…"What do you want to do for Halloween THIS year dear?" I asked my significant other.
"I've got nothing, literally not a clue," he responded back.
I feel the same way to be honest, so I can't find fault, I'm just not into it at all this year particularly. We simply don't get near the volume of trick-or-treaters like we used to back before covid; there used to be easily a hundred, but last year that number was maybe fifteen total, to include the little ones on our block and their precious costumes though. It was at one time a great way to get reacquainted with the neighbors, just a fun party-like night, but if last year was any sign of the times we knew it would be all over shortly after dusk, and we'd be left with far too much extra candy in the house…
In our relationship we both come up with things to do, there's an actual give and take to it, but my husband generally looks to me for these kinds of, "what do you want to do this weekend?" kinds of plans first. It's great, most times anyway, as I get to do what I'd like with him, but at times like this it almost feels like a burden. Not that it's a direct comparison, but an hour before the Titanic hit the iceberg probably everybody wanted Captain Smith's job, but an hour after not so much.
We're getting by and all that despite the inflated price of everything - no apparent proverbial icebergs on our immediate horizon - but it's not like we can decide that we'd suddenly like to go to Disney for the holiday weekend or anything crazy like that; so whatever we do kind of has to be on the cheap, these days especially. It's still a very free way to live, if we want to do something outside and it happens to be raining where we live, we might even drive to a place where it isn't, but these kinds of plans also need to be fluid, as in deciding on Thursday, or even Friday afternoon what we're doing that weekend. That makes hotels a bother if the place we're going to requires one, depending on how busy the season is where we're going, which also makes crazy-expensive places like Disney impractical for spur of the moment planning like ours.
Anyway, the weather doesn't look good at all for Halloween this year where we live, and both the gloom of the impending weather and winter's approach doesn't help my gloomy mood either. I need something to look forward to, something a bit low-budget though, to break the cycle of the way I find myself feeling lately, something both way outside both the proverbial box, and my comfort zone. A Halloween-like idea then comes to me out of the blue; those ghost hunter type shows almost always find an abandoned building of one kind or another that they "investigate" this time of year, abandoned prisons and mental hospitals their "go-to" venues, probably because such structures were built so stoutly that they're still standing decades AFTER they were abandoned. Abandoned residential structures don't seem to fare as well, and legally visiting places like that is of dubious legality anyway; innocent urban exploring and breaking and entering close cousins in the legal world.
Well anyway, a google search of abandoned places that fits this specific criteria gives me some names, and one is even a drivable distance from where we live, but it's still a serious one hundred-ish mile ride, as in we'll have to stay overnight someplace; less my husband has to drive both ways in a single night. It's still an adventure though, something new, just what I need to break the doldrums I'm stuck in. We make ad hoc plans to spend the night and camp on the grounds someplace, after wandering around a bit inside, doing this adventure truly on the cheap. We'll even bring flashlights with us, in case our courage actually lets us stay inside after it gets dark out. In our minds it's public ground bought and paid for with taxpayer money, and we're taxpayers. It's a simplistic view of dubious legal merit, but desperate people will do almost anything, and we truly had no intentions of damaging anything; only exploring, taking pictures, and leaving only footprints behind.
This place is also rumored to be haunted, but aren't they all? It works with Halloween though, and my thoughts also have the police busy doing things in their communities, or perhaps watching out for people on the interstate who've had too much to drink at all the parties. I therefore theorize that they'll be far too busy to check on a massive abandoned building pretty much out in the middle of nowhere; as they built places like this back in the day to isolate the patients from everybody else. It sounds like a good plan to me, although with perhaps some legal gray areas to be sure. I don't have to work too hard at convincing my husband to go either, but my natural enthusiasm tends to rub off on him, and the rare times he gets me into an actual tent these days usually leads to some fun for him. Camping equals a seriously horned-up husband; it's like a super-simple caveman mental equation for him, but who knows why exactly.
Truthfully I do know why, but that's a different story for a different day…
…It's Halloween before we even know it, and it's a long drive, with the weather just terrible the whole way; but we're amped-up about this little risky adventure, and our discussions in the car focus on the adventure aspect of this, the unknown. We're teenager-like excited to be doing this, and that feels very energizing as it's been some time since we were teens ourselves. We also hit a fast food restaurant on the way out, our simple meals likely taking us right through the night, if it actually comes to that.
We eventually arrive and circle the very dark and imposing building once to make sure there are no other cars, and then we still park away from the building itself and walk in with our single backpack that my husband is gallantly carrying. This parking spot of ours is out of clear sight of the road, and a well worn path leads us through the tall chain-link perimeter fence that somebody has thoughtfully already cut, technically making us trespassers. There's also an equally well worn tamped-down trail in the end-of-season overgrown wet grass on the other side of that fence too, so it's obvious we're not the only visitors who've ever come in this way.
Camping in a gentle rain can be fun, very peaceful if your tent doesn't leak; which ours obviously doesn't. This isn't a gentle rain though, and that part of our plan may need some work; as bad as the weather was at home, it actually seems worse here. It isn't even night time yet, but the sky is still dark with heavy rain clouds, but we expect our actual exploring will still be a success if it's dry inside the building proper, as the apparently intact roof suggests. I saw this specific feature from the google earth photos I zoomed in on - it was one of my search criterias - but exactly how old those were was unknown. The bottom floor entry door the trail led us to had thoughtfully been left unlocked, further proof that our explorations were welcome… at least in my mind. This might still be entering, but not technically breaking and entering, a distinction I had learned from watching all those police shows in my youth; in other words a lesser crime, if even a crime at all.
Hanging our raincoats near the door to dry we set off exploring, the place feels spooky, even in the quasi light of a very rainy end of October afternoon. The sun is low in the October sky this time of day, but you couldn't tell that with all that rain. Back inside though the bottom floor looks like it had some administration offices at one time in its past, and maybe a larger dayroom where the patients could meet the families. There were other rooms as well, but this floor was in rough shape as compared to the outside, and truthfully slightly boring, not to mention that a room without furniture is really just an empty room.
