The Secrets of Shackleton Grange

Reads: 27844  | Likes: 25  | Shelves: 8  | Comments: 19

More Details
Status: Finished  |  Genre: Other  |  House: Booksie Classic

Chapter 25 (v.1) - Dolores Alone

Submitted: June 23, 2017

Reads: 654

A A A | A A A

Submitted: June 23, 2017



Shackleton Grange basked in the shimmering heat of a languid spring afternoon; those ancient towers and spires standing proud against the gently rolling Suffolk landscape, as they had for centuries. And yet, today something was different.

In the woods, a parliament of rooks held their daily conclave; their cawing that little bit more frenzied than normal, as they discussed the news filtering from the crumbling brickwork that a monarch had been dethroned, and debated the uncertainty of the interregnum.

In the bushes and shrubs, songbirds trumpeted their take on the latest events, their melodies filled with reports of a seismic shift in the balance of power.

High in the lush canopy, squirrels flicked their tails in agitation and uncertainty, as word of the day’s momentous occurrences reached their precarious lookouts. Whilst in the undergrowth, small scurrying mammals spread the rumours that trickled forth from within the ancient manor house, of how things would never be quite the same again.

The vixen in her daytime den, woke and sniffed the humid air, sensing the subtle shift in the grand scheme of things; an empress put to the sword and the rise of a new order.

And even the spiders within the crumbling eaves and fissures of the mansion itself, whose taut threads of silk acted as receptors to every subtle vibration, every nuance, of events that transpired within their dark, adopted home, perceived the amendments to the constitution which had, at a stroke, deposed the old regime and heralded the birth of a strange new democracy.

But had anything really changed? 

Plus ça change, plus c'est la même chose.


Trapped: The word loomed large in the mind of the shackled, hog-tied and entombed owner of the ancient fortress that had been a prison for countless women in the past, and which now seemingly had snared the biggest prize of all, the mighty black widow spider herself, caught in a self-spun web from which it was impossible to extricate herself.

And to think that, only an hour or two ago, everything in her world was rosy, with her three prisoners in severe (or so she had imagined) states of bondage; her servants taking part in an experiment devised to not only keep them out of her hair, but also pave the way to future fun and games she had planned for captives and guests; and she herself in the throes of ecstatic self-inflicted bondage from which she could escape, but only with some difficulty.

 But now, roles had been most definitely reversed, and she was the one experiencing the churning fear of uncertainty that she’d foisted on more prisoners - both willing and otherwise - than she cared to remember.


Dolores pulled on the handcuffs that dug deeply into her flesh, and which, having been wrapped around the rope that bound her ankles, left her bent into a strict hog-tie from which there was no relief, due to both the tightness of her bonds and the severely confined space in the bottom of the wardrobe. Lying on her stomach, with her legs pulled up almost to her shoulder blades, Dolores found kicking out at the walls of her secure wooden tomb a strength sapping and almost impossible task, and she soon had to give up, as the volume of oxygen needed to sustain this level of energy was outweighed by the intake allowable into her lungs through the tiny nostril slits in her all-covering hood.

The ropes that held her at the elbows and various points along her legs seemed to tighten still further with every move she made, and the tight webbing of the self-inflicted harness chafed against the latex that clung to every inch of her incapacitated frame and her delicate, milk-white skin beneath. And the confined space in which she languished, coupled with the skin-tight nature of her attire and her frantic efforts to secure her freedom, all ensured that the build-up of heat within this sturdy ancient piece of furniture caused her to sweat profusely.

Her bellowed demands to be let out, heavily negated by the ball-gag packed tightly into her oral cavity and the sealing layer of unbroken leather that smothered her lower face, would, if there had been anyone within earshot, have sounded incomprehensible and muffled to the point of inaudibility. But she knew there was no one out there... or at least nobody with any desire to help her out of this mess.

Why, oh why had she left her three servants so hopelessly tied and immersed in that new tank she’d acquired only a few days ago? Although this question flashed through her mind several times every second, she already knew the answer only too well. Because, put simply, she enjoyed treating people in that manner. That was what slaves, minions, submissives, or whatever you wanted to call them, were for. It was how she maintained her authority; not only in the eyes of those she claimed dominion over, but also – more importantly – her own. It was a way of making her feel special; to be able to say to herself, “Look at the power I wield, the absolute dictatorial rule I have in this house”.

