Part One

 

I was going to die.

As the thought slowly settled about me I realized I was too exhausted to care. There was nothing to resist or fight against. I had no way of escaping my shackles. I had lost track of the days, but I knew enough of them had passed. Starvation or dehydration: I wondered which would do it. I decided it did not matter as my head swam and the light faded.

Now you might be thinking that I somehow survived my inescapable prison, but surprise, I didn't.

I had been assigned to infiltrate the drug cartel but my contact betrayed me and led me into a trap. I was taken, bound, and used as a sex slave. They filmed every detail to use as a warning to others. Eventually they grew tired of me. They took me outside in chains, and at gunpoint, made me dig my own grave.

Finally, they sealed my mouth in duct tape and my wrists and ankles in chains before they put me in a coffin. I struggled and murmured into my gag for mercy, for life, as I watched the lid being placed over me. Feeble shafts of light slanted through the poorly sealed seams and I watched as rusted, cruel screws bored through the wood to hold the lid in place. My muffled screams were merely whimpers as I felt the coffin move as they lowered me into the rough hole. I wrestled against the bindings as they shoveled earth down on me. Streams of dirt fell through the cracks of the coffin lid as more and more earth was thrown upon me, burying me alive in a tiny, dirty, unmarked grave.

Silence and darkness, I was trapped within my tomb. That's not how I died.

That was fantasy, and a much better result than what I was currently enduring. In reality I was in my own soft bed in my two-bedroom apartment in a newly renovated hundred and twelve year old mill for status starved corporate wage slaves. There was no drug cartel, no coffin. I entertained myself with that fantasy to stave off the horrible boredom.

And, more importantly, I was going to die. I never realized death would be so dull!

I imagined it would not hurt. I wanted to fight, to live, but I knew it would do no good. My bonds were too secure.

Bonds I put on myself.

My mouth was packed tight with a delicious jaw aching gag. Straps bit into my face to hold it in place. The tightness was unyielding and succulent. Chains led from hidden anchor points on my bed frame to rings on my collar, waist belt, and ankles.

And around my wrists?

Self-bondage is a dangerous thing.

Over the years I had a few close calls; a knot refused to budge or a jammed buckle trapped me, but I always escaped. A wiggle, a squirm, a bit of force, and I would be free. I worked it into my fantasies. The image blazed in my mind; I was stuck in my own self-bondage when a handsome burglar just so happened to break in. Seeing me trussed up and gagged, he would add a few more yards of rope and cinch everything tighter. He would lift me up like a package, the smell of his cologne filling my senses, and lock me in a trunk. He would then cart me off to his secret lair to be his prisoner. There, he would do as he wished and I would be helpless to do anything about it.

I had been too busy for relationships. I had a high-stress, high-reward job. The reward was stock options; meaning the more successful the company was, the more my stock was worth, and the more money I got. This was how I was able to afford my fancy apartment and Bavarian Motor Works car. To make the company successful, I had to work hard. This too, distantly played into my fantasy as I dreamed of sitting at my desk, chains from my collar to a ring cemented into the floor, and my wrists cuffed to the desk with just enough room to let my fingers flash across the keys. If there were not enough keystrokes, a little window would pop up in the corner of my screen with the grim face of my supervisor. "Too schlow!" She would yell in a German accent a second before an electric shock ripped me in two. Sobbing, I would type faster.

I am an attractive woman. My lips might be a little too thin, and my nose a little too long, and my resting face often made me look stern and hawkish. My breasts? Lacking at best. I often scoffed them as they reminded me of two fried eggs pinned to my chest. I often thought about implants but, eh, I don't know. They are my breasts. My hips are only a whisper, which gives me a long, boyish figure. My stomach, however, is flat because of a combination of diet, exercise and genetics. I have a regal, swan like neck, and my long natural lashes fan gently over my sultry, come hither dark eyes.

While I hated my body, I didn't hate my body, and finding a boyfriend wasn't difficult. Fuck, I had to chase them off most days, but finding one who indulged me and treated me with the balance of respect and domination was very difficult.

It was impossible.

It was impossible because I didn't want that. I didn't want the plain white toast of a normal relationship. I wanted to be absolved of my crime of wanting to have sex. It's how it is with women. If you want sex you're a slut. If you don't, you're an uptight bitch. Zero neutral ground. Being encased in latex made me a thing, a mask made me someone else, a gag took away my ability to protest, and bondage? Bondage bound it together. I am neither a slut nor a bitch when I have no choice. I am a prisoner, and they can do whatever they want to me.

