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Prints at 44 pages - Words 41,648

MAN-TO-MAN STUFF
a short story by Derek Arnold
made longer by Jim Stewart

INTRODUCTION

TURN-ONS & TURN-OFFS

What’s in it for you

Reading erotic fiction is a chancy business. How soon into a story can you tell if the author is on your wavelength? Any publisher knows that a good title, strong cover design and punchy sales blurb can help get a book into a reader’s hands. But, particularly in terms of erotic subject matter, if the reader’s personal preferences do not match precisely those of the author, this can lead to frustration – or to a stimulating exercise in creative imagination. You, the reader can, by imagining changes you’d make to storyline or characters, shut the book and drive the action in a direction more likely to get your juices flowing. Alternatively, you can read the story through and then, in retrospect, imagine your chosen alternative version and get off on tailor-made sequences as often as you like.

When the author of this story started writing it, the aim was to push the buttons of one particular individual (and, of course, himself during the writing process). The content was chosen to appeal to specific known sexual/sensual preferences. After showing the first sequence to several like-minded kinkheads, the basic scenario was then broadened by adding elements which he knew would appeal to other individual personal acquaintances.

What’s in it for me

By the time the story was shown to me it was already 15,000 words long, and a lot of it immediately fired up my boilers. However, certain elements and images in the story cut across my personal likes-and-dislikes enough to be distracting. So, at first I mentally edited them out but then, because it was an electronic file, began a process of physically replacing what jarred for me. This may sound presumptuous (if not bloody rude!) but, when it comes to sexual stimulation, we all know that it’s the subtle nuances which really make the difference. As in cooking, the same basic ingredients can result in different flavoured dishes, depending on the addition of various little extras, or subtle exclusions.

Happily, with the author’s agreement, I spent a lot of highly stimulating hours imagining his two excellent characters and core scenario into a piece of text which will allow me to get off on it during many re-readings in the future.

This version is now 38,000 words long and I'm delighted that the original author, Derek Arnold, has agreed that other readers should be allowed to see my ‘take’ on his story.

Enjoy it for what’s in it for you.

Jim Stewart

October 2002

MAN-TO-MAN STUFF

PART ONE

SNATCHED

As consciousness returned, I tried to sit up – and couldn’t. I could barely move a muscle. Disoriented, it took time to assess my situation. Arms tied tightly behind me; that I knew right away. There was also something tied tight around my ankles and bent knees. Even my thighs were lashed together, I discovered. Rope (I assumed) secured my wrists, and my elbows were pulled painfully tight together in the small of my back. My head was enclosed in ... something; the smell was familiar, but I couldn’t place it. My mouth felt stuffed full with a soft, springy-but-tough mass and I could barely swallow. Whatever encased my head shut out all light. It felt like a skin-tight hood of some sort.

Gradually, I grew more aware of the pressure of ropes laced all around my body. Everything was painfully tight and my muscles throbbed from the severe strain of the unusual position my limbs were trussed into. Lying on my side, I couldn’t straighten my legs without pulling on my arms. Hogtied, I thought dispassionately. I’d seen it in pictures but never imagined it could be this uncomfortable. Also, my skin felt strange. I couldn’t work it out but knew that every part of me was covered in some way. Was my uniform still on? No, I’d been wearing my beat-up old motorcycle leathers. I knew how they felt; tight and thick – but not this tight. Certainly, the heavy steel-toed boots were no longer on my feet.

How many bondage/fetish related stories start with the leading character regaining consciousness in severe restraint? The hero of this tale had never even read a so-called kinky story in his life. Dan Drummond was an up-and-coming senior police officer on a regional force. By ‘senior’ it meant he had the rank but, as one of the new fast-track to promotion breed of youngish cop, this brawny thirty year-old was still something of a loose canon.

As an Information Technology whiz kid who could just as easily have left university for a career in professional Rugby League, his rise through the ranks was an embarrassment to many. Somewhere among the “top brass” somebody hoped he would become one of an elite circle of tough young but intellectually sound officer class. Home Office had traded him from the Ministry of Defence who’d had their eye on him as regular army officer material while he was still at university. A quick-fisted, motorcycle riding young ‘Turk’ from early grammar school days, those anonymous men who keep an eye open for potential Establishment talent had monitored his progress surreptitiously through every phase of his go-getting education.

Now, having bypassed many dedicated young police constables and sergeants, “Desperate Dan” (as older colleagues called him), was more commonly known as “Bulldog”, and had reached a position as Chief Inspector at an indecently early age. He was the white hope of an influential regional chief. So, to get himself ‘snatched’ while following his own unorthodox monitoring of an elaborate undercover operation promised to be an embarrassment to his sponsors on the Force, and could be fatal to the man himself.

Trying to reduce the strain on my limbs, I moved as best I could, but nothing relieved the pain. I became aware that my arms were, in addition to being lashed together, were secured tight against my body and ropes were also wrapped around my torso in some criss-cross fashion. I could feel them biting against my flesh through the thick covering. Somebody must have spent a lot of time applying such elaborate roping to an unconscious man. It seemed it was deliberately intended to punish as well as be super efficient.

I experimented by attempting to speak but immediately knew it would be impossible to make myself understood. Even with determined effort, only muffled grunts were possible, and they remained inside the helmet or whatever covered my entire head (not my motorcycle helmet I told myself. Too tight). Saliva dribbled from the side of my gagged mouth and was pooling at the side of my face and chin, the liquid trapped inside the casing. No light relieved the darkness; no way of knowing if it was day or night.

My body throbbed all over in pain. My six-foot-four well exercised frame was not built for this type of stress, and desperate to shift position, I strained painfully in an attempt to move even slightly. The effort paid off. Suddenly I rolled onto my chest, the movement dragging my feet high up behind me, still attached to my wrists as they were. Settled into this new position, the pain in my arms eased slightly but I felt my cock and balls crushed under me, now pinned between my body and the hard surface on which I lay. As this new sharp pain crashed through my groin I sucked hard on the wad in my mouth. Long time since I’d been so aware of my genital equipment in this way.

What had those bastards done to me, I wondered? Spirited me away. I assumed it was drug dealers who had somehow got me, but which faction? Our undercover operation was to keep surveillance on two rival ethnic groups. In effect, it was a local power-struggle between Somali and some emerging Indian-based importers, perhaps with a third faction trying to muscle in. Our plan was to monitor without interfering, but something had obviously gone wrong. I had no way of knowing where I was or who was holding me. Technically, as a Chief Inspector with special responsibilities for I.T. across several Divisions, I was supposed to be office based in this new rank – but had taken it upon myself to observe unofficially. Positioned on my old motorcycle, a casual bike courier in clapped-out leathers, hanging around in a quiet side-street ostensibly waiting for the next pick-up call on my mobile.

Several of our men were staked out in the area, but officially I wasn’t there. I don’t even know if they knew I was monitoring them. They weren’t supposed to. When the shot hit me, in a flash I knew I was in trouble. But it wasn’t a bullet, and it was silent. Even before I hit the ground I knew I was drugged rather than wounded. I wouldn’t have drawn attention even if there’d been time, because it would have compromised the overall stake-out. I was on my own and I knew it, but I didn’t expect to be – what? Captured? Snatched?

Years of police training at officer level had taught Dan Drummond that, when any man is in the hands of an experienced torturer, his mind is as much a target as his body. Ruthless men whose aim is power over others as much as profit, had been discussed in several analytical grounding session. Some big-wig behavioural psychologist had expounded elaborate theories about the dangers of power without responsibility, to the study-group. Now here, thought Dan, is the real thing. Was he a pawn in a ruthless game being played out by a dangerously unscrupulous group of carefully anonymous men; some of whom relished their special ability to generate fear and pain?

Dan’s experience of the darker side of such men was only theoretical. In his wildest dreams he could not imagine a villain who so enjoyed exercising his power, as to cold-bloodedly pre-prepare an elaborate ‘treatment’ which would involve equipment and secure space so he could play with his victim like a cat might play with a mouse caught in a trap ... and get off on it!

My assessment skills tried to kick in, but the uncomfortably stressful physical contortions were, I decided, having a dangerous effect on my mind. Concentrate, damn it, I told myself. But my mind was in a disoriented state as a continued to speculate. They must have targeted me for some reason – be after something – and me being in no position to put up much resistance – this is serious trouble. The muscular pressure was already getting to me. I must fight it. My bulk was not an asset in such a predicament. Beef had it’s uses, but in this contorted situation ... my mind left the sentence uncompleted. Already, I wasn’t sure how much longer I could deal with it – and I can’t even talk to them, I thought desperately. What the hell do they want? What’s going to happen next? Why hasn’t somebody realised that I’ve regained consciousness?

Suddenly I thrashed around as much as the bindings would allow, just to let anybody on the outside know I was conscious. The movement made me breathless inside the enclosed hood. I fought to stay calm and to remember all those tedious anti-terrorist and anti-kidnap training courses. The wham-bang action sessions had been fun, but the interminable theory lectures and discussions were Yawnsville. But here I was – trussed like a turkey – and there was something very oppressive about the way it felt – my entire body was somehow – constricted – more than just ropes and a hood. We’d had some of that in training exercises: canvas sack over the head – cold water – being yelled at – smacked around. That, I’d survived. Enjoyed surviving, but this – this is something more – sinister!

I tried to flex my fingers and realised my hands were enclosed in something like a mitten. This kept my hands tightly trapped and useless. I couldn’t feel anything through the material; it was thick. To make matters worse, I felt so hot my body was sweating profusely, and the perspiration wasn’t going anywhere. It was making my whole body wet, the heat was over every part of my body from fingers to feet, and especially my head. I couldn’t make it out. What the hell had they done to me? As I tried to clasp the material surrounding my mittened hands I suddenly realised what the smell was, and now recognised the texture of the material that covered my entire body. It was rubber.

With this realisation came a dangerous thought. What type of villain kidnaps a member of the police Force and then dresses him in rubber and keeps him trussed up like this? Some weirdly perverted and seriously demented bastard. Or is it a diving suit; will water be involved? I couldn’t get my mind around it. I knew that some people found rubber a turn-on – and I’d seen films where they used this type of gear for sensory deprivation. It hit me. Oh Jesus! Brainwashing.

RUBBERED

How much longer? – where are they? – why haven’t they come for me? – I can’t stand much more of this! ... my mind raced in the sweltering darkness.

“Come on you bastards, get started!” were the words I shouted, but they were not the sounds my ears heard. I couldn’t make a single clear sound. Too conscious that the bonds were biting against my flesh even through the thick covering, the fact that the hood and gag held in all sound now really began to get to me. I had never been gagged. Even in horsing around – stag nights and rugby piss-ups – I’d always been the one helping to do it to others. Even on collage military cadet training exercises I’d always tried to avoid any sort of gagging or getting tied up.

The hood began to impose itself more on my mind – and also restrict my air supply! I now found time to notice that I was only breathing through my nose. From the feel of it, there was a tube in each nostril and the air whistled in and out of the tubes. I couldn’t believe the predicament. I can’t stand this shit; I’m going to die in here. Even though I knew it was a waste of energy, I began to thrash around again, desperate for some slight promise of escape; some sliver of hope. But there was none.

I only succeeded in exhausting myself, and could hear my breath whistling harder in and out of those damn tubes. I panted with the effort and saliva continued to dribble from my mouth, pooling around my face and mixing with the sweat inside the helmet or mask or whatever. Frankly terrified – I wanted them to get on with it, to do whatever it is they are going to do. The sensation was new to me. This feeling of total helplessness was ... NO! not submission. Why don’t they come! They can’t have forgotten about me. Have they been caught and nobody knows I’m here? ... like this?

So many disjointed thoughts flashed through my head. Physical and mental torture had, until now, been academic concepts. Suddenly ... unexpectedly, I began to sob uncontrollably. Is this the real reaction to helplessness? Inside that rubber head-prison I began to plead; to demand my release; demand to be heard – to survive – to live. Unfamiliar emotions unleashed, shocked me. I continued to rave and writhe - but no response from the outside world. Nothing. Nothing but the void – the waiting – the impotence. No one came to laugh at me, the big dumb would-be-big-chief police officer blubbering like a baby. Nothing! How long had it taken to reduce me to this state? I had no idea.

Then all of a sudden my thoughts re-focused. I felt a distinct tingling at the soles of my feet; it was like ants marching over my skin and irritated the hell out of me. I flexed my toes and feet, feeling the rubber slide over my naked skin a little with each flex. The sensation grew stronger and rather than irritate it became quite pleasant. But soon the unfamiliar sensation grew progressively stronger, until my whole body jerked as my feet were what – tickled? Within the tight lashing I pulled at my feet to avoid the sensation, and only managed to jerk on my tightly bounds wrists. I wriggled and squirmed in a vain attempt to evade the tickling, but I could not escape it. I needed to laugh, but couldn’t laugh! Not here, not now, not like this. But the sensation grew worse and as each wave washed over my feet I jerked, and an involuntary giggle (or was it a sob?) escaped into the gag. I could barely breathe and barely believe myself. Giggle at this deliberate physical ... torture! But I had no control. I had no choice and the unstoppable surges broke down all resistance until I was thrashing helplessly around as best the bonds would allow in a state of near-hysterical sobbing laughter.

Abruptly, the devilish pulsing stopped. I was panting through the nose tubes and yelling for release. But having stopped around my feet, the same sensation now began just behind my balls. Christ, NO! First the marching ants, then the tingle, then the incessant tickling which seemed to travel through my balls and up the shaft of my cock. I couldn’t believe such torture. I rolled painfully onto my side but the increasing sensation just got worse until every muscle in my powerful but powerless frame was straining to the utmost. “I can’t stand this” I literally screamed; but the scream was only inside my head.

The connection between my ankles and wrists suddenly broke free, allowing me to straighten my legs. Had I somehow broken the ropes? My whole rubber-encased and still tightly pinioned arms and trussed legs and rope-wrapped torso was now thrashing unrestricted as the tickling intensified. And I was screaming uncontrollably into the gag: howling and cursing, desperate beyond imagination for release from the bonds and the sensations. I now had more freedom to buck and writhe but it got me nowhere. I couldn’t put an end to the torture coursing through my cock and balls. Then it began again under my feet as well, and my sobs turned to screams as I bucked hard enough to throw my restrained body off the ground and land back on the hard floor. It was worse than any nightmare and I thought my mind would snap.

As suddenly as it had begun, it stopped. I lay panting desperately, wheezing through the tubes and around the gag. Sweat made the rubber which now seemed to grip my entire body slick and wet – and no matter how hard I tried to stop, I continued to sob and shiver and yell uninhibitedly through the gag for somebody – anybody – to cause the ordeal to end. Unheeded, I gradually subsided into an exhausted, snivelling, self-pitying mess. I lay there trying to regain my composure ... and was startled to realise that my cock was rock hard and that I had cum during the ordeal!

As a matter of record, the brawny hero of this tale had never in his life strayed from the healthy norms which had surrounded him since early childhood in Coventry. His middle-class, middle-aged parents had brought up their only child to respect a healthy mind and healthy body. His wife, too, when they’d met at university, had enjoyed his beefy muscularity: but also supported him intellectually and in his moral uprightness. She’d encouraged his ambitions, while at the same time continuing to pursue her own career, even through three pregnancies. As both careers had become more successful and stressful, there had been rifts, and with his posting to the East Midlands Force his wife had opted for a house in Guildford where she was a successful partner in an I.T. company – so she and Dan were effectively separated, by comfortable mutual agreement.

Dan lay panting and, although emotionally exhausted, was considering just how and why his sexual arousal by the ‘torture’ had been so total, when no such thoughts had ever been part of his consciousness before. Could it be the rubber or the helplessness? No. It must be the drugs. His tired mind was brought up short by the sound of a voice, literally in his ear. Fuck! He was wired for sound.

“Did you enjoy that”? purred a man's voice, with implied intimacy.

I jerked my head up but could, of course, see nothing. The darkness in which I was trapped remained total and I could only gurgle and grunt through the gag.

“What the fuck do you want, you perverted bastard?” is what I wanted to say, but what came out was totally unintelligible.

“So, my friend, you thought you could out-smart us. An observer on the sidelines. Watching your own minions going through their motions,” the voice continued. It was a deeply masculine voice and not one I recognised. No trace of foreign accent was apparent.

“We have been keeping you under observation; expecting you to stick your neck out. And we were there, not to chop it off – but slip a very effective noose around it – because we were hoping you’d choose to pay us a little visit. Never could resist a challenge, eh, Bulldog?” The voice broke into self-satisfied laughter. My mind raced at his suggestion that I’d walked into a waiting trap but, being in no position to ask questions, I simply chewed on the gag and seethed at the possibility. How could they have been waiting for me? I’d made a spur of the moment decision. That I’d been deliberately targeted was now clear and our elaborate surveillance operation seemed to be an open book to this ... whoever he was. This he confirmed as the taunting voice continued, “Your men Clark and Prentice – and big Chuck Bates, all neatly staked out. Oh, don’t suspect any of them of disloyalty. They didn’t even know you’d joined the game They didn’t even know you were out there ... and now you’re not. You’re here, and they don’t even know you’ve gone yet.”

I’d been so careful. It had been my spur-of-the-moment personal choice. Nobody knew what I was planning. But ... a couple of my office Team ... and the transport dock ... they knew I’d left the station. But that was in my car. I’d changed at home ... so how the hell had he (they?) known I was out there posing as a biker? Could there be an informer in the station? That thought stung me harder than the dart which had so quietly and efficiently drugged me on a public street.

My mind raced: as part of the management of this particular drugs operation, it was unorthodox (and frankly bad policy) for me to be out in the open and in a situation where I would be ... vulnerable. No. It had been my own decision. No pre-planning. I had wanted to be part of the action ... but it had taken special knowledge of my movements for this to be known outside. Who knew? Who had perhaps guessed I was heading home to change? Who might have recognised my old one-piece leathers out on the street? They were from the days before my promotion. Hadn’t worn them since I first came to the area. I’d kept my helmet on. No, it couldn’t be somebody inside the station. Me being the main man when it came to circulating information on any under-cover operation ... really sensitive information no one could ... Suddenly, it was terrifyingly clear what my captor wanted. Information. Information only I could give.

“Does your silence mean you are beginning to comprehend your predicament, Mister Drummond?” The mocking voice interrupted my racing thoughts and brought me back to the seriousness of my situation. The rubber surrounding me suddenly felt terrifyingly constricting; the heat that permeated my body was suddenly even more overpoweringly debilitating; the tubes up my nose suddenly seemed dangerously small and my sense of panic was difficult to hold back as so many hard facts burned into my brain.

“Yes. You have information ... and you WILL help me by providing it.”

Determinedly I shook my head in the negative. No way could I give information to this dangerous freak.

“Not necessarily the names of all your operatives ... just the undercover shits who have already infiltrated my organisation at some level and who intend to undermine my ... efficiency. I know they’re on the inside already. But it’s a large ... organisation! And, of course, I’ll also be asking you for names of any of your men who have infiltrated the ranks of my rivals. That will be amusing to know ... and use to my advantage.”

Again the grim humour tinged the edges of his voice, and my worst fears began to hammer inside my encased head. I couldn’t give this bastard the names of undercover operatives; it would mean certain death and worse for them all ... but he already knows the names of my stake-out men. My mind reeled.

And my body already felt seriously weakened as the harsh realities continued to repeat themselves again and again in my brain: tortured, painfully restrained enclosed in thick rubber, breathing through two dangerously small tubes inside some fiendish device over which I had absolutely no control. Was I up to the challenge? I had already been driven beyond my ability to cope by nothing more than tickling. Face the facts. Spirited away under the noses of my team to some unknown location, held by some unknown lunatic. I could visualise no means of escape or rescue. There seemed to be no hope of surviving in this bizarre prison, no ray of hope. With abject desperation, I suddenly came face to face with the unavoidable possibility that I may not be able to cope with any further ‘treatment’ – yet knew they had not even begun their interrogation. I was afraid – afraid I couldn’t hold out – afraid I was already close to betraying everything I had always thought I stood for.

As if to prove this point, I suddenly felt my legs being drawn back up towards my wrists again. There seemed to be some unstoppable mechanism at work outside my rubber prison, dragging my bound ankles irresistibly closer and closer to my wrists ... and at the same time slightly upwards. Some sort of pulley? It hurt unbearably and I struggled to make it stop. I roared into the gag as the pain increased. My muscles were strained and as my ankles drew closer to my wrists, the bonds around my knees and thighs and all around my body grew systematically, deliberately tighter. Were they going to suspend me off the floor? That would kill me, I thought wildly. I could hardly breathe already and the muscular pain was unbearable. I pulled as hard as I could to stop the increasing constriction, but I was powerless against it. My weight and six-foot-four heavily-muscled frame was working against me: my strength, for the first time in my life, worth nothing.

Suddenly, a strange smell hit me and my head began to reel – but the pain receded a little. I moaned in frustration (perhaps tinged with fear) and wrenched myself around, hog-tied and tethered upwards as I was, desperate to find some little relief. Impossible. Only my stomach still heavily against the ground. I suddenly became aware of my cock, again trapped painfully under me. But it was rock hard – and I was completely shocked to find myself turned on and horny. Deeply aware of my situation, I couldn’t believe what I was feeling. What was that smell? They were using something on me – some drug. “Oh shit, what’s going on,” I demanded of myself in panic. I continued to wrench from side to side as much as the upward attachment allowed, mangling my cock and almost humping the surface on which I lay. I couldn’t stop myself – although I knew that I shouldn’t be feeling this way – not like this.

Marching ants again started around the soles of my feet, and I knew in advance what was the tortuous progression that would follow unstoppably.

I roared into the gag even before the tingle turned to the tickling sensation. I knew what was coming and couldn’t stand any of it: the clinging restriction, the heat, the ache of every limb, the smell of the drug being fed through the nose tubes – and the damned electrical impulses. I knew I was totally helpless – and was turned-on in spite of myself.

The sweat within the rubber suit acted like lubrication making my body slick against the rubber material as I squirmed. My cock was sliding, pressed between my sweating body and the rubber covering. The intense tickling sensations in feet and genitals grew worse and I began to sob and laugh into the gag from the pain mixed with the pleasure. I continued to thrash as best my lashings would allow, which only made the pain in my groin greater.

Suddenly I slumped in total exhaustion because the tickling had stopped. The pressure on my legs and arms was then released and I was able to actually straighten my legs, gratefully. I extended my legs in relief, still laying on my stomach and conscious of my cock still throbbing under me. I rolled onto my side, my breath whistling through the nose tubes, the gag now feeling even bigger in my mouth. Bathed in sweat, my entire body still roped around in all directions outside the heavy clinging rubber, ached in a way not even the hardest physical work-out, rugger game or stamina test had ever made me ache. Suddenly that smell again: the light-headed feeling which blurred the barriers between pain and pleasure. The bastards!

My cock sprang uncontrollably to attention yet again, and I automatically drew in great breaths through the nose tubes. I began to float in another world, the drug causing my unwilling self to enjoy the pain I was in. I drew the next breath and there was nothing – I could not breathe! The air was GONE! I sucked desperately on the rubber that filled my mouth and dragged with all my strength at the nose tubes, trying to get air into my bursting lungs. I screamed inside my head as a greater darkness began to descend upon me. I writhed and thrashed, my hands locked behind my back and my fingers convulsing inside their rubber encasement for something to grab onto. I rolled my body, the bindings cutting deeper into my rubber-covered flesh. There was no escape. I was going to die ... yet the drug that still gripped my mind kept pushing me to focus on the throbbing between my tied and powerless powerful thighs. As darkness finally descended, my cock exploded and I jolted in an orgasmic bucking frenzy ... as I shot over the top into unconsciousness. The final thing I heard was my own silent primeval screaming within my head, plus the final feeling that my prostate was being ripped from my body by the orgasm which assailed it.

