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Prints at 44 pages - Words 41,648

MAN-TO-MAN STUFF
a short story by Derek Arnold
made longer by Jim Stewart

INTRODUCTION

TURN-ONS & TURN-OFFS

What’s in it for you

Reading erotic fiction is a chancy business. How soon into a story can you tell if the author is on your wavelength? Any publisher knows that a good title, strong cover design and punchy sales blurb can help get a book into a reader’s hands. But, particularly in terms of erotic subject matter, if the reader’s personal preferences do not match precisely those of the author, this can lead to frustration – or to a stimulating exercise in creative imagination. You, the reader can, by imagining changes you’d make to storyline or characters, shut the book and drive the action in a direction more likely to get your juices flowing. Alternatively, you can read the story through and then, in retrospect, imagine your chosen alternative version and get off on tailor-made sequences as often as you like.

When the author of this story started writing it, the aim was to push the buttons of one particular individual (and, of course, himself during the writing process). The content was chosen to appeal to specific known sexual/sensual preferences. After showing the first sequence to several like-minded kinkheads, the basic scenario was then broadened by adding elements which he knew would appeal to other individual personal acquaintances.

What’s in it for me

By the time the story was shown to me it was already 15,000 words long, and a lot of it immediately fired up my boilers. However, certain elements and images in the story cut across my personal likes-and-dislikes enough to be distracting. So, at first I mentally edited them out but then, because it was an electronic file, began a process of physically replacing what jarred for me. This may sound presumptuous (if not bloody rude!) but, when it comes to sexual stimulation, we all know that it’s the subtle nuances which really make the difference. As in cooking, the same basic ingredients can result in different flavoured dishes, depending on the addition of various little extras, or subtle exclusions.

Happily, with the author’s agreement, I spent a lot of highly stimulating hours imagining his two excellent characters and core scenario into a piece of text which will allow me to get off on it during many re-readings in the future.

This version is now 38,000 words long and I'm delighted that the original author, Derek Arnold, has agreed that other readers should be allowed to see my ‘take’ on his story.

Enjoy it for what’s in it for you.

Jim Stewart

October 2002

MAN-TO-MAN STUFF

PART ONE

SNATCHED

As consciousness returned, I tried to sit up – and couldn’t. I could barely move a muscle. Disoriented, it took time to assess my situation. Arms tied tightly behind me; that I knew right away. There was also something tied tight around my ankles and bent knees. Even my thighs were lashed together, I discovered. Rope (I assumed) secured my wrists, and my elbows were pulled painfully tight together in the small of my back. My head was enclosed in ... something; the smell was familiar, but I couldn’t place it. My mouth felt stuffed full with a soft, springy-but-tough mass and I could barely swallow. Whatever encased my head shut out all light. It felt like a skin-tight hood of some sort.

Gradually, I grew more aware of the pressure of ropes laced all around my body. Everything was painfully tight and my muscles throbbed from the severe strain of the unusual position my limbs were trussed into. Lying on my side, I couldn’t straighten my legs without pulling on my arms. Hogtied, I thought dispassionately. I’d seen it in pictures but never imagined it could be this uncomfortable. Also, my skin felt strange. I couldn’t work it out but knew that every part of me was covered in some way. Was my uniform still on? No, I’d been wearing my beat-up old motorcycle leathers. I knew how they felt; tight and thick – but not this tight. Certainly, the heavy steel-toed boots were no longer on my feet.

How many bondage/fetish related stories start with the leading character regaining consciousness in severe restraint? The hero of this tale had never even read a so-called kinky story in his life. Dan Drummond was an up-and-coming senior police officer on a regional force. By ‘senior’ it meant he had the rank but, as one of the new fast-track to promotion breed of youngish cop, this brawny thirty year-old was still something of a loose canon.

As an Information Technology whiz kid who could just as easily have left university for a career in professional Rugby League, his rise through the ranks was an embarrassment to many. Somewhere among the “top brass” somebody hoped he would become one of an elite circle of tough young but intellectually sound officer class. Home Office had traded him from the Ministry of Defence who’d had their eye on him as regular army officer material while he was still at university. A quick-fisted, motorcycle riding young ‘Turk’ from early grammar school days, those anonymous men who keep an eye open for potential Establishment talent had monitored his progress surreptitiously through every phase of his go-getting education.

Now, having bypassed many dedicated young police constables and sergeants, “Desperate Dan” (as older colleagues called him), was more commonly known as “Bulldog”, and had reached a position as Chief Inspector at an indecently early age. He was the white hope of an influential regional chief. So, to get himself ‘snatched’ while following his own unorthodox monitoring of an elaborate undercover operation promised to be an embarrassment to his sponsors on the Force, and could be fatal to the man himself.

Trying to reduce the strain on my limbs, I moved as best I could, but nothing relieved the pain. I became aware that my arms were, in addition to being lashed together, were secured tight against my body and ropes were also wrapped around my torso in some criss-cross fashion. I could feel them biting against my flesh through the thick covering. Somebody must have spent a lot of time applying such elaborate roping to an unconscious man. It seemed it was deliberately intended to punish as well as be super efficient.

I experimented by attempting to speak but immediately knew it would be impossible to make myself understood. Even with determined effort, only muffled grunts were possible, and they remained inside the helmet or whatever covered my entire head (not my motorcycle helmet I told myself. Too tight). Saliva dribbled from the side of my gagged mouth and was pooling at the side of my face and chin, the liquid trapped inside the casing. No light relieved the darkness; no way of knowing if it was day or night.

My body throbbed all over in pain. My six-foot-four well exercised frame was not built for this type of stress, and desperate to shift position, I strained painfully in an attempt to move even slightly. The effort paid off. Suddenly I rolled onto my chest, the movement dragging my feet high up behind me, still attached to my wrists as they were. Settled into this new position, the pain in my arms eased slightly but I felt my cock and balls crushed under me, now pinned between my body and the hard surface on which I lay. As this new sharp pain crashed through my groin I sucked hard on the wad in my mouth. Long time since I’d been so aware of my genital equipment in this way.

