Logging Out

Packaged Story Contest 2005 Entrant

The Christian conservatives had finally gained complete control of the legislature and governor's office and over the next few years appointed enough of judges in State courts that for all practical purposes they controlled the judiciary as well.

Pursuing their "God-given" duty they began the Righteous Crusade to root our "immorality." The police raided brothels, pornographic bookstores, massage parlors, and every other sexually oriented business, prosecuting the "evil doers" under the newly enacted vice laws.  The police, however, were not the scariest part of the Crusade.  After all, they had to show at least token compliance to due process.  The vigilante groups did not.  Driven by fundamentalist religious zeal, they pursued their own program to eradicate the "moral cancer" in the state. Suspected offenders were rounded up in late night raids, tried before the vigilantes (where for some reason they were always found guilty) and  punished according to Old Testament law.

Of course these vigilante activities were illegal, but the sympathetic authorities rarely interfered so the groups operated with an impunity reminiscent of the Ku Klux Klan in the Old South.

It was in this context that we found ourselves in a predicament. The vigilantes had found out about Slave Marie's kinky past and were searching for her along with several other local suspects. They believed Marie, and possibly others were still living in our small logging town on the river.  They were right about Marie at least.  Back before the Crusade, our little group of bondage enthusiasts used to gather for meetings and recreation at the old lumber camp on the river bank.  Now, upon hearing of the search for Marie, she and a few of us friends retreated to the camp, figuring that the vigilantes would search the main part of the town first.

Escape by road was impossible.  The searchers, aided by sympathetic cops, had blocked all the roads and trails and were checking everyone's National ID Cards.  These high-tech cards were virtually impossible to fake.

Randy offered to row her 20 miles down river to the state border. Once across, she would be in a relatively liberal community and safe from the Crusade.  I nixed that.  The enemy were inspecting every boat as it passed through the locks around the falls and rapids just before the state line.  Nothing but a log could float past them without being searched.  Stanley who had been a lumberjack in his youth and was now a woodworker who did chainsaw sculptures immediately jumped up.

"A log!  That's the answer!"

We all stared at him in complete puzzlement.

"Listen.  We hollow out a log, put Marie inside and float it downstream.  Once across the border, we fish it out and she's safe."

Randy protested that this was mighty risky.  The log could be lost or get submerged so that poor Slave Marie would drown.  And what about the turbulent ride through the falls.  We all thought for a few minutes before Marie spoke up.

"Look, guys, if those fanatics catch me, (and they will if I stay here) I'll either burned, hanged, or stoned to death.  At least if we can get this log idea to work, I'll have a chance, and as you know I certainly have no problem with being packaged."

We spent the next hour discussing the details, drawing on Stan's woodworking skills, Randy's mechanical, my engineering background and, or course, Marie's expertise in human packaging.  Stan, Randy and I drove to our respective homes or shops to get equipment but for her safety Marie remained in the cabin.  I made an additional stop at Marie's, checking carefully that the vigilantes were not around.

We returned and immediately set to work on a pine log about two feet in diameter and 8 feet long.  Stan split it in half lengthwise and laid the two halves face up.  We traced Marie's contour and began sculpting it out with the chain saw, adzes, and gouges.  As the cavities took shape, Marie placed herself in them to check the fit, and we soon had a hollow that almost exactly fit her body with her legs slightly open and her arms straight and just out from her sides.  By now night was falling so we moved the log into the old work shed,  closed the doors, and covered the windows to keep any tell-tale light rays from escaping.  We then hollowed out additional cavities to hold life support equipment, and a radio transponder that would help locate the log.

The life support consisted first of distributed holes and passages from Marie's face mask through the surface of the log to provide air when at least some of the holes were above water. A battery powered air pump would help drive the flow and an electric valve would close off the air holes if they were blocked or submerged.  In that case, Marie draw upon a self-contained re-breathing oxygen system with a carbon dioxide absorber canister.

The transponder would send a radio signal whenever it received an interrogating pulse from our portable transceiver.  I had built this apparatus for a wildlife researcher to track animals but his project got cancelled and I had ended up stuck with the equipment.  The transponder and life support equipment fit into the extra cavities we cut into the log interior.

Figuring that the river current averaged about 3 miles per hour, it would take about 7 hours to cross the State Line and another hour or so to reach the intended recovery point near Stanley's sales shop about 4 miles south of the line.  Between the border and the recovery point was a town and the campus of the agricultural college.  The river then made a bend near Stan's place.  After launching the log, we would drive Stan's truck along the river road, stopping to check on the log's progress. We would pack my 5x7 view camera and a tripod so we could credibly claim we were on a photographic expedition along the scenic river.

