking easy to just steal a candy bar right off the shelf. Why waste time like that? Believe me, it was awful. The twins have the figures to do this job, and I can't wait to see them in ropes. Ah, Joyce is checking the prop gun, and the twins are adjusting their hair. That means it's time for me to grab my camera. Everyone else is to get out of here. C'mon, shoo! Shoo! Me, the Twins, Joyce, and Alexandra.

Action!

"It's a swell joint," Leah sat at the desk and put her feet on the desk.
"Yeah, the Edwards girls are in charge here," Liz sat on the desk.

Nice outfits! Color-matching, twin style. The ankle boots are so cute that I want them but can't decide whose like better; mall day shopping list item. The leggings and leather miniskirts are an essential pairing for any retired thief to enjoy. Their t-shirts add a splash of innocence and would make boob exposure almost a necessity if I were in their places. When a leather jacket is added, this girl is completely aboard the boat. Adding bandana headbands just makes it fully Cool Girl and fully Gangsta, just the way this thief wants it. Gosh, yeah, the envy is so real. Can you feel it? Liz has black boots, white leggings, a black skirt, a white shirt, a black jacket, and a white bandana. Leah has the complete opposite Such chic outfits. Actually, I have outfits like these already. Before you ask, Leah has a big scar on her cheek. They told us themselves.

"Are you really flipping a coin?" Leah asks, "Stereotypical 1930s two-bit penny-ante gangster!"
"Yeah, Bailey, so I am? Wuz it to you? Maybe I'm just cooler than you, hmmm?" Liz smirks.
"Put your hands where I can see them," Joyce brings more hotties into the room.

Enter Joyce Verdi, stage name Annie Oakes, and Xandra Watkins, stage name Kaci-Lee Masters. Joyce has a similar style with black combat boots, black pantyhose, a pink leather skirt, a black leather jacket, a pink t-shirt, and a pink bandana headband. Such personality! She has taken the Twins' outfits, added an extra splash of femininity with the pink, and added a pinch of tough girl attitude. Her glasses just put her over the top somehow while she effortlessly snatches the coin mid flip and waves her gun. She grabs Leah by the arm and throws her off the chair. Authority!

"Who are you?" Liz asks without showing any nervousness whatsoever.
"Annie Oakes, in charge of this part of town. I demand $100 per week for protection money," Joyce sits down without flinching, "Pay up, shut up, or cool off, got it? I mean business."
"Great, you got your film noir now, Hailey," Leah holds her arms in the air.
"Masters," Joyce puts her feet up, "Humiliate these gangster wannabes."
"Right on it, boss," Alexandra begins to strip the twin gangsters of their gangster status.

Joyce's shoulder-length light brown hair, hazel-green eyes, and glasses make her seem cold and calculating. She's a credible 1930s style gangster in 2019, and her stoical gaze is picture perfect. Her accomplice, Xandra, is a credible threat as a gangster, too, even if in a different manner. The red woolen knee skirt and the black fishnet stockings make her look like a perfect gun moll. Her black pumps, and a black turtleneck sweater give an old style vibe where you expect a dagger to be strapped to her thigh. Yet her long blonde hair and brilliantly blue eyes make her look like a good girl even though her voice is credibly sinister and heartless. Please kidnap me, ladies!

I loovvvvvve leather. Love, love, love it! I didn't wear leather in my own gangster days even if I was a professional thief. Ah haaah! Look at that! A black bra and black panties, for Leah, and a white bra and white panties for Liz. They have undies matching their bandanas. How cute! It is the personalities though, that I really love. The scowl on Liz's face; the desire to kill on Leah's; a slick grin on Joyce's; and the mischief on Alexandra's.

"So, you gonna pay up, or cool off?" Joyce asks them again, "I ain't askin' again, got it?"
"May the bluebird of happiness crap on your head," Leah says and proudly nods her head.
"That's it, my dear. Tie ‘em and gag ‘em, Masters," the gangster lady stands up.

Joyce brilliantly reaches into her coat pockets and pulls out two 1.75 inch ball gags, one red and one blue. She gags Leah with the blue while Alexandra boxties Liz's arms, and then they switch positions. Liz's arms are boxtied by Alexandra, and Liz gets the red ball gag. Each gangster has two coils of white rope, they first tie good chest harnesses to support the boxtie, and then they tie good crotch ropes as well. They're snug, not tight, and effective, and Liz and Leah are turning a gangster adventure into being two underwear-clad burritos. I just love Mexican food. Spicy!

With effortless shoves from Joyce, both girls are forced to lie down on the desk. Five ropes are used on each girl's legs. They squeal, perhaps showing regret for their resistance, but it's too late to submit. Punishment must come first before further discussions. One rope below their waist, and one above their knees: helpless thighs. One below their knees, one at their ankles, and one at the midway point on their shins: helpless lower legs. Feel the temperature increasing here?

"Get up and hop!" Xandra snarls and helps each one to stand, "Move it, you dumb b-tches!"

I never kidnapped a soul during my real gangster days, although TUGs with friends and bondage films. and photo shoots are very different experiences. But, TUGs are about kidnapping, so that is kind of the point. Duh! Consensual games and consensual productions are different. OK, one time as a 14 year old I locked that 12 year old girl in a cage while robbing her house. OK, I was a monster then who took to being a crook because she was too proud to ask family for help! Any questions about my past before I resume? Yes, my priest has heard it all and absolved me. Look and listen to me: what was done was wrong and inexcusable but can't be undone either. Owning my mistakes and my past is all that can be done. Please, stop judging me and my friends. When I get into certain mindsets or see certain things, horrible imagery flashes before my eyes.
Hopping and hoping are two of my favorite things. I love a bondage hop, but I'm a positive girl and always hope for the best two. Liz and Leah's hopping is a positive in this scene. Just like I knew that there was something different in my Roman Catholic friends and journeyed until they showed me what it meant to believe in something. And just like now Liz and Leah are realizing that Joyce is playing a tough game and making them bunny hop into this refrigerator.

Dang, it's cold in here. That's why I'm wearing my favorite navy bandana as a kerchief with a white turtleneck t-shirt, navy sweatpants, and white combat boots. I need to fight the cold with a lot of clothing! The Twins instantly react to the cold. Poor things are hogtied on the floor in a refrigerator. Yikes. I start my 15 minute timer that tells me that no matter what the scene must end by then. The Twins look at each other: Hailey and Bailey Edwards are screwed.

"I'll be back. Either you'll cool off and pay up, or you'll cool off all the way," Joyce sneers.

Joyce plays a really cold gangster despite the true warmth she has in her heart. She's known the Twins for almost two years, so she knows what they can do better than me. Fantasy is such an incredible escape from life, whether it's trauma, simple stress, or a criminal past. Alexandra and Joyce strut out of the fridge and shut the door, leaving me in here with nothing but the cold, the Twins, and the white fluorescent lighting. Now it's my time to shine! A silenced notification is on my phone; it's from Kendra and says, "You're the star, Jackie! May you shine brightly!"

I take my trusty camera and capture the details of the Twins' struggles. The green eyes dart all over the fridge with obvious distress. I can see the discomfort in their eyes, too: crotch ropes that aren't enough for them to get off. It's just gonna burn, burn, burn. It's such an awful, awesome feeling. I really can't compare it to anything else. It just… burns, yeah! No other words needed.

"Mmmmmmm!" Liz is starting to drool a bit now after resisting such urges.
"Auuugggggghhhhhhhhh!" Leah expresses the burn very well.

Part of me wishes it was OK for me to tickle their feet just for a light addition to the scene, but as the camera operator, capturing their struggle and their movements, good behavior is necessary. It reminds me of when I turned myself into the police due to being sick of feeling like a slave to my criminal ways. Surrender brought freedom… and nightmares. Yeah, I spent 3 years in Mudville Juvie, but… That is something I cannot talk about now, so let's focus on something else, yeah?

Pretty young girls they are! From opposite outfits to opposite underwear is a big shift they take in stride. It's a cute scene, but Leah gives me the triple-signal when I ‘m focused on Liz. They'd already had enough of this for one scene, and that was fair after 7 minutes. A perfect way to end a scene on their own terms. I propped the camera, texted Joyce, and watched her waltz in again.

"So, you girls gonna pay up, or you gonna cool off?" Joyce asks in her cold gangster tone.
"-E'll hay -ou," Leah groans into the ball gag, and I end the scene by focusing on Joyce's smirk.
"Penny ante gangsters are nothing like real ones," I say with a wink, and gather the camera.
"Jackie, something's eating at you," Joyce says to me, "You wanna talk?"
"Who, me? No, no!" I nervously laugh, "Of course I'm fine!" that's blatant deception.
"Liar," and Joyce sees right through it, "You don't have to talk, but don't lie to me. Please?"

