The chastity belt I am wearing is very effective and totally foolproof,

as I have discovered in recent weeks of continuous wear. And I do mean

continuous since it has proved beyond my means to take it off since the

time I first put it on! Not that this happened by accident. I have

always been mildly interested in that sort of thing and often wondered

how the ladies coped with being festooned with a great iron belt,

sometimes for literally years on end, whilst their husbands went off on

a Crusade. Anyway, my interest was raised when I read a piece in the

paper about a small firm that had started to make ‘mod’ belts; sheet

copper for the vital protection, held in place by little chains and a

natty lock. So I give them a ring and find out more about them.

The young lady who answered the phone was very helpful, explained in a

little more detail what I had already read, assured me that they did

the same job as the 12th Century version but with about one-tenth the

weight, and quoted a price of L5.25 complete, including postage and

packing. If I wanted I could also buy a matching metal bra for a

further L5.25.

Encouraged by her matter of fact way, I asked if they were much

inconvenience to the wearer. I was quite surprised when she openly

said that she had worn one a few times, but never for more than an

evening to local parties, and claimed that the boys had shown more

interest than if she had just gone wearing a bra and panties. She was

aware that she was wearing something ‘different’, particularly when she

crossed her legs, but wasn’t really inconvenienced as such.

I also found out that they would sell over the counter, that it was a

one-size fit (and would). I could get one that day if I so wanted. I

made a note of the address – about five miles from where I worked –

checked on their lunch closing (they didn’t). And what time they

closed at night.

I still wasn’t keen to spend all that money, but after I had made the

call my interest started to build up, and after a while I found myself

planning to get to their workshop somehow. I had enough money with me

in my purse, and it was still only just after 11:00 a.m. I could get

there and back in my lunch hour if I hurried. But I would miss

lunch. Never mind, if I was going to spend L5.25 I would have to miss

out on lunches for a while.

My lunch hour is 12:30 p.m. to 1:30 p.m. As time passed I found myself

drawn to checking bus routes and time tables. Yes, I could get a

through bus. It ran every 15 minutes and took 20 minutes or

thereabouts for the trip. If I caught one at 12:40 p.m. I could be

there by 1:00 p.m. A quick check on the return shown a bus leaving at

1:15 p.m. which would get me back to within a few minutes walk of the

office by 1:35 p.m. I couldn’t expect to be back at my desk before

1:40 p.m. at the earliest – perhaps 1:45 p.m.

By this time I think I was already a lost cause. I was thinking up

ways to get the additional time off without just taking it, and finally

approached the manager to ask if I could have an extra 30 minutes off

at lunchtime if I made it up that evening. He was very understanding

and asked if it was important, and I said that it was, to me. How long

did I really want? Probably 15 minutes would do, but I didn’t want the

firm to think it was all taken and no give. Try and keep it to 15

minutes if you can, then perhaps we can forget about working late

tonight. Hooray, I had made it!

By 12:30 p.m. I was on the starting line, and at 12:31 p.m. was clear

of the building. The bus was about on time, and all the way to the

destination I wondered if I was an idiot or a fool for doing it. 1:00

p.m. and I was off the bus, walking to the address I was given.

It looked a very ordinary type of shop front, with nothing in the

window but dust. I tried the door, and somewhat to my surprise it

opened and made a bell go ‘Ding’ at the back of the premises

somewhere. A chair scraped, and a young girl came in.

“Er, were you the young lady I was talking to on the phone about 10:15

a.m. this morning?”

“Probably. I get calls all the time. What was it about?”

“Er, this mod belt you are making. Can I see one please?”

“Oh, yes.”

Quite a matter of fact. No nonsense. She pulled a box from under the

counter turned back the tissue paper and revealed a nicely displayed

belt, gleaming copper, neat silver chains, and unusually designed

lock.

“Are they easy to put on?” I said with what sounded like a quaver in my

voice.

“Very. You just locate the centerpiece, pull the chains tight around

you – tight enough to make sure it can’t drop off over your hips that

is, make sure it’s comfortable, and then snap on the lock. In certain

circumstances it’s possible to forget that you are wearing one,

although on other occasions it does tend to make it’s presence felt.”

Here she smiled. “The whole thing is treated against rust and

corrosion so it can’t make nasty marks on your clothes, and as you can

see, it is nicely finished.”

“Have you one boxed ready to take away” I said, “I’m afraid I haven’t

much time.”

“Yes. One moment.”

She russled some papers under the counter once more and came up with a

quite small parcel, sealed with sticky tape. “There we are. That’s L5

please.”

“I thought it was L5.25?”

“Over the counter L5. You save on postage and packing.”

“Good” I said, fiddling for my purse with trembling hands.

“If you weren’t short of time you could try it for fit, although as I

say they are basically one-size and all one really needs to do is a

little thoughtful adjustment of the chains.”

I looked at my watch. It was already 1:10 p.m., and the bus left at

1:15 p.m.

“I have just five minutes to catch a bus. A No. 53. They only go

every 15 minutes and if I miss it I shall be rather late back,”

“Where to? I mean, perhaps there’s another bus going the same way?”

I told her.

“Why not get the underground from around the corner, they run every

three minutes this time of day, and you can still be back on time.”

I hadn’t thought of that. To be honest, I didn’t know the tube station

was anything like as close as it was.

“How long will it take. I mean to put on properly?” I was a bit

embarrassed to even say this, but she was quite unperturbed, as though

she had seen it all a thousand times, which probably she had.

“Not longer than it takes to slip off your dress and panties. We have

a changing room through here if you would like to come along.”

She led the way to the back of the shop, where I found a small cubicle

curtained off. Inside was a chair and a mirror.

“Would you like me to help, or can you manage?”

“I think I would welcome some assistance. This is the first time I

have ever worn one of these.” I put the parcel on the chair, and

fiddled from my zip. My assistant was already there, and unzipped me.

Shaking inwardly, I stepped out of my dress and laid it over the

chair.

“I’ll undo this,” said my assistant picking up my parcel, “you slip

your pants off.”

There was nowhere to hide, and I had already asked her to stop and

help. So I turned half sideways and slipped my panties off. By this

time the paper wrap was on the floor, and she was jangling copper and

silver around, sorting it out. Not that it took her long.

“Step through here, that’s right, and then we pull it up into

position. Good. Just make sure that the front is in position and not

awkward im amy way. O.K.? Then we have to take up these side chains

and bring them round to meet at your right side here, where the lock

takes up the loose ends. Now before we do that, how tight do you want

it to be?”

We made one or two adjustments until I was comfortable and satisfied

that it wasn’t and couldn’t fall off on the bus home.

“The locks are quite unique, needing these rather special keys. They

are not generally obtainable in the shops for obvious reasons, but they

are rather well designed for their job don’t you think? Is that O.K.

for you? Right.”

Snap. And the lock was in situ, and I was belted up. I belt down to

put my panties back on and was immediately aware of the metal parting

my legs, plus the tug of the chain around my waist. It was not all

that unpleasant.

Once I had my panties on the young lady was already holding my dress

ready for me to step back into, and zipped it up. I picked up my bag,

thanked her for her assistance, asked the quickest way to the station,

and made for the door. The belt was pulling against me, and I couldn’t

walk with my legs so close together as I normally did. I was sure the

whole world could see me emerge from the shop, and knew that I had been

belted up and was watching my first steps into a loveless world. I

couldn’t hurry to the station because of the strange feeling the belt

imparted, plus the unusual restriction on my legs. But I got there,

bought my ticket and caught a train almost immediately. The train

journey was much quicker than the bus, but left me a little further to

walk at the other end, and it was 1:50 p.m. before I got into the

office. I made my presence known to the manager, thanked him for the

time, and said I would work a bit later anyway to catch up.

I couldn’t go off to the toilet too quickly to examine myself; it just

wasn’t on, but by 3:15 p.m., having worked like a dog since I got back,

I thought no one would mind unduly if I disappeared for a few minutes.

Into the toilet, and down with the panties. This was the first real

consideration I had to give on how to spend a penny. Not over hygenic,

but I managed, and then spent a minute or two checking over my

equipment. The assistant had not over empahsised its effectiveness,

and really it was a quite well made and attractive bit of ‘mod’ gear.

Then it dawned. I had no key. I must have left them in the shop in my

haste to get away. They closed well before I could hope to get there

that evening. It meant I would have to wear the belt all night and at

least part of the next day. Wow!

Phone calls are not entirely encouraged at the office, and I had

already made one that day, and had 20 minutes extra time off in the

bargain. I could hardly ask for another call. And by the time I got

out of the office, they would be closed. I was stuck, but good.

Strangely, the known fact that I was stuck, and couldn’t take the belt

off, made it exciting for me. And I didn’t mind at all being stuck. I

wasn’t quite so sure about it all when I was going home; the strange

walk it induced convinced me that everyone must know I was wearing a

chastity belt, however, mod.

The evening and night were quite exciting in their way. After all,

I was only wearing it for a night, whereas the ladies of the 12th C.

wore one for years. And I had fulfilled an ambition, which had also

cost L5, so I decided to make the most of it all and enjoy my

situation.

