Morning came very slowly for me, at least, I presume it must have been morning when my mother opened the door of what for me was now my cell. Devoid of windows, and with no clock for reference, I had no way of knowing what time of day, or even what day it was. Walking over to the foot of the bed, I felt the devices that had held my feet so torturously in place overnight ease their hold on them, not fully, but enough so that I could relax my ankles to a degree. The knee straps were unbuckled, allowing me to raise my knees and further relax my legs, while she fitted me with a pair of all plastic shoes. Apparently, I was to be allowed to have a shower, for which I would be eternally grateful. Even though I had been almost naked for those five days, I was now become pungent with the sweat of my exertions. I was fully released from the stocks and allowed to stand, rocking gently on my heels as my mother undid the corset that had compressed my waist to such an extent that my body was criss-crossed which lines caused by the pressure. The sleeves, which had rendered my hands unusable for the past day were also removed and for the first time in five days I was able to go to the toilet unhindered. Meanwhile, my mother was running a shower for me. It was wonderful to be able to relax under hot running water, and to be able to wash my hair for the first time in days, if only for five minutes and while still having to stand in waterproof high heels.

Once my five minutes were up, the water was shut off, and I reluctantly had to climb out of the shower and be prepared for the day ahead. I was led over to the corset lacing frame, my wrists dried first before cuffs were locked on and my arms raised until I was stood on my toes, even with my high heels on. Using the advantage of no limbs to get in the way, my mother dried me vigorously, making sure that there was no remaining water to cause skin rashes under the restrictive clothing that I would have to wear. The dreaded corset was wrapped around my waist, and I went through the ritual torture of tight lacing again, as my waist shrunk from it's natural twenty four inches down to a very uncomfortable twenty inches.

Satisfied only when the lacing was at it's tightest, I was spun round to face her. It was only when her hands gently took hold of the nipple chains that I remembered with horror the new experience that was to come next. With her free hand, she lifted my left breast to support the weight, while she clipped the now tightly adjusted chain onto the connecting clip that was sown, directly above the nipple, into the corset. Satisfied with the tension on my now suspended nipple, she let go of my breast, allowing the chain to take the full pendulous weight. Although not endowed with large breasts, there was enough weight in them to make the nipple feel very uncomfortable. I knew that they would be a constant reminder of my position as long as they remained chained up like that.

Having completed both nipples, attention turned to removing the ability to use my hands again. Taking no chances now of having both hands free, the chain was slackened until they were both on a level with my head, then one was released at a time. Instead of simply replacing the binders that she had taken off, my arm was inserted into a new, much longer pair. The hands were still crushed into a minute area thanks to metal cones, but this time, the sleeve itself was zipped from the wrists, right the way up to the shoulders, which is as far as the binder reached. The zips ran up the outside of the arms, over the elbow joint. On the inside of the arm was a seam which had eye-lets, the same as a corset, all the way up that could be used for lacing. Once both sleeves were in place, my mother connected them with a strap across the back of the shoulders. My arms were then folded in the small of my back, the wrist of one sleeve meeting the elbow of the other. She then commenced lacing the two sleeves together until my forearms were perfectly mated together behind my back. Although much more comfortable than the position they were in yesterday, it was no less inhibiting.

Having completed most of my preparation, it was time for breakfast and I was put pack onto the bed, my neck and feet secured in their stocks while my mother went back up to the house. She returned carrying a tray with a small bowl of porridge, since I was still unable to properly eat more complicated foods with my gag in place, and a glass of orange juice with the obligatory straw. The porridge proved to be a sloppy affair again, as I more often then not couldn't close my mouth before it dripped off the gag and back out into the dish from which my mother was spooning it. It would have been a lot easier if I could have eaten sitting up, but since I could not convey this thought to them, they would have to work it out for themselves. In the meantime, I had to put up with the humiliation of being spoon fed like a baby.

