Closer to home:
Two more eventful years passed before I was invited to visit him at his home.
As our drive continued, we discussed whether the new wet-suit might be risky in his solo bondage sessions. He agreed that the first time he tried it with his complicated self-strapping routine, it would be safer to do it while I was around just in case the suit inhibited his movement too much. He‘d had years of practice devising and testing self-applied (simulated) total restraint - but, of course, there always had to be a fool-proof escape plan. Trying new routines was always a risky business - in case of miscalculations. My visit promised an interesting opportunity for us both.

I tentatively re-opened the topic of making contact with somebody in his area who could become, if nothing else, the “closer of the final strap” he’d so enjoyed in London . At least somebody he could telephone locally in a self-applied tying-up emergency, I argued. But no, he was vehemently determined that any hint of his secret rubber fetish to anybody in the community would inevitably leak out ... which would wreck all relationships with his hard-nut sporting and drinking cronies in the area.

I argued that some of the games he’d told me about were on the edge of S&M let alone kink - but to him there was a distinctive difference - of sexual turn-on. He got quite agitated at the idea and told stories of breech of confidences. Even the slightest suspicion that somebody might be a ‘pervert’ had, in the past, resulted in people having to leave the area. He told as we drove how merciless the targeting by one or two of these fiercely homophobic local types could become at a mere hint that somebody in their community might a perv, kink-head or fucking queer! I saw his point. I already knew that, Callum being forty and unmarried when he first arrived back from the navy, had forced him to invent as a cover story of a painful and expensive divorce, with an estranged wife and kids now living in England.

As we drove into the small fishing port I accepted that, although now much more relaxed around other players while away from his home territory, in this fiercely Calvinistic region, Callum Buchanan, pillar of the community and the local gym (and even the local church) still could take no risks.

This point was forcefully brought home to me when we stopped briefly to pick up some milk and stuff in the town centre before heading for his remote ‘wee house’ on the outskirts. Callum swore under his breath as we entered the small supermarket because the first people we ran into were a couple of tough-looking workmen in dirty and ripped cammo gear. They greeted ‘Cal’ almost embarrassingly lustily. He automatically fell into the same idiom - but was a bit pink around the gills when forced to introduce me as, “Jim, ma’ cousin fra’ England ”. These two lusty lads were all for dragging us straight off to a bar for a beer. “ Cal ” as they called him was quick to make excuses - we’ve been travelling since early morning and needed to get “away hame”. This produced insistence on an alternative plan, that I should be brought down to The Club later. Because I was English, so Cal was told in no uncertain terms, that he must show me where a real Scots welcome was to be found.

Another refusal brought an even more insistent “Tomorrow then - get a few of the lads together.” Callum trotted out his excuse about us needing to do some complicated work on a project - and me only here for a couple of days.
“Well, I’ll gee’ya a bell, then!” said one of the two before suddenly he bellowed with laughter and, grabbing the other guy roughly by his shirt-front, swung him violently around, crashing him against Callum, almost knocking him over.

Heads turned in the supermarket but the man continued to laugh raucously. “Gee’ya a bell!” He then turned to me (he’d obviously been drinking), and explained loudly, “This cunt here’s called Bellman. Gee’ye a bell!” he roared before continuing, “But more often than no we call him ‘Donger’ - and that’s no because he’s got a big ,yun. It’s quite small I can tell ya!” and with that he attempted to grope the other man’s crotch. But this produced an expert defensive counter-move which promised a threat of violent retaliation. Bellman obviously knew the moves, and a warning fist ended the scuffle. Turning his attention to me, he growled . “Tak’ nay notice o’ this piss-artist!” and he gave me an steady but quite appraising look before turning back to Callum. “Jim, did you say? From London is it?”
Cal hesitated ... and Bellman continued firmly. “Cousin, y’say?” A question that was met with silence, so he continued, “ Y’know, I think you should definitely bring him down to the Club the’night.” This he said with a certain firmness directly to Callum before turning back to me. “We like to know who our Callum here’s knocking about with.”

I’ll cut the scene short, but it was not comfortable and took some determination on Callum’s part and me keeping my mouth shut, feeling that my Englishness alone might damage Callum’s reputation in the community. More lame excuses and we made our escape towards the car, Callum continuing to swear under his breath as continued loud demands that we should ... “Al get t’gether f’r a brew the neet - or tomorrow. I will definitely phone you, Cal!” - and all of it from Bellman, whose eyes, when I turned slightly, still seemed to be burning into me as I waited for Cal to unlock the car. Once inside, he looked really grim and, as we drove away I was well aware that two pairs of eyes followed the car.

