It was a dripping-sweat-hot Thursday night.
I had invited Gray to have an interrogation scene.
For my trouble, I found myself tied tight in 4mm hojo rope, partially suspended with only my left leg for support. I wore heels and stood on two overlapping matts, both contributing to my general lack of stability.
My arms were behind my back, my right thigh up in the air. My clothes were cut and riped off of me through his chest tie. There was a metal ass hook in my rear attached to my hair.
A piece riped off from my outfit served as a gag. In that gag sat a habenero pepper, which I was instructed to not drop. If I did, there stood a threat of mean pincers or large gauge needles to keep it in.
Nipple clamps dangled from my chest, their chain looped through my gag. If I bent my head forward, I pulled on the ass hook. If I bent my head back, I pulled on my nipples.
Oh, and in the process of Gray’s layering of stimuli, I had been paddled, caned, kicked, slapped, and punched.
All this, and Gray hadn’t even gotten to his inquiry yet.
Pulling up a metal folding chair, Gray sat down just on the outside of the blue matts. He opened up his Mac and went to my blog, this blog.
He then went to the blogger home page, typed in one of my email addresses, and asked one simple question, “What’s your password?”
I stayed silent.
Gray reassured me I would know exactly what he would post. He pulled up WordPad and began writing his diatribe.
It was mean, calling out multiple riggers I knew, including him, and saying many not nice things, mentioning how I didn’t need them anymore since for this event I was now rigging others myself.
Gray was especially hurtful towards himself, mocking his personality and his physical features, specifically his stomach.
He said he was going to post that on my blog. All he needed was my password.
Finished typing, he looked up at me and again asked for the information.
In many things I am open. I write a lot about my life, both kinky and not, on this blog. But somethings I am protective of, one of them being my passwords. I use upper and lowercase letters, numbers, symbols, and I throw in a word. I like knowing and feeling secure about my Internet privacy.
But here Gray was, sitting on a metal folding chair, Blogger up, wanting to know information I have never told anyone, ever.
I hesitated. Looking at the email address he listed, I realized it was the wrong one for my blog. He had typed my kinky email address, which I’d acquired after I’d begun the blog.
I didn’t want to give away more than I had to, and if I’d given up the password to the wrong address, that probably would’ve incurred yet more wrath from my captor.
Through the gag, I was able to spell out the correct email address. But Gray still needed the password. Again, I hesitated.
Sensing my unwillingness, even strung up and over stimulated as I was, Gray upped the ante. Using his blade, he cut off the tip of the pepper and made a small V.
“This can easily go on your clit. What’s the password?”
Reluctantly I said the first few characters, but then stopped. Angered, Gray put the tip of the pepper on my right nipple. Crying still more, I coughed up the rest of the information.
But it didn’t work.
Gray asked for it again. I spat it out through the gag, but it still didn’t work. He typed it over and over.
I suspected he had one of those programs that blocks a site from loading, just another layer of mindfuck. He typed out the password, showed it to me, and submitted once more; nothing.
He thought I was fucking with him. He thought I was misdirecting. He thought I was lying. I swore to him that I wasn’t lying, swore to him that I didn’t know what was going on.
In the swirl of emotions, the pepper top dropped. Gray picked up the piece, rubbed its juices on his hand, and massaged my clit. The burning was immediate, as were my sobs.
I didn’t understand why it wasn’t working. I told him that was the correct password.
But then, in a flash, it occurred to me: maybe I wasn’t remembering it all. I use a mnemonic device to recall the intricacies of my passwords. Maybe I skipped something or used a number instead of a letter. Maybe I genuinely got it wrong.
I asked him to switch a number and a letter; nothing. I asked him to try a different variation; zilch.
Finally we’d tried enough times to enter a password that Blogger asked a security question. This, thankfully, I did remember. I gave him the answer and he was in.
He closed his Mac, stood up, and began letting me down. He removed the pepper and the gag. He slowly lowered my right leg, which had gone numb. I cautiously put weight on it. He released my chest tie from the arch and slowly helped me to the ground.
Unclamping my left nipple, I screamed; intense pain surged in my breast.
“The right’s going to be worse.”
“I know; just do it!”
Again my cries filled the tent, echoing out over the lawn.
“You know, my nipples, they never went numb.”
He unwound his rope, my arms and hands numbed as well. Finished, he sat back in his metal chair. He instructed me to come and put my head on his boot.
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