This was a former psychiatric hospital, but I wasn't clear by this first floor's layout if this was one for the criminally insane, as in "not allowed to leave" or the more hospital-like kind for actual treatment. One thing for sure though was the bottom floor was in really rough shape, little bits of plaster from the ceiling on the floor, broken wire-reinforced windows, and graffiti on the walls too. The graffiti itself wasn't of the rude F-you kind, but much more like urban art; as in "Deion was here." One of the nudes Deion apparently painted was quite detailed and anatomically accurate, bearing in mind that it was made with spray cans. His subject was female and submissively posed on her knees with chains on her wrists and ankles, my husband no doubt getting ideas of his own for later on should I be that kind of willing. We both took pictures of this one - flash on - it was that good, stunning really. I was also left to wonder what Deion could have achieved with some oils and a brush, and a massive wall-sized canvas, instead of this crumbling wall plaster.
Making our way up to the second floor it becomes more obvious what kind of "hospital" this was, or at least what it morphed into in the later stages of its long life. This isn't meant to disparage those that either went there, or worked there, but the second floor and the heavy multiple steel doors one must walk through, stout locks and peepholes included, makes this a place that society keeps somebody - or perhaps more darkly something - someplace he or she doesn't want to be. The locks are all open now - although oddly enough keyed from both sides - but there were also several of them, and the bolts that held those heavy steel doors closed were thick and strong, five stout hinges on each door as well. Perhaps the outward appearance of normal hospital fire-doors, but certainly not the function; much more like the door on a safe. Anyway, once closed behind us with a heavy thud something else becomes obvious, the noise of the more open downstairs and the heavily falling rain all but disappears. It's like sticking your fingers in your ears, or even high end noise canceling headphones, it's just that kind of eerie silence.
Noise travels in two directions though, and that means that anything happening up on this second floor couldn't be easily heard down in the more public spaces back when this place was in operation, almost certainly by design. There's a different feeling up here too; a "we're getting into this adventure just a bit deeper, we're more 'committed,'" a mental unintentional play on words if there ever was one. Just like the patients - or inmates, or whatever they'd be called back in the day - our apparent avenues for escape go down in number the further we go up; and it's just impossible not to have a "captured" feeling in this place, at least for me.
There's also a slight feeling of being watched and studied in this new silence, but the open mystery of this place temporarily tamps that down for me a bit, and I assume my husband too. We're into this adventure though, maybe even enough not to listen to that inner voice that wisely warns us to be wary. In the dead, dead silence I can almost hear that disregarded voice, but some other things too, like the rhythmic and rapid pounding of my heart…
"Do you feel that?" I ask as I hold my husband's hand. I just need to reach out and touch the only other living being in here with me, share what I'm feeling with him. It's what we do to share experiences, it's at times almost like living two lives instead of only one.
"Yeah, this place is fricken spooky, but very cool too. You picked a good one sweetheart," he compliments, but in a whisper. We're both whispering, but it seems appropriate, like we're at the big county library maybe, and we don't want to be rude and disturb the others. This of course implies that there ARE others, but I hadn't made that leap of faith myself just yet…
There's a big industrial-like kitchen up here, open areas with rusty iron framed beds lined up by the windows in open dormitory style, and two common areas, one for apparent lounging and socializing, and the other for eating based on it being next to the kitchen. The couches and tables are no longer there though, so this is only an educated guess. There are block constructed nurse's stations in the halls, and no-door bathrooms that look like they belong in a highschool, but also several doors of stout construction like we just came through down below. There are also several separate rooms with heavy doors and locks, with tiny wire reinforced windows up high on the door itself, so those outside the room could perhaps check on those inside, without necessarily opening the door. There are also bars on the exterior wall windows in these, and we wonder between us in hushed whispers if these were for "patients" that couldn't be left alone with the other patients, like the really bad ones. It feels a bit like a jail with those bars, but the intentions for those could be only to prevent a fall; so nothing truly sinister.
Inside one such room - that still had its bolted-to-the-floor bed frame, and still looked in good enough condition to actually sleep in - motion caught the corner of my eye, but my head snapped around reflexively to see nothing. I could easily play it off as a trick of light in the low light shadowdy conditions, in combination with the spooky quiet of this place, but my husband did about the same thing, telling me he either saw what I thought I did, or he reacted to my reaction almost at the same exact time. Of the two of us he's more of a ghost-skeptic than I, but I'm not exactly a true believer either; as in I don't believe all of what I see on those ghost hunter TV shows. I'm on and off hearing subtle things in the dead silence now, noises that could be anything from mourning doves to very softly spoken human words. I can't understand them though, just that there are word sounds every now and then in the dead silence as if we're eavesdropping on a quiet conversation at some distance, mixed in with the slight noise of our footsteps and the natural movement of our clothing on our bodies.
Had we been real ghost hunters we may have thought to have a recorder going this entire time, even the one built into each of our phones, but neither of us thought to…
This is still an adventure though, but we can also turn around and leave any time we like; although my mind wanders to those that couldn't, that didn't have that option for themselves. I'm not exactly overwhelmed with empathy here, although the abject sorrow of this place could make a rainy day of handing out candy to children seem like a cheerful holiday vacation, even to just a dozen costumed kids back home.
In my mind's eye I could also - oddly enough - imagine being one of those patients myself back in the day, but the kinky kind, my alter-ego imaginary character maybe locked up in this place for being incorrigibly horned-up all the time; a lusty deviant woman perpetually in search of rough sex. Married men, single men, single ladies, several at a time even; what would it have taken back in the day to land a young woman such as myself in a place like this?
Maybe nothing more than a fed up husband looking for a bit of normalcy in his life, and of course a sympathetic judge to commit one like that alter-ego me to an institution like this one. I've read in historical accounts that this was a way for a powerful man back in the day to be rid of his troublesome wife, without parting with half of his wealth, nor embarrassing himself. Was it really so simple to have a disobedient wife committed back then, locked up where nobody would ever see her again, swept under the proverbial rug to make way for the next pretty young thing? In that dark scenario the husband maybe even comes away looking like the hero for dealing with her "problem" discretely and compassionately; all while being out on the back nine with his golf-buddy judge-friend at some later time.