Then ... there was nothing.

Erotic dreams, whether sleeping or waking, have an edge of unreality about them. Dan, who had been ‘Bulldog’ since early school days had never been one to have erotic dreams. His fantasies lived up to his name. Winning the School Cup and leading a team to victory had been his aphrodisiac. Those lucky enough to be accepted into his inner circle had been allowed to shorten his name to ‘Bull’, but this never implied a sexual nature; just brute strength and power. Perhaps the width of his well-exercised neck might also be called bull-neck. He was a tough bastard and, as his nick-name implied, he’d always been something of a hero figure to admirers. But his admirers had, sometimes disappointedly, accepted that ‘Bull’ was not up for open sexuality. He’d been the model of Muscular Christianity and a virgin when he married Stella at the age of 23. Now, seven years and three children later he was just as rugged, but even living away from his family, any attempt to ‘interest’ him had failed (and both male and female colleagues had tried). ‘Bull’ had remained above such things.

Since joining his new force at his newly elevated rank, a few of the constables had taken to referring to him as ‘Drum’. This he had not minded, until a strip cartoon had appeared on the station notice board bearing the same name. It had been cut from an American homo-erotic magazine, ‘Drummer’. Copies had been seized by Customs officers working in the Post Office. The lurid, sexually explicit pictures and text had immediately begun to circulate among the lads. The cartoon character ‘Drum’ was a beefy, bike-riding, usually leather-clad when not stripped naked super-stud, who fought and fucked ... and occasionally got fucked against his will.

Consequently, Chief Inspector Drummond soon stamped out all use of the alternative name applied to him, and the offending cartoon was swiftly removed (which did not mean copies of the magazine weren't still in circulation). Now, in his fitful dream, Dan’s unconscious mind travelled this unfamiliar territory, remembering the implications. And pictures of the randy ‘Drum’ character in the tough homosexual magazine were assertively peopling his dreams. He was horny again – even in his unconscious state – he was painfully horny – and suddenly awake again – and still rampantly horny. What the fuck was this drug they were using?

*****

STRAPPED

I awoke. Beyond my closed eyelids was light, but I kept them closed for a moment. There was no pain, I discovered. It was a dream, I reasoned – but what a dream. I had never experienced anything like it before. I lay for another relaxed moment wondering about the mysteries of the sub-conscious. How little we know of what is buried deep inside us. Then I tried to sit up but couldn’t. My arms were comfortably at my sides but I could not raise them. Without thinking too clearly, I now opened my eyes and found my sight was veiled in some way. I could see, but the images were slightly clouded. Trying to focus, I saw that there was a transparent film in front of my eyes, surrounded by blackness. I tried to swallow, and only then knew there was still something in my mouth. Realisation: it wasn’t a dream but a nightmare and it was continuing. Still gagged, my body lay flat and as I flexed, I could feel that there were unyielding straps holding me down – and rubber still encased my body. Through the clear plastic before my eyes I could see blurred images but, I suddenly discovered, I could not move my head or neck. Both were now terrifyingly immobilised.

In dazed despair, I looked towards the ceiling and was shocked to recognise an image of what must be me, reflected in a mirror. Though blurred by the plastic barrier, I was able to make out the details of the image above me – although it was difficult to accept that a man was inside the sinister black covering. A solid moulded head shape confirmed for me that tough-looking rubber did indeed encase every part of my body. Only the semi-clear plastic eye port gave evidence of a man inside the dreadful cocoon. Webbing straps compressed the heavy dull industrial-looking rubber across the torso at various points, plus at each wrist, elbow and bicep: likewise at each ankle, above and below each knee and high around each thigh. All were separately immobilised by broad straps. As if to confirm what I saw above me, I flexed at each point as I assessed my predicament. Once again the painstakingly elaborate nature of the bindings made me feel that somebody obsessive had been at work here.

I felt literally drained. With nothing else to occupy my mind ... on closer inspection I grew aware of tubes which now seemed to bristle from my body. In particular, there was the narrow tube coming from my nose. I sensed those two bastard tubes were still in my nostrils. I could feel them, but saw that only a single tube came from the mask. The two tubes must join in some hidden ‘Y’ configuration inside the face-mask/hood-whatever, I speculated. A wider corrugated tube also came from lower on the face, and it snaked a path to my left, ending at an ominous looking machine just visible close by the table onto which I was strapped so elaborately. Lower down, a tight rubber tube attached at my groin now took my attention. As if by noticing this, I became aware that my rock-hard cock must now be encased in that tube. Previously, my tackle had been inside the suit with me. Beneath the tube, I could see a bulging shining black sack which obviously must contain my tightly restricted testicles ... and I felt absurdly vulnerable. The thought of my strictly private parts being manipulated – handled – deliberately encased; now trapped outside the rubber suit and exposed to the perverted shit who held me prisoner, froze my mind in its tracks.

I forced myself to continue the assessment of my predicament. I realised that tubes also went to my chest, lined up with my nipples. Then with a surge of new anxiety noticed that, emerging from under my body, yet another heavy tube disappeared over the edge of the table like a black snake. Coming from the region of my arse as it did, I could only guess that it gave access to my rectum.

As senior police officer Drummond’s imagination gave rise to wide and perverse possibilities, his mind threatened to go numb in self-defence. Totally cut off from the outside world, each tube ending at a machine or disappearing out of sight, he could not continue to speculate on the purpose of this elaborate and devilish ... construct.

His inexperience of such things did not allow him to even guess at the possibilities, particularly as certain tubes hid wires attached to pads already positioned against his skin and, as yet, unused. He could not feel these pads within the sweaty environment of his rubber prison ... yet.

*****

INTERROGATED

“Awake again,” said the same voice into my ears, that same sarcastic humour in the tone. “I think your first experience will convince you that you’re completely under my control, and that it’s a waste of time and effort to resist. You know what I want, and I always get what I want … in the end.”

The man sounded so sure of himself and I, perhaps for the first time in my life, was feeling totally unsure of myself after my first devastating experience at his hands - when was that? Today, yesterday, last week? I had no recollection of the change of position or the re-strapping of my cock and balls. That thought made me feel nervous; and made me hard!

It suddenly struck me that I had no clear idea how long I‘d been here. Time stood frozen for me ... and maybe I had already been given up for dead by my colleagues and superiors. A fatalistic despair weighed down on me and, suddenly, I was afraid I could not withstand much more of the treatment already received. Afraid, a concept totally foreign to me. I wanted to switch off mentally, to escape into oblivion and end this nightmare. No avenues were left open for me: the bondage was as efficient as before, and being inside that rubber cocoon seemed to sap my ability to think as I’d been trained to think. This was so intensely abnormal. I’d never seen or heard of this type of interrogation technique before in the real world. Only in the extremes of sado-masochistic fiction, something which had never held any appeal for me.

The gag filling my mouth began to deflate with a hiss of air; the rubber bulb deflating and retracting automatically. It was disconcerting that this happened without anyone having come within my vision. I flexed my jaw, grateful that I was free of that vicious gag at last.

“Now, my friend. Some questions for you to answer.”

“Who the fuck are you?” I shouted. But after being gagged for so long it was more of a croak. Anger suddenly surfaced and I strained against the bonds in my impotence. My body could barely move and my head not at all. A terrifying thought, but efforts to put up some show of struggle felt good in the face of my unseen kidnapper.

Mocking laughter filled my ears and, as I began to shout more abuse, the gag dropped back into my open mouth. Swiftly it began to immobilise my tongue efficiently, and fill the space unstoppably.

“You bastard,” I shouted against the wet rubber balloon – but too late. Only unintelligible noises escaped around the slimy rubber as it expanded inexorably. As it continued to inflate even further I suddenly panicked, because the invading rubber bulb was filling my mouth more completely than it had done previously. With head clamped firmly in place, I began to choke and couldn’t breath. I flexed in vain against the body straps and a blind terror seemed to overflow, swamping my mind. I screamed but couldn’t scream; fought for air that wasn’t there. When I thought I would totally lose my mind, the rubber inside my mouth shrank to its former size. I gulped air through the nose tubes as best I could and fought to regain some sort of control of my heart-rate and breathing.

Panic slowly receded and I subsided within my bonds, sucking in air gratefully.

“Surely you know by now that I control every aspect of your being, Chief Inspector,” the voice vibrated in my ears. “Accept this fact and you might yet live through it,” he purred. “You will speak only to answer my questions. Do you accept that?”

Totally unable to move my gagged head, I thought about the situation and then made a sharp grunt which I hoped sounded like “Yes.” No way could I nod even within the confines of the helmet.

The bulb inside my mouth deflated and retracted once again. It made little difference to the amount of air available, but it felt good to at least be able to move my tongue: it and my mitted fingers being the only parts of my body not immobilised. I was conscious of this concession.

“Let’s start again,” the voice said. “Information pertaining to your undercover operatives on the inside is all I want: names and their identities within my organization.”

“Undercover operatives? I know nothing about undercover operatives,” I said, determined to sound convincing.

After a pause the voice said, “I’ll let you off that one, but don’t insult my intelligence, Chief Inspector D.A.Drummond. I know more about you than you think. You are assistant head of operations for three divisions, and responsible for all the recent reorganisation of undercover operations in those areas since Commissioner Black resigned so abruptly ... and his crony Superintendent Cullen lost all credibility and was retired on full pay.”

With shock I now accepted that this man, whoever he was, knew more than he ought. Obviously, an informant had passed on a great deal of restricted information.

“You are going to tell me user names and passwords of certain files – and I already know which files – but how your newly re-coded information is now accessed at regional headquarters is what only you can tell me – and you are going to tell me,” the voice went on determinedly.

“Wha … how do you know ab…,” I checked myself, realising that I had just given something away.

That fucking all-knowing laughter again. How I hated that laugh and the unseen man who owned it. But my mind raced out of control. It was useless trying to fool somebody who obviously already knew so much. Desperately, I decided that maybe there was a slim chance – but I had to play along for the moment – but he mustn’t think I’m giving up too easily. I actually dreaded being subject to his interrogation, but he’d smell a rat if I didn’t put up some further resistance. “I can’t tell you,” I said.

“Oh come now, you can ... and you will. Believe me!” ... again with that hateful tinge of mocking humour in his voice.

“No, I mean that I don’t have the information in my head,” I continued.

“Look, ‘Bulldog’ – or perhaps ‘Drum’ might be more appropriate, considering the pickle you’ve landed yourself in. Hanging around on street corners in full leather. Darn right provocative, I call it. Asking for it.” But suddenly all humour dropped out of the voice. “If you continue to piss me about with these attempts at stalling, I will have no choice but to show you just how inventive and imaginative I can get with somebody who thinks he knows how to resist pain – and I mean pain, not just subtle persuasion.”

As his words swept over me, the gag had dropped back into place, forced itself home and begun inflating quickly to unstoppably fill my mouth once more.

“For starters it will amuse me to first do …THIS.” I heard the grim voice rasp ... as I felt something inside me begin to stir. Something deep inside me ... and it was growing! My numb arse was being invaded, and whatever was already inside me began to grow bigger as motors began to hum. Then again I felt the dreaded tingling! This time at the base of my cock only ... and immediately, as the stimulation assailed it, my nine inch dick took on a life of it’s own and sprang to its full height ... but still clamped firmly within the external tube that held it. A rhythmic pulsing and sucking began to ripple along the length of my engorged penis and I gasped around the gag as waves of tortuous pleasure surged through me. Suddenly, that smell again! The bastard was using that drug; the relentless stimulation continued to build. It didn’t make sense, interrogation usually meant pain, not pleasure. He’d said pain but this was pleasure. Who was this demented fucker, anyway? Confused conflicting thoughts raced through my mind as the stimulation continued to build. I tried to shake off the feelings ... clear my head. I knew it was not right, but could do nothing to stop it. I shouldn’t be feeling this way in these circumstances, there was something dangerously perverse about it ... I must resist! Shouldn’t be enjoying the ... It must be the drugs! …. “Aaahhh, Jesus Christ!” I was getting close to cumming and I strained with all my strength as the insistent pulling and sucking built up. Then suddenly it stopped!

The smell was gone, the rhythmic dance along my cock ceased and the pressure in my arse melted away. I lay there gasping for air and sucking desperately on the rubber which filled my mouth. Frustration! I was bathed in sweat, and I screamed in anger as the waves of pleasure ceased completely. I was so near to a wild orgasm and it was snatched from me at the last moment. It was then I understood for the first time that pain was not the only form of torture, and (at least in theory) I had been trained to resist pain. I was, I now knew, totally unprepared for this type of physical and mental ... manipulation.

“Did you enjoy that Dan? You don’t mind me calling you Dan, do you? I’ve seen you naked, you know. Helped strip you out of your leathers, out of everything, and man-handle you into our special suit. You missed a treat, being unconscious. Two of my lads got a special kick out of stripping a big beefy cop bollock naked. It took me all my time to stop them taking liberties. But, of course, if you continue to be uncooperative I could easily hand you back to them ... but, face it, I intend to have my fun with you first. My special kind of ‘perverted’ fun, as I know you think of it. The sort of stuff your innocent heart has never even dared dream about,” came that mocking tone which I had grown to loath. “No knowing what will be in store for you if you refuse to do precisely as you’re told. Tougher men that you have cracked under the sort of treatment I enjoy inflicting. And I do it very well!”

By now I was sobbing desperately as much as the gag would allow. The frustration of the stimulation and the idea that I’d been pawed over by these perverts ... and there was no end in sight ... was destroying me. Doing my best to regain some sort of composure, I looked up and saw the same strapped-down image as before: but nothing I could see reflected the torment going on inside that rubber cocoon. I could feel nothing but despair as I stared into the reflection of my totally immobilised form. And behind the rubber mask the wild eyes were only distantly visible – staring back. Two orbs of diminishing intelligence, my brain admitted ... trapped within a tough black rubber prison. There were no bars on this prison, but it was the most effective confinement I could ever have imagined.

Once again the gag deflated and retracted and I flexed my mouth and jaw, vaguely trying to get rid of the ache which now seemed a permanent distraction: but, more importantly, tensing myself against whatever might come next.

“Dan, I will ask once more. Give me the details I need.” A more threatening tone had taken over the voice and I mentally cowered at it’s icy edge.

“Okay! okay! I’ll co-operate. You win,” I said for the first time in my life. I tried to make my voice sound firm; not as defeated as I was feeling. Obviously they had me wired for sound because, inside the rubber mask and its attachments, my voice was clear in my ears. He was right. They had control of every aspect of my body. This realisation made me even more desperate than before. But I couldn’t afford to give in to despair.

“Well, Chief Inspector?” demanded the voice as it broke through my self-doubt.

“All right! The information you need is in the locked top right-hand drawer of my desk at headquarters. Release me and I’ll take you there and hand it over.”

“Not so clever ... sir. Your physical help won’t be required, we have other means at our disposal.”

“Fuck,” I thought, but said, “to access the restricted listings you want, you need my keys which are in that drawer, plus the user-name ZEBEDEE and ... and (I said resignedly) the password is FLORENCE. From that access point the new path is all indicated. But I don’t understand how that information will help you, as no one can even get access to my computer without my being there. The outer office is manned and ...”

“Oh, don’t fret about that, Dan. Access is possible ... and your high security ‘Chub pattern 55’ locked desk will be absolutely no problem, believe me. But you’ll have to remain our guest while we verify your information.”

Without warning the gag thrust itself back into place and inflated as I opened my mouth to speak again.

“Hey, wai .... MMMMmmmmmhhh,” I shouted. “No, you bastard let me go. Let me talk ... “ I continued unintelligibly in sudden panic, throwing myself violently against the straps. I realised that my bluff had been called, and as soon as they found out the information was false ... more importantly, because the information would lead to whoever tried to get into it setting alarm bells ringing ... what then!? I’d sprung a pre-set trap which would catch whoever sprung it, but what would happen when this sadistic, seriously sick-minded maniac discovered it was a trap?

My mental panic was suddenly diverted ... because the lights in the chamber went out and my whole existence was plunged into darkness.

*****

Any serious player of Power Games in the SM or fetish community knows the potency of suspense; the waiting-game. The imagination is more brutal than a lot of physical abuse. Plant the seeds and let them grow. Man is his own worst enemy when insecurity is used as a weapon.

Neither Big Dan, or the fictional hero of Sapper’s Bulldog Drummond adventure stories, ever had to deal with such a devious-minded skilfully sadistic adversary. The images of his having been stripped naked by however many men, vulnerable and helpless ... and suited up in an elaborate contraption of rubber and tubes were eating away at the helpless police officer’s shredded resistance. Was it a neck-entry suit, his numb mind wondered, absently? He’d done a diving course and struggled his way into neck and wrist seals of a heavy-duty dry-suit, and strapped himself into a diving mask. But the idea of other men manoeuvring his unconscious naked body into such a contraption; smirking and touching ... ! Even if it was back-entry, his mind rambled on aimlessly, how many pairs of hands to get such a suit onto his heavy and totally vulnerable body?

Then the elaborate details of this physical restraint set-up somehow forced their way into his mind as he lay so totally immobilised: the table equipped with straps, the pumping machinery for the awful sucking and massaging, the electrical currents which must have produced the tickling sensation, the drugged breathing apparatus! What kind of arch-pervert ran this outfit? The voice was not one he had heard at any time in the audio-surveillance set-up his men had installed so successfully.

In the dark, with too much time to think ... Dan found his mind was running off the rails.

LUBRICATED

What now? What next? How long? I re-assessed; - couldn’t move, couldn’t talk and couldn’t see. Nothing had changed.

That bastard was a devil, I mused, seemingly suspended in time. No whips or implements of pain here. No. His tools were his sick mind and fiendish devices to inflict agonising sexual stimulation to his victims. Presumably, he also took pleasure in it ... as did his perverted assistants. Such devious tortures were far worse than any flogging or beating I might have expected. That, I could survive. I wouldn’t have minded trying that, I suddenly thought in some abstracted way in the silent darkness. Physical torture I’m sure I could cope with, my mind persisted. I could take a beating, I speculated. Just try me you bastards ... but no more of this ...

But suddenly my mind froze in mid-thought. Something was moving against my skin. Mentally and physically exhausted, I lay resigned to whatever might happen next. This unfamiliar passivity shocked me. A form of ice-cold terror never before experienced, held me in it’s grip.

Not liquid but ... something oozing into the suit ... slowly creeping over my skin from several directions. A horrific sensation in the dark, lying there unable to move or cry out. Was it corrosive? ... or were they going to drown me inside this fucking suit? Whatever was emerging from those tubes ... touching me, caressing me ... I was unable to identify. I had no idea that a thick green slime was being pumped in to completely fill the rubber suit. It invaded every available space around my body and very gradually coated my entire skin-surface with it’s sensual viscous touch as I lay numb with apprehension. No. Not numb. I wished I was numb in mind and body.

As the suit reach maximum capacity, under the gentle pressure of the liquid, it continued to expand, bulging out between the straps. I knew this although I could not see it ... and I shuddered with anxiety at the relentless build-up of pressure; almost holding my breath and waiting, thinking “This man is sicker than ...”

Then the voice quite quietly seared into my brain.

”Dan, it was rash of you, completely vulnerable inside my very unique suit as you know you are, to lie to me; try to out-smart me. This suit, which is of my own special design is water-tight, air-tight. I can control every one of your five senses: sight, sound, touch, taste and smell. But, perhaps more threatening to you, some other sensuality which you have never allowed yourself to explore I can ... manipulate. The experience will certainly burn itself into your being, believe me. I’ve tested the suit on several of my (how shall we say) adversaries, and the results have always been fascinating to observe.”

The grimly gleeful edge had returned to the voice, but I recognised the tone of a fanatic. “For example,” he continued, “the liquid which has just been pumped in will conduct small bursts of electricity from one point to another, stimulating every part of the skin it is in contact with (and that is literally everywhere), to whatever degree I choose. It could make you lose control of all your senses – perhaps for all time. The control is at my fingertips.”

With that, a wave of crackling electricity rippled gently along the entire length of my body; from the tips of each toe and gradually around to the tips of each finger. It was like a feather being drawn across my skin with intense precision, missing no part. I tensed as the feeling then began to swim around my body randomly – unpredictably – the waves becoming stronger at each surge with subtle increase. I tried not to tense as they washed over and around me, but was totally ... powerless.

The sensations were relentless, they never tired and never allowed me to catch my breath fully. Never before had I experienced such a working over. The intensity of the pleasure/pain remains impossible to describe adequately. In particular, my nipples received special attention, forcing me to be more aware of them as an erogenous zone than ever before. I gasped and squirmed as they were sucked and teased ... until both mind and body were shuddering as the treatment continued, and I shuddered uncontrollably within the limits of my glutinous confinement.

After what seemed like an agonising eternity, when exhaustion was setting in, the sensations began to concentrate on my cock. My mind reeled at the stroking up and down my shaft and around my swollen balls, caressing and sucking – relentless – unstoppable. And the nerve-stimulating vibrating deep within my rectum also began to increase mercilessly – driving me slowly and painfully to the very point of another involuntary climax ... when, yet again, all sensations stopped cold. It was as if I had been thrown off the top of a cliff. I screamed into the gag a prolonged and furious scream, then fell sobbing into an abyss of despair.

“Well now, my devious friend,” said the voice in my darkness, “you must understand that you took a gamble, and lost. So! Because you lied to me, whatever happens next, you invited. In some perverse way I’m glad you challenged me to do my worst. And you can not imagine some of the things I could do to you now, Dan, buddy, and although what you’ve already experienced is burned into your being for all time ... how long is time? The suit always gets results. With some it had permanent effects. But with you, who knows? Oh, Dan ... big buddy ... I would so enjoy spending a few more hours proving to you that I could break you; could bring you to willing co-operation; could make you do anything my ingenious brain dreamed up. But the time at my disposal is limited, so this is 'Goodbye', Dan. I would like to have found out just how long you could have held onto your sanity? In fact, I’m tempted to indulge myself the pleasure of extending your final moments in this suit and hear you plead before your time expires. But ... such is life – Dan – Drum, you sexy thing you! It’s been a pleasure, believe me. I’m also quite, quite drained. You just hang in there for as long as it takes. It will soon be over.”

And with that, the words of a fanatic ended – and in the empty silence my numb mind suddenly exploded. The word “Goodbye” hit like a hammer and with a roar of fury which actually penetrated the gag and mask, blind panic threw my mind and body into spasms of frantic emotion, more forceful than anything I had ever experienced.

Desperation lent me strength but, contained as it was, I only imploded. He was going to kill me and I would do anything to alter the moment. I would fight ... or plead, beg, agree to anything he or any of his people wanted of me. Never had I felt so totally desperate and willing to .... what ... submit? I would submit! I wanted to submit. And with a blinding flash I became conscious that although none of the dreaded tortures of the suit were now assailing my body, I was bucking and thrashing in a sexual orgasm induced by nothing more than my imagination. And did I really hear the sardonic chuckles of my evil adversary, or were they my own agonised screams of despair mixed with a sexual energy my mind had ever known before?

As my groin exploded yet again, in the total blackness which already surrounded me ... more lights went out as I sank into ... unknowingness.

PART TWO

DISORIENTED

I awoke with subdued lights around me. I sat up in bed, emerging from under a snow-white sheet which covered my naked body. I looked around and there were no restraints and no rubber suits. I swung my legs to the floor and there was carpet, luxurious under my feet. I sat for a moment, conscious of the soles of my feet, comfortable against the pile of the carpet. At the window, twilight was beginning to waken a familiar night-time city skyline: early lights in tall buildings, shining, dazzling – brighter than I ever remember. My own bedroom, in my own apartment – and it felt good. I didn’t understand what was going on.

