The player
of mind-games has engaged the imagination of this ex-army tough-nut
and blown his mind with some of the possibilities introduced ...
but he's a man who can't resist a challenge
"OK,"
I said quietly "you may have already decided this game isn't for
you. Or you might like to risk one further preliminary step? Until I
get a lot more answers from you I don't know how much further I want
to push it. If you want to gamble a couple of hours I can tell you a
lot more about the games I play ... but I need to find out a lot more
about what makes you tick if we're going to go beyond opening psychological
skirmishes.
"Two hours?" he confirmed, obviously seriously tempted.
"That's what the next phase takes ... but you can choose when.
You get to choose at every stage of the game … before every step
into the dark. You move ahead willingly or not at all."
He was still hesitating and, to change the subject, I asked conversationally
to lighten the mood …
"Tell me about your wife ... and your garage/workshop."
"Girlfriend" he said "and the kid's hers. She's very
independent We've got a reasonably loose relationship." And then
he hesitated before going on, "… I suppose I can disappear
for a couple of hours any time. Workshop's a crowded garage full of
junk. Not the place to play games in."
"Depends what sort of games" I countered "Depends what
kind of car. Whether the boot is big enough to leave you locked in for
an afternoon. Depends if you have a tarpaulin or motorcycle cover big
enough to cover a trussed up and uncomfortable, sweating and fuming
but anxious not to disturb the neighbours willing victim."
"You're fucking crazy" he hissed.
"Is your dick hard again yet? I asked. He nodded reluctantly. "Are
your boots still tied to that chair?"
He hesitated ... "If you say so."
"Good answer."
He accepted the point he'd conceded for our future games ... but immediately
zapped back with a sudden challenge. "Are you Gay?" he asked
without a smile.
I acknowledged his challenge. "The simple answer is 'Yes'. I've
fucked and been fucked. I've driven straight men ape-shit by threatening
to screw them ... but never raped anybody. We'll talk about all this,
this afternoon. It's a simple enough deal ... whatever it is, if you
want it, you're going to have to ask for it. It may be your secret fantasy
to be forced ... "
"No! No way! Thanks but no thanks!"
"Be careful" I cut in "Don't close off too many options
too early. You'll have two very grueling, confusing, challenging, uncomfortable
hours of interrogation this afternoon ... and during that time you'll
get to recognise the possibilities of this sort of game. It can be everything
and anything you want it to be if you play your cards right. The trick
is for you to keep a lot of options open. But, I need to get behind
that devious mind of yours."
"Me devious!" he almost yelled ... and we both automatically
confirmed that we still hadn't attracted attention. Brighton Prom was
happily going about it's own business.
"OK Mr. Squeaky Clean, you had your 'Are-you-gay?' challenge question.
So here's mine. Did you have your combat pants tailored tighter to show
off your butt?"
He stared ... flushed ... framed a denial which I didn't let him put
into words.
"They're trimmed down, don't deny it. A lot of squaddies do it
... it's supposed to pull birds, but I know a cock-tease when I see
one." His jaw set and his eyes were steel ... but he swallowed
what he might have said ... so I continued
"This afternoon, if you've got the bottle, you'll show up at my
hotel, I'll tie you down and ask you, persuade you, convince you that
if we're going to push back a few barriers you're going to have to come
to grips with a few less than comfortable truths. Don't look so defensive
... you'll survive it. Maybe that'll be as far as it goes. Or maybe
this will be the beginning of you enjoying who you really are.
I won't even ask you now if you've ever had your ass fucked in whatever
circumstances, or if you've ever ... ever screwed a man ... or, at least,
wondered what it would be like to try ... No! don't deny! This afternoon,
hog-tied and sweating ... with no eye contact, and aching to get loose
... you may reach a point of self-revelation you never got to with girlfriend,
mate or RAF shrink."
Looking seriously cornered and needing to lower the tension he leaned
back and finished his tea.
The careful negotiations continue,
including what will be worn when (if) he presents himself at the
hotel. Having described what sort of gear he owns ... the author
confirms ...
"So,
tell me what you will be wearing" I insisted.
He dutifully tried to repeat from memory the list I'd specified.
"Bike boots, armour-tex pants, leather jacket ... er, sweater under
the jacket ... "
"Good!" I interjected, glad he was entering into the spirit
of a sweat-session.
"Wax Barbour suit ... ," he continued his mental checklist,
" ... boots, gloves, crash-hat ... ER ... scarf". He hoped
he'd thought of everything.
"And," I prompted "in your pockets?"
"Rope and duct tape?"
"Good man," I smiled, "bring the Costain oilskins and
nylon Flight Deck suit as well in your backpack. I might as well get
sweated up too. Why should you have all the fun."
He hesitated and then asked "What time?"
"You tell me."
"In a hotel?" he asked dubiously.
"Why not? You'd be amazed what's going on in Brighton hotel bedrooms
every day of the week ... let alone nights."
He looked unconvinced ... and I felt I needed to reassure him.
"Let me explain something to you. It's very very dangerous to link
up with a total stranger and disappear into some private space at any
time for any reason ... and if bondage or S&M are involved it's
usually a total no-no ... so ... here's your insurance." He looked
at the business card I'd given him. "That's my real name. You can
check it on Directory Enquiries. You write on this card Sheridan Hotel
2 p.m. Leave it somewhere at home where it will be found only if you
don't return when the family expects you."