I could just imagine being picked up by some burly white coated orderlies while out somewhere alone - after the necessary legal papers had been signed - stripped and roughly searched for weapons, and then maybe stuffed into their windowless white van like nothing more than dirty laundry. I'd eventually be delivered to a remote facility just like this one by this humiliating method, maybe while only wearing a straight jacket and bit-gag, and of course firmly strapped to a medical gurney. Or, would they instead leave me helplessly gagged, stripped, and strapped to their gurney on the sidewalk for a few extra minutes, all while finely dressed and more proper ladies and gentlemen walked by and gawked at the spectacle that I was, naked and writhing in my bonds while on full pathetic display?
I'd eventually be in-processed, and then of course medically restrained to a bed frame just like the one I had seen, locked in the same kind of room for a few hours to cool off from my insane journey; for both my own good and to give my handlers a needed break. I can just imagine being nude and strapped down to a heavy iron bed frame like that, four corners medically restrained while at the very edge of lust, needing that next big O like oxygen, and not able to even reach myself to take care of matters personally. I can just imagine that level of sexual frustration, it could drive even a sane woman madd.
I could more than just imagine it though, I could almost feel what it would be like, to have that kind of control taken away from me, forcefully stripped and made helpless in an institutional setting, by indifferent strangers just doing a job; but most certainly men with their own suppressed lust to contend with. In that helpless condition I'd be theirs for the proverbial taking, this body of mine physically desirable in any age, most certainly to men that could easily get away with such things… if of course they had the desire to. No hidden cameras back then either, just the words of a certified medical professional, against those of a certified crazy woman…
I'm obviously thinking sexy naughty things here, twisting this place up in my mind to suit my own kinky interests, where for the people here I doubt they were, I'm sure it was just a job to them; but who really knows? To be fair, they aren't here to tell their side of the story either. For myself though, to struggle and pull with all my might at institutional strength restraints, that wouldn't yield nor cut into me, that would be like kink-nirvana, but also near impossible to achieve in the real world too. The orgasm denial part maybe not so much, but it might be the price one has to pay for the total submissive and helpless "institutional" experience; and that way as well I'd be most grateful for my eventual rescue.
"Did they treat you poorly?" I asked out loud, thinking to communicate with whatever I had just seen, or thought I'd seen; my emotions obviously all over the place here. My husband was startled by my spoken words, maybe he was even wondering the same thing though, but didn't think to voice his thoughts like I just had. This of course makes the assumption that whatever I thought I saw was a previous patient or inmate, instead of somebody that had once worked here. Were they stuck here for all eternity too, maybe just needing to help one more soul; or was this instead darker, and did they need to capture just one more soul to free their own? For a compassionate empathetic human this place was likely overwhelming, but for an evil one maybe an opportunity like no other. One more soul to help, or one more to ruthlessly and opportunistically torment?
Anyway, we reluctantly leave that particular room and discover that there's a mirror image to this floor's design, left and right, with the massive kitchen however common and apparently serving both sides. Exploring some more we find more metal bed frames still in some of the areas, and urinals in some of the bathrooms, telling us this was the men's side, implying that the other was perhaps the ladies side.
Up one more floor is another set of heavy doors and treatment, there's a gym-looking room with lots of barred windows, rusty exercise bikes, and other things that might be found in any period club gym. Back In the day it was probably very nice, there was even an empty pool up there, so nothing truly ghoulish so far; it felt much more like a health club for the wealthy, but one you can't freely leave, and of course if this place was really haunted; eternal membership. Then there were the operating rooms, and a room with big stainless steel bathtubs, the sign still on the door for that one calling it hydrotherapy, eight tubs in the room. The tubs still look good, but not necessarily comfortable, more like something one would water cattle from, industrial-like even.
Things get to feel just a bit darker on our self-guided tour now, the other side of this place becomes more apparent. To be fair, just parking these people somewhere out of sight would be like neglect, they had to try to do something for them, if nothing else gave them a purpose maybe. I remind myself that the people running these places were likely trying to do their best for something they didn't really understand, or at least most of them were. Did they think this was cutting edge technology, just like we think our own present high tech machines and facilities are a hundred plus years later?
It's really a very interesting and humbling way to look at things…
Anyway, there was another room as well, with a heavy table with serious restraints all over it, and knobs, dials, and archaic looking switches, as well as antique electrical gauges on one whole wall. While horrified at what might have happened here - think Dr. Frankestien - my husband gave me a look that told me his thoughts were instead going in THAT direction. It's odd as I had been going that way myself just a few minutes earlier, but maybe not now being once again caught up and immersed in the mystery of this place, the lingering emotional turmoil as well…
Well to be fair, I myself can also turn off pretty quickly if just the wrong few words are spoken…
Anyway, this place obviously has me all over the place emotionally, it's like there are invisible waves of emotions flowing around in here, a rainbow of emotions, just reach out and pick one; bright and cheery, dark and moody, or even horny and needy. Is sycosis contagious, does it linger in a place like this even after all the patients have left… or allegedly left? I wonder.
Yes, he could strip me and four corner me to that bench like I was one of the patients myself, and then let me struggle for a bit like I had just imagined in that other room, and then he and I could even do the nasty someplace we'd never thought possible, except for the fact that my thoughts are still trapped down in that other room instead. I might be physically here in this room with all the dials and restraints, but I'm still mentally in that other curious room. I'm drawn to that one almost irrationally, but I don't necessarily fear it either, although these are really hard emotions to explain, it's almost like you have to reach out and feel that emotional rainbow for yourself to truly know it.