I sadly shake my head and dash out of the fridge, desperately looking for the restrooms so I can escape between scenes and get away from the things I've never discussed with anyone. My beloved navy kerchief sure isn't a sign of strength right now, is it? The white turtleneck and the navy sweatpants were supposed to remind me of my gangster days in a good way, and the white combat boots were supposed to be my tough survivor girl vibe. Instead, I am sick and down on my knees in worship of the porcelain god. Why must it be this way?! Must I live—the sound! Someone has entered the bathroom. Oh, Lord, please get me out of this!

"Jackie, what is wrong?" Crap! It's Joyce, that sweet girl, "Jackie, we can hug and not talk."
"Please, go—" and then I hurl into the toilet because I am so stressed out right now, "Blegh!"
"Oh, Lord," Joyce finds me because I didn't lock the stall, "Jackie?!?!" she's even crying now.
"I can't talk about it. I can't!" the faces are before my eyes like it was yesterday, "No! No!"
"How may I help?" she kneels beside me, "A hug? A snack? A prayer?"
"Yeah, yeah," I am shaking so much, "A hug," so many horrid thoughts flood my mind now.

I grab her in a tight hug, tears rolling down my cheeks. I'm needed outside, the camera queen; it will be excused though. Many of us have triggers, and there is an overwhelming loneliness right now. Selfish thing I am! I'm remembering prison and my parents; Joyce's parents are dead. I've got a chance to maybe someday love my parents again; she doesn't have that much. But a face is flashing before my mind, a monstrous face. I will never forget that face until my dying day.

Just as abruptly, I stop crying, use a hankie to dry my tears, thank Joyce, compartmentalize, and leave the bathroom. Now Mary-Ann's calling me by name; I can't disappoint my friends. But I am weak right now yet pretending to be strong. Joyce knows it, and Xandra and the Twins saw it, too. What is it that triggered me back during that scene or conversation? Why did I mentally collapse? Was I simply being a weakling? Why can I feel God's forgiveness for my sins, but I can't process this? Am I defective? Weak? Scared? Stupid? Broken? No, it's injury.

"There she is, iron guts Martin!" Kendra refers to my love of spicy food.
"Yep, she's back," I smile and hide the truth of what just happened in the bathroom.
"Hi, Iron Guts," Alexandra takes my hand—she knows—and nods, "You did well back there."
"Thank you," now, I need to get my bearings. Destiny, Kendra… and me!
"C'mon, Jackie, you're gonna be a stripped gangster in this next scene!" Kendra teases me.
"I forgot," I giggle. What a relief! They're clueless! "I need to change," I wink and get my bag.

I go to the changing corner and take off my turtleneck since I've got a sports bra underneath. It's a—oh, dang—are those my boobs? They belong to me, don't they? Sizable and firm, but they're corrupted. The shiny navel piercing is mine though. Yeah, it's mine. Yes. C'mon, Jackie, pull it allllll together for your friends. Replace the sweats with gym shorts. Put my boots back on. It's a dumb idea to have that mirror right there! I don't care if it's to help me get ready!

Keep it together, Jackie. Yes, let them think it's filmset jitters. Not like I ride a Kawasaki sports bike during spring, autumn, and fall. Me? Fearless? I only have one genuine fear. No, you get out of my mind! C'mon, leave me alone, you f-cking d-ck! God, the dissonance! Focus! Now I have it together. Go on out there, make this film, and have fun! Collapse after. Make this be an inspirational moment of how you worked through the pain and suffered afterwards.

I can do this. This is a fantastic way to start a new film. It's a perfect way for us to dress for the inevitable refrigerator bondage. These boobs, though, aren't really mine anymore. They belong to them. No, they belong to neither my friends nor the viewers. They belong to some other people. My heart starts racing; panic seizes me; my eyes dilate; goosebumps form on my arms; a chill goes down my spine; my friends become distant and unreachable; I'm alone with them in that room again, a teenager helpless to protect herself. A fleeting thought, and I black out.

I open my eyes and see Kendra's husband, Ross, among others, looking at me. Well, the logical thing to do is wonder what happened. But there's a man there. Punch him! That's a tell-all sign for my friends. I love Ross like a big brother; both Kendra and Mary-Ann's husbands are family to me. To punch any of them is a huge red flag; everyone knows it; something is wrong with me. I am still woozy and so only graze Ross in the chest, but the attempt was still made.

"Get away!" I snap, completely out of character, "Just get away from me!" I dust myself up and stand up, taking a big glug from a ginger ale; it's too late. I run to the sink and barf again. There is no avoiding it any longer; everyone knows it; everyone knows the majority of my past. What would be new is getting my unique perspective on it though. I can't bring it out though.

"Look," I am gasping for breath, "I cannot talk about it. Not even to my shrink," I admit about as candidly as I can, "I had to do the little kid touch-the-doll sh-t to tell her what happened," that's a big clue where I am going with this, "Look, they did it to Kylie and Larsson, too! You're all able to remember and sympathize with them because Kylie jumped over a banister rail because they'd destroyed her will to live. You remember Hannah because they turned her into a bisexual. Y'all forget me! They wrecked me just as badly as Kylie!" I look around the room to see shock, pain, and understanding; they know I mean the prison guards, "Mary-Ann's easy to remember because she's the wildcat who went through foster care and misadventures; my cupboards were bare!"

I feel like a whiny baby with green mushroom disease, but there was nothing but truth in what I was saying. My cupboards really were bare; my parents drank their calories or got take out. If I got food from them, it was through takeout. There was no concern for my needs. The weight of it all has been hanging over my head for years now. My abuse in prison ended 7 years ago, but it is still fresh in my head. I think they're finally realizing that my life from birth to adulthood was a nonstop sequence of pure, unfiltered misery that never let up for a second.

"Jackie, what's wrong?" Joyce comes over to me with concern, "You need to talk?"
"I can't talk about it," I admit in the most vulnerable moment of my life, "It'll rip me apart first."
"We'll do anything for you… if it'll help you to be able to live in the present."
"Girl, it's not that simple," those physical sensations are pulsing in my body, "It's just not."
"Jackie," Mary-Ann takes me by the hand, but I scream and pull away, "We want to help!"
"Not now," I shudder, my breath shaking within me, "I have to word it in a way that won't be a trigger for me. Right now, I need to be left alone. Don't touch me, and I'll be fine."

Punching Ross. Screaming when Maddy touched me. Barfing. Passing out before. I've hit the point of no return; it's obvious even to the dust mites that something is wrong with me. How do you tell your friends that three prison guards—two male and one female—took turns using you in ways they didn't use any of the other girls? Everyone just knows they liked blondes, that we all have new limits because of them. Larsson, Kylie, and I were taken by them, but Kylie's not mentally built like Hannah and me. She breaks more easily from that kind of thing.

"Lunch time," I look at them all, "By lunch time, I'll be ready to talk and make you hurl too."
"Jackie," Mary-Ann only offers me her hand this time, "Only take my hand if you're able."
"Thanks," I shake my head, "but I can't take your hand right now. I need to be left alone."
"Are you able to keep up the camera work?" she asks me as a friend first and a boss second.
"Yes, I can do it. I'm able to find my peace. It just needs time to put itself in words."

My parents… I don't even know where they are or if they're alive, much like Mary-Ann doesn't know the lowdown on her folks. Prison abuse and parental abuse are different parts of this. The latter is a thing only my therapist has ever heard me discuss. It's wrong to say my parents were abusive to me because they just didn't care. What's the word? Neglect? Yeah, Mary-Ann and I are victims of neglect, not abuse. OK, maybe it's abuse when… I'll get to it in this story.

I still keep a diary, and I thought recording my crimes in generic terms would make me feel bad. Eventually, it did, when I flipped through the pages one night, seeing it all in print and realizing that I'd hurt people, whether emotionally or economically, when I did that. I realized then that just because I needed notebooks for school and couldn't buy them didn't mean I should steal them from the local Office Depot. Just because my parents didn't love me didn't change that all four of my grandparents and my aunts and cousins did love me.

Can you feel it? It's my Mother… no, no, not my biological mother. Mama Mary, God's mother. When I'm scared, I clutch my medal and ask her to protect me and pray for me. She's a mom and knows all too well what I must feel when I think about my own parents. Feel it? I hope you can because it is a feeling that, as a young thief, I would have scoffed at you for mentioning it, but it's real. Thirty minutes have gone by, and I can't tell you what happened during that time. I put the camera down and motion for someone without displaying any panic. Mary-Ann comes into the fridge with silent, sneaky motions, and I use hand cues to tell her to take over the camera for a moment. I walk over to the big sink, barf yet again—because I obviously enjoy it—clean my mouth, splash cold water on my face, and mentally prepare myself for reality. Like it or not, my friends are going to have to hear about what Mr. Reardon—no, Mr. Crawford, that piece of sh-t cueball—and my parents did to me. Many eyes watch me as I calmly adjust my navy kerchief and return to the fridge. What's happening again? Where are we? Who's even here?

