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WEEKEND IN
THE LIFE OF
A MOTORCYCLE
MESSENGER
by
John
Stapleton
He felt good
today. Everything was just right. It was Friday, the weekend just starting, the
weather was just right and he was on his last run. As a motorcycle messenger he usually really
had to earn his money, risking his life in the thick
It was seldom
that he got a run like this, out of town, down country lanes to some prison
hospital tucked away out of sight. A
quick delivery, a signature and then he’d be off, free for the weekend. Perhaps he’d ride the long way back making
the most of the bike. The poor thing
needed to spit some soot out after the short stop-and-go journeys in the
town. The mood he was in, he felt he’d
show himself off to anyone who wanted to look.
There was nothing accidental about the tight-fitting leather he was
wearing. The jacket was an old favourite,
the thick leather shiny with wear, a sheen that only comes from hours and hours
of being worn. His leather jeans fitted
perfectly, accentuating well-muscled legs, his six-strap boots scuffed and
well-worn. He knew what he looked like
bent over on the bike. He knew his
thighs gleamed in the sunlight, that’s the way he meant it all to look. Well-worn masculinity that all looked so
natural from the unshaven face through to the short hair. He loved his leather more than he’d ever
loved any friend. His image turned him
on.
This must be it, he thought. On
his right was an ivy-covered bank along which a high brick wall ran. Broken bottles were set into concrete along
the top. Very inviting. He slowed down, -somewhere there must be the
entrance. When it came, he shot past it,
the high iron gate set back from the road.
He turned and drove up to railings.
“How do I get in here?” he thought, wondering whether he really wanted
to get in there at all. Opening his
visor, he saw a bell with the stupid sign “all visitors must ring.” He rang.
He rang again. Suddenly a voice
crackled through a grid near the bell.
“Hello?”
“Special delivery.”
“Pardon, I can’t hear you!”
“Special delivery!” he shouted.
People never understood him with his full face crash helmet on, but he
wasn’t going to take it off, just get rid of the letter and get away from this
fucking place.
“Wait, please, I’ll send someone.”
“At least she’s polite enough,” he thought. As a messenger, he sometimes got treated like
a piece of shit. He waited. A brass sign that hadn’t been polished for ages
read “H.M. Prisons. Hospital for the
Criminally Insane.”
“Fucking Hell,” he thought, “A nut house!” He rang the bell again.
“Yes?”
“Nobody’s come!”
“Someone’s on their way. It takes
time to get down to the gate.”
“Bloody hell!” he thought.
At last he heard the sound of a car’s engine and heard the gate being
unlocked from the other side. He was
confronted by a young man about his own age, dressed in some kind of white
uniform. He hadn’t expected someone so
good looking to appear from behind that ominous-looking gate. The man looked taken aback, too, and threw a
quick glance up and down the leather-covered figure standing in front of him.
“A visitor from space?” he asked.
“Very funny! Special delivery,
sign here, please.” The messenger
offered his clip board.
“I’m not authorized to sign anything,” the warder said. “You’ll have to drive up to the office.”
“Why on earth wasn’t someone sent who could sign for it?”
“Because we didn’t realize it was a package. The girl on the desk couldn’t understand you
and just told me there was someone at the gate.”
“I’m not so sure whether I want to come in there.”
“I don’t know why not. I’ll open
the gate for you.”
The gate was opened and the messenger got back on his motorbike,
conscious of being watched very closely by the warder. He didn’t mind being looked up and down by
someone like him. He looked good in the
white uniform. He drove a couple of feet
through the gate and waited as it was locked behind him.
“You’d better follow me up to the main building.”
He got into his van and started up the engine. The messenger snapped his visor shut and
started to follow the van along the drive.
The drive was long and well cared for, well-established trees lining the
sides. Everything looked peaceful, the
sunlight shining through in bright, dappled areas. A turn in the drive and suddenly the
buildings were in sight, red-brick buildings like the wall outside. The motorcyclist looked up and saw bars at
the windows. It was a prison and looked
the part, too.
The van pulled to a halt in front of one of the doors leading into one
of the many buildings. The messenger put
his bike on its side stand and got off.
He snapped one of his side panniers open and got out the fat letter he
was supposed to deliver.
“In here,” said the young prison officer.
They went up the steps together into the building and walked down a
corridor, empty apart from a man walking away from them further down the
way. The warder turned through a door
marked reception. Sitting at a desk was
a middle-aged woman who looked up surprised to see the black-clothed figure
wearing a crash helmet come in. She took
the letter from him and signed the chit.
“Right, I’m off now,” he said.
“I’ll have to
come with you and let you out the gate.
Not everyone’s just allowed to walk out of here!” said the officer.
They walked together down the corridor and out the door, the biker all
the time aware of sideward glances from the guy in white. At the motorbike, the other made no attempt
to go towards his van, but stood watching the biker pull on his gloves and get
ready to ride off.
“Is it a good job, as courier, I mean?” he asked.
“Depends what you mean. The
money’s good and it’s great riding, but most of the time the weather’s lousy.”
“Yeah, but in all that leather you don’t notice it much, do you?”
“You must be kidding, the leather just soaks up the water.”
“Do you want to soak up a cup of tea before you get off, or is that
crash helmet welded to your head?”
