No Chance of Escape

It all started when I inherited a lot of money from an aunt and bought a new house. The house had once been a police station, and although most of it had been converted and looked just like a regular house, in the basement there was still a single prison cell, about 10 feet by 8. I didn't think much of it at first, but as time went by it began to occupy my thoughts more and more. I've always had a strong masochistic streak, though mostly I've just fantasised rather than acting anything out, and I began to wonder what it would be like to be locked in that cell, completely helpless, unable to do anything but wait until my jailer chose to set me free? It was around this time I met the woman I came to know only as Lady Anne. She advertised herself as a lifestyle dominatrix, and I guess this appealed to me more than the idea of a domme whose motivation was purely financial. Over the course of the next year or so, we met up maybe two or three times a month, always at her place, and experimented with bondage, domination and some CP. I found I couldn't take too much pain, even though the idea turned me on. But my thoughts always came back to that prison cell. It was thrilling to be tied up for an hour or so, but then going back to real life was always such a let down. How much better it would be if my captivity lasted 24/7 for days or even weeks! Finally, I brought up the subject with Lady Anne. I was nervous, especially when I saw how much she obviously loved the idea. Within minutes she had worked out a practical plan. I would tell my friends I was going on holiday for two weeks, but I'd actually spend the time locked up in the basement of my own house. She would live in the house and provide for my needs (eg food and water) according to a schedule worked out in advance. We agreed that she should be completely merciless in making me serve the entire two weeks, even if I changed my mind and begged her to let me out. Finally the day came when my incarceration was to begin. Once I had carried her things up to the main bedroom - my bedroom - she led me downstairs into the basement and told me to undress. Standing there naked, looking at that open barred door and the tiny cell beyond, I felt thrilled but also terrified. What was I getting myself into? It didn't help my nerves when I asked to go over the rules one last time to make sure there was no misunderstanding, and she just laughed and said there was no point since I'd have no way of making her keep any promises she made now. But before I could protest, she said that it was just for two weeks anyway, so why was I worried? After that, my friends would expect me back. If they didn't see me questions would be asked, and there was no way my being held prisoner in my own basement could be kept a secret for long. I still remember the clang of the cell door as it banged shut behind me, the metallic clunk as she turned the key in the lock and the sound of her high heeled boots on the concrete floor gradually receding as she left the basement and went back upstairs. I looked around the tiny cell that was to be my home for two weeks. There was a hard bed, a toilet and a sink, cold water only. The bare essentials for life, with no thought given to comfort or enjoyment. I sat down on the bed, and was amazed at how instantly I felt helpless. It wasn't that I was really hungry, but somehow the knowledge that I had no control over when I would next eat blew the slight hunger I felt out of all proportion. I also realised with a start that I could see no natural light - for a whole two weeks I wouldn't see the sun or the sky, or anything but this cell or the basement on the other side of the barred door. I could see the keys to my cell hanging on a hook on the opposite wall. I reflected that it was lucky I hadn't told my friends I was flying anywhere sunny, as I certainly wouldn't have a tan when they saw me again. She'd taken my watch along with my clothes, and the lack of natural light made it hard to judge the passing of time, but I was ravenously hungry when she finally brought me my evening meal and slid the tray under the bars. It was under a silver lid, the kind used to keep cooked food warm, but this turned out to be her little joke as when I lifted it there was nothing but dry bread underneath, and nothing but water to go with it. Bread and water. She laughed at my expression of disappointment, and said she'd be back for the tray in an hour. I bit into the bread and found it was stale (I later found out she'd bought it a few days earlier and let it go stale deliberately) but I was so hungry I didn't care. I remembering wondering how sick of it I'd be after two weeks if that was all she gave me. By the third day, I was beginning to understand how solitary confinement can drive a person mad. I was going out of my mind with boredom, endlessly pacing back and forth in my cell. Having nothing to do but think, I reflected on how little time a human being can stand having absolutely nothing to do - not just the boring things we all resent having to do, but nothing at all. When she brought my evening meal - stale bread and water, as always - I begged her to let me have a book to read, a newspaper, anything at all to relieve the boredom, but she was implacable. Our agreement had said nothing about giving me anything to read, so that was how it was going to be. Likewise we'd agreed how often I would be fed but not what, so if I didn't like stale bread that was just tough. She turned on her heel and walked out of the basement, leaving me to curse my stupidity in not thinking through the agreement properly. But the