Anyway, I could always do the same for him, he gets off on being made helpless too. I could strap him to that table just as naked as the day he was born, it's even warm enough up on these higher closed-off floors, and I could then go on exploring solo for a bit while he struggled with his erect-self sticking in the air like a bare flagpole. In that scenario maybe checking in on him every now and then to see if he's still breathing, or if the rats have started eating him yet…
There's maybe something darkly suggesting all this to me, suggesting that I should continue on alone, that this husband of mine is an unnecessary burden, in other words weighing me down; although I know intellectually that it's foolish and risky to do so. Separated we are weaker than as a pair, and with him helplessly strapped down to that table such is doubly true. That's maybe the allure of it though, the implied peril; when would we ever get another opportunity to do something like this, to play with such fine toys in this particular spooky setting? It's almost a "now or never" mindset that I'm feeling, pushing me towards actions I may not otherwise select…
"DO IT!" an unfamiliar masculine voice in my head commands; but I resist the obvious temptation…
The next floor up is the real deal, not that I've ever been to jail, other than to tour an old one once that was also rumored to be haunted, but there isn't even the pretense of heavy duty "hospital" doors and "treatment" up here. These are small and cramped single-person, one-cot jail cells, pure and simple, cages for humans like you'd never even put a pet into. This is one half of the top floor of this building, and slightly newer-looking than the building itself, suggesting these were added at some later date to perhaps park the truly bad ones away from the others; in animal kingdom terms keeping the hungry predators from the sick prey.
The walls are reinforced concrete - for that matter the whole building is - and this makes the place feel like a bunker, and I recall seeing a rusted old three-triangle sign by the entry door that advised this was an official 1950's fallout shelter. It makes sense, the building is just that massive and intimidating to behold, like nothing could easily destroy it. The human inhabitants may come and go, but the building, the institution, remains!
Do walls such as these contain and trap those that were once here, even long after they've taken their last breath, or do they somehow offer safe refuge from someplace even worse, for those deserving of that fate instead? I wonder. It's an interesting thought, the very last mystery that we'll all one day know the answer to; what happens when we're no longer here? I don't know that I came here looking for such deep-life philosophical answers, but the overwhelming mood of this place has dragged me in that direction anyway.
Anyway, it also makes sense that this place might have been repurposed at some point in its long history, going from serving the co-ed needs of a hundred or two "sick" people, to maybe twice that many sometimes dangerous ones. It would be a relatively easy thing to remove the faux hospital doors up here in a remodel and replace them with bars; once firmly set in the concrete and locked in place they just weren't going anywhere… neither the bars nor the inmates. If for-profit businesses adapt to their customer's changing needs, would it be such a stretch of imagination that this county-run place, this institution, did so as well? What to do with crazy people who were also violent and a danger to society, or even to other more normal criminals in a more traditional prison?
Each corridor had a barred door of its own, in other words a checkpoint, so that if one of the inmates somehow managed to escape his or her individual cell, they wouldn't make it any further. If downstairs had just a feeling, this floor was truly transmitting a dark and evil message, at least for me. As raw and nasty as it was outside, the heat and humidity had risen up here, and we each peeled off a sweaty layer and stuffed them into our shared backpack; my husband actually gave me the eye in my little tank top and tight blue jeans.
I'm maybe slightly sensitive to what's going around me - spirit-wise - where he seems atypically tone deaf to both me, and the environment; or to be more fair, single mindedly focused on sex. We're alone in a new place though, it's almost like our first home, and we did it there literally everywhere we could that first year of being new homeowners; in each room, on top of the running washing machine, the kitchen counter, even on the kitchen table as he devoured me like his supper. We've pretty much broken in every car we've ever owned too, by doing it at least once either in, or on it. That "new husband" passion has maybe cooled slightly over the years, but it's still there. I've also had over the top passion with another too, with my husband's permission, but that's also a different story for a different day…
"Have you ever wanted to do it in a jail cell?" he asks with a gleam in his eye.
The short answer is yes - he knows this - I have this long held fantasy revolving around getting arrested by a big strong cop, stripsearched and cuffed after that, and then maybe even left in a holding cell for a while just like that; safe behind bars but also on full cuffed-behind-my-back display for whoever walks by. It's a submissive's power/authority fantasy that has about zero chance of happening in the real world for one like myself, but it's still a hot "go-to" fantasy…
At the same time this place is also screaming in my ear to get out, run away while you still can, even though we haven't clearly heard a soul tell us to leave since we've been here; living, or not. There's a mood-disconnect between us here in this environment, which is odd, as we're ordinarily very connected spiritually, like a two headed single being. We were ascending the first staircase, but not up here…
"Is something trying to come between him and I up here?" I maybe should have asked myself, but in all fairness it didn't occur to me at the time.
We've been taking pictures here and there with our phones, even some video, but just documenting the sights, not specifically looking for ghosts or anything. There's little actual evidence of other visitors up here too, no graffiti like on the first floor, no fresh footprints on the dusty floor either, and I wonder about that. There's still a strong feeling up here for me though - something that perhaps turned other urban explorers around in their tracks - but you can't prove a feeling, can't easily photograph it either. It's also all-hallows-eve, the time when the ghost and goblins are rumored to come out to play, and if any place truly has ghosts, it's surely this one…
"Why don't we camp up here? It's dry," he offers. Sex in a jail cell is what he's really offering, I realize.
If guys are logical, and women are passionate - or just at times smarter - this is at least a logical argument. We haven't seen or heard anybody, or anything to suggest that this place is physically dangerous, but my inner voice still tells me to beware. There's maybe just a lingering echo of the very sad and angry humans caged up like animals in here, and maybe even worked in the fields like animals too, to feed everybody who lived in this place; including their own jailers. Then an epiphany hits me, some of those rooms down on that first floor were likely for the staff that lived on site in shifts, the heavy soundproof doors allowing for a few hours of silent rest in between those shifts. Working here was likely hard enough, imagine living here too; it could drive a sane person right over the edge.
