BAGGED
(EXCERPT 1500 words)
Getting a prolonged intense first-experience of physical restraint alternatives -
'Chunky' Proctor has been left for an hour immobilised
in front of a TV screen, watching video of things that have happened
to other men who have occupied the space he is currently in.
As the tape ends … his 'experience' enters a new phase …
…
AJ sat looking into the mirror at the seated figure unrecognisable inside
the heavy fire-fighters' work suit that bulged out from under the various
straps which held him rigid against the metal chair. He watched the
featureless face behind the mesh hood and imagined he could see the
involuntary smile that he was feeling inside.
The sound
of a door opening made the smile fade, and the sight of three figures
in the mirror shot an electric current of apprehension through his immobilised
and suddenly numb limbs. Three men anonymous in black SWAT team-looking
jackets and black combat pants … and ski masks if you please! If
they were trying to fucking freak him out they were succeeding. Robert,
the young guy responsible for persuading him into his current predicament,
was not among them. These guys were all bigger. These were strangers
… and whatever was going to happen was going to happen. Perhaps
for the first time in his eventful life Chunky felt the impact of 'powerlessness'.
Almost
before he knew it, his arm and wrist and upper body straps were off
and he was standing … but his feet were still strapped to the chair-legs
so he was totally captive. Silently and smoothly the three co-ordinated
their actions and something slid over his head and down his bulky-suited
body. A bag … some sort of body bag. His knees and ankles were
unstrapped from the chair and, although he didn't move, there was now
room for the bag to fall around his ankles …because the chair behind
him had gone. Teamwork! Pre-planned and wordlessly carried out
He felt
his boots being strapped together. Just as he realised his numb arms
were free inside the bag something was happening around his arms and
the bag tightened between his body and each arm, separating them and
immobilising them. He could not visualise what ... and between his legs
the bag seemed to close in ... separating his legs within the thick
covering. And just at that point in the slick process, around his head
the bag slid open … a zip. The pungent fabric fell away from his
face and through the mesh hood in the mirror he saw the standing figure,
encased head to foot, flanked by two burly black-clad men. The full
length black bag had metal eyelets and his arms and legs were defined
with neat metal clips through eyelets front to back. He had been mummified
in a matter of seconds. Totally encased. The air through the mesh was
his only contact with the outside world, and the hood was being unlaced.
Would the gag come out? His jaw ached - but what would he say? The ski
masked figures played their parts well - whoever they were - they were
a team. Was Robert filming all this? - Chunky hoped so.
As the
mesh hood slid forward, the bag seemed to take it's place, keeping his
sense of encasement complete. A hand held the fabric against his face
but the back of his head was somehow still open to the air. His previous
brief glimpse in the mirror had told him the upper end of the sack was
smaller than the main sack … a sack with a sort of bag attached
at the shoulders. Now from behind other hands were unstrapping his gag
- this might be a problem . How long had he been gagged for? His jaw
was numb. Four hands around his head … or were there six …
co-ordinated and resolute. A zip was closing around the side of his
head but another opening. Chunky was disorientated. Hands seemed to
be everywhere. Fingers pulled the gag forwards (a mouth-hole in the
lose hood?) and immediately other fingers entered his mouth - he breathed
deeply and knew enough not to risk biting them. A flat tongue-like shape
replaced the fingers ... rubber but flat. As he swallowed involuntarily
he tasted liquid ... fresh cool water. Thank God! Nothing disgusting
- nothing new to deal with ... not yet. Not just yet ... but when the
time came .... maybe ... he would be forced to deal with it. He remembered
discussing willing surrender of control with Robert. It had all seemed
rather academic at the time.
Meanwhile
he was sucking like a hungry baby, instinctively responding moment by
moment … his mind in free-fall. Why did an image of Alice falling
down the rabbit-hole flash across his mind? He drank and was amazed
at his gratitude in the middle of all this ... control. The water tasted
good. He had no choices to make. Those made for him ... he was grateful
for ... appreciated. He felt privileged. This is not what he had expected
… and was somehow divorced from reality. Echoes of Robert's comments
about the subtle difference between as S&M and Bondage experience.
There was no violence in what was being done to him. No immediate threat
of punishment. He was "being dealt with" … given an experience.
He guessed there would be times when the treatment would not be so considerate
... and he knew he would welcome the challenge ... but for the moment
... these people knew! They knew perhaps better than he knew that he
was learning.
He was being tested. Was this Initiation? It felt almost like a ritual
... High Priests was a crazy image to get at a time like this but he
was mummified ... and the silent 'celebrants' ... shit was he freaking
out ... going slowly off his rocker ... helpless and enclosed ... all
powerful hands closing the bag more snugly around his head and neck,
removing the water supply ....
Suddenly he was tilting ... not falling but being skilfully moved into
a horizontal position ... it was a soft mattress ... softer than the
table / ladder he'd been strapped to earlier. Bands tightened but not
too tightly, he was being systematically anchored to the mattress but
the sack already held him immobilised. He wished he could see what was
going on, but somewhere in the back of his brain he knew there was at
least one camera running and he would (one day) see the video. For now
it was all down to sensation. To the senses. The touch of strong hands
co-ordinated in their efforts. Would he someday be one of the team,
surprising and controlling another initiate? For the moment the senses
... the feel of straps tightening, the buzz of webbing buckles cinching
firmly, the smell of the fabric on his face ... what was it? It reminded
him of his wax cotton motorcycle suit ... Belstaff ... a lot of years
ago. Was the bag the old-fashioned sticky waxed cotton? Over his call-out
suit and boots it was only his hands and face that could feel it - but
he could smell it ... and the scent was unmistakable. He seemed to sink
deeper into a dream-state as the straps sank him deeper into the mattress.
The hands outside, around the bag seemed to float away and he was left
... he listened hard ... and heard the sounds of retreating booted feet.
He was left ... to feel ... to sense ... to dream ... to wait.
…
Waking up in the dark, immobilised ... returning to consciousness ...
re-evaluating the predicament in the soft, pungent darkness of the restrictive
sack.. How long? He should be freaked-out … but isn't. Is? - Was?
- His mind was somehow free in an empty space ... while he felt so totally
enclosed ... isolated, no! Insulated ... the world was somewhere else
...
…
The clammy inside of the suit was warm again and his arms, trapped by
whatever had been so easily and quickly added through the bag from back
between his arms and body, to pinion them and separate his legs. He
wriggled experimentally in the comfortable restriction; his other senses
now more acute in the darkness. The sense of smell of the fabric was
acute. His tongue adventured out of his sore lips and touched the waxy
surface of the canvas bag. He'd identified it only by it's smell and
now his sense of taste confirmed it. His sticky, smelly, grungy old
motorcycle wet weather gear had been part of his image in the Eighties
... part of his sexual image ... had he ever admitted to himself the
rich sensuality of the gear in those early days - suited and booted
in heavily re-waxed canvas on his old bike. Now here he was trapped
head to feet in the stuff until somebody decided to let him out.
END
EXCERPT 'Bagged' (12) and the story is about to end - but Chunky's life looks as if it is about to start. See THE WAY AHEAD