Some day I’ll let you see Sue, the woman I call “Chain Girl.” She’s a little - well,
make that ‘way’ - over the top. It’s not that she’s indecent or anything like that. Hell,
you can stand three feet from her - even touch her - and not see or feel a sign of a
nipple or her pussy. This for a girl that spent most of her time without a single stitch
of clothing since right after her 18th birthday, a decade ago.

	Now that I have started to set the scene, I realize that I’ve got a lot of explaining to
do. By the time I get through, you’ll have a better picture of Chain Girl, but even I -
the one person who understands her - still can’t answer all the questions about her.


	It took a while, but I finally figured out that she has a guilt complex about something
that happened not long before that fateful 18th. I’ve questioned her, punished her, even
tortured her as close to her limits as I dared, without a single hint. I still don’t know
whether it was something she did, or something someone did to her. She said flatly that
she would never tell me and would take it to her grave. This was afterwards, after I
married her. But, I’m getting ahead of my story. I’ll go back, leaving behind the tidbit
that she was a virgin when we married.
	We started going together when we were freshmen in highschool. She was the world’s
prettiest cheer leader and I was the handsomest football player on the team. I was ready
to get in her pants the first time we went to a movie, but she came from a strict Baptist
family and she fended off my advances repeatedly.
	The first inkling of something out of the ordinary centered around my fingertip
explorations of her body. She allowed me to do anything I wanted to her tits and nipples,
short of leaving bite marks. My hormones were hyperactive - but so were hers. She loved
having her tits mauled and even a dumb male could tell that she was on a short road to a
climax. She was thrashing around and moaning like I’d killed her. I don’t know what she
did after our dates, but I would go home and beat my meat until it was too sore to touch.
	The day before her 18th birthday she told me that she had something she wanted to talk
to me about. She had an odd grin on her face and my hormones did two back flips and a hand
stand, sure that I was about to get lucky.


	She led me to her room and sat down on the bed, motioning me to sit beside her. It
looked like I was trying to hide the Eiffel Tower in my shorts. She grinned and reached
over and patted the bulge, very nearly causing me to fill my pants.
	Then her face became serious. She fumbled for a second, then dropped the right half of
her dress and her bra, exposing one of her pair of knockers that was to die for. My eyes
opened up to my eye brows, taking in the first glimpse of her tit flesh in daylight.
	But, all was not well. The nipple was at rigid attention, with a ring thrusting out of
the base. Around the ring was a circle of ugly red flesh, visible proof of an infection.
She avoided my gaze, flushing at the humiliation of her exposure. I reached up and grasped
her jaw, forcing her to look at me. “You did this,” I accused. She nodded slowly against
my gripping hand.
	Up to that moment my eyes were riveted to her, most especially her rampant tit. But she
motioned and I saw several tubes of ointment lying beside her on the night stand. The
first one I picked up was an anti-bacterial cream. I for once was in my element, as I had
planned to become a doctor and was already familiar with some of the basics. I brought her
eyes up to mine and held up the tube. She nodded, giving me permission to touch, and
hopefully heal.
	

	I slathered a layer of cream on the exposed ring and then turned it into the flesh. Her
jaw clamped shut with a click of her teeth and she moaned. I looked up in time to see the
certain signs that she had just enjoyed an orgasm from the pain in her tit. No question.
The signs were unmistakable, even to a novice.
	When she came out of it and opened her eyes, I held the ring between my finger and thumb
and twisted slightly, watching her eyes. They spoke volumes, including a warning of a
second, impending orgasm that she was trying to control. “Why?”
	“Because.......” She spat out the words, “Because I’m a pain slut. Because I want to be
your pain slut.”
	“Where in Hell did you get that idea?”
	“You can’t go on the Internet these days without falling over bondage. The first picture
I saw set me off. The forums tell you all you need to know. I didn’t even know I was a
pain slut until I saw it spelled out and explained. It clarified a lot of things that
happened to me while I was growing up.”
	“Show me.”
	She nodded and got up and walked over and sat down at her computer, her dress still
hanging to her waist. Seconds later a bound girl filled the screen. A click of the mouse
and another girl was displayed, trapped in a pillory. Another click and a girl was locked
in a wide, thick steel collar, heavy chains running to her wrists and ankles. “That’s one
of my favorites,” she said, almost to herself.
	

	I was not a complete stranger to the BDSM side of the Internet, but I didn’t let on to
her. She was doing a suburb job of explaining without my help. I’ll admit that the concept
intrigued me, but I didn’t have the slightest clue up to that point that she would go
along with my fantasies. Bondage and Baptist just don’t occur in the same sentence.
Neither does pain slut.
	By the time she shut the computer off we were both panting. Her parents were due home
any minute, precluding any hanky panky, but for me at least it was like a door opening. I
met her folks as I was leaving, waved and hopped in my car and went shopping.
	The birthday party was the next evening. I waited until she had opened all her presents
and she at last looked expectantly over at me. I truly think she thought I’d forgotten to
get her a present. I walked over in front of her, got down on one knee and asked her to
marry me. She looked panicked, then shocked, then burst into tears as she nodded
violently. She sobbed while I fitted the ring on her finger. Her family and the invited
friends all clustered around us, hugging her, wiping away her tears, congratulating us.
	Her mother immediately started talking about wedding plans. I should have made a bet
because I guessed that Sue wanted anything but a fancy wedding. Can you spell Justice of
the Peace?
	We had some time alone the next day, I suspect at the urging of her father, suggesting
we needed time to “Get to know each other,” a polite euphemism for some bedroom time to
celebrate.


