Meeting at Bedford Mills

Meeting at Bedford Mills

I had often thought about my friend Simone in the years since we had been at school together. After I graduated, I had moved to New York to pursue my career and with a husband and children, I had lost touch with Simone, but I knew that she had married a rich man whom she had met at college, and that they lived in Greenwich, Connecticut, but they had no children. I had also heard from other former classmates who had met her, that she had a glamorous lifestyle, with parties and charitable balls being a big part of her social whirl.

With that in mind, I was somewhat surprised to hear by email that she needed to meet me sometime to discuss a personal matter, and I was especially intrigued when she wrote that it was precisely because we had no current connections, but that she knew me from the past, and knew that she could trust me, that I was the person she was asking for advice.

I wrote her back, asked her should I come to her place? (I secretly wanted to see where she lived) She replied that, no, we should meet in a quiet town where no one would know either of us, and she suggested Bedford Mills. We arranged a day when her husband was away on business, and she asked me to meet her at the train station there. I had presumed that she would have driven, but thought that I wouldn’t mention it yet. It was all very strange…

The Meeting

On the appointed day, I waited in my car outside the train station as the passengers from the train from Greenwich came out of the station. After a few minutes, the main rush of people had all left in taxis, and I was wondering had I missed her, when she emerged from the main exit. She was just as good-looking as I remember, with the same great figure, but now somehow different. She walked very quickly, with tiny mincing steps, her thighs rubbing tightly past each other, and her butt wiggling in a most seductive manner. It was perhaps a little too seductive for 11am in the morning. She also held herself very erect, with her shoulders well back and her head very high, thrusting her ample breasts out in a very pronounced way. As well as her unusual gait, her outfit did nothing to help her blend in – her blond hair was set in a complex French roll style, her make up was heavy, although well applied, with a rich, pink blusher and glossy, deep ruby lipstick, while her eyes were hidden behind large sunglasses, despite the overcast day. She wore a very tightly fitted taupe satin day-dress that reached her knees and, strangely, had no split at the back, which contributed to her short stride.

Her legs were encased in beautiful seamed hosiery in a very pale tan with dark seams, but it was her shoes that were the really striking thing about her outfit – they were cream patent almond-toe pumps with an ankle strap, but they were no ordinary shoes - the heels were extremely thin stilettos, with metal tips, and looked to be at least five-and-a-half inches high, which was the other reason for her restricted walk, and the ankle strap was about two inches high with a large rectangular silver closure on the outside of each leg with a plainly-visible keyhole in the center!

She stopped awkwardly on the wide sidewalk, scanning the area for me and then, spotting my wave, she tottered over to the passenger side of my car, her loud, rapidly-clicking heels causing more than a few people to turn and look. The effect was mesmerizing – no one who had turned to see the source of the noise was able to stop staring: it was as if the sight of this amazing creature with her extremely sexy movements and appearance was holding them all in a trance.

She opened the door with a leather-gloved hand and quickly turned around and sat into the seat backwards, then, swiveling around, she lifted both of her steeply arched feet into the car’s foot well together. She then leaned out awkwardly to reach the door, tilting her hips to follow her leaning torso, and pulled it shut. “Quickly, Carol, let’s go” she said.

Startled for a moment by what I had just seen, I asked “Why the great hurry to leave?”

“I just want to go, I hate people staring at me and making comments to each other, and people were doing it on the train as well” she said.

“Well you do look rather, shall I say, eye-catching” I ventured, “and you did choose to travel on public transport as well”.

“How I look is not my choice” she snapped, “and I can’t drive, because I can’t flex my ankles in these shoes, so I can’t travel any other way”.

She paused and sighed. “I’m sorry, I get a bit tense when I’m traveling on my own like this - I’ll explain more later, in fact that’s why I wanted to meet you and ask your advice”.

“Ok, where should we go to chat?” I asked.

“Oh, I hadn’t thought of that!” she exclaimed “It will have to be somewhere private – I can’t face sitting in a coffee shop or restaurant - is there a small hotel in town, with a meeting room we can use?”

About twenty minutes later, we were in a conference room at The Old Mill Hotel – I’d gone in and paid for the room, and a supply of coffee, while Simone waited in the car and, when I’d gone out to get her, she had walked as quickly and quietly through reception as possible. To be honest, it wasn’t that quickly, due to her restrictive dress and shoes, and, because the hotel had a marble floor throughout its reception area, it hadn’t been all that quiet either – the rapid clicking of her heels and the sight of her curvy, mincing walk had, in fact, had a similar effect on those present to the one at the train station.

“Thank god the rest of the hotel is carpeted, I hate places with hard floors” she exclaimed.

“Yes, I’ve been dying to ask you, what’s with your outfit? – On one level it seems gorgeous, and very elegant, yet on the other hand, it seems very restrictive, and attracts a lot of unwanted attention, and you’ve said that you’re not wearing it by choice – I’m fascinated, tell me more”

She minced over to a chair at the table and turned around and lowered herself carefully onto it, maintaining a very erect posture. Taking off her sunglasses to reveal eyes with smoky-gray, evening make-up, she began to explain.

“Well, when we left high school and went to college, you did law at Yale, and I went to Dartmouth, to do International Marketing. That’s where I met Mark, my husband. As you’ve probably heard, we got married soon after college – I was only 25 and he was 26. He was a fabulous catch and a lovely guy, and he is still the love of my life, but I’ve seen a strange side to him since he found out.”

“Found out what?” I said.

She stopped, aware that she would have to admit something unpalatable.

“I had an affair.”

A pause. I said nothing, so she continued.

“We’d been married about seven years – you know what they say about the seven-year-itch, well, it must be true. Anyway, it was stupid, I became infatuated with this guy I’d met at a number of charity balls around Greenwich, he was hot, unattached, and an amazing sexual partner” She looked away wistfully for a second, remembering the details, I presumed. “Mark was away a lot, and although we loved each other, I was lonely, although I probably didn’t realize that at the time. One thing led to another, and before I knew it, I’d been sleeping with this guy, Jeremy, a few times a month for over a year.

Mark found out from someone who knew Jeremy, and who unknowingly implied that Jeremy was sleeping with someone who looked a lot like me. He didn’t confront me right away, I found out later, he simply made preparations to have me enter what he called the C&D Program.”

“What’s that”, I asked, realizing that, as I said it, I already had a pretty good idea what the answer was going to include.

“It stands for the Chastity and Deportment Program. You see, we’d signed a pre-nuptial agreement before we got married, and one of the clauses was that if either of us were unfaithful, the other would have claim to the entire estate and assets and could leave the unfaithful one with nothing.

Naturally, in my youth, I assumed that he was the man for me and, that if either of us were going to have an affair, it would be him, not me. Of course time marches on, and things change - I’d actually forgotten the details of the pre-nuptial until he confronted me with what I’d done, and what he now planned to do about it.

I didn’t really have a choice, but when he outlined what I’d have to do, I really did consider leaving him and having to start again, but I’d have had nowhere to live and, because I was so in love and looking forward to getting married, I never pursued my career after college, so I’d have been a 32 year-old with a blank resume, so I had to sign up for the program.

He sat me down and explained that he still loved me, but that he could no longer trust me to be faithful. He also said that he missed the fabulous outfits that I used to wear when we first met and got married – that bit was true, I’d worn dresses and heels a lot in my youth, but had gradually taken to jeans and flats, and even sweats and trainers around the house, and, except for the charitable social events that I liked to organize and attend, I had basically been ignoring his frequent reminders to try and dress up more.

He said that while it had been his fault to some degree, with his being away so much for work, I was the one who had stopped making an effort to look good, and who had succumbed to temptation, and therefore the program would have two aims – The first was to ensure that I would always be dressed in a very formal, sexy manner, which would remind me of the need to always present myself attractively. The second was to prevent me from having any sex, to remind me of the need to be disciplined when other men were attracted to me and to my appearance.

He said that I would have to stay in the program until he is sure that I have learned those lessons. My choice was to sign the legal agreement to enter the C&D program, or to leave the marriage, taking nothing but the clothes that I was wearing.

I said that I was deciding on whether or not to sign up to the program, but I was afraid that he’d just keep me locked in the house. He said that it wouldn’t be like that – just like before, I would be free to come and go as I pleased, and meet whomever I wanted, and that that we would go out as a couple to movies and restaurants and on holidays and everything that we had always done, with the only difference being that I would be wearing a permanent restraint under clothing and footwear of his choosing, which would provide both the required chastity, and a suitable level of formal deportment, so you can see where the name of the program comes from.”

“That sounds horrible” I said, “What kind of restraint do you have to wear? Can you take it off at night, or to shower?”

“He had me laser-measured, and it was custom-made to fit me, but I absolutely hate it. Don’t get me wrong; it’s perfectly fitted everywhere, with no pinching or pressure-spots - actually pretty comfortable. I can shower normally, and run a thin towel under most of it to dry myself, but it was cold-welded together around me so there’s no locks or joins anywhere. I’ve stretched and squirmed in every possible way, but I cannot get out of it. Essentially, it’s a rigid, surgical stainless steel appliance, incorporating a chastity belt and waist-cincher with a flat, shaped stay that runs up my back to a kind of combined posture harness and bondage bra.

For chastity, it keeps my sex encased behind a snug, curved metal panel with just a tiny slot in it for bathroom needs. There’s no way I can get at myself at all – and believe me, I’ve spent many nights trying.”

She lowered her voice for the next bit, clearly embarrassed:

“There’s a rod that runs up between my cheeks like a g-string and it has a ring around my erm, backside, so I can go to the toilet, you know… back there… Sometimes, Mark also uses me there - you know what I mean - to satisfy his own sexual needs, and at other times, for punishment, I have to wear a horrible, ribbed dildo up there which locks into the ring. It makes me roll my backside even more when I walk, and stops me sitting down. The ribbing teases me like mad when I walk, but I can never get an orgasm, only more damned horniness! – Oh, I just hate being in this thing…”

Her voice cracked with emotion, as speaking about the frustration of not having satisfied her most basic of urges in almost two years seemed to catch her by surprise. She paused a moment, blinking back tears, and then continued.

