Your Master Requires Thirty Days · Part 1

Your Master Requires Thirty Days · Part 1 (1/5)
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How It Came To Be “Is it true, Paula? You came here, to the Center, by choice?” The question came from Trina, the most recent addition to the circle of friends. The two women had something in common. Katrina, Trina for short, had also started her life at the Center as a willing if uninformed participant.

The dinner conversation had turned to early days at the Center, a safe topic since they weren’t in the secure area. Paula and Big Mike, her master, were the earliest arrivals at the Center among the group sitting around the table. Paula looked a question at Big Mike, silently seeking permission to answer.

With his nod of approval she began. “It isn’t a simple yes or no answer. Master and I first crossed paths at a different location, sort of a private jail, in Los Angeles. It’s a long story, how we wound up here. In a way it was a voyage of self-discovery. Master swept into my life, grabbed hold and never let go. Along the way he guided me through a learning process, revealing to me what I secretly knew but didn’t want to admit.”

Paula carefully folded her hands in her lap. Big Mike insisted on certain rules she could not ignore. “This is how our relationship came to be…”

New Arrival The machine was remarkably quiet when running. The only sound was a deep hum while the press bore down on the rivet, flattening out the top and bottom into rounded buttons. I watched the one on the left side being slowly squeezed into shape. The point of no return, I thought, no backing out now. Rivets meant playing for keeps, as in no way to possibly escape from the bonds that I wore.

“That should do it,” the machinist announced while he unwound the vise holding the shackle. Inside the cuff was my left ankle, now permanently confined within the leg iron. My right ankle was the mirror image to the left, bound with the same oval band riveted shut. It represented permanent bondage, at least in my circumstances. My dream was coming true.

Carefully I lowered my feet to the floor. The manacles were very different compared to the police style leg irons I’d worn up to now. The shackle around each ankle was at least five times the width, and the additional weight a reminder of how difficult it would be for me to remove them. The reduced length of the substantial connecting chain was not quite long enough to place one foot in front of the other. I could still stand and walk, but slowly and with difficulty. Restrained, I told myself, a reminder that from now on I wasn’t going anywhere faster than a slow shuffle. The restricted gait was a stark reminder of what I had to face from now on.

I tried one step forward, and then another. The chain brought me up short, a fraction of my normal walking stride. The shackles weren’t so tight as to cut off circulation but there wasn’t much play either. The oval shape was custom formed to the dimensions of each ankle, thanks to the machinist’s skill. The close fit prevented them from turning and rubbing against my skin.

The bright nickel-chrome plating on the connecting chain stood out in sharp contrast to the grayish stainless steel of the shackles. The chain links, cut from a length of tow chain, were far larger than necessary, adding to the security and the weight. Overall, the amount of metal I carried was far more than necessary to keep me a prisoner, but I specifically asked for the most restrictive version. I might regret it later on but for now the sheer size of my leg restraints made it all so much more real.

“Not too tight? No pinching?” the machinist asked. He leaned over to run his hands around my ankles, checking for abrasions. “You’ll get used to the shortened pace after a few days, but until then you need to remember not to hurry. Try to run in these and you wind up flat on the floor.”

“Thank you, sir, the cuffs fit perfectly. They are heavier than I expected, but I suppose that makes them hard to ignore. I should be okay as they are.” I sat back down in the chair. I was already beginning to question my decision to ask for high risk status, though it was too late to change now. I stared down at my feet, fascinated by what had been fastened on my body.

“It’s not like you have much choice in the matter,” one of my guards joked. “Getting out of those things isn’t going to be easy.” That was from the guard on my left. Glancing up over my shoulder I saw the smirk on his face. That was enough to create an instant dislike for the man and his attitude.

He was right though. The rivets were made of mild steel. Unlike the shackles they could be easily cut off with a chisel, or drilled out. Not by me though; I didn’t have the tools, the expertise, or the physical strength to make that happen. Someone else with the right skills and equipment would be needed to release me.

The machinist checked his clipboard. “We don’t see many orders for a full thirty days at the high risk level. I hope you realize what you’re going to face. Even two weeks in permanent bondage is more than most guests tolerate before begging for their freedom. It’s too late to alter the order, just thought you’d like to know you’re out there on the fringe. I can’t even begin to imagine what it would be like wearing those things for one day, much less an entire month.”