“It comes off with effort in special circumstances. Where can you get a cup of tea around here?”
“There’s a staff canteen in the next block.”
The rider took off his gloves and unfastened his crash helmet. He pulled it up over his head and rubbed his
hand over his short hair to fluff it up.
“At least your head matched the rest of you!” said the warder.
“What’s that supposed to mean?”
“I mean you’re as good-looking as your body is athletic.”
“What’s that
supposed to mean?” he said again gruffly and as if he didn’t know.
“Take it however
you want. Do you want that tea or not?”
They walked together round to the other building, two young men, one in
hospital whites and training shoes, the other clumping along beside him in
heavy boots, strapped from top to bottom, in tight, shiny black leather,
carrying a crash helmet. He felt good,
but conspicuous, especially as he stood at the counter waiting for his tea to
be poured.
“Let’s go over to that table, there — two of my colleagues are sitting
there,” said the man in white. The biker
had already noticed the two looking him up and down. Most of the few people in the canteen were
dressed in white. He must have stood out
well in his heavy black gear. He nodded
to the two guys as they joined them at their table. They were well built and good-looking, too,
around 25 or 26. He was pleased he
hadn’t just pissed off on his bike.
“This is a courier I’m giving a cup of tea before he goes off back to
“Hi! You must be warm, take your
jacket off if you want,” said one of them.
“I’m OK, I never take my jacket off,” the biker said.
“That must be awkward in bed,” laughed the other. He laughed, too, but wondered what’s so
awkward about wearing leather in bed.
“What do you guys do here?” he asked them.
“We keep everyone under control,” said the blond one of the three. He was the best built and the biker felt he
liked him the best.
“What type of people have you got here then?” he asked.
“All of them are men and they’re mostly dangerous,” said the original
one of the three. “There’s some real
bastards here, that’s the only way you can describe them, it doesn’t matter how
tolerant and understanding you try to be.
You get to know them and they’ll still have you if you turn your back
too long. Most of them are violent.”
“Shit!” the biker said. “I can
see now why you’re all so strong and fit.
What do you do? Strap them down
or something?”
“No,” said the blond one, “that’s what they need, but humanitarian
politicians who have never tried to control one of these cunts, have decided
that anything more than a handcuff belt is inhuman. You give them an injection, even though they
nearly kill you while you’re doing it!”
“Yeah,” said the dark one with the stubbly chin who hadn’t yet had much
to say. “The solitary wing with the
lock-ups is unused now, derelict, it’s due to be pulled down soon. The inmates just lie in their rooms nowadays
dreaming pleasant dreams until they get their next shot to start dreaming
again. They need punishing, not given a
treat! Are you sure you’re not warm
zipped up in that jacket?”
“I never take my jacket off!” said the biker and smiled at the blond
one.
“You look good in it anyway,” said the unshaven one. “It’s better than having to wear a uniform
like this all the time,” he said.
“You all look pretty good in it, anyway,” said the courier. “What was in this solitary wing, then? It sounds a bit like
“It’s just like everyone’s old-fashioned idea of prisons and mental
hospitals,” said the blond one. “Do you
reckon you can get the keys, Chris?” he asked the
“Oh no, it’s all right,” said the biker, “I was just interested. “I’ve got to get off now anyway.”
“OK, we’ll come down and see your bike,” said the blond one.
The biker felt a
twinge of regret. He’d have liked to
have seen the solitary wing. The thought
of strong men locked away, away from the light of day, prisoners not allowed to
decide what they do or where they go, was strangely stirring to him.
They went, all four of them, out of the canteen and into the bright
sunlight towards his bike.
“Where is this wing?” he asked.
“Go and see if you can get the keys, Chris, we’ll head on down there,”
said the blond one.
“No, it’s OK,” said the rider making towards his bike.
“You won’t get an insiders chance again,” said the one called Chris and
headed away towards the building to get the keys.
“OK, but I’ve got to get off soon — I don’t want to catch the weekend
traffic.”
The three of
them headed down a concrete path past tall buildings with barred windows. If the ‘normal’ building looked like this, he
didn’t know what to expect of the solitary wing.
They crossed a courtyard and approached a building set back away from
the others. There was a noticeable lack
of windows in this building, what there were, were small. The door looked normal, just a heavy, locked
door.
Here they waited for Chris who soon came towards them from the main
buildings.
This Chris looked bloody good, too.
He was well-built and his white uniform fitted him well, his dark,
unshaven face shown off well by the white.
He looked dusky and brutal.
“OK, got them,
no problem,” he explained.
The door was unlocked, just a heavy wooden door, nothing special. Inside was another door and they waited while
Chris found the keys to that, too. At
last they were inside. A long, dingy
white corridor stretched away from them, dully lit from a wired glass window
that ran the stretch of the corridor in the ceiling. Left and right there
were a few doors. They looked
very ordinary and the messenger felt disappointed. It wasn’t exactly what he had expected.
“This is maximum security?” he asked.
“Don’t be
impatient,” said the young guy who had met him at the gate, “we’ve got lots to
show you here.”
They went the
length of the corridor. The colours were
dingy, perhaps it was once dazzling white, but now flakes of paint hung off the
walls and the floor was gritty and dusty.
