HOUDINI CONNECTIONS
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WELL
WAXED AND WATERPROOF
Mind Games explored
by
Thinking time
When you're lying face down on soggy earth among dripping dead heather with
your wrists lashed securely to your boots for a few hours, it gives you time
to think. A mental defence mechanism I developed long ago usually kicks in
as I try to think myself out of a tight situation and into more enjoyable
times. I've had plenty of practice. Throughout my life I've found ways to
engineer myself into predicaments I love to be in but at the same time love
to hate.
Endurance and challenge games come naturally to me. Bondage as a word doesn't
described what I like to get involved in. Tie or be tied, both are challenges
I welcome when skilful and imaginative game-players get together. Either way,
the mental energy required can be demanding.
When in the more uncomfortable situations, the mental process I use to escape
is similar to that described by Jack London in his novel 'STAR ROVER'. His
main character, Darrrell Standing, taught himself to visit other worlds and
past lives while strapped inside a killer strait jacket. To mentally generate
this almost out-of-body experience demands concentration. Focus is important;
it isn't enough to just let the mind wander.
Here today, warm and dry, the cold, damp five hours I spent on a Lancashire
hillside yesterday is vivid in my mind as I write. Although bundled up in
thermal underwear and track suit with a well waxed Barbour suit over; even
heavily padded gloves with waxed over-mitts and insulated boots and two pairs
of socks didn't stop my fingers and feet from going numb with cold. Not dangerously
so, of course: nothing that regular efforts to change position and keep circulation
flowing couldn't overcome. And I was well monitored; in good hands; knowledgeable,
sensitive but ruthlessly implacable hands which belong to my long-time game-playing
adversary and good mate, Tony. I survived yesterday by thinking myself out
of the painful predicament he'd landed me in; no, I'd landed myself in.
Frankly, thinking back on that sort of situation makes me hornier than I felt
while busy surviving the actual experience. That's why I'm sitting here, enjoying
thinking it through and revisiting it, mentally before writing it down. Today
I can appreciate the details of the event; the skill and imagination of my
challenger, the sensual hype it gave me and the mental as well as physical
energy I brought to surviving the experience.
But the story doesn't present itself in logical sequence. Today remembering
yesterday's efforts to escape into the past and future create a kaleidoscope
of images in my mind. How possible it is to recapture the sprit of this sort
of adventure? Only you will know, because writing this is an exercise in visualisation;
an attempt to make it come alive in somebody else's 'Mind's Eye'.
Thinking ahead
When Tony and I are planning a full weekend of self-indulgence, we like to
start off with a theme or objective. A brand new black waxed motorcycle jacket
and over-trousers I'd bought three months ago were still embarrassingly new,
and I wanted to get them looking a bit more lived-in. Waxed gear may not be
the most weatherproof on a bike, but it's my Thing (well, one of them). I
find the greasy tough fabric a great turn-on to see and feel and stomp around
in. I was angling for a few hours comfortably trussed up somewhere quiet;
what I call a 'Pink Cloud' session where I'm efficiently restrained but left
in peace to luxuriate in the sensual experience.
Because we like our games to be structured but at the same time a bit unpredictable,
a couple of years back we made for ourselves a special deck of playing cards
together with a board game. These offer a range of bondage related choices,
opportunities and surprises. The turn of a card or roll of a dice can bring
advantages and disadvantages to both players as details emerge during a preliminary
planning session.
Yesterday's event started the night before when a few unlucky throws of the
dice committed me to a situation I hadn't planned for. My enjoyable breaking-in
of my new gear was suddenly going to be out-of-doors, hog-tied rather than
comfortable, with a five hour time scale. At least I managed to unload two
hazard cards which would have added a butt plug and gag to my predicament.
Tony was holding all the good cards, and one of them was a wild card which
gave him a 'chose your own surprise' option. Well, he certainly surprised
me, and turned it into a really heavy challenge. But, today I'm here warm
and comfortable writing about it, and he's got time to regret being quite
so enthusiastic about breaking in my suit.
That's the way we play, and we both enjoy the challenge. Life's never dull.
He knows that when I'm left with time to think, I not only use the process
to block my mind to the discomfort or boredom by revisiting the past; but
spend some time working out new forms of challenge for him. So, today I'm
here remembering while he's dealing with the situation I dreamed up for him.
I hope he's being as successful at escaping from his predicament as I was
yesterday. Not escape in the physical sense, of course. We're both too good
at devising bondage situations for physical escape to be much of a possibility.
