These Boots Aren · Part 1 (1/2)
Next
Taking Root “Yeah, I’ve seen those old gangster movies, the ‘Chicago Overcoat’ and going for a swim in the lake. What you have in mind isn’t so extreme, and certainly won’t require you to hold your breath for days on end, but it does carry some risks.”
I pondered the details of implementing her request. Her simplistic idea, based entirely on bad movies, was impractical at so many levels that I discarded it immediately. Pouring a massive chunk of concrete would require weeks to cure, and breaking it open afterward meant a jackhammer.
Being a mechanical engineer, I knew enough about materials to reject the concept, yet even as I told her so I thought of a way to get around the problems. Thank you, Elon Musk, for showing the way. Why did it have to be disposable, use it once and throw it away? This wasn’t a building, there were no load bearing walls or fire codes to worry about. I’d have to do some reading, maybe even a simulation on the computer, but far as I knew no laws of physics presented an insurmountable barrier “Okay, look, there might be a way. I’ll need some time to think about it. Forget about what you saw in the movies, that’s never going to work in real life.
But, and this is iffy, I may have an idea of how to come fairly close to the same end result. Getting there won’t be so dramatic. The outcome, well, you’ll have to judge that, since you’ll be the participant. Just be aware there are risks here. We’re talking a lot of weight that takes time to move around.”
She shrugged off my warnings. “I trust you. Relax, I’ll be fine. Barring an earthquake or a meteor strike what can happen? The way I look at it, time spent in a jail cell wouldn’t be any worse.” Privately I thought it could be much worse, but I held my tongue.
When it comes to building a prototype, quite a bit can happen on the unexpected side. I didn’t warn her about Murphy’s Law, or the reason why bread always falls buttered side down. She was a perpetual optimist, blissfully ignorant of the trials and tribulations that came with any engineering project, large or small. I wasn’t so fortunate, although it never stopped me from plunging forward with half-baked ideas and questionable projects.
“It’s only for a few days, and you’ll be around to check on me. I’m not worried. This is something I’ve dreamed about for years. With your help I can make it happen. You manage the details; I’ll do whatever you say.”
Laminates She stared into the hole in the basement floor. It was rectangular, a little under three feet deep. In the bottom was a thick base pad of concrete. Resting on top were her calf-high boots, nestled in depressions pressed into the top of the concrete. The tops of the boots just cleared the lip of the hole. The sides were lined with a thin layer of sheet metal, to keep out the dirt from the walls of the hole.
“Okay, I get the general idea of the hole,” she said, uncertainty edging her words. She looked over at the stack of concrete slabs. “I still don’t quite see how this is supposed to work.”
I wheeled over the engine hoist, a portable crane with the reach to help me manhandle the slabs into position. “All you have to do is put on your boots and stand in the hole. I’ll do the rest. Bear in mind that once I start, you’ll quickly become committed, no turning back.”
She waved a hand in the air. “You’re not going to scare me with vague warnings of impending doom. I want this, more than you can imagine. I’m ready, physically and mentally.” Her expression was less certain than her words. “You’re going to pour cement around my boots once I’m in there?”
I shook my head. “Messy and impractical, plus it would ruin a nice pair of shoes. By the way, it’s ‘concrete’, not ‘cement’. You go to the store to buy a loaf of bread, not flour.”
“Whatever,” she said in dismissal. “No more delays; I’m going through with this.”
I gave up. She was determined, and if I wasn’t going to follow through, she’d find someone else. Better the devil you know, I told myself. “Alright, you win. We start at 9am tomorrow morning.”
It Takes Time I had to admit her part in the planning was meticulous, down to the finest detail. There was the chair with the shortened legs, more a stool than a real chair, with a cutout for toilet needs and a bedpan underneath. Next to the chair was a waste basket for the trash. Behind the chair, out of reach, was a plastic storage bin full of those military style MREs, meals ready to eat, no cooking required. A stack of bottled water stood next to the food.
Her chair had two L-shaped brackets screwed into the rear legs. To prevent it skidding around I had put in two concrete anchors into the floor so I could bolt down the chair. The last thing I needed was to clean up after an overturned chair spilled out the contents of a full bedpan. I had to sacrifice a chunk of my basement floor for the construction, but I balanced that with the benefits to come.
She came in, dressed, or I should say undressed for the occasion. She had on the leather boots, her chastity belt, and that was it. The belt would complicate the hygienics, but she’d worked out a way to manage that involved a water-filled squeeze bottle. A chastity belt wasn’t something I’d ever want to try, even though the male versions were somewhat better equipped to handle urination.
The key piece to the success of her adventure was the stack of concrete slabs that would fit around her boots. I used what’s called “Lost Wax” or investment casting to first make a wax mold of her boots by sandcasting, stuffed to match the shape with her legs inside. It had turned out better than I expected. The wax copy of her boots was perfect in every detail.
Using the wax sandcast I built up a ceramic outer mold, curing it in a friend’s kiln. After melting the wax out of the shell, I poured in molten brass. The end result was a nearly identical copy of her shoes, in a gleaming golden brass color. This was the foundation for building up the laminated slabs of concrete that would securely encase the actual boots, with her legs in them.
This was the tedious part, pouring successive slabs of concrete into a form, while precisely adding anchors and tubes for bolt holes, and then waiting for the assembly to harden. There was a front and back half to each layer, so I could place them around her boots in the hole. I staggered where the halves separated so there wouldn’t be a seam running from top to bottom.