The next day at work I was faced with the problem of how to once again

get time off and go and fetch the keys; it would be easier to get

another telephone call and ask for them to be posted to me – although

this would mean that I would be trapped for at least another day –

perhaps two. It was a hell of a decision to make, but at least I could

call and ask if the keys were there. This I did. A man answered. The

young lady was not there, could he help. I related some of the story,

but at the end of it all he said that he didn’t know anything about it,

could I call back. When? Tomorrow. The young lady wasn’t expected to

come in now, it was too late. Stone me. What a situation! No keys,

no young lady, try in the morning. And if she wasn’t there then? It

was Thursday, and if she posted the keys off on Friday it was touch and

go if they would arrive on Saturday, or if I would have to wait until

Monday morning. I didn’t mind being belted up, but I hadn’t quite

planned for it to go on forever. Even the ladies in the 12th C.

managed to get out of them eventually!

Tights were out. It had to be pantie girdle and stockings for me now.

Another night in chains. Another funny walk to the office, sur I was

being stared at.Very uncomfortable to keep one’s legs together when

sitting down, almost impossible to cross ones legs at all – as I found

out when inadvertently trying on a few occasions.

Another telephone call? My goodness, it must be important. Again, that man. No she hadn’t turned up again. When? No idea,try Monday. Possibility of spare keys? Had I one they could match – without it virtually impossible. They were all “a bit special”. Had any keys been left lying around. Not that he knew. Stalemate until Monday. The weekend was again a bit unusual for me, although I adjusted quite well to my new and continuing situation. Not too much running about, but a bath showed no rusting to me encouragement.Monday. Another call? Does Mr. Wood know? Well, perhaps just this once, but really you are doing it rather hard. Spoil it for the others, you know.Horror. The same man. No young lady. No knowledge if whereabouts or when she would be back. All he could suggest was keep in touch. Sorry couldn’t help. Keys very tricky things, really one-off on rather special locks.

“Do you have such a thing as a Master Key available?” There was a pause. “May I ask why you want one?” I thought the answer to that one had to be obvious. “I want to unlock one of your ‘Mod Belts'” I said. “Oh, I see” said the man. “I didn’t quite follow you at first. I take it that you are wearing it and want it off.” Bright fellow, I thought. Catching on at last. Quite happily I chatted on “Yes, that’s right. It’s getting a bit inconvenient – in fact it’s almost a week now since it was locked on me, and as you probably know there’s no chance of slipping out of it. So until I can get hold of the keys I’m absolutely stuck like this. I hope you can help?” The reply dumbfounded me. “No chance at all darling” said the man.”Get quite a few like you

trying it on, but it’s more than we dare do to them off once the

customer has out them on. Just think how many irate clients we’d have

pounding at our door having sold them a fivers worth of belt, and then

do the dirty on them by letting their ladies out again. No, pet, you’ll

have to see your old man about it, nothing I can do I’m afraid.” and

with that he hung up on me.

I was staggered. He obviously thought I had been belted up by a

non-existent husband and wanted out. I couldn’t phone him again from

the office, and I walked back to my desk ina semi-daze. If the young

lady wasn’t around and he didn’t want to know, I was really stuck. And

I had no idea how long for. But this couldn’t go on. I had already

spent six days belted up, and would cheerfully have taken it off there

and then and dropped all five quids worth in the Thames had I had a

chance. But I didn’t. Because I couldn’t. It fitted snugly – not too

tight – but too tight to slip off, or round, or down, or anything. When

we had put it on we both made sure it as just right. And frankly the

fit was in fact just right.

After work I found a phone ( after queueing for one) and tried to reach

the man again. There was no reply – as I already knew, they went home at

the same time as I did. There was nothing for it but to go home for one

more night and try , somehow, again tomorrow.

Tuesday, I didn’t dare risk the wrath of another private telephone call,

si I waited until lunch time and had to wait and wait for the uese of a

G.P.O. phone whilst boy friends phoned their girl friends on reversed

charges, and vice versa, on calls that apparently go on for ever.

Eventually it was my turn. I was already in a bit of a huff over having

to wait around most of my lunch hour, but didn’t want to sound too sharp

if the man answered the phone again. After all, I really did need his help.

A strange voice answerde. I went through the rigmorale of explaining that I

wanted to speak to the young lady, or failing that, the man who answered

the phone in her absence.

“Oh, that would be Joe. He’s at lunch until 2.00 pm.”

“Is the young lady there that usually serves at the counter?”

“Janet, you mean. No, we haven’t seen her in days, although I believe

that Joe was going round there to see what’s up.”

I seemed pointless explaining my predicament and starting all over again

– but than again, perhaps this one might help? I breifly outlined my

story, but before I could finish he jumped in with:

“Oh, you’re the one that telephoned Joe yesterday. No hope love, if we

were to take that belt off you we could shut down the works tomorrow.

Never sell another one wherever we went to”.

“But it’s not like that, I promise you I….”

“I believe you, love, but if word was to circulate thet we not only

sold Mod Bets but took them off anyone who spun us a yarn we’d be

finished. In fact you’re one of our best advertisements; the more people

you tell that you’re stuck in one of our belts teh better we’ll like it.

Name in the paper if you can. Would ber very good for business.”

“I haveb’t told anyone about this. How could I? I mean it ould be just

too embarassing.”

“You might, in time”, said the voice. “And the longer you leave it the

better the story. Course, your old man might come home in he meantime

and spoil it all, we’ll just have to risk it. Again, if you’re really

that desperate you could get your boyfriend to saw it off, although that

would be take a bit of explaining to the old man when he comes home.”

“I’m not married, and I haven’t any boy friends” I said , near

hysterics.

“Still not tempted” he said “Completely misconstruing what I had meant.

“Look, love, it’s your problem, don’t involve me, I only work here.”

“I’m sorry. Can you please say when, er, Janet will be back?”

“No idea where she is, or why. Ought to be here, but hasn’t shown in a

week. Joe will know though, if he went round to find out like he said he

was going to.” But Joe was out to lunch. Sometime he came back early,

sometime late. It all depended.

“Did anyone work late, ever. Like, could I phone again at say 5.40 p.m.

after normal hours and speak to Joe?”

“You can if he’s here. Sometimes works on a bit, depends what’s on.”

This was getting me nowhere. I thanked him, told him he was quite wromg

in his assumptions about me and he in turn told me that he probably was

but that it wouldn’t make any difference anyway, and we hung up. I

whisked out of the office building at 5.30 p.m. sharp, and made for the

phone kiosks which as usual were all full. But luck was in, and I managed

to get in one that was on a three minute call. Through to the number. It

seemed to ring endlessly, and once again it seemed I was doomed to yet

another night as the victim of my own carefully planned escapade. But

escapade seems wrong, it surely should be ‘imprisonment’.

Then, somewhat to my surprise as I had already decided that they had

all gone, the phone was answered by the m,an I had spoken to earlier.

No, Joe had gone but he had had a word with him about me and Janet.,

and Joe had said that if I phoned again to tell me not to bother anymore

as Janet had left her Job and gone to work in a pickle factory.

“You’re kidding” I said. “You are just trying to put me off from

phoning.”

“I’d like to do that,” dsaid the voice “but I’m not kidding about

Janet. Joe said that she just got fed up with putting assorted birds

in shackles and decided to pack it in. Not getting any more money or

anything, but just wanted a change. Got to get a new bird here I

suppose, though Gawd knows who. It’s not everybody’s cup of tea I can

tell you, we get some right ravers in here sometimes. Some can’t wait to

get them on and others, like you I suppose, can’t wait to get them

off. And others just don’t know what they want. Mind you, Jan was

pretty good at it and seemed to cope with them pretty well, it wasn’t

often she had to get someone up from the works to keep an eye on

things. Mostly it was birds prancing around in the altogether who

couldn’t decide whether they wanted to be belted up or not, and making a

right nuisance of themselves. You’d be surprised how quickly they would

either put on a belt, or their pants, or both, once they knew some fellow

was coming up to see what was going on. Mind you, they all wanted it,

but needed a bit of persuasion to take the final plunge so to speak.

“Keys was another thing” continued my informant “You’d be surprised how

many customers left their keys behind when they went off. Like you did.

Think it must be a combination of the subconsciuous and sheer exitement

of the moment that made them do it, but Jan used to reckon on one in

four she fitted up went off without them. One time she used to make a

point of specially handing them over after a fitting but soon learned

that it wasn’t always in her best interest to do so. Do you know, she

was even asked if she wouldn’t mind minding the keys for a few days in

case the customer lost them, and on another occasion some bird asked her

to drop them down the drain for her. After a bit she used to put them

all in a box in case any of them changed their minds, but the fall out

rate was so low that after a while she brought them all down to the

works and we knocked them up. Can’t be too carefull in the security business.”

“Is it possible that my keys are in her box” I asked.

“Even if they ever were, you can’t get them. Please, miss, this is more

than my job is worth. And I did stay back to give you the facts. Now be

a good girl and let us alone. We can’t help you, and I want my tea.”

“Thank you” I said, without knowing what I had to thank him for.

So, for all my trouble all I had to show was the news that Janet had

gone to a pickle factory. Joe and the other man weren’t going to help

“for security reasons” and all in all I had been fighting the existance

of the chastity belt, trying all I knew to beat it, to get it off. Now I

knew it had beaten me, nicely clamped between my legs and moderately

tight around my waist. The episode with Janet came clearly back to mind,

the care we had taken to get it “just right” before Janet slipped home

the special lock. Undoubtedly I was as belted up as any 12th century

madam had ever been, although they at least could look forward to their

eventual release albeit in three or four years. For me, no one would

return with the key. For me I would have to stay belted up, with no sign

on the horizon of how I may ever get free again.

