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Posted on Dec. 25, 22:11:31 GMT
Hi Fans! Merry Christmas to all of you! Season's greetings and whatnot - from inside my new cage! Woo-hoo!
I'm typing this with my hands extended through the bars. I can just reach the keyboard placed on its little tray suspended on the outside of my cage, level with its floor grating. I can't reach out any further than that - just a few inches -, because the chain connecting my wrist bracelets catches on the bar between my hands, and as you know, it's only six inches long. There's a screen, big and quite a sleek black-rimmed affair, not the one from my desk, mounted out of reach on a rack resting on the coffee table. I can't see the computer itself, but there are two cables running through the door, so it's probably still in my study. My former study, that is.
Because I'm caged for good now. My dream has come true. It's late evening on Christmas Day, and here I am - a twenty-three-year old girl, stark naked, head shaved bald, neck collared, hands and feet shackled, squatting in her Christmas present: a one-cubic-metre cage I shall not leave in the foreseeable future. I'm so excited and aroused I have to swallow constantly, my heart is thumping, my stomach tingling, my pussy wet and aching with lust.
I had given up on my dream of being permanently caged, as I told you in earlier posts, but this morning, when Master snapped the leash onto my collar and led me into the living-room, there suddenly was this enormous cube in glittery red wrapping tied with a green bow, with four ominous steel legs sticking out of it. I knew at once what it was. I gave a squeal of joy, clapping my hands together, jumping up and down, shackles rattling, boobs bobbing, and when he laughed, "Now, is that appropriate behaviour for a naked little sub?", I fell on my knees, kissing his feet. Or his socks, rather. He lifted me up, put his hand under my chin, and looked me in the eyes, mumbling, "You know I can't resist you, Cathy. Now unwrap it, and no second thoughts please, this thing was expensive." In a softer tone he added, "Merry Christmas, Cathy."
"Merry Christmas to you, too, Master. And I thank you with all my heart", I demurely responded, as befits a good little sub. "Am I to be...", I hesitated, swallowing hard, "...welded in?"
He nodded gravely. "I hope it's what you really want. Gustaf is due at eleven sharp."
"The same one who did..."
"Same one who did your shackles. The cage is his work, too. Made to order, obviously."
"But... today? I mean, it's Christmas and all."
"He said he wouldn't miss that job for the world, but was so overloaded with work there's no other time slot. Personally, I'd say he's rather eager to do it. So, yep, today."
I swallowed again.
"And I just told you to unwrap it."
"Yes, Master." I tore at the green bow, ripped the red paper off in shreds, and there it was.
My cage.
It was all a blur at first, I had to force myself to look closer, to take it all in - fear and arousal, horror and longing, washing all over me at the same time.
One metre by one metre by one metre (I learned the exact measurements later from Gustaf - being Swedish, he would work in metric, of course), that's just a little more than three feet on each side. All the bars made from square steel rods, 2 by 2 centimetres (a little less than 1x1 inches), forming a uniform grid on all six sides, including top and bottom. There were eight vertical and eight horizontal bars to each side, including the corner bars, with the openings in between them 12 by 12 cm - just over four inches square. The steel was shimmering with a wonderful soft bluish hue in the LED lighting of the room. The cage rested on four short steel legs, actually the vertical corner bars extended downwards, lifting it a little more than two feet (75 cm, to be exact) above the floor. Sleek, imposing, beautiful, there it stood. Waiting for me. There were no locks or hinges anywhere, and my heart beat faster.
"There's really no door", I whispered, running my fingertips along the heavy bars.
"There isn't."
"But how do I get in?"
"The top panel - you can't see that from below - is only loosely inserted right now. Or perhaps you can? Look closely." We stuck our heads together, peering up through the side gratings at the inner upper edge. There was a narrow dark fissure running around it. "The upper edge bars are cut in half diagonally along their whole length. Wait, I'll try to..." He reached up through one of the upper side openings, lifting the top panel. It took him considerable strength to raise it one or two inches, and he dropped it quickly with a loud clang.
I shivered at the sound.
"It's monstrously heavy, that whole contraption." Master shook out his hand. "The bars are all solid steel, you know, not hollow. So, no bending them for any girl inside. - Cathy." He took me by the shoulders. "I'm not demanding you do this. Don't heed what I said about 'expensive' and 'no second thoughts'. You have until eleven o' clock if you still want to get out of this. Or rather, not get into it. After that, it will be too late."
"Are you kidding? I can't wait!", I blurted out, belatedly adding, "Sorry, Master."
"Highly inappropriate language", he smiled. "For this, you will eat your breakfast from the floor, my naked little subby. From the doggy bowl."
"Yes, Master."
"With your behind high up in the air so I can use you doggy style while you eat."
"Yes, Master. With pleasure", I whispered.
I glanced back at the cage as he led me out by my leash again, then looked down, watching my shackle chains dangle, my breasts swaying, my feet tiptoeing (the easiest way to walk when shackled) on the floorboards, then glanced behind me again as he pulled me out of the room. It was still there. It was not a dream. And in about four hours that cage would be welded shut.
With me inside.
