Ward  8
By Stevia Miles

Chapter One: Betrayed

     When I got home that Tuesday night, I immediately sensed something was going on. My mother’s SUV was parked on the street instead of in the driveway, and, parked in the driveway was a larger vehicle that looked like the kind people pay extra for to get from an airport to a hotel. As I walked toward the front door, I read the clean, professional lettering on the side of the van with the darkly tinted windows. I read..”Behavioral Modalities Center...Barkhamstead,MA.” The van and its printed side panel were so unexpected and irrelevant to my usual “home from work” routine, that I didn’t give them any thought at all, just opened the front door....My mother was standing nervously at the entrance to the kitchen. I had suspected something was up from my first sight of the strange vehicle in the driveway, but when my nervously smiling mother spoke, it was as if the rug on the floor was sliding out from beneath my feet.

     “Hello honey. I’m so glad you’re home. Did you have a good day at the shop? How’s Marlena treating you these days?”…She nattered on without waiting for answers, then fell silent. I saw her eyes shift to the couch in the corner of the room, obscured from my view by the still-open front door, and as I slowly closed it, I saw three people, two men sitting on the couch with coffee cups in their hands and a woman sitting , prim and erect in the high ladderback chair, her white stockinged legs crossed neatly at the ankles. I didn’t  know quite why, but (I clearly remember), it was at that moment that I felt my stomach drop and my bowels loosen. My instinct must have known, though my mind hadn’t caught up, that something was going to happen presently, and that it was going to happen to me!

     “Stevie”,  say Hello to  Francine Martin”. Surprised as I was, I simply did what mother told me to and said “Hello Miss Martin”. I noticed that mother hadn’t  even acknowledged the presence of the two young men on the couch, let alone introduced them. I felt I should at least nod  to them out of politeness. They returned my nod with pleasant smiles, but said nothing….-only shifted their gaze to the tall, middle aged woman, presumably some kind of nurse, calmly smiling and looking at me.

“Hello, Mr. Clark…I’ve heard a lot about you  and I’ve been looking forward to meeting you for several weeks now.Your mom and I have been chatting and getting to know each other and she’s told me about your work at the stationary shop and about your interests in reading and photography.”   Miss Martin was clearly trying to put me at my ease, but her very attempt to make polite conversation in light of the unusual circumstances (the van in the drive, the quiet men sitting on our couch), just made me more uneasy. I began to feel a slight moistness  on my forehead.

     I didn’t know what to say or do. I plopped my backpack on the floor and, feeling very ill-at-ease (even though I was in my own home) I went to sit in the big stuffed chair opposite the three complete strangers who were, at this point all staring at me and still smiling pleasantly.
“Mom? What’s this all about? Is there something I should know? Did you tell me we were having company and I forgot?”  In my anxiety, and despite my growing suspicion that she hadn’t told me about expecting visitors, I began to blurt an apology to the three strangers.”Oh, I’m so embarrassed. I’m sure Mom must have told me we were having company this evening and I must have completely forgotten.”” Oh boy”, I said with feigned heartiness,” Is my face red!”. And ironically, I felt myself blushing furiously. The perspiring was more pronounced now and I was sure I looked quite the blushing and sweating imbecile. My fears were soon confirmed.

     “ Stephen dear. I see that you’re upset. But really there’s no need to apologize to Francine and her associates. I don’t believe I mentioned to you that they’d be here tonight.I thought it would be best not to….Just have a cup of tea won’t you. It will help you to calm down”…and with that, Mom went to the kitchen. I just sat there, afraid at this point to meet the gaze of any of the three “visitors”. For the next several minutes, until my mother returned with my drink, no one spoke. I kept looking at the floor, afraid to even look at Miss Martin, but somehow knowing that she was quietly looking at me. The only sound was that of water boiling and of mother humming one of her favorite forties melodies (I think it was “I’ll be seeing you”).

