- PAGE NINE -
FEATURED STORY - 002
FICTION SECTION ARCHIVE PAGE
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AN UNORTHODOX LIFE
- Chapters 1 & 2 -
- Musings At Midnight -
As I lie motionless in the subterranean darkness of my cell, remembering my former life, I can only wonder how much change the past three years have wrought within me. Just to remind myself of how impatient I used to be causes a feeling of unreality. To imagine that I once, in my fantasies, craved the life I now endure! But perhaps, given the monumental changes that have been brought about in my circumstances, the really amazing thing is that I can still relate to my former self at all!
However, the adaptability of the human mind is the true marvel. My situation would have filled me (as any remotely sane person) with horror just three years ago, but now, most of the time, I can accept it as a fact of my current and future existence. It is seemingly the inevitable resolution for my obsession with extreme, long term bondage and my husband’s tendency to always take things one step further. I suppose it is either that, or go mad. There is no other choice!
Before I gave myself up to him, my Master and husband had made it very clear that I would (and in fact, to a large extent could) never be released and return to a normal, independent existence, once I’d entered into my new life. I was informed that the restraints he intended to place me in would be pervasive and utterly permanent. Although he had made an effort to drive this point home by fitting me with a heavy steel nose ring as his idea of an engagement present, I know that even then I did not really appreciate how serious he was. Otherwise, how could I have married him? The seemingly endless 3 months he had made me wait afterwards, and during which time I constantly had to put up with the ring’s humiliating presence, were finally over. Love really does impair one’s judgment quite profoundly.
The piercing of my septum had been one of the few times he’d gratuitously inflicted quite serious pain on me; but then, I guess his purpose was to test the depth of my devotion and possibly frighten me away, in order to spare me from his darker desires. So, he had good reason to forego the anaesthetic he usually employs for all of the modifications he deems necessary to my body. The simple ring, really more of a U-type shackle that bothered me so much then, has long since been replaced by a much more elaborate and disciplinary construction; one whose unforgiving presence I cannot help but be constantly aware of. To distract me from the unpleasant sensations it subjects me to, I think about his curious reluctance to inflict the pain I sometimes crave, when pleasure is too precious a commodity to balance the eternal boredom and discomfort I am condemned to endure.
Being a surgeon of considerable experience, he should be accustomed to human suffering, yet he retains a degree of sensitivity towards the pain of his fellow man that is rarely found among his colleagues. Hence, it is not a desire to cause pain and suffering, but the need for absolute control that drives him; just as I am driven by my need to be controlled.
I used to be fascinated by the notion of tight, stringent, inescapable bondage, and in fact during the blessed moments when I can forget its pervasive reality, it continues to excite me. The knowledge of being completely at his mercy, powerless to resist (or even encourage!) him in any way, whatever he chooses to do, causes me inconceivable emotions and sensations. It is in this state of total helplessness that I feel paradoxically most secure and protected, and at the same time fully alive and excited.
Now, I am convinced that my Master has gone much too far in his zeal - in fact he has gone completely overboard. Although at age 28 I am still at the peak of my physical ability (thanks to the rigorous training and balanced diet he imposes), I am but a woman. Granted, I'm quite tall at 181 cm, but of slender, almost delicate build, weighing (when discounting his permanent additions to my body) just 68 kg. There really is no conceivable need for my restraints for they would keep a full-grown and enraged grizzly docile.
Take, for example, my collar. It is made of a silvery, light, yet incredibly strong and durable alloy, as are all of my restraints. It is some six cm high and a half a cm thick, flowing snugly around my throat and making its constricting presence known whenever I try to turn my head. As with all of my restraints, it was custom-made to his precise specifications by a small company that regularly provides his clinic with specialized medical prostheses. Its owner, George, a mechanical engineer by trade, is a close friend of my Master who happens to share his more unconventional interests to such a degree that he always insists on assisting my husband whenever a piece of his hardware is fitted to me. Ostensibly this is because he takes great pride in his workmanship and wants to ensure that everything fits perfectly.
