Author's Note: Self-bondage is bitter sweet because the best and worst parts are hopelessly intertwined.


The Move

I grew to not hate but certainly dislike home, town, the local cities. I was born here, my parents and siblings are close, but I had to move on. It's not like I haven't traveled, I needed to live somewhere else. Life was moving slow, I wanted less people who know my parents, and more options. So I moved to Florida, from one of the northern tier states, 'for work' and for the beaches, the sun, the weather.

It is hard being away from my family, but it is nice in a way too. I'm single, male, thirty-something, and I like most males in this day and age got more sexual education from porn than school or parents. Early on I loved femdom and taught myself the art of submission, of being trapped and stuck. Like classical music or ASMR this is a learned trait, yet there are some innate rails in our minds, bodies and/or souls that really support ideas like this. As if we were created or evolved to accept submission for some advantage, maybe the best barbarian tribes had a single Alpha leader.

My new place is a small duplex, I barely know anyone, just my neighbor on the other side. She is 50, Sally, nice and not around very often, her garage is full so it is obvious when she or her boyfriend are home because her car is in the driveway. I park outside too because my garage door opener is original, I don't have the remote control and I wouldn't dare run my car under the thing.


The Fun

So away from parents, friends and siblings, I of course took some liberties I didn't enjoy at home. Two or three bars every night, lots of fetish, lots of drunkenness and TV. The place has a HOA that does the lawn and everything, a big difference from home where I was shoveling snow or mowing lawn once a week. And Florida is nice on the women wearing not overcoats but short shorts.

I always had some submission in me but seldom the trust to give someone else control. So going to the sex shop I purchased my own dildo (mouth only, my ass is and has always been in question, I'd hurt myself) and some twenty-dollar handcuffs. At the counter I showed the larger black man my credit card. Laughing he points to the 'credit card' counter. 'I can help you here sir,' the cute lady smiles, '.. did you see those police-grade cuffs?' She smiles sweetly as my card does its processing magic. 'Too.. spendy' I utter, as I quickly retreat home. Most people at a sex shop are introverts, except in this case the couple nice overweight black ladies who were yelling about their vibrator preferences.

While I don't like makeup or anything like that, I did find it similarly embarrassing to buy lady's clothes as buying those handcuffs in the sex shop. Anyhow, I had two good rationalizations- three clear reasons why to get into feminine clothing. First, to meet girls- they wear girls' clothes too. Next, it fits so smoothly with submission, to spend time putting on or wearing clothes that maybe I would be humiliated to wear, and of course softer or easier to relax in. The last is dubious: if I mess up talking to a girl I meet, maybe a punishment is buying more clothes.

The next week I was buying martial arts handcuffs and ankle cuffs from Amazon. The ones from the sex shop are nice but they have quick releases so they are like training wheels, I can easily put them behind my back and take them off. I also sometimes like driving with my hands cuffed, they are silver, and especially I like waving to people (thanks for stopping without blocking the intersection and my turn; thanks for letting me go first) with them on. I think people normally don't look, but I know some people like commercial drivers or Fedex or UPS or USPS have to be so used to staring at people, out of boredom, they had to see my cuffs. I sometimes wonder if a cop might complain about them sometime.

The nicer, more solid and definitely non-quick-release handcuffs arrive at work. They don't open my packages and UPS delivers direct to commercial places like work. My boss handed me the package- 'Martial Arts Supply'- without much fuss. I need to take lunch at home. Driving home, I can't stop considering how much better these will be. And they are. My lunch expands to two hours, dressing girly I cuff myself immediately and they feel great. One of my better orgasms, to be sure. With four keys everything is safe as it can be. The cuffs never get stuck and seldom over tighten. And they only cost $40, for the set- the sex shop's cop cuffs were $40 for just handcuffs and no ankle cuffs.


Sleep

The trouble with self-bondage is compartmentalization- separating safe mundane bodily freedom from the passionate submission of being impossibly locked away. Ice or timers can make up for a lack of discipline. On the other hand, making a rule and following it 'just because' is a viable option.

I took several weeks to be able to keep my handcuffs and ankle cuffs on, hand cuffs locked in front, without getting up and taking them off in the middle of the night. I was so proud of myself the first day I woke up with my alarm clock and was still cuffed! I shuffled to the toilet, my nightwear (mixing feminization and submission as is only natural) lightly tugging between my knees, and carefully sat to pee. So nice, so calming. I brushed my teeth, only at the last minute taking everything off and dressing for work.

Submission is... simple, easy, safe. Paradoxically, I feel safer from robbers or outside influences when I am locked up then when I am free. I suppose if a criminal came into my house, killed my dog or stole my wallet, and left, I would be more OK with it since I was locked up. The rationalization is very strong.