I feel empowered again. I can breathe easily. I'm not shaking. I'm ready to tell my story. Wait, who was even tied up? Who was escaping again? How can I consciously crush my job like this and not remember doing any of it? My sweet readers—I'm sorry—that's how PTSD works. It's time for a heavy dose of reality, and please forgive all this chaos from my mind. As we walk out of the fridge, I see that look on Mary-Ann's face that can mean many meanings, but I know it's a "Why didn't you tell me you were sick?" face as opposed to a happy "It's time to kidnap you and gag you with my sweaty socks" face. I force a cheeky smile and give a wave with my fingers, as if I'm trying to alleviate anger or flirt with her. Of course it's the former! I'm not into girls, especially not after what Mrs. Thalberg did to me in prison! Thankfully, my response evokes a playful laugh and eye roll from Mary-Ann, but she knows and is worried.

"All right," I say, "Enough's enough. You only know half of the legend of the Reardon Gang… Look," I tensely brace myself and nervously walk around the empty future dining room in the big restaurant, "You know what happened to Kylie, right? Mr. Reardon, Mr. Crawford, and Mrs. Thalberg would take her aside for," and I use finger quotes for this, "so-called ‘searches' where they hurt her, sometimes misuse her body for themselves. They did it to me, too," I take a deep breath, almost collapsing from guilt for comparing myself to my friends who also suffered from the same people in the same manner, "When I first arrived in Juvie, the Reardon gang had just emboldened itself to start abusing inmates. Do you know who victim number one was? A fresh, young 16-year old girl who arrived in October after turning herself into the police on a deal of 3 years in juvenile detention for a confession and a guarantee of no time in prison," my arms are crossed now as I say the words, "I bet you never thought of that?" and I see some horrified gazes as they all realize that I'm the "16-year old girl."

"While Kylie's bones knit, guess who had to take on all the horrors that were planned for Kylie on top of the ones that were planned for herself?" I watch a lot of faces turn strangely gray as the color drains from their cheeks, "Between my arrival in October 2011 and the firing of all three members of the Reardon gang at the end of January 2013, which is 15 months, can any of you guess how many blowjobs I had to give Mr. Crawford? How about a guess of how many birth control pills I had to take since I certainly would have ended up pregnant?" I hear lots of girls crying now, and I am now leaning against the wall while looking at my distressed audience.

"You know why I haven't had a steady boyfriend? Because I still feel those two creeps inside my body as if it happened this morning," I'm being candid and brutally honest and keep scanning the room to engage my audience, "15 months. 69 weeks. At least once a week. At least twice when Kylie had the broken leg. Reardon used me as his personal baby factory! And Crawford was the worst! I can still feel all the sensations in my mouth; that's why I've been barfing. And don't get me started on Mrs. Thalberg. She's the real reason… Kylie can't have children… and the reason I leave the room or turn away whenever any of you girls do anything lesbian. Having to endure that rubber thing until my body… responded," I look down at the floor and wince, "I'm not trying to trivialize Kylie and Hannah," I say, almost collapsing under the weight of my own words, "I'm just saying no one's ever asked me about my suffering or given me a hug for it."

Mary-Ann is sitting up, curled up in a ball in the corner, facing the corner, bawling her eyes out; Joyce and I are hugging and crying; some are standing stunned because they were arrested long after the Reardon gang had been ended; Liz and Leah are mortified because they did not know that we all went through so much in our lives; even the men are crying. No one ever thought about me like this. It's my desperately unwanted—but necessary—moment of recognition.

"Jackie, I'm so sorry," Mary-Ann gathers her strength and comes over, "For never once," she has to pause to sniff, "asking you about life or if you ever needed to vent. Can you forgive me?"

"Mary-Ann, I forgive you, and I'm sorry because I know that, for you, me, and Kendra, they also stole our virginity. I always wanted to be a mom, but I can't share my body with someone else if I can't convince myself that it belongs to me over 7 years later," I look into Mary-Ann's eyes.

"Veggie lover's pizza for lunch, OK?" Mary-Ann asks me ever so kindly, "I love you, Jackie."

"I love you, too, Mary-Ann," I back away and wave my arms, "Hey!" I shout above the noise, "I got a message for all of you! You wanna know something! Maybe I suffered and broke from all of it, but you know something! I love you all! You're my friends! My confidantes! Thank you all for being my friends and for never judging me even if I act a little crazy at times. Dry your eyes; we've got a shooting schedule to maintain, or we'll fall behind."

@charliesmith, @silvertejp590, @SquidIncMaster, @Switcher1313, @The G-Man, @Caesar73, @Phantomette, @0Kay, @Yewteed, @Solarbeast, @GreyLord, @Kinky_boi,@harveygasson, @hafnermg, @johopp, @Bilmik, @DommeKirsten, @RopeBunny, @LunaDog, @PenelopeRopes, @StrugglingSue, @JohnnyRockets

Wow what a backstory.

harveygasson wrote: 1 month ago Wow what a backstory.

I apologize if this was too intense.

@charliesmith, @silvertejp590, @SquidIncMaster, @Switcher1313, @The G-Man, @Caesar73, @Phantomette, @0Kay, @Yewteed, @Solarbeast, @GreyLord, @Kinky_boi,@harveygasson, @hafnermg, @johopp, @Bilmik, @DommeKirsten, @RopeBunny, @LunaDog, @PenelopeRopes, @StrugglingSue, @JohnnyRockets

CHAPTER 02: My Request Is Made

Ah, the drama of film shoots can be a bit much. No, this isn't the first time triggering happened on the set, and we've had triggering end production of films before. Sometimes we can work it in as part of the plot and call an audible mid film, but this time I was able to smooth it over. The truth is out. I feel selfish for it though. Is that bad? I don't know. I feel at peace with myself, as if a heavy weight has been lifted off my chest. That's a good thing. My friends never tried to be dismissive of what happened to me. It's just… I held it for 7-8 years. If you examine my list of favorite saints, you'll see a lot of saints renowned for silent suffering through tribulations.

You might be wondering how I coped in prison? Well, food has always been a major part of my struggle, and I react to triggering by not eating. Skipping meals. Destiny six months ago tied me up and force fed me food because PTSD led me to not eat for two days. The Reardon gang liked to tell me I needed more weight to be sexier. I developed a complicated relationship with food, a relationship that Destiny helped me mend through her own tears. Anorexia is awful.

I feel like me again. I'm still sickened by what I've shared and the memories associated with the most horrid part of my past. I'd had nearly every single guy at church ask me to date them, and I had dated most of them without getting past 1 or 2 dates despite some part of me desiring to be in intimacy with them. I only knew abuse. I'd trigger and pass out if I so much as saw a phallus on the set of a production where I was present. Here, I am safe and seen, and now I'm known. That I had never said anything before wasn't the point; it was that no one had ever asked. They didn't ask until I involuntarily made it impossible for them not to notice, and there's no use apologizing for being triggered because none of us could have done anything about it.

I'd always struggled to wonder why God let my choice to be morally sound, to turn myself in at the police station, result in such horrible experiences. It took me years to realize that God loves us all so much that He lets us have free will. I didn't deserve it; but God doesn't prevent us from committing an evil deed anymore than he coerces us into committing an angelic deed. That's the top reason why my favorite saint is Maria Goretti, why I chose her as my confirmation name. It is a story that is all too familiar to me, of a girl who suffered for doing the right thing. Yep, I am a factory of tears, but I am keeping focused on the scene somehow.

The struggle is real. My friends are professionals at struggling dramatically and making a scene be raw and entertaining. Trying so hard to shriek for help that I am sure she's causing an ache in her own throat; they needs to be careful because that can make you sore! Oh, my desire to be a damsel on the shelf, gagged with something humiliating like a ball gag or dirty socks, and have a girl like Mary-Ann or Kendra film it all… Maybe be dominated by Felice so she can be mean to me while respecting my kinks. I'm sinking into fantasy, and I'm capturing something beautiful.

I am seen and understood, this time by the actress. She has a beautiful story. She was raised in a lukewarm Roman Catholic household, rebelled, went to prison, and now is practicing again, such a quick transformation that she was confirmed way back in 2015 along with Kendra. Most, such as me, took longer to warm up to things and were only confirmed in 2018, and this is 2020. The look on her eyes just for that second where I pan away from her to focus on the scene says it all: "Jackie, it's OK to grieve, and we're here for you." And, boy, am I grieving today!

I just realized that I've mentioned Felice and Destiny without any context whatsoever. We have a crew of around 15 here now, and I'm just name dropping without any warning. I'm in an awfully confused state, as if you can't tell. Destiny is my best friend and roommate; Felice is another one of my best friends and a girl I hope will eventually become my roommate in her own time. They are important, especially Felice, because I need her to do something for me… soon.

