My Wife Won’t Do It

My wife won’t do it. That is why there is a pile of half-inch chain lying on the bathroom floor. With a dozen padlocks.

My wife won’t give me the release that I crave, so I have to make a lone journey of exploration into unknown and forbidden desire and fantasy. For whilst our relationship is close, her heart is not really into bondage games and the effort it takes.

I stood naked, contemplating the pile of chain on the bathroom floor. Choosing the time and place with no likely hood of interruption or discovery required some careful thought. I considered experimenting during the day when my beloved was at work, drawing the upstairs curtains for privacy. The close proximity of our home to one of the many footpaths that wind round our small village means the house is easily observed by people passing by and curtains closed during the day might arouse suspicion in our small community. So our large bathroom was the place that I used to rehearse before attempting a session with keys secured out of reach.

One of the reasons for curtailment of games and other activity was that our home overlooks a road and footpaths with only the smallest of front gardens. Such modern housing developments arranged around squares and quadrangles designed by well-meaning architects are all very well but noise can carry and an accidental switch of the curtain could reveal all to an inquisitive neighbour. God knows but there are enough of those.

The chains shone in the remaining light of evening coming in through the small window. Well, it’s now or never. Keys were in position and curtains drawn against the gathering darkness. I picked up a length of about eight feet, feeling its weight and the coldness of the steel, visualising, imagining. Yes, it was time to get ready, time to place myself at the mercy of steel.

Self-bondage was always a territory for exploration but the simple act of binding oneself was not as simple as I imagined. Fantasies of strict bondage whilst having a fail safe release mechanism were fine but did not exist in reality. Discovery by my wife and soul mate was not an option, or so I thought. For I was unsure of how she could react to my self-bondage desires, most especially if she discovered me chained or tied in a compromised position. She is very aware of my passion for bondage games but probably unaware of how deep I am into this. So the escape mechanism had to be as safe as I could make it. The time had to be right. Discovery, even by accident was to be guarded against.

Realisation dawned that self-bondage with rope was not an ideal. Partly completing a rope bondage session with one arm still free and no way of securing it occurred to me to be an anti-climax. So I gave careful thought to technique and materials: what would I really need to make this work for me?

Planning a self-bondage session was a revelation in itself: anticipation, anxiety, doubt all served as a mental stimulation. I actually found myself looking forward to my first attempt with a feeling inside which was a mixture of liquid dread, excitement and something else undefined. Fear perhaps? Shopping for some new materials and squirreling them away was exciting: standing in a hardware shop selecting chain left me with the same heart thumping sensations and a strangely moist feeling at the tip of my penis. My intentions were written all over my face, if not betrayed by the lump in my jeans. I was sure that I was looking as guilty as sin, clear as daylight for anyone to read. Thankfully, no helpful shop assistants approached to offer help with bolt cutters or measuring stick. Anyway, I was buying chain to secure my long ladders, wasn’t I? The problem with hardware shops is the array of seemingly innocent items easily converted to the perverted.

So to the release mechanism and the problem of securing myself safely, but firmly and in a manner that I could not escape without the key. Or keys for that matter. I thought long and hard. Being chained to the bed was a bit obvious and seemed boring to me. I craved a sexual thrill perhaps with a difference. Not a great deal of difference but nothing complicated. The added complication of rigging a release mechanism for the keys in the bedroom was testing my ingenuity to the limit. No, the bed, and bedroom, was out of the running. 

Fantasies turned my thoughts to another scene, one of being bound in chains but with some mobility. Now that was an idea. In some ways, having your mobility hampered but with sufficient slack to make simple tasks could emphasise the bondage effect. To have the keys suspended from the loft hatch on string out of reach until released by melting ice would ensure a failsafe escape. Or so I hoped!

What else was on the hit list? To secure my hands away from my genitals so premature release (of another kind) was not possible. A teasing factor to my predicament was something to consider. A butt plug perhaps? My heart quickened at that and so I finalised my plans and collected my materials together. That was a lot of fun in its own right. Planning and preparation for a potentially intense scene is always erotic, but this time fantasies ran wild, leaving me aroused, breathless and frustrated. Apprehension was mixed in this cup of erotic fantasy. For this was truly a step beyond an established boundary, a previously defined and hard limit, one that could open a Pandora’s box of forbidden desires and delights. Or would it prove to be a disaster at worse or a boring anti-climax? After all, my kick was being bound by someone else, the power exchange, the helplessness to prevent torture, punishment and unwanted but desired sensations of pain, heat, cold and forced sex. Would it work flying solo?