“ Stevie,” said my mother, returning with my drink,” Miss Martin has come here to speak with us about a program she’s involved with that I think might be ..uummmm..very beneficial and I’ve asked her to run a few of her ideas by you, just to see what you think.”  Mom handed me the mug of tea. I noticed that, though I’d clearly heard the kettle whistling in the kitchen, the drink she handed me with  her slightly shaking hand  was only tepid. There was too much happening at once for me to process all the “funny” little details…and as Francine Martin began to speak, I forced myself to look directly at her.The anonymous “associates”  sat slightly forward, also seeming to hang on her every word.. Nurse Martin (if that was what she was) was obviously the person in authority. With the same pleasant smile, she began , very quietly but with an air of restrained strength,to speak.

     “Mr. Clarke, I believe that it’s always best to speak plainly to the people I meet in my  professional capacity  at B.M.C. Oh..forgive me.You probably aren’t familiar with our facility..I’m the screening and admissions supervisor at Behavioral Modalities Center over in Barkamstead.I see you’re not familiar with our work.We’re a small private hospital specializing  in providing adaptive strategies to people who seem to be coping with stress in manners that are , in some sense, undesirable, either to the patients themselves or to people closely related to them. In this case, it was your mother who contacted us and discussed,in  strict confidence, I assure you, your uuummmm..hobby(?) shall we say(?) of  uummmm.... appropriating her things without her permission.”

    I got up from the chair and began to walk toward my mother. I finally knew what  this was about, and, not being  quite totally stupid, I began to put two and two together. She stood in the kitchen doorway looking down at the floor. She was no longer smiling..No..Instead ,I could see she was upset, and , as I drew close, she looked up and I saw the tears welling in her eyes. Things began to happen much too fast. Thinking, perhaps that I was about to become violent, Miss Martin  looked at the two men, saying “James, Carl, could you please help Mr. Clarke to get control of himself”. But by that time , the two athletic looking young men had already risen from the couch and had moved quickly toward me. As they approached me ,one on one side, one on the other, everything fell into place.

Right then I knew for certain what this was about.I realized that Mom had broken her promise to me. I guess she was at her wit’s end and had finally committed me to some darned  crazy person’s hospital. In the spirit of telling the whole story, the good the bad and the embarrassing, I confess,I was terrified and, for the first time since fifth grade, I wet my pants. As the two strong men held my arms firmly (and I mean firmly), Miss Martin began to speak louder ,if only to be heard above Mom’s sobbing.”

Mr.Clarke,I must ask you to please calm down.No one is going to harm you in any way..Your mother has your best interest at heart, I’m certain.But from the way you are behaving,(at this moment,I remember all too clearly, she looked down at the spreading darkness in the front of my chino pants, and smiled consolingly),I think we’re going to have to help you.

I began to struggle with all of my strength against the young men’s grip. I’m rather strong for my rather diminuitive frame (I’m 5’11” and weigh 155 lbs.), but for some reason as yet unknown to me, my muscles felt kind of rubbery and weak. I was trying to pull away from James and Carl’s grasp with all my might, but my strength seemed to ebb from me like water poured onto a floor. I looked to my right and left, beseeching with my frightened eyes, hoping they’d let me go, but all I saw were the same calm, noncommittal smiles, as they effortlessly held me fast.As Nurse Martin reached into an unusually shaped valise and produced what I somehow knew immediately was a canvas straightjacket, I….well.. there’s no easy way for me to say this.. I lost control of my bowels ..I messed in my pants. For me, it was a moment of pure terror, made all the more bizarre by the innocuous manner of my burly captors , by the sobbing of my treacherous mother and by the dignified and controlled demeanor of Nurse Martin.

