Part One (of three)
What is the worst thing about being single? For me it’s obvious. Dating. Oh how I hate dating. All that false politeness and incessant babble about tedious crap just to avoid awkward silences. And you know after five minutes that he’s not the one for you. Not number two either, in fact probably not even in your top ten, but yet the date has to grind on to its insincere conclusion of ‘I’ll call you’. I would try speed dating if the very concept was not so awful. But you can’t just bumble along through life hoping that exactly what you want will serendipitously fall into your lap. I’ve learned the hard way that you get what you strive and work for, and if I want to meet my number one before I meet my pension then I have to make the effort, take the chance, swallow the pill and go dating.
I try to be open minded in my dating. Cast my net wide, give the benefit of the doubt, and not decide that my catch is inedible until I’ve at least tasted it. I only have two rules and I never break them. The first of these is that I never sleep with anyone on a first date. Call me old fashioned, but if I’m going to invite someone to place parts of their body inside mine then I’d like to get to know that someone a little first, for basic hygiene reasons if nothing else. And my second rule is never to date anyone from work. The office might be an obvious place to find potential mates, but if it doesn’t work out then I can’t imagine anything worse than having to meet and work with them every day afterwards.
And so as I lie here in the murky twilight world between sleep and awakeness, I’m aware that last night I threw both of my unbreakable rules to the wind. I went out with someone from work and I slept with him on our first date. I’m trying to tell myself that it’s okay. Edward is my company accountant and he’s freelance, so he’s not technically from work. If this all goes horribly wrong then I can just fire him and get another accountant. And in any case, being my accountant he already knows all my intimate financial secrets, so is it so terrible if he knows my intimate sexual ones too? And as for fucking on a first date, well it’s not like I haven’t known him for several years. It’s fine. Rules can be broken in the right circumstances.
It might be premature to judge, being as I’ve not made to the morning after yet, but my date with Edward seems to have gone against the usual flow of things and has been just about perfect in every way. For a start there is Edward himself. I wouldn’t describe him as hunky or handsome; beautiful is more the word I would use. He’s young and tall and thin, impeccably clean shaven and has hair almost as long as mine. If he were to put on a dress then I think you’d be hard pushed to tell he was anything other than a woman, and an attractive one at that, but yet he turns my office into a cauldron of female hormones whenever he’s there. I’m pretty sure all the young women who work for me have a thing for him, but I’m one up on all of them because it’s me he’s chosen to go out with.
And so last night, feeling rather proud of my catch and looking, if I say so myself, pretty dam hot, I was off for a Friday night date. I had gone for a casual, but sexy-as-hell look, featuring a leather biker jacket, short enough to keep my bum on view, over a white silk top with a low neckline that displayed plenty of pushed-up bosom, and the tightest jeans in my wardrobe that I can still squeeze into, if only just. Over the jeans I wore a pair of black knee-length boots with five inch stilettos. I wasn’t sure how much walking was going to be involved but I’m pretty good in heels and reckoned I’d be okay. And of course such heels are a real statement of how you’d like the evening to go. It started well with a West End show, ‘Young Frankenstein, The Musical’, and what a fabulous show it was. Frau Blücher, naaa-aaa-aayyy! After the show there was dinner in a wonderful Mexican restaurant with fajitas and Mojitos aplenty. And after that there was of course that simple question that has so many hidden meanings; ‘Do you want to come back to my place for coffee?’ And I shamefully replied that if I was going to go all the way out to Hammersmith, for I knew that’s where he lived, then it had better be for more than just coffee.
A cab ride across Central London later, I found myself thinking that I was perhaps paying Edward too much for his accountancy services, for what kind of normal, young, working person can afford a detached house complete with garden in Hammersmith? He said he had inherited it from his parents and I was left wondering what had happened to them, for he didn’t look a day past his mid-twenties. Inside the tastefully modernised Victorian house, Edward began the ritual of making coffee, but neither of us was really interested in small talk over a hot beverage. There were other matters that were hot and they took priority. And here he showed a skill and control that seemed at odds with his apparent young age. He teased me and caressed me for what seemed like an age while holding himself back, keeping his powder dry until I was past the point of no return. And just when it seemed I was about to receive what my fanny was screaming for, he got close to my ear, nibbled it and then whispered very quietly.
