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The real story behind
CALLUM AND THE INTRUDER
The 'wishful-thinking' version of a situation which almost happened is on site as INTRUDER - A FANTASY.
It was written because the real story could not be told at the time.
Now, almost twenty years later, there is nobody left to complain.
Is truth stranger than fiction? Is the following accurate re-telling of the real event HOTTER than the fictionalised version?
Is truth strathan fiction?.Is the following accurate re-telling of the real event HOTTER than the fictionalised version?
My aim here in
this long and detailed narrative is to stick strictly to facts, so I have to
start by admitting that the real event - the happening which sparked the
fiction was, in fact, actually a non-event! ... because the intruder failed to
get into Callum’s house.
Disappointed? Don't be - because the real situation
was much more threatening. There was more than one would-be intruder; dangerous
men in a dangerous mood. Four of Callum’s lusty mates pissed out of their
minds.
No question, if they'd managed to gain entry to the
house, and had stumbled across their trusted Rugby coach’s long hidden secret
‘perversions’, it might have turned into a quite ugly story. These
rough-and-ready-for-anything hard-nuts most definitely would not have responded
sympathetically to the discovery. Their mindset was cast in stone: extreme
prejudice, and thinking that ran on very straight and narrow tracks.
Deep-rooted and sometimes blind prejudices could provoke in them conditioned
reflexes: knee, boot, fist. Even their idea of fun-and-games could be rough,
harsh, unthinkingly cruel. Previously, only the lighter side of their
characteristics has been described on the ENDURANCE TRAINING and other Callum
pages.
What made the real event even more scary is that,
while they were outside the house tanked-up and determined to gain access (if
necessary by force), not only was Callum bound, gagged and rubber-encased down
in the basement, I was also in the house. I was standing in his living room
with the lights out listening ... wearing a locked-on heavily weighted diver’s
dry suit.
I had just enjoyed watching Callum systematically
render himself totally helpless. His elaborate self-applied restraint routine
had taken over an hour ... plus a lot of strenuous effort to achieve.
Background information
Technical specifics of Callum’s
self-applied bondage predicament on that particular occasion are graphically
described step-by-step in the previous file, SPORTS EQUIPMENT MODIFIED. There’s
also a brief descriptive recap further down this page.
Additional background information about
Callum’s home, life-style - and how I happened to be locked into a diver’s
dry-suit when this event started to happen follows. Before that, I perhaps need to sketch in a
necessary preamble to the main event.
Callum's mind-set
When
indulging in solo sessions at home, Callum, of course always had to have a
fool-proof escape route. On this occasion he had just demonstrated for me some
new procedures he used to achieve an intense feeling of virtually inescapable
captivity while playing alone. But today, the deal was that I would perform the
service of ‘final strap-closer’ to make his carefully planned-for self-release
impossible for a fixed period.
He was
determined to experience / endure this particularly intense predicament for
four hours with absolutely no chance of let-out. He had chosen the time-scale.
He had made me promise that in no circumstances would I let him out before the
deadline - however desperate his condition might become. He had virtually
demanded that I leave him alone and spend my time upstairs - perhaps watching
TV.
Him being left un-monitored for safety for such a long time worried me - but
Callum had been very insistent.
My
predicament
In advance, I had decided that I might occupy part of my waiting time trying on
some of his authentic dive gear. As a self-indulgence, I often got myself
kitted out in heavy layering while watching somebody else attempt an escape or
when they were luxuriating in a good lengthy bondage predicament. On this
occasion, because there was so much well-used out-door sports stuff to choose
from, I had dug out one of Callum’s old wet-suits - but had also speculated
about trying to struggle into one of his several heavy-duty black rubber
dry-suits over it - just to keep myself amused once Callum’s long session had
started.
He,
although still busy double-checking his meticulous preparations for his
self-bondage routine, encouraged me to get kitted out while he could still see.
Eager to start, I stripped off and was soon into the form-fitting wet-suit
(Callum had gown out of it twenty years ago, he told me). It took longer to
wriggle my way inside the rubbery dry-suit, much to Callum's amusement. I was
please to find that the outer suit neck and wrist seals were all in good
condition and water-tight because I knew I would sweat a lot ... and was
determined to stay geared up for at least two hours. Callum being Callum had
other ideas. He decided that the layering I'd chosen for myself should stay on
for the whole time he was otherwise occupied.
We both
enjoyed these challenge and counter challenge situations.
Could I deal with four hours?. Yes, I decided. He knew me well by this time,
and made a further suggestion. I could never resist locked-on clothes - but was
not prepared for his choice of locking device. He produced a heavily weighted
diver’s belt which he had modified to padlock. Having agreed to this, it was
soon securely in place before I could have second-thoughts - and being a
combination padlock, only Callum could release it - after his session, he
confirmed. My mind was still dwelling on this when he also produced a pair of
lead weighted old-fashioned dive boots - which he told me he often locked
himself into when alone around the house. I was tempted.