So, let's get back to that windy hillside and the waxed cotton. It's odd that
while mentally distancing myself from an experience, later I can recall in
vivid detail the subtle tortures of the predicament I was in; abandoned trussed
and bundled-up on my face in the mud. I can still visualise the elaborate
network of rope which crossed and re-crossed around the jacket and pants.
The tough new sticky fabric left little possibility of anything working loose
because waxed sash-line had been used. This grips well on a greasy surface
and knots fuse the waxed rope into finger-proof lumps (not that my fingers
could get anywhere near any of the knots). The chill wind couldn't penetrate
the wax cotton but it was blowing straight through the thick woollen Balaclava
which was supposed to be keeping my head warm. Around the mouth hole my saliva
soon made it soggy, and from my nostrils the warm air was making an increasingly
damp patch inside. Cold as it was, I remember being grateful that at least
my head wasn't encased in one of our gas masks, all of which have had latex
backs added to make them impossible to rub off. I'd unloaded a gas mask hazard
card in the nick of time the night before.
The Process
Inside the suit, what had recently been hot sweat was now turning cold and
clammy. Waxed cotton doesn't generate its own heat the way leather does and
the cold was beginning to get through to my chest, pelvis and thighs (all
of me that was in contact with the ground). I've spent a lot of hours hog-tied
so knew that I could roll onto one side for a change but one arm and shoulder
would then soon go dead (and get cold). A routine of changing from one side
to the other would minimise the problem. The only other alternative was to
work myself onto my back for some relief but it would bring no extra comfort.
With considerable effort you can, when hog-tied face down, roll onto your
back but, with wrists lashed close to your ankles, once on your back the knees
are bent tight and your feet are tugging at the wrist lashings. Regular and
determined changes of position have kept me sane for many uncomfortable hours
in the past. So, that is part of the process, to keep the circulation moving.
Waxed cotton isn't as stiff as leather or oilskin but when cold it feels more
like tough canvas. The warmth on the inside can soften it up initially, but
yesterday it soon drained away into the cold earth. I needed to concentrate
hard to begin my mental escape. How long ago had he walked off after jauntily
saying, "Okay sucker, you like to survive, so survive. See you later
- who knows how much later. Bye." With the special surprise card in his
pocket, anything was possible.
So, I began preparing myself for the ordeal ahead, using a system which engages
all the senses; taking stock of the general situation - exercising my nostrils
and lungs for air flow - testing the roping although I knew nothing would
budge - checking the area for a softer piece of ground, dryer if such a thing
existed out on the moors. Settling down to make a mental 'escape' needs preparation,
like a dog settling down onto its bed for the night.
It looked less stony a few yards ahead. But a few yards when you're on your
stomach with your feet in the air can feel like a mile. I decided that the
effort of inching forward might generate a bit of body heat so I started out,
shoulders and pelvis moving like a caterpillar. At least it took my mind off
the hours ahead. Every stone and lump of sheep droppings was a barrier to
progress, mainly because my face was only inches from the ground and I didn't
want the Balaclava stinking of sheep shit for the next five hours. It was
only a slight uphill slope, but even by rocking the whole body weight from
side to side it was a laborious journey. When I eventually reached my objective
it wasn't much better than where I'd come from, but I rolled onto my back
and prepared to mentally absent myself.
The process is gradual, choosing a target and systematically thinking the
way back towards it. It had to be warm, with me in control ...
Florida! Days spent around an abandoned fruit farm with derelict out buildings
full or rusting metal racks just waiting for an imaginative bondage enthusiast.
Remote creeks with muddy banks - but warm muddy banks - sun every day - and
humid nights when you prayed for a bit of breeze - but even the breeze was
like somebody had opened the oven door. There was a lot of rain in Florida
but it was warm rain. The first time I got American friend Richard trussed
up out of doors I put him in full leather. In that heat it was not a kind
thing to do, but he loved leather so a one-piece suit, gloves and boots and
a leather hood - and he was ready to roast. I lead him to a suitable tree
and indulged myself by roping the warm leather elaborately to the trunk with
his back against it. I even, after lashing his body and legs, pulled his boots
up off the ground so his whole body weight was hanging on the ropes. That
was when it started to piss with rain - but it was warm rain - I was wearing
only tee shirt and shorts and the warm rain felt good - but he was worried
about his leathers getting wet and it was a real downpour - thundering rain
and very cold - no!! - warm rain - no, cold rain.
Oh fuck it's raining and my Balaclava's taking the full force of it. It's
hammering down on the Barbour suit, which is waterproof but the fucking Balaclava
is drinking it up! I'm back to reality with a vengeance!
