Down the Rabbit Hole
  Copyright 2001 by dungeonmouse

    He wakes to pitch black; his mouth dry and sore; his arms and legs stiff and throbbing; his body assailed by pinches, stabs and needles.  He lurches up and slams into something hard.  His body does not work right.  Nothing moves and everything throbs.  He hears scrapes and rattles and gasps.  Then he remembers.  They are in her dungeon.  They went down the rabbit hole, chained to a steel pillar in a concrete cell.  He pulls against the chains, fighting their grip.  Panic floods his brain.  Fear rises in his throat.  He must escape; he must get out of the chains.  Deep in his mind the wail begins.  He sweats and babbles and thrashes as he feels their approach.  The Furies are coming.

    His trip down the rabbit hole began innocently enough.  He met a girl on a bondage website and began corresponding.  Both preferred self-bondage with chains.  Both owned manacles and leg irons and collars.  Both enjoyed long-term wear, puttering around the house or sleeping in their chains.  Both wore bondage articles under their clothing and dabbled in public wear.  Both held steady jobs in professional fields.  He rented a nice apartment in the city.  She had recently bought a house in a town a pleasant drive away.  Amazingly, both were honest.  He was really a he, not a body builder or movie star, but nice looking and fit by virtue of sporadic workouts and a body that refused to gain weight.  She was really a she, plain but slender and fit by virtue of regular workouts on her more obstinate body.
    She took the first plunge down the rabbit hole.  Her house had a basement and the basement had a steel support column.  She inquired about the column from the realtor.  His vague answers did not satisfy her so she contacted an engineer.  He examined the column and pronounced it sturdy enough to withstand anything.  She searched the Net and found a nearby welder and craftsman who did dungeons and furniture when not straightening automotive body work.  The welder fitted the column and the walls of her basement with various attachments to her specifications, collected his check and offered to help her try them out.  She smiled and passed on the offer.
    She wasn’t online the following weekend.  They normally chatted on Friday nights, trying to tease each other into something daring over the weekend.  He sent her an email and went to bed wearing his chains.  She wasn’t online the next morning and did not answer his email.  Late Saturday night he got a badly garbled email about a rabbit hole and something called furies.  He sent a reply and worried.  Sunday morning, she logged on and asked for his phone number.  Minutes later, she called and told him about her descent into a new world.  Friday night, she set a timer to turn off a light in the basement, leave it off for twenty-four hours, then turn it back on.  She belted in a dildo and ass-plug, strapped on her favorite gag, fastened her heaviest collar, manacles and leg irons around her limbs and chained herself to the steel column in her new dungeon.  The keys hung from her belt.  She used a combination lock to hold her chained wrists just above her head.  Once the combination lock closed, she would be chained to the column for twenty-four hours.  When the lights came back on, she could release the combination lock.  She clicked the lock shut and waited. 
    What happened over the next twenty-four hours came across the phone line almost as garbled as her email. Words from opposite ends of the spectra followed one another in close harmony. “Thrilling pain.”  “Agonizing caress.”  “Razor slashes of distilled pleasure.”  She couldn’t remember having an orgasm but described her experience in glowing phrases usually reserved for sexual explosions of great magnitude.  When the dungeon light finally came on, she released herself and dashed upstairs to share her tale with him, hence the garbled email.  Still excited, she considered chaining herself to the column for another twenty-four hours, but Nature intervened.  Before returning to the dungeon, she went to the bathroom to pee and removed her gag and plugs.  Relieved of those stimulating intrusions, she fell asleep on the toilet.  Waking to a state of exhaustion, she went to bed wearing her chains and slept.  Sunday, she contacted him to explain further and invite him for a trip down the rabbit hole.
    He hesitated.  She obviously had experienced something profound, but he wasn’t sure what.  In the cold light of day, her descriptions sounded straight from a Stephen King novel.  But her enthusiasm was contagious.  Frightened by the sound of his voice, he agreed to her invitation and arranged to visit her house in two weeks over a long weekend.  She insisted on the long weekend, citing the extra time for recovery, but the schedule she sketched didn’t contain much recovering. 
