Phase I: Preparation
I had lots of time, and the urge, so I gave in and started a bondage session. Short of the house burning down I was guaranteed I wouldn’t be disturbed. Off came all the clothes, a tradition where I would be discouraged from seeking outside help.
One of my goals, just to make the scenario more of a challenge, was minimal mobility. Once I was suitably weighed down, I’d make my way climbing up the basement stairs to the floor above. Naturally the keys would be available only after negotiating some type of difficult and time-consuming task. When I finished, all the means to enable my release would go into a sturdy safe bolted to the concrete floor. The safe in turn could only be opened with a specific key, which was located upstairs. Once the door was shut, I was committed to either an indefinite stay in the restraints or somehow making my way to the where the safe key was located, and then back again to the basement. Obtaining that key would present an additional set of challenges. Unless I completed my round trip, I would be severely limited in any future activities.
Boredom, thirst and hunger would guarantee I would not procrastinate in seeking the means to escape my portable prison. I’m not always at my best when it comes to motivation, so the more incentives I can add the better. Either I lie on the floor in the dark, without TV, radio, phone or computer, or I make the effort.
Preliminaries
Before anything else I had to keep up my enthusiasm, so to speak. One of my most treasured bondage tools is a tailored chastity belt. This was not some toy either. The waistband, wider than normal, was stainless steel lined with surgical foam to prevent chafing. Attached to the back were two wide straps that merged between my legs. From there the front section came up to merge with the front, where a triangular plate held everything together with pins. A sturdy locking steel plate went over the pins to hold it all in place. Without the key it was a daunting task to cut it off and not risk painful injuries.
The front, below the locking plate, completely covered the genital area. Being male, this included a curved tube to block any possible access during an erection. Slipping out was out of the question since it was such a snug fit. I had an armor-plated guarantee there was no chance of a sexual release no matter what attempts were made.
The belt had been at work since the prior day. To avoid temptation the key was in the mail, with delivery at least another day away. I did have a backup, in my desk at work, where I couldn’t get to it for several days. I routinely did this on weekends, in case I did answer that irresistible compulsion to subject myself to the indignities of severe bondage.
I needed some basic protection to save my ankles from abrasions and bruising. Cold steel can be so unforgiving, especially when rubbing up against tender skin. After some experimentation I found what worked best for me. The first layer was plain old plastic wrap, the kitchen variety, wrapped around each foot from toe to well past the narrow part of the ankle. That was followed by a layer of the multipurpose tool essential to bondage, duct tape, to hold it in place.
Next, I applied my trick addition, to minimize bruising. I took a wide strip of aluminum foil, folded it over several times, and wrapped the strip around each ankle. Another layer of duct tape, covering the ankle, completed my special socks. It had the added benefit of eliminating the use of my feet as anything more than mostly useless stumps. It’s amazing what you can do with toes after some practice. Packaged inside a formidable barrier of plastic and tape, those toes wouldn’t be of any help to me.
I finished my protective layer with athletic tape wrapped around each wrist and crossing my palm, to keep it from slipping. I would be using handcuffs later, which do leave marks on bare skin. Like my ankles I added a thin layer of foil for padding under a second layer of tape.
The Legs
With the preliminaries out of the way I was ready to start on immobilizing my legs. Walking, or even standing, was out of the question. For this session my legs were to be nothing more than dead weight that hindered crawling across the floor.
It took some research on the Internet before I found the ideal impediment. Medical science had produced heavy duty leg braces for people who suffered from paralysis or muscle damage. To me there was another, more pernicious use. The braces were designed to provide rigidity to weakened legs and knees. For my purposes that was ideal
I found a pair in my size. They were expensive but worth the endless hours of pleasure they provided. Each brace was built up with metal struts and leather straps, lined with foam. The struts were there to prevent any attempts to bend my knees.
I had added a modification to make the devices a bit more interesting. I drilled several holes along the struts which were located on the interior side. Then I used heavy duty pop rivets to permanently join the two braces together. There were enough to prevent any separation once my legs were strapped in.