“The posture side of the restraint is even worse –it tilts my pelvis forward to keep my ass out, and the cincher makes my waist tiny. I have these broad, shaped loops around my shoulders and under my armpits, pulling my shoulders back to keep my breasts up. There are also tight cuffs around the base of my breasts, which keep them unnaturally pert, so basically, I’m permanently forced to look ‘all tits and ass’.

I can’t wear a normal bra because of the cuffs, so there are thin, skin-colored leather cups which clip onto them, over my breasts – Mark decides on which ones I’ll wear each day – a few cover my breasts completely, but most are half-cup, meaning lots of embarrassing jiggling, and there are all-enclosing, clear latex ones which are especially tight, with a cutout in the centre, so my nipples stick out and are kept erect all of the time. You’ve no idea how embarrassing it is when I’m speaking to someone, and they’ll suddenly notice my nipples pressing through my blouse or dress - and the shoulder-loops mean that I can’t even slouch to try and hide them – it looks like I’m doing it on purpose. There are also two sets of punishment cups. One set are thick rubber, with rows of pointed studs lining the inside- they’re really hot and horribly prickly to wear, and the others are a rigid torpedo shape, like the bras they wore in the fifties. Thank god I’ve only had that pair on a few times, they’re very noticeable and really embarrassing to wear in public.”

There was a short silence. I was almost speechless at what I was hearing, but I didn’t want her to see that. I cleared my throat a little.

“Erm, speaking of wearing stuff in public, I presume that the tight dress and restrictive shoes that you’re wearing are part of all this?” I said.

“Yes, everything I wear is part of the program. I used to have a huge walk-in wardrobe with beautiful clothes and shoes (which I stupidly didn’t wear when I had the chance), but that’s all been given away to charity, and now my outfits are kept in special individual closets that unlock and lock automatically - I tell Mark my plans for the day, and he remotely unlocks the closet containing what I’ll have to wear and on the inside of the closet door, there are instructions for how I’m to do my hair and make-up – and he always makes sure that I’m overdressed - for example, this outfit is just for an April day around town. I’m never allowed trousers, or anything boring or casual - all the skirts and dresses are tight down to my knees like this, and some are even longer - the mid-calf ones are very restrictive. For charity balls, he has a selection of really tight fishtail evening gowns for me to wear. The clingy part of those dresses goes all the way from my throat almost down to my ankles, so the way that the restraint and the shoes make me move and walk is even more noticeable than in the other outfits”.

Also, I’m not allowed long coats or loose jackets, as they would hide my outfit – in cold weather, I am allowed a short, fitted coat with a huge patent leather belt, but in summer, it’s just the dress or a skirt and blouse, so I’m on full display.

Some days though, he chooses really limiting ‘around-the-house’ outfits – “To remind you how good you usually have it”, he says – they’re tight dresses made from a thick Lycra-type material called Darlexx, and most of them have stuff like really high, stiff collars, hobble skirts or built-in padded mittens, so obviously, I’m not able to go out – in fact, in some of them, I’m barely able to do anything.

When I’ve really broken the rules of the program, there is a truly vile punishment outfit – a white leather straitjacket that is boned, and laces up in back, like a corset, and it has a built-in beanie hood. It's horrible - it holds my arms folded across behind my back, so I can’t get any leverage. Securing my arms back there also emphasizes my breasts, which are held in individual, pointed cups. The lacing runs from the base of the jacket to the top of the hood, which covers my entire head, only leaving an oval opening around my eyes and nose. It’s tailored specially for me and, when it’s all laced up, I can't move at all, I can only squirm and grunt - I can’t even move my head to look around. My legs are also laced up, in matching white thigh-length ballet boots, that have fastenings all down the back, to keep my calves secured to my thighs, so I can’t get off the bed or even turn around. Mark also uses the ribbed dildo when he puts me in that suit - I have to sit there all day, “to contemplate my attitude to the program”.

It’s horrible, Carol – I struggle furiously when I think I can’t take it any more, but there’s no escape. The worst thing is anticipating having to wear it - Mark always tells me a few days in advance when I’ve done something to deserve an all-day session. It's so awful waking up and remembering that the closet that will unlock in a few minutes is the one with the white door - I have to lay out the suit, the boots and the dildo on the bed and wait for him to come in and put me into it and lace me up. I feel so helpless, but if he sees that I've been crying, or if I beg for mercy, I get my time in it extended or he chooses an extra-humiliating outfit for the next day. I really have improved my “attitude to the program” because I find it so awful to wear, but I still experience it regularly, for a few hours at a time, because he also makes me wear it to restrain me while we have anal sex, so that I can’t resist, protest or get away.”

“Jesus!” I muttered.

She looked up at me quickly, humiliated that I was finding her experiences so shocking.

“Sorry… sorry”, I said quickly, “Please, go on”.

She resumed: “But in public, some aspects of what I have to wear are very subtle – he always chooses black or muted pastels or earthy colors, no loud primaries, and no sequins or fetish stuff. On the other hand, the styling of my clothes is usually very fussy and overly formal - I usually wear blouses with large ruffles and deep collars and cuffs with lots of tiny, fiddly buttons. His particular favorites are blouses and dresses that fasten down the back with dozens of the buttons, so it’s obvious that someone else has dressed me, and that I’m unable to get out of the clothes by myself. Most of the clothes are made from shiny satins and silks, with chiffon sleeves, and I wear tightly tailored leather suits in winter and, while my stockings vary between light and dark shades through the seasons, they are always these filmy, seamed ones.”

She sighed heavily.

“Oh, Carol, it’s so humiliating to be dressed like this! – I’ve had to lie to my friends and family that I just like to wear this stuff for Mark – they were very skeptical at first, but, seeing as I’ve stuck with it (like I’ve a choice!), they’ve come to accept it, somewhat, even though I can tell that they think that I'm very overdressed. The C&D contract states that I can’t mention the program, so I can’t tell them the truth. Only Jeremy and Mark know about the affair, but I’ve also had to tell Jeremy that I’m dressing this way for Mark, to lure him back to a revitalized sex-life - Jeremy doesn’t know that I’m unable to have sex at all, or to even masturbate! Mark, of course, knows very well that I’m desperate for sex – a few times, he’s found me sobbing in my bedroom, pounding on my chastity plate, trying to get some relief, but he says that I haven’t earned it yet… and if I complain or beg, he simply makes me wear one of the punishment cup sets and the dildo for the next day or two.”

She sighed again, and cast her head down before continuing. I followed her gaze, taking a close look at her footwear. The shoes were both beautiful and humiliating in equal measure. They were beautifully made, with butter-soft, cream-colored patent leather, which was tight enough to outline each of her toes, and a gorgeously low-cut vamp, showing a generous amount of toe-cleavage through her stockings. They were obviously custom-made by hand. The humiliating aspects of them started with the heel – at almost six inches high, they forced Simone to concentrate fully on her balance while walking, and the exceptional height also meant that she was unable to prevent their metal tips sounding out that unmistakable, sexy high-heel-click, thus ensuring that, everywhere she went,  she couldn’t avoid attracting the attention of everyone within earshot.

The ankle straps were another humiliating aspect of the shoes – instead of the usual small loop at the back of the shoe, with a thin strap passing through it, Simone’s shoes were constructed so that the deep cuff and the upper were cut from a single piece of leather, almost giving the appearance of a close-fitting boot when viewed from behind. In addition, the cuffs were very snugly tailored to Simone’s legs, ensuring that her ankles were held fast in that position. From seeing her mince about, I knew that this greatly restricted her stride. I also remembered that she had mentioned that she couldn’t drive because of the shoes – I imagined that there were lots of other things that she was unable to do while wearing them. However, the locks were undoubtedly the worst thing about the shoes – each end of the ankle cuff ran into a slim, chrome-plated panel on the outside of each of her lower legs, just above her ankle bone. The closures’ chrome was polished to a mirror-finish, to ensure that they caught the light whenever Simone moved her feet, and in the centre of each panel, there was a keyhole. It was large enough to be seen by most observers, but not large enough to look like a fashion statement – instead, it was small enough to look functional, indicating that Simone probably was locked into the shoes. They looked very humiliating to wear in public.

She saw me looking.

“Oh, the shoes! - How I hate having to wear these goddamned things more than anything!” she wailed.

She took a deep breath and continued: “To be honest, my ‘program footwear’ wasn’t always this humiliating and restrictive - when I first entered the program, I only had to wear regular-looking pumps with plastic-tipped four-inch heels, and an ordinary ankle strap, but back then, I still didn't really understand how serious the program could get, and, when I was out in the car on my own (I could still drive in those shoes), I used to undo the straps and put on a pair of flat ballet pumps that I’d secretly bought. I used to hide the flat pumps in the trunk, under the spare tire, which worked out fine until the day, about a year ago, that Mark was driving that car and got a flat…

He could see from the wear on the pumps that I’d had them a while, and he was livid, and I had to sign up to an amended program agreement, or be left with nothing - so now I sleep in a separate bedroom suite that I can’t leave unless I have a pair like this on, because now there’s a special system – I have to put on the pair that are in whatever closet that he has unlocked for that day, and then pass each buckle over a sensor in the wall which locks it magnetically – the keyhole you can see is fake, it’s just there to make them more embarrassing to wear – My bedroom door only unlocks after the buckles on both shoes have been locked, and I can’t unlock them with the magnetic sensor until after I’ve closed the bedroom door which, of course, re-locks as the first shoe opens. Basically, this means that can only take these shoes off after I’ve locked myself into my bedroom suite, and I can’t leave unless I’m locked into a pair of them. For holidays, and other times we’re away from the house overnight, Mark has a handheld version of the magnetic sensor, which he uses to remove my day shoes, and to replace them, for bed, with a pair of locked ballet boots that are fastened together. He calls them the mono-boot.