Anyway, in the living present day world there certainly isn't anything here - tangible - that suggests we shouldn't stay the night, conquer our fears and maybe have an experience to talk about one day, although doing it on a tiny jail cell cot might not happen. It's dry though, but candidly I tell him he's going to have to work pretty hard to get me going up here. This isn't a flat out refusal though, so there is that. In our relationship no means no, it's been like that since we were teens, although there are times when we like to push that boundary just a bit. So a firm "NO!" still means no, although a "noooo" generally means yes please, or perhaps just maybe… if you're persistent.
"Challenge accepted," he tells me with a smile. I am left thinking his likelihood of getting lucky would have still been exponentially better in the tent, even in the pouring rain. Sometimes it's not even about sex, at least for me, as I enjoy good company and a good adventure as much as anybody. If sex happens that's just wonderful, but I don't like to plan for sex; I far prefer spontaneity. Oddly enough, of the two of us I think I generally have the higher sex drive desire these days, but there are exceptions, and my moods have to be taken into account as well. When I want it I want it bad - and the time of the month matters a lot here for me too - but when I don't; leave me the frick alone!
My guy however looks at me through the dual prisms of both love and sex, or even sometimes just the anticipation of sex; sometimes I also think it's the only thing he thinks about, that and eating maybe, and of course work. There are obviously worse "problems" though, as he exclusively wants to have sex with me. As an added bonus, or freedom, or whatever one wants to call it, he doesn't mind sharing, in other words mind if I step out once in a while myself. I haven't in a long while, but he reminds me that I can any time I like; that of the two of us he feels like the lucky one, like he's obligated to share his good fortune in having me in the first place. In other words, he might not always want sex, but when he does he always wants sex with me, where in this unequal relationship I'm a bit more free to choose…
"Rock, paper, scissors?" he then asks, startling me from my drifting disjointed thoughts about choices, and I just look at him blankly until my brain catches up. I can't completely focus up here, it's like my brain is a bit muzzy, slow to respond. I almost always win this game too, meaning he's giving me a huge gift, as in he wants me to take the lead even further; be the dominant once again. How far to take this in this particular setting is the obvious question, but I have to win first; cart before the horse and all of that.
"What are you thinking?" I ask in return. I need to know that we're both getting back on the same page here, and truthfully I'm not there yet myself. I like to dominate, to be on top, but I also like to be dominated under the right conditions too, although I don't know that everybody is like this. I'm still figuring it all out, even at this age, and the only thing that I can say is it's near nirvana for me, for us even, if we're somehow both dominated at the same time. This requires a very special third party at a bare minimum to safely do the deed, but we also had that once back in our teens and early twenties, and while it lasted it was a wild and fun journey of sexual discovery…
"I think one of us should maybe try out that bench with the restraints, or maybe the loser just gets to be the prisoner of the winner someplace, possibly even for the rest of the night?"
Did that same voice make that same suggestion to my husband too? I wonder.
"Pictures?" I ask.
"As many as you want, I like it when you blackmail me," he confesses unnecessarily. Blackmail for us is always playful, and always sexual in nature.
"How long?" I ask in confirmation, the recklessly-foolish side of me wanting to actually do this. Will whatever I thought I saw in that room be happy to be rid of my husband for a bit, or is there something else here, with perhaps different and darker motivations?
"Until morning," my husband responds, having no shortage of courage that I had ever witnessed.
…My fist-rock predictably smashed his scissors, an altogether fitting metaphor for my potentially dominating and crushing him like this. He's horned-up into this though, and ordinarily I'm the voice of reason at times like this, but I can't hear that voice this particular early evening… in this particular place. There's something "possessive" about this place too, something that inspires one to do naughty things, to have naughty thoughts and desires with little left to temper them. Or, maybe this place is only an amplifier, magnifying our normal hunger for submission and kink. What I thought I saw watching us downstairs earlier wasn't evil-feeling either, I just didn't get that particular vibe down there, but are there others trapped in here with different motivations?
"Strip, bitch!" I tell him, channeling something dark I feel up here with words rarely spoken between us. I don't know what made me say those particular words, but he's into this full-on submission thing, so he's not put off by my blatant rudeness at all. He submits naturally and well to me anyway, it's hardly a "costume" of submission for him, but much more like the real him that doesn't get to come out and play as much as he should. He also likes being nude for me - the submission in that particular act, especially when I'm fully clothed myself - but he also looks good in his skin, and doing this to him in this particular quasi "against his will" setting is sure to do something for him as well.
"Everything in the backpack except your sneakers!" I add in a tone that's hard to ignore. I've taken on the intimidating tone of an evil taskmaster, like his for-real jailer that's having a bad day, and therefore in a "no-nonsense" mood with this "lesser" naked prisoner. Bare feet would be sexier, but less safe too with the dirt and who-knows-what-else all over the floor.
…"If you're going to love, love passionately, and if you're going to play, play hard and rough." It's my private mantra, or at least the way I try to do things, but these specific words and this tone are unique, even for me while playing our sexy games, and never something he would ever think to say to me one single time, even in play. He treats me with incredible respect, but prefers - when we're playing specifically - to be treated less than respectfully; which is something I struggle with to be honest. I can get close to playful implied humiliation, but I can't bring myself to straight-up humiliate him publicly; I'm just not made that way. I actually flirted with this on and off accidentally as a teen, but I didn't like the way it made ME feel, so I avoid it these days.
Anyway, by the time he puts his sneakers back on and hands me the heavy pack he's sporting one hell of a woody, I could hang my house keys on it, or maybe even use it as a leash. I've actually done the latter a time or two; guys, both literally and figuratively, go wherever you drag their guy parts, and if you squeeze hard enough even a very strong man will go to his knees and whimper just like a little girl.
Not that this is a direct barometer of his mental level of sexual excitement, but at least the non-thinking part of him apparently likes me calling the shots and dominating him roughly like this, using these particular less than kind feminizing words in this place. He's helped me to live out all kinds of fantasies myself; freely given me that kind of freedom and security, even the freedom for my married-self to be with another. Maybe I can do the same for him here, privately, make him my helpless "little-bitch" naked and jailed prisoner for a few hours, almost without serious effort on my part; even though I'd obviously prefer that for myself. Giving and getting - two sides of the same proverbial coin - but this time it's the former. I really want some of the same for myself, but I just don't think that it's wise at the moment for both of us to get all locked up and helpless at the same time; not here anyway.
