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WELL WAXED AND WATERPROOF

Mind Games explored

by

Jim Stewart

Thinking time:

When you’re lying face down on soggy earth among dripping dead heather with your wrists lashed securely to your boots for a few hours, it gives you time to think. A mental defence mechanism I developed long ago usually kicks in as I try to think myself out of a tight situation and into more enjoyable times. I’ve had plenty of practice. Throughout my life I’ve found ways to engineer myself into predicaments I love to be in ... but at the same time love to hate.

Bondage endurance and challenge games come naturally to me. Tie or be tied, I like them both. The mental process I use to escape from the more uncomfortable situations is similar to that described by Jack London in his novel ‘Star Rover’. His main character, Darrrell Standing, taught himself to visit other worlds and past lives while strapped inside a killer strait jacket. To mentally generate this almost out-of-body experience demands concentration. Focus is important; it isn’t enough to just let the mind wander.

Here today, warm and dry, the cold, damp five hours I spent on a Lancashire hillside yesterday is vivid in my mind as I write. Although bundled up in thermal underwear and track suit with a well waxed Barbour suit over; even heavily padded gloves with waxed over-mitts and insulated boots and two pairs of socks didn’t stop my fingers and feet from going numb with cold. Not dangerously so, of course. Nothing that regular efforts to change position and keep circulation flowing couldn’t overcome. And I was well monitored ... in good hands; knowledgeable, sensitive but ruthlessly implacable hands that belong to my longtime game-playing adversary and good mate, Tony. I survived yesterday by thinking myself out of the painful predicament he’d landed me in ... no, I’d landed myself in.

Frankly, thinking back on that sort of situation makes me hornier than I felt while busy surviving the actual experience. That’s why I’m sitting here, enjoying thinking it through and revisiting it, mentally. Today I can appreciate the details of the event; the skill and imagination of my challenger - the sensual hype it gave me - and the energy I brought to surviving the experience.

But the story doesn’t present itself in logical sequence. The order in which events happened; yesterday - today - and yesterday’s efforts to escape into the past and future create, a kaleidoscope of images in my mind. How possible it is to recapture the sprit of this sort of adventure only you will know, because writing this is an exercise in ‘Visualisation’ - an attempt to make it come alive in someone else’s ‘Mind’s Eye’.

Thinking ahead:
When Tony and I are planning a full weekend of self-indulgence, we like to start off with a theme or objective. A brand new black waxed motorcycle jacket and over-trousers I’d bought three months ago were still embarrassingly new, and I wanted to get them looking a bit more lived-in. Waxed gear may not be the most weatherproof on a bike but I find it a great turn-on to see and feel and stomp around in. I was angling for a few hours comfortably trussed up somewhere quiet; what I call a ‘Pink Cloud’ bondage session where I’m efficiently restrained but left in peace to luxuriate in the sensual experience.

Because we like our games to be structured but at the same time a bit unpredictable, a couple of years back we made for ourselves a special deck of playing cards together with a board game. These offer a range of bondage related choices, opportunities and surprises. The turn of a card or roll of a dice can bring advantages and disadvantages to both players as details emerge during a preliminary planning session.

Yesterday’s event started the night before when a few unlucky throws of the dice committed me to a situation I hadn’t planned for. My enjoyable ‘breaking-in’ of my new gear was suddenly going to be out-of-doors, hog-tied rather than comfortable, with a five hour time scale. At least I managed to unload two ‘hazard’ cards that would have added a butt plug and gag to my predicament. Tony was holding all the good cards, and one of them was a wild card which gave him ‘chose your own surprise’ option. Well, he certainly surprised me, and turned it into a really heavy challenge. But, today I’m here warm and comfortable writing about it, and he’s got time to regret being quite so enthusiastic about breaking in my suit.

That’s the way we play, and we both enjoy the challenge. Life’s never dull. He knows that when I’m left with time to think, I not only use the process to block my mind to the discomfort or boredom by revisiting the past; but spend some time working out new forms of challenge for him. So, today I’m here remembering while he’s dealing with the situation I dreamed up for him. I hope he’s being as successful at escaping from his predicament as I was yesterday. Not escape in the physical sense, of course. We’re both too good at devising bondage situations for physical escape to be much of a possibility.

So, let’s get back to that windy hillside and the waxed cotton. It’s odd that while mentally distancing myself from an experience, later I can recall in vivid detail the subtle tortures of the predicament I was in; abandoned trussed and bundled-up on my face in the mud. I can still visualise the elaborate network of rope that crossed and re-crossed around the jacket and pants. The tough new sticky fabric left little possibility of anything working loose because waxed sash-line had been used, which grips well on a greasy surface and knots fuse the waxed rope into finger-proof lumps (not that fingers could get anywhere near any of the knots). The chill wind couldn’t penetrate the wax cotton but it was blowing straight through the thick woollen Balaclava that was supposed to be keeping my head warm. Around the mouth hole my saliva soon made it soggy and from my nostrils the warm air was making an increasingly damp patch inside. Cold as it was, I remember being grateful that at least my head wasn’t encased in one of our gas masks, all of which have had latex backs added to make them impossible to rub off. I’d unloaded a gas mask ‘hazard card’ in the nick of time the night before.