The weeks have come and gone, but the tight inward satisfaction of

HAVING to wear a chastity belt, as opposed to wanting to try one on for

a laugh, continues. I have come to terms with myself, and with life in

general. There are things that I cannot now do that I would otherwise

have done, such as crossing my legs when I sit. Sunbathing is out,

although I have considered buying the special matching bra top and using

what I then have as a sun-suit. I can wear loose fitting briefs over my

belt, but skin-tight ones are not really on. Pantie-tights are O.K., but

tights not really suitable. I have to be careful not to wear any

tightish skirts, or the chains which run diagonally across my bottom

become visible through it. I can’t run for buses any more, or rather I

can, but it makes me look bandy.

But the inconveniences involved are outweighted for me by the sheer

pleasure of knowing, and having to accept, that I am really hopelessly

stuck. I have thought of trying to cut through the chain, of course but

I would need a hacksaw or something which I haven’t got, and wouldn’t

get, and wouldn’t know how to use it when I had one.

And so, after five weeks I have adapted to a new way of chaste

existence. I have not tried phoning the firm again since I last spoke

to Joe’s assistant; there seems very little point. I have laso thought

of trying to track down Janet at her pickle factory, but even id I did I

can’t think what help she could be to me. Her job seemed to be to fit

the belts and then have the unwanted keys smashed up, not as a licksmith

to fretting females who had changed their minds after the first mad

flush of fun.

The seventh week, a rather trying one for me, brought the decision to

once more persuade Joe, or his new assistant, if he had one to unlock my

belt. I had adapted to it very well, accepted it so to speak and was

living within its restrictions (quite literally!) but a difficult week

made me try to obtain my release from it. After all this time a phone

call from the office would surely be permitted without raise eyebrows,

or perhaps even another personal visit to the workshop. Phone first

perhaps.

I thought about it all next morning at work, and at lunchtime I actually

found an empty phone box that worked (I wasn’t planning to make a

lunchtime call) and on the spur of the moment dialled that number which

is now imprinted on my mind forever. A ‘new’ young lady answered.

I hadn’t really thought what I was going to say, as it all happened on

the quick, other than in general terms, and now there was someone saying

“Can I help you?”

“Well, I hope so, I have a, er, friend, who has somehow managed to lose

the keys to a Mod Belt. Can you supply duplicates?”

“It would be very tough unless your friend could let us have a sample key to

match. The locks on the Mods are rather special and we don’t ever stock

spares of course. It could represent something of a security risk and

our customers wouldn’t like taht. Do you have a spare?”

“No. Both keys were together I’m afraid. Do you have Master key my

friend could borrow?”

‘I’m sorry, then there’s nothing e can do to help your friend. As a

security operation it would be like us making safes and selling spare

keys to anyone who came in for one. We just couldn’t do it, any more

than we could just pop around and open a safe up for them.”

“Then how can my friend get her belt off?”

I said it as a plea, but as soon as the words had left my mouth I knew I

had phrased it wrongly.

“Oh, it’s a worn belt. I see.” The voice had hardened a little. “Quite

out of the question to ask us for assistance, we just don’t want to

know.”

“Please” I said “I’m getting a bit desperate about it. If I came round

to see you could you help.”

“If you came around with a man who said he was your husband, or for

that matter your husband, we still couldn’t help. We daren’t. What the

customers do with their purchase after they leave the shop is entirely

up to them. We can’t accept responsibility for peoples behaviour, and if

your old man has slipped a belt on you, then it’s up to him to take it

off again, not us. Look , love, I’m sorry but we do get this kind of

request from time to time from birdies who are being deprived of their

share. But our job is to make and sell chastity belts. They’re designed

to keep young maidens chaste, the young maidens should hardly complain

to us if they are kept chaste.”

“But I’m not married” I wailed “No one wants to keep me chaste.”

“Someone obviously does. Now be a good girl and run along home. I can’t

help.”

“It was Janet” I said. “Janet did it. That is, she helped me put it on

and then like a fool I left the keys there and I’ve been wearing it now

for seven weeks or more.” It was a pointless, poor explained outburst

which did nothing to help.

“Then go back to Janet, and get to help you take it off again. Seven

weeks, you must be missing it by now, poor kid. But I still can’t help.

Sorry.”

And the phone went click.

That evening I made a complete reappraisal of my situation, and

examined the belt in close detail by means of a mirror. It further

reassured me that it was not going to fall off me. The copper frontpiece

had gone rather dull, so I gave it a polish and was surprised how well

I managed to make it shine. Anyone who saw me at work with a tin of

metal polish would have been lost for an answer as to just what I was

doing, and the thought made me laugh out loud. A polish on the chains

didn’t make anything like the same difference. I suppose their contact

with my clothing had kept them bright, whereas copper would have a

natural tendency to dull down a little.

Tha chains themselves were not all that thick overall, but the links

themselves were thick in relation to the overall width of the chain, if

you understand what I mean. They were quite positively secured to the

copper frontpiece and secured by this natty lock which needed special

keys which I hadn’t got, had never had, and never would have. After

fiddling about with it all I decided that when we fitted it we couldn’t

have made a better job of it; it was as near perfect as it could be.

I had adapted very well to it all, as I have already said, and wondered

how my ancestors in the 12th century got along with their great heavy

and totally inflexible love traps. At least I had a fair degree of

flexibility, could bend in any direction fairly freely, run (bandily),

jump, stand up, sit down, do a normal day’s work, including looking

after my own flat, and wear almost all my usual clothes. The early

problems with a visit to the loo had been overcome, and about the only

inconvenience as such was the inability to cross my legs when I sat

down. They, poor sould, had to suffer a 3 1/2″ iron waistband with a

fixed 4″ downpiece clamped rigidly into position with a whacking great

padlock. The whole lot must have weighed about 14 lbs and the sheer

inconvenience, effective though it must have been, must have had them

giving carefull consideration prior to making most of their basic

movements, like walking around, lying in bed, or even just sitting down

without actually looking like an inverted letter “Y”.

There were of course even more disasterous contraptions for achieving

the same ends, including one which was virtually a tapered steel shell

which fitted round the waist and reached almost down to the knees. Once

locked on it must have proved very inconvenient to the wearer, who could

not then touch any part of her body between the waist and knees. Think

about it. Bending, lying down, sitting, all would pose tremendous

problems and about all they could then do would be either stand still

all day, or lie prostrate all day. By comparison my version was made of

feathers. I concluded that I wouldn’t mind trying one or two of them on,

but this was all conjecture since I didn’t have access to any of them,

couldn’t afford them if I had, and had been wearing a chastity belt for

seven weeks non-stop anyway which I couldn’t get off, even to put

another one in its place.

Whilst the folk of yesteryear may appear rather hard to us in their

treatment of the miscreant I suppose the punishment handed out was more

or less just if viewed in the complete context of the times, and not

several hundred years later through more so-called civilized eyes. The

petty, or wayward, got themselves a few days in the pillory and thereby

made a sitting target for anything and everything that came to hand. I

suppose the next step up from there was to be locked in the stocks, and

whilst the prisoners could had sit down I suspect they were very glad to

be able to stand up again at the end of their sentence. Both would have

had a very marked effect on the wrongdoer, and I should think that

anyone experiencing the ridicule of the pillory, not to mention having

to face up to miscelaneous flying garbage, would be rather keen not to

repeat his misdeeds. The stocks would have been even worse, since

sleeping would have presented them with quite a problem, assuming that

someone cared enough to feed them from time to time, and their mental

and physical state after a week or so should have had a most encouraging

effect on their future behaviour as citizens. For the really naughty, one

can still see examples of the whipping posts where the prisoner gets a

fair stinging before going into the stocks. One assumes that if we owned

three chickens and someone came along and stole two of them from us we

would feel exactly the same way about it as they did in those days.

Except that the comparative values would be more like three cows now,

rather than three chickens.

For the folk that really annoyed the Lord and Master there was always

something nasty in the dungeon, but it’s hard to think that these

specialities were for other than their contemporaries who had got out of

line and were trying to usurp control, or found themselves on the

losing side in a local war. Again I suspect that if someone tried hard

to kill you, but you won the day, it wouldn’t be too hard to have him

chained to a wall for twenty years or so in case he tried to do it

again, or if he was really dangerous, to pull his arms out on the rack.

And in the context of six or seven hundred years ago it might all seem

perfectly right and proper.

I’m not sure that the trainig corsets which came into fashion for young

ladies about the 18th century were entirely justified. Lacing, and

sometimes even locking, a young girl into a very overtight corset which

stretched from sometimes high under the chin down to the hips, then

tying her hands behind her in case she got rebellious and tried to take

it off, sounds a bit sadistic. The idea, I read, was to extend the top

of the corset so that it forced the wearer’s head to tilt backwords so

that she “carried her head proudly erect” and since her elbows would

almost meet behind her when her hands were tied, they sometimes tied the

elbows together as well for the alleged sake of posture and deportment.

What the young ladies then did with themselves I’m not sure. About all

they could do would be to sit down or walk around with their heads

“proudly erect”, and since they would be quite unable to fend off any

advance from the male population they were probably lumbered with 14

pounds of chastity belt as well. Only in this case I would be a strong

supporter of the idea!