As “the aroma of terror” began to permeate the room, I began to realize that I had no allies, no recourse. My only choices were to struggle ineffectually in  the attendants’ firm grip or to slump like a rag doll into submissive defeat. My mother was pleading with me to stop struggling…”Honey, please, just let Miss Martin help you into this ummmmm..what did you call it, Francine..safety coat?Please honey..it will be O.K. And don’t be embarrassed about having an accident. Francine told me that it was to be expected. Please Stevie, don’t fight this..we’ve planned everything and I just know you’ll be glad to have a little vacation. I’ve called the shop and told Marlene that you’d be taking your vacation  early this year and she was very understanding.So please darling..don’t make this any more difficult than it already is. Francine is very capable and she has assured me that you can be helped at the Center. I’ve enrolled you for a month of treatment and I’ve shown them some of our little photo gallery. I know I promised I’d never tell anyone about your little problem honey, but it’s been getting out of hand and Darling, lately, I must say, you’ve been behaving so disrespectfully to me. I just couldn’t tolerate it any more.”

At this point, Nurse Martin interrupted.”Ms. Clarke, I think we’ve explained the situation to  Stevie quite adequately. Now, I’m afraid I must say that the choice is his.Either he can help us to get him ready for his trip to the center or we can simply help him slip his little armies into these little sleevies and we can snug him up nice ‘n’ comfy in this uummmmm..safety coat. We have a little name for this type of restraint at the Center..we just call it Doctor Posey.And now, Stephen, it’s time for you to decide. Will you  just calm down and slip your hands into these sleeves ,so we can snug you up all cozy or shall we put them in for you.?”    I was still struggling in the men’s unyielding grip, but it was as if my arms were flaccid worms held tightly by rubber bands. There was no way I could struggle free.  But what sapped me of all resistance, (In addition to the industrial-grade muscle relaxant Mom had dissolved into my “tea”) was what Miss Martin did next. As I struggled pitifully to free my arms, Miss Martin calmly walked behind me. In the corner of  my eye I could see her stooping down..then I felt my ankles drawn tightly together as she secured them with a heavy canvas strap.

Next, I felt my knees being similarly drawn together. In the space of forty seconds, I had lost the use of my legs. It was at this moment, with my ankles and legs rendered as useless as matchsticks, my underpants smelling with my involuntary defecation, my pants humiliatingly soggy with pee as if I were a child in kindergarten and with my mother once again crying, now silently, her eyes reddened and tears flowing freely down her cheeks,that I gave up struggling. Mom looked quite sadly beautiful at this moment and as she looked pleadingly into my terrified eyes, I  went limp. And I  began  sobbing like a child and slowly lifted my arms, allowing  the men to guide them inexorably into the canvas arms of the long(very long) sleeved jacket held up by the kindly smiling Nurse Martin.

Chapter Two:  How It Came To All This

      I’d had a fascination with corsets, girdles, stockings and with being tied up since,when I had just turned fourteen, my mother and father divorced. Dad went to live with his new girlfriend in Connecticut and I stayed in Brookline with mom.Mom, of course had to work even longer hours at the law office just to make ends meet, and I found myself “home alone” on one lonely afternoon after another. I’d  practice my piano lessons sometimes or make a frozen pizza and spend the day watching  T.V…But..it’s a story often told…with too much time on my hands and, being a somewhat reclusive child without many friends, I found myself snooping ‘round the house..peeking into corners I’d never before explored. I played with dad’s tool set he’d left behind  and discovered a stack of books featuring naked women in the garage..but ultimately and,in retrospect, quite inevitably, I found myself in Mom’s bedroom.,examining her makeup kit, gazing into her mirror, exploring her closet, opening her drawers..and it was here that I found the peach colored satin garter belt, folded neatly atop a pile of other undergarments that seemed to also feature satin as well as  elastic and metal clips. There were girdles, pink  old-time lace-up corsets, many pairs of fine hosiery, seamed and un. It was a time just before the appearance of miniskirts and the attendant ascendancy of pantyhose—so in addition to the long shiny stockings, there were garments that fairly bristled with straps and metal clips, hooks and eyes and laces..it was like a hardware store of lingerie.
     