I also like having him naked, there is just something about him being bare - in my clothed and commanding presence - that does something for both of us. We've been like this since our teens, since even before a particular camping experience that we both had with a very good friend. It elevates me and demotes him, and I think he likes that part the best. For myself, I don't mind looking at his body at all, all the parts are in the proper place and proportions.
Back when he was a teen he maybe looked just a little bit effeminate to my sometimes critical eye, but he's since grown into manhood quite nicely, a diamond in the rough, a true keeper. Anyway, he maybe expects to go down a floor to treatment just as he is, so I can strap him down to that table for a good naked struggle fest of his own, but something else compels me to explore up in the jail cell area just a bit more. It's like there's someone new whispering to me that there's something left to discover up here, something I'll like.
A fresh thought then pops into my mind from who knows where, but jails and jail cells do play into this a bit, so I don't necessarily attribute this to anything paranormal.
"Did you pack our handcuffs?" I ask my husband opportunistically.
"Both pairs," he answers with a smile, we apparently getting back on the same page together.
So, it's clear that he likely had some kinky plans of his own for later on, but I wonder if this was exactly what he had in mind, or if he intended me to be wearing them instead. In either event I go fishing in our pack and find one pair of our cuffs at the bottom, the real-deal S&W pink pair. I feel the other fur lined pair and also feel some chain down in the bottom as well, explaining why the pack felt so heavy to me.
"Hands behind your back, Bitch!" I command roughly, getting further into the "I'm your jailer" theme of this place. He willingly plays along, it's not quite like somebody is whispering in my ear to say these things, but these words aren't ones I would ordinarily use with him either. He's my nude prisoner though, the lesser between us by lost-wager consequences.
Cuffs on just tight enough - locked with the special pin on the unique key so they don't tighten themselves further - we walk on, down the length of the cells with him in front. I put the cuffs key into my tiny front jeans pocket for safe keeping, but I would also question this act later. Anyway, towards the end of the hall we see something in one of the doors, it's a ring of keys sitting inside the lock; the only cell with a working mechanism still in it's door. It's also getting dark up here now, as the scant gloomy light through the gaps in the boards of the boarded up windows surely isn't fully up to the task of proper illumination. This cell almost reminds me of that room downstairs too, the one that looked almost preserved, lived in maybe, and therefore special. There's even a bed in this one too, a cot actually bolted to the wall, but it's also someplace secure for my naked and horny prisoner to be safely parked for a bit; or so I feel suggested to me from who knows where.
"We should get one of these for the basement," he tells me, both echoing a familiar conversation we've had more than a few times, and telling me he's also up for a bit of playful incarceration too. Getting into this little presented opportunity a bit further, and with one hand on his bicep arm like I'm his for-real jailer, I try the only door with a key in it with my other. It clunks noisily, telling me it's obviously still locked, and of course that the old lock actually still works. Not to be so easily dissuaded I turn the key over one full revolution - like an old-time deadbolt - and then unlock it, and that noise as well is overloud and echoey in this very quiet space. "When was the last time that particular noise was heard in this upper floor jail, and who's listening besides us?" I ask myself silently.
Growing more fully into my faux role as my naked husband's jailer I swing the squeaky door open and push him inside, just like a real jailer might, so none too gently, and I then slam and lock the door as he turns to look at me. The astonished look on his face says " I can't believe you're doing this," but if he's looking for some further mercy, or an early parole, he's not getting it from me; and my stern face I think conveys this as well. I've bound and controlled him in the past many times, but this setting was different; these things, this jail cell specifically was meant to cage and control humans that wanted to leave, that were likely a danger to others; so in other words it's a "no-joke" kind of place. It's a distinction in my mind, and a faint little voice was almost whispering in my ear; "well done, now come back downstairs to play."
I fish out a water bottle and his cell phone and hand them through the bars, pocketing the large key ring in my back pocket. "Text me one single time… that isn't a for-real emergency, and I may just lose these keys and leave you here!" I admonish. He had to turn to take both items through the bars cuffed as he was, and his look when he turned back as I simply stepped away from his jail cell was just priceless. He maybe expects me to return to rescue him after taking a few steps down the corridor - that I'm maybe bluffing - and I can only imagine what he's left thinking when I don't. He maybe wanted to be strapped down, to struggle helplessly, and here I can't blame him as I kind of wanted the same for myself, but he also lost his bet with me, and there ARE consequences. Maybe not the ones he expected though…
You'd think that I would be frightened walking around in this place all alone, but the truth of the matter is I don't feel alone, I feel like I have an unseen escort. It's not quite the jailer/prisoner vibe I was projecting upstairs for my husband though, this is more friendly than that, like a movie-house usher taking me to my seat. I/we go down one floor and eventually walk by the room with the table and the straps; I lament out loud that it's too bad that I couldn't strap myself down to that table, but it's specifically designed not to let the patient escape, the buckles obviously of the two handed variety. Doing so, even if somehow possible, would be super unwise, like damn near slow-motion suicide, and I'm just not up for that.
Even with my unseen ghostly escort it would be true insanity to have both my husband and I helplessly captured and restrained within this place at the very same time, although I'm inexplicably drawn to do exactly that. I resist the lusty temptation, the temporary sexual thrill of nakedly struggling to exhaustion against firm institutional restraints with no husbandly rescue possible. I obviously have more than just my own life here in the balance though, not to mention the consequences of being eventually found by either the authorities, or others with far more nefarious intent; like "I like my women kneeling in chains" Deion. People disappeared all the time, and I had plans for this life of mine, as did my husband for his own…
Anyway, we're heading down still one more floor to THAT room, the one where I thought I saw something, but it's like I'm on autopilot. I'm not really following, nor leading, and the other odd thing is it's now considerably darker inside this building, but somehow I still know where I'm going. The fact that my eyes have adjusted slowly maybe explains why I can kind of still see though, so maybe not a paranormal thing specifically. I eventually become aware of a faint green glow further down the hall, and I walk in that direction like a moth to a porchlight. I'm perplexed by any light inside this massive place as I'm fairly sure the power has been off for quite some time, so in my mind this leaves something paranormal as the source, or perhaps I suppose other trespassing humans just like me. I don't hear a thing though, and the faint light source isn't moving, so my natural curiosity kicks in.