I was once taken to his machine shop and a complete cast of my body was made to provide him with an exact replica to work on and he stores it right next to the one of his own wife, Fran. I consider this a rather transparent pretext. On the occasion of the fitting of my collar, I remember him extolling its unique features, harping on about the imperviousness of the metal that would make any attempt to cut it off an exercise in futility. He also talked about the equally solid construction of the four, sturdy swivel rings mounted around its circumference, and finally, praised the ingenuity of the close-once-only mechanism that would forever inseparably fuse its two parts into a single piece. I have come to realize since that fateful moment when the multiple, subtle clicks signifying that the massive locking pins had engaged for good, penetrated my feverish conscience. He was not exaggerating at all, the bastard!
The same, heavy-duty construction was used for the snug, five cm wide and again, half a cm thick cuffs that now forever adorn my finely-boned wrists and arms just above the elbows, and also for the similar, almost as tight cuffs clamped around my ankles. They make their uncompromising presence felt with my every movement for their rounded edges firmly constrict my tendons and muscles and accompany even the smallest twitch with the tinkling of their four sturdy, swivel rings sported by each. Most of the time these noises of my restraint are also accompanied by the aggravating rattle of my chains, these attached by high security locks.
My loving husband insists on always restraining me in some way, although he knows perfectly well that I have no wish to escape him. Given the humiliating and permanent nature of his other additions and modifications to my body, I would find it quite hard to live a normal life apart from him, even if I did somehow escape. On the other hand, should my devotion to him and his absolute control over me ever waver, and should I (inconceivable as it is) be permitted to return to public view with my story, my video-taped statements of consent to his various additions to my body would not carry much weight. Everyone would agree that I clearly could not have been compos mentis when I asked then begged to have them done. So, I find comfort in the thought that each of my restraints binds him as permanently to me as they bind me to him.
As a way to pass time, I try to picture in my mind what my present predicament would look like to a police officer breaking into this cell in a valiant but misguided effort to rescue me. His flashlight would penetrate the darkness, slowly picking out detail after detail when its strong beam swept my place of confinement. First, it would focus on the black bulk of the self-adjusting, automatic tensioner in the left corner, then follow the glitter of the taut chain emerging from it, along the back wall, to the foot of my sunken sleeping platform. There, it would rest briefly while my rescuer pondered the nature of its shiny, black softness, before moving on only to stop again when it encountered my feet; these held closely together by the snug, wide, metal cuffs locked to each other and to the tensioned chain. Careful inspection would reveal that even my big toes were adorned with wide rings, joined securely together by a padlock!
From my feet, the beam would sweep up the graceful lines of my long legs to reach my crotch and there reflect from the gleaming expanse of my chastity belt; another technological marvel, surpassing in fiendishness all of my other restraints. I imagine that my wannabe hero would swallow an oath when he realizes how tightly my flat stomach and naturally small waist are compressed by the unforgiving metal of its wide, permanently-affixed waist band. If he knew about the array of technical horrors hidden beneath the crotch cover’s impenetrable exterior, he would surely drop his flashlight. My numerous, large gauge, vaginal piercings, or worse yet, the brand that forever marks me as my Master’s property; this a four cm high insignia, laser-carved into my flesh, just above my pubic bone. Remembering the ordeal of its placement makes my lower abdomen shudder and I twitch involuntarily against the chains holding me prone, momentarily distracted from my self-appointed task.
So, back to my chastity belt: At the front and back of the girdle where the ratchet mechanism for fastening the removable crotch piece is located, the waist band’s normal half cm thickness nearly triples. Here, the broad metal tongues forming the ends of the tapering, U-shaped crotch piece vanish into matching slots on the underside of my cinch. They can only be released with the help of a special, magnetic key my husband always wears on a chain around his neck. I can no longer count the idle hours I have whiled away, fantasizing about ways to wrest this key from him and rid myself of the tight, punishing crotch piece and the always tormenting, varying hardware attached to its inner side. Most of the time this consists of two enormous intruders, locked securely and punishingly deep within my belly. The one stretching my vagina incorporates a long-term catheter, and the other an enema tube, thereby neatly eliminating the necessity to unlock me just to take care of sanitary needs.
