Gagging the Press
That September, the bureaucrats proclaimed for us another idiotic “recreation event” to improve morale: yes it was to be “nostalgia day” at the newspaper where I worked as a junior reporter. Come as someone from your favourite decade. Hell, I didn’t like any of them very much.
But I did like the forties. And so did Elizabeth Peach.
Ah, Elizabeth Peach. Tall and busty, with a big caboose to match. Raven hair (not quite shoulder length) and big, cool green, no-nonsense eyes to die for. She was one of the junior editors, and I regularly worked with her. She was a few years older than me, and I was thirtyish at the time. Yes, I liked her even more than I liked the forties, me being a bisexual woman, but since all the signs said she was straight, I had said nothing.
Yes, I had a bit of a thing for Elizabeth. It’s unusual for me, but once in a while it happens. Everyone at the office thought I was straight. I guess I am, sort of – most of the time. Most of the time I like guys, but sometimes there’s something about some woman that just makes me think...
She was the smartest woman on the newspaper. Smarter than me, and I’m no idiot by a long shot.
Anyway, I got myself a 1940s type suit. Something like Humphrey Bogart would have worn. I’m a big Bogart fan, and I always thought the men of that period looked pretty sharp. I especially loved the pants and suspenders on me, and I plopped the fedora on my head at a jaunty angle.
Now, I am not a very large woman. I’m short, thin, and have a slightly freckly face and frizzy blonde hair. I tend to think I look a little mousey. Well, in that suit something came over me. I looked cute and I felt, well, cocky. I looked in the full length mirror in my bedroom and started thinking cynical-smart-ass-reporter: the sort of character you saw in forties movies, and which I hadn’t been until that moment. Very smart indeed.
So I walked into Liz’s office in my suit and fedora that “recreation event” day, and she was sitting there, perched on the edge of her big wooden desk, carefully filing her nails. You’ve seen Sean Young in Blade Runner? Something like that. Ms. Peach was snugly encased in a 1940s style suit: black, complete with big shoulder pads and a very tight, almost knee-length skirt. She had her own twist on the period, however, because the entire outfit was of soft leather. Very classy. Ah, that lovely white skin, red rubber lips and crimson nails...
As they would have said in the forties, “Hubba hubba.”
This was a chance, I thought, to flirt with a straight woman in a way that wouldn’t be inappropriate. Pretend you’re Bogart, get a little fresh with the lady...
“Very authentic looking,” is what I actually said, “except that I don’t think they’d have made a suit like that out of leather.”
“Probably not. Does it matter?”
I’ll say it didn’t.
In the corner of her room was another desk with her computer on it, which was awaiting repairs. But on the larger desk, the one she had parked her lovely fanny on, was an old-fashioned Underwood typewriter: one of those massive cast-iron jobs that seems to be made out of tank armour or something.
“You really are taking this nostalgia thing pretty far, aren’t you?” I asked. “Don’t tell me you’re going to type on this all day long. How is Miss Lightning Fingers” (she was well known to be a phenomenally fast typist) “going to make any headway with this thing?”
“Silly. They had a few of these down in supply they were going to get rid of. I happened to be there and couldn’t resist taking one. I had them bring it up. I don’t really know what I’m going to do with it, it just seems like such a waste otherwise. To think what stories this typewriter might have written. Maybe something the day J.F.K. was shot ...”
“Or Lincoln. Looking pretty good, sweetheart,” lowering my voice, twitching my mouth like Bogart. “You, that is, not the typewriter. Say, have you lost weight?”
“No. And that’s not a question for a so-called ‘man’ to ask a lady.” She smiled.
“That’s kind of what I’ve grown to expect from dames like you,” I said, standing there nonchalantly with my hands in my deep pockets.
“Oh knock it off.”
I laughed. “I’d pinch your little patoot, sweetheart, but I think your girdle’s too tight for that.”
“My what?”
“Your patoot ...”
“No, the other ...”
“Your girdle, sweetie. Come on, I know all you dames wear ‘em.” I put my fingers in my belt in that gunslinger pose Bogart used with Lauren Bacall in The Big Sleep.
“Oh,” she said, looking relieved, “I thought you meant it was really obvious or something, like a visible girdle line.”
“No kidding?” I asked, dropping the persona for a moment, “you mean you really are wearing a girdle?”
“Well,” she smiled, smoothing her skirt beneath her as she got off the desk, “yeah. I mean, it’s the forties, right? Might as well go all the way.”
“All the way is right. I thought your waistline looked smaller. So, how does it feel?”
“That depends on who’s asking,” she said, looking at me with mock defensiveness, “My erstwhile female friend or some fresh bastard who’s bucking for a slap in the face.”
