And Yet
George Orwell came up with a word that became part of the English language: Doublethink, or the ability to hold two contrary beliefs in one’s head at the same time. Sally was unquestionably a certifiable psychopath, a clear and present danger to anyone near her. I would have to be just as institutionally insane to trust her.
And yet…and yet, that was the problem. Twice now she had carried me to the brink of oblivion during my bondage adventures. No one in their right mind would ever trust her as a backup after those incidents. And yet, afterwards when I walked away, I felt as though I had been through the greatest experience of my life. I was addicted to the rush. Whatever magic she wielded, it had cast a spell over me. Doublethink was alive and well inside my head.
I stared at my reflection in the bathroom mirror. I had staved off the craving, but each weekend it came back all the stronger. My head was full of new ideas, all far too risky to attempt without a backup. It was inconceivable I could picture anyone but Sally in that role. She’d insinuated herself in my mind, a constant presence echoing the words she spoke to me in my most vulnerable moments.
It was a classic dilemma. I recognized it and in an intellectual sense knew I had to find a resolution. And yet, I’d fallen into an emotional trap that banished rational thought, and any concern about my safety, to the furthest corners of my conscious reasoning. She had a way of talking to me that was both terrifying and exciting. What was I to do?
The answer was simple. Throw caution to the wind and go ahead with my next adventure. I’d already started on the additions to the basement room. Anyway, there really wasn’t a question to be answered. I was going to do it, and Sally would be there, sitting in her corner watching me.
Preparations
The basement room had undergone a renovation. Sally had introduced me to immobilization as an alternative to crawling into the other room to retrieve the magic key. After two adventures being staked either to the ground or the floor, I was thoroughly enchanted at the prospect of new ways to eliminate any possibility of movement, especially in my legs. Don’t ask me why I had a fixation on depriving myself of the use of my lower extremities. All I know is I’m never satisfied unless they are rendered useless; nothing more than dead weight at a minimum, or an impediment to be overcome in an ideal setting.
My Rod Of Discipline, the inflexible steel bar linking my bound ankles to my male appendage, proved to be the ideal solution. Once in place either I held my legs bent at the knee, in a perfect ninety-degree angle, or I suffered an increasing painful admonition to correct my error. It did wonders to enforce an uncompromising rule concerning my behavior, while depriving me of any functionality from the waist down.
So far I’d staked out the rod first on a hillside, and a second time to the basement floor. The results had far exceeded my expectations. I wanted more of the same, and to that end had come up with something new. It was a flash of inspiration that came when I saw a reference to an old Star Trek movie on YouTube, Wrath of Khan. “His pattern indicates two-dimensional thinking,” referring to Noonien Singh’s piloting during the climactic battle. I was afflicted with the same myopic outlook.
I started out with the usual preparations. Reinforced tape around ankles and wrists, to prevent bruising. I only used metallic leg irons and handcuffs, no rope or leather cuffs. There was something about the weight and feel of unyielding steel that no substitute could match. The leg irons were actually oversized handcuffs, essentially ankle-sized cuffs but with only two chain links. I could stand up with them on, but walking was out of the question, unless I was content with shuffling along by placing one big toe in front of the other. Naturally I used four pairs, all that would fit, stacked up around my ankles in a close fit against the tape. Snug but not so tight as to cut off circulation, that’s how I like it. I do have a penchant for being excessive when it comes to restraint.
Another of my pet peeves is the relative ease in opening handcuff locks. The key is simple and commonplace, no real security unless the prisoner has no access to anything that can be used as a pick or impromptu key. Fortunately there’s a well-known solution, security covers that wrap around the cuff body, covering the keyholes. The covers are then fastened on with a better locking device, usually a pin tumbler lock. Sure, the lock can still be picked, but it’s very difficult with the cuffs on and the cover interfering with hand movement. For the leg irons I’d machined a custom cover from billet aluminum alloy that was quite effective in discouraging tampering. My little invention also had a mounting notch for the rod, a critical feature.