The rehearsal had thrown up a few difficulties to address. Happily clicking padlocks to, I had forgotten about one key in the kitchen drawer, the one in the freezer in which I planned to measure the time taken for an ice cube to melt. One which was down stairs, past the landing window (curtains open) and a similar one in the hall (also with curtains open to the world). 

Oh shit, I thought. Partly chained, I released as many padlocks as I could until I reached the offending one: this chained my left wrist. I had stupidly forgotten to match keys to padlocks until nearly completing my bondage and only thought of it before committing myself to the final click. I released as much as I could and pulled on my bathrobe, hoping to hide the offending chain should anyone peer through any window as I advanced from the bathroom, dragging chain behind me down the stairs and to the kitchen. The key was located and the rehearsal was restarted.

After the rehearsal, I was astonished at the marks left in my skin by the raw steel of the chains only after a short time in them. Anxiously, I monitored the marks for the rest of the day but to my intense relief, they had all but faded by the time I retired to bed. Marks like those would have raised some awkward questions. Thus an added dimension was introduced: shopping for some suitable clothing to wear when bound. I settled on a black latex leotard with legs that reached just above my knees. This just left my ankles exposed to chaffing by steel. I chose to use leather ankle cuffs to avoid the inevitable chaff marks. I visualised the scene: black latex and shiny steel – the leotard was very close fitting, a second skin: close to my own so it seemed like it was my own. Latex was a new kick and I liked this tight shiny look.

Finally, I decided upon two padlocks to secure my hands that used the same key. This “master key” would unlock those padlocks which in turn would enable me to reach for and unlock the remaining padlocks to escape. The master key would be the one to be placed in a locked box secured to a length of string buried in ice and suspended from the loft hatch. The others would present a test whilst bound: eight or so keys placed around the house for me to collect together. Keys that I would need for release but could not be used with my hands chained in place because the padlocks would be out of reach.

The ideal time for my session would be when my wife was away overnight on business. In the evening, after dark, when curtains could all be drawn giving me the freedom to roam around the house, chained. The keys would be challenging to collect together in my bound state. To add a complication, one key would be required to release the master key from a small locked box on the end of the string. This lock would be chosen at random and the key for it would have to be collected together before escape was possible, identifying which key could only be accomplished by testing it in the padlock. The fiendishness of my imagination surprised me until a little voice reminded me that I was to be the victim of those plans. That was sobering.

My planning was complete. I was excited, scared and frustrated by the apparent reluctance of my wife’s diary to throw up a date for an overnight business trip. As each day flicked past, the chance of my stashed pile of chain, locks and latex being discovered grew, especially when a clear out of the loft was suggested one weekend. By the skin of my teeth, I managed to hide the offending items under loft insulation whilst my wife prowled through bags of old clothes and boxes of stored household items and ornaments. That was a close shave. To try and put her off an idea would just have the opposite effect. It was only afterwards that I realised that discovery could have had interesting consequences or potentially disastrous ones: I shiver at the thought even now.

Recalling the frustration, the waiting and anticipation, it took a remarkably long time for a couple of evenings alone to become reality. A trip home was a heaven-sent opportunity to put my plans into action at a time when business trips seemed to dry up. She wanted to spend a couple of days with her mother (an elegant lady of advancing years) for a shopping spree and lady’s talk. That suited me and diaries were checked, tickets booked and a small suitcase exhumed from the attic. She felt guilty at leaving me behind, at home to work. I felt the same but for some very different reasons.

So here I stood, in the bathroom, now changed into my new, close fitting skin of latex: shiny, black, revealing. It was snug across my chest and arms, arms encased to the wrists. The snug fit ensured that it shaped hard around by buttocks, smooth and shiny, emphasising my male shape. Latex covered my thighs and legs to just above my knees. It was perfect, tight but flexible. In itself, there was plenty of movement. I had never before seen myself like this: a strange insect-like shiny carapace topped by a familiar face stared at me from the mirror. I was stunned.

Then to the chain, glinting in the dull light, menacing, uncompromising and promising hours of bondage without let or mercy. I was aroused and with fluttering feelings in the pit of my stomach. The first length circled my chest below the armpits. I managed to padlock it together at my back, leaving two loose ends. Each passed over my shoulders and was secured to the chain around my chest at the front. A chain bra, I thought with a giggle. The loose ends were then passed around again, under my arms and back over my shoulders ready to secure my wrists and hands a few inches below my chin.

