HOUDINI CONNECTIONS

TOPIC = MOTORCYCLE COP PULLS-OVER BIKER

Police files
TWO INCIDENTS
(Excerpts from two storylines)

LONG DISTANCE CONTROL TRIP
A 'remote control' game-player invites the hero of this tale to drive down to Cornwall from London for the weekend. An enthusiast for greasy waxed cotton bike gear, the imaginative controller orders that naked with a one-piece well-waxed suit inside-out with a heavy padded two-piece bike suit over it, all should be locked-on and unremovable for the whole car journey. Progress reports by mobile camera-phone must prove that the orders are being carried out to the letter.

Even before I reached the M25 I was baking inside the sticky layers - and the sun wasn't helping ... and suddenly road works threatened to slow things down. A stretch of single file traffic was being manually controlled by ‘stop' and ‘go' signs. As ill luck would have it the young lad swung the ‘stop' sign when I was next in line to drive through.

Because the 'controller' had set a tight time schedule ...

Soon as I was through the long hold-up, I speeded up ... until I realised that not only was I going too fast, there was a motorcycle cop supervising the single flow sitting astride his bike. I saw him register my speed and, as I approached, his hand signalled to slow down – which I did – and then his signal turned to a ‘pull over'. I had no choice but do as he commanded.

Resignedly, I switched off my engine and closed my eyes as in the mirror I saw him dismount. Then I heard the scrunch of his heavy motorcycle boots approach my window. I wound it down, belatedly scrabbling for my wallet which, I realised, was in the holdall on the back seat – I hoped.

The cop's view for the next however long it took, was my wax cotton covered back screwed around reaching into the back seat, dragging the khaki rain poncho askew and tangling it with my bulky waxed coverings. I eventually straightened up and face him clutching my wallet – and in my eyeline all I could see was the waist of his yellow hi-vis jacket and a belt loaded down with various leather attachments including baton holder, flash light and the rigid-centred handcuffs bulky in their pouch. The crotch of his leather biker pants was also directly before my face, but I forced my gaze upwards until I met his piercing eyes and strong mouth, which gave no indication of what he was thinking as I offered my licence.

“Where are you heading – sir?” he asked evenly.
“ Cornwall ” I said bluntly.
“Expecting rain are we, sir?” he asked with an edge of sarcasm.
“No, officer,” I said calmly and quietly as I looked into his handsome face. This was a time for attack rather than defence, I thought. “I'm heavily kinky for waxed cotton motorcycle rain gear and wear it at any opportunity I get.”
He took time to consider this and his steel blue eyes gave nothing away – but he did take time to breathe in slowly before nodding slightly.
“As a matter of fact, sir, I can appreciate that,” he said evenly – and we both waited for what might happen next. “Are you planning to drive the whole distance so attired?” he asked in a businesslike way.
“If I'm allowed” I hazarded.

He seemed to consider his options. “Waxed gear may not be as efficient rain protection as the more modern stuff on a bike – but in your car, sir – enjoy the trip ... but watch your speed. Might as well spin out your enjoyment as long as you can – and in Cornwall I hope the weather is kind to you – if rain is what you're hoping for.”
With that he stood away and I accepted his signal that the encounter was over. Did I sense a tinge of regret that he couldn't find an excuse to pursue the topic further?

For the whole story - check out LONG DISTANCE CONTROL TRIP

A SECOND MOTORCYCLE COP INCIDENT

LOCKED IN LEATHER
In John Stapleton's 5700 word story in the 'Motorcycle Messenger' series, Sam the bike courier encourages his game-playing buddy to encase him in leather for twenty-four hours with no let-out.
The partner, Mike, willingly agrees - and then decides to take Sam for a ride on the back of his bike hooded and gagged under a crash helmet and manacled into his leathers.
They are pulled over by a motorcycle cop ...

I was so turned on by the situation, and Sam's arms tight around my waist ... that the first I knew of the motorcycle cop was when he overtook me and motioned for me to pull over. Shit! My heart started pounding. I almost open up the throttle and tried to take off. Luckily I didn't. I stopped and took off my crash helmet. Sam still held on tight, unaware of what was going on. The cop got off his bike, took his helmet off.

He was young, hard-featured and looked great in his black leather jacket. The jacket looked as though it had seen action, worn and shiny, its zippers glinting in the sunlight. He walked towards us, one hand clutching his gloves. Heavy boots crunched on the gravel at the side of the road.

“Hi!” I said, casually.
He demanded my license. I gave it to him. He walked over to the intercom on his bike. He had a great arse. He looked good in his uniform, with the dying sun shining off his jacket. He came back.
“Bit fast, weren't you?” he asked.
“Don't know what speed I was doing,” I admitted.
“You were way up above the limit,” he said.
“Sorry,” I said, “need to get home.”
“You won't get home at all at that rate,” he said. “Open your visor,” he said to Sam.