Stripped down to my birthday suit and seated on the floor, I locked on the cock cage, followed by the nearer end of the rod with the clamp around my member, under the cage. After adding the shroud mounted on the outer tube of the rod I had no way to remove the cage or clamp. Being impatient I strapped my knees together and locked on the far end of the rod to my ankles. As usual I added a short chain from the ring under my knees to the center of the rod, applying just enough tension to take up any slack. A quick tug convinced me not to test any further. My disciplinarian was in control.
Now came the tricky part. I had bolted a stout ring to the front of the ankle cover. It could easily support my weight, which I verified with some testing. Turning to face the rear wall I lined up with a new vertical track I’d anchored to the concrete blocks. Inside the track was a captive steel shuttle, with a short length of chain on the bottom and at the top a longer length rising up to a hoist. The end of that chain descended back down to the floor, to one of the floor rings from my last adventure. The ring acted as a belaying pin to keep tension on the chain. I had a padlock in place but not closed, mostly to temporarily keep the chain from being pulled up the hoist.
Leaning forward I ran the lower end chain on the shuttle through the loop at my ankles, before finishing it off with a heavy-duty padlock to keep me in place. On my back, I reached up, grabbed the hoist chain and began pulling. The hoist had a 2:1 gearing ratio, which made it easy to pull up my legs. As my feet rose up the track, following the shuttle, I scooted closer to the wall in order to keep the disciplinary rod happy. I stopped when I felt my buttocks bump against the wall. I pulled the slack in the hoist chain through the floor ring, took hold of the loose end, and reached up along the taut end of the chain to arms-length, before slipping the hasp of my armored, “linchpin” padlock through two links. I didn’t close the lock, since I had plans to use the hoist chain in a second capacity.
I’d tried horizontal twice, so why not go vertical, three dimensional, this time? There I was, feet high in the air, knees jutting out from the wall, and nowhere to go. This was definitely different. Placing my hands on the floor I was able to rise up, except the weight of my legs pressed down on the rod. I had more leeway than being staked out on the ground, although it really didn’t do me any good. Still, it wasn’t quite right.
This issue I had anticipated. I threaded a zip tie through the chain links nearest each end of the shuttle. Reaching up, under my legs, I wrapped each zip tie around the rod and tightened it. Just as I’d been staked out on the hillside, now I was fixed to the wall. This time there was virtually no slack when I tried to push off the floor with my hands. I had a close, intimate pairing with the basement wall.
It had been a while since I’d used my gag. I have a love-hate relationship with it. I loved what it did, rendering me incommunicado, yet at the same time I hated to wear it for any length of time. Stupidity won out over prudence. In went the gag, with the straps around and over my head holding it in place. Being speechless kicked up the frustration index one more notch.
Next were the old standbys, the hood and posture collar. Since I’d be blind I made sure all my tools were close to hand before I slipped the hood over my head. The lights went out. Sally had convinced me the experience was more intense without the benefit of eyesight. I’d never considered it, being too risky, but Sally had made me a believer. The high, stiff leather posture collar went around my neck and latched in the back. The hood wouldn’t slip off while it was in place. Nor could I remove the gag while the straps were covered over by the hood.
I laid back on the floor, to take a break. It’s amazing what a tiny bit of leather can do when it comes between your eyes and the outside world. Staring up at the ceiling I could visualize the winch and the chain hanging down from it. I raised up on my elbows. My legs were there, against the wall. I knew it in an intellectual sense, yes somehow being blind I wasn’t quite sure.
I didn’t like the idea of being able to sit up, albeit at an awkward angle. This was extremely easy to deal with. I had screwed in two anchor bolts to the floor, one on either side of my upper torso. A wide leather belt ran between them. All I had to do was feed one end through the buckle, and close it. Very low tech but when I tried to sit up again I didn’t get very far. There was no security at all, not even a locking buckle, but if I couldn’t reach it that was all I needed.
I reached out to my left. There it was, my other brilliant idea. Like the rod of discipline it was a solid bar, although in this case lightweight aluminum alloy. I needed to keep the weight down. One end had a “Martin Link”, a rectangular steel bar with a large oval cut inside it. It was designed to fit through the security covers for handcuffs, to keep them in place. One end of the link was riveted to the bar.