So the development of a device for keeping ladies chaste was quite

logical, for the times. It’s still logical now, if the situation is

such that one or others of the surrounding parties cannot altogether be

trusted. So when Lord Strongsword made off to the wars he first ensured

that no one was going to share his wife in his absence. Not that he

didn’t trust her of course, he didn’t trust all the others to take

advantage of her pure innocence, so he got her to strip off and stay

still a minute darling whilst I defend your honour in my absence. It’s

also recorded that the long-distance runners didn’t trust the

effectiveness of the locks than available, and had the local smithy

hammer home this nice metal belt I’ve expecially made as agoing away

present darling with a few hot rivets “just to stop it falling round

your knees the minute I’m gone.” What the ladies thought isn’t recorded,

but I wouldn’t mind betting that quite a few of them spent many a long

hour picking away at the lock with a hairpin in the hope that they could

trigger it off. As would I at times, had not lock technology developed

to a point where I wouldn’t even know how or where to start on this

one. But time has passed on, and I have accepted my situation.

* * *

It is now rather more than 10 weeks since belting up day. Guile came to

my side one restless evening, when I again pondered on how to free

myself from my belt. A plan! Why not, but why not buy another one,

another belt at 5 heaven help me, have it wrapped up and taken away,

then return the next day to say that the keys won’t work the lock! They

would HAVE to help me take it off. I could escape. It was a lot of

money for a working girl, but I collected it together and without prior

announcement of my arrival did another mid-day flip to the works. On

entering I was greeted by the ‘new young lady’ whose voice I recognized

by our one conversation. She was built like an Amazon; big boned and

rather musculine, and probably around the early 40’s I thought. No push

over, but my plans were laid so I pressed on. Yes, she had a Mod Belt I

could see, displayed much as before, another wrapped up ready to take

away. 5 cash. I was out of the shop and on my way. It cost me a taxi to

be back at work on time, so the outing cost me a lot more than I could

afford. At home that evening I unwrapped the belt, and without much

hope tried the keys in the lock of the belt I was wearing. Like they

had said, they were all a bit different, but this one seemed a lot

different, it didn’t even fit into the keyhole which I found

appeared by pressing two sides of an aperture together.

Nextday, out of the office at 12.30 p.m., round to the tube station,

and into the shop again by 1.00 p.m. flat. And I hadn’t wasted a second

anywhere.

“Oh,” said the Amazon, “back again? What can I do for you today.”

“Well, it’s a bit embarrassing for me to explain, but I hope you’ll

understand. I bought a belt here yesterday, and just for a laugh I put

it on last night and then found I can’t get it off again. Somehow the

keys just don’t seem to fit.”

“That’s odd” said the Amazon “We are a bit careful over these things.

Perhaps you didn’t do it right. Come into the back of the shop and let

me have a look for you.”

I followed her through to the same little changing cubicle with its

mirror and chair. I unzipped the top of my skirt and peeled over the

top of my briefs to reveal the lock, handing the keys to her as I did

so.

“Can you unlock it for me please?”

Amazon looked at the keys, the lock, and then me.

“They just don’t seem to be the right keys at all” she agreed. “But

perhaps it’s because I’m not approaching the lock at the right angle.

Very tricky these things. Would you mind if I asked you to slip your

skirt right off so I can see what I’m doing?”

“No, of course not” I replied, complying with her request.

And your pants down a little too please, so I can see what’s going on.”

Down came my briefs an inch or so, but not so far as to be embarrassing

for me.

Amazon fiddled with the lock and the keys, and ran her fingers around

the chain encircling my waist.

“When did you say you put this on?” said Amazon, snapping the chain

against my side.

“Er, yesterday evening, when I got home from work. It went on O.K. as

you can see, but the joke ended when I tried to get it off again. If my

boyfriend knew what I have done” I added, departing from my prepared

script thinking I was making small talk “he’d laugh his head off at

first – before he got rather cross about it all once he realised what

it really meant.”

“I’m sure he would” said Amazon. “Would you Iike to tell me what

really happened before I throw you out of this shop?”

“Pardon” I said, rooted to the floor. I just couldn’t believe my ears!

“Look” said Amazon “we get all types here with all sorts of stories.

But your tale is in about Division III. If you had only been wearing

that belt for one night your waist would be red where the chain has

chaffed against it. Yours looks as though you have been wearing it for

not less than a couple of months. On top of which we stopped using this

lock mechanism weeks and weeks ago and replaced it with a modified

type so that the customers keep happy. I know that you bought a belt

here yesterday, but that’s not it, but I wouldn’t mind betting that the

keys are from yesterdays purchase. Right”.

I was on the verge of tears. She was an overpowering woman, and I

didn’t doubt she could toss me out on the street if she so wanted. I

nodded my head in agreement.

“I will tell you the truth if you really want to know” I said. “The

honest truth.”

“Husband or boyfriend playing a little joke which you think has gone on

far too long probably” said Amazon. “I see them all in here. You’d be

surprised the tricks some people will pull to try and shake off a

chastity belt. Not that anyone of them has managed it yet. Just put

your skirt on and go away will you. And don’t come back.”

Amazon stood there with folded arms whilst I rearranged my dress, and followed

me to the door.

“It reaIly is a true story I have to tell” I pleaded with her.

“Like the one where you put it on yourself, and then lost the keys?”

“Yes, yes, that’s right. It really did happen like that!”

“Good afternoon” said Amazon. ‘ Don’t come back or I’ll call the police

and have you charged with loitering. Then you can have your name in the

paper and we can get some free publicity.”

The door was closed behind me and I was standing out in the street, the

proud possessor of two MOD Chastity Belts, one with two keys and one I

was wearing with no keys at all .

I got back to the office very late and had to feign sickness to cover

my absence. I worked on in the evening to catch up so I suppose I put

the black mark right. Once home I kicked myself for a fool in wasting

all that money in a quite abortive attempt to slip a chastity belt I

have grown to like wearing, but only when there seemed no hope at all

of ever getting free of it. Once such a chance presented itself to me I

just had to follow it through to see if I could make it work. And so

far, my endeavour had been a complete failure, and once again with no

hope of freedom in sight I enjoyed its metallic caress. It was into the

eleventh week. The eleventh long beautiful week of sitting very quietly

on toilet seats because of the chinking noise the chains across my

bottom would otherwise make; of making excuses for not wanting to go

swimming, or sunbathing, of not being able to make up the number in a

netball team, or start a little hockey training. But I was content with

my lot, and when at my exhilerated best was secretly glad that Janet

hadn’t passed over the keys which in all probability my sub-conscious

mind had decided to leave behind anyway. I spent more time at cinemas

than in years, although this isn’t a cheap outing any more, and

watching TV. My recreation had to be tailored to my circumstances, and

my circumstances had quite decidedly changed. Boyfriends were out,

naturally, in case wandering hands discovered things they shouldn’t

know about, and I wanted to keep my personal secret a personal secret.

I am experiencing periods of quiet tranquility between an occasional

burst of energy aimed at finding a way to escape what I am becoming

more and more convinced is the inescapable. I suspect that Freud would

describe these occasional endeavours to shake off my belt as my need

for reassurance that I cannot in fact get out of it, and indeed I

cannot. I am now in week 14, and over the last three weeks I have made

several close inspections of the mechanics of it all, in a continuing

reappraisal. The basic aim each time was to find a “weak link”, the

easiest spot in which the chains could be attacked with the object of

breaking or cutting them off, but no realistic conclusions have

emerged. What I have discovered is that the chain which encircles my

waist is in fact a little stronger than the four which lead from it to

the centrepiece – these are hardly thin. Where the chains join the

links appear to have been braised together and polished down so that

the join as such is difficult to find, and hardly represents a weak

spot. It is the same with the lock, which if anything seems stronger

than the chains it holds together. As already mentioned, the key

apperture only appears when two sides of the lock are pressed together,

and springs somewhere inside push what seems to be like double doors –

double overlapping doors – back from the key aperture. I have made a

quite futile attempt to pick the lock – a complete waste of time and

effort for by the time I held the lock just so in order to expose the

key hole I seemed to need three more hands to get at it. Even then, I

have no idea how the mechanism works, but it looks as if it has a

double system working on a centre pivot over which the key slips. I

prodded about with the blunt end of a needle for a while, but couldn’t

find anything inside that even felt as if it wanted to move, so I

packed it in.

If somehow I was able to find a method of cutting through the chains,

without cutting me at the same time, it would help. Except that the

chains themselves are very close to me, every link of the way. Snug,

without being really tight, but tight enough to prevent hacking away at

them with something sharp, without getting hacked.

The choice would be to cut through either two of the chains running

from the waistchain to the centrepiece, or the chain encircling my

waist. The waist chain is out, since by its tug around my middle it

throws up (I am ashamed to say) a little heap of surplus flesh which

stands almost level with the chain itself. Thus if I try cutting the

chain, I also get cut. Not on. The chains from the waist to centrepiece

came next. How could I get at them. Much thought, a little experiment

with protective pieces of cardbord between chains and me (discarded

as of not much help in case of misplaced energy and a slipping file)

followed by a piece of wood I managed to obtain – again rejected as too

inflexible, too tight under the chain, and basic inability to get at

the chains themselves without getting me too. The wood placed under the

waist chain somehow? It couldn’t be attacked anywhere across my tum as

any movement of a file would have knocked straight into my breast –

unless I was able to do a straight up and down between my cleavage. But

since I’m not all that small, vision was a bit restricted downwards

anyway. Not much point in trying the right hand side – that is where

the lock is; the only possible point was at my left hand side.