Navy blue became my bandana of choice because it was like moonlight. The paisley symbols of flowers (on my Western paisley bandana) for femininity, the classic pattern like moons and stars, and navy for the color of the night. It was beautiful like the night, and it was thus that my gang allowed the spunky 13 year old amongst 25-45 year old professional thieves, to claim a color as hers. I brought that bandana to prison and proudly wore it after I earned that privilege, and while I have had to replace the bandanas over the years due to wear and tear I still cherish navy as the symbol of who I am, but now I am a graceful artist of TUGs and bondage, that slippery one who is delightful both as a captive and as a captor in the production of thrill, a beautiful thief perfect to display the sensual and emotional joys whether in games with the Cool Girls' Club or in films for Maddy Tied Her. That's what I wish to show the world when I fantasize of being tied and gagged on the shelf like one actress is right now. I want to be beautiful, helpless, cherished, and safe—a damsel-in-distress, howling into a gag, maybe a wand torturing my crotch, while I cry out into a gag because, in this bizarre form of roleplay we love, I'm playing a girl, kidnapped and bound and gagged against her will while in reality it's all been my choice.

The bright green ropes that bind one call out to me, but the pink ropes that bind the other call out even more loudly with their femininity. I want to shout like her and have Felice see my cries and look at me with her sadistic gleam, pet my kerchief-covered head to comfort me while portraying it as part of the film dynamics, before proceeding to test my limits in that way only she can. Yes, see how these beautiful secretaries struggle and drool! They are beautiful, but most importantly they've welcomed me as the one filming their struggle in this refrigerator. The pairs of beautiful, chocolate brown eyes provide me with comfort. I need to pay more attention so I can tell you the film's action, and I'm sorry that I cannot do so. This is the reality of psychological bondage.

I metaphorically froze to death in prison. I'll never forget neither the abuse nor the many times I would calmly approach the prison guard box and ask to be placed in solitary confinement for the mandatory 72 hours because I was afraid that I would jump over the second story railing just like Kylie had done. Those times alone were the first times I talked to God. Some stranger, I never will know who they were or how they knew I was there, gave me a Bible, my first Bible, and in blind openness without judgment I read it start to finish during my waking hours of the 72 hours of one of my trips to solitary. I began to believe I wasn't alone in life—because I wasn't! I am the camera girl of the moonlight! The navy beauty! The Gangsta Thief!

It's sad because so many of my friends did rehabilitate in juvenile detention. My rehabilitation happened with my pang of conscience before prison; I was smashed to pieces inside, to use one graphic double entendre; the rest of my sentence was an escape from the abuses I'd suffered both in prison and at home. Mary-Ann, Kendra, Felice, and Destiny all reclaimed their lives in there, but I became the broken mess I am today, permanently wired because I was still developing then.

I can picture it all. Pink ropes binding my wrists and elbows tighter than ever, almost painfully tight, because I asked them to be tied so. It must be pink. It must be a dramatic kidnapping scene, with a big fight to subdue me by Felice. The gag must be something humiliating, whether a ball gag for drooling or a dirty sock gag for toe cheese. I need a wand and a tight crotch rope so that I will climax repeatedly. Physically intense punishments will be part of it so I shriek. It will be dark, but it will be cathartic. Saint Maria Goretti, I know I desire something bizarre. I beg you to intercede, that God gives me strength to ask Mary-Ann to agree to include this scene in our schedule. I need this more than ever. I need a scene to reclaim myself, so that I can finally end my feelings of being disembodied. Amen.

What a brilliant time to end the scene. Why do I decide to end it? Because I'm spent. I'm tired. I want to eat that veggie lover's pizza Mary-Ann promised me was coming soon. I want to pause a moment to breathe and to mean it when I ask Mary-Ann to do this to me. No, for once, neither the captives nor the captors are ending the scene. Nope. Instead, the Navy Gangsta Thief, bearer of the moonlight persona, the girl of mystery, the one who like the night was an unknown, needs to escape from the scene. I put down the camera and walk up to the captives, and I kiss each of them on the forehead. They're beautiful, inside and out, and I, gracefully, like moonlight, walk over to the door and open the fridge, motioning for others to come inside, bearing a smile that I cannot explain filling my face. It's not a big smile, but it's a smile that I feel despite my distress.

"Jackie, are you OK?" Mary-Ann sees my disjointed, mixed sigh as I hold the door open.
"I'm mixed right now. It's very mixed," but my smile is genuine, "Seeking pizza."
"Pizza?" I hear Joyce's voice, "Ha! I'm just getting ready to go get the pizzas.
"Eh," I shrug, "I'm," I clutch my saint medals, "I'm overwhelmed right now. Fantasizing. Right now," I look at the girls in the restaurant's walk-in refrigerator, "I am moonlight personified."
"I like hearing that," my boss raises her eyebrows, "Jacqueline Martin, you sound confident."

I sit down on a chair and gently put the camera on the floor. I close my eyes. What'll it be? The pink rope or the yarn? Both would be absolute magic. The thought of the buzzing vibrator gives me warmth in a less sexual and more emotional manner, the ownership of the moment. What'll I have to eat? A silicone ball gag or my captor's dirty socks? My breaths are even and strong, yet I am clutching my medal like it's the most precious thing in the world, breathing and praying in a desperate plea. I have to talk to Mary-Ann. I must.

"Mary-Ann Voisin!" I hear Leah Ralston's voice, "How positively naughty of you!"
"Yeah! Having us make our bondage film debut by being hogtied on the floor of the fridge!" Liz joins the fray, and I grab my camera and start filming in hopes of getting a good scene out of this.
"Oh, come on, girls," Mary-Ann looks at them innocently, "I asked you first!"
"Oh, no, Maddy!" Liz notices the camera and switches gears, "You deceived us!"
"That's silly!" our boss also sees the camera and plays along with things, "What do you want?"
"We're going to tie you up," Leah grabs some bright orange paracord, "In the fridge."

Well, there goes my fantasy of pink bondage, humiliating gags, brutal domination, and vibration. I have a job to do! But I don't forget it easily. Oh, what outfits the twins have picked to go after Mary-Ann, and Mary-Ann is dressed in a classic style. Only she and I would dare to wear denim shorts over leather pants; in this case, Mary-Ann has red. A black tight fitting t-shirt, her favored black combat boots, a red kerchief bandana, and the plentiful chains with her pewter dogtags and saint medals. Dang, Mary-Ann, you are a freaking bondage goddess waiting to happen! Best of all is how obviously impromptu this is and how seamlessly we all agree to make this a new film.

Saints and bondage do not mix. Bondage is a raw, unholy thing, but it can be a good thing when it's done properly between friends or spouses. I desperately need healing, and I feel bad for both of the Ralston girls that their introduction to modeling is seeing me jump into full-blown PTSD dysfunctionality of a kind never seen before on Mary-Ann's film sets.

Some people can pull off edge, but Mary-Ann and I are pros. This is next level Edge Queen here in the dining room of the restaurant in which we're filming, and lots of idle hands are watching a playful fight break out here. We're all aware and see the moment, which means stage names are enforced at this point. Oh, my pink bondage fantasy, I will not forget you! I promise. I will not forget you! The Queen of the Moonlight has a moment to capture with her trusty camera.

The Twins, though, have found their own Edgy Bondage Queen personas. Oh, my goodness, it's so beautiful. Leah has a red leather miniskirt and red pantyhose with red combat boots. Liz has the same lineup, but it's all black. Wow! They both have white turtleneck t-shirts, and the color continues with the red (Leah) and black (Liz) bandana headbands. This is beautiful, and we're in the moods to do this. Seeing this makes my pink yearning stronger; I want that scene so badly! I think you agree: we don't need to be tied up for all the guys to ogle us! Smoking hot, baby!

Then the Twins strike with the orange paracord because Edgy Bondage Queens love nothing like a bright, loud bondage. Mary-Ann is helpless, absolutely helpless. That bright orange bondage begins on her elbows with Liz Ralston, the Black Bondage Queen, while Leah, the Red Bondage Queen, holds down Mary-Ann, the Edge Queen. I feel silly here in my navy kerchief, but what I am is the Navy Moonlight Bondage Queen instead. My desire to be tied up is only growing, but I now am comfortable with waiting my turn. This scene is fully worth it. Oh, look at Mary-Ann being crushed into that brutally tight elbow bondage! This is good, good stuff! Yeah!

Mary-Ann is seated on a wooden chair to have her wrists tied just as sadistically tight and with a strip of the bright orange paracord. Liz has the trunk and Leah has the legs. The Black Bondage Queen cinches the ropes tightly before moving to tying a tight harness, right here on the floor of the restaurant's dining room, our little Maddy Tied Her base camp in the restaurant. It's a matter of how the fridge works into the scene. The Red Bondage Queen ties Mary-Ann's ankles together and wraps the rope into the heels of those black combat boots. I just love the red leather pants with the denim shorts layered over them; Mary-Ann, you Edgy Bondage Queen! What has happened must have been planned weeks in advance by the Twins. It must!

