JANET'S HOME PRISON SENTENCE

BY DREAMCHASER

Part 3

Morning came very slowly for me, at least, I presume it must have
been morning when my mother opened the door of what for me was
now my cell. Devoid of windows, and with no clock for reference,
I had no way of knowing what time of day, or even what day it
was. Walking over to the foot of the bed, I felt the devices that
had held my feet so torturously in place overnight ease their
hold on them, not fully, but enough so that I could relax my
ankles to a degree. The knee straps were unbuckled, allowing me
to raise my knees and further relax my legs, while she fitted me
with a pair of all plastic shoes. Apparently, I was to be allowed
to have a shower, for which I would be eternally grateful. Even
though I had been almost naked for those five days, I was now
become pungent with the sweat of my exertions. I was fully
released from the stocks and allowed to stand, rocking gently on
my heels as my mother undid the corset that had compressed my
waist to such an extent that my body was criss-crossed which
lines caused by the pressure. The sleeves, which had rendered my
hands unusable for the past day were also removed and for the
first time in five days I was able to go to the toilet
unhindered. Meanwhile, my mother was running a shower for me. It
was wonderful to be able to relax under hot running water, and to
be able to wash my hair for the first time in days, if only for
five minutes and while still having to stand in waterproof high
heels.

Once my five minutes were up, the water was shut off, and I
reluctantly had to climb out of the shower and be prepared for
the day ahead. I was led over to the corset lacing frame, my
wrists dried first before cuffs were locked on and my arms raised
until I was stood on my toes, even with my high heels on. Using
the advantage of no limbs to get in the way, my mother dried me
vigorously, making sure that there was no remaining water to
cause skin rashes under the restrictive clothing that I would
have to wear. The dreaded corset was wrapped around my waist, and
I went through the ritual torture of tight lacing again, as my
waist shrunk from it's natural twenty four inches down to a very
uncomfortable twenty inches.

Satisfied only when the lacing was at it's tightest, I was spun
round to face her. It was only when her hands gently took hold of
the nipple chains that I remembered with horror the new
experience that was to come next. With her free hand, she lifted
my left breast to support the weight, while she clipped the now
tightly adjusted chain onto the connecting clip that was sown,
directly above the nipple, into the corset. Satisfied with the
tension on my now suspended nipple, she let go of my breast,
allowing the chain to take the full pendulous weight. Although
not endowed with large breasts, there was enough weight in them
to make the nipple feel very uncomfortable. I knew that they
would be a constant reminder of my position as long as they
remained chained up like that.

Having completed both nipples, attention turned to removing the
ability to use my hands again. Taking no chances now of having
both hands free, the chain was slackened until they were both on
a level with my head, then one was released at a time. Instead of
simply replacing the binders that she had taken off, my arm was
inserted into a new, much longer pair. The hands were still
crushed into a minute area thanks to metal cones, but this time,
the sleeve itself was zipped from the wrists, right the way up to
the shoulders, which is as far as the binder reached. The zips
ran up the outside of the arms, over the elbow joint. On the
inside of the arm was a seam which had eye-lets, the same as a
corset, all the way up that could be used for lacing. Once both
sleeves were in place, my mother connected them with a strap
across the back of the shoulders. My arms were then folded in the
small of my back, the wrist of one sleeve meeting the elbow of
the other. She then commenced lacing the two sleeves together
until my forearms were perfectly mated together behind my back.
Although much more comfortable than the position they were in
yesterday, it was no less inhibiting.

Having completed most of my preparation, it was time for
breakfast and I was put pack onto the bed, my neck and feet
secured in their stocks while my mother went back up to the
house. She returned carrying a tray with a small bowl of
porridge, since I was still unable to properly eat more
complicated foods with my gag in place, and a glass of orange
juice with the obligatory straw. The porridge proved to be a
sloppy affair again, as I more often then not couldn't close my
mouth before it dripped off the gag and back out into the dish
from which my mother was spooning it. It would have been a lot
easier if I could have eaten sitting up, but since I could not
convey this thought to them, they would have to work it out for
themselves. In the meantime, I had to put up with the humiliation
of being spoon fed like a baby.

