by Debra Hyde
(5/9/01)
You think I would've worn my alumni colors on the night the University of Connecticut won the women's NCAA basketball title, but I didn't. School colors are useless to the naked.
Yes, I took my clothes off for the game. Or rather, for my Master. I stood naked in our friend's living room, awaiting my next order, as courtside commentators spouted statistics from the television. But all I really heard was Master's voice. "Spread your legs." I did, compliantly, meekly, submissively. Master passed the clasp of a small brass lock between my upper two labia rings and locked it in place. At the time, I didn't give the lock so much as a stray thought because I knew that, for the next two hours, I'd be belly-down, next to Master. The lock meant nothing compared to the hard, burning smacks from a wooden spoon I'd take on the ass every time UCONN flubbed a play.
Thank God UCONN won in a blowout.
But the lock did begin to mean something when Master told me to get dressed. "This is staying on?" I asked in my little mouse voice. "That is staying on," he confirmed definitively. Later, he'd slip his hands into my pants, rub me through several orgasms, and once I had become too tender to touch, comment, "You think all that extra weight down there makes you come easier?"
I assumed it was a rhetorical question, one that didn't require my opinion.
That night, back in my own bed, I tossed and turned. It wasn't because UCONN's victory had thrilled me or because switching to daylight savings time had screwed with my circadian rhythms. It wasn't even because my butt had been rendered tender by the spoon. No, it was that damn lock, that thing which I had blithely ignored earlier, that tortured me out of deep sleep. Each time I woke, I could feel it resting against my leg, laying there, pulling on my labia, telling me, "I'm here. Get used to it."
That lock changes everything. Oh, I can still reach my clit just fine and, now that I think about it, I'm not under orders to refrain from touching myself. But still, I have to lift the damn thing everytime I have to piss. I squeeze my thighs together when I shower because I can't tolerate the lock hanging freely -- it weighs too much, even for my thick outer labia. I'm even wearing underwear -- not sexy slut panties but good ol' fashion grandma-style cotton underwear -- round the clock to support the lock.
And I'm forever reaching into my pants to change the position of the lock. Cheap brass against one's moist little pink parts is just asking for chafing -- or worse. (All those Monistat commercials during the UCONN game come back to me now.)
You thought it'd be sexier than that, didn't you? You thought I'd be Little Miss Sub-Slut, walking around all wet and slushy between the legs. But no, a Delta of Venus lockdown is about as sexy and erotic as a prison lockdown. Minus the reform school girls.
On Monday, I wondered when this lockdown might end. Let's see, the lock went into place at the start of the UCONN game, I reasoned, so maybe it won't come off until the victory parade. But as the team's return to Connecticut was televised that afternoon, I learned the parade would be held on Saturday, five days later.
Five days. Would I make it?
It's Wednesday now. This morning Master called to see how I was holding up. I said I was having my struggles with it, but, in all honesty, I wasn't in dire straits yet. "Well then, I'm almost a little disappointed with myself," he said. I knew what that teasing tone meant. "You mailed the key, didn't you?" I asked.
Indeed, he had. And it arrived today in the noontime mail, sealed in a mailer meant to hold a computer disk.
Master told me to put the key aside until I really needed it, until my piercings couldn't take it any more. I opened the mailer to see if he had included a note, but it contained my path to freedom and nothing more. Remembering his orders, I resealed the package and stuck it in my purse, hoping that I wouldn't have to reach for it for some time.
But my right labia gave out just hours later. No amount of repositioning alleviated the stress, the underwear was no longer supportive enough to help (I doubt starch would've helped), and a hot water bath didn't ease things any. Even clasping the lock between my thighs no longer helped. My piercing complained constantly, and I knew that it might well start screaming soon, telling me I'd pushed it too far.
One doesn't ignore the warning signs. One admits when one's time has run out.
When I freed myself from the lock, my right labia throbbed in relief. But I have to admit that I didn't share its sentiments. Part of me wanted to see how far I could go during the lockdown. Diarist that I am, I wanted to process the experience by writing about it over several days. Instead, I only made it through four days of lockdown and one day of dialogue.
Despite my abbreviated time with the lock, it did the job that Master had intended. It had changed the course and tenor of my days, and it had reminded me of my Higher Authority's erotic hold over me. It had challenged me, vexed me, and inspired me. For a brief time, it had changed my existence. But the puckish pixie in me came out the minute the lock came off, thinking, "maybe next time it'll make me wet as well."
One can only hope.
