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 a welcome distraction to hubby’s deliberately bringing me to arousal. He seemed to be trying to speed me up, which was impossible. Any faster and I’d trip up when my ankles got entangled in the leg chains. All he’d accomplish is me flat on my face in the dirt.
He came to a sudden stop. “This isn’t working. You’re being lazy. I know you can walk faster than this.”
“I can’t…”
“Quiet!” he all but shouted, “Uncooperative and insolent, I’ve had enough. Open up.”
Oh great, I’ve done it now. I thought fast but saw no way out. Dutifully I opened my mouth wide. The all too familiar foam covered wedge went in, with the leather panel attached to the filler covering the entire mouth opening of the hood. The straps went around and over my head. There was no possible way for me to dislodge it. Any hope of offering an explanation was gone now.
Could I have gone faster? He thought so, and that’s what mattered. Hubby was a very kind and gentle man, except during bondage sessions when I misbehaved. Then he came unglued at the slightest provocation. Not only had I failed him, but I added insult to injury by speaking out of turn. I couldn’t fault him; I earned the gag.
“I’m still mad.” I heard him circling me. “Feet apart, pull that chain taut,” he snapped.
I didn’t hesitate. I was certainly in no position to defy him. He became unpredictable when he was upset. I certainly didn’t want to make matters worse.
“I have to cool off before I do something drastic. Don’t move. You stay right where you are. I’ll be back for you once I’ve calmed down.” With those chilling words I listened to his receding footsteps.
All Alone
There I was, all alone in the middle of an endless barren desert. It’s eerie how quiet it can be, far beyond civilization. All those small sounds we normally tune out, cars passing, the air conditioning switching on and off, an airplane overhead, all gone. I strained to catch some faint sound from hubby, but no luck. Wherever he’d gone, it wasn’t nearby.
I was well and truly trapped; the nightmare of any bondage session. Unless hubby came back I was in a hopeless situation. If I could find some way to see I could get to the car, though what I’d do after that was another question. Maybe if I found a sharp rock I could work a slit in the hood. All I needed to do was look around for that rock…
What’s that called, a catch-22? I wouldn’t need the rock if I could see to find it; so much for that idea. Which left me with no other choice than to trust hubby would come back for me. He wouldn’t leave me out here, by myself. Even if he did, someone else would eventually show up...a year or two from now.
He’ll be back; I’m sure of it. I have to be patient. And I have to make sure I keep those leg chains up off the ground. He’d been explicit on what I had to do; if I were disobedient again he might very well drive off and leave me here all night and the next day.
He might not leave me out here forever, but the prospect of going an entire day in my present condition was a depressing thought. The worst part was being so alone. Bondage has that effect on me. To describe me as vulnerable and helpless is an understatement. I needed that hand on my arm to reassure me he was still there.
Intellectually I knew he had to be out there, watching me. Emotionally it was a far different story. My anxiety level climbs by the minute when I’m left on my own. The gag only makes a bad situation worse. I can’t even call out to hubby, to beg him to come back and not leave me all alone. We communicate so well; that’s a large part of what makes hubby so attractive. Maybe that’s why I hate the gag for how it cuts me off from the one person I trust implicitly, without reservation. I have no secrets from him, including my love of bondage.
How long did I stand there, forced to wait for hubby to return? It seemed like hours though that was likely an exaggeration. Fifteen minutes? Or half an hour? Time passes so slowly when tightly bound. It must be the boredom brought on by enforced idleness.
All kinds of disasters run through my head when I’m left alone. Hubby has a heart attack; hubby is attacked by a pack of wolves; hubby falls down a mineshaft. They ran the gamut from the unlikely to the ridiculous. For one thing, there weren’t any animals larger than a mouse out on the desert floor. In reality I knew I was safe, but I liked to pretend. It’s like riding a rollercoaster; it looks risky but no one ever gets hurt.
It Gets Better
Then I felt the tug behind my head. After loosening the straps hubby pulled out that awful gag. I was so relieved I almost forgot I was still trussed up. Once again I’d learned my lesson about following bondage rules. There must be some perverse aspect of my personality that drove me to defy hubby, just to see if he’d react. Of course he reminds me he’s in charge, either with that gag or something equally unpleasant.