If my imaginary rescuer had this magic key in his possession, I would instantly forgive him almost any crime, even if he personally had invented spam mail.
Next, the beam of the flashlight would flash off the huge twin half domes held tightly against my upper body by a strict, unforgiving and inescapable metal harness. On my slight frame, these F-sized cups seem enormous, but their inner dimensions are considerably smaller! The cups imprison and severely constrict and compress my breasts within their armour. The cups are the only parts of my upper body harness that can be removed, at least if you happen to have the magic key. Around their perimeters, each is locked to the rim of one of the elongated openings in the wide band flowing tightly around my rib cage. The apertures for my breasts in the chest band are far too small! My breasts are always kept securely and uncomfortably garroted so that I am kept constantly aware of the squeezing of my bulging, multiply pierced flesh, and thus my breasts are kept in a state of heightened sensitivity. The torso band and cup frames are securely held in place by attached shoulder straps that start above the apex of each breast opening and on their way to the respectively opposite shoulders, briefly merge over my breast bone, then, crossing my shoulders close to the neck, they finally meet again at the small of my back, where they flow together like the arms of a Y; its broadening vertical stem continuing downward to join with the chest strap, below my shoulder blades.
Of course this latter part is not visible to my knight errant, and as well, the apparent absence of my arms would give him pause. These too are hidden beneath my body, resting in a matching recess of my sleeping platform, fastened high between my shoulder blades by a short chain that connects my joined wrist cuffs to the back ring of my collar. As a consequence my arms are virtually always kept in a permanent ‘back prayer’ position. Due to an arduous exercise regime, my unfortunately vigorous circulation, and helped by my slender build, I must now tolerate this position more or less permanently. Although I am excessively glad that for the night, for then the connecting chain is noticeably longer than during the day-long training periods, during which my permanent thumb rings and elbow cuffs also enter the equation.
What my rescuer sees when the beam of his flashlight next reaches my throat is the wide, snug collar encircling it, then the two taut chains running diagonally from its side rings to fastening points at each side of the sunken sleeping platform’s head. When the sweeping beam finally lights my face, I doubt he will be able to concentrate on my rapidly blinking, frightened dark eyes, or my smooth, bald head, where once thick, black hair abounded.
Instead, he will focus on the most prominent of my many facial piercings: the thick, gleaming shaft fully transfixing my straight nose, passing through metal eyelets high up in both nostrils and the central septum. At its ends, flush with my nostrils, large diameter, outward pointing, obtuse cones with flashing diamonds at their tips are permanently affixed, thus preventing removal of this peculiar piece of jewellery and making sure of its actual purpose. Inside my nostrils, the shaft serves as axle for the holes at the ends of my thick, U-shaped nose shackle, anchoring this convenient and supremely efficient means of subjugation securely into my face.
Right now, it is clipped to a fitting embedded in the conforming, outer shield of the thick, black rubber gag that completely covers my lower face and firmly cups my chin. Inside my mouth, locking pins transfix my eyeleted tongue, capturing it within a pocket in the huge, resilient pad that effectively muffles even my loudest screams to barely audible whimpers.
My rescuer would be hard-pressed to determine whether these whimpers indicated urgent and joyous pleas for my immediate release, or protesting shouts born of fear for having to face the fate that must have befallen my husband. Indeed, a question that may well be impossible for me to answer as well, it laying at the heart of my life-long dilemma.
Unfortunately, there is no wannabe hero, no rescuer, and no knight errant come to free me from my bondage, and so I must spend another night contented with my new life and definitely not comfortable in the security of my chains, eagerly awaiting release at my Master’s hands come morning.
- Awakening To A Nightmare -
I awakened feeling slightly hung over and disoriented, ineffectually struggling against my chains on the sweat-slicked rubber mattress; all the while trying to separate the images of my nightmare from the not-so- different reality.
In my dream, I had been a classical damsel in distress, scantily clothed, but tightly lashed to some pagan altar, about to be sacrificed to win the favour of some decidedly evil, but otherwise nondescript deity. To my terror, the pompous high priest had just raised his arm, the surprisingly small ceremonial dagger nearly vanishing in his meaty hand, poised to cut out my heart. He was stopped by the voice of my Master, coolly stepping between me and the priest. He wore his white physician’s smock like impenetrable amour and pointed out to the enraged cleric, in his most deliberately reasonable tone (which I hate with a passion, when it is directed at me) that the time for something so crude as this laymen’s attempt at heart surgery, was long past. Besides, my heart had already been claimed by himself and was kept safe in cryogenic storage in the clinic’s vault. Hidden from view behind him, I smirked at my Master’s clever lie, that is until I noticed the faint scar above my breast, and realized the chilling truth of his statement! However, his remark deflated the priest’s bravado quite nicely, making his resemblance to my former boss even more pronounced.
Examining my nightmare a little closer, I realized his ceremonial vest bore the logo of one of the company’s numerous corporate identity promotion campaigns; his dagger resembled a stylus, and the “pagan altar” would not have looked out of place in one of the company’s conference rooms. Suddenly, fully awake from a rush of adrenaline, I feel immensely relieved to find myself in my cell instead, comforted by the all too familiar embrace of my restraints.
I have no means to determine how late in the day it might be, but feel I have slept rather long and it is highly irregular that I should wake on my own. Normally, the rumbling sound of my Master opening the massive door to my cell is the first thing that penetrates my sleep, to soon afterwards be complemented by the bright glare of the overhead, natural spectrum lights which always make me press my lids together. Now marginally conscious, I would listen to the soft footsteps on the tiled floor when he crosses the room, but still wait until the moment his kneeling body shields me from the overhead brightness and his lips softly brush my brow, to finally open my eyes. Looking up, I would catch my husband’s ironically amused eyes, to silently reaffirm my submission to him, before I begin my customary writhing and grunting, attempting to communicate my urgent wish to be freed from the night’s bondage at long last.
Today, I seem to be deprived of this treasured waking ritual. Instead, my quick mind is busy evolving all kinds of more or less (rather more) fatal scenarios to account for his absence, and their invariably disastrous consequences for me. An accident that even only temporarily incapacitates him can conceivably spell my end, for there is no chance at all for a casual trespasser to ever find my prison. It is perfectly sound-insulated and hidden, for it is in an elaborately camouflaged subterranean extension to my Master’s stately house. Once, this annex housed the big oil tanks for fuelling the central heating, but it has since been upgraded beyond recognition and now serves its current, far more sinister purpose.
As far as the authorities and their official documentation are concerned, the oil tanks have been demolished and the extension razed when the house was connected to district heating (this work supposedly supervised by an official representative, to ensure no oil spillage occurred). I assume the authorities would be quite surprised if they discovered the truth, i.e. that the annex is still used to store fuel, although nowadays of quite a different variety, and for quite a different purpose: namely my helplessly-chained body, to satisfy my husband’s furnace-like appetite for dominance and control.
In my overheated imagination, I wonder what kind of theory some future archaeologist might come up with, should he happen to excavate the annex and uncover my desiccated but well-preserved remains for my confining metal harness and cruel piercings would be even more readily apparent in my body’s shriveled state. No doubt the academic would wonder what crime could possibly have justified this cruel a punishment? Perhaps I had been some modern day Jean d’Arc, considered to be extremely dangerous by the ruling caste; my enlightened drive for a world of freedom, peace, and justice was a threat that would surely topple them? Therefore, in revenge and as punishment, I was sentenced to be kept in secret imprisonment by an agent of the regime and thus prevent my loyal followers from freeing me and overthrowing the prevailing order.
Or, had I been a cruel and remorseless terrorist, responsible for the deaths of thousands, but now in the hands of an equally cruel and remorseless close relation to one of my numerous victims? I suppose the actual, prosaic truth of what placed me in my present circumstances, namely my near suicidal drive for being dominated in the most pervasive manner imaginable, would never cross my fabled archaeologist’s mind. This is strange, for he is nothing but a figment of my imagination and I could have created him a lot less straight-laced. Of course, he still has his scientific reputation to consider.
I can’t seem to control the torrent of my thoughts, becoming ever more distressed while I await his arrival. It is most unlike my husband’s methodical, well-organized, and reliable personality to not show up for his first, and, as he maintains, most important appointment of the day. In my memory, it has happened only twice before. The first time, he had gotten senselessly drunk after an error of judgment had cost him the life of a patient he was sure could have been saved, if only he had taken a different approach (his colleagues did not share this opinion, but he would not listen to them). He simply overslept the next morning and when he’d finally sobered up enough to make his way down to my cell, I was nearly incoherent. Seeing me in this state obviously shocked him out of his stupor, and he’d made a solemn promise to himself never again to allow his own concerns to trouble me.
The other time, the electronic lock controlling access to my cell had developed a glitch and he was unable to open it. That I did not hear anything of his frantic attempts to force the door open, is a testament to the excellent sound insulation afforded by my prison. Fortunately, I slept through most of this episode and had barely time to work myself into a mindless panic again when he finally managed to locate the problem and find a way to circumvent it. Naturally, the door’s locking system has since been upgraded to a higher level of redundancy and fail-safety, as well as impregnability.
Intellectually, I recognize that my fears of imminent doom are unfounded in reality and only explicable as a kind of delayed panic reaction (if there is such a thing) to my total loss of control over my fate. I know my Master does not subscribe to the view that everybody else should share his funeral, and has on numerous occasions, assured me of having made appropriate arrangements. In the case of his untimely demise, my continued well-being (translation: my continued suffering and imprisonment) will be properly taken care of.
Obviously, George, my nemesis, and being the only other person who knows every detail of my plight (sharing a great deal of responsibility in creating it!), is the logical choice for acting as his henchman in this capacity. So, I would conceivably join George’s wife Fran in receiving the tender attentions of her loving husband. This in itself is an appalling proposition! The concept of moderation is largely unknown to George, and only my Master’s mitigating influence has so far kept him from pursuing some of his more extravagant ideas. Left unchecked, his sometimes boyish enthusiasm would have serious consequences for those unfortunate enough to find themselves entrusted to his power, as Fran would undoubtedly attest, were she capable of speech again. I have never understood how she has managed to abide him, but neither can I claim complete understanding in my own related case. Of course now, Fran’s and my choices are more than somewhat limited.
I wonder with sudden terror if the key to my chastity belt would also be transferred into George’s safekeeping? What if not? This chilling image of the key accompanying my husband to his grave, like some dead Pharaoh’s most valued treasure, makes my lower abdomen contract spasmodically and the involuntarily sucked-in air whistles past my nose shackle. At the same time, the grommets occupying the many holes in my vaginal lips, as well as the shackle through my clitoris, drag with distressing discomfort against their respective anchoring points to the belt’s crotch shield! This forces me to focus my attention even more upon this most sensitive region. I slowly expel the air in an effort to calm my racing heart, and after some minutes of deliberate, slow breathing, succeed in lowering my heart rate to a more sustainable pace. I would dearly like to also wipe the cold sweat from my brow, but have to content myself with the observation that the tears streaming down along my temples will serve as well to prevent it from stinging in my eyes.
The terrible prospect of living out the remainder of my life in this stringent and unforgiving, merciless captivity, without the chance of ever attaining sexual relief again, is far too terrible to contemplate just now, and so I retreat in a set of mental exercises my Master has taught me to help me cope with the sometimes overwhelming psychological strain of my situation. I am not very adept at these techniques, but this time I am supremely motivated.
THIS IS PAGE TWELVE OF THE FICTION SECTION
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