Another
episode of the long ordeal begins...
So, I began
preparing myself, forcing myself to engage all the senses; exercising
my nostrils and lungs for air flow - testing the roping although I knew
nothing would budge - checking the area for a softer piece of ground,
dryer if such a thing existed out here on the moors. Settling down to
make yet another mental 'escape' needs preparation, like a dog settling
down onto its bed for the night.
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. When I eventually reached my objective it wasn't much better
than where I'd come from, but I rolled onto my back and prepared to
mentally absent myself.
The process is gradual, choosing a target and thinking the way back
towards it. It had to be warm, with me in control ...
Florida ... days spent around an abandoned fruit farm with derelict
out buildings ... full or rusting metal racks just waiting for an imaginative
bondage enthusiast ... remote creeks with muddy banks ... but warm muddy
banks ... sun every day ... and humid nights when you prayed for a bit
of breeze ... but even the breeze was like somebody had opened the oven
door. There was a lot of rain in Florida but it was warm rain. The first
time I got American friend Richard trussed up out of doors I put him
in full leather. In that heat it was not a kind thing to do, but he
loved leather so a one-piece suit, gloves and boots and a leather hood
... and he was ready to roast. I lead him to a suitable tree and indulged
myself by roping the warm leather elaborately to the trunk with his
back against it. I even, after lashing his body and legs, pulled his
boots up off the ground so his whole body weight was hanging on the
ropes. That was when it started to piss with rain ... but it was warm
rain ... I was wearing only tee shirt and shorts and the warm rain felt
good ... but he was worried about his leathers getting wet and it was
a real downpour ... thundering rain and very cold ... no!! ... warm
rain ... no, cold rain.
Oh fuck it's raining and my Balaclava's taking the full force of it.
It's hammering down on the Barbour suit, which is waterproof but the
fucking Balaclava is drinking it up!. I'm back to reality with a vengeance!
It was only a shower, but the damage was done: My head encased in thick
wool which would soon become a freezing wet prison. I began to panic
because my skull was already aching and hypothermia can have lasting
effects and ... suddenly Tony was there, the Balaclava was off and he
was wiping me dry ... silently towering above me, snugly clad in his
wind and water proof waxed suit still glistening from the recent rain.
But now he was here for me when I needed him ... and his being there
proved he hadn't left me unprotected ... and had been close enough to
know it had rained. Maybe he'd spent the past hour watching me through
binoculars ... or perhaps he'd taken the van down to some local pub
and was feeding his face when the rain came on. Had he left his snack
and hurried back? I doubted it. How long it had been raining I didn't
know because I'd been away ... but the freezing rain had brought me
back ... like waking from a dream.
The sky was now clearer and he was there. The soggy Balaclava was gone
and a warm dry woolly hat promised to bring life back to my numb forehead
and ears and frozen brain, but no relief to cold fingers and feet. I
attempted a tentative bargaining plea, but Tony isn't a cricketing man.
Rain does not stop play.
"Tough" was his only response to my whinge about cold feet
and hands "you threw a five and you've only been here an hour.
Minimum four more to go, rain or shine. That was the deal. Wriggle about
a bit, they'll soon warm up." But then his tone softened, and I
was immediately suspicious. "Tell you what, though; how's this
for an alternative? I drag you back to the van (it's only just on the
other side of the hill), load you into it just as you are, mud and all
- and you spend the next four hours back home warm and dry ... with
the central heating turned full on? Same position, same shite-caked
gear ... BUT ... when the time's up I just loosen your legs and you
spend the rest of the night warm and dry on the floor beside my bed
... still in the suit and still roped. You said you wanted today to
be a waxed cotton experience. I promise I'll keep my suit on right through
your ordeal, Including sleep in it ... I fancy that."
I settled for the shorter option. The wind on the hillside was preferable
to the unbreathable air our cellar furnace is capable of generating.
"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.
A hot shower ... that will be the first essential tonight ... a long,
long hot shower. Looking at the state of the suit (what I can see of
it as I lay on my back with arms under me and knees bent double). It
might be wise to take my long hot-shower still wearing the suit ...
let the warm water cascade down it ... warming me up ... while washing
away the thick layers of mud. If I'm lucky he'll decide to strip off
his suit. I can imagine him in the shower with me ... naked ... I can
see him through the steam ... feel his naked body against my suit ...
I hug him to me ... press his flesh against the warm wet fabric ...
a prelude to a warm comfortable night ... I'd need it after surviving
today ... and I will survive today ... because tomorrow ... what then?
The suit ... scrubbed free of mud and dried by the furnace in the warm
cellar overnight ... would be ready to wear again but now softer and
scarred by the ropes. It will turn me on to be in it as I sit writing
... comfortable in the knowledge that he's securely lashed to a metal
grille in our basement playspace ... until my account of today's events
is complete he'll be on his own ... five thousand words minimum ...
I'll make the rules, but I may allow him a concession ... yes ... my
suit's modified so it will padlock shut at wrists, neck and waist! He
can keep the key tucked away inside the fist mitts I will insist he
wears while immobilised and helpless ... sweltering in his waxed suit
...
Nice situation to imagine ... until my essay is finished he will stay
put ... and I won't be able to remove my nice clean and dry waxy suit
... but at least the radiator in the office will be turned off ... him
bundled up in his wax jacket and pants ... but with full motorcycle
leathers under it I think ... AND the other old waxed suit inside out
against his naked skin under it all ... AND the radiator in there on
full. He'll be tethered but not immobilised ... I'll leave him room
to squirm because I like to see him squirm ... and the video recorder
will be running. These are the games and deals we make for one another
... and life is good.
I like the idea of being warm and dry and locked in this suit ... but
the rain and mud and dragging and roping of today ... (is it still today?)
... will all leave their marks.
After a hot shower the suit may need a thorough re-waxing. The thought
of wearing the suit while it's being re-waxed ... massaged all over
with sticky warm black wax ... perhaps with me fixed to the horizontal
bars while he's waxing it ... no, to the chain frame ... I like the
chain frame ... it allows a lot of movement but no escape. Similar to
the horizontal bars but made from strong welded chain links; floor to
ceiling with room to spread-eagle someone in it. When you thrash around
it makes a very satisfying noise. Perhaps he would leave me chained
up in the furnace room for however long it takes for the wax to dry...
I could deal with that ... I could deal with being tethered and powerless
in the hot room ... sweltering in the hot suit while the wax dried ...
but would it ever dry in such a warm room? ... maybe I would go out
on the bike in it to cool it down ... feel the cool wind on my face
... yes, the cold wind on my face but unable to penetrate the suit ...
but the cold can penetrate the suit, I've discovered that today ...
and the wind on my face is cold ... cold wind on my face!
Shit, I'm back ... and cold. My nose is cold
A printer-friendly verson of the complete text is available at
WELL WAXED AND WATERPROOF
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