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Description
It would take some time, some vague, immeasurable amount of time, until I could not no longer believe this was simply a game, a cruel trick at my expense. My Mistress has sealed me inside this crypt, this dark, tiny space, until all hope has dissipated. Too much time has passed. I don't know if I will ever be see light again.

Alone, in the narrow alcove, my thoughts are what I have to keep myself company. Thoughts, and the heavily amplified, clear-as-crystal sounds of my bondage. Sounds that no one would notice, if not in my unique, sensory-deprived position. I have come to know and adore the music I create with the tiny, subtle movement I am allowed. Moving my hips so very lightly creates a symphony of creaks as my cool, padded table readjusts to envelope a new centimeter of my flesh. Shifting my shoulders creates a different, higher- pitched set of crackling, my body's weight acting as an instrument.

With a sudden, unexpected movement- almost as if trying to outsmart my bondage with unpredictability- I attempt to lift my knee swiftly, managing to gain about a half an inch of altitude until my web of containment straps jerks it to a halt. Staring straight up at the dark ceiling, I hear the echoing, loud chime of my cuff's buckles. The harsh tone of the click scolds me for my attempt at freedom, reminding me of the power it holds over me. I defiantly continue to hold my knee up against the strap, it's leathery embrace tightening around my leg, refusing to allow me the tiniest amount of freedom.

I let out a moaning sigh into my panel gag, as I submissively release my struggle, my leg falling back into it's imprint in the padding. What am I doing? This is just utter boredom. My uneventful pseudo-life as an entombed object. I am not crazy, and haven't actually personified my bindings.

I should be so lucky. How long would it take for someone to normally go crazy in total, sensory-deprived isolation? A couple hours would probably trigger hallucinations, paranoia, and eventually, a totally breakdown of reality. But I'm still all "there", still thinking clearly and collectively after what feels like months upon months. I often wish I would go crazy, try to somehow "beat" this by allowing my mind to slip away. Then, maybe then, I'd forget I was in here. Maybe I'd be so delusional, I'd "escape" into an entirely different world I created for myself, detached from my immobile body. But no, of course not- the serum, that damned Stasis injection, it doesn't allow us that escape. It wasn't enough to arrest us into slavery, wrap our bodies in chains, ropes, and whatever else they could bind us with. They needed to take away our freedom to ever, ever, escape our fate... even through death or insanity. With the highest powered serums, my damnable, perfectly immortalized body will never allow me to starve or cramp or become ill, and will even keep me as mentally fit as the day I was placed in this hole.

So, I'm never allowed to forget what freedom felt like, what it was like to be able to move, to see. I'll never be allowed to "adapt" to my new position in life, as this mummified body. Of course I can't. That's not the "point."

And yes, I have to be able to believe that there is a point to my suffering. I have never considered myself, to my credit or discredit, as truly submissive, at least not compared to some of the other slaves. I tried to ride it as best I could- it was my lot in life, after all- but I rarely found joy in the feeling of degradation. But now, trapped as I am, I want to believe that Mistress is finding joy in my captivity. I hope she is watching, through a tiny, night-vision camera somewhere in my alcove, perhaps pleasuring herself to my half-hearted struggles.

Speaking of struggling, I think it's about time for my "routine." My restraints are so, so tight.. but they are not metal. They are leather and cloth. I do not get my hopes up, I am sure great care and effort went into ensuring that my straps hold me tight for as long as is required. I longingly hope, however, that.. given time, given great effort, maybe- just maybe, I can stretch them out a couple inches. It would be so, so wonderful. Being able to lift my arm a bit, at my own choosing, would feel so very heavenly.

And so, I take a deep, sharp breath, before suddenly lifting the right side of my body, jerking against the straps that hold me. My fingers curled into a fist, I put all my strength into my forceful, jagged tugs, hoping to much as much strain as I can upon these accursed straps, to put them to task for the job of imprisoning me. I hear the echoing chimes and jerks of my struggle, repeatedly tugging upwards against my bondage, tugging my legs inwards, until my ankles are sore, even in the comfortable, padded cuffs. After one final long, drawn pull upwards, I fall back into my padded tables, breathing heavily, my rising chest feeling the tug of the strap as I inhale. I give a weak tug upwards with my upper torso, before immediately falling back into the recesses of my slab, exhausted.

