(This is 1,000% inspired by the beautiful damsel art shared by @awesomeman189 . He is doing great stuff. Do yourself a favor and “Watch” the heck out of him!)
I still don’t have a clue how this happened or who is doing this to me. I haven’t seen the sky since my captivity began. There is no way to estimate the passage of time other than counting orgasms. And those have become far too numerous to keep track of. The truth is, after all of the brutal restraints I’ve escaped from and all of the insane tortures I’ve endured and gotten through, I’ve finally met my match. My unknown adversary has not made the slightest error. Their methods have been precise and emotionless. There has not been a face for me to confront or measure. There have been no motives I could twist to my advantage. If this is personal, they haven’t revealed it in the slightest.
I’m simply being worn down like waves eroding a beach. The relentless but gentle application of pressure combined with patience and a promise to never stop. What chance does the beach have?
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I don’t really wake because loss of one’s senses is not the same thing as sleep. Instead, I’ll simply say, my awareness begins to return in a similar fashion as always. I really shouldn’t use the word “always.” That word reminds me that I can’t remember when this began and I can’t imagine it ending. It’s “always.” So there’s no hope. I travel another notch toward losing myself completely.
I hear myself whimper and sigh. Sound returns first. Noise without a sense of source or direction. The small rooms and dense walls reflect the noise such that it seems to bathe me more than travel to me. I am awash in my pitiful mews.
My sight returns in blurry increments. My eyes never fully open. I cannot spare the effort to lift my eyes lids completely. All of my energy under my conscious control is being used to hang onto the handful of memories that have not evaporated into the ether. Through my half-open eyes, filters by lashes, my view never changes. One small sterile room after another. One for storage, and one for conditioning.
Smell is close behind vision. It may be sooner but the smells are not strong. The faint scent of the leather that cradles and contours and locks my body in its comfortable embrace is subtle but ever-present. I no longer struggle which removed the scents of perspiration. I do, however, produce pungent fluids during the conditioning that is administered. My musky and earth scent wafts freely through the room as a stark contrast to my immobilized, suspended form.
Next comes feeling. I feel my twitch before I feel the humming inside my loins and my ass. The abrupt tug of the bonds arresting my involuntary shutters is more prevalent, now, than the constant orgasm-inducing vibrations imparted to me by the devices plugs into my sockets. It feels like they’ve always been there. Oh goodness. I said “always” again.
I don’t even know why I try. I am more numb than not. I no longer care to rub fingers together to feel something. My toes may curl but I take not notice. My head tosses enough to release a few stray hairs from the harness around my head, but those actions are devoid of intention. I can’t escape. I can barely hold on. They have succeeded in extinguishing hope in me. But I struggle, such that I can, in an effort for one last satisfaction before I am completely overwhelmed and transformed.
I wish to learn “why.”
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I’ve been moved back into storage. The conditioning is paused. The helplessness has not. In fact, the narrow leather straps that bit more deeply into my flesh have been replaced with thicker, padded leather straps to support my weight better for the extended period of inactivity I’ll be experiencing.
I recall a memory, as I do, to sustain the Tina identity. I used to test my bondage. I used to find it fascinating. It gave my mind something constructive, until my tests and explorations revealed the perfection of the rigging. There is nothing fancy or elaborate that could be poorly executed or fail through a random flaw in manufacturing or design. I tried. I tried everything. My arms were pinned securely against my sides. The straps contoured to me and had no slack. The leather was soft but with no give. It was stretched taught when it was wrapped around me and buckled leaving no gaps or opportunities for me to twist or slip them up or down my arms.
My legs, which is where the vast majority of my strength used to be, are always completely immobilized. The thick bands of leather comprising the frogtie would be enough. Both legs are folded away, powerless. The position of the frogtie straps on my shins instead of my ankles might have provided a tiny bit of leverage. Only, that was done intentionally to allow the space to apply another leather straps securing my ankles to each other. There is also a connection between my thighs keeping my legs seals against each other. My ankles are also tethered to my waist and ankles, or my ankles and waist. They’re all connected by the crotch strap and as much as I tried, I simply couldn’t figure out precisely the order in which those body parts had been bound.
At some point it was crushing to realize that the time I spent trying to solve that puzzle was completely irrelevant. I’d never find the answer and if I did, the answer would not help.
I don’t know how, but my captor knew that I’d given up that mental task and they penalized me by adding straps to my toes and my arches. This did not enhance my helplessness but it certainly compounded my shame of failure.
The real dread came when my testing of my wrist restraints revealed just how thorough my captors designs were. My arms were encased from wrist to elbow in a single piece sheath of leather tightened and perfectly formed around my arms with multiple buckles that were positioned well out of reach of my desperate fingers. The leather “sleeve” was long enough and solid enough to prevent any twisting or flexing of my arms. I used every small exploratory movement I could think of. If I could find even the smallest gap somewhere between leather and flesh I’d have a chance. There was none. It was a perfect system.
Desperation took over and I thrashed with all of my strength. I barely rocked in my leather swing. My arms didn’t budge. My hands shook and I screamed in rage and actual fear.
I’m being stored, no different than clothes of another season. Just an object to be used up later.
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Things are clear now. I’m never going to be free, either to move or to think. The last of my will is being used up. The last of my identity is fading. I’ll never know what this was about. My conditioning will be complete any moment and one of the very last things that I am aware of is that I will NOT even know when the final transformation will be complete. I will never process how I’m used after that. I will never struggle again. I will just go on as designed.
There is nothing left but to wait.
(Forgive any somberness. I was feeling more expressive than usual and just a tinge melancholy. But all is well. 😊 )