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MUSINGS AT MIDNIGHT

As I lay motionless in the subterranean darkness of my cell, remembering my former life, I could only wonder how much change the past three years had wrought within me. Just to remind myself of how impatient I used to be caused a feeling of unreality. To imagine that I once, in my fantasies, had craved the life I now endured! But perhaps, given the monumental changes that had been brought about in my circumstances, the really amazing thing was that I could still relate to my former self at all!

However, the adaptability of the human mind was 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 was able to accept it as a fact of my current and future existence. It was the seemingly 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 was either that, or go mad. There was no other choice!
Before I gave myself up to him, my master 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. The restraints he intended to place me in would be pervasive and 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 knew that even then I had not really appreciated how serious he was. Otherwise, how could I have married him nevertheless, when the seemingly endless three 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 judgement quite profoundly.
The piercing of my septum had been one of the few times he had inflicted quite serious pain gratuitously on me; but then, I guess his purpose had been to test the depth of my devotion and possibly frighten me away in order to spare me from his darker desires, so he had reason to forego the anaesthetic he usually employed for the modifications he deemed necessary to my body. The simple ring that had bothered me so much then had long since been replaced by a much more elaborate construction whose unforgiving presence I noticed yet again when I concentrated on it. To distract me from the unpleasant sensations, I thought about his curious reluctance to inflict the pain I sometimes craved when pleasure was too precious a commodity to balance the eternal boredom and discomfort I was condemned to endure.
Being a surgeon of considerable experience, he should have been accustomed to human suffering, yet he retained a degree of sensitivity towards the pain of his fellow men that is rarely found among his colleagues. Hence it was not the desire to cause pain and suffering, but the need for absolute control that drove him; just as I was driven by my need to be controlled. I used to be fascinated by the notion of tight, stringent, inescapable bondage, and in fact during those blessed moments when I could forget its pervasive reality, it still excited me. The knowledge of being completely at his mercy, powerless to resist (or even encourage!) him in any way, whatever he chose to do, caused me inconceivable feelings. It was in this state of total helplessness that I felt paradoxically most secure and protected and at the same time fully alive and excited. Only now I was convinced that my master had gone way too far in his zeal - in fact, he had gone completely overboard. Though at age 28 I may conceivably have been at the peak of my physical ability (thanks to the rigorous training and balanced diet he imposed), I was but a woman, granted, quite tall at 181 cm, but of slender, almost delicate build, weighing (when discounting his permanent additions to my body) just 68 kg. There was no conceivable need for restraints that would have kept a full-grown and enraged grizzly docile.
Take for example the collar. Made of the same silvery, light, and yet incredibly strong and durable alloy (as all my restraints were), it was some 6 cm high and at least half a cm thick, flowing around my throat, and making its constricting presence known whenever I tried to turn my head. As with all of my restraints, he had it custom-made to his precise specifications, by a small company that regularly provided his clinic with specialized medical prostheses. Its owner George, a mechanical engineer by trade, was a close friend of his who happened to share our more unconventional interests to such a degree that he always insisted on assisting my husband whenever a piece of his hardware was fitted to me; ostensibly because he took great pride in his workmanship and wanted to make sure that everything fitted just perfectly. Since I had once been taken to his machine shop where a complete cast of me was made to provide him with an exact replica of my body to work on (he stored it right next to the cast of his own wife, Fran), I considered 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; about the equally solid construction of the 4 sturdy swivel rings mounted around its circumference, and finally praising the ingenuity of its close-once-only mechanism, that would forever inseparably fuse its two parts into a single piece. As I had come to realize since the fateful moment when the multiple, loud clicks signifying that the massive locking pins had engaged for good penetrated my feverish conscience, he had not been exaggerating at all, the bastard.
The same heavy-duty construction had been used for the skin-tight, 5 cm wide and again, half a cm thick cuffs that would forever adorn my finely boned wrists and upper arms just above the elbows, and also for the almost as tight, 8 cm wide cuffs clamped around my ankles. They made their uncompromising presence felt with my every movement; their rounded edges constricting my tendons and muscles and accompanying even the smallest twitch with the tinkling of the 4 sturdy swivel rings sported by each cuff; most of the time aggravated by the rattle of strong chains attached to them by high security locks. My loving husband insisted on always restraining me in some way, although he knew perfectly well that I had no wish to escape him. Given the humiliating and permanent nature of his additions and modifications to my body, I would have found it quite hard to live a normal life apart from him even if I did. On the other hand, should my devotion to him (and his absolute control over me) ever have wavered and should I (inconceivable as it is) have escaped to the public with my story, my video taped statements of consent to his various additions to my body would not have carried much weight. Everybody would have agreed I clearly could not have been compos mentis when I asked to have them done. So, I found comfort in the thought that each of my restraints bound him as permanently to me as they bound me to him.
