Extreme Packing

In a recent post, after discussing a packaging session I felt was tame, Bondage Princess jokingly wondered what the “worst” I could do was. Before that, I had been debating whether I would post tales of the truly extreme things that I have done. I debated this because, in part, while I have preached safety throughout my posts, those truly extreme things from my past were not entirely safe. They were in fact, quite reckless and irresponsible, even though I had worked to make them as safe as possible at the time. Secondly, they did not involve my wife, and I wanted to emphasize the things that we do together and for each other, rather than the things that I’ve done with others. 

However, my wife enjoys hearing these stories, and I’m guessing that someone here may too. They are dramatic. Even I am willing to concede that. So, with that preface in mind, I’ll answer the question, “what’s the worst I can do?” 

Remember, I told you so... 

Many years ago, I had my first long-term-and seriously kinky-relationship with a young woman, Jewel, who was two years my junior. We had known each other since childhood, and were now attending the same college. To call her merely “submissive” would be an understatement. Words fail me in trying to explain the true depths of her submissiveness. 

One afternoon I dragged home a large wooden shipping crate from my part-time job. We had received a specialized piece of equipment by truck freight in the crate, and I had been told to discard the useless box. Naturally, I didn’t think it was useless. Neither did Jewel. The crate was constructed of panels of framed wood slats, assembled into a box. The corners were reinforced with metal braces, and when received it, the lid had been nailed down, then the crate banded by four cargo straps to further secure and reinforce it. The crate was, going from memory, nearly three feet long and nearly two feet both across and deep. It easily weighed forty pounds. 

A 5’6”, Jewel easily fit inside the crate, with room for a tightly packed friend to join her. Knowing that an object considerably heavier than her had been shipped in the box, we began to hatch the obvious plan; pack her in and ship her... really, actually ship her. 

Jewel was no stranger to prolonged bondage. She would routinely, and quite eagerly, subject herself to spending a full twenty-four hours huddling in a dark corner of the basement, naked and gagged, roped into any manner of painfully strict positions. But spending twenty-four hours or more packed in a crate was another matter. We decided to test her endurance with a series of dry runs, with her bound and trapped in the crate at home. 

Since the crate was made of wooden slats, airflow was not a concern. In fact, so much space remained between some of the slats that I lined the crate by stapling in a layer of black cheesecloth on all sides. This prevented anyone from peering into the crate and examining the contents, and kept her hair from spilling out between the slats. The slats also allowed for a drainage route, as she certainly would not be able to contain her bladder for her entire imprisonment. 

For our first test, I gagged her with a homemade “breather” ball gag, a 2” diameter hard rubber ball mounted on a dog collar. I had drilled a large hole in the center of the ball, to allow her to breath should her sinuses become congested. For her bondage, I trussed her nude with white cotton clothesline, hands crossed behind her back, arms bound to her torso at her waist and above and below her breasts. I tied her legs at the top of her thighs, just under her ass, mid thigh, above and below her knees, and her ankles. A tight crotch rope held a nice, big butt plug in place. I remember that we chose not to include a dildo, much to her dismay, as toxic shock was the big issue in the news at the time.

While I wanted to ball tie her, I had some concerns about her suffering from positional asphyxia, even though she had endured tight ball ties for long periods before. Besides, lying naked and trussed there on her side, the box held her in a snug fetal position anyway, leaving her with only a few inches of wiggle room, so the extra roping was really unnecessary. With her gagged, trussed, and packed in the box, I placed the lid on loosely and left her there for a full day, checking on her constantly. She did fine. 

For the second test, I placed her as before, this time nailing down the lid and fastening the cargo straps around the box. As before, I monitored her closely, always ready to release her if need be. After twenty-four hours though, I told her that I had “misplaced” my crowbar, and she would have to wait, four more hours, it turned out, until I “found” it. Again, she came through healthy and very, very happy. 

Finally, It was time. 

On a Tuesday morning, I trussed her as before, packed her into the crate, and loaded the box, unsealed, into a van borrowed from work. I drove her to another city, two hours away, to the depot of the freight company that had originally shipped the equipment. Just before we arrived there, I pulled over, checked on her one last time, then nailed down the lid and tightened the straps around the crate, sealing the helpless, naked captive inescapably within. I drove the last block to the depot, completed the shipping papers, and then watched as two men stacked her crate onto a loading dock scale. Finished, I paid the truck freight charges, watched as they labeled and restacked her crate, and left, leaving her to begin her naked journey. 

Jewel said that she spent most of the afternoon stacked on the loading dock with other boxes, crates and cartons. At one point, a group of employees ate lunch on the dock, with one man actually sitting on her crate, eating lunch and smoking cigarettes while talking with his buddies. As he did, she laid there, drool quietly bubbling around her gag, watching their shoes through her cloth-covered slats, hoping that the men did not look too closely back. Eventually they went on about their work, finally loading her aboard a truck. Her truck departed sometime early that evening. Her ride was loud and bumpy, but uneventful. The truck arrived at the local depot a few hours later, where it was left parked, unopened, all night. 

Throughout the night, she fantasized about her predicament, of being delivered to a stranger in some distant location that we had not previously agreed upon, imagining that she had actually been sold off to him for his insidious plans. Or perhaps the truck would be hijacked, and she would be discovered by criminals searching for cigarettes or stereos. What, she wondered, would they do with her, once they discovered her tightly packaged goods? 

Early that morning she awoke to a flurry of activity as workers unloaded the truck and stacked the contents to await customer pick-up. I arrived around eleven that morning and picked up the crate at the dock. Once she was loaded into the van and we we off, she “mmmphed” her “I’m okay” signal, and we headed home. 

At home, I unloaded the crate, unpacked the bundle, pulled out her gag, and immediately provided her with her favorite meal. With her then fed, I stuffed the big gag back into her aching jaw before beginning to bind her breasts, tightly encircling each breast with strand after strand of rope, until each was roped into a swollen, purple mound. I then tossed her over my shoulder and carried her down to the basement, where I roped her sore, stiff, body into a bowstring taught hog tie before leaving her there, struggling to shift her weight from resting on her tightly bound breasts.

03.08.07