I discover the light is coming from the wall outside of the room that I'm drawn towards, the same one my ghostly escort is leading me towards as well. When within a few feet of the glowing wall I discover that the wall is half covered with some kind of growth, a kind of luminescent moss maybe, as it's warm and humid in this place, the air heavy and hard to breathe. The moss itself is glowing, and I chuckle to myself, debunking what surely would appear to most as a ghostly green apparition. I become quite cynical in my mind, laughing inwardly at my foolishness; "there is no such thing as ghosts!" I tell myself confidently.
"Are you sure?" I hear, whispered in my ear, so faintly though that I could almost dismiss it as something from inside my own head, as opposed to something else.
"I was a moment ago," I answered verbally and softly, perhaps talking to myself, perhaps not.
"Is this place driving me nuts too?" I ask myself.
"We mean you no harm, and your man friend is quite safe upstairs in the holding cells."
"I hear the truth of your words," I whisper softly. "If you go looking for ghosts, don't be all surprised when you actually find one," I tell myself further.
"Why don't you lie down on that bed for a bit, relax, maybe take a little nap, it's surely been a long day for you?"
I felt compelled to do exactly that, not out of duress though, but because whatever this was that was talking to me wanted it. It seemed like a trance-like dream coupled with the overpowering power of suggestion; an elaborate dream of some kind that I wanted to continue. So, this wasn't anything even close to a nightmare for me, and I even got the feeling that I could ask things too, to be truly interactive with whatever this was. Maybe this was something, or somebody even, that has truly gone where no living soul has gone before, and as such he might have some insights that could alter my own life's path. Everybody has questions about what happens when we're no longer here; I know I do…
"Okay, how do you want me?" I ask in open-ended fashion, literally overcome by the experience of interacting with a disembodied voice. I meant of course - in my mind - on my back or side, and head facing which way.
"Naked and handcuffed to my bed," the voice answers almost instantly, playfully too. I'm pretty sure it's a male voice with that suggestion, but still, just wow!
I'm literally taken aback, never on any of those ghost shows on TV does the EVP ask for something sexual like this, nor do they even curse. Do they edit those kinds of things out for broadcast though? I wonder.
"A bold one you are!" I observe with a playful snark in my tone.
"You may pick one of the two," I then offer in compromise to my unseen admirer. Both are truthfully something I'd love to be compelled to do under ever so slightly different circumstances, and the handcuffs part hints at this ghostly soft voice having knowledge of even what's in our pack.
"Naked then, it's been a very long time since we've seen a real live naked woman; we don't get many visitors, ones that stay very long anyway."
"'We've?' How many are in my company here?"
"I can't say," the voice tells me.
"Who are you then?" I ask next.
"I also can't say."
I sleep naked anyway, so stripping down to take a nap isn't all that unusual, but doing it for a ghost in an abandoned mental hospital, with my naked husband locked and inaccessible in a jail cell, obviously was. I look around to see if it, or I guess he, is watching, and then I flippantly figure, what the heck. One half of me feels like it's watching the other half of me perform, but I'm also not doing something that I truly don't want to. It's like being randy and half drunk at a party, and having the handsome guy you've been flirting with all night ask you to his room, or feel you up. High desire coupled with low inhibitions I suppose, and in my particular case, about zero apparent earthly consequences…
I don't necessarily put on a strip tease for my voyeuristic spirits, but I do strip myself down to just my skin, maybe half pretending that I'm still doing this only for myself. I pack everything into our backpack, but I have to remove our sleeping bag to make it all fit. I lay that out onto the bed and stretch out on it, grabbing the bars wide over my head and wrapping my ankles wide in the bars at the other end for a moment. "Oh to be spread-eagle restrained and displayed like this for real in this place, it would be so damn sexy, here especially, for this particular audience," I think to myself.
"Now what?" I ask softly, holding the position for just a few moments more without a shred of modesty. I'm insanely waiting for a touch, anywhere on my body, just to prove I'm not hallucinating this entire event. So, really looking for both physical ghostly interaction and approval of this body of mine, as insane as that likely sounds.
"Are you still there?" I call out softly, when I don't get an immediate answer.
"Simply magnificent!" my unseen admirer eventually tells me softly, and I feel positively elated at the high compliment. When I look in my mirror back at home I see all the imperfections, where my husband - and just a few select other men - tell me I look perfect. In all reality the truth probably falls someplace in the middle, but overly body-confident I'm not. It's something I'm still working on, although I pretend differently, but deep down even wearing a bikini on a public beach is almost terrifying for me, depending on my specific mood and the scale's most recent approval. There are other women who rock that look, and I privately fear I won't publically measure up, so my default is a much more modest one-piece suit.
"Too excited for a nap then?" my unseen admirer asks perceptively.
"Imagine this from my point of view." I tell him softly, the honesty of my words - I think - ringing true.
"Imagine it from mine."
"Touche!" I told my unseen friend.
"Must I give something to get something?" I then ask naughtily. This is the crux of the issue here, and I want to ask so much, learn something profound from this. I therefore don't want this interaction to end early either, and I'm willing to do what I can to allow it to continue, to perpetuate the interaction. I want to know about him though, but the conversation still somehow comes back around to me.
"You already have, we have your guy friend naked and cuffed in a holding cell, and you're naked in my bed two floors down, imagine the fun we could have, imagine the fun your guy thinks we'll have?"
"He doesn't have to imagine that at all, he's lived it; he's a very sharing and giving man," I confess.