While I finished syphoning off the last of the orange juice, my
mother started replacing the plastic shoes that had adorned my
feet during my shower, with the shoes that my father had
introduced me to yesterday. The stocks on my ankles were lifted,
allowing me to pull my ankles free, then the neck stock released.
With some difficulty, because of my arms being folded behind my
back, I wriggled my way into the sitting position and slid my
bottom off the edge of the bed so that my feet touched the floor,
the impact jarring on my heels. Standing there, waiting to see
what was to happen next, my mother approached me carrying a
leather item with laces. I knew it could not be another corset,
since it looked too small. She told me to turn around and lift my
head up and back. He next thing I knew, this new thing was being
wrapped around my neck and lower face. It came up to just below
my ears, with a slot cut out for my nose, and for the ring in my
lip to poke through avoiding it being crushed, just like the
original gag had. Other than that, my neck, face and the tops of
my shoulders were completely covered as she began to lace up the
thing behind me, starting at the top so that I could feel my
cheeks being crushed. In ten minutes or so, my neck felt it was
completely paralysed. I was not able to move my head either from
side to side nor up and down since the collar help my chin up as
far as it would go. Looking at where I was putting my feet, which
was the only way that I felt able to cope with the high heels was
now impossible.

I had a feeling what was about to follow, and my worst fears were
confirmed when I was led, carefully, over to the control box of
my walking trainer. As my father had promised me yesterday, the
chains which were to ensure my pace were connected directly to my
nipple rings, meaning that if I refused or fell, the discomfort
that I already felt in my breasts would be turned to instant
searing pain. Without warning, I heard the feint whine of the
motor overhead and saw the cable begin to stretch out in front of
me. The last thing I wished to do was have my breasts pulled so
early on, so I started walking. Evidently, the speed of the motor
had been set a lot quicker this morning compared with yesterday,
because I found myself having to make several tiny shuffling
steps in order to catch up with the cable before settling into an
uncomfortable pace. I tried not to extend my ankle chain to its
maximum length, lest I trip up and suffer the consequences.

Without a word, my mother left me to shuffle aimlessly around the
walls of my prison cell, my speed dictated by a tiny little
motorised cart dangling above my head. She hadn't said how long I
was to be on the walker when she left, so at the end of the first
completed lap, I glanced at the timer. To my horror, the readout
indicated "01:58:04". I was condemned to walk around these walls,
with my arms pinned behind my back, perched on ridiculous heels
and not able to move my head in any direction for the next two
hours, and that didn't include any time that I spent on the
floor. However much I didn't like the idea, there was no avoiding
it. By the end of the tenth lap, I was getting very bored and my
feet were starting to hurt. I tried stopping to give my toes a
brief rest by standing on one foot, only for the chain to pull
taught on my nipples as a reminder that I had to keep moving. For
the next few seconds | found myself running in shuffling little
steps to catch up again, only to trip and fall for the first time
that morning. I lay on the ground, my breasts screaming with pain
from where the chains had literally been trying to tear them away
from my body. There was nothing I could do, although I did try to
raise myself to my feet, but the hobble chain prevented me from
spreading them wide enough to gain leverage.

After about five minutes, my mother appeared, dragged my to my
feet and reconnected the dreaded chains, then I was on my way
again. To relieve the boredom, I tried working out how far I was
going to have to walk, finally working out that the speed was set
for one circuit every two minutes, and that one circuit was about
fifty yards, based on one hundred and fifty steps of about twelve
inches. Even at the slow speed that this was set, I was going to
have to walk about three thousand yards or a mile and
three-quarters before I was released. My balls of my feet were
really hurting now, and I was only half way through, but this
infernal machine gave me only two choices, sore feet or sore
nipples. I knew which I would prefer, so I slowly limped on
through the torture, making sure that whatever happened, I stayed
on my feet.

Thankfully, the final hour passed without me falling again,
despite the pain coursing through my feet and calves. I heard the
saving "ping" as the bell went off to signify the end of this
current torment and awaited my release. The only difficulty I was
then left with was that I was till attached to the infernal
machine. After fifteen minutes, of having to stand there, waiting
for my someone to release me, I seriously considered deliberately
pulling the chains away from my nipples, but the experience of
having them detached when I fell persuaded me that as few of
those experiences as possible were desirable. It took another ten
minutes for my mother to return, unclipping the chains from my
nipple jewellery. She led me back to my bed and locked me in
securely and my back, which I found uncomfortable with my arms
bent behind me in the small of my back, but at least it relieved
the pressure on my toes for a while.