Posted on Dec. 26, 07:58:01 GMT
Hi fans! Caged Cathy here. It's Boxing Day - no pun intended:-), early in the morning, and I just spent my first night in my cage. Was it comfortable? No, it's very restrictive - and I'm loving it! Since it's one metre in each direction, I can sit (cross-legged or with my knees upright and both soles on the grating), squat, kneel, or curl up - on my side or on my back. That's quite a lot of positions, I keep telling myself. I can neither stand up nor lie down with my body fully extended, though. I can nearly stretch my legs if I tuck my butt into one corner and put my feet in the diagonally opposite one. (As with my hands, I can stick one foot at a time out of the cage, but only up to the ankle, and not both at the same time, my permanent ankle chain being too short for that.) As there's no floor in the cage, just that 12-centimetre steel grid on which my weight rests, each of these positions is fairly uncomfortable at first, becoming painful rather quickly, the square steel bars pressing mercilessly into my bare flesh. So I have to shift about constantly, adjusting my position to get relief every few minutes. Currently I'm crouching with the balls of my feet balanced on two bars of the bottom grating, breasts squeezed against my thighs, arms reaching forward on both sides of of my shins, head bent forward so I don't hit it against the top grating.
I didn't get much sleep, to be honest, but I put that down to my being so excited. Try to sleep while horny! My hand was in my crotch almost non-stop, I didn't count the orgasms. But then there's also the shackles, welded on, as you know, that keep me from getting my wrists or ankles more than six inches apart. Ever. With each and every little movement, my chains rattle against the cage bars. And I won't get any cushions, pillows, blankets, or even some planking to sit in, Master made that clear.
"It'll be just your skin on steel, Cathy", he warned me in a final caveat when I first crouched down in my new home, the lid still open. "You'll be squirming and aching all the time against the grids. Kind of a constant light torture. You won't be able to stand upright or walk. And don't think your shackles will come off, they're welded on for good." He gently ran a finger over my shaven scalp. (I shaved my head in front of the bathroom mirror for the very last time yesterday. I stood there, shaving cream on my scalp like a white wig, razor in hand, looking myself in the eyes for quite some time when I realised that. Then I told myself firmly, From now on, I'll simply have to do it in my cage. No big deal, proceeding to draw a track of bare greyish skin into the white wig), "Are you still in?"
"Yes please, Master. I wouldn't want it any other way." I looked out through the bars for the first time, shifting my weight, grasping the bars, careful not to put a foot through one of the gaps. Our familiar living-room suddenly looked strange and remote. Our battered aluminium stepladder stood beside the cage. Gustaf was watching silently with arms folded, his massive figure outlined against the windows. Outside, I could see the roofs of other homes through the bare treetops. White frost on red and black tiles, smoke curling from the chimneys. People led normal lives under those roofs. Boring lives. Mindless lives, sleeping while awake. I was wide awake at that moment, my heart beating heavily, my stomach tingling.
"See? You're squirming now. Already. And I won't provide you with any relief, Cathy. I'll see to it you get enough UV light - I've already ordered one of those tanning lamps -, I'll feed you nutritious, healthy food, minerals, vitamins, and whatnot, I'll set up an exercise programme for you, and you'll be allowed the use of the computer and Internet access. I'll be there for you, of course, to talk and play, I'll use you, uh, through the bars, all three holes, we'll have visitors as before, so neither your mind nor your body will deteriorate. Hopefully." He threw a slightly doubtful glance at Gustaf, who nodded reassuringly with this blonde-maned, heavy-featured lion's head. "But there'll never be anything else with you in the cage. Nothing. No blanket, no cutlery, no tissue, no book, nor anything else. It's not turning into a cozy nest. It's your naked body in steel, pure and simple."
"But how can I use the computer, then?", I asked inadvertently, hastily adding "If you please, Master."
"Because you're quite excited now, I won't punish you for speaking out of turn", Master smiled.
"Always the soft-hearted one", Gustaf grumbled under his breath, being very Swedish and morose.
"Hey, I heard that. I love her, Gus. She's not just a plaything to me. - I'll put up... a keyboard and monitor outside your cage. You can reach through the bars to type. I'll expect you to keep up your blog. It's my favourite reading matter, after all."
I sensed what he was going to do to me made him more afraid than myself - afraid for me, but also afraid of his own desires. "There'll be times of desperation", he continued. "You will have crying fits. You will be banging your fists against the bars. You will be begging me to let you out." He bent down a little to get at eye level with me. "And I won't. Because I can't, but also... because I want you to squirm in there, helpless, naked, shackled, permanently welded in." He nodded towards Gustaf's welding equipment, piled up impressively against the coffee table. "Are you ready, my little one?", he asked softly.
"Yes, if you please, Master", I heard myself responding in a hoarse whisper, very dramatic.
Gustaf rolled his eyes. "Can we proceed, then?"
Master took a deep breath, rose again. "We can."
"Good."
The two men lifted the top panel onto the cage. They barely managed the weight, although Gustaf is quite strong and Master is a little pudgy, but not a weakling either. The steel grid scraped along the top edge bars as they pushed it into place. Again I heard that heavy clang. I barely felt it, though, the cage was so solid and massive. I looked up, the skin of my bald head lightly coming against the cold steel. I shivered. I was shut in.