Being,
Callum, it was not difficult to turn this into an irresistible challenge. The
boots were a great turn-on - and the locking device modification to each was, I
soon discovered, neatly efficient - again using key-less combination padlocks.
As he
hadn't yet started his self-applied restraint procedure and I was already
kitted out ... I now realised that I was not only sealed in for the four hours
he planned for himself, but also the time it would take him to work his way
into it before the clock started ticking.
We had
played many such tit-for-tat challenging games together during his visits
“Deal
with it” was a phrase I often threw at Callum when I'd fixed him into some sort
of escape-proof predicament. With a grin he reminded me of this - before
proceeding to demonstrate step-by-step his elaborate self-applied bondage
routine.
*****
This took
well over an hour. Only after Callum was elaborately self-gagged, masked and
total rubber imprisoned to his own satisfaction was I called upon to act as the
“final strap-closer”
to block his route to self-release temporarily.
Even during
his final preparations I began to appreciate more seriously my own seriously challenging predicament
- for the next four hours - and I had already been in it for an hour.
Now he
was away with the Celtic fairies - for FOUR hours - I needed a drink. Trying to
clump my weighted boots up the stairs from his basement was a challenge in
itself.
A single
boot would only fit on each step - sideways! Think about it. It’s the sort of
detail that might easily be overlooked when dreaming up a bondage situation.
The unexpected factor. A physical or technical detail can unexpectedly
complicate any imagined plan. Callum was meticulous when working out any of his
self-applied strictly solo self-restraint sessions. The un-expected could prove
fatal. So my progress up the stairs (fifteen of them) one at a time was a drama
in itself ... but the real drama did not start for me until I, sweating
profusely, had almost reached the top step.
I heard
the telephone ringing and then a strident Scottish voice bellowing into the
answering machine ...
REALITY CHECK
Before getting deep into what happened next - the physical situation of Callum
as described in “Sports Gear as Bondage” is essential to what came next.
For convenience, I have added here a
quick recap of the basic predicament. Only genuine facts have been included in
this description - no fantasy or wishful thinking ...
and real life is sometimes less easy to believe than fiction ...
as the following description might prove.
Picture it:
Beefy forty-year-old athletic Scot alone in
his windowless cellar.
Totally encased in a tight-fitting
two-piece neoprene wet-suit with shiny surfaces inside and outside. Under it,
padded boxer’s groin-guard with a tightly laced-down cock and balls crammed
inside a rigid plastic athletic cup. Mouth stuffed with an unshakable tongue
and teeth immobiliser, ears plugged inside a snug-fitting open-faced rubber
diver’s cold-weather helmet attached to the suit. A heavy-duty diving mask with
blacked-out visor firmly strapped over the thick head-covering.
Hands imprisoned inside securely laced-on
padded sparring gloves with wrists strapped together in front and elbows
tightly cinched together behind by a webbing strap; these bindings tightly connected
through his rubbered crotch. Rubber-encased feet buried deep inside rigid
calf-high ski-boots which keep his knees uncomfortably braced semi-bent; the
boots, in turn, clamped to the floor ... as he prepares to stand for four hours
inescapably trapped in that predicament.
Self-applied bondage - made
inescapable:
The subject of a “final strap closer” first
cropped in Callum’s early correspondence. On this occasion, because I’m
sticking only to the facts, an extra strap was not added - just one short piece
of thin fuse wire was all I needed .
Fundamental to his self-release routine
was the friction buckle which tightened the long webbing strap he’d so neatly
contrived to immobilise both wrists and both elbows, linking them tightly
together under his crotch. This he achieved by flipping a hole in the strap-end
over a strategically placed hook in the wall, and tugging on it until he had
arrived at the required degree of tightness, before flipping the strap-end from
off the hook.
His escape-route depended entirely on his
being able to lean against a wall and press on this buckle to release it.
So, with a single strand of thin
wire neatly de-activating
the little self-release mechanism on the buckle ... the whole of his ingeniously devised and
carefully rehearsed self-release routine would be a non-starter.
An additional challenge:
Because Callum delighted in making things
difficult for himself, on this occasion he'd devised an extra self-challenge.
By clamping himself into ski-boots attached to the floor in the middle of the
room - he would first have to break free from them before being able to
activate the friction buckle.
