Hostile Takeover: Locked up, Knocked up.

I sat at my office desk, half-focussed on the figures on the screen as I wondered what was taking place in the conference room nearby. The office grapevine had been talking of mergers or takeovers for weeks now, and the team of expensively-dressed Chinese men who had arrived early that Friday morning certainly did nothing to quash that talk.

Some of my co-workers had good reason to worry about the outcome of any talks: in this economy, it was virtually certain some jobs would be lost whatever happened. As one of the most profitable fund managers in the team, though, I had little to fear on that front - though if anyone looked really closely at the figures, I would lose more than just my job. For almost two years now, I had been manipulating the large investment portfolio subtly - not transferring client funds to my own name directly, but carefully scheduling their trades to dovetail profitably with my own. Just before buying or selling a big batch of shares for clients on this big desktop terminal in front of me, I'd enter a similar trade on my personal account through a BlackBerry. As soon as the client trade cleared, prices would respond accordingly, then I would reverse the personal trade, selling or repurchasing at the new price and pocketing the difference. A price shift of even 1% quickly built up, repeated once or twice a day, into a sizeable nest egg on the side.

The clock dragged slowly towards market closing time, when I could shut off the terminal and head for home. Just a few more minutes, and I'd have a whole weekend alone with my computer, a selection of kinky porn sites and overworked vibrator... My tall, slim, almost boyish figure was attractive enough, but no match for the beauties I saw online every night. I kept trying to imagine myself dominating them, firmly gripping their cute leather leashes, viciously striping their cute curvy asscheeks for some tiny infraction - though my fantasies kept taking a wrong turn and putting me on the receiving end for some reason.

I jumped as the BlackBerry chirped with a new message. A wrong number, surely? After all, I had bought it specifically for the illicit trades: nobody even knew the number!

Whoever sent this message knew all too much, though: it contained a list of all my recent trades, both personal and client, detailing exactly what I had been up to in black and white. If that list ever reached my bosses, or the authorities, I'd be finished.

The message concluded with a list of local stores. At each, an order was waiting for collection in my name - a small computer shop, a drugstore, my usual shoe shop and finally an 'adult book' store I had visited once before chickening out and sticking to mail order. For some reason, each had to be visited in this order, and at the last two I was told I had to try every item which was not in a sealed package or otherwise not possible to try before purchase, but not to make any changes - and to accept anything I might be offered. As I digested the demanding orders, I took in the sender name shown at the top: 'Your Owner'. Clearly, some kind of blackmail - and the sender seemed interested in giving me a difficult ordeal, rather than extorting money or worse. Not much consolation, but there were certainly worse things that could have happened with this information.

Whatever my unseen correspondent wanted, I would have no choice but to comply - the consequences of exposure were unthinkable - but what could they have in mind? A shopping trip didn't sound too bad, even a bizarre one with kinky elements.

The computer shop had nothing too scary: "my" laptop had apparently been put in for repair and was now ready for collection, along with a new wireless router: the $200 would barely even register on my credit card. The drug store had hair bleach and dye, plus a prescription; more ominous, but I could investigate that later, and the $50 was small change.

Once I reached the shoe shop, things were a little stranger. Several sets of shoes awaited: some almost conventional office shoes, though with much higher heels than I would ever have chosen. The price here was eye-watering, and the shoes were all very tight, but to make matters worse the salesgirl was one I had often used in the past. Trying to hide my envy of her nice feminine figure and cheerful nature, as if she enjoyed this menial service job despite no doubt making a tenth of my salary, I had been pretty caustic to her.

As I tried the first pair of shoes on, the salesgirl gushed enthusiastically about how good they looked on me and how big an improvement they were on the comfortable pair I had been wearing all day, even kindly offering to throw that pair out so I could wear the new pair home. Mindful of my earlier orders, I gritted my teeth and pretended they fitted properly and that I would be pleased to wear this hellish contraptions home - at least it wasn't far to drive.

For now, though, the final pair of shoes was definitely fit only for porn modelling, with ridiculously high heels and even a strap to allow the shoes to be locked in place. Quite what this grinning idiot sales bimbo thought of a respectable young businesswoman like me wearing these things, I had no idea - clearly, once this ordeal was behind me I would have to find a new shoe shop.

Unable to look the salesgirl in the eye any longer, I took the final items still boxed without even glancing inside, wincing at last as the four figure sum flashed up on the register. Still nothing I couldn't easily afford, of course, but enough that it irritated me to be spending so much on some stupid joke.