Ugh, just had to change position for the umpteenth time, now sitting cross-legged, the bottom bars cutting into my thighs and buttocks. Well, that's the idea.
"You're looking absolutely stunning in there, little subby. Keep squirming." Master is slouching comfortably on the couch, sipping his morning coffee, watching me, reading on the screen as I type. Smiling now. "'Pudgy', aha. Disrespect. I'll have to punish you. Don't forget to describe the welding procedure for your fans. That post is long enough now, though, we have a long day of sex ahead. Wrap it up, 'Caged Cathy'. I like that name, by the way."
I'll be back later...
Posted on Dec. 27, 08:14:15 GMT
Hi fans! Caged Cathy here, on her second full day in the cage, still going strong, although somewhat tired from her neverending squirming. And I do wish I could stand up, just stretch myself - or walk a few steps. What a pleasure walking is, simply setting one foot before the other, feeling the ground under your soles...
Right, Master told me to describe the welding-in procedure, so here we go. It was so exciting! First of all, welding is noisy, dirty, and dangerous, especially close to one's bare skin. I already had some experience from having my shackles welded on - wrists, ankles, and neck - in the Summer, and that had been scary enough, but welding my cage shut was on a different scale again. Also, welding is a long, slow process. Agonisingly slow. It's also surprisingly loud. I was cowering under an asbestos welding blanket for hours, seated on a second welding blanket for isolation and careful not to touch the cage bars with my bare skin - not because it was electrified during the welding, as there was no danger since I wasn't grounded, but because the bars got quite hot -, coughing from the fumes, sweating from the heat, half deaf from the crackling and buzzing, disoriented from the constant flickering although I squeezed my eyes tightly shut, cramped from sitting still for too long. And it was worth every second of it.
Before he started, Gustaf presented me with a disclaimer I was to sign. "Since for legal reasons I have to regard you as a free adult", he told me gruffly, avoiding eye contact, "read this and put your name to it." He was obviously uncomfortable, not because of what he was going to do to me, but because he had to treat me as a person and speak to me. He has really internalised the distinction between doms and subs. To him, it's not roleplay but reality, to a degree I sometimes fear Master will never reach. I knew, though, even if he treated me like a dumb pet I could trust him and would be safe in his hands. Gustaf the Welder is a legend in the London bondage community, and many of you will have heard of him (or even been locked in specimens of his work). He's a former shipyard welder who first started handcrafting bondage stuff as a hobby, then as a side job, until he quit shipbuilding altogether, making a living out of high-quality shackles, yokes, Scavenger's Daughters, and cages. He looks and acts like the cliché of a Swede - tall, reddish blond hair to his broad shoulders, eyebrows almost white in the red granite cliffs of his face, taciturn, morose, but really quite kind-hearted and an expert in his craft.
"Thank you, Master. Of course, Master." I reached through the bars clumsily - one of my hands fits through easily, but not both, and the shackles prevent me from extending my arm through the bars -, taking the printout from his large hand covered in fine reddish hair and little white burn scars.
Gustaf Solander. Expert Metalwork, Forging, and Welding. Shackles, Fetters, Bondage Devices Custom-Made. Serving the Lifestyle Community for over 8 years, the letterhead said (I'm quoting this from the copy he handed to Master afterwards). DISCLAIMER, the text solemnly proclaimed. This is to certify and confirm that the undersigned is fully aware and conscious of the dangers and risks of the confinement and restrictions specified and described herunder applied to her by Mr Gustaf Solander, that said undersigned holds harmless said Mr Gustaf Solander in regard to said confinement and restrictions, that said undersigned hereby waives and rescinds any and all claims on damages and liabilities against said Mr Gustaf Solander for said confinement and restrictions blah blah blah, several dense paragraphs of mediaeval language.
"Matt, would you have a pen for her? Something document-proof?"
Master looked about him somewhat confused. "In the ashtray, on the coffee table, behind you", I helped him out. "If you please, Master."
Gustaf rolled his eyes again.
I put in my name and our address, then signed on the dotted line, all very awkwardly, using my thigh as a writing table, handing out paper and pen again equally awkwardly through the bars. That's how it would be from now on, I realised, the easiest tasks made awkward and me totally dependent on outside help. The thought was arousing as hell.
Gustaf stuffed the paper in a pocket of his coveralls. "OK, Matt, we can do this two ways. I'm going for stick-welding, it's the best for manual welding of steel. It's four, no eight metres of seam-welding, though, which takes quite some time. If you want to spare your sub some exhausting hours and reduce the risk of burns, I can just braze it shut with nickel as a filler metal. Basically like hot-glueing, only with metal. Nickel has a lower melting-point than steel, I can use lower voltage, work faster." He didn't sound enthusiastic about it.
"The second method?", Master asked.
"Actual welding. I could even go for autogenic since it's a close fit, but I'm afraid it would heat up the base metal too much, so..."
"Autogenic is where you melt the base metal itself?", I threw in. "If you please, Masters."
Master sighed. Gustaf frowned but then turned to me and actually looked me in the eyes.
"Yes indeed. That would be the purest and most... satisfying way. Turn the welded parts into one piece. I'd use steel as a filler metal, though, with a consumable rod. The same steel that your cage is made of. Chromium-Vanadium."
