This story is more about bondage and erotic pain than actual sex, so if that is not your kink, you may want to skip this one. Those who understand, will understand. Those who do not are often offended. You have been warned.

This is part one of four parts. Each part stands more or less by itself, but makes a lot more sense if you have read the previous parts.

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WARNING! All of my writing is intended for adults over the age of 18 ONLY. Stories may contain strong or even extreme sexual content. All people and events depicted are fictional and any resemblance to persons living or dead is purely coincidental. Actions, situations, and responses are fictional ONLY and should not be attempted in real life.

If you are under the age or 18 or do not understand the difference between fantasy and reality or if you reside in any state, province, nation, or tribal territory that prohibits the reading of acts depicted in these stories, please stop reading immediately and move to somewhere that exists in the twenty-first century.

Archiving and reposting of this story is permitted, but only if acknowledgment of copyright and statement of limitation of use is included with the article. This story is copyright (c) 2008 by The Technician ( [email protected]. )

Individual readers may archive and/or print single copies of this story for personal, non-commercial use. Production of multiple copies of this story on paper, disk, or other fixed format is expressly forbidden.

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My name is Kelly. I am 28 years old, brunette, about 5′ 6″ tall, and I weigh 132 lbs. I have some curves, but I think I am closer to skinny than voluptuous. I wanted to post my story on line, but when it comes to writing, I really suck. So I am telling my story to my friend W, and he is putting in all the right words and stuff and will post it for me. How I met him is a story all to itself, but I think I will let him tell that one some other day.

I was tempted to begin like so many of these stories begin by saying, “I first tired self-bondage when I was …” or “I have known that I was a bondage pain slut since I was …” but that isn’t true. I have always known that there was something different about me, but I really didn’t know what it was until I started figuring out who I was compared to the rest of the world. I guess that wasn’t until my senior year of high school.

I wasn’t a forty-year-old virgin. I wasn’t even an eighteen-year-old virgin, though I was 18 when it happened. I don’t mean losing my virginity, I mean first finding my golden cocoon. What happened wasn’t even really sexual. Well, OK, at that age, almost anything is sexual, but my boyfriend and I were totally clothed when it happened.

We were goofing around and one thing led to another. I don’t remember what I did or what actually led up to it, but he said “You deserve a spanking for that,” and pulled me over his knee.

I think he was just going to give me a couple of quick swats on the butt, but I started laughing at him and said I couldn’t even feel it. That made him smack me all the harder. I don’t know why, but I kept egging him on until he finally totally lost it. He really whaled away on my ass, and even through the denim of my jeans, I could totally feel each smack of his hand.

Actually, I could feel more than that. I could feel something else that didn’t come from his hand. It came from within me. As he spanked and spanked, harder and harder, I was totally enveloped in a strange warmth that I couldn’t understand or describe. It was a totally wonderful warmth that was almost overwhelmingly pleasurable and so peaceful. It enveloped my whole body and made me feel like I was in some wonderful, far away place. In my diary that night, I called it a golden cocoon.

The next day I tried to ask my older sister, Tracey, about it, but she didn’t understand. I thought maybe it was something that all women feel as they get older and she could explain it to me. At first, she didn’t understand at all what I was asking. When she finally realized what I was trying to say, she just rolled her eyes at me and said, “Kelly, you are just too weird.”

After that I didn’t say anything to anyone, but I started thinking more carefully about what had happened. I didn’t have enough life experience to analyze things like an true adult, but this much I did figure out. Being spanked hurt. I didn’t like being spanked. I screamed and yelled when my boyfriend lost control because it hurt. I got no pleasure at all out of actually being spanked– at first. But the spanking was worth it as the pain melted away and I was drawn into that wonderful, peaceful place and afterwards as I luxuriated in that strange warm cocoon.

The problem was that I couldn’t figure out for sure how that happened. For an almost adult young girl that was very disturbing. It had something to do with being spanked, but I didn’t want to be spanked– at least, I don’t think I did. What I wanted was my warm cocoon.

I always laughed at those hokey public service warnings about this or that drug that told me to never try it because, “One hit and you’re hooked.” But I guess in my case they were telling the truth. One hit and I was hooked. I had only experienced it once, but I wanted my golden cocoon. I needed my golden cocoon. I craved my golden cocoon. Thus began my quest to find what truly caused it and to bring it back.

Questing opportunities are pretty limited in a small town, so it wasn’t until I went away to college that my quest to find the source of that gentle warmth kicked into high gear. I tried self-spanking – with my hand, with hair brushes, with a belt and with about anything else I could think of, but that didn’t work at all. I even tried a “spanking machine,” that someone brought to a party kind of as a joke. They left it in a basement storeroom and I borrowed it afterwards– with the owner’s permission. Although I could make it really hurt with the machine, it didn’t send me to my golden cocoon.