What had those bastards done to me, I wondered? Spirited me away. I assumed it was drug dealers who had somehow got me, but which faction? Our undercover operation was to keep surveillance on two rival ethnic groups. In effect, it was a local power-struggle between Somali and some emerging Indian-based importers, perhaps with a third faction trying to muscle in. Our plan was to monitor without interfering, but something had obviously gone wrong. I had no way of knowing where I was or who was holding me. Technically, as a Chief Inspector with special responsibilities for I.T. across several Divisions, I was supposed to be office based in this new rank – but had taken it upon myself to observe unofficially. Positioned on my old motorcycle, a casual bike courier in clapped-out leathers, hanging around in a quiet side-street ostensibly waiting for the next pick-up call on my mobile.

Several of our men were staked out in the area, but officially I wasn’t there. I don’t even know if they knew I was monitoring them. They weren’t supposed to. When the shot hit me, in a flash I knew I was in trouble. But it wasn’t a bullet, and it was silent. Even before I hit the ground I knew I was drugged rather than wounded. I wouldn’t have drawn attention even if there’d been time, because it would have compromised the overall stake-out. I was on my own and I knew it, but I didn’t expect to be – what? Captured? Snatched?

Years of police training at officer level had taught Dan Drummond that, when any man is in the hands of an experienced torturer, his mind is as much a target as his body. Ruthless men whose aim is power over others as much as profit, had been discussed in several analytical grounding session. Some big-wig behavioural psychologist had expounded elaborate theories about the dangers of power without responsibility, to the study-group. Now here, thought Dan, is the real thing. Was he a pawn in a ruthless game being played out by a dangerously unscrupulous group of carefully anonymous men; some of whom relished their special ability to generate fear and pain?

Dan’s experience of the darker side of such men was only theoretical. In his wildest dreams he could not imagine a villain who so enjoyed exercising his power, as to cold-bloodedly pre-prepare an elaborate ‘treatment’ which would involve equipment and secure space so he could play with his victim like a cat might play with a mouse caught in a trap ... and get off on it!

My assessment skills tried to kick in, but the uncomfortably stressful physical contortions were, I decided, having a dangerous effect on my mind. Concentrate, damn it, I told myself. But my mind was in a disoriented state as a continued to speculate. They must have targeted me for some reason – be after something – and me being in no position to put up much resistance – this is serious trouble. The muscular pressure was already getting to me. I must fight it. My bulk was not an asset in such a predicament. Beef had it’s uses, but in this contorted situation ... my mind left the sentence uncompleted. Already, I wasn’t sure how much longer I could deal with it – and I can’t even talk to them, I thought desperately. What the hell do they want? What’s going to happen next? Why hasn’t somebody realised that I’ve regained consciousness?

Suddenly I thrashed around as much as the bindings would allow, just to let anybody on the outside know I was conscious. The movement made me breathless inside the enclosed hood. I fought to stay calm and to remember all those tedious anti-terrorist and anti-kidnap training courses. The wham-bang action sessions had been fun, but the interminable theory lectures and discussions were Yawnsville. But here I was – trussed like a turkey – and there was something very oppressive about the way it felt – my entire body was somehow – constricted – more than just ropes and a hood. We’d had some of that in training exercises: canvas sack over the head – cold water – being yelled at – smacked around. That, I’d survived. Enjoyed surviving, but this – this is something more – sinister!

I tried to flex my fingers and realised my hands were enclosed in something like a mitten. This kept my hands tightly trapped and useless. I couldn’t feel anything through the material; it was thick. To make matters worse, I felt so hot my body was sweating profusely, and the perspiration wasn’t going anywhere. It was making my whole body wet, the heat was over every part of my body from fingers to feet, and especially my head. I couldn’t make it out. What the hell had they done to me? As I tried to clasp the material surrounding my mittened hands I suddenly realised what the smell was, and now recognised the texture of the material that covered my entire body. It was rubber.

With this realisation came a dangerous thought. What type of villain kidnaps a member of the police Force and then dresses him in rubber and keeps him trussed up like this? Some weirdly perverted and seriously demented bastard. Or is it a diving suit; will water be involved? I couldn’t get my mind around it. I knew that some people found rubber a turn-on – and I’d seen films where they used this type of gear for sensory deprivation. It hit me. Oh Jesus! Brainwashing.

RUBBERED

How much longer? – where are they? – why haven’t they come for me? – I can’t stand much more of this! ... my mind raced in the sweltering darkness.

“Come on you bastards, get started!” were the words I shouted, but they were not the sounds my ears heard. I couldn’t make a single clear sound. Too conscious that the bonds were biting against my flesh even through the thick covering, the fact that the hood and gag held in all sound now really began to get to me. I had never been gagged. Even in horsing around – stag nights and rugby piss-ups – I’d always been the one helping to do it to others. Even on collage military cadet training exercises I’d always tried to avoid any sort of gagging or getting tied up.

The hood began to impose itself more on my mind – and also restrict my air supply! I now found time to notice that I was only breathing through my nose. From the feel of it, there was a tube in each nostril and the air whistled in and out of the tubes. I couldn’t believe the predicament. I can’t stand this shit; I’m going to die in here. Even though I knew it was a waste of energy, I began to thrash around again, desperate for some slight promise of escape; some sliver of hope. But there was none.

I only succeeded in exhausting myself, and could hear my breath whistling harder in and out of those damn tubes. I panted with the effort and saliva continued to dribble from my mouth, pooling around my face and mixing with the sweat inside the helmet or mask or whatever. Frankly terrified – I wanted them to get on with it, to do whatever it is they are going to do. The sensation was new to me. This feeling of total helplessness was ... NO! not submission. Why don’t they come! They can’t have forgotten about me. Have they been caught and nobody knows I’m here? ... like this?

So many disjointed thoughts flashed through my head. Physical and mental torture had, until now, been academic concepts. Suddenly ... unexpectedly, I began to sob uncontrollably. Is this the real reaction to helplessness? Inside that rubber head-prison I began to plead; to demand my release; demand to be heard – to survive – to live. Unfamiliar emotions unleashed, shocked me. I continued to rave and writhe - but no response from the outside world. Nothing. Nothing but the void – the waiting – the impotence. No one came to laugh at me, the big dumb would-be-big-chief police officer blubbering like a baby. Nothing! How long had it taken to reduce me to this state? I had no idea.