The Process
Inside the suit, what had recently been hot sweat was now turning cold and clammy. Waxed cotton doesn’t generate it’s own heat the way leather does and the cold was beginning to get through to my chest, pelvis and thighs (all of me that was in contact with the ground). I’ve spent a lot of hours hog-tied and knew that I could roll onto one side for a change but one arm and shoulder would then soon go dead (and get cold). A routine of changing from one side to the other would minimise the problem. The only other alternative was to work myself onto my back for some relief but it would bring no extra comfort. With considerable effort you can, when hog-tied face down, roll onto your back but with wrists lashed close to your ankles, once on your back the knees are bent tight and your feet are tugging at the wrist lashings ... but regular and determined changes of position have kept me sane for many uncomfortable hours in the past. So, that is part of the process, to keep the circulation moving.

Waxed cotton isn’t as stiff as leather or oilskin but when cold it feels more like tough canvas - and the warmth on the inside, which can soften it up, was draining away. I needed to concentrate hard to begin my mental escape. How long ago had he walked off after jauntily saying, “Okay sucker, you like to survive - so survive. See you later - who knows how much later. Bye.” With the ‘special surprise’ card in his pocket, anything was possible.

So, I began preparing myself for the ordeal ahead, using a system which engages all the senses; taking stock of the general situation - exercising my nostrils and lungs for air flow - testing the roping although I knew nothing would budge - checking the area for a softer piece of ground, dryer if such a thing existed. Settling down to make a mental ‘escape’ needs preparation, like a dog settling down onto its bed for the night.

It looked less stony a few yards ahead ... but a few yards when you’re on your stomach with your feet in the air can feel like a mile. I decided that the effort of inching forward might generate a bit of body heat so I started out, shoulders and pelvis moving like a caterpillar. At least it took my mind off the hours ahead. Every stone and lump of sheep droppings was a barrier to progress, mainly because my face was only inches from the ground and I didn’t want the Balaclava smelling of sheep shit for the next five hours. It was only a slight uphill slope but even by rocking the whole body weight from side to side it was a laborious journey. When I eventually reached my objective it wasn’t much better than where I’d come from, but I rolled onto my back and prepared to mentally absent myself.

The process is gradual, choosing a target and thinking the way back towards it. It had to be warm, with me in control ...

Florida ... days spent around an abandoned fruit farm with derelict out buildings ... full or rusting metal racks just waiting for an imaginative bondage enthusiast ... remote creeks with muddy banks ... but warm muddy banks ... sun every day ... and humid nights when you prayed for a bit of breeze ... but even the breeze was like somebody had opened the oven door. There was a lot of rain in Florida but it was warm rain. The first time I got American friend Richard trussed up out of doors I put him in full leather. In that heat it was not a kind thing to do, but he loved leather so a one-piece suit, gloves and boots and a leather hood ... and he was ready to roast. I lead him to a suitable tree and indulged myself by roping the warm leather elaborately to the trunk with his back against it. I even, after lashing his body and legs, pulled his boots up off the ground so his whole body weight was hanging on the ropes. That was when it started to piss with rain ... but it was warm rain ... I was wearing only tee shirt and shorts and the warm rain felt good ... but he was worried about his leathers getting wet and it was a real downpour ... thundering rain and very cold ... no!! ... warm rain ... no, cold rain.

Oh fuck it’s raining and my Balaclava’s taking the full force of it. It’s hammering down on the Barbour suit, which is waterproof but the fucking Balaclava is drinking it up!. I’m back to reality with a vengeance!

It was only a shower, but the damage was done: My head encased in thick wool which would soon become a freezing wet prison. I began to panic because my skull was already aching and hypothermia can have lasting effects and ... suddenly Tony was there, the Balaclava was off and he was wiping me dry ... silently towering above me, snugly clad in his wind and water proof waxed suit still glistening from the recent rain. A knight in shining armour I thought, inconsequentially. By contrast, the thick coating of rich dark slime my suit had gathered as he’d deliberately rolled me around while roping me into the challenging hog-tie, had dried solid before the rain. Now it streaked the new black fabric making it look like camouflage. The bastard had even picked up handfuls of sticky mud and rubbed it into the weave and seams of my jacket while roping me.

But now he was here for me when I needed him and drying me off ... and his being there proved he hadn’t left me unprotected ... and had been close enough to know it had rained. Maybe he’d spent the past hour watching me through binoculars ... or perhaps he’d taken the van down to some local pub and was feeding his face when the rain came on. Had he left his snack and hurried back? I doubted it. How long it had been raining I didn’t know because I’d been away ... but the freezing rain had brought me back ... like waking from a dream.