It was only a shower,
but the damage was done; my head encased in thick wool which would soon become
a freezing wet prison. I began to panic because my skull was already aching
and hypothermia can have lasting effects. But suddenly Tony was there, the
Balaclava was off and he was wiping me dry; silently towering above me, snugly
clad in his wind and water proof waxed suit still glistening from the recent
rain. A knight in shining armour I thought, inconsequentially. By contrast,
the thick coating of rich dark slime my suit had gathered as he'd deliberately
rolled me around while roping me into the challenging hog-tie, had dried solid
before the rain. Now it streaked the new black fabric making it look like
camouflage. The bastard had even picked up handfuls of sticky mud and rubbed
it into the weave and seams of my jacket while roping me.
But now he was here for me when I needed him and drying me off. His being
there proved he hadn't left me unprotected, and had been close enough to know
it had rained. Maybe he'd spent the past hour watching me through binoculars.
Or perhaps he'd taken the van down to some local pub and was feeding his face
when the rain came on. Had he left his snack and hurried back? I doubted it.
How long it had been raining I wasn't sure because I'd been away in Florida.
But the freezing rain had brought me back, like waking from a dream.
The sky was now clearer and he was there. The soggy Balaclava was gone and
a warm dry woolly hat promised to bring life back to my numb forehead and
ears and frozen brain, but no relief to cold fingers and feet. I attempted
a tentative bargaining plea, but Tony isn't a cricketing man. Rain does not
stop play.
"Tough," was his only response to my whinge about cold feet and
hands, "you threw a five and you've only been here an hour. Minimum four
more to go, rain or shine. That was the deal. Wriggle about a bit, they'll
soon warm up." But then his tone softened, and I was immediately suspicious.
"Tell you what, though; how's this for an alternative? I drag you back
to the van (it's only just on the other side of the hill), load you into it
just as you are, mud and all - and you spend the next four hours back home
warm and dry - with the central heating turned full on? Same position, same
shite-caked gear - BUT - when the time's up I just loosen your legs and you
spend the rest of the night warm and dry on the floor beside my bed still
in the suit and still roped. You said you wanted today to be a waxed cotton
experience. I promise I'll keep my suit on right through your ordeal, including
sleep in it. I fancy that."
I settled for the shorter option. The wind on the hillside was preferable
to the unbreathable air our cellar furnace is capable of generating.
"Suit yourself. And tell you what, mate, wax cotton suits you."
Then off he stomped, his muddy combat boots being all I could see in my limited
field of vision.
'I hope they get waterlogged,' I thought to myself as he disappeared.
And so the gentle wind blew and I resigned myself to four more hours. The
inescapable lashings which cut into the tough dull fabric rather than into
my skin, were already leaving the jacket and pants scarred with marks. I imagined
what the suit would look like tomorrow after its ordeal. Tomorrow would be
my day to call the shots. That's always the deal; tit for tat. Tomorrow his
fate will be in my hands for five hours, maybe more. I imagined myself warm
and dry sitting at my desk, writing up the account of today's experience.
I might decide to wear the suit again tomorrow so I could see myself in the
mirror as I type. If I survive today, the moment the five hours are up I'll
be free for the rest of the evening and night. His ordeal won't start till
eight tomorrow morning. Our games have well-thought through rules.
A hot shower. That will be the first essential tonight. A long, long hot shower.
Looking at the state of the suit - what I can see of it as I lay on my back
with arms under me and knees bent double. It might be wise to take my long
hot-shower still wearing the suit - let the warm water cascade down it - warming
me up - while washing away the thick layers of mud. If I'm lucky he'll decide
to strip off his suit. I can imagine him in the shower with me - naked - I
can see him through the steam - feel his naked body against my suit - I hug
him to me - press his flesh against the warm wet fabric - a prelude to a warm
comfortable night - I'd need it after surviving today - and I will survive
today - because tomorrow - what then?
The suit - scrubbed free of mud and dried by the furnace in the warm cellar
overnight - would be ready to wear again, but now softer and scarred by the
ropes. It will turn me on to be in it as I sit writing - comfortable in the
knowledge that he's securely lashed to a metal grille in our basement playspace
- until my account of today's events is written in full he'll be on his own
- five thousand words minimum - I'll make the rules, but I may allow him a
concession. Yes! My suit's modified so it will padlock shut at wrists, neck
and waist! He can keep the key tucked away inside the fist mitts I will insist
he wears while immobilised and helpless, sweltering in his already well lived-in
waxed suit.
Nice situation to imagine. Until my essay is finished he will stay put and
I won't be able to remove my newly scarred and scrubbed but dry waxy suit.