Then all of a sudden my thoughts re-focused. I felt a distinct tingling at the soles of my feet; it was like ants marching over my skin and irritated the hell out of me. I flexed my toes and feet, feeling the rubber slide over my naked skin a little with each flex. The sensation grew stronger and rather than irritate it became quite pleasant. But soon the unfamiliar sensation grew progressively stronger, until my whole body jerked as my feet were what – tickled? Within the tight lashing I pulled at my feet to avoid the sensation, and only managed to jerk on my tightly bounds wrists. I wriggled and squirmed in a vain attempt to evade the tickling, but I could not escape it. I needed to laugh, but couldn’t laugh! Not here, not now, not like this. But the sensation grew worse and as each wave washed over my feet I jerked, and an involuntary giggle (or was it a sob?) escaped into the gag. I could barely breathe and barely believe myself. Giggle at this deliberate physical ... torture! But I had no control. I had no choice and the unstoppable surges broke down all resistance until I was thrashing helplessly around as best the bonds would allow in a state of near-hysterical sobbing laughter.

Abruptly, the devilish pulsing stopped. I was panting through the nose tubes and yelling for release. But having stopped around my feet, the same sensation now began just behind my balls. Christ, NO! First the marching ants, then the tingle, then the incessant tickling which seemed to travel through my balls and up the shaft of my cock. I couldn’t believe such torture. I rolled painfully onto my side but the increasing sensation just got worse until every muscle in my powerful but powerless frame was straining to the utmost. “I can’t stand this” I literally screamed; but the scream was only inside my head.

The connection between my ankles and wrists suddenly broke free, allowing me to straighten my legs. Had I somehow broken the ropes? My whole rubber-encased and still tightly pinioned arms and trussed legs and rope-wrapped torso was now thrashing unrestricted as the tickling intensified. And I was screaming uncontrollably into the gag: howling and cursing, desperate beyond imagination for release from the bonds and the sensations. I now had more freedom to buck and writhe but it got me nowhere. I couldn’t put an end to the torture coursing through my cock and balls. Then it began again under my feet as well, and my sobs turned to screams as I bucked hard enough to throw my restrained body off the ground and land back on the hard floor. It was worse than any nightmare and I thought my mind would snap.

As suddenly as it had begun, it stopped. I lay panting desperately, wheezing through the tubes and around the gag. Sweat made the rubber which now seemed to grip my entire body slick and wet – and no matter how hard I tried to stop, I continued to sob and shiver and yell uninhibitedly through the gag for somebody – anybody – to cause the ordeal to end. Unheeded, I gradually subsided into an exhausted, snivelling, self-pitying mess. I lay there trying to regain my composure ... and was startled to realise that my cock was rock hard and that I had cum during the ordeal!

As a matter of record, the brawny hero of this tale had never in his life strayed from the healthy norms which had surrounded him since early childhood in Coventry. His middle-class, middle-aged parents had brought up their only child to respect a healthy mind and healthy body. His wife, too, when they’d met at university, had enjoyed his beefy muscularity: but also supported him intellectually and in his moral uprightness. She’d encouraged his ambitions, while at the same time continuing to pursue her own career, even through three pregnancies. As both careers had become more successful and stressful, there had been rifts, and with his posting to the East Midlands Force his wife had opted for a house in Guildford where she was a successful partner in an I.T. company – so she and Dan were effectively separated, by comfortable mutual agreement.

Dan lay panting and, although emotionally exhausted, was considering just how and why his sexual arousal by the ‘torture’ had been so total, when no such thoughts had ever been part of his consciousness before. Could it be the rubber or the helplessness? No. It must be the drugs. His tired mind was brought up short by the sound of a voice, literally in his ear. Fuck! He was wired for sound.

“Did you enjoy that”? purred a man's voice, with implied intimacy.

I jerked my head up but could, of course, see nothing. The darkness in which I was trapped remained total and I could only gurgle and grunt through the gag.

“What the fuck do you want, you perverted bastard?” is what I wanted to say, but what came out was totally unintelligible.

“So, my friend, you thought you could out-smart us. An observer on the sidelines. Watching your own minions going through their motions,” the voice continued. It was a deeply masculine voice and not one I recognised. No trace of foreign accent was apparent.

“We have been keeping you under observation; expecting you to stick your neck out. And we were there, not to chop it off – but slip a very effective noose around it – because we were hoping you’d choose to pay us a little visit. Never could resist a challenge, eh, Bulldog?” The voice broke into self-satisfied laughter. My mind raced at his suggestion that I’d walked into a waiting trap but, being in no position to ask questions, I simply chewed on the gag and seethed at the possibility. How could they have been waiting for me? I’d made a spur of the moment decision. That I’d been deliberately targeted was now clear and our elaborate surveillance operation seemed to be an open book to this ... whoever he was. This he confirmed as the taunting voice continued, “Your men Clark and Prentice – and big Chuck Bates, all neatly staked out. Oh, don’t suspect any of them of disloyalty. They didn’t even know you’d joined the game They didn’t even know you were out there ... and now you’re not. You’re here, and they don’t even know you’ve gone yet.”

I’d been so careful. It had been my spur-of-the-moment personal choice. Nobody knew what I was planning. But ... a couple of my office Team ... and the transport dock ... they knew I’d left the station. But that was in my car. I’d changed at home ... so how the hell had he (they?) known I was out there posing as a biker? Could there be an informer in the station? That thought stung me harder than the dart which had so quietly and efficiently drugged me on a public street.

My mind raced: as part of the management of this particular drugs operation, it was unorthodox (and frankly bad policy) for me to be out in the open and in a situation where I would be ... vulnerable. No. It had been my own decision. No pre-planning. I had wanted to be part of the action ... but it had taken special knowledge of my movements for this to be known outside. Who knew? Who had perhaps guessed I was heading home to change? Who might have recognised my old one-piece leathers out on the street? They were from the days before my promotion. Hadn’t worn them since I first came to the area. I’d kept my helmet on. No, it couldn’t be somebody inside the station. Me being the main man when it came to circulating information on any under-cover operation ... really sensitive information no one could ... Suddenly, it was terrifyingly clear what my captor wanted. Information. Information only I could give.

“Does your silence mean you are beginning to comprehend your predicament, Mister Drummond?” The mocking voice interrupted my racing thoughts and brought me back to the seriousness of my situation. The rubber surrounding me suddenly felt terrifyingly constricting; the heat that permeated my body was suddenly even more overpoweringly debilitating; the tubes up my nose suddenly seemed dangerously small and my sense of panic was difficult to hold back as so many hard facts burned into my brain.