There are patent pumps in different styles and colors for me to wear with the various outfits, but they all have heels this high, with these loud metal tips, and they all have the locked ankle straps. However, he doesn't allow me non-patent ones, or any platforms, sandals, sling-backs or peep-toes, because Mark says that they aren’t formal enough. When I first signed the amended contract, and he showed me my new bedroom suite with the door-lock system, and the dozens of pairs of restrictive shoes that I’d be wearing from then on, I begged him to reconsider, but he said that, because of my deception with the flat shoes, I needed closer control of my high-heel deportment and, when I argued with him further, he put me into the punishment straitjacket suit and ballet boots for three consecutive days until I finally agreed to the revised program.

I’ve been wearing these higher shoes all day for months now, and when I get to take them off in my suite, I’ve found that I can’t lower my heels and walk barefoot – I've had to ask him to provide me with similar-height mules as slippers, and clear Perspex slides for the shower”.

She stopped, almost out of breath from all the talking. Once she had got over the initial embarrassment of having to admit the situation she was in because of what she had done, the information had come flooding out like a cathartic tidal wave, but with her waist held tightly by the cincher, a shortness of breath had caught up with her, and forced her to rest a moment. I poured coffee for us both while she recovered.

My mind was spinning: this was madness! - A thirty-four year-old, confident, educated woman, kept maddeningly chaste in a permanent, posture-controlling restraint and forced to wear overtly restrictive and humiliating outfits in public, including obviously-locked shoes that she was unable to remove unless she was prepared to be trapped in her bedroom until they were replaced? How could she bear it, and why did she want to tell me about it?

I put down my cup. “Your story is amazing - I mean, it’s horrifying, but it’s also fascinating. But why did you get me here to tell me all of this?

“I need your help, you’re a lawyer. Please, I’m going mad in this thing – I can’t have any kind of real, satisfying sex,  he can restrain me and have anal sex with me whenever he likes, and the constant stares, comments and questions about how I’m dressed are becoming unbearable, and, if I complain even a bit, I get even more of the same, and it's all legal, according to him. So, here, take a look at these agreements, and please, I’m begging you, try to find something, anything, a loophole which I can use to get out of this damned program.”

She wrenched a sheaf of papers from her large purse and thrust them at me. She waited expectantly while I scanned the first few pages.

“There doesn’t seem to be any time-frame mentioned in this agreement.” I said.

“There isn’t”, she replied “The agreement states that I must stay in the program until Mark decides that I no longer need it. It also means that I can't just leave the program and go off with nothing, as per the pre-nuptial - he has to sign an amendment to the agreement, ending it.”

“Oh, god, that was a stupid thing to agree to, he could keep you restrained like this for the rest of your life!” I exclaimed.

“I know, but I was desperate” she moaned, “and honestly, I just didn’t realize exactly how frustrating and humiliating it would be to have to wear this restraint, to never have sex, except when he wants to take me up the ass, and to wear all this horrible, restrictive clothing, and I also missed some of the small print, like where he can impose new restrictions if he ‘feels that my deportment needs further enhancement’.

Oh, and if Mark dies before me, I would be stuck like this forever – the agreement says that, while I’d inherit his estate, I’d have to wear the restraint and a selection of restrictive outfits and footwear for the rest of my natural life – that clause was put in there to discourage me from having him killed, to escape from my situation. Now, he’s in good health and I honestly have no intention of killing him, I still love him dearly, despite all this, but if he does die suddenly in an accident or something, I’m trapped like this for life”.

“Wow, he really has thought of everything” I said, “and from what I’ve seen in a first scan-through, I don’t imagine that there’s any loopholes in here, but I’ll take a good look over the next few days”.

“Oh god, I hope there is something there, you’ve no idea how much I hate being stuck like this” she cried, gesturing at her stiffly postured body and wiggling her restrained ankles for emphasis.

I’ll do my best, I said.

I walked with her out to my car. I had to concentrate on taking small steps myself, so I wouldn’t leave her behind as we walked. For her sake, I also had to try hard to ignore all of the staring that her appearance was creating in the hotel lobby and the car park - I could see why she tried to hide behind large sunglasses. I drove her back to the train station, where we said our goodbyes, and then she slowly squirmed out of the car and minced away into the station as quickly as she could manage, her loudly-clicking heels attracting yet another audience of passers-by to her humiliating predicament.

Epilogue

I never did find any useful loopholes in the program agreement, or in the pre-nuptial. Simone wept bitterly when I explained to her that there was virtually nothing she could do – challenging the watertight agreement in court would only bring even more humiliation and embarrassment, as her whole situation would have to be detailed in public to a courtroom full of journalists, and anyway, the chances of the court annulling the agreement were almost zero, because at the time she had signed it, she had done so of her own free will, and therefore had agreed to be (literally) bound by all of its conditions.

I still stay in touch with Simone, often traveling up to Greenwich to see her when Mark is away (If he found out that Simone had divulged the details of the program and the agreement to a third party, the program’s contract gives him the power to restrain her even further, so, for her sake, I don’t want to even risk accidentally letting that information slip out). We go out to quiet places to eat, and I drive her places that she wants to go, but isn’t brave enough to visit alone by public transport.

Once when I visited, I found that Mark had chosen that day for her to wear a bright red Darlexx ‘around-the-house’ outfit. I offered to let her out of the hampering, restrictive dress, with its padded mittens and hobble-skirt, but she said that there were tamper-evident fastenings on all of those dresses, so it would be noticed if she had taken them off and, although she didn’t know exactly what would happen if the fastenings were found to have been opened, she imagined that she wouldn’t like it, so we stayed at the house and chatted.

Post-script

Simone is a little happier these days, as she reports that Mark has had the chastity plate on her restraint altered, so that, occasionally - when he thinks that she “has made progress” - he can unlock it, allowing her access to her sex for up to half an hour. She says that, although he never has sex with her himself, her newly acquired vibrator is enough to relieve the tension that has built up. Another concession he has made is to change the chrome closures on a few pairs of her shoes to ones without the humiliating fake keyhole, so sometimes it isn’t quite so obvious that she is locked into her footwear.

Perhaps she should be grateful for such small mercies…

Part Two

Mark explains how it all began -

I genuinely love Simone, and initially, I was devastated when I found out that she had cheated on me. I became even more furious, but then depressed and guilty, when I then found out that she had been cheating for almost a year. I wondered what to do - after a few weeks, I came to a decision - I still loved her, and didn't want to lose her, but I couldn't trust her. In addition, I felt that she had strayed because I had stopped paying so much attention to her, which in turn was because she had stopped bothering to look good herself. I formulated the program to address these issues - the basic aim was to make her appreciate the freedoms she had, by eliminating some of them until she changed her ways.

When I first confronted Simone one evening about the affair, she was initially very upset but, as the night wore on, I got the impression that she was only upset about being caught. This strengthened my resolve to see her enter the program - she was, and still is, too fine a woman to lose, but she would have to change her ways, or there would be no point...

She was apprehensive, but I explained the details and reminded her of the consequences, and she signed the agreement to enter the Chastity and Deportment Program. In the weeks before confronting Simone, I had found Ace Medical Appliances, who could make custom supports after laser measuring the patient's body. I explained what I wanted and why. Initially they were hesitant. I explained that the subject would be signing an agreement to be measured and be fitted with the finished appliance of her own free will. They agreed, once they had a signed copy of the agreement for their files. They also could also supply custom clothing from the measurements that would be generated. They usually made special apparel that some handicapped people needed, but were happy to make the required outfits for Simone. Some of the leather outfits that Simone would wear would come from other, more fetish-oriented suppliers, but most of what she wears came from Ace. With the agreement signed we went for her measuring session. There wasn't much to it - she stood naked in a special booth, and positioned her feet and arms in different poses as instructed, as the laser measuring heads traveled up and down on all sides, recording her body's dimensions. In the weeks that the restraint and apparel were being made, Simone underwent laser hair removal all over her pubic area.

She was apprehensive once again, when the day came for her to be fitted with the restraint, but I reminded her that she had already signed the agreement to enter the program, and that it was this or nothing. She stood naked in Ace's private fitting suite, as the various parts were placed over her body.

She began to pant as the waist-cincher was pushed closed around her stomach and hips, but said nothing.

However, she could not hold in "Oh... cold!", as the chastity plate touched her newly-bare pubic area, and she began to whimper as the rear bar and anal ring were drawn up between her cheeks.

When the technician slipped the breast rings over her breasts, she could no longer maintain her composure and sobbed loudly as she realized just how conspicuous her bust would be. In fact, the rings were not that tight, but they were quite deep,so they held her breasts straight out and, under clothing, this would make them appear a lot bigger than they actually were.

"Remember, this will change your attitude - in time, you will realize that it doesn't matter how you look, it's how you conduct yourself that counts" I said.

"I don't care, I look like a porn star" she wept.

"You will look less like that when the breast cups are fitted - they'll hold you in a bit" I replied.

The technician then fitted the final part of the restraint - the curved stay that ran up Simone's back and connected to the combined breast and shoulder rings. She had quietened down somewhat as they worked, but the whimpering began again, as the cold-welding unit was brought over. It consisted of a large trolley, with a lot of hydraulic hoses and connections to large hand-held device, not unlike a jaws of life that fire crews use to extract people from vehicle wrecks, but this unit was to join, not cut, metal. The industrial look of the equipment emphasized the permanence of the procedure and she continued to sob quietly as each joint was covered by the two sides of the devices jaws, which then made a vacuum over each surgically-clean joint, before cold-welding it by compressing the two sides of the joint together until the two pieces of metal became one.

After about fifteen minutes, all the joints had all been closed and then polished, and they were now actually invisible.

She walked slowly around the room, exploring the limitations of her new appliance. She didn't like it.

"Oh, god, this is awful! - please, I've changed my mind, get it off me, I'm begging you - I can't move in this thing, it's holding me so tightly, I can't relax my shoulders - it's arching my spine and keeping my chest and ass out!" she wailed, her face contorted by tears. When I gave her no response, she turned to the technician, pleading with him.

"You can't do this to me, please, turn the machine back on and take it off!"

