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LOCKED
IN LEATHER REVISITED
John Strickland's 'Motorcycle Messenger' story ADDED TO
(From Jim Stewart June 2007)
The two main characters
in this series of hot tales are Sam the leather-loving London motorcycle courier
and Chris, a tough blond medical attendant responsible for keeping violent
prisoners in line. John's descriptions of their activities get me horny every
time I re-read the various episodes; have done for years.
My imagination is always fired up to expand on the exploits of these two dynamic
characters. The challenging scenarios they play out together in leather and
PVC are so detailed it's easy to mentally invent extensions of the different
power-exchange situations.
The temptation to add extra pervy detail and sometimes even drive the action
in different directions to suit my own particular lustful preferences, is
sometimes irresistible.
Mentally building on what's gone before has resulted in the following re-working
of one of John's memorable stories. The process of re-thinking some details
helps me to visualise the characters and their activities more potently to
suit my own taste.
This is a compliment to the strength of the original story-telling and original
author.
Here, as a personal self-indulgence, is my version of the story IN FULL
LOCKED IN LEATHER
by John Strickland
Tweaked by Jim Stewart to favour his own personal preferences
as
LOCKED IN LEATHER REVISITED
After they first met during
Sam the biker's visit to a prison hospital to deliver a package (Weekend in
the Life of a Motorcycle Messenger) he and the prison attendant Chris now
share a flat.
The games they play together in leather and PVC give both men a life-style
full of regular challenges
"Do it!" said Sam.
"It's a long time," I said.
"Get on with it before I change my mind!" he answered.
"No turning back" I warned.
Sam was hugging me tightly, naked apart from a pair of well-worn leather shorts.
He was slightly breathless. Even through my thick bike leathers I could feel
his heart pounding. He was sentencing himself to being kept locked into a
leather hood for twenty-four hours, and knew what he was letting himself in
for. He knew I'd be relentless, he knew there'd be no backing out once I'd
started. In preparation for the 'scene' we'd agreed on last night, I was already
fully kitted out in my well lived-in leather bike jacket, and thickest leather
jeans and heaviest boots. I like to enter into the spirit of our game-playing.
"Do it!" he breathed, hugging me and pressing himself into my leathers.
I pulled back and looked into that ruggedly handsome face of his. How could
I bear not seeing those strong, square-jawed features for a whole day? I lived
to see his mischievous, slightly challenging grin and those sparkling brown
eyes. How could I lock them away from the light behind thick leather? - Easily!
I spent half my time dreaming up new ways of restraining and imprisoning this
chunk of masculinity. He invited challenge and was disappointed when it wasn't
challenging enough. Arrogant and defiant, he would battle whatever restraints
and grab any opportunity to escape, and I would use any trick in the book
however ruthlessly to make sure I kept total control.
We got down to work; a process we'd shared in many times before. His fight
didn't begin until he was suitably handicapped. He took a tin of wax ear plugs
and started warming and softening two pieces between his fingers. While he
was pushing them into his ears I got a bandage.
"Can you hear me?"
I asked.
"Muffled and distant. Not bad for a start," he said, adding suddenly,
"What's the bandage for?"
"Your eyes," I answered.
"You don't need that. We're going to use the hood with no eye or mouth-openings,
aren't we?" he said.
"We'll do it my way, Sam," I said firmly. "Sit down."
Dutifully he sat on the edge of the leather-covered bed.
I first taped cotton pads gently over those bright eyes and then wound the
white bandage three times around his head, fixing it with tape. Next, twice
round with an adhesive bandage on top to make sure it couldn't slip.
"Comfortable?" I asked, and asked again because he didn't hear me
properly the first time.
He nodded and his unseeing face turned up to look towards mine. The white
bandage contrasted starkly with his brown skin and black hair and beginnings
of chin stubble. That would be thicker before he saw the light of day again.
I kissed him deeply for the last time for twenty-four hours. From here-on
I was determined it would be tough on him. He'd relish the challenge - and
I was good at taking him past the point when he was enjoying himself. He'd
get angry but not be in any position to do anything about it. In my work I
was dealing with aggressive types all the time, keeping them under control,
by force when necessary. Sam and I had got together because he was attracted
to the idea of being kept under control - as long as he was free to put up
a struggle. I'd enjoy seeing him angry - and after it was all over, he'd have
to admit he'd enjoyed himself too.
I picked the hood up off the bed and started to work it over Sam's head, adjusting
it under the chin and smoothing the leather lining against his face. This
hood was thick, very thick, completely lined with smooth leather and, in parts,
padded between the layers. A flap of leather closed across the opening at
the back. Then the process of systematically tightening tough laces which
gradually stretched the hood tight until it pressed in all over his face and
around his scalp right down, well down around his neck. Over the laces an
additional panel of thick leather closed with a heavy-duty metal zip to make
the laces impossible to get at. We'd had the hood made to enclose the whole
neck, too, and the hood reached well down to where the neck joined the body.
I smoothed the leather around Sam's neck before strapping it shut - but making
sure the neck wasn't too tight: didn't want any excuses for having to release
him until I was good and ready.
"OK. Sam?" I asked.
He didn't hear me but started to adjust things slightly, making sure he was
getting enough air through the small breathing holes. He gave me the thumbs
up signal.
I took a steel padlock and worked it through the substantial metal eyelets
designed for it. Once snapped shut, Sam's head was irrevocably sealed into
double thickness black leather. Unless I unlocked that padlock, no-one, let
alone Sam, could get at the zip or laces to free that head. I tapped Sam twice
on his shoulder and he stood up, gripping his head in his hands, feeling around
the mask, fingering the closings at the back and tugging on the padlock. I
relaxed back on the bed watching my man standing almost naked, except for
his head imprisoned in leather, his prick imprisoned inside skin-tight leather
shorts.
His muscular chest was heaving, taking in the oxygen his sexually aroused
body was screaming for. I felt as though my prick was going to prize apart
the teeth of the zip in my tough leather bike pants.
Suddenly Sam's left hand dropped to massage his aching prick through his leather
shorts.
"Don't do that, Sam" I said.
Sam didn't hear me. He could only hear his heart thumping, his blood hissing
through his ears and the creaking of the leather his head was locked into.
"Don't do that, Sam," I said louder and sprang up to grab him. Not
seeing me coming, I took him unawares and was able to easily push him off-balance
onto the bed, where I immediately fell on him. His automatic response was
to start to struggle. Sam knew the time had come when I intended to take control
however much he might fight me. One wrist was soon forced into one of the
leather cuffs we always have dangling either side of the iron bed-frame. The
second was more of a challenge because he knew it was coming - but there are
wrist and finger-holds that are part of my training. The second wrist was
soon well anchored to the bed-head - and the restraints are lockable. Although
his hands were separated and he couldn't see. I clicked the lock shut on each
cuff 'just in case'.
Because he couldn't see my intentions, it was easier to get the first naked
ankle secured. I took a pretty hard kick on the shoulder while capturing the
second foot. But of course I eventually got it well tethered - and let him
feel me locking the restraints - just for the psychological impact of it.
We were both panting when
I climbed off his legs. Sam loved to be tied and I loved to tie him, and the
struggle, the battle, turned us both on without fail. Sometimes the fight
to get Sam restrained went on until we were near exhaustion, and sometimes
when Sam felt particularly like resisting, I nearly ended up in trouble myself
- not a situation I particularly enjoy. My role is to challenge and always
win, whatever drastic measures he forces me to use.
By willingly agreeing to be locked in the hood first, Sam had surrendered
himself to what he knew would be (hoped would be) a tough endurance test.
So now, my man was lying there stretched out on his back, his hands secured
high above his head, legs spread wide. What should I do next? I looked down
at his athletic, muscular body stretched taut and vulnerable, his tight leather
shorts defining his rigid prick bursting to be free. Muffled grunts issued
from somewhere deep behind leather as Sam twisted and writhed, testing his
bonds but knowing they would stand up to even his most determined (desperate)
struggling.
Suddenly deciding my next move; I quickly (almost feverishly) pulled off my bike leathers until I was completely naked. Out of the closet I pulled my favourite rain-suit. This heavy-duty one-piece was made of thick black, shiny PVC, double thickness so the glossy side of the tough fabric was both inside and out. I struggled into the legs, working the icy-cold vinyl upwards before forcing my naked arms down into the sleeves and dragging the suit close up and over my shoulders. It felt great. I closed the high collar before pulling the tough front zip carefully up past my raging cock until my whole body was encased. I then crossed the flaps across the outside of the zip, and wound the high outer collar snug around my neck to seal myself in. This suit was designed to keep me dry in a monsoon. Unfortunately monsoons weren't that common in our area, but the suit has proved its worth on many occasions - such as keeping me totally dry on a very wet night while staking Sam out on the grass, him dressed in an identical PVC suit over his bike leathers (see the story 'Further Adventures of a Motorcycle Messenger' ). On another occasion Sam had found himself laced up in a hammock in the rain (suitably suited up) and slung between two trees for a night. My hot skin tingled as I once more enjoyed the feel of the cold, smooth surface enclosing my whole body - before the action started to warm it (and me) up.
As I moved to Sam, I relished
the look of my jet-black shiny form as I passed the long mirrored doors of
our wall-to-wall play cupboard. I opened Sam's leather shorts and a prick
big enough and hard enough to rape the Jolly Green Giant sprang to attention!
Bending down I kissed the rigid rod before running my unshaven chin along
its length. I could smell the leather of Sam's shorts lingering on his prick.
Sam twisted helplessly against a torrent of sensation.
I then lowered my cold PVC-covered body onto his sweating, straining naked
spread-eagled form. Sam's gasp was felt, more than heard. He tensed, rigid
against his bonds, turning his leather-imprisoned head quickly from side to
side as I moved my body on his, making sure every part of his body felt my
smooth, cold oilskins stroke over it. I lifted up long enough to grab for
two short alligator clips and snap one onto each of Sam's hardened nipples.
He grunted impotently under the leather mask and twisted even more violently,
straining every muscle. I fell back down onto him, deliberately putting pressure
onto those metal-toothed clips. He fought so much I thought he'd wreck the
iron-framed bed. I managed to work my arms under him and hugged him very tightly
against me to make sure those tit-clamps were doing their work. I kissed smooth
leather at the place where his mouth had once been - deliberately breathed
into the air-holes to demonstrate my power over him. Waves of almost painful
ecstasy started to course through my prick, inaccessible behind thick PVC.
Suddenly Sam went rigid and arched off the bed like somebody in the death-throes
of tetanus.
And we came! We came at the same moment, Sam shooting great globs of white
cum between his brown belly and my impervious oilskin suit. In the muffled
blackness of his hood everything came down to sensation. Sam was aware of
every square inch of his body, of the cold smooth feel of the man on top of
him. He felt the leather cuffs holding him down on the leather bed, his body
screamed at the sexual pain radiating from his pinched nipples. I shot inside
my suit in teeth-clenching spasms that I thought and hoped would never stop.
I felt the hot liquid spurt between my skin and the black PVC until finally
I slumped down lifelessly onto my gasping prisoner, locked in the leather
mask with no chance of early release even though his sexual energy had been
drained from him - at least for the moment. It would soon build up again,
I knew that from experience.
I took Sam's clamps off and thus we lay for a good half an hour, Sam stretched
out under me, breathing deeply and regularly. I bet now that it was all over
he was having regrets about agreeing to go into the leather head prison. He
still had about twenty three hours in front of him. He knew I'd never give
him a reprieve. At last I mustered enough energy to roll off Sam and clean
him up. He didn't move much but the whole surface of his skin twitched as
I wiped him dry with tissues.
I tucked his prick away and zipped his shorts closed. I left him staked out
on the bed as I showered his and my cum off the outside and inside of my waterproof
suit. Leaving the shiny garment dripping in the shower, I padded naked back
to Sam and unlocked his hands and feet. With stiff arms he sat and reached
out and found me, pulled himself closer to me and cuddled me gently. His mouthless
leather head nuzzled against my temporarily soft prick as he sat and I stood
by the bed. Eventually I pulled away from him and started to sort out which
pair of leather jeans was whose, and threw his to him . As I pulled mine on,
I watched him feeling and turning his, at first not sure whether he had got
jeans or a jacket. Then he stood up and started to blindly step into them.
I turned him around (he was facing the wall) so I could watch as he worked
his tough jeans up over his leather shorts. He fumbled with his studded belt.
When I was fully dressed
in my bike leathers and boots again, I pulled this powerful man to me, my
hands travelling down his firm, muscular back to reach his now leather-covered
buttocks. He hugged me tightly, enjoying my leather jacket against his naked
chest. I kissed the leather stretched over his mouth and caressed the leather
over his unseeing eyes. At that moment I longed to see his handsome weather-beaten
face and look into those challenging, dark eyes. I longed to kiss him deep,
but I remained resolute, twenty-four hours we'd agreed, twenty-four hours
it would be.
I handed him thickly padded black leather gloves and helped him to pull them
on. They fitted tight around his fingers and restricted movement. Specially
modified to lace shut around each wrist, he was soon in no position to get
them off any more, his fingers couldn't feel finely enough to untie the double
knots, and he was unable to use his teeth. I had to help him find his way
into his boots. I deliberately didn't chose the ones with heavy metal clasps
or the motorcross boots which buckled all the way up the sides, although those
boots really turned me on. I chose a discreet pair, long but slim enough to
tuck up inside his leather jeans, because we had modified these so they could
be locked on by a neat steel shackle around each ankle. Two ratchets clicked,
and now there was no getting his boots off without the key. And locked in
them he'd never get his jeans off either.
I handed him a heavy-duty bike jacket, greasy and scuffed with long wear.
He pulled it on and, although blind, his thickly gloved hands couldn't quite
manage to connect the chunky metal zip. I took control and closed his jacket
up to his already leathered neck. A handy padlock through the zip's-'pull'
soon locked it to the D-ring hidden just inside the jacket collar. He now
couldn't get the jacket off either, and he knew it. My man was completely
encased in well-worn black leather, every inch of his body covered, and thus
he would have to stay until I decided otherwise.
My prick hardened again as I drew him to me and we embraced, our leathers
creaking against each other, my Sam unable to see me, locked away behind his
thick hood. I felt like falling back on the bed with him and forcing him to
climax again, but that could happen later - several times. But now, I had
other plans. We were going out.
I tried to get his crash helmet on over the mask, but it was too small. I
got one of mine - my head is bigger than Sam's. It was a struggle but I got
it on and fastened, a uniformly black helmet with a darkened visor that hid
Sam's face. Sam reached up to the helmet. He couldn't feel much through the
padded leather gloves. He couldn't hear anything now, just muffled creaking
from the leather. I hoped he could breathe inside the closed-face helmet!
I led him out of the bedroom towards the flat door. He just put his arm over
my shoulder and let me guide him. He trusted me.
Down the stairs he came
with me, walking reasonably comfortably, knowing I'd look after him. I loved
this guy. We both knew from experience that these trips out into public while
'handicapped' could be a great turn-on for both of us - a real exercise in
power and powerlessness.
Out in the street a young kid in denims hastily crossed the road to avoid
us when he saw us stomping towards him. Two heavily-booted guys completely
in black leather, one carrying a crash helmet, the other helmeted like something
out of a science-fiction film. He probably had wet dreams for a week! We turned
into the courtyard and I deliberately bumped Sam into a tall concrete gatepost,
just for devilment - and to remind him how dependent he was on me. He grunted
inside his helmet and his leather jacket took another scratch. I led him over
to where my bike was parked. Lifting his arm off my shoulders I put on my
crash helmet. Sam tentatively reached out with his hand and made contact with
the gas tank, followed it up to touch the hand grip. He had known he must
be at the bike, and this confirmed it. The change in the air he was inhaling
had told him he was outside, although his thick leather jacket and pants hadn't
let him notice much temperature difference.
I got on the bike and started it. Sam reached out and found my shoulder. He
swung his leg over the bike and judged the action pretty well because he was
soon sitting close behind me feeling for the foot rests with his boots. He
lent forward a bit too far and his crash helmet struck mine with a loud crack,
but soon he had sorted himself out and was holding me tightly around the waist.
We drove off. I just drove around. The weather was good, other bikes were
on the road, too.
At one point two guys rode with us for a while, never realising that the man
behind me didn't even know they existed. Sam held on tight. Out on a motorway,
gloved hands moved down to deliberately put pressure on my swollen prick.
I pushed them away, I was having trouble concentrating on driving. It was
a long drive. I relished the feeling of being out-doors with a prisoner -
somebody I had total control over. I could go anywhere - and when I got him
back home …. who knows that? As I rode, I savoured this situation and
knew that all Sam could do was wait and anticipate for however long I chose
to keep up the suspense - and hold on tight until I allowed him to get off
the bike.
After about an hour's
ride I decided it was time to take a break, so pulled in at the next motorway
stop.
A tap on Sam's knee gave him the message and he got off but nearly lost his
balance. So I took his elbow, led him to a grass bank and urged him to sit
down. He lent back, banging his crash-helmeted head a bit too hard. He looked
great, the sun shining off the well-worn leather stretched over his thighs.
I could have thrown myself on the guy and had sex twenty times over for the
rest of the day, but my raging desire still left me with enough sense to realise
this was not the right place to do it! I gave Sam a reassuring pat on the
knee and walked away, across the lot to the gas station to get a coke.
Just as I started back, somebody called me, and I turned to see a young guy
zipped up in a well broken-in leather racing suit clomping towards me.
"Can you give me a hand, mate," he asked, "need to adjust my
brake cable."
"Sure," I replied, and followed him towards his bike.
"The light stays on all the time," he said.
I bent down and grunted as my leather jeans twisted my swollen prick. He noticed.
"That wouldn't happen in a one-piece suit like this," he said casually,
getting down on his padded knees beside me, "but once my zip stuck right
up at the neck and I couldn't get out. I was dying to take a piss and my prick
was imprisoned behind thick leather!" he added equally as casually.
"Must have been hell!" I said, thinking it must have been heaven.
The guy didn't pursue the subject and I tried to imagine him unable to get
out of his leathers and dying for a piss. I thought of Sam, very much unable
to get out of his locked bike gear. I glanced over to where Sam was lying,
fingering the fastening of his crash helmet, the sun glinting off his leathers.
I was squeezing the brake grip in, the guy was adjusting the cable screws.
The guy looked good and I wondered what he would look like manacled and struggling.
Suddenly I saw that Sam was beginning to panic. He was trying to get his helmet
off, trying to get his gloves off, pulling at the locked zip of his leather
jacket. His movements were frantic.
"Got to go!" I said, at the same time running off, my boots banging
across the asphalt.
I got to Sam and reached for his wrists, gripping them firmly.
"It's OK Sam, it's OK. I'm here!" but Sam couldn't hear that.
He jerked away, still snatching towards his helmet. I grabbed his wrists again
and managed to twist one behind him, wishing I had handcuffs with me. I hugged
him close, not caring that we were out in public. He started to calm down
a bit.
"It's OK. Sam, I'm back." I said again, knowing he couldn't hear
a word. I continued to hold him to me. He gripped me tightly. Eventually I
pulled away from him and led him back to the bike, pulled my helmet on, got
on, and signalled Sam to get on too, by tapping his thigh. As we drove off
I glanced over at the blond guy in the leather suit. Again I visualised the
stuck zip. He looked great. I would liked to have seen him and Sam strapped
together and struggling.
#LOCKEDpolice1
I rode fast. It was time
to get Sam home because I had other plans for making his day memorable. He'd
remember being left deaf, dumb and blind not knowing where he was or where
I was ... and would resent it. It would raise the stakes if he was resentful!
We were well out of London, and I rode faster, knowing the speed would up
the pressure on Sam. When we were almost home I was so involved with thoughts
of what I would do next, that the first I knew of the motorcycle cop was when
he overtook me and motioned for me to pull over. Shit! My heart started pounding.
I almost opened up the throttle and tried to take off. But I didn't, of course.
I stopped and took off my crash helmet. Sam still held me tight around the
waist, unaware of what was going on. The cop, ahead of me, got off his bike
and took his white duty helmet off. He was young, hard-featured and looked
great in his padded black leather breeches, tall bike boots and yellow hi-vis
jacket weighted-down with a Duty Belt laden with side-handle baton, pouches
and bulky solid-centred handcuffs (something that had always arrested my imagination).
As he walked back to us, heavy boots crunched on the gravel at the side of
the road.
"Hi!" I said,
cautiously.
Curtly he demanded my license. I handed it to him. He walked over to the intercom
on his bike. He had a great arse. He looked like a genuine authority figure
in his uniform, with the dying sun shining off his gleaming boots. He came
back.
"Going a bit fast, weren't you?" he asked.
"Don't know what speed I was …. " I started.
"Way up above the limit," he cut in.
"Sorry," I said, trying to stay calm. "Need to get home because
... "
"You won't get home at all at that rate," he said. "Open your
visor," he said to Sam.
"Er - he can't hear you," I said.
The cop made a gesture to Sam, the action of opening the visor.
"He can't see you," I muttered.
"What?"
"He can't hear or see," I said louder, my heart pumping.
The young cop thought about that one. "Then you open it!" he said.
I twisted round to get to Sam's visor … and pretended it was jammed.
The cop didn't fall for that one.
"Open it!" he said firmly.
I did.
Without showing any sign
of reaction the cop took in Sam's completely leather covered face, no eyes,
no mouth, just thick smooth leather where his features should have been.
Silence.
"Let me see his I.D.," he said at last.
"You can't; it's in the inside pocket of his leather jacket," I
said.
"The you get it out?" demanded the cop.
"I can't. His leather jacket is padlocked on him and I've left the keys
at home," I admitted, throwing caution to the wind. What else could I
do but own up?
The cop felt for the zip-pull under Sam's jacket collar and his fingers revealed
the padlock. He then traced a finger over the flying eagle Sam had sewn on
his jacket just above the breast pocket.
I waited for whatever might come next. Already I had visions of Sam and me
handcuffed, down in a police cell.
The cop took his time letting the situation sink in. He looked down and the
shiny steel manacle locked around Sam's boot was well exposed because Sam
was sitting on the bike and his leather jeans had ridden up higher. Slowly
the cop crunched round to the other side of the bike and checked that the
other boot was shackled as well. Having screwed myself round as the cop moved,
I waited, almost without breathing. The setting sun now lit a halo through
the cop's short hair and shone orange off his yellow hi-viz shoulders. What
the cop said next took me completely by surprise. I hardly understood.
"Plenty of leather on a bike is always good," he said as he gave
me back my licence. "Can't beat good solid leather when you're on a bike.
Never seen it locked-on before," he observed - and then seemed to snap
out of what he was thinking. "You guys had better get yourselves home
quickly - or should I say - you get him home quickly."
With that he pulled on helmet and then gloves slowly before moving away. He
settled astride his bike, but didn't start it. He just sat looking back towards
us. I waited nervously for a short while - and then started the bike. His
helmet nodded slowly - indicating that I should move off. And he remained
sitting and watching as we rode away.
*****
Back in the flat after a quick piss, I wanted to tell Sam everything, but
Sam couldn't hear me, couldn't see me - and he probably needed to piss as
well. He stood there in our kitchen looking magnificent imprisoned in full
leather, his head tightly laced and locked away. He'd had that hood on for
over four hours I realised - but not yet a quarter of his sentence.
I turned him and headed him towards the bathroom, my arm over his shoulders,
my leathered body against his. Determinedly I unzipped his pants and with
difficulty pulled his now-rampant prick out. Positioning him in the shower,
I left him in there to piss and sort himself out. His jeans belt wasn't locked
(as it sometimes was) , but I knew he couldn't get them off over his boots,
which were. The thick gloves would make tucking his prick away difficult when
he'd finished - but that's what today was about - making things difficult
for Sam.
When he found his way back into the kitchen, he'd managed it somehow. In the
meantime I'd dragged our special heavy bondage chair closer to the kitchen
table. Designed like an electric chair without the electricity, I guided him
to it and sat him down. The straps permanently attached to it were ready and
waiting. He may not have at first realised that it wasn't an ordinary kitchen
chair, until I had the first knee strap on him. He tried to stand up but I
pushed him back down and cinched the second knee-strap. He couldn't see my
next move but was ready to do battle. However, with legs already anchored
to the heavy chair I was in control. The chest strap suddenly forced him well
back into the seat. I was behind him so his flailing arms couldn't find me.
An elbow strap was around his right bicep before he knew it - so one arm was
now out of action. He was waiting for a grab at his other elbow, so he was
off guard when I cinched the neck strap quite tight to the high-backed chair.
His free hand reached for his neck, which allowed me to grab his gloved hand
and clamp it to the chair arm before he could react. This was soon circled
by the wrist strap fixed to the sturdy chair arm. As the buckle was dragged
tight, his other hand strained across to reach mine - but being already strapped
at the bicep he couldn't reach me. With his left wrist well strapped, the
left bicep was easy. It only remained to capture his right wrist. With both
biceps now strapped, that was no contest. He was really frustrated because
with knees already fixed to the chair, systematically getting his boots and
thighs and waist strapped was relatively easy in spite of very determined
resistance. I took my time, which increased his frustration, but eventually
he was totally immobilised in the chair we had designed and made together.
He knew from experience that he couldn't wreck it; not even tip it over. He
was well and truly fucked - or at least he would be later on, I decided.
Reaching down into the back of his jacket collar, I got at the padlock on
his hood without releasing the strap holding his neck to the chair. Hood padlock
unlocked, I folded back the flaps and then systematically untied the laces.
It was time to get the hood off him - temporarily.
Sam's hair was matted, he had creases like scars running across his cheeks where seams in the hood had left their temporary impressions. He still looked wonderful, my Sam, his angular jaw, his weather-beaten skin, but those eyes of his remained hidden behind the bandages I'd wrapped and taped around his head. As I began to take his ear plugs out, (a job not easy or pleasant to do) he angrily started …
"Oh fucking shit,"
spat Sam, "about fucking time! Take this fucking blindfold off!"
"No chance," I shot back. "You've got precisely eighteen hours,
thirty eight minutes to go. You're not seeing daylight until then. It's just
your feeding time."
He strained against his straps as far as the neck strap would allow. His leather
creaked from head to boots, his shiny thighs and powerful arms tensed inside
the relentless hide straps.
"I've had enough, you bastard," he hissed through clenched teeth.
"Tough, because you've got a long way to go," I told him.
"You bastard!" he shouted, wrenching from side to side.
"Calm down, Sam. You get something to eat and drink, that's the next
move - and then - who knows what," I said gleefully, shutting my ears
to his cursing and swearing. All this protesting belonged to the game. Sam
knew he wouldn't and couldn't be let out before the agreed time. The struggle,
the defiance was a turn-on for us both. These were still the early stages.
His protests would become more desperate as the day worn on.
"Are you going to behave yourself or do I have to gag you until it's
time to eat?"
This stopped him in mid-flow and, after thinking about it, he said more reasonably.
"No gag - no - please.", he added, breathing more steadily, his
gloved hands clenching the arms of the chair he was strapped to.
"That's better," I said.
As I cooked chicken, I
told him the story of the guy in the leather suit and especially of our encounter
with the motorcycle cop. Sam listened without saying anything. Was he sulking,
or just saving his energy for what he might have to deal with after the meal?
Eating, as it turned out, became an ordeal for him in itself.
I fed him fork-full by fork-full, which he always found humiliating - but
it wasn't the first time it had happened to him. Behind his bandaged eyes
I imagined them blazing resentfully - but he refrained from making any comment
- sensible in his predicament. He had a thirst, gulping down two glasses of
water I held for him in the special invalid drinking cup we often used. Even
so, some trickled down his leather jacket as I tipped faster than he could
drink.
"Should have dressed you in your oilskins before feeding you," I
quipped - but there's time for that yet." Still he remained sulkily silent.
It was only when I said, "Time to go back into the hood, Sam!" that
he began to argue and curse again.
He started shaking his head violently to try and dislodge the blindfold. I
playfully grabbed his head firmly with both hands and planted a heavy kiss
on his lips, forcing my tongue into his protesting mouth. I withdrew before
he was tempted to bite my tongue - our games sometimes get quite rough and
on occasions he'll deliberately do something to provoke even fiercer treatment.
He was still yelling abuse as I began to drag the hood over his head. He then
started to wrench around as much as the neck strap would allow. He strained
at every strap that clamped his leathered body tight to the sturdy wooden
seat. I really got the impression the guy had had enough as he continued to
resist and swear. Good! Now the fun would really start.
Getting the lacing done up again promised to be a battle, but I was up to
the challenge. By clamping his head between my leather chest and crook of
my arm I was able to take my time and complete the process to my satisfaction.
Then came the zip over the lacing and the sturdy padlock. To achieve this,
the neck strap on the chair needed to be released. Sam started twisting his
head from side to side, but the padlock closed and he was imprisoned again.
His curses were now unintelligible noises and would stay that way. I'd enjoyed
the tussle but had decided that the hood would stay on for the rest of the
time. No point in making work for myself. He's the one that likes to be trussed
- I do the trussing.
While he was still firmly secured to the chair I decided to slip a tough leather
handcuff belt around his waist and lock it. The worn brown belt contrasted
well with his black leather. I might take a few new photos later.
When the belt was safely
locked, I released the strap at Sam's thickly-gloved left hand and guided
it into the cuff on that side of the belt. The action wasn't too difficult
with the rest of Sam immobilised and his bicep still strapped to the chair.
Getting Sam's right wrist released and then locked to his waist wasn't so
easy because he knew what was coming. But I got there after a few yelps of
pain from behind the leather hood. I do know how to get my own way. Still,
he was in a mood to resist at whatever cost and his angry grunts and jerks
told me he was seriously pissed off with me at this point! That could prove
to be dangerous - I'd need to watch me step - but I relish a challenge.
I decided to lock a pair of short-chain leg-irons around his ankles as I was
releasing his boots from the chair. He tried to make things difficult but
it was no contest.
When the other straps fell away he stood up carefully, knowing that he had
very little room for manoeuvre with cuffs tight to his waist-belt and well
hobbled boots. I steered him into the bedroom, leg chain clanking . Once there,
I deliberately pushed him suddenly so he fell onto the big leather-covered
bed. Angrily he immediately began pulling and wrenching his thickly padded
hands against the metal cuffs, but the waist belt is genuine old Prison Service
issue. Although leather, it's double thickness has a flexible core of metal
inside it and the cuffs are bolted to that, so it's a virtually indestructible
piece of kit. We both knew that from experience. But it didn't stop Sam wrenching
at it. And his manacled-together heavy boots were kicking out viciously -
so I just stood back and watched him for a while. The show he was putting
on was partly for me. But I'd have plenty of time later to stand and watch
- so I silently walked away and left him to stew for a while, working up a
sweat and burning off some energy - and anticipating. Sam also knew that I
had plenty of time.
*****
#LOCKEDpolice2
While I was clearing away remains of the meal, the doorbell rang. I paused
and listened, but decided to ignore it. I wanted no interruptions. Probably
Jehovah's Witnesses. It rang again, more insistently. I looked out of the
window, but couldn't see down to the door. What I could see was part of a
parked police motorcycle down there.
"Fucking shit!", I thought. My throat went dry - and without thinking
I pushed the button to open the downstairs door rather than asking who it
was, or what or why. Clomping on the concrete stairs got louder and the cop
who'd stopped us during our ride earlier came into view. He was still wearing
his hi-viz yellow jacket, leather breeches, boots and heavily laden waist-belt
but had taken off his crash helmet and gloves. Behind him came another guy,
obviously a copper but he was wearing a black leather jacket that was a real
attention-grabber. Styled like a Barbour or Belstaff it was belted and had
four front patch pockets. There was police insignia on the shoulders and breast
pocket and he also had a fully laden Duty Belt strapped over it. It looked
great, particularly the bulky handcuffs in their pouch on his belt. I'd seen
photos of such police jackets but thought they were no longer current issue.
This second cop had also taken off his helmet and was wearing dark glasses
despite the dimness in the staircase. He looked quite menacing, which made
him all the more interesting.
By the time I dragged my mind away from this assessment, the cop in the hi-viz
had reached the top landing and kept on walking straight towards me - effectively
driving me backwards into the apartment. Once inside, the other cop followed,
practically filling the doorway with his bulky body inside the leather jacket
which made him look even bulkier.
"Er … Hi again!"
I said lamely, at a loss for anything better to say.
"My colleague here was very interested in a little story I told him,"
he said. "We both decided we should follow up on the circumstances,"
he continued gravely.
"How did you know where … Oh, the licence." I fell silent again.
Two burly policemen standing in my small hallway seemed to fill it.
"Thought we ought to check out your story - sir," he said with ominous
politeness. "Make sure no crime was being committed here. And …"
he continued, " while we're pursuing our enquiries, better if none of
your neighbours wander in on us."
With that he turned to his colleague, who closed the front door firmly. Then,
as an afterthought he clicked the dead lock.
If this was intended to intimidate me, they'd succeeded. There was a tense
pause.
Just as the hi-viz cop
was about to speak again his colleague in the formidable leather and dark
glasses seemed to have noticed something, because he suddenly moved towards
the kitchen, saying "What's all this then?" as he disappeared through
the open door. The other cop followed, leaving me standing. I moved after
them and found them both inspecting the chunky wooden chair with solid arms
and bristling with leather straps.
"Er … " I started.
"Looks like some serious questions need answering here" said the
leather cop, looking at me but talking to his colleague.
"This some sort of torture chair, is it?" asked the hi-viz cop.
"Interrogation?" enquired his square-jawed mate from behind his
shades.
"Looks like there's been some seriously non-consensual activity perpetrated
here" suggested the first, officiously.
"No!" I said quickly. "Not un-consenting - and nothing illegal
… "
"That may be a matter of opinion," said the leather cop - and his
partner seemed to confirm their doubts.
Usually I'm in control but, with these two intimidating uniformed men standing
in my kitchen, my urgent but sketchy description of the games Sam and I like
to play sounded lame, if not slightly ridiculous.
"So, " said the first cop when I finally ground to a halt. "You
maintain that your mate willingly allows himself to be strapped to chairs
or beds. Willingly, sir?" He sounded dangerously sceptical.
Without allowing me time to confirm this, the other cop cut in; "And
do you allow him to do the same to you? Tit-for-tat as it were? … sir,"
he added with unconvincingly politeness.
"No," I said. "I always do it to him. He likes to put up a
fight and it's up to me to stay on top. It's always consensual, but he only
gets to take control if I slip up - which I never do."
In the face of their penetrating stares, an uncomfortable silence fell again.
Eventually, the hi-viz
cop asked, "So he is always your victim?"
"Victim, No! We're good … buddies … " but I was not allowed
to finish.
"And - where precisely is this victim - er, buddy of yours at the moment
- sir?" he persisted. "I think we need to have a word with him about
this. Get his side of the story."
"Well, … " I hesitated, "that might not be so easy."
"Oh, and why not?" he challenged suspiciously.
I tried to re-explain some of our mutually agreed challenge games, but they
remained sceptical about 'mutually agreed'. As I elaborated on the twenty-four
hour no let-out of the leather hood deal, the cop in the hi-viz jacket and
leather pants held me with piercing eyes while his mate, menacing in full
leather bike gear and shades said ...
"Oh, it sounds very unlikely. We'll need to verify that story - sir"
matching his colleague's previous heavy style of politeness. It made it sound
particularly dangerous as he continued ...
"Where is this so-called - er 'buddy' of yours at this moment?"
I took a deep breath before admitting "In the bedroom, but he's …."
And they'd gone before I could say any more.
I followed the two cops and needed to squeeze my way past them as they gazed
down at Sam, manacled hand and foot. Hooded, booted and gloved in leather
and lying on the leather-covered bed in his heaviest bike leathers, he was
still angrily yanking at the prison belt that locked his wrists to his waist.
Because I was still wearing my bike jacket and pants, and one of the cops
was in full leather and the other was booted and wearing leather breeches
- and Sam lay literally imprisoned in leather lying on the leather-covered
bed … the room seemed to be crammed full of black leather.
"He doesn't seem too happy with his predicament," observed the hi-vis
cop after a silence during which both watched Sam struggle some more.
"He's not, but that's part of the game - not liking it" I replied.
They seemed to consider this … and I was suddenly aware of long bulges
in two pairs of leather uniform pants; something told me that these guys were
not exactly unaffected by the implications of the situation they'd stumbled
across.
"He seems pretty angry," observed the leather cop. "You say
you're good at staying in control. Are you sure those restraints are up to
the job? Looks like he's still in a position to put up a struggle."
"Oh, I know my stuff," I told them confidently. "Had a lot
of practice keeping him efficiently restrained. Switching him from predicament
to predicament is part of the fun however much of a fight he puts up. I know
my equipment and how to use it."
"Got a lot of gear, have you?" cut in the hi-viz cop.
"More than enough," I told them as I slid back the mirrored wall
that hides our play cupboard. "You see officer, we play this sort of
game on a regular basis. No harm done", I reassured them. "Believe
me. Sam here always comes back for more."
At the sight of all the gear, the two cops seemed impressed. They began to
inspect the rail, heavy with several strait-jackets, a couple of sleepsacks
and various man-size bags and suits, plus rows of boots and other gear. The
cop in sun glasses took them off before fingering a particularly heavy black
leather strait-jacket that had several strong brown leather straps hanging
from it.
"This looks like something you could really put up a struggle in,"
he said as he looked back at Sam still writhing on the bed.
"Might be a bit of a fight to get him into it," I said, sensing
a shift in the atmosphere in the crowed room.
"Bit of a fight? Well, we're used to dealing with fellas who put up a
bit of a fight, aren't we, Jim?" His strong mouth twisted into a grin
as the hi-viz cop grinned back at his colleague and nodded agreement. Both
looked capable enough and perhaps eager for an opportunity to participate
in a bit of rough and tumble.
"Great!" I said, "You guys want to help me get a strait-jacket
on him, then?" I asked tentatively, not believing my luck.
The leather cop had already taken the strait-jacket off the hanger and was
weighing it in his hands. It was the toughest and heaviest we owned.
"Shit, this is great," he said to his mate as they both set about
examining it more closely.
"Never seen anything like this. It'd make any would-be Escape Artist
shit themselves."
"Escape nothing!" I said. "Nobody could ever get out of that.
Double leather, reinforced at every point of stress, the extra-high collar
locks. When the sleeves are strapped through all the various retainers …
give up hope, all that enter!"
"So - what are we waiting for?" announced the hi-viz cop. "Like
I told you earlier this afternoon," he said to me, "Plenty of leather
is always good - on or off a bike."
"I'll drink to that," enthused the totally leather-clad cop, smiling
at me and then down at Sam. "Let's see if we can get it on him. Right?"
he said to his mate.
"Right!" I said, "Right on!" as I produced a key and bent
over Sam to unlock his handcuff belt … and that's when it all happened.
I was grabbed from behind, suddenly jerked backwards, a leather-covered arm
vice-like around my throat. I shouted out, which caused the grip to tighten,
the arm forcing my chin upwards and my mouth closed. His leg pushed its way
between mine from behind. Our leather creaked and chaffed together as I was
clamped back onto the leathered cop. Almost simultaneously, he'd somehow got
an arm under my left elbow and was twisting it up behind me. This guy obviously
was well-practiced in such moves. I know, because I'm good at it too - but
there were two of them and they'd taken me by surprise. I grabbed up with
my free hand to try and drag his choking arm off my throat, but his colleague
was active, too. He was now in front of me holding the strait-jacket ready,
and was grabbing my free wrist in a well-applied twist-grip. I knew the technique
and knew how efficient it was.
While the man behind me nearly dislocated one of my arms and throttle me with
his elbow, my other arm was already being skilfully forced down into the sleeve
of the strait-jacket by the determined hi-viz cop. As that arm was clamped
in place by a firm grip, the cop behind me brought my twisted arm round to
the front while still deftly sustaining an effective arm-lock on it. In spite
of my desperate struggling I found the second wrist disappearing, pushed down
deep into the menacing jacket's other sleeve.
My neck was suddenly free but an unexpected yank at the jacket from behind
and it was up onto my shoulders. Between them they expertly manoeuvred me
none too gently face down onto the floor at the side of the bed. A heavy knee
kept me there while the jacket was rapidly closing behind over my leathers,
tighter and tighter with every back strap they were connecting - a well synchronised
team, four hands well coordinated. Buckles rattled closed. As somebody groped
between my leather-covered legs, the wide single crotch strap was pulled through
and pulled tight - I nearly came in my leather jeans. Then the strap was wrenched
even tighter as it was strapped through the buckle somewhere up behind my
back. It suddenly struck me that these two guys were suspiciously familiar
with the process of strapping somebody into a strait-jacket - but I had no
time to dwell on this possibility.
"On your feet, leather-man!" said a voice, as two pairs of hands
hauled me to my feet by the straps of the jacket.
"What the fuck are you … " I protested, my voice almost a croak
after the headlock the leather cop had had on me.
"Shut to fuck up - sir!" growled the leather cop. "We've not
finished yet!"
With that he jerked the high collar of the strait-jacket up and began to explore
how it wrapped around my neck before two heavy brown straps circled the neck
side by side. This collar I'd specially designed to make it as restrictive
as possible, high and tight preventing any head movement.
As these straps were connected and tightened, this process distracted me from
realising that my arms still were not yet strapped - but I missed the opportunity.
Two pairs of beefy hands soon set about the task of restraining my arms, bulky
because of the various thicknesses of leather bike jacket under double-thick
leather strait-jacket with extra reinforcing leather at elbows and mitts.
My attempts at resistance were short-lived.
"No, please!" I squawked ineffectually inside the now rigid throat
wrappings as the two cops determinedly forced my arms across my chest. All
my training in dealing with violent prisoners was of no use to me. These two
were obviously experienced, and I sensed that it was probably more than their
training as cops that made them equal to the situation.
" Please, no!" I gasped as air was forced out of my lungs as the
special high-security double buckle sleeve-ends were connected at the back
and began to drag my arms progressively tighter across my rib-cage.
"Nnn - agh!" I yelped as one pair of hands expertly wrenched the
tough sleeve-ends closer and yet closer together behind me while others pushed
my elbows tighter together in front. They knew tricks I'd learned during years
of playing around with strait-jackets. I sensed the prongs of the two heavy-duty
buckles snap into place behind me. Two final jerks as they pulled the loose
strap-ends through retaining loops signalled the end of any hopes for me.
I stood trussed and gasping for breath.
"OK, Mister control freak. Get out of that - as Morecombe & Wise
used to say," gloated the hi-viz cop.
"No-one could ever get out of that. Your own words," said the leather
cop.
"Always wear plenty of leather. My words!" smirked the hi-viz cop,
"and leather over leather's even better!" he added, obviously elated
by the situation.
"Give up hope all that enter. Your words, leather-man. Your words!"
continued the leather cop. "You've entered, and shit are you staying!"
he sneered.
Strait-jacketed! Something I'd always managed to avoid in the past. I was
always the one doing it to Sam. These guys had done a really efficient job
- me strapped into a jacket which I'd deliberately designed to be totally
escape-proof when I ordered it. Now, me, imprisoned in its clinging layers
of tough black and brown leather over my leather bike jacket. I'd put Sam
into it dozens of times - but never risked allowing him to do it to me.
I pulled at the sleeves, tentatively. Nothing moved, just creaked. I wrenched
my body from left to right. Nothing happened except the crotch strap tightened
on my bursting prick.
The leather-jacketed cop watched for a moment enjoying the spectacle for a
while before moving in closer and putting an arm around my shoulder in an
all-friends-together way.
"You're really in a fucking mess … sir!" he said with that
same mocking politeness. Tightening his grip, he almost playfully began to
pull me off balance. I was in no position to stop him as he forced me downwards
demonstrating his complete control. He smiled into my face as he lowered me
none too gently onto the floor.
From where I lay, two towering pairs of bike boots and leather pants seemed
a mile high up to two faces grinning down at me.
At a signal between them,
the two cops moved away towards the kitchen, leaving me lying there helpless
as they disappeared. I jerked and writhed, although I knew it was all hopeless.
They returned with keys I'd left on the kitchen table. They knew these would
probably fit Sam's cuffs. Even though distracted by my own predicament, I
realised the cop's own handcuff keys would have opened Sam's cuffs and leg-irons.
Together two experienced coppers set to, easily releasing Sam's cuffs from
his belt before starting on his hood. Why had I left all the keys on the table
after I'd fed him? Even keys for the hood and belt padlocks. If only they'd
been in a pocket of my leather jacket, which was now buried in turn under
this strait-jacket, they wouldn't have been able to free him. But they'd already
quite expertly unlaced the hood (I was now convinced that these guys had done
it before!) and were working it off Sam's head. His heavily-gloved hands groped
towards the blindfold, but he couldn't find the start of the adhesive bandage
with his padded fingers. The cops did though. Soon my guy was blinking and
squinting, trying to get used to the light; trying to make out what was going
on; trying to see who was there. He looked a mess, but somehow Sam always
looked great.
"Hi James! What're you doing here, Ches?" he asked the cops. He
knew them!
The hi-viz cop grinned. "I recognised the eagle on your jacket when I
stopped you guys on the road," he said . "Remembered it from that
advanced bike course we ran. Thought we'd come and rescue you."
"Thanks," said Sam, "but really you've broken our rules. I
was to do a full twenty-four hours in that hood."
"So - let him do the rest of the time for you!" said Ches the leather
cop, nodding down towards me.
Sam seemed to notice me for the first time, on the floor trussed up in the
strait-jacket.
"Shit, they really got the better of you, Chris! How's it feel to be
on the receiving end for a change?" he asked, gloating.
"Get this off of me, you bastard," I said breathlessly. "You're
in big trouble, Sam.'
"You're the one in big trouble," said the hi-viz cop who was James,
nudging me provocatively with the toe of his boot. "Let's see how you
like your head locked in leather!" He picked up the hood. "This
is a great piece of kit, Sam. I'm very impressed with your set-up here. On
the bike course I wondered if you were into a bit of kink. I said so to you,
didn't I, Ches - and it seems I was right. Great. Now's the time for us to
compare notes - but first your buddy here. Let's give him a real trip."
He stooped to me. "Always wear plenty of leather I said, didn't I chummy.
You agree there, don't you, Ches?"
"Fucking right!" said the leather jacketed cop," with a grin.
"And I think you may be in for the trip of a lifetime - matey,"
he leered down at me. "Taste of your own medicine."
The leather jacketed cop
bent down to help his mate because I'd begun to struggle as much as the strait-jacket
would allow - which was not much. And the fact that these two knew their way
around this sort of equipment was confirmed as they prepared to fight the
hood onto me.
"No, James! Ches! " said Sam, "Hang on. Leave him to me."
"Oh, come on, Sam. It's our turn now. Lace this onto him first, lock
his strait-jacket and lock a couple of pairs of manacles on his ankles - then
the three of us can really start to have some fun with him", said the
grinning James, holding the hood ready. "How's that sound to you, mate?"
he asked me, grinning. "Your good buddy Sam getting some of his own back,
and with two new buddies to bring a few fresh ideas to your games?"
"Leave off, James," said Sam as he tried to sit up, swinging his
still closely chained booted feet off the bed. Leave him to me. I'll deal
with him in my own way."
"We only want to help. Like your buddy here said about the strait-jacket;
an extra couple of pairs of willing hands can work wonders," argued James
who was still determined to begin forcing my head into the leather hood.
"No!" repeated Sam, much to my relief, "This is strictly between
Chris and me."
"Why should you have all the fun?" insisted the other cop. "We
know a few tricks that might surprise even you, believe me."
"Damn right," confirmed James.
Sam insisted firmly, "Thanks but - no …"
"Well, how if we take the keys with us, Sam? Yes! Then you get a leather
guy to play with - BUT we make sure you don't get too soft-hearted and let
him out before the end of twenty-four hours. Then, we'll come back tomorrow
and we might ..."
"No!" I said
- and I threw my head back, intending to get the bridge of his nose, because
he was still bending close to me .. but he was quicker.
"Or maybe we won't come back!" added the other cop threateningly
to me.
"Leave him to me, guys" insisted Sam again.
"Well, I hope you're in for a rough time, leather-man," said James
into my face. "I really would like to stay and watch you squirm - and
begin to beg!"
But, much to my relief he released his grip on me and let me fall back none
too gently onto the floor.
"I'd get a kick out of that, too," said the other cop regretfully
as he straightened up.
I looked up at them resentfully, but said nothing because in my position there
was no point in inviting trouble. Laying on the floor, they looked to be about
eight feet tall: strong leather-encased thighs, round arses and bulging pricks
above their tall shiny bike boots all exaggerated by the unusual perspective.
The spectacularly leather-jacketed cop suddenly addressed his hi-viz clad
partner. "Are you sure Sam here is man enough to do a thorough job? If
he's the one that always gets tied up and abused - how do we know he'll do
a good job? Perhaps, if that's what he likes best … " continued
Ches speculatively, but he left the question hanging in the air.
His partner seemed to consider new possibilities - and so could I - and I
could see that Sam was beginning to get a bit worried. He reached for the
key to his leg-irons - but his hands were still laced securely into the thickly
padded bike gloves.
Ches picked up the tiny handcuff key. "This what you're looking for -
mate?" he asked. "Looks just like the one for my cuffs". With
that he un-snapped the pouch and produced the solid-centred handcuffs from
his belt. "Ever been in a pair of these, Sam? Ever tried to escape from
a pair? Ever tried to resist arrest when somebody was trying to get you into
a pair? Does your buddy there have a pair of these? There's a knack to using
them - but it can be very easy when you know how. Like on the advance bike-riding
course - I'm a very good instructor for teaching cuffing techniques."
With that he slowly and deliberately reached down for one of Sam's gloved
hands as he sat on the bed. Fingers interlocked and Sam's wrist was slowly
forced backwards against the joint, and he winced as his arm was easily but
painfully turned against the elbow joint. Before he could resist further he
was flipped over and was face-down on the bed.
The other cop grinned. "Easy as pie with these new cuffs. Show him how
effective they are, Ches."
A ratchet clicked shut around one of Sam's leathered wrists behind his back.
With his face buried in the bed-cover and his ankles manacled, Sam was in
no position to argue. A leather knee forced it's way between Sam's legs, pinning
him to the bed as his second wrist was steered into the other cuff. It was
almost happening in slow motion - and the ratchet closed slowly. As if he'd
got all the time in the world, the well-practiced cop applied the two deadlocks
to prevent the cuffs from closing any tighter, before hauling Sam back into
a sitting position. Sam did not look happy - but tried to keep the atmosphere
from getting more threatening.
He looked sheepishly at
the two cops and forced a smile.
"OK guys, cut it out. Let me loose. I've got plans for Chris there!"
he said looking down at me.
"What if we've got plans for both of you?" Ches asked evenly. "Wha'd'ya
think, James?"
"Well, I'm not sure," he replied, considering the situation. "We're
not due back on duty for how long is it?"
"Late shift tomorrow, me," said Ches.
"Me too." confirmed James, thoughtfully. "That's about, er
... thirty hours. How long was your original deal with your buddy here, twenty-four?
A lot can happen in twenty-four hours."
"Even more in thirty" decided Ches as he slid the wardrobe door
further open.
"Now look here … " began Sam, his voice taking on a firmer
tone.
"You were saying
… ?" asked Ches as he took a substantial gag from a selection on
a rack.
"And you were saying?" asked James looking down at me and reaching
for the padded leather hood again.
I just lay there, strait-jacketed. I had nothing to say - and Sam was determinedly
keeping his mouth shut.
"Sam - mate," smiled James, "Looks like your twenty-four hour
leather imprisonment deal with buddy-boy here just started from scratch again.
But don't worry. This time your playmate will get to share in the fun - and
I think we can guarantee that you'll both learn a few new tricks. Right Ches?"
"Too fucking right - mate," said Ches to his partner. "When
you told me about your encounter with two horny, pervy game-players …
I hoped they would be the type who like to share their toys."
"Oh, I'm sure they will" smiled James, "if we ask them nicely.
Won't you, guys?"
Neither Sam nor I said
anything. In fact neither of us said much for the next twenty-four hours -
because we were neither of us in a position to say anything during most of
the time.
But I did learn a lot of new tricks.
THE END
LINK TO ALL STRICKLAND
STORIES + PVC FACT & FANTASY
http://www.houdini-connections.co.uk/4-info/pubs/storylines.htm