While Mary-Ann shrieks and squeals when Liz stuffs a 2.5 inch yellow ball gag into the Queen's mouth, I can tell from her body language that she's loving this. Normally, Mary-Ann hates being the victim of impromptu TUGs because they trigger her like I've been getting triggered all day in this restaurant, but the more impromptu "Let's make a film" has her hook, line, and sinker. That is magic you're feeling in the air, the magic of Cool Girl love and TUGs right there. My fantasy of pink captivity is on the back burner, but right now I don't care one bit!

"This should teach you a harsh lesson, Maddy," Liz begins creating a tight harness that will both secure Maddy's arms and body to each other and to the chair, but it will also accentuate a 34DD bust that is the reason why Mary-Ann's nickname (and modeling alias) is Maddy. Long story.
"GUH HUHHHHH!" Mary-Ann squeals, fully in character, loving every moment of her Edgy Bondage Queen capture scene, and I just love those denim shorts she's wearing so much!
"Shut it, Maddy," Leah ties one orange paracord each on either side of Mary-Ann's knees, "It's time for Hailey and I to teach you a lesson you'll never forget!"
"That's for sure!" Liz cinches the harness to ensure Mary-Ann is well and truly trapped, and she takes another piece of the bright orange rope to form a waist and crotch rope for good measure.
"Wuh ahh uuh uhhih hih hoo ee?!" how the Edgy Bondage Queen sounds so magical right now!

Pink rope fantasies are getting more vivid in my head now, and I can picture Mary-Ann holding a camera while Felice completely dominates me, the Queen of Moonlight, the Gangsta Thief in the flesh, captured, bound, and gagged, vibrated until she cannot take the pain anymore, left in a cold refrigerator. Snap out of it, Jackie! Back to work with these three Bondage Queens. Mary-Ann, I just love your outfit! The waist and crotch rope is now complete, and Leah binds Mary-Ann's upper thighs while Liz connects her wrists and ankles in a power move that is going to help keep Mary-Ann in place for as long as they desire.

Liz really applies the power moves now, pulling up on that tight shirt and, sure enough, bringing, as a friend who is not present would say, the "34DD squishy French titties" out of the protection of the shirt and, as that same friend would say, "It's tits out, my friends!" I'm loving this; are you loving it? Can you feel the energy? This wasn't just planned by the Twins from before anyone stepped into this restaurant; this was almost certainly timed to happen now as a way of helping me in my time of need. That's real Cool Girl love, the love that made me want to become one of a group of now around 40 friends. This is "We love you, Gangsta Thief." The chair is lowered to the floor so that Mary-Ann is looking up at the ceiling.

"Well, well, well," Destiny walks over, "Looks like ya found trouble, Mads. Ya good?"
"Hell ee ou uh hith! Heathe, Ethihee!" Mary-Ann begs while Destiny drinks Diet Coke from the can, "Ah hihn'h hoo ahyhinh hoo heherhe hith," the Edgy Bondage Queen thinks that'll work.
"Ya look good from here. How'd ya like a gift?" and Destiny puts a can of Coke in the greatest of all spots, in the valley between Mary-Ann's 100% natural bust. I know; I saw them in Juvie!
"Noooooooo hohhhhhhhhh!" Mary-Ann squeals at the cold sensation.
"That'll teach her a good lesson," the Black Bondage Queen teases Mary-Ann with fondling on top of the other embarrassments, and I can see that Mary-Ann is on cloud nine and loving this.
"She looks so good like this," the Red Bondage Queen thinks, "Let her sit in silence for a few minutes before we bring her into the fridge. I'm glad we chose orange for this. Aren't you?"

Pink bondage fantasies flash before my mind, but I'm focused now, fully acknowledging all that are in the room enjoying the moment. Various girls, especially Mary-Ann's best friend Kendra, are taking turns fondling the "34DD squishy French titties" because… why not? I'm fantasizing of my own breasts being exposed by shirt lifting just like this, but for me it's a white turtleneck I am wearing both in the present reality and in fantasy. I still can't decide though. Rope or yarn in the fantasy? Dirty sock gag or ball gag? Oh, decision, decisions, but the vibrator and the crotch rope are a constant. I think I want to be hogtied with rope running from my ankles to a corner of the shelf. Ooohhh! And the grating of the shelf will be used to apply binder clips to my nipples with yarn winding through the grate so I jerk on my titties when I try to squirm around. Yeah!

"Let's hold this in place," Liz sits up Mary-Ann and uses pink electrical tape to secure the can of soda to remain a continuous source of chilling torment to Mary-Ann, "Let's go to the fridge!"
"Up we go!" Leah the Red Bondage Queen laughs while they easily carry Mary-Ann away.
"GUHHHHH!" the Edgy Bondage Queen wails uselessly, knowing it won't stop them.
"This'll be fun!" Liz the Black Bondage Queen cackles in her own way, "Sorry, Maddy!"
"MMMM!" Mary-Ann wails as the chair is set down, and she's left alone with me in the fridge.
"Aw, Maddy," I tease her, "That ball gag is making you drool, and I love the orange paracord!"

Which is my favorite part? The orange paracord? The way her wrists and elbows are torqued in a tight manner behind her and the back of the chair? The harness and the waist and crotch rope that pin her arms and torsos to each other and the chair back? The way her legs are tied together at her ankles, knees, and lower and upper thighs? The way her ankles and wrists are connected by a piece of the paracord? The yellow 2.5 inch ball gag? The exposure? The pink tape holding a can of Coca-Cola in between her "34DD squishy French titties"? Sign me up, please!

"HMMMMMMMMM!" she yells as if anyone would be dumb enough to help her out of this.
"Keep at it, Maddy," I take a turn fondling her too, "Drool and fill up that valley with drool!"
"Unhie ee ou otten eatht!" the Edgy Bondage Queen snaps at me.

Which one has the best outfit? Mary-Ann with the red leather pants and the denim shorts she is wearing over the pants, the black combat boots, the black fitted t-shirt that is now bared, or the red kerchief bandana? The Twins? Which Twin? I love the white turtlenecks and how each has a color that's hers—Liz with Black and Leah with Red—for their bandana headbands, pantyhose, combat boots, and leather miniskirt. Oh, am I perspiring? Pause, Jackie. Clutch my Miraculous Medal to ground myself before I let this become sinful and not just playful. Pink bondage again is flashing before my eyes. Yes, I am perspiring while in a walk-in refrigerator.

"Oh, look, Maddy! You're drooling so much that it's pooling up! With the size of your bust, I think they'll declare this to be the sixth Great Lake! Huron, Ontario, Michigan, Erie, Superior, and Titty! Yes, HOMEST! I've discovered Lake Titty here in the refrigerator at this restaurant!" I am quite proud of myself now, "Oh, Maddy," I giggle, "You and I need to talk. After. Got it?"
"Hmmph!" she snorts through her gag, and I hear laughter and notice the Twins standing there.
"Oh, HOMEST, huh?" Liz asks me, "Missy Mischief, you're naughty," she pats me on the head.
"I'm just enjoying myself for a change," I smile and throw my head to toss my curls, "Aren't I a doll in my own right? I'm not just the Gangsta Thief. I'm the Moonlight Bondage Queen!"
"Well, lunch has arrived, so it's time to let Maddy out of this," Leah giggles, "Yes, Jackie, you're a doll, too. You're moonlight personified," she rubbed my back in a way that said, "You're seen and heard, and we've got your back if you need anything from us," and it felt so good.

Yes, moonlight personified! How I remember sneaking out my window by moonlight to go to a chosen rendezvous point. Little Jackie would hop on her bicycle, regardless of the weather to be at the meeting place, one thief's home, and she would get her assignment, usually chosen so she could benefit the gang as well as her own irrational, selfish desires like food, water, pens, paper, and clean, non-tattered clothes. Such a horrible young thing I was back then! Now I bask in the thoughts of that same conniving, sneaking, deceiving young girl as an adult, a Gangsta Thief in the flesh, a Moonlight Bondage Queen, sneaking around, being grabbed, bound in pink, gagged in a humiliating manner, and tortured in many ways that she cannot stop. Saint Maria Goretti, do you hear me? I know you do, and I feel peace. Saint Joan of Arc, give me strength; Saint Teresa of Avila, give me a patient, soft tongue. It feels so wrong to be asking saints for this. I must say it now or forever hold my peace. I unbuckle the gag in Mary-Ann's mouth and remove it. Soon, I find myself face to face with Mary-Ann, alone with her, while she patiently gives me space.