It wasn’t easy to put the braces on. My legs went in easily enough, but then I had to bend over to reach the straps in order to tighten them. The waistband of the chastity belt dug in when I reached out, which didn’t help at all. But with some effort I finally had my legs clamped together. I wasn’t finished though.
Theoretically I could slip out of the braces by working them downward. That was a problem. The solution turned out to be relatively simple. Thanks to the miracle of the Internet I had the perfect tool for the job. An Asian company had copied the classic British leg cuff known as the “Irish 8”, basically a hinged clamp that fitted around both ankles and closed with a locking bar on one side, in the typical 19th century Darby style.
Whoever invented them had a devious, even sadistic bent. Both ankles were bound closely together with a relatively wide cuff. There was a center section that met in the middle, so that each ankle was completely surrounded by an inflexible metal band. Mine were reproductions, made from plated brass but every bit as effective as the originals, and heavier too. Darby cuffs were easy to manipulate with simple tools. With nothing but bare hands, and I wouldn’t even have that resource available, removing them without the key or any way to reach the lock did wonders to improve prisoner security.
One would be sufficient, so naturally I had two of them. After some more bending over when I finished snapping them on, both were a snug fit, thanks to the padding from the aluminum foil and tape around my ankles. I alternated the locking bars so they were staggered right and left. That way the cuffs stacked close together. A quick test verified they were on for keeps, or at least until I used the key to open them. The braces ended just above the cuffs. I could still stand up, if I had some way to lift myself up to my feet, but walking was definitely out of the question.
My intention was to ensure my legs were not only rendered useless but actively working against me, a liability rather than an asset to my upcoming journey. Once more I relied on the wisdom of prior centuries to help. All that was necessary was fastening a chain and large hasp padlock around the center of the two Irish Eights. It was a loose fit but wasn’t going to come off, which was sufficient for my purposes
The payload, an apt term, was fixed to the other end of the short but sturdy chain attached to the cuff. On the floor sat an iron ball, rounded but flat on the bottom, with the chain running from a loop welded onto the top. Historically the weight varied considerably for a ball and chain. The large 40 lb. ball was formidable, so I settled for the slightly smaller 25lb. version, roughly 12kg. The chain length was chosen to maximize inconvenience, being too short to pick up and carry, but long enough to swing back and forth on the floor creating a constantly shifting and weighty nuisance.
The ball was a thick-walled steel sphere, with a hollow center. The actual weight could be tailored by filling it with lead shot mixed with sand. After one short try out with the full 40 lb. load, I cut it down to the more manageable 25 lb. mix. The hole used to fill the ball was fitted with a plug that fit flush with the surface, and tightened with an air wrench to prevent tampering. Finally, the outside of the ball was covered in a layer of vinyl padding to prevent it damaging the floor and walls, or my legs, while in use.
A real, working ball and chain, and it played an important role in slowing me down while I headed to the other side of the house. I had to drag it along the entire round trip. “Drag” was the operative word; I would have no way to reach it with my hands due to the carefully chosen length of the chain, but more on that later.
Heads Up
The next stage involved working from the top down. The first time I saw the “Silence of the Lambs” movie, I was entranced by the muzzle Hannibal Lector had to wear when he was being transported. Basically, it was a leather gag that covered the lower face, but instead of plugging the mouth it was open yet restricted using a series of vertical steel bars that prevented him from biting people. From a safety standpoint this was ideal; I could breathe, even talk, but that was all.
The reproduction I found on the Internet used a simple strap behind the head to hold it in place. That wasn’t nearly enough, so I used a bondage type rubber gas mask that enveloped my entire head to prevent slippage of the muzzle. This addition had some added benefits.
I do dabble in breath control, but in a very simple and safe way. Where the inlet and exhaust valves normally attached to the mask, I replaced them with metal discs, perforated to let air in and out, but not in great quantity. With some experimentation I found just the right combination to allow normal breathing but tended to partially suffocate under heavy exertion. It was a compelling way to enforce patience and careful planning when I had to move around.
