These Boots Aren · Part 2 (2/2)
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I could see she was curious, though she said nothing. I opened the box and pulled out the contents. Her eyes lit up. “Wow! Is that really one of those…”
“An authentic Shrew’s Fiddle,” I interrupted her, “made from a machined aluminum alloy billet. It’s actually lighter than wood, and far stronger.” I handed it to her to get a closer look. It was shaped like a long violin body, with a large oval at one end that closed around the neck, and two smaller, inline cutouts for wrists at the other end. There was a hinge at the back of the neck end, allowing it to open into two halves. Beyond the last wrist circle was a locking latch to hold it together, with a keyhole inconveniently placed, for the wearer, under the fiddle’s body.
“I’ve seen them on websites, but the cost is outside my budget.” She couldn’t take her eyes off it. She handed it back to me. “Am I supposed to wear it?” she asked in a hesitant tone.
“That’s the general idea.” I unlocked it, pulling the two halves apart. “After all, it’s not designed to play music.” I lowered it over her head and slowly fastened it around her neck. She pulled her hair out of the way. Before I fully closed it, of her own accord she placed her wrists in the cutouts, left first, and right toward the end. I snapped it shut. The lock clicked with a finality that was loud in the silence.
“The design goes back hundreds of years. It was a form of corporal punishment for women, usually to discourage a sharp tongue. You know, a shrew.”
She struggled within its grasp, twisting her wrists, trying to slip out of the insistent grip of the medieval monster that held her prisoner. She gave up, staring at her now useless hands. “I surrender. You know, whoever came up with this thing centuries ago had a truly devious mind.”
“I can see it might be inconvenient if worn for an extended period. Be sure to tell me if I’m right.” To me the Fiddle was a fine piece of jewelry, a combination of necklace and matching bracelets. It never occurred to me she might not agree.
She stared at me, eyes wide open. She started to say something, then abruptly stopped. A wise choice, I thought. Words spoken in haste may be regretted at leisure. With her legs solidly planted in the ground she could look forward to plenty of leisure.
Getting Started I came back with a banana in one hand. When she saw it, she glared at me, wondering how she was supposed to eat it without any hands. I pulled my chair around to sit next to her.
“Now you learn about the how,” I began. I peeled the banana about half way down, examined it, and then held it up to her mouth. “Here you go, take a bite.” I continued peeling the rest of the banana, slowly taking my time between bites on her part.
I didn’t miss the way her hands clenched into fists in frustration. I ignored it. After all, what else could she do? Jump up and storm out of the room? That wasn’t practical. Snatch the partially eaten banana out of my hand? Again, that would require some remarkable dexterity on her part.
She might not like being fed by hand, but I was enjoying the usually mundane task immensely. All that hard work with the concrete was finally paying off. From now on either I was in control, or she could sit by herself, hungry and thirsty, while debating the wisdom of defying me.
Despite my power-hungry megalomania, I didn’t want to see her suffer. This was her moment, and I didn’t want to ruin it. “Your arms must be getting tired, holding up that Fiddle.” Once more I went into the other room, out of her sight, and came back with some cushions. “Here, raise up your arms and I’ll put these underneath your elbows.”
Stacking up the pillows in her lap I managed to take the strain off her arms. Her elbows rested on the cushions, reducing the strain on her shoulders. “Thank you…sir,” she said, in a surprisingly contrite tone of voice.
The way she tacked on the “sir” was a tacit admission she acknowledged my dominance through her submission. I made no move to correct her. Perhaps it was just a social convention, yet it still conveyed a powerful message. The line between us, reinforced with her verbal cues, was important to me.
“I’d like you to sit quietly for a while. Do not rise from your chair. Not a sound, quiet as a mouse, that’s what I don’t want to hear. Let me remind you, the purpose of the Shrew’s Fiddle is more disciplinary than punishment. There is a time to speak up, and a time to listen. Right now, it’s your time to listen. If you find that too difficult, I have other means to enforce my wishes. Meanwhile, good behavior will go far in reducing the time spent with that thing around your neck.” Carrot and stick, I told myself. I really didn’t want to resort to using a gag.
I leaned forward, reaching out to rest my hand on her knee. With her legs immobilized by the immense weight of the concrete she wasn’t able to pull away. Nor could she use her hands to push me away. “I neglected to mention you have very nice legs. Those boots draw the eye to the curves. It’s a shame they’re covered up.” My hand slipped down so that I could trace the outline of the boot top with a single finger.
She almost protested, but caught herself in time. The presence of the Fiddle must be having some effect. I gave her one of those raised eyebrow looks, but didn’t add a reprimand. “Good girl,” I praised her. “There’s something so…permanent… about concrete.” I tapped the slab around her legs with my foot. “Did you know the Roman Colosseum has concrete in it? Imagine that, two thousand years and still standing.”
I stood up, took the key out of my pocket and unlocked the Fiddle. When I removed it, she stretched out her arms and flexed her hands. “I think I’ve made my point.” I placed the Fiddle on the floor next to my chair. The message was clear; it was nearby and could be applied at any time, if I thought it necessary.
I snapped my fingers. “I almost forgot. Don’t go away; I’ll be right back.” She turned her head to follow me as I went into the other room. When I returned with a plastic bag in my hand, she looked up at me as I halted next to her. Before she could react, I pulled out a fabric hood and slipped it over her head. The weave was sufficient to blindfold but not interfere with her breathing. That was followed by the high, thick posture collar that held the hood in place. I tightened the collar strap and pressed the locking button on the buckle. Her head was forced up and back by the high chin plate.
