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| dungeonmouse | |
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Part 1
| Copyright 2004 by dungeonmouse I’m posting this no-so-brief history of my self bondage experiences so others can compare their secret life with mine. I strongly suspect we self bondage fans are very much alike in how we view ourselves and our kink. If one other person reads this history and says realizes they are not alone, then it will have been worth the effort. This first part covers my childhood through the end of my school years. The second part will cover my adult life. I've enjoyed bondage as far back as I can remember. My first "memory" is a family legend about my kindergarten teacher tying my foot to the piano for some tomfoolery I'd gotten into. According to the legend, I cried and cried. I have a memory of the event but I'm not sure how much is recollection of the actual event and how much is fabricated from hearing the legend over and over. One thing stands out in the memory however: my reaction to having a rope wrapped around my foot was very intense. If I did indeed cry, it was because I assumed everyone else knew the intensity of my reaction and I was embarrassed by them seeing such a powerful reaction in me. This embarrassment at showing the world an intense reaction has remained a feature of my bondage experience until recently. I am a reserved person by nature. I have never felt there was anything wrong with my bondage fantasies. However, I dislike showing strong emotion in public as it seems to open one's insides to the prying eyes of strangers. I was aware of the vast difference that separated my reaction to bondage from the reaction of the average individual. Even when I struggled to contain my reaction to bondage, my internal experience was so intense, I felt my feelings must be visible to others. So, I avoided situations wear I might participate in a bondage situation while others were present. So, for instance, I never tied up the neighborhood girls nor got tied playing cowboys and Indians. I did practice self bondage from a very early age. I first discovered the sensitivity of my penis while not yet in grade school. I learned to climb the clothes line poles in the back yard, a metal pipe about five feet tall with another pipe across the top, making a 'T.' Short as I was, I had to reach the top by shinnying up the pole, inevitably rubbing my crotch against the rough pole. A strange pleasure emanated from the contact and I recall climbing the pole frequently and taking my time doing so. When I got to the top, I would wiggle around for a while, getting the measure of the top bar and prolonging the pleasure, before climbing atop the pole. When I was hanging from the top bar, the thought of being suspended from the bar was always in my mind. The thought came as naturally as breathing and seemed perfectly logical. Of course it would be fun to be tied to the top bar of the pole. Most normal thing in the world. Not long after, my father rearranged the garage. We never kept a car in the garage, just tools, unused furniture and various other items best labeled "stuff." During the rearranging, a sheet of plywood came to rest against an old table which, in turn, rested against the wall. Boxes and cans were stored beside the table and two other shelves flanked the table. The result was a compartment under the table not visible from the outside and accessible only through a kid-sized opening on one end of the table. I loved the dark sense of confinement while sitting under the table. It became my first personal dungeon. Under the table, I found a sheet of lead flashing, used in those days to seal plumbing and roof fixtures. The sheet was a foot or so long and a couple inches wide. It was thick enough to be heavy while thin enough to bend. I found I could curl the ends of the strip into cuffs, slide my wrists into them then push the cuffs together with my knees, trapping my wrists in the heavy embrace of the metal. I had only to pull my wrists apart to free myself, yet I spent many hours sitting under the table in the summer heat, sweating and feeling the metal gripping my wrists. In those days in the South, life was still rural in nature, even in town. Kids in our suburb roamed several miles in any direction from home, visiting, riding bikes or playing. How far you could wander was limited only by how fast you could run or pedal and still make it home for dinner. I could sit for hours under that table and everyone would assume I "out playing." Those were happy times indeed. A few years passed in bliss then I spotted my first men's magazine. In the 40's and 50's, such magazines carried tales of the manly arts and frequently featured cover art involving scantily clad women being bound by evil looking men. Nazi storm troopers were the favorite bad guys. I was hypnotized. While I realized torture by evil storm troopers was definitely not fun activity, the sight of those slender wrists and ankles bound with heavy chains pumped euphoria into my veins like a needle. I recall one particular scene where a busty blonde in a skimpy dress (weren't they all?) had her wrists tied with rope to a chain attached high up on the wall. The storm troopers were entering the cell and she was pulling on the chain with all her might, to no avail. I managed to recreate the scene when I found a short length of chain in the garage and some rope. The table was too short for anything remotely resembling suspension and I was getting a bit big for the table in any case. Besides, gooey stuff had started coming out of my penis when I rubbed it long enough, making a mess a my underwear. Our bathroom had a clothes hook on the back of the door and the chain and rope fit in my pockets. The goo could go in the toilet when the time came. I became very jealous of my privacy in the toilet and began locking the bathroom door. I had to pick my times with care: we were a family of four with only one toilet. As the years passed, I used whatever I found in the garage to add variety to my bondage. A belt of .30 caliber shell casings joined with metal links became heavy cuffs around my wrists. A pair of strap hinges, bend into a circle and held together with a short bolt became a pair of manacles joined by my little length of chain. When my younger brother finally got his own bedroom, I wrapped leather belts around my wrists and tied them to my bedposts with slip knots. Our house had wooden floors so you could tell where everyone was in the house by the sound they made walking. I had plenty of time at night to yank the slip knots free and pull my wrists under the covers if my mom decided to look in on me on her way to bed. The treasure trove came when I discovered the snow chains in the bottom of a box in the garage. We got snow once every four or five years and my dad had never used the snow chains. To this day, I'm at a loss to explain why we had them. But they were beautiful. I pried the cross chains with the stubby metal cleats from the two long side chains. I made the happy discovery that the cross chains just fit around