“Have you ever been tied up before?”
It was a hell of a question to impose on a woman who was on the verge of begging for his cock. An unfair question loaded with innuendo and suggestion. And if I answered ‘no’ then did that make me out to be conventional, inexperienced and perhaps rather boring? That I, a woman perhaps ten years his senior had still not achieved some sexual pinnacle of which he was already a master? But to answer ‘yes’, well that might show me as cool and broad-minded, but did it also carry an implication of consent for it to happen again? Perhaps I could have just ignored the question and demanded his cock, but in the end I answered ‘yes’, partly to avoid appearing square, and partly because it was actually the truth. Or at least I thought it was the truth, but I was wrong. What I had thought of as being tied up turned out to be little more than having a few ropes wrapped around me by someone who had little idea of what he was doing. Symbolic bondage, easily overcome by some determined tugging and wriggling. Edward’s idea of being tied up was, as I was to discover, rather more onerous. It was not until I was stretched out on his bed like a starfish that I realised what being tied up really felt like. No amount of struggling and squirming was apparently going to result in freedom, and that meant total and complete helplessness, vulnerability, terror, and lust. But at last I got what I needed. He put himself inside me and it was almost embarrassing how instantly I climaxed. Long and hard and intense, shuddering and writhing in my bonds. I think it might have been noisy too. But if I’d thought that was it and it was all over then I was wrong again. With consummate skill, Edward worked me back from the dead land that lies beyond orgasm. He built me up again and held me at the edge, calming himself or even withdrawing from me completely if he felt I was too close. Again and again he frustrated me, working me into a frenzy until he was ready and allowed us both to descend into the fires of hell and joyous damnation.
I’m not sure what happened after that. I might have passed out, or maybe just my memory packed up. I can’t imagine I just fell asleep, but I have no recollection of being untied or of how it all ended. And even now I’ve no idea how long I’ve been asleep. It’s the middle of the night obviously because it’s pitch dark. Incredibly dark actually, considering we’re in London, a place of a million streetlights.
It’s now that it occurs to me that I’m thinking very clearly for a woman who’s still half asleep. This blackness is unnatural, and so is this feeling in my face. I reach up with my hands but it’s not my face that they find. I can feel my fingers on my cheeks but there’s something in between. Some kind of fabric. I feel it and find its edge. I pick at it and lift it and my eyes yelp in distress as I am suddenly blinded by the brightest of all lights. A few seconds later I am free of the thing and can see all around me in perfect clarity. I’m in Edward’s bedroom, in his bed, the room is brightly lit by the sun streaming through the window, Edward is nowhere to be seen, and I was wearing a blindfold.
Fucking hell. What happened to me last night? How many Tequilas and Mojitos did I actually have? And exactly what sort of kinky sex went on after I was tied to the bed? I look at the blindfold in my hand; a simple strip of what feels and looks like black leather, formed into a loop by a strip of elastic and with a small triangular cut-out. I hold it up to my eyes and let my nose poke through the cut-out. It is certainly effective at keeping its wearer in the dark. I put down the blindfold and look around the room. There’s a clock on the bedside table. It says it’s a quarter to eleven. Shit, I’ve slept that late? And where the fuck is Edward? I’m suddenly very awake and I realise there’s something else that’s not normal, and it’s not normal in my nether regions. I throw the thin duvet off the bed and stare down at myself, and I can’t believe what I see.