While I finished syphoning off the last of the orange juice, my mother started replacing the plastic shoes that had adorned my feet during my shower, with the shoes that my father had introduced me to yesterday. The stocks on my ankles were lifted, allowing me to pull my ankles free, then the neck stock released. With some difficulty, because of my arms being folded behind my back, I wriggled my way into the sitting position and slid my bottom off the edge of the bed so that my feet touched the floor, the impact jarring on my heels. Standing there, waiting to see what was to happen next, my mother approached me carrying a leather item with laces. I knew it could not be another corset, since it looked too small. She told me to turn around and lift my head up and back. He next thing I knew, this new thing was being wrapped around my neck and lower face. It came up to just below my ears, with a slot cut out for my nose, and for the ring in my lip to poke through avoiding it being crushed, just like the original gag had. Other than that, my neck, face and the tops of my shoulders were completely covered as she began to lace up the thing behind me, starting at the top so that I could feel my cheeks being crushed. In ten minutes or so, my neck felt it was completely paralysed. I was not able to move my head either from side to side nor up and down since the collar help my chin up as far as it would go. Looking at where I was putting my feet, which was the only way that I felt able to cope with the high heels was now impossible.

I had a feeling what was about to follow, and my worst fears were confirmed when I was led, carefully, over to the control box of my walking trainer. As my father had promised me yesterday, the chains which were to ensure my pace were connected directly to my nipple rings, meaning that if I refused or fell, the discomfort that I already felt in my breasts would be turned to instant searing pain. Without warning, I heard the feint whine of the motor overhead and saw the cable begin to stretch out in front of me. The last thing I wished to do was have my breasts pulled so early on, so I started walking. Evidently, the speed of the motor had been set a lot quicker this morning compared with yesterday, because I found myself having to make several tiny shuffling steps in order to catch up with the cable before settling into an uncomfortable pace. I tried not to extend my ankle chain to its maximum length, lest I trip up and suffer the consequences.

Without a word, my mother left me to shuffle aimlessly around the walls of my prison cell, my speed dictated by a tiny little motorised cart dangling above my head. She hadn't said how long I was to be on the walker when she left, so at the end of the first completed lap, I glanced at the timer. To my horror, the readout indicated "01:58:04". I was condemned to walk around these walls, with my arms pinned behind my back, perched on ridiculous heels and not able to move my head in any direction for the next two hours, and that didn't include any time that I spent on the floor. However much I didn't like the idea, there was no avoiding it. By the end of the tenth lap, I was getting very bored and my feet were starting to hurt. I tried stopping to give my toes a brief rest by standing on one foot, only for the chain to pull taught on my nipples as a reminder that I had to keep moving. For the next few seconds | found myself running in shuffling little steps to catch up again, only to trip and fall for the first time that morning. I lay on the ground, my breasts screaming with pain from where the chains had literally been trying to tear them away from my body. There was nothing I could do, although I did try to raise myself to my feet, but the hobble chain prevented me from spreading them wide enough to gain leverage.

After about five minutes, my mother appeared, dragged my to my feet and reconnected the dreaded chains, then I was on my way again. To relieve the boredom, I tried working out how far I was going to have to walk, finally working out that the speed was set for one circuit every two minutes, and that one circuit was about fifty yards, based on one hundred and fifty steps of about twelve inches. Even at the slow speed that this was set, I was going to have to walk about three thousand yards or a mile and three-quarters before I was released. My balls of my feet were really hurting now, and I was only half way through, but this infernal machine gave me only two choices, sore feet or sore nipples. I knew which I would prefer, so I slowly limped on through the torture, making sure that whatever happened, I stayed on my feet.

Thankfully, the final hour passed without me falling again, despite the pain coursing through my feet and calves. I heard the saving "ping" as the bell went off to signify the end of this current torment and awaited my release. The only difficulty I was then left with was that I was till attached to the infernal machine. After fifteen minutes, of having to stand there, waiting for my someone to release me, I seriously considered deliberately pulling the chains away from my nipples, but the experience of having them detached when I fell persuaded me that as few of those experiences as possible were desirable. It took another ten minutes for my mother to return, unclipping the chains from my nipple jewellery. She led me back to my bed and locked me in securely and my back, which I found uncomfortable with my arms bent behind me in the small of my back, but at least it relieved the pressure on my toes for a while.