As I have said, once I have thought of a possible escape I can’t rest

until I’ve tried it. So I tried it. I bought a file on the way home –

I had not the least idea of what sort of file I wanted, just a file

which turned out to be about 10″ long, triangular, and rather more

expensive than I would have believed. I pushed the piece of wood into

position, making the waist chain uncomfortably tight, and tried a few

experiment passes with the file.In no time at all I had stuck the thing

in my leg, and grazed myself both above and below the waist. Not to be

outwited that easily, I stood up and tried again but found it was quite

impossible to hold the file by one end without digging the other end

into myself. The only way I could get some action was by holding the

thing in the middle and trying to work it up and down. The result was

chaos. I dropped the file, several times, made a finger bleed gripping

the sharp edges of the triangular file, and apart from some small

scratch marks on the chain, made no impression on it at all.

I wasn’t completely satisfied that I had lost this round, so next night

I tried again, this time with Elastoplast on all my fingers as an

anti-abrasive device. It didn’t matter if I tried to saw upwards or

downwards, the movement I could get without getting myself as well was

minimum, and if I tried to push too hard I soon found that I suffered,

not the chain. Despite the chain being very tight with the board pushed

between it and me, the links still moved up and down with the movement

of the file, and virtually no impression was made on them. In all I

spent about two hours with these experiments for no real visible

result, and calculated that at that rate it would take about 20 years

non stop to cut through. I abandoned the idea as good in theory but

hopeless in practice. To save myself further unnecessary cuts and

abrasions, of which I then had several, I dumped the file in the

dustbin.

It is after real hard-trying experiments like these that I feel at my

happiest.

Week 18. Another month has slipped past without any idea of how I may

eventually escape having come to mind. A month in which I have been

totally content with my situation, as I think I am all but perfectly

adjusted to my new way of life. My chastity belt now seems as much a

part of me as an arm or leg, and is accepted and is as welcome as

either of them. I don’t want to have to take my belt off after all this

time, having gone through the early difficulties and inconveniences of

having had to learn how to live with it. Now I can live it, know its

fullest extent of restriction and inconvenience, but also know and can

exploit the fullest level of the ‘freedom’ available to me within its

metalic embrace.

The fact that there seems to be no method of escape from it that I

have not already tried out, really tried out at not a little expense

either, makes my belt seem to fit all the more snugly around me. I

don’t want to take it off, I can’t take it off, and there seems no hope

of me ever finding a way of getting it off. This makes life wonderful

for me, for as I have already said, once I think I have a possible way

out I just have to try it. If only to reassure myself that it is

impossible and that I really am permantly belted up. And at the time of

writing there isn’t even a feint inkling in my mind as to what I should

try next.

I have not been able to play hockey this year of course, although I was

pressured for weeks to turn out for the team again this year. I enjoy

the game, and miss playing, but in my present situation it is quite out

of the question for me to try running around for 90 minutes, not to

mention the possibility of my little secret being discovered the minute

I started to change into my hockey outfit. Being chained in what

amounts to a pair of metal briefs is great fun for me, but I am not

sure that I want to have to explain why I chose to wear them or for

that matter even if I could explain satisfactorily why I chose to wear

them. I had thought that I might try, when I was being really

pressured to play, by turning up wearing fairly thick blue knickers

under my gym-slip, and try sneaking away after the matches without

taking a shower, or changing into more normal everyday dress, but this

in turn would almost certainly draw comment. And again, I can’t run

very fast now and when I do I look completely bandy anyway. All-in

all, I reluctantly had to abandon the idea of playing sports and whilst

by no means completely inactive these days, I have to take more fun in a

quieter and more refined way; theatres, cinemas, television, reading.

The local library has a regular visitor in me just lately, as the other

interests are too expensive for regular visiting.

I am still drawn to make an occasional inspection of my metalwear to

make sure all is well with it, and to give the copper part a polish up.

I still have to laugh at myself when I am doing this; it must look

quite ridiculous. Nevertheless the copper front does look very smart

after a polish up. The chains themselves have never needed any sort of

attention from me. They have always been bright and shiny, and

fortunately have never made a mark of any sort on my clothes.

Close inspection of the braized joints show no hint of wear anywhere.

The most I can fairly claim is that where the chains join onto the

front of the copper panel, the copper never looks quite as dull as the

rest of it. This must be due to some movement of the chains on the

copper, although at the present rate of progress it seems it could take

about 150 years of violent exercise before it would wear through.

There are of course times in my life when I am less keen about the

whole idea than others, and I might be encouraged at such times to take

my belt off if I had the means of doing so. Fortunately for me, I have

not, and I am always pleased when such times are over and I am my

normal happy belted up self again. I also know, now, that if I had a

key there would be times when I would belt myself up for a while, just

for the fun of it. Equally I know there would be, and have been, times

when I would not do so – even if I really wanted to – by reason of

circumstance. As things stand, these problems do not arise for me and I

have happily accepted that regardless of what the situation might be I

and my chastity belt are inseparable. Wherever I go, it goes. Wherever

it goes, I go. Amigos, forever! I avoid all possible situations where

questions could be asked about my enforced chastity, and foster those

where I am allowed to be my normal belted seIf. No boyfriends of course

– the chain around my waist would be discovered far too quickly it can

easily be felt through my normal clothes and in fact calls for a little

skilful care to completely disguise it – but I can and do go out with

girl friends now and again, to a cinema, or for natter over a snack and

a cup of tea. I still have the second ‘Mod’ belt I purchased in an

expensively vain attempt to escape one I wear. I have pondered on the

possibility of selling it, but always somewhere at the back of my mind

has been the thought that if, somehow, I managed to slip the one I’m

wearing, I would probably put the second one straight on in it’s place,

and personally smash up the keys!

Week 22 threw up an idea which I have been working on. Simply if one

cannot fight them, then join them! If I can’t escape myself, I’ll join

them and escape by having them on my side. The idea really evolved

from one of trying to cut my chains by means of a pair of bolt cutters.

I saw some of these used in a T.V. show, and it occurred to me that if

used on my chains they must surely yield to it. Also that my Mod belt

is not likely to prove anything like as permanent in use as I had at

first envisaged, and this in turn disappoints me very much. If I can

be cut out of a Mod belt, there must be other types of heavier belting

available which even a bolt cutter can’t destroy. I therefore plan to

replace my present Mod belt with something far more permanent if I can,

but to do this I need to be ‘on the inside’. I need to have friends,

accomplices, with the ability and facility to help me. So I have been

planning. I know that I can purchase copies of 12th Century Chastity

Belts fairly easily, and good, secure, locks are available. Making

them keyless would be simply a matter of following a previously

recorded comment and dropping them down the nearest drain. And not even

bolt cutters, at least the type I have seen used, should be stout

enough to cut through the thick iron bands then available to me. But if

I am able, I want to be even more sure than that. As I will explain if

my plans start to work as I hope they wilI. As I hope to be much more

nearly permanently belted up then I am at present, although I must

admit that my present Mod belt is still as effective and secure on me

as ever it was, I still want to be reasonably comfortable, which may

involve me in a personal fitting to ensure no rough edges,

overtightness, or slackness, anywhere.

Week 23, and a big success so far, althouh I hardly dare to think it

might completely work out. I have been in contact with my friends

asking if they had any vacancies for a typist with telephone experience

and some book keeping ability. All of this is true. To my heart

pounding delight they have, and I have arranged to go along for an

appointment tomorrow afternoon. I haven’t the least idea how much they

may pay but I’ll accept anything within sweet reason. If I manage to

get the job it will mean that I will almost certainly have to change my

flat to something nearer their side of town, but that will be hardship.

Where I am is O.K., but nothing special.

I arrived at the workshop a little before time, but went straight in

rather than stand around in the rather bare gloomy street. The Dragon

was not there as I had expected, and a youngish man whom I had not

previously seen before answered the ringing doorbell. I told him who I

was and whom I wished to see, and why. He disappeared for not more than

three minutes, then came back to usher me through a little corridor in

bad need of repainting into a small, dingy ‘office’. No one was there,

and he said ‘Joe’ would be along in a minute. ‘Joe’! Now there’s a name

I knew .I was thankful that we hadn’t actually met before, and felt

sure it would be unlikely that he would recognise my voice after all

this time. Anyway, we had only spoken on the ‘phone. Joe arrived in a

couple of minutes, as promised, and asked me to take a seat.

Joe was a short, fairly thick set chap of about 35 with thick brownish

hair, poorly pressed suit, and with worry hidden under an open-plan

pleasantness. He was short on education, articulation, and most things

demanded of anyone working in a City office, but had a sincerity,

honest forthrightness, and basic openness about him which more than

made up for the shortcomings elsewhere.

The job on offer was one of answering letters, signing them, keeping the

filing in order, making tea and coffee, helping with the accounts on

occasions, helping to make-up wage packets, making the tea and coffee

again, going out to collect small orders which were late on delivery

and which they had to have in order to stay in business (fairs paid)

and helping out in the shop at meal times, etc. The pay wasn’t as much

as I was getting, and I said so. Honest Joe said that IF I shaped up to

being a harrassed Girl Friday he would match my present pay, but he would

want “a couple of months” to see how things went. I accepted on the

spot, explained that my present company needed a weeks notice, and

agreed that I should start on Monday week at 9.00 a.m.

Although I had arranged a half-day off {from my annual holiday

entitlement) I went back to the office and handed in my resignation. Mr

Wood was startled to think that anyone would leave, could leave, or

have the least reason to leave. I was given a little talk on how bright

my future could be if only I would reconsider, the hint of a pay

increase at the end of the year, and time to think things over. I for

my part thanked him, but asked that the resignation should stand until

or unless I changed my mind. He agreed, and it was only on my way back

homeon the bus that I realised that I had actually given terms to the

great Mr. Wood, which had been unconditionally accepted. Normally

everyone below management status stood in fear of him; a powerful man

given to the quiet and efficient knife thrust which had seen the

downfall of many a poor insignificant office clerk.

