Your Master Requires Thirty Days · Part 2

Your Master Requires Thirty Days · Part 2 (2/5)
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ity, especially for women, creates a sense of being placed at a vulnerable disadvantage in relation to our captors. They had uniforms, high jackboots, a black leather belt, essentially all the symbols we associate with enforcing authority. Me, I had a collar, a chastity belt and chains; the rest was exposed to anybody who cared to look.

In one sense it wouldn’t be difficult to complete my sentence. There was to be no safe word, no secret password where I could end my ordeal early and walk away. That was what made this place different from a commercial dungeon. Even if I had a change of heart and wanted out no one was going to pay any attention to my pleas, except maybe to correct me for being a nuisance. The thirty days was every bit as permanent a time limit as the chains I wore.

A Room for the Night By the time we reached my room I’d had plenty of time to learn just how effective my new restraints were when it came to denying my freedom of movement. The reduced length of chain between my ankles turned walking into a sluggish and tiring ordeal, placing a strain on my legs. The hood was an excellent blindfold, which made it even worse. At least the guard did stop several times to let me rest. Judging from the sound of keys in locks and the clash of barred gates opening and closing we were in some kind of cell block. From the sounds alone the number of locked gates represented a formidable barrier to any escape attempt, even if I could somehow escape from the chains and handcuffs.

The route seemed to go on forever. At some point I began to suspect he was deliberately leading me in circles to confuse my sense of direction. If that were true it was working. I had no idea where I was, much less how to get back to the entrance. That’s why they use the hood, I realized. It’s so I can’t figure out what’s going on or how to find my way out.

They certainly were delivering on my request for risky prisoner status, with excessive security imposed on me night and day. My escort, a large man, could easily subdue me even if I wasn’t conveniently outfitted in chains. I saw the necessity, because I never considered fighting back.

Another stop, the sound of a door being unlocked, and once more the pressure on my arm hustled my forward. A few steps and he stopped me, letting go of my arm. Off came the hood, to reveal a tiny, cramped jail cell. If the décor was intended to be depressing the interior decorator had certainly demonstrated remarkable skill.

It was no more than what I envisioned for a modern jail cell. At least I had a private room, though the front was covered in bars rather than a wall, which meant no real privacy at all. The guard removed my handcuffs, freeing my hands. That was a relief. For a moment I was worried he might leave them on all night. I was not accustomed to sleeping with my hands tied behind my back.

“Against the rear wall,” he ordered. I took two steps, his hand on my back pushing me forward. “Turn around. Place your hands behind your head, arms out, against the wall. Stand with your feet apart, as far as they’ll go.”

He was standing in the center of the cell, watching my every move. I could see his eyes sweeping up and down. I was acutely aware I had no clothes.

He shook his head. “No, that won’t do.” He grabbed my elbows and lifted them up before pressing them backwards until they touched the wall. “That’s better. We have a certain procedure you are required to follow whenever a guard is present. When you hear the outer door open you will assume this position at once. You will remain there unless you receive further instructions, or until you hear the guard leave, closing the outer door. You will not speak without permission.”

So it begins, I told myself. He didn’t elaborate on what would happen if I weren’t in position against the wall. It wasn’t necessary. If I failed I would be punished. Exacting discipline, the kind I was here to experience, came with only one answer to disregarding the rules. Being written up with extra days added to my sentence would be the least of my worries. I could sense the man standing before me wasn’t the type to show leniency or compassion.

“You will remain in here until tomorrow morning. You are not allowed to sit on the bunk, but you may sit on the floor after I leave. When the lights dim, what we call ‘lights out’, then and only then can you make use of the bed. You are not required to get up during lights out when a guard makes the rounds to check on you. You will receive further instructions when you wake up.”

There wasn’t anything complicated in his orders. I wasn’t thrilled about sitting on a cold concrete floor until bedtime. And there was the question about what time I was supposed to wake up. Without a clock or alarm that might be a problem. I assumed I’d find out how that worked when the time came.

“One last word of warning. We like it quiet in here. Talk to yourself if you feel the need for company, but we don’t tolerate shouting or loud noises. After lights out there will be no talking.”

How long before I went around the bend, so to speak, pacing back and forth, engaged in an ongoing conversation with my imaginary other self? That’s all I needed, a mental breakdown leading to a straitjacket and the psychiatric clinic. They could leave me in this cell for the next month, with no one but myself for company.

The guard stood in front of me, arms folded, studying me as if he were waiting for something to happen. Whatever he had in mind I wasn’t going to be the cause for a reprimand. I could play the waiting game too. I was confident my position was flawless, and I wasn’t going to move a muscle. That was a point of pride for me; when being dominated by a man I delivered everything he asked for, regardless of how well he handled the power granted to him.

