by Anneke Jacob
My trapped flesh, swelling between the straps, was now responding to the lightest touch. Hurriedly I smoothed my dress down, gave myself a minute to recover, and then went back to work. By the time I'd moved the last box I'd figured out how to lift heavy objects without going to pieces.
Despite myself, the locks did prey on my mind for a while. Was I really safe? Could they be picked, I wondered? I had no idea how to do that, and even if I had, these were all behind my back, no doubt on purpose. And something told me that Anders wouldn't have used any hardware easy to defeat.
But the urge to seek a way out still lurked, a horrid little goblin. On warmer days, sweat and irritation could overtake immediate arousal. It was, 151
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let's face it, a long day of constant restriction and constriction. I endured, day after day like a good slave, and then I endured more strenuously, and then I suffered and resented and came close to whining when I saw the harness.
Despite myself I began to wonder, depressed and dispirited, whether such 24/7 physical control was realistic or just Anders' fantasy. Could he be mistaken? Horrible thought. My desire had survived all the beatings and humiliation, had of course been enhanced by them, but would it survive this?
The day came when, for hours at a time, the damned thing just wasn't fun any more.
It took several days of this before I finally admitted to myself, very reluctantly, that the harness wasn't truly inescapable; that is, technically. It could be cut off. But this possibility was almost unthinkable in the context of the relationship we were in. Despite my rebellious thoughts the word
'sacrilege' occurred to me; I suppressed it because it seemed so silly, but it was pretty representative of how I felt. The destruction would extend far beyond a leather strap or two. Except, I supposed, in an emergency, like an accident or something. In which case someone else would cut it off, not me.
I imagined myself in the emergency room, and then I stopped. Too horrible and humiliating, and not the good kind, either. What other possible situation would justify such an action? I couldn't imagine any, except if he got run over by a car and was no longer with me, a scenario that carried with it such a devastating tidal wave of loss that I hurriedly cut off that line of speculation also.
Anders watched my face and body, examined and soothed my skin, and made small adjustments in fit and tension. And every morning he chained my wrists above my head, pulled the harness tight with those long, firm, confident hands, closed the locks and smiled gently in the mirror at my distress.
I thought about begging for even a day of respite, with the lurking hope that he might get the message and let me off the daily regime. I even thought about saying something during question time. I could entertain that thought because the date wasn't any time soon; once it got close my mind would reject the subject without reading it. It was like the CD player in my dad's old car which had a mind of its own; certain CDs would go in and then come right back out again.
But the harness dilemma wasn't going away. I was suppressing my 152
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grumpiness with a serious effort.
One night I dreamed I was in the back room at work, opening and sorting an enormous pile of mail. The sun streamed in through the high windows; I was glad the windows were high, because I was wearing nothing at all except my harness. Dust motes hovered in the sultry air; my sweaty skin prickled. I got out the snippers and attacked a pile of delivery boxes bound round with plastic strapping. When they were all open I looked down at my body, and kept going. It took both hands on the snippers to get through the strap that crossed my chest, but at last I hacked my way through it. My chest expanded in triumph. I went on chopping and slicing at the straps, ignoring the small, painless nicks I was inflicting on my skin in my haste. The nicks began to bleed; still I continued. Then a breast strap came away wet and half my breast came away with it, and I tried to scream but all that came out was a strangled whisper. Still the cutting went on, more chunks of flesh sliding their reeking snail trails down to the floor around my feet. I had the snippers at my neck. And then with a jerk I woke.
It was ages before my heart stopped racing. God, I thought, can't my subconscious come up with anything more subtle than that? Christ, Maia, how pathetic. But scolding myself didn't work; sleep wouldn't come, despite the reassurance of my intact form against the sheets, and Anders' warm arm over me. So in the morning I was too tired to behave; at the sight of the harness I lost it and burst into tears.
Anders mopped and soothed me where I stood. Gently he stroked me and kissed my wet face. "It's uncomfortable sometimes, isn't it." It was a statement, not a question. "You're a good girl to have held on so long." The kindly, deep voice made me sob with shame, for my failure, my weak petulance. "But you'll adjust to it eventually. Belly in." The belt went on as tight as ever. Then the chest straps. As his fingers adjusted the strap over one shoulder I turned and kissed his hand.
That day was better. I moved within my boundaries as if I'd finally learned where they were. I couldn't think much that day; I was too tired, but without the threat of choice I settled in somehow. And arousal surged again at unexpected moments: a promise for the future. From that point on I seemed to be over the worst. The binding was starting to feel normal.
Probably geishas and corseted ladies and neck-ringed Padaung women have felt the same. Did they get a sexual charge out of it, too, I wondered, or was 153
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that just for the men for whom they were supposedly packaged?
I pondered this one day on the streetcar home. They'd have been lucky if they did get a sexual charge, having no choice about the bondage they were in. I began to feel very lucky myself. Paradoxically, I had chosen this; at least, I'd chosen the man who'd chosen it, and I'd known what I was getting into. It was a very private, personal deal. Bindings imposed on women by society or culture, though, that was real oppression, surely? A route to conformity and acceptance, but no joy.