“Yes. You have information ... and you WILL help me by providing it.”

Determinedly I shook my head in the negative. No way could I give information to this dangerous freak.

“Not necessarily the names of all your operatives ... just the undercover shits who have already infiltrated my organisation at some level and who intend to undermine my ... efficiency. I know they’re on the inside already. But it’s a large ... organisation! And, of course, I’ll also be asking you for names of any of your men who have infiltrated the ranks of my rivals. That will be amusing to know ... and use to my advantage.”

Again the grim humour tinged the edges of his voice, and my worst fears began to hammer inside my encased head. I couldn’t give this bastard the names of undercover operatives; it would mean certain death and worse for them all ... but he already knows the names of my stake-out men. My mind reeled.

And my body already felt seriously weakened as the harsh realities continued to repeat themselves again and again in my brain: tortured, painfully restrained enclosed in thick rubber, breathing through two dangerously small tubes inside some fiendish device over which I had absolutely no control. Was I up to the challenge? I had already been driven beyond my ability to cope by nothing more than tickling. Face the facts. Spirited away under the noses of my team to some unknown location, held by some unknown lunatic. I could visualise no means of escape or rescue. There seemed to be no hope of surviving in this bizarre prison, no ray of hope. With abject desperation, I suddenly came face to face with the unavoidable possibility that I may not be able to cope with any further ‘treatment’ – yet knew they had not even begun their interrogation. I was afraid – afraid I couldn’t hold out – afraid I was already close to betraying everything I had always thought I stood for.

As if to prove this point, I suddenly felt my legs being drawn back up towards my wrists again. There seemed to be some unstoppable mechanism at work outside my rubber prison, dragging my bound ankles irresistibly closer and closer to my wrists ... and at the same time slightly upwards. Some sort of pulley? It hurt unbearably and I struggled to make it stop. I roared into the gag as the pain increased. My muscles were strained and as my ankles drew closer to my wrists, the bonds around my knees and thighs and all around my body grew systematically, deliberately tighter. Were they going to suspend me off the floor? That would kill me, I thought wildly. I could hardly breathe already and the muscular pain was unbearable. I pulled as hard as I could to stop the increasing constriction, but I was powerless against it. My weight and six-foot-four heavily-muscled frame was working against me: my strength, for the first time in my life, worth nothing.

Suddenly, a strange smell hit me and my head began to reel – but the pain receded a little. I moaned in frustration (perhaps tinged with fear) and wrenched myself around, hog-tied and tethered upwards as I was, desperate to find some little relief. Impossible. Only my stomach still heavily against the ground. I suddenly became aware of my cock, again trapped painfully under me. But it was rock hard – and I was completely shocked to find myself turned on and horny. Deeply aware of my situation, I couldn’t believe what I was feeling. What was that smell? They were using something on me – some drug. “Oh shit, what’s going on,” I demanded of myself in panic. I continued to wrench from side to side as much as the upward attachment allowed, mangling my cock and almost humping the surface on which I lay. I couldn’t stop myself – although I knew that I shouldn’t be feeling this way – not like this.

Marching ants again started around the soles of my feet, and I knew in advance what was the tortuous progression that would follow unstoppably.

I roared into the gag even before the tingle turned to the tickling sensation. I knew what was coming and couldn’t stand any of it: the clinging restriction, the heat, the ache of every limb, the smell of the drug being fed through the nose tubes – and the damned electrical impulses. I knew I was totally helpless – and was turned-on in spite of myself.

The sweat within the rubber suit acted like lubrication making my body slick against the rubber material as I squirmed. My cock was sliding, pressed between my sweating body and the rubber covering. The intense tickling sensations in feet and genitals grew worse and I began to sob and laugh into the gag from the pain mixed with the pleasure. I continued to thrash as best my lashings would allow, which only made the pain in my groin greater.

Suddenly I slumped in total exhaustion because the tickling had stopped. The pressure on my legs and arms was then released and I was able to actually straighten my legs, gratefully. I extended my legs in relief, still laying on my stomach and conscious of my cock still throbbing under me. I rolled onto my side, my breath whistling through the nose tubes, the gag now feeling even bigger in my mouth. Bathed in sweat, my entire body still roped around in all directions outside the heavy clinging rubber, ached in a way not even the hardest physical work-out, rugger game or stamina test had ever made me ache. Suddenly that smell again: the light-headed feeling which blurred the barriers between pain and pleasure. The bastards!

My cock sprang uncontrollably to attention yet again, and I automatically drew in great breaths through the nose tubes. I began to float in another world, the drug causing my unwilling self to enjoy the pain I was in. I drew the next breath and there was nothing – I could not breathe! The air was GONE! I sucked desperately on the rubber that filled my mouth and dragged with all my strength at the nose tubes, trying to get air into my bursting lungs. I screamed inside my head as a greater darkness began to descend upon me. I writhed and thrashed, my hands locked behind my back and my fingers convulsing inside their rubber encasement for something to grab onto. I rolled my body, the bindings cutting deeper into my rubber-covered flesh. There was no escape. I was going to die ... yet the drug that still gripped my mind kept pushing me to focus on the throbbing between my tied and powerless powerful thighs. As darkness finally descended, my cock exploded and I jolted in an orgasmic bucking frenzy ... as I shot over the top into unconsciousness. The final thing I heard was my own silent primeval screaming within my head, plus the final feeling that my prostate was being ripped from my body by the orgasm which assailed it.

Then ... there was nothing.

Erotic dreams, whether sleeping or waking, have an edge of unreality about them. Dan, who had been ‘Bulldog’ since early school days had never been one to have erotic dreams. His fantasies lived up to his name. Winning the School Cup and leading a team to victory had been his aphrodisiac. Those lucky enough to be accepted into his inner circle had been allowed to shorten his name to ‘Bull’, but this never implied a sexual nature; just brute strength and power. Perhaps the width of his well-exercised neck might also be called bull-neck. He was a tough bastard and, as his nick-name implied, he’d always been something of a hero figure to admirers. But his admirers had, sometimes disappointedly, accepted that ‘Bull’ was not up for open sexuality. He’d been the model of Muscular Christianity and a virgin when he married Stella at the age of 23. Now, seven years and three children later he was just as rugged, but even living away from his family, any attempt to ‘interest’ him had failed (and both male and female colleagues had tried). ‘Bull’ had remained above such things.

