This story from real life contains long sequences which describe the effects of a severe rope-tie over a heavy-duty motorcycle suit.

It begins ...

 

When you’re lying face down on soggy earth among dripping dead heather with your wrists lashed securely to your boots for a few hours, it gives you time to think.

Here today, warm and dry, the cold, damp five hours I spent on a Lancashire hillside yesterday is vivid in my mind as I write. Although bundled up in thermal underwear and track suit with a well waxed Barbour suit over; even heavily padded gloves with waxed over-mitts and insulated boots and two pairs of socks didn’t stop my fingers and feet from going numb. Not dangerously so, of course. Nothing that regular efforts to change position and keep circulation flowing couldn’t overcome. And I was well monitored ... in good hands; knowledgeable, sensitive but ruthlessly implacable hands that belong to my long-time game-playing adversary and good mate, Tony.

It’s odd that while mentally distancing myself from an experience, later I can recall in vivid detail the subtle tortures of the predicament I was in; abandoned trussed and bundled-up on my face in the mud. I can still visualise the elaborate network of rope that crossed and re-crossed around the jacket and pants. The tough new sticky fabric left little possibility of anything working loose because waxed sash-line had been used, which grips well on a greasy surface and knots fuse the waxed rope into finger-proof lumps (not that fingers could get anywhere near any of the knots). The chill wind couldn’t penetrate the wax cotton motorcycle suit, but it was blowing straight through the thick woollen Balaclava that was supposed to be keeping my head warm. Around the mouth hole my saliva soon made it soggy and from my nostrils the warm air was making an increasingly damp patch.

Inside the suit, what had recently been hot sweat was now turning cold and clammy. Waxed cotton doesn’t generate it’s own heat the way leather does and the cold was beginning to get through to my chest, pelvis and thighs (all of me that was in contact with the ground). I’ve spent a lot of hours hog-tied and knew that I could roll onto one side for a change but one arm and shoulder would then soon go dead (and get cold). A routine of changing from one side to the other would minimise the problem. The only other alternative was to work myself onto my back for some relief, but it would bring no extra comfort. With considerable effort you can, when hog-tied face down, roll onto your back but with wrists lashed close to your ankles, once on your back the knees are bent tight and your feet are tugging at the wrist lashings. But regular and determined changes of position have kept me sane for many uncomfortable hours in the past. So, that is part of the process, to keep the circulation moving.

Waxed cotton isn’t as stiff as leather or oilskin but when cold it feels more like tough canvas - and the warmth on the inside, which can soften it up, was draining away. I needed to concentrate hard to begin my mental exercise in self-defence. How long ago had he walked off after jauntily saying, “Okay sucker, you like to survive - so fucking survive. See you later - who knows how much later. Bye.”

The resolute game-player is left alone to deal with his situation

It looked less stony a few yards ahead ... but a few yards when you’re on your stomach with your feet in the air can feel like a mile. I decided that the effort of inching forward might generate a bit of body heat so I started out, shoulders and pelvis moving like a caterpillar. At least it took my mind off the hours ahead. Every stone and lump of sheep droppings was a barrier to progress, mainly because my face was only inches from the ground and I didn’t want the Balaclava smelling of sheep shit for the next five hours. It was only a slight uphill slope but even by rocking the whole body weight from side to side it was a laborious journey

A sudden rain storm soaks the balaclava - but the play-partner was obviously close by because he removes the wet woollen covering and provides a dry woolly hat. He offers a get-out which would involve an uncomfortable penalty (a ‘mid-scene choice’ ) and when this is refused - leaves again.

 “Suit yourself ... and tell you what, mate. Wax cotton suits you” and off he stomped, his muddy combat boots being all I could see in my limited field of vision. “I hope they get waterlogged!” I thought to myself as he disappeared.

And so the gentle wind blew and I resigned myself to four more hours. The inescapable lashings that cut into the tough dull fabric rather than into my skin, were already leaving the jacket and pants scarred with marks. I imagined what the suit would look like tomorrow after it’s ordeal. Tomorrow would be my day to call the shots. That’s always the deal - tit for tat. Tomorrow his fate will be in my hands for five hours, maybe more. I imagined myself warm and dry sitting at my desk, writing up the account of today’s experience. I might decide to wear the suit again tomorrow so I could see myself in the mirror as I type. If I survive today, the moment the five hours are up I’m free for the rest of the evening ... and night. His ordeal doesn’t start till eight tomorrow morning.

 The Hogtie on the wet hillside draws to a close - but isn’t over yet

The sudden sound of boots close to my head brought me back from the limbo I’d drifted into. He was towering above me as I lay on my back. My body was numb and I couldn’t have moved if I’d wanted to ... and with a pair of size eleven American combat boots practically touching my ears I wasn’t going to try.

“Wakey, wakey” he smiled. “Time for a little adventure. I’m sure you’ll welcome something to stimulate your circulation.”
“What time is it?” I asked, trying to sound ar least coherent.
“Never you mind” was his reply as he knelt down in the mud with wax cotton knees on either side of my head. He eased the woolly hat off and pocketed it, and his knees closed in against my ears, clamping my head firmly. He was still talking but I couldn’t hear what he was saying. His hands reached for the ropes that criss-crossed my chest and he pulled at them. He rocked me from side to side but his knees kept my head immobilised. He reached for the ropes on my doubled up legs and pulled them towards him, lifting them. I cried out in sudden pain as he flipped me onto my side and a waxy knee pressed my unprotected face into the muddy turf. He rocked my body and I was soon lying on my other side with the other side of my face receiving the same treatment. He grabbed at the ankle rope and dragged it towards him, revolving me and rolling me. Suddenly on my stomach I found my face buried deep into the wax cotton of his crotch and I could feel the wet mud on my cheeks being rubbed off onto a matt black and greasy bulge.

I heard him laugh as he hauled me upwards, my chest now against the slope of his knees, my face stung by the buckle of his belt. He leaned back and opened his belt and then his jacket before pulling my head into it’s sweaty interior. He closed the jacket around my head and rolled with me until I was under him and he was astride me. He lay forward over me burying me and cutting off my air supply. He suddenly leaned back and as I regained my breath he stood up, boots planted on either side of my waist. He bent down and lifted me by the ropes around my chest leaving only my boots on the ground. I was getting disoriented and was surprised to find myself suddenly kneeling before him, hands still lashed to my ankles and face pressed against the front of his legs. He massaged my head into the fabric that covered his thighs, before opening his legs and clamping my head between them.

His next move was to pull me off balance and I was on my stomach again. “Circulation coming back a bit, is it?” he asked. Somehow dropping back into a sitting position, his legs now spread wide on either side of my trussed and folded body. He hauled me towards him using the full-body rope harness as grab handles. He lay back with me on top of him, dragging my muddy body until we were chest to chest; me balanced precariously on top of him. Being still hog-tied with my legs bent upwards high in the air, all my bodyweight was on his chest and waist and I could feel his body warmth. Gripping my head in his capable hands, he kissed me.

Although my mind was still reeling from all the sudden movement, I responded automatically accepting his tongue as it penetrated my slightly numb lips. Abruptly he threw me off. I landed with the thud and rolled away from him as he wiped his mouth. “You mucky fuck-pig. I’ve got a mouth full of mud. What am I going to do with you? You’re shitted up to the eyeballs. You’ll muddy up the van if I let you ride home in it. I think I should leave you here ‘til it rains again. That’ll get some of the mud off. Or there’s a stream just over that rise. I could drag you over there and dunk you in it. What do you say to that?” he asked belligerently.

I knew better than to say anything when he was on one of these highs. He was turned on by the situation and, tired and stiff as I was, I got off on my total powerlessness. He grabbed a rope on my chest and dragged me back towards him, “But I’ve got a better Idea” he leered and produced a pair of the short stumpy emergency scissors that we always keep handy during bondage sessions. They will cut through anything, but he was waving them menacingly under my nose. “I’ve got a little surprise for you. The ‘special surprise’ card, remember? I’ve got a way to get you home without mucking up the van.”