next day at breakfast time, as I considered the prospect of another day just staring at a blank wall, I couldn't help myself. I said what would it hurt her if I just had something to read? It didn't seem much to ask. She looked at me long and hard, then put down my breakfast tray and snapped her fingers. "Remember that sound," she said. "It's a sound you'll hear any time you disobey me, or question my orders, or repeat a question I've already answered, or do anything else that pisses me off. It's a sound that means you'll forfeit one day's food." With that she picked up my breakfast tray and left marched out of the room. I was stunned by what she'd said, but sure enough lunchtime and dinnertime came and went but she didn't return. I spent the day wishing I had something, anything to take my mind of the hunger gnawing at my belly, and terrified both of the power she had over me and of the cold-blooded, sadistic way she used it. Finally, after the longest two weeks of my life, the day came for my release. When I heard her footsteps on the basement stairs in the morning I figured she was finally going to let me out. But no, there was the tray of stale bread again. I bit down my instinct to protest, remembering that the flight I'd told people I was returning on didn't land until noon, so she was within her rights to keep me locked up until then. Anyway, what was a few more hours? But when she came at lunchtime with more stale bread and turned to leave without releasing me, I couldn't help myself. However cruel she'd been, I said, she'd always stuck to our agreement, so how could she justify not releasing me today? To my horror, she snapped her fingers and left the room without a word. What could it mean? That she would keep me locked up for an an extra day just for the pleasure of starving me? Sure enough, I got no evening meal that night, and could hardly sleep for hunger. But I must have dozed off eventually, and when I woke I found that a newspaper had been slipped under the bars of my cell. What could this mean? That she was relaxing the conditions of my imprisonment? But she was supposed to be releasing me! I picked up the newspaper and instantly felt a jolt of horror in the pit of my stomach. The front page was devoted to news of a terrible plane crash at the Airport. It said that a plane coming in to land had caught fire and then exploded, and there were no survivors. I think I knew even before the article confirmed it that it was the plane I had told everyone I was returning on. "Kinda changes things, don't you think?" The voice came suddenly out of the dark of the basement beyond the bars of my cell. She must have been standing there all the time, waiting for me to wake up and read the newspaper so she could enjoy my reaction. "Wh... what do you mean?" I stammered. "You know exactly what I mean. Your guarantee of being released after two weeks was that people would miss you if you weren't. They'd start asking questions, the police would get involved and before long you'd be traced here. Well, now everyone thinks you died in that plane crash. No one expects ever to see you again, and your chances of getting out of that cell depend completely on whether I choose to release you or not." "So what would you say your chances are?" My mind was racing. Was she really saying she would never release me? Could she possibly be so cruel? Thank God I had the foresight to... Her voice cut into my thoughts. "Give me the newspaper back now. No exceptions to the rules, even on a day as special as today. But don't worry honey, I've got something here you can read." As I gave her the newspaper, she passed me an envelope, and my insides turned to ice. It was my writing on the front. It was addressed to my attorney, and on the back were instructions that he should only open it if he hadn't heard from me by a date two days from now. I knew without looking that the letter inside was the one I had posted to him the day before Lady Anne locked me away, telling him all about my forthcoming imprisonment in my own basement. This was my failsafe mechanism, designed to ensure that there was no way she could keep me locked up for longer than we had agreed. But how... "I followed you for a few days before locking you up, just in case you tried something like this. When I saw you mailing a letter, I called an old client of mine who works for the US Postal Service. He unlocked the mailbox and I retrieved your letter. All very illegal, of course, but I guess he didn't want his wife to find out where he really went on Thursday nights." "So you see, honey, your attorney never got this letter. He thinks you're dead, like everyone else does. He won't be coming round with the police. There'll be no seventh cavalry arriving at the last minute to save the day. There's just you, and me. You have right on your side, no question about that. I did promise I'd release you yesterday. Unfortunately I have something much more important - the keys to your cell." She dangled them between her thumb and forefinger, tantalisingly close to the bars, as if daring me to try and grab them. "And I'll be making sure they stay out of your reach - permanently." Hanging the keys on their hook on the far wall, she turned and left without another word. After that, everything seemed to happen very fast, and with the unstoppable momentum of a juggernaut. She spent a couple of days going through my private papers until she knew exactly what my assets were in addition to the house itself, then set about drawing up a will, dated six months earlier, which left everything to "my wonderful new girlfriend who has brought so much