Since joining his new force at his newly elevated rank, a few of the constables had taken to referring to him as ‘Drum’. This he had not minded, until a strip cartoon had appeared on the station notice board bearing the same name. It had been cut from an American homo-erotic magazine, ‘Drummer’. Copies had been seized by Customs officers working in the Post Office. The lurid, sexually explicit pictures and text had immediately begun to circulate among the lads. The cartoon character ‘Drum’ was a beefy, bike-riding, usually leather-clad when not stripped naked super-stud, who fought and fucked ... and occasionally got fucked against his will.

Consequently, Chief Inspector Drummond soon stamped out all use of the alternative name applied to him, and the offending cartoon was swiftly removed (which did not mean copies of the magazine weren't still in circulation). Now, in his fitful dream, Dan’s unconscious mind travelled this unfamiliar territory, remembering the implications. And pictures of the randy ‘Drum’ character in the tough homosexual magazine were assertively peopling his dreams. He was horny again – even in his unconscious state – he was painfully horny – and suddenly awake again – and still rampantly horny. What the fuck was this drug they were using?

*****

STRAPPED

I awoke. Beyond my closed eyelids was light, but I kept them closed for a moment. There was no pain, I discovered. It was a dream, I reasoned – but what a dream. I had never experienced anything like it before. I lay for another relaxed moment wondering about the mysteries of the sub-conscious. How little we know of what is buried deep inside us. Then I tried to sit up but couldn’t. My arms were comfortably at my sides but I could not raise them. Without thinking too clearly, I now opened my eyes and found my sight was veiled in some way. I could see, but the images were slightly clouded. Trying to focus, I saw that there was a transparent film in front of my eyes, surrounded by blackness. I tried to swallow, and only then knew there was still something in my mouth. Realisation: it wasn’t a dream but a nightmare and it was continuing. Still gagged, my body lay flat and as I flexed, I could feel that there were unyielding straps holding me down – and rubber still encased my body. Through the clear plastic before my eyes I could see blurred images but, I suddenly discovered, I could not move my head or neck. Both were now terrifyingly immobilised.

In dazed despair, I looked towards the ceiling and was shocked to recognise an image of what must be me, reflected in a mirror. Though blurred by the plastic barrier, I was able to make out the details of the image above me – although it was difficult to accept that a man was inside the sinister black covering. A solid moulded head shape confirmed for me that tough-looking rubber did indeed encase every part of my body. Only the semi-clear plastic eye port gave evidence of a man inside the dreadful cocoon. Webbing straps compressed the heavy dull industrial-looking rubber across the torso at various points, plus at each wrist, elbow and bicep: likewise at each ankle, above and below each knee and high around each thigh. All were separately immobilised by broad straps. As if to confirm what I saw above me, I flexed at each point as I assessed my predicament. Once again the painstakingly elaborate nature of the bindings made me feel that somebody obsessive had been at work here.

I felt literally drained. With nothing else to occupy my mind ... on closer inspection I grew aware of tubes which now seemed to bristle from my body. In particular, there was the narrow tube coming from my nose. I sensed those two bastard tubes were still in my nostrils. I could feel them, but saw that only a single tube came from the mask. The two tubes must join in some hidden ‘Y’ configuration inside the face-mask/hood-whatever, I speculated. A wider corrugated tube also came from lower on the face, and it snaked a path to my left, ending at an ominous looking machine just visible close by the table onto which I was strapped so elaborately. Lower down, a tight rubber tube attached at my groin now took my attention. As if by noticing this, I became aware that my rock-hard cock must now be encased in that tube. Previously, my tackle had been inside the suit with me. Beneath the tube, I could see a bulging shining black sack which obviously must contain my tightly restricted testicles ... and I felt absurdly vulnerable. The thought of my strictly private parts being manipulated – handled – deliberately encased; now trapped outside the rubber suit and exposed to the perverted shit who held me prisoner, froze my mind in its tracks.

I forced myself to continue the assessment of my predicament. I realised that tubes also went to my chest, lined up with my nipples. Then with a surge of new anxiety noticed that, emerging from under my body, yet another heavy tube disappeared over the edge of the table like a black snake. Coming from the region of my arse as it did, I could only guess that it gave access to my rectum.

As senior police officer Drummond’s imagination gave rise to wide and perverse possibilities, his mind threatened to go numb in self-defence. Totally cut off from the outside world, each tube ending at a machine or disappearing out of sight, he could not continue to speculate on the purpose of this elaborate and devilish ... construct.

His inexperience of such things did not allow him to even guess at the possibilities, particularly as certain tubes hid wires attached to pads already positioned against his skin and, as yet, unused. He could not feel these pads within the sweaty environment of his rubber prison ... yet.

*****

INTERROGATED

“Awake again,” said the same voice into my ears, that same sarcastic humour in the tone. “I think your first experience will convince you that you’re completely under my control, and that it’s a waste of time and effort to resist. You know what I want, and I always get what I want … in the end.”

The man sounded so sure of himself and I, perhaps for the first time in my life, was feeling totally unsure of myself after my first devastating experience at his hands - when was that? Today, yesterday, last week? I had no recollection of the change of position or the re-strapping of my cock and balls. That thought made me feel nervous; and made me hard!

It suddenly struck me that I had no clear idea how long I‘d been here. Time stood frozen for me ... and maybe I had already been given up for dead by my colleagues and superiors. A fatalistic despair weighed down on me and, suddenly, I was afraid I could not withstand much more of the treatment already received. Afraid, a concept totally foreign to me. I wanted to switch off mentally, to escape into oblivion and end this nightmare. No avenues were left open for me: the bondage was as efficient as before, and being inside that rubber cocoon seemed to sap my ability to think as I’d been trained to think. This was so intensely abnormal. I’d never seen or heard of this type of interrogation technique before in the real world. Only in the extremes of sado-masochistic fiction, something which had never held any appeal for me.

The gag filling my mouth began to deflate with a hiss of air; the rubber bulb deflating and retracting automatically. It was disconcerting that this happened without anyone having come within my vision. I flexed my jaw, grateful that I was free of that vicious gag at last.

“Now, my friend. Some questions for you to answer.”

