Sausages for the Slave

So here I stand; my hands held behind me about a foot apart and a bit higher than my waist. I've been like this about four hours now. The position forces my elbows up and out behind me and causes me to bend forward; not fully horizontal, about half way there. Bent over enough that I have to decide whether to look at the ground or look at the wall on the other side of the room. Looking at the ground is most comfortable. Looking straight ahead at the wall is what you want to do. It is what a normal adult sees when they are standing up, and you want to pretend you are a normal adult. Your instinct is to try and stand up straight and look straight ahead. If you are looking straight ahead you can pretend things are still fairly normal. But you have to force your head and neck back and make an effort to keep looking ahead. After a while you get tired and let your head drop down and look at the floor again. It is a moment of defeat, a moment of subjugation, when you decide that it is sufficient to look only at the ground beneath you, just in front of your feet. This is your state now; head bowed, like some sad downtrodden beast of burden.

Each of my hands is clamped into circular clamps mounted at either end of a metal T-bar, about a foot apart. The T projects about a foot out from the wall. The foot of the T is fixed to a metal plate bolted into the wall. At first glance when you come into my room you would think the T-bar was some sort of modern designer hanger thing for hanging a jacket on. It looks quite minimalist. The T-bar is a self imposed punishment. You stand in front of the T-bar facing away, place your hands behind you and raise them up and into the open clamps. By pressing each hand into the back of the open spring loaded clamps you cause them to snap shut, and voila! You are stuck there until somebody releases you.

That somebody should be my wife, who will be coming home from work and from whatever after-work activity she might have on today. In the meantime she can check how I'm doing via the two cameras mounted at either end of the room so as to cover all the room between them; no hiding place. She can access them from her phone and control them remotely. She's big into technology, works in the field. The cameras pan and zoom. She can also talk to me on her phone to a tablet mounted on the opposite wall of the room, directly in front of me. I don't have to tap the tablet to take the call. It automatically opens after two rings and the corresponding double zap to my ass from the butt plug that is simultaneously activated by the phone.

She ordered me into the device sometime after eleven o'clock this morning; punishment for a bit of over excitement on my part. She should be home by six, definitely by eight. So, by my reckoning, I'm about half way through this punishment now.

When you are trapped standing in place for six hours or more you need to let your mind wander. If you start focussing in on your predicament, you're inviting trouble. How your shoulders are stiff and cramping, how your back aches, how your legs are trembling, how you need to pee and how you think you might be about to pass out. Don't think about your predicament. Accept it and let your mind wander. That's what I've learned to do; that, and exercising while in the T-bar as much as I can; keeps the blood circulating, stops your limbs going numb.

So there I was doing my funky chicken walk exercise, wiggling my elbows in and out, stomping my feet up and down in place, bobbing my head, when I get a quick double zap in the ass. It's her on the tablet. She can see me. I can't see her on the tablet, just a menu screen.

"Having a little fun are we, darling?"

"Yes, Madam."

"Just calling to let you know that I'll be a little late home tonight. No need to worry about dinner." Her idea of a joke.

"Yes, Madam."

"Go back to your exercise. Don't go getting all weepy and mopey. That just makes me cross."

"No, Madam." She ends the call.

The first time, years back, that she ordered me to clamp myself into the device, I had a panic attack. What if the house went on fire? What if I had a heart seizure? I got over that, but as the pain and aches mounted I got sorry for myself and my predicament, all weepy and mopey as she puts it -- she never lets me forget that. About an hour later I passed out. Spots before my eyes, a roaring, rushing in my ears and then everything went black and quiet. My final act apparently, as I passed out, was to pee down my leg and onto the floor -- she reminds me of this regularly. There is no shame in it; it happens. No need to keep going on about it. But she does keep going on about it. One of her psychological mindfucks; 'he can't even control his bladder, how pathetic is that,' she might say to one of her pals over for coffee, while I'm serving them in my French maid get up or some such. 'Isn't that so, Baby,' she says in my direction, and I have to reply 'yes, Madam.'