The technician ignored Simone completely, and instead turned to me: "This is normal - when we have to fit medical patients with restrictive or intrusive appliances like double leg braces, or a full cranio-spinal support, which is a device that fixes the head relative to the body, to protect an injured spine, there are often periods of anger or frustration, with tantrums and pleas for release, but after a few weeks, the patient's brain learns how to adapt their movements more satisfactorily, adjusting for the limitations of the appliance that they have been fitted with. She will find it difficult at first, but over the first month or two, she will learn to live with it. And anyway, that machine can only cold-weld metal parts together, it can't open them again".

Simone stopped short, shocked and surprised at the seemingly heartless, cold attitude of the technician, but also digesting what he had said, and wondering was he right - would she ever get used to this awful metal prison, which seemed to be totally and absolutely controlling her body?

I seized the opportunity that her sudden silence offered, and asked the technician to bring in one of the new outfits that Simone could wear home.

He reappeared with a few clothes on his arm, and a shoe box.

"Here you are, put these on", I said.

Simone examined the clothing that had been laid out - there was a cream silk blouse, with large ruffles at the collar and cuffs, and with buttons all down the back. From the waist down, it had an elasticated crotch section, like the lower part of a leotard. Simone didn't realize it yet, but she was to find this feature very annoying, and all her blouses had it - it meant that she was unable to pull the blouses up to try to hide the line of her breasts and cinched waist - no matter what she did, the blouses would remain completely smooth and snug, outlining her every curve to perfection.

Simone's eyes fell on the gray satin skirt, next. It had a high waist, coming up to the narrowest point of her midriff, where the waist-cincher was at its smallest, but its most striking feature was that it would be very tight over her thighs, all the way to her knees, where it was finished off with a ruffle similar to the ones on the blouse. Simone turned the skirt over, assuming that she was looking at the front of it, but then realized that she could not find a slit in it anywhere.

"There's no slit in this skirt, how will I walk in it?" she asked.

"A tight skirt gives you a short, elegant stride - all of your skirts and dresses are cut like that - you will soon get used to them, and they will really improve your deportment", I replied.

She didn't look convinced, but didn't reply. She examined the sheer, filmy  tan-colored stockings.

"They have black seams - isn't that for evening-wear?" she asked.

"All of your hosiery has contrast seams, to give you an elegant look" I explained, "it'll be good for you to be dressed to a high standard everywhere you go, whilst being confident and unapologetic about it. Now, let's get you into this outfit - you'll need your breasts covered first, though".

I picked up the breast cups from the table. Simone hadn't really noticed them, as they were a nude color, and when they were lying there, it wasn't really obvious what they were for. She stood quietly, somewhat interested in seeing whether the breast cups would, as promised, support her ringed breasts enough to prevent her looking like, as she currently thought, a porn star.

The rings on her breasts had hooked metal lugs around them at regular intervals, and the thin kidskin leather cups had matching holes which allowed them to be secured tightly over Simone's breasts, which did indeed compress and support her breasts to a great extent. Although Simone would later find out about the other types of breast cups that she would have to wear, I had thought that it would be best to start her with the simplest, most modest type, which covered her breasts entirely. She said nothing, and I could tell that she was slightly relieved for now.

She was unusually silent, however - signing up to the program to the program was one thing, but the gravity of actually being held in the restraint was apparently hitting home, and she had now gone into a state of shock.

She was having trouble putting the first stocking over her foot, her balance was thrown off by her now-rigid upper body, causing her to hesitate as she tried to bend down.

"Help me with this, I can't do it" she said in an quiet, extremely tense voice.

"Ok, take a seat, and I'll do it for you this time", I said indicating a nearby chair. She walked stiffly over to it, her awkward movements and hesitant steps indicating just how strange she was finding her new appliance.

She sat down slowly, holding on to the chair carefully as she did so. I slipped her stockings on, and secured them to the front pair of suspenders that were permanently fixed to the bottom of the waist-cincher part of the restraint. At my bidding, she stood up and waited whilst I secured the other three pairs of suspenders around her sides and rear, and then straightened the seams. Whilst doing this, I noticed that the restraint's rear bar and anal ring held her cheeks a little further apart than usual, making her ass look even better than before, and ensuring that her back passage was even easier to access. Of course, I didn't mention this to an already very tense and apprehensive Simone.

At my request she held on to the back of the chair, and lifted each foot through the leg-hole of the leotard bottom of her new blouse. I lifted it and she slipped her arms into the sleeves as I stood behind her and arranged it over her shoulders. She gazed down at the fussy ruffles at her still-unbuttoned sleeves and, as her chin brushed the frill around her collar, she opened her mouth to complain, but I quickly cut her off.

"Here, you button up the sleeves, and I'll do these ones on the back", I said. She began to comply, no doubt realizing that I was definitely in control of the situation, and that complaints would probably not have an effect anyway.

It took some minutes to fasten the buttons - they were purposely very small and fiddly, and there were about or two three to every inch and, while the rear ones covered about eighteen inches, from the top of the leotard right up to her relatively high collar, the gauntlet ones on her forearms were of a similar quantity, covering over eight inches on each arm, almost reaching her elbows. This meant that her forearms were encased in tight silk, which contrasted with the loose ruffles that almost covered her hands, and the puffy upper arms of the blouse which, in turn, contrasted with the tight, fitted bodice, held tight and neat by the elasticated leotard that would soon be hidden beneath the skirt.

I picked up the skirt, and gestured to Simone to step into it. She held on to my shoulder for balance as she did so and, as I began to pull the skirt up, its tightness began to pull Simone's knees together.

"Oh, this really is too tight, I'll never be able to walk in it!" protested Simone.

"Like I said, it will give you a short, elegant stride, and you will soon get used to it" I replied, zipping up the skirt firmly.

She took a few exploratory steps around the room. Her stocking-clad thighs were held together and slid over each other, causing a swishing sound, while her stride was restricted to about twelve inches.

"Oh, god, this is awful, I can barely move - please, isn't there a wider skirt that I can wear?" she wailed.

The look I gave her told her that, no, there wasn't.

She groaned and tried to stamp her foot in frustration, but found that even that gesture was now limited by her skirt, as she could no longer lift her knee enough to do it. Her spirit broken even further, she began to sob.

"You'll find it easier to walk in a tight skirt when you have your heels on" I said.

"No I won't, heels will just make things harder" she wept.

"They won't, you'll see" I interrupted "And anyway, the program specifies heels, so that is what you will be wearing".

I took the heels out of the box. They were black patent pumps with a four-inch stiletto heel, and a thin ankle strap with a silver buckle.

"You will need to put your shoes on first in future, because you probably won't be able to reach your ankles when you're fully dressed", I explained, "but take a seat for now, and I'll fit them for you".

Like any fashion-conscious woman, the thought of new shoes seemed to catch her interest, and she minced over to the chair, still crying, her steps punctuated by the swishing sound of her shiny stockings, a sound  that, in time, she would come to hate.

I slipped the shoes onto her feet and buckled the straps tightly around her ankles. She eyed her glossy footwear apprehensively, and carefully stood up.

"You'll find that high heels shorten your foot and make it easier to walk in a tight skirt", I explained, "Now, walk around the room, and allow the outfit to dictate your movements".

Still whimpering, she minced around the perimeter of the room, slowly getting used to the limitations now imposed on her body.

"That's it, keep moving and getting used to it" I said, "I'm going to sort out some delivery details for your other outfits with the guys here".

When I returned to the fitting suite, she had stopped walking, and was standing, gazing out of the window, sobbing quietly. I went over to her, and placed my hand firmly on her shoulder.

"That's enough of that. For today, I'll give you time to get used to your new situation, but from tomorrow morning, you must behave with the required deportment, or there will be consequences. Now, we're going home"

"I… I can't walk properly in this stuff, you'll have to help me", she begged.

"No, you'll just have to get used to it yourself. Remember what I said - let the outfit dictate your movements - you're wearing clothing that wants to control you, so let it do that, or you'll have endless trouble".

She minced along in front of me as we left, her ass wiggling in a most delightful manner as her heels clicked loudly down the long corridor that led to the parking lot. She hung back as we got near the door, obviously realizing that she was actually going to have to go out into the public parking lot in her new, humiliating outfit. Without breaking my stride, I reached out and placed my hand in the small of the back, enjoying the hard metal feeling of the waist-cincher though her silk blouse. I pushed her gently from behind and, with her limited stride and altered center of balance, she could not resist me, and had to quickly raise her arms to push the the door open, to avoid walking into it. There were five steps down to the parking lot. Given the nature of Ace's business, there was also a wide wheelchair ramp leading down on one side, but I directed her to the steps and stood on one side, allowing her to grab the handrail on the other.

She went to place her right foot on the first step down, but the tight skirt meant that she could not place it far enough forward to reach. She had to withdraw her foot, and move her left foot right up to the edge at an angle, to allow her to try again. It was all very clumsy-looking, and a few people passing on the sidewalk looked up. She succeeded in getting her right foot onto the step, which caused he skirt to pull her left leg forward at the knee. This had the effect of unexpectedly transferring all her weight to her right foot, and causing her hips to tilt down to the right. The problem was that the restraint's stay which ran up her spine, kept her shoulders rigidly in line with her hips, so she was thrown off balance, and would have fallen if I hadn't caught her.

The fact that she could no longer even walk down a flight of steps unaided hit home, and her lip trembled as she fought back the tears.

"You'll be fine on the other steps, now that you know how you need to move" I said. "Come on, step down now, or I'll leave you here to do it on your own" I added with some firmness.

Looking down intently at her steeply arched feet, she took a deep breath and shuffled over sideways to the edge of the step, before gingerly lowering a high-heeled shoe onto the next step, while grasping the handrail tightly, then twisting her hips to one side slightly, to gain enough room in the skirt to bring the other shoe down after it. She then had to move her grip down the handrail, and position her self at the edge of the step to do it all again. The people who had glanced up as she emerged had all stopped, fascinated by the awkward spectacle unfolding before them.

Simone took over a minute to make it down the remaining four steps to the parking lot, watched by around three or four passers-by, who continued to look on as we made our way to the car, her hips wiggling in a most provocative way. I opened the passenger door for her.

"Turn around and back yourself into the seat, like you see celebrities on TV doing it" I instructed.