Meanwhile I bought a crop (or whip) from a farm supply store, and more than a few times my coworkers and even my boss asked about the marks. He actually asked, "Is someone abusing you?" "No, no-one is abusing Brandon." I blurted, hoping he could understand the juxtaposition between a strong skilled employee and a sex crazed submissive Beta. I can't.


The Event

Most Fridays are bad for me, I tend to be pissed at still being single, and annoyed at sleeping in a bed with no other people. This Friday was worse. I got burnt up, in the sun too long stuck on top of a white container in the middle of a dry Floridian blueberry field. Literally on top of one of those intermodal shipping containers that can go on a semi, a train or a boat. I was helping our customer and my colleges, just an extra pair of hands. It was fun, we chatted and relaxed, it was the end of the day and I was last to climb back down on the rickety ladder, maybe twenty feet.

So much sun. The customer is a cute woman and I remember sheepishly hiding my arms from the sun so I could stay near her rather than going into the shade or just forgetting the whole thing and waiting in the truck. Finally we wrapped up the last of the site lockup, my boss and I driving back to the shop together. My arms, my neck, my nose. Bad. The skin tightening- warm, pleasing sensations but sunburns are dangerous. One can take a warm/hot shower to quickly stop the pain, but I specifically don't since that causes yet more damage.

Friday, Saturday and even Sunday I eased my sores with lots of drink and stayed inside avoiding the rays. It would be a week or more before I got better, and more than a couple people showed me their skin cancer scars. My arms would blister and peel in coincidental relation to other developments.

Sunday afternoon I went to a mall or two, bought some ladies' shoes (it is what cross dressers are forced to do), and went home. The shoes fit, I seldom try them on bare-foot in the store and these were on clearance so I took them even though they were tight on my male socked feet. Sort of booties, larger heel, zipper up the inner ankle, no chance of being kicked off when zipped. Brown. One of the ladies working at the shop was an older Hispanic woman who didn't understand I was buying shoes, asked if I was looking for someone. Another sales lady, younger, smiled her off and they talked a bit, I did not entirely grasp their meaning but gathered they'd talk more after I left.

Night approaches. I make food, I drink (vodka, warm, straight; health food as far as alcohol goes). I relax, my stomach fills. The night wears on and I lay in bed, watching TV on my computer. With my nice handcuffs on, and a key on the nightstand, three on a shelf down low. I had checked, to make sure if my hands were behind me I could grab them. I had tried uncuffing one hand behind my back, with the other free. Truth be told it never worked, I could not do it, but I was relaxing and had had some beers.

So I went to bed around 10 PM and watched TV there. Over the internet, relaxing, sipping vodka.

It makes so much sense. I was able to enjoy front-cuffing all night, it was so much fun. Let me just switch it up. I have plenty of keys, I can reach them all; I am safe and secure. Anyhow there was just a big emotional event on the TV show. I'm going to hurt no matter what, the sunburn is hot even at night with the windows open. I reach to the nightstand, click, I'm free. One hand is loose, so free. I put the key back, smiling slightly in a bit of a stupor. So happy, so safe.

I reach both hands behind me, almost laughing. I lay, thinking. It should be fine. I can get out whenever. I am alone and I am safe. And I can probably just lean down and get my handcuffs under my feet and back in front of me whenever. Not now, since I am drunk, but once I sober up in a few hours. I don't want to get free right away, I don't want to think about that or be able to. Freedom will be forced later, hours after now yet before work comes around on Monday. Tomorrow. Click.

And my hands are behind me, and it is ecstasy. I am so stuck, and later I can get out. Now I pull a little, I switch sides, I try laying on my hands, and the last of the TV quits. I kick off the headphones by rubbing my head against the pillow. No good way to use the mouse or pick another episode, the screen goes dark automatically and I am left to my own devices.

A handless orgasm. Maybe two. I drift off to sleep, feeling the numbing effect of this arm/hand position, smiling to myself. I have won: I have made myself do something difficult, I am stuck, yet I can free myself and return to corporate life soon. If anyone saw me, they would feel sorry for me; I am the suffering, hurt one and they are totally unable to harm me. If they did- they would be scum, berated on the news, vile. I smile and I sleep. Happy, warm, a bit numb physically. I fall asleep fulfilled and hoping I can manage to keep these on throughout the night, worried I might take them off too early, like before when I would get up and unlock cuffs I had in front of me. I hope it won't take weeks to become capable of that level of discipline, it is so degrading to decide to wear cuffs all night only to rip them off myself early.

It was better sleep than I've had for a long time. One of my best experiences. But what was to come was better, more submissive, and of course the dulling effects of beer and sleepiness were waning.