The mask had plastic eyepieces that screwed in. Using a blindfold would be risky, but like the breathing I felt I could impose some reasonable changes. With judicious use of sandpaper those plastic lenses were scratched to the point where, although they still worked, the world was just a blur. I left them off until just before my hands went behind my back.
But how to ensure the rubber hood stayed in place? Fortunately, that problem was easy to solve. A large leather posture collar, with locking straps in the back, fit snugly under my chin, forcing my head up and slightly back. The collar went over the bottom of the hood, which loosely fit down my neck. It also prevented movement from side to side; my clouded view would be straight ahead unless I turned my body to one side. There was a sturdy D-ring sewn into the front, which would be important later on.
Hands Off
How can there be a real bondage situation unless one’s hands are suitably controlled? The basic means to accomplish this was readily available, thanks to police supply websites. Handcuffs are remarkably effective and extremely difficult to remove without some kind of tool, be it a key or the picks and shims used by escape artists.
Being something of a perfectionist, mere handcuffs were only the beginning. First of all, although my hands would be behind my back, I’d still have some range of movement with wrists held close together. Once again, prisoner transport technology came to the rescue in the form of a wide leather belt around my waist, with a locking buckle in front and one of those D-rings riveted into a plate in the back. That would be my anchor point.
A catalog of medical restraints also gave me the idea for how to fasten my arms to my sides. The large size ankle leather cuffs were just right to fit above my elbows. These were a simple design, with a slot and metal staple to hold them in place. A leather belt threaded through the staples, pulled tight around my torso and locked in front with one of those buckles. The result was a modified straitjacket immobilizing my upper arms. I could still slide my elbows back when I had to cuff my wrists behind my back.
So, did I go for those high-tech tumbler lock handcuffs, with the added security covers? No, I settled for the “keep it simple” method. I had two sets of reproduction Darby handcuffs, with the old-style screw lock. Even though they had very stiff springs it was a crude design compared to modern cuffs. However, the one big advantage was the wide cuff, which reduced wear and tear on the prisoner’s wrists. As usual, if one was enough, I had to use two.
Both sets easily threaded through the transport D-ring in the back. There was no double lock, and they closed with a firm push against the locking bar. My very last act of relative freedom would be to push them closed around my wrists.
Final Check
My preparations were coming to a close. That D-ring on the posture collar? One end of the carefully measured length of chain was fastened to my ankles with the same padlock used for the ball and chain. After leaning forward the other end fastened on to the posture collar ring. From now on I had to lean forward; it would be impossible to lie face up on the floor. But that wasn’t the real reason for the neck to ankle connecting chain.
All the keys went into the safe. The door would lock when it was shut and the handle twisted to one side. I screwed in the blurring lenses to the hood, which left me nearly blind. I could make out vague shapes, but that was all. Mostly by touch I found the safe door and sealed my fate by slamming it shut and nudging the door handle with my shoulder. The loud click when the door bolts engaged was an audible confirmation the keys were no longer reachable. That was my point of no return.
Finally, I reached around behind my back. The cuffs went around my left wrist first. I pressed down on the locks with my right hand until they snapped shut. Then I repeated the same procedure, this time with my right wrist. A few tugs confirmed my hands weren’t going anywhere.
Phase II: The Assignment
On paper my task was almost trivial. Go upstairs, retrieve the safe key, return to the basement, open the safe and remove the restraints. In practice it was a bit more complicated.
In my little fantasy I was The Fugitive, an escaped prisoner being pursued by the police. I had eluded their custody, but I hadn’t been able to obtain the keys necessary to remove my body chains. I had to move quickly, to a secret hiding place where a second set of keys were stashed, but if I were discovered all was lost. Time worked against me, yet I was severely limited by the cruel devices fastened to my body. To complicate matters, it was night time, and I couldn’t risk a light. I had to struggle to overcome not only my restricted condition but also the inability to see.