“How can I get through to you? We’ve discussed this many times, yet you persist in these tantrums. I thought the gag would set you straight, but no, you still disobey me.” He let go of my arm, which left me standing in one place. “You force my hand; I have to escalate the punishment.”
I didn’t like the sound of that at all. If not for the cuffs around my hands and feet I’d… I’d what? It was my idea to be here in the first place. I was bound in steel chains precisely to ensure I couldn’t do anything. Our session rules were explicit and unambiguous. I obey hubby, no matter what he wants. If I don’t comply he is to enforce the issue by any means necessary.
I heard him walk off, leaving me alone again. Now what? In the distance I heard the car trunk open and close. He must have anticipated I’d act up and came prepared. Now I really was worried, since I had no idea what he intended. I could object, which would only make matters worse. I had to accept I deserved whatever he planned for me.
When he returned the first thing he did was pick me up and spin me around several times. By the time he set me down I’d lost any sense of direction. “Hold still,” he ordered. Here it comes, though I was both dizzy and confused why he’d mixed me up first. When I heard the car trunk I zeroed in on that sound, to my right. Not anymore; for all I knew to my right would lead me out to the desert.
I felt the cuff snap shut around my right ankle, above the leg irons. It was a good fit, snug but not tight. It was hard to tell through the boot but my guess it was larger than the police style leg irons I already wore. “In case you’re curious, it’s a replica of one of those old style Darby leg shackles. There’s a chain attached to it.”
Okay, but what was the point? I could barely walk as is, so one more wasn’t going to make much difference. I was about to find out when he took hold of my arm. “We’re going straight ahead. Lift up your left foot, take a step, then the same with your right.”
This was becoming bizarre. I knew from long practice how to walk with the chains on. But, I did as he instructed. I slid my left foot forward, up to not quite the limit of the connecting chain. Then I followed up with my right foot.
Or rather I tried. Something grabbed hold of my ankle and brought me up short. Off balance and staggering I was headed down to the ground when hubby caught me. “Try it again slowly. You have on a ball and chain. With a little effort you should be able to drag it along.”
A ball and chain? I’d seen pictures but never imagined I’d be on a chain gang carrying one of those things around. Knowing what to expect I tried again. First the left foot, and then I slowly managed to move that ball with my right leg. I stopped when I was even with my left foot. This was going to be tricky. A few more practice steps and I had a working procedure; forward progress with the left leg, and then catch up with the right. It slowed me down by quite a bit but I was making progress. That snail pace with the regular leg irons? Well, with the ball I’d definitely lose the race to a snail now.
Hubby didn’t comment, so I assumed he was satisfied with what I’d worked out. I actually felt proud of myself for overcoming what I’d describe as a considerable handicap. Then my left foot landed on pavement. I’d found the road! I hoped that meant we were headed back to the car and my freedom.
I managed three more awkward paces before hubby stopped me. “I’m sure you’re aware you’re standing in the middle of the access road. All you need to do now is walk back to the car. At that point I’ll release you. There’s a catch though. You can turn to the right, or left, and follow the road. That’s something you’ve managed before. You will have to bring along the ball and chain though. Or you can choose to stand there, but you’ll have to wait at least an hour. And you’ll have to wait with the gag in place. What will it be, stay or go?”
I had a pretty good idea the car was to my right, so I had a better than fifty percent chance I’d get it right. I definitely didn’t want to stand there with that gag for an hour, which would seem like an eternity. The “at least” bothered me too; he could make me wait quite a while longer.
“I’ll go, even if I do have to drag this thing behind me.” The car couldn’t be that far away.
“Okay then, first of all…” I felt the ball and chain shackle slip off my ankle. Then he picked me up and once more quickly spun me around what must have been ten times. I was so dizzy I could barely stand when he stopped. The shackle went round my left ankle this time. I had no idea which direction to head to find the car.
“You’ll have to find your own way back to the car. It’s easy; turn the right way, keep straight, stay on the road and you’ll be fine.”