I rose, somewhat tentatively, went unsteadily to the mirror – and looked at my own naked chest. My skin looked unblemished - but were there dark lines, traces of bruises where I had thrown myself against the cutting bindings? My fingers traced for evidence of a – nightmare? Or was it imagination? My hands caressed my own body, feeling for reminders of the pain or abuse. My dick was hard – but were there any bruises, or marks of restraint? I wasn’t sure as my hands roved over my skin. It felt good. My fingers moved to my cock and handled it. It was big. It was hard. I was unsteady on my feet on the carpet – but my cock was ramrod hard.

As if in a dreaming state, I wandered to my exercise set-up and looked at it as if were something foreign to me. I touched chrome, and the padded bench, soft vinyl and cables and pulleys and hard steel of the elaborate superstructure - and the round weights, hanging heavy on the bar in it’s cradle above the padded flat bench. My fingers wandered – exploring – and then back to my own flesh – and I wandered from bedroom into the bathroom.

Cool tiles tingled the soles of my feet – and I remembered other tingling against my feet. I needed to piss – but I was too hard. I fondled my cock to encourage it to pee – but it wasn’t the time. I was confused. I smelled my arm – it smelled clean – freshly washed – or bathed. No reminders of the sweat – or the smell of rubber. I remembered the smell of the rubber.

I padded barefoot out into the lounge – onto the wood floor. My feet felt the wood. As I walked my hands roved over my thighs and stomach – and nipples. I was aware of my whole body as never before. It tingled. It felt – sensitised. I was more conscious of it – and paused before another mirror. I was big – and hard. My chest muscles, my arms, my jaw – strong – my neck thick. I drew in a breath – and watched myself; more aware of ‘self’ than I ever remember being.

Voices in quiet conversation – I suddenly became aware of them – and the kitchen light was on. Voices speaking English. With no regard for my nakedness, I went to the kitchen, quietly, and looked around the door.

“Dan, you’re awake. How the hell are you doing?” It was the Chief and ... Harry, my buddy and colleague from the old days. School friend and best mate until his career had taken him off – somewhere. Christ – how long since I’d last seen him? Years! Harry Ansell! But here he was in my kitchen – if it really was my kitchen. Nothing seemed real. Had I died and gone somewhere else – where familiar things live on with you?

Harry approached me, hand outstretched.

“What’s going on?” I asked abruptly, and Harry hesitated and lowered his hand – and then referred the situation to my Chief – who looked concerned for me, but simply told me not to worry about what had happened, as all would all be explained to me after I’d taken a couple of days to rest. Both men seemed uncomfortable.

“What crap is that,” I said, “I want to know what happened to me. Where did you find me? Who the fuck kidnapped me in the first place? Harry, why are you ... ?” ...

“Look Dan,” he cut in, “you’ve had a really un-nerving experience and you need to rest before we go into explanations.” There was a slight American twang about his voice but Harry was as British as I am. “I’m gonna stay in your spare room. Keep you company while you recover,” he continued.

I looked towards the Chief and he just shrugged. “Orders from higher up. You got yourself into trouble, and ... somebody had to get you out of it. I’m off home. Harry will begin to explain things, gradually, when you feel better. Get some rest. That’s an ORDER,” he said as he walked from the kitchen and left my apartment.

My reactions were slow. Still not sure if I was awake or asleep – or dead. I thought about it – standing naked in my own kitchen – something I seldom did. Naked in front of this man who’d been a close friend since we were fifteen – but we’d never stood naked together except in the showers. As these thoughts swirled around in my cotton-wool mind, I fondled my cock. It felt real enough – and Harry just stood there with no discernable expression on his face.

“Harry, what the fuck is going on here? Where am I? Is this really my flat ... or ...? Harry talk to me! What the fuck’s going on? Something’s happened to me ... NO! Is still happening? My brain – my mind – my nerve-ends ... “ The words came out sounding a bit pathetic.

Harry looked down at his feet and seemed to be uncomfortable.

“Dan, let’s get you back into bed and I promise I’ll explain things after you’ve rested up some more.” He approached me tentatively, and hesitated before he slid an arm around my naked waist and began to guide me back to my bedroom. I was surprised I’d allowed him to do that. He was a great guy; 5’11, stocky and, being smaller than me I’d always been the one to support him – take the lead in any situation where we were involved together – and been able to get the upper hand in any friendly rough-and-tumble. But here I was (wasn’t I?). I was surprised that I was allowing Harry to put his arm around me. It felt good – reassuring. I liked the feeling of his warm, hairy arm against my cooler flesh – his short sleeved white shirt contrasted so well against the tanned skin and dark fuzz which had always covered his body. The tan was much darker now, I thought absently. His hairs tickled my skin and I shivered with goose bumps. Obviously, I was in some state of shock ... needed to sleep. Must be the drugs the bastards ... my senses were ... shot.

“You’ll catch cold like that,” said Harry smiling and cocking his head at my naked form.

I smiled back at him, vaguely, as he helped me down onto the crisp cool bed and began to draw the sheet over my body. For some reason I didn’t mind him seeing me bollock naked. In the past I’d have never allowed that to happen. I liked him smiling down at me. But I raised my leg under the sheet in sudden embarrassment, because I realised that my perpetual hard-on was, if anything, getting harder. Harry didn’t seem to notice and told me to get some rest as he moved away to the door.

As his hand went to turn out the light I said quickly, “Leave the light on ... please.”

“Sure thing,” he said, smiling understandingly before disappearing but leaving the door ajar.

Left alone, I touched the end of my cock with the tip of one finger, tentatively, and it sent sparks shooting down its length. I gasped in pleasure and, pulling aside the sheet, grabbed my shaft in my fist. This was not me. What had been going on? My mind strayed to lubrication. It needed lubrication, but I knew there was no KY in the flat. That was in Guilford. I didn’t keep that sort of thing here. But there was shaving cream in the bathroom, I told myself. That might do the trick. I began to rub along the length of my cock in slow easy strokes ... but lubrication would make it more ....

As I stroked harder I neared an orgasm too soon and knew I had to stop. Something was wrong! This was not me – this was – a nervous reaction to – what? I lay there ... tingling ... and tears began to roll down my cheeks. I threw my arm across my face but the tears turned to sobs. I tried to smother them against the hardness of the muscle, but Harry must have heard. His head appeared around the door, and when he saw me crying, hurried in.

“Hey, hey, hey!” he said sympathetically, ” That’s OK, let it out.”

I couldn’t speak but his awkward concern opened the floodgates and, as he sat down on the bed to comfort me, I wrapped my arms around him and buried my face in his broad chest, hairy beneath his crisp white shirt. I remembered his chest from the gym and shower room – since we were kids. I sobbed against him and he cradled my head and stroked my short hair, making soothing noises. I pulled closer to him and found comfort in the strength of his masculine body. I moved over on the bed and pulled at him so that he had to swing his hairy naked legs up beside me. He must have been preparing to go to bed when he’d heard me.

As his warmth washed through me, I became conscious again of my aroused state – because again I realised my cock was more rampant than I’d ever remembered it – and longer. My cock felt long and heavy as he sat and I lay there. Even though it was semi-dark, Harry must have noticed, yet he said nothing. He said nothing, waiting for me to get myself together. I snuggled against his warm body and took in his masculine smells and the hardness of his muscles beneath the tanned skin. Nipples. I remembered the stimulation my nipples had received in that suit – and remembered how stimulated they’d felt – and now they felt hard again – aroused.

His hand continued to stroke my hair and as I moved my arm, it bumped into his cock, tucked away inside his boxer shorts ... and it was hard.

“I’m sorry, Dan,” I said “I don’t know what’s the matter with me; what those bastards have done to me?”

“Don’t be sorry, just relax and follow your feelings,” he said, “you’ve been through a difficult process.”

I sniffled and laughed quietly. “Too fucking right.” I said as I took his hand and put it onto my own hard member.

“Dan, what are you ....” he said as he moved his hand away.

“Sorry!” I said. “I don’t understand it myself, but somehow ... I find holding you close like this to be a real ... need,” I finished, confused.

Harry drew a deep breath. “Relax, Dan. You’ve always been a good mate, and I’m sorry I’ve not been in touch for a while. But I’m here now. I’m here for you – and you’ve been through a traumatic experience – and I want you to know that ... anything you need ... I’m your man.”

“You’re my man.” I said sleepily and my mind added silently, ‘I wish!’ – and then it began to race again as words tumbled out. “Harry, I don’t know what’s got into me – got under my skin – been happening – but Harry – I appreciate you being here – telling me you’re here for me – my man. Shit! What have those bastards done to my senses? I don’t know what’s changed exactly, but – I can’t think of anyone I’d rather ... snuggle up with than you at this moment.”

Harry withdrew slightly from me and my heart sank – but he smiled down at me. “You’re not yourself,” And he drew his arm tighter around me, and although I’m five inches taller than him and a great deal heavier and more muscular than him, I felt like a little boy held in the comfort of his father’s lap. I felt safe for the first time in a lot of years. Certainly, I felt safer than I had during the last period ... Jesus ... I didn’t even know how long I’d been kidnapped for.

“Harry, what happened after ...? How did I ... ? When did you ... ? Was it you who got me out?”

“Shush, shush, shush,” was all he said.

“But I need to know!” I insisted.

“Not now!” he said firmly. I liked the firm tone of his voice.

“Shit. What have they done to me? I feel so fucking horny, Harry. Those perverted bastards, pumping me full of God knows what. That’s it, isn’t it Harry. I feel so fucking ... randy. I’m sorry, mate. I’ve got no control over ...“

My hand reached down to my own cock, and my confused head shook from side to side and began to slide down his chest towards his groin. Only with a great effort did I turn my head away, apologising and again dissolving into deep throated sobs. Tears, for Christ’s sake!.

“I’m sorry, mate. I’m sorry,” I said, “I just don’t know what they’ve done to me.” #(M2Mroped)

“You just need rest,” he said, embarrassed.

“I need to fuck or get fucked,” I roared – and then stared at him, open mouthed.

“You WHAT,” Harry practically hissed, his eyes wide in amazement.

“I’m sorry, Harry. I’m sorry – forget it. Forget I ever said that – please. But – but, something inside me is still eating away at my mind. After what I’ve been through – I’m not making any sense. It’s just this feeling that – when I was in that fucking suit – I got to a point when I needed whoever it was to ... I would have let him do anything. I would have welcomed ... Harry, you’ve got to help me. Please! Until these feelings pass. I hope to God they will pass – but until they do ... Harry ... the chief said you’ve got to look after me. Well, you need to protect me from myself. I don’t want to wank but I need to wank – but I don’t want to wank.

“Wank – is that all?”

“No, it isn’t all. I want to willingly drop my head into your lap and – Harry, for Christ’s sake, help me. What have those bastard’s done to make me feel so ... desperate. Hold me, Harry – tight. Do anything to me.”

“Dan, what are you … ? You don’t really mean ... ?” Harry stammered.

“Harry, before I do anything I’ll regret for the rest of my life – stop me, please. I need you to fuck me or – anything. But it’s not me talking. Please help me. Talk to me – hold me down – tie me up – anything. Anything you want – but shut me up. Knock me out. Gag me and tie me down – but – stop me ... going crazy.”

I sobbed and he held me tightly – his arms under my arms and around my chest – stopping me holding him too tightly. Holding me away from him, frustrating my impulse to pull him closer to me. I tried to reach under him and touch his crotch – and he struggled to avoid my hands – his strong hands, eventually pushing me down onto the bed and pinning my arms.

“Now cut it out, Dan. Relax,” he growled firmly.

“How can I fucking relax. It must be the drugs. Help me! There’s some rope in the kitchen drawer. There’s adhesive tape. If you don’t tie me down – I don’t know what I might do.

“But I can’t ... “ he insisted.

“You must. You fucking must! If you don’t tie me down – I’ll rape you. I’m stronger than you. I’ve always been stronger than you. Since we were kids I could always ... Harry, if you don’t fucking tie me down – the way I feel, I can’t be responsible for my own actions. Please!”

He shook his head desperately – and then moved off towards the kitchen.

“Where are you going?” I almost screamed.

“To get ... rope. You said rope.”

“In the kitchen drawer by the washing machine. And the tape’s on the shelf by the back door. Do it. And a gag! Stop me talking. I need to stop talking ... and wanting to ... Get the fucking rope.” With that I sprang out of bed and swung open one of the mirrored wardrobe doors. My gym bag was there. A squash ball, I thought. That would make a gag. But there were no squash balls ... but there was a foam practice tennis ball; soft and pliable, but big. It seemed I was in panic ... losing it. Never in my life ...

Harry came back with tape, rope and kitchen scissors to cut it with.

“Good.” Tie my hands behind me and then ... “

“Are you sure?” he asked.

“Fucking positive,” I hissed at him. “Tie me – and gag me – and leave me until I cool off. All night. Don’t worry – just tie me tight – and leave me all night. Here, this will do for a gag.”

“It’s too fucking big. You’ll choke to death,” he said looking at the foam ball in my hand.

“Do it,” I demanded. “First tie my hands behind my back – and do it right!”

He hesitated, but my desperate agitation seemed to convince him, and he cut a short length of rope, and I turned round, clamping my wrists side-by-side behind my back. I felt the rope circling a wrist and I began to relax, breathing deeply for the first time since this urgency hit me. My cock was standing out rigid as I waited for him to finish – but he seemed unwilling to make the rope too tight.

“No,” I moaned angrily, “you’ve got to do it right! Make it so there’s no way I can get loose. Inescapable,” I insisted.

I waited again, breathing hard. The ball and tape lay on the bed as I stood there, naked and shivering with tension ... emotion. My rampant cock pulsing slightly. Twitching.

Having roped one wrist, I felt him guide my second wrist into a crossed position. I knew I wanted them lashed firmly parallel so he could then pinion my elbows tight together like they’d been before. But it was too late for that, and the crossed wrists were now being tied leaving some movement – but after testing them determinedly, the flexible rope-tie didn’t give. The wrists stayed captive behind my back.

“Now my ankles,” I said turning and sitting on the edge of the bed . Tie them as well or I’ll kick my way out and stamp all over you,” I said wrestling again with the loose roping behind my back: testing the binding, determined to free them if I could.

“What the fuck’s got into you?“ said Harry as he knelt and set to work roping my ankles. Unable to free my wrists, I watched his muscular shoulders and the top of his dark head as he completed an expert square-lash around my ankles. Then he looked up, his face in line with my crotch. I had the urge to lift my pelvis and aim for his mouth. I closed my eyes and sort of sobbed, because I was like a demon possessed. Instinctively I felt that these impulses would pass but, for the moment, I could not trust myself and I needed to know I could do no harm to myself or anybody around me.

“Now gag me,” I commanded.

Harry picked up the ball. “It’s too big,” he said.

“Fucking do it,” I said, “ram it in. It’s big but only soft foam. Tape it in, and don’t take it out until morning. This drug may have worn off by then. Do it!”

Reluctantly, Harry pushed the foam against my lips and I helped it in. It was a squeeze, and not as soft as I’d expected. Once past my teeth, as he pushed the rest of it through, it stuffed my mouth, pushing out my cheeks and immobilising my tongue. As his fingers forced the remaining bulk behind my teeth, our eyes met. Deliberately I looked down towards the roll of athletic tape and nodded.

He picked it up, questioningly, and I nodded again, very emphatically.

He seemed to take in a deep breath before peeling open the end of the roll, and then he tentatively taped across my cheeks and mouth – and after a hesitation, continued it all the way around the back of my neck, circling it several times until my face was covered from nostrils to the point of my chin. This made the foam ball impossible to displace – which was what I’d wanted. Behind my head as I sat on the bed, I heard the tape rip and the job was done – and done well.

I tried to work my stretched jaw and then flexed my head and muscular neck experimentally – and nothing was going to budge that ball. But – it was very intense. More intense than the inflatable rubber bung that had stuffed my mouth for however many hours. This foam ball was bigger – and I had perhaps over estimated my ... shit! I had definitely miscalculated.

“How’s that?” asked Harry, looking squarely into my face. “Can you cope with that?”

He was concerned and perceptive. Perhaps the look in my eyes told him I was in difficulties.

“I said is that how you wanted it?” he insisted. “Did I do it right, Dan? Are you really sure you want to deal with something that intense ... for the next six hours, like you said?” he asked in a tone which demanded a response.

I hated to admit it, but I already knew I’d made a mistake. Could I deal with it? I instinctively knew it would soon become very difficult. Six hours? No way. Looking into his waiting eyes, I shook my head in a regretful negative.

“Tough shit” he said, without batting an eyelid. (#M2Mendwebpage)

ROPED

I stared at him ... and he stared back.

“You asked for it and you’ve got it,” he said, without a trace of a smile.

I continued to stare at him in disbelief. Harry – my school chum – the man my chief had left to look after me. I tried to form words – but no way were words going to penetrate this fucking foam ball. I shook my head from side to side and, as if in mockery, he too shook his head.

“If you’ve changed your mind about the gag – and you were so determined your wrists should be well tied – undo your wrists and take the fucking gag out yourself, chummy. Six hours you said – and make sure it’s inescapable, you said. Well – the roping may not be inescapable yet – but it will be by the time I’ve finished, Dan boy. Inescapable – and uncomfortable to boot.

Slowly, he now began cutting two more lengths of rope, deliberately building up the suspense. Smiling into my eyes, he looped one behind my neck and then pushed the two ends under my naked armpits. Behind my back I felt him draw them tight and knot the ends together. Then I felt my wrists rise, and the pressure of rope on my shoulders told me he had attached the wrists to the unslippable rope figure-of-eight. He dragged the wrists even higher, which forced my shoulders back and the over-all constriction became more intense. The flexibility of the wrist roping, allowing my arms to twist upwards without becoming dangerously tight, I realised.

Now from behind, another loop of rope was suddenly around my throat and back behind my neck. Christ, that’s dangerous, I thought. That could choke me, I realised with serious anxiety. But Harry’s smiling face reappeared in front of me, and he began to fish the two ends of this new rope from under my armpits, before knotting the ends together across my chest.

“Don’t worry, I’m not going to strangle you. Just show you that I’m well able to tie inescapable knots. Had lots of practice.”

With that, he went to the wardrobe and rummaged around my shoes. Picking up a scuffed old hi-top trainer, he extracted the lace from it. Closing the mirrored wardrobe door, he then quickly left the bedroom.

I tried to stand up, but with ankles lashed together, had to be careful. I was conscious of myself in the big mirrored door ... but then Harry was back, carrying a small hold-all.

“Where do you think you’re going?” he asked, and I sat back, impotently, on the edge of the bed, breathing determinedly through my nose. He plonked the bag onto the bed, and then a firm hand pushed me onto my back and another swung my naked legs up and onto the bed. Before I knew what was coming, a hairy knee had planted itself firmly between my legs. With ankles roped, I was pinned to the bed simply and efficiently and he still had both hands free. As he smiled challengingly down into my face I attempted to un-balance him. Almost like the old days we were in competition. I gave it a shot and struggled, and he gave me a chance to have a really determined try to throw off his lesser weight. But with hands so tightly roped high behind my back, all I could do, using a lot of stomach-muscle, was half sit up to face him. With one finger he demonstrated that he could push me back down again. I was out of breath from the tussle, breathing only through my nose. My rampant cock was all that stood between us and, acknowledging this, his finger then touched it, tentatively.

“Yes, you do have a problem down there, Dan-boy. Is it the drug or just naked lust? Well, for my next demonstration, I will introduce you to one of the most essential tools of the trade.”

With that, from a pocket on his hold-all, he reached for a pair of translucent medical rubber gloves, and with total disregard for my amazed eyes, proceeded to pull them onto his hands. Then he began to fondle my balls and, squirm as I might, with elbows bent behind me and ankles bound and his knee firmly between my legs, I could not throw him off ... but he seemed to enjoy my determined squirming.

“You look very sexy when you squirm,” he said with an infuriating smile, “a real turn-on ... if you like that sort of thing.”

Furious with impotent rage, I eventually gave up the struggle and eyed him angrily. He just smiled an even broader smile, and systematically began to loop the shoe lace around my ball sack. I could not see, but could feel my nuts being forced down low in the sack, and the fabric shoe-lace circling the scrotum several times before being knotted very thoroughly.

Once again I was very conscious of my rigid member, but unlike in my previous life (before the events of the last however long it was) I was not embarrassed. Just totally amazed ... and horny beyond belief.

With a sudden movement Harry released his knee from between my legs, and before I knew what was happening, I was on my face on the bed with my ankles in the air, and they were being roped to my wrists. Hogtied again. But this time naked and under the hands of the man who I had always regarded as being the closest friend I’d ever had.

He rolled me onto my side, facing him. He knelt beside the bed and tugged at the lace now so firmly attached to my scrotum. His smiling lips approached the steaming cock as he tugged on the two ends of the lace. I held what little breath I was getting from my gagged face. Was he going to kiss it – take it into his mouth? My mind blanked at the possibility. Then I felt him blow on it, teasingly. A gentle breath through pursed lips directly onto my burning nob-end. The bastard!

“There’s a lot of things we need to talk about Danny boy, but I can’t concentrate with your hard fat dick staring me in the face. I’ve fantasised about pulling on that dick of yours since we were at school, but it was always out of bounds. You were such a prude. Well, who knows, perhaps your new happy state will not be as temporary as you ... hope? But for the next few hours (days, maybe) your big stiffy might be something of a distraction to us both. So ... another useful tool of the trade with which you will soon become familiar ...”

He again reached into the bag and produced a small tube of something. When the gel touched my cock it felt cool. With panic I wondered if it was deep heat rub: the sort of stuff we used for sports injuries and bruising, and in locker-room games in the old days. Adolescent boys would grab and tease one another by applying deep-heat cream to cocks and arses. Rough-house games which I always avoided. Always an observer, never a participant.

“Don’t worry, just pain relief,” he said as he waited for the local aesthetic cream to shrivel my cock. In my minds’ eye I saw my dick lose it’s rigidity and felt it flop – before it wilted against my thigh. In my hogtied, on my side position, I could not see it – and although I saw his hand dip again into his hold-all, I did not see what came out of it – as he again reached for my groin. The cream had done it’s work and removed most of the sensation from the immediate area. From experience I knew this was a temporary condition, but as Harry concentrated on his task I had no idea what was happening and could not ask.

After a couple of indistinct pinches of skin around my cock and balls, I eventually heard the unmistakable click of a padlock.

“Just an efficient little device that prevents you getting a hard-on. It’s all plastic except the padlock, so you can shower with it on ... and it won’t come off. Believe me I’ve tested it rigorously myself, and I know. You will wear it until you prove to me that you’ve started to learn a few overdue lessons, Dan mate. So, now here come a few of the answers you’ve been so eager to get about your recent experiences. Sit up and take notice. I mean you sit up, not your cock. That little fellow is going to get a good rest after all the fun it’s had over the past day or so.”

Leaning over my naked hog-tied body this devilishly calm and smiling, rich smelling man released the rope between my wrists and ankles. And, as I straightened my legs, he pulled on the rope between my ankles until the legs were bent again. Before I had any chance to resist, he had attached the ankle rope to the lace around my scrotum. As I lay back heavily on my useless arms, I knew there was no way I could straighten my legs again without ripping off my balls. With that, a firm hand behind my neck pulled me up into a sitting position. Another short rope was very soon threaded through the two ropes which crossed high on my chest just below my throat. Because this was tied in a figure of eight around my shoulders, when it was pulled downwards and attached to my ankles ... there was no danger of choking or it slipping free. My torso was uncomfortably and inescapably fixed tight to my ankles, my knees almost under my taped-up chin.

With wrists still pulled tight high up between my shoulder blades in back and sitting hunched forwards I could hardly move a muscle. To make matters worse, my cock was beginning to wake up and, inside it’s confining new plastic cage, it was throbbing and squeezing against the bars of this fiendish device.

