The Long Way Down · Part 2

The Long Way Down · Part 2 (2/2)
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As the two agents hold me firmly at each side of my waist, a multitude of new black, gleaming hands take hold of my pinioned arms. Meanwhile, the front of the suit, previously hanging from my waist, is now drawn up into place against my chest.

With a sudden release of pressure, my arms are cut free. But despite my new struggling, half of the hands keep my right arm securely wrenched behind my back. The other half deliver my left arm inexorably into the straitsuit's waiting sleeve. As the tight, thick mitt at the end of the sleeve finally tugs into place around my hand, a strap is fastened around my wrist. Now trapped within the sleeve, my left arm is firmly replaced behind my back. The thick unbuckled strap at the end of the sleeve is passed to the right as the agents there prepare for their turn.

Though I am able to resist a little more on the right side, soon that arm is also fed into its sleeve, imprisoned, and once more wrested behind me. From the small of my back, a sturdy zipper is slowly tugged upwards, closing the suit tightly over my whole body as it goes. The slider continues upward between my pinned arms, finally arriving at the narrow collar and locking in place with a small click. Soft hands smooth the tight material over my chest.

Across the locked zipper, the first of several buckles is now fastened. As the work continues, Serena produces a small key that is passed behind me. Each of the bands on my back and wrists is snugged down before I hear it being locked with a click.

Now behind me come four new agents standing abreast. The two immediately behind me take over responsibility for my arms; each grips a forearm firmly in one hand and a yet-unfastened hand strap in the other. With constant pressure they bring my arms to face forward against my sides; then, stepping around to the front, they begin to fold my arms across my body into the dreaded position of the straitjacketed prisoner.

As I struggle to delay the inevitable, the outer two agents steadily push my elbows toward each other. As each mittened hand is driven through the front loop of the jacket to nestle against the opposite elbow, the agents grasp the sleeve straps, feeding them loosely through the jacket's side loops. Just as the first pair of agents releases their hold, the second pair pulls mightily on the straps.

Unable to overcome their efforts, my arms slide into place. I now stand in the middle of the room, legs together and arms crossed tightly, controlled by the two agents keeping tension on my straps. The other agents stand at ease facing Serena.

"Flawlessly executed! Just like watching clockwork. I love every moment of a straitjacketing, but that last part is always my favorite." Receiving the key from her agents, Serena tightens down the front loop and twists the key in the buckle. Meanwhile, the two ends of the sleeve strap have been matched up behind me. The strap hums as it pulls quickly through the buckle and eliminates all the slack.

Then all the female hands and arms let go. For the first time since rising from my chair, no one is holding me. But now, testing the movement of my arms in all directions, I confirm with dread what I already know to be true: I am locked tightly in a full-body straitjacket, and I cannot get free. Serena reads the expression on my face.

"Yes, that's a precious moment, isn't it, when you realize you are well and truly stuck?" She steps back, allowing a large fabric rectangle to be laid down before me. Meanwhile, five or six agents take firm hold of the strap just buckled behind me.

All of a sudden someone tips me from behind. My arms, jerking out instinctually, are held fast within their prison; with my ankles still bound, I cannot avoid falling forward. But as I am about to hit the fabric, the agents yank on the strong strap, pulling my arms tighter with the weight of my body before setting me down gently. The new slack in the strap is promptly removed. One of the latest agents, planting her foot in my back, is about to pull the strap still tighter when Serena interrupts.

"That should be secure enough. We'll only cause problems for ourselves if we go too hard on his shoulders."

The redirected agent instead fastens one final strap to tension my upper arms back. Then, after two final insertions of the key, every last buckle and zipper of the suit has been done up and locked. Lying on the wrap with my face just a few inches away from her feet, I strain to meet Serena's gaze as she looks down upon me.

"As you have certainly noticed, the suit is made from a extremely durable material and can easily deal with whatever we demand of it. It simply has to. Over the weeks and months, you will be subjecting the suit to an enormous amount of stress." She looks back up. "Let's get the transport wrap on."