No, it wouldn’t be easy, but that was precisely why I asked for them. There were no keys, no locks to pick or ratchets to shimmy. The rivets were both the simplest of locks and the most difficult to open. Permanence, I thought, they’re on for keeps, or at least for the length of my sentence. I looked forward to the challenge.

“One more to go,” the machinist spoke, holding up the last piece. “If you could lean forward? That’s good; we’ll complete the fitting.”

The collar felt cold when he closed it around my neck. Like the ankle cuffs it was a close fit, not tight, but I’d never forget it was there. It too was customized to fit my body, a large oval ring that closed in the front. In a moment the bolts were in place and the hydraulic press was back in action, slowly squeezing the rivets into shape. I couldn’t see the result but I knew it was a match for the rest: a metal collar, with a half link welded in front and riveted tight in the back.

The machinist ran his hands around my neck, checking the fit. “Excellent, you shouldn’t have any problems with it.” He tugged on the front loop. “Remember, this is all a part of you now. Work within your new limitations. There’s no point fighting them; don’t even try or you’re likely to injure yourself.”

The collar had a mental as well as physical purpose. The half link in front was useful in holding me in place, as in chained to a wall. That was secondary to what it did to my head. The leg irons might mark me as a prisoner, but the weight of the collar was a constant reminder I was now a thing, an object rather than a person, and would be treated as such by those in authority. Just the thought sent a shiver through me.

Without any warning my guards grabbed my arms, pulled me up out of my chair and all but threw me against the wall. “Hold still,” one of them ordered. I felt my left arm being pulled down, behind my back. It was immediately followed by the familiar ratcheting sound of a handcuff closing on my wrist. My right arm followed, along with the sound of the cuff closing on the other wrist.

“Welcome to our little slice of heaven on earth,” that was from the obnoxious guard. “In here the rules are simple. We tell you what to do; you obey. There will be no arguments, no excuses, and no delays. Try it and all that happens is you piss us off. You don’t want that. Think about it.”

I didn’t answer him. My eyes were closed, lost in the moment. This is what I wanted, the reason I volunteered to be incarcerated in this place. When the other guard locked on the second set of handcuffs around my wrists it barely registered. I was helpless, powerless to resist the aggressive guard’s intentions toward me. I didn’t like him but that made no difference. I was driven to try to please him, any way I could, including my obedience.

Reality came back when the machinist resumed with his duties. “Now the basics are in place, we'll move on to the next phase. After that you’ll be shown to your room.” The guards spun me around in time to see the machinist reaching for a box on a nearby shelf. Checking the label, he looked me over once again. “I think this should work without requiring too many adjustments. Closer, face me, feet as far apart as you can manage.” His tone changed when it came to issuing orders, going from friendly to terse. I was one of the inmates now, a guest as the guards liked to describe their prisoners.

Hands on my arms the guards dragged me forward. The collar and leg irons I had expected since it was my request they be used. I had assumed that would be all but it appeared they had more in mind.

When he opened the box and lifted out the contents my eyes went wide. “As you know you did not specify any restrictions on sexual access. That’s somewhat unusual though we do anticipate it and prepare accordingly.” I stared at the metal chastity belt in his hands. “We’ve found this particular device is quite effective in governing intimate activities for our guests.”

I wanted to protest but all I could do was watch in silence while he unlocked the belt, hypnotized by the idea it would soon be encircling my body. The touch of the padded steel around my waist was only a warning of what came next. When he reached between my legs and pulled up the center section the close fit was arousing. The definitive click of the lock in front echoed loudly in the sudden silence. It brought home the message that I was a helpless woman in a room full of men; men who were in a position to take full advantage of my condition, without any consequences.

This wasn’t part of the agreement. In fact there hadn’t been any mention of a chastity belt. Would I have gone ahead if it had been warned ahead of time? That was a difficult question. I’d agreed to no restrictions, knowing fully well I might well be used sexually without my consent. What I never expected was the opposite, being denied the opportunity. It was moot now. The men running this place could pretty much do as they pleased with me. I was in no position to offer much in the way of objections.

In the same way he checked my shackles the machinist ran his hand around the waistband, looking for gaps or rough spots. He ended his inspection by running his fingertips around the triangular center section, making sure it was a snug fit. “Think of this as a reminder that access,” he paused to accentuate the last word, “will be a factor during your stay, but it will be on our terms, not yours.” He gestured with a hand. “Move around, let’s see if there are any problems.”