The window above had collected the grime and the rain and bird-shit
reduced the level of light coming in.
The biker then saw the steel bars ahead of him. His stomach leaped in excitement. Things were beginning to look more like his
idea of prison.
A massive barred gate blocked the corridor from ceiling to floor. Chris pushed an enormous key from the bunch
into the lock and turned. It turned with
difficulty, but offered no great resistance.
The door pushed open and in they went.
It occurred to the messenger that Chris managed to find the right key
pretty quickly. He obviously knew his
way around. They left the barred gate open
and went on a few yards. At the end of
the corridor, leading down to the right were some wide rough stone steps.
“Down into the dungeon?” asked the guy in leather, nervous with
anticipation.
“A lot of guys have had to be carried down here, struggling and
screaming. This place had its
reputation,” said the blond one.
As they went down the steps it got darker and dingier. One of them switched a light on
somewhere. “Electricity not turned off,”
he thought.
As the dirty bulb in the equally dirty opaque glass ball in the ceiling
did its best to light the stairs, he saw a massive steel door in front of him,
something that looked as though it guarded the entrance to a bank vault. It had two huge locks set in it. It was panelled metal, set with huge rivets. The dull anthracite grey reminded him of the
side of a ship.
“Not easy to
break through this one,” said the rough-looking Chris as he set himself to the
locks.
The door swung open. Its weight
was a thing you could see, a massive, slowly opening weight that seemed almost
unstoppable. It was about six inches
thick, like a bank door.
“We’ll close this to get the atmosphere,” said Chris and pushed the door
shut using all of his weight. The door
thudded into the opening. A lock clicked
shut.
“Just imagine being a prisoner, your hands cuffed behind your back,
hearing that sound. You’d know you’d
reached the point of no return!” said the blond one dramatically.
In front of them were thick steel bars, like upstairs with a door set in
them. Without hesitating, Chris again
produced the right keys and they went through.
“All along this corridor, on both sides are the cells,” said the guy
from the gate.
The courier looked. Massive steel
doors, bolted and riveted, locks set in the walls to the side of them, were spaced
out on both sides of the dingy corridor.
The light came from naked bulbs set in wire mesh holders in the
ceiling. It was hardly adequate.
“Has anyone ever escaped from here?” asked the biker. He hoped no one had. The idea of strong young men, imprisoned
underground behind these heavy doors with no hope of escape appealed to him.
“No chance,” said Chris. “Don’t
forget that nearly everyone in these cells was getting ‘special
treatment.’ They were all restrained
somehow.”
“Restrained?” There was a
noticeable bulge in his leather jeans appearing. He felt his heart pounding in his chest.
“Yeah. They really had fun down here. Every kind of restraint was used down
here. This place would have had Houdini
screaming to be let out!”
“And now it’s all gone,” said the motorcyclist.
“It’s not gone at all,” said Chris with a smile. “Everything’s still here.” He led them to one of the steel doors. It was already open, just barred. He lifted the steel bar out of its rests and
pulled the heavy door open.
From a switch outside the door he switched on a light. A dull bulb set in the ceiling behind its
mesh shade lit a small room. Stone
walls, white-washed, now dirty and stained.
No window. The room was not much
more than eight feet by four. Most of the
floor space was taken up by a bed, or at least a strong metal frame, bolted to
the floor. A grimy mattress covered in
brown canvas lay set in the framework.
Parts of it were darker, obviously the result of sweaty bodies. Straps hung from the framework at intervals.
“Wanna try it out?” asked the blond one.
“You must be joking,” the leather guy said. “I don’t need tying down!”
“Come on, you’re down here now.
Why not try it out, we’ll let you up again.”
“How do I know I can trust you?” he asked, knowing that he was going to
say ‘yes’ eventually.
“You don’t, but you can,” said the guy who started it all off.
“OK then. But make sure you let me up again.”
Heart pounding and wishing his leather jeans weren’t so tight he sat
down on the bed. He felt stupid in front
of these three good-looking guys but he had to try it, he just had to. Anyway, the three guys were obviously not
exactly bored. They had a grin on their
faces. He felt a moment’s doubt, but
then lay down on his back and lifted his leg up. All three got to work and expertly started to
fix him to the framework. Straps were
fastened around his wrists, securing his hands either side of him. As Chris leaned across him to fasten his left
hand to the metal frame he leaned lightly over the leather-covered figure lying
there. The biker felt a surge of desire
and pushed upwards. The blond guy was
having trouble strapping his feet to the end of the bed.
“These clumping great boots of yours are making things difficult here,”
he said. “How long does it take to strap
these things on?”
The biker didn’t
answer. The straps on his boots didn’t
interest him much at that moment. Chris
had just fastened a two-inch thick strap across his chest and was expertly
buckling a thinner one across his throat.
At last the three stepped back a bit.
In a room as small as that there wasn’t much stepping back to be
done. Chris slapped the leather-covered
guy lightly on the thigh.
“OK. What’s your name, by the
way?”
“Sam.”
“OK Sam. How’d yea feel? You look great lying there. It suits you!
The brown straps make a nice contrast to your black leather! Of course most are usually strapped down
naked, but you never take your jacket off, do you?”
“Let me up now, will you, I’ve got the feel of it all!”