She complied and used the edge of the door aperture to lever herself around to a forward-facing position and I closed the door. As soon as we were clear of the parking lot, she burst into loud sobs, and continued to cry all the way home, as she realized just how awkward and restricted her new life was going to be.

For the first few weeks, she cried frequently, pleading to be allowed to have sex. Through her tears, she admitted that she hadn't realized just how effective the chastity plate would be - she said that she knew that it would stop her having penetrative sex, but she had assumed that she would have been able to get her finger in at the side or something, to satisfy her desires. I reminded her that the metal restraint was fixed, and that I had no way of freeing any part of her from its embrace. The total lack of stimulation drove her mad in the first few months, but she seemed to manage to block it out after that, especially when I began to make her wear the ribbed dildo if she complained about it. She also wept when I showed her the various new outfits that she would be wearing, but again, judicious use of the punishment cups and the ribbed dildo ensured that she remained co-operative. As time went on, she began to get used to the limitations that the restraint and the outfits imposed on her movements, and also realized that the only way to get rid of them was to comply with the aims of the program, although I could tell that she found every day a trial.

To be honest, I only started Simone on the program to ensure that she didn't stray again, and to try to get her to dress in a more sophisticated, formal way but, as time went on, I've realized that I actually like having her trapped, and watching her struggle in the outfits, unable to escape the regime. I actually enjoy punishing her for misdemeanors by increasing her humiliation and restriction, and I've begun to invent new reasons for keeping her in the program… it's becoming addictive.

Update from Simone -

For a while, my meetings with Carol had tapered off - while I had realized that I had made a grave mistake in signing up to my husband Mark's Chastity and Deportment program, I have had to accept that the only way to get him to release me from it is to comply with its aims - ensure that I wear exactly what Mark specifies, without demur, and to also ensure that I conduct myself in a pleasant, attractive and sexy manner at all times, both in my physical deportment and my attitude.

The problem is that the outfits that he has been making me wear more recently are even more restrictive and sexually frustrating, not to mention humiliating, and that has made it hard for me to conduct myself in the required manner, and has caused me to incur additional punishments, which feed into a vicious circle, and lately Mark had even said that I'm no longer making any progress at all. I've begun to realize that the odds of "graduating" from the program were actually being stacked against me. I emailed Carol, asking to meet in Bedford Mills again, as I still didn't want people in Greenwich seeing me meeting a stranger and mentioning it to Mark.

It was over two years since we had first met there, and I wanted to meet her again, to see if, despite her opinion that it was hopeless, there might be any way around the agreement. I had been looking forward to meeting Carol for a while but, the night before we had arranged it, things had gone badly wrong.

I had been watching TV in my bedroom, when Mark had released the door from outside and come in, saying that I was to fetch the white straitjacket suit and ballet boots and lay them out on the bed, because, as he put it "we are going to have some fun". I knew what that meant - he was going to lace me up in that suffocatingly tight prison, push me onto my stomach, my arms pinned helplessly across my back, and then, for probably more than an hour, he was going to take me up the ass repeatedly. He would love every minute - However I would hate every second of the experience, being extremely humiliated and uncomfortable, unable to move, highly sexually stimulated and desperate to orgasm, yet unable to come - in fact, unable to do anything except squirm, grunt and just take it all.

"Oh god, no, please!" I begged, "I've had a long and stressful day, and I just can't handle that now - please don't make me"

"Look"' he growled, "I'll give you one more chance to comply with that instruction, or you will find that tomorrow will not be very enjoyable for you"

I knew that I really had no choice, and that particular fact - that I had no control over large parts of my life, and that he could just walk in and ruin my night any time he liked, hit me hard inside.

As I walked slowly over to the closet to get the hated straitjacket and boots, I broke down and began to sob.

"Right, that's it! - you will be wearing a particularly 'interesting' outfit tomorrow" he snapped.

That sent me right over the edge and, as I reached the closet, my sobbing turned to a full-on flood of tears - I just hated being so helpless, so controlled, and having to constantly hide those feelings made it all the worse. Knowing that I was already condemned to a day of wearing something extra humiliating meant that I couldn't even try to hide those feelings any longer, and my bawling continued unabated as I carried the heavy restraint apparel back to the bed and laid it out.

I continued sobbing as I got undressed and stood waiting for Mark to dress me in the horrible jacket with its claustrophobic hood. He lifted it and lowered it over my raised arms and pulled and tugged various parts of it until it was fully down over every part of me, from the top of my head to my hips. My arms were at my sides, my hands engulfed helplessly in the padded mittens. Mark wasted no time in tightening the lacing from the top of my head downwards, pulling and jerking me about a little as he got all of the slack out. Slowly and inexorably, the suit began to grip me in its dreadful embrace. Before long, my jaw was clamped shut, my neck and head fixed straight ahead.

The waist cincher of my permanent restraint already kept my waist a small hourglass shape, but the jacket compressed my hips a lot, and the upper part of the jacket held my chest tightly, preventing me from relying on expanding my ribcage when I breathed, to compensate for my restricted waist. This meant that my breathing became shallow and more rapid, and the feeling of helplessness and control was amplified. My crying had been stifled down to a quiet whimpering by this stage, as the suit took control. Before I had even been placed on the bed, the breast cups were making themselves felt, as their deliberately-cramped size forced my breasts to conform to the pointed, torpedo-like shape, and they began to ache slightly as a result.

Mark drew the wide crotch strap back through my legs and separated the two thinner straps that it split into at the bottom edge of my chastity plate. He drew each one up over each of my ass cheeks and buckled them tightly in place at the sides of my waist. Next, he laced the lower arms of the suit, from my wrists to my elbows, and he then placed my arms folded across the centre of my back.

I held them there while he buckled the straps tightly securing my forearms to each other, and each of my mittens to the opposite elbow. I didn't have to hold my arms for him while he did it - in theory, I could have pulled my arms away and kept them moving, to resist, to protest, to try and defeat him. But I had ceased trying to resist his will long ago - there was no hope of achieving anything other than making things worse for myself later, so I had learned to co-operate.

Mark turned me around and lowered me onto the bed, on my back and folded arms. He then lifted my feet up and swiveled me around so that my legs were also on the bed. Taking a moment to fit some white seamed stockings, and fasten them to my ever-present suspenders, he lifted my left leg up and slid the first ballet boot over it. He pulled on the top of the boot while I wiggled my foot until it slipped down into its en-pointe prison - there was no point in resisting. He quickly laced up the boot all the way to my thigh and did the same with my right leg. Then came the beginning of the real torture - he took my elbow and rolled me over onto my stomach, and more importantly, onto my vulnerable breasts in their pointed cups. The slight ache intensified ten-fold, and I grunted in pain and instinctively tried to roll onto my side to relieve them but, secured tightly in the rigidly laced suit, and with my arms strapped behind my back, unable to gain any purchase on anything at all, it was hopeless, and I lay there for two agonizing minutes while Mark folded each of my legs up, so that the heels of my ballet boots were tucked up under my ass, and fastened the row of metal hooks-and-eyes between my calves and thighs, so that they stayed there.

Although Mark had made me wear a punishment outfit for a day when I had pleaded for relief of the pressure on my breasts, he had actually listened to my anguish and done something about it. So now, he walked over to the closet and took out the special support he'd had made. It was a very firm foam cushion about 10 inches deep, covered in white leather to match the suit and boots, and was a t-shape which ran from side to side across my shoulders, and straight down between my breasts. He lifted my upper body by holding the lacing between my shoulder-blades, and slipped the support into position. The load was eased on my breasts, but not fully, as the cushion forced my breasts sideways, but it was a lot better than having them crushed directly, as before. He then lifted my hips up, so that I was able to bend my legs to raise myself up onto my knees. So there I was, on the edge of the bed, with my ass framed by my feet in their rigid boots, with one of my private areas completely exposed, ready for him to use, and the other one trapped behind metal, craving the attention that would never come, and I couldn't do a thing about it.

Mark then left my bedroom to get ready. He always says it's to prepare, but I think that he just likes to leave me to consider my situation - trapped and aware of what's coming, but unable to do anything to escape. Either way, it always works - even though there is no hope of even turning over, much less escaping, I can't help struggling violently in the suit, trying to make it suddenly unravel or fail in some way, enabling me to break free, but my efforts only ever lead some creaking of the leather, and to me becoming hot and even more breathless.

I won't recount what happened when Mark came back into the room, but suffice to say it was as humiliating, frustrating and uncomfortable as it always is. When he was finished, he left me there fully secured, as usual, while he had a shower. It's horrible, as I am always very horny, and being left like that, having to contemplate my helpless sexual frustration, is all the more humiliating. Only when he has finished his shower does he return to release me from from my leather prison, so I can have a shower myself.

The next morning I awoke early to the pleasant thought that it was the day that I was to meet Carol. A split second later, my heart sank as I remembered that Mark had said that I would have to wear something 'interesting' - Oh, why did it have to be today? - On another day, I could have just stayed in, but I had arranged to travel to Bedford Mills to meet Carol, and it was too late to change it now. I could just stand her up, but she had been good to me over the last few years. I would just have to put up with whatever awful outfit that Mark decreed that I should wear.

As I emerged from the bathroom after washing away the sleep of the night before, the "special" closet at the end clicked open. This was the closet that daytime punishment outfits were placed in. I stared at the contents inside, horrified. How could he do this to me, today of all days? I could feel tears welling up, but I quickly remembered the night before, and how it was tears and a lack of self-control that had led to this current situation. I took a deep breath, pursed my lips and removed the various items of the outfit and carried them over to lay out on the bed. To give the required appearance of calm, I stared at the floor, and concentrated on breathing calmly and slowly, while I waited for Mark to let himself in, to help me get dressed in the vile outfit that I was to be trapped in all day…

Carol's second meeting with Simone -

As she minced out of the train station entrance, I could see that things hadn't improved for poor Simone - This time, she was dressed from head to toe in black: A black satin dress that clung to every curve, and emphasized the fact that her breasts were encased in what I presumed to be the torpedo shaped punishment cups that she had previously described - she wasn't joking when she had said that they were noticeable - the dress was specially tailored to cling across the stiff, unyielding cups, giving her a pointed, shelf-like bust that was beyond eye-catching. I had previously noticed the humiliating way that the permanent restraint transmitted the impact from each tiny step that Simone took, straight to her breasts, causing them to jiggle in time with her hips as she walked, but today, the pointed cups she was wearing made the effect even more striking. The sleeves of the dress were puffy, flowing chiffon, contrasting with the shiny tightness of her buttoned-up black leather gloves, which ran under the sleeves, almost to her elbows. Her feet were, as usual, locked into a pair of the special pumps that the program specified, this time in glossy black patent, but with ultra-long pointed toes, to echo the line of her bust, and her seamed stockings were a gorgeous smoky gray, but with a conspicuous line of rhinestones running up the seams.