"Since you have to use a rod anyway to strike the arc."
"Exactly. You know about this?"
"I do, if you please, Master." I held up my shackled wrists. "Beautiful work. I love them so much." He had welded the shackles on me, so expertly they look almost seamless. "So I read up on it, afterwards."
"Well, thank you", Gustaf said. "Always glad for feedback. And they are well cared for, I see."
"Master makes me polish them every day. Also those on my ankles and my collar, if you please, Master."
Gustaf nodded approvingly. "The cage is the same steel I used for the shackles. Called SS 2230 in Sweden, E.N. 735 here in the UK." He slapped my cage with his big hand. "The chromium protects against corrosion, the vanadium helps with the elasticity. It's what tools are often made of. Unbreakable. If I use a consumable rod of the same material, the base metal will melt a little bit along the weld seam, though not nearly as much as with autogenic, but it will still turn the upper edge bars I had to cut open back into one piece. As far as possible. It's a much longer process than brazing, though, and I'll have to use higher voltage, say 45 Volts."
"One material. One piece. All around me."
"That's so." Gustaf actually smiled. "You want quality, huh?"
"Perfection." I smiled back through the bars. "If you please, Master."
"Matt?"
"You think you can stand the heat, the sparks and all, Cathy? We're talking about the whole day here, aren't we, Gus?"
Gustaf nodded. "About eight hours, give or take. An hour per metre. Outside", he ran a finger along the upper edges of my cage, "and in." He reached through the bars, pointing at the dark fissure along the inner upper edge that would no longer be there when he was finished. Just a uniform, unbroken bar of steel, sealing me in.
"Go for it", I whispered. "Weld me in steel. If you please, Master." Suddenly I was worried I might drip with lust. Looking down I saw my labia glisten, but luckily not actually dripping.
Posted on Dec. 28, 11:22:04 GMT
Hi fans! Caged Cathy here, on her third day since having been welded in. It has happened, as Master predicted. This morning, I had a screaming fit. I'm still shaky and hoarse, though much calmer already, and since Master said the best therapy for me would be to make a blog entry of it - rationalise it, get a perspective on it -, I'm doing just this. OK, here we go:
It started harmlessly enough. Being confined to a cage obviously didn't erase my need to pee and poop, but equally obviously I can't go to the loo anymore. Master said he'd get a plumber to install some sort of floor toilet like they use in Japan under my cage. Meanwhile, I'm perched over an open plastic bucket on the floor.
"Hm, hadn't thought that out, I'm afraid. I'll get you a bucket", he mumbled on my first evening, when Gustaf had left and I needed to go. I'm still using that bucket. It's not easy to hit it with my pee through the bars of the bottom while squatting. Often I wet the bars, and even when hitting the bucket, there's quite a spray everywhere. Also, the bucket smells. Today, in the early morning hours, I had an, er, bowel movement, and the poop splashing into the bucket soiled my feet and behind with my own cold stale piss from hours earlier. It was gross. Also, since I don't have anything to wipe myself, I passed quite a smelly and itchy night. Count in the squirming, and you can imagine how I felt at nine, when Master came padding in, yawning, scratching his unshaven chin, holding a cup of coffee.
"Morning, my caged little subby! Somewhat lonely in the bedroom without you, Cathy", he greeted me. "Hadn't thought of that. Pity. - Whew, that smell. What..."
That's when I lost it.
Our soundproof triple-pane double-laminated windows with argon-filled cavities, ultra-range frames and whatnot – you remember from a previous post, Master had them installed so the noise of our, ahem, vigorous play, of me screaming and moaning, of whipcracks, rattling chains, the works, wouldn't disturb our vanilla neighbours' peace of mind while they are watering their petunias – probably saved us from a visit by the local constabulary. As it was, no one outside could hear how I howled and barked, throwing myself against the bars, trying to burst free, to overturn the cage. It didn't budge nor bounce, though, resting imperturbably on its short legs as if bolted to the floor. It didn't even shake. Which is good. Had it actually fallen over on its side, I might have hurt myself seriously.
It's a very good cage. It takes care of me, I numbly thought when I finally came to rest, exhausted, shaking, panting, crying, sobbing. I love my cage, it doesn't let me come to harm, I told myself. I love my cage. I found myself curled up on the floor bars. The cage was unchanged, the bucket was still there, the stench was still there.
Master stood watching with his arms folded. "Finished?", he finally asked, intending to sound severe, but I could hear how worried he was.
"Yes, Master", I whispered.
"OK, can I open the windows, then? To air out the room so you get rid of the smell? Just for a few minutes, though, so you don't freeze. It's turned rather cold outside. Might even snow."
"Yes, Master", I repeated, slowly uncurling, deeply ashamed of what a fool I had made of myself. "If you please."
Master wasn't angry at me, though. "Here, you can have my coffee, Cathy." He waited until I had sat up and was squatting on the steel bars, uncomfortably balancing on the balls of my feet, and pushed his mug into my shaking outstretched hand. He walked over to the windows, pushed them open. Cold fresh air swept in as he returned, there was a promise of snow, that wonderful clean fragrance that makes you think of long winter walks, scrunching footstep sounds, snowball fights... "How's the coffee?", he asked softly with a self-ironical smile.