After trying the cavity for size one final time, we prepared to package our precious cargo.  Marie first dressed in her full-coverage latex catsuit which I had procured from her home.  It included gloves and feet and it joined with a full hood whose only openings were nostril tubes and a tube through the built-in inflatable gag.  Since the trip would take at least 8 hours, we utilized the suit's catheter fitting which we ran to a drain hole in the outside of the log, well away from the breathing holes. We also installed a water bottle with a tube to suck water through the gag.

"Marie," I said, "This may be a rough trip so we don't want you to be bored.  While I was at your place, I collected your vibrating dildoes.  The battery for the transponder and air system has plenty of extra capacity so why not enjoy the cruise?"

"Gee, thanks.  I didn't have the nerve to ask since the purpose wasn't supposed to be for fun, but you do take such good care of me."

"Actually," I replied, "it was Randy's suggestion.  He really does worry about you a lot."

We wired the dildoes to mercury switches so that when the log rotated Marie on her back, the front one would activate for a random time from 10 to 30 seconds, and when she rolled face down the rear one would come on in a similar manner.  Plus a random timer would cut in at any moment.

All was now ready.  Marie lay down in her cavity and wriggled to make herself comfortable.  We then used the chain fall in the shed to lower the upper half in place.  A series of long screws then joined the two halves together, giving the appearance of a solid log.

There was two additional holes in the upper half about midway along.  I connected one to a pump dispenser and a can of rubber compound.  Randy pumped slowly until the fluid squirted out the other hole.

"How long does this take to set?" he asked.

"About 15 minutes to start hardening, and another 15 to set completely as a solid mass with latex consistency.  It fills all the space between Marie's catsuit and the cavity walls and will cushion her against rattling around, and of course it will totally immobilize her.  She won't even be able to twitch, and I doubt she'll even know which way is up."

Randy added, "But given her bondage history she's quite used to this.  Remember the times she was mummified or put into a full-body cast?  You weren't for that session, but before the Crusade, we once had her in a fiberglass body cast for a whole weekend. She absolutely loved it, especially when we took turns controlling the stimulators."

I admitted having missed that meeting but did recall the time she had been put into the crate, encased in foam and tumbled end-over-end.  We sure had some fun in those days.

By now it was almost morning and the rubber compound was set. Stan stepped out of the shed to take a leak and came running in excitedly.

"I heard noise, loud voices, coming up the path from town.  I think it's the God Squad.  We have to launch this thing right now."

Using peaveys and our backs, we rolled the log to the old sluiceway.  It had been designed to work with a flow of water, but that was long ago when the lumbering operation had been active.  We'd have to chance it dry.  With a final heave, the log rolled into the sluiceway and started sliding toward the river, accelerating steadily.  About half way to the bottom, the old sluice gave way, the section carrying the log dropping at least a foot.

When the forward end of the log struck the intact portion, the log tumbled end-over-end landed on its side and rolled the rest of the way into the river with a huge splash.

For Marie, the sensations were terrifying even though her absolute encapsulation protected her from any physical trauma. She had no idea what was happening for the several seconds between the sluiceway collapse and settling into the river.  She was not even aware of the activity in her dildoes until the log finally came to rest and stopped its furious gyrations.  Soon, though she realized that whatever had happened she was apparently safe and on her journey.

Immediately, we set about hiding the tools and any evidence of our construction project.  I grabbed the camera out of the truck, set it on its tripod, and dived under the black cloth focusing hood.  I waited until the mob, about a dozen, had emerged into the clearing before throwing off the hood to face them.  Some were carrying Bibles, crosses, and other religious paraphernalia but most had weapons including pick handles and guns.

The one who appeared to be leading them stepped forward and demanded, "We're looking for that slut known as Slave Marie."

I answered, "Sorry, don't even know who you're talking about.  We just came up here to take some pictures of this old logging camp and the river."

"Well, we heard she was headed here, and we intend to check for ourselves."

"Go ahead, suit yourself."

Of course the mob found nothing and while catching their breath and reassembling, one of the Bible toters recited the standard conversion pitch while we politely listened. Having no desire to piss off a dozen armed and frustrated nuts we of course pretended we were already of the faith, although maybe a little lapsed.

As the vigilantes shuffled off to continue their search for sinners, one of the younger zealots shouted back, "I hope you aren't taking pictures of people.  You know what the Bible says about graven images."

"Of course," I replied.  "We are only photographing the glory of the Lord's creation."

As soon as the God Squad were out of sight, we got into Stan's truck and set off down the road following the left bank.  Of course we were stopped at the roadblock at the edge of town but since our IDs were in order and we were not known "sinners" we passed without incident.  Thereafter, every few minutes, I keyed the radio and got a faithful response (10 seconds of tone modulated carrier) from Marie's transponder.  She was moving down the river smoothly.  So it went until about a mile above the rapids where we ran ahead of the log and parked on the bluff overlooking the falls and the canal locks that bypassed the falls and the rapids below.  Beside the canal we saw the men, either vigilantes or cops waiting to check any boats or canoes attempting to pass.  To avoid suspicion in case we were seen I set up the camera. (I had real film in the holders; after all this was going to be quite a scene).