Anyway, that first time I came to lying on the ground with the T-bar still attached to my hands which were still clamped behind my back. A big lump of plaster was attached to the bottom of the T-bar, and there was a corresponding missing patch of plaster in the wall where the T-bar had pulled out and come away. I had to wait there like that until my wife came home. Lots of giving out and telling me what a pathetic weakling I was. The next morning she put me on bread and water for a week, literally. I lost some weight. She also had me do a lot of extra unnecessary chores, just to humiliate me. I would clean her bathroom and then she would tell me via the tablet to clean it again -- three times in a row. I'd have to do it properly each time because she was recording it on the camera. She's not a hands-on punishment person, herself. There were no beatings or torture or any of that stuff back then. For all her dominant tendencies, the wife is a bit squeamish in that department. She's OK with getting me to clamp myself into the T-bar and happy to observe my discomfort from a distance. She enjoys the hell out of doing the other stuff; psychological cruelty, tease and denial, the humiliation stuff, withdrawal of privileges, controlling what I wear, directing what I do, and managing my diet and exercise.

After the fainting incident, she said it was up to me to learn how to take my punishment at the T-bar. The T-bar wouldn't be going away. It would be up to me to figure out how to survive it. Her plan was to help me by having me regularly clamp myself into it until I could survive in position for up to twelve hours. And I did -- over time -- working up from four hours to six and so on. My wife is a very determined and wilful like that. What she wants she gets. She tells me regularly that what I need is discipline and order imposed on my life, and I should be glad she's making sure that happens. To which there is only one acceptable answer: 'Yes, Madam.'

Another by-product of the fainting incident was that the physical punishment vacuum in my life came to an abrupt end. The Enforcer entered my life, and my life changed. Her name is Bette. She is a lady carpenter/building repairer type who is long known to my wife. Bette arrived the morning after the T-bar damage was done carrying her drill and box of tools. My lowly status was made clear by my wife early on. I was not introduced. I was told to carry Bette's tool box to my room and then stand in the corner of my room facing the wall while Bette worked. Though she probably knew all about me already, I didn't know that at the time and I was deeply humiliated at having to stand there silently. Naturally I got an erection. Fortunately I was dressed in my normal work wear; sweat pants and a tee-shirt, but still it showed if you chose to look. She ignored me completely while she was working. In no time at all Bette had a reinforced mounting installed for the T-bar with long stainless steel bolts drilled directly into the brickwork. An elephant could hang out of it now and it would not come out of the wall.

Bette is totally butch. Built like the proverbial brick shithouse, not tall, more strong and stocky, with short mousey hair and a plain dour face. Her preferred outfit is a man's check shirt, so old it probably once belonged to her father, worn under a battered pair of overalls and finished off with a dusty pair of work boots. For jewellery she sports a builder's utility belt laden down with endless attachments and tools. You couldn't make her up. Bette, as I now know, lives alone on an isolated small holding a few miles out of town. It had been her parents place and she has lived there all her life. The couple of outhouses and small barn to the side of the house are testimony to the days when her father had worked the land as a small farm and did some forestry. There is a big field behind the house that slopes up to the edge of the forest. Beyond the trees the land continues to rise and eventually becomes mountains and wilderness. Her only company is her two collie dogs and her battered old pickup. She loves all three equally. Next in line comes my wife, I suspect. They may have a little fun together -- no proof though. All seems above board.

Bette makes her living as the local small builder, house repair person, general jack of all trades, and is generally recognised to be very good at it. As my wife says, when Bette fixes something it stays fixed. And for the last God knows how long that includes me. Bette fixes me whenever my wife decides I need fixing. When she decides I need hands on or direct punishment, she contracts that out to Bette. 'I'll have to get the Enforcer for you,' is how my wife lets me know she has decided I have earned a punishment session. My wife only refers to her as the Enforcer when talking to me, even though they are the best of pals. As payment in kind for acting as my wife's discipline administrator, I am contracted out to Bette whenever Bette needs an extra pair of hands on a building site.