I must have fallen asleep, my body trying to catch up on some of the sleep I lost during that restless first night of foot torture. The next thing I remember was my father entering the room, pushing what appeared to be a hospital trolley, which he parked beside the bed. Standing over the foot of the bed, I heard him explaining that my training wasn't yet over for the day, and that I was now going to experience what is what like to have to stand immobile for long periods of time on punishment heels. I felt him undoing my shoes briefly, only for them to be replaced with what felt like a higher pair, my toes having to really bend to match the angle of the sole. Once both shoes had been switched, the stocks were released but he ordered me to remain on the bed. I watched him bring over two pieces of steel, which looked like three circles welded together.

After undoing my ankle chain, the first set went around my ankles, the two hinged outer rings encompassing them before being padlocked into place. So tight was the fit, that I could not even twist my ankle in them. They were held in place, about two inches apart, thanks to the smaller middle ring of steel. The same process was applied to the second set of cuffs, which fitted just below the knee to the fleshy upper part of the calf muscles so that they couldn't slip up or down on the leg. Having secured my legs parallel to each other and with a slight gap between them, I was rolled over so that my arms could be adjusted. The lacing that held them together were undone and my wrists pulled up so that they were as close to my shoulders as they could get. Once satisfied that I could get them no higher, based on the raising pitch of my screaming, he started lacing the sleeves back up, starting from the elbows, so that my forearms were inextricably connected to the upper arm behind my back. My fingertips were touching the collar that encased my neck. The position was the worse yet, and got worse, when I felt my elbows being drawn together behind me, forcing my shoulder blades back towards my spine.

I was in agony, especially when I was rolled back onto my back. "This is called the reverse prayer position, slightly modified because you would normally have your wrists connected but in this case that is not necessary because they are connected to your shoulders instead making it far more stringent. Over time, you will be trained to accept this position long term and will be able to endure having your elbows touching. For now, they are about six inched apart, although I expect they feel far closer to you." He made sure that the trolley was up against the bed, stopping it from moving with his legs as he pulled me sideways onto it, which hurt my arms even more. Tears were now streaming down my face, but he ignored that as he continued the session. I hadn't noticed before, but the trolley had a board at one end with a gap in the middle, and my body was a adjusted so that my feet rested astride the gap, with my toes touching the boards. "The shoes that you now wear are a training shoe, made to ensure that you stay on your toes all the time and not rock back on your heels which is not the ladylike way to walk. The heel is in fact hollow, and is built to accommodate a spring-loaded spike. While you stand on your toes, no harm will come to you. However, if you try to drop your heels, you will apply a pressure to the tip of the spike that will rise from the sole of the shoe under your heel. It will not pierce the foot as it is blunt, but it will cause you enough discomfort that you will immediately go back onto your toes, however tired they are.

While telling me this, I was being wheeled to the middle of the room. He stopped and undid a couple catches on the sides of the trolley. Suddenly, my feet dropped and my body was raised, the weight being taken on the tips of my toes as he had suggested. Carefully he swung me into the upright position, and then lifted a hinged metal plate in the floor to reveal a hole about twelve inches deep and two inches in diameter. My feet were carefully positioned using the trolley until the gap in the boards was over the hole. The trolley was then tipped back ever so slightly and I was told to bend my knees forward so that my lower legs were straight. Having got me to that position, he picked up a long iron bar and put one end through the middle hole ion my knees, feeding it through until it met the cuffs on my ankles. Again the end of the bar went through the middle hole, and then into the hole in the ground. At that point, I knew it was impossible for me to move my lower legs. Even if I chose to fall over, my legs from the feet to the knees would still be upright. He put my body upright again so that the pole was directly between my knees and then warned me to brace myself. Suddenly I felt the boards pulled from below my feet and the assistance provided the trolley in balancing me was no longer available. Instinctively, I tried moving my feet to gain my balance but they could go nowhere except down, which brought home the effect of the spikes under my heels. Before he left, he picked up a piece of black leather, which he wrapped tightly about my head, before buckling it at the back, plunging me into darkness and disorientation. My cries became ones of mercy as he left me, blind, gagged hopelessly bound and struggling to maintain my balance less I permanently damage my foot and ankles.