No chance of escape

It all started when I inherited a lot of money from an aunt and bought a new house. The house had once been a police station, and although most of it had been converted and looked just like a regular house, in the basement there was still a single prison cell, about 10 feet by 8. I didn't think much of it at first, but as time went by it began to occupy my thoughts more and more. I've always had a strong masochistic streak, though mostly I've just fantasised rather than acting anything out, and I began to wonder what it would be like to be locked in that cell, completely helpless, unable to do anything but wait until my jailer chose to set me free?

It was around this time I met my Master. He advertised himself as such, and I guess this appealed to me. Over the course of the next year or so, we met up maybe two or three times a month, always at his place, and experimented with bondage, domination and some CP. I found I couldn't take too much pain, even though the idea turned me on.

But my thoughts always came back to that prison cell. It was thrilling to be tied up for an hour or so, but then going back to real life was always such a let down. How much better it would be if my captivity lasted 24/7 for days or even weeks! Finally, I brought up the subject with Master. I was nervous, especially when I saw how much he obviously loved the idea. Within minutes he had worked out a practical plan. I would tell my friends I was going on holiday for two weeks, but I'd actually spend the time locked up in the basement of my own house. He would live in the house and provide for my needs (eg food and water) according to a schedule worked out in advance. We agreed that he should be completely merciless in making me serve the entire two weeks, even if I changed my mind and begged him to let me out.

Finally the day came when my incarceration was to begin. Once I had carried his things up to the main bedroom - my bedroom - he led me downstairs into the basement and told me to undress. Standing there naked, looking at that open barred door and the tiny cell beyond, I felt thrilled but also terrified. What was I getting myself into? It didn't help my nerves when I asked to go over the rules one last time to make sure there was no misunderstanding, and he just laughed and said there was no point since I'd have no way of making him keep any promises he made now. But before I could protest, he said that it was just for two weeks anyway, so why was I worried? After that, my friends would expect me back. If they didn't see me questions would be asked, and there was no way my being held prisoner in my own basement could be kept a secret for long.

I still remember the clang of the cell door as it banged shut behind me, the metallic clunk as he turned the key in the lock and the sound of his boots on the concrete floor gradually receding as he left the basement and went back upstairs. I looked around the tiny cell that was to be my home for two weeks. There was a hard bed, a toilet and a sink, cold water only. The bare essentials for life, with no thought given to comfort or enjoyment. I sat down on the bed, and was amazed at how instantly I felt helpless. It wasn't that I was really hungry, but somehow the knowledge that I had no control over when I would next eat blew the slight hunger I felt out of all proportion. I also realised with a start that I could see no natural light - for a whole two weeks I wouldn't see the sun or the sky, or anything but this cell or the basement on the other side of the barred door. I could see the keys to my cell hanging on a hook on the opposite wall. I reflected that it was lucky I hadn't told my friends I was flying anywhere sunny, as I certainly wouldn't have a tan when they saw me again.

He'd taken my watch along with my clothes, and the lack of natural light made it hard to judge the passing of time, but I was ravenously hungry when he finally brought me my evening meal and slid the tray under the bars. It was under a silver lid, the kind used to keep cooked food warm, but this turned out to be his little joke as when I lifted it there was nothing but dry bread underneath, and nothing but water to go with it. Bread and water. He laughed at my expression of disappointment, and said he'd be back for the tray in an hour. I bit into the bread and found it was stale (I later found out he'd bought it a few days earlier and let it go stale deliberately) but I was so hungry I didn't care. I remembering wondering how sick of it I'd be after two weeks if that was all he gave me.

By the third day, I was beginning to understand how solitary confinement can drive a person mad. I was going out of my mind with boredom, endlessly pacing back and forth in my cell. Having nothing to do but think, I reflected on how little time a human being can stand having absolutely nothing to do - not just the boring things we all resent having to do, but nothing at all. When he brought my evening meal - stale bread and water, as always - I begged him to let me have a book to read, a newspaper, anything at all to relieve the boredom, but he was implacable. Our agreement had said nothing about giving me anything to read, so that was how it was going to be. Likewise we'd agreed how often I would be fed but not what, so if I didn't like stale bread that was just tough. He turned and walked out of the basement, leaving me to curse my stupidity in not thinking through the agreement properly.

But the next day at breakfast time, as I considered the prospect of another day just staring at a blank wall, I couldn't help myself. I said what would it hurt him if I just had something to read? It didn't seem much to ask.  He looked at me long and hard, then put down my breakfast tray and snapped his fingers.