The guards continued to hold onto my arms while I walked back and forth. The chain between my ankles jerked tight, a reminder to keep my feet closer together. The best I could manage was a slow, hobbled shuffle across the floor. I smiled at an image that flashed through my head, where I broke free from my guards and tried to run away. They’d easily catch up to me as soon as they stopped laughing.

“Your room is ready,” one of the guards informed me. “We’ll let you have some alone time to get better acclimated with your new, umm, lifestyle.” All three of the men laughed. I pivoted to face the door when one of the guards pointed toward it.

Then the lights went out when a hood was pulled down over my head. “Relax,” the guard, the one I was beginning to detest, reassured me. “We’ll make sure you get to where you’re going. This will be standard procedure from now on, so get used to it. We have a rule here about sightseeing. Like most everything else, it’s forbidden. I’ll guide you, and if I let go of your arm you stay put. Do not attempt to remove the hood. Is that clear?”

“Yes, sir,” I replied. His instructions were clear even if my eyesight was not. I was to be kept in the dark, literally, as much as possible. Lack of information was as powerful a restraint as my bonds. It all came together to force me to be wholly dependent on my captors, exactly as I hoped. Although I knew what was happening there was a brief moment of panic when my sight was cut off. I jerked on the cuffs holding my wrists, even though I knew I couldn’t reach the hood.

With his hand tightly gripping my upper arm the guard yanked my forward. “Move,” he ordered. When I hesitated, he put a hand on my back and shoved. “Don’t mess with me, girl. You better learn quickly that I don’t like to repeat myself. Try that again and you earn some extra time as our guest.” My opinion of him was going down every time he spoke, yet I was in no position to protest. I might not like it but he was in charge. As a prisoner, his captive, I was obliged to submit to his authority.

The other guard let go of my arm. The remaining officer, I was beginning to think of them as jail Corrections Officers, all but dragged me into the corridor outside the machine shop. I tried to keep up but kept tripping when the chain pulled taut between my ankles. “Please, sir, I can’t walk this fast,” I pleaded. I tried but it wasn’t physically possible to comply. He didn’t reply but the pace slowed enough for me to get my feet back on the ground.

The simple act of walking was proving to be an increasingly complicated task. Those old pictures I’d found showing chain gangs in the 1920s didn’t reveal just how difficult it was to get from point A to point B. I had to concentrate on keeping my feet close together compared to a normal walking stride. The weight didn’t help either, throwing me off balance. I had foolishly assumed the shackles would be similar to the limitations of police leg irons. Now I’d suffer the consequences for that mistake.

Exclusive Clientele So began my much-anticipated new adventure into a world of extreme bondage, captivity and domination, far more intense than anything I had ever experienced before. It hadn’t been easy obtaining an invitation into this private and most exclusive lockup. There was a certain irony in that most inmates in a prison tried their best to get out instead of in. Nor did this particular institution aspire to lofty goals of rehabilitation. No, in this place all that mattered were confinement, obedience and punishment. It was rules and protocols, unquestioned authority, all strictly enforced with excessive discipline, no excuses accepted and no compassion offered.

And most important of all, there was no ‘Get Out Of Jail Free’ card. No one left before they completed their sentence. I was in jail for the duration, by my consent if I cooperated, or against my will if I changed my mind later.

For the last three years I’d been a regular at various dungeons and bondage parties around Los Angeles and the sprawling suburbs. People knew me, recognized I was discreet and could be trusted. My reputation was the key to discovering one of the best kept secrets in the city, a dungeon that catered to the most exotic tastes in bondage. I made it known I wanted in, finally received the prized invitation, and here I was.

From the outside the building wasn’t all that impressive. It was located in one of the industrial sections of the county, where there was room to spread out instead of up without the zoning problems that came with residential areas. The sign outside labeled it as a warehouse, with few other specifics. Inside though, it was nothing like I expected. Past the façade of a normal business front office, it was more like a supermax prison, though scaled down for a small number of visitors. Reinforced concrete walls, no windows, locked gates of steel bars instead of doors, and guards, all male, with the physique of gorillas. It all came together to create an oppressive yet realistic atmosphere.

Thirty days would push me to the limits of my endurance, in spite of my eagerness for the experience. Even I didn’t want to contemplate what it would be like to be trapped in this place for months on end, much less for years.