“Oh, Sam, struggle a bit, get the feel properly. Just imagine some bastard carried screaming
and writhing down here. Just imagine how
he’d feel as the door is locked on him.
Tell you what, we’ll just leave you here to think about it all. We’ll take your crash helmet out with us.”
They started out the door.
“Hey, what the
fuck you doing? Hey, Chris, you two! Come back here!”
They were outside now. Sam
strained at the neck strap and shouted as the door was swung shut. He’d never heard such an ominous sound as the
clang the metal door made as they slammed it shut. He heard bolts drawn across
and a clashing sound as the bar was pulled down. He could hear the three guys talking and
laughing as they locked the door. A wave
of panic swept over him. What the hell
did he let himself get into situations like this for? He pulled at the straps without much
optimism. He could hardly move at
all. He looked down his body, and that
with great difficulty, the strap cut into his neck if he pulled too hard. He could see the thick belt going over his
chest. The silver buckle was sitting in
the middle of his leather jacket twisting the zip around. The leather strap was held around him, a huge
prong going through a huge hole. It was
so near to his face, not a foot away but there was nothing he could do about
it. His arms were strapped at the wrists
and elbows. He could feel an equally
thick belt holding him down at the waist.
How many straps immobilized his legs he didn’t know, he couldn’t see
that far.
He pulled and
twisted, he struggled and writhed, he used his knowledge of escape-artistry
he’d read about to contract muscles and relax.
He got no-where, just as the dozens of others who had stained the
mattress with their struggles had got no-where before him.
After fifteen minutes that seemed like a year to Sam, the trap view hole
in the door opened. One of the guys
looked in.
“Christ,” he thought as he looked in, “this Sam guy sure looked good in
this helpless state.” He saw Sam laying
there pulling and twisting, he could feel the tension in the straps as the
muscular guy did his best to free himself.
As he writhed, Sam’s leather jacket and jeans stretched tightly across
his chest and thighs, reflecting the dull light from above. Sam’s heavy mot-cross boots creaked as the
strong legs strained against the straps holding them to the framework. Sam pulled against the throat strap and saw
him.
“Hey, you guys, come off it, let me out!
Hey you bastards!” With relief, Sam heard all the bolts and locks being
opened. He felt a wave of fresh air as
the door was opened.
“Well, Sam! How’re you getting on
then?” asked the guy from the gate, “Don’t think you’ll ever make a second
Houdini!”
“Untie me, will you!” Sam tried to sound as if everyone was having fun
together, but he was worried, turned on but worried.
Chris leaned
across him like he had done while strapping him. This time he laid his hand flat on Sam’s
leather-covered crutch and massaged lightly.
Sam strained upwards against his bonds and thought he was going to come
behind his leather. Strapped down like
that and with this rugged Chris bent over him, he felt as though he couldn’t
take it much more. In front of these
three guys he was going to cream his leather jeans full.
“Stop Chris!” he said softly through gritted teeth. He could smell Chris deodorant or toilet
water or whatever, just as rugged smelling as the guy wearing it. He had noticed the blond guy as being the one
he thought he was on the same wave-length with, but this Chris was pure man,
tough and teasing.
Just before the
accident happened, Chris released his pressure.
“Come on,” he said, “you’ve got lots more to see, yet!”
He reached over and started unstrapping Sam’s hand, the blond guy was
working on his ankles and legs. The
straps fell down from the bed, the buckles jingling. Sam sat up.
He massaged his leathered thighs, he flexed his fingers and bent his
wrists back and forth.
“You’re cunts, know that? You had
me worried there!”
“Oh come off it!” said the guy from the gate, you were tied down for a
total of twenty minutes. People have
spent long, cold days lying there, without a black leather covering to protect
them from anything they need to be protected from!”
“You know my name, what’re yours, then?” Sam asked. “I know yours is Chris.”
“Tom,” said the blond one.
“Robert,” said the guy who’d got him to accept the cup of tea.
“Wanna see more?” asked Chris.
“Might as well,” Sam replied, “but don’t fuck me around like that
again.”
“We just wanted you to know what it’s all like, Sam!”
They left the cell and went out into the corridor. Sam wondered what the other cells had to
offer.
“Over here’s the storeroom,” said Robert and headed two doors up the
corridor. He opened the only normal
looking door in the whole place. All
four of them went over.
“Here, how about trying this, Sam?”
He offered a thick belt like attraction with handcuffs involved in it.
“What is it?” asked Sam.
“A handcuff belt. Come here.”
Robert reached around Sam’s leather-covered waist and put the thick,
brown leather belt backwards around his waist.
The belt, nearly a quarter of an inch thick, had slits cut in it where
holes would be on a normal belt. Robert
pushed one of the slits over a metal loop sticking off of the other part, then
he passed a padlock through the loop. It
clipped shut.
Sam pulled at the belt cinching his leather jacket at the waist. It sat snugly in place. Robert took one of Sam’s hands and snapped it
into the handcuff riveted to the belt at the side. Sam got the idea and obligingly slipped his
left hand into the cuff on the other side of the belt. Robert made sure the cuff was fastened well.
“Once more a
prisoner!” said the leather guy. “I’m
getting to enjoy this!”
Sam stood there, a figure completely clothed in black leather, the wide
brown belt contrasting and around his waist, the steel cuffs around his wrists
shining dully in the dim light.
