Vitavie's Vignette No. 04: Incarcerated

Vitavie's Vignette No. 04

Incarcerated

Locked up naked with nothing to do

I have unlocked a personal challenge I didn't know I had. Being locked in a dungeon of sorts for 24 hours. Naked. With nothing to do but move and muse.

My husband and I were holidaying in the Alps somewhere and my husband had to see an opera with a business relation (Salzburger Festspiele. Normally, I would have gone along if it wouldn't have interfered with my husband's business. Love opera.) That left me with a day and a half to 'kill.' The chalet we were staying at had a cow shed in the basement, a bare concrete room. I have always wondered what it would be like to live 'permanently' in a dungeon, alone with one's thoughts and nothing to do. Here was my opportunity to catch a glimpse of that life.

I have a girlfriend nearby. I had to take her into my confidence - she didn't know about my BDSM inclinations at all, but she is a sport, so I didn't have sit on my anguish - dare I ask and trouble her? - for too long, before I took her into my confidence and gave her a role, that of my keeper. The idea would be that she'd lock me in and come by every few hours to see if I was still alive, by peeking through the little window in the door, using a flashlight if the dark made this necessary. That was the only criterion, to see if I were alive or dead, regardless of whether I had gone mad. Only if not sure about me, she was to open the door and check. No other interaction. I was equipped with six bottles of water and I would enter well-fed, would not receive any food when inside. And I prepared to be inside without having to defecate. That is, that was the plan. But before entering my prison, I could not do the job, i.e., plainly, shit. The tension of having to deliver? Usually, I am easy, but not this time. As it is, I can only hope I will not have to go when inside.

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So, here we are, my friend and I, inside my prison-to-be, with her about to lock me up. We have just eaten a copious lunch. I am stuffed. I look at her, don't say anything. She looks back with a smile, telling me, 'You don't have to do this, you know. You are not crazy, whether you take it or bow out and leave.'

I smile back meekly and say, 'I do. I do have to do it. It is not that bad. I am not doing anything to myself, am I now?'

'Well, I guess you are right. I don't quite see the point, naked you will be cold, but you'll live alright.' And, laughing and extending her hand, 'Go on then, get undressed.'

She doesn't turn her back but continues to look at me, unabashed, as I take off my sandals, summer dress, bra and knickers in turn and pass them to her.

'Good girl! Looking good! Well, that's me then. I will check upon you a few times during the day and evening. Okay, bye for now.'

She does not shake my hand, touch or kiss me, but just walks out and closes the door. The old-fashioned lock makes precisely the sound that I associate with an old-school prison cell. Informed by period drama and cowboy flicks. Creak, clunk. I am locked up. I feel very naked.

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I take stock of my situation. I have just been locked up in a cowshed for a full twenty-four hours. The cowshed is clean, that is: it has been cleaned out latest when the cows were let out to graze the fields surrounding our chalet, a few months ago. The floor is covered with hay. (Don't know why it hasn't been swept or shovelled out, not familiar with farming practice.) I am naked. There is nothing to do, except take to the bottle. Containing water, not drink. (Perhaps it should have been drink, but drinking would have constituted cheating on some unwritten rule, wouldn't it? "Be aware, when you suffer...") And exercise, walk, swing my arms, dance, whatever. And masturbate. And, I cannot avoid this, urinate. I could have taken a bucket for the purpose, but some crazy streak caused me to go and do without. Minimalism. And, defecate, if I cannot avoid it and really must do the job.

Damn, I cannot stop thinking about defecating and not wanting to. I feel it coming, rather I make it come. What to do? How to stop conscious thought and get into some sort of zone? Running around the 8 x 8 m perimeter of the space may do it. Okay. First, I clear a path by shoving the hay away from the walls. That keeps me gainfully busy for some time. Then the actual running. I really get a move on. Striding along, tits bouncing, I like that for a while, it does stop me thinking about my need to, well, shit. But once I get past the novelty, the obsession returns. There is only one recourse left: masturbation. I do it standing up, leaning against the wall, fiddling with my clit. I should be gentle and draw it out, but instead I fiddle mercilessly and am done within five minutes. I sink to the floor when done.