I give a little, fatigued sob into my gag between heavy breathing. Struggling has a purpose to me, but it is a reminder, and will undoubtedly make me emotional every time.

Without feeling the constriction and limitations of my situation, I can mentally tell myself that I am dignified- I am, by my own accord, choosing to lie here still. It is a lie, a fascade. But what of the alternative? I deserve some dignity, I do. I am more than an object within this blackened hole in the wall. I was to contribute more to this world than to be transformed into organic filler to occupy a space between stone walls. But when I tug and struggle, I am reminded- that is exactly what I am, and the extent of what I do.

My breathing calms. I rotate slightly to the right, lifting my right ankle slightly. With a little effort, I can slowly reach with my bare foot, straining against the cuffs, until I feel the "lid" of my hole against my big toe. It is unmercifully cold. I wonder if it were torches or bulbs that lit the hall I am kept in? I forget, by now. I hope there is some light. I hope she is watching, my Mistress, and owner, taking pleasure in my misery. Even if she isn't, I hope she at least smiles when she looks to my alcove to think of me. At least then, I'd have purpose.

--- 5 Years Later ---

A well-manicured hand slides against the plated lid of Jennifer's alcove. The breathy, sultry voice of an aristocratic Mistress asks. "And what do we have here?"
Her accompanying Priestess, a robed scribe for the affairs of Sierra's coven, looks to her pad. Her finger slides down it's surface, murmuring softly as she categorizes the information. She finally exhaling a slight 'ahem' before answering. "Ah. It appears to be a place of storage for one of the previous owner's slaves."

With little emotion, the Mistress responds nonchalantly. "It hasn't been opened. How can that be? It is against scripture to lose track of, kill, or abandon a slave."

The priestess takes a moment to access the details. "..It is, but one is permitted to attach a slave to the property upon it's sale... provided it is sold to another of the order, of course. She came with the deed, and is your property, now." She looked up from her glowing pad to the metal plate on the wall, only her lips visible under her cloak's hood. "Shall we open it up?"

The Mistress gave a slight sigh, putting a hand upon her hip and maintaining a relaxed stance, offering a moment of silence, before her judgement. "I have too many. Perhaps later, when I am need of newer flesh." She corrects herself. "If I am in need."

Description
It would take some time, some vague, immeasurable amount of time, until I could not no longer believe this was simply a game, a cruel trick at my expense. My Mistress has sealed me inside this crypt, this dark, tiny space, until all hope has dissipated. Too much time has passed. I don't know if I will ever be see light again.

Alone, in the narrow alcove, my thoughts are what I have to keep myself company. Thoughts, and the heavily amplified, clear-as-crystal sounds of my bondage. Sounds that no one would notice, if not in my unique, sensory-deprived position. I have come to know and adore the music I create with the tiny, subtle movement I am allowed. Moving my hips so very lightly creates a symphony of creaks as my cool, padded table readjusts to envelope a new centimeter of my flesh. Shifting my shoulders creates a different, higher- pitched set of crackling, my body's weight acting as an instrument.

With a sudden, unexpected movement- almost as if trying to outsmart my bondage with unpredictability- I attempt to lift my knee swiftly, managing to gain about a half an inch of altitude until my web of containment straps jerks it to a halt. Staring straight up at the dark ceiling, I hear the echoing, loud chime of my cuff's buckles. The harsh tone of the click scolds me for my attempt at freedom, reminding me of the power it holds over me. I defiantly continue to hold my knee up against the strap, it's leathery embrace tightening around my leg, refusing to allow me the tiniest amount of freedom.

I let out a moaning sigh into my panel gag, as I submissively release my struggle, my leg falling back into it's imprint in the padding. What am I doing? This is just utter boredom. My uneventful pseudo-life as an entombed object. I am not crazy, and haven't actually personified my bindings.

I should be so lucky. How long would it take for someone to normally go crazy in total, sensory-deprived isolation? A couple hours would probably trigger hallucinations, paranoia, and eventually, a totally breakdown of reality. But I'm still all "there", still thinking clearly and collectively after what feels like months upon months. I often wish I would go crazy, try to somehow "beat" this by allowing my mind to slip away. Then, maybe then, I'd forget I was in here. Maybe I'd be so delusional, I'd "escape" into an entirely different world I created for myself, detached from my immobile body. But no, of course not- the serum, that damned Stasis injection, it doesn't allow us that escape. It wasn't enough to arrest us into slavery, wrap our bodies in chains, ropes, and whatever else they could bind us with. They needed to take away our freedom to ever, ever, escape our fate... even through death or insanity. With the highest powered serums, my damnable, perfectly immortalized body will never allow me to starve or cramp or become ill, and will even keep me as mentally fit as the day I was placed in this hole.

