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made available courtesy of John Strickland- all copyrights reserved

FURTHER ADVENTURES OF

A MOTORCYCLE MESSENGER

by

John Strickland

Sam was fed up. It was pissing down with rain, it had been pissing down with rain since he got up this morning and now he was on his last delivery. He had spent nearly eight hours, none-stop competing with the stinking city traffic, the rain pouring onto him and muck covering him from head to toe, thrown up at him by the cars and the lorries he shared the road with. It was at times like this that he couldn’t really understand why he actually chose to do this job, but at other times, he knew that riding his bike around town all day, proud and confident, dressed in full leather, was what life was all about.

At least he was dressed for the rain. Since Sam had been strapped to Chris, confined in a padded cell in the prison hospital Chris worked at, the two guys had shared a flat together, sharing not only the flat, but their mutual interests in bikes, in leather and in ways of restraining and confining others. When Chris had unexpectedly visited Sam after their adventure together, Sam had never really felt that he had found a long-term friend, but their relationship had blossomed and they had found themselves compatible in every respect. They certainly looked good together, both extremely good-looking, very rugged and masculine in appearance, both always dressed in black leather. Sam was wearing his leathers now, too, but hidden away under his shiny black foul-weather gear.

Chris had his day off today and had still been in bed as Sam had got up, showered, eaten his usual muesli for breakfast and pulled on his trusty, battered leather jeans. He pulled on long socks and strapped up the buckles of the motocross boots he always clumped around in. Then, without a shirt or even a T-shirt, he zipped up his well-worn black leather jacket, strapped the waist strap and snapped the press studs at the collar shut. Every day he dressed the same, if not in these leather things, then in some other leather suit or combination of leather clothes that he owned, but he still felt a thrill and a surging in his prick as he slowly zipped himself into his shiny leathers. Sam had become so used to wearing leather, all he owned apart from leather was a couple of pairs of washed out jeans and a few T-shirts.

He went over to the bed and spoke to the dozing Chris.

“I need your help, Chris,” he said. Chris grunted.

“Chris, it’s fucking pouring down out there and unlike some people, I’ve got to go out and work in it. Give us a hand with my oilskins will you?”

Chris reluctantly got out of bed, his half-closed eyes taking in the magnificent sight of Sam in his lived-in black leathers.

“Get them out then,” said Chris, and watched as his boyfriend went to the cupboard and pulled out two heavy, shiny, black bundles.

“Hope you’ve got your own there and not mine,” he said.

“They’re the same anyway,” said Sam, “and besides, yours stink!” he said.

When they had discovered someone who made clothes out of heavy, black PVC, they had both gone to town with the ordering, both having boiler-suit styled rain-suits made, anoraks based on the navy’s foul weather suits and also over-trousers, bib and brace style. One big difference was that the clothes were all double thickness, the glossy black surfaces inside and out. Completely waterproof, the heavy gear was practically impossible to get on and off alone, especially when wearing leather underneath.

Sam let one of the bundles fall open, sat down on the bed and started to push his feet through the trouser legs. The shiny surfaces of the heavy black PVC were stuck together by the folding and storing, but Sam eventually got his legs through, although with difficulty, especially as his strapped boots were so cumbersome. He stood up and wrestled the creaking suit up and over his leather-covered backside.

“Chris, you gonna help me or not?” he asked, and Chris stopped enjoying the sight of his struggling leather-man and started to help him, pulling the suit up from behind and over Sam’s shoulders. Sam pulled the zip up from crotch to under his chin and folded the Velcro-flap over the zip to seal the suit shut. Chris pulled the flap across Sam’s throat and looking straight into Sam’s blue eyes, pulled the buckle so tight Sam pulled away, gasping.

“Whose suit stinks, Sam?” he asked, a crafty smile on his face.

“Cut it out, Chris, it’s pissing down out there and I’m getting late. You can have your fun later,” said Sam adjusting the collar.

“OK, off you go then, here’s your helmet, or do you want a quick polish-up before you go?”

“I want the anorak on, too,” said Sam, opening the other bundle.

“Christ, you’ll be stuck in that all day. I can’t see you wriggling out of that lot in the middle of a crowded street. Here, hold the cuffs of your suit and I’ll pull this over your head.”