The first time I was contracted out to Bette was after the broken T-bar job, I was also punished by Bette. It was a combination punishment/contracting-out arrangement. My wife wanted me to suffer and Bette wanted to let her collies exercise their natural herding/hunting instincts as she had plans to put them in sheepdog trials. Apparently she had taught them the various commands; go, go left, right, halt, harry, hold, and whatever else. She was going to have them practice on some of her neighbour's sheep and eventually enter them in competition. But first she wanted to put the collies through a bit of live practice on the privacy of her own land. She didn't want the collies to make fools of themselves and her in front of another farmer. So it was agreed with my wife that I was to be a trial sheep for a day before Bette let them practice herding the neighbour's sheep.

My wife got totally into it. She had a sheep costume made for me. It covered my torso with a thick padded woolly material. My wife held the costume open for me to get into. First I had to slide my arms into sewn-in inner sleeves, like in a straight jacket but inside, and then she zipped the costume closed at the back. She pulled a short piece of woolly elastic crotch piece from the front between my legs and over a button at the back leaving the underside of my bum exposed and. A woolly helmet was the final touch. I looked a bit like a white wool version of Big Bird from Sesame Street, for those of you who remember that far back.

The helmet came in two pieces; a bottom mouth piece that incorporated a black rubber gag that I had to bite down on. Inside it filled my mouth. It had a hollow tube to allow me breath and built into the tube was a reed or kazoo like thing, so that when I breathed out through it, it gave a 'baa' sound, and when I breathed in through my mouth it gave more of an 'aaa' sound -- very authentic effect actually. The top piece of the helmet was fastened around under the gag and was a woolly head with small black ears. It had two dark green glass eye pieces in front that made everything murky and distorted when I looked through them. I could see but not clearly. It was like looking through the bottom of two green beer bottles. If I breathed in and out through my nose I could avoid making the baa sound, and by focussing carefully on the centre of the eyes I could just see where I was going. My wife had me run around inside the house in the outfit the night before for practice. I banged into the side of a few doors but got better with practice. She laughed herself silly each time I gave an accidental 'baa'.

The next morning Bette arrived early and collected me before my wife went to work. My wife had put me into the costume straight after breakfast. Bette split her sides laughing at my get-up. The wife made me say 'baa' a few times for her. Then the deliberate humiliation: Bette had backed her pickup into the driveway. She let the tailgate down and put her hand under my ass and whooshed me up onto the bed of the pickup and closed up the tail gate. The two collies rode up front with her while I was left to rattle around in the open back of the truck. At least nobody would recognise me. I just looked like some stuffed sheep figure, maybe going to be used for a display somewhere.

Out at the farm, Bette wasted no time. She backed the pickup up to the entrance to the field and had me climb down. She told me to head off up to the top left corner of the field and to wait there. She had a video camera in her hand. For training and review purposes no doubt. I had hardly set off when she shouted at me to hurry up or she'd set the collies on me. I broke into a jog, panting a bit and making involuntary 'baas' as I breathed through my mouth. I focussed on the ground ahead of me so I wouldn't trip. It was rough grass, with tussocks of thicker sedge or rushes here and there. I avoided the occasional cow pat and clump of nettles as I got higher up. Hard to differentiate them through the distorting green lenses of my sheep eyes.

I heard a long whistle as I neared the top corner, with the trees of the plantation about twenty yards above me. I turned around and could just make out two black dots streaking away from Bette as she stood in the gate at the bottom of the field. I stood there taking the opportunity to get my breath back; steadily 'baa aaaing' in spite of my desire not to. Due to the undulations in the field the collies vanished from sight very quickly, then reappeared a lot nearer, then they were gone again. I could see Bette waving her arms and hear whistle sounds, either she was good at whistling or was using a special whistle.