Smiling into my gagged face Harry now clambered up onto the bed in front of me. Standing with feet on either side of my crouched figure, his boxer shorts were immediately in my face. My apprehensive eyes stared at his obvious hard-on. But he must have been wearing a jock-strap under his boxers, I reasoned, judging by the bulky upright bulge. With surprising strength, his hands lifted under my armpits and shifted my not inconsiderable body weight closer to the headboard of the metal-framed bed. He hummed a merry tune as he cinched yet more rope to my bonds until I was inescapably attached by my shoulders to the bed head. During this process his bulging crotch moved tantalisingly against my gagged face – and the rich scent of his groin made me even more painfully aware of my implacably confined penis.

With a final playful thrust of his crotch against my face, this fiendish alter-ego of the man I still thought of as a friend, settled himself kneeling on the bed in front of me to survey his handiwork. Sitting with my knees scrunched up almost against my throat, ankles roped to neck, ankles to scrotum and with wrists trapped and useless somewhere up behind my back ... what could I do? Tentatively, I tested the roping. I flexed, I squirmed, I tugged with all my bodyweight against the bed head, all the time aware of the smiling eyes watching my determined but totally unsuccessful efforts. Eventually, I admitted to myself the futility, and accepted that I could do nothing but sit and stare into the eyes of this man in whom I had always put so much trust.

“Well now,” he said, when confident that all my struggling had ceased, “for openers, here’s the way it is, Chief Inspector Daniel Drummond ... Bulldog, old boy. Your Chief, dear old woolly Wally Carter, invited me in specially to keep an eye on you for the next few days ... after your ‘nasty’ experience. Well! Little did he know I’d fancied the pants off you since we were both fifteen. But you’ve always been so fucking moral I’d given you up for lost. But suddenly here you are. And when you started raving on about tying you down ... or tying you up. Well, how could I say ‘No,’ Bull, my old buddy? Maybe your traumatic experiences of the past few days have unleashed some of that pent up energy that’s been stagnating between your legs for too long.”

A rubber-gloved hand slid between my cramped legs and found my balls. Fingers lightly roamed around the infernal plastic cage.

“This little device may only feel like Perspex, but it’s high technology; high security stuff. Believe me, I’ve been driven to attack one with a pair of pliers when I’ve been really desperate to escape it’s confines. They’re virtually indestructible.”

He knew what he as doing as he continued to finger and stroke my trapped and scrunched-up cock. I felt it expand even more and there was nowhere for it to expand to. My eyes, above cheeks that were still bulging under the implacable adhesive tape, twitched nervously. The immobilised tongue and teeth were as if in a state of suspended animation ... but my juices were racing and I was sweating.

“Dan, buddy-boy, the Chief left it to me how I handled the next ... however many days. You’ve spent a couple of days already ... but it just so happens it’s not over yet. You see, old boy, old buddy, what your Chief didn’t know was that since you last saw me – when I went off to a good job in another region – I’ve been working for an ‘organisation’. The organisation that snatched you off the street a couple of days ago and gave you such a challenging time.”

I stared incredulously, as the information began to sink in, and he nodded and beamed mischievously as he read my eyes.

“Yes! The man who took such delight in giving you a hard time for the past two days is somebody who I work with ... and who trained me in some of his more esoteric skills. So, you see, old mate, you can think of yourself as having been tossed out of the frying pan into the fire. Because, as you didn’t crack in his care, he thought he’d take another route and arranged for me to ‘rescue’ you and let me have a little fun of my own.”

I had no emotions that hadn’t already reached melt-down. I continued to breathe; but that was the only thing in the world I could do. The smiling sexy man who grinned into my face had the power to do whatever he chose and there was nothing I could do to stop him.

“Well now,” he said as he climbed jauntily off the bed, “This being your apartment, there isn’t the sophisticated equipment we have back at our little base. OK, you had some rope and tape – and the ball. You took me by surprise with the ball. I think even I would have drawn the line at that – but you asked for it.” He shrugged. “I hope you think I put what was available to good use. But now you’re all nicely primed and ready for the next phase – I’m sure you won’t object if I take off for a while – make a few calls – pick up a few ... things. I’ll be back here in – what – a couple of hours – maybe six – with my slightly bigger bag of tricks. Maybe some ... back-up. But, while I’m gone, Dan-boy, whatever you do ... don’t start without me.”

With that, he disappeared and returned pulling on a pair of pants and then shoes and a rugged-looking weatherproof jacket. He suddenly stopped and looked at me. “Give us a struggle, Dan. It really turns me on to see you struggling and helpless.”

I glared at him and refused to indulge him. Acknowledging my refusal he, with a grin of sheer devilment, clambered up and, kneeling on the bed in front of me, took my ears in his hands and planted a kiss where my mouth stood open behind the adhesive tape.

“We’re neither of us the men the world thinks we are, Dan, believe me. And when I get back, I’ll set about proving to you that there’s more inside you than you’ve ever allowed out. Hang in there. I know that position will become intolerable. I know, because I’ve been there – and I’ve learned to – well, I won’t say enjoy it, exactly. Don’t think of this as torture – think of it more as a softening up process. Not just of the body – but of the mind. It’s not so much your body I want to fuck with, Dan-boy – have you ever heard of a ‘Mind-fuck’? Well, you’re in for quite an experience. So, you hang in there. Deal with it, however much energy it takes, and when I get back – you’ll be ready for me – no! – you’ll welcome me - believe me.”

Without warning Harry dug his fingernails harshly into my exposed and defenceless nipples. The shock of the sudden well-aimed vice-like grip of the nails produced an explosion of pure pain – which left my senses reeling as I heard the front door slam. ( #M2Mmindfuck)

What police officer Dan Drummond was feeling was not something he could have imagined.
Fiction based on actual experience reads differently from imagined situations. Creative writing can be very persuasive when describing imagined emotions or a physical experience. But a real authenticity, even when it’s wrapped up as fiction, has a ring to it which most readers can appreciate..

In later years Big Dan, ‘desperate’ Dan in his current predicament, would try to write down how it had felt. But for this moment he was living it vividly. The physical discomfort of the position, the agonising after-shock of the vicious assault on his nipples, the oppressiveness of his stuffed and immobilised mouth, his restricted breathing due to the gagging added to by his scrunched-down stomach, his painfully twisted-back elbows and (worse than all of it put together) his agonisingly confined but would-be rampant cock. Who could imagine that?

Could it ever be described adequately to somebody who’d never experienced it? Dan’s mind was in serious turmoil.

MIND-FUCKED

Time seemed to have stopped. The world had gone mad. The real world had ceased to exist ... my mind no longer functioning properly. The fact that I was now totally alone in my flat and ... ? Why had he gone, leaving me ... ? Softening up for what ... ? The pain, discomfort, confusion ... the confusion of, what ... ? ... ‘sensuality’ had taken over my entire being.

Five senses, the torturer had said while I was in that fucking suit. He had my five senses in his power ... “and maybe more inside me.” The phrase drifted back to me and ... remembering the suit had immediately brought back to my mind that pungent darkness and total helplessness while in it. I closed my eyes against the memory. More than five senses “inside me?” What? I’d never considered myself to be particularly sensitive. Far from it, but had the suit ‘sensitised’ me? Yes! Sensitive - sensitised - sensual ... what the fuck am I thinking? My mind’s blown, sitting here roped up to buggery. Mind-fuck! The phrase echoed in my ears. Mind-Fuck! Fuck off! Think straight! Concentrate. Only five senses. What are they?

TASTE:

Taste what? Nothing but the foam in my mouth which was sucking dry any saliva. It grated on my tongue and the back of my throat. Coarse foam. Bad choice I’d made. My choice. I’d insisted on it.

SMELL:

Sense of smell? What? The athletic tape immediately below my nostrils, wrapping my cheeks. The smell reminded me of the gym ... and taped fingers, sweaty after a sparring session at school ... which had always given me a high. Tough white and sticky tape. I still kept a roll in case of a muscle strain when working out at home. Working out. Pushing myself. Punishing myself.

Remember the time I cracked a couple of ribs, horsing around with the lads in training. My lower rib cage tightly taped around for weeks ... drove me mad with itching ... tough white tape made my chest feel tight ... my whole chest feels tight now although there’s no rope around it like there was around the rubber suit.

The rubber suit ... the smell of rubber inside that fucking hood ... the pungent smell like tyre inner-tube rubber inside a diving mask. That had always exhilarated my senses ... the tough rubber diving gear and the face mask. Yes! The smell of rubber was somehow ... energising.

Taste ... my mind reverted to taste again (going in circles!). The taste of rubber. That gag filling my mouth ... forcing itself back in against all my resistance after that perverted bastard deflated it to allow me to talk ... and his power to re-inflate it in spite of anything I could do to stop it. Over inflating it just to prove that he could (what?) punish me. Controlling my ability to speak or even breathe.

Get back to smell again; the smell of the drugs wafting in through those evil nostril tubes. I could do with some of that drug now to deaden the pain of my cramped knees and roped shoulders. I can hardly feel my wrists or fingers. Losing all sense of touch in my fingers.

TOUCH:

Soon there would be no sense of touch. My fingers would be numb for a week ... if loss of circulation didn’t do more permanent damage. Where the fuck is Harry? Why doesn’t he come back! Whatever he’s got in store for me couldn’t be worse than this. Who am I kidding. Yesterday was worse than this and Harry has been given the go-ahead to do his very worst.

I remember how sensitised my skin had felt in the suit. The gentle but unstoppable waves of pleasure which could turn to pain at the touch of a switch. The switching off of the sucking on my nob ... bringing me to the edge ... then cutting out and making me literally scream with sexual frustration. That sort of orgasm was totally new to me. Sex with Stella had always been good, but it had always been a matter of satisfying her ... not me ... and her determination to get pregnant ... and then seven or eight months of no sex. For most of the seven years, she’d been bloody pregnant or getting over it. I love my little girls. I loved Stella, but ...

Get back to the sense of touch I ordered my mind, to prevent it rambling or straying back to the discomfort which currently gripped my whole body. When I’d woken up after the suit ... and had wandered naked around my own apartment (something I didn’t usually do) ... my skin ... my whole body sensitised ... horny. Was it the drugs? ... or the effects of the liquid in the suit. I remembered the liquid in the suit ... and remembered more vividly the touch of the rubber against my sweaty skin. I could sense again ... vividly ... the clinging slick touch of the rubber against my skin in the darkness. Can you have a vivid sense of touch? ... a memory of a sensation of touch? Yes! My skin tingled at the memory. In my naked cramped state now, I could think myself back inside the rubber, with the sweat pooling ... I could imagine the liquid flowing in ... filling the suit again and the tingling starting ... Shit! I’m getting horny at the thought and this fucking cock cage is killing me. Change the subject. What’s next?

SOUND:

What sense of sound? I listened to the deathly silence of my apartment. I’d chosen it because it was quiet. No noisy neighbours; no distant radios. Even from the street six floors down ... no real sound ... and no planes ... no sound ... except perhaps the oppressive noise of blood forcing it’s way between my ears in spite of the multi-layered wrapping of tape around cheeks and chin ... and neck. My roped-forward neck is killing me. Keep thinking to distract yourself. Sound ... can I make any sound?

With sudden energy I started to yell into the gag. Shout ... scream ... roar ... grunt! It made me breathless ... and more blood started to circulate. I yelled again ... but could hear that virtually nothing was getting through the foam and clinging tape. Perhaps a little, through the sides of my throat. I speculated on what it would take to completely silence somebody’s screams. One of those high neck braces ambulance men used to immobilise somebody with possible neck injury. That’d cut down noise escaping from the throat. I’d also seen those all-over head braces paramedics use. Whole head immobilised in a contraption of webbing straps, firm padding and Velcro: chin, forehead, both sides of the head clamped rigid. When I’d first seen them, I’d speculated on what it might feel like to be in one. Yes! Use a high, solid neck collar and one of those all-over head braces ... and that would silence somebody. I tried to visualise it ... imagine being in it ... plus a gag, of course. A mouth-stuffer was good ... I mean, it would be efficient if you were trying to silence somebody. This foam has a totally different effect to the rubber balloon. I remembered the rubber balloon. I could deal with that better than this fucking foam. I must have been crazy to think I could ... to allow myself ... to invite ... !

I sucked against the foam, crammed so tight against my tongue and cheeks. I sucked on it ... and got liquid ... my own saliva. I sucked again and realised why my mouth felt so dry ... the foam was drinking it in ... but there was enough of it to suck back out. I’d learned something, I congratulated myself. I was learning to deal with ... the situation. Yes, I’d fucking deal with it ... and I’d deal with whatever Harry might have in mind ... and if the bastard gave me half a chance I’d ... he’d better watch his step ... because if I got half a chance I’d fucking kill him. No! ... not kill him ... tie him down and make him suffer. Yes! He thinks he’s so fucking good at tying rope. There’s a pair of handcuffs in my drawer. I still remember enough of the hand holds and deliberately painful wrist locks ... stuff we’d all had to learn about arrest procedures at the different training colleges. Not that I’ve had to do any of that stuff for years ... but I bet I could. I bet I could take him on and get the better of him if Harry gave me one small chance.

My mind set about remembering the long-ago training sessions: hand grabs, neat twists of the wrist that could have you on your knees rather than risk a broken wrist. I’d been amazed at the skill of those instructors. They’d invite serious resistance ... and have you on your face or your knees and handcuffed before you could say “Oo-ow aawcchh!” I’d sort of got the hang of it, but was usually more energised when playing the victim in practice sessions. I remembered I’d welcome the opportunity to put up a struggle ... specially when it was the women PC’s trying to get to grips with a counter-attack procedure ... and some of the blokes. I enjoyed giving the tougher lads a real struggle for their money. And the Instructors soon started to call on me when they wanted to demonstrate a new move. They really knew their stuff, and knew I’d make a seriously determined effort to resist. And they took pleasure from demonstrating they could soon have me giving the signal that I was ready to stop struggling. But even then, they’d often follow through and cuff me, or wrap me with plastic ties ... and sometimes, for devilment, leave me trussed ... and offer to let the girls have a bit of fun at my expense. There was always a sort of tactile ... physical ... intimacy in those training sessions ... just like in shower room horse-play; the sense of masculine, competitive, hands-on ... camaraderie ... or was there more to it than that? I’d always tried to enter into the spirit of that sort of horse-play ... but usually hung back. Why was that?

That’s something I’d been missing since promotion. Some of the lads working under me now had been at Hendon; same time as me but different stream ... Clark and Prentice ... and others. Good men! Hard-nuts, up for anything. Some of them out on the stake-out ... still out on the street ... up for action. Since I’d become desk-bound I’d been missing ... my mind reminded me again of things I usually tried to forget. Is that why I’d broken my own rules and gone out into the field undercover ... in my old motorcycle gear? Bad move ... but I did miss ... ?

My mind skipped and I remembered my first leathers ... my first bike ... when Harry and I used to ... we’d bought our first leather together ... and really thought we were the cat’s whatsits ... down to Brighton in our gear... Jeezus ... my mind’s wandering!

I sucked on the foam again and swallowed. Most of the saliva had been sucked from it. My mouth was drying out again, I realised. The coarse foam grated. And the dryness might perhaps be dangerous. We’d been taught about dehydration in survival courses.

I’d enjoyed the challenge of survival courses ... and resistance to interrogation and capture exercises ... but how much did I remember from them? They’d been something of a laugh ... and the theory had been boring, seeming so remote from reality. But this is fucking reality, mate. So deal with it. Get to grips with it. Survive it. You can survive it. You must survive it ... and plan what you’ll do to that fucking ‘mind-fucking’ bastard if you get through this, but ... what chance of turning the tables on ... ? He’s always been a cocky bastard ... and if he’s really working for ... Think positive!! What other senses?

VISION for Christ’s sake!:

With sudden shock I realised I had somehow ignored the fact that I could see. Was that sub-conscious? The fact that I could see myself in the big mirrored wardrobe door now blasted into my consciousness for the first time. Jesus! Just look at me, naked and trussed. How had I ignored that ... but, by Christ I had ignored it.

Perched up on the pillows, my shoulders roped to the headboard ... fucking headboard ... solid and unbreakable. I strained my cramped, tethered-down neck to look myself in the eye in the mirror. Just fucking look at yourself, I thought. Helpless and hopeless. No! “Assess the situation objectively,” we’d been taught. Give it a try.

Assessment procedure: knees high against my gagged face, head pulled painfully forward so it was a strain to look up; roped ankles hiding the plastic cage which was torturing my cock ... couldn’t see it but I could fucking-well feel it. “Look at me,” I mused as I let the picture sink in. “If they could see me now ... ” The Shirley MacLaine song drifted into my bruised mind. I shifted uncomfortably to fend off a growing cramping. Watching myself, I squirmed again ... as much as the expert roping would allow. I squirmed more determinedly ... watching with increasing surprise as I saw the ratio between extreme energy output and minimal visual effect. I was ... yes, surprised. So, systematically, I now applied my mind to this new discovery. The energy it took to fight the ropes hardly showed in the mirror. Experimentally, I watched myself put up a renewed, seriously determined battle against the ropes and numbing loss of circulation. I must keep working on circulation, I reminded myself ... but my knees screamed to straighten ... but that only intensified the tug on my bollocks. I flexed the ankles against the scrotum ... but, of course, the rope that dragged my neck down just got tighter ... and was in danger of chaffing my chest and shoulders ... and across my still painful nipples. The front figure-of-eight around my shoulders had been dragged lower towards my ankles. Now it rubbed on my nipples. I flexed again to evaluate the effect. If I gave myself rope burns that would only add to the discomfort! Shit! ... I was in deep shit.

This fiendishly perverse roping was so simple and yet so efficient. I couldn’t help admiring the ingenuity. Harry had said he’d had practice ... what did that mean? The bastard ... the devious bastard! Working for the man who had systematically tortured me for ... however long. He’d said that oily-voiced bastard had trained him ... and from what he said he’d had some experience of being tied ... yes. His cock had been locked into one of these cages. When? ... why? ... for how long? Had they captured him and tortured him? ... broken him and forced him to work for them? That was a new point to consider: had they forced him to work for ‘The Organisation’? ... but the Chief had called him in ... hadn’t he? Was Harry some sort of double agent? Was he working for both sides ... or somehow ... no. He’d done this to me. Trussed me up ... deliberately painfully ... softening me up for ... what? Fuck him. Fuck his devious mind-fucking mind. I wouldn’t soften up. I’d resist as long as there was breath in my body ... which wasn’t much right now.

I concentrated on filling my lungs as best a could in spite of the scrunched-up position and the tape around my face. Unable to do much else ... my mind retreated into repetition. I went back to the list of the five senses: taste ... smell ... sight ... sound? what else? Had I done touch? I was losing track ... but my fingers were totally numb now, cinched backwards and upwards ... useless somewhere between my shoulder blades. Double ropes cutting into both my shoulders and now dragging down against my nipples! My fucking bruised and still tender nipples ... the bastard! A simple rope harness bending my spine ... which felt like it would be crippled for life. Six hours the bastard had said. No way. I would die. Cramp ... suffocation because of my cramped chest and stomach. The ropes were cutting into my ankles and my bent knees were screaming for release ... but I couldn’t scream, could I. I knew that. My eyes could cry ... tears of pain and frustration. But ... disbelief more than anything. Disbelief that it was me in the mirror ... big Dan ... always in control ... always avoiding admitting any sort of dependence on anybody. But here I was ... trussed helpless ... and until that bastard came back there was nothing ... nothing I could do but ... deal with it, as Harry had said.

Harry ... smiling ... tough ... ruthless ... devious Harry Ansell. My mind settled to consider ... imagine ... picture him. With nowhere to go and unable to do ... anything ... I had time to picture him. From our biker days I pictured him, jaunty in his leathers. Always in leather. Hard-man Harry, always more of a tear-away than me ... and always laughing. God damn him. He was still fucking laughing at me. My anger welled up. Anger mixed with ... what? A certain regard ... admiration ... affection? No! The bastard! Left to take care of me and what did he do? ... or was that all part of his plan ... their plan ... whoever they are?

The cramp was getting to me. Block it out. Get back to assessing the situation ... five senses ... only five? What about “Perhaps some other sensuality inside?” When I’d woken up in my own bed ... and felt so horny ... not just the skin sensitised ... that must have been the sweat or gel in that fucking suit? I remembered the suit yet again ... vividly ... and the sensations flooded back; the rubber ... the clinging confinement ... the fear. And shit! ... my prick was suddenly burning again and in spite of the growing numbness, it was getting close to ... turn-on. No way.

I yanked with my ankles deliberately ... to tug on my ball-sack ... to calm the feeling that was definitely welling up. The jerking made things worse. I tugged ruthlessly ... trying to use pain to calm me down ... and all I was doing was getting more ... what? Stimulated. This is sick ... perverted. Jerking myself off ... deliberately. Inside it’s cage my prick was getting ready to burst ... but cramped and folded, there was no way it could .... but my breathing was getting heavier and my ankles seemed to have taken on a life of their own ... and my head thrashed ... and my stomach churned ... and ... Jeeszus! I was going to cum. I was nearing a climax ... and this time there was no bastard going to bring me to the brink and then stop ... frustrate my orgasm. That pervert had brought me to the edge and deliberately stopped ... more than once ... but this time I was in control. Trussed like a turkey ... but in control.

My ankles jerked and my head thrashed from side to side, and animal groans issued from my throat but were swallowed into the gag. My hefty shoulders strained at the ropes holding me to the bed-head ... numb elbows and fingers worked against the headboard, naked feet writhed against one another and the bed-sheeting ... and ankles kept tugging at my captive cock and aching balls ... and the breath ... gasps ... and my vision blurred and juices surged within me ... convulsed and exploded ... but the eruption was internal.

As if I’d been punched in the gut, I realised that the explosion had somehow ... backfired. My bent and scrunched prick had not shot, as far as I could tell. So ... where did the load go? Back up ... inside my stomach? Behind the foam I almost felt sick. Could I taste the cum that hadn’t escaped? No. Be logical. As my heart-rate slowed a little and my vision cleared ... I saw stars. Honest to God, I was seeing stars ... and my raw nostrils dragged in air ... and the crisis was over. My balls ... and cock ... and mind were all as numb as my fingers and elbows ... and knees ... and scrotum.

Still at the mercy of my own tortured mind, I needed to concentrate on ... something. Yes. Conserve my energy (what was left of it after that imploded orgasm, I reasoned). Gather your senses. In prolonged imprisonment you must, somehow, hang on to reality ... I heard an echo from past training. Exercise the mind. Use the mind ... process of reasoning. Concentrate ... visualise ... visualise Harry. Yes. The power of the “mind’s eye”. One of the lecturers in the anti-terrorist, anti-kidnapping course had talked about “The mind’s eye,” I thought desperately. Focus on something ... someone. Harry. Centre on that bastard ... grinning bastard. Where was he at this moment? What was he doing? ... Who was he calling? ... Bringing here? ... Back-up, I remembered him saying. And, what ‘bigger bag of tricks’? He’d mentioned a ‘bigger bag of tricks, for Christ’s sake’. If he worked for the drug barons ... and they’d failed to break me ... had they failed to break me? ... or had I cracked and my mind was refusing to admit it. Was my weakened state the result of their torture ... and I’d just lost it? I had told Harry I wanted him to fuck me. Yes, I’d lost it big-time. Actually said I wanted him to fuck me. When he got back ... fuck me? No, he wouldn’t ...

A sudden cramping in my right calf dragged my mind away from a seriously scary new possibility ... and panic electrified my body because searing cramp in a calf muscle was paralysing me ... but the ropes already held me paralysed. I squirmed to ease the cramps ... but panic was setting in.