In essence it was a little test of mine. How well did the aggressively dominant male handle the exceptionally submissive female? Did he have a single-minded obsession with sex, or did he have the patience to understand the mind game, to make use of the more subtle aspects of control?

I wasn’t sure where this guard fit into my test. I was certain he had a key to my chastity belt, giving him both the means and opportunity, yet there he stood, staring at me. I could sense he liked what he saw, though he made no move to satisfy his desire.

Suddenly he was close, in front of me. He curled two fingers around my collar, using it to force my chin up. Our eyes met, and I couldn’t look away. “Don’t move,” he whispered. “Not a sound, don’t speak even to answer me.” His voice was so low and soft I could barely hear him.

The results of my test were in. He was definitely in the mind game category. That was my last coherent thought before my brain’s higher functions started to shut down. Whether or not he found me appealing, I was drawn to him like the moth to the flame. My only concern was to please him, an overpowering obsession that drove out any doubts.

He jerked on my collar. “This suits you, doesn’t it? Is that why you’re here? Who wants to be thrown into prison, to be deprived of their freedom, to be stripped of their dignity? The answer? That rare individual who needs one of these,” he pulled on the collar again, “to put her in her place, the place she desires above all, at the feet of a man strong enough to own her.”

Every word he spoke was boring its way deep into my head. So much for critical thinking; I was convinced he was right. More than anything I wanted him to keep talking, but it wasn’t up to me. He let go of the collar, took a step back, turned around and walked out to the corridor.

Part of me ached to call out to him, to plead with him to stay. Instead I stood there, against the wall, silently watching while he locked the cell door before walking away. I didn’t have permission to move or speak. It didn’t matter what I wanted; his commands took precedence over my own wishes.

The First Night I didn’t move a muscle until I heard that outer door slam shut. I remained in place for a while afterwards, just in case he suddenly returned. Was it fear that held me in place? It was a factor, yet there was something else at work in my head. I couldn’t explain why, but I actually wanted to prove to him, or maybe myself, that I was eager to comply with his orders.

While standing there I took more time to examine my home for the next month. I suppose it might be called an ‘efficiency apartment’, except it would be an understatement. Minimalist was a better choice of words. To my left was a toilet with a sink on top of the tank. To my right was a bed, essentially a concrete block shaped into a sort of bunk. There was a vinyl covered pad so I wouldn’t be sleeping on bare concrete.

At the foot of the bunk was a folded sheet and pillow. A sign on the wall listed the numerous regulations governing the use of the bed and the cell. I could not sit or lie on the bed except during lights out. I could not touch the bedding before lights out either. That meant it was out of bounds for now.

Lights out was evidently the overnight period when we were allowed to sleep. I didn’t have to get up and stand next to the wall if a guard came in to check on me. I was allowed to cover myself with the sheet while sleeping, another luxury. According to the sign when the lights came back up I had to immediately get up in order to neatly fold the sheet and put it back in place, along with the pillow. So much for sleeping in; the snooze button was only a dream from now on.

So I was left with sitting on the floor. Carpet would have been nice. However, that was a luxury not afforded to prisoners. Cautiously I lowered my arms. No outraged shouts followed by the magical appearance of a guard greeted my tentative first move. Satisfied I was relatively safe I risked moving, very slowly, to the bars at the front of the cell. Even with my limitations it didn’t take long.

The walls of my cell extended well into the corridor, blocking any sight of what else might be near me. No wonder my cell was so tiny. The placement of the bars cut my space in half. I doubted that was an oversight on the part of the architect. I’d read about prison cells; there was a minimum area per person, required by law. Anything less was considered inhumane. It was apparent this place was not overly concerned with legal mandates.

I grabbed the bars and gave them a good shake. Or tried to, they were as solid as the walls. I could see why. The vertical steel bars were set in a frame with horizontal braces. The frame was bolted to the floor, ceiling and side walls. No question it was more than sufficient to confine me for as long as necessary.

How long was necessary? I was stuck in here until someone came by with the key to the cell door. Or maybe I should call it a gate, since it was just as stout as the rest of the cell front. Multiple large, heavy hinges, welded shut, and a massive lock box meant I wasn’t going to be able to open it.

Holding on to the bars I lowered myself to the floor. The concrete was hard, cold and uncomfortable. I stared at the bunk with its pad. It was so tempting. All I had to do was stand up, walk over there and sit down. Sure, no problem, except I was sure to be caught in the act. Putting it off limits was a test, no doubt in my mind. I leaned back against the bars.

