Taking Root
“Yeah, I’ve seen those old gangster movies, the ‘Chicago Overcoat’ and going for a swim in the lake. What you have in mind isn’t so extreme, and certainly won’t require you to hold your breath for days on end, but it does carry some risks.”
I pondered the details of implementing her request. Her simplistic idea, based entirely on bad movies, was impractical at so many levels that I discarded it immediately. Pouring a massive chunk of concrete would require weeks to cure, and breaking it open afterward meant a jackhammer.
Being a mechanical engineer, I knew enough about materials to reject the concept, yet even as I told her so I thought of a way to get around the problems. Thank you, Elon Musk, for showing the way. Why did it have to be disposable, use it once and throw it away? This wasn’t a building, there were no load bearing walls or fire codes to worry about. I’d have to do some reading, maybe even a simulation on the computer, but far as I knew no laws of physics presented an insurmountable barrier
“Okay, look, there might be a way. I’ll need some time to think about it. Forget about what you saw in the movies, that’s never going to work in real life. But, and this is iffy, I may have an idea of how to come fairly close to the same end result. Getting there won’t be so dramatic. The outcome, well, you’ll have to judge that, since you’ll be the participant. Just be aware there are risks here. We’re talking a lot of weight that takes time to move around.”
She shrugged off my warnings. “I trust you. Relax, I’ll be fine. Barring an earthquake or a meteor strike what can happen? The way I look at it, time spent in a jail cell wouldn’t be any worse.” Privately I thought it could be much worse, but I held my tongue.
When it comes to building a prototype, quite a bit can happen on the unexpected side. I didn’t warn her about Murphy’s Law, or the reason why bread always falls buttered side down. She was a perpetual optimist, blissfully ignorant of the trials and tribulations that came with any engineering project, large or small. I wasn’t so fortunate, although it never stopped me from plunging forward with half-baked ideas and questionable projects.
“It’s only for a few days, and you’ll be around to check on me. I’m not worried. This is something I’ve dreamed about for years. With your help I can make it happen. You manage the details; I’ll do whatever you say.”
Laminates
She stared into the hole in the basement floor. It was rectangular, a little under three feet deep. In the bottom was a thick base pad of concrete. Resting on top were her calf-high boots, nestled in depressions pressed into the top of the concrete. The tops of the boots just cleared the lip of the hole. The sides were lined with a thin layer of sheet metal, to keep out the dirt from the walls of the hole.
“Okay, I get the general idea of the hole,” she said, uncertainty edging her words. She looked over at the stack of concrete slabs. “I still don’t quite see how this is supposed to work.”
I wheeled over the engine hoist, a portable crane with the reach to help me manhandle the slabs into position. “All you have to do is put on your boots and stand in the hole. I’ll do the rest. Bear in mind that once I start, you’ll quickly become committed, no turning back.”
She waved a hand in the air. “You’re not going to scare me with vague warnings of impending doom. I want this, more than you can imagine. I’m ready, physically and mentally.” Her expression was less certain than her words. “You’re going to pour cement around my boots once I’m in there?”
I shook my head. “Messy and impractical, plus it would ruin a nice pair of shoes. By the way, it’s ‘concrete’, not ‘cement’. You go to the store to buy a loaf of bread, not flour.”
“Whatever,” she said in dismissal. “No more delays; I’m going through with this.”
I gave up. She was determined, and if I wasn’t going to follow through, she’d find someone else. Better the devil you know, I told myself. “Alright, you win. We start at 9am tomorrow morning.”
It Takes Time
I had to admit her part in the planning was meticulous, down to the finest detail. There was the chair with the shortened legs, more a stool than a real chair, with a cutout for toilet needs and a bedpan underneath. Next to the chair was a waste basket for the trash. Behind the chair, out of reach, was a plastic storage bin full of those military style MREs, meals ready to eat, no cooking required. A stack of bottled water stood next to the food.
Her chair had two L-shaped brackets screwed into the rear legs. To prevent it skidding around I had put in two concrete anchors into the floor so I could bolt down the chair. The last thing I needed was to clean up after an overturned chair spilled out the contents of a full bedpan. I had to sacrifice a chunk of my basement floor for the construction, but I balanced that with the benefits to come.
She came in, dressed, or I should say undressed for the occasion. She had on the leather boots, her chastity belt, and that was it. The belt would complicate the hygienics, but she’d worked out a way to manage that involved a water-filled squeeze bottle. A chastity belt wasn’t something I’d ever want to try, even though the male versions were somewhat better equipped to handle urination.