The sky was now clearer and he was there. The soggy Balaclava was gone and a warm dry woolly hat promised to bring life back to my numb forehead and ears and frozen brain, but no relief to cold fingers and feet. I attempted a tentative bargaining plea, but Tony isn’t a cricketing man. Rain does not stop play.

“Tough” was his only response to my whinge about cold feet and hands “you threw a five and you’ve only been here an hour. Minimum four more to go, rain or shine. That was the deal. Wriggle about a bit, they’ll soon warm up.” But then his tone softened, and I was immediately suspicious. “Tell you what, though; how’s this for an alternative? I drag you back to the van (it’s only just on the other side of the hill), load you into it just as you are, mud and all - and you spend the next four hours back home warm and dry ... with the central heating turned full on? Same position, same shite-caked gear ... BUT ... when the time’s up I just loosen your legs and you spend the rest of the night warm and dry on the floor beside my bed ... still in the suit and still roped. You said you wanted today to be a waxed cotton experience. I promise I’ll keep my suit on right through your ordeal, Including sleep in it ... I fancy that.”

I settled for the shorter option. The wind on the hillside was preferable to the unbreathable air our cellar furnace is capable of generating.

“Suit yourself ... and tell you what, mate. Wax cotton suits you” and off he stomped, his muddy combat boots being all I could see in my limited field of vision. “I hope they get waterlogged!” I thought to myself as he disappeared.

And so the gentle wind blew and I resigned myself to four more hours. The inescapable lashings that cut into the tough dull fabric rather than into my skin, were already leaving the jacket and pants scarred with marks. I imagined what the suit would look like tomorrow after it’s ordeal. Tomorrow would be my day to call the shots. That’s always the deal, tit for tat. Tomorrow his fate will be in my hands for five hours, maybe more. I imagined myself warm and dry sitting at my desk, writing up the account of today’s experience. I might decide to wear the suit again tomorrow so I could see myself in the mirror as I type. If I survive today, the moment the five hours are up I’m free for the rest of the evening ... and night. His ordeal doesn’t start till eight tomorrow morning.

A hot shower ... that will be the first essential tonight ... a long, long hot shower. Looking at the state of the suit (what I can see of it as I lay on my back with arms under me and knees bent double). It might be wise to take my long hot-shower still wearing the suit ... let the warm water cascade down it ... warming me up ... while washing away the thick layers of mud. If I’m lucky he’ll decide to strip off his suit. I can imagine him in the shower with me ... naked ... I can see him through the steam ... feel his naked body against my suit ... I hug him to me ... press his flesh against the warm wet fabric ... a prelude to a warm comfortable night ... I’d need it after surviving today ... and I will survive today ... because tomorrow ... what then?

The suit ... scrubbed free of mud and dried by the furnace in the warm cellar overnight ... would be ready to wear again but now softer and scarred by the ropes. It will turn me on to be in it as I sit writing ... comfortable in the knowledge that he’s securely lashed to a metal grille in our basement playspace ... until my account of today’s events is complete he’ll be on his own ... five thousand words minimum ... I’ll make the rules, but I may allow him a concession ... yes ... my suit’s modified so it will padlock shut at wrists, neck and waist! He can keep the key tucked away inside the fist mitts I will insist he wears while immobilised and helpless ... sweltering in his waxed suit ...

Nice situation to imagine ... until my essay is finished he will stay put ... and I won’t be able to remove my nice clean and dry waxy suit ... but at least the radiator in the office will be turned off ... him bundled up in his wax jacket and pants ... but with full motorcycle leathers under it I think ... AND the other old waxed suit inside out against his naked skin under it all ... AND the radiator in there on full. He’ll be tethered but not immobilised ... I’ll leave him room to squirm because I like to see him squirm ... and the video recorder will be running. These are the games and deals we make for one another ... and life is good.

I like the idea of being warm and dry and locked in this suit ... but the rain and mud and dragging and roping of today ... (is it still today?) ... will all leave their marks.

After a hot shower the suit may need a thorough re-waxing. The thought of wearing the suit while it’s being re-waxed ... massaged all over with sticky warm black wax ... perhaps with me fixed to the horizontal bars while he’s waxing it ... no, to the chain frame ... I like the chain frame ... it allows a lot of movement but no escape. Similar to the horizontal bars but made from strong welded chain links; floor to ceiling with room to spread-eagle someone in it. When you thrash around it makes a very satisfying noise. Perhaps he would leave me chained up in the furnace room for however long it takes for the wax to dry... I could deal with that ... I could deal with being tethered and powerless in the hot room ... sweltering in the hot suit while the wax dried ... but would it ever dry in such a warm room? ... maybe I would go out on the bike in it to cool it down ... feel the cool wind on my face ... yes, the cold wind on my face but unable to penetrate the suit ... but the cold can penetrate the suit, I’ve discovered that today ... and the wind on my face is cold ... cold wind on my face!

Shit, I’m back ... and cold. My nose is cold.

Creative Thinking:
Another way to think myself out of the present is to plan a new predicament. I’ve been meaning to work out a bondage situation involving splints ...

