Nature Walk · Part 1

Nature Walk · Part 1 (1/2)
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Getting Ready The small camping site where the paved road ended was deserted, as usual for this time of year. It was late Sunday night, when everyone was home, so a perfect time for an outdoor stroll. There was a three-quarters moon providing a decent amount of light, without the need for flashlights to light the way.

This was one of my favorite places. It was quiet, secluded and unspoiled by manmade structures, other than the rest area. Why the County had built a road out here, and added a modest camping area, was a mystery. Fortunately the road was still maintained, including a single lane dirt road that wound further out into the desert valley. That road didn’t go anywhere. It eventually deteriorated into barren desert. It was graded, at least for the first five miles, which made it ideal for walking.

Granted the scenery wasn’t much. Other than a few withered looking creosote bushes, and the rare barrel cactus it was baked hardpan, a dense layer of soil that had the consistency of concrete. This was well into the uninhabited and rarely visited part of what’s known as the Anza-Borrego Desert. Look on any map and you’ll find a large empty area in the southeast corner of California, near the Mexican border. It can easily qualify as the most desolate part of the continental U. S. No one lives there. Except for a couple of highways it’s one big empty patch of nothing.

The husband and I make the drive from Palm Springs a few times a year, just to visit this spot. Not for the view, but the isolation. See, I like to take in the outdoors, but in a unique fashion, if fashion is the right word for being stripped naked and tightly bound in chains. See, I’m one of those bondage fetish types, with a latent streak of exhibitionism.

Hubby tolerates my special needs. More than tolerate, he can be quite enthusiastic about satisfying my craving for that loss of freedom. Thanks to him being along I can push the limits without worrying about being accidently stuck if I were on my own. I don’t have to be concerned about leaving some way for me to get out of my restraints. He’s in charge of all the keys to the locks.

What hubby doesn’t approve of is exposing myself to anyone but him. Our compromise is being outdoors, but so isolated no one would see us. That seems fair to me. The night is warm enough I don’t need clothes, which works out since I love the feel of the breeze on my bare skin. Of course I’m not completely uncovered; there are certain items I have to wear which contribute to the degree of difficulty in my trip out to nowhere.

To spare my feet I do use a pair of calf high boots, with moderately high heels. Hubby refers to them as my “go-go boots”. They are practical if not the most comfortable for an extended period standing up. I don’t mind. Hubby thinks they’re sexy, so who am I to argue?

Moving on up is a special turn on for me. It’s a real chastity belt made of steel, one that fits snugly around my waist, over my hips. A center piece anchored with a metal strap from the back curves up to cover me in front in a very effective way. Once hubby turns that key it’s on for keeps. He can open it, and make use of me, any time he wishes. Me, unless I can convince him to unlock it I’m in for a long night of unwilling abstinence. I’ve discovered, once the belt is in place, he can be unreasonably stubborn about using the key.

On to the important stuff, to ensure I’m suitably restricted. Naturally I’m not going for a casual ramble through the desert. A benefit of those “go-go boots” is they offer some padding for my ankles. That’s important because I always wear some type of chain linking my ankles. Tonight we’re going with some high quality police leg irons, modified by cutting the connecting chain down to half the normal length. I can still walk with them on, though it takes a lot longer to get anywhere compared to a typical jail prisoner. Did I mention I’m sort of an extremist? Hubby fastened a set around my ankles, checked for a good fit, and then added three more, for a total of four, all cut down to the same length. I like some weight as a reminder to be careful when I take a step.

That takes care of controlling how fast I can move around. It’s nowhere near complete, of course. My hands had to be rendered useless, with hubby’s help. A simple set of handcuffs isn’t enough; I want the whole experience.

It begins by slipping my hands into rounded nylon mitts, called “tubes”. They completely cover my hands, extending down past my wrists. The padding is very stiff, preventing me from bending my fingers. The mitts end in squared off stubs, adding a degree of difficulty in even trying to grip something between my hands.

To prevent me from slipping out of the mitts there’s a rolled ridge around the wrist. When hubby adds the hinged handcuffs, behind my back, I can’t pull the covers off. Oh, the extremist part? Hubby adds a second set of hinged cuffs. I like to feel some weight there too.