That chain from neck to ankles? It was one of my more insidious ideas. To get anywhere I had to crawl, but I couldn’t bend my legs or use my hands. Essentially, I had to wiggle my way across the floor, bending at the waist. Except that was easier said than done.
First, I had to roll over on my side. Next, I’d swing my legs in the general direction I wanted to go, all the while dragging that cursed ball and chain across the floor. That was followed by slowly sliding my upper body forward, until that thrice-cursed neck chain brought me up short. Progress was measured in inches, with considerable effort expended for minimal gain. It would take hours to reach that safe key.
It was exhausting work, made all the worse by the frequent rest breaks imposed by the air restriction embedded in the rubber hood engulfing my head. Those perforated disks let in just enough precious air to keep me going, as long as I took it slow and easy. More than once I had the bright idea of trying to push them out with my tongue, until I came up against the tiny bars of the muzzle across my mouth.
I couldn’t even rest while laying on my back. Aside from the uncomfortable lump of the handcuffs I was unable to straighten out my body. Either I had to sit up, no easy task in itself, or lie on the floor on one side. And all the time the ache in my back muscles slowly built up from the strain.
Regrets
By the time I reached the foot of the stairs I was ready to call it quits. Why did I do this to myself? Every time I subjected myself to this torture, and that’s what it was, even if self-inflicted, I promised myself “never again.” My record for holding out was four weeks.
Meanwhile the sexual aspect of bondage, and there always is one, began to kick in. Inside the tube of the chastity belt my erection had room to grow, but that was all. The belt promised no access, and it lived up to its promise.
It was one more frustration added to a long list. I couldn’t stand up or walk, my hands were all but useless, I was thirsty but couldn’t drink, I was nearly blind, and worst of all I was aroused with no way to relieve the extra tension. My resolve was gone; I was more than ready to quit, immediately.
Unfortunately, I’d planned far too well. My accessories cared little for my opinion; they insisted on doing their job despite my protests. Wasn’t that the biggest complaint about bondage? For some odd reason restraints were not meant to be easily removed by the user. At the moment I could think of some strong arguments for a redesign.
Stairs
Although I prayed for divine intervention, I was not magically whisked up the stairs. This was by far the most difficult part of my long and arduous odyssey. Using my hands, I had to lift myself up one step at a time, all the while being pulled back by the deadweight of my legs and worst of all that heavy ball, which had a tendency to follow its own path all over the stairs.
I had to sit up, on a step while placing my hands on the one above. I was forced to lean over, of course, which made it all the more difficult with my arms pinned to my body. With great effort I’d lift up enough to wedge my behind onto the next step up. If that ball happened to catch on the edge of a lower step it pulled me back down. I’d have to shake my legs to free it. My progress was reduced to three steps up, and then back one when I slipped or was dragged back down.
Virtually all my impediments worked against me. I couldn’t turn my head, and even if it had been possible the eyepieces robbed me of visual assistance. The strenuous work quickly used up my reserves of air, which forced me to stop to catch my breath. It was as if every part of my body was determined to keep me in the basement, far away from any hope of rescue.
I have no idea how long it took to make it upstairs. An hour, two, maybe more? Time seemed to come to a stop. From experience I knew it wasn’t as bad as it seemed, but while I was going through the experience it seemed to last forever.
I didn’t look forward to the trip back down. It was faster, but almost as difficult. I had to use my legs as a brake, wedging them against the side of the stairs to keep me from sliding all the way to the bottom. Every time that iron ball rolled off a step it wanted to keep going, yanking at my ankles, trying to pull me loose.
At the top of the stairs I took a few minutes to plan the strategy for retrieving the safe key. No, it wasn’t resting in the middle of the floor, waiting to be picked up. That was far too easy. This was the part where the blurry vision coupled with my lack of mobility really caused problems.
The house was small, not many rooms, but in my condition it might as well have been the size of a sports stadium. See, the key wasn’t stationary. I had taped it to the top of one of those carpet cleaning robots, but one that had the programming altered by a helpful Internet hacker. The change was simple, randomly stop and start, moving from place to place in an unpredictable pattern while avoiding any obstacles at floor level…like me. I could hear it in one of the rooms, before the motor went silent.
