A Helpless Prisoner
by Raul Roget
She cursed her chains for the thousandth time - or was it the millionth time? She had difficulty remembering. She had felt herself drifting in and out of awareness of what went on around her, what was happening to her.
If it had been just the chains she might have coped. She was a survivor in every sense of the word. The real problems came from the “accessories” that made her life miserable. Perhaps the worst was the big, very heavy, very rusty iron collar that was riveted on her neck. It had cost her more than one sleepless night. Its design came straight from the mind of a sadist, rough where it should have been smooth, sharp where it should have been dull. She hadn’t had a comfortable moment since she first felt it circle her neck.
Besides its weight its other features were pure torture. A heavy flange pressed tightly against her jaw, allowing her only the barest movement up and down. Turning her head hurt, even while she was just thinking of moving it. The collar itself was wide, its sharp edges pressing on her shoulders. Two pointless metal straps cut through her armpits, pulling her shoulders up to meet the unforgiving iron. Her questing fingers had found more than a dozen heavy rings where chains could be attached.
Not that she had free use of her hands. Most of the time they were locked to her belt or somewhere else that would deny their use. It amused ‘them’ on rare occasions to allow her hands to roam, letting her feel just how much a prisoner she was and how hopeless her thoughts of escape.
Bolted to her collar was the cage that held her head, squeezing from every direction. Designed by the same mind that produced her collar, its primary purpose was discomfort. The female victim would gladly attest to its fulfilling every nuance of its intended purpose, but she would much prefer to talk about it from outside, rather than inside.
While in the cage, she could not talk. Just like the medieval branks - from which much of the design was copied - it inhibited speech, even the most primitive grunts and groans. She had lost count of the number of different gags that fitted into the mouthpiece of the cage, robbing her of expression and more often than not, hurting. She particularly hated the spiked ball that rested firmly on her tongue as punishment for some minor violation of the hundreds of rules that now governed her very existence. They had found out her dislike in the course of endless questioning and had used it much more often.
The combined dead weight of the cage and collar was a significant percentage of her body weight. Soaking wet, despite massive breasts, she weighed only a few ounces over a hundred pounds. The good news was that the cage was locked to one of the massive rings on the walls and ceiling of her cell, so much of its weight was suspended above her. The bad news was that the current ring was too far down the wall for her to be able to stand and too high to allow her to lie flat on the rough stone floor. She couldn’t remember how long it had been since her back started hurting from the cramped position.
Time had become a unit, rather than a measure. She had no idea of day or night, breakfast or supper. The food gave her no clue as it was shoved down a tube into her stomach at feeding time, apparently the same mixture of God knows what for every meal, from the foul taste of her burps. She longed to eat a steak again, to enjoy a salad, to chew and swallow normally.
Her first belt had been leather. Somehow she summoned super-human strength and managed to tear it at a seam. The new belt had the same rivets as her collar, made of metal that would dull a diamond cutoff saw. She was suitably punished for attempting to escape and destruction of property, with an extra or two for “conduct unbecoming” or some similar trumped up charge. The belt was actually her third. The second one fit her. That didn’t satisfy them so the next one was three inches shorter. It tunneled across her flat belly forming a channel that might well remain for months or even years. She had begun to think of her bondage in terms of lasting the rest of her life. She seriously expected that the belt would break her spine if she made a wrong move.
Her wrists and ankles were encased in the heaviest of manacles. She could barely lift even one, so even without the chains she would have been hard put to move about. You might say that the chains were for show. With her head cage locked to a ring, in a locked cell, there really was no need for chains. They disagreed and she was chained anyway. Her wrists were joined and in turn joined to her collar. Her ankles were close-chained against the far distant time when she might be allowed to try and walk in her bonds. A non-essential chain joined her ankles to a ring in the stone floor. She remembered once having slack in her chains that allowed at least limited movement. She could feel that they were taut now, as they had been for some time.
The toilet facility was abysmal. A large hole directly beneath her ass cheeks was all they felt she needed. Once a week they came with buckets of cold water and a scrub brush and rubbed her raw, joking at her expense, “Whether she needs it or not.” When they were done she would lie helpless in the puddles until they slowly evaporated, adding to the dankness of the cell.
The cell was not soundproof. She could hear footsteps on the floor above, hear music and dancing, a thought that tortured her poor shackled ankles as she longed to dance again. There was every evidence of life in the rooms above her, in stark contrast to the deathly silence of this dungeon. She moved, rattling her chains, welcoming sound that she made, not what they made. She cried, dry tears, longing and longing as she did so often, longing for the life she had lost to them.
They had come in the night, defeating the rudimentary security system she had reluctantly installed. Her first inkling was a massive weight pinning her to the bed. Wrapped in the sheet and blankets she was helpless as they bound and gagged her and stuffed her into a sleeping bag. She was carried out of the house and into the back of a van. They drove for hours, or days or minutes. She couldn’t tell, her time sense destroyed by the darkness of her bonds. It was several time periods before she realized they had circled and brought her back to her own home, back to the dungeon that dated back nearly to prehistoric times.
She had shown the dungeon and the very cell she was chained in to hundreds of visitors and friends, never dreaming that one day she would move from her comfortable bed in an instant to the cold stone floor of her cell. She certainly never expected, or wanted the implements and tools of torture used on her svelt body, but they made sure she had no choice but to submit.
The tools she had described in vivid detail now carried a double meaning. She knew every intimate detail of what they were, how they were made, and most of all how they were to be used to give the subject the greatest possible amount of pain and suffering with the least expenditure of energy on the part of the torturer. She needed only to see the tool, held before her by the hands that would make the tool work and she already felt the torture in her bones.
Worse, once they had tried a few on her, they made her display her knowledge and explain exactly what she would feel when they began to use it. Once they found the worst, they worked on her until she agreed to sign papers. She was not told what they were, the text covered by another sheet of paper. She would learn that she had signed away her rights to the house and other property, a tidy sum. She threatened immediate legal action whenever she was freed. They laughed and took her back to her cell.
She asked about her husband. She hadn’t seen him since the night she was abducted. Her question was ignored and she was gagged brutally.
They worked on her mental state, although rather crudely. They put microphones in the upstairs rooms and let her listen, especially when there was a party. She grew to enjoy listening and was heartbroken when they would shut off the sound on a whim.
For their own entertainment they would drag her into the main dungeon and put her on the rack. They would gather around her, listening to her bones creak and threaten to rip from their sockets. She would be interrogated for hours. Several evenings were spent trying to force her to reveal any buried treasure or hidden rooms where there might be valuables. That turned out to be a dead end as she had favored banks for her valuables and she had never found even a hidden closet in the house.
Faintly she heard a door opening. She was awake, in pain and unable to sleep, unaware that it was broad daylight outside. She heard footsteps coming toward her cell door. The key turned in the massive lock. A hand came through as the door opened slightly. “Shut your eyes, tight!”
She closed them an instant before a powerful flashlight lit up her face. It was too bright even through her eyelids, so she futilely tried to turn her head, stopped cold by the cage. “Keep ‘em shut” was unnecessary, but like so many parts of her life in this cell, it pleased her captors to pile on the unnecessary.
A blindfold was clipped onto the cage, wadded cloth ensuring she would see nothing. She welcomed the tiny relief from the flashlight’s glare. A padlock opened and she dropped like a rock the few inches to the floor, landing with a clang of metal as her collar drew sparks from the rock. The woman laughed. “Sorry,” she simpered, obviously not sorry at all. She laughed again.
The prisoner was hurting. The collar had dug sharply into her neck and her head had been slammed into the floor. She expected no sympathy and got none, noting the insulting tone but powerless to do anything about it.
She stared at the insides of her eyelids. She felt the woman unlock the hobble between her ankles and then in a moment she dragged the legs and their irons apart and with them spread as wide as possible, locked them to different rings. She vaguely remembered something similar happening to her a long time ago. With her permanently warped time sense it could have been yesterday or a week ago, or much longer.
The woman checked the locks, then pulled her telephone from her belt and pressed a speed dial number. She said, “She’s ready,” and snapped the phone shut. She waited, checking the locks a second time.
Despite it seeming familiar, the prisoner was visibly upset by this sudden, unexpected and unexplained change in her routine. She realized that with her legs spread and chained open she was apparently being readied to be raped. She wished she could remember what had happened the last time, but her mind was blank.
The two women waited a few moments more until they heard the far away door open again. There was a lengthy delay until they could hear the slow measured steps of one man and the shuffling bare feet of a second man. Chains rattled and clashed with each step. The chain noise was louder as the man wearing them was escorted into the cell. The prisoner listened intently, wanting the slightest clue.
All she heard was a slight groan, filtered by some sort of heavy gag. She felt knees between her thighs. Automatically she tugged at her splayed legs, trying to close them, unable to even move the heavy shackles.
She felt a finger inside her, triggering her lubrication. It withdrew slowly, making way for a male cock that slid fully into her. For the first time - in how long? - she felt a male inside her, his pubic hair moving against her labia. So long out of practice she scarcely remembered how to move her hips. Rape or not it was a heaven sent gift from her captors. She felt her skin tear on the rocks beneath her. She ignored it, placing it in a cupboard in her mind, thinking she would have ample time for it to heal, perhaps even that ‘rest of her life’ that she thought about.
She sensed that her partner was also rusty, only slowly getting into the swing and beat of the body he was now lying on. He was breathing harshly in her ear as he fucked her, hands impotently scrabbling at her belt and the hips just below it. He spurted high in her womb, long before she was ready. She felt a pang as it reminded her of endless sex with her husband, marred repeatedly by his premature climax.
She assumed that the man who raped her was blindfolded too. Why, she had no idea. It made no sense, but many of the things they did made no sense at all. He had been bound, another enigma.
He was pulled from between her legs. Semen started to seep out of her, congealing on her tight ass cheeks. She heard chains rattle and, startled, she realized that they were chaining him to the floor next to her. When they were finished, she heard them walk to the door. Her need to be cleaned up was ignored.
She heard the man walk out of the cell. The woman stood in the doorway, swinging her flashlight back and forth across the two bound figures, blindfolded and gagged, confirming that both were safely locked and chained. Finally she spoke.
“We thought you two would like to spend your 60th wedding anniversary together.”
“Good night, Mom. Good night, Dad.”
Copyright 2008 By Raul Roget