The key piece to the success of her adventure was the stack of concrete slabs that would fit around her boots. I used what’s called “Lost Wax” or investment casting to first make a wax mold of her boots by sandcasting, stuffed to match the shape with her legs inside. It had turned out better than I expected. The wax copy of her boots was perfect in every detail.
Using the wax sandcast I built up a ceramic outer mold, curing it in a friend’s kiln. After melting the wax out of the shell, I poured in molten brass. The end result was a nearly identical copy of her shoes, in a gleaming golden brass color. This was the foundation for building up the laminated slabs of concrete that would securely encase the actual boots, with her legs in them.
This was the tedious part, pouring successive slabs of concrete into a form, while precisely adding anchors and tubes for bolt holes, and then waiting for the assembly to harden. There was a front and back half to each layer, so I could place them around her boots in the hole. I staggered where the halves separated so there wouldn’t be a seam running from top to bottom.
Laminated concrete, as I envisioned it, fitted together like stages of a rocket. As each layer went into the hole, the bolt holes, also staggered, lined up with the anchors in the slab underneath. Two bolts for each half should be sufficient to keep them in place, effectively creating one giant concrete block. This would be my version of her “concrete galoshes”. No messy poured concrete, no waiting for it to cure, and although slow to remove it could be reassembled any number of times. It also avoided the nasty side effects of concrete: the heat it generated as it dried, and the way it expanded as it hardened. She wouldn’t wind up with cooked and crushed feet.
I held her hand when she stepped into the hole. Looking down she lined up her boots with the indentations in the bottom. Nodding approval, she took a deep breath and pronounced, “Okay, go ahead.”
I grabbed my clipboard and ran down the checklist. Reaching down I verified her shoes were firmly planted in place. This was critical since everything depended on accurate alignment. After that I went to the hoist and attached the rear half of the first, lowest slab. Wheeling it around to her back I slowly lowered it, guiding it into place. It scraped against the side, a close fit, but within tolerances. Using one hand I guided it into position behind her boots and used the hoist to drop it into place. So far so good, a close fit with a slight gap. Repeating the process, checking off each numbered piece, the front half slid into position without any problems. The two parts were flush, essential when the next layer went in.
“I get it now!” she exclaimed, studying how I used the socket wrench to tighten the bolts, anchoring the first block to the foundation. “Prefab, what a brilliant idea. How long will this take?” She pointed to the stack of remaining pieces.
“It’s a slow process,” I explained. “If one piece is out of order it throws off everything. I hope you can manage to stand there for another hour?”
“No problem,” she answered. She frowned as I added the next layer. “The holes are different for each set?”
I nodded. “Of course. The bolts are like rebar in reinforced concrete. They have to be spaced to spread the load.”
“Is that really necessary?” she shook her head, confused.
“It is if we have an earthquake. The alternative would be your legs cut in half.”
“Yeah, right, like earthquakes are so common here. Okay, you know best, I won’t ask any more stupid questions.”
I looked up. “There are no stupid questions, the first time you ask. The second time, well, that’s different.”
“Ha, ha, you’re so funny.” She went quiet for a while, watching as the sheets of concrete rose higher and higher. I figured the enormity of what she was attempting finally got to her.
It took more than an hour, but when I finished, I had to admit I was proud of what I’d designed, even if it was for a questionable purpose. I shrugged off that part. Engineers lived to create; how the end product was used was someone else’s moral dilemma. I knew it would all fit together, since I’d tried a dry run with the brass boot castings.
“That’s it, you’re all, uhm, set in stone.” She shook her head at my clumsy joke. “Try to move your feet.” I pushed away the hoist and brought up her chair. I told her to wait while I secured the chair to the basement floor.
She tried shifting around, bracing her hands on the arms of the chair when it was ready. Nothing happened. I backed up to take in her new appearance. She was considerably shorter now, with her legs essentially missing from below her knees. Her stance was about eight inches wide at the bottom. That was deliberate on my part, based on where the soles of the boots were fitted. With hundreds of pounds of artificial stone on top, she wasn’t going to be changing her position.
She looked at me, a smile on her face. “It’s really happening. I don’t know how to thank you!”
“As you specified, you’re in there for keeps. See if you still want to thank me a couple of days from now.”
She frowned. “Well, if I complain I insist you ignore me. Good or bad, I’m determined to make it through my self-inflicted ordeal.” She paused, thinking. “Is it okay if I sit down now?”