If Harry was out there ... and something happened to him ... how long before anybody found me here? If I hadn’t died from physical pain ... circulation loss ... my mind might have given way under the weirdness of my predicament. The cramp spasm was passing. Some people got off on bondage, I sort of mused ... and focused on that thought. Some people really got off on ... bondage, I’d been told. I’d always dismissed people who wanted to be whipped or flogged or humiliated ... or tied up, as freaks ... as seriously dysfunctional individuals. My eyes strayed back to the picture before me. My broad shoulders, wrapped with rope, my strong sinewy neck ... the ropes all knotted so neatly ... and fucking efficiently. My mind continued to absorb the sight ... and I writhed deliberately. Harry had said it turned him on to see me squirming around. I squirmed and watched myself. I breathed in, expanding my chest ... to feel the rope against my nipples ... they looked hard and pink, and they felt ... ? I remembered Harry’s nails clawing into them and the searing pain ... followed by the shattering shock-waves ... and still they felt ... awakened. Because my head was dragged down by the roping I could look down at my nipples ... close below my taped chin and face. I could also see my chin ... and appreciate the texture and smell of the athletic tape.

My mind strayed to remember the thrill as a kid, when I first had my fingers taped before forcing them into boxing gloves. The feeling of enclosure. The difficulty of undoing the glove laces without outside help. From a distant memory I suddenly recalled Harry teasing me and refusing to help me unlace my gloves after a bout. My frustration with captive fingers, trapped in padded gloves. I’d pummelled him into a corner using sheer bodyweight. I’d always been bigger ... and I’d really punched at him ... and he’d laughed in my face ... accepting the pummelling and still smiling. The bastard! Had he always been ... ? To recall the incident from so many years ago ... so vivid again now in my mind’s eye. It had been stored away un-remembered ... and now, triggered by his glee at his power over my trussed body ... a memory fresh and new after all those years.

And that aggressive, provocative sudden kiss ... an open-mouthed, lingering, deliberately sloppy kiss ... all over what might have been my mouth ... just to prove how helpless I was. All he must have tasted was adhesive tape. My mind strayed to imagine the taste the tape might have, judging by it’s smell. I breathed in to smell the tape ... but my mind sprang back to Harry. His vicious grab at my nipples ... vicious ... but expert. He knew what he was doing ... demonstrating that he had me completely in his power. And by Christ, that he had. And when he came back ... if he ever came back ... Stop this. Calm down. Get your act together ... but I began to remember the point of desperation I’d been reduced to by the physical torture inside that fucking suit ... and the voice of the torturer. I remembered the voice of the torturer ... and vividly remembered Harry’s gleeful gloating as soon he’d got me safely tied and helpless. The smirk when I’d tried to get him to take the foam ball out.

“Tough Shit! Deal with it,” he’d said. “You asked for it. You asked for it and you got it.”

I thought back to that ridiculous moment when I’d actually asked him ... demanded that he must tie my hands ... insisted he used the gag ... helped him ram it into my mouth. I closed my eyes and forced myself to breathe slowly. I had ... asked for it. And he’d said, “So deal with it.” And I would deal with it. What other alternative was there? ... and at about that time my mind just switched off. Perhaps that’s what being in efficient bondage does for you ... allows you to switch off ... knowing that you have no options ... no choices to make. The mind just slips into neutral ... if you’re lucky.

*****

PART THREE

MANIPULATED

I couldn’t believe I’d fallen asleep in that nightmare predicament but when the front door closed, it woke me from some sort of stupor. Disoriented, it took time to realise that whoever had come in, hadn’t immediately come to the bedroom. Sounds of bumping and wheeling of something heavy riveted my attention. I was still tied, still gagged, still naked: but my groin felt as if it was on another planet. Was it Harry? If not, who?

When Harry appeared, I was only aware of relief. But on taking in the way he was dressed, all my insecurities were suddenly wide awake.

Harry now looked to be in warrior mode. He wore a black skin-tight tee shirt, dark combat pants and boots. Not your James Bond glamorous hi-style gear: Harry’s pants and boots looked as if they’d seen serious action. The boots immediately struck me as being foreign. Spanish Army or French Legion; high lace-up, but with built-in wrap-around leather gaiters and buckles. Thick dark socks padded their insides. These were neatly rolled above the gaiters. My tired mind speculated aimlessly that thick socks helped a lot inside tough boots: I knew that from experiences. At this crucial moment in time ... in my totally powerless state, my mind just continued to drift rather aimlessly. Two buckles held each gaiter tight to the pants leg. These were solid workman-like black combat pants with leg pockets. Harry’s stocky figure in the practical gear looked seriously ready for physical action. I’d heard him dump some heavy stuff in the hallway, my mind reminded me ... but I was glad he was back.

This imposing figure watched me quizzically, perhaps aware of my wandering attention. “How ya’ doing’, buddy?” he asked, the American twang now more pronounced. I was in no position to reply. “I guess you’re closer to co-operating? ... communicating?” he asked rhetorically. “Shit or bust time, buddy,” he said standing at the foot of the bed, hiding from my view the mirror image of me, lashed against the headboard. But I could now see a back view of him in the mirror – and it looked as powerful as the front view.

From a pant’s pocket he produced a small camera. “Smile for the birdie,” he jeered as he flashed a couple of shots. “Just a record of a particularly interesting piece of rope-work. Also could be something to use against you in evidence, perhaps. Or happen to let slide out onto the internet ... if you continue to piss me off, Chief Inspector Drummond ... ‘Drum’, old Buddy.”

Putting the camera aside, he now confronted me and hitched at his belt, ready for action.

“You about ready to spill the beans? Excuse the cliché. Let’s put it another way. Would you like to have that fucking great foam ball out of your mouth, Dan?” He waited as I stared at this athletic, almost military figure.

”I asked you a question, fuck-face! Yes or no? Gag out or deal with it for another fuck knows how long?”

I stared, he waited. He knelt onto the foot of the bed & moved towards me. Close to my face, he asked again “Would you like me to take the gag out?”

Challenged, I nodded tentatively.

“And change your roping to a less stress-full position?”

Again, aware that nothing was as simple as it seemed, I nodded.

He smiled. “And if I take the gag out, and undo the worst of the ropes, are you going to be more co-operative?”

He waited. And eventually, guardedly, I nodded again.

“You know I can ease the pain or increase the pain, don’t you old boy, old buddy? Don’t you?” he insisted.

I nodded again, wearily.

“So, are you going to give me the entrance codes you refused to give to my ... colleague?”

He waited and I hesitated ... before shaking my head in a resigned negative. He did not react immediately, and then whacked me across the face with the palm of his hand, very deliberately. Tears sprang up. There was nothing I could do to stop them, but again I deliberately shook my head from side to side, surrendering all hope for the first time in my life. I had opted to die. In my current state it might be a relief. But the smile in Harry’s eyes suggested it would not be that easy.

His hands went to the ropes on the front of my ankles, and with one simple pull he released the painful tension between my ankles and neck. With another single pull, the scrotum to ankles rope fell away. He certainly knew how to use rope, was my immediate thought. But then, as he encouraged my numb knees to begin to straighten, the searing pain soon commanded all my attention: pins and needles (which really lived up to their name) attacked my muscles, and my still roped-together ankles squirmed in their binding, to both fight the pain and encourage the circulation back into calves and feet.

Harry had skittered nimbly off the bed and disappeared from view. He returned with another hold-all, bigger this time with wheels at one end. Unzipping it, he rummaged for something. I was preoccupied by the searing pain of the straightened knees.

Climbing back onto the bed, Harry took my naked feet in his hands, and his voice commanded my attention.

“Dan, do you remember in anti-kidnap, anti-interrogation courses? They always told you, when you’re captured ... never antagonise your captors. Never piss off the people who have you inescapably by the balls? Do you remember that piece of basic advice? Do you?” he demanded, and I nodded, co-operatively.

“So. If I un-rope your ankles you’re not going to try and kick me, or anything stupid ... while you’re still roped and gagged and going nowhere? Right?” he asked, indicating that further assurance was required.

I nodded resignedly and watched as he slowly un-roped my naked ankles and circled each with a broad pale tan leather strap. I recognised them as American hospital restraints. Each lockable strap had two solid ‘D’ rings riveted to it. They were padded, so would cause no skin damage; but I knew they looked virtually indestructible. The pair he was locking onto my still-numb ankles were linked close together by a tough strap which had a lockable buckle. He was right. There was no point it trying to kick him and invite trouble.

As he closed the lock on the second ankle, he smiled up at me. “So, you won’t talk, huh? ... as they used to say in the old gangster movies.” He moved closer to my face and his hand reached out to the tightly taped chin and jaw ... and ruthless fingers began to crush into my immobilised cheeks.

“I wonder just what it would take to have you begging?” he speculated – and I knew no reply was expected.

His hands had moved to above my shoulders and he was untying ropes. I soon knew my cramped torso was now free from the bed head. He was kneeling astride my naked legs, and his crotch was in line with mine. Smiling into my face he pressed down on my captive cock. It was so numb I felt nothing.

“It’s all getting a bit blue down there. If we’re not careful it will shrivel up and drop off. Neither of us would want that, buddy-boy. I intend to have a lot of fun with you over the next however long it takes. Let’s get you more comfortable – as long as you co-operate and don’t try any silly moves.”

With that his strong fingers un-knotted the figure-of-eight which had secured my torso to my ankles. His hands, being so close to my nipples, I expected more abuse as he withdrew the rope – but Harry just teased them gently with his thumbs – and I tried to steel myself against whatever might happen next.

Taking the short rope with him, Harry backed away, pulling my tethered ankles towards a corner of the big double bed. As he pulled I fell backwards, my roped arms dragging at the bed sheet underneath me, until I was positioned right over the bottom corner of the bed. My legs dropped to the floor and he then helped me to sit up. Poised unsteadily, I sat still while he used the short rope to tie my ankle hobbles to the leg under the corner of the bed.

“Thing is, Dan, in your position – you co-operate or I smack you senseless – right? Agree with me Dan, it’s the best policy in the circumstances. Agreed?”

Again I nodded into the shining eyes of the man kneeling at my feet.

”And if I’m nice enough to un-rope your wrists and help you into a less stressful situation, you’ll thank me nicely, won’t you?” He again waited for a response, and I gave a grudging nod.

He stood up to face me, my eyes now level with his hefty belt buckle. “And, sooner or later, you will tell me what I (and other people) want to know, won’t you,” and this was not a question, it was a confident statement.

Again I made a choice and gave a determined shake of the head, the waited for the expected blow. But Harry just smiled confidently down at me. (#M2Mjacketed)

“You naughty tease, you! Or are you just a closet masochist inviting more punishment, Dan-boy?”

With that his two hands reached for my ears and pulled my face into his abdomen. I felt him reach behind my back and pull on a single free-running knot. My tortured arms suddenly dropped from their high anchor-point. With my face buried against his tee shirt, I smelled the man-sweat and was reminded of my new sensitivity to such thing - even though the pain from my newly released (but still bound together) wrists was sending shockwaves up to my shoulders.

Harry turned away, leaving me sitting astride the corner of the bed, legs immobilised and numb hands flexing in their loose but still inescapable lashing. From the hold-all he produced a couple of items. One was a bundle, which he held up in front of me. As he let it dangle, I knew it was a strait-jacket and my heart began to race.

“Face up to it, Dan. You are going into this. I’ll be happy to demonstrate just how capable I am of doing anything in the world I want with you. I can un-rope your wrists and still be confident you won’t be able to fight back. With your ankles tied to the bed leg you’re going nowhere. Before I untie your wrists you’ll be flat on your back inescapably anchored to the far corner of the bed. I can get the jacket on you, however hard you struggle, and I’d enjoy doing it. But why waste energy, I ask myself? I’ve reached a point in my life when I always hedge my bets, mate. Do you recognise one of these?” he asked as he revealed the other item he’d taken from the hold-all. It was a neat black plastic device with two small prongs protruding from it. I knew, immediately, it was a Stun-gun.

Illegal in Britain, I’d seen the effect of these during anti-riot training courses. I’d even witnessed the effect of this tiny device on a big and determined attacker. On these courses, volunteers had been zapped by them, and I’d watched them drop in their tracks and writhe in agony, their nervous system totally shot, temporarily. Officers on the Executive had discussed with us, clinically and dispassionately, the potential value of such a weapon and the ethics of using it as a defensive rather than offensive device. I had speculated on what it might feel like; and wondered at the men who agreed to be human guinea pigs in all such equipment trials. I’d watched CS gas used, volunteer rioters beaten in practice baton charge exercises, heat and cold survival experiments. They were all a certain breed of men, those volunteers.

My attention was brought back to Harry. He smiled as he moved the device closer to my chest before menacingly lowering it towards my groin.

“Dan, you are going into this jacket, the easy way or the hard way. The choice is up to you. One nod for easy, two for hard, please.”

After what I considered to be a decent pause, I nodded once, emphatically.

“Arrh! Spoil-sport,” he smiled, pocketing the vicious little device before again holding up the ominous canvas jacket. Buckles glinted and webbing straps coiled from it in all directions. “Because I want to talk to you,” he continued, “and I know it’s time those ropes came off your wrists, believe me, this is your best option. I don’t want to damage you – unless, of course, you really refuse to see reason. If you co-operate once it’s on you, I will even take that gag off. Deal?” he said.

I thought about it ... and he allowed me time ... and then I nodded, having first dismissed some pretty unrealistic alternatives. Making a break for freedom was not a practical option at present. I nodded a couple of times.

Clambering behind me as I sat astride the corner of the bed-end, he knelt. I could watch him in the mirror. His powerful shoulders flexed as he began to adjust the loose rope which still bound my wrists so efficiently. The figure-of-eight rope harness around my shoulders was still firmly in position but he was suddenly adding more rope. I didn’t see where he produced it from, but it was being tied around my neck. Perhaps the anxiety in my eyes made him reassure me.

“Don’t worry,” he said, smiling at me into the mirror, “rope around the neck in this sort of game is usually a no-no. But if you don’t struggle, you won’t choke yourself.” With that the rope binding my wrists was whisked away. My arms were free; but in one smooth move, a sudden tug on the harness had my body falling backwards and, flat on my back, the rope around my neck had me tethered inescapably to the far corner of the bed. Cinching this rope well out of my reach, Harry quickly bounced off the bed out of range of my arms, which were now free ... but I could neither sit up or move my feet.

I concentrated on working my arms to regain some feeling in them. I flexed and held them in the air, smacked at them to slap some life back into them. Harry watched and waited, the grim white canvas strait-jacket at the ready. It was the sort of garment I knew was used in many American hospitals and insane institutions. The long sleeves hung down and webbing straps waited as I flexed my arms back to some sort of life.

“OK now,” he said, amiably, “circulation should be coming back; arms in and don’t fuck me about or I’ll break a couple of your ribs for starters,” he warned, and then held the jacket armholes towards me as I lay on my back, unable to sit up without strangling myself. So, I co-operated, aiming my hands into the long closed sleeves. Soon the body of the jacket lay on my chest as Harry stood back out of reach. Producing the stun-gun again, he climbed onto the bed behind me. Having released the rope which tethered my neck, he urged me to sit up.

“No silly moves now, unless you’d like to know what sort of kick this little beauty can give!”

Safely behind me, he was free to pull the jacket around my shoulders, and began by buckling the neck closed. My encased arms were not restrained in any way, and I could watch him in the mirror. He was using both hands, so the stun-gun was not immediately available to him. A well-aimed buckle on the sleeve-end, I speculated, might take his eye out – but if I missed – and with my feet tied to the bed ...

“Don’t even think about it,” he warned as I felt more buckles tighten the jacket around me. After a final tightening behind the waist, he instructed, “Now, cross your arms and give me your hands back here, passing them both through the front loop before you do it.”

This unfamiliar process caused me to look down, and see the webbing loop solidly sewn and riveted onto the front of the jacket. Passing both closed ends of the sleeves through this as far as my elbows, I noticed other webbing loops, two at elbows and others on the shoulders. This was an unusually high-security design garment, I mused. Harry was busy threading the long sleeve-ends through side loops on the body of the jacket.

“Forget Harry Houdini, my friend. Jackets with side loops and a crotch straps don’t figure in many escape artist routines.”

I felt him cinch the arm strap buckle in back, and remembered talk about gaining slack when a strait-jacket was being applied. As I sat on the bed, Harry was suddenly to one side of me and his hands were pushing my elbows together and, as if he somehow had a third hand, the back strap was yanked tighter and the breath snatched out of my body, along with any slack that might have been left in the arms of this all-embracing restraint jacket.

“Now stand up,” he urged. And I stood carefully, aware of my tethered ankles. I felt his hand between my naked thighs, and the front of the jacket was tugged sharply downwards. A strap dragged between my legs was being bucked somewhere behind me, and this through-crotch strap further tortured my already captive cock and balls.

After a final playful yank on the strap, Harry urged me to sit back down and as he hopped off the bed, with a gentle push, caused my torso to drop backwards.

Strait-jacketed, with legs bent and anchored, and the crotch strap biting into my groin, I could only look at the ceiling and wait for what happened next.

JACKETED

‘A strait-jacket,’ I thought to myself and my mind leapt back to early boyhood fantasies; images of Harry Houdini challenges. “Forget Harry Houdini,” this bastard ex-friend had said as he’d strapped the jacket – but there was some movement in my arms – if I tense and wrestle, there could be some slack, I thought. And as I pulled tentatively at the tough canvas, the urge to thrash around and exert whatever power was left to me, boiled up.

“Hold on a minute,” said a voice at my feet, quite cheerfully. And I felt my ankles unroped from the bed-leg. Then in one swift movement before I could react, Harry rose from his knees into view, gabbed two hand-fulls of one jacket sleeve and turned me onto my stomach on the end of the bed. My legs (still hobbled) were hanging over the bed-end and, suddenly, I was kneeling on the carpet belly down onto the end of the bed with Harry close behind me planting one knee between my knees. I felt his full body weight pressing down on my spine, pressing my crossed arms into the soft bed. Immediately above me behind my ear I felt his breath and heard him say, “I could fuck you rigid, matey, and there isn’t a thing you could do about it!” And I felt the twill of his pants pump my naked ass, as he chuckled in my ear.

Exerting all my upper body-weight, I heaved to throw him off ... but he’d anticipated the move and neatly stepped off me. My body flung itself into the air, dropped back half on and half off the bed, and (with no arms to control the fall) bumped off the bed onto the floor with something of a crash. Because of the thick carpet there was no damage, but it knocked the breath out of me mainly because of my tape-wrapped face. I lay there panting, face down and totally trussed and hobbled.

“That’s more like it!” said Harry, elated. “I’m glad there’s still some fight in you. It always turns me on to see some serious struggling. I want to see you mad, buddy-boy!”

A boot took a swing towards my stomach below the crossed arms and I automatically brought my knees up to protect myself. It was a controlled kick, just to prove it could have landed and done serious damage. The toe of the boot stayed to taunt my caged cock and I began to roll away.

Harry’s full body-weight dropped like a stone, his knees on either side of my crotch, his two hands pile-driving my shoulders back onto the carpet. Grinning down into my face for a split second, he lay forward on top of me until we were chest to chest, but with my arms painfully crushed between us. His face moved closer to mine – he was going to kiss me again, the bastard! I heaved my body violently, and rolled, taking him with me. But he’d grabbed the two side loops of the jacket, so when I landed on top of him I found I couldn’t roll any further because his legs were outside mine, knees now bent and stabilising himself – and I was panting desperately.

He grinned up at me. “What’ya gonna’ do now, big feller?”

I thought for a second and decided I could raise myself and land a knee into his groin – but as I started the movement I felt one of his boots graze painfully between my legs and his leg then straightened – and with his boot braced between my ankle hobbles I was pinned straight-legged lying on top of him and unable to move off. He humped his pelvis under me – banging against my caged cock. Numb as it was, I could feel it. His deliberate implications were obvious ... Harry wasn’t queer, for Christ’s sake, I told myself. However, that was not the only thought in my mind (because the adrenalin was pumping) and so was the blood in my brain ... and in my crotch .

After a pause for breath, Harry, still gripping the jacket, suddenly rolled me over and, using the jacket fabric as grab-handles, rolled me face down and was kneeling astride me, his weight high on the back of my thighs. Again he provocatively humped at my arse. I tried to buck. I used the elbows of my crossed arms against the floor to raise my shoulders up to throw him. I heaved with all my weight, and I was heavier than him, always had been. If I could get onto my knees ...

“Ride ‘em, cowboy!” Harry crowed, “Great ride you’re giving me, Dan. How’s you’re dick doing under there? Getting off on the carpet. Careful you don’t stain it.”

My ankles tried to kick him in the kidneys. Knees bending and straightening, my heels aimed for his spine or – anything, time and time again, blindly as Harry continued to laugh excitedly, while battering my pelvis into the carpet with all his weight.

I don’t know how he managed to grab the rope, but suddenly something was tugging at the hobble-strap and I felt my legs no longer able to straighten, and Harry was sitting on my shoulders. With both hands free, he had soon tied my ankles to one of the straps on the back of the jacket.

“Hogtied again,” I thought to myself as I lay totally immobilised and panting into the carpet. Fluff from it threatened to block my nostrils, and I thought that I should vacuum more often. What a fucking stupid thought at a time like this.

Harry was panting, too, but he had enough energy to grab hands full of canvas, and haul my body closer to where he was kneeling. As he dragged me, my gagged face was soon between his legs as he knelt. Then with an upward pull, my mouth was heading inevitably for his crotch. The bastard, he was really proving his point. I was totally helpless. A hand, gentle but determined, buried my face against his groin, his twill pants gazing my face. Raising and lowering his pelvis he again demonstrated that he could do whatever he chose to do. #(M2Mboots)

He chose to change his position. He left me inert, and from my ground-level view I watched his tall boots move to settle against the end of the bed as Harry sat down on it.

Reaching forward he dragged me on my crossed arms until my head was face-down between those boots, and they closed in on either side of my head, clamping my ears painfully. All I could see in my eye-line were the heels of his well-worn, scuffed boots, traces of dried mud still in the cleats of their thick soles.

The boots then shifted out of sight, and I felt his leather ankles tighten in against the sides of my neck and felt his toes under the front of my shoulders. The leather legs now clamping my entire body, and I heard a mocking jaunty voice from somewhere above me say:

“Get out of that, as Morecombe and Wise used to say. Go on, make a break for it. You’re heavier than me ... than I,” he corrected himself. “Remember old Adkin at The Grammar? Give it a shot Big Feller. Let’s see you struggle.”

Just like in the old days he was provoking, taunting, daring. He knew I could never resist a challenge. I gave it a shot. Using my whole bodyweight I bucked back away from him, but the boot legs held me firm. I rolled experimentally, twisted more vigorously – attempted to turn onto my side to get more leverage. It was painful and getting me nowhere – until he suddenly allowed me to turn. My body rolled unexpectedly, and I was suddenly on my back – my legs still bent, roped tight up underneath me – and his fucking boots were back again to lock against the sides of my neck like a leather vice. They were now completely in my eye-line, towering up away from me, the tough hide calves looked a mile high, topped off by his thick neatly turned-down socks. I could not see the tight rows of neat laces, but imagined them at the front of each boot, disappearing up and under the gaiters. I could see the under-edge of each gaiter but not the buckles ... my mind rambled. Why did these boots occupy my attention to such an extent? Almost as an abstracted thought, I realised that boots with attached leather gaiters had been something I’d often noticed in equipment catalogues ... and on people in action movies on TV. I’d always thought they looked better than the British and American combat boot. Like the old-fashioned motorcycle ‘despatch rider’ boots from World War Two films seen as a kid. As a youngster I’d always wanted a pair – so had Harry, I suddenly remembered. Well, I thought – he got a pair – and they’re pinning me to the fucking floor.

Was my mind unravelling, I wondered, as I lay on my back, strait-jacketed and panting from the struggle? But I was abruptly brought back to the reality of the situation because above me a smiling face appeared between the walls of leather with Harry’s knees beyond. He appeared upside-down, grinning like the Cheshire Cat, I thought. It was all as weird as Alice in Wonderland! Was it the mention of our old English Literature teacher, old Adkin, brought that back?