The fabric under me is rolled securely around my body to wrap my torso and thighs; patted down, it adheres to itself with the quiet crackle of velcro. To a multitude of rings along the wrap's outer surface are now clipped leashes of various lengths. Pulling on them, several agents restore me to my feet.

The rest of the team now joins them, attaching their leashes and stepping away from me as they form into a thick square block. I struggle and twist from within my tight wrap but am effortlessly held at the center of the escort formation.

"Good. Unlock his ankles, and then let's head down." Walking past me toward the door, Serena makes a small apology.

"Sorry, but you'll have to do a bit of walking now. Lucky for you, though, the federal prison is right below our feet. You'll be all stowed away before the night is up."

Part Six

Following our descent into the underground prison, we find ourselves in the outermost of its five concentric rings. So immense is this structure that I can just barely see the curvature of its walls. Though we have come to a stop before a large steel door, the cavernous space still rings with the sounds of our footsteps.

A pair of agents steps forward to twin keypads to authorize our entry into the second level. Meanwhile, having taken for herself the empty transport position to my left, Serena is boasting about the virtues of the police state. With a unyielding grip on her leash she ensures I remain the captive audience to her reverberating speech.

"We believe that a strong penal system provides the foundation for an orderly society. In order to instill a respect for the system, we ensure that no one can evade justice; we ensure that once apprehended, no one can escape from it."

With some electrical humming, the thick door before us begins to open, revealing first the large lock cylinders set into its sides and then the short tunnel it has been guarding. Within the tunnel, dim lights flicker on. The team resumes its march forward.

"For over twenty years we have been able to maintain a spotless record because of our heavy security measures. Most guards work in only one ring, entering and leaving only once each day through airlock chambers such as this. Depending on the security level, they authenticate themselves with a combination of badge scans, code challenges, and biometrics. Entry requirements are a little less stringent, but all exiting personnel must authenticate and pass through the airlocks individually."

She chuckles. "In fact, every now and then a rookie guard follows others into the next level and then finds herself unable to get back out. Often I think they lead her in on purpose. If there are any empty cells, they usually lock her up for a few days as an informal punishment. Sometimes they leave her in isolation; sometimes they rig her up and zap her for practice. She doesn't forget after that. But I digress."

As the door behind us locks with a series of penetrating clanks, Serena points out a flat metal structure on the collar of the agent in front of her. "As far as other security measures go– for their own protection, all prison personnel are required to wear an inner computerized tracking suit under their regulation uniform. Both the inner and outer suits are locked shut and tagged." She nods contentedly. "Yep, over the years, we've pretty much sealed off any avenues of escape several times over. If you're not supposed to leave this place, you will not leave it."

The airlock door ahead of us begins to open. As the next vast space is revealed, Serena describes its contents.

"Level Two is for misdemeanors; prisoners in this level are restrained at all times in their cells but generally can still move around. Nothing too exciting. At Level Three, heavy immobilization is applied, and at Level Four, we add active torment in up to two separate modalities." She pauses.

"And you, we're taking to Level Five."

At last our journey brings us into the dreaded innermost level, a single circular room several hundred feet across. Most of this dark room is marked at regular intervals by numbered squares about a foot and a half wide. We trek across this desolate twilight landscape toward the center of the room, where a large platform supports an array of stations and a few guards.

We mount the stairs with a clatter; the guards salute. As we cut through the area, Serena reads a note taped to the edge of one station. "Ah. Hold on a second, please. Bring him over just a bit; I want him to see this."

Spread before her are controls of all sorts. "This is the control console for a destructive punition cell. Where the actual cells are, you'll see soon enough. But this" — tapping a monitor that I cannot see clearly — "this is the prisoner in cell 35.

"Formerly, she was chief security officer for the base; I believe you met her successor earlier tonight. Her service came to an end two months ago, when she carted off for her habit of fraternizing and sharing a little too much private time with her male prisoners. I worry that her replacement is developing those tendencies too. When sexual stimulation is carefully meted out as punishment, spurious and unregulated use of that tool becomes a very serious issue."

She turns a dial clockwise, listening in with satisfaction to the anguished moans and gasps of a female subjected to relentless sexual stimulation. She depresses a small red button, which remains toggled down with a tiny click. A hissing sound now comes through the speaker; the pitch of the moaning slowly falls, and now there is the sound of someone trying to catch her breath. The prisoner speaks indistinctly, amid heavy panting.

