My Anti-masturbation Device. Mary Cranston copyright 2005 This is a true story; only the names have been changed. It contains material that may upset some people. It is a story about a young girl who had to wear an anti-masturbation device long after masturbation was believed harmless by mainstream medical opinion. There is also information about genital mutilation, corporal punishment and near-enslavement. If these subjects are likely to upset or offend you, do not read it. The story is copyright - any use is permissible as long as no profit is involvved. If you seek to make money from the story you must first contact me at the following email address, (taking out the spaces): cranstoncrx @ yahoo.com In the Beginning: ----------------- I was born in 1947. We lived in small town Bible-belt Middle America, an area rife with prejudice, narrow-mindedness and people who thought they knew what was best for others and weren't afraid to say so. My mom was in her late 30's, and I had a brother then aged 15 and a sister of 13. I never really knew my brother - he left home before I remember much, and only visited like at Thanksgiving and Christmas. He graduated as an engineer and worked in the aero industry. My sister was something of a second mother to me when I was tiny. Then she went to nursing school so we only saw her at vacations for a while until she graduated, and after that hardly at all. So I was really an only child of late parents from age 5 or so. The first important event of this saga occurred when I was too young to remember. I don't know exactly when it happened, but I must have been just a few weeks or months old. I didn't realize until much, much later, when I was able to find close- up pictures of other women's genitalia, that I was any different from anybody else down there. By that time, it was too late to ask my mom what had happened - she was dead - and my father and big sister claimed to know nothing about it. It looks as if somebody took a pair of medical forceps and gripped my clitoris so that just a little poked out of the upper surface, then used a blade to take off the protruding flesh. Most of the hood is missing with part of the glans, cut off flush with the outer labia, and there is nerve damage at the base of the glans. There is an uneven scar with some extremely hypersensitive nerves. The slightest touch caused intense and strange sensations, hot, cold, tickling, pricking and also some (mostly unwanted) sexual arousal. One boyfriend had spent time in Indonesia. He said that it was very like the female circumcisions that they do there and wondered if we had had an Indonesian maid looking after me at that time. Father said that we did not, but we had a lot of different maids so maybe he just forgot. More recently, I got a surgeon to stretch the remaining clitoral hood-skin over the damaged area so that the sensitive nerves are no longer exposed to touch. All I was aware of in my youth was that my panties would creep up into my front cleft and cause unbearable irritation, so that I had to reach up under my skirt to adjust things. In the winter, my mom would make me wear woolen panties that she had knitted; these had a center seam that would cut me in half, creeping right up into the most sensitive part. I notice these days that little girl's panties have a flat gusset at the crotch, so this problem would not have happened, or would not have been so bad. But at that time, even my cotton summer panties had a seam that tortured my hypersensitive scar. At that time, I assumed that I was just like anybody else down there, and that they somehow managed to stay calm and ignore the discomfort. I never saw them reach down and adjust their panties, pulling the seam away from the cleft. I had to do this all the time. If my mom caught me doing this in company, she would make disapproving noises and tell me in a loud stage whisper not to do that. If we were alone, she would lecture and scold me about "desecrating" myself, and I got a "whuppin" a few times. She told me that my body was a temple given to me by God to live in and that I must respect it just as much as a church. I would try to hold off from adjusting my clothing, but the constant torment would build up in intensity until I just had to. For the "whuppin", she had a length of old horse-harness, a bridle, maybe, a leather strap about an inch wide, doubled over, and the ends knotted and plaited together to form a handle. It was about two feet long including the handle. She would lift up my skirt and tuck me under her arm and use this thing on my thighs mainly. It really stung but it didn't do too much damage. I saw other kids at school whose parents used paddles or razor strops and they had really deep bruising that lasted weeks. The end, where it doubled back used to leave a few "C"-shaped bruises that lasted a few days, or a week or so, but it was embarrassing because it often showed under the hems of my skirts. Mittens and Straps: ------------------- When I was about eight, she started to watch me as I went to sleep, and would tell me to sleep with my hands outside the bedclothes. In the mornings, she would come into my room early and insist that I got up right away. I was not really aware of masturbating or orgasms at that time, although I used to put my hand down there in a protective and comforting manner when I was in bed. No doubt she had seen this at some time and had assumed that I was interfering with myself. Around that time, she started to become generally more controlling. I was not allowed to visit with other girls after school, but had to come straight home. She would make me help her with all the chores so that I was never out of her sight. When I needed the bathroom, I would have to ask her, and she would watch me, although I could manage perfectly well on my own, and she supervised my bath-times. She said that she was worried about me and that she wanted to care for me and do the best for me, but that my disgusting habits were abnormal and would have to stop. I later found in my school records that she had written to my school asking the teachers to watch me carefully for signs of "bad habits." I was not aware of the teachers behaving any different at school, so maybe they decided to ignore it. Then she took me to a gynecologist; this meant a trip to a big city. As my mom did not drive, this took all day. There was a lot of discussion between the doctor and my mom that I was not supposed to hear, but I had more acute hearing than they guessed, and I heard something about an operation. The doctor was saying: "we never do that these days. I really cannot authorize it." He said that there was some sign of irritation but no trace of infection. He painted some fluid into my cleft, "to reduce the irritation." He never mentioned the scar on my clitoris. Did he not notice it, or did he already know about it from an earlier visit when I was too young to remember? Years later, I tried to obtain my medical records for that time, but could find no trace of them. My mother never took me back to him, but soon after, I had to start wearing "mittens" in bed. These contained both thumb and fingers in a single enclosure, and the outside was like coarse emery cloth, very sharp and rough. They were buckled onto my wrists. I tried once to remove them with my teeth, but got a pretty heavy "whuppin" and never tried it again. In the summer, I could lift up my nightdress to use the bathroom, but could not clean myself, so I