"Remember that sound," he said. "It's a sound you'll hear any time you disobey me, or question my orders, or repeat a question I've already answered, or do anything else that pisses me off. It's a sound that means you'll forfeit one day's food."

With that he picked up my breakfast tray and marched out of the room. I was stunned by what he'd said, but sure enough lunchtime and dinnertime came and went but he didn't return. I spent the day wishing I had something, anything to take my mind off the hunger gnawing at my belly, and terrified both of the power he had over me and of the cold-blooded, sadistic way he used it.

Finally, after the longest two weeks of my life, the day came for my release. When I heard his footsteps on the basement stairs in the morning I figured he was finally going to let me out. But no, there was the tray of stale bread again. I bit down my instinct to protest, remembering that the flight I'd told people I was returning on didn't land until noon, so he was within his rights to keep me locked up until then. Anyway, what was a few more hours? But when he came at lunchtime with more stale bread and turned to leave without releasing me, I couldn't help myself. However cruel he'd been, I said, he'd always stuck to our agreement, so how could he justify not releasing me today? To my horror, he snapped his fingers and left the room without a word. What could it mean? That he would keep me locked up for an extra day just for the pleasure of starving me?

Sure enough, I got no evening meal that night, and could hardly sleep for hunger. But I must have dozed off eventually, and when I woke I found that a newspaper had been slipped under the bars of my cell. What could this mean? That he was relaxing the conditions of my imprisonment? But he was supposed to be releasing me! I picked up the newspaper and instantly felt a jolt of horror in the pit of my stomach. The front page was devoted to news of a terrible plane crash at the Airport. It said that a plane coming in to land had caught fire and then exploded, and there were no survivors. I think I knew even before the article confirmed it that it was the plane I had told everyone I was returning on.

"Kinda changes things, don't you think?" The voice came suddenly out of the dark of the basement beyond the bars of my cell. He must have been standing there all the time, waiting for me to wake up and read the newspaper so he could enjoy my reaction.

"Wh... what do you mean?" I stammered.

"You know exactly what I mean. Your guarantee of being released after two weeks was that people would miss you if you weren't. They'd start asking questions, the police would get involved and before long you'd be traced here. Well, now everyone thinks you died in that plane crash. No one expects ever to see you again, and your chances of getting out of that cell depend completely on whether I choose to release you or not."

"So what would you say your chances are?"

My mind was racing. Was he really saying he would never release me? Could he possibly be so cruel? Thank God I had the foresight to...

His voice cut into my thoughts.

"Give me the newspaper back now. No exceptions to the rules, even on a day as special as today. But don't worry slave, I've got something here you can read."

As I gave him the newspaper, he passed me an envelope, and my insides turned to ice. It was my writing on the front. It was addressed to my solicitor, and on the back were instructions that he should only open it if he hadn't heard from me by a date two days from now. I knew without looking that the letter inside was the one I had posted to him the day before master locked me away, telling him all about my forthcoming imprisonment in my own basement. This was my failsafe mechanism, designed to ensure that there was no way he could keep me locked up for longer than we had agreed. But how...

"I followed you for a few days before locking you up, just in case you tried something like this. When I saw you mailing a letter, I called an old client of mine who works for the Post Office. He unlocked the mailbox and I retrieved your letter. All very illegal, of course, but I guess he didn't want his wife to find out where he really went on Thursday nights."

"So you see, my slave prisoner, your solicitor never got this letter. He thinks you're dead, like everyone else does. He won't be coming round with the police. There'll be no seventh cavalry arriving at the last minute to save the day. There's just you, and me. You have right on your side, no question about that. I did promise I'd release you yesterday. Unfortunately I have something much more important - the keys to your cell."

He dangled them between thumb and forefinger, tantalisingly close to the bars, as if daring me to try and grab them.

"And I'll be making sure they stay out of your reach - permanently."

Hanging the keys on their hook on the far wall, he turned and left without another word.

After that, everything seemed to happen very fast, and with the unstoppable momentum of a juggernaut.  He spent a couple of days going through my private papers until he knew exactly what my assets were in addition to the house itself, then set about drawing up a will, dated six months earlier, which left everything to "my wonderful new boyfriend who has brought so much joy into my life" - ie him. I was horrified, but before I had a chance to protest he told me matter of factly that he would starve me for days, weeks, whatever it took until I signed it, and I knew I was beaten. Sobbing uncontrollably, I signed my name to the document, not daring to think about what it meant for my future.