With one deft snip of the scissors my boots fell away from my wrists and my knees screamed with pain after being immobilised for so long. Before I knew what was happening, he was kneeling at the side of me and rolling me sideways. Over and over he flipped me ... on my front, on my back, on my front. Systematically he was propelling me across the mud and grass and sheep shit. My head was spinning and my body being battered even though it was thickly padded and booted.

The rolling stopped as suddenly as it had begun. I didn’t know where I was but he had rolled me to exactly where he wanted me to be. As I lay flat on my face panting, he knelt across me and talked into my ear as I tried to keep my face out of the longish grass.

“Now I have a little plan and I think you’re going to like it ... not a lot, perhaps. But, on the other hand, you being a kinky little sod, perhaps you might. Whichever way, you’re in no position to argue ... and if you do, I’ll just gag you. Understood? Nod if you’re hearing me.”
I nodded, wearily.

Detailed description of how the rope-tie in the hill-side sequence first started…

Once the parameters of a game have been agreed, we usually co-operate while climbing into the gear. Because it was to be out-doors and a long stint, we both knew that warm clothes would be essential to avoid having to abort the plan early. I was allowed to chose my own under-stuff but once the wax two-piece we’d agreed on was zipped and snapped closed complete with boots, Tony took control. That’s our usual routine; no resistance until some form of initial ‘handicap’ is in place, then we are free to be as uncooperative as opportunity allows from then on.

On this occasion he used handcuffs behind my back and an efficient padded blindfold. “To avoid any nonsense” he explained, adding some sort of ankle hobbles. I knew they were our special boot-size leg-irons because regular leg-irons are too small to close around the insulated boots he’d recommended me to wear. As the second ankle lock clicked shut I sensed him stand up.

“Is that it?” I asked.
“For starters,” he said. “Why? Are you thinking of putting up a fight?” and before I’d even considered what options might be open to me, I was suddenly swung round and pushed back against our horizontal bar set-up. This is a simple installation which consists of four scaffold poles parallel with the floor at neck, waist and just above ankle height plus another just below ceiling level. They’re fixed between two upright poles which are firmly anchored to the floor and ceiling. The horizontal bars are adjustable in height, but today I soon knew where each bar was, because a quick rope around my waist and arms pinned me to a bar which had me standing totally helpless ... while the chain of the leg Irons was clipped to the bottom bar ... before another short rope around the high collar of my waxed jacket brought the back of my neck neatly against the third bar. I could see none of this coming, because of the blindfold.

The bars stand three feet away from the wall so Tony could work from behind or infront of me and I was totally vulnerable. A couple of quick whacks high on the back of my shoulders followed by a couple more on the front of my thighs plus a sudden playful punch in the gut had me totally confused and unprepared for the gag which was in my mouth before I knew what was happening.

A gag hadn’t been part of the deal for this five hour stint. I was angry but suddenly in no position to discuss the matter. Then with his usual taunting voice, he was in front of and behind me, hands roaming and tweaking and provoking while explaining to me in graphic detail the intensity of the predicament he had devised.

I’d said I wanted the suit breaking in, so rain and mud and a lot of dragging around on stony ground figured heavily in the plans he outlined.

His plan for roping seemed simple at first. We both know that the more rope used the more possibility there is of it working loose. As I stood there handcuffed and tethered at neck and ankles, he was safe to release the rope around my waist and arms. With me being still blindfolded, he was able to come at me from any direction and I couldn’t anticipate, let alone frustrate, his efforts. His roping skills were so expert, his lashings seldom cause circulation problems but always efficient enough to eliminate any risk of slipping.

I felt him neatly circling my body with rope, first around my waist and arms and then between body and elbows. Comfortably secure rather than tight I thought, but my hands were still cuffed and so the elbows were quite far back. Suddenly the cuffs were being removed. Could this be an opportunity for me to make a grab ... but he was suddenly in front of me, his mouth close to my ear. “Don’t even think about it,” he warned. “Your elbows are lashed and if you don’t want to get frostbite you’ll let me put gloves on you, won’t you!” To emphasise his point, an unexpected tug at the rope in front of my waist dragged my elbows forward and tight against my body, leaving my hands separated and isolated at my sides.