I decided that whatever it was, if it came from a spanking you couldn’t do it to yourself. Maybe it was like not being able to tickle yourself. So I decided that if I couldn’t do it to myself and cause the warmth, I would have to have someone else spank me.

It is amazingly easy to talk a college boy – or girl – into spanking you. There are also an almost unbelievable number of different ways to spank someone – over the knee, over the sofa, over the log, on the floor, against the wall, fully clothed, in a swimsuit, fully naked, even fully naked while standing upside down on your head– that one got a little weird. But no matter what I tried, it didn’t help. I could be spanked by a boy or a girl, fully clothed or in panties or naked and it didn’t make any difference. The elusive warm cocoon eluded me.

I even set it up at a party one night that the loser of a game of strip poker got spanked by everyone else there. Everybody thought it ironic that I was the ultimate loser and ended up subject to my own suggested punishment. One of the boys said, “Maybe you will learn to keep your ideas to yourself.”

The only thing I learned from that night is that it is very embarrassing, not to mention painful to be lie naked across that back of a couch in front of twenty-some people and get swatted on the ass by all of them using everything from bare hands to a plastic spatula from the kitchen. Someone took some pictures that ended up on the internet, but lucky for me although my ass and pussy and every red stripe was visible, my head was on the other side of the couch pillows and my face couldn’t be seen.

I finally decided that spanking, alone, wasn’t the key. Evidently neither was embarrassment and humiliation. So I turned to bondage. I read a bunch of stories online to see what could be done. I had one of my boyfriends tie me up, tickle me, tease me, everything he or I could think of and several things from stories on the internet. Nothing.

I almost got caught when I accidently used the wrong credit card to order something on line. It was one that Mom had given me in case of an emergency. I realized my mistake when she asked what I had purchased from Linda’s Rubber Boutique. I told her it was some stuff for the kitchen. Somehow, I don’t think she believed me, but she didn’t ask any further and only said that I needed to make sure that my roommates helped share expenses.

I tried self-bondage in many different forms, but nothing happened. I even arranged for my sister to “discover me” while I was home at Easter time. I was sort of hoping that she would do something while I was helpless– maybe that would be the path to the cocoon, but after retrieving the key from the corner where it had “fallen” out of my reach, she handed it to me with the comment, “Kelly, you get weirder every year.”

If she only knew. Then she added, “If you get any weirder, you will be as weird as Uncle Jack.”

She looked very surprised when I said, “Thank you.”

She didn’t understand at all. But I really did mean “Thank you.” She had given me a clue for my quest which, at that moment, took a new turn. Uncle Jack was mom’s brother and still lived back on the ranch in Arizona. If he was weird… and I was weird… then maybe he would understand what was happening to me, or what it was that had happened to me, or what it was that I wanted to happen to me again. Perhaps Uncle Jack had the key to the elusive golden cocoon.

I decided that night that I had to visit Uncle Jack. The question was how I could do that. After all, no matter how weird I was, I wasn’t about to travel across several states, walk up to a man twenty-five years older than me, and ask him to help me find my warm after-spanking, golden cocoon. I’m not that weird… or at least I didn’t used to be.

I needed an excuse to go visit Uncle Jack, maybe for a week or two so I could work my questions into a conversation. I now knew that Uncle Jack had the answer. The problem was that I couldn’t see myself calmly asking him across the dinner table, “By the way, Uncle Jack, what does someone have to do differently when they spank me to caused me to find my warm cocoon afterwards?” This was going to take some thought and some planning.

I always laughed at those Kung Fu movies when the wise old teacher would say, “When the student is ready, the master will appear,” but that is exactly what happened. Uncle Jack didn’t appear, my parents disappeared– sort of. Dad’s company merged with a company in Europe and he was transferred to Germany for a year to help with the transition. Mom would be with him most of the time, and Tracey was going with them for the summer to do some studying there– she’s an art major. They didn’t want me on my own over the summer, so they suggested that I spend the summer with Uncle Jack.

Uncle Jack lived on “the family ranch” way out in the country near a small town in Arizona. Mom grew up there, but most of the land had been sold off to other farmers and ranchers. I was never sure just what it was that Jack did for a living, but he worked from his house and seemed to have more than enough money.

He came out to my parents to visit and to talk about arrangements. When I pointed out that I really needed to find a job for the summer, he said that he normally had a housekeeper, but she had recently left. Also, he might need some minor office work. I could catch up his files, etc. over the summer. Problem solved, I would work for him.