When done, I see my friend's face in the little window...

She sees that I see her, waves and quickly disappears. I feel anger at her intrusion, anger at myself for feeling this about her, and embarrassment opposite her for seeing me nude like this, for seeing me masturbate. But then, I appointed her as my jailkeeper.

Ach, my condition is miserable. I fashioned it for myself. But then, isn't that what I wanted to experience? Embarrassment, at someone seeing my nudity, my vulnerability and helplessness, my anger at myself? Oh, I don't know now ...

I gather a pile of hay, sit down and try to disappear into a meditative state. Breathing deeply, nose in, mouth out, mentally counting my breaths. I disappear to my internal core - I really do - unconsciously, by definition.

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I wake up from having slipped into a slumber. I have no way of knowing how long I have slept. How long? Ten minutes? Two hours? The sun is still out. The windows are frosted glass panes that are hinged open at the bottom, so I can look out through slits. No trees with shadows in view, so I cannot gauge the passage of the sun and time.

I am thirsty. I have promised myself that I may drink as much as I want to. I am resigned to have to pee. Don't mind, rather.

(My thoughts on pee vs shit: pee is harmless, in fact you are recommended to drink it if you can't get anything else, and I like watersports; shit is playtime stuff for some, bless them, but shit is foul, disease-ridden stuff, even your own, and a no-no to me. Filth, garbage, mud, mess, things that smell badly but are relatively harmless - for those I sense a glimmer of attraction, as it is nice to act contrary to proper cleanliness, which is 'bourgeois', in addition to relatively boring-healthy. So speaketh Vita.)

I slug down half of a bottle and immediately feel the need to pee. I select my corner and do the business. Can't avoiding splashing a few drops on my feet. Don't mind. Don't care. Happy.

But, bugger, how can you force yourself to not think about something? I still can't avoid thinking about defecating. I am going to delay it with everything I can muster. Exercise. I start to slowly jog around the perimeter of the shed, my prison. In a different style this time. Instead of barging through the space, with flopping breasts, I consciously aim to run as supply as I can so as to minimise the strain on my breasts - I 'listen' to them and have them dictate the rhythm. Fortunately, the floor is supersmooth and good on my bare feet. I feel a bit like an astronaut running on the moon, in slow-motion. I am fit, so hold on for fifty rounds and more - I lose my concentration at some point. It doesn't matter. I go on for a long, long time, until I sweat profusely and sink down. I find my pile of hay, lay down, adjust and readjust until the prickle of the hay is tolerable. My hand finds my cunt and I masturbate again. No reason not to. Bliss!

Again, I slumber. I don't think I fall asleep... I daydream that I am a slave to a Master, who will keep me in here indefinitely - it is a pleasant dream somehow; I dream about how he comes to visit me from time to time, beats me with his flat hand, which I like, and has his way with me. I masturbate again. I am not thinking. Double bliss!

When I come to, after I try but can no longer keep myself laying there relaxed, I get up and drink the other half of the first of my six bottles of water.

The sun is still shining. How many hours have passed since I entered? I guess five or six, but I could be very wrong.

Now what? I pee again in the same corner as before. Then I have run out of ideas.

I am bored.

Start again thinking of defecating. Lord! How many times can I try to slumber, or disappear in meditation, or drink water, or walk or pace along the perimeter, or masturbate and avoid thinking of dumping? I could dance. Nah! Don't feel like it.

Shit, shit, shit!

I look around, see that the windows are open and decide here and now to take that inevitable dump. I don't know about you but the consistency and smell of my excrement vary - nine times out of ten, the consistency is high and the smell almost non-existent, but when I am stressed, my shit may become like jelly and thereby smelly. I feel my dump will be leaning towards the first and I won't regret and be able to suffer the presence of the stuff in the same room. Onwards! I go the pissing corner, shove the hay away and squat down, concentrate and press.

And deliver the goods. The smell - there is a slight smell, but it could be worse.

Shock! I have no wiping paper. No bucket, no paper! The excrement should be dry, looks dry, so I decide not to wipe my ass with my bare hand, or with cutting hay. I believe my anus will be fairly clean. I cover the goods with hay and there - I am done!