Despite choosing a quiet time to arrive, she was unable to completely avoid the inevitable humiliation caused by the loud clicking of her heels which, as always, initially attracted onlookers, who then became hooked, staring at her fascinating, gyratory walk and her curvy-and-pointy figure. 

She scurried over to my car, her sharply-pointed bust weaving from side to side like a sailing boat tacking into the wind. Knowing how limiting her outfits were, I had come around to open the door, so she turned around, as she had done before, but this time, she lowered herself very gingerly onto the passenger seat, moaning quietly and trying to tilt her hips to one side as she did so. The restraint that she wore constantly meant that she was unable to do that, so there was further grunting as she swiveled around and lifted her feet into the car. I closed the door and hurried around to my side of the car.

"Oh god, let's go, I can't sit like this for long!" she begged. "No problem", I replied, putting the car in Drive and heading off swiftly, "but how come sitting like that is so uncomfortable?"

"There's a dildo… it's up where the sun doesn't shine, if you know what I mean - Last night, I had a disagreement with Mark - this morning, he specified this extra-humiliating punishment outfit - it looks horrendous enough, but the worst bit is a ribbed dildo like the one I told you about before, except this one has a vibration function which runs at random times for one minute - Mark calls it the time-bomb dildo - so I'd like if we could get to the hotel as soon as possible, because it didn't go off on the train, and it's been a while, so it could happen shortly."

"Wow, sit tight, and I'll get us there soon" I said.

"Sit tight? - it's not like I have a choice, here" she joked.

We pulled into the parking lot of The Old Mill Hotel. There were a lot of cars there already, in fact, it was virtually full, with the only available slots being around the back, quite a distance from the entrance.

"Listen, I know you don't want to be out in public too much, but the empty car spaces are a long way for you in those shoes, so I'll drop you at the door, and park the car and come back for you, and we can go in together", I suggested.

Simone agreed, so I parked the car and hurried back.

She looked very odd as I came around the corner to the front of the hotel - she was standing with her heels spaced widely apart, the long toes of her shoes pointing inwards, and she was bent forwards from the hips, clasping the handrail of the wheelchair ramp tightly with both hands. She stared into the distance, panting, with her mouth open slightly and her eyes stretched wide, like saucers.

"Wait… wait a minute, I… need a minute" she gasped, stumbling slightly in her impossibly-high heels.

I put my hand on her shoulder, to steady her. I could feel the posture loop of her permanent restraint through her dress, and through it, I could feel a high-frequency hum - it was vibrating! I instantly understood her stance and expression - the randomly-timed dildo, locked through the ring over her back passage, had triggered without warning, and was subjecting Simone to sixty seconds of maddening, all-consuming stimulation. She was unconsciously grinding her hips slightly, trying to escape the intense attack on her most intimate senses. I thought about the concept as I held her shoulder to help her balance - a device, locked into your body, which would randomly do this to you, for a whole minute, regardless of what you were doing, or who was watching, and with no way of stopping it, delaying it, predicting it or controlling it... god, it was too awful to think about.

I could tell that Simone was now trying to hide her predicament - she had clamped her mouth shut, and straightened her feet, as well as trying, unsuccessfully, to stand up straight and keep her hips still - but it was obvious that trying (and failing) to look normal was about all she could manage while the stimulation continued.

Shortly afterwards, the humming vibration that I could feel through the shoulder loop of her restraint slowed and faded away, and Simone's shallow panting breaths slowly calmed and returned to her more normal rate, which was still more shallow and rapid than the average woman, because of her waist cincher.

"Oh fuck, I'm sure that everyone saw that - let's go in, quickly" she said, her voice still trembling.

We linked elbows and walked up the wheelchair ramp together - she found ramps easier because the tight dresses and skirts kept her knees close together. Despite her efforts, her "incident" outside the hotel entrance had indeed been widely witnessed - the parking lot was full because of a conference that was being held in the hotel, and the lobby area was full of business people on a coffee break and, as we minced through the lobby (I was matching her tiny stride), most of the conversations stopped, replaced by a mixture of surreptitious glances and outright staring, and whisperings of all sorts: 'What a slutty outfit…', 'Wow, how can she walk in those heels?', 'I think she orgasmed out there!'. Blushing furiously, I fixed my gaze straight ahead, and concentrated on helping Simone hurry through the lobby with her ever-present, mincing, clicking walk.

We reached the meeting room that I had booked. I closed the door. Simone went over to the table, which was surrounded by chairs, but she didn't sit down. Out of habit, I was about to suggest that she take a seat, when I remembered why she hadn't.

I had an idea. "Here, sit across this gap", I said, placing two of the meeting room chairs at the table, side by side, about five inches apart.

She turned, and saw what I meant, but hesitated, looking about, instinctively embarrassed.

"Don't worry, I've put out the 'Do Not Disturb' sign" I said.

She sat down slowly, carefully lining up the bottom of the dildo with the gap between the two chairs.

It was hard to know where to begin. I decided to ignore what had just happened outside the hotel, for now.

"You said that the outfit that you have on now is a special, punishment one?"

"Yes this is special, and I mean especially horrible and humiliating - there's the awful torpedo breast cups, and the shiny dress that's cut to emphasize them, as well as the matching pointed shoes and rhinestone stockings. These pendant jet earrings, charm bracelets and choker necklace are closed with tiny fasteners that only a special tool can open, so I can't take them off. The earrings swing about when I move my head, and the charm bracelets are very noisy when I'm doing anything with my hands, which itself is fairly difficult - these gloves are especially tight, so I can't pick up anything smaller than a golf ball."

She sighed, gazing down dejectedly at her confinements.

Although it's extra bad today, the everyday outfits and deportment requirements seem to be getting more cumbersome and awkward too - I now have to wear similar pearl jewelry for daytimes, and diamond versions for evening wear - heavy, pendant earrings, noisy charm bracelets and deep chokers - which all have the fixed fastenings. Oh, and this makeup you see is now tattooed on - blood-red lipstick, dark gray eye-shadow and heavy black eye-liner. I also have my eyelashes tinted black every month, so I don't need mascara anymore. I save time in the mornings, but look like I'm going to the opera all the time! I cried when I first saw my tattooed face in the mirror, but Mark just said that it was great that my makeup wasn't spoiled by the tears…

"I can see that things are not going well for you in the program" I said, trying not to let Simone see my feelings.

She looked at me sadly.

"Carol, you have no idea - up to the end of last year, I thought that Mark was actually running the program with a view to improving my attitude and deportment, but now I think that he's just raising the standards of the program unrealistically high, to keep me trapped in these outfits, and under his control forever!"

I had suspected as much myself, but I didn't want to upset her by agreeing immediately: "What makes you say that, Simone" I asked.

"Well, remember last year, in the summer, I told you that he'd had my chastity plate altered, so I could get some sexual relief if I behaved well?"

"Yes", I said.

"Well, he hasn't done that for me in over six months now. He says that, after I've been satisfied sexually, I don't try hard enough to conduct myself properly. Some days, he changes the cover of my chastity plate to one with a horrible rubber attachment on the inside to keep me horny all the time - He calls it the labial teaser - it's like having a row of fingertips between your lips, and they're covered all over with alternating convex nodules and concave suckers - when I walk about or move at all, it rubs and sucks gently at my private parts, getting me excited, but it isn't anything like enough to orgasm - I can't get past 'fairly horny', but yet I can't get rid of its stimulation - it's maddening. He says that I need this training to learn to ignore my urges, and to be reminded that I can't always have what I want - when he said that to me, I'd just spent my first full day in it, and I screamed "Do you think that I don't know that already? - I'm stuck in a fucking chastity device, you know!" - for that, I had to spend that all that night and the next day in the white leather straitjacket suit and boots, with the ribbed dildo locked in…

What makes the teaser so humiliating is knowing that you're being controlled - constantly stimulated, but that you can neither satisfy the urge, nor make it go away - it keeps me on edge around Mark, which is when I'm most likely to do something to displease him - I'm so frustrated that one minute I want to scream at him to let me out or I'll kill him, and the next minute, I'm feeling so hopeless and desperate that I'm tempted to beg to be put into the white suit and to have anal sex with him, in case this one time, I might just be able to come. It's made me much more likely to disobey or have a tantrum, and need punishment or 'enhanced deportment training".

"I can see what you mean about Mark seeming to want you to fail in the program" I said "but surely he's trying to use the program to point you in the direction of its aims?"

"Well, he says that I was spending too much time at home, and not getting out enough - Wouldn't you stay in, Carol, if you had to wear these outfits? - he says that the new plans he's implementing are to help me improve, by being more sociable whilst looking attractive - well, he thinks that I look attractive!

One thing is that he's got me a part-time job on Thursdays at a local bookshop, 'so I can better accept people looking at me, and to teach me how to move more elegantly and naturally'. It's about a mile from our house, on Main Street, and I can't drive or even ride a bike to get there, and it's too far to walk in my heels, so he's arranged for a local cab service to pick me up in the morning and evening. One of the cab drivers admitted to me that they draw straws to see who will get to pick me up, as they love watching me as I get into and out of the cab - they always come around to open the cab door for me - when did your cab driver ever do that? In the shop, of course, I have to wear just the same outfits as I usually do, and the stares that I get are awful. Some people ask for obscure books, and I have trot all over the shop, looking for them - I've also noticed that young guys come into the store and purposely ask for books that they've seen on the higher shelves, just so they can watch me struggle on the step-ladder - I can barely get up it - my tight skirts and dresses mean that I have to tilt my whole body to get my foot onto the next rung, and the tight ankle cuffs on these shoes stop me lifting my foot up at the ankle up to compensate, it's really humiliating. The other woman who works there has asked me why I wear such provocative outfits, but all I can say to her that I just like it - yeah, right!