The human brain has a remarkable ability to recognise and understand things which it has never consciously encountered before. I don’t remember ever having come across a chastity belt before, not even seen one in a film, but I’m pretty sure I’m looking at one right now. What else could the shiny metal thing that’s wrapped around my waist and crotch be? The latest style from French Connection? I don’t think so. In a state of rising panic I try to climb off the bed and in doing so realise that there’s more to this chastity belt than just a steel thong. I get myself standing in front of a large mirror and take in the full enormity of what I’m wearing.
It is indeed a metal thong of a sort. It has a waistband which is very tight and indents itself into the soft, squishy flesh of my abdomen. From this waistband it descends over my pubic mound and through my crotch, covering all my intimate parts like a tight fitting shield. Behind me it continues its vague impression of a thong, becoming a narrow band that is forced into my bum cleavage by the tightness of the whole thing. I push and pull at it, trying to get it off me but it doesn’t budge. I can hardly get a finger under its waistband and it’s even snugger fitting over my fanny. I can’t believe I was lying in bed and didn’t notice what I’m clamped inside. And there is more to this awful looking device. Around each of my thighs is a shiny metal band, each one a miniature version of the belt’s waistband, and these similarly indent themselves into the soft, muscly flesh of my legs. The bands are linked together by a short chain of just three links and it is this that restricted my efforts to get off the bed quickly. I doubt if I can move my knees more than six inches apart before the chain pulls tight.
Cursing with anger I try to slide the bands down my legs. It looks as if they might just slip over my knees and feet, but the effort is thwarted by the connecting chain, the centre link of which I discover is joined to a metal rod that tethers it to the crotch part of the belt. The bands are going nowhere without the belt and that feels like it’s welded to me.
I scream in shock and frustration. I try to run out of the bedroom, but the thigh chain slows me to a mincing walk. On the landing I start shouting for Edward. He’s taking this thing off me right now! He had no fucking right to put it on me in the first place. Fucking bastard. Where is he?
Still shouting Edward’s name I head for the stairs, and here I stop. That chain. How am I going to get down the stairs with that thing hobbling my legs? I try to calm down and experiment while tightly holding on to the bannister. Descending the stairs normally is just about possible if I take it slowly and pull the bands tightly into my thighs to get some extra movement. Easier is to go down sideways, bending one knee and lowering the opposite foot onto the stair below. I have to keep a lid on my anger and concentrate, but once at the bottom I’m away again, walking through the house yelling obscenities at a man who is nowhere to be found.
And now I have another problem. I need to pee, and it’s rapidly becoming urgent. And how the fuck am I supposed to do that with this monstrosity clamped around me? Perhaps I should just let go right here in his living room. Presumably it would seep out from under the belt and dribble all over his carpet, and maybe his sofa, and that fancy hifi, and the rocking chair in the bay window. And it would serve him right for doing this to me. But of course the humiliating thought of dribbling around his living room is infinitely worse than the potential satisfaction of some token of revenge. In the hallway I find a door into a downstairs toilet and I sit myself down on the loo. Not knowing exactly what’s going to happen I let go, and to my surprise it all happens fairly normally. After the flow stops I investigate a little and find there is a small opening in the crotch shield of the belt through which I have apparently discharged myself. It’s wet with my urine and I try to wipe it dry with some paper, but of course I can’t dry anywhere under the shield and I just have to sit and wait for it to stop dripping out of that little opening. It’s disgusting and humiliating, and it gets worse as I wonder what other fluids might be lurking under there after last night’s sexual activities. Did he clean me before he put this thing on me? Oh God, what a horrible thought.
As I sit I can feel my anger being replaced by misery. How has this happened to me, and why? And it occurs to me that perhaps my anger is not justified. I can’t remember what happened last night and perhaps I agreed to this. Surely not. And why can I not remember? Did he drug me or something? I bet that’s it, the bastard drugged me. That’s why I slept so late. I wipe away tears from my eyes. I’m not going to be a miserable victim. Angry, be angry instead. It will keep me strong and get me through this, somehow.
