One Way Street · Part 2

One Way Street · Part 2 (2/4)
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Suddenly he took a step back and spun her around to face the wall. Again he leaned forward, pinning her with his weight. “Yes, I do believe we have reached an understanding,” he whispered in her ear.

“Do not move, keep your eyes open, do not speak, and do not make a sound. Remain exactly where you are.” He slowly ran his hands down her arms, stopping at her bound wrists. “You like this, don’t you?” With his boot he tapped her ankles. “You were told to keep your legs spread. Do it!”

His hands shifted to her waist, where it was encircled by the chain. From there he reached around to fondle both her breasts. “You’re my prisoner now. You’re defenseless, unable to prevent me from doing whatever I wish. But then, you don’t want me to stop, do you? You’d like me to take you right now, against this wall, wouldn’t you?”

He leaned in very close, once again whispering in her ear. “Only two problems with that: first, what you want doesn’t matter in here; and second, your only purpose is to please me, not the other way around.”

She heard him turn and walk away, leaving her against the wall. She clenched her fists in frustration. This had gone too far. She decided to turn and face him, demand her release, and leave this place far behind.

But it wasn’t to be. Darla stared at the bare concrete wall in front of her, afraid to even blink. Keep quiet, don’t move, he is the dominant, you are the submissive, she repeated to herself, over and over. He wasn’t going to let her go, not for several more days. She had insisted on it, seven days with or without her ongoing consent. I might regret this in a week’s time, she thought. Until then there’s nothing I can do.

She heard him sit down in the chair by the desk and open one of the desk drawers. Unable to turn around she couldn’t figure out what he was doing after that. He chose not to talk to her, and she dare not speak one word. Darla waited patiently, and quietly, for him to decide what would occur next.

Accommodations It seemed like hours before Darla heard him stand up again. The sound of his boots scraping on the concrete floor grew louder as he approached. Out of the corner of her eye she watched him walk over to the mysterious armored door. “It’s time you see the room reserved for you during your stay.” He turned to face her. “I’m sure you noticed the security precautions.” He gestured at the locking bar across the door. “Once this is in place no one can open the door on the other side. Keep that in mind.” He turned back to the door and pulled out his keyring.

When he pulled the massive door open she saw how formidable a barrier it was. The wall was impressive in itself, thicker than the span of her hand, and made from what looked like reinforced concrete. The door frame was also reinforced with steel plates, with the brackets for the locking bar welded in place. “Just like a bank vault, this is where I keep my prized possessions.” He laughed as he spoke. The joke was on Darla; she was one of those prizes.

He wrapped his large hand around her upper arm in a firm, but not painful grasp. “This way, and don’t try to hurry. Take small steps; you will find these ankle chains are shorter than normal.” Her first, slow step confirmed what he told her. She had worn leg irons before, but never this limiting. The best she could manage was one foot in front of the other. She still had some mobility, but getting anywhere would take some time.

He guided her through the open door, pulling it shut behind him. “We’re in a tunnel now, heading into the mountain behind the house. It stays cool in here, plus it’s very, shall we say, private?”

The tunnel was a long corridor, stretching into the distance. On her right side was another of those metal doors, again with the bar set into brackets. “These are the guest rooms,” Mr. G explained, noticing her interest. “We call it the Hotel California, our little joke. You can check in, but you can never leave…on your own.”

He followed Darla into the guest rooms area. The entrance had an odd, U-shaped path, where they had to go around a wall which blocked any direct view of the outside hallway. “In case you’re wondering, we respect the privacy of our guests. We don’t want any passers by sticking in their heads to gawk at you.” She suspected it was the other way around; no one in the cells could see what was happening.

Beyond the entrance the short corridor was lined on one side with three small jail cells. Each cell was separated with a solid wall that extended into the corridor, past the bars. The front of the nearest cell was a crosshatch of thick steel bars set into the walls and ceiling, with a barred gate on one side. It was a classic picture of a jail cell, the kind Darla has seen on TV and in movies. She had never been in a real jail before. The cell was sparse and cramped, but then they weren’t intended to be luxury hotel suites.

The furnishings were sparse to the point of being the bare minimum. There was a solid slab for a bed and a toilet in the back. There was very little room to move about. That first cell was occupied. The woman inside was naked, with chains on her ankles, but her hands were free. She stood in the middle of the cell, facing away from the bars, hands behind her neck, arms wide, legs spread to the limit of the short chain between her ankles. She didn’t move or speak.

He paused in front of the woman’s cell. “This is our other new guest from earlier this week. As you can see she has been learning her lessons. You’ll be meeting her later on. Your accommodations are further along.” This would be a new experience since she had never been confined in a cell before. This evening would mark Darla’s first overnight stay at the infamous “gray bar Hilton”.