Sam disappeared into the blackness of the anorak which Chris worked down over his shiny body only with difficulty, the shiny surfaces clinging to each other. Sam pulled the drawcord tight and the opening at the neck closed shut. Chris pulled a heavy flap over Sam’s throat, using the Velcro and the buckles to completely enclose Sam’s neck even up and over his mouth. The hood would have only left his eyes free, but Sam usually left it down, finding it restricted his vision too much under the helmet when riding his bike. Sam buckled the heavy belt around his waist and Chris bent down and, reaching between Sam’s shiny black legs, pulled the crutch strap through the buckle at the front.

The naked Chris stood up and hugged the cold, shiny, smooth figure. Sam pulled Chris to him and kissed him deeply, the layers of PVC getting between them.

“It feels better than your old mouth, exclaimed Chris, and Sam pushed his knee up into Chris’ groin, causing pressure on his prick.

“I must get off now,” said Sam, “see you later,” and with this he had clumped to the door, his oilskins creaking as the layers rubbed against each other. He glanced back at Chris, who was heading back to bed, his prick ramrod-straight.

Whereas Chris had enjoyed his day off, Sam had been visiting firm after firm in the pouring rain. Usually he didn’t bother to even take off his helmet when he went into an office, the stupid secretaries didn’t interest him and for them he wasn’t much more than a dirty motorbiker anyway. In one firm though, there had been a young office boy, a nice-looking young guy in faded jeans who had received the delivery and who had paid more than the usual mild interest in Sam, talking about riding a bike in that weather. He even came down to the street with Sam on the pretence of seeing Sam’s bike, but soon started asking Sam if his suit was fully waterproof and where he had gotten it from. Sam played along, saying the suit was completely sealed when on and that the only trouble was that it was impossible to get on and off alone. He said he had once had to spend the night in it because he couldn’t be bothered to struggle out of it and because he new it would still be shitty weather the next day. The young guy had tried to look nonchalant but Sam had noticed the bulge in those faded jeans as he drove off. The guy hadn’t even noticed he had become quite wet. That wouldn’t be the last time Sam would visit that firm.

Sam always seemed to be able to arouse interest in others as he rode around. Whether dressed in leather, wearing battered, greasy waxed-cotton or encased in oilskins as he now was, he always looked good. He radiated a masculinity that couldn’t go unnoticed, an almost arrogant pride in the way he looked. Other bikers often asked him where he had gotten his PVC suit, whereas Sam had almost been afraid to wear it when he first got it, thinking everyone would find it strange.

The day the oilskins had been delivered, Chris had been on late duty at the prison. Sam had pulled on the shiny one-piece suit over his naked body, enjoying the cold, smooth feeling. It was summer and the evening was warm. He had looked out of the window, hoping for a rain cloud, but none in sight. He waited until dusk and went out, feeling very self-conscious, feeling wrongly-dressed for the occasion!

He had ridden around, completely in black, even his helmet had a dark visor. He had relished the way the street lighting had gleamed off the highly-polished surface, especially where the material was stretched tight over his thighs. He sweated profusely in the sealed suit, the shiny lining sticking to him wherever it touched. At one point, a biker in full leather had ridden next to him. Sam hadn’t stopped, something he still regretted. Once home, Sam had had a battle to get the suit off, it seemed to be stuck to him as with super glue. It was a struggle he enjoyed.

At last Sam got home. He pushed his filthy bike into the shed and let himself into the flat.

“Hi Chris, I’m back!” shouted Sam. No reply.

“Chris, I’m back!” This time he heard the sound of water running from the bathroom. Chris was having a shower and obviously couldn’t hear him with the water running. Sam loosened the drawcord of his anorak hood and pulled the hood over his head. He then fastened the flap across his mouth and buttoned it in place, then he drew the drawcord tight and tied it in a double knot. He then fastened another flap of black PVC across the lacing at his neck and fastened it to the two Velcro panels at the other side. Now all that was visible of Sam was his eyes, peeking through just an oval opening. He opened the bathroom door and went in.

The steam hit him immediately. He saw Chris’ form through the shower curtain. Chris hadn’t noticed him yet. In true ‘Psycho-style, Sam pulled back the curtain and stepped into the shower with Chris. Chris started so violently that he nearly lost his balance and fell, but Sam grabbed him, pushing him towards the wall. Chris opened his soap-filled eyes and saw the black figure hugging him. Chris looked superb, his powerful body covered with foam and his hair plastered to his head by the falling water. He put his arms around the shiny black figure and pulled him to him. He felt Sam against him, cold and slippery in his oilskins against Chris’ warm skin. He looked at the beads of water pouring over Sam’s hooded head and trickling all down his PVC-encased body, washing dirt off the suit to pour over his boots and turn the water in the shower basin brown.

“I hope it’s you in there, Sam, because I never shower with strange men!” said Chris and embraced Sam even tighter, kissing Sam on the shiny black covering, exactly where his mouth was behind layers of PVC Sam mumbled something back, but Chris couldn’t understand it, the thick hood acting quite effectively as a gag.

“You’re covered in muck,” said Chris.

“Then wash it off me,” said Sam almost incoherently, but Chris heard him this time. Chris took the shower gel and poured a large amount onto Sam’s hood and onto his shoulders. The soap ran thickly over the oilskin jacket, stark white against the deep black. Chris rubbed and massaged the gel over Sam’s rain suit, working up a good lather that foamed and ran down the anorak and started down the trouser legs, taking the thrown-up dirt and grim with it. Chris poured another massive blob of the gel into his hand and reached around Sam, soaping his back, and working the foam into the folds of his arse and under the crutch strap of the jacket. He lathered Sam’s legs and pushed his face into Sam’s shiny crutch. The water washed the soap off.

Chris started to lick the place where somewhere, under four thicknesses of PVC and one of leather, Sam’s prick was trapped. Sam ran his fingers through Chris’ hair, water pouring down his anorak sleeve and over Chris’ face. Chris felt the smooth, shiny surface against his tongue and face and was sure he could detect a bulge, despite the heavy oilskins.

He stood up again and looked into Sam’s beautiful eyes through the small, window-like opening in the hood. Water coursed over the black PVC in tiny rivulets, unable to make any impression on the suit, unable to reach the man inside. They hugged and cuddled each other, pulling each other together with force and strength. Chris had a massive hard-on, unbearable sensations coursing through his body, as the swollen prick pushed and stroked against Sam’s shiny, lubricated body. Sam’s black encased arms travelled up and down Chris’ back, his hands massaging the firm buttocks and pulling Chris even harder towards him. Chris kissed Sam’s encased head and his tongue travelled all over the soaking wet oilskin protection. Then he came. White liquid, thicker and warmer than the shower gel, burst from his prick, which Sam’s wet hand was firmly massaging. In two massive spurts the thick liquid shot onto Sam’s oilskin trousers and trickled down his leg, travelling ever faster as it mixed with the shower water, to run over the toe of his boot and swirl around, eventually disappearing down the drain.

Chris slumped against Sam’s cool black-encased body. Sam had avoided coming in his leather jeans so deep under the oilskins. He wanted to wait for other opportunities later. He held Chris against him until Chris had recovered from his orgasm, then, like a guy working in a car-wash, Sam took the shower gel and started to wash his friend down. Eventually they stepped out of the shower together and stood there dripping. Chris took a towel and started to rub himself down, Sam was trying to get his hood down, but he had knotted the draw-cord by mistake.

“Hang on a second,” said Chris, “I’ll go and get a couple more towels and then I’ll dry you down.” He left the bathroom. When he came back, Sam was still trying to unpick the knot that was stopping him from getting the hood down.

“Give us a hand here,” said Sam.

“Wait a moment,” replied Chris, “I’ll dry you a bit, water’s absolutely running off you,” and he started to rub down Sam’s foul-weather suit with a white towel.

Suddenly, with the expertise that came from his job, Chris snapped a pair of steel handcuffs onto one of Sam’s wrists. Sam reacted immediately and violently, jerking away from Chris so suddenly that he stumbled against the shower basin, which he hadn’t seen due to the restricted vision in the hood. He lurched against the wall and fell, pulling the shower curtain down and clinking the tiles with the loosely hanging handcuffs. Chris was on him in an instant and before Sam could recover his balance at all, Chris had his hands firmly cuffed together behind his back. Chris helped the protesting figure to his feet.

Sam was cursing and shouting in his hood, the sounds coming out muffled and incoherent. He obviously wanted to get out of this suit after spending all day in it. Chris could understand this, he could see that Sam had had a rough day, even his motocross boots were pretty soaked through, but the sight of this magnificent guy pre-packed in oilskins, his hands pulling ineffectually in the steel cuffs, futile protests coming from behind layers of thick PVC, was just too much for him. His spent-out prick was already hard again and he had plans for Sam.

He pushed the shackled guy out into the living-room and practically ran into the bedroom. From the cupboard where the two kept all their leather and bike gear, Chris pulled out his own one-piece black PVC rain suit. This he pulled on over his naked body, gasping a little as the shiny lining touched cold against his warm skin, still steaming from the shower.

Sam’s muffled shouts, accompanied by a crash as the struggling guy knocked something over, caused Chris to rush back to his friend, carrying something he’d taken from their cupboard. Sam was jerking and struggling in his oilskins. Chris felt a thrill as he saw the light shining off the black figure as each contortion threw another set of folds pulling through the anorak. He stopped when he saw Chris.

“Come on, Chris,” came a muffled voice, “I just don’t feel like playing Houdini tonight.”

As though to help him, Chris set to, using his fingernails to get the knotted hood undone. Eventually he pulled the hood down, although Sam’s chin and almost his mouth were still covered. His boyfriend looked fantastic, his face slightly flushed, beads of sweat on his forehead, his hair completely tousled.

“Why are you all zipped up in your oilskin suit, too,” asked Sam. “Are we going anywhere?”

“You’ll see, Sam,” said Chris, producing a leather gag from behind him.

“Oh, no, you don’t!” exclaimed Sam, and pulled away from his friend. Chris grabbed him and they both fell onto the leather sofa, Sam face down with Chris on top of him. Their black oilskins chaffed together making creaking noises as Sam struggled under the weight of his muscular friend. Sam didn’t have a chance, not with all his gear on and his hands locked behind his back. He refused to open his mouth though. Chris just pinched Sam’s nostrils together until Sam gasped for breath. At this moment Chris shoved the leather gag into Sam’s mouth and expertly tightened the strap behind Sam’s head. Sam emitted loud protests from his throat, but knew he was beaten, especially as Chris got the black hood back over his head and had secured all the fastenings. Sam lay there sideways on the black sofa, the stretched PVC gleaming over his thighs, his blue eyes glaring at his boyfriend, who was sweating in his plastic suit. Sam could tell Chris had got nothing on under the oilskins and hoped he wouldn’t be able to get out of the covering without a struggle.

Sam watched Chris disappear into the bedroom, his body defined by the deep black, shiny suit. The spotlights in their flat gleamed off Chris’ shoulders as he passed underneath them, his buttocks and calves flashed back light at Sam from the polished PVC Sam was mad at Chris, there was a time and place for experimenting and this wasn’t one of them, not after eight fucking awful hours riding around on the cold, wet autumn day. Still, he couldn’t help reacting to his predicament. The struggle with Chris, the feel of their oilskins rubbing together, the weight of Chris lying on him as he had strapped the gag in place, the taste of the leather pad in his mouth and the feel of the steel bands holding his hands behind his back, all these things coupled with the anticipation of what Chris was planning, caused his prick to strain, deep down in his leather jeans.

Sam’s heart beat fast as his friend came back. Sam could sense the powerful body dressed in the oilskin rain suit. Chris looked fantastic.

Expecting resistance, Chris practically threw himself on the unfortunate Sam, who grunted as his manacled arms took Chris’ weight. Chris had a roll of wide, black masking tape which he started to unroll with a loud ripping sound. Sam couldn’t really see what was going on. Chris was on top of him and as he turned his head, the hood didn’t turn with him. Chris expertly and determinedly started to wrap the sticky band around Sam’s hood at eye level, Sam straining and pulling at his handcuffs to no avail, unintelligible protests coming muffled from within the hood. Within seconds, Sam was blindfolded, the PVC hood taped tightly to his head, his eyes stuck shut. Only a slit was left open, just enough to stop Sam having too many breathing problems. He got off Sam and stepped back to admire his handiwork. Sam was pulling himself to his feet now, twisting his head from side to side in a desperate effort to free himself from his restraints.

Chris suddenly got the urge to wrap the rest of the shiny tape around the man, sticking his arms firmly to his body and wrapping his legs together until they were as one. But, that would be something for another day, Chris wanted to try something else and besides, we would have to buy lots and lots more masking tape.

Chris went out barefoot into the dark, wet garden. The oilskin suit was soon as wet as Sam’s had been under the shower. He opened the shed door and went in, blinking as he turned the light on. The dust and dirt on the floor soon started to stick to his wet feet. He soon found what he was looking for, tent stakes and also the steel hoops that were part of a croquet game. A heavy mallet and some rope completed his search. He rushed out of the shed into the garden and, throwing his tools onto the lawn, he entered the flat, leaving muddy footprints on the tiled floor as he headed for the living room. Seeing Sam standing there, his protective suit now acting as his prison, his shiny form facing a wall, his blind eyes having lost their orientation, gave Chris a sudden thrill, almost as though he hadn’t expected to see his friend in this state. From behind he grabbed Sam by the arms, pulled him in towards him and started to push him towards the flat door and into the garden. Sam hardly resisted. He was trapped in darkness and only knew he was outside by the cold air that he was suddenly breathing and the feel of heavy raindrops pounding on his bound head.

Chris was doing some serious thinking as to how to get Sam how he wanted him without too much of a fight.

“Come on, Sam, boy,” said Chris, “down you go.” He grabbed Sam to him, stretching his leg out behind Sam’s knees, at the same time pushing him. Sam fought against Chris and the two black-dressed figures wrestled together until Chris finally got his chained prisoner down on to the soggy grass. Chris’ feet were so cold, but Sam hardly noticed the elements in his mummified condition. Only his hands were exposed. Expertly, (he spent his working hours dealing with violent prisoners) Chris bound Sam’s legs together at the ankles. That would stop him running away for the moment. He began to hammer the stakes deep into the wet grass, the rain flattening his dark hair to his head, water trickling off his shiny back as Sam twisted on the ground.

The night was black, only the dull light from their flat windows was reflected from their glossy, wet, oilskin-encased bodies.

Chris reached under Sam’s armpits and dragged him a few feet over the ground. Sam’s roped feet dug into the soaked ground, mud smeared over the legs of his oilskin trousers. When he at last got him into position, he took another length of rope and tied one of Sam’s feet to one of the stakes. This he did with difficulty because of the rope already wound around Sam’s booted ankles. Once he was sure the rope was secure, he untied the other rope, freeing Sam’s right leg from the other. Sam immediately started kicking out at nothing, twisting and grunting, his hands behind his back and his left foot tied to a stake.

Then Chris grabbed Sam’s flailing right foot, receiving a hefty clump on his knee from a metal-toed boot. He pulled Sam astraddle, held him in place by sitting on the struggling guy, and deftly roped his other foot to a stake, stretching Sam’s legs as far apart as possible. He got off Sam and Sam sat up from the waist, twisting and turning at the same time. Chris imagined stomach and thigh muscles tensing to perform this bit of gymnastics with the legs so far apart.

“Shit!” exclaimed Chris aloud and rushed into the flat to get the keys to the handcuffs. His bare, muddy feet slipped on the tiled floor and Chris nearly fell in his hurry, but just managed to catch his balance in time. When he got back out to his friend, Sam was still sitting upright, leaning forward, ideal for Chris to get at the handcuffs to unlock them.

Sam jumped as Chris put a heavy hand on Sam’s slippery, wet shoulder. The poor guy was obvious pretty cut off from the outside world, gagged, blindfolded, the rain pounding on the heavy PVC more or less the only thing he could hear along with his own useless, unintelligible protests. Chris unlocked the handcuffs, and Sam stopped struggling. Suddenly, with his hands free, Sam started to hit out blindly with one hand, thumping Chris heavily on the side of his head. With the other hand he fought desperately to tear the sticky tape away from his eyes. He got nowhere in the time it took Chris to push him down onto the soaked grass and stretch his arms out to each side, leaning in Sam with all his weight. He then knelt on Sam’s upper arms, causing Sam to grunt in pain. Reaching over for another length of rope, he first bound Sam’s right wrist to one of the stakes and then followed by doing the same with the left. The stakes were out of Sam’s reach. The man was prostrate, spread-eagled on the soggy grass. He writhed and tugged against his ropes, first one knee lifting itself off the ground, then the other. He raised his encased head off the ground and arched his whole body in a supreme effort to free himself.

Chris stood back to admire his work, then he took the croquet hoops and placed one over Sam’s neck. Sitting on Sam’s chest, Chris took the mallet and carefully, but heavily, hammered the hoop down into the ground until Sam’s head was held immobile on the muddy grass. The rest was easy. Chris used the hoops to stop any movement of Sam’s limbs by hammering them over his arms at the elbows and over his legs just above the knees. He made sure the guy was helplessly nailed down without suffering any pain. Chris would never harm Sam.

He knelt down next to his staked-out friend and ran his hand over his smooth, slick chest. He ran his hand up the black, shiny legs, the oilskins stretched tight by the ropes wrapped around them at the ankles. Chris lowered himself onto the helpless guy, feeling their oilskin suits rubbing together, both soaking wet and covered with mud from their battle together. There was nothing of Sam’s face to see, just the smallest slit letting in air, but Chris rubbed his face against the imprisoned head, imagining what it must be like inside, in the dark with the bitter taste of the leather gag that couldn’t be spat out.

He massaged his swollen prick against Sam, imagining Sam’s prick fighting for freedom deep down under the oilskin anorak, the oilskin suit and the leather jeans. Chris’ heart was pounding from the hard work, despite the cold, his body was covered with sweat, welding the double-sided PVC to his body. The rain pounded down on the two figures, pattering off drips falling off the tip of his nose onto Sam’s hidden face. He felt something icy cold touch his chin and realized it was the band of steel hammered into the ground around Sam’s neck.

In the dark, he could see how the hoop had gathered the neck of the suit together, stretching the oilskin even tighter around Sam’s head. He could hear and feel Sam’s heavy breathing, caused both by his struggles to escape and by being turned on to the breaking point. He strained against his pinions, using all the strength of his fine, muscular body to try and pull his arms and legs in, towards his body. Against his bonds, he arched his back to press upwards against Chris.

In his isolation, he could still feel the sensations of their heavy rain-suits chaffing against each other, he could feel the water he couldn’t see trickling over both of them, he could imagine the dull light from their flat shining off Chris’ PVC-covered back, the shiny wet plastic stretched tight across Chris’ firm buttocks.

Suddenly a massive sensation swept through his body. The sensation caused him almost to convulse, ropes biting into his wrists as his muscles cramped together. His teeth clamped down as another wave of ecstasy swept over him, and he came, his prick pulsing great spurts of white liquid into his leather jeans. His orgasm was enormous, as though he hadn’t come all year.

Although Sam’s senses were turned in on himself, he knew that Chris was experiencing the same. Chris was massaging Sam’s body with his own, the smooth PVC, wet and slippery, sliding over Sam. He grabbed Sam by the belt of his anorak and pulled against him, his hand slid down between Sam’s legs, his fingers grabbing under the crotch strap of Sam’s anorak. He lay flat on Sam licking the rain of the hooded face, his own arms outstretched, his fingers touching the ropes around Sam’s wrist. As Chris came, he grasped the steel around Sam’s neck with both hands and strained towards it, pushing his prick even harder against Sam. His senses were heightened. He could feel the shiny lining of his suit clinging to his naked body, the black oilskin seemed to grasp his prick, offering a smooth resistance. As he spurted into his rain suit, the rain seemed to hammer onto his back, seemed to course through his hair. As white liquid pulsed into his oilskins, the toes of his bare feet dug into the muddy grass, as he pulled up his right knee, mud was smeared over Sam’s oilskin jeans. For the second time that evening Chris reacted to Sam’s sensuality.

Their bodies slumped simultaneously. Chris lay there on the spread-eagled Sam. In the dark of that rainy night it was impossible to tell exactly where one guy started and the other finished. They were as one.

Eventually, Chris stirred. He rolled off of Sam onto the drenched, muddy grass.

“Have fun, Sam,” he said, standing up, I’ll see you in the morning!” He headed into the flat.

Sam let a long deep scream of protest from his throat. He strained against his bonds, but ineffectually, his body was anchored down at too many strategic places. He wrenched, jerking first to the left and then to the right, he twisted his hips and jerked against the metal hoops with all his strength, he began to sweat with the effort and bitter saliva formed in his throat as he bit into his gag. He nearly choked himself pulling up against the metal around his neck holding his head tightly on the ground. All to no avail. Soon his struggles subsided as he recognized the futility of resisting. He realized all the working out with weights that he did regularly at a gym wasn’t going to help him escape from this Houdini-nightmare. His body, at its peak condition, toned and muscled, was deactivated, swathed in layers of protective clothing. As usual, when it came to tying people up, Chris had proved his expert abilities, he had won again. But, Sam wouldn’t give up, maybe he wouldn’t get the chance for months or even years, but one day he would pay Chris back for every minute of this night’s confinement.

The whole night! He wouldn’t be able to stand it. He would have to piss in his leathers, —he had already come in them. He must try not to think about it. He would survive this. He would LIVE every minute of the next long hours so he would never forget them, never forgive Chris for them. He had gone too far. Their battles and experiments in restraint and leather had never been as ruthless as this. Maybe this was the start of a more intense discipline, if so, Sam would make sure he wouldn’t give in, would make sure Chris got as good as he gave. Straight into imprisonment the moment he came in from work, without a wash, without a meal. Chris was going further with Sam than was good for him.

Blackness. Sam became conscious of the absolute darkness he was subjected to. His eyes were stuck shut, the black tape brutally wound around his head closing his eyes and sticking the black hood tightly to his head. The gag was painful in the corners of his mouth, biting into his skin. The wet leather he couldn’t free himself of tasted bitter. The saliva constantly built up in the back of his throat and he kept swallowing, a difficult action with the pad pressing on his tongue. Maybe he would die! Maybe he would fall asleep and choke, or maybe suffocate, the slit twisting shut and denying him of air.

His hands were cold from the rain and painful from the ropes. The rain! It was as if he could feel every raindrop falling on him. It was as if the oilskins were his own skin, he could feel the cold water trickling off in sparkling rivulets to make the ground even more waterlogged. Through the leather and thick PVC he could feel the slimy mud under his body, squelching up and his encased body, sucking at his shiny covering wherever it touched.

As he began to doze he began to see himself as Chris could see him, dehumanized like the newest robot, a human shape devoid of all features, the skin glossy and black, able to cope with all weathers. He could see his encased body glistening in the wet, his arms and legs stretched out to their limits, dull metal bands circling them and disappearing deep into the earth. The reflected light shone off his thighs, defined the oilskin folds of the stretched PVC and outlined the black shape of his imprisoned head.

As Sam was outside contemplating his fate in the rain, Chris was getting ready to step under the shower, still head-to-toe in his black oilskin suit. He let the water run over him, watching it rush down his water-repellent body, washing the mud off. He opened the collar of his suit and pulled the zip fully down to his crotch, feeling the warm water course in, rinsing off sweat and washing the shiny inside of the suit of the white liquid that his love for Sam had resulted in. He even began to feel randy again, especially when he thought of the important masculinity denied of movement out in the wet garden. He peeled the rain suit off, soaped himself, showered off and towelled his brown body down. He went to the bedroom, pulled on a white T-shirt, his leather jeans, put on socks and white trainers, put some semblance of order into his hair by running his fingers through, and went into the kitchen. Outside Sam struggled. Chris prepared something to eat and ate, unaware of what he was eating, his thoughts on his friend. Outside Sam fought. Chris came to a decision.

With his leather bike jacket on, a torch in his hand, Chris went out into the garden, the rain no longer so hard. He shone the torch on Sam’s prostrate form and felt a thrill at the sight of his friend unaware of the light, so black and glossy in the beam. Puddles and pools of water had collected in the dips and folds of the oilskins. Chris crouched down and set to work pulling the croquet hoops out. Two pulled out relatively easily, especially when he put the claw of the hammer to use. Sam had jumped as he suddenly felt Chris’ touch, but now lay still, waiting and hoping that he really was being freed. A crowbar got the other hoops loose, the one at the neck proving the most troublesome. Sam’s whole hood was smeared with mud and rust off the iron bar by the time the pinion came out of the ground. Sam was still held spread-eagled by his roped wrists and ankles.

“Can you hear me in there, Sam?” shouted Chris.

Sam nodded.

“It’s getting on for midnight, Sam, and I’m willing to let you up, as long as you’re not going to make any trouble. It’s your decision, Sam, — peaceful, or you stay the night here.”

Sam gave a slow nod and Chris set about untying the ropes.

The oilskin-dressed guy was now free. Sam rolled over sideways in the mud. He tried to get up, but his knee slid out and he fell back down in the mud.

“Come on, mate,” said Chris, “let me give you a hand.”

He half lifted Sam to his feet and led the blindfolded man into the flat, into the kitchen where the mud and water dripping off his foul-weather suit would do no harm.

“Sit down here, Sam,” said Chris, “I’ll get some scissors.”

When Chris came back, Sam was desperately trying to get the hood down, pulling blindly at the tape, trying to get the breathing slit opened wider. The tape peeled off the shiny hood relatively easily, but it was a slow and painful job freeing Sam’s beautiful eyes. At last the guy sat there slowly undoing the fastenings of his hood, avoiding eye contact with his leather-dressed friend. Chris picked at the knotted drawstring and eventually the hood came down and Sam’s head was able to breathe once more. Wordlessly, he got up and ran himself a glass of water which he drank down in one. Chris came to him, seeing that the oilskins were totally covered with mud, — their purpose having been thoroughly tested. Slowly they got the crutch-strap and belt undone, and Chris pulled the filthy garment over Sam’s head.

Sam now stood in his oilskin rain suit, the same as the one Chris had had on. The top half of the suit was still clean and shiny, having been protected by the anorak, the bottom half totally muddy. Sam ran himself more water. His face was wrinkled and twisted by the tape and the gag, red marked at the corners of his mouth. He still said nothing, looking down, beaten and deflated, his hair flattened to his head by the hood and the sweating.

Come on, Sam, it’s all over now. Look, I’ve made you something to eat.” said Chris, turning towards the table. He put his hand on Sam’s shiny shoulder.

“Don’t you touch me, you bastard,” spat Sam, flinging the glass of water straight into Chris’ face. At the same time he smashed his fist straight into the surprised guy’s nose. The leather guy flew back into the wall, totally taken off guard.

“Sam! ! . . . . .”

Sam was on him, grabbing him, twisting him around, pulling his arm up behind his back until Chris cried out. His other arm he locked around Chris’ throat, nearly choking him with the force.

“Get in the bedroom you cunt!” hissed Sam, bending Chris backwards and forcing him through the door. Blood from Chris’ nose dripped onto Sam’s shiny sleeve, clamped vice-like around his throat.

He tried frantically to loosen Sam’s hold with his free hand, but Sam meant business and jerked Chris’ arm up even higher.

Sam slung the guy in leather onto the bed where he landed face down, his jacket up over his shoulders. Sam fell onto Chris just as he rolled over, muck from Sam’s trousers smearing Chris’ leathers and getting onto the bedclothes. Sitting on Chris, Sam pulled back his fist and poised over Chris.

“You’ve deserved this,” he gasped, looking at the blood-smeared rugged face. He slammed his fist down with all his strength. Chris flinched as the impact thudded into the pillow about an inch from his head. Sam couldn’t bring himself to hit his friend again.

“Go fuck yourself,” exclaimed Sam in exasperation and stormed off in into the bathroom.

Chris lay there panting. He had known it would come, he had wanted it to come. He had felt genuinely worried when Sam had seemed so weakened and beaten. Sam never gave up.

Chris inspected the damage in the mirror. He’d live. He went into the kitchen and put a piece of cold, damp kitchen roll against his nose. Shit! Blood on his T-shirt. The sounds of water-running and great activity came from the bathroom. Sam was slamming around in there. Chris wanted to join him under the shower, wanted to help him wash his foul-weather suit clean, but he knew Sam would probably drown him if he went in there. Chris took his leather jacket off and the stained T-shirt and lay down on the bed. He heard the bathroom door open and Sam padded in naked and furious.

He loved Sam in this mood, his eyes practically blazed when he got this angry. When Sam was enraged, Chris always felt the need to restrain him even more, to control that pent up strength. At last Sam stormed into the bedroom, naked. His muscly body rippled lithe and supple as he opened the large cupboard built into their bedroom. Chris imagined that proud guy with a heavy steel collar locked around his brown neck. He imagined his hands straining against steel handcuffs, his feet locked in heavy chains. Sam pulled a dark green army sleeping bag out of the cupboard. “I’ll get you, Chris!” he muttered at the guy in the leather jeans lying on the bed. Chris lay there listening to Sam loudly making a bed for himself on the leather sofa. He put the light out. Around three in the morning, a familiar body crept into bed with him. Sam had returned.

END

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