More than just another waxed motorcycle gear fantasy.
Here, a whole range of control-game-playing by phone and web-cam is explored.

(Excerpt 2116 words from a 6000 word story)

THE STORY BEGINS
My new purchase, a second-hand classic Sixties Belstaff motorcycle suit, had arrived by post that morning. I didn't need yet another waxed anything, but I freely admit that heavy wind-and-waterproof gear is an obsession with me - and my successful bid on Ebay had taken me by surprise. Then, the postman tried to deliver it earlier in the week, but Saturday morning is the only day I'm home to receive bulky items.

Naturally I had to check it out right away, just to be sure the zips and snaps and buckles were all in good working order. So there I stood, securely fastened into the pungent jacket and pants with the waist belt, cuffs and neck strap as tight as they'd go, just to confirm the efficiency of all the sturdy fastenings.

It was a lined suit so nice and warm and snug-fitting - but leaving just enough space to wear something underneath at a pinch. My experienced eye told me the signs of wear suggested genuine road use, unlike a lot of the bike gear I've picked up around the fetish markets. Both jacket and over-trousers had obviously seen some biking action, but were still in excellent condition. In fact, the rich smell and greasy texture told me it had been thoroughly waxed quite recently and the smell of man-sweat was still on it - which, as usual, was making me seriously horny.

Standing admiring the overall effect in the mirror I decided to christen it by stimulating my stiffening cock ... when the phone interrupted just as I approached the final build-up. I tried to focus on the ID display; it was an extensively kinky mate who I didn't hear from often enough.

As I picked up the receiver my pulse was still racing and my head slightly muzzy.
"Geoff?" asked the 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 flustered fingers grappled with the metal buckle and pulled the neck strap as tight as it would go. Then I fumbled to thread the end of the strap back through the double buckle to make it tidy.
"So - what makes this suit so different from the how-many-other's you've already got stashed away?
"I - just saw it advertised ... and couldn't resist it" I said lamely.
"Wax fucking cotton! You're obsessive - what are you?" he demanded.
"Obsessive" I admitted willingly, knowing that Mike was just as turned-on by any sort of thick waterproof gear as I was, and his remote cottage in the wilds of Cornwall was stacked with an amazing range of Black Prince and waxed suits in every size, including some imaginatively modified pieces which could restrain and layer a willing (and sometimes not so willing) playmate.
"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 get back on the web-cam the moment you get back - all sweaty and sticky inside."
"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 zipped and belted and snap-fastenered 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 infamous remote-control power-trip games. But later, after I'd survived the embarrassment and discomfort ... I would have the memory of the experience to add to the gallery of hot scenarios Mike had subjected me to over the past few years.

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 Cornwall for the following weekend. As a parting shot before he logged off, he ordered me to stay in the suit all night. He took my agreement on trust. And I, having first covered my bed with a tarpaulin often use to keep the wax off my sheets, spent the night booted and dressed from head to foot in waxed cotton as ordered. It was my own choice to add a waxed cotton bag hood which Mike had given me after one of our intense weekends at his cottage. Resolutely, I committed myself to the hood for the whole night, determined not to back-out of the deal made with myself until at least seven next morning. Inevitably I slept fitfully - dreaming of Mike's heaps of heavy rain-gear in his storm-buffeted stone house on the Cornish coast.

*****

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 because of all the gear Mike had collected over the years. He had a local contact who helped modify standard heavy foul weather gear to make it lockable. He particularly liked insisting his visitors go out in all weathers suitably 'handicapped' under layers of thick wind and waterproof and sweat-generating garments.
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 Levis. and denim jacket, tee shirt and trainers - perhaps indulging myself with snug-fitting nylon sports shorts under the jeans.

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 Ebay 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 Surplus.

The thought of driving for almost six hours encumbered in 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 an 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 "waxed cotton 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.

*****

Anxiously I looked for post on the Thursday before work and there was nothing, so I spent yet another tense day wondering what additional long-distance torment Mike had thought up for me. He knew how to build up suspense. I'd arranged to take the Friday off work and Mike had demanded I would contact him on the web-cam before suiting up around nine o'clock.

After a not too restful night (dreaming I was being boiled alive in waxed cotton 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 - plus two efficient-looking padlocks which would fit through them, locking the belt. They were combination-type padlocks, so had no keys. Once closed it would be impossible to reopen them.

A grinning Mike watched me pull my newly waxed one-piece over my naked body, sticky-side in. He then made sure that the fully lined Ebay 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 and the two padlocks closed to make sure I could now not remove the jacket.

Luckily, I'd taken a piss before starting the suiting up, because I realised it would be seriously complicated to take a leak during the long journey. For the moment the prospect of having to sit in the suit in the car for so long, and the obviousness of the brown leather belt and padlocks (should I need to get out of the car during the journey) occupied my mind. The possibility of a road accident was also a point I raised, but this seemed to amuse Mike who just warned me not to draw attention to myself.

END OF EXCERPT

A printer-friendly version of the entire text is at LONG DISTANCE CONTROL

Press 'back' button to return to Locked-on Clothes related topics list.

NEW TOPIC: Modifying and building on other people's turn-on stories:
This story, when I sent it to a friend said "I'm more turned on by Rukka soft-and-shiny motorcycle gear, than dull greasy waxed cotton". So I introduced him to the idea of adjusting stories to better suit the reader's personal tastes. We talked about the ability to search and replace in an electronic text, and even keep track of changes. We exchanged several e-mail during the process as he enjoyed his systematic elimination of the words waxed cotton and changed many of the descriptive adjectives to transform the storyline. Straps and buckles became Velcro, dull and greasy became shiny and pliable. The smell, the touch, the taste descriptions all shifted - and seated at his computer dressed from head to boots in Rukka gear, he enjoyed several hours of self-stimulating creativity.

The same happened when I 'extended' Derek Arnold's story until it became Man-to-Man Stuff (see 'Storylines). More recently, two fans of PVC motorcycle gear visited me to show me some new gear. A photo session using various 'oilskins' aimed to illustrate a new scenario which was inspired by John Stapleton's fictional story Further Adventures of a Motorcycle Messenger.
Descriptions of oilskins have always turned me on so, discussions with these two heavy game-playing bikers prompted me to write and illustrate the scenario they had dreamed up.

Check out FANTASY AND FACT IN PVC - but only if you're turned on by layering in heavy-duty oilskins and PVC rain gear!
Introduction to MAN-TO-MAN STUFF also discusses the topic.

Since writing this page, feedback on the topic of mental STORY BUILDING (as distinct story-writing) has resulted in new ideas. Check out STORY BUILDING-1