“You gone to sleep down there, buddy-boy – old playmate? I enjoyed the struggle. That’s what strait-jackets are for – to allow a bit of a struggle without damaging yourself or anybody who’s in control of you. And I am in control of you, aren’t I, buddy-boy?” he asked, and I stared resentfully back up at him, until the toe of a solid boot kicked warningly against my shoulder ... but was back clamping my neck before I could grab the opportunity which that brief moment of release had allowed.

“I asked you a fucking question, chummy! And when I ask a fucking question you give an answer even if it’s only a nod. And a nod gets you brownie points and any negative gets you pain.” The boot again kicked my shoulder, harder this time and was, immediately, back clamping my neck.

“Missed opportunity again,” the smiling face confirmed. “Got to be quicker than that, buddy-boy. But, I don’t want to discourage you from trying. Seeing some action really turns me on. I want to see you fighting and struggling – not winning, necessary – but at least with enough hope to keep you putting in some effort. So ... ,” he said, swinging off the bed to kneel close to me, “I’m going to allow you more of a fighting chance. Just to encourage you, I’m going to give you better odds.”

Dragging and rolling me until I was face-down between his knees again, I felt the fabric clamp around my ears, totally locking my head and body as I lay hogtied. I felt his hands at straps on the back of the strait-jacket. My arms tightened and I thought, “You bastard, you’re going to tighten it.’ But then my elbows relaxed a little, and my hands were no longer pulled taught. And I felt him guide one hand, and knew he was taking that wrist from out of the side loop ... and then the same on the other side. Both my hands were unstrapped but, before I could register the opportunities this might give me, I felt the strap between my finger-ends re-connected ... but now my arms were not through the side loops and not quite so tightly strapped. Casually, a strong hand used my own bodyweight to roll me onto my side and Harry stood towering above me, one tall boot close to my waist at the front, the other pressing my waist at the back, keeping me uncomfortably on my side, knees still tightly bent.

“To really get the feel of a strait-jacket, there’s got to be a possibility of escape,” he said. “OK, your arms are still through the front loop but it’s the side loops that give the real problem; so I’ve allowed you a better chance of escape. Not easy, but possible to work your way out of it – if you put your mind to it – conserve energy – and think ahead.” With a sudden grin, he winked down at me, impishly. Give us another struggle, Dan-boy. Long time since we’ve had a rough-and-tumble.” He braced his legs and willed me to un-balance him. I made a sudden lurch forwards – then backwards – then pretended to wrench left – and went right and nearly got him – but he stood his ground, laughing.

The lack of ability to breathe through my mouth, coupled with the hugging tightness of my arms around my stomach soon had me panting again. Harry dropped beside me, sat with his back against the bed-end and, as if I were a buddle of rags, hauled my hog-tied body across his extended legs, and up and around until I was virtually lying across his lap, with ankles high in the air.

“Remember the time I tried to spank your ass?” he asked, conversationally. “We couldn’t have been more than sixteen,” he smiled, “and you’d never been caned (because you were such a goody-goody) and I had – and I decided you should at least know how it felt. And you nearly crippled me for trying. Remember that? I do, vividly. And I was the same person then as I am now – are you, Dan-boy?”

With a sudden shock I felt the rope holding my ankles fall away and the flat of his hand landed with a resounding smack on my naked ass. Whack again. I heard the second blow before I realised just how much the first had stung. At last my mind engaged and I started to struggle – I rolled – and bucked – and squirmed, but he’d got a grip on one of the jacket straps – and, with deadly precision, his hand fell again and again and again. Three more resounding whacks – and then he threw me off his legs, and was on his feet before I’d stopped rolling. And his boots again stepped in and were astride my waist, this time holding me flat on my back, my legs rigid and ankles hobbled, my ass burning against the carpet.

The toe of a boot nudged hard into my ribs. “I want you mad, Dan – angry – furious – desperate. I want to see you squirm buddy – struggle – sweat. I’ve made it so you can get out of that jacket if you put your mind and your energy into it. And if you don’t – well, you stay in it until the guys who helped me put you into that rubber suit come and collect you again. Oh, didn’t I tell you? They brought you here on a stretcher, strapped to a stretcher in full daylight. They’re paramedics; pucka paramedics with a pucka private ambulance. And they can come again. And your nice, sympathetic hall porter will let us in the front doors and hold the lift open for us. And you’ll be strapped and gagged, or sleeping peacefully. No. Definitely efficiently immobilised and gagged ... but conscious so you can savour your total powerlessness. Perhaps they’ll use those vacuum splints; one on each leg, one on each arm holding them rigid. Great, some of the new medical kit. Then, er, good solid head brace and plenty of straps. All hidden under a neat blanket as they carry you out. You see, it’s much more fun to watch the person you’re ‘mind-fucking’ if he’s awake to what’s going on. Perhaps just slightly sedated so your eyes don’t look too wild, as you see your friends watching sympathetically as we carry you away. But they won’t know where we’re taking you. And neither will you. And you won’t see where we’re delivering you to. You’ll just know that what lies ahead for you ... will not be fun. Well, it’ll be fun for us, of course, but certainly not fun for you.” Then his tone lightened. “That’s all, of course, if you don’t make an effort to get yourself out of that strait-jacket. Then it might be a different ball game – if you’ll excuse the pun.”

It had not really been the boots that were holding me rigid, it was the prospect of what was being threatened. But suddenly a couple of quite painful kicks around my trussed arms and still stinging buttocks had me squirming again and the bastard was walking away towards his hold-all.

“Just wait till I’ve got my video camera out. and then you can start struggling, buddy. Remember if you don’t escape you’re in for a very bumpy night ... or two. OK, action. I want to get the whole process of you escaping from that jacket on tape ... so other people can enjoy watching you ... later.”

This situation, in ordinary fiction, would need to be explained in terms of human psychology and character development. In bondage fiction, many readers will know exactly where both parties were coming from by now.

For Harry Ansell there was nothing unusual here. He’d been doing this sort of thing since he first stumbled across the Leather Scene while still at university. As a bike enthusiast from before he was old enough to ride one, he’d lusted after leather and the men who wore it well. Men who wore leather and boots had always ‘pushed his buttons’ in some way.

Legitimised to wear leather on the day he bought his first bike, he’d shared some of his enthusiasms with his mate, Dan. But, after a couple of unfocused ‘fumbles’ had realised there was something inside him to keep quiet about ... at least until he understood it better.

While still thinking he was the only screwed-up misfit in the world, a few false starts and near misses later, he’d discovered that other men got off on the sensuality rather than practicality of leather. On a youthful trip to the USA the full impact of his British bike boots and one-piece leathers had attracted the right (or were they the wrong?) sort of people. In San Francisco he’d been welcomed into an inner circle of serious players of S&M and bondage games. Heavy stuff, but he was always up for a new experience, learning both sides of sophisticated and hot-as-hell power-exchange at every level.

Whether he was getting in with the right crowd or the wrong crowd mattered little to the tough and physically resilient, insatiable high-stakes player Harry already was, seven years ago.

I thrashed and writhed around the carpet, determined that if there was a way out of this fucking jacket I’d fucking find it. I did not remember ever being so determined. I crashed my bulk around the floor as that bastard (grinning bastard) filmed me. Angrily, I hurled myself at his legs to knock him off balance; deliberately rolled towards those boots, not caring if he tried to kick me. I’d get the bastard.

But the nimble feet side-stepped and dodged with ease, and the camera never left his eye, zooming and panning to capture every twitch and lurch my bulky canvas-wrapped body and naked hobbled legs made.

Too often I landed on my caged dick. It was numb but I knew it was bulging tighter than ever against the plastic bars. The sweat was wetting my cropped hair and naked legs, but still the bastard moved in closer just to capture the writhing tension on a strap or the determination on my face.

Every time I stopped to take a breather, the bastard was close in again, crouching – and I’d catch his eye – and glare defiantly into the lens – and I knew the film footage would look – amazing. I would want to see it.

The heavy breathing from the taped mouth caused this Prometheus (or was it Hercules?), to pause occasionally to stop and drag air in and snort air out.

As the camera-man moved in for close-ups, angry eyes flashed at the camera operator malevolently – and powerful legs waited to lash out and kick or body lunge if any rash opening was there. Sheer pent-up resentment exuded from every pore of this trussed bull. And Harry was sticky around the crotch, just watching something that had for many years been his best fantasy: Dan Drummond pissed off but powerless.

In many a New York and Berlin heavy SM scene, Harry had conjured up a vision of old Dan being involved in whatever predicament he himself was currently experiencing. Whether in control, or the ‘victim, in however challenging a circumstance Harry had permitted himself to get into ... it was Dan’s face that helped to fire-up his imagination ... and got him through some testing times. Shit! Big Dan had been part of his life since he’d known what his dick was for, thought Harry.

Being trussed up in this jacket was really knackering me. But, putting up a struggle for the camera, and to show that smirking bastard that I wasn’t beaten, had stoked up my boilers. So much so that actually trying to get myself out of the clinging and now sweat-soaked thing had not been uppermost in my mind. Now as I lay and gasped for air, I decided that unless I started to address the problem of finding a way out I could run out of energy – and then God knows what that perverted bastard might have in store. I decided I must try to ignore the camera.

Concentrate! Focus the mind. Summon up some extra energy. Not for showing off and thrashing around but for serious manoeuvring. It wouldn’t look – sexy as that perverted bastard had called it; it would be a concentrated effort to escape from a strait-jacket – which he’d said he’d deliberately made possible, if I could find a way out. Big fucking deal. Thanks a bunch. Big fucking fucking ...

To calm myself, I went into ‘officer’ mode: not the language of a senior man, I reminded myself. Respond to this as a serious assault – a terrorist attack – grievous bodily harm – kidnapping a member of the police force.

“I’ll fucking kill the bastard!,” my more natural instincts cut in ... and I lurched my full bodyweight towards those fucking boots ... which, yet again, side-stepped my body-weight with infuriating ease.

So! Pull yourself together. Be adult about this. Follow the thought processes. If he’d taken my wrists out of the side loops, there must be a routine for ... what? ... working them upwards and over my head ... or downwards and under my buttocks (my fucking buttocks felt raw). That bastard would pay for that beating on my arse. No. Concentrate, I reminded myself; the elbows are still through that front loop so, however far I get my wrists, I’d still be fucked. No! Not fucked. I’d get out of this jacket ... and then we’d see who gets fucked.

Somewhere behind my back I manoeuvred my canvas-encased hands and wrists – tugged against the strap that held them together almost finger-end to finger-end behind my back. I started to work the joined strap up towards my shoulders – forcing my elbows tighter together to give more slack in the back. Each hand operating separately – easing the strap upwards – holding it away from my body – it was moving. I eased – teased the strap up towards the back of my neck. I rolled onto my face (ignoring the camera moving in, yet again, to capture the moment). I lifted my hands to drag the strap over a buckle – which I knew was holding the jacket closed – four of them, I reminded myself. I tried to picture the back of the jacket – remember the placement of the buckles.

I rolled onto my side to force my elbows tighter across my chest. I writhed, I squirmed – and I remembered that Harry wanted to see me squirm. Should I stop, just to piss him off? No, to hell with him. Concentrate on the most urgent objective – one of those clichés they always taught in training exercises. So many clichés in police training – training, often by old farts. Desk-bound, out-of-shape old farts. Stop! Concentrate, I told myself.

I tried to visualise the linked hand strap, travelling up my back but it kept snagging on buckles ... and with sudden clarity I realised that with limited strap-length between the sleeve-ends, this would get tighter as it reached my shoulders because they were broader. Too fucking broad. If I took it downwards and over my hips ... much less bulk. My hips were relatively slim, I knew that ... although it’s not something I remember ever thinking about before. Down around my hips – under my buttocks – and I could perhaps get my ankles through ...

I set about achieving this well focussed objective and to hell with the camera and that bastard.

The question for Harry, in spite of the fantastic footage he was shooting, was how the hell to handle the next difficult move in the game. Game! It wasn’t really a game. All his life he’d followed his own instincts and played his games. But, recently, his acquired skills had taken him into a more serious business; dangerous territory.

Counter-intelligence is a serious business, however much fun it looks in the movies. His early recruitment in the USA and their detailed back-checking with British Intelligence who’d been monitoring both Dan and Harry since they were young ....

Had his long affection for Dan clouded his judgement when he’d knowingly accepted a deep cover assignment in the region where Dan was a newly attached Information Technology supremo, Harry asked himself?

He watched the trussed-up so-called senior police officer – and kept the camera rolling, as his mind grappled with his problem. Dan had seriously fucked-up, going out on the street like Sir fucking-Lancelot. Risking a distraction that would have alerted the ....

The cameraman was breathing quite fast. Was it the spectacle of Dan now putting up such a determined struggle to escape from the jacket, or the problem of what to do next? Watching his long-time mate wrestling his well-strapped arms down around the hem of the jacket onto his muscular thighs (and trying to avoid dragging on his tortured cock), was certainly a distraction. Harry went with the moment and moved in for a close-up of the groin.

But with the problem of Harry’s involvement with seriously dangerous drug people on an international scale, and his responsibility for his own deep cover team posing as an outside group of dealers planning to take over the territory in this area – deliberately causing friction between two existing rival local gangs – they’d made a lot of progress, but the trap was still far from ready to spring. Well backed up by combined CIA and Interpol people in the field, all had been going relatively smoothly. But then, in charges Desperate Dan, out of nowhere. The high-up’s hadn’t heard about the sudden crisis (at least Harry hoped not) and it had been up to him to do some hasty damage-limitation.

Through the view-finder of the camera, Harry saw that Dan had managed to get his sleeve-strap under his ass and behind his knees. He was sitting propped up against the end of the bed, panting and knackered – and had now discovered he couldn’t possibly get his hobbled ankles through the strap. His energy, which had been seriously tested by Harry’s team during the past few days, was beginning to flag. There was a look of defeat about him. Harry didn’t want Dan to be defeated – but he also didn’t feel he could step in and seem to offer help. Perhaps if he moved in and deliberately made it more difficult that would remove Dan’s sense of failure and, at the same time, really piss off the Big Man. If Harry was going to swing his old mate onto his team (and that would be a big career gamble for both of them) he’d got to play his cards very shrewdly for a while yet.

Look at that bastard just sitting back on his haunches watching me, I thought; smirking at me. I could fucking kill him. No I couldn’t, I argued with myself. I can’t even get this sodding strap out from under my knees. I’m in a worse position than I was before. Wait a minute ... what’s that bastard up to now, I asked myself, suddenly alert?

Harry had put the camera down and was picking up a short piece of rope. He walked over to where I sat, scrunched-forward by the sleeve-ends now dragged down the front of my legs, and twisted and still buckled somewhere behind my knees. I couldn’t sit up straight but leaned against the bed-end. Those fucking boots planted themselves on either side of my hobbled naked ankles. I stared at the wrinkled woolly dark socks gathered around the gaiters, trying to suppress the frustration of my useless bodyweight.

“A right pickle you’ve gotten yourself into,” he scoffed down at me. “I can see we’re going to have to give you extra lessons in escaping from hospital restraints.” And with that ... a piece of rope produced from nowhere was heading for the jacket sleeves. Two neat loops I’d noticed previously, one at each elbow, were soon dragged together by rope, making it impossible for my arms to separate or move either up or down my body. I was now stuck cross-armed, with hands loosely strapped together behind my knees. Such a simple a manoeuvre: it made me so fucking furious that I was almost unable to snort any air in through my bunged-up nostrils.

“He’d promised to take this fucking gag off if I let him put the jacket on me!” I raved to myself. “Let him put it on?” I asked myself, angrily. “Let him,” I scoffed. ‘That bastard got it on easily. Not a bastard thing I could do to stop him,’ my mind gibbered.

The mental fog cleared a little and I became aware of him crouching, smiling into my face; smiling, not smirking. I met his eyes, and swallowed hard behind the foam ball. “Shit. I give up,” I thought. “I don’t know where my head is at,” I reasoned with myself. “Must be those fucking drugs they’d pumped into me.” Shifting slightly, his hands reached for my naked feet ... and something in the movement warned me he might tickle them. What sort of sadistic bastard is this man?

I tried to roll away, but a combat pants knee crushed it’s way between my ankles and pinned me there. Shit! He was good at this sort of stuff, I thought, irrationally. Pinned against the foot of the bed, we were eyeball to eyeball. I could only breathe deeply and try to regain some calm. #(M2Mgags)

“What the fuck am I going to do with you, Daniel Drummond? Chief fucking-Inspector Daniel Arthur Drummond?”

The impact of this never-used middle name hit me so hard I almost felt tears well up in my eyes. This man knew me better than anybody in the world!

“It’s time you had the gag out. It really threw me when you decided, no, insisted I should use that ball. Well, mate, you made a good stab at the jacket. It takes practice, believe me.” He seemed to reach a decision. “So now, do I un-gag you?”

Something about his tone encouraged me to make an affirmative nod.

“I promised to take the gag off, didn’t I,” he agreed.

Again I gave an insistent nod, but tried not to accuse him with my eyes; go for a more subdued look.

“But, at the risk of repeating myself, Dan-boy, the deal was that if I took the gag out you would co-operate ... and that means telling me the access codes which my, er, associates and I are so determined to get from you.”

Once again, I wearily shook my head, knowing I was ushering in a new and probably more punishing phase of this nightmare.

Harry’s hands reached swiftly towards my ears and gripped them. Hauling me back against the end of the bed and with one knee planted dangerously close to my groin, he forced my head to nod up-and-down. I resisted the pressure and pain, and shook another determined side-to-side negative.

His hands reached for a firmer grip around the back of my neck ... and the end of the tape was suddenly in one of his hands and was being ripped away. Around and around without regard for the ripping sound. My cheeks burned and the hair on the back of my head was being torn out, but air flowed into my mouth for the first time in hours and the foam ball was out of my mouth ... and Harry was walking away towards the kitchen.

I closed my eyes and drank in air. My jaw was paralyzed and my lips felt raw but I could breathe and move my tongue.

Harry returned with a glass of water. He knelt and held it to my lips. I drank and some spilled down the front of the jacket onto my stretched and tangled arms. I did not care. My mouth grabbed greedily at the rim of the glass. He tilted it as best he could judge until he decided I’d had enough. Then with a very determined look, and a finger pointed at my mouth he said, “Do not say one fucking word ... or I’ll stuff something into your mouth that you’ll like far less than a soggy foam ball. Right? Button it ... or get re-gagged.”

I nodded agreement, and used the interval to lick my numb lips and flex my aching chin, jaw and neck.

Harry had moved from the bed and found other stuff in his hold-all.

DE-BRIEFED

“This is the beginning of a new phase, Dan. A difficult phase. There are things I want to tell you – fill you in on – so you must do exactly as I say – or else – this!“ he said, swooping and clamping something over my face. It was clammy and the smell was horribly familiar. Ruthlessly, he wiped it over my defenceless face. I struggled against the jacket, but he was now sitting on the bed-end behind me and strong thighs clamped my shoulders as I sat. I tried to pull him off the bed with sheer bodyweight, but he pulled my neck back into his crotch and I was pinioned, immobilised and gasping for air, because my breathing was being deliberately cut off. The familiar smell of rubber was all my mouth or nostrils could draw in.

I allowed my body to go limp; a signal that I had given up the struggle. He allowed me some air but kept his powerful legs locked around my entangled arms. Hands in front of my face held an eye-less rubber hood, complete with nostril tube and mouth tube, dangling before me; I could see the inflatable gag inside as it hung in his hands.

The voice behind and above me was calm and serious. “I could put this back on you ... but I prefer to see your eyes while I’m talking to you ... and I have a lot of things to say, Dan ... and I don’t want any interruptions ... so open your mouth, please.” He let the rubber hood fall and I saw a strap in his hand. It was another gag.

“You said you’d take the gag out,” I protested, trying to turn to look up at him. His legs clamped tighter and a hand slapped the side of my head sharply.

“No talk,” he barked. And then in a more reasonable tone added, “I said I’d take the foam ball out ... but I didn’t say I wouldn’t put a different gag in. So open up.”

I was suddenly really pissed off again and closed my mouth firmly. Not seeing this, he moved the ominous device towards my face ... and my mind boggled as I realised the plug was a sizable realistic imitation penis head.

“No fucking way,” I yelled and my sudden wrench pulled him off the bed. But I was strait-jacketed with it's sleeves now tangled around my legs, and still hobbled. Desperately, my teeth clamped firmly together and my jaw set – and although I put up a good struggle – some whirlwind scrabbling around soon had my head reeling: the collar of the jacket was suddenly hauling me upwards and choking – then I was on my face – then on my back – then being dragged by my ankles across the carpet – turned over and swung around suddenly. I crashed against my exercise frame – sprawling in the confining jacket. A strap suddenly snaked around my neck from behind and had me choking briefly. But this was released and slid down over my shoulders and tightened, tethering me back, low-down against one of the uprights of the metal home gym: solid, heavy and immovable. My exercise set-up, elaborate and sturdy ... and me sitting slumped against it going nowhere. Then a second strap immobilised my neck, not tight but inescapable.

After a breathless pause, and some clanking behind me, a weight bar with God knows how many extra kilos on either end appeared in my line of vision, Harry carrying it with an effort. He placed it gently across my lap . Fixed as I was sitting tethered neck and waist to the exercise tower, this maniac had now trapped my thighs, bridging them with this bar. He experimented, the weights acting as wheels, the bar forced my legs to straighten out as he rolled it towards my ankles. He then fixed the bar over the hobble with rope; the weight of it all, pinning my feet.

We were both breathing heavily, but I was almost retching for air because my teeth were still determinedly clenched. Harry laughed, exhilarated as he stood over me, his boots deliberately blocking the weight bar from moving as I tried to bend my legs.

“This kind of home gym equipment is great for kinky bondage games,” he said. “All sorts of possibilities with weights and pulleys.” He reached up and tested it, stretching himself spread-eagled against the frame, legs provocatively wide, as muscular arms grabbed the upper structure and pulled down on it. “Great for suspension ... upside-down suspension, perhaps,” he mused. “Or if you’re into seriously punishing exercise routines. Remind me to tell you about a friend of mine who is a personal trainer with a special talent for pushing people’s limits.“

As he was talking, I made a sudden determined effort to drag at the weight bar holding my ankles. It was painful, but I managed to bang it against the back of his boots. But it went no further. He acknowledged this attempt on my part ... and, ‘tutting’ accusingly, he knelt astride my legs and, experimentally, discovered that the heels of his boots could push back the bar behind him, forcing my legs straight again ... and still leaving both his hands free to deal with my face. He demonstrated this by flaunting the ominous gag before my eyes ... before leaning towards me, mischievously (an odd word to spring into my mind).

“Open up, Dan-boy,” my oppressor insisted, and I shook my head. “I can make you open up,” he warned. And I continued to challenge him briefly ... before claw-like fingers grabbed my chin and tried to force it down. Concentrating on resisting this in spite of the pain, I was off guard when the hand left my chin swiftly, and the same vicious fingers grabbed my balls and twisted them mercilessly. My agonised roar-howl-yell forced it’s way out of my mouth, and the gag was in before I could recover ... but my teeth clamped into it, preventing it from going all the way in.

Now, in some absurd way, he snuggled down close alongside me, as I desperately maintained my resistance. Together lying-sitting-sprawled against the exercise frame, he snaked a hairy arm around the back of my neck (all the time keeping up pressure on the plug and my teeth). The crook of his arm clamped my head, leaving that hand free ... with strong fingers able to grab my nose and pinch it firmly, closing the nostrils. I struggled mightily, teeth still trying to prevent the tough bulk of the plug from getting further into my mouth. But, with his powerful arm behind my neck, I knew could not hold out against him, strapped as I was. Even his boot was able to keep the weight-bar immobilising my legs. The fingers twisted my nose, ruthlessly. I gasped ... before relaxing the grip of my teeth on the plug.