I was careful to ask questions first, but very few were answered in any but the most general and ambiguous way. Prisoners, or guests as the term was used in the agreement, were treated as flight risks. To prevent escape attempts any information on procedures or building layout would be kept secret until the individual was safely isolated behind multiple layers of security, blocked from any contact outside the walls of this place. No phone, no computer, no TV and especially no visitors were at the top of the list of regulations. For the next month I’d be cut off completely from the outside world.

There were no negotiations other than the length and severity of my incarceration. In my case the sentence, the length of my stay, would be for thirty days under the most rigorous conditions. My choice was to blindly accept their terms, with few details as to what they were, or go someplace else. I could opt in for some of the extras, like my new set of shackles. Otherwise, I had to accept whatever happened, without any preconditions. Those were the conditions for the supermax packaged deal: blindly hand over the cash or go home. There were no checks, no credit cards, and no paper trail leading to where I was being held.

Considering the services being offered the agreement’s confidentiality clause came as no surprise. Essentially, I promised not to reveal any details of my stay to anyone. I had to post a substantial bond as part of my fee to guarantee it. That explained why I wasn’t able to find anything about the place online or from previous guests. The only information I had was word of mouth from casual encounters at bondage events. Other people had made it through, some more than once, so I had the assurance the place didn’t simply murder their customers. Being a commercial venture, eliminating customers didn’t make much sense if the business was to be sustainable.

There was a long list of regulations attached to the contract. If I signed then every one of the rules had to be followed, to the letter, without exception. The short explanation included something about security measures as justification. Many of the procedures were obviously there just to make life difficult. Ironically those I understood and accepted from past experience. Dominant men liked to exercise their power; I looked forward to it. Meaningless rules did have a hidden purpose, to remind me of who was in charge. Those I accepted without argument. It was not my place to question authority. I never admitted my secret beliefs to anyone, but I disapproved of anyone who disobeyed, and believed whatever punishment they received was well deserved.

Other regulations, like no last names or personal details, were welcomed. Privacy and anonymity were key factors for the business and the prisoners. No one needed to know my real name or where I lived. When talking to other guests I was only permitted to use my first name. I wondered how those rules were enforced until the obvious answer came to me. There must be hidden cameras and microphones everywhere. They’d know if I violated the regulations immediately.

More troubling was the penalty clause. In a real prison inmates could earn ‘good behavior’ credits to reduce their sentence. This place turned that procedure upside down. A guest who exhibited ‘bad behavior’ would receive additional time added onto the sentence, plus any other punishment management might deem appropriate to discourage repetition. What constituted bad behavior? That was at the sole discretion of the men in charge. The clause that really worried me was the length added to the agreed sentence was decided entirely by the manager, better known as the Warden in keeping to the prison theme. It could be a day or a week, and I wouldn’t know exactly how long until the day they let me walk out the front door. There was no hearing, no appeal, no recourse open to me if I was ‘written up’, as the agreement described it.

The argument for the deterrent was persuasive, when explained at my admission. There had to be an incentive to cooperate, or more to the point a disincentive to discourage unacceptable behavior. If I really wanted that total loss of control there had to be not only confinement and bondage but inflexible discipline and swift punishment to ensure my unconditional submission to authority. When the penalty was explained in those terms I couldn’t object, for it represented something real instead of a vague threat. There has to be a stick to go with the carrot, I told myself. Rules had to be rigorously enforced, and I expected no less during my stay.

When it came to the length of the sentence in the agreement, I had three options: one week, but that excluded the high-risk status and permanent shackles; two weeks, with some increased security, whatever that meant; or thirty days, recommended only for those most experienced with the mental stress of prolonged confinement. The warning sounded ominous, but I was confident I could handle being incarcerated for the full term. I wanted more than the single night or in a few rare cases a long weekend under someone else’s control. It was never enough, knowing in a few hours or days it would end. This time it wasn’t going to be over after a couple of days, or even a week. This time it was an entire month with no way out, but only if I was a model prisoner. If I acted up then I’d have no idea when I would be released. The uncertainty added to the excitement.

The moment I signed the agreement events proceeded at a rapid pace. Two guards entered the room, handcuffed me and took me to the processing room. There I was forced to strip, restrained again, and booked into the facility. That procedure included fingerprints, DNA sample and photographs, something I didn’t like but couldn’t prevent. I was not given a jail uniform.

There had been no mention of taking away my clothes in the agreement, but now that I was committed it would be quite a while before I would be allowed to wear clothes again. Thinking about it, I saw how it made sense. Nud

Your Master Requires Thirty Days · Part 1 (1/5)
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