“Who the fuck are you?” I shouted. But after being gagged for so long it was more of a croak. Anger suddenly surfaced and I strained against the bonds in my impotence. My body could barely move and my head not at all. A terrifying thought, but efforts to put up some show of struggle felt good in the face of my unseen kidnapper.

Mocking laughter filled my ears and, as I began to shout more abuse, the gag dropped back into my open mouth. Swiftly it began to immobilise my tongue efficiently, and fill the space unstoppably.

“You bastard,” I shouted against the wet rubber balloon – but too late. Only unintelligible noises escaped around the slimy rubber as it expanded inexorably. As it continued to inflate even further I suddenly panicked, because the invading rubber bulb was filling my mouth more completely than it had done previously. With head clamped firmly in place, I began to choke and couldn’t breath. I flexed in vain against the body straps and a blind terror seemed to overflow, swamping my mind. I screamed but couldn’t scream; fought for air that wasn’t there. When I thought I would totally lose my mind, the rubber inside my mouth shrank to its former size. I gulped air through the nose tubes as best I could and fought to regain some sort of control of my heart-rate and breathing.

Panic slowly receded and I subsided within my bonds, sucking in air gratefully.

“Surely you know by now that I control every aspect of your being, Chief Inspector,” the voice vibrated in my ears. “Accept this fact and you might yet live through it,” he purred. “You will speak only to answer my questions. Do you accept that?”

Totally unable to move my gagged head, I thought about the situation and then made a sharp grunt which I hoped sounded like “Yes.” No way could I nod even within the confines of the helmet.

The bulb inside my mouth deflated and retracted once again. It made little difference to the amount of air available, but it felt good to at least be able to move my tongue: it and my mitted fingers being the only parts of my body not immobilised. I was conscious of this concession.

“Let’s start again,” the voice said. “Information pertaining to your undercover operatives on the inside is all I want: names and their identities within my organization.”

“Undercover operatives? I know nothing about undercover operatives,” I said, determined to sound convincing.

After a pause the voice said, “I’ll let you off that one, but don’t insult my intelligence, Chief Inspector D.A.Drummond. I know more about you than you think. You are assistant head of operations for three divisions, and responsible for all the recent reorganisation of undercover operations in those areas since Commissioner Black resigned so abruptly ... and his crony Superintendent Cullen lost all credibility and was retired on full pay.”

With shock I now accepted that this man, whoever he was, knew more than he ought. Obviously, an informant had passed on a great deal of restricted information.

“You are going to tell me user names and passwords of certain files – and I already know which files – but how your newly re-coded information is now accessed at regional headquarters is what only you can tell me – and you are going to tell me,” the voice went on determinedly.

“Wha … how do you know ab…,” I checked myself, realising that I had just given something away.

That fucking all-knowing laughter again. How I hated that laugh and the unseen man who owned it. But my mind raced out of control. It was useless trying to fool somebody who obviously already knew so much. Desperately, I decided that maybe there was a slim chance – but I had to play along for the moment – but he mustn’t think I’m giving up too easily. I actually dreaded being subject to his interrogation, but he’d smell a rat if I didn’t put up some further resistance. “I can’t tell you,” I said.

“Oh come now, you can ... and you will. Believe me!” ... again with that hateful tinge of mocking humour in his voice.

“No, I mean that I don’t have the information in my head,” I continued.

“Look, ‘Bulldog’ – or perhaps ‘Drum’ might be more appropriate, considering the pickle you’ve landed yourself in. Hanging around on street corners in full leather. Darn right provocative, I call it. Asking for it.” But suddenly all humour dropped out of the voice. “If you continue to piss me about with these attempts at stalling, I will have no choice but to show you just how inventive and imaginative I can get with somebody who thinks he knows how to resist pain – and I mean pain, not just subtle persuasion.”

As his words swept over me, the gag had dropped back into place, forced itself home and begun inflating quickly to unstoppably fill my mouth once more.

“For starters it will amuse me to first do …THIS.” I heard the grim voice rasp ... as I felt something inside me begin to stir. Something deep inside me ... and it was growing! My numb arse was being invaded, and whatever was already inside me began to grow bigger as motors began to hum. Then again I felt the dreaded tingling! This time at the base of my cock only ... and immediately, as the stimulation assailed it, my nine inch dick took on a life of it’s own and sprang to its full height ... but still clamped firmly within the external tube that held it. A rhythmic pulsing and sucking began to ripple along the length of my engorged penis and I gasped around the gag as waves of tortuous pleasure surged through me. Suddenly, that smell again! The bastard was using that drug; the relentless stimulation continued to build. It didn’t make sense, interrogation usually meant pain, not pleasure. He’d said pain but this was pleasure. Who was this demented fucker, anyway? Confused conflicting thoughts raced through my mind as the stimulation continued to build. I tried to shake off the feelings ... clear my head. I knew it was not right, but could do nothing to stop it. I shouldn’t be feeling this way in these circumstances, there was something dangerously perverse about it ... I must resist! Shouldn’t be enjoying the ... It must be the drugs! …. “Aaahhh, Jesus Christ!” I was getting close to cumming and I strained with all my strength as the insistent pulling and sucking built up. Then suddenly it stopped!

The smell was gone, the rhythmic dance along my cock ceased and the pressure in my arse melted away. I lay there gasping for air and sucking desperately on the rubber which filled my mouth. Frustration! I was bathed in sweat, and I screamed in anger as the waves of pleasure ceased completely. I was so near to a wild orgasm and it was snatched from me at the last moment. It was then I understood for the first time that pain was not the only form of torture, and (at least in theory) I had been trained to resist pain. I was, I now knew, totally unprepared for this type of physical and mental ... manipulation.

“Did you enjoy that Dan? You don’t mind me calling you Dan, do you? I’ve seen you naked, you know. Helped strip you out of your leathers, out of everything, and man-handle you into our special suit. You missed a treat, being unconscious. Two of my lads got a special kick out of stripping a big beefy cop bollock naked. It took me all my time to stop them taking liberties. But, of course, if you continue to be uncooperative I could easily hand you back to them ... but, face it, I intend to have my fun with you first. My special kind of ‘perverted’ fun, as I know you think of it. The sort of stuff your innocent heart has never even dared dream about,” came that mocking tone which I had grown to loath. “No knowing what will be in store for you if you refuse to do precisely as you’re told. Tougher men that you have cracked under the sort of treatment I enjoy inflicting. And I do it very well!”