The other end terminated in a wide metal collar, large enough to fit around the posture collar. It was oval and had a lock slightly off to one side, next to where the bar was mounted. I wrapped the band around the posture collar and pushed it closed. A quick tug on the bar verified it was working as intended. Perfect, no play at all; not so tight as to choke me, and padded with the posture collar to prevent any damage to my neck.
On my right were the two pairs of hinged handcuffs. When I picked them up, I was careful to make sure the keyhole pointed forward so I could reach it when the time came to take them off. I snapped on both pairs, slowly counting down the ratchet to the ideal position. I was able to slip the security covers over each pair of cuffs since I’d had plenty of practice. I could do it with my eyes closed…more or less.
The bar extending up from my neck was close to arm’s length, ending about where my wrists were fastened together. I managed to maneuver the Martin Link through the slot in the handcuff covers with one hand. The moment I felt the end emerge I grabbed hold of it with the other hand. Reaching out I found the hoist chain. I pulled it over, opened the armored lock hasp to extract the free end of the hoist chain, and began feeding it through the opening of the Martin Link. The chain prevented the bar from slipping out of the slot in the handcuff security covers, no lock necessary.
Slowly I pulled on the hoist chain through the oval slot, taking up all the slack from the ceiling, through the ring on the floor, and back up to my hands. My arms were fully stretched out from my neck. I removed the armored lock, my “linchpin”, raised up as far as the floor belt would permit, strained to reach further with my bound hands, and inserted the hasp through one of the chain links that descended from the hoist. I took the closest chain link from the free end, fed it through the hasp, and snapped the lock shut. My linchpin was still within reach, barely. I could slide my wrists up and down the length of chain between the lock and the floor ring, within the narrow range the bar allowed.
I was committed now. My only hope was the key to my linchpin lock. As usual a length of twine around my left wrist ensured I wouldn’t be stuck if the all-important key slipped out of my fingers. Between the rigid cuffs and the bar to my neck I couldn’t reach the floor or anything else, since my wrists were also fastened to the hoist chain.
My arms ascended up toward the ceiling, how far I couldn’t tell. Once more I regretted letting Sally talk me into a blindfold. I could wiggle my fingers and even move my hands around a bit, although the hinged cuffs combined with the cover formed a restrictive clamp on my wrists, forcing them to stay in line and in an almost penitent position, as if begging for help. When I tried to bend my elbows the bar pressed against my neck, putting a halt to my attempt. I also tried to reach to either side, not that it would do me any good. The taut hoist chain quickly brought me up short.
My hands and arms were just as useless as my legs. I had a mental picture of a turtle on its back, legs sticking out, struggling in vain to turn over. That was me, flat on my back and not in a position to do anything about it. I wrapped my hands around the hoist chain without exerting any downward pressure. I couldn’t afford to anger my rod of discipline by trying to raise my legs.
I savored the moment. Without the armored lock between my hands I could pretend I had no means to escape. Whatever happened now was beyond my control. Nor could I offer the least resistance to anyone who discovered me. This was the ultimate, to my way of thinking.
Backup
I was in a most precarious position. If I somehow lost that crucial key I was in serious trouble. I couldn’t see her, of course, but I was sure Sally was still sitting in a chair in the far corner, watching over me. She was sensitive to my preparatory stage and never intruded. I appreciated her respect for my privacy. Everything had been by my own hand, without any outside help. I could enjoy the fruits of my labors all on my own, without sharing.
I had no illusions as to how dangerous my position was. If I got into some kind of distress she was there to release me, so I had no real fears. No fears other than Sally herself; that was always a concern. Twice now she had let me go, so I had no reason to doubt her. Except of course, she was psychotic; I was sure of that, so I actually had every reason to doubt her good intentions toward me. Past history is no guarantee of future performance. I pushed that thought out of my head. Classic doublethink was at work.