    He spent the next two weeks swinging between excitement and dread.  They emailed and phoned constantly, discussing the details of their adventure.  He wanted to try the same routine she’d experienced.  She wanted a longer confinement since she’d already “blazed that trail.”  He wanted their sessions separate, with the free person acting as a safety observer for the bound.  She wanted them bound together.  His arguments were calm, clear and rational.  Her arguments were enthusiastic, tortured and successful.  He was a moth circling a candle, assured a messy demise but drawn to that demise by an irresistible force.  Thursday night he packed his restraints and put the bag in his car.  His clothes went in a gym bag.  Only one change needed for a weekend spent naked!  Friday after work, he drove directly to her house arriving after dark on the summer evening.
    The garage door rolled up as he stopped in the driveway.  An athletic woman wearing a startling array of metal and no clothes stood in the lighted doorway.  She waved him into the empty half of the two-car garage.  He parked and climbed out as she opened he door for him. 
    She made quick work of their first meeting.  A hug and a peck on the cheek, then she led him to the guest room, moving fast for someone wearing leg irons.  There she practically tore his clothes off while also opening his toy bag, arranging his equipment on the bed and hanging his change of clothes in the closet.  She admired his toys while helping him don them and showing him hers.  He’d worn his medium ball weight and butt plug under his clothes.  Opting for comfort over style, he’d worn his old leather belt for the plug instead of the new metal trimmed one.  She had a metal belt and crotch strap, both lined with neoprene holding in both a butt plug and dildo.  He thought they might “show each other their thingies” but she dismissed the idea, fearing if they started looking too closely at each other they’d end up screwing each others’ brains out.  She described her plugs to him instead as “those big knobby bastards.”  She helped him fasten on his collar and cuffs.  He wore an older pair of heavy steel but lined with leather and comfortable for long term wear.  Her cuffs were all stainless and custom made to a full contact fit.  Their trainer harnesses and gags were similar except she used a penis gag while he had a ball gag.  She helped him chain his wrists and ankles together, as hers were, with about eighteen inches of chain.  All through the proceedings, she peppered him with questions.  Had he fasted and cleaned himself out?  Yes.  Had he worn everything for long periods and was it all comfortable?  Yes.  Did he have anything new?  No.  When she was done, everything was in place except the gags.
    She grabbed his hand and led him to the basement.  His head spun with the sudden transformation from yuppie to dungeon slave.  His heart pounded and his skin flushed.  He had a mild erection but could feel the hormones raging through his body.  In the dungeon, she had everything laid out and a checklist stuck to the wall.  He argued feebly once more for separate sessions but she turned on her womanly charms and convinced him nothing would compare with doing this together.  With a smiling face and shaking knees, he agreed.
    They both focused on the checklist, knowing a misstep here could be deadly.  They set the timers and checked the battery backup.  He’d insisted she get two extra timers and the battery after hearing she’d done the first trip with only one timer.  When he’d asked her about a power failure, she’d shrugged and said “Longer is better.  You’ll see.”  The fire in her words rippled through his soul.  But the battery and extra timers still comforted him.  He set the timers for twenty-four hours, then nodded when she reset them for forty-eight hours.  She closed a cover on the timers so the dial wouldn’t light the dungeon and they could not see the time remaining.  They checked the keys tied to their belts and made sure the keys worked the locks.  They trial fitted the chains to make sure everything was the right length and in the right place.
    At last they were ready.  They stood back to back on opposite sides of the column and made the final attachments as she read from the checklist.  They spread their legs apart near the limit of their leg irons and padlocked the outer rings of the cuffs to chains attached to the floor.  They stood up and straddled a pipe projecting from each side of the column.  The pipes gave them a place to sit and were placed so the wrist and collar chains would be snug, not tight, while sitting.  About two inches in diameter, the steel pipes pushed their plugs deliciously.  They padlocked a chain from each side of the column to the sides of their collars.  With a quick “See you on the other side” she slid her gag into her mouth and fastened it in place.  She took a little longer than he since her trainer harness screwed together.  He collected his thoughts, trying to fathom this thing he was about to do, but drew a blank.  She tossed her screwdriver into a far corner of the dungeon and slapped him on the thigh.  He put his gag in place and locked it with a padlock.  They lifted their wrists just above their heads and spread them apart.  Using the combination locks, they fastened the outer ring of each cuff to a chain hanging from a cross bar farther up the column.  When their wrists hung from the chains, their hands were next to their heads, the connecting wrist chain brushing their hair.  They sat on the pipes one last time and checked that neither the wrist or collar chains tightened enough to cause harm.  They stood up and, by previous agreement, reached back and grabbed each other’s combination locks.  She grunted three times in her gag and they pushed home the locks.