would go to mom's bed after and ask for help. When I started to wear the thick winter pajamas, I could not manage to lower them, and had to ask mom for help before I went to the bathroom. Mom took a while to wake sometimes, and if I was desperate, there would be an accident on the floor by her bed. After, she would pull up my pajama trousers tightly, making them cut into my hypersensitive scar. It was sometimes very difficult to get myself comfortable again, and I spent many nights in a constant agony of torment. The main other effect of these mittens was that I had to stop sucking my thumb. I tried to start again after, but it no longer fit properly in my mouth. Unable to protect my crotch with my hand, I took to clutching my thighs tightly together. Mom would watch me in bed, and soon took exception to this, telling me to stop, although I hardly knew what she meant. Soon after, some straps appeared in my bed. As she put me to bed, she stripped the bedclothes right back revealing these straps. They went right round the mattress on top of the sheet. One was well down the bed, and had two bands that went round my legs just above the knees to keep my thighs apart. The other was a little further up and secured my wrists well away from my body. I was horrified, but lay down and was strapped down. I had no option. There were no locks, but I could not reach any of the buckles. I was told to shout if I needed the bathroom in the night. She tucked the bedclothes in tightly and I tried to sleep. I was accustomed, as I guess most people are, to rolling over and changing position in my sleep. Confined to one position, sleep was very difficult and I soon found myself aching to change position. Also my nightclothes crept into my cleft and started to torment me. Lying awake for so long meant that I soon needed the bathroom. I called, shouted until I was hoarse but could not make anybody hear. I wet the bed and spent the rest of the night in damp misery. My mom insisted that I would soon get accustomed to sleeping in the straps, and left her room door open so that I could be heard more easily. But I never did get used to them, she rarely heard my calls and she abandoned that idea after only a few days. I find that, even now, I get defensive about my masturbation at that time. I find it difficult to accept that it was really OK to do it, and I always feel that I have to dissemble. I don't remember having orgasms as such, but I did like to press there with my hand, and when the hand wasn't possible, to squeeze my thighs together. It was comforting and protective and provided me with a pleasant feeling. Much of what I was criticized for, however, was nothing to do with masturbation, just a means of comforting and protecting the tormented nerves of that scar. So, then I had to wear a sort of cushion in a figure of "8" between my thighs at night. This was strapped in place fairly tightly. I could not squeeze my thighs together or cross my legs. My pajama pants would ride up between my legs and get tighter and tighter in my cleft, causing the hypersensitive nerves intolerable torment. And now there was nothing I could do to relieve it. If I went to the bathroom, mom would pull them up tightly after, taking no notice if I asked for them to be looser. Did she know about my intolerable discomfort? I remember humping my back on the mattress to try to push the pants down a bit. Maybe mom spied on me and witnessed this, and thought I was doing something else masturbatory, for soon after that, I was taken to a store which sold such things as lumbar support belts, hernia trusses, artificial limbs, leg- irons for polio sufferers and medical prostheses. Much of what they sold required individual fitting and tailoring, and there was a fitting room with an examination couch and a workshop at the back where they did the adjustments. Fitting the Belt: ----------------- I was taken into the fitting room and was made to lie down on a high couch like in a doctor's office. I had my skirt off but my panties still on. A metal contraption shaped like a letter "A" with a flattish "Y" on top was offered up to my crotch. The metal bars were a flat oval in section. The legs of the "A" curved up along the crease at the front of my hips. The crossbar of the "A" went along the top of my pubic bone, pressing into the base of my belly somewhat. The top part of the A ran along the bones either side of my pubic mound to a point just in front of my bottom. The broad "Y" arms on top went behind my thighs. Each of the extremities had a loop at the end. I suppose I was there for about an hour, but it seemed much longer. I would have this thing pressed against me, and held tightly in place, and the woman would test all along each side. I had to spread my legs as wide as they would go, or bring my knee to my chin, and she tested the fit with a sort of spatula. Then she would take it into the back room and come back a minute or two later and do the same thing again. I suppose that they had special tools to bend the metal to the required shape to fit me. Once the crotch area was properly fitted, they had me alternately stand and sit whilst the "Y" pieces at the back were adjusted. When I was standing, they were tight against the backs of my thighs. When I was sitting, I was sitting right on these flattish oval bars and the loops at the end. It was a bit uncomfortable, but not as bad as you might think, as they were right in the gap between bottom and thigh. Eventually, everything had been fitted in a way that satisfied the woman. The woman then produced a belt. It was a fabric belt similar to a lumbar support belt, but with several straps hanging down and a complicated arrangement of flaps at the front that I didn't understand at first. It went round my hips, below my waist, relying on the taper of the hipbone and the swell of my bottom to prevent the thing riding down. She tried several belts, making adjustments to the straps each time, until she found one that fitted me to her satisfaction. It was really tight, hugging my hips, but not in an uncomfortable way. After that we were told to return the next day. This time I was told to remove my panties. The crotch piece now had a dished plate in place over the triangle of the "A," with a large hole towards the rear. Inside was a coarse wire mesh with a solid part opposite the hole in the outer part at the rear. The inner part could be removed for cleaning, as she demonstrated to my mother, but only when the belt was not being worn. The woman told us it was made of silver so as not to cause any skin irritation, but if I were one of the few whose skin reacted to silver, they would plate it with pure gold. The bars at the front went on top of the belt a bit, and had short straps threaded through. The straps were fastened with buckles whose fastening was a row of spikes that pierced right through the strap, so it could take any position. The belt was fastened round my waist and tightened, then the crotch-plate was put into position. The bars at the back each fastened with two straps, one went up across my buttocks towards the center back, the other followed the crease of my bottom around onto my hips. Each was fastened with the same type of buckle. The woman spent several minutes adjusting each of the buckles, and testing the fit around my crotch. I had to do the splits again, and also put my knee up to my chin, whilst she poked around with the spatula. Eventually she was satisfied, and then she