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LONG DISTANCE CONTROL TRIP
Yet
another waxed motorcycle gear fantasy
by
(adapted from an idea by Geoff Adams)
My new pur
Naturally I had to check it out right away, j
Standing admiring the overall effect in the mirror I
decided to christen it by stimulating my stiffening cock inside it ... when the
phone interrupted j
As I picked up the receiver my pulse was still racing
and my head slightly muzzy.
“Geoff?” asked a voice before I could find the breath
to announce myself.
“Yes.” I croaked, the combination of the tightly
buckled jacket collar and my sexual arousal making my voice sound strange.
“What are you up to? Have I interrupted something?
Who have you got there? What are you in the middle of?” His bombardment of
questions was typical of this forceful character who
knew all my secrets and knew how to take control of any situation.
“Switch the fucking web-cam on – now!” he ordered,
“No delays – now!” he insisted and, as usual, I complied with his demands.
My computer was already fired up and the link to Mike
was automatic, as were several others to people who regularly shared my
enthusiasms long-distance. The picture that he would now be seeing a few
hundred miles away appeared on my screen. I moved so he could get a fuller view
of the suit and my slightly flustered face.
“Might have guess” he scoffed, “whatever time of the
fucking day or night, you kinky bastard.”
“It’s new and I was just ...”
“New,” he interrupted, “you’ve bought more? You’ve
already got a cupboard full of wax stuff. How many sets of Barbour and Belstaff
and Rukka do you need? How much of it can you wear at
one time? What have you got on under it?” he demanded.
“Nothing ... “ a stammered.
“Nothing:” he barked
“No other waxed stuff,” I said defensively, “Just tee
shirt and jeans,” I countered, struggling to open the tight neck buckle to show
him.
“You amaze me. I thought you’d have at least one
other suit if not more under it, you obsessive pervert you. Do up the collar
again, tight - now.“ My fl
“So - what makes this suit so
different from the how-many-other’s you’ve already got stashed away?
“I – j
“Wax fucking cotton! You’re obsessive
– what are you?” he demanded.
“Obsessive” I admitted willingly, knowing that Mike
was j
“You kinky, perverted bastard! I think
because you’re in that suit you should stay in it until you go to bed tonight.”
“But I’ve got to get shopping in and
somebody’s coming round for dinner “ I argued, well
aware that it was only mid-morning.
“Who?” he demanded
“Nobody you know ... “
“Is he into gear and games?” asked the
voice at the end of phone. I only had to nod; the web-cam transmitting even my
unspoken responses.
“Well then,” he insisted, “you will be in that suit
done up to the neck when he arrives – and you can offer him the use of another
suit if he wants to spend his evening with you and eat with you – and you’ll
keep the web-cam switched on and present yourself before it at least every half
hour to confirm you’re still zipped and strapped in your nice new suit – and
you can put your guest on to me so I can confirm that my instructions are being
carried out.”
“But ... I’ve got to get some shopping
in” I repeated.
“So shop in your suit” he insisted.
“The bloody sun’s shining and it’s
warm out and ... “
“Tough, tough, tough. I shall expect
to see you fully suited-up before you leave to do the shopping and as soon as
you get back.”
“But ...”
“No buts” came the firm dictate “You bought the fucking
suit so wear it – and let’s not have any arguing or complaining or ... I was
going to say, you’ll be punished ... but I guess the better deterrent is to
threaten that you won’t be punished, you masochistic, kinky little wax cotton
pervert. In fact, if you don’t do precisely what I say, you won’t ever get
invited down here ever again. Savvy?”
This man knew how to get his own way in any
situation; and my day took on a dimension I hadn’t anticipated. I would be
shopping in my local stores hermetically sealed into this fucking suit although
several of the locals knew I didn’t have a motorbike. And then, after cooking
dinner in it, I’d be sitting down to eat still suited up with a guest who had
unwittingly become involved in one of Mike’s infamo
Later that night, when alone before my web-cam and
talking to Mike, my reward for following his instructions to the letter and
proving my willingness to subject myself to his control, was an invitation to
visit this inveterate game-player in the wilds of
He took my agreement on tr
A week is a long time even with the distractions of
work, and I could only guess at what might lie in store for me. I would take my
new suit down with me and perhaps my favourite well-worn tighter unlined
one-piece waxed suit that could, at a pinch be worn under other things. No need
to cart much else beca
I speculated that there’d be no need for me to take
my favourite waders as there were plenty there, but I would take the unlined
rubber wellies I’d acquired recently; I particularly liked the feel of them
without socks. To be comfortable in the car on the long drive, I planned to
wear the new 501
But on the Wednesday evening my plans evaporated when
the phone rang. Mike’s instructions were specific and unchallengeable. I was to
wear my old one-piece waxed suit (newly waxed for the occasion) inside-out with
nothing underneath. Over it, I was ordered to wear the E-bay two-piece suit
fully snapped and strapped closed for the entire car journey. Not to bring any
alternative clothing – he would supply from his extensive stock of Government
Surpl
The thought of driving for almost six hours encumbered
in two layers of heat-producing waxed cotton didn’t exactly excite me, because
I knew from experience what sort of problems might arise. But Mike had a way of
insisting. I would not only show myself on the web-cam during the suiting up, I
was told to bring my digital camera. Mike knew it had a time-line which could
be superimposed on every shot. He would want half-hourly proof that during the
trip I kept both suits on and closed. His only concession being that I needn’t
wear boots to drive in – but bring my 20 hole Doc Martins with me – and a old
army rain poncho to protect the car upholstery from wax while driving.