Again Callum swore heartily and loudly. Something I not ever heard him do previously.

Home at last:
The “wee hoose” looked smaller than it actually was because it was built into the side of a hill. Remote with no houses in sight in either direction, it stood alone half a mile beyond the last house on the steep road out of town, It’s Front Door was at road level, but he drove the car down and around to a flat parking space outside the garage which was under the back of the house. When he unlocked the substantial old big doors I was surprised by the amount of space in the garage - and the array of wet suits and dry suits hanging neatly alongside air Cylinders, coils of well-used climbing ropes, and a very promising selection of assorted webbing strappery and harnesses. All the kit was plausibly well-used and appropriate for an active out-door life ... although to my experienced eye it promised a whole lot more for somebody with my imagination. Same applied to a black rubber inflatable dingy, ready inflated and standing upright against a wall. Just about the size for a man to lie flat in it walled in by the bulging air-filled sides, I thought to myself ... or for him to stand upright in it with it firmly attached to the wall. It even had wooden slats across the bottom inside.

While Callum was unlocking a thick wooden door at the back of the garage I tentatively tested how firmly the wood slats were attached to the bottom of the boat. Callum’s mood lightened and he smiled as he moved to fetch my bag and the groceries from the car.
“Yes, that’s what I thought when I bought it! A useful piece of kit to have around. I’ve lashed myself to the slats and forced myself to stay in it on a couple of occasions - once even over night. Good job I’d learned to deal with it - because when I tried to get one of the guys into it out on the loch - I ended up tied into it myself.” he said.

“You can do that sort of thing - and still nobody knows what you’re into,” I asked incredulously?

“Oc’ay!” he said, “there’s no end of stuff those guys’ll do ... as long as they think you’re not enjoying it.” He suddenly turned serious. “Woe betide anybody they thought actually got a kick out of it!”. He stayed with the thought for a minute before moving briskly back to the inner door. “

“I’ll put the car away later,” he said as he switched on a light in an internal staircase as he disappeared. As I followed, a second door by the stairs caught my eye. It obviously led to more space behind the garage. “Yes”, he said from the top of the short staircase, watching me, “my workshop.” This was said it in such a way that I knew exactly what he meant, as I climbed the stairs. He’d already unlocked yet another secure-looking door and we went into what was obviously the home of a man with a passion for sports and sailing in all weathers, who had no wife to nag him to tidy his toys away.

But nothing I saw littering the hallway, sitting room and both bedrooms as he showed me around gave even a hint of kink. Everything was high-grade well-used sports oriented gear; seriously weather-proof anoraks including yellow oilskins in the hall along with a mountain bike plus various pairs of rubber deck boots and pairs of heavily industrial wellies; hiking boots and climbing boots in different states of disrepair stood untidily. In the living room, a couple track-suit tops hung on a drying rack close to the open fireplace which was currently laid-up ready to be lit. Under the slightly beat-up sofa and big easy chairs were various trainers, flip-flops, odd athletic socks and woollen boot-socks plus a couple of abandoned coffee mugs.

He smiled - “Didn’t have much time to tidy round. Had company last night - watching a match.”

“Company ... “ I said, starting a question about the sort of company. He saw it coming.
”This is your room,” he said as he headed down the hall. “A bit of a tip I’m afraid,” he added.
He was right. Two pairs of boxing gloves hung from old fashioned pegs on the wall along with less recently worn kit such as a judo suit, more track suits and various odds and ends of rugby kit. Boxes piled on the top of the small wardrobe had once held sports gear or computer gear. A couple of skipping ropes?. Too much to take in. He’d plonked my bag down by the dishevelled single bed. He’d headed away somewhere while I stayed to notice that the bed was metal framed. What a waste, I thought to myself as I remembered that this man spent his life without anybody who he could lower his guard with.

As I followed down the hall I passed his bedroom and looked in. More of the same but at least a double bed. I wondered if he had ever brought a woman home to it. I even wondered whether he had, even, in the most innocent circumstances, shared it with another man - a mate?

The Plan:
Details of our pre-arranged plan were firmed up over supper. I wanted to watch Callum work his way through his most recently devised single handed bondage routine as if nobody else was present. He’d agreed that because I was here - it would be safe to try out his new close-fitting wet suit without taking too many extra precautions. I’d often picked his brains about forward planning with self-applied bondage, he being so experiences. Also, being an engineer he had devices several gizmos to tighten straps and laces, experimented with time-locks and supposedly fool-proof auto-release mechanisms.