"A little weak, if you please, Master", I ventured in the same spirit, trying to smile back.
"The one you made was better. Hadn't thought of that. Drink it up, it will do you good. You're all hoarse."
"Yes, Master." I obediently emptied his half-drunk coffee cup, started feeling better, stopped shaking. "Please forgive me, Master."
"Nothing to forgive. It's part of your breaking process. We knew this was coming. Probably some more of these tantrums ahead."
"'It isn't bondage until you want out, huh?", I said, a little sad, shifting position by plopping down on my behind, "Ow", and planting my soles on the bars.
He smiled. "Exactly. But I do think some punishment is in order, Cathy."
"Yes, Master." I lowered my head expectantly, half afraid, half excited. What was to come?
"You just forfeited the privilege of a toilet. We'll keep the bucket."
"What?!" I stared at him.
"Silly idea anyway, that toilet project - I hadn't thought this through. This is the ground floor, no cellar beneath, we'd have to dig up the foundations to install proper waste disposal plumbing. Those are massive pipes. Also, I like the idea of you having to pee and poop into a bucket and to stand the smell."
I swallowed. "How about a chemical toilet?" I tried to be rational.
"Come on, that desinfectant stuff smells worse than actual pee and poop. Remember when we were camping up at Ben Nevis? Disgusting."
"But... the splash! The spray! There's... droplets. It gets on my skin!"
"Learn to take better aim, Caged Cathy", he chanted good-naturedly.
"You'd have to take out and empty the bucket."
He shrugged his shoulders. "Same as for a chemical loo."
"You would suffer from the stench, too", I tried a last argument. "It's our living-room, after all."
"Oh, but I can go elsewhere anytime." He closed the windows with a series of thumps. "Seriously, though: You will not just wash yourself, but also clean the cage every morning from now on. Thoroughly. I'll check. Ad I'll get... let's see, two or three steel buckets, in style with the cage, rotating them, cleaning and sanitising the ones not in use, swapping them out each morning and evening or whenever. Sounds practical?"
I nodded silently. Practical, everyday details - the things you never think about when phantasising about permanent bondage. "Christmas is over, huh?" I whispered.
"Yep, officially so", he smirked. "Here", soft and tender again, handing me a Kleenex through the bars. "Wipe your face. Blow your nose. That's a good sub. It's OK, calm down. I'll get you breakfast. - Keep on squirming!", he added in a bright little singsong as he walked out.
I changed into a kneeling position but I can't keep that one for long, the bars digging into the knees just below the kneecaps and into my shins become too painful very quickly. Back to squatting on the balls of my feet again, knees spread, ankle chains rattling on the floor bars with every awkward adjustment of position. When I looked down at the bucket and its contents I nearly had my next fit of helpless rage. I took a few deep breaths to calm myself, but that brought just back the smell.
I was crying silently, slumped against the side of the cage, knees drawn up, weight resting on one buttock, when Master came back with a mug of coffee and a bowl of porridge for me. "I'll go empty your bucket now." He gently stroked my shaven head. "You know, you best blog about this. Write a post about your tantrum when you're done cleaning." he said. "After that", he whispered, winking at me, "prepare for a good long shag through the bars. I think I'll take your back door this time."
So, here's the post - now for the, uhm, second part. And don't worry, dear fans, I love my cage.:)
Posted Dec. 29, 09:45:20 GMT
Hi fans! Squeaky-Clean Caged Cathy here! Master said to polish my cage like my shackles and my collar every morning from now on, and I'm just finished. I find it's an almost meditative task, calming me down nicely, erasing all wandering thoughts, and I really get to know each square inch of the unforgiving metal bars all around me. They all have got their individual little bumps and irregularities and discolorations, and Gustaf has taken care to sand the weld seams down to invisibility, so they feel really smooth and pleasant to the touch. I spend quite a lot of time just running my fingers along the bars, taking them in, telling myself, Wow, I'm really in here – between the bouts of squirming, that is. Currently I'm trying to sit cross-legged again, but my feet tend to get numb from that, the floor bars press into my ankles, and I also have to bend too far forward to type that way. I can also get on my hands and knees, of course – which is important for shagging (see below) – but otherwise just one more position to give up after a few minutes at most. There is no comfortable position for me, ever, in this seamless, inescapable cage. That's the idea, and I get dry-mouthed and wet-crotched thinking about it.
Polishing the cage, however, is easily integrated with my morning wash, like I've already being doing with my permanent shackles, since, to polish chromium-vanadium steel, you first clean it with soap and warm water, same as my own body. I then apply polishing paste from the usual plastic bottle with a microfiber cloth, followed by a dry wipe to remove the residue (no water, just a dry soft cloth!), and voilà ! Looks like new!:) Seriously, though – maintaining an unblemished surface is important not just for aesthetic reasons and to discipline me, but to stop any chance of rust. Rust will appear quickly in shackles worn long-term or generally in steel close to the skin. Salt (contained in sweat) and sulphur (contained in lanolin) are the enemies of steel and will eventually corrode it, and rusty steel against skin will then cause abrasions which will get infected. I read somewhere that prisoners in Thailand who wore ankle shackles for months in a hot and humid climate learned to keep them clean with toothpaste in order to avoid that.