I wondered why I felt good and self-righteous about having made that original choice, given that the bare notion of having any choice now was such anathema to me. Feminist slaves have a lot to sort out.
As the streetcar crossed the Don and I got closer to home, my attention shifted to the next segment of my day. My time alone but unfree, keeping company with cameras. Instructions I'd have to follow to the letter, hardware to put on. Every day I'd been chained up, one way or another, to myself or to something else. Not a minute of freedom. Every day I closed the locks under the hall camera's watchful eye.
A couple of days back, there had been short chains with padlocks at each end, and instructions to fasten my ankles to rings on either side of my belt. His list of chores included tidying up newspapers and other debris, filling and running the dishwasher, scrubbing the kitchen floor and dusting as high up as I could reach. I crawled from chore to chore and knelt up to reach newspapers and dishes and shelves. There was no efficient way to crawl and carry at the same time, and I resigned myself to making many trips. My knees were rather red by the time Anders got home. The next day there had been kneepads waiting for me in the hall. Today there were no kneepads; there was a long chain to lock to my collar, already fastened at the other end to the woodwork between living room and kitchen. There was also a very short chain for my ankles.
Each day after my stop at the bench I was expected to take my covered red dish from the fridge, settle down on the mat, fold my hands behind my back and eat my lunch. I'd spotted the webcam in the kitchen without difficulty. Still, performing in this way in an empty house wasn't easy. I kept wanting to use my hands. As that was forbidden, I found myself occasionally wishing for the convenience of a snout and a very long tongue.
The webcam's eye felt palpable that day. I had a 'watcher' now for sure; 154
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that self-conscious sense of being observed by a critical eye had b
een made entirely manifest. Kind of like being a bit paranoid and then finding out that there really is a conspiracy against you. Alone in an empty house, I felt like a specimen under glass. I seemed to be stuck in performance mode, embarrassed to scratch my butt for fear of spoiling the display.
Still, I wondered what my all-seeing master actually saw. There was no way he could monitor me more than occasionally from work; if he did he'd never get any work done. And he couldn't possibly be reviewing four or five hours of recorded footage every evening. He must be spot-checking, and focusing on key bits of obedience, like the front hallway, and these meals, for which he had to trust me not to use my unlocked hands. He didn't trust me very far, did he? Wise of him, all things considered. I honestly didn't know if I'd be so obedient if there was no evidence to catch me. Perhaps he was watching at that moment. My hands gripped each other more tightly, and I dug deep into my bowl. Ack! Hair in my mouth. I'd forgotten to tie it back. I shook my head in an attempt to dislodge it, but in the end had to use my hand or choke. He'd left the hair clip right on the counter for me. I was going to be in trouble when he got home. When I had dutifully licked the bowl I got up and washed it in the sink, along with my sticky face and the pots and pans he'd left for me, splattering hot soapy water on my harnessed breasts. Wondering what deficiencies his inspection would reveal this time, and how I'd be punished. I could still feel his hand in my hair, and taste the soap and vinegar from the other day, on the floor that hadn't been clean enough. Bleah. Apparently he chose non-toxic cleaners for this very purpose.
But no matter how meticulously I worked to meet his standards, there would still be plenty of time to wait for his return. Today I would have to go back to the bench and lock my chain to it 'at the eighth link,' according to the instructions. As usual, not enough length to stand. A couple of times I had crouched on knees and elbows for hours in front of the couch, a footstool waiting to be used. Other days I had waited chained at the foot of the bed, or had stared into corners, locked to the wall by waist belt and nipple rings –
those locked rings I couldn't open. There was always a moment, an instant of hesitation before I took each irrevocable step, before I pushed the closet door home and lost access to my clothes, before I marked myself a captive in hard collar and cuffs, before I closed a padlock and ended all possibility of 155
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escape. A moment when I took a deep breath and then did his bidding. I glanced up at the camera and wanted to make some kind of obeisance to him.
If he observed the hesitation, did he think of it as a moment of choice: to obey him or not, to continue all this or not? Did I?
No, not any more. My hesitation was only the reluctance of the moment, to commit this irrevocable thing upon myself. Something like the breathless feeling before the first leap into the pool. You want to be in the water, you know it will feel good once you're in there. It's the irreversible plunge that's so scary; the surrender to a different element, that enveloping cold clasp.
I did my best with the cleaning, rechecking the corners twice and three times. I visited the chamber pot. Then I made my hobbled way back to the hall bench and knelt down. Counted links once, twice. Neither seven nor nine; exactly eight. Pushed the padlock through and (pause) home. Settled back on my heels and stared through the glass of the closed vestibule door, watching the front door through which my master would come eventually, and bring the evening with him. The evening, that last and best and scariest segment of each day, the time when the hands I'd felt on me all day took possession in the flesh. I wanted urgently to serve him, touch him, feel his hands on my flesh …. I could hardly bear to wait. But having no choice, I waited. Every evening had been unique so far, though there were patterns developing. The harness came off, but the corset usually replaced it, tighter every time. And my constant bondage of the afternoon felt like freedom once Anders opened that hall cabinet. I'd spent part of one evening hogtied on the floor, another under the desk, gagged and blindfolded. His cock was down my throat at least once every night, in the mornings as well if we had time. I loved to show my devotion in this way, especially when he came really hard and I could hear it. The flavour of him haunted me all day.