my wrists and ankles. I was now in junior high, tall and skinny and my wrist and ankles were almost the same size. I cut the side chains to suitable lengths with bolt cutters (was there no end to the treasures in that garage?), looped the cross chains around my wrists then hooked them to the regular chain. Manacles and leg irons! Oh, the feeling of weight and restraint. The thought immediately occurred to me that if I squeezed the hooks back together, then I would not be able to remove the chains without tools. If I could figure a way to isolate myself from the tools, then I would be trapped in those delicious chains until I could gain access to the tools. But first, I needed to isolate my parents and brother from me. I don't recall how long it took. It seemed like years and may well have been a year or so. Finally, my parents went away for a weekend and took my brother with them. I convinced them to let me stay home by saying I wanted to study for an upcoming test. They left Saturday morning. I waited all day Saturday and even did some studying. As the sun set, I cleaned out my closet, stacking the clothes on my bed, and collected my chains. I put on the "leg irons" and "manacles" and carefully squeezed the hooked ends together with large pliers. I had already checked that a large screw driver had sufficient leverage to pry open the hooks. I wrapped the end of a long chain around my neck and secured it with a hook pressed closed then fastened my manacles to the neck chain with another hook. I went in the closet and locked the door, then put the key on the top shelf back against the wall. I secured the end of my neck chain to the center of my leg irons with my combination gym lock. Now I couldn't reach the closet key and, in the dark, couldn't see the combination lock to open it until morning. When the combination lock clicked shut, I felt a rush like I'd never felt before. Suddenly, the closet was a dark dungeon and I was one of those girls on the magazine cover, chained hand and foot, totally helpless. Time has dimmed the exact events of that night but not the pure joy of being inescapably bound. I loved every moment of my imprisonment. Daylight came and I undid the combination lock by the light under the door. I must have masturbated in the closet because I was ready to get loose by daybreak. I took the chains off, put everything away, took a nap then went around fussing with everything, trying to make it all look exactly like it had before my adventure. Sadly, it was my last long bondage experience for a number of years. A significant feature of my early bondage experiences was the desire for instant release once I climaxed. A wave of regret or dislike would sweep over me and I could not wait to get out of bondage and put everything back to "normal." I now think this reaction was due to the violent hormonal changes of my teen years. As I've gotten older and my hormones have settled down, the urge has largely gone away. In my teen years, I think I mistook the sudden release as "coming to my senses." Over the years, this hormonal release has cost me a lot of money in bondage gear. After a particularly powerful session, I would feel almost a revulsion towards the bondage and would throw out whatever gear I had at the time. A few weeks or months later and I would be making or buying more gear. While I didn't get another overnighter for a long while, I did continue playing. When my mom went back to work and my brother discovered girls, the house became empty during the afternoons. The attic had some nice dark corners and was easier to clean up than the closet. I could also use the excuse that I was looking for something. The garage held all the "outdoor stuff" while the attic held all the "indoor stuff:" old books, old toys, old clothes. I had many happy times in the attic with my chains until... Younger brothers are the bane of existence. One afternoon, I was chained in the attic when the back door slammed open. What the hell was he doing home now? With typical little brother curiosity, he went looking around the house for me. How he figured out I was in the attic is beyond me. I had pulled the stairs up after me and was quiet as a mouse once I heard the door slam. However he did it, he found me. In retrospect, the thing that surprised me the most was the lack of reaction. Being steeped in southern religious tradition, I assumed most people would react to a bondage situation by screaming and running around followed by chaos and mayhem. When my brother just stood and stared, it took me by surprise. I told my parents that evening. I was old enough to know they would react better to me telling them than to some lurid tale repeated by my brother. I remember beginning by telling them I was a pervert. That southern religious tradition again because I really didn't feel like a pervert. I was just doing what came naturally. I don't recall what all else was said except that it wasn't much and what little they did say was supportive. I guess I half expected them to throw me out of the house but they said they still loved me and this thing would blow over. My mom made me an appointment with her doctor. He was a gray-haired gentleman who harrumphed and hurrahed for a while then said it would blow over. All in all, it was very much a non-event except that I realized I probably shouldn't get caught again. I still played but not with chains. I wrapped my belt around my wrists in the bathroom and things like that but major bondage ended until I went out on my on. I suppose I should mention my introduction to bi-sexual behavior here. In grade school, I had a friend who lived with his divorced dad. His house was a good place to go after school because, unlike virtually every other house in the state, it didn't have a stay-at-home mom present. One afternoon, we got naked. I don't recall exactly how it happened, it just did. I'm pretty sure he initiated it, as he was always the one dreaming up games to play. We didn't touch each other that much but what we did, I found pleasant. Like the bondage, it all seemed very natural. I'd heard the girls at school talk about kissing each other during slumber parties to see what it was like. This wasn't so different from that. We played a half-dozen times then he and his dad moved. I didn't think much more about the matter. After high school, I went off to college. I lived in an all-male dorm for four years. I felt no attraction for any of the guys there and didn't do any bondage at all. There was zero privacy in the dorm and the culture at the time made homosexual behavior a lynching offense. Actually, between school work and sports, I didn't have much time to think about any of my secret life. I chased girls of course and lost my heterosexual virginity during my sophomore year. My attraction to women seemed the normal, hormone-driven desire to procreate while my attraction to men, which developed slower and later, seemed more intellectual. |
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| A Brief History of a Self Bondage Fan Part 2 |
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