The salesgirl offered me the usual overpriced tat once she had processed the footwear itself: protective spray and polishing cloths. I was about to tell her to shove it all somewhere she probably wouldn't enjoy, but choked that back and accepted it, though gritted teeth. As if sensing weakness, the assistant then asked if I would like to add a tip - another thing I had always dismissed out of hand in this store in the past, despite the girl's friendly and helpful nature, and again an offer I accepted this time with a barely veiled snarl.

I struggled unsteadily out to the car at last, my feet already hurting from the tight and unfamiliar shoes, weighted down by two heavy bags on each arm. Just one more stop before I could take these ridiculous things off again and relax - though it was the stop I dreaded most.

This store was at least deserted apart from the lone shop assistant: a dark-haired plump and homely girl with a warm and welcoming smile designed to put shy customers at ease. Unlike the previous stops, all that awaited me was a list of items I had to find and buy. As ordered, I hesitantly asked the plump brunette about trying the items on, and was very relieved to be told in a rather amused way that was out of the question - until the girl punctuated her reply with the sarcastic offer: "I mean, it's not as if you'd want to buy a dildo or nipple clamps I'd been using, is it?!"

About to laugh with her, I froze, a deer-in-the-headlights look on my face as I thought that through. Was that really an 'offer' I would have to accept, under the rules? I saw the sales girl's shock as it became clear she was considering it, then a combination of training and avarice overcame that: working in a store like this, it never pays to condemn the customers' kinks, however weird you might find them.

Seeing the chance to make some extra money for herself, the assistant continued: "if that's what you're into, I'd be happy to help for .. an extra $100? For that, I'll let you see me use it right here, if you like."

Hesitent, perhaps afraid she had asked too high a price, she seemed surprised and delighted when I nodded reluctantly. Even with the $100 incentive, she almost backed out when I began assembling the required shopping on the counter in front of her - starting with "largest dildo in the shop". Ruling out the double dildos but unsure whether that would mean the longest or the fattest, I took one of each, then moved on to the next entry. The one saving grace was that the girl did lock the front door to ensure some privacy while she earned her $100, buying me a few minutes of private shopping as a side effect.

While the sales girl lifted her short pleated skirt and slowly eased the long but thinner phallus up between her legs, I rushed through the rest of the list, trying to ignore her distracting sideshow: several cruel-looking nipple clamps, some with heavy weights attached; several strong latex panties and bras, sized to be uncomfortably tight; some latex hoods, with and without eye and mouth openings; gags, earplugs, a dog collar and a locking posture collar, an enema kit, and finally the item I dreaded most: a large box describing itself as a "severe anal training kit" from a character calling himself "Brutal Bum-Breaker". I hoped this was marketing hype, but the cute female model on the box looking pretty miserable just holding one of the plugs up for inspection, and I certainly hoped I wouldn't have to try it myself.

Making sure she earned the $100 fully, the assistant showed me the dildo and vicious toothed clamps were both in place; if she was dismayed when I accepted her offer to keep them there while she processed the whole sale, she managed to conceal it well. At least I was able to take some sadistic pleasure in watching her ordeal: each time the girl turned to pick up and bag another item, the heavy chain swung and tugged on her crushed nubs, making her wince slightly, and twice she had to reach down and shove the dildo back inside as it slid slowly out.

She may not have known it, but she got her revenge on me: just before removing and handing me the last items, the girl added "of course, now these are out of their packets, you can try them for yourself - or even wear them home if you like?"

I silently cursed the poor pained girl, though no doubt she thought she was just being helpful to a kinky customer with an odd request, but forced a fake smile to my lips and thanked her for the 'kind' offer and took both items from her. Blushing furiously and wishing I had worn a skirt that day, I lowered my suit pants and thong to slip the still-warm toy between my legs - terribly embarrassing in front of this stranger, but at least that part didn't hurt.

The next part would, though. Already dreading the pain, I removed my suit jacket and blouse, then slipped my bra off as well - a cute and frilly push-up number, a little too tight, but I had thought it might help make a good impression on the firm's new owners if I met any today. Gritting my teeth for the pain, I slowly crushed one nipple between the vicious metal teeth. Never having worn clamps before - just dreamed of putting them on helpless bound slavegirls - the pain came as a shock; closing my eyes and breathing deeply for a minute, I somehow managed to avoid passing out. The pain was less of a surprise the second time, but no easier to bear.

After another minute of deep breathing, I regained enough composure to open my eyes again. All I had to do was get back home now, and the ordeal would be over, I told myself.

The bubbly young salesgirl was, once again, a bit too helpful for me, offering to help me put the bra back on. I'd been planning to wear just the blouse for the journey home - but now I had to accept her "help" and wear the tight bra on top of these brutal clamps. At least it would support the weight of that chain rather than have it dangling, I thought, but as I feared, the pressure twisted the clamps making that pain even worse.