In fact, to explain away the jewelry and the increasingly-frequent punishment outfits, I've had to tell my friends and family more lies, such as, since I started wearing these outfits for Mark, he's really come to love it, and we are constantly 'upping the game'. I have to give the impression that I find it all very sexy, and imply that our sex-life is great. Of course it's all lies, but I have no choice! The crazy thing is that some of my girlfriends have given it a try, wearing what are, for them, sexier outfits and higher heels around the house, and they have later thanked me for improving their sex-life with their husbands! - it's so infuriating to hear, because I can't have any satisfying sex at all, but I just have to smile and tell them how marvelous I think it is.

Another of Mark's plans is being implemented because he thinks that I don't pay him enough attention when we are at home in the evenings and at weekends. He sat me down and explained that I get to sit around, watching TV or surfing the web, and I never want to satisfy him. He did say that he knew that I hated having anal sex in the straitjacket suit, and that he would be happy to have me give him oral or manual satisfaction instead. I thought that that sounded be a little better, and I brightened up slightly. However, I can tell you, my smile faded quickly when he then began to tell me about the "service suit" - I began to beg him not to make me wear it, but the look he gave me made me stop - I knew that I was going to be wearing it no matter how much I begged or pleaded. It's a one-piece white patent leather bodysuit that covers me completely from head to toe. It's designed to keep me helpless, unable to do anything for myself, but be ready to give Mark satisfaction whenever he wants - It has the boning and lacing, and the tight breast cups of the straitjacket suit, but my arms aren't held behind my back, and my legs are free, not folded up to my backside. However, my feet are still in ballet boots, and these ones don't have any heels, so I can't stand or walk.

The hood has a short, wide tube which sticks into my mouth, so I can't close it, or bite down - it's called a ring-gag, I think - I have to give Mark a blow-job whenever he wants, and having my mouth held open like that means that I can't spit, only swallow, if you know what I mean. There's a rubber gag that locks into the mouth-ring when I'm not using my mouth, so it doesn't get dry, and to keep me quiet.

The biggest hinderance is that my eyes are behind convex lenses that are frosted white, to match the suit, so I can no longer watch TV or read, or even see very far - he calls them fog-goggles, and it is just like being in thick fog - I can only see about two feet. On top of all that, my hands are in 'service mittens', stiffened mitts stitched to hold my fingers curled around to meet my thumb, like I'm holding a ski-pole, or using them on a cock, and that's exactly what Mark expects me to do - he'll call me, and I'll have to crawl over to where he is, and use my otherwise-useless hands to bring him off. When he comes, I have to stay still and wait, because I usually get spurts of cum all over me - that's why the suit is patent leather - when he's ready, he wipes off anything that needs it, and then I have to go back to lying or sitting quietly.

In some ways, it's better than the straitjacket suit - it's not as tight, and I can move about a bit, and I don't have to have anal sex in it, so that particular discomfort isn't there, but it is so boring! - and I have to wear it more often than the straitjacket - nearly every Saturday, he laces me into it, and I have to sit or lie around the house all day, unable to see much or hear anything, except his voice when he calls me to satisfy him, which happens once every few hours. It's horribly de-humanizing and humiliating too - I feel like some sort of pet - he says that wearing it will teach me patience and restraint.

There is also a separate pair of service mittens that I sometimes have to wear on weekday evenings, or when he is going out for a while and wants a hand-job on his return - I'll have to put them on, and then he'll lace them up - they go to my elbows - and then I'm stuck in the house. Of course I could go out, but how do you explain being tightly laced into a pair of white patent leather mittens that are holding your hands in the perfect position for giving hand-jobs?

With the even more socializing in mind, he has also gotten my name put forward as a charity ball organizer in the Greenwich Rotary Club - a friend of his is a member of the committee - and I have to attend all of the meetings to organize events. I had previously been very active in charity events, so I'm familiar with what's required, but the embarrassment of having to wear what I do is awful, but now I no longer have any choice. The meetings are held in a local restaurant every second week, and I have to go, no matter what I have been put into for that day."

She paused and looked me in the eye.

"You can see what Mark is doing, can't you?" she asked.

"Yes", I replied, "he's ensuring that you have to go out as often as possible, which ensures that you have to watch your attitude and deportment at home, to avoid having to go out in the even more humiliating punishment outfits like the one you are in today."

"Exactly, and because he often makes me wear the labial teaser around the house, or sometimes all day, as a punishment, I end up snapping at him in frustration, and so have to wear punishment outfits more often, and most of the punishment outfits now include 'extras' under my clothes, such as the randomly-set dido that I'm fitted with today, but there are other ones"

"Like what?" I asked.

"Well, for example, a couple of weeks ago, there was a charity ball at one of the country clubs near town, and of course, as a member of the organizing committee, I was forced to attend with Mark as my guest. On the afternoon of the ball, Mark said that he had heard that, at the charity meetings, I tended to sit there, not drawing any attention to myself, and not contributing much to the meeting. I didn't think that was true, and I told him that. He said that he had it on good authority, and that I was going to have to get used to pulling my weight at events or I would end up wearing lots of eye-catching outfits (those were his words) and, because of my past lack of contributions at the charity meetings, he would ensure that tonight, I would be wearing something very eye-catching, and I would have to put up with a few extra distractions to raise my game."

I was horrified, and tried to convince him that I was fully contributing at the meetings, but he was having none of it, and refused to discuss it any further. When the time came to get changed for the ball, my heart was in my mouth. We went to my bedroom and I unlocked my shoes on the magnetic sensor, locking the door, and slipped my permanently-arched feet into the mules. I then finished undressing, with Mark's help for the fiddly buttons on the back of my shirt, and then he released the closet containing the chosen outfit for that evening.

I looked at the outfit as I brought it over to the bed and tried not to cry - it was a long fishtail dress with a very high neckline - I'd expected that, all of the evening dresses were like that, but this one was a stretchy, shiny silver-colored Lurex material, which looked like tinfoil, and would highlight my every curve, and it had large frilled ruffs at the throat and shoulders and a huge tutu-like frill around my legs, just below the knees, which almost reached the floor, and spread out about fifteen inches all around - It was outrageous-looking, and completely unsuitable for a charity event in a New England country club! There were super-shiny, thick silver stockings to match, and Lurex gloves that reached almost to my shoulders. The shoes were chrome-shiny patent pumps with extra-short, cruelly-pointed toes as well as the usual impossible heels and locking ankle cuffs. The diamante jewelry was there too, but the worst parts were the thick rubber punishment breast cups with the pointed studs all around the inside, and a new dildo, which I hadn't seen before - it was ribbed stainless steel, and was short and not too wide - from my previous experience with dildos, it didn't seem too bad, but it did seem very heavy, and had something loose inside it when I picked it up.

First of all, Mark began clipping on the vile breast cups. The studs have really sharp points, like needles, but they are only about one-sixteenth of an inch long so, while they are horribly prickly and scratchy, they don't break my skin or leave any permanent marks. As the first of the studs touched the underside of my breast, I jerked away involuntarily, but he stopped me, holding me firmly by my permanent restraint, and gave me a look that meant 'stop doing that, or you'll regret it later'. I bit my lip and stood stiff and tense while he clipped my breasts into the hateful rubber cups. As soon as he finished, my hands flew instinctively to my breasts but there was nothing I could do - pulling the cups off was out of the question, and pressing on them just made it worse. It was almost impossible not to squirm, vainly trying to escape the constant irritation.

Mark turned around with the dildo in his hand. "Stop wriggling about like that, and bend over the bed" he said.

There wasn't much choice: I complied. I then felt the cold, hard dildo at my rear. Thankfully, it was covered in lubricant.

"Relax yourself back there, and it won't be so bad for you" said Mark.

I knew he was right, and tried to do so, but it was still very uncomfortable as the rounded tip of the dildo was pushed inside me. There was some extra pressure, and a click, as the device locked itself to the ring on the permanent restraint.

I stood up. As I did so, I felt a heavy thump in the depths of my back passage! - My sphincter muscle clenched involuntarily and I gasped.

"What's that?" I panted.

"That dildo has a twenty-five ounce weight inside it. The weight is mounted on wobble-springs, so it bumps constantly and randomly against the dildo's outer casing as you move. You'll find it very distracting this evening, but that is the point - you are to use the experience to learn to ignore any internal sensations and desires, and concentrate on being sociable and running the charity ball that you've organized"

"Oh, god no, that's … oh, oww… ahhh!" I exclaimed, reacting first to Mark's statement, but then, unexpectedly getting further random bumping as I moved, which led to some more twitching and involuntary clenching.

"This thing is horrible, oh god, please take it out!" I begged - "I can't bear it, how will I walk and behave with any decorum and deportment with this inside me?!"

"That is for you to work out" Mark said firmly "Now, let's get the rest of your outfit on - we haven't got long, I have to get ready too, you know". He placed the shoes side by side on the floor, and waited while I worked the thick, shiny stockings up my legs, clipped them to the garters that hung from my restraint, and straightened the seams.

I then stood up, and worked my feet apprehensively into the waiting shoes - my suspicions were confirmed - the toe area was a lot shorter and more pointed than my usual pumps, which were already awkward enough to walk in. In addition, the heels seemed to be a little higher, making my instep even more arched than usual. I thought about protesting, but knew that it would be useless - once Mark had chosen an outfit, he never allowed substitution of any items.

I sighed, and tried not to think about how difficult tonight was going to be - horribly prickly cups on my sensitive breasts, extra-awkward and tight shoes to make it even harder to balance and look elegant and, worst of all, a distracting dildo that thumped about in my backside in a random, unpredictable manner, making it almost impossible to think of anything else.

Mark clipped the ankle cuffs' closures of the shoes shut, ready for me to lock them fully with the magnetic sensor. The shoes looked like they were made from shiny aluminum, and they wouldn't have been much more uncomfortable if they were - my toes were becoming uncomfortable already and, with my insteps even more arched, I found that my centre of balance was even smaller than normal, making it even more essential to maintain an upright posture. This in turn was proving difficult, as the dildo was causing my hips to twitch with each bump of the weight inside it, and I was unable to stand still, being forced to take tiny steps constantly, to keep my balance, which fed into a horrible vicious circle, as the constant moving about kept the dildo bumping, which stimulated and unbalanced me even more.

While I had been considering my predicament, Mark had picked up my dress and got it ready for me to step into. As he knelt, holding the dress, I used his shoulders for much-needed balance, and stepped through the dress, while each of my straining ankles trembled as the other foot was raised. He then lifted the dress around me, as I continued to use him for balance. He had to pull quite hard to get the dress up over my hips. I put my arms through the shoulders of the dress and he drew it together behind me and began to fasten the dozens of tiny buttons that ran from the base of my spine to the nape of my neck. The material was very tight, almost like a shinier version of the Darlexx that my stay-at-home dresses were made from, and the extra pressure on my cups made the irritation from the spikes even more intense.

Soon he was finished, and told me to put the gloves on. I turned slowly, my legs feeling even more restricted than usual. The dildo bumped a few times, making me gasp and twitch. I took a small step forward, causing the huge frill around my lower legs to rotate around as I walked. This was going to be a long night - I could only take tiny steps of about twelve inches, and if I tried to walk quickly, the lower frill rotated and quivered wildly, drawing the eye to its movement. Even though the gloves were only about four feet way, on the edge of the bed, it had taken me about six steps, including turning around, to get there. Mark stood by, admiring my restricted, twitching walk. As I bent down to retrieve the gloves, my arm pressed against one of my tightly-imprisoned breasts, causing some nasty prickling, making me jerk suddenly, which caused the dildo to shift heavily and I was subjected to a flurry of sudden, random stimulation, catching me by surprise, and causing me to gasp and moan.

"Mark, please, this is too much, I can't possibly go out like this, I can barely move in this awful dress, and my breasts and backside are in agony!" I wailed, "I can't do it!".

"There isn't a choice" said Mark. He said nothing more, leaving the silence to emphasize his point. He waited while I worked the silver gloves up my arms, almost to my armpits.

"Now, I'm going to get changed, and I expect you to have your hair and lip-gloss done by the time I get back" he added. He walked to the door, and used his key to release it, before pulling it closed with the loud electronically-controlled clunk, which indicated that it had re-locked again.

"Huh, even if it was open, I'd never be able to run anywhere in this outfit", I thought, tottering over to the dressing table.

With my now-permanent makeup, I only had to apply lip gloss to make my already blood-red lips look shiny, and my hair was done in a few minutes too. I spent the next few minutes walking slowly around the room, trying to get used to the intense sensations of my humiliating and restrictive outfit. The restraint transmitted the movement of my hips to my breast cups, causing horrible prickling feelings with each step I took, but I could do little about it - I was already mincing as daintily as possible. I also found that that the swishing sound from my rubbing thighs seemed to be much louder than usual, perhaps because of the thicker, extra-shiny stockings. I usually didn't have problems with sounds attracting extra attention at charity events, because the carpets masked my metal heels, and the noise of the room usually covered the rubbing from my thighs, but my heart sank as I knew that these new stockings, with their much louder sound would captivate all of the men as I moved around the ballroom, and the extra-tight dress meant there was no way that I could avoid making the noise as I walked.

After two circuits of the room, I had worked out a gait that minimized the thumping from the dildo, but unfortunately, it involved moving slowly, and rotating my hips around the axis of the dildo, to try to prevent any sideways movement, and this meant that my steps were kept to only about eight inches, and so my progress was very slow - walking like that, it took me about twenty seconds to cover the fifteen feet from the dressing table to the bed. I guessed I'd look a bit strange walking that slowly, but walking faster and gasping and twitching my hips because of the dildo would look even more odd.

Mark arrived back at that point, to take me out to the car. I tried to walk slowly, but Mark had my arm through his, and made me walk as fast as the outfit would allow. My rear end was being pounded by the movements of the dildo, and one side of my breast was being rubbed and pressed by Marks arm.

"Please, slow down… I can't… please… oww, aaah!", I gasped, trying to remove my arm from his, but only succeeding in causing more rubbing and pressure on my vulnerable breasts, tightly encased in their torturous punishment cups.

"Stop that, and come along!" cried Mark, exasperated at my apparent rebellion.

"No, please!" I cried, "I can't walk this fast… the heels, the dildo… my breasts…!", I panted.

My obvious and severe distress seemed to convince him that I really couldn't keep up with him, and he slowed the pace as we made our way through the rest of the house, and out to the driveway.

We were already a little late as we arrived at the country club and the parking lot was therefore nearly full, so that we had to park well away from the main entrance, which was, in a way, lucky for me, as the outfit's extra restrictiveness forced me to struggle out of the car in a most inelegant fashion. However, it also meant a rushed walk of a few hundred yards in the cruelly-arched, tight heels, with the jolts from each frantic, tiny, step causing murderously uncomfortable sensations in my rear and all over my breasts. When we finally reached the entrance, I was breathless from the exertion and the inescapable stimulation and begged for a minute to recover. Mark informed me that it had taken over ten minutes to get there from the car, and that we didn't have time to waste.

Taking my arm, he steered me towards the ballroom. The staccato clicking of my heels on the marble lobby floor, interspersed with the loud swishing of my nylon-encased thighs stopped everyone's conversations as they turned to look. Jaws dropped and eyes flew open wide as they took in my wiggling, trotting walk in the locked silver heels and the tight, clingy dress with its fussy, trembling frills and matching full-length gloves. As we reached the door of the ballroom, the floor turned to carpet, and I sighed with relief as the humiliating clicking was silenced.

Just as I was getting my bearings, my old friend Nancy Miller turned and saw me.

"You look…", she began, "…very striking, my darling", she finished. She had done a double-take at my shiny, silvery curves - all of the men wore black tuxedos, and most of the ladies were wearing conservative velvet or satin gowns in dark, elegant colors - my outrageous outfit stood out a mile. I was just about to reply, when Nancy, probably slightly embarrassed at her ill-concealed amazement over my appearance, tried to cover it up by suddenly hugging me tightly, saying something about how great it was to see me.

I missed her exact words, as my breasts were bathed all over with sharp, prickly and intense torment, as her chest pressed hard into mine. For her, it was a slightly agonizing social moment, but for me it was just sheer agony. Mark knew what I was experiencing, and smiled to himself. The staring from those around us continued for a long moment as hug had caused the dildo to bump and thump multiple times, making my hips and nether regions twitch noticeably in the tight dress..

"Oh, I do love to wear striking outfits like this for Mark", I lied, smiling as best I could. Mark put his arm around me and kissed my cheek.

"Now don't make out that you only do it for me", he smiled, "We all know how you love making an impression wherever you go".

"Well", said Nancy, "you're certainly doing that, my darling!" There was a chuckle from all present.

I smiled weakly, wishing the ground would swallow me up.

The rest of the evening was equally awful - I had to mingle with the attendees, having many similar conversations about what I was wearing, including questions about the height of my heels and whether my shoes were actually locked around my ankles (I told them quite truthfully that the keyhole was a decoration). I also got hugged a few more times, causing my breasts yet more excruciating torment. Then came the charity auction, which I had to oversee - I had to struggle up the steps to the stage to make the introductory speech, which stopped most of the conversations again, as the steps were too steep for me to walk up normally - I had to stand on each step sideways and struggle to stretch the dress enough to get the toe of my shoe onto the next step up, and then lever myself up, using the handrail to help me. The three steps took about twenty seconds to ascend, but it felt more like twenty minutes to me, it was so humiliating. I gave the speech, encouraging high bidding in the auction, and outlining the causes that would benefit, and then I had to go through the same humiliation going down the steps. It was even worse, as the dildo thumped me hard as my heel hit each step.

It was after midnight when Mark and I got home. After he had released me from the dress, dildo and breast cups, he left me alone. I walked over to the magnetic sensor and released my shoes, locking the door for the night. Then, after I had put the vile clothing back into the closet, I fell into bed and cried myself to sleep."

"My god, that's horrible! How can you…", I began.

Simone leaped up with a sharp intake of breath, which then turned to a low, guttural grunt as she leaned forward over the table, resting on her elbows. Once again, the time-bomb dildo had taken her prisoner for another sixty seconds.

In the quiet of the hotel meeting room, I could actually hear the hum of the dildo as it tortured Simone mercilessly, who, now that she didn't have to hide what was happening, was alternately panting and grunting as her breath came and went in quick, shallow gasps. Her eyes were once again like saucers, and her fists pounded uselessly on the table as she found the anal persecution overwhelming.

After what seemed like an eternity, she sank back down again, teary-eyed, staring at the floor over her shiny, pointed bust.

"I hate this outfit, I hate my life now. Mark doesn't want to improve my deportment or attitude - he just wants to keep me stuck in this restraint with my pussy trapped behind this goddamned chastity plate, teased and desperate for relief - he's never going to let me out of this thing - it's his revenge for me cheating on him!…"

"But, surely…" I tried. She cut me off.

…and the outfits! - I've seen him when we go out together, the way he watches me when I'm trying to hurry, or get into a car, or go up steps - he loves it when I'm struggling in humiliating clothes and hobbling heels, he also loves to see the reactions of the people watching me - I just know that he's never going to let me wear normal clothes again!", she cried, weeping pitifully.

"Nonsense", I replied, "I know that it seems very hard right now, but I'm sure that he just wants to see your deportment and attitude improved, and if you keep trying hard, and convince him that you're a changed person, he will sign you out of the program in due course".

The look on Simone's face told me how she knew that neither of us actually believed that…

The End.