He did not ram it home, but strong fingers on my nose persuaded me to stop struggling. And, as I gave up all resistance, he forced my face to turn and look into his, inches from my face. He shook his head, ruefully, and began to talk soothingly.

“Now, now, now! Relax, Dan-boy, relax. Let the plug do what it’s supposed to do; slide nice and easy between your lips,” he whispered, seductively. “There’s a breathing hole through it. Much better than that nasty foam ball. Better than the inflatable plug. Just suck on it for a minute. Get the feel of it. Let it slide in ... and out a little and back in ... and back out just a little”.

My head cradled in the crook of his arm was still firmly clamped, and with arms trussed and legs immobilised, I sat (or rather slumped) held against his chest ... Harry controlling my every movement. I resigned myself to helplessness, and allowed the solid plug to move freely around inside my mouth. Allowed? Any attempted to stop it would only have invited more abuse.

Harry gently worked the penis-shaped plug in and out, never allowing my teeth opportunity to close again. I felt the slick plastic massage my tongue and probe to the back of my throat and retreat. Like nursing a baby, Harry forced the shaft in and out while soothingly, the fingers at the end of the clamping arm stroked my cheek and around my scalp.

“There now, it’s not so bad, is it? Keep your jaw relaxed and allow the air in through the plug – and let your throat relax – feel it open up a little more.”

In this improbable situation I found myself adjusting to it, my tongue no longer resisting this intrusion. Suddenly, my throat gagged slightly as the plug probed deeper – but Harry ignored my difficulties as I choked and gasped – spluttered. He was forcing me to deal with it – adjust to it. His deliberately harsh handling of the moment shocked me. The panic in my eyes and choking must have told him I was in serious difficulties, my tortured throat convulsing and retching. But, when I met his eyes, even in my panic, I was forced to accept. He was determined I should deal with it. Forced to accept that I had no other option, I gradually found I could swallow around the pumping intrusion – and get some air from within it – and deal with my panic. Live with it.

As I calmed to the situation slightly, I realised that he was, in effect, face-fucking me – a phrase I remembered from those confiscated heavy gay SM porno magazines. He was demonstrating what it felt like, what he could do to me. No. Not really face-fucked ... but mind-fucked. The subtlety and deviousness of this man ...

The movement had stopped, and the plug now remained pressed deep into my mouth by determined fingers and, with difficulty, my throat was dealing with it. Harry’s strong hand that was not controlling the gag, was still stroking my scalp soothingly. My scalp tingled – sensitised.

Having reached this resigned state, I became very still, almost mesmerised as two hands moved away to connect the gag-strap behind my neck. No arm now controlled my head or the plug but the fight had left me. My eyes looked into his, face-to-face as his hands cinched the buckle – cinched it tight, and I did not mind. My throat convulsed only slightly now, as I swallowed nervously around the plug. Close to my face as he fiddled with the buckle his lips pursed, and blew a gentle breath directly into my nostrils. I could do nothing but receive his breath – and it smelled – acceptable. For some reason I thought of horse trainers who breathed into the nostrils of a part-broken horse. His eyes did not leave mine and I didn’t break the eye contact.

“Dan,” he said quietly, “I’ve been lying to you. I don’t work for the guy who tortured you in the rubber suit. He ... they ... work for me.”

I stared at him, incredulous, as he smiled that damned quizzical smile. He nodded to confirm what he’d just said, then added, “And we’re not the enemy. You were in serious danger of jeopardising a highly sensitive international deep-cover operation which has taken months to put in place.”

I shook my head vigorously, indicating that I didn’t believe him. I had all the information about undercover work in three districts. This was a trick!

“Listen, Dan,” he insisted, “just listen. Your team does the official stuff ... but the covert group I work for is very unofficial. You don’t know how unofficial. Even now, I’m not allowed to tell you too much.”

My mind was in overdrive at the thought of under-cover work on my patch, and the implications of the ‘snatch’ ... and whether Harry was for real ...

“And before I tell you any of it,” he continued, “I need to get some other stuff off my chest. To level with you. Explain just why I’ve been giving you such a hard time both here and at the base in the suit ... indulging myself in ... challenging you ... if you haven’t already guessed.”

He looked questioningly at me and I stared back, waiting for more information. “Guessed what,” for fuck’s sake, my eyes asked him?

He sighed. “Shit! You’re not making this easy. It was the same in the old days. Dan, you’ve always been something of an innocent at heart ... or a dumb-ass. I was never sure if you were deliberately playing dumb rather than accept what was so obvious. Dan, I’ve been a sensual ... what? ... deviant all my life. An arch “pervert” (as I guess you’d call it) since I could first get my dick hard. And have had a ball doing all sorts of man-to-man stuff ... and am still having a ball.

Harry watched the uncomprehending stare in the other man’s eyes – and gave up. How could he start to explain? He’d never really understood himself. And what’s more, he’d always been too busy chasing after the next enjoyable opportunity, to waste time analysing his natural instincts.

Long ago in the SM playrooms of Amsterdam and San Francisco he’d known, intuitively, how to accept opportunities or side-step them. And gradually, over the years, had been able to focus in on things that really got his juices pumping and exclude activities that did nothing for him. Some of the men who worked with him now in well-paid assignments had first crossed his path in SM and bondage playrooms. The first agent who approached him with a serious invitation to get involved in bona fide Agency work was a well-known player on the Chicago gay leather scene.

How could he explain all that mileage to chief fucking-inspector policeman Dan? How could he explain to him that he’d fantasised about taking over this hunk of a ‘straight’ guy and fucking him over just for the fun of it. Not fucking his ass, necessarily, more fucking with his mind and body. That was what had always pressed Harry Ansell’s buttons; power games, including the chance that you didn’t always win.

Gagged and strait-jacketed, I watched this man who now sat/crouched before me as he struggled to say what he was trying to say. That wasn’t usual for this always confident fellow I’d known in the old days.

“The difference between my “top secret official – unofficial activities” and my seriously unofficial, unofficial activities,” he began ... and then ground to a halt, looking seriously at a loss. He tried again.

“Dan ... even before you blundered out onto the street and nearly fucked-up our operation two days ago, I was seriously thinking of organising to snatch you and, without you knowing where you’d been taken, jump you though a few hoops ... before releasing you relatively unharmed, without you knowing who had done it to you (and, hopefully) you being too embarrassed by what had been done to you to make too much of a song-and-dance about it ... if you know what I mean.”

I stared at this improbable person, this stranger to me. Mercifully, I had a plug in my mouth so there was no need to find anything appropriate to say.

Harry shrugged.

“I’ve been playing that sort of game for years. Heavy stuff, with like-minded misfits from various countries. You may think of them as pathetic idiots on the SM and fetish scene, if you’ve ever allowed yourself to think of them at all. But, Dan, there’s an international network of serious, intelligent, responsible players of elaborate games out there. And I mean scarily, extremely heavy games. And ... well ... my long-time hobby just happens to have turned into a business a couple of years back. A well paid, and officially-financed business.”

As he now crouched before me, his hand stroked the high leg of his heavy boots absently, almost caressing them as he looked at me. Suddenly self-conscious, he smiled and shrugged – and, for a moment, I saw the old Harry I’d known all those years ago. He continued to watch my eyes – and his hands roamed more deliberately around both boots – the boots which I’d been so conscious of from the moment he’d returned after leaving me roped and helpless.

“I’ve been a sensual bastard all my life, Dan. And from the start I knew leather was part of that – leather and stuff - and tough challenge-games played with people who got off on them. Soon after we left University – I knew I needed to test myself and provoke other people to challenge me. The lust for action got me into some hairy situations. At one time it was a toss-up between the Foreign Legion, the leather scene in America or deliberately getting myself banged-up in some jail somewhere. But the seriously heavy SM bondage scene – the mainly gay male Scene (he corrected himself, carefully), seemed to offer an outlet ... became my life ... for a while.”

Harry acknowledged the incredulous look in my eye, and allowed time for the information to sink in, nodding to confirm it as truth. And then he moved to kneel astride my naked legs – a deliberate position of power and physical dominance.

“Now you know why I gagged you. Couldn’t face all those questions – interjections – contradictions. You were always such a fucking tight-ass, Dan. I gave you up for lost even before we finished at grammar school. We had a few things in common, but I somehow knew you wouldn’t understand ... not then." He shook his head ruefully before continuing, "Dan, from an amazingly early age, I knew what was inside me. Some substantial kink in my nature – but I didn’t know quite what it was – needed to learn what alternatives were out there – needed to try things. There’s an awful lot of mis-information surrounding the man-to-man stuff – the so-called kinky, so-called gay network. All sorts of game-playing goes on, to suit all tastes. To some extent I suppose you’re right to call it a perversion; but a perversion of social conventions, that’s all. The games that have attracted me have always been about power, Dan. Power and the loss of power. The gaining or willing surrender of ... control; control and counter-control, competitive and challenging. OK, I’ve also been turned on by the sensual appeal of leather or rubber. Yes, Dan, rubber. You got a taste of it yesterday. Perhaps enough to put you off for life. I don’t know. I designed that suit. Had it made by our technical guys ... paid for by the British government.”

He watched my boggling eyes, and confirmed his statement. “It had only just been finished. And we were all ready to test it. Several of the guys I get together with unofficially were eager to test it ... from inside and out. But you just happened to ... well, make yourself available. Oh Dan, the games I play are intense and demanding. And, since the early days, I’ve liked to play them with men who can give and take. You may think of them as being perverted, but ... “

He paused and I shifted uncomfortably, not sure whether to indicate a “Yes” or “No”. And the pressure of his bodyweight on my legs ... under his crotch ... made me try to keep very still.

“I’ve had some very good teachers over the years. While you were climbing the ladder on the Force, Dan, I was enthusiastically learning leather and rubber and bondage from all angles and, believe me, loving every fucking minute of it. Men I met, around the world, shared their instincts with me – and their most closely guarded secrets, weird and sometimes scary. Has anybody ever shared any intimate secret with you, Dan? Have you ever shared your most intimate secrets with anybody – even admitted them to yourself?”

I held my breath – not sure if I was meant to answer this question – a nod or shake of the head? My mind held it’s breath – not allowing the question to be answered – even in my own mind.

Readers of heavy bondage fiction are used to finding non-stop, wham-bang action in stories, and very little conversation. The situation of somebody sitting talking seriously to a hunky guy who is trussed-up in a strait-jacket and gagged with a plastic penis in his mouth – and with his cock and balls imprisoned in an indestructible cage, is not your usual action-packed scenario.

But people who know the sensual potency of actually achieving and then sustaining such a situation, learn to relish the ‘quiet times’; the Intermissions during power exchange encounters. Time out to just watch or lie beside someone who is totally at your disposal. Someone who has surrendered themselves willingly, or by mutual agreement challenged and lost ... or has accepted an opportunity to test their own endurance. The calm times in sophisticated and protracted exchanges of power are something to savour.

From Harry’s viewpoint he was experiencing a dream come true ... a long time dream

For the other man who, in the space of forty-eight hours had been on a roller-coaster ride of emotions and physical challenge, this “down-time” was yet another new experience of suspense. He had no control, no power ... and little understanding of what was happening to him (or inside him). He only knew that Harry Ansell, his closest mate from all those years ago was astride his naked legs ... and his own cock was straining fit to burst out from it’s cage.

“I’ve been given permission to tell you just a few things,” I heard Harry continue, bringing my mind back to the improbable present, ”and I need to re-evaluate yesterday’s events ... and decide how to resolve this situation we’re both in. Dan, one of your top brass at Group Headquarters sets great store by you. You have a friend in a very high place, mate. I’m not allowed tell you who, precisely, but he will soon be a lot more influential on the Force. He has you marked down for rapid promotion ... if you don’t fuck up again like you did two days ago. He’s one of the few locals filled in on our current operation. He even knows about some of the crazier unofficial games my guys indulge in, strictly for kicks. Luckily for us, he considers them to be useful training for ‘proper’ operations, as he calls them.” Harry smiled, provocatively. “He also knows what a perverted sense of humour I have. So, when I told him a couple of weeks ago that I was thinking of using you as target for a practice ‘snatch’ ... he told me to go ahead: said it would do you good to be more fully aware of the real dangers of being in charge of sensitive information. Referred to you an over-confident, pushy hard-nut; good promotion material, but occasionally deserved to get your arse slapped ... if anybody was big enough to do it, he said. Well, that was a challenge I couldn’t resist, could I? How’s you’re ass doing, by the way? How’s your cock doing, Dan?”

My mind refused to respond to all the implications. Who the fuck was Harry tied in with? ,,, and was this all bullshit? ... and all this stuff about arses and cocks? Group Headquarters top brass ... ?

“Rest assured,” the bastard continued, “there’s no real danger if I decide to keep you locked in that cock cage for a week. It’s safe enough. I can tell you that from experience. We all put ourselves to different tests. That’s what pushes our buttons. And we all expose ourselves to some amazingly – sometimes embarrassingly thorough training. Training exercises that would blow your nicely brought-up mind, Dan. When I encouraged my lads to put you to the test in the suit it was a step towards – some special training. And, you survived it pretty well – considering. My lads can be totally ruthless. They need to be. But it was not our aim to break you, Dan. We know only too well that it’s possible to break any man. That’s never our aim. Once broken by a skilful interrogator, it’s not always possible to put a man back together again. I’ve seen it,” he said ruefully before deliberately lightening his mood. “You did bloody well, Dan, and they were (to some extent) perhaps punishing you for nearly landing some of their colleagues in the shit.” He shrugged apologetically. “You’ll be pleased to know our deep-cover is still intact.”

Chief Inspector Dan Drummond was finding it increasingly difficult to think as a police officer. His body and his mind were in confusion. That fucking suit; the smell of what they’d pumped into the hood. Drugs! Dan suddenly remembered the effects, and stared blankly at the man sitting before him – sitting astride his legs – his naked legs roped to a fucking weight-training bar, for fuck’s sake. Official? No way. Bullshit. Pervert? – definitely.

Drowning in a mixture of disbelief and curiosity about the activities of this group he kept hearing about, Dan’s mind went back to the mind-bending effect of that fucking suit. Then, when he was out of it, his mind and body had definitely become more ... what? ... sensitised. Was it sexual brainwashing?

His mind sprang back to that unbelievable moment when he’d heard himself say, “I want to fuck and get fucked.” Definitely it had been a moment of mental confusion ... drug-induced mental confusion ... after the suit ...

His mind was racing again, but energised; resisting the melt-down effect. He needed to ask questions. He needed answers. Was this bastard for real? Did he really have me kidnapped and forced into that suit just for devilment? Was he serious about doing such things just for the pleasure of it? Did men really go to such extremes ... and get off on it? What sort of men were they ... ?

Suddenly Harry was slapping my face. Not hard, but bringing me back from where my battered brain was taking me. He’d read my eyes. This man was an expert, my mind reminded me.

“Listen to me, Dan. Don’t lose it. Concentrate. You’re reaching a point of exhaustion. I know the signs. The deliberate softening up process when I left you tied into a stressed position ... left you alone, as you thought.” He shook his head. “Far too dangerous. In fact I was only in the next room all the time ... keeping an eye on you.” He winked facetiously, as I absorbed this fact.

“It was great just watching you dealing with it. Stress positions and isolation are deliberate processes we use sometimes. I’ve been pushing you on purpose, Dan, because I (and a couple of other very experienced people) have decided to put a proposition to you. So, here goes.“

With that he ... this sadistic fucking bastard, deliberately prolonged the suspense by getting up from astride my legs (but leaving them still anchored to the weights bar) and proceeded to drag the flat exercise-bench unit from my home gym set-up, and place it close to my feet as a seat. Sitting on it facing me, he hooked both boots over the weight bar and tightened it towards him, casually demonstrating how my legs could be even more firmly braced.

“Are you sitting comfortably?” asked this infuriating perverted ... perverse bastard “Then I’ll begin.” #(M2Mmindbending)

SENSITISED

“You may find this hard to believe, Dan,” he said, “but however bizarre or kinky that suit may have seemed to you, we’ve been following-up on some serious scientific research from the nineteen fifties. Total enclosure / isolation / sensory distortion / sensory manipulation / electro-pulsing; lots of effects to re-evaluate from that period. Well, you’ve experienced a whole range of them, so you know the sort of thing I’m talking about. It’s a systematic reappraisal, US government funded, would you believe.

And ... the men who play the sort of games I like to play for kicks are more than happy to (how shall I put it?) get involved. Volunteer. Now, where you can help us with this de-briefing is,” he hesitated before continuing, “the vaporised hydro-carbons we released into the suit,“ he again hesitated (and I could cheerfully have strangled him as I waited impotently, holding my breath ...as if to protect myself from the returning memory of the drug ... the gas ... that smell ... )

At last he continued, “Dan, it was neither hallucinatory or distortive. I’m sure even you have heard of amyl nitrate or butyl nitrates. So-called Poppers. Necessary to a lot of game-players, but with valuable clinical uses. Well, an interesting variant has been developed. It’s perfectly safe, believe me. It’s already been scrupulously tested. We have a couple of very skilful anaesthesiologists who work with us ... play with us. Oh, what they know about breath control scenes ... could blow your mind. Most fantasies about knock-out drops or being bopped on the head and waking up bright as a button in some erotic predicament: forget it. Waking up sick-as-a-dog and with a blinding headache is more like it, if not brain damaged. But, our tame anaesthesiologists have developed a couple of take-down compounds. Immediate results. Virtually no after-effects. Safe in skilled hands. Very useful in control and counter-control power games. The dart that took you down in the street was an example. Skilled men. Once they’ve got somebody under (safely and simply) they can take a person anywhere and do anything to them ... for however long it takes ... even a heavyweight like yourself, Dan. At least I didn’t let them use their version of the drug which keeps a subject conscious but totally unable resist, physically. That can blow your mind. Fully conscious but unable to move without being given a helping hand. Sort of a date-rape drug with a difference. At least you were unconscious when they stripped you and manoeuvred you into the suit.”

He watched my appalled, amazed, unbelieving-but-believing expression behind the gag, enjoying my physical and mental discomfort, before he continued with infuriating enthusiasm for his subject. “The particular properties of this new hydro-carbon vapour, especially when combined with the potential of the suit, are proving to be very interesting. I decided on a hunch, that you would be an ideal (how shall I put it) test case.”

My mind raced ... and I hoped this was not just one more “mind-fuck” as he’d called it. But my pulse was galloping – and this good-looking, stocky – booted bastard I’d known since puberty, sat before me – revelling in his control of the situation. Playing a scene, I told myself. Domination. Dominator. The word variations echoed in my brain. Blowing my mind. Certainly another fucking mind-fuck.

“Not a drug.” he insisted, reassuringly. “When this particular volatile liquid vaporises, it relaxes the brain. Amazingly simple – and safe – and short term. It does a little of what alcohol does in removing inhibitions. Call this new compound a dis-inhibitor, if you like. Strictly not a re-programmer. Very much a de-programmer. It allows people to sense more clearly their more natural instincts. Puts them back in-tune with themselves. Think of the potential clinical values in neuro-psychology, Dan. To enable people to identify the many inhibitions, conditioned into them from birth. “Thou shalt not”.

Of course, this whole programme of research is strictly off-the-record, but I’m satisfied with the safety measures. Our kinky anaesthesiologists (anaesthetists, to you) really do good work. Get a lot of buzz out of their particular form of control ... but are highly skilful and responsible. Otherwise I’d never have allowed any of my lads to volunteer to try it ... and I was one of the first. Oh yes, I’m that sort of masochist too, Dan.” He paused again, nodding, reassuringly.

“Well anyway, this new compound definitely identifies a lot of the deep-rooted, shall we call it, social conditioning. Much more effective than any known truth serum we’ve ever tested. Allowed me to listen to (and accept) things in my true nature, some things I’d worked hard to suppress. Dan, trust me on this. The process we put you through, we already know does not distort, it just (what?) liberates. So, old buddy, on the spur of the moment, I decided we should let you give it a whirl. Have a whiff of it, because I’ve often wondered what sort of stuff there is inside you. You may not thank me for risking letting it loose. And ... you may need time to get to grips with some of the results. And ... once you’ve learned from the experience, there’s no compulsion to act on it. That’s the big point. Knowing it’s there in your true nature ... as an adult, you can chose how to deal with it.

Now, for the record (help me here), as soon as you came round from the relaxant we gave you so we could get you home without attracting too much attention, er ... Dan, think carefully. We need feedback. Soon as you woke up here today you said, yourself, you were seeing and feeling things differently. Sensitised. Yes?”

I stared at him, and then nodded before I’d even considered doing otherwise.

“Your sensibilities were heightened but, keep this in mind, your altered state was not a distortion of your true self. It was ... what? That’s the question I will ask ... but not yet. For now just think about it. Remember, Dan, I knew you in the days when a lot of your less-inhibited natural thought-patterns were still fresh. Even at school I watched them being rounded up and ... what? ... ironed out of us? Where are they now, Dan, those original natural instincts – impulses? Faded over the years? So many of your old energies – sidetracked by other people’s expectations of you? Educated out of you? Remember our old excitement about life. Our curiosity? Where has your excitement been for the past few years, Dan? Worn down? Worn out? No. Not at all. Asleep,” he almost hissed into my ear. “Anesthetised, to make accepting so many compromises and adjusting to the demands of other people, less painful for you. They had buried a lot of your more natural ‘senses’, Dan – but they were buried alive?”

In his intensity, Harry backed off ... and my arse and groin felt numb, sitting strapped into one position for so long, no sense of feeling left in them. And did my mind also feel numb? No! And it wasn’t confused, it was suddenly reassured; alert and alive. Harry had said he wanted to put a (what was the word?) proposition to me. What was it? I was gagged and couldn’t ask him.

PROPOSITIONED

Totally frustrated, I was suddenly infuriated, again. Harry seemed ready to end the conversation.

“Just think about one question, Dan, and then I’ll leave you alone for a while to get some rest,” he said as he stood up, releasing the tension that had held my legs rigid. “One question: promotion out of this desk-job into a higher rank police desk-job. Is that what you want?” he suddenly challenged.

My immediate answer should have been “Yes”. Emphatically “Yes”, I knew that; had always known it. I could have nodded ... but needed to think, needed to talk, needed to ask questions. Fuck him, take the fucking gag out!

He stood before me, watching my slightly wild-looking eyes with growing concern. “Jeezus, man. Look at you. You need to sleep, now,” he said.

“No, fuck you. I need to talk. I feel more awake than I’ve been for years,” my mind screamed. But because of the plug in my mouth I just dribbled saliva as I shook my head angrily from side to side. My mind now seethed as Harry, damn him, turned away to tidy around the rumpled bed. #(M2Mgroupgames)

The fact that grown men, uninhibited by conventional thinking, could get together and test and challenge themselves and each other in whatever way their natures energised them, had suddenly impacted on Dan Drummond’s mind. He’d spent a lifetime repressing urges to let-rip – run amok – refusing to allow nagging natural inclinations to distract him – knock him off his career path.

His early days on the Force as a raw uniformed constable – the calls to pub punch-ups, the training in riot control – the man-to-man stuff and camaraderie really fired up his natural instincts. He’d grown out of it. Now the idea that grown men, responsible men, experienced men, skilful men, could still ... play games ...

He thought about conditioning. He thought of his daughters, all less than eight years old – at a ‘nice’ school and Stella making sure they had ‘nice’ friends. Being – what – programmed – brainwashed. He thought of his careful, caring parents. He thought of his wife, a pre-programmed career woman: admitting for the first time the fact that he, as a determined career man, had needed her and she’d need him. He’d known that being a family man, nicely settled-down, would be in his favour career-wise. They’d been good times, he insisted to himself as his mind raced, but the sense of ‘inhibition’ had been there! He was now prepared to admit that. His family and wife had helped his rise in the Force and he was grateful for that. He didn’t want to change his relationship with his family and friends, but ...