He told me that a memorial service was held for me, and that many people had attended and said nice things about me, little knowing that I was alive and less than a mile away in an underground cell. He played the part of the grieving lover very well, he said. Everyone had sympathised with his tragic loss, and thought it a nice idea that he take over the house the two of us had planned to live in together - little knowing that the two of us would in fact be living in it! How he laughed when he said that, and laughed all the more when he saw he had reduced me to tears of helpless frustration again.

He spent the next few weeks enforcing my situation.  Chaining me to the bars of my cell, he covered me in some thick gooey substance, and with one blast of his hose over my body, my body hair was washed away.  All of it.  Shearing my head of its hair, he applied the substance there as well.  The result is that I am now hairless, permanently.  Even the protection of some body hair denied me in my cold cell.

The following week he decided to further reinforce my status.  He laughed as he told me that he wanted me to never forget where I was and what I had become, never to be comfortable again.  Over one cruel day he locked a heavy metal collar around my neck, marking me as his property.  Agonisingly, he punched a hole through the septum in my nose and threaded a heavy nose ring through the hole and finally he produced a tattoo gun.  Seeing my wide eyes, he reassured me that one of his friends had taught him how to use it well.  I quickly realised that there was no way to ever get out of this situation, as he set to work.  After being chained in place on the floor by my nose and my balls, he set to work.  The product is dehumanising.  Across my forehead is a stencilled set of seemingly random numbers – my prisoner slave number that I have had to learn as my new name.  74128.

Across my chest is stencilled SLAVE in bold black letters.   Where once my pubic hair existed above my cock, my slave number is stencilled again, and across my back is stencilled the word PRISONER and my slave number.

I was devastated at the realisation that these changes removed any chance of escape.  And my neck has never since been free of its heavy collar, my nose dragged down by the heavy weight of the septum ring.  When it suits him, he ties my septum ring to a ring on the wall at the rear of my cell.  High enough to demand I am stood on tiptoe, and left there for as long as it amuses him.

All this happened more than six years ago, In all that time I have not once been allowed out of this tiny cell. It's stifling in summer and freezing in winter - the basement has central heating but he refuses to turn it on, saying my money is better spent on luxuries for him than making my life bearable. Indeed, during the winter months he always comes down to the basement in expensive looking clothing he has bought with his newfound wealth.  He stands there fully clothed and groomed while I huddle naked and shaved in a corner shivering uncontrollably. The water from the sink is especially cold in winter, making my daily all over wash torturous, but he insists that I do it unless I want a bucket of ice water thrown over me. I am now thin as a rake and my skin is sickly and pallid from the poor diet and complete lack of sunlight. I'm no longer aware of when it's night or day. I sleep fitfully, dreaming of my old life and cursing when I wake up to find I am still in my cell, with nothing to do but count the hours until my next meal of stale bread and water.

I've begged and pleaded with him endlessly to let me go. I've promised that I'll go as far away as he likes, live under a different name, never do anything to jeopardise the luxurious life he's living with my money. Nothing gets me anywhere. He says if I were free there'd always be a risk that what he did to me might be found out. Even if I didn't tell, someone might recognise me in the street and start asking questions. And he wasn't prepared to take that risk. Why should he, when he already has everything he wants? He enjoys my naked misery, and his role as my jailer.  Besides, he laughs, how can you live as a normal person with the evidence of your slave markings?

"After all," he says with a laugh, "I could end up in prison like you - and I don't need to tell you how bad that is, do I slaveboy?"

I face the constant threat of enforced starvation if I cross him in the least little way. He only has to raise his hand as if he's about to snap his fingers and I instantly stop whatever I was doing or saying. One day, he announced that I wouldn't be fed that day even though I'd done nothing wrong, because he'd forgotten to buy bread a few days before so there was none stale enough to give me, and he was unwilling to give me fresh bread as he said "good food was for jailers, not for prisoners". I raged against the unfairness, and he smiled, snapped his fingers and thanked me for giving him an excuse, saying he wouldn't feel bad about it now.

He still refuses to let me have any books or newspapers to pass the time, and has even gone to the lengths of putting all the books that were in the main bedroom when it was mine on a table in the basement where I can see them. When he first did this I thought he was going to let me have them, but no, of course it was just another way to torment me with what I desperately wanted but couldn't have.

He insists that he isn't keeping me locked up naked out of sadistic enjoyment of my suffering, but I know this isn't true as he deliberately makes the conditions of my imprisonment as unbearable as possible. The slightest complaint about anything means I don't get fed for a day, and he's become amazingly creative in finding ways to address my complaints which leave me worse off than before.   I’m required to stand legs apart, hands on head whenever he enters the basement, displaying my naked body for his amusement.