I held out my hands. “Sure, you aren’t going to spoil it. Let me help you.”
I took her outstretched hands and held on while she sat down. She looked down at where her legs descended into the concrete. I could see her struggling to lift up first one foot, and then the other. Of course it was impossible. After she gave up, she looked up at me.
I handed her a bottle of water. She opened it and took a sip. “Thirsty work,” she quipped. “Cement, sorry, concrete shoes, the latest fashion statement. Maybe I’ll make the cover of some magazine.
“I have to confess I’ve never felt so helpless as I do now. I’m forced to depend on you for everything. You will let me go when I’m done?”
I dragged a chair over to face her. “Of course I will. I hope you don’t think I’m some kind of psycho mental case? Because if you do, your timing could not be worse.”
She laughed at that. When I didn’t join in, she stopped and stared at me. “Umm, you were joking, right?”
“Don’t worry, I’m not crazy. However, I am going to make a few alterations in your planned schedule.” I let that sink in. She was not in a position to object by walking out on me. “Think of it as expressing your gratitude for my assistance.”
Doesn’t Play Music
I placed the bin of food on a cart. The case of water bottles followed. Looking over her shoulder she watched while I wheeled her supplies into the other room. When I came back, she seemed more puzzled than alarmed.
“Okay, so how am I supposed to eat? I can’t go without food and water for very long.”
“I have no intention of letting you starve. However, I will decide when and what you can eat. If you don’t like it, feel free to go into the other room and fend for yourself.”
“Very funny. Okay, you win. Speaking of which, I skipped lunch, how about a snack?”
I nodded in agreement. “No problem, but there is a catch. As I said, when and what, but also how. If you don’t like my conditions, well then, you’re on your own.”
“How? That sounds ominous.”
I shook my head in denial. “Not at all. In fact, you might enjoy the experience. Especially since you really can’t refuse.”
She was no stranger to the joys of bondage. That was an understatement, considering her present circumstances. Her love of what she called “heavy metal”, sturdy restraints made of steel, was well-known to me, since I had often been the one holding the keys to the locks.
I went into the other room and brought back a long, narrow cardboard box. “I don’t think you’ve ever seen one of these. Normally they’re made of finely finished wood. Knowing your preferences, I bought the deluxe model.”
I could see she was curious, though she said nothing. I opened the box and pulled out the contents. Her eyes lit up. “Wow! Is that really one of those…”
“An authentic Shrew’s Fiddle,” I interrupted her, “made from a machined aluminum alloy billet. It’s actually lighter than wood, and far stronger.” I handed it to her to get a closer look. It was shaped like a long violin body, with a large oval at one end that closed around the neck, and two smaller, inline cutouts for wrists at the other end. There was a hinge at the back of the neck end, allowing it to open into two halves. Beyond the last wrist circle was a locking latch to hold it together, with a keyhole inconveniently placed, for the wearer, under the fiddle’s body.
“I’ve seen them on websites, but the cost is outside my budget.” She couldn’t take her eyes off it. She handed it back to me. “Am I supposed to wear it?” she asked in a hesitant tone.
“That’s the general idea.” I unlocked it, pulling the two halves apart. “After all, it’s not designed to play music.” I lowered it over her head and slowly fastened it around her neck. She pulled her hair out of the way. Before I fully closed it, of her own accord she placed her wrists in the cutouts, left first, and right toward the end. I snapped it shut. The lock clicked with a finality that was loud in the silence.
“The design goes back hundreds of years. It was a form of corporal punishment for women, usually to discourage a sharp tongue. You know, a shrew.”
She struggled within its grasp, twisting her wrists, trying to slip out of the insistent grip of the medieval monster that held her prisoner. She gave up, staring at her now useless hands. “I surrender. You know, whoever came up with this thing centuries ago had a truly devious mind.”
“I can see it might be inconvenient if worn for an extended period. Be sure to tell me if I’m right.” To me the Fiddle was a fine piece of jewelry, a combination of necklace and matching bracelets. It never occurred to me she might not agree.
She stared at me, eyes wide open. She started to say something, then abruptly stopped. A wise choice, I thought. Words spoken in haste may be regretted at leisure. With her legs solidly planted in the ground she could look forward to plenty of leisure.
Getting Started
I came back with a banana in one hand. When she saw it, she glared at me, wondering how she was supposed to eat it without any hands. I pulled my chair around to sit next to her.