The discovery of mother’s girdle drawer (as I’ve always called it) was like a punch in my adolescent solar plexus—here were soft frilly items that could maybe replace the softness I was missing from Mom’s long  hours away from home. But it was the peach  satin garter belt that I remember most of all. It was a real functional, if also quite beautiful, garment, designed, not only to hold a woman’s stockings securely but to also press gently on the tummy, creating a flattened smoothed out look under dresses.As I lifted it from the drawer, taking with me a pair of stockings, I felt a calmness wash over me..it was the beginning of a long career of adoring and wearing stockings, girdles, corsets, high heels, and occasionally, lipstick, which, with but few hiatuses (for example, my brief period of being married in my mid-twenties), continued right up to that Tuesday night, filled with fear, loneliness, humiliation and tears.

Sometime in my early teens, Mom arrived home from work unexpectedly early and, (you know  the story) rushed into the bathroom to pee, sliding open suddenly a door that I had forgotten to lock. Though she was obviously surprised by what she saw, she seemed comparatively unflustered.There I was, sitting on the lowered toilet seat, wearing as many of her “foundation garments” simultaneously as I could possibly wear without passing out from excitement or from restricted breathing. From the inside out, this is what I wore:

	 -momma’s firm,satin paneled, six gartered long leg panty girdle 
           -mother’s  stretchy “roll-up” Sears open-bottom, four garter,           	                 
	   moderate control powernet girdle.
           -mommy’s lovely  peach colored satin garter belt with four
	   long peach colored elastic garters.
           -two pairs of Mom’s sheer nylons, the inner one seamed, the outer one not seamed.

           On my head I had stretched another longleg pullup type panty girdle in such a fashion that my entire head was encased in satin and elastic, so tightly from crown of my head, over eyes and nose and over my chin and jaw, that I was completely unable to move my lower jaw or to separate my lips ,which were pressed by the three layers of elastic, tightly against my teeth. It was a girdle helmet of sorts and it, along with the electrifying sensation of the two sheer nylon layers upon each of my legs as I rubbed them together and as I ran my  soft, somewhat small teenage hands over them, created the most startling sensual experiences I’d ever known..There was nothing to compare this to!! It was thrilling and unique and very, very troubling.
     Mom stood there for a moment, not saying a thing. I think if she could have pretended she’d not seen me this way, she would have, but there she was and there was I, In her girdles and stockings, looking at her vague figure through three layers of her panty girdle’s power net. I started to speak, trying foolishly to normalize this absurd moment, but I’d forgotten my “girdle gag” (as I’d come to think of it) and  instead of “Hello Mom, I can explain this if you’ll just not get upset and give me a chance”.  What came out was “MMMMmmmmoooMMMmmmmmMMMMehehehmm”.

     Wow!!!Talk about pregnant moments!! Mother stood there quietly for the longest three minutes I’ve ever endured. I was beyond embarrassed—beyond humiliated—I really felt like I was dying, and for the moment, all of my sensual ecstasy was forgotten and I was just another frightened teenager with a panty girdle on his head..(that’s kind of a joke,I guess). But, really, mother was so sweet..!As I fumbled with my helmet (though,in a way, I was wishing I could remain encased in it..anything to postpone meeting mom’s astonished gaze), she waited in the bathroom doorway. When I finally removed my “head girdle ”, I saw that my mom was actually smiling..All she said was,”Honey, could you just remain dressed as you are and maybe wait for me in my bedroom? I really have to make a pee-pee.” “Sure Mom,” was all I said and as I passed her, I couldn’t help hearing the peculiar and thrilling fffffsshhhh sound of my nylon legs rubbing together. Mom looked down and actually giggled, letting me know that she had heard it too.
      I waited nervously in Mom’s bedroom, still dressed in the tightly hugging layers of synthetic material swathing most of my body with a constant pressure that had always had the  the effect of making me feel heavenly and horrible at the same time. Mom seemed to be taking  a long time in the loo and I  took this as an opportunity to begin shedding my layers  of second (and third )skin.I had taken off the lovely peach garter belt and the outer pair of hose that it supported and was rushing to remove my (sorry..”her”) Sears OBG (that’s insider talk for open bottom girdle), when mom  walked into the room, again with a genuinely loving smile on her lovely face.(Mom had  given birth to me, her only child, quite young..at this time,she was thirty four or thirty five years old. She was a lovely and feminine woman, with a flair for dressing with quiet yet  sexy elegance. On reflection, I realize she was much admired by many of Dad’s friends. Mom’s best feature(besides her lovely eyes and her reddish-brown hair) was her legs.They were long and shapely, even when she padded around after work in her housedress wearing only stockings with no shoes….Oh her beautiful tiny feet!!..Oh my heart!!! The memory!!”……