Suddenly there’s the sound of a door closing, and there are footsteps in the house. Is that him? Is he back from wherever he’s been? Or shit! Is it someone else? I’m naked, except for this fucking belt of course, and I’m in someone else’s house, and that could be anyone who’s just come in. I have to know if it’s him.
“Edward?” I call, trying to keep my voice as neutral as possible.
“Morning Sleepy Head,” comes the reply.
It’s his voice. Thank fuck for that. Now then Claire, be cool. Angry but cool. No hysterics, just get him to take this thing off you. Then we can have hysterics. I get up off the toilet and head towards the sound of cupboard doors and clinking bottles.
“Good morning,” he says matter-of-factly as I enter the kitchen. “Hope you don’t mind me popping out and leaving you but you were sleeping so peacefully. I’ve been shopping and I’ve got breakfast. Bacon and Egg McMuffins.”
He holds up a McDonald’s bag and waves it at me with a cheery smile.
“Edward, what the fuck is this?” I say tersely while pointing at my metallic crotch.
“Err, it looks like a chastity belt.”
“I can see that. What exactly is it doing on me?”
“Well it’s a chastity belt. It’s keeping you out of mischief. Stopping you masturbating, that sort of thing.”
“Don’t fuck with me Edward. I know what it’s for. What I want to know is why you put it on me.”
“Isn’t that obvious?”
“No it’s not fucking obvious. Tell me why!”
“Well to put it bluntly Claire, you’re a slut. And you need to learn some discipline if you’re going to be my woman.”
“SLUT? YOUR WOMAN? How dare you! Just who the fuck do you think you are? Get this thing off me right now.”
“I think you’re rather missing the point Claire. You don’t get to say when it comes off. What would be the point in locking up your naughty bits if you can get to demand when they get unlocked? You want extra sauce in your muffin?”
“I don’t want a sodding muffin, I want this thing off me. Right now.”
“Not going to happen Claire. Sure you don’t want a muffin?”
“Yes it is going to happen. NOW! Get it off me.”
“Look, if it makes it any easier, there’s no point in arguing because I can’t take it off you even if I wanted to.”
“What do you mean, can’t take it off? It will come off won’t it? It must unlock somehow. You’ve got a key right?”
“No, not exactly.”
“What?”
“I sort of anticipated this conversation and thought I’d stop it turning into a lengthy argument. So when I was out just now I dropped both the keys in the post. Special Delivery, next working day guaranteed, so maybe Monday, but Royal Mail are a bit vague on Saturday being a working day, so Tuesday seems more likely.”
“This isn’t funny Edward. Are you seriously telling me you’ve locked me in this thing and you can’t release me before Tuesday? How fucking dare you?”
“I think you need to calm down Claire before you burst a blood vessel. You’ve gone quite red in the face. And as for ‘how fucking dare you’, well you agreed to it.
“What? I agreed?”
“You did.”
“When?”
“Last night. I think your exact words were something like, ‘Oh yes Edward, tie me up. Tie me up and then have your wicked way with me’. Well this is my wicked way.”
“Don’t talk shit. Wicked way? Since when did that mean locking someone in a fucking chastity belt?”
“My wicked way. Seems fairly unambiguous to me. I know what my wicked ways are. Maybe you should have researched that before agreeing to them.”
“Fuck off Edward. And get me out of this thing!”
“Pay attention Claire. No key until Tuesday remember?”
“I don’t believe that.”
“I thought you wouldn’t. Got a receipt here. Check the date.”
“This doesn’t prove shit. Only that you posted something. Could have been an empty envelope.”
“Could have been, but wasn’t. I can’t unlock you until Royal Mail delivers the means and that won’t be till Tuesday, by which time you might have calmed down and we can talk about where this relationship is going.”
“Fuck you, you arrogant prick! Relationship? There is no fucking relationship, certainly not a sexual one and not a professional one either if you don’t get me out of this thing right now.”
“Sacking your accountant with your company floatation fast approaching is a brave thing to do, but if that’s what you want then so be it. As I said, I can’t unlock your belt until Tuesday whatever you threaten.”