My financial situation is not one which will allow for extended unpaid

holidays, and as things stood I would be leaving one company on a

Wednesday evening and not starting with another until the following

Monday. As a concession to Mr. Wood, and after letting him sweat for a

little while on whether I was going or staying, I finally told him on

the Friday evening that I was definately going, but would be prepared

to work out a full further week, “if it would help him keep things

together while he obtained a replacement”.

If it hadn’t happened to me I couldn’t have believed it. Once again the

great man almost entreated me to reconsider – frankly I had often

thought he didn’t even know that I existed other than as a working body

at a desk, to be queried if too often absent from it – repeating his

veiled promises of greater glories in store for me I remained

singularly unmoved, although I have since wondered what effect it might

have had on me had I not already decided to put a bizarr and exciting

plan into action. Probably I would have been moved to tears, and signed

on for 21 years!

With a sigh, Mr Wood accepted defeat, and thanked me for staying on the

extra few days, although “he was quite sure that it would take him

much, much longer to find a girl of my calibre and ability to replace.

This would all be a great shock for the Company you know. We do try to

keep our employees happy. “If ever they had, or did, it hadn’t filtered

down as far as me. The only reason I worked there was because it was

handy to get to, the money was standard for the area and not in any way

exceptional, and it was a job I could do standing on my head. It was

also handy for the better shops. Leaving would not be any great

hardship for me, although I would miss the friends I had made in the

office. Many of the others hadn’t seen much of me on the sportsfield

for some time, and would probably have forgotten about me anyway.

Excitement mounted as the week passed, very slowly for me, culminating

in a little send-off party from the rest of the girls who gave me a

broach which I thought was rather nice of them. My final pay-off

included holiday pay, so all in all it was a good Friday for me. When

asked why I was going, and where, I was fairly vague and said things

like more money a bit further over in the city, and invented names of A

Company which changed almost daily. I also explained that it was

something like “…..” but couldn’t exactly remember, and that they

made metal fitments. Ha ha.

On the way home on Friday I bought several papers which carried

advertisements for flats to let, and spent some time on Friday evening

pouring over them. It seemed that I could do at least as well by

moving, without having to pay on Sunday I went over to have a look or

two of them – not that I expected to be able to look over them as they

were nearly all under agents names and addresses – but I wanted to see

what sort of district they were in, and how accessible they might be to

my new job . As a result of this I short-listed two possibles,and

planned to follow both up as soon as I had the chance.

Sunday night I was restless; my plan was working out almost too well,

and made me wonder what I might have overlooked or forgotten. Like the

Dragon recognising me and throwing me out of the shop before I had a chance

to explain why I was there, for example. Eventually the alarm went off,

and I rolled out of bed, still tired but excited at the new prospect. I

had left myself lots of spare time; I was determined not to be late on

my first day and in fact arrived a good half hour before the agreed

starting time. I let myself into the shop which was open. It was

unattended, so, as an employee I wandered off along the dingy corridor

to the room where I had met Joe. It too was unoccupied. Onwards, into

the unknown, through a door which opened directly onto a workshop where

three men were already at work. I approached the nearest and explained

who I was, and was directed to the ‘office’ in the corner of the

building which looked as though it had been used as a stores come spares

department for the last 30 years, and obviously needed a lot of

attention to tidy it up. I quietly sat in a chair and waited for the

next arrival, watching the men as a passtime. The very nature of their

work excited me, and the youngest and cheekiest of them at one time

held up a Mod belt and asked me if I would care to try it on for

size! If only he knew I had worn one continuously for 23 weeks, and

had a ‘spare’ at home in case of eventualities, his expression might

have changed a little!

Eventually Joe arrived, or arrived back, as he explained that he had

had to pop out for some more gear from a local stockist to keep the

plant going. Obviously their stock control system was not all it might

be.

Joe told me that I was to be Queen of all I surveyed, to make myself at

home, and get the kettle on. He would explain the rest of my duties as

the day passed.

I discovered the kettle under heaps of unwashed cups and unanswered

letters, invoices and bills. There was obviously a lot of work to be

done here to sort the lot out.

Joe told me where to find all the usual ‘offices’ and I trotted off to

wash up the cups while the kettle boiled. There was no washing-up

materials available, and only a rather grubby tea-cloth on which to dry

them. Things would have to change here.

The morning post proved to be interesting for me; several orders for

belts of different sorts, some with cash, others with cheques or money

orders. The system Joe had used for following these through was chaotic

and it’s a wonder that anyone ever got what they ordered.

By lunchtime I was beginning to realize the extent of what I had taken

on. There wasn’t a system for anything, only piles of papers everywhere

none of them meaning anything on their own. Such effective work as I

could do I did, and the rest I just had to start piles of my own – only

I knew what had to be done and equally knew that it would be done.

>From time to time I had heard a ding of the shop bell, and supposed the

Dragon was in residence although I had still not met her. I just hoped

that when I did that my hair-piece would be enough to throw her off the

scent; it was quite different to the time when I had last met her

professionally.

I had prepared a few sandwiches for lunch, and had a few minutes break

to eat them (with more tea, making a mental note to get a ten-gallon tea

urn at the earliest opportunity) and on reflection felt that it had all

been such a change and a challenge that the morning had flashed by and

that I had enjoyed myself. It was certainly different to the last

place.

At the first chance I explained to Joe why I thought he should have a

few registers kept on money received, goods despatched, cheques cleared

or returned, etc. He said this was a good idea, but that he had never

had the time to do it. I volunteered, and he gratefully accepted. I got

a couple of pounds from him from the petty cash and went shopping for

best buys – and I found them too.

By evening I had established a register of orders in and out, cheques

received and cleared, and money paid cashed. I also had a new tea

cloth, washing-up liquid, and file covers for a system of basic

recording of transactions made. I would have stayed on late, but Joe

shooed me out, saying that I had already done my share for the day –

and then, and only then, did I meet the Dragon for the second time. She

shook hands with a grasp that almost wrenched my wrist off, looked at

me and quizically for a second or two, and then seemingly dismissed me

from her mind.

Continued in next issue.

Part Three

Things on Tuesday went even better; I managed to clear away large piles

of paper which were months old by more or less sorting them into

alphabetical order and dumping them into a filing cabinet previously

filled with bits and pieces of engineering gear. Joe took the evicted

gear into the workshop and left it there to rust away I suppose. By

evening it was almost possible to see across the office, and things

were definately taking on a more orderly shape. Joe appeared delighted

with all, as I explained everything I was doing, had done, why, and how

to him. Suddenly his life was becoming less of a mad chase through

piles of paper and worrying about what he had forgotten.

Wednesday, further progress, Thursday I even found time to dust around

the furniture I had found under the rubble, and by Friday everyone was

reaping the benefits of the new, if simple, systems I had instituted.

Next week stock control. I shuddered to think how Joe managed his bank

statements. Perhaps he had an accountant to worry for him.

I was still taking sadnwiches and having a working lunch hour, so much

was there to do and hadn’t found time to look at the flats. However,

on Friday I told Joe where I was off to and why, and made for the

agents offices. The first flat was in a tower block, which seemed a

little unusual to me, and the second was on the first floor of a

building, immediately over a gateway leading into a private yard.

There were only two flats there, the other occupied by a rather deaf

old dear whose husband had at sometime worked for a firm at the rear.

I took it on the spot, although I have still to pay one months rent in

advance before I can leave the present flat. Finding rent for two

flats is a luxury I cannot afford, although it was to good an

opportunity to miss. Just right for one person, compact without being

stifling, all mod cons, handy for my new job, and reasonably close to

shops and busses. I gave a deposit, and the agents are drawing up the

agreement with the owners for me to move in as quickly as possible. I

am in no rush, as I have said, I still have to give one months notice

to the owners of my present flat.

Despite all these negotiations I was still back at work within the

stipulated hour, which made a nice change from the times when I used to

dash around in expensive taxis to no good purpose.

So pleased was I with my news that I told Joe immediately I got back to

the office. To my surprise he offered to shift my furniture in the

firms truck – or as much of it as would go in. This was very

satisfying to me, and meant that I was at least making an impact on

Joe, who was finding my working services of use.

I had also got to know the men on the shop floor a good deal better

too, and had identified “the voice” who had stayed back one evening to

explain the situation to me. There was, naturally, a good deal of chat

and chaff about them belting me up, but I shyed away like a gazelle

whenever any of them came anywhere near me and made a hell of a lot of

noise. This tamed them down a bit, although I have been on constant

guard against any of them slipping their arms around my waist and

discovering that they have already been beaten to it. By nearly six

months!

Of the three, the youngest seemed to hold out the best hope for my

plan, and from time to time I would slip out to his workbench and let

him chat me up for a few minutes. Eventually he got around to asking

me out one evening, and I countered by saying I would, but only if his

two workmates put a chastity belt on me first and hid the keys from

him. It was a theme I wanted to develop, and would always stop for me

when we were talking about belts and belting up, but cut away fairly

soon if we were talking about the weather, holidays, or going to the

pictures. Eventually the message got across; I was interested in

chastity belts. But I would never be drawn into a discussion on them

with the other two. Only the youngest one, on his own.