     “ My dear darling Stephen. Please don’t remove another stitch.. Let’s just talk together with you just like this for awhile. I’ll just go down and start the chicken in the oven and I’ll be right back.” She patted a spot on her chenille bedspread and said(something like)”You just plunk yourself right down here and I’ll be back in a jiffy”.  I sat on the bed waiting for Mom to return and while I waited, although completely mortified and scared, I began sliding my hands over my slippery nylon legs (made only slightly less slippery by the removal of the seamless pair moments ago). From there,I moved to my double-girdled midsection….I was rapidly forgetting my embarrassment and the tactile thrill of my tightly encased behind and tummy was taking over. I had an energetic little erection creeping up my tummy, progressing vertically inside my longleg. The girdle pretty much prevented it from being too obvious though, and when Mom returned, I managed to stop caressing myself and to look as normal and natural as any teenager in my position could.

     My first instinct was to lie. As soon as my breathing slowed to approaching its normal rate and my heart stopped its pounding, I began.”Mother I’m so embarrassed. I don’t know what’s got into me. I was watching a show on T.V. with some models wearing sexy underwear and, I don’t know,,I just got curious and  wondered  how it might feel to actually wear a girdle and stockings. So I just came upstairs a few minutes ago,actually, and started trying on some of your things.. I’m so sorry Mom,if I’ve frightened you or anything. But, really, it’s probably a good thing in the long run that I’ve tried this now,. ‘cause now I know what it feels like..and that it’s no big deal ..I guess I just had to satisfy my curiosity and get this out of my system. So now I won’t ever want to do it again”  As I spouted this drivel, I began removing the other garments I’d been wearing, nowremaining silent, hoping , since she was being so quiet,that she’d believed that this was the first time for me.She just sat there smiling, sadly now and looking at my still-encased legs…”Mom”, I said after a moment,”Are you O.K.?”

     “Honey, I’m okay, but I can see that you’re still quite upset, and I just want  you to  be Okay too. You don’t have to pretend that this is the first time you’ve had your own little panty raid..I noticed the slightly disheveled condition of my lingerie drawers as long ago as Eastertime…(it was now October)…Heck, Darlin, I even bought several  items in there with you in mind. Please don’t feel you need to deceive me ever again..I love you  and I always will.You’re a wonderful boy and you’re going to be a wonderful man someday, whether or not your affinity for girdles and nylons stays with you or goes away…But honey, from all of the reading I’ve done since I suspected your little secret last Easter, I have to say, it seems like this will be a lifelong hobby of yours..So we might as well both accept it, come to terms with it and find a way to live with it and even possibly enjoy it together..”…As she spoke. She gently leaned over and kissed my cheek and lovingly placed her soft hand on my stocking clad leg..”Stevie,when did you start to 
shave your legs? Stand up, let me see them.I stood before her.”Come closer” she said,and, as I stood only inches in front of her, she placed her hands on my tightly girdled hips and ,very lightly, ran them downward….I began to relax just a little, immensely enjoying for the first time the feeling of mother’s hands sliding over my nylon legs.