At that moment the door to the last cell swung open. A heavily chained man, like her denied clothing, emerged into the corridor. A guard was behind him, holding on to his arm. Mr. G grabbed Darla and pushed her against the wall. “Stay there! Don’t move, and no talking.”

The man standing in the hallway was obviously one of Mr. G’s guests. Aside from being stripped of his clothes he was chained hand and foot. He wore a chastity belt, clearly a male design based on the bulge in the front.

What caught Darla’s attention was something she had only read about. When he came to a stop he carefully lowered a large iron ball to the floor. The top of the ball had a long T-shaped handle which allowed him to carry it while walking. His ankle shackles were connected to either side of the ball by short lengths of chain. From what she could see the iron ball must be quite heavy since he needed both hands to lift it.

It was a cruel setup. It must be very difficult to walk while dragging along that ball. That meant he had to carry it using both hands, or be reduced to standing in one place. But when he lifted it up he had to keep his feet close together, limiting him to a short, shuffling stumble.

As if that wasn’t enough, he also had some kind of metal cage fastened around his head. It was built up from wide metal straps, curved to fit the contours of his head. A high metal collar locked around his neck kept it in place. The lower half, from chin to nose, was a solid piece. How can he eat or drink with that thing on?

Mr. G gestured for the man’s guard to bring him forward. “Allow me to introduce you to our special guest. James here has been with us for the past month; he signed up for an extended stay. We’re helping him with some personal issues. You’ve made real progress, haven’t you, Jimbo?”

Something in Mr. G’s tone made Darla suspect the real story might be very different. Jimbo tried his best to nod vigorously, in agreement. The head cage and collar made it difficult.

“You have to excuse Jimbo for not replying. He was disrespectful this morning. Hasty words spoken without thought have consequences. That’s something you should keep in mind, Darla.” He tapped the large metal front piece of Jimbo’s head cage. “This is what was once called a ‘brank’, from medieval times. There’s a mouthpiece attached, which at the moment is lodged in Jimbo’s offensive mouth. I’m sure he’ll be more careful in choosing his words in the future. Isn’t that right?”

Again Jimbo tried his best to nod in agreement. Darla felt sorry for him, though he did deserve to be punished if he behaved poorly. She would expect no less for herself, though wearing that head cage was more than enough to ensure she was on her best behavior.

“Jimbo, meet Darla, our latest arrival. Come over here and get a closer look.” Jimbo picked up his iron ball, came forward and turned to face Darla. Carefully he lowered the ball to the ground.

“What do you think, Jimbo? She’s so close you can reach out and touch her. Her hands are cuffed behind her back; she can’t stop you. And if she utters one word, she’ll get one of those branks too.” Mr. G glared at Darla. She got the message. He wasn’t bluffing.

“Look at that smooth skin, those wide hips, all for you, Jimbo.” Mr. G ran a finger under her breasts. “One for each hand, the way you like it. Maybe she could stay in your cell tonight, wouldn’t that be cozy? Think about it, just you and her, all night long.”

Darla wasn’t at all happy about the direction the conversation was headed. Jimbo was whimpering, shaking his head, but behind the metalwork she saw his eyes. They were cold, staring eyes, full of hunger for her. His hands rose, open, reaching toward her. She closed her eyes, praying it would be over soon.

Suddenly there was a muffled scream. When she opened her eyes Jimbo was kneeling on the floor, bound hands clutching at the front of the chastity belt. He fell over to one side, shaking and screaming again.

“Don’t feel too sorry for him,” Mr. G advised. “You see, Jimbo has this kink about temptation and denial. That chastity belt, it’s built to his own design. The moment he gets an erection, a pressure switch administers what I’m told is a very painful electric shock to a man’s most sensitive area. It repeats until the pressure goes down. A nasty piece of hardware, but in some strange way he loves it. Trust me; you never have to worry about Jimbo. If I put you in his cell tonight he’d cower in the corner, petrified with fear.”

On the floor Jimbo was making an effort to look away, avoiding the sight of Darla. That pitiful man, what drove him to condition himself to be terrified of women? He needed professional help, not Mr. G’s establishment.

“Let’s get you into your room and out of Jimbo’s way.” Mr. G stepped over the curled up Jimbo to take hold of Darla’s arm. “We leave the outer door open during the day. We do close it in the evening. It’s soundproof, helps if Jimbo suddenly wakes up in the middle of the night. He can be quite, err, noisy without a gag during one of his episodes.”

Jimbo was still curled up in a ball on the floor when Darla walked around him. “You’ll be seeing him again. We have these group sessions where everyone participates.” Jimbo turned his head away so as not to look at Darla. Group session? She didn’t like the sound of that.

