Up Against It

by Phoebegetsit

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© Copyright 2012 - Phoebegetsit - Used by permission

Storycodes: F/f; lingerie; strip; naked; collar; chain; garage; reluct/cons; X

Dinner was over.

"Have some more wine," she said, then let's go have some fun."

"OK, I said, "I'll go up and get dressed".

"Ooh," she called after me, "Put your hair up, and then put on that cute lace cami that ties at the shoulders. And the black mini with the g-string. That's all you'll need.

Now I was wondering what she had in mind. She was right, though, because courtesy of twenty years of ballet, I'm the poster child for the boyish figure, and I only own one bra, appropriately from Barely There, which goes under flimsy tops if, say, I need to foil my lecherous dentist who likes to lean over me and say 'open wide'. Right - in your dreams, Bicuspid Breath.

After I did a quick job on my eyes, she gently tied the spaghetti straps over my shoulders as I perched on the edge of the bed. I pulled the thong G over my smoothly shaved crotch, then on went the tiny skirt. Then I slipped my toes under the straps and around the thongs of my black sandals and zipped up the backs. She gave me a little hug.

"Off we go, then" she said, holding my bag as we headed down to the garage.

"You know," she said, opening the door, "I hate to bring this up, but you were kinda naughty last night, and you've been cranky all week."

"Sorry," I said unconvincingly, "PMS." I'm a lying bitch, I thought to myself, I was just being a little cunt because I'm feeling overworked.

"Hold on a moment," she said, "I have a little something for you!"

"Oooh, I love little somethings," I said.

"OK, then turn around and close your eyes."

I did, and I felt the little something around my neck.

"A necklace?" I said.

"Kind of, it's a nice steel one and it closes like this." I heard a click. "Oh, that's a locking spring pin - it needs a special tool to take it off."

She suddenly pulled me backwards by the collar and in a second there was another click and I was attached to the garage wall by my neck.

"What the hell?" I said, feeling the collar, which felt about an inch high. Holding my wrists in front, she unzipped my skirt and let it fall to the floor, and then laughed while she pulled at the bows over my shoulders and let the cami drop. Then she untied the sides of the teeny g-string. Suddenly my outfit consisted of a steel collar and my sandals, and I was literally up against the wall.

"Just as a matter of interest", I said grammatically, "Exactly how and to what am I attached?"

"Be my guest," she said, and I reached back to feel a ring on the back of the collar, and a serious padlock.

"Keep going," she said, and guided my fingers on a tour of a heavy steel ring mounted on a plate.

"Nice heavy hardware," she said.

"How come I never noticed it before?"

"Oh, it's been right there," she said, "At least, since last night, while you were out shopping. The ring is attached to a plate, which is screwed to a horizontal two by six stud in the wall that just happened to be at the same height as your lovely neck."

"So it is," I said, feeling four large bolt heads. "Now what?, is this where you cuff my wrists and ankles, ball gag me, butt plug me, clamp my nipples and have at me with a huge dildo like in all those BDSM stories?"

"Oh no," she said, I'm going to leave you just like that while I go to a movie. Enjoy!" She picked up my skirt, top and undies and threw them in the laundry basket, then hit the button for the garage door.

"People will see me!" I yelled.

"Too bad!" she said, "But only for a moment." I was sort of relieved when her car backed out and the door closed. I pulled on the collar and jiggled the lock.

"Boy oh boy," I thought. "She sure planned that one. Hair up, clothes easy to take off, too much wine . . ."

But suddenly I remembered all those B&D rules about never leaving someone alone with anything on their neck, let alone firmly attached to a garage wall. Then I thought about the time I got stuck in some handcuffs overnight, and thought, OK, I can handle this. I started humming Ninety-Nine Bottles of Beer on the Wall. When I got to the seventies, I realized I needed to pee. Now, the trouble with that little urge is that once it starts, you know how it is, there's no turning back. OMG, I thought, I might have to go right here, which is disgusting, and it'll ruin my sandals, and make me stink. And if I end standing in a slippery yellow puddle, I'm afraid I might have terminal neck pain, and that probably wouldn't be a good idea - I'll be tomorrow's lead story on Channel Four . . .

I stood on one leg, balanced myself carefully, and pulled up the other ankle and felt around for the zipper on the back of the sandal. I gently pulled it down, then carefully changed positions and did the other one, then kicked them off very carefully, so not to lose my footing.

I reached up and discovered that I could slip my fingers under the collar, which relieved the pressure on my throat. It wasn't too tight, but it wasn't going anywhere, and neither was I. Then I realized that I was getting warmer, because my car, on the other side of the closed garage was still hot from the drive home and making the temperature rise in the confined space.

I started to sweat, and the little beads that were forming on my forehead were making friends and combining into a small waterfall dripping off the end of my nose, down between the girls and soaking my coochie. As I wiped it away, I thought, OK, I could indulge myself in a little private pleasure to pass the time, but before I could start, I suddenly flashed back to Junior High. It was 1993, and here was my late mother opening my bedroom door at exactly the wrong moment to find teen me arched on the bed with a pillow under my ass, breathing hard and busily scraping the cheese off the taco, spelunking in the mystery cave, looking for Mrs. G, well, you get it. I remembered how cool she was; that's what comes of being from an old-line family. "Welcome to womanhood," she said, "We'll go to lunch and talk."

Well, by the end of that lunch all the mysteries of life had been revealed and explained woman to woman. That cured me of being a moody teenager, because as they came up, issues were easily discussed and dispatched, and life became fun. After all, this was the woman who had slipped the first thong between my toes at that tender age and launched a lifetime affair with sandals, who made me study and taught me to love it, and who thought that impeccably dressed friends lunching in fine restaurants was always the right remedy for whatever ailed. I remembered how she was so cool about boyfriends, and girlfriends, for that matter, and really missed her. Suddenly the sweaty stream running down from my forehead was joined by mascara stained tears, real ones as all the memories rushed back.

I stood there, chained to the wall, a complete mess, bawling and just longing for my other half to come home. Suddenly the door from the house opened and I jumped so hard that I let go in a yellow stream all down the insides of my legs and over my feet.

"Oh thank GOD!" I screamed, grateful it wasn't a visiting rapist.

"I was here the whole time," she said, "When I left I just parked across the street and snuck back in the kitchen door - you didn't really think that I would leave you alone like that, did you? You were so stressed and just needed a little special private time, that's what friends are for." She wiped my eyes and my legs with a towel and unhooked me from the wall.

"Let's go upstairs and clean you up." As I pulled down my hair and ran the shower she came in with the little metal thing to open the collar.

"That's OK," I found myself saying as I blinked lovingly at her, "It can stay on . . ."


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