(Above, I have said that I don't harbour an attraction to faeces. As I write this a few days later, I want to make clear that the reason I dwell on my need and anguish to take a dump is completeness, or truthfulness. I don't write this to titillate those of us with a scat fetish. I know this fetish exists and who am I to object to it? I don't object, for sure, but I don't share it. I wish I could have avoided defecating and writing about it. But what I document here is what happened, I am not ashamed and if it titillates anyone - I wish you well. I really do.)

You will be able to believe me when I say the dumping action is followed by a monumental relief. I am an obsessive person, who has issues with dispelling thoughts of things to do or leave, unpleasant or pleasant. A sad condition, I find, and tragic. The other side of the coin is that the relief at having done one of those unpleasant things on the list is great, was great.

I celebrate by masturbating again. So nice! Talking of obsession!

I drink another half bottle of water and shed my redundant internal waters. The original corner has been rendered unsuitable by my earlier dumping action, so I colonise a second corner. (Two more to go!)

Darkness is falling, meanwhile. I sit in a third corner and look around me. I see my environment disappear, until it gets pitch-black. Incredible how dark it gets here in the mountains!

It is also getting cold. The cow shed has been on the cool side during the day, a blessing then, as the temperature outside was very high. But to sit or lie here all night without the usual protection of clothes or blankets is torture. Seeing virtually nothing, I start scraping hay together and attempt to make a matrass out of it, and a duvet. It is not as easy as you'd think, that is: if you are naked. Hay, or this particular hay, I don't know, is pretty coarse and prickly. Trying and trying again, and again, I find myself in a somewhat comfortable position, a foetus position, just about warm enough. I am sure my skin will show pinpricks of irritation, maybe even puncture. Hay is sharp, coarse and hard. Meanwhile, I wonder how I look, immersed in a heap of hay. If my friend came in with a torch right now, would she find me?

I toss and turn some more before I become comfortable. It is then that I hear noises outside the door. And a second later the beam of a flashlight barges in. I raise myself on an elbow, turn my head and look towards the door. The beam finds me an instant later - I am blinded by the strength of the light, like a deer caught in a headlight. I don't see my captor. The flashlight flashes once - signalling she sees me? - and is gone. I am alone again.

It takes a minute or two only to shake reality off and I finally fall asleep. Bliss!

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When I awake, I first sense that I am cold. My first movements remind me of my bed of hay, prickly and coarse. My bare body is sore from where I have been in contact with the ground. All this, before conscious thought crops up. When my consciousness fully kicks in, I wonder: where am I? Until, inevitably, I remember. I get up immediately, but gingerly. My soreness and coldness kill me. I slowly perform a series of bending and stretching, twisting and turning exercises until I get warm and relaxed. Then, I vigorously stroke all of my body where I can reach, from my feet to my head, from my front to my back, until I am warm. I find some two dozen of irritated spots, even meet one or two coagulated blood droplets, very small, of where the hay has punctured my skin. I wear them proudly. When I meditated on my prison sentence yesterday, I wasn't sure if I was going to be able to sleep at all! The spots of irritation could be bug bites instead. No ticks, I hope. Hadn't thoughts of bugs...

How many hours to go? Looking through the windows, I sense it is seven o'clock or so. Five or six hours to go, depending on how accurate my friend decides to be. I am hungry. I finish the remaining half of the second bottle and part of the third. That fills my stomach for a bit. It is not the same as eating, of course. Having drunk, I need to shed my morning urine and I go back to the second designated corner. I picture myself doing it. I see a prisoner, watched by her jailer. I steel a glance at the window in the door. I don't see my friend. Had I hoped she would be there? Do I miss human contact?

To properly wake up (why?), I start running along the perimeter of the shed again. The same fluid slow-motion action, mustering up the grace of a ballet dancer, I hope. To be kind to my breasts, but also to be graceful for the sake of it, to feel good about myself. I do over fifty rounds until I manage to catch my friend's smiling face looking at me. She cries the word 'five' to me, reinforcing this by counting out the number five on her left hand with the index finger of her right. Like a child. She adds, 'Are you alright?' I raise and spread my arms with open hands to indicate: 'Well enough'. To be sure, I give the thumbs up. (Thumbs up? Ridiculous.) 'Do you need anything?' I cry back, 'Not allowed. I'll be okay.' She smiles, waves and moves off. Five more hours.