joy into my life" - ie her. I was horrified, but before I had a chance to protest she told me matter of factly that she would starve me for days, weeks, whatever it took until I signed it, and I knew I was beaten. Sobbing uncontrollably, I signed my name to the document, not daring to think about what it meant for my future. She told me that a memorial service was held for me, and that many people had attended and said nice things about me, little knowing that I was alive and less than a mile away in an underground cell. She played the part of the grieving lover very well, she said. Everyone had sympathised with her tragic loss, and thought it a nice idea that she take over the house the two of us had planned to live in together - little knowing that the two of us would in fact be living in it! How she laughed when she said that, and laughed all the more when she saw she had reduced me to tears of helpless frustration again. All this happened more than six years ago, In all that time I have not once been allowed out of this tiny cell. It's stifling in summer and freezing in winter - the basement has central heating but she refuses to turn it on, saying my money is better spent on luxuries for her than making my life bearable. Indeed, during the winter months she always comes down to the basement in one of a number of expensive looking floor length fur coats she has bought with her newfound wealth, while I huddle in a corner shivering uncontrollably. The water from the sink is especially cold in winter, making my daily all over wash torturous, but she insists that I do it unless I want a bucket of ice water thrown over me. I am now thin as a rake, my beard is almost down to my navel and my skin is sickly and pallid from the poor diet and complete lack of sunlight. I'm no longer aware of when it's night or day. I sleep fitfully, dreaming of my old life and cursing when I wake up to find I am still in my cell, with nothing to do but count the hours until my next meal of stale bread and water. I've begged and pleaded with her endlessly to let me go. I've promised that I'll go as far away as she likes, live under a different name, never do anything to jeopardise the luxurious life she's living with my money. Nothing gets me anywhere. She says if I were free there'd always be a risk that what she did to me might be found out. Even if I didn't tell, someone might recognise me in the street and start asking questions. And she's wasn't prepared to take that risk. Why should she, when she already has everything she wants? "After all," she says with a laugh, "I could end up in prison - and I don't need to tell you how bad that is, do I honey?" I face the constant threat of enforced starvation if I cross her in the least little way. She only has to raise her hand as if she's about to snap her fingers and I instantly stop whatever I was doing or saying. One day, she announced that I wouldn't be fed that day even though I'd done nothing wrong, because she'd forgotten to buy bread a few days before so there was none stale enough to give me, and she was unwilling to give me fresh bread as she said "good food was for jailers, not for prisoners". I raged against the unfairness, and she smiled, snapped her fingers and thanked me for giving her an excuse, saying she wouldn't feel bad about it now. She still refuses to let me have any books or newspapers to pass the time, and has even gone to the lengths of putting all the books that were in the main bedroom when it was mine on a table in the basement where I can see them. When she first did this I thought she was going to let me have them, but no, of course it was just another way to torment me with what I desperately wanted but couldn't have. She insists that she isn't keeping me locked up out of sadistic enjoyment of my suffering, but I know this isn't true as she deliberately makes the conditions of my imprisonment as unbearable as possible. The slightest complaint about anything means I don't get fed for a day, and she's become amazingly creative in finding ways to address my complaints which leave me worse off than before. Fo example, she's taken to having all her own meals down in the basement to remind me of what I'm missing. The smell of the wonderful food she was eating while I bit into dry crusts day after day nearly drove me out of my mind, and finally I snapped and said I couldn't eat nothing but dry bread for every meal for the rest of my life. As usual I got a day's starvation for my outburst, but then to my surprise she said I had a point. After all, bread doesn't contain everything necessary to keep a human being alive, and she didn't want me effectively getting years taken off my sentence by dying early. So once a week, she said, I would get a change of diet. I was suspicious of a victory so easily won, and I was right to be. The following night I found out exactly what my varied diet would be - a dish of dog or cat food, which she gets out of the tin in front of me so I can have no doubt about what it is. Needless to say, I have to eat up every single scrap or I'll never get fed anything else again. She watches me carefully as I eat, both to enjoy my humiliation and, I think, to see which flavours I find most disgusting, so she can be sure to buy those in future. Worst of all was the day I complained that I couldn't keep track of the passage of time. Fine, she said - that tied in with something she been thinking about too. From now on, she said, she would give me a merciless thrashing with a whip or a cane once a month, on the anniversary of the day my incarceration began. Needless to say, any refusal to cooperate