A Mid-Summer's Night

A Mid-Summer’s Night It is late, two a.m. My other half has gone for the night. I am alone. My futon is just three inches thick, barely more than a mat lying along one wall of this tiny attic bedroom on the third floor. The room with its heavy carpeting is mostly empty. A small lamp rests on the floor several yards from where my futon lies. One clock hangs high on a wall. The only window, facing east and open above me, lets in the air. Naked, I sit in the middle of the futon that will soon become my prison bed. In the soft glow of the lamp’s dim light, I carefully lay out what I need. I require only four restraints: two for my wrists and two for my ankles. They are made of thick leather with locking buckles. Heavy eyelets have been screwed deep into the solid oak floor beneath the carpet at either end of the futon. First, I fasten the restraints around my ankles. A spreader bar about two feet wide keeps them apart. From each ankle, a heavy chain runs up to an eyebolt in the ceiling. I snap two brass padlocks shut and then turn over onto my stomach. At the head of the futon, I thread a twelve-inch steel rod through the center eyelet. It is solid steel with drilled ends ready for two more brass padlocks. I slide the escape key into a simple Master combination lock and place it around the central eyebolt. Clicking the lock shut, I scramble the dial to hide the numbers. Before me on the floor, I arrange four items: a pack of cigarettes, a lighter, an ashtray, and a large glass of Scotch whiskey. The lighter is special; instead of a flame, it uses a small electric coil, producing no light so that I can still see the combination lock’s dial clearly. These cigarettes are not just for my addiction but will also constrict my blood vessels, helping to hold back my inevitable arousal and denying me the sexual release I desperately crave. I wrap the last two restraints around my wrists. Then I fit padlocks through their buckles and snap them shut. Almost ready,

I glance up at the clock, knowing this will likely be the last time for hours that I can see its face or tiny hands clearly. I press a single thin pillow under my chest and neck. After taking a long sip of Scotch to steady my nerves, I place the final two locks, securing my wrists to each end of the steel rod. As alcohol warmth spreads through me, I throw caution aside and snap those last locks tightly closed. Now I am trapped, nearly hopelessly.

Though bound tight on the futon, I can still see the combination lock’s dial clearly. My bound fingers reach it easily, spinning it nervously as I decide whether to stay locked in or try for escape before time runs out. But realizing how serious this ordeal truly is, I suddenly change my mind. In a hurried attempt to get free, I start twisting the dial again. I spin quickly to thirty-one, then realize with annoyance that I turned it the wrong way—anti-clockwise instead of clockwise. Frantically, I reset and try once more. In seconds, I find the first number: thirty-one. Racing against time, I turn past zero in the correct direction until I hit six. The final combination is sixteen. As I begin to approach it, an ominous click echoes from across the room, plunging me into darkness. *

The timer controlling the lamp has done its job. The lamp sits about five feet away; even if I could reach it, power comes through a switch mounted far across the small room, so my efforts would be useless. The timer that controls the lamp completes its task. Even though it is only five feet distant, and reaching it might help slightly, the control mechanism for its electricity is located another thousand miles away relative to this tiny space.

I know I am in serious trouble. For several moments, I lie still, weighing my options. Then, in total darkness, I carefully move the combination lock’s dial toward where I believe sixteen lies. Moving slowly and methodically, each time pausing to tug firmly on the shackle, it fails to open.

I continue trying for another full minute longer, moving the unseen dial back and forth while fighting rising panic. Finally, angry at my foolishness for not setting the timer earlier to give me more grace, I twist the dial violently, sealing off any further chance of opening it. Now truly trapped, *

Lying on my stomach, silent and still, I consider how rash my actions were—driven by perverse desires and overwhelming physical needs. I acted impulsively. There is no escape until sunrise comes in several hours’ time. Though I have played this game many times before, never have I lasted so long without release. For minutes more, I marvel at my own stupidity.

My bonds are strong enough to be unbreakable, yet despite logic telling me otherwise, I begin thrashing wildly atop the futon in a desperate bid for freedom. But as expected, my struggles prove futile; my position is too confined and secure. The restraints, locks, and eyelets hold me with immense power. Exhausted at last, sweating and panting, I lie there. In the blackness, my hands still tug uselessly against thick black leather straps. With legs spread wide, soles of feet pressed tightly to the futon, toes brushing softly against carpet,

Understanding now how dire my situation is, arousal strikes quickly. Earlier when lying prone, I had positioned myself carefully with penis pointing toward feet; but now it swells and becomes painfully rigid. Despite limited movement on the futon, I manage rolling slightly sideways enough to let my member snap forward. Falling back onto stomach again, it points upward toward head—a much more comfortable position bringing great relief—but being wedged tightly between body and mattress makes arousal even stronger.

Trapped in tight bonds, squirming with pleasure, though trying hard to prolong lust, realization dawns: denial is impossible now. I come violently, *

Lying in my own fluids, penis throbbing hot atop wet sheet. Over years I’ve learned strict bondage positions are tolerable enough—but once ejaculation occurs, holding any fixed pose becomes unbearable quickly. Spent, embarrassed, humiliated—all thoughts turn toward immediate freedom. My plan for extended pleasure just collapsed. Flaccid and spent, no choice remains but to stay bound until morning when sunlight returns allowing liberation again. *

Position is strict yet comfortable enough thanks partly due wrists being pinned only a foot apart leaving room move fingers close face smoke cigarettes comfortably. Reaching forward blindly in darkness locating pack lighter ensuring ashtray within grasp then lighting one inhaling deeply contemplating situation carefully despite everything cannot imagine any way freeing myself completely. Bondage planned too well indeed!

Suddenly idea strikes: confined position places combination lock directly beneath forehead just beyond nose tip puffing cigarette attempt casting light onto dial proves futile since weak red glow insufficient. Setting ashtray aside reaching glass Scotch taking effort straining wrists painfully tilting bottle drinking deeply…

Enough whiskey to drink. I lay still, smoking, sipping and pondering. * I turn my head and gaze across the room to my right where my bondage hood lies unseen in the dark. I had it made for me in England last year. A cruel yet wonderful thing, it has a number of tiny perforations called ‘pepper-pot eyes’, and two steel rivets below the nose for breathing. The hood is wonderful; when tightly laced around my head I always find it to be incredibly confining and extremely frustrating. I had intended to wear the hood tonight, but in my lust-driven haste to secure myself I had forgotten it. Now I knew that this omission was a good thing. For with the limited vision the hood provides it would only have served to extend my stay on the futon for hours past sunrise. I lay quietly thinking as the whiskey slowly takes effect. I begin to relax. I become drowsy and put my head down. I fall asleep. * I awaken with a start, dazed and confused. I try to move my arms and legs but find it impossible. Then the truth returns; I am still in helpless bondage. I have no idea how long I have slept; the bedroom still lay in complete darkness, it may have been for hours or only moments. I raise myself up on my elbows and peer intently around the room trying to discern some familial shape. Nothing. All remain shrouded in a dense dark. Sunrise and freedom are still many hours away. * Through the open window come the sounds of night. Far away I can hear the distant sound of a car as it labors up some hill, then the sound of a motorcycle. It is late, and although I have no idea of the time I realize that outside the walls of the bedroom life still goes on, while within my own small world I now live only to experience my total helplessness and unending confinement. After futilely testing my bonds once more I decide that sleep is the only thing left to me. I put my head down and try to fall back asleep. But sleep won’t come. * The clock has now become an instrument of torture. Its relentless tick is all that I can think about. I begin to count its ceaseless single rhythmic sound. There are thirty-six hundred maddening ticks each hour. If I were to count each during my imprisonment it would be more than fifteen thousand. I muse that there are two different aspects to clocks: their ability to display time visually and their sound, but in this digital age the second aspect is completely absent. I had always loved that sound of the clock; for many years it had soothed me as I fell asleep. But now the familiar sound tormented me, forcing me to experience every second of my self-imposed captivity. I fear that I might go mad. Hastily, I finish off the last of the Scotch and then mercifully fall back into a deep sleep. * I dream, but unfortunately my dreams are filled with erotic thoughts of bondage and the cruelest forms of sexual torture. In my dream I am now at the complete mercy of an evil tall woman with short blonde hair dressed in a catsuit of black leather. As in life, I am tied upon the futon, only in my dream I’m lying on my back instead of my stomach. In the dream I’m wearing my leather hood, and my mouth is gagged. I feel the woman’s hands at my crotch as she fits some unseen device made of cold metal around my genitals. The device begins to slowly tighten. I become awake, once again I’m confused and frightened. My legs have become stiff and sore, but I take this as a good sign, for at least my sleep has spared me from having to hear the seconds slowly counted out by the sadistic clock. I roll my ankles and my wrists. Then in turn, I begin to tighten the muscles of my abdomen and buttocks. The isometric exercise is effective; the pain and stiffness recedes. My mind had become fixated on the time. Time has now become the sole focus of my entire life. As usual before a self-bondage session I’d had the foresight to check my computer for the time of the sunrise. This morning it will occur at precisely six thirty-four. From my previous experiences with light-timed bondage I knew that barring any unforeseen events, I would certainly be free twenty minutes later. * The hours pass with agonizing slowness and I remain wide-awake. The night has become cold and a chill breeze has begun to blow across my naked body. But despite the cool temperature I’m sweating profusely in my tightly constrained position. My sweat evaporates quickly, chilling me even more. For some unknown reason my feet are perspiring the worst. Beads of ice-cold sweat trickle slowly and maddeningly down along my soles to drip from the tips of my toes. I try to rub my feet together to dispel the terrible tickling sensation, but the spreader bar effectively prevents my feet from touching. I shake my feet violently and find that I am able to throw some of the water off. But my success is short-lived; for in only moments more droplets of sweat quickly form and the torture begins yet again. * Suddenly, my thoughts are interrupted by something moving slowly atop my back. At first I think that it’s only the evaporation of water. But then I realize that this is wrong; whatever is causing the sensation is moving upwards, not down as water would. I know at once what it is: a crawling insect of some type, perhaps even a spider. I’d read somewhere that a spider only bites you when it senses the sweat of fear. I don’t know if that’s true, but confined and afraid as I now am, I know that the arachnid would need little more incentive to bite. For a moment I begin to thrash violently in an attempt to dislodge whatever it is that has found me. Then I lay waiting. I find that my attempts have had at least some effect; whatever it is has altered its direction and is now moving downward. The thing descends past my waist and moves across my buttocks. By a sheer effort of will I try to remain absolutely still as it progresses down along my left leg. It reaches my ankle. Here it pauses for just a second before climbing onto the heel of my left foot. I grimace as it quickly descends down along the sole. Maddeningly, the thing unexpectedly halts when it reaches the undersides of my toes. Here, where the skin is so soft and thin, I know that any bite would prove quite painful and effective. But mercifully no bite occurs. After pausing for a full minute my night visitor moves to the tips of my toes and then it is suddenly gone. I lay bathed in cold sweat as my heart slowly returns to normal. In time I once more fall asleep. * I awaken to a sound that has caught my ear: the chirping of a single bird from a tree somewhere outside in the yard. Soon there comes the sound of another bird, then yet another. In minutes the trees are alive with their twittering as the birds call out to one another. I breathe a long sigh of relief, for the birdsong portends the coming morning. From experience I know that birds begin to sing at about four-thirty. I only have about two hours more to remain captive. I’m encouraged by the knowledge that I’ve already passed more than half of my sentence upon the futon. True, the enforced position is tedious and frustrating, but I’m in no immediate danger. Although highly confining, the thick leather straps are quite comfortable and allow my blood to circulate freely. I have no gag in my mouth, and there is no collar around my neck that could possibly choke me. Best of all, the snug leather hood still lies on the floor across the room and not tightly laced around my head, partially blinding me and forcing me to consider my every strained breath as they whistle through the small nostril openings. I roll my sweat-dampened forehead on the futon, proud of my powers of endurance and eagerly await the final two hours of my bondage. I have met the challenge and I will prevail. * Time seems to pass even more slowly now. Still the clock mounted high upon the wall attempts to torture me, but I refuse to heed its tormenting tick. I vow that tomorrow it will die a terrible death by hammer-blow.

before finding its eternal resting place at the bottom of my trash barrel. I lay brushing the tips of my toes against the thick carpet and thinking. Suddenly from somewhere close by I hear the sound of a car engine being started. It’s my next-door neighbor Sally on her way to work. I know from experience that Sally’s a punctual woman. She leaves at precisely five-thirty. For the hundredth time this morning I raise myself up onto my elbows and stare up through the open window. To the east I can see the faintest tint of pale blue light. I smile to myself; three and a half hours down, only one to go. I’m hungry, and I now give serious consideration to what I’ll have for breakfast the moment I’m free. * Suddenly I feel that something is wrong. It takes me several minutes to put a fine point on it, but then I finally realize what it is. The birdsong has faded, and once more only silence reigns outside my bedroom prison. At first this fact seems completely inexplicable, then an ominous and terrifying sound comes to my ears: the deep, cascading roll of thunder. * As the rain beats fiercely upon the tiles above the attic bedroom my head sags against the futon in total defeat. The fingers of my right hand reach to spin the dial of the combination lock absently. I know that my sentence has just been cruelly extended. My mouth twists into an ironic grin, and I wonder just what further act of blind fate could possibly happen next to seal my fate even further. As if in answer to my unspoken question the now driving gale-force wind begins to spray my nude body with a fine mist of ice-cold water. Suddenly, the air pressure creates a vacuum in the attic bedroom. The open window slams loudly shut. * The window’s glass is covered with a closed aluminum blind. I know from experience that although the blind doesn’t entirely preclude light, it severely restricts its entrance into the room. I know that I’m in very serious trouble. Even on a sunny day the closed blinds would make my escape difficult. But if the rain and gray skies continue I will most likely remain shackled to the futon for the rest of the day. Within the room once again a pitch-blackness prevails. Hours pass. My body is stiff and my mood dark. To my surprise and absolute consternation my body now responds to its perverse need for absolute bondage. Once more I become erect. I reach for my cigarettes in the hope that they may spare me the indignity of once more soiling myself in my own sperm. But my movements are mistimed, and I knock the pack far out of my limited reach. I stretch my shackled hands to their farthest limit, groping. Useless; the cigarettes are gone. My fingers touch the useless lighter. Angrily, I throw it after the cigarettes. Muttering a curse, the ashtray soon follows. My hands come across the glass of Scotch. I bring it to my lips hopefully only to discover that what I feared was true; the glass is empty. I toss if after the other items and hear it break against a far wall. All of my little diversions now gone, I come within mere seconds. My ejaculation is less violent than before, but this time my orgasm seems to go on and on forever until I am completely drained of both my bodily fluids and erotic desire. * From far across the glade behind the house a church bell calls the faithful to morning service. I know this bell well; it rings at seven-thirty, far beyond the time that I should now be free. The storm continues in its ferocity, battering the roof and window with driving gusts of wind and rain. I have been totally defeated by my own perverseness, lust and desire. My mouth is parched, and the continual sound of the rain has made me incredibly thirsty. I lay the side of my head onto the futon and do the only thing I can; wait. * Without warning a sudden gust of wind blows the window open. Although it opens for only several inches it admits a soft gray light. My head jerks up and I raise myself onto my elbows. I can see item in the room clearly. Just beyond my reach are the cigarettes, lighter and ashtray. Against the far wall the shattered whiskey glass. I see the leather hood; it lies open, as if beckoning me. Once more a fine mist of cold water sprays my naked body. I ignore this for I see that the dial of the combination lock has now become clearly visible. My fingers race to clear the lock, spinning it five times in a clockwise direction: the correct way. I halt at thirty-one. Then without hesitation I twist it quickly the opposite way. I just passes zero when the fickle wind pulls the window closed. Once more the room is plunged into darkness. I am disappointed but hopeful. What has happened once can happen again. I lay prone, propped on my elbows staring at the unseen lock. So as not to disturb the work I have already done my fingers leave the dial. I wait. I am not disappointed. Only several minutes pass until once more the window blows open. But before I can react it quickly shuts once more. I mutter a curse and do the only thing possible; wait for my next opportunity. I am forced to wait for what seems a lifetime until my chance finally comes. The window is suddenly blown open with such violence that is thrown wide open and bangs loudly against the wall. My fingers move carefully, but at lightning-speed. Continuing my previous work I stop the dial at six, the twist it boldly towards the final number: sixteen. I am sweating profusely; my blood sugar is all but depleted. My hands tremble as I grasp the silver lock in my fingers. I tug upon the steel shackle. The lock opens, and in minutes I am free. * As I finish breakfast the phone rings. It is my other informing me that she has decided to stay yet another night. I hang up the phone. Benevolently, I decide that I will be parsimonious and forgiving. I will not kill the sadistic little clock. Besides, tonight it is very unlikely that I will be able to hear its torturous tick beneath the thick black leather hood. The End