I flexed my fingers. How long could I endure this position? The weight of my legs was taken up by the hoist, and it did help to hold onto the hoist chain to relieve the strain on my arms. The concrete floor pressing against my back wasn’t ideal, but it didn’t qualify as positional stress in bondage terms. The gag was already driving me crazy, but that was to be expected. Overall, I was satisfied I could lie here for several hours.
“Well done, and all on your own, too. Sally admires your talent for getting into the most elaborate predicaments.”
I hadn’t heard Sally sneak up behind me. She must have taken off her shoes. There was no point in trying to respond. The gag was unequaled in the way it garbled speech. I don’t like halfway measures.
I felt Sally take hold of the hoist chain, somewhere above my hands. Suddenly she jerked on it in a downward direction. Due to the gearing it didn’t take much effort to raise my legs. I screamed in pain through the gag when the disciplinary rod rose up, dragging the weight of my lower body attached to a most sensitive part of my anatomy. She immediately let go, returning me to my original position. Fortunately the hoist was set to freewheel, meaning it traveled in both directions. If the ratchet were enabled, letting go of the chain would have still left me in agony.
“Sally is so sorry. She didn’t realize you were tightly bound. Other than the slight mishap you don’t seem to be in pain. If that changes, remember Sally is here to help you.” Her “mishap” had been deliberate, knowing full well the result. The message was clear; she could do terrible things to me on a whim.
Help, yeah, that was the general idea, but the way she was always so eager to offer her kind of help did not reassure me. I doubted her ideas on how to best assist me lined up with my own opinion. Still, in the end she always came through. I did trust her. I had to focus on that.
She pulled off the piece of twine on my wrist, and the key attached to it. I tried a desperate snatch to grab the key out of her hand, but being both blind and bound I didn’t have much chance of success. She simply pushed away my hand.
“Sally is tired of this nonsense about you having the means to release yourself. As your backup, that’s Sally’s responsibility. You should place your unreserved trust in Sally, but you have not behaved in the manner Sally expects. The lack of respect for your obligations cannot be tolerated.” The tone of her voice conveyed both her impatience and irritation.
This was not good. She was mad at me. Why, I wasn’t entirely sure, but I wasn’t going to argue. Without that key I was at her mercy, and she knew it. Besides, all I could do was lie there on the floor, like the proverbial turtle.
I heard her moving around, but I had no idea what she was planning. Why did I ever let Sally convince me to give up my eyesight? I heard a click from the overhead hoist. “Sally has engaged the ratchet. You must be very careful not to pull on the hoist with your legs, since it won’t go back down. Be sure you hold your arms all the way up and don’t relax. Perhaps this will help you to be more mindful of your duties while a captive.”
I wrapped both hands around the hoist chain. I dare not let go. The slightest downward slip of my legs and the hoist might lift the lock out of my reach. I could not afford to let that happen.
A cellphone beeped. It couldn’t be mine, since it was upstairs. It had to be Sally’s.
“Sally has an errand to run. While she is gone you will have some quiet time to enjoy your bondage. This will be good for you. Concentrate on how to make amends for disappointing Sally.”
There was a beep, followed by a mechanical voice announcing “timer ready.”
“You know how this works,” Sally explained. “When you complete your quiet time, Sally will receive a message on her phone to return and let you go. Remember, you must complete an entire interval first, this is a task you must finish, so be very quiet. Sally will not come back until she sees the text message.”
The door slammed shut and she was gone. Don’t panic, I told myself, she’ll be back. You can do this. You have to do this, there’s no alternative. For all I knew Sally was sitting upstairs, playing one of her mind games on me.
Besides, how could it get any worse? Little did I know.
The Voice of Unreason
There was a beep, followed by the words I dreaded. “Count begins,” from the mechanical voice close to my head. It meant my “quiet time” had started, Sally’s version. I had been subjected to its merciless power over me the last time, so I knew what to expect. The slightest noise on my part and that infernal machine would reset the count. Until it ran down the timer interval to zero it wouldn’t notify Sally’s phone, which meant I was nowhere near being released. Sally didn’t bluff. She meant it when she said she had to get that message first, no matter how long it took.