    He felt the familiar thrill as the last lock clicked shut.  His heart pounded and his breath gasped.  He pulled on the chains and groaned.  She reached back and squeezed his hands.  They listened to each other's ragged breaths and smelled each other's sweat.  The timer clicked and the dungeon plunged into perfect darkness. 
    He jerked against the chains, his usual reaction to crossing the threshold.  She made a long sound behind her gag, part wail, part cheer.  The bottom dropped out of the dungeon and they free fell into the rabbit hole.  His head floated and his heart rose in his throat.  He added a muffled baritone yell to her alto wail.  The room floated to a stop and he slid down against the chains.  He pulled against them, gently at first then harder and harder.  His mind began to scream, “You can’t escape.  You are chained here forever.”  He twisted and pulled, yanked and jerked.  All the while she held his hands, both urging him on and riding the wave of panic with him.  Finally, he sagged back into the chains, his breath blowing past the gag.  She squeezed his hands then pulled away and threw herself away from the column, slamming against the chains.  Again and again she hurled herself outward.     The chains banged in a steady tempo, forging something into her soul.  Eventually, she sagged back into her chains.  He rubbed the back of his hands against hers and she moaned.  Sweet, sticky sweat hung in the air.  So far the trip down the rabbit hole felt familiar if extraordinarily powerful.
    Time stood still in the dungeon.  The chains held their arms up and their feet apart.  Joints began to stiffen and muscles ache.  The gags and plugs pushed into their bodies.  Cuffs pressed against skin, collars pulled at throats. The column rubbed its rough skin against their backs.  A thousand little bumps and pushes, hurts and nips hovered around them.  Movement eased a few points of contact and ignited several more.  They could do nothing but feel these little assaults.  No conversation, no books, no TV, no sounds from the outside.  Nothing but blackness filled with steel and concrete.  In the void, the little pushes became bumps, then strikes.  The tiny pressure points grew into firm grips then into crushing clamps.  Their bodies begged for relief.  They changed position the few inches allowed by the chains.  They turned, stretched, stood up, sagged down.  Nothing helped.  They swayed more quickly, pressing this way to relieve this ache then pressing back to relieve that pinch.  Faster and faster, their limbs jerking as the pace quickened.  The faster movements didn’t help but felt better than nothing.  Their little wiggles of accommodation grew into a bizarre dance as they fought the chains.  They danced for hours in rabbit hole time but mere minutes passed on the timer counting silently in the corner.  When exhaustion overtook them, they collapsed against the column and slid down to the poles, succumbing to the chains’ strength.  Salty sweat rolled down their bodies and into their eyes.  Tormented air wheezed past their gags.  Over-heated muscles spasmed against the cuffs.  Pelvises clamped and relaxed around the hard intruders.  The chains yawned.
    They entered the struggle zone of their bondage experience, a place known to both of them.  The alternating phases of struggle and collapse followed one after the other.  This time, the heavy bondage, concrete cell and timers set to practical infinity produced a new reality.  The chains and dungeon were as real as any in medieval Europe.  Forty-eight hours equals forever when one is chained a pitch-black dungeon.  The new reality pressed in on them.  After the second or third struggle, he lost track and drifted in a black space of chains and concrete with no time, no distance, no room, no world.  Steel and concrete, black and hard, surrounded him.  His body softened and shrank.  His bones became thin and brittle.  The chains held him silently, unwavering in their strength.  Somewhere in the new reality, somewhere deep in its dark recesses a creature stirred.  No glowing eyes.  No muffled breath.  No dank stench.  But he could feel it, waiting in the black.  It was hungry.  He shuddered and felt her shaking behind him. 