demonstrated the use of the flaps: they fastened round the belt over all the buckles, and locked quite tightly in the center of my back with a single padlock, which had its own little pocket in the belt. With the flaps in place it was not possible to adjust any of the buckles. Of course, I could remove the flaps at any time with a sharp knife or a pair of scissors; however, I was told that there was thin steel wire in all the edge seams. But if I did that, then I would get a "whuppin," my mother told me, and the woman added. "and we will supply an all-metal belt if that happens, but that won't be so comfortable to wear." I had to move around, sit, lie, spread my legs, walk, run, twist and turn. At each stage, I was examined to see if there were any problems with the fit. Surprisingly, it impeded me very little. Then the whole thing was removed, and I was examined for "pressure points." A couple of minute adjustments were made at this time. Next, the woman demonstrated an "ointment" that turned out to be mostly goose fat. This has several advantages for the wearer of such a device: almost no smell, kind to the skin and very efficiently water-repellent. This was smeared lightly over the "wetted parts" and "skin-contact parts" of the crotch-piece or shield. It was also smeared over the corresponding parts of me. I found later that it had one very serious disadvantage - if it got onto any clothing, it left a grease-stain that could not be removed without either dry- cleaning or boiling. Then the belt was put back on again. With the goose-fat, the crotch-piece snugged into position easily, and I found very little impediment to movement. One last duty was to pass water whilst they watched. I was placed on a commode. It took me a long time to do it in these strange circumstances, and the woman poured water from one glass to another to encourage me, but I got there in the end. It caused little mess, the liquid pouring, a little untidily, out of the hole at the rear. I was shown how to roll my hips back a little to let the shield drain. The goose-fat meant that nothing was retained inside, and cleaning after was very easy. We were recommended to use a dry cloth rather than paper to remove the last few drops. Then we were told to return the next day. I was also told to report to my mom if I felt any burning sensation or pain. She was instructed to inspect my skin if this happened and look for sores or redness. If these occurred, the belt was to be removed and left off. This was just two weeks after my ninth birthday, towards the end of 1956, and just about the time we got our first TV. On the way home, mom told me that my father did not have to know of my "shame" unless I chose to let him know, as she had said nothing to him - it was just between she and me. Thus, in a single sentence, she ensured that I faithfully maintained the thing a secret from my father. She knew, (I didn't until much later), that he would have disapproved, and forbidden it. The goose-fat was very effective. The following summer, we went away on vacation, and mom forgot to pack it. The first week was OK, but once I had had my weekly bath, and the shield was cleaned of all goose-fat, I got bad smells and skin irritation from retained urine within a matter of hours. Even daily cleaning and bathing was not enough, and we had to abandon the belt until she could get some goose fat locally. With the goose fat, a weekly cleaning regime was always sufficient. Practical Realities: -------------------- Mom took away a bundle of paper with instructions for cleaning, changing and bathing, dos and don'ts, things to watch out for. Most of this she kept hidden from me, and I didn't find out what it said until after she died. I had to go back the next day for the fit to be checked and then again a week later. Each time, some minute adjustments were made, but I never had any real problems with fit. For me, this imposition, (which I felt somewhat resentful about), had one supreme benefit: my panties no longer ran up into my cleft and caused me torture. It was so much of a relief that I can hardly find words to describe it. It also made me less resentful than I might otherwise have been. I have since tried to analyze my feelings at the time, and I can only compare them to learning about a year later that I was getting shortsighted and would have to wear glasses. My fears were mainly about the reactions of other girls at my school, whether they would call me names and poke fun. In fact the belt was better then the glasses - more easily hidden. Sitting was a little bit of a problem: The bulge at my crotch meant that, on a hard chair, I either had to sit on the edge of it or lean my hips back somewhat. In a soft chair, it was really no problem. Also on a hard chair, I clunked a bit if I did not sit very carefully. This was a problem at school, as I didn't want anybody else to know of this shameful thing that I had to wear. This was one of the major issues that I have now with the thing. It meant that I could have no real close friendships at school; I had to distance myself from friends that had previously been close. That loneliness has affected my whole social development and made it difficult ever since to form relationships or to communicate with others, especially on the subject of sex. I missed out on many of the important areas of sex and relationship development. When other kids were playing "I'll show you mine if you show me yours," (which I believe to be an important part of growing up), I just had to go away or make myself invisible. I didn't really know what my own parts looked like any more. Also, mom used a number of strange euphemisms for my genital parts and for masturbation and orgasm. These terms were quite different from anything that the other girls used and this also made any communication on the subject almost impossible. If I came out with one of these terms, they laughed themselves silly. For instance, the whole vulva was called my 'deuteronomy'; and the cleft at its center was my 'wink' or 'winkle'. The act of masturbating was 'desecrating' or 'defiling' myself and the orgasm was 'the abomination', which she pronounced in a drawn-out way as: "A-bomb a nation." This was a time of fear about the A-bomb and at one stage I became convinced that if I did this terrible thing, God would cause a whole nation to be wiped out by A-bombs as punishment for my sinfulness. There were limits on what clothes I could wear. School uniform was OK. In winter it had a thick pleated skirt and in summer a loose pleated dress. But out of school, many girls had started to wear tight skirts or slacks. I had to stay with full pleated skirts or dresses. There was frustration from not being able to do the things to my sex that I used to, comforting the parts with my hand or by squeezing my thighs, or latterly, by bending my heel back. I soon came to crave some form of tactile stimulation. I would also get terrible itching despite the ointment, which was supposed, among other it other virtues, to prevent that. I would get a bath once a week, usually on a Friday or a Saturday night before bed. Then the belt would come off and my mother stood at the bathroom washbasin and scrubbed the parts of the shield whilst I was in the bath. She would often look round without warning, trying to catch me out with my fingers in the wrong place. I was 'on my honor' not to do anything bad. I washed the rest of me but she washed my 'deuteronomy'. I still slept with my room