I pulled up my knees so I could get a better look at what they’d done to me. I ran a hand back and forth along the connecting chain between my ankles. Could I cut through it if I had a hacksaw? I wasn’t very strong; it would take hours, maybe all day. Not that I had a hacksaw, or a file.

I used both hands to study one of the shackles. Trying to cut through the shackle wasn’t a good idea. The close fit would result in deep gashes all along my ankle. That left the rivets. I knew they could be removed with a chisel, or a powerful drill. I definitely had nowhere near the physical strength for a chisel and hammer. I might be able to figure out a drill. There weren’t any nearby.

I wrapped my arms around my legs and closed my eyes. This place earned immediate checkmarks for bondage and confinement in my future review. The jury was still out in regards to the discipline, and for that matter the sense of being dominated. Tonight was a promising start. The guards were controlling me with a practiced ease I was unable to resist.

What did they have planned for me? The fact I had no clue was thrilling for what it represented. They weren’t obligated to tell me ahead of time. I could demand an answer, which would be promptly ignored. I wasn’t going home tonight, or in the morning, or next week. Not unless they decided to let me go, and I was pretty sure that option was not on their agenda.

I heard a chime. When I opened my eyes the lights had dimmed down. They weren’t completely off; I’m sure the cameras needed some light to work. This must be lights out, in which case I could assemble my makeshift bunk and lie down for the night.

When I finished I settled down on my bed. I wondered what time it was. I had yet to see a single clock, a wristwatch, or even a window. They were depriving me of something as simple as the time of day. What else did they intend to take away from me?

Time passes very slowly when one’s only companion is boredom. That was always a problem with long term bondage. What to do to pass the time while helpless? I fell asleep pondering that question.

Morning Exercise When he slid the two boards together I was trapped in one very nasty piece of furniture. It was made out of wood, traditional with stocks, with cutouts to fit my neck and wrists. I was forced to kneel, fortunately on a padded board, with my ankles also fastened in place by another pair of boards. A wooden rod ran behind my knees so I couldn’t shift around.

Unlike the stocks in movies this one kept me upright. The guard had adjusted the boards so I was kneeling but with my head up and back straight. Upright posts on either side held the stocks in place. I recognized the setup for what it was: positional stress bondage. The longer I was trapped here the worse it would be.

I had virtually no freedom of movement. I couldn’t move up or down, side to side, or front to back. I could turn my head and that was it. The rigid frame holding me was bolted to the floor. There had to be a latch or lock fastening the stocks together, since my effort to push the boards apart was unsuccessful.

I had an excellent view of the walls around me, except behind my head. The cut out for my neck was large enough to accommodate the collar. Any smaller and I’d be choking. To my left were two more of the stocks, or pillories to be more precise. At the moment they were empty.

Was it comfortable? Not by any definition that came to mind. This was one of my ‘morning exercises’, which was supposed to instruct me on a properly respectful attitude. That’s the explanation I received from the guard who put me in this infernal machine.

I heard the door behind me open and close. I tried to turn my head to look. The guard hadn’t left. Instead I was about to meet a fellow inmate, when they installed her in the pillory next to me. I did notice she wasn’t wearing a collar. She must have declined the extras for her visit.

The place did not lack for customers. They brought in a third woman. It didn’t take long for her to join us in shared misery.

One of the guards, the one I recognized from yesterday, came around to stand in front of us. “Daily morning exercise attendance is mandatory. If you behave then you’ll be allowed to take a shower afterwards. If I see any signs you are not benefitting from the program, then we’ll provide you with more time to meditate about what you think to gain from defying us.”

He held up a gag. “After we leave you have permission to talk. If anyone abuses the privilege you will all earn one of these, along with an extended session. I don’t care who starts it; I will finish it. Remember the regulations about which subjects are off limits.”

I got the message. He walked over to the latest arrival. “Carol won’t be contributing to your discussion. She can listen but does not have permission to talk, not until she learns to choose her words carefully. I’m sure these exercises have been helpful.”

I could see her glaring at him. I figured this was not her first day in the stocks. He went behind her, out of my sight. I heard his boots on the concrete, back and forth. I tried to hold still, not that I had much choice in the matter. I didn’t know what he was looking for but he seemed to be satisfied with his inspection. “When I close the door you two may speak to each other. You will ignore Carol. Do not try to include her in your conversation. As far as you’re concerned she isn’t here.”