... But here was Harry Ansell, revelling in his admitted kinkiness rather than apologising for it. His kinkiness for leather ... and rubber ... perversions. Perverted sex. NO, just uninhibited enjoyment of sensuality. Awareness of sensuality. All types of sensual ... enjoyment ... enthusiasm ... whatever.

Harry was looking more closely at the strapped and gagged figure, and had stooped down close before Dan, concern in his eyes.

RELEASED

“Listen to me,” Harry’s voice insisted ... and a hand again tapped my cheek to bring my mind back from where it was running off the rails. I looked up, with anxious eyes.

“Do you want to get some rest?” he asked.

I shook my head in a determined negative.

“Do you want I should just back off and leave it to your own chief for de-briefing?”

My eyes must have looked desperately startled by this suggestion, because he read my reaction and tried to reassure me.

“Your immediate superiors at district level, Dan, think you had a motorcycle accident and spent 24 hours in an emergency ward with temporary amnesia and no identification. A couple of my team, the paramedics, fixed a hospital record and brought you home ... and notified your station. Your chief super has been told just a bit more ... but even he doesn’t know ... some of the stuff I’ve been telling you, Dan. I’ve showed my hand to you because ... well, I know I can trust you. Can you trust me?

I looked at him and, almost in spite of a nagging sense of uncertainty, nodded.

“Really trust me, whole heartedly?” he insisted.

As my aching jaw struggled with the plastic plug in my mouth, he held me with burning grey eyes. And once again I nodded, resolutely.

“Because, Dan, not only in the highest of high security work I sometimes do, but in the wildest of devious game-playing I indulge in, trust is the essential ingredient. I know you’d like to know more about the covert operation, but I can’t tell you that.” His voice then took on a more even but challenging tone. “Do you want to know more about the ... other stuff we get up to, Dan?”

After a pause, I again nodded, but found it difficult to continue to meet his steady gaze.

He still didn’t seem to be quite convinced, and sighed slightly. “Even that brings with it a security risk,” he said uncertainly, “after all, you are a copper at heart, Dan, always have been. And some of the stuff we get up to is ... “ He tilted his hand side to side and indicated, questionable. “And, some of the group members are seriously anti-establishment. Could land me in deep shit with them if I ... if you ... “ He seemed to make a decision. “Dan, it’s not a risk I’m prepared to take on my own. If you’re prepared to go before a ... what? ... let’s call it a Group Selection Committee, I’m sure you could convince them you’d be an asset to a lot of the fun-and-games we indulge in on the side. All depends on how keen you are. You can have time to think about it. Leave it for another time when ... “

He stopped because I was shaking my head, determinedly. His grin returned.

“Could never resist a challenge, huh? There may be hope for you yet, Dan-boy. But seriously, they’re a tough bunch and they play rough ... but always safely. No physical harm or damage; well, not lasting damage. They may not be as nice to you ... as kind to you, as I’ve been in the last few hours.”

He grinned as he watched my eyes react to this provocation. And I checked myself, refusing to respond to his humour. I maintained a serious gaze at him, so he continued, “If I take you and introduce you, it has to be on my terms ... with strict co-operation from you. You accept my instructions to the letter. No arguments and, in the circumstances, I think no conversation. The plug stays in.”

I began to formulate some resistance, and his eyebrows arched. “Instructions to the letter. Co-operation total, resistance none or you don’t go,” he insisted firmly.

My eyes glinted defiantly, and he waited for me to lose the battle I was having with my better judgement. I sucked on the plug, took a deep breath, and nodded grimly ... and the bastard smiled that smile I knew of old when he’d got the better of me (temporarily, I promised myself).

“Right, let’s get this show on the road,” he said, swinging into action. He plonked the small exercise bench back into it’s clamps within the gym-structure ... and the strap around my neck came off from behind, and the longer one which held my body to the exercise frame was soon removed. As he released my cramped legs from the weight bar, I gratefully bent and straightened them to get the circulation going. In turn, this allowed my aching arms a little more freedom, but they were still trapped inside the long canvas sleeves and still twisted and joined at the finger-ends by the strap behind my knees. The loops holding the two elbows together made matters worse, keeping arms totally useless. He smiled, acknowledging my untidy entanglement in the strait-jacket.

“Well, you almost found your way out,” he said, moving to un-rope the elbow loops. “Here, get the strap back up past your butt so you can kneel comfortably. You know, you had more than enough slack to aim for the crotch strap buckle. Once that‘s undone, the rest is easy. Remind me to show you how it’s done, sometime. Look, kneel up and lean forward across the bench so I can get at the back buckles.”

He supported me as I got onto my shaky knees, dragging the twisted jacket arm strap up past my thighs to help me kneel more comfortably. And he helped me keep my balance as he urged me to lean comfortably belly down across the narrow padded surface so he could release the back of the jacket. I relaxed my arms waiting for him to start, and didn’t feel the long webbing strap circling my torso until it tightened, clamping me to the bench ... the solid board I use when lifting weights from a prone position.

I began to struggle but then I felt the strap which linked the ends of the jacket sleeves fall away. He was unstrapping me ... but with sudden horror I realised he was threading the sleeves back through the side loops and before I could resist, the finger ends were hauled together again, now firmly secured through the side loops of this bastard jacket. Only then did I realise a boot was firmly between my still hobbled legs as I knelt, so I couldn’t even squirm. A single strap now holding me face-down, his body weight once again leaned on top of me as he knelt in, provocatively close against my naked arse.

I bucked furiously as he simulated fucking me as I knelt, helpless. “Now you’re getting into the spirit of the thing, Dan-boy,” he laughed into my ear before he rose and moved away from me. “You said you wouldn’t resist or argue! You said you’d trust me. Well, trust me when I tell you, the games we play (and they’re games I know you’re eager to know more about), are sometimes challenging in the extreme ... but nobody ever really suffers ... unless that’s what gets their juices flowing.”

Saying that, he deliberately swung the mirrored wardrobe door so I could see myself, pinned belly down kneeling across the bench, my gagged face staring back into my own wild eyes. “I bet you watch yourself in these mirrors when you’re working out. Do you like to see yourself testing yourself, pushing yourself? Enjoy the pain as much as gain? Well, sonny, if you decide you’d like to join our little “playgroup”, you’ll have lots of opportunity to test yourself in any way your latently kinky heart desires. And there’ll be plenty of guys more than happy to assist, on a tit-for-tat basis.

Harry hauled himself up and did a couple of chin-ups on the exercise frame. “I think you’re into serious work-outs. Did I tell you about Greg, who is a professional personal trainer at a gym when he’s not fooling around with us? I think he’d enjoy putting you though your paces. I’ll tell you, Dan, he has ways of making his ‘clients’ sweat that would make you sweat to even think about.” With that Harry, dropped down and produced the stun-gun from his pocket. “You can adjust the kick of this little fellow and it will really keep a person on their toes without knocking them down. With this in one hand, trainer Greg can keep any of his tough customers pushing their own limits, and sweating their balls off.”

Grinning, he massaged his groin. “Makes me horny just to picture him jumping you through a few hoops; pushing your limits. In the old days you could never resist a challenge. Well, old Greg’s good at devising challenges. I’ve been on the receiving end of some of his more elaborate ‘scenarios’ as he calls them. But then, I get my own back on him when we strap him down and work him over in ways we know he hates. He enjoys that ... after he’s had time to calm down and we let him loose.”

Suddenly, he crouched down between me and the mirror, so we were nose to nose as I knelt, swallowing uncomfortably around the plug which seemed to be getting bigger.

“I said I’d take you to meet a few of the ‘team’. Well, I could phone for an ambulance and you’d be there before you knew where you were. Couple of hairy-arsed paramedics, used to dealing with drug-crazed crazies. They know how to subdue people however much of a struggle they put up. That way you wouldn’t know where our little base is ... in case you decide you’re not up for it ... or we decide you might be too much of a security risk.

Alternatively,” he said, hesitating tantalisingly, “you might prefer to ride there on your own bike, in your sexy leathers. Several of the team have already seen your old leathers. In fact two of my kinkier mates helped me to strip them off you yesterday, and shoe-horn you into that rubber suit.”

I breathed deeply in my scrunched-up and gagged position, picturing the first option .. fighting off two skilled paramedics trying to subdue me ... but Harry wouldn’t allow me a fair shot at it. He confirmed this as he continued, ”When I say ride there on your bike, I mean as a pillion passenger wearing a blacked-out helmet; gagged under it; perhaps locked-on gauntlets with specially immobilised fingers so you couldn’t even get the helmet open without assistance ... just for security’s sake, you understand ... and because I’m turned on by playing control games. So, mate, you have a choice. Not an easy choice. What I call a mid-scene choice. During a scene to offer somebody a choice between the lesser of two equally challenging alternatives. Ambulance team or seriously, er, handicapped on yer bike?” He leered into my gagged face. “One nod for bike, two nods for paramedics ... who may not be gentle with you? Choice is yours, old buddy.”

From my undignified position, I tried to maintain a degree of composure ... and nodded determinedly, once ... and tried to ignore the saliva dribbling down my chin.

“And are you willing to still trust me? Trust me all the way?” he persisted, enjoying pushing his advantage.

He waited, pointedly, demanding another nodded assurance. He got it.

“In the process,” he continued cheerfully, “I will introduce you to some more of our technology. We have some deviously ingenious gadget freaks among our number. If I’m going to allow you a certain freedom of movement while heading for our little hideaway (our sound-proof and secure little hideaway) I need to be sure I can trust you ... all the way.” He waited, and I hesitated. “Makes sense, Dan-boy, you must agree.”

I resigned myself to both his physical advantage over me and my growing determination to continue along this slippery slope into the unknown with this character ... who, all my life, I had unconsciously envied for his natural recklessness.

My nod encouraged Harry to produce a key from his pocket and he moved behind me to unlock the leather ankle hobbles. I would be relieved to be released from this uncomfortable kneeling position ... but, in the mirror, I saw him reach for rope which was lying on the floor. And as he knelt, removing the connection between the locked-on single ankle straps, his knees forced my legs further apart, and soon he was methodically and expertly roping each ankle separately to opposite ends of the bench. There was nothing I could do to prevent it as he spread my knees uncomfortably wide, which automatically spread the cheeks of my naked arse.

Devilishly aware of my vulnerable position, he playfully patted my backside as he rose. And next thing I knew, the stills camera was out again and he was snapping shots of my embarrassing position. He crouched and got a shot of my face and then, from behind, took careful aim and captured the moment, including himself seen in the mirror photographing my vulnerable arsehole, wide-open and accessible.

“Just for the record,” he quipped, enjoying his total power and relishing the effect it was having on my mind. “Definitely one for the scrapbook, back at the Club House. Perhaps not for the station house notice board, but it could go to Drummer Magazine.”

With that, the camera went into his pocket and he found something else in his hold-all. As he stood smiling down at me, pulling on another pair of surgical rubber gloves, my heart began pounding even more wildly.

“Talking of technology,” he said conversationally as he made his preparations, “are the British police allowed to use zap-restraints when a prisoner is in court? In some USA states, rather than bring a prisoner into court in handcuffs and leg-irons, they now use (with the prisoner’s consent, of course), a neat waist belt and jock cup with an electrical charger in it. With this locked on and out of sight under ordinary street clothes, this means the prisoner doesn’t have the indignity of being manacled in a public courtroom. But a remote control can drop him in his tracks if he makes any sudden moves. Do you use such technology here yet?”

I shook my head emphatically at the idea ... but also at the sight of Harry getting a tube of KY from the hold-all .. plus what looked like a smallish dildo or sex toy of some sort with a wire attached. I began to test the stability of the bench I was strapped to, prepared to put up a struggle as if my very survival depended on it. But the exercise frame was rock solid. And strait-jacketed with legs roped wide-apart, there was nothing I could do but watch in horrified anticipation as Harry walked behind me, oozing a liberal amount of KY onto a rubber covered finger ... two fingers! He knelt down and, grinning into my face in the mirror, he said, “Trust me Dan, this is going to hurt you more than it does me. But you’ll survive it. And who knows, one day may be in a position to take your revenge.”

With that, I watched myself, Dan Drummond ... Chief Inspector Dan Drummond being finger-fucked by my old school mate. Saliva dribbled down my chin and I suddenly realised tears were rolling down my cheeks. But my eyes stayed open as I watched that determined face behind me preparing for what was to follow. My stomach churned as the fingers probed and slid. He looked up and caught my eye ... and winked. The bastard had the nerve to wink at me as he ...

“Relax,” he said, “it’s quite small. You’ll hardly know it’s there ... that is, unless you make any sudden moves. We’ve devised a control which, once activated by sudden movement, can not be switched off without a code being typed in. So no use thinking you can jump me and de-activate it. There are some seriously devious people on my team ... their kink is technology.”

With that he made a sudden thrust, and my head reeled as I felt the cold hard intrusion into my rectum of a three inch torpedo. I felt my sphincter clamp tight ... after the whatever-it-was, was inside, and Harry was peeling off the gloves.

“Now, I’m not going to demonstrate the potency of that little device, Dan ... unless you’d like me to?” He waited, but I determinedly made no move of any kind. “I will warn you that a straight zap from it can drop you to your knees before you can open your mouth to scream, before you faint. Or I could just be naughty and set a gentle throb going ... perhaps with an unstoppable gradual increase. If you thought the treatment pads in the suit were uncomfortable, that little fellow so snug inside you can be devastating. Take it from one who has ... taken it. Remember that, Dan. All through what happens in the next few hours ... days. Anything any of us do to you, you in time (if you fit in) can repay big time. Now. Have I convinced you that the ONLY way forward is for you to stay calm, stand up gently, allow me to take the restraint jacket off you ... and then you do precisely, without hesitation, question or argument, what I ... recommend? One nod will suffice ... and I’ll take you on trust.

As if in a bizarre dream (rather than a nightmare) Chief Inspector Daniel Drummond held his breath as the toughly efficient Harry Ansell un-roped the tired legs and unlocked the ankle cuffs. Helped to his shaky feet, Dan was again conscious of the thick pile on his bedroom carpet ... which, when it was installed, he hadn’t given a second thought to.

He stood meekly, watching in the tall mirror as his marked and creased naked torso emerged from the damp canvas. Stripes of red showed where the jacket had rubbed his shoulders and under his arm-pits. He looked at his hands, and knew they felt grazed by the canvas, and numb from the confinement. His whole body felt battered ... but somehow alive.

In his slow methodical process, Harry only now got around to unbuckling the gag, allowing it to slop out. He smiled as Dan gasped in relief and worked his tongue and jaw, wiping his mouth with the back of his hand.

Harry, going to the wardrobe, left Dan free to inspect for the first time the intricate little plastic cage padlocked to his scrotum. Little! Dan knew the size his penis could grow to ... but here was something smaller than he’d imagined from the feel of it; something to really blow his mind. He tugged at it tentatively ... and turned urgently to make some argument to Harry as he re-appeared. But a warning gesture recommend calm ... and a finger to lips suggested silence, before Dan’s words were even formed. Harry had found a pair of lycra shorts, tight ones with tight legs.

“Climb into those, buddy,” said Harry, “just to keep everything tidy and in place.”

As I stooped gingerly to put one leg into the shorts I flinched and experienced for the first time, the intrusive gadget now lodged so deep inside me. I tried to accommodate it, but ...

“Don’t worry,” said Harry watching me, “it won’t drop out easily. In fact, I’ve left a fine pull-cord so we can get it back down again ... as and when!” he concluded with a knowing wink. “I like your new bike leathers. We found them in your wardrobe last week when we were going through this place ... whoops, sorry! Yes, when we first came in to reconnoitre we, naturally, did our usual thorough investigative job around your apartment.”

I stared at him as he revealed this new information. He shrugged.

“We’re professionals. We were planning a snatch ... a caper. So, naturally, we paid a couple of visits while you were out. This place has been bugged for weeks.” I opened my mouth and closed it again without speaking, and Harry continued, “These leathers look very new. Not much mileage on them. We should do something about that. Get them looking a bit more lived-in ... sweated in. Perhaps a session in them with a strait-jacket over the top. Or find some other way to give you a good workout while you’re wearing them ... Greg, the personal trainer, perhaps with the zzutt-zzutt.” He smiled, indicating a zapper ... and my sphincter clenched tighter.

This powerful control-scene was everything that pushed Harry’s buttons. With the zapper plug in place, Dan knew he must keep his cool as the smiling Harry handed him the new heavy leather bike pants and, without comment, ordered him to climb into them.

These had been purchased rather guiltily after Dan had become a newly promoted chief inspector with a desk-job and a staff car at his disposal. Opportunity to wear them or use his recently purchased bike had not yet presented itself.

Wincing as he forced his legs down into the padded tight-fitting leather pants, Dan pulled them up over the snug black lycra shorts, conscious that Harry was watching appreciatively, ready with a pair of thick long oiled-wool socks which he’d just selected.

Closing the fly of the pants, Dan grimly accepted the socks in silence. As he chose to sit on the bed rather than the firm exercise bench, his eyes locked with Harry’s and he dared the gloating smaller man to snigger as he settled uncomfortably to pull on the socks.

Harry then busied himself digging out a pair of heavy old-style bike boots, ones with metal toe and side-sole guards ... because he liked to see those rather than the newer-style, lighter-weight variety. Harry was also delighted Dan had chosen all-black for his brand new two-piece leathers, rather than colour-flashed trendy style stuff.

He plonked the boots down before Dan, who had just finished pulling the socks high onto his leathered calves, but glowering eyes under furrowed brows warned Harry off when he silently offered to help strap the clumpy motocross boots. Ignoring the smirking audience, Dan leaned painfully further forward against the new leathers. He refused to react to the unfamiliar intrusion into his arse, as he began to strap the many straps, expertly, from knee to ankle.

Harry dragged himself away from the delicious sight, and busied himself with tidying some stuff into his hold-all. He intended to come back later for it if all had gone well, leaving Dan at their clubhouse for some not so gentle ‘induction’ among the guys. He already knew they were keen for Dan to join their ‘games.’ And all were confident he could also become a useful member of the team on official as well as unofficial occasions.

Dan’s police chief was already facing the fact that a desk-job alone could not keep Dan Drummond satisfied.

The heavy, almost unused, bike jacket was well made and solid, in a classic style. Probably German, Harry’s practiced eye told him, as he held it ready, a tee shirt in his other hand. Silently, the grim-faced “Big Feller” (as Harry had always thought of his friend), took the jacket and hauled it up and around his naked not-inconsiderable shoulders. Formidable arms forced their ways into snug-fitting sleeves. And as shoulders wrenched the weighty garment into place, each man enjoyed the process from his own perspective.

Dan flexed himself more comfortably into the still-stiff and unpliable leathers, and twisted cautiously to connect a chunky zip across the back of the waist, fixing jacket to pants. Looking up as he began to close the front of the jacket, Dan met Harry’s appreciative eyes. A complimentary thumbs-up to indicate that the suit looked good was resolutely un-accepted, but as Dan dragged the heavy metal zip-pull up beside his collar and closed the tough snap fastener to secure it ... he continued to hold Harry’s eyes while deliberately maintaining his sour expression.

In return, Harry acknowledged the signalled resentment by pretending to assume a more serious attitude ... but the amusement was still visible behind his eyes. The now booted and leather-encased bigger man stood his ground, glowering. The smaller man nodded, now more serious, acknowledging the subtly implied resistance.

“Dan,” said Harry, gravely, “are you asking me to prove to you that the ‘security’ device works? It’s only there as insurance but this is, at heart, a serious business. The look in your eye tells me you think you might risk ... what? ... pushing your luck inappropriately at this point in the game and try a little something, as I know is your nature. So, shall I give it just a minor burst? Just to let you know it’s there?”

“I know it’s sodding-well there,” I said grimly.

“Just a short blast? Just a sort of ... tweak?” persisted Harry, the irrepressible twinkle returning to his eye.

“No! You fucking pervert. You seriously deviant, devious and bent fucking poof pervert.”

“Bet your ass, baby,” said Harry with a leer as he headed for the hallway, smiling. “Guilty on all counts, your Honour,” he called over his shoulder as he disappeared.

I was forced to smile once he’d left the room, and then turned my attention to myself in the mirror. The new leathers did look good ... but would look better if I could get some miles in ... or something, I added to myself, speculatively. My hands rubbed around the leather and it felt good. I remembered about the heightened ‘sensuality’ proposition, and knew I was definitely seeing and feeling things with a fresh intensity. The sensory deprivation tests from the fifties they were systematically re-creating ... and the men, all so willing to experiment with them ... the willing volunteers, flowed through my mind. Who were they when they weren’t playing these wildly unconventional games? Did they have wives and families? What sort of perverts ... ? My mind strayed back to the time-bomb lodged in my rectum and what might lie ahead of me. Challenges and opportunities ... and I felt my caged cock, deep under the leather and clinging lycra, stir noticeably.

Harry returned with two helmets. He was now wearing a classic fifties American greaser-style bike jacket, well-used and heavy. Together with those black combat pants and boots he looked, I thought (surprising myself) deliberately sexy.

“Are these the keys to your bike?” he asked as he handed me a helmet.

“Both bikes. Which shall I take, the old or new,” I asked, adding, “Do you have a bike of your own? ... wait a minute, this isn’t my helmet”.

“No, it’s one I brought along ... just in case everything worked out the way I hoped it would. I told you, blacked-out visor. Where you’re going needs to stay a mystery ... at least for now. And, I’m sorry, Dan, but I really think you should be gagged under your helmet.”

“Over my fucking dead body, you ... “

“Ah-Ah-Ah!” Harry warned. “That could be arranged, chummy. Or at least, over your painfully writhing body if I just flick ... “ ... His hand moved towards a pocket ...

“No, mate, please,” I cut in quickly and earnestly ... and Harry smiled a really warm smile and looked into my face, waiting ... willing me to respond ... and I smiled in return, suddenly confident again in our new rapport.

“Now that’s more like it, Dan-boy. Treat it like an adventure. A challenge. A dare. A fucking ... holiday away from yourself. You’re not turning your back on your principles, your career or your family, mate. We’ve all got real lives, outside the ‘game’. You’re just going to be widening your horizons. New worlds to conquer, new challenges to ... enjoy! Some of it you’ll love, some of it you’ll ... survive. I’ve enjoyed seeing you mad, desperate, determined and, I suspect, speculating on how to take your revenge on me. Well, not yet, old buddy. You’ve got a lot of ground to cover before you get that opportunity. Me and a few other guys will have a lot to ... teach you. So for now, buddy, my hand is very much on the control.” He patted his pocket. “A situation which, as you know, turns me on. And just to prove it before we set out ... you just come on over here and give me a hug, big feller.”

His words totally collapsed my rising confidence, and I hesitated resentfully. He moved towards me, standing close, challenging me ... and not smiling, his hand again moving ominously towards his jacket pocket.

“I’m waiting, Dan.” he insisted. “I said, instructions obeyed to the letter, co-operation total, resistance none or you don’t go. So, do it! Give me a big and friendly hug ... you up-tight, tight-assed bugger ... or I’ll fry your fucking rectum.” And then that irrepressible grin broke across his face, again. And, I did hug him to me. And my fingers felt the well-worn supple tough leather on his back ... and I sensed the flow of excitement ... and I sensed a sense of (what?) ... liberation.

******

But as Harry’s strong arms deliberately prolonged the body contact, keeping me held hugged to him just to demonstrate his control over me ... (his temporary power to control, I reminded myself), deep inside me, I sensed the excitement of knowing that, perhaps sooner than he expected, I would wipe that fucking smile off his face and (in his own words) pay him back Big Time!

THE END

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