There was another reason too, why she had put Crystal, Sapphire and Electra through this watery ordeal today, and that was to test out her new plaything.  She hadn’t actually bought it with her servants in mind though, as she knew that, given their level of brainwashed obedience, they would simply take whatever kind of torture they were forced to endure, without showing, or indeed feeling, any emotion at all; no fear, no anger, no sadness...nothing. No, the placing of her three trusted assistants in the watertight container was merely a test, a chance to try out a new and exciting method of imprisonment, in order to gauge what physical effects this form of water torture had on her three guinea pigs. Once she’d observed these results, her next victim, she’d already decided, was to be that snooping journalist Saskia, who deserved all that was coming to her as far as Dolores was concerned.

So the irony of what had since transpired, with the tables turned and Dolores herself now in dire straits from which no way out had yet presented itself, was not lost on the now fallen monarch of Shackleton Grange. Never having been in a situation of this severity before, Dolores at last gained some insight into the mindset of those she had been so eager and willing to condemn to such brutal helplessness. But far from making her repent the error of her ways, or in any way sympathise with those she had wronged, Dolores found her thirst for revenge growing by the second, and her mind began working overtime thinking up ways to bind and punish Saskia when she eventually got out of here.  It was difficult to see how this liberation was to come about, given the circumstances surrounding her incarceration, but as one who was used to everything going to plan, Dolores was able to convince herself – well, sort of – that eventually she would escape or be released, and at that time order would be restored and she would once more be free to wreak her wrath on all those who had caused her offence or discomfort. And that primarily meant Saskia, and by association, Cathy and Bethany, who would undoubtedly end up colluding with their new ringleader against their former captor.  She’d soon show them who was boss once she got over this – temporary – setback.


But how was this happy ending going to be brought to fruition? With all the wishful thinking in the world, Dolores simply couldn’t quite conjure up in her mind a realistic scenario that might herald her return to the pinnacle of the pecking order in her home.  So what, exactly, was to become of her?

Dolores tried to suppress from her thinking the worst case scenario, namely that Saskia would release Bethany and Cathy before all three fled the house, leaving her (and her servants) in their inescapable states of bondage, and with no intention of coming back, or of alerting anyone to the situation as it stood.  If this was indeed the case, how long would it be before anyone realised that she was missing and raised the alarm? There was a bondage class scheduled for tonight, which briefly raised her spirits. But who amongst the newcomers and novices would know that anything was amiss if they arrived and found the gates locked and the intercom silent?  Or what if Saskia and her conspirators managed to locate the intercom controls and informed the arrivals that the class had been cancelled? Dolores’ horror-filled mind summoned forth a whole host of scenarios, and a million and one variations on each of these themes, that could - just possibly - be brought to life by the trio of wronged, revenge seeking females who were currently free to roam her house unhindered. None of these possible futures offered even a crumb of comfort to the once all-powerful but now severely subdued head of the household. 

So, if she really had been abandoned here, who else would there be to help? And more importantly, would these unknown rescuers, when they finally turned up, be too late to save her from dying of dehydration? Every few minutes, whenever this unwanted thought reared its ugly head with no answer forthcoming, Dolores’ struggles acquired that little bit of extra urgency, her stifled cries became more shrill and her banging feet that little bit more desperate.

But, on reflection, this seemed an unlikely finale to this whole nightmarish episode. At least that was the theory Dolores employed to console herself, and thus dampen some of the terror that threatened to boil over at any moment.  For hadn’t Saskia, in her parting speech, mentioned something about returning later?  What form this revisit would take, she had no idea. Would it be with the police in tow? In the intervals of calm, when fatigue and exhaustion conspired to briefly halt her frenzied escapological exploits and attention seeking endeavours, Dolores listened carefully, almost expecting to hear the wailing of police sirens at any moment, and the screech of tyres on the loose gravel driveway, as several squad cars arrived to take her away for questioning into some of the BATH society’s less than legal activities. Although the padding in the hood that she wore dampened sound, as did the wooden walls of her tightly packed holding pen, she was sure that something of this nature would filter through to her ears if the forces of law and order had been summoned. But the silence remained deafening.

So if it wasn’t the police that were to decide her fate, then it must be her house guests who were about to take the law into their own hands. And in some ways this – the mere thought made her shudder – was even more frightening than the prospects of spending the next few years detained at Her Majesty’s pleasure.  What could Saskia and her new found friends do to her? Or perhaps the question should be what couldn’t they do to her, such were their range of options. Could they possibly turn from being meek and mild young things into devious, vengeful oppressors whose sole motive was to keep her tied up for months, mirroring perfectly the arrangements she’d made for them? Surely she was the only one sadistic enough to put into practice something of that nature? Dolores now regretted ever handing out sentencing that lasted for months and months, as she realised that she might be about to reap what she had sown, and could now be in for a very long spell of her own in solitary confinement.


Dolores thrust her bound and useless body in every conceivable direction, in the hope that a miracle might be granted to her now, which would see her bonds in some way melt away, the walls of her place of concealment somehow dissolve, and that would once more grant her the freedom to restore order in this private empire of hers that, until today, she had ruled as supreme dictator.  She cursed the wooden cabinet in which she languished, realising as she did so that the antique nature of her place of confinement was probably the worst location that she could have been interred in. Nowadays, wardrobes came in flat-packs and were flimsy constructions by comparison, and Dolores meditated forlornly on the fact that, had she been locked in one of these twenty first century closets, then she would have probably been able to break the whole structure apart in a few minutes, even taking into account the severity of her bonds. In the days when this particular wardrobe had been manufactured, however, craftsmen took pride in their work, and things were built to last for years, or even centuries. The chances of some bound and blindfolded female simply kicking her way out of such a structure would have been laughed at by the makers of this meticulously and lovingly constructed example of skilled workmanship. 


Dolores contorted her bound and increasingly aching frame every way she could, in an effort to force her way out of a situation that she had never dreamed could possibly happen to her. Lifting her body upwards as high as her bonds allowed, she tried to raise herself onto her knees, to see if this new approach would in any way alleviate the pain in her stretched and painful limbs. This position changing tactic failed dismally, but as she stretched her neck upwards, the row of cat-suits hanging above her could be felt brushing against the top of her leather encased head. As it became apparent that this latest attempt to liberate herself had been unsuccessful, Dolores’ body hit the floor of her makeshift sarcophagus with a loud, despairing thump. But it wasn’t only her tight latex wrapped torso that came crashing back to earth. As Dolores settled back into her by now all too familiar prone position, she suddenly twigged that there was something light and delicate covering her shackled hands, which, when she grasped at it with her fingers, she recognised instantly as the soft spandex fabric of one of her skin-tight suits, now fallen from its hanger and lying draped across her arms and back. This caused her no extra grief, as she could easily toss the limp garment to one side and renew her struggles against the handcuffs and ropes. But slowly it hit her that there was another, more worrying problem afoot.

With the leather hood fastened securely all around her skull, Dolores hadn’t noticed, as she collapsed back onto the wardrobe’s timber base, that something else was now draped over her head. The first hint that anything was amiss came with the notion that the atmosphere within her sealed tomb – already humid and stuffy - was getting hotter as the seconds ticked by. But what suddenly panicked the once mighty ruler of Shackleton Grange, was the knowledge that it was becoming increasingly difficult to breathe. And this realisation coincided with a stifling smell pervading Dolores’ nostrils; one which she knew only too well. It was an odour that already permeated the atmosphere in this sealed chamber, and one that mingled with the scent of leather and PVC to give the interior a unique fragrance. But now, this one element within the compound bouquet came to the fore and overpowered all other competing aromas in the vicinity; the unmistakeable smell of freshly polished rubber. It was clear that one of her latex cat-suits had come loose from its appointed spot on the rail high above, and had fallen in such a way as to blanket, not only her head, but her shoulders and upper torso as well. Dolores tried to flick her head to one side then the other, but neither of these movements had any effect in removing the smothering fabric from her face. Shaking her head more violently also failed to bring about the desired outcome of clearing this obstruction to her airways. She cursed her continuing bad luck, as the fear in her throat rose to almost hysterical levels. If the garment that had enveloped her head had been one of the many spandex outfits, this would have allowed her to take in air through the dense but breathable knit of the fabric. Latex, on the other hand, being non-porous, allowed no such luxury, and the thought that suffocation could become a real possibility only caused her levels of dread to rise still further, and her fight to surface from beneath the stubbornly unmoving article of her own clothing took on an even greater urgency.

How long she battled against this smothering, asphyxiating purveyor of death, Dolores couldn’t be sure, although it seemed that the seconds were dragging on into minutes, and the minutes to hours. But finally, after what seemed like an age, but was in reality probably no more than a minute of two, she triumphed in extricating her face from under the obstinately clinging item of apparel that still lay tangled across the back of her neck. Taking long, deep breaths into her lungs, Dolores savoured what seemed at that moment like cool, clear mountain air after her near death experience, although the reality was that the atmosphere within her timber sided prison cell was becoming ever more recycled and unhealthy as time passed.  


But however unnerving this experience may have been, Dolores also made a strange, and not unpleasant discovery during her skirmish with the item of clothing that seemed determined to torment her. Her struggles had, inadvertently, led her to pull on the tight crotch rope which she herself had strategically placed this morning, and which she had forgotten about since her captivity had become more of a permanent arrangement. And it was this sharp, forceful movement, coupled with her desperate battle to inhale enough air to stay conscious, which had caused what she could only describe as the early stages of a sensational sexual explosion, that was as wonderful as it was unexpected, to begin coursing through her like a bolt of summer lightning.  It was probably, she guessed,  the real fear that she was going to die that had caused this safety valve to open and allow her, so she’d thought at the time, one last taste of ecstasy before she passed into oblivion.

But of course, she’d survived. And with the crisis now over, she realised that this little taster, which had lasted only a few seconds, wasn’t enough, and she needed to keep the momentum going and try to recreate those feelings of only a few moments ago.  Having recovered her composure somewhat, and with her breathing now back into a steady rhythm, Dolores once more grabbed the rope that ran with such taut precision between her legs, and began pulling the coarse cord with as much masochistic zeal as she could muster. It didn’t take long for the genesis of the tingling sensation to once more take birth in her loins, and for the feeling to spread like wild-fire through her abdomen and up her spine, to burst open in a starburst flash of colours in her mind’s eye. Soon, her entire being, right to the tips of her fingers and toes, seemed to be pulsing to the cadence of her jerking, writhing body, as the most immaculate orgasm that she had ever experienced in her entire life left her groaning and purring into the gagging material in and across her mouth.  Time stood still as she found herself smashing into the walls of the confining wardrobe; not this time in anger or rage, but simply as a side effect of the joyous phenomenon that overpowered her and, temporarily at least, helped her to forget the real life situation which she was being forced to endure.  As she reached her climax, the realisation struck her that this brief glimpse of paradise had been so much more intense than her efforts earlier today, which paled in comparison to this, the most satisfying experience imaginable.

But all good things have to come to an end, and Dolores’ earth-shattering encounter was no exception. As she relaxed onto the hard floor of her escape-proof wooden coop, her thoughts turned to Cathy and Bethany, her prisoners  – or, more likely now, her ex-prisoners – who had both, she knew for certain, experienced sexual enlightenment of some description during their time here.  And if this latest episode had taught her anything, it was that escape-proof bondage administered by a third party was capable of awakening far greater arousal than anything attained through self-bondage or fantasy stimulated means. Surely, rather than hate their captor and wish ill on her, Cathy and Bethany should now show gratitude for allowing her to enlighten them to the delectable joys of bondage enhanced sexual activity? For how could any woman, in a situation like this, not class this sort of earth-shattering event as one of the greatest highlights of her life?


As if on cue, the thought of Bethany and Cathy seemed to coalesce with the sound of female voices breaking the silence that had descended on Shackleton Grange for the past few hours. Faintly at first, then gradually getting closer, Dolores knew instinctively that the reason for these voices growing in volume could only mean one thing; that they were on their way back to deal with their captor-turned-captive.  Although unable to catch the gist of the conversation – the padding around her ears and the thick wooden walls of the wardrobe ensuring that incoming sound remained muffled and incomprehensible – it was obvious that there were at least three women present. And it didn’t take a genius to work out the identity of this trio. As the sound of the key turning in the bedroom door reached her ears, however, the voices ceased, and for several seconds the only sound was that of footsteps slowly padding across the carpeted floor. Suddenly, another key operating a locking mechanism broke the silence, this one much closer at hand than the first, and a creak of ancient hinges coincided with a blast of slightly cooler air assaulting Dolores’ nostrils. Then the voice of her nemesis, Saskia, reverberated around the now unsealed wooden chamber.

“So Dolores, glad you could stick around. I’m sure you’ll be delighted to know that your fate has been decided.”

© Copyright 2019 Steve Spandex. All rights reserved.


Add Your Comments: