Justine

*

"Well, well! The Lord do provide, don't he? All this kinky bondage shit around, What kind of university you runnin' here?"

Choking. drooling. Justine thought: 'three times I end up with this fucking gag in my mouth! Hugo, last night, and now! Is someone trying to send me a stupidity message?'

The big man gave her little time to castigate herself. He hoisted her

upright, holding her shoulders, then ripped away her dress. and moments later her bra and panties. He held her at arms length and grinned again.

"Well now! Ain't you something! White pussy in slave chains! I purely love it. You can keep on that fancy garter shit; ain't gonna get in my way! Let,'s turn you around, get a good look at that J-Lo bootie! Whoa! someone already been whalin' your sweet ass!" He had spotted the slashing signature of Hugo's cane work.

Justine looked at him , pleading with her eyes, perhaps, though she expected no mercy. If only she could talk to him, to make some sort of a deal;----money, maybe----, but the gag ruled that out. She was not surprised when he bent her over her desk, gripped her buttocks, and spat on her anal cleft, lubricating her. He teased her first; and then forced two big fingers into his puckered target. It hurt! She screamed, almost silently, muffled by the gag. She heard him unzip his pants and then felt the thrust of his huge, insistent cock as he penetrated her. He fucked her

in the ass for perhaps five minutes; her muffled sobs and shrieks had subsided to a few moans.

Justine was not a total stranger to anal sex, during her hippie years, she had.----never mind----but that was at least seven years ago, and this monster was so big!

*

When she thought she could tolerate no more rectal punishment, he turned his attention lower, and lunged into her cunt with a vigor she had never experienced before; deeper and deeper, like a tidal wave, some kind of evil natural force, she thought, as he plowed her increasingly swollen,wet pussy. Justine couldn't stop her body's

response; her inner vaginal muscles contracted, squeezing his giant shaft, relaxed and squeezed again. Her brutal rapist felt her throbbing deep squeezes and exulted:

"You white professor bitch, You gonna submit to this black cock! Oh yeah! Now you comin', can't help it, comin' over and over again!"

She was, and there was nothing she could do about it. Her own body had betrayed her. Again. Maybe that was what this whole sick bondage thing was about; getting her intellect out of the way until the inevitable degradation, torture, rape, got a chance to turn her into a quivering, pussy.

He finished wirh an explosive climax; when he withdrew, jism ran down her thighs. "You somethin' else, bitch! I could give this room number to some of my homies, but I won't, Cops be here soon, anyhow; they be slow, though. I want to be sure you stay right here, don't wander out onto the streets of Berkeley, find yourself in some real shit! Let me see that chain on your big old nasty collar!"

He bent her further over the desk, the iron clanking against the wood. He made a loose knot in the chain end, opened her lowest desk drawer and closed it, trapping the knotted chain inside. She was tethered now, her breasts flattened, her face forced down against the wooden desktop; she could scarcely move. He finished, gave her butt an affectionate slap and said "Ain't gonna leave my name, but I do expect to

meet up with you again, Goodnight, bitch!."

Night fell. Justine, depressed, furious, self-loathing as usual these days, remained slumped over the desk, neck held tightly by the knotted collar chain wedged in her desk drawer. Her brutally violated bottom throbbed: minutes after her memorable fuck she was still in heat; both channels dripping sperm and her own copious secretions.

She had had at least five shattering orgasms with a rapist, a man who stood for everything she despised. And yet, there it was; she had been truly fucked, ankles chained, her collar more than uncomfortable now, flattening her on the cooling desk, the diabolic gag in her mouth,

and finally the cruel, rusty manacles that had held her prisoner for nearly

seven hours now. All this, and she had climaxed anyway. Could she ever sink lower?

FIVE

LAW AND ORDER

Finally the police arrived. The first uniformed patolman opened the class room door, turned on the light, and gaped at the gorgeous nude woman bent over the desk trying to mumble some sort of plea as he entered; then he saw the gag. And the chain holding the clumsy neck collar to the desk. And the heavy handcuffs that twisted her arms behind her back, and her awesome upthrust ass streaked with some sort of whip marks, and her dripping cunt, framed by an improbable garter belt, dark silk hose and shiny black highheeled pumps----and ankle shackles, too. Jesus Christ!

Officer Sanchez gulped; he'd never seen anything like this before in his five years on the force--or in his dreams. 'Something way too kinky for me here', he thought, 'better call the detectives and touch nothing in the meantime, not the gag, not even that sensational ass!' He tried to

explain to the miserable woman that this was clearly a big time crime

scene, and he couldnt mess it up, not even the gag; "Sorry, maam." Justines eyes narrowed in futile rage.

Twenty minutes later, the detectives arrived; finally Justine was

ungagged and poured out her story, croaking from the long gagging ordeal, even after several welcome glasses of water. Almost incoherently, at first, raving:" I've been raped. don't you understand? Just get me out of these fucking handcuffs!."

Krause, the fatter detective nodded, trying to project a professional face. Inwardly, he was exited, horny. 'What an ass! what tits! those fucking handcuffs! I love it!'

"Yes ma'am. But first we gotta get you down to the station, check all that iron stuff for fingerprints, evidence. We have to do the rape exam first, it's the rules. Sorry if you're a little bit uncomfortable, but we'll get the bastard who did this!" He patted her ass, reassuringly, he thought. Justine thought otherwise; his kindly pats and gropes lasted a little too long,

He made a call on his cell phone; in a few minutes she was transferred by ambulance ( the two EMTs delighting in their nude cuffed and furious passenger) to Merritt Hospital for the standard rape follow up: sperm samples for DNA, pelvic exam,----"wow! he must have been big!" the examining nurse offered---- blood tests for HIV and other STDs, desultory medical counselling from a bored intern.

By now, Justine had moved from thankful to numb acceptance:- gotta go with the system, right?---- to citizen's outrage. " Hey! get these chains and cuffs off! I pay taxes, too!" Sore and aching from her metal tormentors, she was grumbling audibly now as she was tranferred by police car back to the station.

If the truth be told, the night personnel at the College Avenue station usually had a dull shift. This naked, gorgeous UC professor all chained up was clearly going to be the highlight of the night! (The chief had called; "Some government big shot is going to check out the iron hardware she was imprisoned in; Don't fiddle with the locks or anything til I get there. And I'll be right over. I've got to see this!')

Justine was now writhing on the gurney, bad mouthing the mayor, the city council, the police force (never a good idea when you're in

custody). They had taken her garter belt and stockings at the hospital,

muttering something about evidence; now she was totally bare except for her high heels, and a short paper hospital gown, tied at the back

and draped over her breasts, (cuffed, she couldn't use the sleeves), but open in back to the night breezes. Back at the station, the detectives

had set her on a gurney in the hall and abandoned her. That was ten minutes ago!

"Get these fucking iron shackles off me! Get a locksmith, someone, you miserable bastards!" Justine fumed as a unusual number of cops stopped by to enjoy her helpless nudity, Someone had pulled back the sheet on her gurney and she was nearly fully exposed again.

Justine was at rock bottom emotionally; her day had been--and continued to be--so traumatic that she was drained of emotional energy, devoid of any self respect; she was just surviving. Philosophical discussions about the deeper meaning of bondage and discipline? Fuck it. She was still here, real time, in the miserable present, cuffed and chained, with her chafing neck collar, pawed over by numerous cops.

They all assured her that the locksmith was on his way, then rolled her over on her stomach to examine the antique hand cuffs, And, incidentally, her bruised ass, exchanging professional opinions as they stroked the purple welts left by the cane: "Three, maybe four days old," said Chet.

"No, more like seven or eight, look at that discoloration." "Dog whip, maybe. Whaddaya think, Ramon? " "Not sure. let me feel her one more time".

'Serious whipping, man--maybe a cane."

"Serious ass, too. Awesome! Here, take anothr feel! Excuse us, ma'am. Just investigating." He bent Justine over for a closer look . She whimpered as the cops prodded her welted ass.

.*

She was sitting up on the gurney now; it was too painful to lie on

her cuffed hands.. A considerate orderly had covered her lap with a skimpy towel; her thighs were still fully exposed to any passing cop----and there were lots of them. One of the hired staff (not the guy that had molested her, thank God) had fed her some macaroni and cheese, spoonful by spoonful.

Justine was grateful, and said so, and began to ponder again the

big issue of helplessness and power, She was in the acknowledged center of legitimate power; the police station, Yet, she had been felt up several times, subjected to a demeaning rape examination (the doctor was cold, dismissive) and perhaps worst, her beauty, her secret pride in

her body, had been violated and tarnished with every passing minute of

raw, naked exposure, like a piece of meat!---- And still, no locksmith, no relief from these intolerable cuffs. She slumped into a hopeless crouch.

