FURTHER EXCERPTS

From the original 41,500 word story titled
'MAN-TO-MAN STUFF'
by Derek Arnold
made longer by Jim Stewart

'INTERROGATED'
(2000 words)

... without warning the fiendish 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. 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.

*****

TIME OUT:
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.

 

Inexplicably the ordeal is suddenly over ...

DISORIENTATED:
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 ...

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, he rose from his knees into view, gabbed two handfuls 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 him 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!” he said, 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.
His full body-weight dropped like a stone, 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 fucking 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 strait-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 ... this guy wasn’t queer, for Christ’s sake, I told myself. However, that was not the only thought in my mind (because the adrenaline was pumping) and so was the blood in my brain ... and in my crotch.

After a pause for breath, still gripping the jacket, he 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!” he 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 he 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 he 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.

“Hog-tied 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 ...

FURTHER EXCERPT (3)

Return to STORYLINES for info on other fiction-based-on-fact
Return to HOME PAGE