I laughed again. She was starting to enjoy the Bogart thing. So was I.
“Let’s just say,” I replied, artfully half way between my own voice and that of Bogart, “I promise not to give any secrets to the fresh bastard.”
She looked at me a moment. She moved behind the desk. The heavy typewriter was between us, like some kind of barrier. As she started pulling paper and erasers from her desk drawers she sighed, “This girdle’s fucking well killing me.”
“Is it, now?”
“What we had to go through in those days.” She shook her head.
“So, is it, like, a panty girdle, or ...”
“Let’s just get on with that work we had to do, shall we?” She clicked a pen and held it out to me.
I felt it was time to drop the Bogart thing for a while. But I had other ideas. “Ah,” I said. “So it wasn’t you. I didn’t think so. But I had to make sure.”
“What the hell are you talking about?”
I leaned forward in a confidential manner. “I seem to have what they call a secret admirer. Either that, or I’m being stalked by a pervert. Remember yesterday was Valentine’s Day?” I reached into my inside jacket pocket. Look what somebody left on my desk.” I put it on her desk. A small, red, cardboard box. “Go on, open it.”
She looked at me. Gingerly, she took the lid off and folded back the pink wrapping paper. “Oh you’re kidding,” she laughed, “a ball gag? Who do you think sent it? Stan from accounting, maybe? It’s the sort of thing he’d do ...”
I shrugged. “Might not even be a man, for all I know.” I was telling the truth. I bought it myself. I didn’t have any clear idea of why I wanted to show it to her. I just thought the idea was, you know, kind of sexy. Show some classy dame something blatantly sexual, in your face (literally) and see how she reacts. I had no cock to show her, but I did have a ball. And she could hardly blame me for whipping it out, could she?
“There’s even a padlock, and a key – have you ever used anything like this?” she asked.
“Well ...”
“I mean, it’s kind of barbaric, isn’t it?” She smiled. “What possesses women to let men treat them this way?”
“Not just men ...” The shiny rubber ball was a bloody red, just like her nails and lipstick.
“Ooh. I just got that weird, shuddery feeling, you know?”
“What feeling is that?”
“You know how if you’re at the top of a tall building and you look down, you’re afraid you might inexplicably go crazy and throw yourself off?”
“Don’t worry. You can’t open the windows here.” She gave me a wry smile and rolled her eyes. “You mean you’re afraid you’ll suddenly go crazy and ...”
“Why, try the gag on, of course.”
“And why should that be like throwing yourself out the window? A little ball gag isn’t going to kill you.”
“Well, it’s hardly little.” She opened her mouth and put the ball up close to it, as if she were about to bite an apple. She hesitated.
“If it bothers you, I can just put it away, then.”
“Oh don’t be ridiculous.” She knit her gorgeous black brows at me and waved the fingers of one hand at the door behind me. “Close that and lock it, please, just so no one walks in.”
I did so. She stood there looking at the black leather straps dangling from the ball in her hand, making sure she knew how all the tackle was supposed to fit. The ball really was big. Fortunately, Liz had a big mouth. She opened wide and carefully wedged the ball in. Her red-rubber lips sealed themselves tightly around it as if designed for that purpose, as if sucking involuntarily at something juicy she hadn’t known she needed so much. She was unselfconsciously crosseyed and staring at the gag as she carefully pulled the complicated harness, which looked for all the world like headgear for a horse, over herself and tightened the straps behind.
I was getting excited. Would she go all the way and use the padlock? Or would she just go girlie on me and stop there?
She didn’t hesitate. It was as if she had some kind of mission, something to prove. As if she were saying, “I’m not afraid of this silly old thing.” She picked up the big lock and reached behind her head. She fumbled a little, knit her eyebrows, and then there was a loud, satisfying "click" as it locked in place.
The phone rang.
“Shall I get it?” I smiled suavely and picked it up. “Hello? Elizabeth Peach’s office ... I’m sorry, she’s unable to come to the phone at the present time. May I give her a message? ... uh-huh ... oh yes, she’s working hard these days. A little strapped for time, but I’m sure she’ll be chomping at the bit to talk to you, that is, when she can ... Okay, bye.”
Elizabeth didn’t seem to think I was that funny. “Glmmphhh!” she said.
“So how does it feel, sweet-cakes?” She shrugged and gestured as if to say, “I’m wearing a gag, idiot.” I calmly waved at the typewriter in response. She sat down in front of it, and I went over to watch.
ITS EVEN MORE UNCOMFORTABLE THAN MY GIRDLE!!!
“Uh-huh. So, does your girdle need a key, too?”
OH FUCK OFF
I smiled. “So do you have any insights as to why a woman would wear this rig?”