“How about these for your legs? asked Tom, holding out a heavy pair of
manacles.
“Or this would really suit you well!” said Chris.
Sam looked at Chris standing just inside the storeroom holding something
made of leather in his hands. Straps
hung to the floor.
“What is it?” asked Sam, having a good idea.
“ Strait-jacket,” said Chris and looked Sam directly in the eye.
“Fucking hell,
let’s have a look,” said Sam.
Chris came out of the storeroom to where the chained leather guy was
standing. He held the strait-jacket in
front of him, a formidable looking garment made of thick dark brown leather. It seemed to be reinforced with black leather
at different points although Sam couldn’t exactly see where, the way it was
hanging from Chris’ outstretched arms.
The long sleeves hung to the floor and the straps from them twisted
around like a coiled snake. There seemed
to be straps and buckles hanging from every part of the jacket.
Sam’s crutch
began to throb. He loved his leather
jeans but now they were uncomfortable, the thick leather restricting him
swelling with excitement.
“Take that
handcuff belt off him, Robert, this is more his style,” said Chris. There was a determined look in Chris’
eyes. All the time he spoke he looked
Sam directly in the eyes and held the strait-jacket out in front of him as
though it was just waiting to encase the motorcyclist.
Robert was fumbling with the screw key to the left hand cuff.
“I don’t want to
be put in that!” said Sam, lying. He had
always wanted to try a strait-jacket since he had seen an escape artist get out
of one at a fete. He had only been about
twelve then, but the thought of wearing a jacket that held you prisoner had
haunted him ever since. The escape
artist had worn a flimsy affair of white canvas, but even that had evoked Sam’s
imagination. Now he stood before a
rough, good-looking man, piercing him with cold, grey eyes, threatening him
with a punishment jacket, not of canvas, not flimsy and ineffectual, but a
complicated affair of thick leather.
“I don’t want to be bundled up like a madman!” Sam said, trying to sound
convincing. Robert had freed his hands
and was unlocking the padlock holding the belt around his waist.
“Come on, Sam!” said Chris. “Take
your punishment like a man. It’s
leather, your material, the straps and buckles will match those on your boots. Who knows, maybe it’ll be something you’ll
wear on your bike from now on!”
“I’ll try it on, but just to see what it feels like,” said Sam. He felt dry in the mouth, his legs felt weak
and his heart was pounding with anticipation.
Chris came up to him holding the jacket threateningly.
“Wanna take your leather jacket off”
“I never take my leather jacket off!”
Chris held the
jacket at the collar and Sam tremblingly pushed his hands into the
sleeves. He immediately noticed the
thickness of the leather, supple from lots of previous use. It was well worn, it was extremely shiny in
parts and in places it was darker in colour where the prisoner had sweated and
strained. The thought of being encased
in what had held many men prisoner turned him on even more. His prick was bursting.
Expertly, Robert
pulled at the jacket from behind and Sam’s hands reached the ends of the
sleeves but stayed encased in the closed ends.
Black leather was sewn over the brown at the ends of the sleeves. His hands were behind several thicknesses of
leather, his fingers deprived of their right to feel. He was reminded of the time when he’d managed
to pull both of the laces on his boxing gloves into a knot with his teeth. He couldn’t get his gloves off and had this
same feeling of having hands that were useless.
He noticed the elbows were also reinforced in the same way. A black leather yoke went across his chest
and a wide black leather strip was riveted to the front leading down to the
crutch. Robert had started to strap the
jacket up at the back. Chris was holding
Sam at the elbows as if he was going to make some desperate effort to
escape. Tom was standing near, a grim
smile on his face, enjoying the scene.
As strap after strap was pulled through the buckles, Sam felt the jacket
enclose and imprison him tighter and tighter.
He looked down at the jacket he was allowing himself to be restrained
in. Suddenly he saw Robert’s hand come
through his legs under his crutch. The
searching fingers found the wide leather strap hanging there and pulled it back
through the leather clothed legs. As the
strap was pulled through a corresponding buckle at the back, Sam jerked as the
jacket increased in tension in every part and the strap pressured his enraged
penis.
Chris let go of
his arms and reached around Sam’s neck.
Robert put the strap he was looking for into his hand and he brought it
forward and pulled it through its buckle which was on the front of the high
collar. The collar reached up to his
chin. He looked Chris straight in the
eyes.
Sam had never believed that a strait-jacket would be as complete as
this. He was totally imprisoned behind
leather, the jacket encasing his own leather jacket completely. It was absolute containment. Often Sam had been conscious of the fact that
his body was enclosed when he was riding in the rain. His shiny black oilskin over-tousers were
bib-and-brace style, the fisherman’s style anorak that he wore over them didn’t
leave much visible except his eyes, but the feeling of all-overness was nothing
like this.
Chris took a grip on his arms.
“OK. That’s enough,” said Sam.
“I’ve got the feel of it. I don’t
want my arms fastened.”
“Oh, no, leather man,” said Chris.
“You’re going all the way.” There
was a vicious look in his eyes. Tom
stepped forward and gripped an arm, Robert clenched Sam’s shoulders from
behind. Sam struggled and Robert’s arm
slipped round Sam’s throat, pulling his head back. Sam let out a cry.