door open, and it was difficult for me to try to do anything, but one night I used a hair ribbon and managed to thread it under each of the straps at the back and then draw it forward, past the bulge where the shield pressed into the perineum, and over my pubic lips. I lay there and drew it to and fro, just to relieve the itching, for several minutes. Then I wanted more, and tried to work it into the center by pulling one end towards the front and the other to the rear, but I couldn't get much real sensation in the important places. In the dark, I quietly and secretly put the ribbon back with the others on my dressing table. In the morning I stupidly forgot about it. Mom soon noticed that it was heavily stained with goose-grease. I got a pretty sound "whuppin," and was told not to do it again. Mom told some people about my problem, mostly the mothers of girls that I used to play with. They used to treat me different, as if I was an object instead of a person. Many of the people from Church were like that. Once they knew I was afflicted with a terrible habit, I was banned from visiting their house or playing with their children, and their children never accompanied when they visited mom. If mom took me to their house, she would apologize. Then their children would be sent to another room, and I was made to sit where mom could watch me. I was generally given a Bible to read. Mom was careful to explain that this was one of the inevitable consequences of my "desecrating myself." My aunt, mom's sister, visited for a while soon after. I'm pretty sure, now, that mom told her what I was wearing, although I didn't realize at the time, but she never said anything to me about it. My aunt never took any attitude towards me and treated me just the same. As she left, she gave me a lovely gold necklace, a broad, but flat and thin chain with chunky links, and told me that I had to wear it all the time, and not just keep it for best. She also told me that the best way to clean gold was to smear on just a little goose-fat and then wipe it off carefully with a soft cloth. She smiled a lovely smile as she told me this, all in mom's hearing. It did not take me long to find a way to thread the chain through the straps of the belt in a way that allowed some satisfactory sensations. It was very difficult, and mostly I would do it at school, taking the whole of the morning break in one of the rest-room cubicles. I had to do some strange leg-stretching contortions, and suffer some bruising in sensitive places to get it there. Afterwards, I wiped the chain carefully with a tissue, put it back round my neck and flushed away the evidence. I also found that if I induced a rub on my hipbone or thigh, I would get a day or too free of the belt. True I would have to wear the rather cumbrous alternatives in bed at night, but at school, I was free. I found that it was better not to develop an artificial sore in the crotch area, as the fitter would adjust the fit, and the fit would then be wrong. I developed several techniques for producing a rub or pressure sore. One was to use a little fine emery paper and slide it between my hip and the belt. It produced a light surface abrasion that looked far worse than it really was. Another was to put something quite thick into the belt, (usually a wadded handkerchief), and let a pressure sore develop over a day or two. Mom was very conscientious about taking the belt off and taking me straight down to the fitter. I don't think they suspected subterfuge. Two or three times, they would check me and tell mom that it was time to move to a larger size. In the four years, I probably had six different crotch-pieces and maybe three or four different belts - I don't remember exactly how many. Family Relationships: --------------------- I need to say something about my father and mother and their relationship, at this point. Father was a very busy man and I saw very little of him. In our house, we had a maid and I would take my meals in the back room with her. We took the mid-day meal at the same time, my mom and father in the dining room, the maid and I in the kitchen. In the evening, I ate before them, fed by the maid. I went to bed before they ate their evening meal. So I hardly saw my father, and when I did, he was remote and cold towards me. I found later that this was because he was very afraid of mom's criticism if he became in any way familiar, or "interfered" as she put it with her management of my upbringing. I already said that they slept apart. This had started a few months before the mittens appeared. Mom had started to get very moody and to have sudden bursts of temper, fits of weeping, rages and equally sudden heightened enthusiasms. Now it sounds to me like a manic/depressive cycle exacerbated by hormonal problems, but I knew nothing of that then. Father later told me that he put it down to an early menopause. It turned out that she had been getting symptoms of heavy and irregular bleeding for a while, as well as hot and cold spells, but finding it impossible to discuss her own sex- related problems, she had said nothing to anybody. It was only when secondary tumors started to develop where nobody could ignore them, (one was on her neck), that father realized that she had cancer, and that it was already to late to do anything about it. But this was still some way off. I think, now, that it may have started in her ovaries or womb and this had caused the hormonal abnormalities that resulted in the mood swings. Maybe her intense interest in my developing sexuality was a consequence. Father later suggested that she might have had a secondary tumor on the brain already - I don't know. What I do know now is that she was seriously ill in a way that affected her mind. All I knew then was that she became very controlling of me and watched me all the time. I tried so hard to satisfy her demands, but no matter how I tried, I would always fall short of her expectations. In reality her demands became increasingly irrational and chaotic. She would get onto me about the untidiness of my room, although I tried my best to be neat. The bed was made up as soon as I got out of it, the bedspread as flat as a board, the pillows plumped. Everything was always put away tidy, socks paired, panties neatly stacked, blouses folded just so, skirts and dresses hung up, shoes always cleaned and polished, and in a neat row at the bottom of my wardrobe, but it was never enough. I remember her coming in one time wearing a white cotton glove on one hand and running it along the top of my wardrobe, where I couldn't reach without a ladder, and screaming at me when the finger of her glove came away covered in dust. I had nobody to compare with, so I didn't know that she was being unreasonable. After she died, and I started visiting other girls' houses again, I would be appalled at the mess they lived in, clothes just lying over the back of a chair, dirty shoes just tucked under the bed, stacks of magazines, homework left lying where it had been worked on, books open face down. I never realized that this was how people normally lived. The maids kept leaving as her demands became more onerous, and I would try to help with the housework until the next could be found. Father had tried to reason with her when she first started to become strange, but had given up and retreated into his work, appearing only at meal times. He slept in his own room and would just vanish there when mom started to raise an argument. So I