      “Honey, looking at you this way, I can begin to understand why you’ve been doing this, and I want you to know I accept and even celebrate it in a way. Honestly,Stephen..I have to say, you really look quite lovely…” Her hands moved slowly up and down,over my elastic-pressed hips, over my legs and,I think ,out of a combination of several confusing emotions- delight, shame, relief, fear, joy and love, I began to blubber and sob.My knees folded under me . I dropped my head onto mother’s lovely warm lap and I cried and cried . My mother sat there quietly for the longest time, patting the back of my head and my neck and back as I sobbed and soaked her housedress with my drool, snot and tears.

 Chapter 3: Cleaned up And Ready to Go

     The chapter title is, I guess quite breezy and jaunty, when I think back to that  frightening autumn afternoon, two years ago, when my life changed completely and I became an involuntarily committed mental patient.At the time, I couldn’t understand why Mom felt it necessary to have me hauled away, crying and humiliated, frog-marched across our front lawn,with several of our neighbors, even some of the neighborhood children and teenagers watching in concerned silence.I guess they’d always thought me (and Mom, for that matter), to be a bit strange, and as they heard me sobbing and saw me led ,gagged and straitjacketed across my own front lawn and  “helped” into the  van waiting in the driveway, I’m sure their wildest fantasies about us were fueled and purring. I heard one of the teenagers laughing but was ashamed to look up at her.

     But, I guess I’m getting ahead of myself..I have a need to tell it all, and I remember leaving off at the point at which the nurse held out the “safety coat”,( read straitjacket), and I  had finally given up my struggles and allowed my arms to be inserted into the  long,long sleeves which,of course ended in stiffly reinforced fingerless pouches. As soon as I allowed my hands to be guided into those canvas tubes, my hands (and arms) ceased to be of any use whatever to me, and, as the horrific scene unfolded, they were rendered even more useless by the broad leather wrist straps which would totally prevent my hands from being drawn back into the sleeves.So, even though the jacket had not been fully “applied” to the disturbed patient (me), my hands were already rendered useless by the canvas around them and by the straps which painlessly but inescapably encircled them.

      I was being helped to retain my balance by Francine Martin as the two orderlies ,Carl and James proceeded silently and expertly to enclose me inside “Dr. Posey”....It was only after several weeks at “B.M.C.” that I was told that it was called Dr. Posey because the Posey Company was the manufacturer of this state of the art hospital restraint. As Nurse Martin helped me to retain my balance, which was no longer easy, as my legs were tightly strapped together at ankles and knees,the men pulled the stiff canvas up my 
arms.
 
     Then I heard slightly metallic sounds and I guessed that they were actually strapping me in to this device—a device I’d only heard about or joked about. A device I never imagined ever actually encountering, let alone being strapped in to . I was no longer resisting and I guess my captors felt they could relax . Carl and James stopped at this point and allowed me to stand there, still sobbing, my chinos wet and stinking, my arms dangling uselessly in their long canvas sleeves. Miss Martin, standing behind me, was helping me to keep my balance by ,I guess, holding the straps which imprisoned me in the jacket.

     From behind me, nurse Martin spoke..”Stephen, you’re doing fine. Just relax and we’ll take care of everything. We’re going to finish applying your restraint, then we’ll release your legs, that is if you remain cooperative, and we’ll let Mom clean you up a bit before we go. Okay Stephen?”  I knew this wasn’t really a question and I didn’t even bother to answer, just stood there quietly, my face a mess of tears and snot,as the two orderlies threaded my unresisting arms through loops in the front and sides of the jacket.I felt my autonomy ebbing away as they then somehow buckled the ends of the sleeves, which contained my left and right hands, wrists encircled by broad leather straps, together behind my back.

      I had no arms. I was armless.And because my legs were still strapped together, I was, to all intents and purposes, legless. In the space of less than ten minutes, I had lost the use of my arms and legs, and peed and messed my clothes. I looked around me into everyone’s eyes-the nurse’s,my attendants’, Mom’s. All were wearing expressions of kindly forbearance and tolerance, smiles of empathy for my unique situation. I’d never felt so alone and helpless. Tears welled up, and as they spilled down my cheeks, I began to cry. I blubbered, I moaned in despair, I began to beg  for help from any corner.”Mom, momma, mummy please don’t let this go any further. I know I’ve been a brat lately…I’m so sorry mom, please tell them to let me go. I’ll be good from now on..Mommy?Mommy???  I know I’ve  not been doing my special chores.I’ll give you foot massages whenever you want. I’ll play  “doggie under the table every night”. I’ll  dress up whenever you tell me to..Mom..please,I’m begging you.I wanna stay here with you,Momma.”  Mom smiled at me quietly as her tears began to dry,and said nothing.