I took the easy way out. Instead of finding a partner who understood me, I simply did it myself.

I absolved myself. Relax Pope, I got this!

Date night for me was strolling through the hardware store as the locks, hasps, and clips flirted with me. I cruised the internet for gags and paddles and cat-suits, and submitted humbly to myself. I was in complete control of not being in control. Fantasy allowed for that. I could tie myself up and let my mind run wild.

Well, until it killed me.

Self-bondage is very dangerous, but despite that, I indulged my fantasies.

I would take a long weekend off to escape from the stress of my job and dress in layers of latex. Packing a gag deep in my mouth was much easier than trying to carry on a conversation chain on an on-line dating chat. Being bound and enslaved took away my obligations and the crushing burdens of responsibility. I could lay in the confines of leather and steel without a care in the world.

Who needs a boyfriend when you could simply lock yourself up? It was judgment free!

I always took the most careful precautions. I had plans with back-up plans which all had back-up plans. Handcuffs worked the best. They were very secure, but a key attached to a small tether meant escape was seconds away.

A second key was attached to the bedpost. With a little squirming I could just reach it. I practiced using the second key, sometimes integrating it into my fantasy.

It was the perfect plan.

I had all the equipment: boxes of gags, closets of kinky clothes, and a box of dildos. There were hoods of every variant covering styrofoam heads lined up on a shelf.

A magnificent collection of perversion!

I imagined they would all be found when my body was finally discovered.

The police report would be short, and simply read: Alysa Michaels, cause of death: accidental.

I felt heavy as I sank into the bed and my body rested on the shackles clamped around my wrists.

The shackles.

My personal, and unintentional, instrument of death.

I had them custom made as a present to myself. The cuffs were stainless steel, two inches wide and a quarter inch thick, connected by a double hinged welded bar. The cuffs were angled to fit my arms securely, but comfortably. I also made sure they were opened using a standard police handcuff key. They were easy on, easy off, and inescapable.

The first thing I realized when I got the shackles was although the handcuff key would work, and I had dozens of them, to use the key while in the confines of the shackles was another thing entirely. Despite my flexibility, I could not bend my wrists around to get the key anywhere near the keyhole. So, before I did any play with my new shackles, I ordered an extended key, paying extra for the heavy duty, law enforcement grade.

It was a long, five-inch shaft of aluminum with a steel core. It was polished and solid, with a parkerized shaft for grip and a lanyard hole for a tether.

I practiced with the shackles unlocked, testing I could reach the keyhole easily. Once I was certain I could get out, I locked them on in front of me.

I trembled in the solid feel of the cuffs for only a moment before I reeled in the key, slipped it in the lock and freed myself. I did it again and it was even easier. Then I put them on behind my back and in seconds I was free again. I experimented with different positions and scenarios. Hogtied, gagged, and blindfolded, the cuffs went on and then off.

With my shackles mastered, I excitedly waited for a long, three-day weekend.

I loved my bondage weekends! I started by dressing up in latex. I love the feel and the look and the way it handily corrected my body's flaws by giving nice, perky tits, and a firm, spankable ass. I would find my best toys and apply them, enjoying orgasm after orgasm before finding the key, escaping, and passing out into a deep, relaxing slumber.

When I awoke I would do my chores. I shuffled about doing dishes, laundry and vacuuming, while chained and gagged. I would sit and watch movies while my wrists pulled at my restraints. Finally, I would retreat to the bedroom, apply more rope or straps, and crank up the vibrators for another insane, mind bending parade of orgasms.

Sometimes I would put on loose clothes and a coat over my latex and cuffs and go down to the bodega to buy groceries, or to the coffee shop for something to eat. In my fantasy, my master paraded me around. He degraded me in public, and flaunted his power over me by enforcing the notion that I was a slave and no one could help me.

I hadn't scripted my adventure with my new shackles, but I was confident something would write itself.

With my new shackles ready and my heart pounding, I counted the days to my magic weekend. When it finally rolled around, I teased myself by staying late at work for an hour. In the dim of the parking lot I pulled my ball-gag deep into my mouth and buckled it tightly behind my head. I then pulled on long, soft leather opera gloves. Then, twitching with excitement, I locked handcuffs with an extended chain to my wrists.

I flipped my coat collar up to help hide my ball-gag. Trembling, I started the car and drove home. The streetlights reflected glare off the shine of my handcuffs and it was exhilarating.