In a few minutes, the log came floating along.  When it came to the falls, it must have hung up on a submerged rock because it remained suspended, half over the brink for what seemed eternity, although it was actually just a minute.  Then it plunged end first and apparently stuck vertically in whatever was at the bottom of the falls. It was impossible to tell which end was up. About half was under water and the other half stuck straight up until a random eddy knocked the log horizontal and it spun in the whirling water.  Inside her cylindrical encapsulation the absolutely immobilized Marie was overloaded with erotic excitement mixed with total terror.  Even embedded in her solid encasement she could sense the accelerations and gyrations and so could the mercury switches on her vibrating dildoes.  They switched on and off every fraction of a second driving her to wild pleasure.  Yet the fear of what was happening to her created a competing sense of panic.

I managed to snap off about 10 sheets of film during this process, juggling the holders and dark slides as fast as I could but as soon as the log had cleared the rapids we hit the road again. At the State line we had to stop for another checkpoint, but since our papers were in order and one of the cops recognized Stanley from his regular trips between his home north of the boundary and his shop to the south we passed without incident other than a call of "Praise the Lord."

The road now looped away from the bank to pass around the Agricultural College so our only means of tracking was the transponder.  About a mile below the rapids, the signals showed that the log stopped moving.  We waited.  Had it hung up on some obstacle?  I keyed the transmitter again and the reply signal rose and fell in intensity about twice a second.  This continued for a couple of minutes, then the flutter slowed and stopped.  In a minute, however, the flutter resumed.  We had better investigate.

Stanley drove the truck through the gate onto the Ag School grounds, heading toward the river bank.  There was an unusual number of cars parked, especially for a weekend but we soon learned why.  The forestry team was hosting a lumberjack meet. These were contests of traditional logging skills such as chopping, sawing, and timber handling.  Stan parked the truck and we walked towards the river.  We soon came upon the meet, and the event in progress was the log rolling contest.  Two contestants stood on opposite ends of a floating log and by means of their footwork caused the log to spin on its axis.  The object was to cause your opponent to fall off, at which point the one still standing was declared the winner.

You don't have to guess what log they were at that moment using. Apparently one of the organizers spotted the perfectly cylindrical log and snagged it for the contest, replacing the one they had originally intended to use.  There was nothing we could do now except wait for the competition to end, but it seemed to go on interminably.  The players were good and each challenge went on for several minutes before one of them was thrown.  And then the next pair mounted the log.

By Randy's watch, it was an hour before the contest ended and the log lay in the crib constrained by float lines.  How to retrieve it?  We waited another hour until the meet broke for lunch. Randy then proposed a plan.  Why not have Stanley offer to buy the log?  He was known as a wood sculptor and could claim that this log would be "just perfect" for his next project.

After negotiating with the President of the Lumberjacks Club, he managed to buy the log for a $500 donation to the Club--considerably more that it was worth as timber, but a super bargain to those of us who knew its true value.  Stanley ran back to the truck and wrote a check to the Club. However, with the meet still in progress at the river edge, and another round of log rolling scheduled for the afternoon, he would have to wait until the end of the day.  We had to accept those terms unless we wanted to reveal our secret.  Stanley did, however, wade out to the log and rap on its surface the pre-arranged signal to tell Slave Marie that all was well so far.  She was greatly relieved that her friends were near since she realized she had been encased longer than expected and had been completely unable to make sense of the episodes of rapid spinning alternating with complete stagnation.

Knowing that she was not lost nor in danger allowed Marie for the first time in her journey to begin enjoying her situation.  She felt the gentle rocking of her log in the waves of the river, and actually thrilled at the spinning when the afternoon log rolling contests resumed.  the combination of the tumbling with the almost continuous action of both vibrators drove her to one explosive orgasm after another.  This was the best mummification or packaging adventure she had ever experienced, and she had indeed experienced many.

At the end of the meet, the woodsmen team used their tools and hoist to load the log onto our truck and we drove on to Stanley's shop.  We undid the screws as quickly as we could but still had to use wedges to open the halves against the adhesion of the rubber compound.

Even then, it took us an hour to cut Marie carefully out of her encapsulation without injuring her.

A month later, I visited Stanley at his shop.

"Where's Slave Marie." I asked.

"Oh, she's napping in the barn in back.  Follow me."

Once inside the shed, I saw what was apparently the old log.  It had been trimmed down considerable and was mounted in motorized gimbals so it would not only spin on its axis, but also tumble end-over-end.  And that is exactly what it was doing right now.

It seems Marie had found the trip so exciting she wanted to re-experience the sensations as often as possible and had actually learned to sleep in this whirling tumbling apparatus.

The End
 

12.06.05