The student was ready; the master had arrived; school ended for the year; and I moved into Uncle Jack’s ranch house for the summer. It was immediately apparent that he was a writer of some sort although he didn’t seem to want to talk about what he had written. One of the things that needed done, however, was filing old manuscripts and other writings for him. I soon figured out that he had written hundreds, if not thousands, of erotic stories and books under a variety of names. I also noticed that the file section for bondage books seemed to be a little larger than any of the others. Uncle Jack was my kind of weird.

I “borrowed” some of the manuscripts for personal reading. Uncle Jack was a good writer. He really got my juices going, and as I read some of his bondage scenarios I could almost feel the warm cocoon beginning to form around me. Maybe bondage was the key. Maybe I just hadn’t done it properly. I would have to try again using one of the scenarios from Uncle Jack’s book.

The opportunity to do this came about sooner than I thought. Uncle Jack told me that he had to go to a writer’s conference and I would have to “keep the office open” for a few days. The next days before Jack left were a just a blur. He needed a variety of stories printed out and bound in manuscript form as well as transferred to CD and memory stick, and I needed to get my bondage preparations ready. I knew that there was a room in the upstairs loft of Jack’s barn which had a wide variety of items that could be used for bondage.

The barn didn’t seem to be used for anything except a couple of horse stalls. All of the equipment and stuff like that needed for the ranch was in a big metal shed– at least, I think it was. Uncle Jack kept that building locked all the time. In any case, the upstairs of the barn was empty and perfect for my use. As I gathered together ropes and pulleys and various leather contraptions, I began to think that this was all way too convenient. Maybe the room and the whole barn was intended for bondage.

If that was so, what did my mother know about all this? And if she knows about all this, what don’t I know about my mother?

Uncle Jack left on a Thursday night and wasn’t supposed to be home until Sunday night. The answering machine in his office indicated that the office was open from 9 to 4 Monday through Friday. No one expected me to be in the office over the weekend, so I would have everything to myself. I decided that I would put myself into bondage for eight hours beginning at noon Saturday. If that didn’t do it, then my quest had come to an end.

Thursday night after Jack left, I put the release mechanisms into the freezer. I had downloaded the plans from the internet. Basically they were plastic pipes filled with ice which held a short length of chain until the ice melted. Based on the size of the pipe, the warmth of the room, etc. they should take at least 8 to 10 hours to melt and pull open.

Saturday morning I took a long, hot bath and removed all my body hair. I had purchased one of those shaver-like plucking things which I used to trim things up down there, but this was the first time I used it everywhere. From my neck down there wasn’t even the hint of a wisp of hair. I was ready.

I stopped in the kitchen and retrieved my release mechanisms from the freezer. Then I walked out to the barn. The sun felt warm on my bare skin and I thought that Tracey would truly think I was weird if she could see me now, walking out to Uncle Jack’s barn in the middle of the day naked as the day I was born, carrying chains frozen into ice.

I went up the ladder into the loft. There were several bales of hay and three old beams propped up against one wall of the barn. I pushed the beams together against each other so they formed a ramp about three feet wide and six or so feet long. Luckily they were already almost next to each other because they were heavy and hard to move. Then I attached a pulley to an eye bolt that was located on the wall above my makeshift ramp.

That eye bolt seemed awfully convenient. So did the board nailed to the floor which kept the beams from sliding away from the walls. There were also more eye bolts all over the walls of this storeroom. As I looked around the room I wondered less and less about what use room had been put to in the past. Maybe I would have to ask Uncle Jack about that some day, too.

There were holes drilled through the bottoms of each of the beams, so I attached some short lengths of rope to the bottom of the ramp. I didn’t tie my ankles yet. I had to make sure everything was set up just right. We were pretty far out of town and no one knew what I was up to, so I wasn’t taking any chances. The rope on my hands would have two different release mechanisms. One held the pulley to the eyebolt, the other attached the rope to the weight which would stretch me tight– in this case two bales of straw. If the weights didn’t release, the pulley would and the rope would go slack and I would be able to release my hands.

I pushed two bales of straw over to the edge of a large door at the end of the loft. There was a pulley on an iron beam above the door. I ran my rope through the pulley above the door and attached it to the two bales. Both bales sat on the edge of the loft door with about half of the bale hanging over the edge. Then I ran the rope back across the room to the pulley I had attached to the wall and then down to the top of the ramp. Once the rope went through the pulley, I attached it to the middle of a short length of chain. On each end of the chain was a padded leather cuff which could be closed with a padlock.

The plan was simple. I would put the key to the cuffs on the floor too far from me to reach. Then I would tie my ankles to the beams, clamp the cuffs on my wrists, and pull on the rope to get the bales rocking. It would only take a minute or so of rocking until the bales fell off the edge of the opening.