Room for the Night Her cell was identical to the first one, small and cramped. Behind the bars there was virtually no room to move about. There was a bed, a sink and toilet, and not much else. She could stand, though with her back to the wall she could touch the bars with an outstretched arm. None of that really mattered because of what she saw on the rear wall.

Set into the block wall was a large steel plate, bolted in place at the four corners. In the center was a ring, with a heavy chain dangling from it. At the other end of the chain was a thick, wide metal collar, with a locking mechanism on the front. Its purpose was plain for anyone to see.

Mr. G swept his hand around the tiny prison. “This will be your home for the next week. I trust you’ll find it meets all your expectations. We do have room service; you’ll be notified when it’s time to eat.”

In terms of space it wasn’t much bigger than a closet. “We spent quite a few hours researching the décor,” Mr. G explained, as if he were delivering a travelogue extolling the virtues of some five star hotel. “We pored over at least twenty of those old, 1930’s prison movies. Of course, those cells were meant for long term stays, years, even decades. Since our guests have much shorter visits we scaled back on the size. We’re trying for that cozy, at home feel.”

“Cozy” was not the first word that came to mind to describe her room. Drab gray block walls, no windows, barely enough space to turn around, the best she could do was “depressing”.

“I need you to stand here,” Mr. G ordered, all but dragging her into the cell with a hand on her arm. He reached down to pick up the collar off the wall. “Yes, this is for you. Although I’m sure the cell security is sufficient, I’d like you to wear this as a reminder we don’t encourage leaving your room without our supervision.”

The ring felt cold when it touched her neck. There was a loud click when it locked, the sound of finality. When he let go Darla felt the drag of the chain immediately. It wasn’t uncomfortable but she’d never forget it was there.

“Face the wall. I’ll take off your cuffs so you can rest for a while. You must be tired after your trip and our introduction.”

When he unlocked the handcuffs the relief in her arms was a welcome relief. What Mr. G didn’t do was remove the waist chain. The handcuffs, closed but empty, dangled loosely from her back. Darla didn’t even notice; she was preoccupied with weightier issues. She didn’t even notice he left the leg chains on.

I’m actually chained to a wall. The full impact didn’t hit her until she heard the cell door close. Turning around she watched as Mr. G left. He quickly disappeared from view, leaving her alone. Darla took hold of the neck chain in both hands and pulled on it with all her strength. Nothing happened, nor did she expect any other result. Mr. G wouldn’t be that careless.

Purely to satisfy her curiosity she took hold of the collar in both hands and tried to pull it open. Once again, she met with the same result, nothing. It was on to stay, just as she was now a semi-permanent fixture in the cell. Darla turned back to the cell door and grabbed it, trying to push it open. Mr. G might have left the cell block door open but this one was definitely locked.

She sat down on the bed, leaned back against the wall and pulled up her legs. That’s when she realized he’d left her ankles fastened together. Just like my new neighbor, it must be deliberate. Wrapping her arms around her legs she rested her chin on her knees, all the while staring out the bars into the empty corridor. Here I am, confined, chained, definitely controlled, everything I wanted. At least, everything I asked for. The thought about the discrepancy bothered her. Something was missing, though what it might be she couldn’t put into words.

There wasn’t much slack in her leash. Darla wedged the chain between her knees to give her neck some rest. Idly she held the chain in one hand, examining what Mr. G had chosen. The links were much larger than what she’d seen before. This looks like a tow chain, the kind used to haul off stalled cars and trucks. She shook her head; the setup was a ridiculous amount of overkill.

The same applied to the collar she was now forced to wear. In the past she’d tried those high, leather posture collars, and the simple neck rings. They didn’t begin to compare to what kept her a prisoner. It wasn’t quite as high as a posture collar, but more than made up for it in weight. It had to be the equivalent of five or six normal metallic collars, the kind used for bondage and ownership rituals. And that lock, massive when a simple padlock would suffice. The mechanism was built in, with an armored cover around it to prevent tampering.

It does make a point, though. Whatever happens for the rest of the week, it’s not going to be up to me. There were rules for behavior in situations like this, and Darla knew them backwards and forwards. They were easy to remember: the dominant has all the power; ask permission first; do as you’re told; remember instructions and obey them; and above all respect authority. She smiled. Authority, how she loved that word. Authority and power, both went hand in hand.

She closed her eyes, savoring the moment. Admit it, I love this; I can’t get enough of being helpless. She might have a different opinion a week from now, but the start was promising. Darla had no clue as to what awaited her, yet the prospect didn’t worry her. She’d be told when she needed to know; until then it was enough that she wait patiently. Others would decide for her.