I like the idea of splints ... surgical leg-braces ... I’d like to take Tony out immobilised in leg braces, perhaps a full body and neck brace ... perhaps in a wheel chair ... be his keeper ... feed him in public and have to wipe his nose ... (My nose is running) ... Think ahead! ...

Think ahead. Tony immobilised in public ... helpless ... wipe his nose ... feed him in a restaurant. Embarrassing! Wheel him into the ‘Disabled’ toilet ... gag him quickly soon as we’re in there so he can’t argue ... then force him to allow the intimacy that a real paraplegic has to endure every day ... the indignity of not being able to wipe you’re own arse ... not able to piss without a helping hand. The humiliation ... I’m not into humiliation ... but with Tony helpless to resist ... forced to co-operate, however long it took. That would be a massive power trip ... not un-gag him until he’d ‘been’ then perhaps have to apologise to somebody on the way out if they’ve been waiting to use the ‘Disabled’ toilet ... wheel him home and put him to bed still in splints and helpless until he’s calmed down and was not likely to kill me ... because he’ll be fucking furious! ... a scene to plan for ... but I’ll need to get all the equipment, splints ... and a chair ...

... something simpler ... the two long bamboo poles I found in a skip and stored in our cellar until I could dream up something imaginative to do with them ... they’re about nine feet long ... In a sort of spread-eagle position a pole could splint one leg then continue across the body and splint the opposite arm ... It would be a straight line ... With the other pole lashed to the other leg and opposite arm it would be like a cross. The poles are long enough to extend well past the hands and feet ... With a lot of plastic garden ties the pole could be fixed all the way along the arms and legs ... If you moved the ends of the poles there might be a scissor action; pull the legs apart and the arms would also move ... It might be fun to try tomorrow ...

... If he was wearing his leathers or a Barbour suit ... the two poles would thread through the legs and arms under the clothes and you wouldn’t need garden ties. It might be hard on the suit ... so leathers would be better ... but leathers under a Barbour suit would be stronger ... yes, I could try that tomorrow ... Might be uncomfortable lying on two poles crossed in the middle ... What would happen if he was lying face down and the poles were on top? If the ends of the poles were slightly off the ground at both ends, he’d hang there with all the weight on the suit and be totally unable to move ... I think I could get him there ... start him off face down on the floor ... might need to tie him spread-eagled face down first while I got the poles into position ... yes, I’d definitely need to tie him ... I couldn’t trust him to co-operate ...

To get him off the ground I’d use a couple of same-height tables ... lift the two arm ends of the poles onto one table first, then lift the two ends of the leg poles and drag the second table under them ... that might be the difficult part ... nice idea, though ... work on it ... work on it ... Horizontal suspension ... yes ... face down! Roll on tomorrow! Roll on five o’clock ...

What time is it? I’ve lost track. Think! Think hard! Think yourself out of ‘now’ and into some other time!

Five o’clock tonight ... what will happen at five o’clock tonight when this is all over? ...

... and we started at eight this morning. A five hour stint but the bastard took his time getting me ready, and as the clock doesn’t officially start until the ‘predicament’ is complete ... he stole an hour putting me into this roping ... and then another hour on the road to get here. He argued that the ‘predicament’ didn’t start until I was out on the moors and hog-tied and he took his time doing that and giving me a mud bath, the bastard. Two extra fucking hours he’s added ... no, three, because if I know him, he won’t un-rope me until we get back to the house. And the drive might not be straight home, just to piss me off ... and he’s got that fucking ‘special surprise’ card up his sleeve. I bet the bastard will keep me roped just to piss me off. I’ll fucking kill him. I’ve no idea what time it is or how long there is still to go ... and my fucking feet are freezing!

He told me this morning I needed extra socks when we were getting ready. This morning ... it seems like a lifetime ago. Tomorrow when I’m writing all this down I’ll need to remember exactly how the preparations went.

Thinking back:
Once the parameters of a game have been agreed, we usually co-operate while climbing into the gear. Because it was to be outdoors and a long stint, we both knew that warm clothes would be essential to avoid having to abort the plan early. I was allowed to chose my own under-stuff but once the wax two-piece we’d agreed on was zipped and snapped closed complete with boots, Tony took control. That’s our usual routine; no resistance until some form of initial ‘handicap’ is in place, then we are free to be as uncooperative as opportunity allows from then on.

On this occasion he used handcuffs behind my back and an efficient padded blindfold. “To avoid any nonsense” he explained, adding some sort of ankle hobbles. I knew they weren’t leg-irons because regular leg-irons are too small to close around the insulated boots he’d recommended me to wear. As the second ankle lock clicked shut I sensed him stand up.

“Is that it?” I asked.