There was a faint sound of being caught unawares. I let it pass. “You have been very patient and cooperative. You deserve a reward, so I’m giving you some alone time to live out your fantasy. Being a new member of the “sleep with the fishes” club, you can experience the ambiance of deep, dark waters at the bottom of the lake.
“Meanwhile, there’s a football game about to start. I’ll look in on you when it’s over. Let’s hope it doesn’t go into overtime.” I laughed at my little witticism. Placing a hand on her shoulder I leaned down and whispered in her ear. “Remember, not a sound! Imagine yourself, standing in line with the rest of the unfortunates on the lakebed, neatly lined up with your brand-new cement shoes acting as the pedestals.”
Sleeping With the Fishes I made a noisy show of leaving the room, pretending to slam the door behind me. In reality, there was no football game. I slipped off my shoes and in stocking feet I noiselessly padded over to a chair near the door. From that vantage point I could see her in a three quarters profile.
It didn’t take long before she reached up and tugged on the hood. That wouldn’t work; the edge was rolled and wouldn’t slip under the collar. Once she figured that out, she began pulling at the posture collar. It was a sturdy, heavy duty model with a locking buckle. The lock could easily be picked, but not with bare fingers. Resigned to being cut off from her surroundings she finally gave up and sagged back in the chair.
One of the problems with long term bondage is boredom. It didn’t take long before the curse settled in on her. More than once she worked her legs, trying to slip out of her boots in a vain attempt to escape her prison. She should know better, I observed. If it were possible to pull them off, they wouldn’t need zippers running from ankle to calf. She liked the snug fit, and so did I. I was confident the hard, grey prison around her legs was not going to be defeated.
Desperation was setting in. I was certain of it when I saw her hand descend between her legs. I almost laughed out loud. Considering the number of times she had worn that chastity belt, she might have learned by now it wasn’t going to happen. It didn’t take long before she gave up. When she started pounding her fists on the chair arms over her denial of even the most personal source of gratification, that was the point where I knew it was getting to her.
A famous quote came to mind: the definition of insanity is doing the same thing over and over again and expecting a different result. Supposedly it was from Albert Einstein, though no one ever produced any evidence he actually said it. The lack of any external stimulation was driving her crazy.
This is the point where another phenomenon linked to confinement and sensory deprivation begins: time dilation. Minutes become hours, hours become days, and days become weeks. The only way she would be able to track time was through her meals. I intended to shorten those intervals more and more as the hours passed. After a day or so she’d lose all track of time.
Was it cruel? There were times I debated the morality of my dark side. I certainly would not appreciate being in her situation. Yet the way her mind worked was a mystery I could not fathom. What had possessed her to bury herself up to her knees in concrete? Why had she put on the chastity belt in the first place, knowing the frustration it would bring later on. True, I had the key to it. Did she expect me to use it? If so, she was due for disappointment.
She gripped the arms of the chair and lifted herself up. She did stop well short of actually standing. It was nothing more than shifting around. That also raised questions of the inner workings of her brain. She must be convinced she was alone in the basement. Even so she had not made a sound since I supposedly left, and now she had stopped short of standing up. Amazing, obedience to my stated wishes even though she could easily break them and not get caught. Maybe it was beyond my comprehension, but I was willing to live with the satisfaction that came with the way I controlled her.
She had given up, resigned to her fate. I decided to wait another hour before rescuing her from the insidious clutches of the boredom beast. It would last a mere sixty minutes for me, and a perceived four hours for her. I closed my eyes, lost in a reverie about my good fortune. Of one thing I was certain. When I opened them again, she would still be sitting there.
Time’s Up The first two days went relatively well. I kept her fed, with my choice of meal, and several times I had her stand up, removed her chastity belt, and held out a plastic container of those alcohol wipes so she could clean herself. It didn’t compare to a shower, but needs must adapt to what’s practical.
Naturally, while the belt was off, I watched her closely. I warned her that unapproved activities would be dealt with in the harshest manner, emphasizing my admonition by holding up the Shrew’s Fiddle. She got the message. When she finished wiping down the belt it immediately went back on.
“It’s been, what, three, four days now?” she asked. The time distortion was working. In reality it had only been two days, but she had no way of knowing. “I’ve had my fill of this fantasy. Isn’t it about time you let me go?”
I didn’t respond. Instead, I folded my arms, leaned back in the chair facing her, and tilted my head to one side, as if studying her. This next phase would be interesting.
“So, I’m done. I’m tired of being buried in the floor. I want this damn belt off, I want my clothes, and most of all I really want a decent meal.” I didn’t blame her. Those MRE meals weren’t bad, but they didn’t replace real, fresh food.
I still didn’t answer her demands. After a long pause I saw the frown on her face. She was starting to become irritated. “Come on! Get that crane and start lifting these rocks off my feet. I want to sleep in a real bed tonight. This chair sucks.”
“No,” came my curt reply.
Now she was angry. “Look, we agreed on a maximum of four days. Time’s up, the game is over.”
I stood up, towering over her, forcing her to look up at me. “You came up with four days, not me. I decided to change the rules. If you don’t want to play the game, as you call it, feel free to leave at any time.” I crouched down, matching her eye to eye. “See, the thing is I’m having a great time, and I don’t want to stop. Maybe your game ended, but mine is just beginning. Like it or not, I suggest you get used to your present circumstances, because it doesn’t look like they are going to change in the near future.”
“You can’t do that!” She all but screamed out in fury.
“Maybe I can’t, but I don’t see what you can do about it.” I started to walk away. “I’ll be back when you calm down.” I turned out the lights before closing the basement door.
These Boots Aren · Part 2 (2/2)
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