But at least the radiator in the office will be turned off. Him bundled up
in his wax jacket and pants - but with full motorcycle leathers under it I
think - AND why not the other old waxed suit inside out against his naked
skin under it all - AND the radiator in there on full. He'll be tethered but
not immobilised. I'll leave him room to squirm because I like to see him squirm
- and the video recorder will be running. These are the games and deals we
make for one another - and life is good.
I like the idea of being warm and dry and locked in this suit - but the rain
and mud and dragging and roping of today - (is it still today?) - will all
leave their marks.
After a hot shower the suit may need a thorough re-waxing. The thought of
wearing the suit while it's being re-waxed - massaged all over with sticky
warm black wax - perhaps with me fixed to the horizontal bars while he's waxing
it - no, to the chain frame - I like the chain frame - it allows a lot of
movement but no escape. Similar to the horizontal bars but made from strong
welded chain links; floor to ceiling with room to spread-eagle someone in
it. When you thrash around, it makes a very satisfying noise. Perhaps he would
leave me chained up in the furnace room for however long it takes for the
wax to dry. I could deal with that. I could deal with being tethered and powerless
in the hot room - sweltering in the hot suit while the wax dried - but would
it ever dry in such a warm room? Maybe I would go out on the bike in it to
cool it down - feel the cool wind on my face. Yes, the cold wind on my face
but unable to penetrate the suit - but the cold can penetrate the suit, I've
discovered that today - and the wind on my face is cold - cold wind on my
face!
Shit, I'm back from my mind-travel - and cold. My nose is cold.
Creative Thinking.
Another way to think
myself out of the present, is to plan a new predicament. I've been meaning
to work out a bondage situation involving splints.
I like the idea of splints - surgical leg-braces. I'd like to take Tony out
immobilised in leg braces, perhaps a full body and neck brace - perhaps in
a wheel chair - be his keeper - feed him in public and have to wipe his nose
- (My nose is running) - Think ahead!
Think ahead. Tony immobilised in public - helpless - wipe his nose - feed
him in a restaurant. Embarrassing! Wheel him into the 'disabled' toilet -
gag him quickly soon as we're in there so he can't argue - then force him
to allow the intimacy which a real paraplegic has to endure every day. The
indignity of not being able to wipe you're own arse - not able to piss without
a helping hand. The humiliation! I'm not into humiliation - but with Tony
helpless to resist - forced to co-operate, however long it took. That would
be a massive power trip. Not un-gag him until he'd 'been', then perhaps have
to apologise to somebody on the way out if they've been waiting to use the
disabled toilet. Wheel him home and put him to bed still in splints and helpless
until he's calmed down and was not likely to kill me - because he'll be fucking
furious! A scene to plan for - but I'll need to get all the equipment, splints
- and a chair - no ...
... something simpler - the two long bamboo poles I found in a skip and stored
in our cellar until I could dream up something imaginative to do with them.
They're about nine feet long. In a sort of spread-eagle position a pole could
splint one leg then continue across the body and splint the opposite arm.
It would be a straight line. With the other pole lashed to the other leg and
opposite arm it would be like a cross. The poles are long enough to extend
well past the hands and feet. With a lot of plastic garden ties, the pole
could be fixed all the way along the arms and legs. If you moved the ends
of the poles there might be a scissor action; pull the legs apart and the
arms would also move. It might be fun to try tomorrow ...
... If he was wearing his leathers or a Barbour suit, the two poles would
thread through the legs and arms under the clothes and you wouldn't need garden
ties. It might be hard on the suit - so leathers would be better - but leathers
under a Barbour suit would be stronger - yes! I could try that tomorrow. Might
be uncomfortable lying on two poles crossed in the middle. What would happen
if he was lying face down and the poles were on top? If the ends of the poles
were slightly off the ground at both ends, he'd hang there with all the weight
on the suit and be totally unable to move. I think I could get him there -
start him off face down on the floor - might need to tie him spread-eagled
face down first while I slid the poles into position. Yes! I'd definitely
need to tie him. I couldn't trust him to co-operate ...
... To get him off the ground I'd use a couple of same-height tables - lift
the two arm ends of the poles onto one table first, then lift the two ends
of the leg poles and drag the second table under them. That might be the difficult
part. Nice idea, though. Work on it. Work on it. Horizontal suspension. Yes!
Face down! Roll on tomorrow! Roll on five o'clock ...
... What time is it? I've lost track. Think! Think hard! Think yourself out
of 'now' and into some other time!
Five o'clock tonight. What will happen at five o'clock tonight when this is
all over? ...