“Now you learn about the how,” I began. I peeled the banana about half way down, examined it, and then held it up to her mouth. “Here you go, take a bite.” I continued peeling the rest of the banana, slowly taking my time between bites on her part.
I didn’t miss the way her hands clenched into fists in frustration. I ignored it. After all, what else could she do? Jump up and storm out of the room? That wasn’t practical. Snatch the partially eaten banana out of my hand? Again, that would require some remarkable dexterity on her part.
She might not like being fed by hand, but I was enjoying the usually mundane task immensely. All that hard work with the concrete was finally paying off. From now on either I was in control, or she could sit by herself, hungry and thirsty, while debating the wisdom of defying me.
Despite my power-hungry megalomania, I didn’t want to see her suffer. This was her moment, and I didn’t want to ruin it. “Your arms must be getting tired, holding up that Fiddle.” Once more I went into the other room, out of her sight, and came back with some cushions. “Here, raise up your arms and I’ll put these underneath your elbows.”
Stacking up the pillows in her lap I managed to take the strain off her arms. Her elbows rested on the cushions, reducing the strain on her shoulders. “Thank you…sir,” she said, in a surprisingly contrite tone of voice.
The way she tacked on the “sir” was a tacit admission she acknowledged my dominance through her submission. I made no move to correct her. Perhaps it was just a social convention, yet it still conveyed a powerful message. The line between us, reinforced with her verbal cues, was important to me.
“I’d like you to sit quietly for a while. Do not rise from your chair. Not a sound, quiet as a mouse, that’s what I don’t want to hear. Let me remind you, the purpose of the Shrew’s Fiddle is more disciplinary than punishment. There is a time to speak up, and a time to listen. Right now, it’s your time to listen. If you find that too difficult, I have other means to enforce my wishes. Meanwhile, good behavior will go far in reducing the time spent with that thing around your neck.” Carrot and stick, I told myself. I really didn’t want to resort to using a gag.
I leaned forward, reaching out to rest my hand on her knee. With her legs immobilized by the immense weight of the concrete she wasn’t able to pull away. Nor could she use her hands to push me away. “I neglected to mention you have very nice legs. Those boots draw the eye to the curves. It’s a shame they’re covered up.” My hand slipped down so that I could trace the outline of the boot top with a single finger.
She almost protested, but caught herself in time. The presence of the Fiddle must be having some effect. I gave her one of those raised eyebrow looks, but didn’t add a reprimand. “Good girl,” I praised her. “There’s something so…permanent… about concrete.” I tapped the slab around her legs with my foot. “Did you know the Roman Colosseum has concrete in it? Imagine that, two thousand years and still standing.”
I stood up, took the key out of my pocket and unlocked the Fiddle. When I removed it, she stretched out her arms and flexed her hands. “I think I’ve made my point.” I placed the Fiddle on the floor next to my chair. The message was clear; it was nearby and could be applied at any time, if I thought it necessary.
I snapped my fingers. “I almost forgot. Don’t go away; I’ll be right back.” She turned her head to follow me as I went into the other room. When I returned with a plastic bag in my hand, she looked up at me as I halted next to her. Before she could react, I pulled out a fabric hood and slipped it over her head. The weave was sufficient to blindfold but not interfere with her breathing. That was followed by the high, thick posture collar that held the hood in place. I tightened the collar strap and pressed the locking button on the buckle. Her head was forced up and back by the high chin plate.
There was a faint sound of being caught unawares. I let it pass. “You have been very patient and cooperative. You deserve a reward, so I’m giving you some alone time to live out your fantasy. Being a new member of the “sleep with the fishes” club, you can experience the ambiance of deep, dark waters at the bottom of the lake.
“Meanwhile, there’s a football game about to start. I’ll look in on you when it’s over. Let’s hope it doesn’t go into overtime.” I laughed at my little witticism. Placing a hand on her shoulder I leaned down and whispered in her ear. “Remember, not a sound! Imagine yourself, standing in line with the rest of the unfortunates on the lakebed, neatly lined up with your brand-new cement shoes acting as the pedestals.”
Sleeping With the Fishes
I made a noisy show of leaving the room, pretending to slam the door behind me. In reality, there was no football game. I slipped off my shoes and in stocking feet I noiselessly padded over to a chair near the door. From that vantage point I could see her in a three quarters profile.
It didn’t take long before she reached up and tugged on the hood. That wouldn’t work; the edge was rolled and wouldn’t slip under the collar. Once she figured that out, she began pulling at the posture collar. It was a sturdy, heavy duty model with a locking buckle. The lock could easily be picked, but not with bare fingers. Resigned to being cut off from her surroundings she finally gave up and sagged back in the chair.