"Mary-Ann, may I…?" I ask with a nervous gulp and grab a slice of my beloved veggie lover's pizza, "I want… No, I… I need… No, want… It's… Well, you see… There's no describing…"
"Jackie, sit down over here with me," she kindly points to the corner, "I'm here for you!"
"I… I want to request something… Something I need… for agency," I sigh and look at the wall.
"Don't hide in shame," the Edgy Bondage Queen encourages me, "I won't judge you," she then grabs her own chain, the chain of saint medals she normally takes off during filming, "You know I won't judge even if I say something is, in my opinion, spiritually wrong. What is it?"
"I'll," I look up and see Madison taking a piece of the veggie lover's pizza, "Hold on. So, girls, I have one more part to explain myself," I announce to our full crew, "I'll never forget the sight of an empty cupboard. Two pieces of bread, just enough peanut butter for one, and a jar of jam for a nice thin sandwich. I made it, went to the bathroom, and came back to see my drunken mother eating it. I told her it was mine, and she shrugged and didn't care. I pouted a little, so she threw a beer bottle at me, but she missed, thankfully. I've never eaten a PB&J since that day."

I then sit down with Mary-Ann and explain my fantasies to her. I've just dropped a showstopper on my friends and casually walked away to let them sort through the Gangsta Thief's horrifying childhood. It all seemed so wrong because it was, but I was ready for this, for anything, for that strange fantasy to be fulfilled, and I knew now that I wanted Felice to be the one dominating me through the entire ordeal because she would be perfectly cold and dish out the pain perfectly.

Next thing I know, I'm checking out my outfit to be sure it's perfect. The navy kerchief, my sign of being the Moonlight Gangsta Thief, is essential as is the white turtleneck. I switch to standard white leather pants, white combat boots, and navy gym shorts over the pants for extra edge, and I ready myself for what is to come to me. This is going to be uniquely intense and challenging for me. I look at Felice, who has gone all in with all black: combat boots, socks, leggings, tank top, and bandana headband. Those socks are soon going to be in my mouth, and I shake my head and laugh at the thought. Is this all really happening? I see Mary-Ann holding the camera, and we're ready to film! It's time for the Moonlight Gangsta Thief to reclaim what is rightfully hers!

Here we go!

Gender tag, please, mate. Makes a che#ange, it's usually I who forgets.

Need to get this one finished before tomorrow!

CHAPTER 03: My Request Is Fulfilled

It's an inauspicious start. The Gangsta Thief is prowling around in the offices, seeking anything I may desire. I am a thief of the worst kind, one here just for thrills and with no desire to acquire a particular thing except something valuable. My heart is pounding; my face is flush; my eyes are wide; I know I'm a criminal. How different from the casual sneaky thief of my youth! I step out into the corridor and am suddenly swooped by Felice, who is stronger than me despite her height.

"Ahhh ha ha haaa!" she cackles maniacally and hand gags me, "Sneaking around my place?"
"Noooooo," I say despite the gag, and I realize I am outmatched, "Nmmmmmm!"
"My little bon-dage toy you will become," she ungags me so she can use both arms to push me against the wall and begin using pink rope to squeeze my elbows together behind my back.
"Oh. My. God. Let me go!" I plead with her, but she cackles even more arrogantly.
"Oh, my little toy, you are going nowhere, or," her voice darkens, "I call the cops on you."
"This is just wonderful," I grit my teeth while she cinches the tight, inescapable elbow bondage.

This is curtains for me in this scene. Felice, in the role of Roxanne Rutldge, ties my wrists and my forearms with the same unforgiving tightness. She slams me ever so tightly against the wall while she tightens, cinches, and knots, ensuring I am hers and hers alone. She smoothly pushes my knees from behind, buckling my legs so I drop to the floor. She kicks off her boots and takes off her black crew socks and approaches my mouth with them. Of course I fight.

"No!" I turn my head away, "Gag yourself with them," I snap as if I have a chance of winning.
"EAT!" she spanks me with a rough hand, and that gets me to open my mouth for the socks.
"Uggghhh!" my mouth fills with the salty, humiliating, nasty, arousing, awful, delightful flavors.
"I bet that tastes absolutely delicious, doesn't it?" she wraps her arms around my head and looks into my eyes, "If you like gouda, you will love that salty, smoky, Rutledge Farms prize," I stare into her eyes, but her response is to cleave gag me with a pink bandana.
"Mmm mmmm mmmmmmm!" I look at her fearfully, fueling that sadistic flame like gasoline.
"Thanks for playing, my dear," she begins tying my ankles together with more of the rope.

Felice wraps the rope around my ankles and into the heels of my white combat boots, ensuring I cannot remove the boots for leverage and further restricting my ankles. She is now binding my legs above the knees, and each restriction heightens my emotional high. I am feeling the past on my shoulders more than ever. This is exactly the catharsis I have needed for 10 years and never found. So many sensations from the taste of the socks to the texture of the rope. Felice tied my legs below the knees next, and she bound me with perfect tightness, perfect cinching, and perfect knots. I wasn't—for certain—going to escape this on my own terms. No freaking way.

"Isn't this bon-dage just delightful?" Felice bares my chest, "Wait for the fridge!"
"Whah hoo oo ean uhou a hidff?" I demand, but she begins a harness to imprison me further.
"You're going to love it so much, my dear thief," she patronizingly coos as she speaks, "It's going to be an experience that you'll never forget, evvvvvvv-er."
"Mmmmmmmmmm!" I am sweating bullets now and struggling an awful lot.
"Don't worry, dear," she is so freaking condescending, "At least I am having fun."

As our friend says—"Tits out, my friends"—the harness has all the bells and whistles—passes above and below my breasts, a V in between my breasts, cinching through the armpits, and—the most devastating part of all—wrapping around the base of each breast, just tight enough to make it tender but not cut off circulation. It's awful, but it's my fantasy, and she ties a waist and crotch rope with three crotch ropes: on under my leather pants, one in between my leather pants and my navy gym shorts, and one over the gym shorts. It feels so awful yet so awesome.

"Let's bring you into the fridge, my bon-dage doll," Felice stands me up now.
"Nmmm mmmmm!" I look around in a total, desperate panic and my head in desperation—my curls are flying now—but she wraps my face in pink duct tape for a 9 layer gag, "hhhhhhh!"
"All right, all right, I know you're impatient," she throws me over her shoulder and spanks me on each butt cheek with incredible force to make up for my layered outfit, "I don't like thieves."
"Hhhhhhhhhh!" I cry out, but the gag prevents me from responding while she walks along.
"This is going be so delightful," Felice pauses for a while, "for me not you! Ahhh ha ha haaa!"
"hhhhhhhhhh!" I really have nothing more interesting to say, but I'm on cloud nine, baby!

She puts me down standing on the green tile floor of the walk-in fridge and pulls a latex hood over my head—the hood has a wide slot for the nose and eyes—and laces it up tighter than ever before. She's doing this so perfectly that I cannot believe it's real, and I breathe deeply because I am perspiring so much. This is exactly the domination I envisioned when I had this scene in my mind, and she's acting like this ordinary, normal, expected, and beautiful… because it is!

She pushes me against the wall of the fridge and gets right in my face, "You're loving this aren't you, yes?" her attitude is brilliant yet chilling, "Oh," patronizingly pets my head, "you are a bon-dage doll that I am enjoying so much," she coos, pulls her head back, smiles, and uses binder clips to pinch my nipples, "It's only the beginning for you," and she easily slings me across the shelf despite being at least 2 inches shorter than me, "I do not like thieves. Not at all!" her tone is awful! You can see my navel piercing gleaming in the fluorescent lighting so well, my one glimmer of humanity that I have left in my patronizing, dehumanizing therapy.

She lays me on my stomach on the shelf grate and connects the binder clips by wrapping yarn in and around the grate so that my breasts are right up against the cold metal, and she wraps rope to secure my body to the shelf grate some more: neck, chest, waist, knees, and ankles. Then comes the vibrator I so desperately desire as part of this scene, and she knows me so well that she finds a resonant frequently first shot. She dusts off her hands, uses her cell phone to take a picture of me, and leaves the fridge, leaving me to squirm while Mary-Ann films the dramatic moment. I haven't forgotten about my friends, in case you were thinking that I had done so.

There is beautiful symbolism in the hooding—my navy kerchief bandana can no longer be seen by anyone, but I know it's there. My identity has been stolen, but I still have it because of one of my friends, the camera girl, who also chose navy today. "Hmmmm!" I breathe heavily, wishing I could arch to climax even though I can't, a pink rope bondage holding me in place. Who knew a rope bondage could be so effective for kidnapping a beauty like me? Am I beautiful though? I still struggle to eat instead of starve myself, but I haven't done that since my little escapade with my roommate Destiny. "Hmmmmm!" this is so restrictive, perfectly as I imagined. Am I really climaxing again so soon? Don't knock it; it's great. Sweating bullets while savagely bound and gagged in a walk-in refrigerator wasn't on my bucket list 10 years ago let alone 2 hours ago!

