I felt a piece of cotton or cloth touch my back, above and behind my left hip. It was wet. The area
I felt a piece of cotton or cloth touch my back, above and behind my left hip. It was wet. The area then felt cool. Then I whimpered. I felt a needle being entered into my flesh, in the center of that chemically chilled area. Tears sprang to my eyes. The needle was then withdrawn and I felt the area swabbed again with fluid. I was then drawn from the table and, by the arms, carried into the combination living and dining room of my small apartment. Their leader then, he who had ankleted me, opened the side of the stout, metal container. It had a heavy door. Inside were various straps, and rings. I tried to struggle. “Resistance is useless, Miss Collins,” said the man. I looked at him pleadingly. Then I was thrust, in a sitting position, into the box. The ring at the back of the gag, doubtless sewn into the slotted leather pad, was snapped about a ring mounted at a matching height in the box. My head was thus held in place. For a moment the room seemed to go dark and then I gathered my wits again. My left wrist, to my horror, was fastened back, and at my left side, by straps attached to a ring. My right wrist was then secured similarly. In moments both of my ankles, too, had been fastened in position. I fought to retain consciousness. Then I was thrust back further in the box. A broad leather strap was then drawn tightly about me. I winced. Then it was buckled shut. I could hardly move. I looked at the men, from the box. My eyes pleaded with them. “She is secured,” said one of the men. The man in charge nodded. “Close the container,” he said. I looked at the door. There was no handle or device for opening it on my side, and, even had there been, I could not, restrained as I was, have begun to reach it. I whimpered piteously, as an utterly helpless, restrained woman. I looked at them, piteously. They must show me mercy! Then the door was closed. The box was then lifted, apparently by handles. I suddenly felt extremely faint. I fought against the loss of consciousness. The box was then lowered into the cardboard carton. I turned my head, moaning. I heard the clink of the two rings. I tried to move my wrists and ankles. I could hardly move them. The broad leather strap, buckled shut, pressed, too, deeply into my belly, holding me in place. Outside of the two small holes now lay the cardboard. I could see a little light from the overhead lamp. I turned my head and struck with the side of it against the iron behind me. “Do not be stupid, bitch,” said the man outside the box. I sobbed. I fought more fiercely to retain consciousness. Then the carton was lifted, and was being carried. It would appear to be a carton in the care of professional moving men. No one would think twice about it. The thought crossed my mind that it was Tuesday evening. Tomorrow would be Wednesday, my day off at the store. I would not be missed until Thursday. I then lost consciousness. -- source link