As a way to pass time, I tried to picture in my mind what my present predicament would look like to a police officer breaking into my 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 cell. 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 encountering my feet, held closely together by the snug, wide metal cuffs locked to each other and the tensioned chain. Careful inspection would reveal that even my big toes were adorned with wide rings and joined by a tiny padlock.
From my feet, the beam would then sweep up the graceful lines of my long legs and finally reach my crotch to reflect from the gleaming expanse of my chastity belt (another technological marvel that surpassed in fiendishness all of my other restraints). Now, I imagined, my wannabe hero would have to swallow an oath when he realized how tightly my flat stomach and naturally small waist were compressed by the unforgiving metal of its wide, permanently-affixed waist band. If he only knew about the technical array of horrors hidden underneath the belt’s impenetrable exterior he would surely drop his flashlight. E.g. my numerous, large gauge, vaginal piercings, or worse yet, the brand forever marking me as my master’s property; this a 4 cm high plain sign carved into my flesh, right above the pubic bone. Just remembering the ordeal of its placement made my lower abdomen shudder and I twitched involuntarily against the chains holding me prone, momentarily distracted from my self-appointed task.
So, back to the chastity belt: At the front and back of the girdle, where the ratchet mechanism for fastening the removable crotch piece was located, the waist band’s normal half cm thickness nearly tripled. Here, the broad metal tongues that formed the ends of the tapering, U-shaped crotch piece vanished into matching slots on the underside of my belt. They could only be released with the help of a special magnetic key my husband always wore on a chain around his neck. I could no longer count the idle hours I had whiled away fantasizing about ways to wrestle this key from him and get rid of the tight crotch piece and the always punishing, varying hardware attached to it, like the two enormous intruders that were now locked securely into my body. The one stretching my vagina incorporated a long-term catheter, and the other an enema tube, thereby neatly eliminating the necessity to unlock me just to take care of my sanitary needs.
If my imaginary rescuer had had this magic key in his possession, I would instantly have forgiven him almost any crime, even if he personally had invented spam mail.
Next, the beam of his flashlight would flash off the twin domes of my metal breast harness. On my slight frame the E-sized cups seemed enormous, but their inner dimensions were considerably smaller, so that they severely constricted and compressed my breasts. The cups were the only parts of the upper body harness that could be removed, at least if you happened to have the magic key.
At its base, each cup was locked to the rim of one of the elongated openings in the wide band flowing around my torso, whose too small circumferences squeezed my bulging, multiply pierced breasts into a state of heightened sensitivity. The torso band was securely held in place by the attached shoulder straps that started at the apex of each breast opening and on their way to the respectively opposite shoulder, they briefly merged over my breast bone, then, crossing my shoulders close to the neck, they finally met again at the small of my back, where they flowed 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 was not visible to my knight errant, and as well, the apparent absence of my arms might have given him pause. These too were hidden beneath my body, resting in a matching recess of my sleeping platform, fastened up between my shoulder blades in a back prayer position by a short chain that connected my joined wrist cuffs to the back ring of my collar. Due to an arduous exercise regime, my (un-) fortunately vigorous circulation, and helped by my slender build, I could now tolerate this position for any period of time, although I was excessively glad that for the night, the connecting chain was noticeably longer than during the day long training periods, where also my permanent thumb rings and elbow cuffs entered the equation.
What my rescuer would see when the beam of his flashlight reached my throat, was the wide, snug collar encircling it and the two taut chains running diagonally from its side rings to fastening points at each side of the sleeping platform’s head. When the sweeping beam would finally light up my face, I doubted that my rescuer would be able to concentrate on my rapidly blinking, frightened, dark eyes, or my smooth, bald head where once thick, black hair abounded. Instead, he would focus on the most prominent of my many piercings, a 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 were permanently affixed, thus preventing removal of this peculiar piece of jewellery and making sure of its actual purpose. Inside my nostrils the shaft served as axis for the bearings at the ends of my thick, U-shaped nose shackle, anchoring this convenient and supremely efficient means of subjugation securely to my face.
Right now it was clipped to a fitting embedded in the conforming, outer shield of the thick, black rubber gag that completely covered my lower face and firmly cupped my chin. Inside, locking pins transfixing my eyeleted tongue captured it within a pocket in the huge, resilient pad that effectively muffled 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 have been impossible for me to answer as well, it lying at the heart of my life-long dilemma.
Fortunately, there was no wannabe hero, no rescuer, no knight errant come to free me from my bondage, and so I spent one more night contented if not comfortable in the security of my chains, eagerly awaiting release at my master’s hands come morning.