TO MANIFEST HER INNER HORSE, PERHAPS? GIVE ME A FEW MINUTES TO SAVOUR THE EQUINE EXPERIENCE, AND I’LL LET YOU KNOW FOR SURE, MR. BOGART
I leaned back against the big desk with my hands in my pockets and turned a little to look down towards the typewriter. “Good answer. Maybe she wants to be ridden.”
SO WHY DO YOU THINK, AS A ‘MAN’, A MAN WOULD APPRECIATE THIS?
“Maybe he thinks she talks too much.”
IDIOT. HE WANTS HER TO BE TOTALLY HELPLESS
“My, aren’t we judgmental. I notice you’re in no rush to take it off.” Her brows crossed.
WHAT ARE YOU TRYING TO SAY? THAT I LIKE TO FEEL HELPLESS?
“Do you feel helpless, then?” I thought then I noticed a smile about the eyes, though the look about the mouth was as delectably stupid as before.
NO. THAT’S BECAUSE I CONTROL THE KEY
She glanced at the spot on the desk where she had last seen it and started. It wasn’t there. I had surreptitiously slipped it into my pocket. There was a lovely few moments as she splayed and scattered papers and pencils all over the place, trying to find it.
“Say, honey, what’s the matter?”
WHERE’S THE KEY?!!! IT WAS HERE A MINUTE AGO!!!
“Oops! Sorry. I put it in my pocket so you wouldn’t lose it. Guess I should have told you. Do you want it?”
NO, I JUST THOUGHT I’D CHEW ON THIS RUBBER BALL FOR THE REST OF THE DAY, WHAT DO YOU THINK?
“Sure toots, whatever you say.” I dropped the key on the desk. She reached for it hastily and started to fumble at the lock behind her head. “Need any help?” She fluttered her eyes disdainfully in response and stared at the ceiling as her graceful long fingers felt for the lock behind her. She bent her head forward as her deft fingers sought to find the keyhole for the key ... and then ever so skilfully dropped it down the back of her tight black jacket.
“Ggllmmphh?”
I stood back to watch the show. She looked down at the carpet and turned round in little circles, thinking apparently the key had dropped to the floor. She turned her overstuffed face towards me and stared: “Gggnnggh?”
HELP ME FIND IT
Then she was on all fours, crawling delectably in that tight skirt of hers, looking under desks, furniture, overturning the wastepaper basket. Whenever her back was turned, the hand in my deep pocket moved between my legs a little ...
“Actually,” I said nonchalantly, “I believe it fell down the back of your jacket.”
She pulled her head out from under a chair. “Ggmmmph?” Then she stood up, reaching behind her, first at the neck, and then lower, trying to feel the key in the small of her back. She began to fumble with the buttons at the front of her jacket, which tightly burst open one by one.
ENJOYING THE SHOW, BOGIE?
I smiled and nodded. Oh yes. Would you like me to leave?
DON’T YOU DARE. I WANT TO MAKE SURE THIS FUCKING KEY WORKS WHEN I FIND IT!
“Of course you do.” She didn’t know I had a spare on me, as well as a sharp little knife for the straps, just in case.
She turned her back. Unbuttoned, she writhed and wriggled out of the tight leather like a snake out of its skin.
I couldn’t suppress a low, quiet whistle in imitation of what I know Bogie would have done. She was wearing a lovely, back-hooked longline cantilever job that disappeared under a high rise backlace girdle that rose higher than the waist of her skirt to just beneath her big jugs. Yeah, call me a bastard, I was thinking “jugs,” not “breasts.” It was one hell of a getup, all in immaculate white, and must have needed a lot of work to get into.
She tried reaching down the back of the bra into the girdle. The right arm, the left arm. The right arm ... No luck.
So she reached behind and unzipped her skirt. Wiggling, she eased it down over her big hips and stepped out of it, revealing that her black stockings were attached to the open bottom girdle with garter tabs.
It looked like she’d have to get the girdle off to get the bra off, and the bra off to get the key...
“Well, I’ve seen the bridle, but the saddle is even more impressive.”
CALL ME STRANGE, BUT THIS HAS BECOME RATHER EMBARRASSING. DO YOU MIND CANNING THE COMMENTS?
I raised my eyebrows innocently. “Who? Me?”
She stared at me. Her lips still had that lovely sucking look. I had never seen anyone in such a helplessly stupid predicament.
She turned her back again. I had noticed that the girdle hooked up tightly in front, but at the back I could see that from the top of the unusual garment to the bottom was a wide array of lacing, widest where the women inside it was widest.. Hanging down from about that point was six inches of lace end dangling. It looked like a very complicated arrangement.
She tried reaching down the back of the bra again. I was trembling. “Maybe it would be easiest,” I volunteered, “if you just let me unlace you ...”