Her timer, deceptively simple, was a tyrant of the worst sort. Cold, implacable, unrelenting, it cared not one iota about my wellbeing. Being a machine it had one purpose only, to force me to lie on the floor while remaining impossibly silent. Not being able to see the count on the display was the worst torture of the entire ordeal. If I knew how much longer, I could always squeeze out that last bit of resolve. With the hood on, the display was so close, yet an infinity away, blocked by that thin barrier before my eyes.
Anything could set it off, forcing me to start all over. What I worried about most was the hoist chain. If two links clicked together I was done for. Even heavy breathing might set it off, since it was so close to my head. I had to take shallow breaths, no easy feat through the gag.
Were the lights still on, or was I lying there in the dark? The light switch didn’t make a sound, so I had no way of knowing. The hood was thorough in the way it didn’t admit any light. It made no sense but somehow, being in the dark made it seem that much worse. It was as if I’d been forgotten, ignored, beyond any hope of attracting someone’s attention.
Sally would return for me, of that I was positive. All I had to do was make it through her quiet time. Once she got the message I had finished, she would come back, hand me the key, and I’d free myself. It had always worked that way in the past. Nothing had changed.
I trusted Sally. Beep, “count reset.” I clenched my hands in frustration. I hadn’t been paying attention. Okay, I’d accept the penalty and get it right this time.
The Last Time
Sally got into her car and picked up her phone again. The message was unambiguous. “Services needed urgent and immediate. Plane will arrive at 3AM your time. Dress for the desert.”
The sender was a known cutout for one of her very best clients. The money would be shockingly generous, although it felt like it would be a rush job. Sally didn’t like those, since there was no time to build up and then destroy the subject’s trust. She sighed, knowing the only way would be physical persuasion, with her being the good cop rescuer. Hopefully the client had someone skilled in that type of work; Sally never engaged in physical abuse. Good and bad interrogators, it was a cliché, crude but still worked if sufficient stress was applied. A drowning man clutches at a straw. Sally would be that straw.
She started the engine and pulled out of her current subject’s driveway. She was disappointed in not being able to spend more time with him. Sally had instilled in him unquestioning faith in her, and now she’d miss the finale, seeing the light go out in his eyes when she betrayed that trust.
His battle with the timer did bring a smile to her lips. Oh, he would struggle to defeat the machine, enduring countless hours of quiet time. What he didn’t know is that his automated nemesis was programmed to never let him win. It didn’t even have a cell phone modem to call her. If he managed to hold still long enough, the timer would play a rattling chain noise and reset. The game was rigged; the only question was how long before he figured it out? A day, maybe two? By then he’d be mentally and physically pushed to the limit, teetering on the edge of a breakdown.
There was a classic psychology experiment. Teach a mouse to run a maze. Wait until the mouse has learned it, and then start randomly changing the walls of the maze while the mouse runs it again. What is the definition of insanity? Doing the same thing over and over again, always expecting a different result. The timer would be his maze, always tantalizingly close but forever shifting the finish line.
What would it be like, lying on the floor, hands and feet up in the air, telling yourself “one more second, just one more second” over and over, trying to finish the quiet time punishment. How long would he survive? Sally made a mental note to have someone phone in a welfare check to the police after the second day. Leaving bodies around brought with it brought undue police attention. He’d make it, though his mental state would be in shambles.
And if it was too late, well, Sally really didn’t care one way or the other. He wasn’t her problem any longer. She’d be halfway around the world, just in case her name surfaced in the investigation.
She checked the time before heading to her apartment. Plenty of leeway to pack a few things and make some arrangements. There were people who would clean her apartment, ensuring there were no forensic traces left behind. They’d handle the anonymous call too.
Too bad he had dropped the key while trying to free himself. She had left it on the floor, underneath his hands. He’d be listed as one more bondage accident, a self-inflicted misadventure. Sally shook her head. It was so easy to win their confidence. He had actually come to her first, rare but it had happened before. Her next subject wouldn’t be so easy, but the challenge was part of the fun too.