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).