Next came the waist belt of chain. Wrapped tight around me so it would not slip, it pinched my waist in a little, making it secure. A padlock secured it at the small of my back. Each loose end dangled down my backside, with enough length to touch the floor. I then wrapped a new length of chain above my left knee, with three turns. A padlock clicked into place. The loose end was applied to the right leg in the same manner. I repeated the process with my ankles. Click! Not the point of no return, no, not yet but getting close. A glance in the bathroom mirror revealed a shiny black figure with contrasting silver chain, an erotic sight to my eyes. My features were recognisable but very different. A feeling of unreality gripped me.

One loose end from my waist chain was run round the front of the chain between my knees, which was only five inches long. It was padlocked to the left knee. The opposite knee received the same treatment. Now I could feel the curtailment of freedom. The chains around my shoulders already made their presence felt by partly restricting movement of my arms, digging in slightly. Attempting to bend over to secure the loose ends of my waist chain to my ankle chains was difficult – the waist chain secured to my knees wrapped around my buttocks, slipping over the shiny latex and into my crack as I reached down. Bending my knees to reach my ankles resulted in the knee chains restricting the muscles in my thighs and tightening of the chains in my arse so it was almost too painful. I had not opted for a butt plug this time round and the relief and disappointment at skipping this detail was tangible – mixed feelings. Chain gives not a jot – no quarter.

The last job now my legs were bound by six inches of hobbling chain (tensioned by the ends of the waist chain) was to secure my wrists to the loose ends of the shoulder chain. A last check was made on the box containing my release: I could not reach it. 

I paused at this point of no return. Ahead was hours of bound, chained restriction. Sitting was going to be painful. Lying down would be difficult with the chains and padlocks digging in. I contemplated the last padlock. The key for that was locked in a small metal box with the same type of padlock as those on my body that reduced me to little more than a chained, aroused slave, a slave to my own desires. The box in question was suspended from the loft hatch, three feet above my head. The key to open the box was with those scattered around the house – exactly which key I simply did not know. The ice block would hold the string for a number of hours and I had that time to collect my keys. I realised with a start that the restriction I experienced when completing my bondage would make retrieving my keys more complicated than I imagined. A tremor of anxiety filtered through my body. Should I reconsider the plan? Nope. Go for it. 

The left wrist was easily wrapped in the loose end of chain from the shoulder bind: it sat a few inches from my chin, to the left. This was secured with a padlock. I gripped the last loose end with my bound left hand and held it steady to wrap it three times around my right wrist. The master padlock was fed through the links, with difficulty. I paused again, heart hammering, cock hard and throbbing inside my latex carapace. I could back out, give myself release and then gather the keys with my loose hand. The scene so far had been hot, more intense than anything experienced in the past.

My hand trembled over the second master padlock. In fact, my whole body trembled. Click. No return, the only way to go is forward, find the keys, and wait for the box to fall. I was horrified at my reflection in the mirror: hands secured to my shoulders, inches from my chin. Black latex, shiny, a marked contrast to silver steel chain bound tight around my waist and down my legs. I could just manage small mincing steps, hobbled as I was. This was more erotic and more stimulating that completely strict bondage to a bed, hand and foot. But strict bondage this was, without doubt. Strict because there was no escape from the relentless chain, no give in the restriction. Every movement was brought up short by chain: heavy to wear, heavy to carry, it’s weight placing pressure on knees, ankles, wrists and shoulders. I could move my arms back but the chains slipped off my shoulders and back down my upper arms leaving them sticking out from my shoulders at a silly, uncomfortable angle. I brought them back. I attempted to feel myself through the latex but to bend forward sufficiently to barely touch the tip of my erect penis meant considerable discomfort from the chain in my crack. I stood erect again, the two lengths of chain from the back of my waist just going slack. I though long and hard about walking down the stairs and about the key tucked under the dining room table, the one on the floor behind the sofa and the one on a shelf above the wash basin in the down stairs loo. I trembled and not for the last time. This was not going to be easy.

After resting for a few minutes, I inched out of the bathroom and to the stairs. The length of chain between my ankles was about 9 inches long; enough to enable me to step carefully down the stairs. I crabbed sideways down each step, bending my legs as little as possible. Stepping down 14 stairs without bending slightly at the waist to catch hold of the banister rail was impossible. The chain in my crack ground mercilessly at my anus, the tough latex providing no protection. Reaching the bottom step, I made the mistake of sitting down for a break. I was pulled up short by the chain in my ass, as it seemed to slice into me. I stood trembling. Where are the keys? I had planted them but excitement and fear of my position had wiped my mind blank. Oh yes, to the loo. The shelf was too high for me to reach with bound hands. Back to the kitchen, small footstool located and pushed painfully into position. First key was retrieved, relatively easily. Oh damn. How do I keep them together? They should be placed on the landing below the hatch ready to unlock the magic box. I hobbled back to the kitchen, painfully bending down to pluck a small plastic bag from a dispenser. Problem solved.