“Put your gloves on like a good boy,” he advised, “you’ll thank me for it later.” The fingers of my right hand found their way deep into a familiar thickly padded motorcycle glove, one of the pair we use a lot in our games because they strap tight around the wrist and padlock on when required. I felt him pull the double cuff of the jacket over the glove and close the under-cuff tightly shut, sealing the glove. Next I felt a mitt being pulled over the glove. It was a tight fit, and I knew it was one of the waxed cotton waterproof mitts that I had deliberately made narrower so that when worn over padded gloves the fingers were immobilised. This was the first time they’d been used. As I felt him seal the mitt between the inner and outer storm-cuff of the jacket I knew the mitt could not be rubbed free.

With one hand still un-gloved I was surprised to feel rope being tied around the already gloved wrist. When it was cinched Tony then just left it and repeated the process pulling the second glove on followed by the mitt. Next, I felt rope circle the newly gloved left hand. When it, too, was cinched I was surprised to find both hands being drawn outwards away from my sides. The ropes around my elbows fell away and before I knew what was happening my wrists were being tied off to the upright bars, my arms fully extended sideways.

“Surprise, surprise” said a voice in my ear, “You wanted your nice new suit broken in, so I thought a hundred feet of tough waxy sash cord wrapped and knotted around your arms and legs ... and crotch and body before I hog-tie you face down in the mud somewhere out on the moors, would rub some of the newness off the suit.

“Don’t worry’,” the honey-sweet voice continued, “I’ll make sure all that rope stays put, so you don’t have to worry that it’ll come loose while you’re wriggling around trying to find a more comfortable position ... out on the moors in the pissing rain. The weather forecast says the weather will be lovely ... for ducks. The roping,” he continued, “will probably take about an hour. Remember the time we did full body rope harnesses when we went to that disco: we shimmied around for hours in them and nothing came loose. Imagine a full rope harness over waxed cotton with padding underneath; the fabric bulging out between the criss-crossed ropes that circle each arm and leg separately, plus your chest and buttocks and up through your crotch. I won’t make it tight but I think it will look interesting ... before it all gets caked in mud and soggy with rain. I’ll take the video camera so you can see how you looked, that Is, if the rain let’s up. But then in a way I guess you won’t care if It buckets down because you want the suit to finish up looking nicely broken in, don’t you?”

And so the gentle taunting went on as I felt the network of ropes systematically taking shape, carefully cinched at every intersection the way we’d both rehearsed and practised when experimenting with Japanese rope bondage techniques and decorative harnesses. We’d often scoffed at bondage workshops where elaborate ties had been demonstrated. We preferred simple and efficient ‘short rope’ ties, but today Tony was indulging himself and, at the same time delaying the moment when the five hour ordeal would actually start.

Before he was finished I’d already been suited up, gagged and blindfolded for over an hour. Finally he removed the blindfold to show me his handiwork. It was a masterpiece of practical rope-tying, symmetrical and unshakeable but still allowing limited body movement. He took a few quick photos before removing my soggy gag and allowing me some water. I took the opportunity to experiment with my limited mobility. My upper body and arms were totally meshed in a network of ropes. Each leg was parcelled separately, down the inside and up the outside plus rope circling each limb four times at different points, each circle knotted at every cross-point to prevent slipping or loosening. Arms not attached to the body but lashed together at the wrists. The individual leg-roping allowed me to walk, but I was fascinated the rope hobble now between my ankles. This now replaced the leg-irons, and included a rope from this chain between my boots looped up to somewhere under my crotch. Tony proudly demonstrated how this hobble was also a lead-string which, when tugged would cause me to shorten my step or bend at the knees. If jerked suddenly it would pull me off balance.

He made the point firmly that I would climb into the van in our garage and out again somewhere on the moors when nobody was around and he would remain in total control at all times. I would not be gagged or blindfolded as long as I caused him no trouble ... although what trouble I could possibly cause, was beyond my imagination.

For more excerpts see Well Waxed and Waterproof

INDEX TO ALL 'STORYLINE' ROPING DESCRIPTIONS

Black Prince
Initiative Test

Top Ridge Farm
Houdini Connections
Man-to-man Stuff

COMPETITIVE MASOCHISM - challenge rope-tie