*

Finally, a group of civilians arrived. The first one, a slighly overweight middle aged man, spoke first. 'Why don't they cover my tits!'

Justine thought, (the paper gown had torn during one of the 'evidence inspections") As he spoke, his gaze strayed inevitably to her breasts.

"Ms.--Professor. I'm the registered locksmith. These irons, these

antique irons---- God, that old blacksmith knew his trade!-- can not really be unlocked without destroying them. I sympathize with your plight, but...."

A little self-important man stepped forward. Tight lips. tight narrow shoulders, encased in his dark suit, primly knotted tie. One glance told Justine all she needed to know: more trouble!

"I am Grover Brigham. The president's special envoy for antiquities; I decide what goes to the Smithsonian, and what goes on E bay instead. I intend to examine your restaints. Would you stand, please." Justine swung her chained ankles over the side of the gurney, reluntantly. As she stood, the sheet and towel fell away; she stood there, totally nude, bare assed again. She was now almost numb to further exposure and humiliation.

*

Brigham took almost no notice of her naked attributes. He was down on the floor with his magnifying glass, fondling and stroking the rough old iron surfaces; he seemed hardly to notice her abraded wrists, her hands now swollen from so many hours of constriction, the deep scratches on her neck from the collar or even the lurid healing welts on

her bottom from the caneing as he scrutinized the anklets, the collar, moving her pinioned wrists rudely, continuing his survey.

"Turn around, please; I need more light to examine these wonderful manacles." The crowd got even more excited when they saw the raised welts across her full buttocks; Brigham seened not to notice, but slid one hand under her right asscheek pretending to stabilize her as he peered at the cuffs. Justine barely winced as he squeezed. 'One more violation, one more indignity--what did it matter anymore? Just let this asshole hurry up and get all this rusty iron off me!' He checked the collar and the anklets again, with growing excitement. Finally he straightened and pronounced:

*

"Gentlemen,we have here an unique find! Unless I am mistaken----and I'm usually not---these artifacts date to 1843, Georgia. They may be the very slave irons tha† sparked the Nat Turner rebellion! I

don't know how a black garbage man from Oakland got hold of these, but that really makes no differance. They are priceless! I will not----cannot!---- allow you to detroy them. Let me be clear. No hacksaws, no cutting

torches. Surely we can make an appropriate key. Until then----" he turned to Justine, for the first time recognizing her as a human being, a gorgeous naked longsuffering human being, and not just the unwilling custodian and victim of his rusty iron treasures.

"Young lady. I'm sorry. But we cannot allow these artifacts to be tampered with, perhaps detroyed by some clumsy locksmith. Surely in a day or two, a key to these locks can be constructed. In the meantime, just bear up! With your small sacrifice, you are helping preserve the rich heritage of America!"

It sounded like a speech; it was. He turned to the crowd of politlcos and police and notables----a raped and chained gorgeous college professor, particularly from UC, and totally naked to boot----now that's going to draw a crowd!

And the reporters were there, crowding, jostling in the narrow corridor, chasing this latest sensation; Michael Jackson was already yesterday's news----many a wannabe lensman, photographing Justine's

frank nudity, slavered. The oldest most cynical one thought to himself:

' A hot brunette, sultry, dynamite tits, and a cute twat; what's not to like? Plus, she's handcuffed, helpless, clearly a damsel in distress Maybe my shots will be too raw for the six oclock news, but they sure will stay in my personal files and probably on my website----bondage blog----how about that for a title?'. Sol Levin told himself as he slipped through the crowd, finally kneeling between her legs, going for low level shots of Justine, now totally dejected, slumped against the gurney; her head would have been bowed, sunk with despair but the wide cruel iron collar continued to force her head up; she could only avoid her current violators, this leering, picture-snapping mob, by closing her eyes. Arms tightly chained behind her back for how many hours now?

Sol was too excited to spare her much sympathy---- But that cold prissy expert from the government, the one who had just condemned her

to another day in strict bondage----what a prick he was! Besides, he had been feeling her up while he pretended to inspect the antique iron, Sol was sure.