Of course, I need something. Love! Attention! Tenderness! And food! And a bath! But not right now.

Do I hope she will look at me again when I sit down and masturbate? Would I be embarrassed? I have never talked about masturbation with her. Or about porn. She appears sexually active, is sexy, but who knows? Perhaps she merely shares tender touches with her man. Does every woman masturbate? Do those above a certain age? Is the perfect state in fact when the desire to get sexually satisfied has left you? All I know is this: I, Vita, crave sex!

(Elsewhere I have advocated to legalise nudity in public. Not that it is on to do so, given that it would promote rape, in the short term at least. But it should be socially acceptable to be nude in larger organised social circles. Again, even there I would not advocate sex in semi-public, but arousal (erections) should be acceptable. If all of that were in place, I can imagine sexual frustration would be lessened, and thereby rape figures. I am getting carried away. What I am getting at, really, is that I should be able to be nude with my friend and discuss masturbation with her, without being found outrageous.)

I sit down and masturbate, imagining she looks at me doing it.

I drink another bottle of water, followed by peeing in the corner.

I lie down again, on my former bed of hay. Find a comfortable position again. I muse on how it would be if I were incarcerated indefinitely, or at least a long time, without anything but a bit of food and water every once in a while (and a master to serve?). How would I cope? Could I keep my mind occupied? Would the mind instead go into standby mode? Be dulled? I dose off again...

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... and find myself awake.

Instead of exercising by running the perimeter, I will dance. For her, should she appear. (For my imaginary master.)

I imagine some quiet dance music. I waltz around the space, from wall to wall to wall, and, for the benefit of my imaginary audience, regularly glide by the door and its window. I am slowly starting to enjoy myself. My legs, my arms, my head, my hair, my whole body participates in the dance. I imagine my legs are long and smooth, endless and elegant. My arms, thin, with hands and fingers the last word in grace. My shoulder length hair sailing through the air. My body, arching, stretching; my proud breasts showing the way.

As time progresses, I up the tempo of my dance. I imagine the music becoming ever louder, the rhythms ever faster. My movements change character accordingly, becomes less ethereal, earthier. I become worked up and warm.

I am a go-go girl now; I strut my stuff with vigour. I shake my bottom; I sway my breasts; my hair flies and sweeps my face. My mind moves from the here and now and starts to lose its sense of the present.

When hardcore disco music accompanies me, I am an animal. Very naked. Sweat pours off my brow. my whole body is glistening. My hands stroke my every part, kneading my breasts, tossing about my hair, slapping my buttocks. My hands moving along the inside of my thighs. I squat down, legs wide open, unaware of anything but my own body. I lean back and am now supported on all fours. My face faces the ceiling. My opening is in full view as I bob up and down. Up and down, up and down, until exhaustion has drained the last drop of my energy. I make it to my make-shift bed and am gone.

I haven't noticed the face of my friend. I imagine she has seen me. Has she been there for the entire fifteen minutes of my dancing? Only she knows.

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After I have come to and thought many more frustrated and some inspiring thoughts, after I have drunk my fourth bottle of water and urinated once more in the corner, after I have run the perimeter once again some 50-60 times, after I have decided against masturbating yet another time, after I have started feeling dirty forever, I hear the lock turn and see the door open. My friend beckons me to come out. I go out. I hug her. She lets me.

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I spent an hour with my friend in the sun, after I first wolved through an omelette with bacon on bread. I explain to her, as if this were necessary, that an integral part of my attraction to being locked up naked, by her, was my exhibitionism. She laughs and acknowledges that she surmised so much. We spend some ten minutes going over my body, my breasts that are good "for my age", my vulva, cleanshaven, with prominent inner labia and clitoris, my superb general slenderness (no added "for my age" this time!), my hair, which is long and strong and only rinsed to maintain my auburn colour.

'And, did you like the experience? Was it as good as you hoped for?' I answer that it was good, a bit satisfying, with her as my jailkeeper.

'I would do it again!'

I hope it will happen again, with her as my keeper.