Harold wanted to try out a Max Cita straitjacket on me. Max Cita makes many of his jackets to custom measurements, but also does standard sizes. Harold wanted to see how the "medium-large" jacket fit my 6'4" 175# frame. He wasn't going to get the jacket getting dirty, he had been very careful about keeping it out of the basement. I was sent me off to the shower for a second time in less than 24 hours. This one was much quicker. I pulled on a reversible gym shirt and started to mentally prepare myself. I some how felt this bondage session was going be difficult. I may be clean, but I am physically exhausted. I have slept little all week. Harold asks if I wanted pants. I decline. It is quite warm, even in the house. I figured the jacket will be hot enough. I am right. I haven't thought about it yet, but my decision to go pant-less has left me exposed to the cattle-prod.
I didn't have a collar locked on me, or for that matter, any other restraint, when Harold put me into the straitjacket. This lack of restraint seemed to be an exception to the entire week, but it fits in well with the construction/bondage flip-flop week that I am having. If I was actually going to be helpful during the construction, I needed to be free, but the rest of the time, to my delight, I am kept well locked down.
The Max Cita medium-large straitjacket fit me well. There was not much slack even though I had tried to keep some, and all of the strap ends were tucked in. The straitjacket was comfortable, snug, with no excessively tight areas.
He then got out a pair of Humane Restraint ankle cuffs. As he is kneeling down to put them on me, I lay down on my back and stick my feet up in the air. It doesn't seem right to me to have Harold, clearly the top, kneeling at my feet while I stood there. I wonder how many other bottoms feel awkward when the top is kneeling to put cuffs on their ankles?
I am then directed into the plywood cell. It has a sloping ceiling with floor dimensions of about 8 feet by 6 feet. On the floor is another mattress from Bob Barker. I am instructed to lay down on the mattress as Harold chains my feet to a ring in the west wall. Being the pushy bottom that I am, I request that the "D" rings at the shoulders of the jacket also be tied down. This request first results in a few choice comments from Harold about tops being there to serve bottoms, and some appropriate "Yes, Sirs" and "No, Sirs" from me. Harold never seemed to need much encouragement; I'm not just tied down, I am chained and locked down. After he has finished with his final adjustments, I quickly discover that I had gotten more than I had planned for. I can't turn onto my side. I am flat on my back with a 4-inch Bob Barker flame-check mattress for padding, and I was going to stay that way until Harold let me out.
Harold locked the barred door to the cell and started chatting with Bob about the addition. After about 30 minutes, he checked in with me to see how I was doing. I was still erect and still pushy. I asked him to shut the solid door beyond the bars. It was closed and locked after an appropriate comment from Harold about tops being there to fulfill the wishes of bottoms. It was darker than I had expected and quieter, just the way I wanted it. What I hadn't counted on was the cell getting hot and stuffy. I had expected some heat because the cell is directly under the south wall. I was more than "willing" to put up with some discomfort in exchange for the darkness and isolation.
I quickly discovered that the missing skin from the back of my ankles made almost any movement uncomfortable and painful. The heat in the small, almost sealed, cell accelerated my sweating. The salty sweat was painful on the skinned areas. The bandages there helped some, but all-in-all I remained almost motionless.
Even though my ankles where hurting, as best as I could tell, my erection remained rock-hard until Harold checked on me about two hours later. The cell had gotten very hot and stuffy during those two hours. I felt cooler the instant the outer door opened.
I quickly request to have my feet released to get the pressure off of the sores on the back of my ankles. Harold complies, being a nice guy. As soon as my legs are un-chained from the wall I roll over on my side. My mistake. I haven't asked permission to stretch or move. It is clear that this is Harold's excuse for the cattle-prodding I get. I know that Harold would have prodded me anyway, well, because Harold wants to.
A little latter, I ask for some water. Harold says "OK, in exchange for another prod". I think about it and say "No". He then points out that he was going to get what he wants anyway, so that I might as well accept any negotiation he offers. I end up getting both the water and the prod. Around this time I notice that Harold is using an "interesting" (read VERY painful) technique with the prod. He places it on my leg turned off, and then while pulling it down my leg, energizing it. OUCH.
My mind started going about now. I am having lot of confused feelings, though in recollection, they mostly were good ones. I don't feel threatened, but I certainly feel like I am in new territory. I am laughing and crying at the same time. Some snot runs out my nose into my mouth. It's OK. Harold comments "He may not be broken, but he is showing a few cracks". Harold backs off. I didn't get any more prodding, but he didn't just stop, thank heavens. I don't remember everything, but I do remember the straitjacket getting tightened, and having a steel collar locked around my neck and connected to the cage with a chain. I also remember doing some meditative breathing as I was given more water and orange juice. And hearing some comments about orange juice reviving almost anybody.
I am informed that if the OJ doesn't revive me, I can have some chicken noodle soup. This strikes me as an unwanted option. So I tell them "No, I am a vegetarian". The oriental chicken dinner a few nights before was dinner, not an option. There seems to be a real choice when I am "asked".
Next I am fed a previously frozen peanut butter (no jelly) toasted sandwich. It was sticky. I ask for, and get, water to go with it. My hands are then cuffed behind my back and I am fed two slices of microwave-defrosted boiled bread. I am thinking this should be REALLY yucky, but I am finding it very enjoyable.
I am settling down and Harold escorts me down into the basement to get some sleep. Bob seems able to sleep anywhere, any time. Not me. Even though I have gotten very little sleep in the last five days, have done a lot physical work, and now have less steel on me than I had in a long time, I also have a lot to think about.
The handcuffs are still on in front of me. I am still crying some, though it was not clear if the tears are from joy or sadness. Perhaps both. I do decide that I had/have suppressed part of my S&M side too much and far too long. I am profoundly grateful that I decided to visit Harold and Bob. I had thought about contacting them for years. I also am grateful that they said, "Yes, come play."
After a few hours, I am invited up for dinner. Again, I was almost "free", just Hyatt handcuffs in front. Dinner certainly had a relaxed feeling about it. I felt an intense kind of wrung-out relaxed feeling through out myself. I had stir-fried vegetables and rice. Bob and Harold added chicken to their meal.
After dinner I am escorted back down to the cell, wearing my own shirt and shorts. I wasn't tied down at all. No handcuffs or leg irons. I did got Harold to lock the outside door on his way out. This was the third time the outside door was locked. I liked having it locked, even though I couldn't get to it.
At this point that I finally shit at MCF. I had wanted to "leave some of my shit" there. It wasn't very much, but it was symbolic for me.
I sleep better Saturday night than any other night of my stay. I was getting used to my surroundings AND I was dog-tired. I would guess I slept less than four hours.