Dear fans, I also would like to thank you so much for your concerned comments after my last post! I found them quite touching. But don't be alarmed, Master and I are still finding out how to care for my bodily needs, establishing my new routines – I now have a roll of toilet paper sitting with the keyboard on the little tray outside the bars, plus Master has put up a drinking thingy on top of the cage yesterday, like for a bird bower, or rather it's like a large upside-down baby bottle with a rubber teat in a wire frame, filled with water, from which I can have a drink any time I want. "It's meant for calves", he teased me, "but don't worry, I bought it new." I gave back a playful little "Moo!", shaking my boobs, and off we went again. Sucking that teat feels quite naughty, too!
Most of all, though, dear readers, please don't be scared about the mental breaking process I'm going through. It will be painful sometimes, but after all submission is what a sub's life is about. I'm Caged Cathy now, and the caging, like my shackles, like my nudity, like my total obedience, like my punishments, will imprint itself on my mind. It's the most fulfilling and exciting experience ever for me! That feeling of giving in, of ceasing resistance und rebellion against the cage after my tantrum, was an incredible, sweet rush, better than an orgasm. Every time the realization hits me that I cannot escape this cage, that it's seamless, I get a little bit of that breathtaking ecstatic feeling. I've felt it with the shackles before, which are also seamless and cannot be removed, but this cage is really one stage further. Perhaps you have to be born for this sort of thing. I love my cage. I mean it.
And to those who fear I might be "throwing away" my life by submitting to a Master, to permanent nudity, shackles, and now a cage, I would like to respond: It's only now, as a submissive, that I have a life at all, a breathtaking existence of adventure and excitement, of love and sex! Who was I before, in my vanilla life? One of countless Cathys every morning in the Tube, wearing grey, on their way to a grey office, leading a grey life, pointless, empty... I remember looking about myself in the Underground car where we all stood and sat, crammed together, staring at our phones or straight ahead, and thinking: Heavens, I'm one of them. How could this happen? No loss to throw that away, wouldn't you say?
And now, on a somewhat lighter note, for a technical question that for some reason seems to preoccupy a lot of you – How do you do it while caged? Well, as for actual intercourse, it's surprisingly normal: either doggy style with me on all fours (or rather on my knees and elbows), bum up and my rear end against the bars, or me lying on my back on the floor grid, legs up, knees bent and spread. Both positions bring my lower orifices close enough against the bars for Master to enter me - although not quite as deeply as if there were no cage. But, of course, you can't have it all... And then there's always oral – I just press my face against one of the side grids, open wide and take in what's offered, again minus two centimetres because of the bars.
But enough of these boring technicalities - there's exciting news! Master just calls down the stairs: Jeremy and Cassandra will be coming over tomorrow! Yippie! I get to see Cassie again!
Posted Dec. 30, 23:23:09 GMT
OK, that didn't go too well - and I had been looking forward so much to playing with Cassie again! Well, play we did, but Master is quite miffed about Jeremy lecturing him in front of us two subs and then upstairs in his own study - all the more because Jeremy does have a point...
But I should start at the beginning: Jeremy is quite an imposing figure. When he enters the room, you always expect the James Bond theme starting to play in the background. He doesn't just look like Daniel Craig with his angular features, humorous mouth and narrow, steely eyes, but exudes the same aura of effortless authority and charm that leaves a girl in a swoon. He's the only man I know who still dresses habitually in a suit and tie and doesn't look like a salesman in it but actually like someone important. He is important, too - he's a software developer, a "dev" as he calls it, specializing in legacy systems, mainframes running on COBOL and the like, for which he writes and maintains applications, meaning he does a lot of work for government agencies and large international corporations which still depend on said mainframes and about which he's quite tight-lipped. Jeremy lives out in the country, somewhere in a cottage in Norfolk, glued to his computer screens and phones all day, served and entertained by his devoted sub Cassandra.
Now, Cassie and I have been friends for ages, and as Jeremy allows her an email account, we've stayed in contact. We go all the way back to school (I won't say which one, so our feminist teachers won't all jump out of its neo-gothic windows in desperation about what has become of us), and while I took the plunge into submissiveness, into TPE, and ultimately into this cage, from a fairly stable vanilla life as a Junior Consultant at a brokerage firm, Cassie has had her problems: abusive boyfriends, drugs (medical and recreational), a botched abortion, and two suicide attempts I know about, until she found inner peace and stability at the end of a leash held in the firm grip of Master Jeremy. She's now drug-free, in a functional relationship, and has a structured day - everything her former social worker could've wished for. To Cassie, the Lifestyle was actually a return to normality.
Which does not mean she isn't a spectacular sub. When Jeremy and her appeared at our door, I could hear her high heels clacking in the hall over the men's murmured greetings, but not a word from her - she isn't allowed to speak except when asked something, and it's not the custom for Masters to address one anothers' subs directly, so Master couldn't even say Hello to her -, and when Jeremy led her into our living-room on her leash, I saw that she was wearing the black falcon hood he always puts on her when they leave home, covering her eyes and ears and leaving only nose, mouth, and chin visible, a black, cruelly tight underbust hourglass corset leaving bare her breasts, buttocks, and shaved crotch, and matching black pumps that were not quite ballet boots, but very nearly put her feet in a vertical position. Of course they were locked to her ankles with wide leather cuffs and two silvery padlocks. "I've left her hands unfettered", Jeremy was explaining to Master as they entered. "She needs them to keep her balance, feel for things, and steady herself against the furniture and stuff, since she can't see and is still learning to walk in these shoes." He sounded almost apologetic.