He felt his arms
being crossed, left over right, jerked and pulled to their extremes. One of them pushed his elbows together and
someone wrenched the sleeve strap through the buckle on the other sleeve. It was done.
Robert released his head lock.
Sam was strait-jacketed! He looked down at his crossed arms and
pulled. He strained, he tugged, he
wriggled. His arms remained crossed.
“The way to get out of a strait-jacket,” said Tom, “is to work your arms
up over your head or down over your hips.
You can forget that idea with this jacket, the sleeves go through straps
on the side which stop any up or down movement.
No-one has ever escaped from that jacket, and you won’t either.”
“But you’re not going to leave me in it long, are you?” said Sam in an
unconcerned voice.
“One more thing to show you,” said Robert. “Down here.”
“I’m not sure I
want to see any more,” said Sam.
When Sam refused to walk with them, he was led, his feet hardly on the
floor, by Robert and Tom who each held him at the elbows. The strapped figure in leather and boots
really did look the part of the crazed prisoner being forced along by the two
white coated men. Chris led the way to
the last steel door of the corridor. He
opened the bolts and locks and opened the door in readiness for the struggling, protesting figure. As Sam saw in this cell, he gasped. The walls and floor were padded!
“No, no, please!” cried Sam, “not in there!”
He pushed backwards against the two holding him. He bit his heels into the floor, but there’s
not much resistance to be offered with your arms strapped around your body.
“Come on Sam,”
said Tom, “be a good boy. It’s all nice
and cosy in there!”
They half lifted
Sam. He noticed one of them was taking
the opportunity to put his hand between Sam’s leathered legs. He kicked backwards and felt his heel clunk
into someone’s shin. He heard a cursing reaction
from Robert and was at the same time propelled into the padded room. His feet sank into the soft floor and he
pitched forward into the opposite wall.
His face thumped into the canvas padding and he slid down to the floor,
his head bent back, his face being scratched by the rough canvas. With effort he rolled over to face his
captors.
They looked at
Sam lying there, half propped-up against the padded wall. He was even better looking when angry, an
untamed, resistant look on his brown face.
Sweat had formed on his brow. The
layers of leather were having an effect.
He looked good in the battered brown leather strait-jacket. The high collar, buckled at front seemed to
emphasize his powerful jaw line, the whole jacket proving that this biker had a
good, strong figure. He lay there in his
punishment jacket, his arms strapped immobile around his body as though he was
intent on bear-hugging himself to death.
One of his legs was bent at the knee, his thick leather jeans stretched
and shiny, the other stretched out in front of him, his scrambling boot digging
in to the canvas padded floor.
If he hadn’t been tied in the humiliating restrain, he would have taken
all three of them on at once.
“Have fun, Sam,” said the blond Tom, “don’t come in your leathers, Sam,
you can’t wash them!”
“Get me out of here, you bastards!”
They were closing the padded door.
“HHEEEYY,” he screamed and as the door closed he noticed the strength
went out of his voice, there was no resonance in it anymore, the padded walls
absorbed the sound.
The silence was tangible.
The cell was so
small. It was long enough for him to lie
out from door to opposite wall, but in the other direction he would have to sit
with his legs up. There was nothing in the
cell, except a guy strapped helplessly in leather. He looked at the walls. They bulged in on him from all directions,
big soft squares, big canvas-covered buttons hammered into the padding at every
corner. The floor swelled up to meet the
walls and everything was white, a dirty filthy white, there were stains all
over. The door was also padded in great
long sausage-like strips, the padding interrupted by a viewing hole set deep in
the soft material.
The light came
from a solitary bulb set high up in the ceiling behind a metal mesh. The ceiling wasn’t padded, just covered with
grimy whitewash. Sam couldn’t believe
it, a couple of hours ago he was riding through sunny country lanes and now
here he lay, strapped in a strait-jacket on the floor of a padded cell! By
pushing with his boots, by digging his feet in the canvas floor, he managed to
push himself up into a sitting position.
Things were different in here.
There was no resistance. He
pushed with his back to slide up the wall a bit and instead he sank in! There were no real corners in this room,
everything was rounded off, padded out, softened down to stop madmen hurting
themselves, to stop prisoner’s screams and shouts being heard, to make escape
from a strait-jacket an impossibility. He
could hear everything muffled, the creaking of his leather covering and the
gasps and pants he gave as he pushed himself upwards without being able to use
his arms.
He refused to
panic. The guys would be back soon, but
even so, escape artists all over the would got out of strait-jackets every
weekend, at fetes, at charity ‘dos’.
But, weren’t they just loose white canvas affairs? Weren’t they usually without a crutch strap
biting between your legs? Weren’t they
without straps at the sides, holding the strapped sleeves in position? He must stop this line of thinking or he’d
just start pulling and wearing himself out.
He looked down at the jacket holding him. Dark brown leather. He looked at the black leather yoke riveted
to the jacket in a semi-circle under his chin.
That would stop him biting his way out!
Biting his way out! Even if the
thick collar allowed him to get his head down low enough he’d have tooth-less,
bloody gums before he started making an impact on these layers of leather.