By now I was sobbing desperately as much as the gag would allow. The frustration of the stimulation and the idea that I’d been pawed over by these perverts ... and there was no end in sight ... was destroying me. Doing my best to regain some sort of composure, I looked up and saw the same strapped-down image as before: but nothing I could see reflected the torment going on inside that rubber cocoon. I could feel nothing but despair as I stared into the reflection of my totally immobilised form. And behind the rubber mask the wild eyes were only distantly visible – staring back. Two orbs of diminishing intelligence, my brain admitted ... trapped within a tough black rubber prison. There were no bars on this prison, but it was the most effective confinement I could ever have imagined.

Once again the gag deflated and retracted and I flexed my mouth and jaw, vaguely trying to get rid of the ache which now seemed a permanent distraction: but, more importantly, tensing myself against whatever might come next.

“Dan, I will ask once more. Give me the details I need.” A more threatening tone had taken over the voice and I mentally cowered at it’s icy edge.

“Okay! okay! I’ll co-operate. You win,” I said for the first time in my life. I tried to make my voice sound firm; not as defeated as I was feeling. Obviously they had me wired for sound because, inside the rubber mask and its attachments, my voice was clear in my ears. He was right. They had control of every aspect of my body. This realisation made me even more desperate than before. But I couldn’t afford to give in to despair.

“Well, Chief Inspector?” demanded the voice as it broke through my self-doubt.

“All right! The information you need is in the locked top right-hand drawer of my desk at headquarters. Release me and I’ll take you there and hand it over.”

“Not so clever ... sir. Your physical help won’t be required, we have other means at our disposal.”

“Fuck,” I thought, but said, “to access the restricted listings you want, you need my keys which are in that drawer, plus the user-name ZEBEDEE and ... and (I said resignedly) the password is FLORENCE. From that access point the new path is all indicated. But I don’t understand how that information will help you, as no one can even get access to my computer without my being there. The outer office is manned and ...”

“Oh, don’t fret about that, Dan. Access is possible ... and your high security ‘Chub pattern 55’ locked desk will be absolutely no problem, believe me. But you’ll have to remain our guest while we verify your information.”

Without warning the gag thrust itself back into place and inflated as I opened my mouth to speak again.

“Hey, wai .... MMMMmmmmmhhh,” I shouted. “No, you bastard let me go. Let me talk ... “ I continued unintelligibly in sudden panic, throwing myself violently against the straps. I realised that my bluff had been called, and as soon as they found out the information was false ... more importantly, because the information would lead to whoever tried to get into it setting alarm bells ringing ... what then!? I’d sprung a pre-set trap which would catch whoever sprung it, but what would happen when this sadistic, seriously sick-minded maniac discovered it was a trap?

My mental panic was suddenly diverted ... because the lights in the chamber went out and my whole existence was plunged into darkness.

*****

Any serious player of Power Games in the SM or fetish community knows the potency of suspense; the waiting-game. The imagination is more brutal than a lot of physical abuse. Plant the seeds and let them grow. Man is his own worst enemy when insecurity is used as a weapon.

Neither Big Dan, or the fictional hero of Sapper’s Bulldog Drummond adventure stories, ever had to deal with such a devious-minded skilfully sadistic adversary. The images of his having been stripped naked by however many men, vulnerable and helpless ... and suited up in an elaborate contraption of rubber and tubes were eating away at the helpless police officer’s shredded resistance. Was it a neck-entry suit, his numb mind wondered, absently? He’d done a diving course and struggled his way into neck and wrist seals of a heavy-duty dry-suit, and strapped himself into a diving mask. But the idea of other men manoeuvring his unconscious naked body into such a contraption; smirking and touching ... ! Even if it was back-entry, his mind rambled on aimlessly, how many pairs of hands to get such a suit onto his heavy and totally vulnerable body?

Then the elaborate details of this physical restraint set-up somehow forced their way into his mind as he lay so totally immobilised: the table equipped with straps, the pumping machinery for the awful sucking and massaging, the electrical currents which must have produced the tickling sensation, the drugged breathing apparatus! What kind of arch-pervert ran this outfit? The voice was not one he had heard at any time in the audio-surveillance set-up his men had installed so successfully.

In the dark, with too much time to think ... Dan found his mind was running off the rails.

LUBRICATED

What now? What next? How long? I re-assessed; - couldn’t move, couldn’t talk and couldn’t see. Nothing had changed.

That bastard was a devil, I mused, seemingly suspended in time. No whips or implements of pain here. No. His tools were his sick mind and fiendish devices to inflict agonising sexual stimulation to his victims. Presumably, he also took pleasure in it ... as did his perverted assistants. Such devious tortures were far worse than any flogging or beating I might have expected. That, I could survive. I wouldn’t have minded trying that, I suddenly thought in some abstracted way in the silent darkness. Physical torture I’m sure I could cope with, my mind persisted. I could take a beating, I speculated. Just try me you bastards ... but no more of this ...

But suddenly my mind froze in mid-thought. Something was moving against my skin. Mentally and physically exhausted, I lay resigned to whatever might happen next. This unfamiliar passivity shocked me. A form of ice-cold terror never before experienced, held me in it’s grip.

Not liquid but ... something oozing into the suit ... slowly creeping over my skin from several directions. A horrific sensation in the dark, lying there unable to move or cry out. Was it corrosive? ... or were they going to drown me inside this fucking suit? Whatever was emerging from those tubes ... touching me, caressing me ... I was unable to identify. I had no idea that a thick green slime was being pumped in to completely fill the rubber suit. It invaded every available space around my body and very gradually coated my entire skin-surface with it’s sensual viscous touch as I lay numb with apprehension. No. Not numb. I wished I was numb in mind and body.

As the suit reach maximum capacity, under the gentle pressure of the liquid, it continued to expand, bulging out between the straps. I knew this although I could not see it ... and I shuddered with anxiety at the relentless build-up of pressure; almost holding my breath and waiting, thinking “This man is sicker than ...”

Then the voice quite quietly seared into my brain.