“He can't hear you,” I said.
The cop made a gesture, the action of opening the visor. “He can't see you,” I muttered.
“What?”
“He can't hear or see you,” I said louder, my heart pumping. The young cop thought about that one.
“Then you open it!” he said.
I twisted round to get to Sam's visor. I pretended it was jammed. The cop didn't fall for that one.
“Open it!” he said.
I did. He looked in at Sam's leather covered face, no eyes, no mouth, just thick, shiny leather where his features should have been.
Silence.

“Let me see his I.D.,” the cop said at last.
“You can't if it's in the inside pocket of his leather jacket,” I said.
“Why not?” asked the cop.
“His leather jacket is locked on him and I've left the keys at home.”
He felt in the top of Sam's jacket and his fingers touched the padlock. He traced a finger over the flying eagle Sam had sewn on his jacket just above the breast pocket.
I already had visions of Sam and I handcuffed, down in a police cell.

The cop was letting this all sink in. He looked down and saw the shiny steel manacle locked around Sam's boot, exposed because Sam was sitting on the bike and his leather jeans had ridden up higher.
I waited, not knowing what to expect. The setting sun lit a halo through his hair and shone orange off his leather covered shoulders. What the cop said next took me completely by surprise. I hardly understood.

“Always wear plenty of leather on a bike, that's what I say,” he said as he gave me back my licence. “You guys had better get home quickly.” He pulled on helmet and gloves and was gone.

This is not the end of the episode ...

Back at the flat Sam still hooded and gagged and locked in his leathers is getting fractious and indicates that he wants out ... but that is not an option. Mike allows the angry Sam to piss before forcing him into restraints on their leather-covered bed. After some struggle because Sam puts up serious resistance, Mike is ready to take a breather ... when the doorbell rings ...

... I paused and listened, but decided to ignore it. It rang again, even more insistently. I looked out of the window, but couldn't see down to the door. I could just see part of a parked police motorcycle, though.

“Fucking shit!”, I thought, and pushed the button to open the door below.
Clomping on the stairs got louder and the cop who'd stopped us earlier came up the stairs, followed by another, also zipped up in a leather jacket. He wore dark glasses despite the dimness in the staircase. He looked dangerous, which made him all the more interesting.

“Hi!” I said, realising that was my pathetic way of starting the conversation last time.
“Hi!” he replied. “Thought I'd look in on you guys and bring a colleague to meet you. too. He was very interested in the little story I told him.”
Two leather jacketed policemen were now standing in my apartment. “Your friend around?” asked the one.
“In the bedroom,” I replied and took in the newcomer, who obviously worked out. He had a great arse.

They both moved automatically towards the bedroom as if I had invited them. I would have done anyway!
“How did you know where to find us?” I asked, knowing it was a stupid question.
“Your licence,” said the one.
They looked at my Sam rolling in his full leather, tugging at the cuffs holding his wrists to his waist.
“He doesn't seem too happy with his predicament,” said the new guy .
“He's not,” I replied, “but .....” and I explained our twenty-four hour, not-to-be-shortened agreement.
They seemed impressed, at least that's what the long bulges in their uniform pants told me.

“He sure seems angry,” said the first one, “I'd make sure he's restrained properly, if I were you.”
“You guys gonna help me get a strait-jacket on him? It's easy?”
“We're used to dealing with cases like him. You got a strait-jacket?”
“Not just one!” I said, opening a cupboard.
I pulled out a heavy bundle of leather, which I let fall open, revealing numerous straps and glinting buckles. The long, closed ,sleeves fell heavily onto the floor. The jacket was thick black leather, reinforced with brown leather, giving the whole garment a menacing and intimidating look.

“Shit, this is great,” said one of the policemen, examining the jacket. “I've never seen anything like this. It'd make Houdini pale.”
“No one could ever get out of that,” I said, “doubled leather, reinforced at every point of stress, the high collar locks, the sleeves are strapped through retainers. Give up hope, all that enter!”
“Let's get it on him,” said the second cop.

I bent over Sam to unlock his handcuff belt, and that's when it all happened. The cops grabbed me from behind. Suddenly I was jerked backwards, a leather-covered arm vice-like around my throat. I shouted out, the grip tightened, his leg forced its way between mine. Our leather creaked and chaffed together. Almost simultaneously, he'd got my left arm twisted up behind my back, he obviously knew how to overpower someone. I reached up with my free hand to try and get his choking arm off my throat, but his colleague was active, too. He was in front of me, grabbing my free wrist.