Meanwhile the office systems progressed and prospered. Never, I am

certain, had the office looked so organised and clean. Never had the

teacups had saucers under them, or the tea arrived on prompt time.

Stock control was making Joe’s life a dream, and the number of

occasions on which he had to rush out and get spare bits and pieces

fell away rapidly. Things were going well.

At least my selected young engineer got around to suggesting that a

good belting would do me the world of good. I said that I assumed that

he meant chastity belts, as I was not that sort of girl.

“If you like!”

“You mean you really would put a chastity belt on me if you could?” I

asked in my best little-girl-lost voice.

“Not half. What sort do you fancy” he said, cheekily as ever.

“What sort have you got?”

There followed a diatribe, and lots of cheek and chaff, on what was

available. As he went down his list I countered with ideas of my own

on the weakness of them all.

“How about a nice Mod. Just your size. Suit you a treat it would.”

“But surely they can be cut off too easily. Anybody who really wanted

to could snip them off with a pair of scissors.”

“Well then, there’s this medieval type. Weighs a ton. Here cop hold.

That shouldn’t slip down round your knees, now should it!”

“A bit hit and miss for size, isn’t it? I mean, we’re not all the same

shape, and you seem to churn there things out by the score here.”

“I’ll do you a special on then. Any particular style you like?”

“How do you mean special?”

“Well, I’ll have to take a few measurements first, here and there, and

then make one up to fit.”

“We’d better stop talking like this. Your mates would roll up if they

knew what we were on about.”

“Let’s not tell them then.”

There was a pause, and I knew I had to seize the initiative.

“What sort of measurements would you want?”

“Oh, waist, and the length from here to here.” He indicated what he

meant, with a wink which expressed a good deal more than he had

actually said.

“Anything else?”

“No, apart from style, which would have a bearing on the eventual shape

and size of it all.”

“That style of down-piece seems the most practical to me” I said,

indicating a style which tapered at the tops, but filled out to make a

complete block in the vital area. “On this style of waist band.” Here

I pointed to a 3/8″ metal band of 1 1/2″ width. “Only I think these

protrusions and hinges and things make the whole thing lumpy and

uncomfortable. Is there any way of joining them up without all the

bumps.”

“Usually they all have hinges and things, so they can be put on and

taken off without too much trouble. If you didn’t have a hinge

somewhere you wouldn’t be able to, would you.”

“I don’t know. You’re the engineer. It just seems a pity to make a

good design all wrong by having staples and hooks and things. A clean

line would be much better, especially from the wearer’s point of view.”

“To get that, it would have to be made on you.”

“How?”

“Well, by making the thing in sections to your size, and then knocking

it together on you with rivits. You wouldn’t be able to take it off

again. No one would. Except a blacksmith that is. Why, do you want

to try one?”

“I’m intrigued by the idea. If you could do it, that is.”

“I’m a smith arn’t I? I can do it already, despite what they say in

the shop. I’m as goos a smith as either of them.”

“I’m sure you are. But if you do it, what happens next?”

“That waist band, that down piece, hammered home. Need a working

design I suppose. Then some measurements. Then you again. Shouldn’t

take long.”

“Starting when?”

“When do you want to get measured?” he said with a gleam in his eye.

“When can we do it? Oh, and by the way, the reason I’m not likely to

object to this is that I’m already wearing a ‘Mod”, so I’m not on free

view.”

“Wearing a Mod!” he echoed. “Which of those two has managed to con you

into it? Most of the dollies we have seen through here have been foxed

into one sooner or later, but I didn’t know they had caught you yet!”

“Surprise, surprise” I said. “You don’t know everything, and if you

keep quiet neither need they either.”

“The blighters. Not a word to me, either. Just like them.”

“Well, stop moaning about them and let’s get some action. When can we

get started, or don’t you want to go ahead now you know your mates are

not playing the game with you?”

“Any time you like. Have you got a tape measure?”

By no accident at all, I had.

“Let’s go into Joe’s interview room” I said. “We should have a few

minutes to ourselves there. I’ll follow you, after you have gone

through.”

“I returned to my ‘office’ and fetched the tape from my handbag. Then

out through the door, seemingly toward the Ladies. First left, into

the room where my engineer was waiting with big, shining eyes.

“Waist first?” I queried, handing his the tape. He took it, and gave a

reasonably accurate reading of what I would have said it was.

Measuring the downpiece was a bit of a fiasco, as the tape kept

slipping to one side of the copper frontpiece of my Mod belt, and

needed almost constant attention, mainly from my engineer. Eventually,

after a little professional judgement as well as an examination of me

from all angles, he was satisfied.

“How long will it take? To make I mean?”

“I don’t know. I’ll have to get up some sort of design first.”

“Can I help. I mean I know nothing about you job or what it entails,

but I may be able to at least give you an idea to work on.”

“Sure. Anything you like.”

“I’ll knock something rough out for you. Perhaps you can tidy it

afterwards.”

We returned to our separate places of work, this time I leading the

way. Once in the office I sketched out a system whereby half of the

belt, with a 2″ extension at both front and back, would have the entire

down piece rivited to it before I stepped into it. The other half of

the belt could then be placed in position around my waist, and the

entire loop formed by riviting it to the 2″ extensions I had allowed

for. I didn’t think that I should have too much trouble getting in

half a belt, even allowing for the curving extension pieces. Perhaps

2″ ws too much, and 1 1/2″ would be sufficient. Also, if the matching

pieces could be tapered they could slot together without forming any

sort of bump or lump. I took the suggested design out onto the floor,

with a flutter of eyelids.

Yes, he thought it could be done alright. I was sure, I said, that a

man of his ability would make light work of it. How long to make? Oh,

this time tomorrow should do.

I had already spent too much time talking to him, and the other two

were spending more and more time looking over their shoulders at us. I

never went back on the floor again that day.

Next day I was really excited, and could

see from time to time how my “special” progressed. He first made the

downpiece, to my selected design, and suggested that I take it away

“somewhere” and check that it was a snug fit. I pointed out that I was

still belted up in a Mod, so the fit would be meaningless. He was

surprised to hear that his mates had let the joke run on that long, and

we agreed that he would “snip” it off me at lunchtime, and make good

the repair before his mates realised what had happened.

Lunchtime. Joe was around a lot of the time, but eventually we managed

to get away and in less time than it takes to relate I had a piece of

metal chain cut like butter. For the first time in six months I was

unbelted, as the whole lot fell down into my knickers. The engineer

wanted to stay while I tried the new downpiece for fit, bit I wouldn’t

let him. I think the disappointment of having found just how easily

the Mod belt could be snipped off showed on my face, although he wasn’t

to know that.

I chinked along to the Ladies, and there removed my knickers, complete

with a lot of old chain and copper frontpiece which had been my close

companions for so long. It was really upsetting for me to know that

this was the end for them so close had we been, and such excitement had

they imparted to me.

The new downpiece was quite different. It felt totally strange, and

not a little cold to me, and whilst it seemed to fit quite well it ws

impossible to say how well until it was rigidly affixed to the waist

band.

I took it back to the workshop, via the office. I also smuggled the

wrecked Mod belt into a bottom cabinet drawer for temporary safe

keeping.

I laid the metal casually on the bench, and gave a slight nod to the

engineer. Quietly I told him that it seemed just fine, but that all

depended on how well it fitted to the waist band. Set too high it

would be impossible, and too low, useless. He understood all this

without me saying so, and said that as an engineer all would be well.

That afternoon I watched as the downpiece was hot rivited to the

waistband with not a little care, and the rivit tops polished down.

The inside of the join was then smoothed down with a buffing unit,

making lots of sparks. No particular attention was drawn to this

activity, as I had found that all sorts of strange orders were

fulfilled in that shop, no questions asked.

Later, the second half of the waist band was made with great care and

attention to fit. I couldn’t help going out for another look, and the

engineer demonstrated just how well half No 2 fitted into half No 1

with rivit holes matching exactly all ready to go. When did I get to

wear it? That night if I wanted to.

I was breathless with anticipation. That evening. Pow. I must have

looked flushed, so excited was I, but fortunately Joe chose to be away

most of the afternoon, leaving me to look after the office affairs,

which I could do even better than he could anyway.

Came the evening, the men made off to the washrooms as usual, I stayed

back.

All the usua1 goodnights from everyone to everyone. Then, just me, and

the engineer, who came bak to the office to find me.

“What do I have to do” I asked.

“Strip off first, and try it for size.”

“I’m not that sort of girl. That’s why I don’t mind trying on this belt

of yours”.

“It wilI be yours as soon as it’s on.”

“Oh thank you. Are you making me a present of it.”

“If you like.”

“But no hanky panky please. I can’t be bought, and I don’t feel like

giving myself away just yet.”

“Once you have got the Iron Maiden on you it won’t be a question of not

wanting to, but not being able to.”

“No messing, agreed?”

“O.K. Seems a shame a girl like you not wanting to play.”

“Action, not words.”

“Come on then.”

I hadn’t considered what might happen, but automatically followed him

out into the shop to his bench, where the new belt was waiting in its

separate halves.

“It’s no use” he said, “you’ll just have to strip in order to put it

on. It can’t go on over the top of that lot.”

Reluctantly I peeled off my dress and slip, leaving myself standing in

a bra and panti-girdle.

“I could fit it over the top of that” he said, indicating my

panti-girdle ‘”but you would have to cut it off afterwards.”‘

I thought about it’s cost, and very, very reluctantly, turned sideways

and slipped it off.