A low menacing growl surprised me; one of the collies had crept up behind me. I moved away from the growl, started jogging. It seemed the right thing to do. Suddenly the second collie came bounding out of the trees above and in front of me, barking furiously. It must have circled up behind me into the woods. I turned away from him, more downhill at an angle now, and tripped over a tussock of grass. It was a heavy fall as I couldn't put my hands out and it was downhill. I rolled over twice before I stopped. Immediately the collies were on me, inches from my face barking and baring their teeth. I was a bit winded but got up as quickly as I could and set off again in the same direction. The collies manoeuvred around me to change my direction to parallel to the forest. I was gasping and panting now, a constant 'baa aaa, baa aaa.' Bette may have been whistling instructions to the collies, but I was past hearing anything but my own 'baa aaas.' Suddenly one of the collies came round in front of me with its teeth bared. I came to a dead stop with one foot slithering in a fresh cow pat. I could feel the green liquid dung squelching up between my toes as I waited to see what his intentions were.

The second collie came very close behind me now; I could sense it right at my ankles. I didn't want to turn my head to see because the one in front came in very close growling menacingly. I remained standing stock still, 'baa aaaing' away as I fought to get my breath. I had only a sense of the collie behind me but I was very aware of the bared teeth of the front collie. I couldn't put a hand out to protect myself. Stand still and pray. The front collie suddenly ran way in a wide circle and I felt a nip of teeth on one of my ankles. That jumped me forward and off we went again. I now know what 'nipping at your heels' means. Eventually I was manoeuvred, exhausted, to a halt in a small marked out square in front of Bette. Bette came over and called the collies to her and patted their heads. She ignored me as she fed them some treats. I knew better than to move. I was getting my breath back and the 'baa aaaing' was becoming less frequent.

We went through the same procedure twice more. The second time I had to lie down in a hollow bit at the top of the field so the collies had to find me, like I was a lost sheep, I suppose. It didn't take them long. I had become a good, obedient, cow dung splattered sheep by the time we were on the last run down the field. I knew when the collies wanted me to turn or to stand. Bette had a special treat for me at the end. She had the collies bring me to a halt facing her and then she set them to backing me up. Both came around close in front of me baring their teeth and making low threatening growls. I was forced to retreat but was afraid to turn around away from the collies. I slowly backed up while still facing them which, I now know, is exactly what Bette wanted me to do. Bette had them push me back step by step into a stand of nettles that grew against the wall at the bottom of the field. My eyes were totally transfixed on the bared teeth of the two collies so that I didn't realise what was happening at first. I felt something brushing against my calves and thighs and then the base of my buttocks. I stood stock still as the collies went down on their haunches. I quickly realised what was brushing my behind when a sharp prickling burning sensation started to spread up my legs and bum. I had been pushed back into a bunch of stinging nettles. I knew that hot itching welts would soon be rising up everywhere the nettles touched. I didn't dare move forward. The two collies made sure of that. The wind blew the stinging nettles over and back across my legs and bum, over and back. Bette left me there for two whole minutes and then called the collies off. The damage had been done by then. I wouldn't be sitting comfortably for the rest of the day, and not the following day either. I was delivered home in the back of the pickup again after Bette had stood me in a corner of her yard and hosed the cow dung off my feet and legs. Never said a word to me other than to order me over to the hose and then onto and off the pickup.

My wife admired the red blisters on my legs and bum as she unzipped me from the costume but left the helmet and gag on.

"Has my little lamb been communing with nature, then?"

"Baa aaa, baa."

That was as close as I could get to 'Yes, Madam' with the woolly head on. Then, with me naked, save for wearing the woolly helmet over my head, she had me bring herself and Bette two beers. I couldn't help getting an erection as I stood to the side while Bette gave an account of how delighted she was with the collies, what they did right, how stupid I was -- just like a sheep, and what needed improving. It was as if I didn't exist to them as a person. But I didn't need to be reminded about my existence; the mass of screaming red itching blisters from my bum to the back of my ankles was a constant reminder of my suffering being. No matter how much I wanted to gasp with the stinging pain, I managed to keep breathing through my nose. I wouldn't give them the satisfaction of hearing me bleat, literally. I was called over and made turn around and bend over so that they could have a laugh about my nettle rash. Phones came out and photos were taken. Then my wife reached through my legs and slid her hand over my erection.