Master was nodding, visibly impressed, while I was so happy I couldn't help calling out, "Cassie! I'm over here! It's so good to see you again! Come here for a hug!"
"May she, Jerrers?", Master smiled. "I'll pour us a drink meanwhile."
"Well, since she's plagued me for months to be allowed to meet Cathy again", Jeremy smirked, "it would probably be unfair to deny her the last ten feet. - Straight, please", the last words referring to our best Scotch - Macallan Single Malt, no less - which Master was pulling out from far behind the cheaper booze in our cabinet. He unhooked Cassie's leash, stroked her leather-covered scalp and told her good-humouredly, "Go play with your friend. I'm sure Master Matthew will appreciate a good show. You may crawl, since you're unfamiliar with this room."
Cassie instantly dropped on all fours and began crawling in my direction. I could see her chest heaving from the pressure of the creaking corset, every breath an exertion for her, her full, moist lips slightly open and moving, as if searching for something, her eyeless gaze straight ahead. "I'm in my cage, Cassie", I directed her softly, "right ahead, about two feet from the ground. Follow my voice." My hand was in my crotch by then, the sight of that helpless female form, boobs dangling, buttocks swaying, feeling her way unsteadily over our floorboards, was so arousing.
"Careful, the cables!" Master had to interrupt the moment, since Cassie in her erotic helplessness was threatening to get caught in the decidedly unerotic computer cables running from upstairs to my cage.
"Christ, Matt, what's that contraption?" Jeremy was shaking his head over the monitor on the coffee-table and the keyboard on my little tray.
"Sort of a terminal, so Cathy can use the Internet and write her blog", Master explained, trying to sound casual.
"Why not just give her a tablet computer to blog with? These cables are an accident waiting to happen. - Cassie, back and a little to the right. OK, you're clear." Jeremy tried to smooth down the irregularly kinked cables with his wingtip shoe. The cables sprang back up stubbornly.
"Oh, you know, haven't quite got around to installing proper WiFi on the ground floor, and since she can't leave her cage anymore..." Now Master was sounding downright sheepish.
Jeremy just shook his head, plopping down on the couch, whisky tumbler in hand. "So this is the famous cage", he said softly, politely changing the subject, while Cassie resumed crawling. "You've made quite a stir in the community with it, via Cathy's blog, you know."
"It's a beauty, innit?" Master sat himself beside his guest.
"Undeniably. And your sub really a sight to see in there. Congrats, Matt." Both men took a swig of whisky, contemplating my cage with me in it like a work of art. I dutifully sat up on my knees, hands in my lap, palms up, gaze down, assuming position, presenting myself, ignoring the floor grid immediately starting to dig painfully into my knees and shins. And ankles. And arches. I didn't want to make look Master bad, though. I love him, I can stand a little pain for him.
"You may play with Cassie, Cathy", Master said as an aside to me, perhaps prompted into his role by my pose.
"Thank you, Master", I responded demurely.
"Welded closed", Jeremy meanwhile continued.
"By Gustaf himself", Master proudly confirmed. "Excellent work."
"Permanently."
"That's the most exciting thing about it."
"You know, Matt", Jeremy swirled the brown liquid in his tumbler, "the thing about permanent bondage is, it cannot be done."
"Oh, we're making it work. She's been wearing her welded shackles for half a year now, after all. So, it's possible. It's not easy, but it's worth it. You said, it's making quite a stir in the community. Why is that? Because it's exciting and arousing beyond belief to have your sub welded permanently into a cage."
"I'll grant you that", Jeremy smiled. He wouldn't let the subject go this time, though. "But even if you can master the day-to-day challenges and the long-term deleterious health effects - what if there's an emergency? You'd need a forklift to move this thing. Do you have one at hand? What would you do if that smoke alarm", he nodded towards the ceiling, "went off right now? And this is tough steel, I recognize the sheen. Cutting it open far enough to get her out would take, how long? Two hours? Three?"
"Now listen, Jeremy..."
"Who'll take care of Cathy in there if you're suddenly incapacitated? Christ, Matt, you work in Failure Analysis. You of all men should know..."
Things went downhill from there. Jeremy has very strong opinions about everything, and he's a bit of a preacher. While Cassie finally found me, her hand and then her eager mouth seeking mine, and we engaged in long tender kisses, rubbing our boobs against each other's through the side grate, sucking nipples, caressing each other's crotch, the works, the men barely restrained themselves from shouting at each other.
"You know, I've been wanting to show you that LISP compiler I wrote." Jeremy suddenly brandished a thumbdrive. "About halves compiling time for most programmes. What say we go upstairs, fire up your machine, so you can have a look?"
"Fine, let's go."
And off they went, thundering up the stairs, Master in his socks, Jeremy in his wingtip shoes, and we heard them talking heatedly in Master's study.
