Bound to be Dared (F/self, F/F)
Posted: Fri Sep 08, 2023 9:25 pm
Only one car occupied the fifth parking lot this late Sunday afternoon: the one I had hoped to see. Or better, the one I had wished for. Riley’s shiny black Mazda stood in sharp contrast to my dented yellow Toyota. I parked next to hers. Was my idea foolish? Was it worth it? Yes and no, but I craved confirmation. Time for a walk. The marks of her boots led into the woods, and I followed them as my heart pounded in my throat.
Riley’s easy-to-track ankle boots soon exchanged the well-threaded trail for a narrow alleyway through young beeches. I tried to quietly tiptoe while brushing my body past the rustling branches. Unable to see further than 25 feet in every direction, she had hoped for (and expected) life-saving privacy. No random passerby would ever face her, but luckily, I knew which footprints to track. I sneaked over a ridge, searching for long strawberry-blonde hair.
My head popped around a thick birch tree, and the unnatural color of red rubber caught my eye. Baby pink lips and soft, spotless skin surrounded the ball. Riley’s strawberry blonde hair hung silently in the fresh air. Instinctively, I dodged behind a tree, peeking around it with a single eye. Riley was here, and she was obeying my instructions. A long black strip of fabric was wrapped multiple times over her eyes, so my weak attempt to hide had been unnecessary. My manager was squatting down, naked from the waist down, chained to the ground, and gazed calmly towards her unsought visitor. Her hands were cuffed to their respective ankles. The chain between her wrists ran underneath a tree root, keeping her fixed. Roughly, because the bonds were not tight enough to take all her movement away. She could shift, taking the easiest route to her subspace away. I had been cruel.
Even more perverse, I stared straight into my clueless manager’s pussy. Sure, Riley still wore her olive green fleece jacket she had worked in all day, but I saw enough to ruin her career. With my phone, I could make a video and send it to her anonymously. I could steal her work pants, panties, ankle boots, or socks she had flung on a tree trunk with her phone and car keys. Of course, my intentions were not malicious, so Riley’s fear would be misplaced. It would be an extraordinary scene and my most wicked deed. What a way to learn your employee had the same obscure hobby. Only the last rational, non-horny voice in my head assured me that she would be only terrified and anything but aroused. Being stuck in such a vulnerable position with a stranger was a nightmare. Riley would fire me immediately, and she was lovely for a manager.
I kept fantasizing about the woman before me. My manager sat on the moss, grunting on the rubber every dozen seconds as she could not find a comfortable stance. Sure, she had heard me, but forests are never noiseless. Soon, Riley would convince herself she had perceived an animal, ghost, or nothing. Paranoia is strange. The calm Riley suggested she still believed to be alone. Now, I could replace the red rubber ball between her jaws with one gray sock, and those frilly pink panties fitted too. The taste would be horrid. With the duct tape from my car, they would stay there until her hands were freed, and that would not happen soon. Ice always melts slower than you want, and a small block hanging around her neck held the key to her getaway. It was a single master key for all little padlocks. Her fingers grabbed it occasionally, testing whether the ice was melting or trying to figure out whether melting it with her hands was worth it. Repeatedly, she decided to speed up her escape before rediscovering that the ice was still cold.
It still surprised me how well Riley had obeyed an internet stranger. Her reports were always delightful, and I trusted them. The facts, honesty, and the lack of unbelievable drama had convinced me that B0undB0ndGir7 was legit long ago. Riley had always considered every dare, doing as requested while changing minor details to make it work, and admitted when she failed or chickened out. She did not overhype herself nor set unrealistic expectations. In our online dare group, we only added people to our inner circle chats when we believed them. Still, seeing it in action was odd. B0undB0ndGir7 caught my attention last month, and now, I gaped right into her private area and could touch them and run away before she could remove her blindfold. I loved my intrusive thoughts.
The pictures we posted as proof of our naughty stunts were anonymized by blurring faces and recognizable places. Yet, in some images, Riley had included her back with a tiny purple butterfly tattoo on the spine, including one where she lay spread-eagled on her salmon-pink carpet last month. One lunch, she told me about her tattoo. It had made me suspicious fate wanted to enlighten me that my direct boss was far from innocent. I matched her hair, the post times to her work schedule, the backgrounds with the local vegetation, and the birthmark on her hand to the anonymous pictures. Even her catchphrases corresponded to her online persona. Riley was B0undB0ndGir7, and I had enough evidence to persuade any jury I had a case beyond reasonable doubt.
I knew much more about her – being honest online is painless – than she had shared at work. Her fears, hopes, annoyances, love life, and disappointments were now known to her subordinate. How humiliating. At work, she was great. She was not as demanding or belittling as other managers when you stood still to write you up as if that motivated anyone. She was strict while also comprehending that boosting morale could be beneficial. She handed out snacks after long, busy days but forced anyone she disliked to clean the animal enclosures. She was my boss, but now I knew what a submissive slut she actually was.
As these thoughts bounced through my head, my eyes fixated on the bound woman. My plan to get the final proof had worked. I had posted the forest dare (she did not live close by) involving a blindfold where I had sufficient time to catch her red-handed. She would do it on Sunday after work, as the garden center closed early at 7 PM. Checking the trailheads of the nearest woods had worked out magically.