Anyone might assume hinged cuffs behind the back would be enough, but not for me. My hands might be hopelessly tangled up but I still had far too much movement behind my back. Thanks once again to police equipment websites hubby located an elegant solution. A leather prisoner transport belt went around my waist, above the chastity belt. There was a locking buckle in front, and a sturdy metal ring riveted into the back. A pair of regular handcuffs, this time with a longer chain, went through that ring and locked onto my wrists, above the hinged cuffs.

The connecting chain was enough for my hands to find a natural rest in the small of my back, but anything more was extremely difficult. I can’t say it was comfortable, handcuffs never are, but it wasn’t painful.

Even then, I wasn’t satisfied. This time we relied on medical restraints. Hubby wrapped lined leather cuffs round my arms, above the elbow, with a leather belt threaded through them to keep the cuffs closed. He pulled the belt tight against my torso. Like the transport belt a locking buckle in front, underneath my cleavage, prevented any attempt at tampering.

So, ankles properly situated within permissible bounds, hands and arms incapacitated, what was left? Did I mention the scenery wasn’t all that exciting? Well, it isn’t, so on went a rubber hood over my head. There were cutouts for my nose and mouth, so I could breathe, always a consideration when engaging in a bondage session. There was another hole in back where hubby could pull through my hair. The hood extended down over my neck to my shoulders. It wasn’t a tight fit, so it didn’t choke me.

What it lacked were openings for my eyes. As far as I was concerned the moon had just gone down, plunging me into total darkness. It took away the last shred of my independence. Without hubby at my side I’d be in a world of trouble. That was part of the attraction of bondage, being forced to trust the one in charge. It wasn’t optional; without his help I’d be doomed to wander around in the wilderness until I eventually collapsed from exhaustion.

There was one more step, one that sent a thrill through me. I can’t explain why, but when hubby wrapped that posture collar around my neck and fastened the straps in the back it always took my breath away. Aside from the fact it helped to keep the hood in place, and prevented me turning my head, there was this association in my mind where I became a thing, an object, almost like a pet with an owner.

Hubby knew all about it. I’m not sure what he thought, though he never objected. He did allow a moment to let the whole bondage experience wash over me. There must be a sexual component to it, because that was the point when I wanted to be rid of the chastity belt. Nothing I could do about it though. Hubby had a rule; if I asked it stayed on all night, plus I had to wear a gag for being disobedient.

More than any other type of bondage I hated gags. Obviously, since I was the one wearing all the hardware I was expected to be meekly submissive and obedient. The gag, nestled in hubby’s pocket, was an ever-present threat of punishment if I didn’t behave. He wasn’t bluffing either. After the third time he used it I was very careful to follow his orders and not offer any objection.

Off We Go So there I was, nicely packaged for a hike through the desert. This wasn’t my first time, yet every visit was like a new revelation to me. I pulled at the handcuffs, yanked at the chains between my ankles; I even tried squinting to somehow pierce that barrier between my eyes and the outside world. None of my attempts had a chance of succeeding, and truth to tell I’d be disappointed if I did, by some miracle, work free of my restraints.

I was ready to go, but without my guide I was rooted to the spot where I stood. When hubby took hold of my upper arm in that escorting prisoner grip then I knew he was about to lead me into the night’s adventure. We often took the dirt road, but not all the time. He liked to keep me guessing, so I had no idea what direction he had in mind. Out on the valley floor the vegetation was so sparse it was easy to take off in any direction.

Rainfall in this region is so rare it’s measured in years per inch, with no rain at all some years. It’s too dry for anything but creosote bushes, and even those are spaced wide apart. Animals, even insects are few and far between, since there isn’t any food or water. The ground is hard and smooth, like a dry lakebed. It’s ideal for walking.

His firm grip steered me in the direction he wanted us to go. I was used to the short stride imposed by the leg irons, so I took the first tentative step, straight ahead. Progress was slow, as I anticipated. I liked the feel of that steel encircling my ankles. This far and no further, the leg irons spoke to me, imposing their will regardless of my wishes. I was careful not to jerk the connecting chain tight. That eventually led to bruising, even with the padding of my boots. I quickly fell into a familiar rhythm where I kept close to but within my limitations.