My arguments and resistance were swept aside. Mike
wanted me arriving steamed up and primed as he put it. The weekend was going to
be “wax-packaged all the way” he informed me, hinting that he also had a couple
of new acquisitions which he was looking forward to trying out on me. His
parting shot was to warn me to look out for the post on Thursday or Friday
morning and follow the instructions in the packet.
Anxio
After a not too restful night (dreaming I was being
boiled alive in six layers of waxed gear) the postman delivered a small package
early Friday. In it was a sturdy waist belt made from very thick brown saddle
leather. Slots in it fastened over metal loops, two of them – pl
A grinning Mike watched me squirm as I pull my newly
waxed one-piece over my naked body, sticky-side in. He then made sure that the
fully lined E-bay jacket and pants were fully zipped and strapped and buckled
closed before he instructed me to cinch the jacket waist belt tighter. Then the
leather belt was added. Under his supervision the two padlocks were then closed
to make sure I could now not remove the jacket.
Luckily, I had taken a piss before starting the
suiting up, beca
*****
Even the short walk to my car was embarrassing. The
day was fine, so a suited and sealed up biker totally dressed in black except
for a pair of white trainers and no socks and a conspicuo
Before I was at
“Yes”, I said grumpily.
“Are you on your way?” asked the smug voice.
“Yes!” I said through gritted teeth.
“Have you taken a photo yet?” insisted my tormentor.
“Not yet, for Christ’s sake!” I fumed
“Ah,ah,ah!” said the
warning voice, “At the next traffic lights I want a shot of your collar buckled
snug around your neck – and the time-line switched on so the time is imprinted
on the picture.
Ahead I saw the back-up of traffic before the bridge.
I groped for the camera and slid back the shutter cover. Checking that it was
set to include time-line – I drew up in the queue of traffic, judged a position
at arms length which would show the closed collar, and snapped. A woman with a
pram was passing and she almost did a double-take – and I stayed resolutely
calm and stared her out. Mike’s voice brought me back.
“Did you take it?”
“Yes, and I’m signing off now. Don’t keep calling me,
it’s difficult enough to concentrate” ... and the traffic was moving so I
grappled to switch off the phone and only just remembered to switch off the
camera. I’d need to conserve the batteries if I was to take a shot every half
hour. No way was I going to stop and get out to buy
new batteries.
Even before I reached the M25, road works threatened
to slow things down. A stretch of single file traffic was being manually controlled
by ‘stop’ and ‘go’ signs. As ill luck would have it the young lad swung the
‘stop’ sign when I was next in line to drive through. So there I sat,
immediately in front of this hunky hard-hatted young
road worker in his rigger boots and orange day-glo jacket,
bored out of his mind by the monotony of his task. His eyes met mine and I saw
him register what I was wearing. By now cars were streaming from the opposite
direction, so he had no responsibilities until the flow stopped. I saw him
decide to move forward to get a better view of me sitting before him. Walking
away from his ‘stop’ sign he approached my car, preened his tangled ponytail
hair and gazed pointedly in at me. I tried to ignore his curiosity but m
He seemed to make a decision – and then pressed a
button on his mobile site-intercom. Talking into the phone he strolled back to
his sign as the flow of vehicles from the other direction ended. He again ran
chunky fingers through his ponytail under his hard-hat before switching his
sign. Gratefully, I moved ahead – and he saluted AA fashion, giving me a quizzical
look as I passed him.
The single file stretch was quite long and a lot of
workers were assembled along it’s length. Suddenly I
realised that none of them were working, and all seemed to be looking for
something – and it soon became obvious that they’d been alerted to look for the
car driver zipped up to the neck in heavy motorcycle gear in a tin-pot Ford Cortina.
They peered, they pointed, they
waved, laughing among themselves. I was mortified and speeded up ... until I
realised that not only was I going too fast, there was a motorcycle cop
supervising the single flow sitting astride his bike. He had not been alerted
by the stop-sign guy but I did see him register my speed and as I approached,
his hand signalled to slow down – which I did – and then his signal turned to a
‘pull over’. I had no choice but do as he commanded.
Resignedly, I switched off my engine and closed my
eyes as in the mirror I saw him dismount. Then I heard the scrunch of his heavy
motorcycle boots approach my window. I wound it down, belatedly scrabbling for
my wallet which, I realised, was in the holdall on the back seat – I hoped.
The cop’s view for the next however long it took, was
my wax cotton covered back screwed around reaching into the back seat, dragging
the khaki rain poncho askew and tangling it with my bulky waxed coverings. I
eventually straightened up to face him clutching my wallet – and in my eyeline all I could see was the waist of his yellow hi-vis jacket and a belt loaded down with various leather
attachments including baton holder, flash light and the rigid-centred handcuffs
bulky in their pouch. The crotch of his leather biker pants was also directly
before my face, but I forced my gaze upwards until I met his piercing eyes and
strong mouth, which gave no indication of what he was thinking as I offered my
licence.
“Where are you heading – sir?” he asked evenly.
“
“Expecting rain are we, sir?” he asked with an edge
of sarcasm.
“No, officer,” I said calmly and quietly as I looked
into his handsome face. This was a time for attack rather than defence, I
thought. “I’m heavily kinky for waxed cotton motorcycle rain gear and wear it
at any opportunity I get.”
He took time to consider this and his steel blue eyes
gave nothing away – but he did take time to breathe in slowly before nodding
slightly.
“As a matter of fact, sir, I can appreciate that,” he
said evenly – and we both waited for what might happen next. “Are you planning
to drive the whole distance so attired?” he asked in a businesslike way.
“If I’m allowed” I hazarded.
He seemed to consider his options. “Waxed gear may
not be as efficient rain protection as the more modern stuff on a bike – but in
your car, sir – enjoy the trip ... but watch your speed. Might as well spin out
your enjoyment as long as you can – and in
*****
The next phase of the journey, though progressively
more and more uncomfortable, was uneventful. My mind lingered on the hard-hatted, pony-tailed construction worker – and the leather
pants, high boots and belt furniture of the motorcycle cop – and speculated on
what lustful fantasy scenarios I might involve them in, in the near future. I
regretted the lack of opportunity to snap a couple of pictures to add to my
collection of horny images which I used to support the steamy stories I have
cobbled together and got off on in the privacy of my computer corner.
As the miles sped by the two suits were increasingly
imposing themselves on my senses. The heat, the smell, the stickiness and
beginnings of chafing against my sensitised skin were soon building up. My
groin and the crack of my arse were certainly undergoing a gradual change. I
knew that well before I was through
Every half hour I managed to take another shot of the
closed suit. In a lay-by somewhere in
The phone didn’t ring again until I was within twenty
miles of my destination. The curt voice asked “Where are you?”
“Couple of miles outside Bodmin”
I reported coldly (the heat and sweat inside the suits was beginning to really
irritate the skin between my legs, my balls were feeling numb and the whole
back of the suit was sticking to me very uncomfortably – and water was literally
running out of my cuffs and down my ankles - and I was wanting to piss.
“Good,” came the cheery
voice. “There’s a service station in Wadebridge. Stop
off and get me a couple of litres of milk.”
“I can’t get out and go shopping! I need petrol but
I’m going to stay on the road and get to you as soon as I can.” I insisted; the
urgency of my full bladder adding urgency to my voice.
“I need milk. Don’t arrive without it” commanded the
voice. “The service station at Wadebridge is a busy
one. Nobody’ll notice you.” With a click the phone
went dead and once again I was left to ponder the dynamics of remote-control
games, especially when the ‘controller’ is Mike.
*****
I found the service station and it was, as he’d said,
quite extensive. Close to the store entrance several motorcycles were parked in
a bay. I drove past it sitting low, and looked for somewhere relatively
unexposed. After drifting around the edges, I settled on a corner by the trash
bins where there was a single space between a high-sided delivery truck and an
old transit van. Both looked as if they’d been parked for some time – and might
belong to staff so I backed in between them. Emerging, painfully
conscio
In the store I padded to the cold cabinets and
eventually found the milk – but in the same isle a rugged-looking motorcyclist
in well-
My breath almost stopped because I sensed this had
been a deliberate move on his part – as he eyed the contents of the cabinet.
The hair was cropped but his was not a contrived skinhead look.
“Good suit, mate” he muttered, not catching my eye
but seeming to look for milk.
“Thanks – mate” I managed to grunt – before suddenly
moving to step around him – but somehow he also stepped in the same direction
which brought me face-to-face with him. It was the face of a young Cornishman;
weathered and square and Celtic.
“What sort of bike you got?” he asked gruffly in that
distinctively Cornish dialect. Unfortunately, echoes of Jon
“Er -
“Nice – but you’re takin’
some risk wi’out boots. Wassa’marrer,”
he sneered, “can’t handle the weight, bouy?”
“Oh – I - er – I fucked up
my toes in a spill,” I asserted with what I hoped was manly confidence. “Gotta go.” I said as I abruptly side-stepped
him and hurried away towards one of the check-outs, limping ostentatiously.
Had he clocked the locked-on leather belt? I’d swung
the padlocks sideways so my elbow could cover them, but in the queue for the
least busy cash desk I was unexpectedly trapped behind a pensioner who was
arguing over some discount coupons.
Suddenly, the biker was close behind me, breathing
down my neck as we waited in line. The narrow check-out lane was slightly
walled in so we were isolated – and somehow very close together.
“I likes waxed cotton,” he
mused quietly into my ear from behind. “Don’t see it often enough these days”
and I was appalled to feel a hand groping my arse crack appreciatively as he
stood close behind me, close enough for no one else to see what he was doing.
Not wanting to draw attention to us, I turned to face
him – which was a mistake. Now his hand, without moving, was close to my
crotch. Luckily the pensioner moved and I was able to back off and step up to
the cashier. As I bagged the milk and paid, I again felt the biker move in
close beside me, somehow making it look as if we were shopping together. As I
turned to move away I felt his hand grip a handful of the seat of my pants but,
by keeping his arm close to his own body, this was not obvious to anybody else.
One-handedly he paid for the items he was carrying
without releasing the grip he had on the fabric. I had no option but to stand
there unless I was prepared to make a scene. Having paid, his hand drove me
forward in matey fashion away from the cashier. Firmly controlled, we walked in
unison, and he steered me towards the exit. Releasing his grip, his hand now
closed around the back of the leather belt, and I realised that in this
corridor was the entrance to the gents. His tough slightly freckled grin was
close to my face. “Fancy a bit of fun and games, mate?” he asked quietly. “Wax
cotton does things for me – you could do things for me ... in there.” he nodded
towards the toilets.
“Er - thanks but no thanks
... mate,” I managed to say, desperate to sound friendly. He was a bulky chap
and could have turned nasty. I acknowledged his grip on my belt. “Sorry - gotta go. Heavy date.”
“Suit yourself” he said, “but you don’t know what
you’re missing – bouy.”
He released his hold, and I moved off speedily – and
only just remembering to limp as I went. Behind me I heard his rich voice call
loudly, “Oy lyke yer belt ... mate!” - and several
shoppers paused to take in the sight of the totally exposed padlocks dangling
from my waist.
Carefully avoiding the bike stands, I headed back to
my car, which I was pleased to see was still hemmed in between the two tallish
vehicles – both, mercifully, still without drivers. The sweat inside my two
suits had turned to ice but I was still dripping with perspiration. My hands
fumbled with the keys. I heard a bike kick-started into life and looked across
to see the local interpretation of the skinhead-cult, now dark helmeted,
heading towards the exit of the parking lot. I leaned in to rearrange the rain
poncho so it would protect the seat for the remaining few miles of my journey.
Then, stowing the milk behind the seat, I settled in and adjusted the clammy,
sticky suit as best I could. My bladder was ready to burst and I wondered if I
should go back and risk the toilets now the biker had gone. So intent was I on
my predicament, it wasn’t until I looked through the windscreen that I saw the
biker had coasted around the lot and was now sitting directly in front of my
car – blocking my path. Astride his old BSA he sat
eyeing me. Then slowly and with an air of menace, he got off his bike, pulled
it onto it’s side stand (leaving it blocking my exit) removed his crash helmet,
carefully hung it onto a handlebar and then, deliberately building up the
suspense, walked slowly around to my window, his leathered shoulders squared
and his booted heels crunching the tarmac. He motioned me to wind down my
window. With no means of escape without trashing his bike, I complied.
“Now that weren’t friendly, bouy.
You lied to me.
“Sit still, fucker”. He smiled a dangerous smile as
he looked across the parking lot. From his low position no-one could see him there
and, anyway, we were in the remotest corner of the lot. “Now, you release the
door lock and open it gently. No tricks or I’ll break your fucking arm.”
He had total control. As I opened the door he deftly
moved so the open door was between us. “Swing your legs out an’ stay sitting,
he ordered,” and with an effort I achieved this manoeuvre, painfully conscious
of the soggy trainers as they were placed on the tarmac. In a swift move (and
still keeping a grip on my arm) he was suddenly kneeling before me.
“Spread your knees, bouy”
he instructed and releasing my arm, he forced my legs apart and, at the same
time, p
“Treasure” he said as the phone disappeared into the
inside of his jacket. “Interesting” he mused aiming the camera at me and
attempting to take a picture of my prone body with the unzipped jacket exposing
the inner layer. The camera shutter was closed so nothing happened - but he
soon found the catch – and took several pictures along the length of my upper
body, snapping details of the multi-layering. Staying low so he couldn’t be
seen from across the car lot, he then reached for the keys and took them out of
the ignition. Let’s see what you’ve got in the boot, bouy.”
“Nothing!” I protested.
“Did I ask you?” he growled. A hand gripped a fistful
of waxed cotton at my crotch and he pulled until I was being drawn out of the
car. “You stand up and walk to the back of the car. Any nonsense and I’ll break
yer legs.”
I stood and, walking around the opened door, I
wondered if I could slam him with it. But he was alert to the possibility and,
keeping control of it, part-closed the door before following me, still staying
low until he joined me behind the car.
“Open the boot” he hissed – but there was nobody to
hear him or see what was going on. As soon as the boot was unlocked he rose to
stand immediately behind me. The lifted boot-lid hid us both from the main
building. Being an old model the boot was little more than a tin trunk. Soon he
was bending me forwards across the gap until my torso was almost in the boot.
“There’s nothing worth stealing here” I insisted, “ nothing but .... “
“Nothing but you!” said a grim voice and two rough
hands pressed my shoulders down until my head was almost against the floor of
the boot, pressed hard against the wellies and an old green Barbour jacket.
“More waxed cotton” he exclaimed. “Oh, the smell,
sight and feel all gets me really randy, bouy.” He
pumped against my arse as he bent me over more firmly, then
dragged the tangle of Barbour till it enveloped my head. After a couple more
thrusts against my arse he growled “Put your hands behind your back”.
“Wha...?” I
started, muffled by the jacket.
“Do it!” he insisted, and I obeyed.
His legs were between mine, spreading
them and his bodyweight pressed in as I felt hands grasp my elbows.
“No, please” I pleaded into the depths
of the boot.
“Keep quiet!” he ordered as I felt something tighten
between my elbows. It m
“Now – you get in, bouy”
he ordered.
“No, please ....”
“In” he insisted and I felt my leg lifted and my
torso fell sideways and my second leg was raised and twisted and soon I was
crammed into the cramped space.
My head still inside the green Barbour
jacket, I was facing away from the opening, so I could see nothing and only
hear his parting shot.
“Oi really lyke yer suit - suits, bouy – you should have let me fuck you when it was offered
– but thanks for the camera and phone. Guess when it gets to closing time somebody’ll come and check out the cars that haven’t left
yet.
Oi doubt if nobody’ll hear
you before then.”
With that the lid slammed shut and
everything went even darker.
The next sound was the car door being slammed. Was he
going to drive off with me in the boot – to where? But then, even more scary, I heard his bike fire up and rev. Was he
deliberately letting me know he was leaving? If there had been any room to
panic I might have panicked – but wedged as I was I could only concentrate on
breathing in this confined space under the tangle of rich-smelling fabric. I’d
often wondered what it might feel like to be locked in the boot of a car. I’d
read about it in one-handed reading – but there was nothing sexy about this
harsh reality – and my bladder was now full to bursting.
I decided to try reversing my position. I shook and
dragged at the head-covering until I felt it move aside slightly. Chinks of
light gave me as sense of orientation, so I decided to try and move so I’d be
facing the opening if/when the boot was next opened. How long would the air
last? Were there dangerous petrol fumes. The smell of
the wellies distracted me as I squirmed – but the predominant smell was of
waxed cotton. My encased body in this confined space was generating heat (only
my feet were cold). I bumped my head and banged my knee trying to reverse my
position. My wrists didn’t budge in their binding, my elbows weren’t cinched
dangerously tight, but no amount of writhing was going to shift the plastic
bands. Trying to lay my head down was painfully uncomfortable. This was not a
horny trip – but somehow ...
My mind seemed to switch off ... except for the pain
of my bladder. Was I going to piss myself?
*****
In the past I’ve spent a lot of time
enjoying/surviving tied-up situations. It’s been my passion for as long as I
can remember. And since adulthood I’ve been lucky enough to engineer myself
into many situations that turned me on. This wasn’t one of them.
Although writing about it now is giving me a hard-on
– at the time I was seriously worried. I knew there was no point in wasting
energy and precious oxygen shouting. Best stay quiet and listen for any sounds
of people – then start yelling. As I waited I speculated on what might happen
when/if I was discovered. Straight forward enough – menaced by a local skinhead
as I returned to my car – the camera and phone stolen ...
I thought of Mike waiting for me to arrive. Might he
come looking for me – specially if he phoned and the
phone wasn’t answered ... what then? ... Jesus I needed to piss. In the past
I’d been left tied and suffered the painful build-up before eventually being
forced to piss myself; something we’re conditioned to resist – but once you
reach a certain point and you can’t hold out any longer ... you wonder why you
put up so much resistance (and endured the pain). Piss & get it over with.
I thought the stream would never end, and felt the
warm spread around my groin and stomach and thighs ... but all too soon the
heat went out of it and I was cold and damp and miserable – but somehow not
afraid. I’d survived some seriously uncomfortable ‘scenarios’. The main store
probably would close around eight and I’d no idea what time it was now – three
– four? I pictured the crop-headed Cornishman exploring the camera and finding
the pictures I’d taken. He was turned on by waxed cotton – so was I. Was the
motorcycle cop who’d stopped me also into it? He’d said “As a matter of fact,
sir, I can appreciate that.” Strange that I remembered his exact words, lying
scrunched up in the pungent darkness. Perhaps I’m not as strange with my kink
as I sometimes think. My thoughts drifted on to visualise my wardrobe hung with
different suits, one and two piece waxed – Black Prince and Rukkas,
padded and unlined ... and the stack of sticking together old naval foul
weather suits stored in a crate: rich-smelling with their own unique scent when
hauled out for an occasional deliberately hot and sweaty layering session.
I thought of Mike’s even more varied collection,
which included a couple of seriously professional diver’s dry suits; the sort
of suit you can’t escape from once you’re in it. That’s something I knew from
long and uncomfortable experience – but I still got off on the memory of the
experience. Some experiences are like that, I mused in the claustrophobic
darkness. I remembered the sessions in smooth tight-fitting neoprene wet suits.
Being
Working around Mike’s place had included a lot of
fetching and carrying. Stones to re-build stone walls in the pissing rain –
suitably suited-up – wet inside and outside the layering. Chained by the ankle
in the pig-sty, left to shovel mud – or heavily manacled, with collar, waist and
boots linked together by clanking chain while digging over his potato patch.
Some of my longer ‘vacations’ at Mike’s had been harder work than my everyday
office job. I’d got home to
My mind drifted back to the heavily-waxed bag hood
Mike had had made for me - and mitts made from the same rich fabric that laced
onto your wrists so you couldn’t get them off or use your fingers, specially if
thickly padded bike gloves were taped on first. Then there was the old thickly
padded Trialmaster Belstaff bike jacket that he’d had
mitts sewn to under the cuffs. Outwardly it looked like a normal jacket in
public ... but with your hands inescapably encased and the jacket closed ...
and the discreet ‘D’ ring fixed near the top of the zip padlocked shut, Mike
remained in control. He delighted in taking people out in public locked into
gear – even gagged inside one of his crash helmets. My mind began to re-live
the time when he’d driven me, as pillion passenger, out into the country and
left me (inescapably encased) to make my own way home. As an expert in all-over
‘containment’ on occasions he’d even insisted I wear boots a size too small so
the tight encasement was total. He’d even had some insoles made with small stud
sticking up in them. Laced and locked into those boots you’re happy to stay on
your knees, knowing how painful it is to stand up in them ... my mind continued
to wander over past experiences and the unusual nature of my ‘tastes’ ... until
I heard the sound of a bike. Was it his bike?
*****
The sound of the key in the boot-lock confirmed nothing
– had he been arrested and the police ... ?
No! it was him, grinning
down at me. I noticed that the light was fading, it
must be later than I thought. He leaned in without speaking and gripped two
handfuls of the still open-chested jacket, hauling me
upwards and his leering face approached mine.
“Now keep your fucking mouth shut, bouy, until I tell you otherwise. Right?” he demanded, his
tone indicating he required agreement. I nodded mutely, sensing he was now in a
more aggressive mood.
“Kneel and get your balance,” he commanded without letting go of my
jacket. My cramped legs screamed as the stretched damp layers of fabric and
padding clung around my thighs.
“Lean forward and down a bit” he instructed, using
both hands to position me. Behind the car, in this remote corner of the car
park in the twilight with the boot open ... there was nobody there to see him
drag my body forward so my face was pressed against his groin. It was only then
that I discovered he was now wearing waxed over-trousers. He wiped my face
around the greasy surface and thrust forwards onto me.
“Lick!” he ordered. “Suck!” he commanded. “Wet them–
get the taste, fucker.”
I tried to comply and after a while, he held me off
and raised me slightly to grin into my face.
“Like the taste? – what else do you like to get your
mouth around?” He took time to close the zip of my jacket right up to the
still-strapped collar, neatly re-closing the weather-proof flap. He then patted
my cheek – surprisingly lightly. “I told you to keep your mouth shut, bouy – but ... “ he again pulled me forwards until I was
face-to-face with his crotch – before easing down the greasy over-trousers to
reveal that there were no other pants under them – no jeans – no underwear –
only a ramrod stiff cock which was pointing directly at me, shiny and hard.
“Now you can
open your mouth” he said, and waited. A smack across the back of my head told
me I’d hesitated too long. At this moment, I knew I had to yell or struggle and
suffer the consequences – or open up and suffer alternative pain and
discomfort. I licked my lips and did what had to be done.
Surprisingly it tasted relatively savoury rather than
disgusting. It wasn’t my first time and somehow my brain reassured me it
wouldn’t be the last. But here and now I had no option but to comply, and so I
applied myself to getting him to climax as soon as possible and get it over
with.
But he was enjoying it too much to allow me to rush
things. He squirmed and thrusted and moaned in what
sounded like appreciation. With my arms pinioned behind my back and his hands
gripping my jacket, he controlled the rhythm and force – but soon his breathing
accelerated and (much to my relief) he withdrew before shooting. The first spew
hit me full in the chest and as his hands encouraged his convulsing cock, he
avoided squirting into my face but deliberately coated the jacket (he’d thought
to close the waterproof jacket in advance, my reeling mind reminded me).
As the orgasm started to slow down he again grabbed
two handfuls of jacket and dragged my chest against his cock until the cum was massaging his groin. He fumbled for the
waistband of his wax trousers and hauled them upwards and continued to drag my
cum-drenched jacket against the wax of his pants, deliberately coating them. He
grinned – he laughed breathlessly. One gloved hand released my jacket and began
to douse itself in the cum – which he then proceeded
to smear up onto my face.
His other hand now started to coat itself with spunk
which he then wiped into my hair pulling my face up onto his jacket-front. With
systematic thoroughness he transferred the white cream from waxed cotton to my
face and hair – finally gripping my shoulders and dragging me upwards to his
face – where he planted a rough open-mouthed kiss which included an aggressive
tonguing,
His unshaven chin grated against my sticky cheeks and
I realised he was deliberately coating his own face from mine – and then he
contorted himself to rub his face against the front of my slimy jacket,
laughing breathlessly as he completed the process. His smeared face then
grinned into mine.
“Listen, fuckface. You’re mine. You’ve got what I like and you like
what I like, I know that. And, I’ve got something for you.”
Slightly dazed and breathless I remained kneeling
there as he fumbled into the pocket of his leather jacket. A chain was around
my neck and my face was buried half under the armpit of his jacket before I
could argue. Clamped there, I felt-heard-sensed a padlock click. “You’re mine, bouy” he said as I virtually fell away from him. I was too
stunned to react as I watched him produce something else from his pocket.
Scissors – the type of snub-nosed cut-anything scissors used by the Emergency
Services – and something that should be in every bondage playroom. Again my
head was hauled forwards and this time steered to between his legs; there to be
clamped between vice-like waxy thighs. Immobilised, I felt my elbows released
and then the tie between my wrists was cut. Strong arms under my armpits
gripped and lifted me bodily out of the car boot. Even in it’s
confusion my mind registered this feat of bodily strength. My numb legs found
the ground but his arms continued to support my weight. Without them I would
probably have slumped to the tarmac. As it was, I just slumped against the now
cum-stained sticky leather which covered his chest, not in control of any of my
senses.
My arms were free – that simple sentence on paper can
convey nothing of the war raging in my nervous system. Only people who have
experienced tight binding followed by release can begin to appreciate how
long-stressed sinews respond when relaxed; how muscles react; how returning
circulation can burn and seem to rip at the veins. My finger-ends were totally
numb, my elbows ached and the impulse to flex shoulders and raise arms was
irresistible but too painful to achieve. Standing before the bulk of this
close-cropped, leather-clad ‘controller’ I was unsure whether any movement
might be misinterpreted. I eased my shoulders and flexed my elbows as he
watched in apparent amusement. Tentatively I banged my tingling hands together
but felt little – except that the outside of each wrist was tender where the
cable tie had left marks – marks which might not disappear for hours if not
days; this I knew from experience. He waited as my arms flexed again and
fingers reached towards my neck. Burning fingers found the chain and although
desensitised, discovered that the chain was no token – the rounded sturdy close
fat links would not even hacksaw easily.
Still breathless from his exertions
(or excitement) he laughed again – and for almost no reason I pumped out a
breathless laugh also – relief perhaps that he was allowing me time to recover
from the tight trussing. Experimentally, he partially removed his supporting
grip on the thick leather belt around my waist – which I only now discerned he
was holding me by. His other hand then approached my neck and a finger looped
behind the snug chain.
“This stays on,” he said firmly. “Where’d’you live?” he demanded gruffly as he released his
grip on the chain.
“
“Who you visiting?” was his next
question – and I hesitated, suddenly cautious.
“A friend – for the weekend ... ”
“What friend? he
demanded and I decided I should not reveal this information. He raised an
eyebrow at my hesitation.
“I could make you tell me. I could shove you back in
the boot, drive you to my place and make you tell me anything I wanted to know.
Do you believe I could do that?” he asked confidently. I nodded. “Bet your
fucking ass I could! And I might enjoy it if you tried to resist telling me –
so I could demonstrate just how good I am at ... interrogation.”
Suddenly he seemed to decide on a different approach.
“With that chain locked around your neck your options are limited. So, you spend
your weekend doing whatever a big-city pervert who is locked into two old wax
motorcycle suits might have come to
After a grim pause, he suddenly caught me a stinging
smack across the face before barking out a final sentence into my face. “Tell
me his name!”
“No!” I said with a firmness that surprised me as
well as him.
After a pause he continued, now menacingly calm,
“Then answer me this instead.” A strong gloved finger hooked itself under the
front of the chain, which pulled it painfully against the back of my neck as my
face was hauled downwards until I was forced to my knees. Once again facing the
crotch of his now cum-stained waxed over-trousers, he insisted. “What time you setting off back to
“Sunday – three-ish / four-ish” I croaked into his crotch, fearful that his fierce
hold on the chain might snap my neck ... but he was now dragging me upright into
a standing position again ... demonstrating that he had total control although
my arms were now free.
“So – if you drive in here at three thirty sharp on
Sunday – I will be here with the key. I may unlock this chain” (he shook me by
it) ... “or, I may send you back to
The proposition was surprisingly exciting – and
suddenly, having slammed down the car boot lid, he sat me backwards onto it and
was soon skilfully using his elbows either side of my chest to push me down
onto the back of the car, pinned there by his bodyweight. Leaning his sticky
chest down heavily down onto mine, I felt his warm legs forcing their way
between mine until I was efficiently immobilised. In that position, in spite of
the almost total body-to-body contact was able to at least summon up some
mental resistance.
“I could hacksaw the chain off” I breathed into his
face.
“And I could come find you – wherever you are. I’ve
got your car registration number and I’ve got contacts.”
Pinned and powerless, I decided to play for time. “If I come ... “
“You will come!” he breathed menacingly into my face.
Then after a final couple of provocative thrusts of his pelvis, he released the
painful hold he’d kept on the chain and removed his weight.
“Go do what you came here to do,” he said looking
down at me, beca
His still sticky gloved hand once more massaged around my chest – pulled down
on the strapped collar so the chain around my neck was more visible. I felt
like a rag doll, still off-balance in my hot and sticky wax prison (sticky and
wet both inside-and-out beca
Non-plussed I moved ahead.
Behind me I heard him open and re-slam the boot ... which made me turn.
“Here - keys” he said abruptly and threw them to me.
I caught them and unlocked the door, hesitated and climbed in, aware that he
was now coming towards me. As I seated myself I noticed he’d taken the trouble
to wind the window up sometime since he’d first hauled me out of the drivers seat. He now grabbed the door before I could close
it.
“Haven’t you forgotten something?” he demanded.
“What?” I asked, genuinely nervous, my face twitching
slightly ... which made me suddenly
conscious of the dried cum which still coated my entire head. In the
nervousness of the moment I was also conscious of the smell of cum in the air;
coming from my hair – and even the smell of piss rising from inside the suits.
As I sat, I also saw the white-coated front of his waxed over-trousers below
his cum stained leather bike jacket. It all hovered, ominously close. It was
impossible to see his face because his crotch and legs were virtually filling
the open doorway.
“Forgotten what?” I said, nervous of the pungent bulk
looming over me.
He stood back a little and leaned down towards my
anxious face. “Your phone and your camera,” he challenged. And I didn’t know
what to say, but my heart was beating seriously fast as he breathed into my
face.
“I took them to Mike’s place,” he said, “ – j
The door slammed closed before I’d fully taken in what he’d said.
I stared through the windscreen as he strode to his bike and hauled it off it’s stand. Having cleared the path for the car, he motioned
me to wind the window down – which I did without hesitation.
The bike was now back on it’s
stand and he was heading towards me.
“And tell him that this evening ... “ he leaned down to
my window ... “ ... he should bring you over to my place in the locked-on Trialmaster jacket – the one I modified for him - the one
with the built-in padded mitts – and your mouth well taped under your crash
helmet. And we’ll take you for a spin before introducing you to our local pub.
There’ll be a couple of other mates there – mate.”
After a brief pa
I drove – because words had failed me.
THE END.
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