Tag Archives: reader contributions

Long-term bondage sessions: Two switch players discuss their 10-day experience – Part 1

By @yohan555 and @xlrugbysocks

@yohan555 and @xlrugbysocks are both fans of prolonged bondage, and are happy to switch. This summer they set aside time to give each of them a 5-day session of continuous bondage, which was live tweeted on twitter. They were keen to give a debrief to metalbondnyc.

First 5-day period: @xlrugbysocks topped by @yohan555

@xlrugbysocks as captive:

We decided I would have my 5 day session as captive first, to give me the chance to get re-acquainted with @yohan555’s gear and play spaces, even if from the receiving end. We had done a successful 3 day session for each other last year, so we know each other well, our individual turn-ons and no-nos (layers of thick wool, and lots of soccer and seaboot socks being favs for me!) We neither like role-play, but @yohan555 had requested my theme for the session; I said I liked us just to be ourselves, for real, meaning I didn’t have a ‘story’ – and was a bit surprised on my release to find I was outed as an imprisoned and tortured medic!

The time flew by for me; I was a bit sleep-deprived before my arrival, so I slept a lot in the various padded cells and prison cells in the first few days. For me, long bondage sessions are always a mental struggle between letting go/throwing myself into fighting the restriction, and staying calm/keeping some reserves for the trials ahead; on my 4th day, I did reach total capitulation wearing a rubber suit and sj inside the heavy leather suspension bag.

Continue reading Long-term bondage sessions: Two switch players discuss their 10-day experience – Part 1

Follow-up letter from an inmate

The inmate who did time at Hampton Jail in Iowa wrote another letter, and this time he enclosed a picture! See below:


Dear Metal,

Well, I got discharged a few days ago. It was a complex experience, and there are some things that you always knew, but become so real in the lockup.

The place is absent of any measure of time. There are no clocks, nothing to mark the passage of time. Sure, there is a clock tower nearby, but the building air conditioning and the sound of other inmates drowns out those reminders. You wonder, is that the morning light that you see through your narrow line of sight, or is it just the nightlight? I was fooled more than once. Natural daylight has a different hue than light from a bulb, but the grayness of the cellblock paint seems to be very effective in taking what warmth from natural light and turning it into something a bit more soulless.

Many of your senses are dulled, but others just seem to be heighted.

When I got home, I could smell it — the lingering odor from the jail uniform. The uniform, made of a heavy cotton almost denim like quality. The smell stays with you. You can smell it on your skin. And with that smell, you carry the marker of a prisoner — an almost DNA-like connection to all the other men who have worn that uniform before you. You might think of it as a brotherhood, but that is not really it. It is more of an ethereal chain gang that connects us all, the smell of the steel doors and the aged paint, the inklings of dust.

Also, you come to understand the power of the cell door, both as an element of confinement as well as symbol of security. The security to keep you where you are, and the security perhaps of where you are supposed to be. The night in the hole — which I spent because of my bad attitude — was jarring. I slept, but I kept being constantly awakened. Each time, I would test the door, to see if it was still locked — somehow thinking by magic it would not be. Oddly, though, it would be a disappointment if it was unlocked.

The jail experience is one of constant redundancy and routine. I stopped counting the number of times my hands were cuffed and uncuffed. I learned to accept the ankle shackles as the way things are going to be. But also, you find that you yearn to be cuffed, as a proxy to just interact. When the jailer leaves, he closes the door behind him. You are there on your own, in a mental solitude that is just a controlling as a physical confinement in solitary. Your mind wanders, and then in time you begin this odd sense of bonding with your jailer. He holds all the keys, all the power, and all the options.

My experience was at times unpleasant, gripping, soul-searching and frustrating. I learned that doing time means that time moves very slowly.

Your actions, your choices, or decisions not to decide are all in front of you. You make your prison. You realize that you think you are own person when you go in, but in the end you understand that you are just something to be counted, controlled. You are just a number.


hampton jail iowa


Metal would like to thank the inmate for sharing this information and picture!

Third letter from an inmate

Update: I received yet another letter from my acquaintance, this one apparently written when he was actually INSIDE his jail cell! See below.



Well, here I am. I have decided that orange may actually be my color. I am out of the habit of wearing baggy clothes.

There is not much to say. What you notice is what you take for granted. There are no visible clocks, so the passing of time is a blur. There is a nearby clock tower for the county courthouse that chimes through the day, but the sounds are muffled. And while I can hear some of the time, you never know if your counting of the ‘bongs’ is right or not. I feel my senses are a bit dulled.

The starkest, boldest and most damning of going to the jail is the transformation. You lose your freedom of course, but what you wear, what you do and when you do it. The most striking though was the transformation of the world color. The courtroom is painted in warm hues of a mix of peach skin and gentle terra-cotta. It is well lit with thoughtful lighting and bright. The floor is carpeted and the furniture, while designed to be functional, is comfortable. I did talk back at the judge a bit, and that was not appreciated. I soon learned the message.

The coldness of it all occurs when you leave the courtroom. You leave the courtroom and enter the ‘public’ area of the Jail. The warm tones are left behind and you transition into a blend of law-enforcement shades of green and green-grey. The carpet becomes well-aged linoleum, being clean and well swept. The lighting moves to standard fluorescent lighting. Then finally you go through the heavy double steel door into the Jail itself, the floor is now bare concrete, the colors are all very dark, unyielding blue tinged custodial grey. What few lights bulbs that exist are hidden behind very hard plastic fixtures, and likely at most are 50-watt bulbs. The place is dim. The lighting is not strong enough to even see what you are reading.