"Th–Thank you for stopping it. Thank you…"

"You are aware, Christina, that occasionally there is a opening in the transport and restraint team. In such circumstances we are able to recruit new agents from selected females undergoing destructive punition. Your response to the stimulus so far has been promising, and so for two weeks now we have kept you at submaximum stimulation so a spot could open up."

At the center of the console is a large lever, currently pushed about three-fourths of the way to the back. Serena inserts a key near its base and turns it.

"And a sp–a spot opened up?" There is relief and hope in the voice.

Serena places her hand on the handle, depressing the safety with her thumb. I wince with the terrible knowledge of what is about to happen.

"I'm sorry. And two weeks is all we are permitted to wait. Goodbye, Christina."

"NO! Please I beg you–!!" Over Christina's wild sobbing, Serena pushes the heavy lever all the way back, simultaneously releasing the red suspend button. Suddenly the prisoner's pleas are replaced by screaming so loud that the speakers ring with distortion. After a few moments, the speaker hums with the sound of inflation, and her desperate pleas become unintelligible. The room, however, still echoes faintly with her last scream.

With an air of finality, Serena removes her key and turns the volume knob down until it clicks. As her prisoner's cries fade away, she confirms that the safety on the lever will no longer budge.

I sense an involuntary tug to my right. Glancing over at the face of the agent on that side, I see her blinking to hold back a tear.

After descending on the far side of the platform, we come to a halt in front of one of the squares. Surrounded by yellow and black caution markings, this one bears the number 56. A pair of agents goes to enter some codes at a nearby keypad.

"Well, looks like this is the end of your journey." A series of loud clacks can be felt through the ground. With a deep mechanical rumble, the thick numbered square slides up on its hinges to reveal a deep black hole. "That is where your sentence is to be carried out."

A ladder slowly telescopes down into the darkness of the chamber, stopping at a floor about thirty feet below. All of my transport leashes are promptly disconnected, excepting one on my left. It is looped around the ladder and clipped again to me on the right, where an agent begins to cinch the leash tighter. Struggling, I am forced closer and closer to the gaping hole.

"I like my prisoners to walk under their own power until the end," Serena explains. "Now go on; take the first rung." With the leash holding me to the ladder, I take a terrifying first step on to the ladder and begin the climb down.

As I descend into the dark, each step I brings more of a sense of doom. I realize I will never again ascend past that step as the same person. I am filled with sadness for the home and the country that I will never see again. I regret leaving Serena. I am indignant for what she has done to me. And strangely, in the back of my mind, I think I find myself in awe of her power. Yet none of these thoughts can save me from the prison, the guard, my restraints, and my final descent.

Serena calls down after me. "Careful now; you wouldn't want to slip. It's a long way down."

Part Seven

Reaching the floor of my unlit cell, I discover that it, like the walls, is covered with thick spongy foam. As soon as I am unhooked from the ladder, I begin to wobble from the lack of solid footing; ultimately unable to balance, I fall backwards in my bundle and find myself staring up at the hole through which we have entered. A handful of agents, navigating the soft surface like comparative experts, rolls me over unceremoniously as they rip off my transport wrap, exposing once more my straitsuited body.

Frustrated, I try to get back on my feet. But though I am able to roll on to my stomach and back, the floor is far too soft for me to work my way back to standing. The sensation of being half buried in foam, rolling and writhing but unable to move, is like a nightmare.

Suppressing a laugh, Serena kneels by my side. "Oh, you poor thing. I'm tempted to stand you up just to watch you try to get back up the ladder. But it's getting late. I'm afraid you've already walked your last step."

She points a small device upwards. From the dark corners of the ceiling I see the glint of four metallic arms descending. As the agents guide them near the floor, I can see that each terminates in a long spring and a snap hook. I am flipped one more time on to my crossed arms as the hooks are attached to the ankles and shoulders of my straitsuit.

"One more inch for the shoulders should do it."