guess that I became the prime target for her rage. And the focus of that anger was often directed at my degenerate habits and the problems that these resulted in. My state of mind at that time can be imagined. I was the abnormal one, unable to satisfy mom's perfectly reasonable requirements for my upbringing. No matter that I was getting straight A's in math and A's and B's for most subjects; any negative remarks from the teachers was pounced on, the praise ignored. One time, my math report was glowing, but the teacher had remarked that the tidiness of presentation of my work could be improved. From then on I had to do all my homework on rough paper, and then copy it out in neat copperplate writing. Worst of all, I had this disgusting habit, unmentionable, unthinkable, that I couldn't control and had to wear this thing to keep me from harming myself through my own bestiality. I was constantly in conflict with my own feelings. I knew that I wanted and needed to do it. I knew that it was bad to do it, and that it would cause me permanent harm. I had nobody else to compare notes with so only had my mom's words and actions to go by. I even started developing plans in my mind about how I would kill myself. The instructions for the anti-masturbation appliance suggested that it should initially be used for 2-3 months "to produce a break in the habit and convince the wearer that she does not need to do it" and then it should be removed, and the girl carefully monitored, (spied on), for any signs of a relapse. Of course, I would eventually have to pull my panties out of my crotch again, just to be comfortable, and this was considered to be a relapse, so the belt went on again. Each time, the period of wear had to be increased before again trying to see if I could manage without it. Swimming Lessons: ----------------- During the polio epidemic, the local swimming pool had closed and had gone out of business, but now that polio was no longer a threat, (a vaccine had been developed in the mid 50's), a new pool had opened up. Father decided that I should learn to swim, and this was a rare occasion that he asserted himself to my mother. I was duly enrolled in a class that met after school on a Thursday. This was about a year after I had started to wear the belt. It became quite a ritual. Mom would meet me from school as usual and we would go to the pool. There we would both go into the changing cubicle, (which had hardly enough room for one), and my belt would be removed and my swimsuit put on. I would be solemnly made to promise not to do anything wrong and I would be lectured that I was "on my honor" to behave "properly." I would be sent off to join the class whilst mom folded my things and put them into the locker. Then she would go and watch from the viewing area whilst I had my lesson. I would be ready about ten minutes before most of the girls who were changing on their own, and would take time to visit the rest rooms before the class started. I think that mom maybe imagined that I was under the tutor's supervision the whole time. There were about 30 girls in the class and it was chaotic with a lot of splashing and very little individual attention. So it took me a very long time to learn to swim. Afterwards, we all had to take showers in a long row, no separate cubicles. They used to crowd under the showers, two or three to each showerhead. I used to go to the restroom next door for some private time until the yelling and giggling died down. Then I had the quickest shower ever, (to wash away the evidence), and then I would go to find which cubicle mom was in, and join her. At first, she would ask what took me so long, and I had to explain how the girls all crowded under the shower heads, two or three to each. "I don't feel comfortable doing that, and some of them even take their swimsuits off! (gasp of horror). So I just wait until there is one free." "You're quite right to do that, dear." My mom would help me out of my swimsuit, dry me and supervise me getting dressed. My belt was not replaced at this time. Once we got home, I would be put right into the bath and mom would clean my belt. Then she would wash the parts of me that I was not allowed to touch, dry me, powder and perfume me and then apply the goose-fat and put the belt back on. So once a week, I had more than an hour of freedom, and a couple of opportunities for privacy to scratch itches, touch and explore myself a little. It was not often long enough to reach an orgasm, though. Mom seemed to know in the early days, if I had "done it," and would take off the belt and inspect me down there if she suspected that I had been doing anything. Perhaps I just had a guilty look on my face that she noticed. I became convinced that it showed on my face, and that everybody would know my guilty secret. Mom's Illness and Death: ------------------------ I had been wearing the belt for maybe two and a half years when mom's illness really became apparent. Then there was a long series of hospital visits and tests. She was in hospital for ten days one time, and so she told me where she hid the key and told me that I was "on my honor" to use it responsibly. I took off the belt, had my bath, washed myself carefully without being indulgent, cleaned the belt as I had seen her doing, taking the shield apart and scrubbing the parts with very hot water and liquid detergent. I used the goose-fat and put it back on and put the key back in the drawer of her bedside cabinet. All without "interfering" with myself. Then, in bed, I took my chain from around my neck and threaded it through the straps and worked it under the shield until it was in position and I was able to do what I needed to do. Afterwards, I cleaned the chain carefully and put it back around my neck. I could visit my mom next day and look her in the eye and be able to say, with a clear conscience, that I had used the key responsibly. Looking back on this time, I realize that much of my own thinking was as strange and distorted as my mother's. My parents both lied to me about mom's illness. Although they both knew from the start that it was incurable, mom kept saying, "when I get better", and father said nothing different. I could see that it was getting worse, and I became convinced that my problem was the cause, that God was taking my mom away as punishment for my sinfulness. I would pray to God and promise not to do it if he would just let my mom get better. The cancer was slow, but incurable and progressive. It was only in the summer when I was about twelve and a half that she really became disabled. Just before she became bed-ridden, she took me to the fitter one last time to get a replacement that would last me as long as possible. She could hardly walk from the cab into the store without going blue. For the return visit to pick up the completed belt, I went on my own carrying the key in my purse. This raised an eyebrow, and, when she had finished fitting me, the woman in the store gave me the key in a sealed envelope to give to my mom. After that, mom stayed in bed and had to have oxygen and a lot of drugs to keep the pain down. My big sister, Liz, came to stay and care for her. She gave up her job and left her husband looking after her kids. We knew it wouldn't be long, but we didn't know how long. Soon after that, mom could no longer take care of my belt. Confined to bed, she would simply hand over the key and tell me that I was "on my honor" to be responsible. I never told my sister about