So, I'm never allowed to forget what freedom felt like, what it was like to be able to move, to see. I'll never be allowed to "adapt" to my new position in life, as this mummified body. Of course I can't. That's not the "point."

And yes, I have to be able to believe that there is a point to my suffering. I have never considered myself, to my credit or discredit, as truly submissive, at least not compared to some of the other slaves. I tried to ride it as best I could- it was my lot in life, after all- but I rarely found joy in the feeling of degradation. But now, trapped as I am, I want to believe that Mistress is finding joy in my captivity. I hope she is watching, through a tiny, night-vision camera somewhere in my alcove, perhaps pleasuring herself to my half-hearted struggles.

Speaking of struggling, I think it's about time for my "routine." My restraints are so, so tight.. but they are not metal. They are leather and cloth. I do not get my hopes up, I am sure great care and effort went into ensuring that my straps hold me tight for as long as is required. I longingly hope, however, that.. given time, given great effort, maybe- just maybe, I can stretch them out a couple inches. It would be so, so wonderful. Being able to lift my arm a bit, at my own choosing, would feel so very heavenly.

And so, I take a deep, sharp breath, before suddenly lifting the right side of my body, jerking against the straps that hold me. My fingers curled into a fist, I put all my strength into my forceful, jagged tugs, hoping to much as much strain as I can upon these accursed straps, to put them to task for the job of imprisoning me. I hear the echoing chimes and jerks of my struggle, repeatedly tugging upwards against my bondage, tugging my legs inwards, until my ankles are sore, even in the comfortable, padded cuffs. After one final long, drawn pull upwards, I fall back into my padded tables, breathing heavily, my rising chest feeling the tug of the strap as I inhale. I give a weak tug upwards with my upper torso, before immediately falling back into the recesses of my slab, exhausted.

I give a little, fatigued sob into my gag between heavy breathing. Struggling has a purpose to me, but it is a reminder, and will undoubtedly make me emotional every time.

Without feeling the constriction and limitations of my situation, I can mentally tell myself that I am dignified- I am, by my own accord, choosing to lie here still. It is a lie, a fascade. But what of the alternative? I deserve some dignity, I do. I am more than an object within this blackened hole in the wall. I was to contribute more to this world than to be transformed into organic filler to occupy a space between stone walls. But when I tug and struggle, I am reminded- that is exactly what I am, and the extent of what I do.

My breathing calms. I rotate slightly to the right, lifting my right ankle slightly. With a little effort, I can slowly reach with my bare foot, straining against the cuffs, until I feel the "lid" of my hole against my big toe. It is unmercifully cold. I wonder if it were torches or bulbs that lit the hall I am kept in? I forget, by now. I hope there is some light. I hope she is watching, my Mistress, and owner, taking pleasure in my misery. Even if she isn't, I hope she at least smiles when she looks to my alcove to think of me. At least then, I'd have purpose.

--- 5 Years Later ---

A well-manicured hand slides against the plated lid of Jennifer's alcove. The breathy, sultry voice of an aristocratic Mistress asks. "And what do we have here?"
Her accompanying Priestess, a robed scribe for the affairs of Sierra's coven, looks to her pad. Her finger slides down it's surface, murmuring softly as she categorizes the information. She finally exhaling a slight 'ahem' before answering. "Ah. It appears to be a place of storage for one of the previous owner's slaves."

With little emotion, the Mistress responds nonchalantly. "It hasn't been opened. How can that be? It is against scripture to lose track of, kill, or abandon a slave."

The priestess takes a moment to access the details. "..It is, but one is permitted to attach a slave to the property upon it's sale... provided it is sold to another of the order, of course. She came with the deed, and is your property, now." She looked up from her glowing pad to the metal plate on the wall, only her lips visible under her cloak's hood. "Shall we open it up?"

The Mistress gave a slight sigh, putting a hand upon her hip and maintaining a relaxed stance, offering a moment of silence, before her judgement. "I have too many. Perhaps later, when I am need of newer flesh." She corrects herself. "If I am in need."