Out

Waking up unexpectedly, I look to the clock. 6AM. Silly, way too early, clearly caused by the numbing and pain from wearing handcuffs behind my back. I tug at them, irritating my wrists. Shit. I go pee; I walk around and get a key (one of four) into my fingers. OK, time to get out. I give, I won't win this challenge but maybe another day I can wear these bastards until dawn. Work is coming and I want better sleep, even if I have to quit early and give up. I feel lazy and willing to quit. And my arms really are quite sore, and my hands are numb so I don't really know what is going on. So a good time to call it, to error on the side of safety and sacrifice fun.

No question it will be easy to get out. I have the key in my fingers, several spares accessible; I just need to line it up. I've done it dozens of times in front. So I try. No luck. I try. No luck. Reconsidering, I maybe still am a hair buzzed; it is pretty early and I only really quit drinking around 2 AM. And six hours is a pretty typical time to get rid of the effects. So 8 AM. Luckily work is at 9, I think, sluffing back to bed. I try to convince myself this is partially my decision, to keep the cuffs on all night like I planned, but the cuffs tightened as I tried to remove them, as if to prove I had no say. More uncomfortable I take a pleasurable from standing and trying to remove the cuffs break. I drift back into a restless sleep.

7AM. Someone walks around my house, talking to his dog; he is 50 or 60, and I don't know him. But I hurt bad. So I walk outside, I try to find this man, he is gone. My feminine sleepwear following, I sulk back into the house, the chain between my ankle cuffs pleasantly dragging and ringing on the concrete. It has a small-link chain that smoothly rolls on itself, continuing to move and make quiet metallic clicking noises on its own momentum after I stop. My shoulders hurt, my wrists in a rage of pain and my hands are frighteningly numb. Maybe I can figure the key out. I try again, no luck, no luck, ten, twenty minutes pass. I am almost lucid, nearly sober, clearly hung over and more tired than I thought. I know. My feet. I can just slip my arms under my feet.

I try, again and again, to get my hands around my ass. It just hurts. It hurts too much. I arch my back, I squat down, I shove hard outward with my wrists, and nothing. Not even close, I feel the chain of the handcuffs right on the small of my back, not even half ways down my ass, laughing at me. Laughing. Every time, my wrists feet the brunt of the effort- pulling them apart and tearing at their tender flesh, trying to force them down and around. The numbness and the pain blend in a scary way, I wonder if I am actually doing too much harm and need a better solution. I try again, no luck; one more forlorn attempt with the keys. I sit on my bathroom sink watching my ass, to help line up the key, in a contorted effort to twist my wrists together.

Bed. I sleep more. It is almost eight and I need to think about work, but I need to leave this world of pain and questionable consciousness. My wrists hurt too much; no-one is here. Sleep, sobriety, skill and coordination will come. Then I will have an easier time getting out, and less risk of getting hurt.

8AM. I get up and shuffle over to the other tenant, in my duplex. Her car is there, thank goodness, my wrists are on fire. I have to go around the garages and past the cars to get to her front door. The key from before is still in my fingers, I think I kept it there while I slept. I hurt so bad, I would do anything- pay hundreds of dollars, call 911, ask my boss to send someone. I can't get out, I need out. I did wrong.

I ring the door-bell, half hoping she won't come out. Her car is there and it is 8AM so she will, what kind of normal person isn't up by 8AM? And she is old, doesn't stay up late, seems nice. But in the same moment I hope I can dismiss the idea of begging and the embarrassment of it all to just go back to bed, and avoid my neighbors gossiping or maybe even calling me disgusting, vile or wrong. It is probably fine she sees me hung over with pink lingerie and handcuffed, she can't know dad, but I mean... I would do anything to get out. And I have the key in one hand, ready for any stranger to help, ready to ask anyone. I'll get them a twenty-dollar bill or let them take a picture or laugh. I need out so I can go to work. So I can quit hurting so bad. Because it is not fun anymore.

But of course that was the moment, so sweet, more fun than any beers can bring. So submissive, so Beta, almost like heaven. No mistakes can be made; everyone feels sorry for me. I think back to it for months. I cannot duplicate it, too dangerous, but it yearns and calls to be duplicated. In that moment I solved the separation of self-bondage, proved I did need a dominatrix. I showed how unable I was to control my own choices, how badly I needed someone to look after my well-being, just like a child needs help to avoid boiling water and busy streets. The humiliation, unending pain, and numb hands add serious logical concerns- maybe I will need to go to the hospital, maybe my neighbors will just not put up with my lack of good family values or my moral indecency. Will there be permanent changes in how my hands feel or work? I need them to work well for my job. At that moment thoughts of black mail or Sally offering to 'help me' by being my dominatrix, for a set fee, ideas I consider sexy and ideas which were close to fruition, closer than ever, were impossible craziness. I wasn't able to lift them rightly in my mind, I was too far into the experience, unable to even consider consequences beyond a few minutes.