There have been long periods of quiet tedium. And waiting. And waiting some more. Waiting for something, a something that seems never to come.

I will keep you posted.

Second letter received

I received another letter in my in-box today from my acquaintance. I think he is in Iowa:


Date: Sunday


Just a quick note to let you know where I am in my travels. I zipped by the Jail on my way through town a few minutes ago. I wanted to find a gas station first, and get the car filled up. I did not want to find a reason to linger here any longer than I needed to after getting the business done at the jail.

As I drove by, I thought that the Jail building was a bit odd. The exterior from the street is kind of interesting in that classic late 19th century American Italianate style, but it has not painted in a welcoming warm color that would befit its design. Nothing warm and Meditreaning like here, instead, the exterior is painted in this rather institutional and foreboding penal gray color with the exterior plaster garlands over the windows painted black. Not the best curb appeal if you would ever want to attract buyers, but who would want to buy a jail, anyway?

It is rather hot and windy today. Not really that fun to be outside, but it beats rain and snow. I have put gas in the car, and I am parked across the street from the Jail in the parking lot of the local post office. I have kind of a line of sight of the place. I am not certain if I am really stalking it, but yes, I am stalling a bit. I wanted to get some little things done on my phone before I get going again in a bit.

Okay, okay. Time to get this grim task done. I will circle back with you in another message in a day or so.

PS. Gosh, all of the sudden I really need to piss.

Letter received today from an acquaintance

I received this letter in my in-box today:


Date: Friday


I have been thinking of you since we last ran into each other at the flea market some time ago.  I thought I would check in.  I do not think I told you, but I need to fix an outstanding legal issue of some unpaid court costs and fines.  I have let it go for far too long, and I am not that motivated to fix it, but I need to fix it before I get stopped for speeding or something and subsequently find myself, rather unplanned, in the back of the cop car.

I have to admit that I have mixed emotions getting this fixed.  Every time I see a cop or a corrections officer wearing handcuffs on his belt, I get that pit-in-my-stomach feeling that feels like you are feeling hunted. But also, oddly, sometimes the sight of handcuffs makes me hard.  I think that why we connect so well!  I know that I have been not the most law-abiding person out there.  I have cut corners. I have taken advantage of situations that are unintended but are favorable to me.  Given, the right circumstances, I can be shifty. I have worked on being a better person, and I think that if I worked at it harder, seeing a cop with cuffs on his belt would not bother me as much as it sure does now.  However, I know my innate character well.  I guess deep down inside we all know who we really and actually are.

I have worked hard to improve my potential and have found more than good success in my career and elsewhere.   Getting lodged into jail would feel like a set-back, a humiliation.  As they say, “Orange may not be your color”….   It is something that I want to avoid, but I think I can finesse this one.  As you know I am going to be on the road and I going to drive through this town and get things taken care of.  I have to admit a certain, if not substantial degree of apprehension about reporting to the Jail office there to make payment.  However, since I will be cruising through the town on a Sunday, the only place that I could make the payment was at the Jail office.

I will have the dosh with me to pay them off, but I anticipate that they will rough me up a bit as these folks tend to so.  I anticipate that they will not make it pleasant but I do not think I will find my way behind bars.  I do not think one has to imagine much, but I think being in Jail must be one of the most boring things that one can do or be required to do.  I am hopeful that I can talk my way out of it, or perhaps give a bribe or something if need be – which as I think about it sounds really stupid – scratch that.

I checked with the Jailer this morning, Friday, and he knows that I will be stopping by on Sunday to pay off the fines and fees.   He was a bit nonchalant about it all.  No chit chat here, nine simple words was all; “we’ll take care of it when you get here” and that was that.  I wish I could say that I was encouraged, but I just hope it is easy, fast and resolved quickly.

I will keep you posted.

Special investigative report from Surfbot on wearing chastity through airport security

Surfbot sent the report below via email. Surfbot writes:

Dear Metal,

I recently went through O’Hare airport security while locked in my stainless steel chastity device. The metal detector beeped (of course), and I told them I was wearing a chastity device which could not be removed. They manually searched me, and used a detector wand that verified the problem area was my crotch. They wiped their gloves on my clothes there, then wiped the gloves on a small piece of paper, which they put through a machine that detects bomb chemicals; clean.

They futzed around for another 5 minutes and then a supervisor came and told me my device needed to be “cleared.” She talked around the issue but never actually said they needed to see it. After 5 more minutes standing around, two men led me to a small, private room — they carried my stuff, still in plastic tubs from going through the X-ray (I was not allowed to touch it). In the room they told stories to each other for 5 minutes or so, and finally asked me to lower my pants. Three seconds looking was enough, and they told me to get dressed and pack up my stuff.

One of them asked whether I could urinate in it, and I said, “Of course, there’s a small hole in it.” I’m guessing there were two of them to avoid accusations of abuse; they sure were in no hurry. I was surprised they were not more familiar with chastity devices, given the enormous number of people they screen. Total time was about 20 minutes; I had made sure there was a lot more time than that until my flight.

— Surfbot


Thanks, Surfbot, for the report!