     “Stephen, you are making such a fuss!!!”. Miss Martin was using a more determined, officious tone than before.” We might have to just go to the van with you wet and smelly.  You wouldn’t like that very much, would you?. I ,for one ,would rather not, since a two hour ride with you smelling like that is not a very pleasant prospect and besides, I don’t think you’ll want to sit in that mess.”…Although I was still blubbering, I began to quiet down. My  ankle straps were released, but my knees were kept strapped tightly together and I was led by the straps behind me, shuffling  with tiny steps , to the bathroom.

      “Mrs. Clarke, I know you’re upset, but I feel Stephen would like for you to tidy him up rather than to have one of us do it. We’ll be serving that function soon enough at the Center, but for now, could you remove his soiled clothing and clean him as best you 
can?” Mom quietly moved to obey , bending to undo my belt, then to unzip my fly and then to let my pants drop to my ankles.As she saw me standing in my own mess, she began to wail and looked pleadingly at Nurse Martin .
        “Please, Francine, I just can’t do this.”, Mom said, crying and turning away from her son’s abject humiliation.
       “I understand, Ms. Clarke. That’s perfectly fine. Just try to comfort Stephen as we prepare him for the trip.”
      “Mom”, I began to yell,”It’s still not too late. Tell them to let me go”. But from the way Mom cast her eyes up at me apologetically, I could sense all was lost. I once again began to sob and moan loudly now as Mom retreated to the doorway and the two young men came advanced. Nurse Martin, still standing behind me and balancing me with the staitjacket straps, ordered,”Carl, oral distender,  please”, and Carl handed her something that  had straps and a buckle and  seemed to be made of the same off-white canvas as the jacket. From behind me,Miss Martin lifted  a  cylindrical  rolled canvas plug to my lips.”Open, please, Mr. Clarke. This will help to keep you calm and quiet”.  “Or at least quiet”, quipped James.

      I held my lips closed as tightly as I could, a natural resistance to  the canvas plug, at which point, Carl viciously pinched the tender exposed flesh on the inside of my thigh and I, of course, screamed. As I did, the plug was shoved deeply into my mouth from behind and as the nurse held her soft but strong hand over my mouth to prevent the plug’s expulsion, one of the men strapped it tightly behind my head, preventing all but the most gutteral, animal-like squeals , hums and growls to emanate from the corners of my mouth. Anything resembling a coherent utterance was now impossible. I began to feel even more like an object than a person.

      The next few minutes were among the most humiliating of my life, as I was “tidied up” (as Nurse Martin called it) for my “vacation” (as Mother had called it). Miss Martin, efficiently, but almost tenderly, removed my shoes and socks, washed me with a sopping towel , had me diapered with an adult  “incontinence undergarment”, and pulled a pair of green elasticized  pajama pants onto me, all to ready me for my lawn walk to the waiting van. I watched, as if I were a bystander, as my status was reduced from that of an independent adult male to that of a packaged, processed “patient”, unable to do much of anything but whimper unintelligibly as I was diapered and disabled. The last thing I remember happening before my awful trip to the van in my paper slippers, was the bottom strap. After pulling on the pants, the nurse stepped behind  me and,(I swear, she began humming “light My Fire” as she did this, and in a remarkably sweet voice), pulled a strap from the front of the straitjacket to the back, snugly,( so that it crept into my “cleft”, through the flimsy cotton pants and the padded diaper material), and secured it behind me. This ,of course, eliminated any possibility of my somehow escaping this cocoon by pulling it up over my head. Finally, my  ankles were cuffed with canvas and leather restraints, which were joined by a strap which was about eight inches long. Miss Martin stood in front of me, hands resting on my shoulders and, smiling, said, “Mr. Clarke, you are doing SO well. I’m proud of you and I’m sure your Mom is proud of you. Mrs. Clarke, thank you for your cooperation. Please don’t contact your son for two weeks. Then you’ll be welcomed to call or visit”. 