the thing. I suppose that I could have, though I don't think that she could have done anything. We didn't have any sort of relationship, though, I hardly knew her. And she was totally wrapped up in doing a professional nursing job of caring for mom. I just unlocked it, took it off, bathed, scrubbed the belt clean and locked it on again. Then I would put the key back. Mom would ask me questions, suspecting me of taking advantage of having the belt off, but I almost never did anything, and could generally answer with a clear conscience. She seemed to be able to sense any violation of trust. I stayed out of the room mostly. It really pained me to see my mom brought so low by this disease. Her bones had started to give way and all her organs were giving up so there were strange smells, not bad smells, but sweet and vaguely medicinal. Most days I looked in out of a sense of duty to ask how she was but she was on a lot of drugs so she was out of it a lot of the time. It took another six months to kill her. One time, about two-three months before she died, she noticed that I was changing shape, my breasts were starting to develop, and she gave me her first and only talk about periods and what to expect as I grew up. It was mainly that I had to bath and clean the belt daily when there was blood flowing, and to wear a pad over the outlet hole. She told me where to go to buy the pads, but said nothing about boys, sex, penises, sperm or babies. It took me a long time before I found out about these things. My first period came about a week before she died, just after my thirteenth birthday. She was hardly aware of anything at that time, unable to eat and wasting away, drugged to the eyeballs, hardly a real person at all. You just heard the tortured breathing, and the strange smells invaded you. Everybody was in a state of shock. About that time, my need for orgasms became more insistent and demanding, and more intense when they happened. About once every ten days I would dream a strange dream and wake up to find it happening. I tried so hard to stop them, but instinct was too strong, and then it was really like an A-bomb going of inside me! And it was always accompanied by the pain of the crotch-piece of the belt digging into my perineum - it had a lump there that pressed inwards when I clenched. The conflicts within me were enormous. I was convinced that these "abominations" were what was killing my mom, and I would pray to God to take me instead. I had maybe four-five such orgasms before she died, forced from me in my sleep by the power of instinct. Once she had died, so did my belief in God, and this reason for trying to stop my orgasms vanished; Then I found that I could get them almost as often as I wanted, certainly one a day, either just by clenching or with the help of the chain. It hurt, of course, the belt was intended to act as a deterrent, But when your need is great, the pain just becomes part of the Experience. After the funeral, my sister moved out. She needed to get back to husband and family and to get a new job, as they needed the money. I think father must have given her some money for her time with us. I think that there is something in mom's family genes making the women susceptible to cancer. My mom's mother had died of cancer in her 40's, long before I was born. Mom's sister, (the aunt who gave me the necklace), died of it just three years after my mom. And my sister had a long battle with cancer in her early 40's, eventually succumbing in her 50's after a respite of over ten years. Thankfully, I seem to take after my father's side of the family - they are all long-lived and stay healthy to a good age - but I spent the whole of my 40's feeling paranoid about cancer and getting regular tests done. After the Funeral: ------------------ Father was even more remote and unapproachable after she died. He blamed himself for withdrawing when her behavior started to get strange, instead of finding out why. It was a terrible time. We had no maid then, and, at just thirteen, I had to do everything. I tried to live up to her standards, so it became a full time job for me. I stayed off school, (there were only a few days left before the Christmas break). Christmas was a sad affair. Nobody visited, probably they all thought that we couldn't cope with visitors, and probably they didn't really know what to say. Meanwhile, I was getting a problem. I had had my second period, my third was due, and it was clear that my body was rapidly changing shape; the belt no longer fitted. Also, the need to masturbate was getting more and more urgent. Mostly I got there just by clenching; sometimes I used the necklace. It always hurt because of the design of the belt. But I couldn't bring myself to disobey my newly buried mother's wishes by getting the key and taking it off. It became apparent that I would have to tell my father, and reveal my secret shame to him. It took some days to gather the strength and to rehearse the right words, but I eventually took my father to one side and told him that I needed to talk about something important to do with my health. That got his attention, and I told him that the belt I had to wear no longer fitted and that I would need a new one. "What belt?" he asked. I tried to describe what I was talking about using mom's strange euphemisms - I still knew no other terms for these things. And so with a lot of misunderstandings and fumbling, the story came out. For the first and only time in my life, I heard father swear a cuss word. After a few moments, he controlled himself. "I wonder where she keeps the key?" he asked. I told him, and we went and got it. He told me to remove the belt and give it to him. I went to my room and took it off, returned and gave it to him. I could see that he was feeling very emotional about something, there were points of red high on his cheek-bones, but when he spoke it was with a deep calmness that I can still hear today. He told me that mom had been very ill and that the illness had affected her mind as well as her body. He also told me that when mom was young, mainstream medical opinion considered masturbation to be harmful by and that she had suffered in her youth because of this. She had worn a similar device and had also had an operation, (he didn't specify, but I now assume clitorectomy, which I read about much later). He said that modern research had found that masturbation was harmless and this was now accepted by the whole mainstream medical community. He said that some doctors now even thought that it was an important part of a young person's development. He emphasized, and I remember his words clearly: "It is harmless, it may even do you some good. You can do it as often as you want, but it's better to do it in privacy." He then wanted to know where mom had obtained the device, and whether I knew of any other young people wearing them. I knew of nobody else. I told him which store had fitted it, and he went out carrying it. I don't know what he said to them but I imagine that he raised Cain. I went to my room and masturbated furiously for a long time - I had a huge backlog to make up for. I never saw the belt again. Sometimes I regret losing that belt, for these things are worth a bit of money now. I was afraid that not having the belt would cause the panty in the cleft problem to return, but I found that the rapidly growing springy bush of pubic hair successfully kept my panties away from that most sensitive spot. What a relief! Years