Being effectively blinded I had to rely on the pressure on my arm for guidance. Forward, sometimes to the left, other times to the right. Twice he turned me around, just to make sure I was thoroughly confused. Since we weren’t on the road I assumed the deviations to the side were to avoid some obstacle, most likely a bush. “Bush” was a charitable term. In dry years, like now, it looked more like weathered sticks with a few tiny leaves. Given the amount of sunshine they received a small scattering of leaves was more than enough to sustain the plant. If I walked into one I’d be poked by a branch, though considering how fast I was going most of the time I wouldn’t even get a scratch.

Hubby pulled me to the left again. I often wondered if he were actually helping, or just trying to mix me up by dodging non-existent obstacles. I had no way of knowing, and I wasn’t allowed to ask. Any question that might ease my bondage state was strictly prohibited. If I forgot and broke the rule I’d earn that gag. It’s amazing how such a small contraption can so intently focus the mind.

The hike wasn’t conducted in silence. We kept up a running conversation while I slowly picked my way through the wasteland. Almost nothing was off limits, from current events, to friends, work, even an upcoming renovation of the kitchen. What was off limits is any mention of what constituted my portable prison, the direction we were headed, what he had planned for the rest of the evening, and most of all the time. How long had we been walking? I didn’t have a clue.

We stopped so I could rest. It wasn’t easy to move around in regular leg irons, much less the shortened version I wore. Machines were supposed to make our lives easier. There are some glaring exceptions that come to mind. Those radar guns cops use; they exist solely to benefit whoever collects speeding ticket fines. And then there are leg irons for prisoners. They make life easier for my jailer, dear hubby, since he doesn’t have to chase me down if I try to run away. Otherwise I’m resigned to the extra slow motion lane. How is that fun? It’s hard to say; maybe there’s something awry in my brain’s wiring.

“Look! There’s a shooting star!” Hubby wasn’t far away but from his voice it was beyond arm’s length. Reflexively I tried to look up to see for myself. Dumb, I told myself. The posture collar strenuously objected to my trying to tilt my head. That would have been a futile gesture anyway; I still had the hood on.

The night time sky in the desert is spectacular. There are no clouds, no lights from nearby cities, and as long as the wind isn’t blowing there is no dust in the air. The heavens are filled with stars. Hubby can pick out the constellations. I have to take his word for it when he calls them out.

My arms were getting tired from being pulled back behind my back for so long. I was used to it so it didn’t really bother me. For at least the tenth time I tested the handcuffs. They stubbornly refused to pop open up and let me go. I can’t complain; they’re doing exactly what they’re supposed to, keeping my hands out of the way.

I heard hubby come up behind me. He must have seen or heard me struggling with the cuffs. “Go ahead,” he encouraged me, “I’m sure you’ll figure out a way to get out of them.” He took hold of my hands. “I’d offer the keys, but I can’t see how it would do you any good.”

He was right. With my hands covered in those tubular mitts there was no way I could even hold onto a cuff key, much less manage to somehow twist around and unlock them. Hubby always placed the cuffs with the keyholes facing away from my fingers. Even without the hand covers I doubt I’d be able to get the key into position, especially with my elbows clamped against my body.

He ran his hands up and down my arms. I sighed and leaned back into his embrace. His hands came around to rest on my breasts. The leather belt holding my elbows also provided a bit of support since I didn’t have a bra on. My irritation switched from the handcuffs to the chastity belt. I wanted to beg him to unlock it but bitter experience warned me to hold back. Any mention of that thrice cursed barrier between my legs always led to its continued presence far beyond the normal time limit.

I suppose bondage is all about denial, when you get down to the abstracts. I was frustrated in not being able to walk at a normal pace, I was frustrated in not being able to use my hands, I couldn’t see what was going on, and worst of all I was deprived of sexual release. I had the royal flush of intentional prohibitions and only myself to blame for it.

“Let’s go this way.” Hubby had switched his grip to my right arm. By now I had no idea where we were, relative to the car. His pressure on my arm was insisting I go in one direction, not that it made any difference which way we proceeded. I was back to concentrating on keeping up my snail’s pace, which proved

Nature Walk · Part 1 (1/2)
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