Florida Bondage Trip

I was finally talking to her.  It took me a while to win her trust.  I had to assure her I wasn’t into her sexually.  She was blonde.  Blondes didn’t usually do it for me, and I told her that.  She was also a dominatrix … and that’s why I wanted to talk to her.  Interview her really.

After months of corresponding, she opened up to the idea.  I was serious.  I was professional.  I had questions.  She considered men to be lowlife scum and treated them as such.  She also made a very decent living at it.  Let’s face it, who wouldn’t want to beat men for money?  Hell, I’d do it for kicks.  I thought maybe, just maybe, this would be the one who would be interesting to question.

So, with recording equipment in place, I called Florida.  Florida, for those who never really delved into the sexual underbelly of America, seems to have a greater population of freaks than other places you’d imagine.  Sure, California and New York has them, too, but in Florida they are all out there.  Proud and loud.  S&M monsters.  Scat suckers.  Animal fuckers.  You can envision it?  Florida’s got a very open person doing it.

The conversation was not as good as I had hoped it would be.  She, like a lot of the “kink” types I had talked to over the years, was really kind of boring and took herself way too seriously.  Yet she used words like “play” and “toys.”  Oh, how I hated that, but I had to interview her and keep the convo flowin’.  I had white space to fill, you know.

She was saying the same standard answers that had been uttered by others before her and are still being uttered today.  Nothing new.  Nothing insightful.  Nothing interesting.  But then, in the midst of her talking about her favorite whips, I heard it.  Muffled sounds.  In the background.  Muffled screams, to be more precise.

“What is that noise?” I asked her.

“It’s a business man,” she said.  “I’m working with him while talking to you.”

I had called her office.  Now I imagine that also served as her dungeon.  “What are you doing to him?” I asked.

“Nothing now,” she said.

I could still hear the muffled screams and shuffling sounds.  It didn’t sound … right.

“Is he gagged?” I asked.

“Yes.”

There was more.

“And in a body bag.”

That made me smile.  That is why I wanted to interview her.  There was a little something extra in her step.  That blonde had moxie.  That blonde had Mr. Businessman gagged and in a body bag.  He was freaking.  Body bags get hot.  They kill if one is claustrophobic.  They need to altered to allow for breathing, after all they are designed to keep fluids from leaking out when a body gets moved or starts hits that stage of rot.  That guy had to be going nuts in there.  In the dark.  Hearing her talk.  Knowing he was in the same thing used to carry that body that was starting to turn to multicolored oatmeal out in some field somewhere.  Close your eyes and think of that, for a minute.  You can hear her on the phone talking about how she hates men.  How she likes to torture them.  You’ve got a ball gag in your mouth.  You can’t tell if your eyes are open or closed because it’s so dark in the heavy plastic tomb.  Every breath that comes out your nose seems to add to the heat.  Your movement is restricted, and you can hear that blonde bombshell talking to some reporter about how she likes to abuse men.  Did she forget about you?  What if she is really crazy?  What if she lets you die?  Nobody knows where you are at.  It’s not like you told your coworkers you were heading out to get the shit beat out of you by some busty blonde with issues.  You could die in that bag and nobody would know.

I kept her on the phone for another half hour.  It was a good day.