      The trip to the van, the neighbor’s stunned looks, the ride to the hospital and my stay there (it ended up lasting for six months, not the promised one month) were filled with frightening, humiliating and sometimes,thrilling experiences , which I’d be willing to share with you sometime.

      It’s now fourteen months later, a year and two months from that awful afternoon I messed myself and was led away , tightly straitjacketed, to the institution which was to be my home for the next six months. I’m back at home, now, and the past eight months have been quite fascinating and challenging for mother and me.I’m now 28 years old,and I’m kept girdled 24/7,as they say, and am kept home most of the time. Mom says its for my own good and that I’m not nearly well enough yet to go outside alone . But, I’m happy, in a way. I get to wear the girdles and hose I love so much, and I have a job (sort of). I help Mom around the house, and,at the end of most days, she sits on the couch (the same one that James and Carl sat on), kicks off her heels and has me rub her legs and kiss her tiny, tired stockinged  feet.

        Life is simple. Life is good.

Ward 8 Chapter 4

   That was then. This is now. I’m back home, for now, and living with my Mummy.  ( The last time I called her Mom, I received a reminder in the form of a not-too-gentle slap and a mild scolding. This was sometime during my first week back home. It didn’t really hurt, but it was an emotional shock. I remember that moment as though it happened yesterday, although it was actually a year ago.A lot has happened since then, and, rest assured, I’ve never called her anything but “Mummy” since then.)

     “Stevia”!!!, (She calls me Stevia, although my real name is Stefan), please listen closely, because I’m only going to say this one time. I realize that this is probably just a case of youthful forgetfulness, but Doctor Jacobs and Nurse Martin warned me about the possibility that you might try to rebel in small ways, and that I need to respond with appropriate reminders any time I suspect any attempts at self assertion or insubordination. Please, Darling, know that all it will take is for me to simply telephone the B.I. and request a visit from the intake team. Within an hour, their P.T.V*. will pull into our driveway, and you’ll once again find yourself a recidivist guest at Barkhamstead Institute.”
         
      It was all I needed to hear. Although usually good at suppressing my emotions or disguising them , my mother’s calmly and lovingly delivered warning frightened me so much that (even though I was 23 years old at the time, my eyes filled with tears as I abjectly apologized. Mom reached out and gathered me into her ample bosom , kissed away my tears, and reassured me that if I “did better” from then on, a “refresher visit” to the institute would probably be unneccessary.

*patient transport van- a large white vehicle especially equipped with restraints, hoods, and gags. It is outfitted this way for the safe transport of “reluctant” patients. There are normal seats in front and it seems large enough to seat as many as six “normal” passengers.

Chapter Five

        As it turned out , I did have to undergo a refresher course at the institute, as well as being lovingly dominated by Mummy at home. And the strange thing is, I didn’t ever understand what I’d done wrong- and why, on an early August afternoon, I , once again saw the large white van, with the pale blue initials on the side, saying Barkhamstead Behavioral Institute, coming up our driveway.
     But that’s putting the horse before the cart.
                                    **********

   Ever since I first tried on my mother’s peach satin garter belt and sheer slippery stockings, her girdles and longline bras, I’ve been fetishistically (word?) fixated and in love with lingerie that hugged and compressed. Also, I have, for many years experienced an inclination to submissive fantasies.

   Mummy knew about it all along , perhaps noticing the shoddy folding and arrangement of her girdles and hosiery.And she let it happen..she helped me become a fetish slave. Ultimately these tendencies were what had me put in the Institute for the first time.