“I’ve had enough of this. One last chance, get this thing off me or I’ll go to the police.”
“The police? That sounds a bit extreme doesn’t it? Not like you can say I raped you.”
“It’s got to be some sort of crime. Sexual assault or something.”
“Maybe. Would that be before or after you demanded that I tie you up and ravish you?”
“I’m going upstairs to get dressed. You have until I come down to decide to get me out of this belt or else I’m going to the police. Your choice Sunshine. Let’s see who’s locked up in the end.”
I walk out of the kitchen, slamming the door behind me and try to stomp up the stairs noisily but I’m thwarted by the accursed thigh chain. I have to calm down and find the careful, sideways method for climbing the stairs and by the time I get to the top the fire has weakened in my anger and I’m starting to feel sorry for myself again. In the bedroom I find my clothes and start to get dressed but immediately I can see that there’s going to be a problem, and as I think through its implications I sink to a new low and break down into a fit of tears. The thigh chain means I can’t pull my jeans on, and neither my silk top nor leather jacket are long enough to cover the shiny, metal obscenity that’s clamped around me. Just how on Earth am I going to get out of here and make it home looking like this? It’s all too much and I collapse onto the bed and bury my head in the duvet. It’s a bad dream. It has to be. Why can’t I wake up form it?
“Those jeans, they were very sexy Claire.”
I look up and see Edward standing in the doorway.
“You looked truly incredible in them with the boots, but a bit of a no-go for you now I suppose. Sorry about that. But the good news is that I saw this coming and didn’t just shop for breakfast this morning. I bought you a helpful gift too.”
He enters the bedroom and gently places a bag on the bed beside me before retreating back to the landing and closing the door behind him. I look at the anonymous white bag he has left, and inside it I find a clothes hanger with a Dior logo on it. Fitted in the clasps of the hanger is a black leather skirt. In other circumstances I might have found it a beautiful and stylish piece of clothing, but in the here and now it represents my complete humiliation. I can’t get his fucking contraption off me and I can’t even storm out of his house and go home without accepting his gift. He shows that he has anticipated exactly how this was all going to pan out, how he has controlled me and forced me into this impossible situation where I must participate in my own humiliation by dressing myself up like some sort of leather fetish doll just so I can escape his house. I feel utterly used and defeated.
oOo
And so dressed in my tart boots, a skirt that’s ten years too young for me, and my short jacket zipped up against a chilly April wind, I angrily hobble out of Edward’s house spitting obscenities back at him and head off to find a taxi. I must look like some sort of leather fetishist, or a hooker heading home after a busy night. I curse at the heels of my boots which cop-cop noisily on the concrete pavement and seem to shout to anyone around that there’s something to look at.
Edward’s house is in a quiet residential street. There seems little chance of a cab passing and so I start walking to find somewhere with more traffic. I consider calling an Uber, but I daren’t stand around waiting for it looking like this. I could get arrested for soliciting. The skirt is short and tight, but the chain underneath it is tighter and it makes a chink-chink noise as it tugs at the bands around my thighs. It makes me feel very precarious.
I turn the corner at the end of the street and a blast of chilly wind hits me and blows up under my skirt. It feels like a little piece of Siberia just tried to eat me out. Repelled by my metal shield it retreats and leaves me to ponder my next move. There is traffic now, but of course no sign of a cab when you need one. Further on I can see the sign for an underground station. Could I bear sitting on the tube looking like this? I decide to head for the station and if there are no cabs by the time I get there then I’ll tough up and take the tube.
There are shops in this road and as I walk I start to see my reflection in their windows. To my surprise, rather than confirming that I look like a ridiculous tart, the reflections show me a rather cool and sexy looking woman. Her hair is hardly a shampoo ad, but it billows about in the breeze looking big and sultry. Her legs look long and shapely. Her boots are sexy and so is that skirt. The zipped jacket fits snugly over some serious curves, and is it actually possible to wear too much leather? Does it really matter if what little make-up remains is smudged and obviously left over from last night? And that soundtrack, cop-cop, chink-chink. How sexy is that?