The Gibbet It was a tight fit but Darla managed to squeeze into the cage. It was definitely old school in the world of bondage equipment; the design went back hundreds of years. There were updates, modern materials with welded joints and smooth, stainless steel instead of rough, wrought iron and protruding rivets. The locks were modern too, adapted from door deadbolts. Mr. G began closing the front, locking her in. It might be ancient but it was still very effective for its intended use.

Around her head was a solid enclosure, with only two small slits for her to see out. There was a fine grill in front of her mouth and nose, enough to breath but that was about all. A hole in the back allowed her hair to spill out in a sort of ponytail. She could hear but sounds were curtailed due to the head cage. The solid part extended down over her neck, almost to her collarbone, where it attached to the rest of the body cage.

Her arms were trapped in sleeves at her sides, with her hands completely enclosed in steel mitts. The sleeves were welded to the wide straps around her torso. The body hugging cage extended down her legs to her feet, where it met a solid plate with more metal loops to hold her feet in place. There were rigid bars on either side of her legs, locking them in position. It was impossible to bend at the waist or flex her legs. To all intents she was a statue bound in shining stainless steel.

Mr. G turned the key on the last lock. “That should do it. Now then, as I’m sure you’re aware it’s traditional to, in a manner of speaking, leave you dangling.” He pressed a button on the wall. Darla felt herself rising as the winch pulled her up with a cable attached to a ring on the helmet around her head. He stopped when her feet were level with his shoulders. “That’s about right. You have a good time. I’ll check in on you, umm, much later. Ohh yeah, I forgot. The two of you have my permission to talk to each other. Get acquainted; It’ll help pass the time.” Darla watched him leave, slamming the door behind him.

The cage started to sway back and forth. It’s a gibbet, a real one, just like the illustrations in the old drawings from medieval times. She could feel the metal ribbons wrapped around her body, confining her in the tiny cage. It was sized to fit her snugly, with virtually no wiggle room to spare.

Darla tried to twist around, struggling against the tight grip of the steel bands around her. It didn’t take long for her to discover there was no point in fighting against her bonds. All she accomplished was to increase the back and forth swinging of the cage. Through the eye slits she could see her reflection in the mirrored tiles glued to the wall opposite. That had to be for her benefit so she could appreciate just how helpless she was, imprisoned in the gibbet.

She wasn’t alone in her misery this time. There was a second cage on her left side, also hanging from the ceiling. It was clearly visible in the mirror too. Her companion must be the other woman, her neighbor in the cells. The nude body in the reflection from the mirror was definitely female.

Like her own cage her neighbor also had one of those covers over her entire head. They might be companions in adversity but Mr. G had still made sure they would be anonymous.

“Hello? I’m Darla. You hang out here often?”

There was a laugh from the other captive. “Hi, my name’s Anita. No, my first time here. By the way, what is this thing he’s stuck us in? I’ve never seen one before. This is worse than those tiny cages you crawl into.”

“It’s called a gibbet, an old medieval punishment in its original form. Criminals would be hung inside one of these in the public square until they died of hunger or exposure. If it was some particularly nasty crime they’d let the body rot away before taking it down. It was a grim way to go.”

“I hope that’s not what Mr. G has in mind for us!” Darla noticed Anita’s cage began to swing back and forth. “This is ridiculous. I can’t move around at all. Are we supposed to just stand here for hours on end?” Anita tried twisting around again. “Ughh, this is so frustrating.”

Somehow, being suspended from the ceiling made the cage seem worse than it really was. “Try to hold still,” Darla advised. “Think of it as a variation on those animal cages where you have to sit with your chin on your bent knees. Sooner or later he’ll let us out. Besides, I can’t complain; I asked for this, or at least something different. Careful what you wish for, right?”

“Yeah, I suppose so. Still, what have I gotten myself into coming here? Did we sign up for a visit to the Spanish Inquisition? What else does Mr. G have in his dungeon?”

Darla was beginning to have some doubts too. “Let’s hope it gets better. And, you know, this really isn’t all that bad as far as bondage goes. That’s assuming he doesn’t leave us in here for three or four days. Besides, what’s the alternative? Even if he comes back, there’s no safeword. We’re in these things for the duration.”

“Duration?” Anita replied. “Yeah, that’s the real question, how long? A few months back I met this guy, he makes bondage furniture. He offered to let me try out a new pillory he’d just finished. You know, the old fashioned stocks, wooden planks with cutouts for neck and wrists? Well, I was curious so in I go.”

“What happened?” Darla asked.

“I’m standing there, squirming a bit, can’t get out. He pulls over a chair and sits down in front of me. We start talking; pretty soon I notice from the wall clock it’s two hours later. That’s bad form; never have a clock in sight during bondage. My ba

One Way Street · Part 2 (2/4)
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