    She began another struggle.  At first, her limbs rocked languidly back and forth then moved faster and faster as her helpless state pestered her tired muscles to action.  This time her body twitched along with the swaying.  Soon her arms vibrated vigorously, her wrist chains rattling a hideous beat.  Her torso picked up the tempo followed by her legs.  She twitched so violently he felt the vibration through the column.  Her breath was shallow and rapid, whistling around the rubber jammed between her teeth.  A deep guttural sound welled and slithered past her gag.  He reached back for her hands but they stretched out and away from the cross bar, beyond his reach. 
    He grabbed her wrist chains.  She was not on the other end of the chain.  Something else was out there, shaking and fighting the chains with a monstrous strength.  The creature, the Fury, assaulted her, devouring her.  Her moan became a wild scream made not with air but with terror and joy.  Thrilling panic rose in his body.  As the Fury tore her apart, he felt another in the blackness.  He released her chains and twisted, blind eyes searching the darkness.  The chains clamped hard, holding him for the Fury.
    The Fury struck from within.  Rising out of the depths of his being, it unfolded its hideous body inside his puddle of flesh.  Muscles shrieked and tore, blood boiled in his veins, bones shattered under the onslaught.  His brain exploded into the dark, scattering itself in the void.  Dimly aware of the violent frenzy erupting through his body, he watched the blackness.  In the vast darkness, his mind's eye beheld the monster, living on the far side of the circle.   Excruciating pain became softest pleasure, passionate love became murderous hate, immobile bondage became perfect freedom.  While the chains bruised his shattered body and the blackness invaded his scattered mind, the Fury blazed through his spirit, burning him with it black, flaming breath.  He wrapped what he could find of his being around the Fury and embraced it with all his might.

    Centuries later, he hangs chained to the column again.  After a moment of disorientation, he pushes himself up the column and groans.  Her hands reach for his.  The chains grip his limbs; the column scratches against his back, the implements intrude into his flesh, the Furies lurk in the blackness.  He sighs a deep breath past the gag and shivers. 
    The chains whisper, "I will hold you, my child.  Alone, your weak flesh would shrink and flee before the Furies.  But I can easily hold you still during the Furies’ assault.  Rejoice in my strength.  Release yourself to the beauty and the pain, the ecstasy and the terror.  I will hold you."  He settles into the chains embrace.
    He squeezes her hands.  Aches flutter in his body, building again.  The blackness flows through him, carrying him to the far side of the circle where the Furies wait.  He fears them more than death and loves them more than life. The Furies are his parents and his children.  He gave them birth. They created him.  Chained behind him, his new sister floats with him towards their home on the far side of the circle.  The world outside their black dungeon is a dream they must endure between trips down the rabbit hole.  The chains stand a tireless vigil, cradling them in a steel caress.

  Author’s Note:  Most of us think in linear terms.  The softest detectable touch is the mid-point.  Touch harder and we move either to the left towards pain or to the right towards pleasure.  The mildest temperature is the mid-point; to the left is cold, to the right is hot.  Absence of emotion is the mid-point; to the left is hate, to the right is love.  The more intense the touch, the farther we move from the mid-point, either towards pain or towards pleasure.  At some infinite distance to the left lies excruciating pain; to the right, unbelievable pleasure.  But our thinking is wrong.  The world is not linear but circular.  The softest detectable touch is not the mid-point of a line but the near edge of a circle.  At first, things act linear in that the more intense the touch the farther we move to the left or to the right.  But at some level of intensity, the sensations of pain and pleasure become closer.  We've moved to the far side of the circle.  When we get to the far edge, excruciating pain and unbelievable pleasure are the same thing.
    I’ve visited the far side of the circle and felt the Furies.  You can go there, too.  But be warned: once you’ve been there, you may not want to come back.  To others who have felt the Furies,
email me.  I’d like to hear your tale.


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