I can feel my spirits start to lift a little. By the time I get to the station I’m no longer trying to avoid anyone else in the street. A black cab finally appears with its light on but fuck it, I’m getting the tube and people can stare if they want to.
By the time I’m stepping onto a train my burst of confidence is starting to wane. It’s late Saturday morning, not the busiest of times on the tube, and there are plenty of empty seats, but they throw up an awful dilemma. My skirt is only just long enough to cover the thigh bands when I’m standing. If I sit then it will surely ride up a little and reveal a suggestive glimpse of my shiny metal underwear, but if I stand on an uncrowded train then I make myself more visible and conspicuous. Nervously I choose a seat opposite two elderly ladies and carefully lower myself onto it. I look down and my fears are confirmed as I see the rubber edging of the thigh bands peeking out from under the skirt’s hem. The two old ladies don’t seem to have noticed though and so I squeeze my knees together and plonk my handbag on my lap to hide as much as possible. Then I do the London thing. I zone out, avoid eye contact, and pretend there’s no one else on the train.
As the train trundles along I wonder what I’m actually going to do next. I’m not of course going to the police. I’ve had more than enough humiliation for one day and thought of some desk sergeant smirking at me as I explain my problem is just too horrible to contemplate. I’ve just got to get this belt off me and then I’ll decide what I’m going to do about Edward. I’m a slut and I’m his woman am I? Well we’ll fucking see about that. But how exactly am I going to get free of this thing? I could go to A+E, presumably they’d have something that could cut it off, but it’s hardly a medical emergency and again the humiliation would be too much to bear. I have a few girlfriends that I could perhaps confide in but I rather doubt any of them could provide much more than sympathy. A hundred years of feminism hasn’t really instilled a passion for metalwork in any woman I know.
Unable to think of any other plan I just head for home. Safely back inside my castle I slightly reluctantly strip off my leather tart, or possibly babe outfit and empty the whole contents of my hot water tank over myself in the shower. I don’t come out until it starts to run cold. Perhaps I’m hoping that this dam thing will wash off or rust away, but of course it does neither. I suppose I should be grateful it hasn’t shrunk. I stand and look at myself in the mirror, wet and naked and with my metal adornments looking shiny and unyielding. And as with the shop windows earlier, the reflection that stares back at me seems at odds with how I feel. The woman in the mirror looks devastatingly sexy. The woman in front of the mirror feels abused and frightened and she pushes away any nagging thoughts that the whole thing might be in any way erotic or sexy.
Wrapped in a big, fluffy bath robe I make myself some belated breakfast and coffee and slump down on my sofa. The robe feels soft and comfy, a sharp contrast from the rigid metalwork that lies beneath it. For my crotch and thighs it is just uncomfortable, but my waist is really starting to object to the relentless tightness of what’s clamped around it. It has to come off.
I Google up ‘metal cutting’ to see what my options might be. The results are not encouraging. Things with scary sounding names like plasma cutters, carborundum discs and even lasers all seem to involve huge showers of red hot sparks and molten metal. There’s no way any of those are going anywhere near my delicate body parts. Slightly less terrifying are things called tin snips and bolt cutters. These don’t appear to produce any fireworks, but they have bulky looking jaws that look like they need access to both sides of the metal. I can’t even get my finger under the belt let alone one of these devices. But then I find a rather humble looking tool that might do the job without mortally wounding me. It’s called a hacksaw, and it’s cheap, and it can be bought in any hardware shop.
With the prospect of victory over Edward and his contraption buoying me up I’m dressed and off shopping in a flash. No more tart clothes. No more leather. No more challenging heels to walk in. I’ve cut the crotch out of some old leggings so I can get them on, and have a calf length, floaty skirt over them. A long coat and sensible shoes mean I’m not attracting anyone’s attention and I’m heading for the nearest hardware shop. That chain is still there though and now that my stride is no longer restricted by five inch heels it feels even more noticeable. It chinks away merrily as it restricts my walking but it won’t be there for much longer. I’m out to buy a hacksaw, and I’m feeling rather frisky.