One of the problems with long term bondage is boredom. It didn’t take long before the curse settled in on her. More than once she worked her legs, trying to slip out of her boots in a vain attempt to escape her prison. She should know better, I observed. If it were possible to pull them off, they wouldn’t need zippers running from ankle to calf. She liked the snug fit, and so did I. I was confident the hard, grey prison around her legs was not going to be defeated.
Desperation was setting in. I was certain of it when I saw her hand descend between her legs. I almost laughed out loud. Considering the number of times she had worn that chastity belt, she might have learned by now it wasn’t going to happen. It didn’t take long before she gave up. When she started pounding her fists on the chair arms over her denial of even the most personal source of gratification, that was the point where I knew it was getting to her.
A famous quote came to mind: the definition of insanity is doing the same thing over and over again and expecting a different result. Supposedly it was from Albert Einstein, though no one ever produced any evidence he actually said it. The lack of any external stimulation was driving her crazy.
This is the point where another phenomenon linked to confinement and sensory deprivation begins: time dilation. Minutes become hours, hours become days, and days become weeks. The only way she would be able to track time was through her meals. I intended to shorten those intervals more and more as the hours passed. After a day or so she’d lose all track of time.
Was it cruel? There were times I debated the morality of my dark side. I certainly would not appreciate being in her situation. Yet the way her mind worked was a mystery I could not fathom. What had possessed her to bury herself up to her knees in concrete? Why had she put on the chastity belt in the first place, knowing the frustration it would bring later on. True, I had the key to it. Did she expect me to use it? If so, she was due for disappointment.
She gripped the arms of the chair and lifted herself up. She did stop well short of actually standing. It was nothing more than shifting around. That also raised questions of the inner workings of her brain. She must be convinced she was alone in the basement. Even so she had not made a sound since I supposedly left, and now she had stopped short of standing up. Amazing, obedience to my stated wishes even though she could easily break them and not get caught. Maybe it was beyond my comprehension, but I was willing to live with the satisfaction that came with the way I controlled her.
She had given up, resigned to her fate. I decided to wait another hour before rescuing her from the insidious clutches of the boredom beast. It would last a mere sixty minutes for me, and a perceived four hours for her. I closed my eyes, lost in a reverie about my good fortune. Of one thing I was certain. When I opened them again, she would still be sitting there.
Time’s Up
The first two days went relatively well. I kept her fed, with my choice of meal, and several times I had her stand up, removed her chastity belt, and held out a plastic container of those alcohol wipes so she could clean herself. It didn’t compare to a shower, but needs must adapt to what’s practical.
Naturally, while the belt was off, I watched her closely. I warned her that unapproved activities would be dealt with in the harshest manner, emphasizing my admonition by holding up the Shrew’s Fiddle. She got the message. When she finished wiping down the belt it immediately went back on.
“It’s been, what, three, four days now?” she asked. The time distortion was working. In reality it had only been two days, but she had no way of knowing. “I’ve had my fill of this fantasy. Isn’t it about time you let me go?”
I didn’t respond. Instead, I folded my arms, leaned back in the chair facing her, and tilted my head to one side, as if studying her. This next phase would be interesting.
“So, I’m done. I’m tired of being buried in the floor. I want this damn belt off, I want my clothes, and most of all I really want a decent meal.” I didn’t blame her. Those MRE meals weren’t bad, but they didn’t replace real, fresh food.
I still didn’t answer her demands. After a long pause I saw the frown on her face. She was starting to become irritated. “Come on! Get that crane and start lifting these rocks off my feet. I want to sleep in a real bed tonight. This chair sucks.”
“No,” came my curt reply.
Now she was angry. “Look, we agreed on a maximum of four days. Time’s up, the game is over.”
I stood up, towering over her, forcing her to look up at me. “You came up with four days, not me. I decided to change the rules. If you don’t want to play the game, as you call it, feel free to leave at any time.” I crouched down, matching her eye to eye. “See, the thing is I’m having a great time, and I don’t want to stop. Maybe your game ended, but mine is just beginning. Like it or not, I suggest you get used to your present circumstances, because it doesn’t look like they are going to change in the near future.”
“You can’t do that!” She all but screamed out in fury.
“Maybe I can’t, but I don’t see what you can do about it.” I started to walk away. “I’ll be back when you calm down.” I turned out the lights before closing the basement door.