I paused again. Amazing how simple tasks like picking a key off a shelf became a trial of endurance and wits. Every time I tried to reach forward with my arms, the chain pulled me up short. Legs used to striding out were hobbled to a few inches. Muscles obeyed commands from the brain to step forward. Steel chain was a rude interruption at every step, causing pressure on my ankles and the muscles above my knees, shortening my steps, and making life difficult. The waist chain prevented me from bending down comfortably; it put pressure on knees and ankles, further shortening steps to a mincing stumble. I was hooked. This was better than I had imagined. The pressure and tension my wrists, ankles and anus was driving me wild. The sexual tension was torture. The helplessness was wild. The whole experience was wild. And I had done this to myself. Release was impossible, certainly whilst standing. I could not reach my penis or balls, assuming a decent grip could be had through the latex. I recovered the remaining keys located on cupboards, shelves and furniture. Four remained and those were at carpet level. An hour or so into my bondage and there was no noise of the box falling to the landing carpet.

My only real stimulation was from the chain between my legs as it ground against my now tender anus as I stooped in the dining room to lie uncomfortably on the floor. I tried to slide on my side under the dining table to reach the next key. I could not reach it. Turning onto my front, I slid myself further in, putting unbearable pressure on my penis and tightening the chains to bear hard on my pressure points. The friction brought forth the biggest explosion imaginable as I was lying face down on the floor, legs jerking against the chains, secured hands clenched, fingernails digging half moons into my palms such was the intensity of that long orgasm. It went on forever and ever. On reflection, my memory made it appear that way as I came inside my latex suit, the culmination of days of anticipation, preparation, this latex leotard, the chains, strict bondage and the additional thrill of having done this to myself. 

I faded out for a while, finally coming round to a cold damp feeling in my outfit and a real desire to get out of these chains. I felt humiliated: unable to get cleaned up and found the restricting chains a real problem. I wanted to release myself immediately but realised that my escape was dependent on three more keys. Torturous was my progress to the last three keys and back up the stairs to the landing just to discover that the box was yet to drop. I groaned.

Standing in the bathroom, I looked in the mirror and was surprised to see that I looked no different to when I started: black, shiny, chained. Inside the leotard, I had become hot and damp with slippery cum lubricating the latex against the skin of my thighs and stomach and slowly making its way around under my second skin. But externally, apart from a face flush from exertion, I appeared the same. This I found bizarre.

I kneeled down onto the carpet. The box dangled tantalisingly from the hatch, out of reach, inaccessible. I lay in my chains. A brief attempt to reach some of the padlocks with my retrieved keys only resulted in more anal torture. I considered it better to wait for the box to fall.

In the remaining four hours that I lay in bondage, on the floor of the landing, my mind wandered through fantasies and dark thoughts. How would my beloved react if she found me like this? Perhaps I should force the issue? A self tied hog tie on the bed in time for her arriving home one evening perhaps? I imagined the rumpus, the punishment, left for hours. I moved and the all too familiar clink of chain that had been my constant companion reminded me that the box was still to fall. I tested my bonds again. This had been a successful and very intense session. I was sore and tired but becoming aroused again. Thump.

The box finally fell from the loft, showering me with icy water from the string. I grabbed it under my chin with one hand and chose a key to release the padlock. Two keys later and I was in, the master key in my left hand. One was inserted in the lock of the padlock in my right hand and turned. It stuck. Wrong key. Had I mixed the locks for securing my wrists? I tried the key in the opposite lock. It failed to open. Frantically, I counted the keys: yes all present. It dawned on me that I HAD mixed up the locks and the master key was in the pile on the floor. I could have released myself hours ago. I lay there laughing hysterically. I had been in possession of the key to my wrists for most of the evening. I deserved severe punishment for that slip. No one around to administer it.

I released myself from my steel prison and ran a warm bath, peeling off the latex leotard in the warm water to wash it and myself. After drying off and dusting the leotard with talc, I considered my next session. Post the keys in a post box and wait for their delivery? The length of bondage time being open-ended was an aphrodisiac. I stepped back into my clean leotard, pulling the zip up the back to my neck. I placed my small locking collar around my neck and ran a padlock through the zipper tab and a D ring in the collar, snapping it shut. The key to that lock was in the garden shed. My final preparation for bed was to refit my ankle cuffs and lock them on together with chain hobbling my legs again. I would sleep like that, releasing my legs in the morning and retrieving the leotard key from the garden shed. Perhaps I should have left that key at my small office in town?
 
 

20.03.04