In the shop I’m served by a pleasant young man who apparently guesses that I don’t know much about hacksaws.
“What are you intending to cut Miss,” he asks me helpfully.
“Well actually, I’m locked in a chastity belt and need to cut it off.”
“Oh. Heh Heh. That’s err, something I don’t hear every day. Would you like some spare blades?”
“I don’t know. How long do they last?”
“Depends what you’re cutting. Mild steel is quite easy on them, but if it’s stainless then they wear out quickly.”
“Hmmm. I’m not sure. How can I tell?”
“If it’s got any rust on it then it’s probably mild steel. If it's a dull grey colour then it might be galvanised. If it’s completely shiny then it could be stainless.”
“Well it’s very shiny. And I had a shower and it didn’t go rusty.”
“Errr…”
“I’ll take some spare blades. Just in case.”
I leave the shop feeling rather cool and naughty and leaving a rather flustered young man behind. It’s been a while since I flirted like that with a total stranger and it’s a shame that I dressed so frumpily. Perhaps I should call back sometime in my leather tart outfit and ask him out.
Back in my flat I strip off and assess how I’m going to achieve my victory. The key to success appears to be the waistband. If I can cut through it then the crotch piece will just fall away and the thigh bands will slide down my legs and over my feet. But my confidence looks like it might have been premature. The waistband is tightly indented into my waist and I can’t slide the hacksaw’s blade over it because of my flesh bulging out around it. The only place it really exposes itself behind my spine and even here the hacksaw is kept at bay by the curve of my bum. There is a bulge in the waistband at the back where the crotch band joins it which I assume to be the lock. I could perhaps cut into it but it’s so awkward to do anything behind my back and the hacksaw has sharp teeth which feel like they could do me some serious damage if I get it wrong. I could perhaps cut through the crotch part at the front where it goes over my pubic mound, but that would only loosen it. To get rid of it completely I’d have to cut it at the back too and this I could maybe just about do where it emerges from the top of my bum cleavage, but it would still leave me trapped in the waistband and with possible sharp edges left to cut into me. I let out a scream of frustration. It seems I am defeated again.
I start to wonder if I’m just going to have to wait until Tuesday. And to be honest it’s not the prospect of wearing the belt until then that is so awful. It’s now Saturday evening and I’ve nearly done one day in it. I’m sure I could survive another three. Other than my sanity, it’s only really my waist that’s struggling to cope. But it’s the thought of having to go begging to Edward that fills me with dread. To show him that he’s won and that I’ve lost. Completely. And what act of further humiliation will be his price for unlocking me? What if he just refuses to unlock me? What then?
I have to score something. Even if he is to win, I can’t let his victory be complete. I look down at the belt. It hugs me and pulls itself into my flesh to protect itself but there is one part that cannot hide from my hacksaw. The thigh chain. If I can cut through that then the bands will slide off my legs and they at least will be free and I will not be a complete failure. I will have to get Edward to unlock the rest and no doubt pay his price for that, but at least I will have something on the scoreboard. And I’ll be able to walk normally for the next three days. I spread my knees apart, pulling the chain as tight as I can to keep it steady and go to work on it with my hacksaw.
I cut away until my arms are tiring and my thighs are burning from the strain of holding the chain tight, but when I stop to examine my progress it doesn’t look good. The teeth are almost gone from the hacksaw blade but the chain is barely even scratched. Trying desperately to hold back my complete breakdown and surrender, I change to a new blade and try again. The result is exactly the same. And now from the internet I learn about hardened steel. Heat treated, apparently with extra carbon to make it un-cutable except by the hot, fire and sparks devices.
Defeat. Total and utter defeat.
Part Two is here: