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The Twisted Mind of Tina B

This blog is NSFW, and not for those under 18, or of a delicate moral nature. But if you like your bondage strict and your gags tight, cum on in! Read more of my hot bondage stories at SMASHWORDS - and see my galleries on IMAGEFAP -

Backwoods Bondage Camp

Hi Sweetie!  

I have a NEW BONDAGE STORY out!  It’s called “Backwoods Bondage Camp”, and you can READ SOME FOR FREE here:

Better yet, because I want your opinion, you can MAKE ME TAKE OFF HALF using coupon code KS43C !!!

Have you ever wanted a story that made you feel like you were IN it?  Actually TAKING PART?  DOING STUFF to someone?  (Or having it done to you?)

How about this?  You’re standing looking down at a luscious, naked piece of fuckmeat spread out and lashed down on its back on a table?  Tiffany something.  You know the one.  The porn star.  Piles of blond hair, long, lean legs and lush lips just made for sucking on something.  Or maybe it’s YOU, heaving helplessly against the straps.

The legs shudder, heaving against the restraints, making the little butt muscles flex sexily, while the straining arms make the big firm boobs loll from side to side. A bright red pillowcase is wrapped tightly around the head, which flops back and forth making stupid grunting sounds through the heavily gagged mouth.  A good beginning to your night, no?

Perhaps it’s your fingers, squeezing the darkly bruised nipple, forcing tit-juice out of the battered tip until it runs down the udder.  Clenched in the fingers of your other hand, the cigarette glows redly as your eyes seek virgin skin on the rounded bottom of the teat.

Or perhaps it’s your hands arranging the red and black wires across the fluttering, sweaty belly.  Taping them down to the thighs so her struggles can’t dislodge them.  And your thumb on the button, pressing it down until you feel the little click.  Sense the wires jerking as the bitch plunges and heaves desperately against the straps.

Or perhaps it’s YOU struggling against the ropes as the hands work you over?

Want more?  Get your hands on my boob - er, book - NOW!

(For You - or for someone you love!)

And MAKE ME TAKE IT OFF using coupon code KS43C !!!

Your slut,


The nippies hurt SO bad.

Just because I tried to turn away when that fat, smelly old man tried to grope me. 

In punishment, She has me bound helplessly to the post. Naked, of course.  Let him put his filthy hands on me.  Anywhere he liked.  Working his fat thumbs into my weeping cunt as I begged.  Then begged some more as he was allowed to flog my strangled udder balls until I was reduced to a crying mess of fuckmeat.

The bands make me all too aware of the naked teats, a sharper pain in the swollen boob agony.  Where perhaps the cane or hose will be applied.

Gagged now, I can only sob and writhe, unable to stop shaking my titties, as She debates letting him fuck me . . .

Tied securely to my "writing" chair for my daily nipple training.  Not something I look forward to.  She makes me wait, jiggling helplessly, nipples warming despite my trying not to think about them.

Then Her litle smile, and the terrible clench of the fucking ring on first one nippie and then the other, making me grunt and gasp through the gag.

If I think about them, they WILL swell.

So at first, I try to think of other things.  The strain in my shoulders from having my elbows lashed securely together.  My bare foot, sticking out past the back of the chair, squirming with a needy itch where Her nails teased them.

My needy little cunt-clit, grossly exposed and slightly sore from Her loving appliction of a vibrator earlier.  Wanting Her tongue or fingers or even Her fucking TOE to rub me into a frenzy.

OH FUCK!  Thinking of that makes a horny need streak from cunt to breasts, starting the nipples' relentless swelling, despite the agony.

Now I can't think of anything else, writhing against the ropes and making blithering moans through the gag and shaking my titties as the pounding warmth fills the nipples, making them grow and grow until I can't think of anything else and can't possibly stand it any more.

As She gets ready to go out.

Not every day is a punishment day, I think, as I grunt and choke inside the tight head wrap, trying to get used to the huge ball wrenching my mouth open. And to the hard edge of the table that makes me oh so aware of the udders dangling nakedly off the edge. Untouched. 

Behind, the hands claw at the wrist binding as they always do. Not being a good little subbie, but being tied up turns me until a scared little girl again. Terrified at what they may do to me. Desperate to escape. But helpless.

The legs are tied down to the other end of the table, holding me precisely here, despite the searing cane cut across the thighs that makes them struggle against the lashings. Makes the girly fuckbody's ass bunch, quivering.

The neck is already tiring, so the sightless head wavers up and down. Again, not like a well-trained submissive. But in this moment I'm just a normal girl, tied up to face her own nightmares, alone in the silence.

Some days I just hate myself. Hate what I let them do to me. Hate that I need it. Hate hate HATE.

I thought my titties were mine. Was proud of how bold they were, how I could tease guys mercilessly by letting them swing, by wearing skimpy tops that let my stiff nippies poke out, by bending over to show all my cleavage as I paid close attention to what they were telling me.

I was wrong. As my Mistress has now lovingly taught me over the last several hours, by the hard application of whips, canes, the tawse, plastic hose and the occasional cigarette. 

I was wrong, howling, writhing, screaming, flopping, squealing, straining, twisting, crying and choking into the gag. Utterly broken, the tears, snot and saliva streaking my stupid face, the breast-balls in such agony I can only hang there, staring in horrified silence.

As She prepares the shock wires.

The clamps are tighter than usual. One of Her friends brought then - to see whether I could "take it". I can't. Already I'm moaning into the gag, my body shivering uncontrollably. Making the heavy breast meat swing, yanking on the fucking clamps. 

Somewhere up behind me, the hands claw at nothing above the simple turns of old hemp that bind my wrists and haul them up out of the way, wrenching my shoulders. 

The legs, pulled apart and strapped to the rings in the floor, aren't shaking yet, but it's a strain to stand like this, and they will. Making my little ass shake and dance and contort for them. 

Nothing has been done - yet - to the asscunt.

The gag - something another of Her GFs brought - is a big ball with a difference: a short dildo that fills my throat while the ball spreads my mouth so wide the lips are stretched into a big O. Strapped in tight with the wide leather strap that crushes my face.

Someone touches the shock button - just for a second - and my body lunges back before I even feel the current burning my titties. Tears squirt out of my eyes as I howl pathetically into the gag.

I can't possibly stand it.

But I know that very soon I'm going to be just a fear-crazed animal, my body plunging and writhing in a useless attempt to break free, the shocks going on for minute after minute after minute until I'm broken into a squealing mass of piggy flesh.

And ready for whatever comes next.

My Mistress likes to experiment with new toys. On me, of course. And there's fuckall I can say about it - especially with this fucker in my mouth. Of course She demonstrated it first, spinning the little lever to show how the ball can be driven into the unruly and helpless mouth, explaining in lurid detail what might happen when the ball started to close the cunt's throat. 

I started choking as soon as She tightened the strap, pulling the leather tight against my lips and forcing the ball almost into my throat. Cocking Her head to watch me for a moment, She then reached for the lever and gave it another half turn.

Tears spilled from my eyes as I struggled not to choke, my arms and legs yanking helplessly against the cuffs holding me to the chair. 

She gave each nip a twist hard enough to make me make harsh squeals around the gag, then patted me on the head as if I were a lap dog.

As She turned to go, She said "Another turn every hour, I think."

Despite myself, I cried and tried to plead with Her. Useless garbled grunts.

And then She turned out the light.

The braying, cow-like sounds echo in the cold concrete cellar. GAAAAAaaaahk uuuuuUUUUUUHK Held open by the hard steel ring, the slut's mouth can make no other sounds. Cannot speak, cannot beg, though it tries. The eyes, blinded by the tight tape, cannot see, cannot know what they are preparing. Sounds of things metal being dropped onto a table. Other, perhaps softer things. Bound so it cannot move, the cunt's body shivers from time to time as hands assess it. GuuuuuuUUUUUUHK the mouth says as fingers tighten on a nipple, twisting it almost all the way around. AAAAAAAAaaaaaaaahk

My Mistress and I had talked, every now and then, about my having to endure a kidnapping. I had agreed to it because She wanted it, but we hadn’t figured out the details yet.

So one day a couple of weeks ago, She took me out for dinner. A surprise, and at a fancy new restaurant, too. Not knowing where we were going, I hadn’t dressed up, but She assured me that everybody dressed casually anyway. So we had a wonderful dinner, some wine, some laughs.

Afterwards, we were sauntering across the parking lot, I leaning against Her, Her strong arm holding me snug, slightly giddy and buzzed, still laughing. Without warning, hands suddenly grabbed me from behind, ripping us apart, pinning my arms, lifting me off my feet. I tried to scream, but the arms held me so tight I couldn’t get enough air to yell. I heard other screams - my Mistress? - but a hand covered my face with cloth soaked in something medicinal, and I was falling, falling, falling . . .

I woke maybe an hour ago now. My head was encased in some kind of bag, through which came a faint amount of light and air. Very disorienting. My mouth was packed full of something, perhaps my own panties. I had gagged at the thought, trying to suppress the nauseous feeling that made my stomach squeeze and jump. Tape sealed my mouth shut, and something, perhaps more tape, held the bag tightly shut around my neck, not tight enough to suffocate me, but enough that my nasal panting made a hoarse wheezing sound in my throat.

My arms were bound behind me with more tape, as were my ankles. Thank god it wasn’t rope, or I would have been sawed in half by now. As it was, the edges of the tape edges made tiny surgical incisions into my wrists and ankles with every move I made.

I really didn’t want to move, but the bouncing and swaying told me I was in a truck or van of some kind, being driven at high speed over a very windy, bumpy road, spinning me over to roll and bang up against the walls. This was terrifying, given that I couldn’t see - the world would just suddenly roll over in the most revolting way.

My reaching fingers quickly figured out that I was half naked - I suppose the only part that matters to men - and the burning between my legs, well, I didn’t want to think about that.

My breasts, too, had that swollen and over-sensitive feeling they get when people beat on them too long, though whether I had really been abused or just banged around in the truck I couldn’t tell.

But the worst part was the other girl.

On some of my spinning rolls I’d thump up against her softness. And sometimes she would bump up against me, pinning me to the truck wall. She was bound as I was, but seemed limp. Too limp. I was terrified that it was my Mistress. I tried feeling it - her - when the bounces took me over there, but she - it - wasn’t responding. Was She OK? Was She dead? The thought of being trapped in here with a dead body made me gag and I very nearly threw up.

The truck finally bounced badly two or three times, then jerked to a halt. For a moment, I felt relief, trying to suppress the fear that the worst was now about to happen. Metal doors slammed open. I could hear men laughing, talking in some kind of guttural Spanish that I could barely understand - except for “puta”, “chichis”, and “nalgas”. What they had in mind for my poor bare nalgas I tried not to think about.

Suddenly hands grabbed my ankles, lifting, hauling me backwards. Not in one smooth motion, but a series of little jerks that scraped my thighs and breasts on the floor. My pitiful howls for them to stop came out as a series of muffled grunts. I tried to arch my back to pull my chichis up off the floor, but the smack when they fell back again was worse.

When my crotch slid across the end of the truck, they dropped my legs. Other hands grabbed my arms, hauling me upright. Hands began groping me, forcing between my legs, lifting my top so my titties were hanging out to be squeezed and slapped.

I was terrified, both of them holding me for the groping hands - and of them letting go, to fall helplessly onto the ground. I stood there twisting and straining, groaning into the gag, trying to evade the hands pummeling my tits.

I heard something that translated roughly as “fat meat,” and then a sterner voice saying “Put her on the frame.”

Someone pushed me, and I fell sickeningly, until my arms jerked up behind me with a painful wrench and I was hanging. Being dragged. . .

*     *     *

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It was afternoon - and sunny - when She hung me out in the field, laughing with Her friends about what a scarecunt I was. Heard their lewd jests disappearing as they went in to have drinks. Then silence.

Now, hours later, my cold, naked body twitches spastically, unable to bear the rough wood boring into my arms one second longer. Or the rope that my cunnie is forced to ride. My hands and feet, strangled by the ropes binding wrists and ankles, have no feeling at all.

My voice hoarse and weak from screaming, I howl frantically one more time into the gag that spreads my lips impossibly wide, turns my helpless cries into huffing sounds, just one more of the little breezes that ruffle the grass.

The rain, at first feeling soothing on my sweaty body, starts pelting down, my body shivering frantically with the cold.

The old burlap bag tied around my head rapidly soaks up water. Sticks to my face, gradually shutting out the air . . .