I had two difficulties to overcome. The first one was speed. It could easily outrun me, so I had to somehow trap it in a room. And the second, actually finding its location. My limited vision could spot a moving object relatively easily, even if I couldn’t recognize the shape. But when it stopped it was all but invisible unless I was practically on top of it.
My strategy was to corner the robot, and then somehow get my hands in position to grab the key without it slipping past me. My one advantage, it was just a simple machine without any intelligence other than the programmed instinct. No problem, after all that’s why it was so easy to swat flies. If those machines ever get a real AI that learns from mistakes I’d be in real trouble.
It relied on a proximity sensor to detect objects, so if I stayed out of range I could stalk it. If it went into that avoidance routine it was nearly impossible to catch, so I had to be careful. Sitting in the hallway, bent over as usual, I listened for the giveaway noise of the running motor. The quiet periods were random too, one more item on my frustration list if I encountered a long one.
Then I heard it, in the living room. That was bad news; there were two exits, one to the kitchen and one to the hallway where I was located. I needed it in front of me, the hallway, which led to the bedrooms with only one door.
The bedrooms came with their own risks. If I accidently knocked a door shut, I had no way to reach the knob to open it. Then I’d be the one in the trap, not the robot. All it took was one swipe with that ball and chain sliding around on the floor and I’d be in serious trouble.
The Pursuit
I decided the best approach was to wait out the machine. I took the opportunity to make sure my legs, and that expletive deleted ball, were clear of the stairs. It was noisy but my prey didn’t have ears. I slowly inched my way to where the hallway met the living room. Sooner or later my quarry would enter the hallway and, hopefully, turn to the bedrooms instead of bumping into me. If it didn’t go the right way, I might have to wait an hour or more for another chance.
If I were ever discovered I’d be at mercy of whoever found me, even a child. A good 90% of my body strength and mobility was held in check by the restraints. A hand over the vents on the hood would be a fast and effective way to control me. I closed my eyes, lost in a reverie induced by my helplessness.
I wasn’t totally powerless, if left on my own. I drifted off into one of those daydreams where I had a medical doctor friend who used one of those operating room drugs on me, the kind that causes total paralysis. When I woke up there I’d be, lying on a bed with a respirator breathing for me, unable to even turn my head. People would come and go, staring at me, making comments I couldn’t understand, poking me and laughing before walking away.
My doctor friend would stop by and ask how I was doing. Unable to even control the blinking of my eyes I had no way to answer. Then she would lean over and whisper in my ear that the drug would take weeks to wear off. That’s the point when I was reminded the chastity belt was still in place as another erection filled the containment tube. Life can be so cruel.
I opened my eyes. Was that the sound of a motor? Yes, but it was coming from the kitchen. Then the robot ran into me from behind, spun around and headed back toward the kitchen. I tried a feeble attempt to grab it but between the handcuffs and the transport belt I never had a chance. I was rewarded for my efforts by falling over on my side. In the process I yanked against that ball and over the top step it went. I was able to prevent an unintended trip back down the basement stairs by catching my legs against the side of the stairway door frame.
Sometimes you chase the bear; sometimes the bear chases you. I heard that from an acquaintance who lived near a forest. This was the first time the robot had turned into the predator. Now I know what it’s like being the tortoise racing against the rabbit. I was able to work that ball back up to the floor and resume my position.
Suddenly the robot zipped past me, down the hallway and into the bedroom at the end. At least I thought it was the back room, thanks to my vision destroying glasses I wasn’t sure. As fast as I could manage, I worked my way toward that room, trying to use my body to block the corridor so it wouldn’t slip past me. The motor shut off, a good sign I might catch it.
When I reached the door to the bedroom the motor was still silent. Fortune smiled upon me. This room was small, with a lot of furniture. The robot had little room to maneuver. On the down side, I also had little room to get into position where I could grab that elusive safe key. It would be a contest of wit versus random chance. In the fairy tale the tortoise does beat the hare. Maybe the robot would sleep for a while longer.