It might be easy for him but it was a bit more complicated for me. The right way, was that a clue? I wanted to clench my hands in irritation but even that small pleasure was denied to me. It all came down to those handcuffs. If I could get them off, then slip my hands out of the covers, unbuckle that infuriating posture collar, then I could finally pull off the hood that kept me literally in the dark. It was a great plan but for one tiny detail; how was I going to unlock the handcuffs without a key, and no hands?
When no miracle suddenly materialized to free me I turned to the right and began my slow hike to what I hoped was the car. By the fourth step the ball and chain replaced the gag as the most hated entry on my bondage equipment list. The short leg irons were bad enough but the weight of that ball being dragged behind me was far worse. I didn’t have much choice though so I did the best I could. Step, drag, step, drag, ever so slowly I was making progress.
I don’t know how long I kept at it. During the last of my frequent rest stops I started thinking. This was taking too long, even at the crawl I was able to manage. Should I turn around or keep going?
Hubby answered that question for me. “You picked the wrong direction. I was curious to see how long it would take you to figure it out.” A moment later I felt the cuff linking me to that ball spring open. “I don’t want you getting a muscle cramp. You can go back to the car now. We’re just about done for the night.”
It was so much easier walking without that deadweight I almost forgot my ankles were still connected. Even though I was limited to that slow shuffle it felt like I was zipping along. As I learned later, even though I had been going the wrong way I was so slow I hadn’t added all that much to my journey back to the car.
Finished
Overall it had been a good evening. As usual hubby had locked me up far beyond any hope of escape, just the way I like. I got to parade around, outside, without a stitch of clothes on. Best of all I got to try out something new. With some more practice I’m sure I can do better with the ball and chain. I bet I might even be able to handle more weight once I get used to it.
Per standard procedure I was standing with my back to the side of the car. Hubby had a set way of removing my accessories. It started with the leg irons, all four sets, one at a time. He didn’t hurry, packing them away carefully in the trunk. Of all the restraints I wore, those leg chains were the least intrusive, in the sense that I could wear them all day over my boots. I know; hubby let me try it one weekend.
Next he removed that leather belt and cuffs pinning my arms above the elbows. That was an immense relief to my shoulders. Hubby even took a moment to massage them, although he did find bare arms and especially shoulders attractive. His good intentions were entirely selfish, but it doesn’t bother me.
He undid the straps to the posture collar and pulled it off my neck. Finally I could turn my head again. I’m ambivalent about the collar. Aside from the mental effect I do enjoy the restriction, especially the way it forces me to keep my head up and tilted slightly back, but at the end of the night it also leaves me sore from the abnormal position.
What’s most important though is that it means the dreadful rubber hood comes off next. Being blindfolded is by far the most effective restraint hubby imposes on me. I stare into the thin cover blocking me from the outside world and I feel so helpless. It’s only two small patches over my eyes, but the effects are profound. Like the fear level in a roller coaster ride I know I’m safe with hubby watching over me. But, and there’s always that tiny horror lurking in the back of my mind, if something were to happen to him I’d be lost, panic-stricken, trapped in a solitary prison with no hope of being found.
We were close to the end. After the handcuffs the last thing to come off was the chastity belt. This was always the moment of truth. If hubby wasn’t satisfied that I had been a good girl then I failed to earn my freedom from its sturdy embrace. If he wasn’t pleased it meant I had to keep it on for some period of time, except I wasn’t informed about how long the penalty time would last.
I was still running through the session tonight when he suddenly unlocked the belt. That caught me by surprise, since hubby was nothing if not consistent in his set ways. Off came the belt, to my relief. However something wasn’t quite right. I knew how much he enjoyed negotiating with me as to when, or if, he was going to use that belt key. Why had he skipped one of his favorite moments?
He picked me up by the waist and carried me over to the picnic table. I was deposited on the edge, legs dangling down. Hubby put a finger to his lips. “You’ll have to remain silent a while longer. If you choose to argue about it I have the gag in my pocket.” His reminder won my immediate cooperation. Hubby had become unpredictable. I normally counted on him being reliable, yet I found his new attitude arousing.
He roughly pushed my knees apart and came in very close. “Your walk tonight has stirred the beast within me.” He grabbed my hair and pulled back my head. Our eyes locked; I could not turn away. “It’s so convenient when your hands are otherwise occupied. I’m going to have my way with you, and there’s nothing you can do to stop me.”