	Sue stuck to her guns, refusing to go to bed with me, but she flabbergasted me when she
announced, “I’d rather be your love slave than your wife.” I started to interrupt, but she
said, “Let me finish. If I’m your wife I’ll have all those duties outside the home. If I’m
your love slave, you can keep me tied up all the time and won’t have to worry about any
social life. ”
	“That’s NOT going to work,” I said, flatly. “You’ll do both. Otherwise there will be
constant problems with ‘Where’s Sue?’ meaning that I have to think up a fresh excuse every
time someone comes knocking, or calls on the phone.”
	Sue pouted, trying to get her way, even though she realized I was right - for a change.
“I suppose then you won’t tie me up at all.”
	“You keep saying ‘tie.’ I thought you were a chain person?”
	“I am. It’s just that ‘tie’ doesn’t have the sinister image that using ‘chained’ would.
You can ‘tie’ just as much with a chain as you can with a rope, although I admit most
people don’t associate chains with tying.”
	“Well, I guess I’ll toss out the rope and buy a lot of chain.”
	“Keep talking like that and you’re going to have your hands full!”
	

	“Aha! I do believe I’ve found your secret weakness!” Sue shook her head and with some
exasperation said, “ Look, Buster, I’m offering you my helpless body on a silver platter
and all you do is nit pick over words. I’ll say it again. I want to be your sex slave -
pain slut. If I have to become your wife to do it, so be it, but let’s not argue over
words. When can we get married?”
	She thought she had me with that, but the jewelry store wasn’t the only place I had
shopped.
	I pulled some papers out of my jacket pocket. “Right now, if you’re ready to go.” I held
the marriage license where she could read it.
	“Mother is going to have a hissy fit!”
	“We’ll deal with her when we get back.”
	“Back? Where are we going?”
	“On a sex slave honeymoon. Where else?” I used the term deliberately, but without
comment, thinking back to her calling it ‘love slave.’
	She grunted with the effort, suppressing her ever-present orgasm. I was learning that
certain key words had a very powerful effect on her. Now, if I had just said “On a chained
up honeymoon,” she would have lost it for sure. She got up and headed for the closet.
	“Where are you going?” “To pack.” “You won’t need clothes. Just your toilet articles.” 


	She stopped short, turned and stared at me for a long second, then broke into a grin.
Certain I was watching her, she bent her head forward and ran her gaze down the crisp
white blouse and faded jeans she was filling out so beautifully. “Not quite the wedding
dress I expected - but it will do.”
	“Don’t waste time. We have a two hour drive.” As she filled a bag with items from the
bathroom, I rummaged in her night stand. “Any of your toys you’d like to take along?” She
came to the doorway and stopped, “All of them,” she whispered, afraid her voice would
break. Her face and neck were cherry red, down into the V of the blouse.
	I held a handful up, a silent invitation. She brought the bag and watched and squirmed
as I handled each item, eying them critically, then stuffing them in the bag. She ticked
off the vibrator, the butt reamer, the remote control egg, the handcuffs and the leg
irons. There were several pieces of chain with padlocks, but no rope. 
	

	I wasn’t just surprised, I was astounded that a girl her age would have all this
equipment in her bedroom, let alone in a drawer right beside her bed. That her mother
hadn’t long since discovered them and grounded her forever was a mystery She scribbled a
hasty note, at my direction, informing her parents that we were eloping. We had to wait
almost 15 minutes for the JP to be free to mumble the perfunctory civil wedding script.
Sue was getting a bad case of the jitters. She calmed down immediately when I suggested
that she should quiet down, or the two hour drive could be made more exciting by shoving
her vibrator up her ass.
	I was tempted to twit the JP about his lackluster performance, but the clock warned that
we needed to get on the road quickly.
	Once we were on the highway and out of town, she laid her hand on my thigh, inches from
the stiffest cock I had ever raised. “Would you really have stuffed my ass if I hadn’t
stopped acting up?”
	“Answer your own question.” 
	“Yes, you would - and you would have made me like it, or I would have been punished in
some worse way.”
	I slammed on the brakes. “Complaining all ready. Go in the back seat, get out your
handcuffs and put them on. You did remember the keys?”
	“Yes, Sir.” Real sarcastic.
	“Give me all the keys.” She dug them out and handed them over the seat. “Sarcasm gets
you cuffs behind your back. First, take your pants off, and panties. Turn the vibrator on
and stuff it up your ass. Then lie on the seat with your legs spread so I can enjoy the
view in the mirror.”
	

	Gingerly she complied, positioning herself in the middle of the  back seat. I could see
her hands beneath her ass cheeks. “Get a hold of your vibrator. Fuck your ass with it
while we drive. I do not want to look in the mirror and see nothing moving.”
	I figured that was fair warning and she took it to heart too. She could have been moving
faster, but it was sexy enough at any speed.
	To my further surprise she didn’t say a single word for the entire drive. I stopped just
before we got there and blindfolded her. Obediently the vibrator continued to slide in and
out of her. She was hot, ready to explode, but some perverse reasoning kept her from the
building climax she so desperately wanted, while she panted for relief like a dog in
heat.
	A few minutes later we pulled into the long driveway that led to the house that would be
our honeymoon idyl. At the rear there were four stall doors on the garage. I pressed the
button and the door to the one empty stall opened.
	I was driving a ten-year-old Buick, more in character with my age and lifestyle than the
Mercedes, the Audi and the BMW that filled the other three stalls. The four were all mine,
as was the house, thanks to the proverbial rich uncle, who had died without children and
lavished his wealth on me. 
	I took the vibrator away from her, took her cuffs off and had her remove her blouse and
bra, mentally noting that this was the first time I had seen her entire nude body. I took
a waiting collar and leash off a hook on the wall and closed it around her neck. The sound
of her panting went up at least an octave when she felt the steel on her neck.