“That’s better. Now you have to step through here, and pull it up waist

height.” Quickly, trembling, I did so. Legs slightly apart to allow for

the metal to seat properly, and to get the waist band neatly around me.

With a professionaI approach, the engineer picked up the second half of

the waist band and held it in its eventual position. Really neat.

Even in the excitement of the moment of being actually fitted with a

new, and everlasting type of belt, I tried to be as objective about it

as I could. This one just did not allow for adjustment of any sort, and

unless it was near-perfect to start with it could never get any better

once rivited into position. Nevertheless I was surprised how well the

smithie had done his work; he couldn”t have been fiddling about to no

avail all the time when I was being measured, and as far as I could

tell the waist band had been made correctly, and when sitting around me

over the tops of my hips, the downpiece was snugly held between my

parted legs without either pulling up into me or sagging down. The

engineer made a critical inspection, somewhat to my embarrassment, as I

knew that despite being covered with a whacking great thick metal bar,

there was visible evidence of a lower hair-line. Not that he seemed to

mind it!

Eventually we both agreed that it fitted as it should, and I was then

asked, to my consternation, whether I wanted the second half of the

belt hot or cold rivited. I had not the least idea what he was talking

about, and said so, asking the advantages and disadvantages involved.

The cold rivits, it seems, were more brittle in use and were placed by

smashing the metaI into a different shape, destroying most of it in the

process. Hot riviting melts, or almost melts, the metal and it can then

be moulded to a new shape, keeping almost all its previous strength

characteristic. The snag with the latter method was that with hot

rivits there was some risk of burning me, during or after insertion.

and would take longer to do.

“How careful are you?” I enquired, signalling that I had already

decided for the hot treatment.

“Very. But I shall need a lot of co-opertion from you, and you’ll have

to be prepared to get a bit wet afterwards as I douse the rivits to

cool them. Otherwise they will burn holes in you. It might be a bit

tricky if you start to wriggle around, particularly if it starts to get

a bit hot.”

“I’ll do my best then” I said, in a rather non-committal way of

agreeing to the hot riviting.

The engineer turned on the forge blower, and considering it had been

out for the night, it quickly glowed red again. He laid something that

looked like small bolts rather than rivits into the fire, and started

to prepare a means whereby he could bang them into position on me. This

took only a few minutes, by which time the rivits were flowing red hot,

demonstrated to me to show how much I couId get burned if I “did silly

things” whilst he was working on me. Frankly I was a little alarmed

now, as the belt was a tightish fit around me, and I had no idea how he

might get these red hot rivits onto the belt without burning me as

well, hard as he might try not to. Not that 1 had much chance to

develop the idea in my mind.

“Come on then, over here!”

The engineer pointed to a small anvil, set on iron legs and standing

about 30” overall from the floor.

“I’m going to put this wet rag across your back to start with, as a

last ditch insurance against really hot burns, then I want you to bend

right over so that the belt can be placed over the end of the anvil

point there.”

I didn’t really understand at first, but he helped me bend over, with

the tip of the anvil pushed up under the belt at my back. This was

very uncomfortable for me. The anvil dug into my back terribly, and the

belt at the front was pulling hard into my stomach. I was not happy,

and said so.

“Please keep as still as you can, and you won’t know what’s happened.”

I hardly dared look up as the engine moved around. Then suddenly there

was a thump, thump, thump, on the anvil which reverberated right round

the belt, and shook me to the toenails. This was followed by what felt

like a bucket of water, which ran all over me. I protested.

“Did you get burned at all?”

“No. I hadn’t thought you’d started on the rivets yet. what’s

happened?”

“The first one has gone home O,K. That’s all. Do you wantto stand up

so that we can check that it’s all straight and level?”

I affirmed, and he helped me off the anvil hook, to my feet. Sure

enough, though the water streaked situation, I found that the two

halves were now one, joined at the back by a single rivet. Acheck was

made to ensure that the rivet holes at the front were exactly right,

and that the belt had not been twisted out of position.

“To make sure it stays on straight I need to put the next rivet into

the front. This time you will have to bend over backwards somehow.”

The arrangement for this was an absolute farce. Eventually we managed

to work it out by bringing a chair from the office and 1 supported

myself with my arms whilst virtually otherwise suspended from the anvil

by the waistband, which was no more comfortable than before. What then

happened shook me. The engineer took up a red hot rivet from the fire

with some tongs and came for me. I was petrifiied that he would drop it

on me, particularly when he was fiddling the thing into position by

inserting it under the belt, although of course the anvil head

protected me from it. It felt hot on my stomach, several inches away.

Then he took up a hammer, and thump, thump, thump, thump. Followed by

another dousing of water, which ran all over me, down the front of my

bra, down my legs, all over me. The heat sizzled away. and died out.I

was about to get up – or try to – when he said:

“Stay as you are, we might as well finish that front now.”

And with that came a second rivet. Just as before. Thump, thump,

thump, thump, splash. And a third. Only they didn’t seem to be what I

have called rivets, but bolts about 1/4″ thick, but with a square head

and about 1/2″ long. After the third one had been hammered home and

cooled off, I was helped to my feet, a little unsteadily. I had not

enjoyed the experience of having red hot rivets waived about all over

me. But the belt seemed just fine. I tried to adjust its seating

between my legs, but soon I found I couldn’t without trying to move the

whole issue.

When I went over again, frontwards this time, I used the chair and was

a lot more comfortable despite the sickening feeling the pressure on my

tummy gave me. I didn’t look up as the last two rivets were brought

over to me and slammed into position. Two more soakings and I was

being helped up again – rather quicker than I had imagined. I don’t

think the last two took more than two minutes to knock in, from start

to finish.

I stood up and felt around myself and my new cage. It was superb. I was

trembling a little and suggested that we both had a cup of tea. The

engineer agreed, and with a strange new gait I made off to the office,

carrying my clothes as I was still very wet. I put on the kettle than

dried myself off as best I could in the Ladies with a small hand towel

I keep there. By the time I returned to the office the kettle had

boiled and the tea had been made.

All this time I had been completely “turned off” as far as thinking

about the male sex was concerned, and it suddenly came home to me that

there I was prancing about dressing only in some very wet shoes, an iron

chastity belt, and a very wet bra, being watched by the engineer. I

decided on a course of modesty and went to put my slip back on, but as

I reached my hands up over my head I felt a sharp little prick on my

middle, under the waistband of the belt. Cautiously I put my fingers

down underneath and discovered a protruding piece of metal. I

explained what I had found to the engineer, and asked what could be

done to level it off a bit. He, in turn, explained that he hadn’t

finished the job off yet anyway, but that we had just stopped for a cup

of tea!

“What more is there to do then?” I enquired.

“Well, to start with I’ll have to file down that rough edge on the

inside for you. Then I want to skim off the tops of the rivets to seat

them in line with the belt itself. When I’ve finished that you

shouldn’t get any trouble with snagging your clothes or things.”

“Oh, I see. Thank you.”

I put my slip-on for modesty whilst we were drinking our tea and took a

a lot of old chaff from him on being belted up properly this time, not

that I would never be able to get it off again by myself, and that he

wasn’t even sure that he could get it off me even if he wanted to. I,

in my turn, and feeling fairly sure of my inviolate position retorted

that he probably could if he wanted to, particularly if it was the

rutting season.

Tea finished, we returned to the workbench, and where once again I was

asked to strip off. I did so, knowing that the final process was about

to commence. First, he had me backward onto the chair again, with the

anvil tip under the front of the belt so as to create a gap in which he

could work around file. This operation took quite a little while

before we were both satisfied that it was now perfectly smooth inside.

The six rivets on the outside of the belt responded rather more quickly

to an electrically driven carborundum wheel which made a lot of sparks and left an almost silky finish where it had been used. The rivet ends

were still visible, but could not be felt at all.

“There you are then, that’s finished.”

“No water this time?” I enquired, with a thankful tone in my voice.

“No need. The grinding wheel does warm the metal up a bit, but I

didn’t use it long enough to make things hot for you. How’s it feel

now you’re inside?”

“Just great” I enthused. “It feels just great. You certainly made a

good job of getting the sizes right and the whole thing feels really

snug on me.”

“Are you quite sure you know what you’ve done?” he asked. “I mean,

you’re not going to be able to take it off again, come what may.

Busting that off you would be a full-time job, I can tell you. You’ll

never be able to do it by yourself you know.”

“O.K., O.K., so I’ll never be able to take it off by myself. So what?

You did a great job fixing it on me, and I know you’ll be able to do an

equally, good job getting it off again, won’t you?”

“You want it off again?” he echoed. “Blimey, I wish you’d make up your

mind. It’ll take hours that will!”

“Sorry, I didn’t mean right away. I meant at some future time when I’m

driven to seek my freedom again. I’m not sure how long I can put up

with all this (here I tugged at the belt) but ladies of several hundred

years ago suffered them for several years at a stretch before they were

unlocked. I’m not sure what happened to the ladies with a smooth

finish.” I added, running my hand over the polished rivets. “Possibly

they lived and died in them.”

“You may well have to, too,” said the engineer.

“Is it likely to be that difficult to remove. When I want it off, I

mean?”

“Chastity belts are not supposed to come off whenever young ladies want

them off. That’s just when they are supposed to stay on, and on, and

on. And since you opted to have yours made from steel, it will be a

good deal more difficult to get off than most.”

“Steel?”

“Yes, that’s what you choose, isn’t it. Not easy stuff to work with.”

Last Updated on 1 year by pseudonymous