In John Strickland’s short story ’HI MIKE’, which is written in the form of two letters to a mutually kinky friend - a session with a would-be amateur Escape Artist who has failed to escape from a strait-jacket challenge, is described.
Having chosen to wear his heavy PVC motorcycle rain suit over his one-piece bike leathers before being strapped up in a very challenging leather strait-jacket, all struggles to escape have been fruitless.
Even after opting to spend all night trussed rather than admit defeat - the contest looks set to continue. The letter-writer writes …
In the morning he was still stewing inside all the layers of leather over PVC over bike leathers - but he was still determined not to ask me to let him out. He refused to say those words humiliating himself. I wanted him begging. I warned him that there would be worse to come if he didn't give in - and described the heavy-duty man-sized sack which would fit over the strait-jacket and other layers. Still he glared at me but said nothing.
I explained that I would give him time to think it over.
“I’ll get us some breakfast then, if I don't hear what I want to hear, I’m going to make life really hell for you.”
I left him lying there, trussed and motionless. He seemed to have given up on trying to find a way out of the all-confining leather and PVC.
Well anyway, after rattling around in the kitchen for a while, I returned. He had not moved - and his firm jaw was still set as he eyed me defiantly, still determined to say nothing.
So, I unlocked the manacles which had been holding his boots together, but not before strapping his boots together - then for good measure, more straps. The thick PVC bulged out from under the leather straps which I used to cinch his legs above and below the knees. The slick surface had become quite soft with the warmth generated from inside the air-tight casing of PVC over bike leathers. My hands caressed the smooth warm vinyl covered legs, up onto his thighs and provocatively started to massage around the crotch-straps of the strait-jacket which accentuated the bulge of his tightly imprisoned his cock. I made sure he was hard behind all the layers, squeezing and teasing - and still he grimly refused to say anything!
So, I hauled him into a sitting position and fixed him against the bed-head before feeding him toast and marmalade - and gave him water from the special cup with the spout. All this he accepted without comment or even looking me in the face. I then bathed his face with a moist cloth and gave him some chewing gum to freshen his mouth. I explained that I was experienced at looking after my prisoners for however long might take!
The ultimatum: I told him it was his last chance to ask me nicely, very nicely, to let him out.
For a while he didn't answer, just sat there propped up, strapped up like a madman but still looking macho and powerful. "Well?" I asked again. He said nothing. "I want an answer!" I said.
Then they came, three words that decided his own fate. "Go fuck yourself" he said slowly and deliberately.
I just got off the bed and went to the closet. I got out that black oiled canvas sack that you're so scared of, Mike.
He had as good as asked for it.
Getting him into that was not easy. There was this guy, strait-jacketed, sitting with his legs bound together strapped to the bed-head. Getting the long heavy sack over his booted feet and legs should have been easy - but he was determined to make life difficult for me as he could. His lashed-together booted feet kicked and twisted, his pelvis bucked until his upper body was practically hanging off the metal bed-head. With the sack only up to his thighs, I knew I had to release him from the bed-head - and the battle would really begin. I think we both relished the challenge.
Wrenching, twisting and rolling on the bed, his legs already inside the sack, the greasy, clinging bag gradually was dragged upwards despite all his squirming. The bulky crossed arms of the strait-jacket with PVC and leather inside them were eventually inside the bag. Then with a sudden twist I rolled him onto his face so the back of the sack could be dragged further up in spite of his kicking, strapped-together legs inside it.
While
pinning him down to the bed by sitting astride him, I prepared to gather the top of the sack around the back of the jacket collar. Surprising him, I flipped him onto his back and had the sack up under his chin before he could stop me. Luckily, chain was already threaded through the steel eyelets around the top of the sack. This was padlocked before he knew what was happening. The sack was now neatly gathered with just his head outside it, the neck not too tight, but no way could he wriggle his way out of the sack, let alone the strait-jacket under it. The heavy PVC over leathers under the suit - inside the almost air-tight greasy sack would very quickly become an experience to remember for the rest of his life.
I got up to admire my work. He was determinedly jerking and kicking in the sack, his every twist tightening the clinging waxed canvas tighter around. Mike, he looked great, his determined masculine face all that could be seen outside shoulders to boots gripping black well-waxed canvas.
Although it was unnecessary,
I grabbed for a roll of that strong, broad black cotton tape that ties so effectively. It was an invitation to him to put up another struggle that he could not possibly win. He rose to it and fought me all he way as I wound and knotted the tough tape several times tightly around his ankles , then knees, then waist under where his arms were strapped around his body. This defined his totally mummified shape. But for good measure I finally wrapped a few turns around his upper arms just for the fun of it as he squirmed and cursed under his breath until we were both breathless from the struggle. But inside all the layers he must have worked up a massive sweat. Even I was sweating in my leather jeans and tee shirt.
The frenzy tying and binding ended - because I'd used all the tape we had. Mike, we're going to have to order more of that tape before your next visit.
I've left him to it, Mike, and I'm killing time by writing this to you. Yes, he's still upstairs now, rolling around and perhaps deliberately working himself up into a sweat. Maybe he's enjoying it now - but how long before he's regretting not backing down. Especially because now he'll be discovering what a torture that greasy sack can become in a very short time. You know from experience, Mike.
He must be soaking in sweat inside his leathers inside that PVC suit. He might have had to piss, too, but he definitely knows how to take his punishment like a man - in fact, let's face it he invited it. He asked for it.
It's seventeen hours since his arms first went down into those straitjacket sleeves, and nearly four hours since I locked that sack shut around his neck. How long can he keep this up? I think he must know I'm not going to take pity on him - not let him out until he begs me to. But he's a tough one.
I've been trying to think what to do next to intensify it if he holds out - and invites a next phase. I don't think I'll strap him down to the bed, because it's just so wonderful watching him roll around, struggling and straining - and I've left the video running - so you'll be able to see it, Mike, sometime in the future. And I;'ll be able to watch it - perhaps with him when it's all over and he's survived it - after he's admitted defeat. But that may not happen yet.
So - what next, Mike? Maybe I should lock his head inside a thick tight leather hood! Yeah! Or the head-bag made from the same fabric as the sack. Yes, better! Inside a lose and almost airtight bag, you breathe the smell of the greasy fabric. Right, that's it, Mike, a couple of hours in clammy darkness will have him begging me for mercy! Hey, what am I doing sitting here writing all this to you? I've got work to do. I'm gonna mail this off to you now, just to keep you in suspense. To hear the next thrilling instalment you're going to have to give me a call!
Cheers, John.
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