His neatly modified ski-boot-clamps
were adjustable. They could break away easily or only when considerable force
was applied. He had spent a lot of time perfecting this means of being able to
enjoy an energetic struggle and still remain captive - but eventually, by
throwing all his weight forward, snap-open the ski-boot clamps. Adjusted with
precision to allow this break-out - he'd chosen to make this possible only if
he put all of what remains of his strength into the effort when time for
self-release was reached when alone.
Only then would the boot clamps snap
open and allow him to move (still strapped and sightless) to begin the first of
many arduous manoeuvres which would eventually allow him to release himself
from the several efficient restrictive elements - one by one - starting with
releasing the friction buckle.
Our tit-for-tat relationship being
what it was, I had on the spur of the moment, also re-adjusted the
clamp-tension so they would not open! He was unaware of this. When the time
came for me to remove the wire and signal the start his self-release
in four hours time - he would
(probably with great relief) immediately attempt his first essential move
towards freedom - to head for the wall.
Only after enjoying watching his
strenuous efforts to break free from the boot-clamps for a while, did I plan to
eventually tell him that I’d tampered with the tension screws. That would make
him very pissed-off - something I enjoyed doing when he was safely restrained.
I planned to further enjoy his frustration before allowing him to start his
escape procedure on this memorable occasion .
Sneaky - or creative? Half a turn of
two clamp-screws and six inches of fuse wire! ... and I could keep him
powerless until I decided to allow him out.
That’s how we played,
challenge and counter-challenge.
So, back to the
narrative - re-living it today as it actually happened:
Here I am, already sweltering in a thick rubber diving suit over the top of a
tightly body-hugging wet suit, with locked-on lead boots and weighted belt -
all impossible to remove. And will there be release for me even after I've
re-opened his escape route? He could easily make me wait until he has
successfully worked his way through the long process of shedding his numerous
restraint devices. The combination to padlocks on my weighted belt and boots
are the ace he is holding in this particular game?
Because of my
provocative trick with his tension screws, might he decide on some sort of
pay-pack? Who knows. In a way, perhaps I hope he does. That will be something
to speculate on during the coming four hours. Four long hours before any of
this could even begin to happen. And a lot can change in four hours ... as I am
about to discover.
INTRUDERS ... the real
event continues :
The voice on the telephone was rattling the answering machine, it was so loud -
and forceful.
The stream of abuse consisted mainly of fucking and blinding and cunting and
sodding. But as I listened more closely, the message was simply that the caller
wanted Callum to pick up the telephone. Pauses in the flow as the voice waited
for Callum to come on line after each insistent demand, were punctuated by
additional background cussing and swearing. This was in the days before mobile
phones and the call was obviously from a public telephone box. And when the
‘pips’ went there were more obscenities and some arguing as coins were hastily
found to stuff into the mechanism.
Breathless from my
efforts on the stairs , I held what I could of my breath - fearful that they
might hear me - forgetting it was only on the answering machine.
A different voice took
over the phone after some argumentative background exchanges.
The air in the phone box must have been blue from the swearing - and there were
more than two people crammed into it, apparently. But the firm voice was
obviously used to being obeyed.
The off-stage bickering died down and a voice I recognised as Bellman said
firmly that Callum should pick up the telephone immediately - whatever he was
in the middle of.
“Donger” Bellman was
somebody I had heard a lot about from Callum. This character is already
well-described on site. No need to repeat it here, but this ex-Scots Guards
sergeant instructor had a reputation for making people do as they were told -
or else. And the drift of his demands now, were that he knew Callum had a
visitor - knew we had said we had ‘business’ to do (Naturally neither he or any
of his colleagues had any inkling of what sort of ‘Business’.)
The voice waited after another demand that Callum should come to the phone.
Then stating firmly that he knew that we were, in fact, "bloody
listening", Callum was told in no uncertain terms that he would be well
advised to admit it and pick up the fucking phone. A chorus of expletives in
the background confirmed this.
After a weighty pause,
‘Donger’ Bellman’s tone changed slightly. It was, if anything, more reasonable.
A group of Cal’s friends were assembled in their regular local pub and had
decided that come hell or high water Cal’s visitor “fra Londin” should be
allowed to sample the delights of Oban social life.
I had already heard this
argument earlier in the day because, in fact. Cal had met my train and while
picking up some groceries we had accidentally run into Bellman and another of
Cal’s disreputable cronies, Luckily, in advance I’d been warned that The Mates
had been told that Callum had his ‘Lawyer from England’ visiting to work on a
very complicated document.
Part of his cover-story as a forty-year-old unmarried man first arriving in
Oban , was a fictitious ex-wife and acrimonious separation (Everybody expected
to know everything there was to know about an in-comer). In fact, the
unreasonable demands of this lady had recently provided Callum with convenient
excuses for visiting
In the middle of the
small supermarket these two rugged types, wearing dirty work clothes which had
a distinctly military air about them, were heading for us determinedly.