would simply mean I was starved until I gave way. I was terrified by this, remembering how painful our early experiments in CP were, but at the same time it gave me hope. It meant she would have to unlock my cell door, and even in my weakened state, maybe I would be able to overpower her and get free. I should have known better. Before unlocking the door, she always securely fixes my hands into heavy manacles attached to the ceiling of the basement outside my cell. The chain is only just long enough, so I have to press right up against the bars and stand on tiptoe with my arms extended so the manacles can reach my wrists. Once I am secured, she goes upstairs. Sometimes she comes back straight away with a terrifying looking whip or cane, sometimes she waits a few hours to let my anticipation build, I never know which it is going to be. When she does finally open that cell door and I know it is about to happen, my legs turn completely to jelly. I always thought she was using all her strength back in the old days, but now I know she was just playing back then and she is capable of far, far worse. Every single stroke produces more pain than I would have imagined possible. Needless to say she just ignores or laughs at my screams and desperate begging for mercy. The pain is so excruciating that I lose all track of how long its been going on or how many lashes I've had, but she once told me I get between fifty and a hundred each time depending on her mood. When she's finished she leaves the cell, securely locking the door behind her, hangs the keys on their hook in the far wall, and only then releases my hands (sometimes she makes me wait a few hours even for this). I always crash to the concrete floor, completely broken and unable to support my own weight after such extreme torture. One day about four years into my imprisonment, my monthly thrashing was about to start. I was snivelling and crying even before the first stroke, and to my surprise she announced that she felt sorry for me and was going to show me mercy. "You now know exactly what the rest of your life is going to be like," she said. "There is no chance at all that I will ever release you or make the conditions of your imprisonment any more bearable. If anything, I will probably think of new ways to torment you. So if you decide you really can't stand it any more, I will take pity on you and end your suffering by flogging you to death." That was her mercy - she would kill me if I wanted, but only by the most painful method imaginable. "It doesn't have to be today," she continued. "Every month, when I've finished thrashing you, you'll have two options. You can choose to be released from the manacles and carry on as before with the life I've chosen for you. Or if you like, I'll carry on with the flogging as long as necessary until it finally kills you." Alas, even this was just a cruel false hope, as I think she knew full well. Three or four times now I have resolved that I couldn't go on and today was the day - I would definitely ask her to kill me. But whatever I felt in advance, when it came to it there was simply no way I could voluntarily take even a single extra lash, let alone the hundreds more it would probably take to kill me. So I always ask to be released and carry on with the living hell she has made of my life. Worst of all, after looking at your site she has come up with a way to deprive me of the one pleasure I thought she could never take away from me. One morning she appeared not with my breakfast tray, but with a shiny metal chastity belt. The penis tube was exactly the same size as my cock in its flaccid state, allowing no room for expansion at all, and the thick waistband exactly the same size as my emaciated waist. I knew there was no use in resisting, and as I fixed it in place, I knew without asking that it was never coming off again - she would never release me, and I simply didn't have any more weight to lose to help get the waistband off. She passed me the sturdy padlock, and once I had clicked it in place, she hung the keys on the opposite wall, saying she would get my breakfast now as I'd been such a good little boy. While I waited for her return, I stared at the two sets of keys, one for my cell door and one for my belt. They hung barely eight feet away from me, but might as well have been on the dark side of the moon for all the hope I had of ever reaching them. I began to sob uncontrollably, and... -------- Well he goes on like that for quite some time, but I won't bore you with it. I know all too well how tedious it is when he cries and wails and begs and pleads and grovels, over and over again. I've told him he wasting his breath, as I'll never let him go or make the conditions of his imprisonment any more bearable, so why does he do it? Ah well, after 6 years in a tiny cell, shut away from the sunlight and slowly driven mad by all the torments I can devise, I guess you can't expect a person to be too rational! Anyway, he's given a pretty fair account of his predicament and how he got to be where he is, and since your site gave me the idea of putting a chastity belt on him - I knew he was jerking off and hated the idea he was getting some pleasure I couldn't prevent - I thought I'd share it with you. I notice he tried to slip in some clues about where we live, which I took the liberty of deleting - still clinging to some desperate fantasy about being rescued, I suppose. Can't blame him for trying - though of course I can punish him! A couple of days of starvation, maybe? Twice as many strokes duirng his next thrashing? Decisions, decisions! Keep up the good work! Lady Anne