Somehow, though, I managed to carry the heavy bags out to the car without screaming, despite feeling as if my poor crushed nipples were being sliced off by the vicious clamps.

After a few minutes to compose myself, I somehow managed the short drive home unscathed. The instant I had stopped the car and put it in Park, I reached up into that tight bra, eagerly squeezed the jaws of one clamp open - and almost passed out from the pain. As I slowly regained my composure once more, two thoughts hit me: I remember reading that nipple clamps hurt more coming off than going on, and I wondered if my apartment building's parking lot would qualify as 'home', or might I already have broken my unseen tormentor's rules by removing that clamp now?

There was no way I could face reattaching that clamp, but decided to play it safe and keep the other clamp and the dildo in place until I was actually indoors with all her shopping.

Struggling with all the heavy bags and boxes, it took four painful journeys of teetering back and forth in the new and tight high heels to get everything inside. The weight of the loose clamp had pulled more and more of the joining chain out of my bra, until I found myself staggering the last leg of my journey with the full weight hanging freely inside my blouse, tugging and twisting painfully on the other clamp.

I kicked the front door shut behind me, almost toppling over on the other high heeled shoe as I did so, then dropped the final bags on the floor with a sigh of relief. Finally, I could get this hellish clamp and the horrible shoes off, and - a ringing noise cut my train of thought off abruptly.

Frowning, I pulled the BlackBerry from my suit pocket. As I feared, the caller name showed the same as the message earlier - my blackmailer had been tracking me closely enough to know when I was fully home.

As I put the device to my ear, I was greeted with an amused feminine voice: "good girl, you CAN follow rules - some of the time, at least ... Now, time to try out your new computer and Internet connection, straight away!" The line went dead, not allowing me any response but obedience.

Fearing the consequences of any delay, I rushed to pull the new hardware out of the bag. To connect the new wireless router, I had to unplug my own PC, but I'd deal with that later. Once the little green LEDs lit up, I opened the new laptop. It logged in automatically and went straight to a typical Windows desktop, though with almost all the icons disabled and a username of "slave", all lower case.

The same voice came suddenly from the little laptop's speakers, complete with the same note of amusement: "Ah, smart outfit - though for some reason it doesn't look so comfortable now ... would you like to take it off?"

I reached for the top button, but was halted in my tracks by a sudden rebuke: "you were asked a question, not given an order!"

I stood still from the surprise, until the voice continued "have you forgotten the question already, or are you too stupid to answer a simple yes or no question?"

After a moment's thought I worked it out and said "yes" - then added a "please" as an afterthought.

"Better, but you must always address each sentence to me as Owner."

Reaching for that top button once more, I was stopped again by a reminder that I still had not been given permission to do so. Eventually, though, I stood naked before the unfeeling electronic eye and its unseen operator, one hand holding the long dildo in place, the other covering my breasts and supporting the weight of the cruel nipple chain. Almost inevitably, the order came to put my hands behind my back to be inspected fully.

The inspection did not go well. I had to explain about removing the clamp earlier, admit that I had been wrong to do it, and reattach it - though not before asking for permission to do it. Standing there, naked but for the shoes and clamps, being watched by a stranger and having to ask for permission to hurt myself again, felt ridiculous and humiliating - so why was my body so turned on?

Too turned on, in fact: having removed my thong, the well lubricated dildo began to respond to gravity and slide out. Clenching my internal muscles and squeezing my thighs together wasn't enough; as it slipped further out, I suddenly bent over a bit and clutched to stop it, causing the clamp chain to swing and tug painfully again, I was told off for moving from my assigned position.

I blushed scarlet as it came free with an audible 'plop' and hit the ground in front of me, while my unseen observed giggled at my predicament.

With some prompting, I asked for and received permission to reinsert it and put on one of the pairs of tight shiny black rubber panties to hold it in place. All that movement made the clamp chain swing more, but I still had to unpack and put away every one of my purchases from the day.

Eventually, I was allowed to go to bed, once I had stripped it of all but the sheet and moved the laptop to have a clear view. The clamps and high heels finally came off - no doubt amusing my tormentor as I whimpered in pain while removing those clamps - but I had to add the smallest of the "anal training" plugs instead, then cuff my hands behind my back.

It was a frustrating as well as uncomfortable night - almost painfully full in both holes, but the combination of thick rubber panties and handcuffs denying me any chance of release, sexual or otherwise. The lights had to stay on all night, to ensure nothing impaired her view as I rolled and wriggled, trying to get comfortable despite the two invaders and my arms being pinned behind me.