She batted my hands away and turned to the typewriter:
I’LL DO IT. IT’S VERY EASY TO GET IT ALL KNOTTED UP
Which was precisely what Miss Lightning Fingers proceeded to do herself. Unable to see the bow, she simply ended up tying it into a knot. It was fascinating, watching her do this with such perfect confidence.
She ended up frustrated, yanking and yanking at the laces, as if that would do anything but make it worse. Back to the typewriter:
HOW THE FUCK DID THIS HAPPEN? WHY DO THEY PUT THE DAMNED LACES IN BACK WHERE YOU CAN’T SEE THEM? WHO WAS THE IDIOT WHO DESIGNED THIS RIG? DIDN’T THEY HAVE ANY BRAINS IN THE FORTIES?
“Probably enough brains to get OUT of their girdles, at any rate. Otherwise, there’d be nobody around now to talk about it ...”
OH JUST FUCK RIGHT OFF!
“Since you wouldn’t trust me, shall I get you a boy scout, Miss Houdini-in-Reverse? I understand they’re good with knots ...”
BASTARD! YOU ARE A BOY SCOUT!
Somehow, her calling me a bastard was a real turn-on. “I’d prefer to think of myself as a sailor, and you are a glorious but foundering ship whose complicated rigging desperately needs to be unknotted ...”
JUST DO IT, POPEYE
“Oooh, I don’t think even Olive Oyl was ever this helpless.”
WHAT ARE YOU WAITING FOR? SPINACH? HELP ME!
“Pardon me,” I began roguishly, “but what you’ve done to yourself is so unbelievably unintelligent I’d almost suspect it was deliberate ...”
WHAT? HOW DARE YOU? WHAT DO YOU TAKE ME FOR?
“Well, since you aren’t trying to turn me on, then, you won’t mind if I be on my way now ..”
BUT I’M STUCK!
“You know, I used to love how Olive panicked whenever she got stuck ...”
IS THAT WHAT YOU WANT? I’LL DO ANYTHING
“Really? Even the Olive Oyl thing?”
HELP! SAVE ME! PLEASE! HELP! GET ME OUT OF HERE!
“Yeah. Just like that.”
YOU ARE DELIBERATELY HUMILIATING ME!
I felt a little guilty, but I said, “Maybe, but you’ve got to admit I’m getting a hell of a lot of help, sister. I mean, first, you commit accidental self-bondage right in front of me, and then ...” I stopped. She had clapped her hands violently to her hips. Her thighs trembled as she clenched them together involuntarily. Her hands slid desperately to her girdled backside, picking futilely at the laces, then to the bottom front of the girdle, trying to peel it up, but it was way too stiff and tight. Then one hand shot back to her ass while the other pressed fiercely at her girdled groin.
“GNMmmmmhh ... Gggggmmmmphh ... Nnnnnnngghh ...”
“Shit! You poor helpless fool! You’re climaxing, aren’t you? I thought you were straight!” I pulled over an office chair behind her and began to work hurriedly at the laces.
HURRY HURRY!!! I NEED YOUR HAND ON ME AND YOUR FINGERS UP ME AND
I got her loosened and then, reaching from behind, began to unhook the front of the contraption. She seemed to be playing the keys as a desperate substitute for that one key she couldn’t reach until I had removed the cover.
A;A;LDKFJUP0AWE AV;LSDFJAW; E!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!
The girdle was off. The padlock key fell to the floor, ignored by both of us. No panties, that saucy little thing. She bent low at the hips, spread her legs, thrust her ass back with her knees unbent and her legs spread in a stiff, inverted “V.” Her face was right up to the keyboard as she typed,
HELP! DO SOMETHING!
I didn’t actually need such a superfluous suggestion, to tell you the truth. It turned out my fingers were able to spring both the locks I found there, much to the lady’s relief. She continued typing passionately throughout, though the intensity of the Underwood’s hammering came and went in waves. Anyone listening from the other side of the door must have thought that Liz was typing while, well, typing while being fucked. It was mostly incomprehensible gibberish of course, though once in a while it looked as if she was slipping into a foreign language or two she hadn’t mentioned knowing before.
I have to say I’ve never encountered a more loquacious lover.
Copyright © 2004 by Roxy Katt. All rights reserved.
I have published in Heavy Rubber Magazine and will be published in an upcoming issue of The Hot Spot (Formerly In The Buff). I don’t know how I got into the kinkier end of sexual fantasy, unless it was that somehow, years ago, the vaudevillian things that happen in cartoons had more of an effect on me than they apparently do on other children. I have a Yahoo site at http://groups.yahoo.com/group/strangehumiliations/
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