I must have fallen asleep, my body trying to catch up on some of
the sleep I lost during that restless first night of foot
torture. The next thing I remember was my father entering the
room, pushing what appeared to be a hospital trolley, which he
parked beside the bed. Standing over the foot of the bed, I heard
him explaining that my training wasn't yet over for the day, and
that I was now going to experience what is what like to have to
stand immobile for long periods of time on punishment heels. I
felt him undoing my shoes briefly, only for them to be replaced
with what felt like a higher pair, my toes having to really bend
to match the angle of the sole. Once both shoes had been
switched, the stocks were released but he ordered me to remain on
the bed. I watched him bring over two pieces of steel, which
looked like three circles welded together.

After undoing my ankle chain, the first set went around my
ankles, the two hinged outer rings encompassing them before being
padlocked into place. So tight was the fit, that I could not even
twist my ankle in them. They were held in place, about two inches
apart, thanks to the smaller middle ring of steel. The same
process was applied to the second set of cuffs, which fitted just
below the knee to the fleshy upper part of the calf muscles so
that they couldn't slip up or down on the leg. Having secured my
legs parallel to each other and with a slight gap between them, I
was rolled over so that my arms could be adjusted. The lacing
that held them together were undone and my wrists pulled up so
that they were as close to my shoulders as they could get. Once
satisfied that I could get them no higher, based on the raising
pitch of my screaming, he started lacing the sleeves back up,
starting from the elbows, so that my forearms were inextricably
connected to the upper arm behind my back. My fingertips were
touching the collar that encased my neck. The position was the
worse yet, and got worse, when I felt my elbows being drawn
together behind me, forcing my shoulder blades back towards my
spine.

I was in agony, especially when I was rolled back onto my back.
"This is called the reverse prayer position, slightly modified
because you would normally have your wrists connected but in this
case that is not necessary because they are connected to your
shoulders instead making it far more stringent. Over time, you
will be trained to accept this position long term and will be
able to endure having your elbows touching. For now, they are
about six inched apart, although I expect they feel far closer to
you." He made sure that the trolley was up against the bed,
stopping it from moving with his legs as he pulled me sideways
onto it, which hurt my arms even more. Tears were now streaming
down my face, but he ignored that as he continued the session. I
hadn't noticed before, but the trolley had a board at one end
with a gap in the middle, and my body was a adjusted so that my
feet rested astride the gap, with my toes touching the boards.
"The shoes that you now wear are a training shoe, made to ensure
that you stay on your toes all the time and not rock back on your
heels which is not the ladylike way to walk. The heel is in fact
hollow, and is built to accommodate a spring-loaded spike. While
you stand on your toes, no harm will come to you. However, if you
try to drop your heels, you will apply a pressure to the tip of
the spike that will rise from the sole of the shoe under your
heel. It will not pierce the foot as it is blunt, but it will
cause you enough discomfort that you will immediately go back
onto your toes, however tired they are.

While telling me this, I was being wheeled to the middle of the
room. He stopped and undid a couple catches on the sides of the
trolley. Suddenly, my feet dropped and my body was raised, the
weight being taken on the tips of my toes as he had suggested.
Carefully he swung me into the upright position, and then lifted
a hinged metal plate in the floor to reveal a hole about twelve
inches deep and two inches in diameter. My feet were carefully
positioned using the trolley until the gap in the boards was over
the hole. The trolley was then tipped back ever so slightly and I
was told to bend my knees forward so that my lower legs were
straight. Having got me to that position, he picked up a long
iron bar and put one end through the middle hole ion my knees,
feeding it through until it met the cuffs on my ankles. Again the
end of the bar went through the middle hole, and then into the
hole in the ground. At that point, I knew it was impossible for
me to move my lower legs. Even if I chose to fall over, my legs
from the feet to the knees would still be upright. He put my body
upright again so that the pole was directly between my knees and
then warned me to brace myself. Suddenly I felt the boards pulled
from below my feet and the assistance provided the trolley in
balancing me was no longer available. Instinctively, I tried
moving my feet to gain my balance but they could go nowhere
except down, which brought home the effect of the spikes under my
heels. Before he left, he picked up a piece of black leather,
which he wrapped tightly about my head, before buckling it at the
back, plunging me into darkness and disorientation. My cries
became ones of mercy as he left me, blind, gagged hopelessly
bound and struggling to maintain my balance less I permanently
damage my foot and ankles.