It appeared all I was going to learn about Carol was her name, and that she was not on good terms with the guards. When the door opened and closed I assumed he’d left the room. I turned my head to learn more about my exercise partner for the day.

“Hi! My name’s Paula, Paula …” I stopped suddenly. Last names were forbidden, one of the privacy regulations listed in the agreement. If someone was listening, I was sure to be written up. I was beginning to doubt I could last the full thirty days, much less an extra week or two added on for penalties. “Sorry,” I continued, “almost slipped there. Anyway, this is my first day.”

“Yeah, I heard them bring you in last night. I’m in the cell next to you. We’re not allowed to speak when the guards are present, in case you didn’t know, so I had to keep quiet. My name’s Sherrie. I can’t tell you my last name either. The officer who put me in here warned me not to provide any personal details. He told me I’d be punished if I broke the rules.”

Sensing the caution in Sherrie’s tone I was positive our conversation was being monitored. I carefully looked over the walls in front of us, trying to find a camera lens. If there was one, and I was sure it existed, it was well hidden. From now on I had to assume everything I said or did was being recorded. Maximum security, the kind I had asked for, meant there would be no privacy as long as I was confined in this place.

“Okay, Sherrie it is. If you don’t mind me being nosy, how long have you been here?” It would help if I could pick up some pointers on what to expect.

“Uhh…” Sherrie hesitated. “I’m not really sure, maybe a week? I still don’t understand what’s going on. A cop car pulled me over. I was stopped for drunk driving, but I hadn’t been drinking. The cops explained they had to take me to the station. Then they handcuffed me and put me in the back of their car. I’ve been here since then. They won’t let me make any calls or contact a lawyer. I keep demanding my rights but they ignore me.”

A chill went through me. If what Sherrie told me was true it was a clear case of kidnapping and false imprisonment. This place was no police station. It was the perfect place to hold a kidnap victim indefinitely. It also occurred to me I might be the next kidnap victim too. After all, I was no better off than my companions.

It was a well-crafted little story, one that would terrify anyone. That is, if it were true. The more plausible explanation involved some role-playing by an actress; with the intention of making me think I was in the hands of hardened criminals instead of players in a scripted drama. Seen in those terms the scenario presented to me made perfect sense.

I decided to play along with the script. The people behind all this had put quite a bit of work into making my fantasy come true. And considering what it cost, there was no point in spoiling the fun. “They won’t let you call anyone? Are you sure it was the police who arrested you?” I had to show some skepticism.

“I think so. It was an unmarked car, but it had lights and a siren. They weren’t in uniform, but they said they were detectives. I saw their badges.” I nodded my head. There was an explanation for everything. Someone had gone into depth for her backstory.

“After they put me in the back seat of their car one of them searched my trunk. He said there were drugs in there. They showed me two bags of some white powder and a gun. I swear, none of that was in my car the last time I looked.”

It read like any mediocre plot for a TV show. My opinion of the script writer went down a few notches. There wasn’t a trace of originality anywhere in this plot. The only part I didn’t get was the presence of Carol, our silent companion in adversity. She didn’t seem to fit into the story.

“The detective told me they had to hold me incognito, that’s the term he used, so as not to tip off the gang that I’d been caught. That’s why I can’t call anyone. There was a court order from a judge. The Warden showed me the piece of paper, saying they can hold me for as long as needed, until they catch the gang.” Sherrie concluded her story. There was just a hint of a sob at the end.

It was a neat package explaining everything, even though I knew the legal explanation was pure fiction. I told myself it was only window dressing, but there was a small, nagging doubt I couldn’t shake. That might be the hidden purpose, to plant the seed of uncertainty that would grow into the fear that I was in the custody not just of strangers, but men who weren’t overly concerned with legal niceties.

“I’m in here for the next thirty days. A jewelry store accused me of shoplifting.” That was the story I had been given to explain my presence. “I didn’t do it but the judge disagreed. The cops told the judge I tried to run away, so he sent me here, no bail. Supposedly a little ‘hard time’ will do me good.” I could embellish my own cover story too. It made more sense than asking to be thrown in jail.

I continued, “How are you being treated? You hear all these horror stories about jails and prisons. I don’t know what to believe.” If all this was planned then I’d given my unseen companion an open door to describe something worse than the Spanish Inquisition.

That’s not what happened. “They took my clothes and won’t give me anything to wear. I didn’t think they could do that, but the guard says it’s to prevent an escape attempt. They handcuff me whenever I leave this cell, like I’d be able to beat up a man twice my size. Oh yeah, they put this bag over my head too, so I can’t see where they take me.

Your Master Requires Thirty Days · Part 2 (2/5)
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