Again the arms retract. As they finally pull my crossed arms clear of the floor, my body starts ever so slowly to swing free. Pleased with the successful completion of their task, the agents return in formation to Serena's side.

Now she holds out her hand, and two black devices are placed in it. She takes one and inserts the inflatable bulb firmly past my resistant lips, strapping the gag into place firmly behind my head. Surveying their joint handiwork, her inescapably bound future slave, Serena turns to speak to the agents flanking her.

"Would any of you girls like a minute to touch him? You have permission from his future mistress. But I remind you, if he climaxes on your watch… well, you saw what happened to Christina."

Perhaps against their best judgment, two daring agents, probably both in their twenties, step forward hesitatingly and set upon my body. With Serena's encouragement, one lavishes attention on my chest while the other, rather dangerously, hungrily strokes my rear; my tight restraints intensify their gentle touch. However, as much as I desperately want revenge — to make these beautiful tormentresses share my fate — as much as I try in vain to brush up in the right way against them or the floor, I cannot put myself over the top. Serena addresses me again, and the happy pair resumes their former statuesque position.

"You will recall that you have been sentenced to punitive extraction. Every third day, your punishment will be briefly suspended, much like you saw earlier, and you will be offered a chance to divulge relevant information at the prompting of my intelligence officers. If they feel you are misleading or stalling them, they are authorized to intensify your suffering, so personally, I would stick to the truth." She realizes with satisfaction, of course, that I have no relevant truth to offer.

"Periodically you may be sedated for medical maintenance; after all, we still want you to be in passable physical shape for your new life. During the next few weeks we may also need to clean or shave you to optimize the contacts in the control suit. But you will be awake for none of that. You will doze off and then awaken just as before: blinded, restrained, suspended, and tormented. You will be aware of nothing but your punishment."

She clasps one hand in the other. "That's all there is for us. I'll be seeing you on the other side." Watching me suspended face down in front of her, she thinks up one last facetious comment.

"Don't be scared," she says. "It's just like skydiving."

With that she works a black hood snugly over my head, cinching and locking the straps tight. I hear the muffled ascent of many female feet and the withdrawal of the ladder. I hear a profound mechanical rumble, and then finally massive metallic clacks.

Then I am rapidly lifted toward the ceiling.

At the control console for cell 56, a female hand eagerly pushes the lever to half the maximum setting and locks it in place.

Next to the lever she places a book detailing the interrogation protocol and how exactly to increase the stimulus when a prisoner refuses to answer. In the front cover she leaves a handwritten instruction.

"Increase to maximum stimulus over four weeks; continue at maximum until verifying psychological destruction at–" She thinks for a moment before completing the note.

"Twelve weeks."

Flying high above the floor, I wait in nervous anticipation.

Then from between my restrained legs stirs the slightest tingling.

At first it is just a fleeting warmth, and I am not even sure it is real. But slowly it builds, gaining the intensity of hundred gentle hands running up and down, tickling, lingering, caressing. After a long night restrained and teased by sensuous women, unable to use my hands or even to brush up against a soft body, I hope fervently for sexual release. My breath is becoming uneven with the stimulation.

Without warning a pulsing current envelops my body. Locked away securely behind the two layers of suits, my fingers and toes curl and twitch; my arms jerk but are held fast. I cry out in pain. As if on cue, the gag inside my mouth starts to fill with a mechanical bleating, finally leaving my mouth just slightly overfull. The room is again quiet, except for my soft inarticulate grunts and my noisy breathing. The current subsides somewhat, and the hands begin again.

As I grind my loins against my unseen lovers, writhing in vain to evade the electrical torment, the suspension arms suddenly give. My heart jumps with weightlessness and fear as I fall several feet into the blind blackness. Catching me, the springs throw me up and down over and over as the arms slowly draw back again in preparation for their next unpredictable move.

Rebounding and twisting dizzily in the darkness, convulsing with a mixture of pain and ecstasy, I hope silently that the interrogations will at least help me maintain a sense of time in the months to come.

And in my brain, the sensory overload starts to wear away at my synapses, beginning my inescapable descent into sexual madness.

It would be a very long way down.

– END –

The Long Way Down · Part 2 (2/2)
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