"Gmmmmm!" that was a little louder, so maybe I just wasn't determined enough. I was trying to move as much as I could, but I was trapped in this pink rope prison. I'm glad I chose this rope to be my restraint because it's sooo bright. I can squirm a bit, but every squirm painfully yanks my nipple clamps because of the way that yarn wraps the grating. Oh, don't mind me—climaxing is my favorite sport right now—it's so bad yet so good. The chill of the metal against my body, but especially my bust, is worse than the cold air of the refrigerator. Goodness, this is incredible but also fulfilling. Is this really… Jackie Martin's body—not the former body of Jackie Martin then commandeered by the evil prison triumvirate of Mr. Reardon, Mr. Crawford, and Mrs. Thalberg?

How badly I want to arch, and how beautifully Mary-Ann captures this poignant moment. I can vividly remember those horrors. The feel of Mr. Reardon inside me; the taste of Mr. Crawford's fluid; the agony of Mrs. Thalberg's rubber device in me. I wonder if Mr. Thalberg has any idea what his wife did—horrors, maybe still does—to helpless young women. I am Moonlight personified! The Moonlight Bondage Queen, the Navy Gangsta Thief! The girl who slinked by night. How I remember my favorite spot—the local Wal-Mart, open 24 hours a day—and how I would sneak a candybar in one pocket, a USB drive in the other, and notebook paper under my shirt. I'd use my cut from my last robbery to buy something mundane and then walk through in confidence. They never caught my antics, and I am sorry I used my intellect for such evil when I could have done good with it. Look at me now: I'm a gym instructor in the same Mudville Juvie where I was once held for my own crimes, and I now am a Roman Catholic. What a life! That's a rambling way of saying my bondage is extremely cathartic right now.

"Hhhhhhhhh!" I again struggle to arch in climax, and I'm sweating badly while feeling the cold refrigerator air setting into my bones so slowly. Felice's socks are horrid in my mouth, all of the flavors of Rutledge Farms' finest toe cheese tinging my every attempt to talk and every time that I swallow the accumulating saliva in my mouth. The layers of gag press against me beautifully. I am nothing but Felice's "bon-dage doll" now, but I love it. Aw-ful but awe-some. There is a decided magic in this situation, the Navy Gangsta Thief's voluntarily involuntarily capture.

The pink rope bondage is brutal, just brutal. I'm absolutely crushed by it all, and I love the yank of the three crotch ropes when I attempt to move my arms. I'm, please forgive me for saying this because it's foul and unlike me, Felice's little bound and gagged "c-m sl-t", as some like to say. I feel horrible for saying that, but I need to say that. Mr. Reardon and Mrs. Thalberg both loved to call me that phrase because they'd always make sure I climaxed during their torture. I'm saying too much, aren't I? They probably think I deserved it; that I should have kept quiet; that I should not have ever said anything to my friends; that I was selfish to talk about the neglect I suffered as a child. My friends… I turn and see Mary-Ann giving me a thumbs up, and I climax again.

"AAAAGGGGGHHHHHHHHHH!" I shriek at the top of my lungs, and it feels so good. I never could do that. I wanted to shriek while my body was defiled, but I couldn't all those times. Now I have screamed the scream that 16 year old Jackie wanted to let out but couldn't 8-10 years ago. I did it! I started thrashing like an animal, and I out the loudest "HMMMM!" I possibly can with Felice's socks in my mouth, the pink cleave gag, the tape wrapping my face, and the latex hood all gagging me. That's the greatest climax ever, and it's alllllll mine. I absolutely adore the entire situation, but it's time for the greatest of metaphors in existence, the best trope a story can offer. I'm going to try to escape, of course, and either go down in blazing glory and have to have someone cut me out of this (most likely) or escape on my own (the tropiest of tropes!).

I look at Mary-Ann and nod, telling myself I can do this. I'm sweating; I'm panting; I'm trying to escape; I'm desperate; I'm aroused; I'm no one's "c-m sl-t" anymore; I'm no longer a defenseless imprisoned young teenager. This is the moment I've needed, the moment my therapist is always begging me to find. My therapist knows it all, including my bondage modeling moments like this, and she has told me many times that a cathartic scene might help. Yes, I let myself sink into fantasy because she's been imploring me for years to do so, and I'm doing it right now! Oh, I feel the pain in my crotch, but it's a good arch-inducing pain. I'm Jackie Martin, the Moonlight Bondage Queen, the Navy Gangsta Thief, the Cool Girl, the Bondagette, and the friend!



I am a child of God, too, something I didn't believe as a young inmate. I still remember how the emotions coursed through me the first time I read the Bible during those 72 hours in the solitary confinement chamber, which you can see in the image above on the right side of the prison. It's life-changing, and I am not defined by trauma, by my victimization, or by my mistakes. This is my moment, and the wand induces these climaxes because I told Felice to put it there.

"GUHHH HUHHHHHH!" I jerk against the brutal pink rope that holds me so tightly while my body arches involuntarily because of the wonderful sensations I am feeling, but I shriek because I jerk on my nipples, so devilishly held in the binder clips with the rope wrapping them around the shelf grating. My boobs are tender from the way Felice wrapped the base of them when she tied the breast harness to restrain my arms as brilliantly as she did, but they're only a little red as she carefully did it only to create this tenderizing effect and not to strangle them. The triple rope crotch rope with its layers under my pants, between my pants and shorts, and over my shorts is a genuine delight, and how glad I am for choosing these layers for this scenario. "HMMMMM!" I sound so good when I do that, don't I? Unfortunately, I'm only mentally free, not physically.

"Well, well, well, my little bon-dage doll's still here," Felice struts back into the prison, that evil woman in all black—combat boots, leggings, tank top, bandana headband—and don't forget her socks that are in my mouth right now—and walks up to me before spanking me 13 times on each butt cheek to represent my age and one to grow on while she gleefully jerks upon the triple crotch rope that she has tied to torture me, "Ahhh ha ha haaa!" she cackles wickedly.

"GUH HMMMMM!" I howl loudly and arch from the overwhelming sensations.
"Oh, you are my little slave, now aren't you?!" she coos with a sinister gleam in her eyes.
"Hmm mmmmmmm!" I groan and grimace at the taste of her socks.
"Yes, my little piece of meat, it's time to take you out of my little morgue because I want to keep you around a long, long time. You broke into my place, and now it's time to store you in a place where no one is ever going to find you," she carefully cuts the yarns holding me right against the shelf and leaves the ropes that actually hold me prisoner on my body, "Let's go!"
"NMMMMMMM!" I wail when I am slung over her shoulder, and I groan in yet another perfect and wonderful climax, "HMMMMMMMMM!" That is so exhausting but so good!
"You and me, my little blonde-haired blue-eyed thief," she almost sneers, "You and me!"



Mary-Ann follows us as we go into the office. In there is a metal cabinet, just big enough to hold a girl my size. Felice jams me into the cabinet and shuts and locks the door, trapping me inside the hollow metal rectangular solid. I can only scream in climax while trapped in the darkness of my latest prison, and I let out some thunks before another "HMMMMMM!" follows.

"CUT!" Mary-Ann calls, "All right, that's enough. Sweetie, I," she starts crying, "We love you."

I take a deep breath. I did it. I can't change the memories of the past, of the violations, but I can reclaim my body as mine after 7 years of mental suffering. I did it. I made my therapist proud. I made my friends proud. I trusted the examples of Sts. Maria Goretti and Joan of Arc to vanquish my own past demons. This is momentous and humongous. Now, when I go to confession to tell my father-confessor my sins, I can feel like the physical form he sees belongs to the soul that he absolves of her sins. I'm more than a soul and a shiny navel piercing. I'm a person, a human!

The cabinet opens, and I see a playful, loving Felice now. She shows me a pair of scissors before she puts them on the floor of the office. The cabinet I'm in belongs to Mary-Ann, but the office furniture is real. It's time to make a post-scene, light-hearted escape reel. No emotions now but the love between me and Felice. Felice is a Roman Catholic too. She's not wearing her chain at the moment, but she has like 3 chains because she finds an example in so many saints and has an entire bookshelf full of Catholic books she's bought and read twice since she was exposed to the faith 5 years ago. She might be a brilliant bondage film sadist, but she has a heart of gold.

"Oh, Missy Mischief," she maintains that patronizing Roxanne Rutledge voice, "You were a joy in that scene," she taps the scissors, "Can you get them yourself?" she then walks over and turns the dial on the vibrator to an even more resonant frequency just for this moment to tease me.
"HMMMMMMMM!" I think that time I like the shot of toe cheese more than the climax itself.

I squirm out of the cabinet and quickly work my way towards the scissors, but I already find my climax arriving and collapse in a loud "HMMMMMMMM!" louder than any other climax of my life even if I'm muffled by the brilliant layers of gag. Even my climax belongs to me even if the memories of the climaxes forced by Mrs. Thalberg's rubber manhood remain etched in my mind. I might not have had control then, but I have control now. I take the scissors and use them to cut the rope that has bound my wrists for the last 40 minutes or so. This has been a long diversion in our filming schedule, but it's a necessary one to say the least. Better to work long for this release that I have been needing—physically, mentally, and spiritually—for so long.