He looked at the
wide strip of black leather with it’s shiny rivets that went from the yoke
downwards. It disappeared behind his
strapped arms to the bottom of the jacket to become the crotch strap. And there were his arms, neatly folded,
nicely crossed in their greasy brown leather sleeves that were slick at the
elbows. Reinforced at the elbows to stop
him rubbing against the rough bricks until a hole was worn, a hole that he
could pour out of if he were a liquid, a hole that he couldn’t make anyway on
soft padded walls. There were his arms,
folded in front of him. He was wearing a
leather jacket, just like he’d worn a leather jacket all his life. All he’d do is bring his arms forward, he’d
take the jacket off, he’d open the door and walk out to his bike. He pulled.
Somewhere out of his sight below his elbows, the sleeves carried round,
no zippered cuffs and gloved hands, but closed, riveted, reinforced sleeves
that went tightly around his waist to be strapped at the back along with all
the other straps that he couldn’t see.
He decided to
get to his feet. He pushed himself into
the padded wall he was leaning against and wriggled his way upwards until
eventually he was in the standing position.
Life didn’t look any better from up there either. He tried the rational and logical approach to
extracting himself from the jacket. He
shrugged his shoulders backwards and forwards to work slack into the sleeves,
he wriggled his arms upwards towards his shoulders. He had moved them about two inches up from
his waist when the side straps stopped him getting any further. He contorted himself to try the same thing
downwards over his hips but after a promising couple of inches he just met with
resistance. He tried bracing his elbow
against the wall to get some leverage but his elbow just sank in, indenting the
padding like the buttons holding it in place.
He was beginning
to get warm now, why had he refused to take off his leather motorbike
jacket? Because he hadn’t got anything
on under it, that’s why. He hadn’t
wanted them to see he wore leather and only leather. Now he was paying for it, his whole body was
wet and sweat trickled down from his forehead, working its way through his
eyebrows and started to go stinging into his eyes. He wiped his face on the padding, realizing
what the source of a lot of the other stains were.
He sank onto one
knee. This place was starting to drive
him mad, everything rounded off, even the floor was like walking on a sponge,
like trying to stand steady on a trampoline.
He pushed his elbow against his knee, at least here he could get a bit
of solid leverage. He tipped over. He rolled over onto his back. In a strait-jacket, a padded cell, strait
jacket! Strait-jacket! No-one has ever gotten out of that jacket and
you won’t either. No-one. Ever!
Sam pulled at the sleeves with all his strength, he violently rolled
over, he shook right and left, he wriggled, he kicked out with his legs, he
pushed on his shoulders and pushed his legs up the wall, all the time trying to
free his arms, to set some movement into the sleeves so tightly strapped to his
body.
He screamed
screams of frustration. With every
contortion the crutch strap bit into his leather jeans, pressing on his prick,
the sensations making him arch his head backwards. The heavily strapped collar made red welts
under his chin, sweat dripped and flew off him to lie and slowly soak in to the
dirty canvas floor. The veins stood out
in his neck, his teeth ground together as he wrestled in the leather restraint. The strait-jacket creaked as the leather was
twisted this way and that, his leather jeans and boots creaked as his legs
rubbed against each other as they went into violent motion to offer support to
the straining arms.
He struggled.
He fought. He wrestled. He strained.
He tugged and pulled. Finally,
with a loud scream of anger and frustration, Sam fell onto his imprisoned arms
and let the sweat pour off him into the deep wells where the padding was
hammered to the floor. He was hot, he was on fire, he was boiling. Only his head was not encased in leather. Only his face could breathe. The trickles of sweat ran through his hair
and stung his eyes which he could only open to slits. If only he could wipe his face on his
sleeve, run his fingers through his short hair.
If only ..... . He moved his fingers
a little in their thick, unyielding sleeves.
“Help me, someone. Come back you
guys. Chris?” he said aloud to the
padded walls. They drank the sound up. He started to doze.
Some sound woke him up. He tried
to focus his eyes on the padded floor an inch or so from his face. He felt clammy, damp and cold. Where was he?
A split second later as he tried to get up it all came back to him and
he realized that he was still very, very much a prisoner. With effort and with a lot of digging his
boots into the canvas, he managed to roll over.
One of his arms was numb and tingling, he tasted blood in his mouth and
the ache told him he’d bitten his tongue.
Until the door
opened, he hadn’t realized anyone was outside, his little world consisted of
his heartbeat in his ear, the sounds of him breathing and the creaking of his
leathers.
The three guys were there, looking at him in his plight, laying there on
the soft floor. They weren’t in their
white uniforms anymore, but street clothes.
Robert and Tom were wearing tight, well-worn denim jeans, Tom a white
T-shirt and Robert a faded denim jacket.
But it was Chris who made Sam’s heart beat faster. He was wearing tight black leather jeans,
tight at the bottoms and laced-up high training shoes. He was wearing a shiny, worn-in black leather
motorbike jacket over a white T-shirt.
Sam wondered hopefully whether Chris had put this leather gear on
because he was in full leather, too, but Chris hadn’t known he was coming so he
must have worn leather to work when he came.
Chris looked so good, so good-looking, looking down at him with a smirk
on his face, a vicious look of enjoyment at the plight of the bound man.
“How’re you doing, Sam?” asked Tom.
“Still wearing your jacket, I see.