The deal for the evening was that once again he would single-handedly work his way into the complicated new predicament. Then, as usual when we were together, I’d make it inescapable for a set time. On occasions we had agreed a more flexible arrangement, but the new suit promised to be a challenge in itself clinging the way it did. Also, being tight it might perhaps might affect his circulation - so he gambled on what I thought was quite a long commitment with a positively no-get-out clause; four hours.

He had no idea how comfortable or uncomfortable his new predicament might become because it left him standing but with feet fixed immovably to the floor. He had told me that, with careful planning, he could sit on the edge of a chair for short rest periods - but the four hours would be spent self-trussed and gagged behind a blacked-out mask with no chance of escape once I’d added the final touch to his restraint. He’d gone over it very carefully with me more than once - and rehearsed it in advance of my visit - but not wearing the suit. Oh, and he also planned to be wearing the padded groin guard - but had recently added fixings to lace his cock and balls to the backing place once they’d been threaded through the hole. An erection would be totally impossible.

I knew he’d never done more than an hour in this position - but be was adamant that he would suffer/survive four hours come hell or high water (as he put it). A ruthless self-imposed endurance test. Me being there, he argued, was not a safety measure because he did not want me to intervene however challenging his predicament might become. He was determined to deal with it.

While working on his preparations he once again demanded that promise, once he’d worked himself into the planned situation - on no account should I weaken and let him out. By now I knew him well enough to know he was a rampant masochist. Not only was this a test for himself - he was testing me not to weaken and let him out - whatever happened.

In fact he now decided that, once I’d added the final strap I should go upstairs and not come down again for four hours. I was reluctant to do this for safety reasons. He, on the other hand, was hyping himself up - and became very determined to get his own way. This would be a rare occasion for him - to know there was absolutely no way to escape - and no help at hand for four hours. He would deal with it. No let-out - not until after the full four hours. And even then, he insisted, only release the added ‘final strap’ and allow him to effect the rest of the self-release plan single-handed. No matter how exhausted he might be, he wanted to know that he could achieve it without help!

I was more than dubious - didn’t want to end up with a corpse on my hands at the end of four hours. But, in the back of my brain, I knew if he was gagged and ear-plugged inside a blacked-out mask, he would not know whether I was in the room or wasn’t. He was not only determined, he was champing at the bit to get started - to show me the routine only on condition that I left and not return for four hours. I just kept my mouth shut - and he busied himself with his meticulous preparations.

*****

Having first gone down to the basement at around five o’clock, it was getting dark before he’d finished his careful routine of front door locked, all window curtains closed over secure windows, car into the garage and garage doors bolted from the inside.

My first view of his ‘workshop’ behind the garage was fascinating for me. Deep under the house, it was packed with potential new toys and abandoned failed projects. I explored the two hammocks, one rong canvas royal navy pattern, the other made of strong string netting. I’d described to me the old navy trick of grabbing both sides of a hammock and quickly lacing across thus trapping the sleeping rating as a preliminary to dragging the wriggling canvas tube out on deck, dousing it with water or whatever devilment his so-called friends were in he mood for. Cal was full of tit-bits of information of this type. He’d obviously spent a lot of time either observing what he called old-time below decks hi-jinks - just a way of passing time when at sea - he said. I suspected that he had taken part in, and probably instigated many such pranks. What is the saying about a challenger often indicating what he would like to be challenged with?

A low car seat was obviously from a sports model, probably a racing car because of the safety straps. This is well described elsewhere, straps for shoulders, waist and through thights to lock together in a central release plate. He had shown it to me - and told me he was hoping to work out a plan for it’s use in his solo-games. More of that anon.

My rummaging around his work/play-space continued to be revealing. The full set of lockable leather USA hospital restraints were no surprise, he’d bought from me after having been introduced to them unexpectedly. In fact he’d spent a frustratingly long night in them on that first occasion. I’d locked them onto him and because they were comfortable and allowed a lot of movement he was sure he would be able to escape or at least destroy them. I actually dared to taunt him as he got more and more frustrated by their efficiency. Since then they have been useful in his solo games because he knew from experience that once locked on they stayed locked until he had access to the key. To delay self-release he had since experimented with a time-lock safe, a device which only dropped the key within reach after a fixed time and sealing the key in ice and having to wait for it to melt - depending on the size of ice cube and room temperature.

The pair of modern rigid British police handcuffs (not bought from me) were something of a surprise. I knew from repeated experiments that once locked on, even with the key in your hand or mouth it was virtually impossible to for the wearer to open them. I was considering this when he noticed what I’d found.

“Courtesy of a mate in the local police. I said I wanted them for a Stag night,” he said.
“Can you use them solo,” I asked.?
“I’m woring on it,” he said with a wink.
“And did you use them on a stag night?
“More than once,” was the confident reply.
I thought carefully before saying, “Either your mates are stupid or already know what you’re into but are keeping quiet about knowing you’re a total kink-head.”

“No way!” was him emphatic reply before returning to the task of setting a small upright chair close to where the pair of ski-book quick-release clamps where screwed to his playroom floor.

This device he’d demonstrated for me previously. Once wearing the boots with clips closed around his feet and legs, his legs were bent at a slight knees-bend angle. Without the use of hands he could, when ready, click them into the clamps. With the springs adjusted to max tight the books would only break out of the clamps when his full bodyweight was thrown against them - but until this he could jerk around in them and stay securely screwed to the floor. I was looking forward to seeing him tightly suited, strapped, gagged and sightless as his legs got more and more tired. I had already decided he really didn’t know what he was letting himself in for this evening. Or did he, but knowing that I was there - he would have the luxury of suffering more than usual - knowing that I would be there as a very last resort. He had already admitted that, when first trying the boots, he had sat back and missed the chair, and with boots unbreakably fixed to the floor, it had taken a lot of pain, determination and let power to get back into a standing position - but being only a practice session he had not been gagged and was able to see. To get himself out of this unexpected problem he had deliberately not used his hands - pretending that they were gloved and strapped. His solo ‘ practice’ sessions were as much of a turn-on to him as the real event. Hearing about these sessions was for me a great turn-on as well as being so instructive.

I suddenly found four of pairs of old Hiatt Darbys, well used by the look of them.
“From my Shore Patrol days,” he said seeing what I had found. “They’re great because I can lock them on myself and still operate the key. Not like the rigid cuffs. I really did have a near-miss with those once,” he admitted - but admitted with a certain relish at the memory - before carrying on with his preparations.

Because he was going to be wearing his groin guard under the new suit - and was, by this time, sufficiently used to it to be able to get into it without getting a hard on - there was now no embarrassment about me being present while he stripped off - and even while he was busy lacing his cock into it. I wondered if this was because by now he had spent so many painful hours scrunched into it, it was no long such a turn-on - just a form of self-abuse.

 

USE OR NOT USE?
“Why not go up and watch a bit of TV”
I was very dubious - and told him I thought I should stay around just in case of emergencies.
No! He was quite definite. He’d rather be left to it.
I argued that I would enjoy watching.
”Well,” he said, “I’ll use ear-plugs inside the helmet - and this one blacks out - and Ill be gagged -so I guess I won’t know when you’re there and when you’re not if you come and go. But NO LET OUT before exactly four hours after you add the extra strap. Right?”

“OK” I agreed grudgingly - and he set about preparing his carefully positioned equipment.
That in itself took time. As I watched I also explored some of the other great kit he had lying around. speculated on an additional possibility. He began stripping off. He’d long got over his embarrassment about me seeing him naked - mainly because I had always meticulously avoided any ‘threat’ to his non-gay status. In his mind it was just like the showers in the navy or at the gym. With me - I still needed to be cautious and not to get excited.

I applied my attention elsewhere as he, now naked, prepared to thread his cock and balls through the plate and lace it. This process I had previously documented so left him to it because among a pile of other gear I had unearthed a great looking one-piece, well-used and scuffed black neoprene wet-suit.
”I grew out of that,” he said, otherwise occupied. “It would fit you a treat. You could take it back to London if it’s any use to you,” he added as he dragged the groin guard up and over the now firmly laced-down but still sizable cock. My mind was elsewhere as he started the more challening process of climbing into his tight-fitting new suit. He sat on the carefully positioned chair, to work his way into the legs. The bottom half of the suit was chest-high bib-and-brace. When the top half was on over them the whole torso was double layered. With shiny surface inside and out I realised that all surfaces would practically glue themselves together. But that was something to speculate on later. My mind had strayed from the wet-suit in my hands - and a big old heavy dry-suit which was hanging close by. The idea of layering has always turned me on.

The beat-up black dry suit was back entry. It was the one with the detachable zip-pull I had first seen a couple of years ago in London . My mind was working overtime. In the past I’d happily spent time geared up while watching others and killing time while they luxuriated. I speculated whether while wearing the tight-fitting wet suit, it might be possible for me to get the dry-suit on over it. If I could wear these while he was doing his ‘thing’ for the next four hours ...

Callum was more than happy for me to get geared up before watching his routine. So I too stripped off and pulled on the wet suit, which was indeed a snug fit - but not as tight as was the black neoprene combination Cal was now struggling his way into. My head was already forced tightly into the nexk and wrist seals of the dry suit before he was half-way into the top half of his new two-piece suit. This relied on stretch to pull it on. There was no zip or fastenings. As it also had an attached open-face head cover, the unfamiliar process took a lot of pushing and pulling with his head trapped inside the torso of the suit before he was able to force his head up into the helmet. He was red in the face before it emerged in the face-hole.

I’d stopped to watch his struggle - and he had difficulty closing the lower flap which closed between his legs pulling the top half down more firmly. Over the groin guard this at first looked impossible - but he was determined. Once the snaps were secured the suit looked skin-tight. He checked his movements and these were quite limited. He grimaced.

“I’m glad you’re here,” he smiled. I may need you to help me out of it after it’s all over.”

“Shades of the inescapable oilskins,” I said - and we both laughed. Looks like you’re in it until you asked nicely,” I suggested. “Tell you what, I’ve got an idea,” I continued, “close the back zip of this suit for me will you.”

He obliged, dragging the solid zip across as I braced my elbows against the necessary pull. With the wet suit inside it - the dry-suit bulked-up in a very satisfactory way.
“Now,” I instructed, “if you detach the zip-pull - I’ll be as trapped in my suit as you are in yours. If you put the pull somewhere where I can’t get at it, I’ll be in this until you get free after your session.”
He thought about it and I could see that the idea appealed to him.
“Do you have a time-lock safe or somewhere where only you can get at it?”
After further thought he moved to where the boxing gloves were laid ready for later in his self-encasement. He dropped toe zip-pull into one of the gloves.

After I’ve shown you my device for closing laces on these glove - you’re stuck until I get them off again - and you’re not going to help me, are you - whatever happens?”

“Well, only in an emergency ... ,“ I started but he cut in firmly.
”No let-out - and you no get out until I’m not only satisfied and safely out - but also happy that you kept your bargain. Otherwise you spend the night in that suit.”
“Two suits,” I said, not in the least threatened by the attractive possibility.
”You may be telling a different story after four - plus who knows how many extra hours,” he said. This sort of goading was something that had built up between us - usually him goading me into taking a tougher line with him.

“No more chat. For me it’s ear-plugs next, then the dental gag - then the mask with the black-out switch. I only operate the visor black-out after everything else in complete - ski-boots closed - gloved laced and sealed - then into the wrist and elbow bindings before the boot clamps.”

“How do you close the visor black-out after your wrists and strapped,” I asked?
”Just before the last glove loops into the strap I shut the light out, then find my way into the second glove - quick tug on the friction strap - unhook the strap from the wall, find my way to the boot clamps - click - click - I’ there until I’m ready for out.”
“When I’m ready to let you out,” I reminded.
”What’s the final strap going to be,” he asked.
”That’s for me to know and you to find out,” I teased. “You’ll be sightless and rooted to the spot. Working out just what I’ve added will give you something to keep your mind occupied - for four hours,” I retaliated as I returned to my exploring. The front of my dry-suit was quite big even over the wet-suit. I found what looked like an old-fashioned four inch wide fireman’s duty belt. I noted that it had been modified to make the buckle pad-lockable. I tightened it around my waist, cinching it quite tightly. I thought I might live to regret that extra notch I’d tightened it - but what the hell. I was very turned-on by the predicament I’d committed myself to. Something to keep my mind occupied for four hours - while secretly watching to see if Cal in all his coverings and strappings would grow to seriously regret his predicament.

Selected a sturdy padlock from a box of full of them - the belt was locked in place - wondered if I might, in an emergency slide of over my hips. With my hips - not a chance. I was in the belt - the suit - suits - for at least four hours. The key - I took over and dropped it into the other glove which was waiting to encase Cal ’s hands.

He acknowledged the gesture. The idea seemed to appeal to him and it sure as fuck turned me on. He shrugged and set about the next phase of his elaborate (over elaborate?) process. This, I already knew, would involve ear-plugs, gag, mask - before padded gloves laced on using his special device - before wrists and elbows strapped tight.
In my quick run-through what I had been told of his plan - had I forgotten anything? Had he forgotten anything? Had he made any miscalculations about his planning - or his ability to endure what I knew was going to be a serious challenge - self-challenge. That was certainly the name of his game.

The rest of his process on this occasion is already fully described in the fact/fantasy version, ALIAS CALLUM BUCHANAN. You can follow that link to check it out. My point is - what you have just been reading is what really happened up to that point.

What I describe next is different from the fictionalised (simplified) version - you either believe it - or not believe it.

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