Three loud rings, two or three long minutes. Why aren't any of my neighbors seeing a male dressed in lingerie handcuffed and at least laughing, let alone coming to rescue me? I left my door open, the people across the street should put two and two together, and most of them knew me in passing because I always smile and wave. Shit, shit, this hurts too much!! And I am getting aware enough to really hate it, and grow less and less fond of Sally getting to see me like this, more and more willing to play the party line and just accept. The fucking lingerie is a pink, long, soft shirt with buttons and ruffles in the center, and black accents, something more comfortable than sexy, warm and thick. Perhaps large for me obviously feminine yet not outright sexy nor short. The ankle cuffs, clearly visible, the shirt reaching down well below my knees when I stand (it hikes up somewhat in bed); the hand cuffs, of course, my focus. I can just say 'I got stuck...' or 'Sorry to bother you but it would be great...'

So stuck. So helpless. Asking for pity from basically strangers; wanting to just go to sleep, to ignore, to put off. But it is 8:15, work is at 9, I need to leave soon. I have to. They might call me, they might send someone for me, but that could be a trouble. That could be a pay cut, a demotion, being fired; I just don't know. I realize I waited too long and I leave. Sally will not be seeing me like this at least. I wonder if anyone saw me at all, maybe she was thinking of answering the door and looked out the window first, and balked. Maybe people see me through cross dressing before and are grosses out. It is weird to stand outside anyone's house when they don't answer, so it is right to leave.

I lock my door's deadbolt, surprisingly easy with my hands cuffed behind, and the sure click underlines my defeat. Knowing sleep is no longer an option, I go into my bathroom again. Saddened, afraid, but so horny. So submissive. I find my key and sit on my sink.


The End

After waking and sobering up, it took some serious work, but I got out in time and to work. I painfully and tediously maneuvered the key in one hand, trying to look into a mirror, got it into the other's cuff then immediately felt joy as it finally slid into the keyhole. Relief, not joy. Saddened knowing everything was done, and all I had to do was pick up the pieces, that Sally was never going to find out, I needed to start driving for work. So much pain to be dealt with, work was going to be miserable. I twist and ease the cuff open, then effortlessly release the other. The ankle cuffs fall off with similar mind-numbing ease. Unusually I had to drive to a customer instead of the office, the hour commute and the fact I had suggested 10 AM last week helped with the hangover.

Most of the pain I caused myself- embarrassingly I didn't notice deep cuts from struggling against the cuffs until one of my customers pointed them out - was from the false illusion I could stretch and get my hands behind my ass, down to the ground and around my feet. That worked for handcuffs with longer chains, but this pair wouldn't go even if I was ultra-flexible. I had kept trying until the skin came off, raising large blood blisters in part from the sun burn and making what I can only consider obvious handcuff bruises- deep purple- on both wrists.

The main people I work with down there welcome me and take me into an important meeting about a new large project (half a million), trying to ignore my obvious sores, with some of the higher management. The sunburn on the arms is bubbling, my nose is red. Later that day Sam shows me a huge scar on his neck, "Skin cancer. Be careful, Brandon. I'm serious." After the meeting when the big bosses leave, the regulars get a chance to look at my wrists. "You didn't see that!" one exclaims, not too loud for others to hear in the office, as I notice for the first time lacerations on the outside of my right hand. Shit. I had put my 'baby cuffs' (with the quick releases) on during the long drive to the customer, without noticing. They would have touched the same area, but as I was driving I couldn't tell it from the mix of pain and numbness.

I can't believe I did that. My wrists look awful, the right one had two big blood blisters (from rubbing between the layers that made up the hand cuffs) and three deep cuts on the other side from struggling. My left fared better, not being dominant, but it still was sore and both have purple bruises about a third of the way around. Monday as I drove home from the customer was the worst for guilt.

Tuesday I went into my normal office. The day of healing made everything look much better, I think, like 30% better. But everyone still stared, asked, worried; this is when my boss asked if I was having problems or if someone (like the mob or something!) was hurting me. I took it in stride, trying to laugh it off, while I felt more guilt for not properly controlling myself, for harming myself. And how much worse it could have gone, that I could have really damaged something. Even now two weeks later I still am partially numb on the backside of my hands, the right being worse.

My whole right arm became peppered with pleasingly small water blisters from the sunburn, my left arm did better, and my nose was falling off from too much sun. I would pick at it for a week, scared of skin cancer and annoyed at my stupidity. The left arm blistered too, and my right basically peeled. The worst is having a numb hand when I wipe my ass. My hand is very different; I wonder if maybe my neighbors saw me when I went out to meet the man or to ring my close neighbor's doorbell. I can live like this, I suppose, but I wonder if I should go to the doctor.

Pain brought by others is silly compared to the self-inflicted. I want it all- to have the emotion from Sally's front door, repeat it and let me have it, yet the safety of the quick release hand cuffs. I want to be irresponsible and yet avoid consequences.