"Do tell."
"You would have had to be there, it was very wonderful and loving though, back when we were teens."
"A place like this will destroy a giving soul, if one stays long enough."
"'How R U?"' I text my husband a few seconds later, jumping up from my slumber and feeling the immediate need to make sure he's okay. I somehow blindly found my phone in my pants pocket, inside our pack on the floor. My motions were reflexive though, and as such there was a fumbling clumsiness to them, kind of like the proverbial bull in the china tea shop.
The light from even the dimmed screen temporarily spoils my night vision, and my husband's response is an agonizing several seconds in coming, and really almost gibberish, but I understand him to mean he's just fine. I assume this is a whispered voice to text, and he's always impossible to understand when he does that, but texting while wearing cuffs behind your back, in the dark, would likely be just about impossible too.
…An image then forms in my mind of my standing husband cuffed behind his back and bent over in the dark, his phone's illumination backlighting his hanging guy parts. He'd be in his jail cell, holding his phone between his legs and having his own night vision spoiled. I also imagine the presentation of his rather nice body bent over like that, what somebody so inclined, living or otherwise, might also be thinking about. I might even want to just playfully paddle him in that position myself, that thought as well pops into my mind…
"'Were you napping?"' I text next as a follow up.
"'Yup"'
"'Me 2 I think, if you're ok I'm going to try some more."'
"'K"'
I assumed that I had somehow nodded off for a few minutes in the dark, and also assumed that my ghostly interactions were in my dreams alone, that is until I heard him again; "How about those cuffs now?"
…"What's in it for me?" I ask out loud after a second to gather my thoughts, realizing that this interaction might somehow actually be real.
"Put those cuffs on and we'll show you… and maybe then we'll also tell you where you dropped hubby's key."
Being a bit skeptical, I sat back up and checked my blue jeans back pocket; the large keyring was right where I put it, despite my fumbling recovery of my phone a few moments before…
"Can you lie to yourself in a dream?" I ask myself profoundly, thinking I have logical proof that this ghostly interaction is real. This doesn't exactly explain the not-missing cell key, but more on that in a bit. It's a bit of a logical quandary in the actual moment, but it gets clearer in the morning.
"You naughty, naughty boy, I haven't dropped any keys," I tell my unseen admirer playfully with a smile. I was naturally thinking he'd like my wrists locked through the headboard though, anchoring me firmly to this bolted to the floor iron bed, but now I just don't trust him completely. This is my concept of bed bondage though - been there and done that - so maybe something I specifically bring to the proverbial table… or more accurately the bed.
With insane motivations from who-knows-where, perhaps just wishing to prove or disprove things in the afterlife, I again reach into our bag blindly and grab our furry steel handcuffs, placing the single key - the other safely home with the spares for several of our restraints - into my mouth for safe keeping. I lay back on the bed I'm borrowing and I hear the cuffs ratchet themselves firmly closed on my wrists, realizing though that I'm doing this to myself reflexively…
"You are a wild one. Touch yourself, bring yourself off while we watch. It's been a very long time since we've seen such passion… from a woman."
This is straight up insane, but I do as I'm told, my wrists not cuffed through the bars of the headboard like I almost feared I had done though. I'm also mindful of accidentally swallowing that tiny key, and being forced to wait for that to "pass" before recovery; YUCK! I'm also feeling "chained and helpless," overcome with lust performing such a personal intimate thing for these ghosts like this, but it's not like I'm making a video that's going to go viral or anything like that.
It's a bit of a challenge, but I roughly molest my own boobs and tease up my nips right to the point that it doesn't feel good, right on the edge. I have to use both hands on each, cuffed up as I am, so this is a bit different than what I ordinarily do to self-entertain. My lips are pinched shut on the little key so I don't accidentally swallow it; it's almost like being self-gagged. I rub my way down my body, twisting and bending like my husband was making love to me instead, locking my ankles on either side of the bed frame, pretending my peril was a bit more real, that I was some man's bound and naked plaything here.
The cuffs help, and as I reach for myself and get to work a bit lower I dip a finger, and then two into my squishy self…
"That looks so yummy!" I hear in my head.
Overcome by the power of suggestion I stick my self-dipped fingers into my own mouth, unintentionally dropping the key someplace to be recovered later; it's just an afterthought now with my boiling lust in full-on mode.
"Mmmm" I tell my ghostly voyeur, licking my fingers clean before going back to get some more. I'm twisting, bending sinuously on that little bed, and making some very wild noises, maybe even enough to wake the dead. My knowing hands are soon in full autopilot mode, furiously rubbing myself off and rattling not only the cuff's link chain, but the stout bed frame as well. I soon feel the intense clutching and extended orgasm roll over and through me like a speeding train, and when I eventually come down from that I'm a sweaty wreck…
"How was that?" I ask, looking irrationally for approval once again.
"Hubby's actually looked more intense than that."
I don't necessarily believe him, but there's more where that came from anyway, and two more big O's has me napping for a bit in post orgasmic recovery…
I awaken a few hours later to a glorious brand new day, knowing that the end really isn't the end, just another step in the journey. But I'm also feeling a bit guilty for marooning and jailing my husband for so long, wondering at his own experiences that my ghostly friend hinted at; with whom, or much more accurately what.
In the morning's light I easily find my dropped cuff key under my borrowed bed and get dressed, thanking my unseen voyeur verbally for everything, packing up and then making my way back to my incarcerated husband on the third floor. He looks like he's had an experience too, and I get him to confess to rubbing himself off as well, although for some reason he's a bit vague about the details… I know we'll talk on the long ride home though, so I don't really worry.
I open his cell and go to find his cuffs key - the distinctive special pink key for the pink S&W cuffs - which isn't in my front pocket like it should be, nor is it in our backpack. I empty that out onto the dirty floor and search everything, finally knowing what my friendly voyeuristic spirit was hinting at. It's too late to make a deal with him now, and I end up driving home myself with a cuffed and covered naked husband laying down-low on the back seat…