Laminated concrete, as I envisioned it, fitted together like stages of a rocket. As each layer went into the hole, the bolt holes, also staggered, lined up with the anchors in the slab underneath. Two bolts for each half should be sufficient to keep them in place, effectively creating one giant concrete block. This would be my version of her “concrete galoshes”. No messy poured concrete, no waiting for it to cure, and although slow to remove it could be reassembled any number of times. It also avoided the nasty side effects of concrete: the heat it generated as it dried, and the way it expanded as it hardened. She wouldn’t wind up with cooked and crushed feet.
I held her hand when she stepped into the hole. Looking down she lined up her boots with the indentations in the bottom. Nodding approval, she took a deep breath and pronounced, “Okay, go ahead.”
I grabbed my clipboard and ran down the checklist. Reaching down I verified her shoes were firmly planted in place. This was critical since everything depended on accurate alignment. After that I went to the hoist and attached the rear half of the first, lowest slab. Wheeling it around to her back I slowly lowered it, guiding it into place. It scraped against the side, a close fit, but within tolerances. Using one hand I guided it into position behind her boots and used the hoist to drop it into place. So far so good, a close fit with a slight gap. Repeating the process, checking off each numbered piece, the front half slid into position without any problems. The two parts were flush, essential when the next layer went in.
“I get it now!” she exclaimed, studying how I used the socket wrench to tighten the bolts, anchoring the first block to the foundation. “Prefab, what a brilliant idea. How long will this take?” She pointed to the stack of remaining pieces.
“It’s a slow process,” I explained. “If one piece is out of order it throws off everything. I hope you can manage to stand there for another hour?”
“No problem,” she answered. She frowned as I added the next layer. “The holes are different for each set?”
I nodded. “Of course. The bolts are like rebar in reinforced concrete. They have to be spaced to spread the load.”
“Is that really necessary?” she shook her head, confused.
“It is if we have an earthquake. The alternative would be your legs cut in half.”
“Yeah, right, like earthquakes are so common here. Okay, you know best, I won’t ask any more stupid questions.”
I looked up. “There are no stupid questions, the first time you ask. The second time, well, that’s different.”
“Ha, ha, you’re so funny.” She went quiet for a while, watching as the sheets of concrete rose higher and higher. I figured the enormity of what she was attempting finally got to her.
It took more than an hour, but when I finished, I had to admit I was proud of what I’d designed, even if it was for a questionable purpose. I shrugged off that part. Engineers lived to create; how the end product was used was someone else’s moral dilemma. I knew it would all fit together, since I’d tried a dry run with the brass boot castings.
“That’s it, you’re all, uhm, set in stone.” She shook her head at my clumsy joke. “Try to move your feet.” I pushed away the hoist and brought up her chair. I told her to wait while I secured the chair to the basement floor.
She tried shifting around, bracing her hands on the arms of the chair when it was ready. Nothing happened. I backed up to take in her new appearance. She was considerably shorter now, with her legs essentially missing from below her knees. Her stance was about eight inches wide at the bottom. That was deliberate on my part, based on where the soles of the boots were fitted. With hundreds of pounds of artificial stone on top, she wasn’t going to be changing her position.
She looked at me, a smile on her face. “It’s really happening. I don’t know how to thank you!”
“As you specified, you’re in there for keeps. See if you still want to thank me a couple of days from now.”
She frowned. “Well, if I complain I insist you ignore me. Good or bad, I’m determined to make it through my self-inflicted ordeal.” She paused, thinking. “Is it okay if I sit down now?”
I held out my hands. “Sure, you aren’t going to spoil it. Let me help you.”
I took her outstretched hands and held on while she sat down. She looked down at where her legs descended into the concrete. I could see her struggling to lift up first one foot, and then the other. Of course it was impossible. After she gave up, she looked up at me.
I handed her a bottle of water. She opened it and took a sip. “Thirsty work,” she quipped. “Cement, sorry, concrete shoes, the latest fashion statement. Maybe I’ll make the cover of some magazine.
“I have to confess I’ve never felt so helpless as I do now. I’m forced to depend on you for everything. You will let me go when I’m done?”
I dragged a chair over to face her. “Of course I will. I hope you don’t think I’m some kind of psycho mental case? Because if you do, your timing could not be worse.”
She laughed at that. When I didn’t join in, she stopped and stared at me. “Umm, you were joking, right?”
“Don’t worry, I’m not crazy. However, I am going to make a few alterations in your planned schedule.” I let that sink in. She was not in a position to object by walking out on me. “Think of it as expressing your gratitude for my assistance.”
Doesn’t Play Music I placed the bin of food on a cart. The case of water bottles followed. Looking over her shoulder she watched while I wheeled her supplies into the other room. When I came back, she seemed more puzzled than alarmed.
“Okay, so how am I supposed to eat? I can’t go without food and water for very long.”
“I have no intention of letting you starve. However, I will decide when and what you can eat. If you don’t like it, feel free to go into the other room and fend for yourself.”
“Very funny. Okay, you win. Speaking of which, I skipped lunch, how about a snack?”
I nodded in agreement. “No problem, but there is a catch. As I said, when and what, but also how. If you don’t like my conditions, well then, you’re on your own.”
“How? That sounds ominous.”
I shook my head in denial. “Not at all. In fact, you might enjoy the experience. Especially since you really can’t refuse.”
She was no stranger to the joys of bondage. That was an understatement, considering her present circumstances. Her love of what she called “heavy metal”, sturdy restraints made of steel, was well-known to me, since I had often been the one holding the keys to the locks.
I went into the other room and brought back a long, narrow cardboard box. “I don’t think you’ve ever seen one of these. Normally they’re made of finely finished wood. Knowing your preferences, I bought the deluxe model.”
These Boots Aren · Part 1 (1/2)
Next