I lay back for a while to get up the nerve for what I needed to do next. After a moment or two, I began pulling on the rope in a rhythmic fashion. I imagined I was trying to work my car out of a snowdrift. The bales began to rock more and more with each tug on the rope and then suddenly they swung clear of the floor of the loft and my hands snapped above me. The chain slammed against the pulley above my head. I was now drawn tight until the ice melted.

It is amazing what you can hear when you are tied up tight alone in a barn fifty miles from nowhere. The barn creaked. Bugs and some larger things scurried across the floor. A bird flew into the barn and scared me so much I almost wet myself. I started thinking that maybe I should have used a vibrator or something, but I wasn’t seeking an orgasm. I was seeking that elusive warm cocoon that had evaded me since my last spanking over 3 years ago.

But nothing happened. The sun went down and nothing happened. Around midnight, I could feel water dripping onto my body from the release mechanism above my head. It was the larger one, the back up. The release mechanism on the bales should have already released hours ago, but it hadn’t. I was starting to get worried. Something was wrong. What if the secondary release mechanism also failed. I could be here until Uncle Jack got back. That would definitely open up the conversation about my quest, but I didn’t think I wanted that.

I heard the chain in the release mechanism move slightly. My backup plan was going to work. I would be free soon. No cocoon, but no embarrassing rescue by Uncle Jack.

There is this thing called “Murphy’s Law.” If it can go wrong, it will. The release mechanism let go just like it was supposed to, but the rope didn’t drop slack like intended. Instead, the pulley flew across the room toward the beam above the door. I was suddenly pulled forward until my front slammed against the floor. The rope pulled tighter and I was lifted up toward the overhead beam.

There was a painful tugging on my legs and the beams that made up the ramp slowly slid away from the wall. I continued to be pulled upward and out into the darkness. I was afraid that if the beams were dragged out the opening and fell from the loft I would be pulled in half. Then I finally stopped moving. I had no idea what had happened, but I was now hanging about two feet outside the barn.

The beams from the ramp were still tied to my ankles, and they had been pulled partially out the opening. Only about a foot or so of them extended beyond the floor of the loft. I was able to almost stand on the beams, but I had to keep some of my weight on the cuffs because every time I put my full weight on the beams, they rocked slightly like they were going to tip. I didn’t know what was going to happen when the release mechanism on the ropes to the bales finally let go, but I was afraid that when my full weight was dropped onto the beams, they would fall to the ground below.

I kept trying to remember exactly what was beneath me. I think the barn yard was clear. I wouldn’t be falling on any sharp equipment or fences. There was a double row of hay bales stacked against the side of the barn and then in a curve at a right angle for a little ways out from the wall so that it formed a wind break for horses or whatever. Maybe I could drop onto those if I had to, but since it was dark I couldn’t see where they were. Up until now, I was hoping the ropes would release. Now I was hoping nothing let go until after sunrise.

The pain in my arms was tremendous, but the pain that I would feel if I fell twenty feet to the ground with the beams following me all the way down would be even greater. I kept imagining myself like that coyote who is always chasing the road runner– falling into the bottom of the canyon only to have the safe and the anvil and everything else land on top of me.

For the rest of the night, each sound, each little movement of the barn, each gust of wind made me think that my drop to the ground was at hand. Finally the sun came up. I could see below me, but in the gray shadows of dawn, nothing made sense. The ground seemed to be too close and it didn’t look level. As it got lighter I could see that there was a huge pile of hay bales beneath me. I was only four or five feet from the top bale. I looked in amazement and suddenly I knew what had happened. When the bales fell from the loft, either they hit the stacked bales or maybe swung into the bales alongside the wall. In any case, the entire thin stack of bales fell in a pile in the barnyard burying the two bales I had used for weights. They were also pressing on the ropes and trapping it so it couldn’t release. When the pulley released from the wall, the pile of bales must have finished their collapse and pulled the rest of the rope downward, dragging me along with it.

I let my weight down totally on the two beams beneath my feet. I now knew that if I fell, it would only be a couple of feet and it would be onto hay bales. The beams teetered and tottered, but they didn’t fall. I began to relax. Everything would be OK once Uncle Jack got home.

And then it happened. I could feel it start down at my toes and at the top of my head at the same time. It is almost impossible to describe to anyone else. It is like being wrapped in a soft warm blanket, only more so. It is like floating on warm water – no warm oil, only more so. It is like being enclosed in beautiful, safe, warm cocoon. It wasn’t near as intense as I remembered, but I had found it.

I was standing with my eyes closed trying to wrap myself up in my own special warmth when I suddenly heard from beneath me, “Kelly Lynn, what in the hell have you been up to?” Uncle Jack was home early. I guess it was time for me to talk to him about the quest for my cocoon.

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END OF PART ONE OF FOUR
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