*

He focussed and filmed; from below, her lush dark fringed cunt, still moist from the rape and subsequent exam, her proud breasts, accentuated by the tight bondage imposed by the now suddenly important antique cuffs as she slumped in defeat and despair. He got one good shot of the restraints that had led to all this excitement (and a sensational photo op!) He sensed that this story was really about the handcuffs.

Even as he filmed at changed foci, angles, trying to get the essence of this despairing, depressed, but still proud and angry woman. Yes! this

was his big opportunity! He reached out and tugged the chain between her ankle shackles; she stumbled, tottered, and looked down at him, a crouching, grinning litle creep!, her face a blend of despair and outrage she she twisted the heavy cuffs.. Click! He had gotten the money shot, he was sure of it! He was right; his photo of her hands in the cruel shackles, locked painfully against her bruised ass, made the cover of People Magazine.

* The entirety of this website, including all graphics, images, 2d & 3d Art, & video are Copyright © 2002-2006 by boundNdetermined and/or the photographer. All rights reserved. The contents of this site may not be copied or reproduced without prior written consent.

BACKMembThe entirety of this website, including all graphics, images, 2d & 3d Art, & video are Copyright © 2002-2006 by boundNdetermined and/or the photographer. All rights reserved. The contents of this site may not be copied or reproduced without prior written

SIX

AFTERMATH

Six months later, the furor over the chained professor story was subsiding (OJ and Monica had lasted longer), but the internet still was flooded with web sites, full of uncensored photos of Justine on that first night, cuffed, shackled, collared, nude, screaming at the prim Bingham as he postponed the release from her bondage yet another day.

Sol Levin's site was especially juicy; his multiple angle, intimate

shots, some of which captured Justine's many moods that night: despairing, proud, angry, as well as her lush body, generous buttocks with the sensational whip marks, her thrusting breasts, her provocative curly bush, the brutal rusty hardware, of course, but maybe, most telling, her beautiful suffering face; Sol had captured all of that better than anyone else. World wide, men (and not a few women) salivated over his exploitational, but ultimately loving tribute to Justine's ordeal.

Bingham had not fared as well. When the government technicians had finaly freed Justine, using rust removing solvents, MRI scans, and finally a meticulously recreated handcuff key. the lab analyses proved that the trio of old slave irons was a forgery, made maybe in the 1920's.

An expert can make an error, but not in the glare of sensational media coverage: The president fired him; saying:"Heck of a job, Bingham?"

Jamal had disappeared. He never returned to campus. Eager reporters never found him, or his uncle. The Berkeley police didn't find Justine's rapist, but four months later, a big man was cought after an attempted robbery; he had cut his arm breaking into a hardware store.

His routine DNA matched the samples from Justine's vaginal swabs;. Officer Sanchez tried to notify Justine; he met a dead end.

" Professor Jousse is no longer employed here ," a university spokesman informed him ."I believe she has resigned her post. No, I have no forwarding address."

"Shit! She was so beautiful, so classy! I wanted to let her know we finally got the bastard!" he told himself.

Zach sold his class movie to a porno video distributor. He made just a few thousand dollars but that was enough incentive for him to abandon his rap artist aspirations and plan to make more videos, maybe one based on Justine's ordeal; now that could be a blockbuster!

*************

Justine had left the university, had left Berkeley . The initial noteriety had been intolerable; she was beseiged by, called and harassed by, hundreds of media people, offering film contracts, TV appearances.----Oprah wanted her---- commercial endorsements, every sensation freak and bondage deviant in the country, it seemed----she changed her phone number, shut down her internet address, to little avail. The despicable department head, Peltz, had suggested a leave of absence, with pay, of course, and suggesed she give no interviews----"for the good of the department's reputation, of course. I'm sure you understand." She understood; they wanted her gone. She had obliged, stalked out his office, and dropped out of sight.

Justine had a small apartment in Portland, Oregon now; downtown, not far from Powell's bookstore. After two months of inner turmoil, trying to sort out her life; long walks, trying not to drink too much, she had found work. She was now a consultant for Top to Bottom, a company that manufactured and sold a line of sex toys and equipment. Her employer, Merle, had recognized her at the first job interview, despite the name change; she was now Joanne Justin, as in just in time. "You're the famous kinky nude professor, aren't you?" Merle had asked at their initial meeting. Justine--now Joanne---- got up to go.