before, when her grandfather had died, mom had been left a small legacy, about $5000. She had always promised it to me to help to pay for my education. When mom's affairs were settled, there was less than $1000 left. Father tried to find out what had happened to the money - this was how she had paid for my belts without letting my father know. Over the next few years, father worked and saved and did without, so when I got a place in university, I did have enough to see me through. It was his way of making up to me for what had happened. Research Program: ----------------- I suppose, now, that I should have tried to talk to father more about it, but I really didn't find it easy to talk to him - we'd never had much of a relationship. He now had an additional burden of guilt - of not having noticed the abuse that I had been suffering - and this probably increased the rift between us. So it wasn't until after I graduated with my Masters degree and left home that I really started on a crusade to "come to terms" with what had happened. That was when I embarked on my program of research. In the 70's, I had an engineering job with a utility company; I was supervising a program of upgrades to local distribution systems. I had to spend a few weeks or sometimes several months in each of a succession of towns that were expanding and having their services upgraded. So in my spare time, I would ask around about the availability of anti-masturbation devices. At first I was unsubtle and got nowhere. Even in my own birth town, the store that I remembered going to denied everything. I found out later that a number of these stores had been sued for damages by former wearers, (some male wearers had become infertile from congestion and calcification of the seminal vesicles), and my asking to research the issue was regarded with deep suspicion. But soon I developed a good story and managed to get talking to the fitters at several stores. My story was that I had a daughter now in her middle teens. She was mentally disabled and would have to live her life in my care, but she was a pretty girl and attractive to men. She could go to church with me and visit with neighbors and she was altogether quite acceptable in her behavior except for just one thing: she would suddenly start to interfere with herself. "She seems to have no self-control and can't understand that what is acceptable in private is unacceptable in company. Now Mrs. Xxx, whom I have met through our church, told me that she had neighbor whose daughter had a similar problem a few years ago and that you were able to help her out. I was wondering if you could advise me on what can be done?" To their credit, many told me that they could have helped a few years ago, but that they were no longer able to provide these things, but there was usually at least one store in an area, usually very old, and often run by a single elderly person or a couple, where they "could surely oblige me". And one or two of them became quite open in their discussions. It was obviously an enthusiasm. They talked about the various design considerations for both boys and girls, showing me 50- year-old design specification sheets detailing the different options and describing how they achieved their purpose. Most, I found had metal belts; the fabric belt on mine was less common, and generally used only on younger children. The metal belts followed the line of the hipbone, keeping well below the waist in front and a little below it in back. Mostly they locked in the center of the back, this was to make it more difficult for the wearer to "interfere with" the lock. The crotch-plates or "shields" as they seemed to be generally known, were generally silver or gold-plated. In the 70's, they typically had an average of 1 or 2 new customers a year, mostly from families of previous clients. It was very sporadic, sometimes two or three years would pass with none, then they would get three or four at once. Of course there was also return business, adjustments and larger sizes to accommodate growth. Maybe there would be a dozen to twenty girls and a similar number of boys in the area currently wearing them. In the 50's it had been ten times that number, and in the thirties, a hundred times. "Ah, those were the days!" seemed to be the attitude. As to the ages of the wearers, other than the mentally disabled, I didn't get any recent reports of males over 18, (although that had happened in the 40's and 50's), but I was told that a few girls were kept in them until marriage, often well after they turned 21. At the other end of the scale, some started wearing them as soon as they were out of diapers, but the more common age to start was between 7 and 10. I asked how long they were typically worn, in any one case, remembering the instruction to leave it off for a few days to see if the wearer had a relapse. I was told that this was rarely if ever successful, and that once a person had started to wear one, it generally continued until he or she was out of parental control, or until the parents gave up trying or could no longer afford the expense. The costs were considerable, averaging in the 70's between $400 and $500 for the first time with a slightly lower price for returning customers, (the silver of the crotch-plate was recycled, reducing the replacement costs somewhat). At that time, you could get a reasonable second hand auto for $1000. Even a return visit to check the fitting, (required every 3 months, and more often if the child was growing rapidly), would cost $20 or $25 and any adjustments or replacement parts were on top of that. I tried to find out what motivated them. It was surely not the profit motive as it was such a small part of their business. I asked what they felt when a girl was first brought to them for one of these things. They seemed to feel some satisfaction that the girl was being "brought into line" and denied her childish pleasures. I asked how the girl typically reacted. Where the girl was very young, under 9, say, it was really a matter of course, just something that happened, like having to wear glasses or braces on the teeth. Older girls would be in a state of shock, but the real resentment came from girls who were past puberty who often shouted and stormed and were very uncooperative and had to be held down. I asked how they were a few months later when they came back to have the fit checked. Much more compliant and subdued, I was told. I asked several of the fitters if they had ever experienced such a device themselves. Several of those who denied it I felt were lying - they had that look. One, however, confided in me that she had never told anybody else, not even her husband, but yes, she had had to wear one from about ten until she left home at nineteen. Then she had been given the key and had promised her mother to wear it faithfully, but had rarely done so. I asked several if they had used them on their own children, but I didn't really believe most of the answers that I got. One, however, told me that once she had been trained in the fitting, and understood the hypocrisy behind it, she would never use it on her own children - before that, she had been in favor of the idea. I questioned her on how she felt willing to fit one to another child but never to her own. It was the parent's choice, I was told. She clearly got a buzz out of it. I attempted to do some research in Europe during vacations, and later when I was working there, but I never got far because