I tried to restrain myself. I was in a safe place. My home away from home had a large bed, a fireplace, antique furniture and a closet.

The fireplace excited me, no doubt about it. I liked the idea of sparking combustion, feeding the flames and watching the fuel glow.

But what drew me in a darker way was the closet. This little room had a lengthwise pole for hanging clothes. And the pole was solid, as I found by grabbing it and hanging from it. That son of a gun would not flex.

I had a plan for this fixture. When my partner arrived for a visit, I would tie her to it. Not out of anger or meanness or psychosis, mind you. No, I just couldn't think of any other way to express my affection.

I studied the height of the bar. It was too low for attaching my partner's hands over her head and too high to hook her elbows over, chicken-wing style. But it was just right for easing her into a strappado, with her arms pulled up behind her.

In preparation for the boothing scene, I went to a hardware store, where I saw a variety of hitching devices, along with a selection of maple syrup (I was in the hardwoods, see).

All I wanted was a couple of lengths of fine chain and a few small padlocks. But I was afraid to communicate my needs to the hardware cashier, so I walked out with a pocket full of postcards showing fine specimens of local moose.

I turned right around, returned the postcards and bought the works for my closet drama.

I snuck the loot into my room and began measuring. I looped up the chain, threaded the locks through the links and turned the keys in the tumblers. I tested until I decided all was copacetic. Then I stashed the paraphernalia in a drawer.

Soon, though not soon enough, my partner arrived.

So as not to alarm her, I built a fire. After the logs were burning merrily, I led her to the closet, asked her to de-clothe, and told her to step inside. "Stand under the bar," I said, "and face the far wall."

"Why?" she asked.

"You know me," I said. "You know there's only one thing on my mind."

"Hanging clothes?" she asked.

"No, hanging you."

I fixed her as I had planned, and she fit perfectly: hands up behind, head downward, ass backward. She was effectively strappadoed, like a prisoner of a mad fascist dictator, or a captive of a mad fetishist dicker, namely me.

Carefully, I shut the closet door, walked to the hearth, sat in a chair and watched the licking flames. No sounds came from the bondage booth. I walked to the door, opened it, saw the expected backward ass, closed the door and returned to the fire.

I picked up a jug of newly bought maple syrup and wondered where I should spread it, and what body parts I should spread before I began to spread it.

Soon, I would be ready to unscrew.