He's taken to having some meals down in the basement to remind me of what I'm missing. The smell of the wonderful food he was eating while I bit into dry crusts day after day nearly drove me out of my mind, and finally I snapped and said I couldn't eat nothing but dry bread for every meal for the rest of my life. As usual I got a day's starvation for my outburst, but then to my surprise he said I had a point. After all, bread doesn't contain everything necessary to keep a human being alive, and he didn't want me effectively getting years taken off my sentence by dying early. So once a week, he said, I would get a change of diet.

I was suspicious of a victory so easily won, and I was right to be. The following night I found out exactly what my varied diet would be - a dish of dog or cat food, which he gets out of the tin in front of me so I can have no doubt about what it is. Needless to say, I have to eat up every single scrap or I'll never get fed anything else again. He watches me carefully as I eat, both to enjoy my humiliation and, I think, to see which flavours I find most disgusting, so he can be sure to buy those in future.

Worst of all was the day I complained that I couldn't keep track of the passage of time. Fine, he said - that tied in with something he been thinking about too. From now on, he said, he would give me a merciless thrashing with a whip or a cane once a month, on the anniversary of the day my incarceration began. Needless to say, any refusal to cooperate would simply mean I was starved until I gave way.

I was terrified by this, remembering how painful our early experiments in CP were, but at the same time it gave me hope. It meant he would have to unlock my cell door, and even in my weakened state, maybe I would be able to overpower him and get free. I should have known better. Before unlocking the door, he always securely fixes my hands into heavy manacles attached to the ceiling of the basement outside my cell. The chain is only just long enough, so I have to press right up against the bars and stand on tiptoe with my arms extended so the manacles can reach my wrists. Once I am secured, he goes upstairs. Sometimes he comes back straight away with a terrifying looking whip or cane, sometimes he waits a few hours to let my anticipation build, I never know which it is going to be.

When he does finally open that cell door and I know it is about to happen, my legs turn completely to jelly. I always thought he was using all his strength back in the old days, but now I know he was just playing back then and he is capable of far, far worse. Every single stroke produces more pain than I would have imagined possible. Needless to say he just ignores or laughs at my screams and desperate begging for mercy. The pain is so excruciating that I lose all track of how long its been going on or how many lashes I've had, but he once told me I get between fifty and a hundred each time depending on his mood. When he's finished, he always pulls up each leg behind me, caning the soles of my feet severely.  He then leaves the cell, securely locking the door behind him, hangs the keys on their hook in the far wall, and only then releases my hands (sometimes he makes me wait a few hours even for this). I always crash to the concrete floor, completely broken and unable to support my own weight after such extreme torture, my caned feet in agony too.

He has now come up with a way to deprive me of the one pleasure I thought he could never take away from me. One morning he appeared not with my breakfast tray, but with a shiny metal chastity belt. The penis tube was exactly the same size as my cock in its flaccid state, allowing no room for expansion at all, and the thick waistband exactly the same size as my emaciated waist. I knew there was no use in resisting, and as I fixed it in place, I knew without asking that it was never coming off again - he would never release me, and I simply didn't have any more weight to lose to help get the waistband off. He passed me the sturdy padlock, and once I had clicked it in place, he hung the keys on the opposite wall, saying he would get my breakfast now as I'd been such a good little boy.

While I waited for his return, I stared at the two sets of keys, one for my cell door and one for my belt. They hung barely eight feet away from me, but might as well have been on the dark side of the moon for all the hope I had of ever reaching them. I began to sob uncontrollably.  And so I have never touched my penis since that day, locked away.  The nearest I get to orgasm is watching my master cum, before eating his sperm as a sweet sauce on my dry bread.  I’ve forgotten what it’s like to be warm, to wear clothing, to taste food.

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Well he goes on like that for quite some time, but I won't bore you with it. I know all too well how tedious it is when he cries and wails and begs and pleads and grovels, over and over again. I've told him he wasting his breath, as I'll never let him go or make the conditions of his imprisonment any more bearable, so why does he do it? Ah well, after 6 years in a tiny cell, shut away from the sunlight and slowly driven mad by all the torments I can devise, I guess you can't expect a person to be too rational!

Anyway, he's given a pretty fair account of his predicament and how he got to be where he is, and he hasn’t even been able to release his locked away cock for over a year - I knew he was jerking off and hated the idea he was getting some pleasure I couldn't prevent - I thought I'd share it with you. I notice he tried to slip in some clues about where we live, which I took the liberty of deleting - still clinging to some desperate fantasy about being rescued, I suppose. Can't blame him for trying - though of course I can punish him! A couple of days of starvation, maybe? Twice as many strokes during his next thrashing? Decisions, decisions!