I was dragged into the
argument when I was challenged to confirm that the business could wait just wee
while - while they welcomed me to
Safely back in the car
Callum was still swearing under his breath. His plan was for us to enjoy three
uninterrupted days of rare opportunities for him. His secluded house contained
an accumulation of genuine sports equipment and out-door pursuits gear that was
there for me to explore. We both knew that I would enjoy putting to good use
some of the genuine kit which he had modified for his own private enjoyment -
or in some cases non-enjoyment but self-challenge. Together, since our first
meeting in
Callum's parting shot to
Bellman had been that he would call him tomorrow . But obviously Bellman, now
with reinforcements and after a few drinks, had decided otherwise. The voice on
the telephone was adamant: I should be brought down into the town to meet the
gang. No arguments, insisted the commanding voice. If we were eating, we had
ten minutes to finish. They were on their way to “get us” ... and the phone
went dead.
*****
I had been sweating
before I’d made the climb from the basement. Now I was not only sweating but
needed to pee - but also felt literally rooted to the spot, and not just by
lead weights. Ten minutes. I wasn’t sure I could even get safely down the
stairs in ten minutes, let alone release Callum from his complicated
restraints. Then, even if we both got out, we would be running with sweat and
naked by the time they arrived.
Mercifully
It took several of these
to drag my feet as far as the front door. This was old but sturdy and had two
old bolts as well as a lock - so that was OK. Was there time to check the
little side door and all the windows? Not really. The single-story roadside
level had two bedrooms. Did these rooms have doors that lock? One of them had a
key-hole and, on the inside, the old block lock did have a key in it. My
fingers were trembling as I removed the key and tried it from the hall side. It
turned. The other door had a lock - but no key in it - fuck!
I knew the little side door was locked and bolted because Callum had asked me
to do it. So that was OK. But Christ, what else - think! How long before....
Although on the same
level, the living room and kitchen were over the back of the house and so above
ground level - but not far above. These men were climbers - they had trained.
At least one was ex-S.A.S. I was wasting my time. Switch all the lights out. It
took time to find various switches. Perhaps they would think we’d gone out for
food. Did Callum usually leave lights on when he was not at home? Did any of
his mates have a spare key? Were they used to letting themselves in? Was there
a key under the doormat outside, for Christ’s sake!
I wondered if I would be
safer downstairs - “doon the stair” as the locals might say! Concentrate! The
door at the top of the stairs had a lock - in fact I think the door between the
garage and the bottom of the stairs had been locked when we first arrived and
had entered through the garage. How strong were the garage doors - they were
the old sideways folding type. I could remember Callum bolting these top and
bottom inside - but how secure were they? I had no way of knowing, until ....
Ten minutes! Less now -
but now standing waiting made it seem more like an hour. A couple of times I
heard a car and held my breath - but it drove past. Eventually a car pulled
onto the gravel in front. Not a car - a truck! A jeep? Boots. Serious boots! A
pause before the old-fashioned door knocker was rat-a-tatted briskly. Only a
short wait before it was hammered more determinedly. Various comments laced
with choice epithets were ‘Shushed’ by Bellman who was obviously listening for
sounds of movement inside. I dare not shift my feet in case the lead-weighted
boots might be heard. Sweat rolled down my spine and I dare not move in case
they heard it. Mercifully I had been in the living room when the truck pulled
in. Mercifully, because the letter box now rattled and they were obviously
peering in.
With all my attention
focussed on this, a sudden rattle at the side door nearly made my heart stop.
Now, simultaneous hammering on the front and side doors produced a really
threatening two-.prong attack. When it stopped the silence was almost
deafening. I realised I was holding my breath - until I was forced to breathe -
terrified I might be heard?
Muted discussion
outside. I couldn’t quite hear and was tempted to move closer - but dare not. I
did catch the words “gone out t’ eat.” My relief was short-lived before Bellman
ordered somebody to see if the car was “at Hame”. Boots scrunched away down the
path at the side of the house, two pairs and there were still two voices
outside the front door. Spare keys were discussed and plant-pots moved. Was
there a key? I had bolted the inside of the front door. If there was a key and
it failed to open the door - they would know there was somebody inside. What
then?
Below the living room
window I heard the garage doors being tested - determinedly - and then
hammering. “Buchanan, we know you’re fucking in there!” insisted an unfamiliar
voice. Were they kicking the doors in their frustration? Did they intend to
force them open? Was the door at the back of the garage that led to the stairs
locked? I tried to remember - but then realised that if there car was in the
garage - we must also be here.
“I know they’re fucking
in there!” insisted another voice which might have been Wee Hughie.
Concerted banging on
garage and front doors simultaneously was immediately picked-up by whoever was
still outside the side door. The surround-sound hammering almost freaked me
out. Boots from down below were suddenly running back up the path. “Stand
aside, I’ll pick the fucking lock!” rasped a voice.
“No! They could have
gone fr’a meal at the Royal,” suggested the voice of reason. This again was
Bellman. “Naw!!” said another voice - and it then became louder intending to be
heard inside. “I think they’re in there fucking. Couple of Fucking perverts -
queer bastards!” yelled the voice. This provoked howls of raucous laughter -
and was aimed to provoke rather than insult if we happened to be inside.
“Is that right?” asked
another voice loudly, “Think yon Englishman’s a poof?” bawled the voice for the
benefit of anybody who might be inside - then called even louder, “Callum, do
youse have yer’sell an ass to fuck the neet? Yer know what they says about
sailors!”
“A bit of the other - is that the expression you’s navy poofs call it?” yelled
another.
More howls of laugher -
but somehow I realised that this crowd would not be voicing such opinions if
they seriously thought there was any real possibility one of their number their
might be just that.
The laughter subsided
and they were obviously at a loss to know what to do next.
“Aw fuck, this is a waste of good drinking time!” decided Wee Hughie.
”A’think they’re definitely doon at the Royal having a meal,” advised Bellman.
“What, a meal and wine?” asked a voice before shouting just in case anybody
inside could hear. “Only poofs drink wine!”
The others laughed but the party was breaking up.
“Tell yer what!” decided
another voice. “Why don’t we go doon there and embarrass the fuck out of them
in The Royal.”
“Naw! I’m barred fra’the Royal” said Wee Hughie.
“So am I,” said another voice.
“Do we put a note through the door ... “ asked someone.
“Or crap through it,” suggested someone else.
“No we don’t!” decided Bellman. “Come away lads. I’ll phone him in the morning
and make damn sure we get them doon there tomorrow, even if we have to drag
them.”
Various voices expressed an enthusiasm for doing just that.
I was just beginning to
relax slightly as I heard doors open on what I now decided was a four-by-four.
Boots scraped as they reassembled by the vehicle. But then ...
"I tell you what,
lads,” suggested a voice that sounded more Irish than Scots.
“Why not us sit it out here - and jump the buggers when they gettin’ out’o
their car. There’s kit in the back’o my van - rope - blanket? Maybe even
Interrogation hoods from that last ... “
”Interra-fucking-gation hoods! You’re a right fucking kinky cunt, Rixey?
”Donger made em up for that weekend exercise when we ... "
Wha’d’ya say, Dong? Grab the fuckers and ... ” began Wee Hughie,
enthusiastically.
”There’s rope here - and a great sack,” cut in another willing helper,
obviously rummaging in the van.
”Right, then!” determined the Irish voice. “Let's do it! Jump the two of ‘em -
scare the shit out of the poncy English feller. Drag ‘em away - ride ‘em around
and then take ‘em to my place for a drink. That’d be a laff” he decided.
A chorus of general
agreement died when a lone voice warned “The Big Feller’ud know it was us - and
all hell’ud break lose and ... "
“He'd no like it," added another voice of caution.
"Ay, an' you know what he's like. It could turn nasty.”
“Yon English feller’s a lawyer. He’d sue the fucking pants off yers, Rixey ”
suggested a third.
“Fuck that - just a friendly welcome to Oban,” argued the Irishman. “Let’s do
it. I’d enjoy giving fuckin' Buchanan a taste of his own medicine after what he
... ”
“Fuck no, he’d fucking kill yus - all of us!”
The enthusiasm seemed to
drain away as others considered the possible repercussions.
"Aw, fuck - let’s away and get us a drink,” said Wee Hughie ... and this
suggestions suddenly seemed like a better idea to several of the group ... and
doors began to open and slam ... and another slid.
Had there been more than four of them?
*****
I’d been standing stock
still for what seemed like an hour - and I continued to just stand there long
after the sound of the vehicle had disappeared down the hill.
Eventually I forced one
boot forward. It was on carpet and made no sound. The silence was dense - and
although I could feel my heart still thumping, it couldn’t be heard outside the
heavy rubber and tight casing hugging my skin all over - which I could suddenly
feel again inside the dry-suit. Dry! I knew there would be at least a pint of
water in there when I eventually got out of it.
What now? It took time
to get my mind back into gear. Gear! Should I go and let Callum out? I didn’t
know what time it was. Luckily I had checked the clock in the playroom before I
left there. Should I risk switching a light on? No - might they (one of them)
have stayed behind? I desperately needed a drink. I could risk moving to the
kitchen - but if I opened the fridge to get a beer - the light in the fridge?
If I turned the tap on, might somebody hear?
Believe me or believe me
not: after almost fifteen years I can remember the sequence of thoughts as my
battered mind dragged itself back from the edge - just as I could remember
accurately some of the conversation outside the house. Writing this today has
dredged up memories which I did not know I had remembered. Details. Facts.
Yet, I wonder if I am
remembering or filling in the gaps with imagination. I don’t think so. Some of
the sequence I have just written down, is quite definitely there somewhere
burned into my brain. I can still remember turning the tap carefully - lifting
a glass gingerly so not to let it clink - just in case. The water running
slowly to not to make a noise. Drinking cautiously so the suit didn't creak or
squeak, moving to the door to the stairs without making a sound. The silence -
deafening.
A stiffness in my body
was the result of wetness and tension (and those fucking weights). The entire
surface of my skin felt numb from the clinging fabric of the old type
fabric-lined wet suit. I even remember at that moment, my mind paused to regret
that it wasn’t smooth neoprene like Callum’s new wet-suit. How was he doing in
it down there? Had his legs given out in the un-movable boots - his legs
clamped at an unnatural angle - necessary for skiing but hell to maintain when
standing still. He must be regretting committing himself to it - to four hours.
Three hours now, was it? Even in the dark I could see the big old clock in the
living room. Half an hour since I started my weighty journey from downstairs.
That must have taken me ten minutes. Had the whole episode with the would-be
‘intruders’ really been under twenty minutes since that first phone-call?
I was about halfway down
the stairs to the cellar, trying not to trip over the boots, before I realised
that there was no hurry. No need to be quiet now - but still carrying the glass
of water. Why - it was empty? I decided to leave it on the stairs to give me
two hands to keep my balance. My mind was getting back to grips with the
situation. I could even sit on the stairs. Half way down the stairs - what was
that old rhyme - song - Jim Henson - Kermit the frog. “Halfway up the stairs
isn’t up and isn’t down”.
My mind was tired. I remember
distinctly, thinking that as I carefully tried to find a way of sitting down,
there on the stairs ... first both weighted boots on the same step - heels only
because they were so big. I tried one on the step below - then slid sideways so
I could rest the boots without risk of them tipping off the steps. Funny what
you remember when you focus-in on a past event - memorable event.
No need to rush things,
I remember deciding.
Bellman would not phone until tomorrow. “Donger” Bellman. Something of a nutter
Callum had told me. He was
My mind dragged back to
Callum - and his current predicament. He had no idea of what had just happened.
Why spoil his self-designated - his long looked forward to self-challenge of
dealing with his self-imposed inescapable and not to be disturbed predicament -
the suit - the gag - the strappings - the uncomfortable standing position - for
four hours? Did he know how long four hours could feel? These are questions we
had discussed calmly and meticulously when I was picking his brains about his
previous sessions in private. How I would like to have been a fly on the wall
during some of them. Could I stand by and not intervene if he miscalculated -
fell - fainted. Could I stand/sit there in the same room and do nothing?
He had been very
insistent about me not letting him out under any circumstances. What
would have been his reaction if he’d known what was going on upstairs during
the past half hour? Wrapped and strapped, sight and soundless. What would have
happened if they had got in? What might have happened if they’d found him
trussed and helpless in pervy gear? His worst nightmare - but some of the
possibilities, I suddenly realised, had produced a rampant hard-on even inside
my tight wet (and I mean wet) suit.
I stood up carefully on
the stairs. There was not enough room for two boots on one stair. I was facing
sideways again because I could not feel where the stair ended. Each solid boot
- to move down each step needed the boot to lift clear of the other boot before
finding the next lower stair. It must have looked ridiculous. It was very
tiring to lift each boot high enough before lowering it low enough - clinging
onto the banister rail - crossing right over left and then left over right.
Being able to deal with - cope with the unexpected physical problems of
restraint. The topic came back to me at that moment.
The unexpected. This had
always been my sort challenge - to be trapped inside restrictive canvas or
leather, industrial rubber - the sweat - the weight. Weight! The weighted waist
as well as boots all locked-on and inescapable. The unexpected. A bonus - an
unexpected surprise addition, added by an imaginative and provocative
play-partner. A challenge? Escape challenges had always been my thing. Could I
escape this lot? That combination lock - a simple device he’d used to make the
keys unavailable. Previously, when in a desperate, uncomfortable predicament I
had once sweated and sworn for several hours over a simple cheap combination
padlock. The chance of stumbling across the right combination could take more
than four hours. The device he’d used had been made to prolong and frustrate
his own solo self-challenge sessions. We’d talked a lot about time-locks and
other ways to prolong time trapped in self-applied restraints. Do I work on an
escape-plan in the true spirit of Houdini - or deal with my predicament -
settle for it. Accept it - enjoy it.
Suddenly I was horny as
hell as my hands felt around the rubber of my inescapable prison - and wanted
to see Callum in his predicaments. He had wanted to be totally alone - but with
ear plugs and no sight - I could safely go in there - drink in the sight - and
the sounds of him creaking, breathing heavily inside the mask - dragging air in
through the amazingly efficient gag. Rubber-flavoured air. I longed to be in
his position. Knew that if I was in it I would probably soon be desperate to be
let out of it - but annoyed if somebody let me out. What a fucking fucking
fucked-up pervert ... I remembered the words bandied about outside. I pictured
the men - and paused in my journey, to picture them - and picture them perhaps
forcing an entry - and there on the stairs I shot a long-overdue load -
rubber-encased - unable to even feel myself through the thick double casing -
but every nerve-end on the surface of my skin was tingling - and the only
uncovered flesh, my hands and head were soaking. My hair was soaking - dripping
in fact. I shook my head like a wet dog - and laughed aloud as I watched
splashes of sweat on the rubber of the suit - and on the walls of the stairs. I
could have written my name on the walls with a wet finger - Jim was here!
Callum was still on his
feet - as part of his preparations he had placed an upright chair close enough
so he could sit and rest briefly during his ordeal, so he could prolong his
enjoyment - or enjoyment of not enjoying - whichever! He stood quietly, trussed
and breathing determinedly behind the blacked-out mask. I trod quietly before
deciding there was no need because he was totally unaware of me.
Without warning his body
erupted into a flurry of violent and determined wrenching from side to side,
bending forward on his slightly bent legs. Then arching back and throwing
himself forward again before more wrenching from side-to-side, his strapped
together padded sparring gloves attempting to punch but they could hardly leave
his waist because of the tight strapping. The nylon webbing straps anchored
down through his crotch and tugging at his elbows, tightening and squeaking
with his efforts. Blindly trying to force a little slack into the bindings
which he had so determinedly pulled tight when securing himself. But anything
gained in front forced his elbows more tightly together behind - or added
pressure to the bulge between his legs. Not that he could feel anything down
there. Under the rubbery suit, the boxers groin guard was designed to prevent
any feeling. The rigid plastic cup that encased his painfully scrunched-up cock
was more than a prison; it was a torture chamber - a rigidly walled-in,
self-imposed torture device. His choice - his (what?) creation.
A sudden but determined
roar/howl into the gag expressed frustration - or an animal intensity of
feeling. The powerful sound barely escaped from behind the mask, and then the
struggling subsided. But it was obvious he was still full of fight. There was
determination not desperation - his entire body-language showed that ... this
was enjoyment? Yes, this was enjoyment. And I reached a decision. He could
handle the four hours. Even if I saw that his condition was deteriorating - it
would have to reach a seriously dangerous point before I would even let him
know I was in the room, But I would stay in the room - and I would stay
resolutely determined to enjoy the opportunity - all of it. I would not resent
my own predicament - "Deal with it"! A recurring theme in my life -
escape from it or deal with it. I suddenly decided I was not going to even try
to escape from my imprisonment or these fucking weights. I looked for a chair.
If I sat myself down
into the deep racing car seat that Callum had picked up cheap - the deep, deep
padded seat still complete with six efficient safety straps. If I sat myself
down into that tilted-back bucket seat ... would it be possible for me to stand
up again? I had no idea - but was very tempted to try - but thought better of
it and found another upright chair.
I sat and speculated
what might happen if I removed the upright chair from behind Callum. Those ski
boots locked into their clamps - Callum had told me about one of his
experimental solo sessions when he had fixed the clamps to his bedroom floor -
knowing that he could sit back on his bed - but had missed the bed and ended up
on the floor with the soles of his feet still firmly flat on the floor.
Luckily, as with so many of his solo sessions, he had left himself a get-out.
The early boot-clamping-to-the-floor experiment he first rehearsed without his
hands restrained. Having unexpectedly fallen backwards while in boots clamped
to the floor, he could have broken both legs. The unexpected. On his back with
knees tightly bent, it had at first seemed to be impossible for him to get back
up again, he told me after the event.
Because his hands were
free, getting back up would be no real problem. But, as an experiment, he
decided (as a self- punishment for a serious miscalculation) to pretend that it
had happened while his hands were tied and gloved. Getting himself up off the
floor without using his hands, he'd told me ruefully, had taken a massive
amount of determination and some pain. But, as he explained it to me, some of
his solo experiments were very extreme - and dealing with the unexpected was
part of the challenge. But not falling victim to the unexpected was vitally
important in his solo games. A lesson some people die while learning.
*****
Sitting there drinking
in the sights and sounds and smells of this well-used workshop/playroom there was
time - lots of time for my mind to wander. I definitely remember I speculated
for a while on his elaborate home gym frame, with it’s pullies and weights,
padded boards that could be positioned tilted, horizontal or upright; a
super-structure sturdy enough to suspend human bodyweight. Those thoughts on
that day - ended up described in my story about Dan Drummond, the rugby-playing
police officer in “Man-to-man Stuff” - and his long-time
buddy/opponent/challenger Harry. Sitting there, I wished that Callum could find
such a regular and local play-partner - no sex perhaps - just challenge and
counter-challenge. Remembering it now, I remember distinctly the path my mind
wandered along.
It returned to the
racing car seat. If I positioned it behind Callum and sat him back into it with
his feet still locked into their clamps - could he get himself back out of it -
and how determinedly would he need to struggle. In my mind’s eye I enjoyed
imagining this rubber-encased, masked and trussed figure resolutely determined
to escape from the deep chair.
If I closed the six
tough safety belts this would be impossible, a mischievous part of my mind told
me. These were designed to secure around thighs, through the crotch, over the
shoulders and around the waist. All clicked firmly into a central quick-release
clamp in front of ... whoever’s waist. This lock-block was designed to release
at a single push. But I speculated that ... with a piece of fuse wire I could
stop it from releasing - and he’d be trapped - just as he would remain trapped
in his current predicament until I decided otherwise.
Then I remember
remembering that only after I had released him would he be free to demonstrate
for me his plan to release himself. Gradually manoeuvring his way out of the
various straps, unable to see while cutting through laced gloves ... or would
he be able to get the face-mask off before tackling the lace-cutting? Then,
with numbed fingers , he would need to feel for and activate the tiny clasp
which kept the gag in his mouth. At what point would he begin to struggle out
of the tight neoprene wet-suit. He’d already discovered that the surfaces of
this stuck together more than he’d anticipated. Together we’d laughed about my
story of the guy trapped inside his new oilskins because the heat virtually
welded surfaces together. Might this happen with his new wet-suit. Could he
peel it off without an extra pairs of hands? Would he have to ask me to help
him? Would I refuse if I was still locked into my ....
Another sudden burst of
determined struggling from Callum reminded me that this power-game was far from
over ... and I was already hard again watching him writhe and fight against the
strapping, all the time grunting and snorting like a bull behind the mask. His
crotch bucked forwards - thrusting again and again. Was he trying to bring
himself off? Again and again I watched him thrust before subsiding with an
almost inaudible groan of frustration. Inside that impenetrable groin guard, no
chance of an erection let alone any satisfaction. His laced-down cock and balls
totally encased inside that rigid plastic container. He had lovingly modified
it recently for his own amusement - but also to intensify his deliberate
self-torment. How his battered cock and balls would sting and smart when he was
eventually able to let them out - perhaps rubbed raw enough to discourage
masturbation for a week. All part of the hit-and-miss of bondage game-playing.
Obviously I was not
going to spoil his fun today. Later tonight - much later, I would have to tell
him about the visit from his cronies. Would I play down or hype up the drama of
the moment - the danger? He would be concerned over the near-miss - the
unexpected - but I was confident he could convince them that we had driven out
for a meal, somewhere not in the town.
*****
Tomorrow I would enjoy
meeting this gang - let them form their own opinions of me - let them speculate
on any relationship with Callum. I would make sure that I would not compromise
his reputation with these tough-nuts. I looked forward to meeting them
face-to-face. It would give me an edge, having heard their conversation
outside. There would be a sort of one-upmanship. I particularly wanted to get
to know Bellman better.
Cautiously I began to
speculate on ... just how Bellman would have reacted if he - and he alone - had
discovered Callum self-trussed up in his kinky gear and at his mercy.
For the next almost
three hours I allowed my mind freedom to roam; imagine. If Bellman had arrived
alone - gained entry - door accidentally left unlocked - and discovered his
regular and trusted sparring partner - who he knew was able to withstand (in
fact welcomed) punishing challenge in the boxing and wrestling ring - if found
powerless and vulnerable - what might happen next?
And that did become
another story.
...
to remind yourself of the 'Fantasy' version, check out INTRUDER - Wishful Thinking
More information including
background detail about Callum at home
is one of several pages still under-construction
Check the CALLUM INDEX for latest news
Jim
HOUDINI CONNECTIONS WEB SITE
http://www.houdini-connections.co.uk/4-info/Topics/buch-intruder-real.htm
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