The Prize
I peered inside the bedroom, squinting in the hope I could make out my target. Ideally, I could just roll over on my side and wait for it to come to me, but if I blocked the doorway with my legs my hands were in the hallway. To catch the elusive rabbit, I’d have to slowly wiggle in, past the dresser, on my side, bent over with my hands facing into the room. If I was careful, I’d form a V-shaped roadblock, where sooner or later the robot would come close enough that I could reach it before it backed up. The question would be one of endurance.
How long could I stay in that position, on my side, before I got a muscle cramp? If the robot got away now it might take half the night to corner it again. I was seriously tired, which made me desperate to get that key.
I heard the motor start. I had to work by feel alone, since my hands were behind my back and I couldn’t turn my head. I pulled my wrists as far apart as possible, which wasn’t much, while extending my hands out. A one handed-grip on the edge would be enough to tip it over.
There I was, wedged in the door, legs sticking out one side, and my head the other. The chain from neck to ankles was tight, to give me the maximum coverage of my trap. Maybe next time I could leave off that connecting chain, I promised myself, while knowing it would never happen. I could make out the bulge from the ball and chain too, on the floor not too far from my face. I could leave that off too, even as I debated trying the 40 lb. monster instead.
Then one hand was struck by the robot. As it started to turn, I was able to flip it over with a fingertip. Success! I managed to get both hands on it, holding on with one for dear life while feeling under it for the key. Then the prize was in my hand. My release was only a matter of time now!
Or it would if I could keep the key in my hand. Were I to drop it, and accidently kick it under the dresser, or the bed, all would be lost. Plus, I had to extricate myself from the bedroom doorway. If the key slipped out of my hand and the door swung shut, what would I do?
Heading Home
None of the nightmare scenarios came to pass. I squirmed and wiggled back the stairway, with my little round pet following on its far too short leash. Descending the stairs was complicated by the need to hold onto that key, which limited me to one hand. Somehow, I managed as I had many times before.
In the basement, at the foot of the stairs I retraced my steps, if that’s the right word, back to the safe. There was one last challenge, actually opening the safe with the key. The keyhole and handle were about two-thirds the way up the front, at the very limit of my reach if I sat up with my back to the safe. This was a two-handed procedure, turning the key with one hand while pulling the handle to the open position. Simple, unless those hands are cuffed together and anchored in the small of the back.
It took four tries before I heard the most wonderful sound in the world, the click of the door bolts retracting. Opening the door was mostly accomplished by falling over to one side, while gripping the handle.
The first order of business was to search for the bulky screw key to the handcuffs. I had to work blind, but I soon located it. Seconds later my hands were free. The belt holding my elbows was next, followed by the posture collar. I was in such a hurry, I didn’t remove that connecting chain first. The gas mask hit the ground seconds later.
Oddly I didn’t pull off that muzzle. I couldn’t explain why, but I loved wearing what was really nothing more than a movie prop. Not until I was back upstairs, getting something to drink, would it be removed. It had such a unique look and feel I was reluctant to part with it.
Off came the leg braces and the ankle cuffs, along with that ball and chain. It was an evil device; maybe that’s why I kept using it. Finally, I was down to bare skin and the chastity belt. The belt would have to wait until the mail arrived tomorrow.
I cleaned up, put on some clothes and headed upstairs to the kitchen. After a workout like that I was hungry as well as dying of thirst. With a sigh of disappointment, I took off the muzzle. One time I tried to eat and drink through it. It was a mess. Maybe it was only a prop, but it did work, more or less.
So ended another session. I was stiff and sore from the enforced positional stress, but satisfied I had overcome my limitations to win my freedom. Well, mostly. I still had an unpleasant night with the chastity belt for unwelcome company. Maybe next week I could compromise and raise the ball weight from 25 to 32, or I might even order a second ball, now that would be interesting…