As the other nearly broke my arm and neck, he started to shove my right arm down the sleeve of the strait-jacket. As he held that arm in place, the cop behind me brought my twisted arm round to the front and, despite my struggle, found it disappearing into the depths of the strait-jacket's other sleeve.

They had me face down on the floor, kneeling on me, the jacket closing over my leathers, tighter and tighter with every strap they were buckling shut. I nearly came in my leather jeans as they pulled the wide crotch strap between my legs and strapped it tight.

“Stand up, leather-boy!” one said as they both hoisted me to my feet, pulling on the straps of the jacket.
“What the fuck's going on,” I protested, my voice almost a croak after the headlock he'd had on me. The high collar jerked shut as two more straps were fastened.
“No, please!” I said ineffectually, but they expertly crossed my arms; their experience and training as cops proving its worth.
“Please, no!” I gasped as my arms were strapped around me.
“No!” I shouted as they wrenched the sleeves even tighter together. I heard the prong of the buckle snap into place. A jerk as they pulled a loose end through a retaining loop.
“No-one could ever get out of that, leather-guy. Your own words.
Give up hope all that enter. You've entered, leather-boy, and shit are you staying!” sneered the first cop.

Sam was still tugging on the bed. He could hear all this, but whether he exactly knew all that was going on, I don't know. And I was strait-jacketed, imprisoned like a madman in layers of tough black and brown leather. I pulled in my sleeves. Nothing moved, they just creaked. I wrenched my body from left to right. nothing happened except the crotch strap tightened on my bursting prick.
The second cop put his leather-jacketed arm around my shoulder in an all-friends-together way.
“You're sure in a mess!” he said confidentially, at the same time pushing me off balance over his knee so I started to fall. He grabbed me to stop me crashing down and lowered me, expertly but non-too gently, to the floor.

They both left me lying there and went into the kitchen. I jerked and writhed, although I knew it was all hopeless. They returned with Sam's keys, set to, unlocking his cuffs, his manacles, and then started on his hood. Why had I left the key on the table after I had fed him? If it were in a pocket of my leather jacket, buried in turn under this strait-jacket, they wouldn't have been able to free him. But they were already working the hood off my friend. Sam's hands groped towards the blindfold, but he couldn't find the start of the adhesive bandage with his gloved fingers. The cops did though. Soon my guy was blinking and squinting trying to get used to the light, trying to make out what was going on, trying to see who was there. He looked a mess, but somehow Sam always looked great.

“Hi James! What're you doing here, Chris?”
He knew the cops!
“I recognised the eagle on your jacket when I stopped you guys on the road. I thought we'd come and rescue you.”
“Thanks,” said Sam, but really you've broken our rules. I was to do twenty-four hours in that hood.”
“Let him do the rest of the time for you!” said one of the cops, nodding down towards me.
Sam seemed to notice me for the first time, on the floor in the strait-jacket.
“Shit, they really got the better of you, Mike! How's it feel to be on the receiving end for a change?” he asked, gloating.
“Get this off of me, you bastard,” I said breathlessly. “You're in big trouble, Sam'
“You're the one in big trouble,” said one of the cops, nudging me hard with the toe of his boot. “Let's see how you like your head locked in leather!” He picked up the mask. The other cop bent down to grab me. I struggled.
“Leave him to me,” said Sam.
“Let's lock his head up, lock his strait-jacket and lock a couple of pairs of manacles on his ankles, said the cop bending down, gripping me under the shoulders. “We get to take the keys with us, Sam, and you get a leather guy you can't release even if you get soft-hearted. We'll come back tomorrow.”

I threw my head back, intending to get the cop bending over me on the bridge of the nose. He was quicker.
“Or maybe we won't come back!” he added.
“Leave him to me, guys” said Sam again.
“You sure?” one asked.
“Sure,” said Sam, “I've got plans of my own now the tables are turned!” he smirked.
The cop let me fall back heavily. He stood up and they prepared to leave.

“You're in for a rough time, leather-guy,” said one of the cops as they turned to leave. To me, laying on the floor, they seemed to be about eight foot tall: Muscly thighs, round arses and bulging pricks exaggerated by the unusual perspective. Sam disappeared with them for a few minutes to see them out. I rolled on the floor knowing I would achieve nothing. I could never ever get out alone. What a predicament! Sam came back alone, smiling.

(Note from Jim Stewart - personally, my preferred stiry development would have involved the police staying - perhaps forcing Chris back into restrain where he could watch helpless as the police turned their attentions to Sam)

See also LOCKED IN LEATHER by John Stapleton for another cop excerpt