"Not before the subs, wha'?", Cassie sighed. It was the first thing she said to me.
"Always the gentleman", I grinned. "They'll ge' over i', Cassie." I clumsily took her hands through the bars. "Hey. So good to see you. Shall I take off your hood, so you can see me, too?"
"I'd love to, but he'd notice. I couldn't lace it back on the right way again. I can hear your voice, touch your body, that's enough."
"If by 'your body' you mean my clit, you're abou' righ', Cass. Let's see if we can come together, whadyasay?"
"Like old days?", she wheezed, already short of breath because of the corset, twirling my clit a little harder, pressing her body against the bars.
"Like old days.", I groaned. "Ugh, not so fast!"
Cassie draws inward when she's near climax - a little sigh, a little shudder is all you notice when she contracts -, but it's so intense for her she sometimes actually faints, while I tend to yell out loud at the supreme moment, as I did at the exact same time when the men came thumping down again, Jeremy yanking away Cassie by her wrist from me, his eyes blazing, her stumbling helplessly after him. Seconds later, they were gone.
Master's reading over my shoulder now. "He forgot his damn thumbdrive. And I won't send it to him. He'll be back for it, I bet", he's growling. "Then I'll show him who's... What's that? 'I love him, I can stand a little pain for him'? Cathy, you're so sweet." Deep breath, caressing my bald scalp. Pacing now. "He's right, though. Those cables are a nuisance. I'll have that WiFi installed right after New Year's. You'll get a sleek new tablet. And I shall actually buy a forklift for your cage, so I can get you out of the house in an emergency without breaking your bondage. Not a big one, there are those smaller ones they use in warehouses. You walk behind them, steer them with a handlebar, you've seen them. I'll show that would-be James Bond..."
Folks, I've got to take care of my Master now. I'm sure you understand.:)
Posted on Dec. 31, 21:51:09 GMT
Hi fans, Caged Cathy here. Master has just popped upstairs to change into a coat and tie (the idea being that him dressing formally will emphasize my own total helpless nakedness – hmmm, I love that!) and get our party hats, and I'll use the opportunity for a quick last post of the year. Master and I will have us a quiet evening, watch some Jools Holland, then at midnight sing "Auld Lang Syne" together, raise our glasses, watch the fireworks (through the windows), and afterwards have the first shag (or rather the first few shags) of the new year. And after that, out of breath, sweaty, and utterly exhausted (I hope), we'll call it an early night - him in our old boring bed, while I get to squirm in a real cage I can never leave, naked and in permanent shackles. Ha!
Sooo... with the New Year approaching fast, I'll just wish all of you a happy one, just as happy as my first New Year's night welded into my cage will be! See you all next year!
Posted on Jan. 4, 18:23:14 GMT
This is Jeremy.
I'm typing this on Cathy's computer. I'm afraid I have to inform you all that Matt and Cathy have tragically passed away.
(NB: I've got HM Coroner's express permission to publish the details contained in the following ahead of the Inquest, since they are not contested and it's fairly clear what happened.)
The medics, the firemen they called in to cut open the cage, the police, and the Coroner are just leaving, and I'll have to go, too. The police only let me stay on after they took my deposition because I impressed them with my DV security clearance. Even though I'm just an IT guy, they rather treated me like Sherlock Holmes or James Bond after that, sharing their conclusions with me. They also seemed somewhat grateful for an "insider" who could explain the nudity, the cage and the shackles to them.
I'm rather shaken right now, but I'll try to string together a few coherent lines.
I found Matt and Cathy when I dropped by to retrieve my thumbdrive today. When Matt wouldn't open, I went round the house to check. Looking inside through the living-room windows, I saw Cathy and called emergency services immediately.
Thank goodness I had left Cassie in the car. She's wearing her falcon hood as usual, so at least she didn't have to watch later when the bodies were carried out and driven away.
Matt was lying face-down on the stairs, in an advanced state of decomposition (it was always quite hot in the house because Cathy was kept nude). The Coroner says it already happened on New Year's Eve. There was an unopened bottle of Champagne and two unused glasses on the living-room table, and Matt was still wearing a paper party hat, a second one crumpled in his hand.
It was an idiotic, utterly avoidable accident. He must have tripped on the damn cables leading down from upstairs to that improvised computer terminal, fell down the stairs and broke his neck, simultaneously yanking Cathy's keyboard by its cable from the tray attached to her cage. It was found on the floor 3 feet away from her cage. The computer was running and online, but of course she couldn't reach it.
Cathy had no way to call for help after that, not even by yelling, because of the soundproof windows. No one outside could hear her. She died of dehydration, probably only yesterday. I don't want to imagine what she had to go through.
I'll leave this blog up as a memento for two dear friends and also as a cautionary tale.
I'll say this to my fellow Masters in a TPE relationship: Always, always think of the enormous responsibility you're taking on. Matt was a kind-hearted man and a good friend, but I'm afraid he never really got it. There's simply no room for sloppiness when you're keeping the one you love in restraints or confinement. And always plan for a damn emergency, for fuck's sake. A simple landline phone within reach of the cage would have saved at least Cathy's life.
I've got to go take care of Cassie now, she's still outside in the car.
Closing down here.
Jeremy out.
***
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