Afraid she could tear off the blindfold with her cuffed hands, I gave her one last look before returning to the car. I photographed her Mustang to have non-incriminating proof I had found her and drove home blushing and screaming with laughter. Mission accomplished.
Riley’s easy-to-track ankle boots soon exchanged the well-threaded trail for a narrow alleyway through young beeches. I tried to quietly tiptoe while brushing my body past the rustling branches. Unable to see further than 25 feet in every direction, she had hoped for (and expected) life-saving privacy. No random passerby would ever face her, but luckily, I knew which footprints to track. I sneaked over a ridge, searching for long strawberry-blonde hair.
My head popped around a thick birch tree, and the unnatural color of red rubber caught my eye. Baby pink lips and soft, spotless skin surrounded the ball. Riley’s strawberry blonde hair hung silently in the fresh air. Instinctively, I dodged behind a tree, peeking around it with a single eye. Riley was here, and she was obeying my instructions. A long black strip of fabric was wrapped multiple times over her eyes, so my weak attempt to hide had been unnecessary. My manager was squatting down, naked from the waist down, chained to the ground, and gazed calmly towards her unsought visitor. Her hands were cuffed to their respective ankles. The chain between her wrists ran underneath a tree root, keeping her fixed. Roughly, because the bonds were not tight enough to take all her movement away. She could shift, taking the easiest route to her subspace away. I had been cruel.
Even more perverse, I stared straight into my clueless manager’s pussy. Sure, Riley still wore her olive green fleece jacket she had worked in all day, but I saw enough to ruin her career. With my phone, I could make a video and send it to her anonymously. I could steal her work pants, panties, ankle boots, or socks she had flung on a tree trunk with her phone and car keys. Of course, my intentions were not malicious, so Riley’s fear would be misplaced. It would be an extraordinary scene and my most wicked deed. What a way to learn your employee had the same obscure hobby. Only the last rational, non-horny voice in my head assured me that she would be only terrified and anything but aroused. Being stuck in such a vulnerable position with a stranger was a nightmare. Riley would fire me immediately, and she was lovely for a manager.
I kept fantasizing about the woman before me. My manager sat on the moss, grunting on the rubber every dozen seconds as she could not find a comfortable stance. Sure, she had heard me, but forests are never noiseless. Soon, Riley would convince herself she had perceived an animal, ghost, or nothing. Paranoia is strange. The calm Riley suggested she still believed to be alone. Now, I could replace the red rubber ball between her jaws with one gray sock, and those frilly pink panties fitted too. The taste would be horrid. With the duct tape from my car, they would stay there until her hands were freed, and that would not happen soon. Ice always melts slower than you want, and a small block hanging around her neck held the key to her getaway. It was a single master key for all little padlocks. Her fingers grabbed it occasionally, testing whether the ice was melting or trying to figure out whether melting it with her hands was worth it. Repeatedly, she decided to speed up her escape before rediscovering that the ice was still cold.
It still surprised me how well Riley had obeyed an internet stranger. Her reports were always delightful, and I trusted them. The facts, honesty, and the lack of unbelievable drama had convinced me that B0undB0ndGir7 was legit long ago. Riley had always considered every dare, doing as requested while changing minor details to make it work, and admitted when she failed or chickened out. She did not overhype herself nor set unrealistic expectations. In our online dare group, we only added people to our inner circle chats when we believed them. Still, seeing it in action was odd. B0undB0ndGir7 caught my attention last month, and now, I gaped right into her private area and could touch them and run away before she could remove her blindfold. I loved my intrusive thoughts.
The pictures we posted as proof of our naughty stunts were anonymized by blurring faces and recognizable places. Yet, in some images, Riley had included her back with a tiny purple butterfly tattoo on the spine, including one where she lay spread-eagled on her salmon-pink carpet last month. One lunch, she told me about her tattoo. It had made me suspicious fate wanted to enlighten me that my direct boss was far from innocent. I matched her hair, the post times to her work schedule, the backgrounds with the local vegetation, and the birthmark on her hand to the anonymous pictures. Even her catchphrases corresponded to her online persona. Riley was B0undB0ndGir7, and I had enough evidence to persuade any jury I had a case beyond reasonable doubt.
I knew much more about her – being honest online is painless – than she had shared at work. Her fears, hopes, annoyances, love life, and disappointments were now known to her subordinate. How humiliating. At work, she was great. She was not as demanding or belittling as other managers when you stood still to write you up as if that motivated anyone. She was strict while also comprehending that boosting morale could be beneficial. She handed out snacks after long, busy days but forced anyone she disliked to clean the animal enclosures. She was my boss, but now I knew what a submissive slut she actually was.
As these thoughts bounced through my head, my eyes fixated on the bound woman. My plan to get the final proof had worked. I had posted the forest dare (she did not live close by) involving a blindfold where I had sufficient time to catch her red-handed. She would do it on Sunday after work, as the garden center closed early at 7 PM. Checking the trailheads of the nearest woods had worked out magically.
Afraid she could tear off the blindfold with her cuffed hands, I gave her one last look before returning to the car. I photographed her Mustang to have non-incriminating proof I had found her and drove home blushing and screaming with laughter. Mission accomplished.