“For starters,” he said, “why? Are you thinking of putting up a fight?” and before I’d even considered what options might be open to me, I was suddenly swung round and pushed back against our horizontal bar set-up. This is a simple installation which consists of four scaffold poles parallel with the floor at neck, waist and just above ankle height plus another just below ceiling level. They’re fixed between two upright poles which are firmly anchored to the floor and ceiling. The horizontal bars are adjustable in height, but today I soon knew where each bar was, because a quick rope around my waist and arms pinned me to a bar which had me already totally helpless ... while the chain of the leg Irons was clipped to the bottom bar before I knew what was happening ... before another short rope around the high collar of my waxed jacket brought the back of my neck neatly against the third bar. I could see none of this coming, because of the blindfold.

The bars stand three feet away from the wall so Tony could work from behind or in-front of me and I was totally vulnerable. A couple of quick whacks high on the back of my shoulders followed by a couple more on the front of my thighs plus a sudden playful punch in the gut had me totally confused and unprepared for the gag which was in my mouth before I knew what was happening.

A gag hadn’t been part of the deal for this five hour stint. I was angry but in no position to discuss the matter. Then with his usual taunting voice, he was in front of and behind me, hands roaming and tweaking and provoking while explaining to me in graphic detail the intensity of the predicament he had devised.

I’d said I wanted the suit breaking in, so rain and mud and a lot of dragging around on stony ground figured heavily in the plans he outlined. As his strong hands massaged the greasy waxed cotton he agreed that it was a turn-on for him as well, feeling my helpless form. Into my ear he breathed appreciative words about how different waxed cotton is to leather or rubber or oilskin and asked if I would like to see myself standing there covered from head to foot in the fabric of my choice while he prepared me for today’s session. Suddenly he said “Well, not quite head to foot ... yet” and a waxed cotton ‘something’ suddenly enveloped my head. It must have been his wax jacket because it smelt used and lived in; but at that moment I was more aware that it was cutting off all air supply as he massaged it around my head and face, closing it into the neck and clamping it there as I wrenched my head as far as the rope around my neck would allow.

Tony knows his stuff when it comes to breath control and my heart was pounding and I was writhing frantically before he finally allowed some air to come in ... but almost immediately he closed it again and massaged the sticky pungent fabric around my face and ears again. Eventually, gasping and fuming behind my gag, I heard him say, “Okay mate? Wax cotton you wanted and wax cotton you’re getting”. Then, leaving the jacket over my head but loose enough to allow some air in, he left me standing there getting my breath back as best I could inside the now sweaty covering.

I listened to him getting dressed. I’m used to picking up signals while hooded and gagged. He was pulling off the boots and jeans he’d been wearing and was climbing Into ... something. Was it sweats? I guessed so. Then leather or was it ... it was his waxed cotton Belstaff over-trousers. The sound the fabric makes is unmistakable. I then heard boots plonk down ... they were lace-up because I could follow the progress of the laces tightening and knotting even from inside the fabric around my head which was filled with the sound of my own breathing. If he was wearing his combat boots there wasn’t going to be too much water involved, I thought. The sound of metal ankle snaps closing on his waterproof pants was followed by his jacket being pulled on. So, the jacket over my head must be the old one we picked up at the car boot sale a few weeks ago.

The sound of a zip and then more snaps closing told me he was almost dressed. I could visualise him and longed to see him, but suddenly he held me in a bear hug and our greasy suits dragged and chaffed against one another. He pressed against me all over. His legs first forced mine further apart at the knees and then closer together; his arms were around and then under my pinioned arms. One hand massaged down between our bodies and groped through the thick outer covering and padding for whatever he could find between my legs. My prick had been rigid since I’d pulled on the stiff and waxy new waterproof pants.

He kissed me through the fabric that covered my face. The gag didn’t allow me to respond but he tongued the fabric into my ears, and bit gently onto them and then my nose. Suddenly his mouth was deliberately blocking air into my nose again and I began to struggle again as his teeth firmly gripped my nose through the fabric. Even when I pulled backwards in desperation he leaned with me, his body weight clamping me against the metal bar behind my neck.

Eventually he pulled away, dragging the old jacket from around my head, leaving me struggling to draw in as much air as my gagged mouth and dented nostrils would allow. “

Just wanted to get you heated up before we go out into the cold,” he said. His hand suddenly gripped my now less than rigid cock through the layers of fabric. “Are you heated up? Oh, no, perhaps not enough Want some more?” he asked suddenly covering my head again. I could neither argue or resist as he again massaged my face with one hand and my cock with the other. I was soon gasping and rigid, so he uncovered my head but continued to massage my cock.

“I should bring you off so you’re nice and sticky inside as well as out” he suggested, but another sudden jab in the gut abruptly took my mind off the excitement growing in my groin.

“No, it’s best to wait until I’ve got you thoroughly roped and trussed before I bring you to orgasm. I like to see you squirm and thrash when you cum.”

His plan for roping seemed simple at first. We both know that the more rope used the more possibility there is of it working loose. As I stood there handcuffed and tethered at neck and ankles, he was safe to release the rope around my waist and arms. With me being still blindfolded, he was able to come at me from any direction and I couldn’t anticipate, let alone frustrate, his efforts. His roping skills were so expert, his lashings seldom cause circulation problems but are always efficient enough to eliminate any risk of slipping.

I felt him neatly circling my body with rope, first around my waist and arms and then between body and elbows. Comfortably secure rather than tight I thought, but my hands were still cuffed and so the elbows were quite far back. Suddenly the cuffs were being removed. Could this be an opportunity for me to make a grab ... but he was suddenly in front of me, his mouth close to my ear. “Don’t even think about it,” he warned. “Your elbows are lashed and if you don’t want to get frostbite you’ll let me put gloves on you, won’t you!” To emphasise his point, an unexpected tug at the rope in front of my waist dragged my elbows forward and tight against my body, leaving my hands separated and isolated at my sides.

“Put your gloves on like a good boy,” he advised, “you’ll thank me for it later.” The fingers of my right hand found their way deep into a familiar thickly padded motorcycle glove, one of the pair we use a lot in our games because they strap tight around the wrist and padlock on when required. I felt him pull the double cuff of the jacket over the glove and close the under-cuff tightly shut, sealing the glove. Next I felt a mitt being pulled over the glove. It was a tight fit, and I knew it was one of the waxed cotton waterproof mitts that I had deliberately made narrower so that when worn over padded gloves the fingers were immobilised. This was the first time they’d been used. As I felt him seal the mitt between the inner and outer storm-cuff of the jacket I knew the mitt could not be rubbed free.

With one hand still un-gloved I was surprised to feel rope being tied around the already gloved wrist. When it was cinched Tony then just left it and repeated the process pulling on the second glove and mitt. Next I felt rope circle the newly gloved left hand. When it, too, was cinched I was surprised to find both hands being drawn outwards away from my sides. The ropes around my elbows fell away and before I knew what was happening my wrists were being tied off to the upright bars, my arms fully extended sideways.

“Surprise, surprise” said a voice in my ear, “You wanted your nice new suit broken in, so I thought a hundred feet of tough waxy sash cord wrapped and knotted around your arms and legs ... and crotch and body before I hog-tie you face down in the mud somewhere out on the moors, would rub some of the newness oft the suit.

“Don’t worry,” the honey-sweet voice continued, “I’ll make sure all that rope stays put, so you don’t have to worry that it’ll come loose while you’re wriggling around trying to find a more comfortable position ... out on the moors in the pissing rain. The weather forecast says the weather will be lovely ... for ducks. The roping,” he continued, “will probably take about an hour. Remember the time we did full body rope harnesses when we went to that disco. We shimmied around for hours in them and nothing came loose. Imagine a full rope harness over waxed cotton with padding underneath; the fabric bulging out between the criss-crossed ropes that circle each arm and leg separately, plus your chest and buttocks and up through your crotch. I won’t make it tight but I think it will look interesting ... before it all gets caked in mud and soggy with rain. I’ll take the video camera so you can see how you looked, that Is, if the rain let’s up. But then in a way I guess you won’t care if It buckets down because you want the suit to finish up looking nicely broken in, don’t you,”

And so the gentle taunting went on as I felt the network of ropes systematically taking shape, carefully cinched at every intersection the way we’d both rehearsed and practised when experimenting with Japanese rope bondage techniques and decorative harnesses. We’d often scoffed at bondage workshops where elaborate ties had been demonstrated. We preferred simple and efficient ‘short rope’ ties, but today Tony was indulging himself and, at the same time delaying the moment when the five hour ordeal would actually start.

Before he was finished I’d already been suited up, gagged and blindfolded for over an hour. Finally he removed the blindfold to show me his handiwork. It was a masterpiece of practical rope-tying, symmetrical and unshakeable but still allowing limited body movement. He took a few quick photos before removing my soggy gag and allowing me some water. I took the opportunity to experiment with my limited mobility. My upper body and arms were totally meshed in a network of ropes. Each leg was parcelled separately, down the inside and up the outside plus rope circling each limb four times at different points, each circle knotted at every cross-point to prevent slipping or loosening. Arms not attached to the body but lashed together at the wrists. The individual leg roping allowed me to walk but I was fascinated by the rope hobble around my ankles. A rope from this seemed to loop up to somewhere under my crotch. Tony proudly demonstrated how this hobble was also a lead-string which, when tugged would cause me to shorten my step or bend at the knees. If jerked suddenly it would pull me off balance. He made the point firmly that I would climb into the van in our garage and out again somewhere on the moors when nobody was around and he would remain in total control at all times. I would not be gagged or blindfolded as long as I caused him no trouble ... although what trouble I could possibly cause was beyond my imagination.

The process of climbing into our imaginatively equipped old Ford Transit was relatively easy, but I was not prepared for Tony’s plan for the ride. Rather than risk my trying to frustrate his efforts as he prepared me for the forty mile journey, an old canvas bag hood was dropped in place as a temporary measure (and I made a mental note to make a wax cotton bag hood to complete the ensemble sometime soon). The van was not tall enough to stand up in and a quick manipulation of the hobble left me with boots close together, knees slightly bent and wrists tethered to the waist but with elbows relatively free and comfortable.

I heard the soft sound of webbing straps being positioned and wondered if our modified racing car seat would be used. With a tightly rope-wrapped crotch I didn’t particularly fancy an hours drive strapped into a deep bucket seat. I needn’t have worried. Some deft conjuring with webbing straps and additional ropes suddenly had me sitting comfortably, dangling from the roof of our ‘Tranny’. The rope body harness had adapted into a type of parachute harness. The Rope Expert explained through the canvas hood that the movement would cause the ropes around my body to grate on the suit: all part of the breaking in process. He removed the hood, closed the curtain between the driver’s seat and the back of the van and drove out of the garage. It was not until this moment that I realised the support ropes were elasticised. I dangled there like a cross between a trussed turkey and a budgerigar bouncing on it’s swing. It’s a good job I don’t get seasick!

The final chapter?:
The sudden sound of boots close to my head brought me back to the present. He was towering above me as I lay on my back. My body was numb and I couldn’t have moved if I’d wanted to ... and with a pair of size eleven American combat boots practically touching my ears I wasn’t going to try.

“Wakey, wakey” he smiled. “Time for a little adventure. I’m sure you’ll welcome something to stimulate your circulation.”

“What time is it?” I asked, trying to sound reasonable.

“Never you mind” was his reply as he knelt down in the mud with wax cotton knees on either side of my head. He eased the woolly hat off and pocketed it, and his knees closed in against my ears, clamping my head firmly. He was still talking but I couldn’t hear what he was saying. His hands reached for the ropes that criss-crossed my chest and he pulled at them. He rocked me from side to side but his knees kept my head immobilised. He reached for the ropes on my doubled up legs and pulled them towards him, lifting them. I cried out in sudden pain as he flipped me onto my side and a waxy knee pressed my unprotected face into the muddy turf. He rocked my body and I was soon lying on my other side with the other side of my face receiving the same treatment. He grabbed at the ankle rope and dragged it towards him, revolving me and rolling me. Suddenly on my stomach I found my face buried deep into the wax cotton of his crotch and I could feel the wet mud on my cheeks being rubbed off onto a matt black and greasy bulge.

I heard him laugh as he hauled me upwards, my chest now against the slope of his knees my face stung by the buckle of his belt. He leaned back and opened his belt and then his jacket and pulled my head into it’s sweaty interior. He closed the jacket around my head and rolled with me until I was under him and he was astride me. He lay forward over me burying me and cutting on my air supply. He suddenly leaned back and as I regained my breath he stood up, boots planted on either side of my waist. He bent down and lifted me by the ropes around my chest leaving only my boots on the ground. I was getting disoriented and was surprised to find myself suddenly keeling before him, hands still lashed to my ankles and face pressed against the front of his legs. He massaged my head into the fabric that covered his thighs, before opening his legs and clamping my head between them.

His next move was to pull me off balance and I was on my stomach again. “Circulation coming back a bit, is it?” he asked. Somehow dropping back into a sitting position, his legs now spread wide on either side of my trussed and folded body. He hauled me towards him using the rope harness as grab handles. He lay back with me on top of him, dragging my muddy body until we were chest to chest; me balanced precariously on top of him. Being still hog-tied with my legs bent upwards high in the air, all my bodyweight was on his chest and waist and I could feel his body warmth. Gripping my head between his gloved hands, he kissed me.

Although my mind was still reeling from all the sudden movement, I responded automatically accepting his tongue as it penetrated my slightly numb lips. Abruptly he threw me off. I landed with the thud and rolled away from him as he wiped his mouth. “You mucky fuck-pig. I’ve got a mouth full of mud. What am I going to do with you? You’re shitted up to the eyeballs. You’ll muddy up the van if I let you ride home in it. I think I should leave you here ‘til it rains again. That’ll get some of the mud off. Or there’s a stream just over that rise. I could drag you over there and dunk you in it. What do you say to that?” he asked belligerently.

I knew better than to say anything when he was on one of these highs. He was turned on by the situation and, tired and stiff as I was, I got off on my total powerlessness. He grabbed a rope and dragged me back towards him, “But I’ve got a better Idea” he leered and produced a pair of the short stumpy emergency scissors that we always keep handy during roping sessions. They will cut through anything, but he was waving them menacingly under my nose. “I’ve got a little surprise for you. The ‘special surprise’ card, remember? I’ve got a way to get you home without mucking up the van.”

With one deft snip of the scissors my boots fell away from my wrists and my knees screamed with pain after being immobilised for so long. Before I knew what was happening, he was kneeling at the side of me and rolling me sideways. Over and over he flipped me ... on my front, on my back, on my front. Systematically he was propelling me across the mud and grass and sheep shit. My head was spinning and my body being battered even though it was thickly padded and booted.

The rolling stopped as suddenly as it started. I didn’t know where I was but he had rolled me to exactly where he wanted me to be. As I lay flat on my face panting, he knelt across me and talked into my ear as I tried to keep my face out of the longish grass. “Now I have a little plan and I think you’re going to like it ... not a lot, perhaps. But, on the other hand, you being a kinky little sod, perhaps you might. Whichever way, you’re in no position to argue ... and if you do, I’ll just gag you. Understood? Nod if you’re hearing me.”

I nodded, wearily.

He stood up and moved away, leaving me lying on my face and resigned to whatever fate held in store. I heard the sound of what might have been a large sheet of plastic. If he was going to wrap me in a tarpaulin, how the hell was he going to get me into the van, I thought. He was spreading it alongside me but I deliberately didn’t turn my face to look. When he was ready he grabbed a couple of ropes and rolled me onto it ... it being the sort of Bodybag the police and ambulance service use for transporting human remains.

With each limb still elaborately trussed and my wrists and ankles firmly roped I was in no position to put up any resistance. The menacing bag had a strong full-length zip ... and this was open. With another quick move he again rolled me over and I was suddenly lying face down inside the waterproof and (as far as I knew, airtight) PVC bag, and Tony was already closing the zipper around my feet and lower legs.

“I got this by mail order a month ago. I’ve been waiting for the right opportunity to use it on you. All the mud and shit will stay inside, I could even pour a couple of buckets of water into it and it wouldn’t leak. I could shovel a few spade-fulls of mud into it with you and roll you around a bit, and still get you home without you mucking up the van. But would I do that? No, because I’m nice and you’re my buddy.”

With that I felt a few more snips of the tough scissors and the heavy waxed ropes fell away from between my wrists as I lay face down.

“I want to see a smile, buddy.” he said, “can you turn over?”

With an effort I obliged, struggling as my lifeless arms and the muddy suit dragged against the inside of the strong-smelling plastic of the Bodybag. Tony was holding the sides of the open zip as I painfully manoeuvred myself onto my back and looked up into his smiling face.

“Hi, kid,” he said, “You’re going to love the next bit. Night, night.”

He began to close a second zip-pull somewhere above my head, and from down around my groin the other pull was drawn to meet it. Tony contrived to leave a small opening so that I could still see out. He smiled down at me and said “I could padlock the two zip-pulls together but I think with those mitts on, you won’t expect to get very far.” With that the zip closed and darkness fell inside the wonderfully pungent bag. I lay there exhausted but relieved to find that there was enough air coming in from somewhere. Later I learned that Tony had doctored the bag by adding a few discrete air holes.

I was not surprised when I felt my feet rise and the bag start to be pulled along the bumpy ground. It slid easily and with my padded back and shoulders and still numb arms, I felt very little of it. I was too pleased to be heading home to care. I knew I was in good hands and I had survived. When the movement stopped I knew we’d reached the van. I heard the doors open and a tug on the top corners of the bag urged me to sit up. Strong arms lifted my torso until I was standing (somewhat unsteadily) inside the bag. A bear-hug from the front and I was sitting on the edge of the back of the van. A lift of my legs and I was gently slid inside the van.

“I’ll wake you when we get there” I heard him say as he closed the doors.

I don’t remember much about the journey home. My arms and legs were still netted with the rope harness. My hands were gloved and mitted and still numb. In fact even today as I type, the nerve-ends in my fingers still tingle ... but that might be the memory of the sensations I experienced. I got my hot shower, still fully suited. Tony did strip off and get naked into the shower with me ... and hug me ... and thank me ... as I thanked him for a memorable day. I slept like a log but in the early hours of this morning we enjoyed the many pleasures of each other’s bodies. Then another nap before it was time for me to take the initiative and for Tony to face the ordeal of a five-hour marathon encased in waxed cotton.

When he learned that it was to be with one wax suit inside-out against his naked skin, covered by motorcycle leathers and boots, with another waxed cotton jacket and trousers over them ... he knew my obsession with this freaky and festishy fabric still wasn’t exhausted.

On the surveillance camera monitor I’ve been keeping an eye on him as I type, and he’s dealing with his current predicament in the cellar. Perhaps I should take him out on the bike ... still hooded and gagged under his crash helmet (We bought an extra large size to use on such occasions). Still ‘restricted’ under the many layers, I may take him to visit the scene of yesterday’s Scene ... but he won’t see it, only sense it. He’ll know I’m locked into my suit and won’t be able to get out of it until I release his mitts and gloves ... but then I’m enjoying the sense of us being locked together in our predicaments.

The past, present and future are all one, which is what I’ve tried to set down in this rigamarole of past, present and future tenses. One hour or five, when the mind is freed to take flight. How long have I been typing here? How long has he been hanging there? He’s given up venting his frustration on the Chain Frame ... perhaps he busy building some suitable revenge scenario in his mind for the future ... which I shall enjoy ‘dealing with’. But the immediate future is the predicament I have in mind for Tony for the rest of today ... which will only begin when I shut down this computer, so .... THE END!

Jim Stewart Sept ‘98

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