He thought about it and nodded, then asked. "What's your insurance?
Aren't you running an even bigger risk?"
"Maybe. A risk I warn other people not to take ... we may just
have to see if I was right. Anyway, you'll be tied up or otherwise physically
restrained all the time you're in the room ... yes?"
He considered for a moment before nodding, cautiously conceding the
point.
"And," I continued, "the message I leave at Reception
will be for them to ring my room when you arrive ... ask them to describe
you. Have your crash helmet off ... because they also have video coverage
of all arrivals which they keep for 48 hours.
Agreement reached, the author
instructs the younger man to run another half hour before going
home to change and get to the hotel.
He rose
from his chair, stiff after sitting for so long with his boots spread
wide, and hauled the heavy backpack to between his shoulders.
" How much weight handicap did you add to your backpack?"
I enquired socially.
He shrugged "About twenty pounds."
"Enjoy your run ... and the run-up to two o'clock. See you then"
I said, settling comfortably back into my chair.
He strapped the heavy pack firmly to his waist, nodded abruptly and
walked away without looking back. As he threaded his way between busy
tables his backpack almost decapitated a malicious child who had been
menacing other juveniles with his tricycle. I hoped he'd done it on
purpose. 'Tod' broke into a run as soon as he hit the green; a grimly
determined and nothing-held-back training run.
Spreading my legs sideways I experimented with what it felt like for
them to be tied to the chair legs. I watched the resolute figure in
the distance, pounding his way into the distance.
Happily confident that he'd show up at the hotel, my mind began to line
up a routine for the coming afternoon; for his arrival (he would arrive)
... keeping him waiting around down at the front desk, self-conscious
and sweating in his layers of motorcycle gear; his walking into the
room ... me immediately making him confirm that he'd agreed to remain
physically restrained the whole time he was there ... no discussion
'Yes' or 'No'.
The handcuffs that had so intrigued him when I'd shown them to him this
afternoon … soon securing both hands behind his back. Then blindfold,
a neat efficient light-proof padded leather toy I always carry on my
travels. Next, wordless and efficient strapping of his elbows inside
the layers of leather, sweater and thick waxed jacket ... duct tape
would sound good now he's blindfolded.
Maintain the suspense … the handcuffs and gloves now removed (him
still helpless, blindfolded and with elbows cinched) to make way for
more adhesive tape round his wrists and down around his fingers leaving
them totally encased.
Getting him to kneel while boots are roped together and fixed to his
bound wrists ... before lowering him face down ... before moving a chair
and placing my boots under his face before removing the blindfold. Hotel
carpet and well-used work boots all he can see ... can not escape from
... his face between them or above them as I choose.
Gently explaining to him how the session will proceed; intimate, probing,
resolute questions to be answered promptly without hesitation. His familiar
easy self-evaluation not necessarily being accepted at it's glib face
value. Building up the psychological pressure. Him getting progressively
more uncomfortable physically and emotionally because of his totally
inability to resist or kick back. As I get more insistent for the truth
demanding quicker, more spontaneous answers perhaps his resentment will
increase. Resentment then frustration perhaps soon turning to real anger.
At the
first raise of his voice a quick demonstration of how easy it is to
silence him ... (temporarily or more permanently with duct tape) ...
then gentle but insistent reasoning which persuades him to play along
and just this once answer more truthfully, questions that tell me where
he's at, where he's been and (hopefully) where he'd like to explore.
A basic routine I've used on men for several years.
Talk to
him about my likes and dislikes; my love for leather and weather gear.
By now I'll be wearing his Flight Deck wind and rainproof suit perhaps
with the construction site oilskins he mentioned over it, heating myself
up as I probe and pressurise him. He won't see it, just hear it, smell
it … sense it. His only view my boots nudging his face, my fingers
kneading and probing his head and neck and immobilised shoulders, arms
... and moving unstoppable onto his thighs if the time is right ...
with him nervously aware that he's unable to prevent whatever intrusion.
Talk to him reassuringly about the taste and smell of leather ... risk
his resistance to the suggestion that he should touch my boot or the
oilskin I'm wearing with his tongue ... that he should touch and taste
the toe of my boot ... allow my leather gloved fingers into his mouth
willingly, experimentally. Accept this unfamiliar intimacy. At least
for now accept from his face-down, lack of eye-contact position the
fact that he has willingly given me this total control, and I intend
to keep it for the whole two hours.
I may suddenly change the pace, un-snapping and un-zipping his two jackets,
skillfully peeling them back off his shoulders without allowing him
any opportunity to break free. Gag him securely as soon as he attempts
to exercise any verbal control. Wrap his whole head with yards of extra
tape (which I will have bought since meeting him). Encase his whole
head to totally isolate him ... leaving ear-holes so I can talk to him
softly in this limbo for a while.
Demonstrate how good I am at stripping a bound 'victim' with or without
co-operation. Re-tie and tape his naked body however much he struggles,
demonstrating my total control ... but taking no sexual liberties ...
yet. At last, unwrapping his head ... but not perhaps his mouth while
I reassure him that he is in safe, responsible hands. Nothing will happen
that he doesn't want to happen. Safe, secure, nervous, vulnerable ...
but still full of fight ... potentially dangerous, but with me totally
in control ... at least, this time around.
END
OF EXCERPT FROM 'Brighton Front'
A printer-friendly version of the entire text is at BRIGHTON TEXT