”Dan, it was rash of you, completely vulnerable inside my very unique suit as you know you are, to lie to me; try to out-smart me. This suit, which is of my own special design is water-tight, air-tight. I can control every one of your five senses: sight, sound, touch, taste and smell. But, perhaps more threatening to you, some other sensuality which you have never allowed yourself to explore I can ... manipulate. The experience will certainly burn itself into your being, believe me. I’ve tested the suit on several of my (how shall we say) adversaries, and the results have always been fascinating to observe.”

The grimly gleeful edge had returned to the voice, but I recognised the tone of a fanatic. “For example,” he continued, “the liquid which has just been pumped in will conduct small bursts of electricity from one point to another, stimulating every part of the skin it is in contact with (and that is literally everywhere), to whatever degree I choose. It could make you lose control of all your senses – perhaps for all time. The control is at my fingertips.”

With that, a wave of crackling electricity rippled gently along the entire length of my body; from the tips of each toe and gradually around to the tips of each finger. It was like a feather being drawn across my skin with intense precision, missing no part. I tensed as the feeling then began to swim around my body randomly – unpredictably – the waves becoming stronger at each surge with subtle increase. I tried not to tense as they washed over and around me, but was totally ... powerless.

The sensations were relentless, they never tired and never allowed me to catch my breath fully. Never before had I experienced such a working over. The intensity of the pleasure/pain remains impossible to describe adequately. In particular, my nipples received special attention, forcing me to be more aware of them as an erogenous zone than ever before. I gasped and squirmed as they were sucked and teased ... until both mind and body were shuddering as the treatment continued, and I shuddered uncontrollably within the limits of my glutinous confinement.

After what seemed like an agonising eternity, when exhaustion was setting in, the sensations began to concentrate on my cock. My mind reeled at the stroking up and down my shaft and around my swollen balls, caressing and sucking – relentless – unstoppable. And the nerve-stimulating vibrating deep within my rectum also began to increase mercilessly – driving me slowly and painfully to the very point of another involuntary climax ... when, yet again, all sensations stopped cold. It was as if I had been thrown off the top of a cliff. I screamed into the gag a prolonged and furious scream, then fell sobbing into an abyss of despair.

“Well now, my devious friend,” said the voice in my darkness, “you must understand that you took a gamble, and lost. So! Because you lied to me, whatever happens next, you invited. In some perverse way I’m glad you challenged me to do my worst. And you can not imagine some of the things I could do to you now, Dan, buddy, and although what you’ve already experienced is burned into your being for all time ... how long is time? The suit always gets results. With some it had permanent effects. But with you, who knows? Oh, Dan ... big buddy ... I would so enjoy spending a few more hours proving to you that I could break you; could bring you to willing co-operation; could make you do anything my ingenious brain dreamed up. But the time at my disposal is limited, so this is 'Goodbye', Dan. I would like to have found out just how long you could have held onto your sanity? In fact, I’m tempted to indulge myself the pleasure of extending your final moments in this suit and hear you plead before your time expires. But ... such is life – Dan – Drum, you sexy thing you! It’s been a pleasure, believe me. I’m also quite, quite drained. You just hang in there for as long as it takes. It will soon be over.”

And with that, the words of a fanatic ended – and in the empty silence my numb mind suddenly exploded. The word “Goodbye” hit like a hammer and with a roar of fury which actually penetrated the gag and mask, blind panic threw my mind and body into spasms of frantic emotion, more forceful than anything I had ever experienced.

Desperation lent me strength but, contained as it was, I only imploded. He was going to kill me and I would do anything to alter the moment. I would fight ... or plead, beg, agree to anything he or any of his people wanted of me. Never had I felt so totally desperate and willing to .... what ... submit? I would submit! I wanted to submit. And with a blinding flash I became conscious that although none of the dreaded tortures of the suit were now assailing my body, I was bucking and thrashing in a sexual orgasm induced by nothing more than my imagination. And did I really hear the sardonic chuckles of my evil adversary, or were they my own agonised screams of despair mixed with a sexual energy my mind had ever known before?

As my groin exploded yet again, in the total blackness which already surrounded me ... more lights went out as I sank into ... unknowingness.

PART TWO

DISORIENTED

I awoke with subdued lights around me. I sat up in bed, emerging from under a snow-white sheet which covered my naked body. I looked around and there were no restraints and no rubber suits. I swung my legs to the floor and there was carpet, luxurious under my feet. I sat for a moment, conscious of the soles of my feet, comfortable against the pile of the carpet. At the window, twilight was beginning to waken a familiar night-time city skyline: early lights in tall buildings, shining, dazzling – brighter than I ever remember. My own bedroom, in my own apartment – and it felt good. I didn’t understand what was going on.

I rose, somewhat tentatively, went unsteadily to the mirror – and looked at my own naked chest. My skin looked unblemished - but were there dark lines, traces of bruises where I had thrown myself against the cutting bindings? My fingers traced for evidence of a – nightmare? Or was it imagination? My hands caressed my own body, feeling for reminders of the pain or abuse. My dick was hard – but were there any bruises, or marks of restraint? I wasn’t sure as my hands roved over my skin. It felt good. My fingers moved to my cock and handled it. It was big. It was hard. I was unsteady on my feet on the carpet – but my cock was ramrod hard.

As if in a dreaming state, I wandered to my exercise set-up and looked at it as if were something foreign to me. I touched chrome, and the padded bench, soft vinyl and cables and pulleys and hard steel of the elaborate superstructure - and the round weights, hanging heavy on the bar in it’s cradle above the padded flat bench. My fingers wandered – exploring – and then back to my own flesh – and I wandered from bedroom into the bathroom.

Cool tiles tingled the soles of my feet – and I remembered other tingling against my feet. I needed to piss – but I was too hard. I fondled my cock to encourage it to pee – but it wasn’t the time. I was confused. I smelled my arm – it smelled clean – freshly washed – or bathed. No reminders of the sweat – or the smell of rubber. I remembered the smell of the rubber.

I padded barefoot out into the lounge – onto the wood floor. My feet felt the wood. As I walked my hands roved over my thighs and stomach – and nipples. I was aware of my whole body as never before. It tingled. It felt – sensitised. I was more conscious of it – and paused before another mirror. I was big – and hard. My chest muscles, my arms, my jaw – strong – my neck thick. I drew in a breath – and watched myself; more aware of ‘self’ than I ever remember being.

Voices in quiet conversation – I suddenly became aware of them – and the kitchen light was on.