I didn't have enough of the languages I needed. I did find out one big difference, though. In the US, the fitters always required that boys must be tightly circumcised before starting to wear a belt. This allowed the use of a fairly tight penis tube. In Europe, circumcision was very much against the culture and instead, a larger penis tube was used that would still be loose when the penis had fully expanded. Failure to do one or other of these can lead to a trapped fold of foreskin, which is deprived of a blood supply - it first swells, then dies and goes gangrenous, resulting in blood- poisoning. It soon became clear to me that this research wasn't really getting me to my goal of "coming to terms with what had happened to me," so I started on a different tack. But the devices of chastity and anti-masturbation have always been a fascination for me, a subject of sexual fantasies and desires. I have yearnings from time to time to try to masturbate with one locked onto me. I have been asked why this is - surely knowing the awful reality, you would not have desires around this area? I can only explain it by saying that boys and girls who have been subject to corporal punishment often have fantasies and desires around that area - why should it not be the same about what was done to me? My first post-puberty orgasms were obtained whilst wearing one, the feeling of an orgasm in such as device is quite unique, and it is an experience I need to recreate from time to time. The other part of my research was in medical libraries and through collecting old medical books. This told me nothing about what had happened since about 1930, but it did tell me a lot about the background, the "rationale" of the beliefs that I suffered under. I haven't attempted to do "on the ground" research of this issue since the 1970's, but I would fully expect to find a small number of stores across the US still prepared to supply anti-masturbation equipment given the right approach. Coda: ----- I feel that what was done to me was a form of sexual abuse. Every aspect of my developing sexuality was interfered with and distorted, just as much as if I had been regularly raped. In fact it is a form of mental rape, a deep intrusion into my sexual development. I don't really blame my mother. She was clearly very ill and not in her sound mind. She had not subjected my sister or brother to similar abuses. They were warned not to "interfere with themselves", but they were not spied on, controlled or punished in the way that I was. I slightly blame my father for being unaware of what was happening, but he had a lot of pressures and difficulties at that time. The one that I really resent is the woman in the store that cheerfully fitted me with the mechanisms that my mother's deranged mind led her to seek. She, and others like her, must have known that masturbation was regarded as harmless by mainstream medical opinion, but they just went right on doing it for their own perverse amusement and profit. This makes me very angry. What have been the effects on me since? I have a line across the triangle of my pubic hair, near the top, where hair grows very sparsely. This is where the belt was pressing in too much after mom died and when I grew. There is also a line of shiny skin just at the crease between thigh and outer labia where the big thigh tendons lie just under the skin. Again, the post puberty growth spurt with a badly fitting appliance was the cause. Except for that period around mom's death, the fitting was done professionally and conscientiously and I suffered almost no long-term physical effects. The only possible effect is that I have a slight back problem that may have resulted from sitting with tilted hips on hard chairs at school. These mere physical effects are trivial compared with the enormous emotional scars. I have difficulty with relationships. Most don't last long, and those that do, never get very close. There is always a reserve in me that I do not allow others to penetrate. In my work, I am regarded as a perfectionist, taking great trouble to get even the finest details exactly right. My subordinates get really annoyed about the fuss I make over the correct positioning of apostrophes, accurate spelling, punctuation and grammar in their reports. They consider me to be really "anal." If they only knew! In my home life, by contrast, I am hopelessly untidy and never throw anything out, so I live in a constant clutter of things that might prove useful sometime. I have intense fantasies about anti-masturbation appliances. About once a year, (approaching my birthday and Christmas, usually), I get an overwhelming compulsion to wear one and to prevent myself from having an orgasm until instinct intervenes and forces it on me, (I have built a homemade device, similar to the best of those I saw described for this purpose). This used to take ten days or so at puberty, but now, after menopause, it's often well over a month. Despite her peculiarities, I loved my mom; even forty years later I still do. In part, this experience is a sort of weird homage to her memory. Other than that, I guess that I am a compulsive masturbator. At one time, I would masturbate typically 4-5 times a day, rarely less. Even now, after the menopause, scarcely a day passes without me doing it at least once. Yet, no matter how often I do it, I still can't seem to be able to make up for the times that I missed out. I also have fantasies about applying them to others, (girls mostly). This is something that I have never done in reality, but I can fully understand how a person who had worn one would seek a job as a fitter and want to continue long after medical opinion had changed. However, I like to read and write fantasy stories about the subject, and even now, I frequently search the Internet for such tales. Being an engineer, I have fantasies in which I design a more effective orgasm-prevention device than the one that I wore - the goal is total 100% foolproof long-term orgasm prevention. In the same way, my mom's heavy cotrol over me has resulted in fantasies about slavery and the control of one person by another. Again, because of the clitoris mutilation that I suffered, I also have sex fantasies about that aspect of anti-masturbation warfare. That subject, I still find difficult to talk about, probably because I know so little about what really happened, and why. There must be thousands of others still alive who have experiences similar to mine. My biggest problem in seeking therapy was that I was not believed. Most of the therapists that I consulted assured me that such things had ceased to be used in the 20's or 30's, well before I was born, and so they treated me as someone who was suffering delusions. This was not helpful. Part of the reason for my research was to find tangible evidence to prove that I was not delusional (although I found almost none that I could take away with me and use). Much more recently, I found a therapist who did help; hence, I am now able to speak about my experiences in a way that was never possible before. Perhaps by publishing this, more people in my situation will be believed, and get the help they need. I am not a trained psychiatric counsellor, but if anybody feels that, because of my knowledge and background, they might benefit from talking to me about his or her own experiences, I would be happy to communicate by email, (given at the start of this document).
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