Gromet's PlazaPackaged, Encasement & Objectification Stories

The Helper

by Unknown

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© Copyright 2007 - Unknown - Used by permission

Storycodes: F/m; entombed; cons; X

It's an ordinary enough looking door. Painted grey, a brushed aluminum doorknob with a key slot in the middle of the knob. The only thing different about it is that there is no gap at the bottom. I put my key in the slot and turn it. The knob turns easily, yet there is a very solid, secure feel to it. You can turn it but you can't wiggle it up or down or side to side.

I go inside, stepping down a couple inches. I close the door behind me. It latches with a click barely audible amid the sigh of the rubber gaskets as the heavy steel door nestles into its frame. It is totally dark in here. No light gets in from the brightly-lighted corridor. I find the light switch in the dark (I know this room well) and check to see if everything is in readiness. It is.

I set a paper plate on top of a stepladder in the room, and squeeze a small glob of epoxy resin and another glob of hardener the same size onto the plate. I mix the two together with a tongue depressor, then open the door and proceed to pack the resin mixture into the key slot using the tongue depressor. This isn't that five-minute epoxy, this is the good stuff that takes overnight to cure completely, but is stronger than steel once it's completely hardened. I carefully inspect my work with an eye loupe, making sure the epoxy has penetrated the lock cylinder completely. Then I go back out into the corridor, leaving the door open. I walk down the hall to the exit door, and go out, making sure the door locks behind me. I have the only key.

Tomorrow the Helper will be here.

Next day, just as I am unlocking the outer door, the Helper appears. By now, I'm used to Helpers arriving just in the nick of time, but it's still amazing. Personally, I'm never on time for anything. Yet, when I'm Helping, I always get there precisely on time, without even trying.

She (it would be a girl, wouldn't it?) is young and incredibly beautiful, with brown eyes and long, dark brown hair. We say nothing to one another, of course. The Guild of Helpers has only two rules. One, "You must Help before you are Helped" (that one should be obvious!) Two, "A Helper must not speak while Helping" I suppose there is nothing to stop the person being Helped from talking, but nobody I've Helped ever has.

I only need one Helper for what I'm doing, but a couple years ago there were about seven of us Helping one guy. We wrapped him up like a mummy and plastered him inside a wooden mummy case. The entire procedure was carried out exactly as he'd written about it thirty or forty years ago. I read the story way back then and you better believe it felt good to see it come true.

The Helper follows me through the outer door and closes it behind her. She then follows me down the corridor to the room where all is in readiness. I take off my street clothes and try not to look at the Helper while doing so, lest I get aroused by the sight of her and forget what it is I have come here to do. She is unlikely to be aroused by the sight of me, as I am old enough to be her grandfather. Maybe not, though. Some Helpers are older than they look. Much older.

I put on the thermal underwear, sweatpants and hooded sweatshirt, and two layers of socks I had laid out for myself. I get myself into a heavy winter coverall. Over my face goes a mask which covers my nose, mouth and chin. It's very thick and heavy, but I can breathe through it if I don't try to inhale or exhale too fast. Then I pull the hood of the sweatshirt over my head and pull the drawstring snug and tie it in a knot. A square knot. I'm not going to be untying it. I zip up the coverall. It has a knitted collar that almost completely covers my face mask. Then I pull up the hood of the coverall, tighten the drawstring and tie it off in another square knot.

The Helper hands me a pair of knitted cotton gloves, which I put on, then a pair of mittens, which she helps me pull on over the cotton gloves. Then she helps me climb up the stepladder I mentioned yesterday, which is there so that I can get into the 55-gallon steel drum that is in the middle of the room. I sit on top of the ladder and pull my knees up. Then the Helper gives me a shove and in I go.

There is soft padding at the bottom of the drum, so I don't have a hard landing. The Helper then stuffs more padding into the drum until I am immobilized in a fetal position. Then she puts the cover on the drum and secures it with a metal band that fits around the edge and tightens with a clamp so it is impossible to remove the lid from inside.

Next, the Helper tips the drum over on its side. It is now cradled on a set of rollers. She turns on a switch and the drum begins to rotate slowly... maybe one revolution per minute. I have lavished much care on the design and construction of this mechanism, so that absolutely no vibration is transferred to the drum. I am in total darkness, in almost total silence, and it's impossible to keep track of which way is up and which is down.

The last thing I hear is the faint sound of that massive steel door closing and locking forever, as the Helper leaves.



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