How’s it been in this soft little room?
Have you had a good roll-around?
Have you made a stain in you leather jeans, boy?”
“Boy, am I pleased to see you guys!” said Sam in a flippant tone,
ignoring Tom’s jibing. I really thought
you’d left me that time!”
“How d’you like that jacket, Sam?” asked Chris. “You sure look good in it!” He smiled at Sam who felt a stirring down
deep as this leather-clad guy teased him.
“Take if off me, now,” said Sam simply.
“Oh, Sam,” said
Robert. “You haven’t really caught on,
have you? We’re giving you the full
treatment. There’s far more to
come.
Tonight you keep
the jacket on, tomorrow for a bit of variety we’re going to give you a
wet-sheet pack. You’ll like that,
Sam. Wrapped and strapped from head to
toe in tight wet sheets. Tight wet sheets
that get tighter ..... and tighter ..... as they dry out. We’ll have you gasping there, Sam. Then we thought you could spend the night in
this cell again, you know, make it your home, but for variety you could wear a
full length punishment suit. That’s fun,
your hands will be strapped to your sides there, Sam, and it’s fun struggling
in that because it’s made of oiled, greasy, dirty canvas and will cling to you
wherever it touches. We’ve read great
reports about that suit, Sam. Strong,
young men crying to be let out, broken and deprived of movement. We’re going to break you, Sam. You and your black leather, your heavy
boots, your big bike! You’re going to be
licking our boots clean, Sam. You’re
going to beg and cry to be let out, Sam, and only we’ll hear you in here,
Sam. Who knows? Maybe you’ll still be in here when the wing’s
pulled down!” He laughed. Chris didn’t look so comfortable.
“You bastards!” screamed Sam and wrenched in his prison. “Cunts like you will never break me. I’d die first.” Sam realized he was
challenging them.
“We’ll see!” said Tom. “Listen!”
he continued, “there are a few rules to this game you’ve got yourself
into. We’ll keep you well-fed, we’ll
make sure you’re not in pain and we’ll make sure that your jeans don’t fill up
with shit. You look so good in that
leather, Sam, - we’d hate to spoil it!”
“But what ...... ,” started Sam.
“Shut your mouth, Sam!” shouted Robert.
“We’ve got adhesive bandage so strong here that you’ll never open your
mouth again if we wind it around your head.
It’ll rip your hair out!”
“Now Sam,” continued Tom, “to let you shit we’ve got to take you out of
here to a nice little specially-design stool down the corridor. You either cooperate and be a good boy or you
get this.” He held up a syringe in front
of him. “This’ll knock you out for half
an hour or so. What’s it gonna be,
Sam? Do you want to piss like a nice little
boy or do you want to be put to sleep?
The choice is yours. You can also
choose to fill your boots with shit, if you want, but none of us will come in
here to feed a stinking cesspit!”
Sam strained defiantly in his strait-jacket.
“The choice is yours, Sam,” said Tom coming towards him with the needle.
“OK, OK,” shouted Sam. “You won’t
need that, but get me to the toilet quick.
I’m bursting!”
Tom and Robert
lifted Sam, each taking an elbow. They
pulled him up to his feet. Chris just
watched, a noticeable bulge in his leather jeans.
Sam started to
walk hesitantly between them, his legs feeling soggy on the padded floor. There was hardly room for the three of them
in the cell, Robert and Tom were pushed into the soft walls. When Sam got onto the firm ground of the
corridor he felt like a sailor going onto land after six months at sea. Solid ground!
He walked between them down the corridor held tightly by the two young
men. Chris walked in front of them,
looking just as good in leather from behind as from the front. Chris unlocked a door and reached in to put
on the light. A dirty bathroom was
revealed, the walls and floor covered with grimy white tiles, most of them
cracked, crazed or broken. There was a
bath to one side, not a normal bath, but very long and shallow, along its
length metal staples for anchoring straps were set in the scale-covered enamel.
“This is where we’ll wrap you in wet sheets tomorrow, Sam,” said Tom,
“then we’ll carry you dripping to a cell where the floors covered with P.V.C.
sheeting to dry out. Incidentally, Sam,
we had a look at your oilskins in your bike panniers. Quite a suit you’ve got there, Sam. Top to toe in black, shiny P.V.C. eh? You’re quite into the black and shiny, aren’t
you? We thought for a bit of light
refreshment we could get you dressed up in your oilskins, keep you in them with
a handcuff belt and manacles and then turn the fire hose on you! The possibilities are endless, Sam!”
Tom rested his hand on Sam’s shoulder in a we’re-all-friends-together
kind of way and flashed Sam an endearing smile!
Sam found Tom’s teasing and jeering humiliating, but at the same time a
turn on. He spat in Tom’s face, a
defiant sneer on his face. Saliva struck
Tom’s cheek and the side of his nose.
Tom’s reaction was immediate. He
became vicious and grabbed Sam’s hair, jerking his head backwards. Sam let out a stifled cry at the speed of the
onslaught; his hair nearly being ripped out.
“Don’t do things like that, Sam,” he snarled through clenched teeth, or you’ll find yourself tied in this jacket so tightly that you’ll slowly suffocate to death.” He grabbed the strap around Sam’s collar and jerked it through the buckle three holes m