I slipped into the lobby of my apartment like a ghost and ducked the view of the security camera. I then crept into my apartment like a thief.

I un-cuffed only long enough to undress. I showered, then had a light salad for dinner. I then poured a tiny glass of white wine and sipped at it as I got ready.

With tension building, I wriggled into my latex cat-suit, briefly admiring my look in the mirror as I hit it with a silicone polish. I then balled up my stockings and packed them into my mouth, sliding my fingers around my lips to get them all the way in and close my mouth fully. I'm sure this made all my fancy gags hanging in my closet go, 'what the hey!' but, nylons are great for saliva. They get denser and denser as they soak up the spit and they have a certain, brutality; a moment of improv in my carefully orchestrated play.

With my lips plastered closed with duct tape I don't drool all over the bed. This was followed by my neoprene hood that encapsulated my head nice and tight while keeping my ear buds firmly in place. I then lashed a belt around my knees and leg cuffs around my ankles. I locked a chain from my leg cuffs to an anchor ring under the bed. Lying back comfortably, I cinched a padded leather collar around my neck with two chains from either side to anchor points at the headboard.

I trembled as I felt the heavy weight of my new, impervious shackles.

I connected one shackle cuff to my left wrist. I shivered as it clicked closed and locked, then checked the tether and my new key.

Assured everything was as it should be, I put strips of surgical tape over my eyes and sealed them shut. For good measure, I attached a blindfold to my hood and made myself into an anonymous thing.

With a remote, I clicked on my music. Gentle, melodic chimes drowned out all other sound. With so many of my senses taken away, I turned on my E-stim and they pulsed across my nipples like fireflies and throbbed in my vagina and ass like distant thunder, low and powerful. They would be doing the physical work while my fantasy ran riot.

Hands behind my back, I locked the shackles without fanfare.

Already primed, the E-stim did little work before I felt the waves churn in my sex, rumbling, and crashing against the shore. I screamed into my spit soaked gag full throttle, knowing my neighbors would never hear through the thick cement walls of the mill as my body fluttered and lifted with each crest. I threw myself against unyielding chains. I was alone and helpless, while heartless machines, indifferent to my plight, drove my passions.

I was a secret agent, captured and tortured. Driven mad by the machines pulsing in my sex, I wanted to talk, but they weren't interested in what I had to say. Locked in inescapable cuffs, the cruel devices relentlessly bored into me. They only laughed and left me in the sub-level of an abandoned mine. I could feel more than hear the detonators go off, collapsing the tunnel and sealing me in my tomb, forever tormented by the sadistic little devices.

Shuddering, I exploded.

Shivering, I felt a second, bigger wave, a tsunami coming towards me. I almost didn't want it, almost afraid, but it came like a Kansas hurricane.

As did I.

I struggled to stay conscious from the powerful orgasms. Ordinarily my game went on for hours, the stim charging, then draining me, but this time it had been too powerful and I had to take a break.

My latex clad fingers moved like the legs of a spider hauling in its web wrapped kill. When I felt the key in my fingertips, I spun it around adroitly and slipped it easily into the hole.

The moment I turned the key I knew everything had gone horribly, horribly wrong. I lay there for several seconds as I tried to imagine what had happened. The stim

buzzed angrily and I fought to ignore the nuisance pain and concentrate on what was real. I had the key in my hand and I tactilely explored it. Through my latex gloves I could just make out the tiny curl of shredded metal. I rotated the key as panic quickly rose. The key felt too short. I had practiced dozens of times with it and now it felt all wrong.

Touching the end again, it became clear. The barrel of the key had snapped off.

It was useless now. With the stim and vibrators irritating me, I discarded the broken key and shimmied over to the side of the bed where the spare key was. I easily found its tether and reeled it up. The instant I touched the key and felt the ever familiar shape, I remembered it was a regular sized key. A short key.

Human error.

I had forgotten to get a longer key for my back up. I was trapped for real.

I struggled for days. I screamed for days.

The batteries in my stim units mercifully died and left me clear to think about my eminent death.

My shackles were perfect and inescapable and everything was centered on them. Unable to release my hands I could not release anything else. I tried breaking and dislocating my thumbs, but that turned out to be painful and impossible. As I starved, I tried wriggling out. I tried knocking for someone to hear. None of these things came close to working.

Slowly, I faded.

As darkness took me, I thought I saw a flash of light and I should go towards it, but I was too tired.