Impatiently I wriggled, and grabbed my chain to stop it banging against the bench.
I'd found that there was only so long I could sit still. Inevitably I began fiddling with the chain, testing the locks. I sat, lay down, knelt again. Stared at the door. Thought about what he might do when he walked in. Thought about work, and where the household guides to energy conservation might have got to, and where to get more if they were gone. About the group of junior high kids coming the next day, and just how awful they were likely to 156
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be. I noticed that the bars of light on the living room floor had shifted a couple of feet to the left, and were now lighting up the deep reds of the rug.
Evenings had their mundane elements still. Anders would tell me about his day, and have me tell him about mine. There would be discussions about my work, usually during preparations for dinner. He did plenty of task structuring, similar to the ways he'd handled me around schoolwork. I told him what I had to do, he kept tabs, and if I made a mistake I got thwacked. I also got praise, good advice, and the underlying message that I was good at what I did. Sitting still, I listened. Silence. The soundproofing worked both ways. The only noise came from my chain, still swinging, and the tiny friction of my body against the floor. Nothing I'd notice if I'd had anything else to listen to.
What was happening outside? What were free people doing? They'd be finishing up at work, or out walking, going on errands, visiting stores.
Calling friends, making deals, making dates.
Nikki had tried to make a date with me for lunch the other day. I'd told her I'd have to ask permission first, and she'd started lecturing me as if I was seven years old. My age apparently dropped to about four when I got back to her and told her that we'd have to wait a few weeks; Anders wanted my routine well established before he would allow any variation. I listened quietly, some imp in me wanting to try an automaton, brainwashed voice on her: 'Master decides all things. I will give my life for Master,' just to hear her hit the roof. But I didn't really want to upset her, and anyway she might take me seriously and call the cops, or the deprogrammers, or both. Nikki seemed to be getting more vanilla by the day. She kept trying to tell me that bdsm was for play parties, and that anybody who said they lived it for real was merely getting their rocks off by broadcasting their fantasies as if they were facts. Nikki the conspiracy theorist. She believed the moon landing was a fake, too.
There was never a clock in sight when I was chained. My watch, of course, was locked away in the cupboard. Time stretched on before me like a prairie highway, and my helplessness expanded like the fields on either side.
I felt a faint vibration through the floor which increased for a while until I could almost hear the low, rumbling rush of a train going by. An afternoon GO train heading out to Pickering. I tried to see how long I could sense the vibrations; that lasted a while. Then I began wriggling, tugging at harness 157
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straps, flipping idly at my nipple rings. I listened for the sound of a key in the door. I adjusted the clip I'd put in my hair, too late, and tried not to worry too much about punishment.
But I knew it was coming. Probably a whipping. Wincing, I ran my palms lightly over my already sensitive buttocks. Escape urges ricocheted around my skull in lightning bursts, seeking a way out of my dilemma, like a mouse careening frantically from one stopped hole to another. I pulled away from the bench and felt the now-familiar pressure of the metal collar against my neck. My fingers examined the locks again, and the solid built-in bench.
There was no escape. Anders was on his way home. When he came home he'd punish me. Simple; inevitable, inexorable. It would hurt, probably a lot.
Anything I did or said wo
uld only make it worse. I began to pant.
I was already soaking wet, my cunt unfurling, right there by my hand. I imagined touching it, sliding my fingers through soft folds to the firm, velvety clit; the breathless, acute pleasure of each tiny stroke, the build-up….
No! Even if the camera didn't catch me, the guilt would. I had a terrible longing to disobey, followed immediately by a deep-down feeling of panic.
But oh, god, how I wanted to! I was spending each day back and forth over the borders of lust, trying so hard to behave, to pretend that my pussy was on some other planet. Remembering that enormous hand gripping it, that deep voice saying, "This belongs to me." It's not mine, I kept saying to myself.
I'm not allowed to touch it. I knelt and pulsed in the silence: no distractions now, no outward face to maintain, no clothes, no escape, no choice but to suffer and wait.
Knees under me, face-down on the floor for a while, head on my arms, I tried not to think ahead or back, tried not to lust, tried just to be. That level of zen was beyond me, however; my thoughts continued quietly squirreling away around the edges, and the lust continued unabated. When I sat up the light had moved off the rug and onto the wall. I stared at the door longingly.
When would he come? My whole body, each erogenous zone sectioned off and presented for his pleasure, reached toward the place he would materialize. The collar pressed on my windpipe and I sat back, sighing.
Patience.
Then the key hit the lock, and suddenly there he was, all six-and-a-half feet of him, filling the inside doorway, flipping through a handful of mail.
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My heart seemed to leap right out of my chest and then spring back again, like an Animaniacs cartoon. The door thumped closed; the long legs were within reach, smelling of dirt and concrete. I looked up, longing to wrap myself around a warm leg, but waited for orders like a good slave.