I shrug and shrug until the rope falls down my arms and then snip all the rest of the rope that had held me in my bondage for so long. How good and silly it feels when I pull out the triple crotch rope and unwrap my breasts. How I love the feeling of a bared breasts and gently fondle myself to help the blood flow back into them. Perhaps the best part is my navy friend continuing as the cameragirl, Felice as my dominatrix, or Mary-Ann peering through the door at me with love. I actually climax again and pause to enjoy the sensation before turning off the wand and starting to undo the lacing of the hood. I pull that off and fix my kerchief before unwinding the pink tape and—last but not least—unknotting the pink bandana cleave gag and spitting out the socks.

"I am the Moonlight Bondage Queen," I say looking at the camera, "Was I sexy? Cute? Think I can handle more? Oh, I'm just getting started," I smile and get up and walk out of the camera's sight, ending the film on my terms, just like it started. I open the door and grab Mary-Ann in the tightest hug I've ever given her, "Mary-Ann, thank you so much for this, for loving me." There is no answer for this, and Mary-Ann understands that, silently embracing me in kind.

"Gangsta Thief," Felice says in her own voice now, "You were beautiful."
"Thank you," I say and embrace her next, "Thank you for everything. You were perfect."
"I'm touched you asked me to be the one to do this to you, and I'll cherish the memories of this scene because you know I can't relate because those creeps never hurt me," she admits to me.
"For a girl who just captured the Moonlight, you're shining like a sun," I tease her, "You truly dominated me just the way I needed. I feel like my body belongs to me again. You're awful!"

Awful? Yes, awful! She's a cruel, sadistic dominatrix, but in reality it's just a bondage persona. It's her own healing and a healthy outlet for her own kinks and desires. That's what made her a perfect choice. I wanted that personality that could gloat over my suffering and would change a script on the fly to tether me down to a shelf. There's nothing sacred or holy in bondage, just as there's nothing holy or sacred in me owning a Kawasaki Ninja, but as long as I find benefits in a bondage session, film production, and the Cool Girls' Club, I'll keep doing all of them. My faith has room for this. Where I worry is in the act of baring my breasts, but now's not time for that.

And now back to that pizza I denied myself before because of my anorexic tendencies. I deserve to enjoy that and to take a break from the work schedule.

"Jackie," my roommate Destiny sits down with me, "I'm proud of you. I really am."
"It's just a me issue, Dest. I," and then I see the big tough former gangster is crying.
"Ya don't get it, Jack!" Destiny says and looks into my eyes, "I'm your best friend, and I hadn't a clue how much you were sufferin' on the inside! I feel bad for only noticing the external signs."
"I hid it from you," I look her in the eyes, "I'm OK now. I chose to bottle it up. To be anorexic and a little crazy sometimes. And to steal your Kitkat Bar when Mary-Ann dared me last week."
"Oh, all right, Jackie Martin! It was you!" I love when she pretends to be angry with me, "I should have known. Reformed Gangsta Thief, my fat Sicilian a-s! You let me blame Felice for it and even did nothing while I tortured her! Worse, she enjoyed every second of it! You two!"
"Ha ha! I needed that laugh," I smile and put a hand on her shoulder, "Thanks for everything. I really mean it. Thanks for being my friend and roommate and helping me on my journey."

I then get up and go to the restroom. I always wear a menstrual pad during scenes unless it will be obvious and visible—it absorbs the fluid from when I climax. After that scene, that baby is a sopping wet mess because I got off 20 or more times over that hour or so of preparation, filming, and aftercare. I am glad to be rid of that, to clean up, and to fix my sweatshirts, turtleneck, and navy kerchief—the one that makes me a Moonlight Bondage Queen and the Gangsta Thief—and to go back to sitting with a slice of veggie lover's pizza. Let's move on to the next film!

Oh, I'm feeling the desire again, but I really need a break. I usually only desire when I need the TUG equivalent of a spa day. Something simple and arousing. A little pampering. It's a really basic tie on a TUG Spa Day. A cleave gag. Maybe tied to the chair while Destiny and I play two hours of video games together while laughing. Possibly stuck to the chair with locking restraints and a locking gag and a controller in my hands. A cup of my good quality tea. You get it. It's an incredible mood I've got going, and this Gangsta Thief feels the TUG energy right now.

The next scenes start to make prisoner JF10110203 feel the sensations as if they happened hours ago. I mean the tortures I endured in prison. In short, the next scene featured overt lesbianism as a part of the plotline. Everything comes rushing back. Cuffs. Mr. Reardon's laugh. The taste of Mr. Crawford's fluid. The feeling of Mrs. Thalberg using the vile rubber manhood on me until I climaxed. It was wrong. It was illegal. It was a deplorable crime—and they only got fired for it. No criminal charges; no public scandal.; just a little black mark on their records. I took so many birth control pills during those 15 months of hell on earth… I again lose track of time and space.

"CUT!" Joyce shouts , noticing that I've dissociated again—the exchange is too dark.
"Oh, Jackie, c'mon," one girl whips out of character in a flash, "We have a triggered girl here! I need help here! Jackie's completely triggered by what was going on in there!"
"Jackie," in the midst of my lifelike reliving of the horror, I hear Destiny's voice, "Jackie!"
"Get the hell out of here, Destiny!" I shout, "Or they'll attack you next! Oh, God. I triggered!"
"You're OK, Jackie. You're OK," the Ralston Twins are massaging my shoulders.
"I want to go home. I'm ruining everything for everyone," I sit up and look around, "Oh, God!" I run to sink but don't vomit this time because I pause and remember that it was only a dream, "I am such a mess. Mary-Ann, you should fire me for being a liability to your productions."
"If you don't stop being negative, I'll tie you up and snuggle you," Mary-Ann bosses me around.
"Thanks for the laugh, Mary-Ann," I force a grin, "I guess the lesbianism was overkill this time."
"I think it's time to bring this production day to an end," our boss is wiser than I.

I feel guilty for being the reason filming ends, but then I realize something. I confessed every bit of my suffering to my friends—finally, after so many years—and their reaction is end production so that they can take care of me. They love me more because of my vulnerability. That's a beautiful thing to experience! I feel a strange warmth fighting the cold inside me. Sometimes, I lie awake in bed at night and find the scene turning into my prison bunk again; I'm a young girl crying in the wake of her latest violation, aching inside from the violence, clueless about why her body is reacting to the trauma by secreting fluid. This time, the vivacious imagery is interrupted by the sight of my friends crowding around me, and their warmth makes the image dissolve.

Mary-Ann is right; we need to end production. For my sake, I need to leave with Destiny's hand in my right hand and Felice's hand in my left. I know there's nowhere they'd rather be than with their best friend, helping to recover. Don't you see it, though? I'm not going to be better today, tomorrow, or even six months from now. But I've taken the first step. The Moonlight Gangsta Queen has taken the most important step of journey, and now she is no longer journeying on her own. The prayer I first prayed while in solitary confinement has received its first answer.

"Good job team!" Mary-Ann says, and I can tell something is eating at her. Everyone can.
"All right, Mary-Ann. You're stewing. Out with it," Destiny bosses her around for my sake.
"Jackie, none of us can put into words how proud we are of you for finally choosing to speak out on what happened to you, and for admonishing us for forgetting how much you suffered at those horrible monsters' hands," Mary-Ann struggles to find her words now, "We're sorry that none of us asked. It's too bad that so few of us are left here. Let's go home, take a break, and get supper at Teddy's, if that's all right with you," she looks around and finds no dissension, "We can come back here tomorrow and finish up with the rest of our filming schedule."

Teddy's is an all-day breakfast place and pretty much the unofficial meeting point for Mary-Ann and the Bondagettes. Not everyone could be there, but that didn't matter. What matters is that I did leave with my friends in tow beside me and that Destiny sweetly made me a cup of my best tea while I lay on the sofa underneath blankets that Felice carefully placed to cover me, body and soul, with love and affection. I was safe to be me, to let the pain show and to express my sorrow, anytime, anywhere my friends were present, and be embraced and loved in those moments.

Bondage means many things to me: fun, camaraderie, friendship, happiness, domination, captors and captives, gags and ropes and tapes and such, submission and defiance, control and danger, a whole lot of things! I can be free as a bee while being smothered. I can tease a captive yet have not one bit of control. Safe, consensual, considerate, loving explorations of sexuality, captivity, and so many other things. It sounds awful; it looks awful in the films we make; but I love it. It's a source of so many good things, and it's the top activity I share with my friends. Now, it's also a place where I can find release from the suffering I endured as a child and emotionally connect to the people who mean the most to me in my life. Welcome to my safety net of captive freedom.

Thank you for journeying with us through a day of filming and for witnessing me reclaiming the body I'd lost so many years before. I'm glad you decided to stick it out with me. We'll probably meet again in one of the other stories related to this day!

THE END