... and we started today at eight this morning. A five hour stint was the
deal, but the bastard took his time getting me ready, and because the clock
doesn't officially start until the 'predicament' is complete - he stole an
hour putting me into this roping - and then another hour on the road to get
here. He argued that the 'predicament' didn't start until I was out on the
moors and hog-tied - and he took his time doing that and giving me a mud bath,
the bastard. Two extra fucking hours he's added - no, three, because if I
know him, he won't un-rope me until we get back to the house - and the drive
might not be straight home, just to piss me off - and he's got that fucking
special surprise card up his sleeve. I bet the bastard will keep me roped
just to piss me off. I'll fucking kill him. I've no idea what time it is or
how long there is still to go - and my fucking feet are freezing!
He told me this morning I needed extra socks when we were getting ready. This
morning - it seems like a lifetime ago. Tomorrow when I'm writing all this
down I'll need to remember exactly how the preparations went.
Thinking back
Once the parameters of a game have been agreed, we usually co-operate while
climbing into the gear. Because it was to be outdoors and a long stint, we
both knew that warm clothes would be essential to avoid having to abort the
plan early. I was allowed to chose my own under-stuff but once the new wax
two-piece we'd agreed on was zipped and snapped closed complete with boots,
Tony took control. That's our usual routine; no resistance until some form
of initial 'handicap' is in place, then we are free to be as uncooperative
as opportunity allows from then on.
On this occasion he used handcuffs behind my back and an efficient padded
blindfold, "To avoid any nonsense," he explained, adding some sort
of ankle hobbles. I knew they weren't leg-irons because regular leg-irons
are too small to close around the insulated boots he'd recommended me to wear.
As the second ankle lock clicked shut I sensed him stand up.
"Is that it?" I asked.
"For starters," he said, "why? Are you thinking of putting
up a fight?" and before I'd even considered what options might be open
to me, I was suddenly swung round and pushed back against our horizontal bar
set-up. This is a simple installation which consists of four scaffold poles
parallel with the floor at neck, waist and just above ankle height plus another
just below ceiling level. They're fixed between two upright poles which are
firmly anchored to the floor and ceiling. The horizontal bars are adjustable
in height, but today I soon knew where each bar was, because a quick rope
around my waist and arms pinned me to a bar which had me already totally helpless
- then the chain of the leg irons had been clipped to the bottom bar before
I knew what was happening. Then another short rope around the high collar
of my waxed jacket brought the back of my neck neatly against the third bar.
I could see none of this coming, because of the blindfold.
The bars stand three feet away from the wall so Tony could work from behind
or in-front of me and I was totally vulnerable. A couple of quick whacks high
on the back of my shoulders followed by a couple more on the front of my thighs
plus a sudden playful punch in the gut had me totally confused and unprepared
for the gag which was in my mouth before I knew what was happening.
A gag hadn't been part of the deal for this five hour stint. I was angry but
in no position to discuss the matter. Then with his usual taunting voice,
he was in front of and behind me, hands roaming and tweaking and provoking
while explaining to me in graphic detail the intensity of the predicament
he had devised.
I'd said I wanted the suit breaking in, so rain and mud and a lot of dragging
around on stony ground featured heavily in the plans he outlined. As his strong
hands massaged the greasy waxed cotton he agreed that it was a turn-on for
him as well, feeling around my helpless form. Into my ear he breathed appreciative
words about how different waxed cotton is to leather or rubber or oilskin,
and asked if I would like to see myself standing there covered from head to
foot in the fabric of my choice while he prepared me for today's session.
Suddenly he said, "Well, not quite covered head to foot - yet,"
and a waxed cotton 'something' suddenly enveloped my head. It must have been
his wax jacket because it smelt used and lived in; but at that moment I was
more aware that it was cutting off all air supply as he massaged it around
my head and face, closing it into the neck and clamping it there as I wrenched
my head as far as the rope around my neck would allow.
Tony knows his stuff when it comes to breath control, and my heart was pounding
and I was writhing frantically before he finally allowed some air to come
in - but almost immediately he closed it again and massaged the sticky pungent
fabric around my face and ears again. Eventually, gasping and fuming behind
my gag, I heard him say, "Okay mate? Wax cotton you wanted and wax cotton
you're getting". Then, leaving the jacket over my head but loose enough
to allow some air in, he left me standing there getting my breath back as
best I could inside the now sweaty covering.
I listened to him getting dressed. I'm used to picking up signals while hooded
and gagged. He was pulling off the boots and jeans he'd been wearing and was
climbing into - something. Was it sweats? I guessed so. Then leather or was
it - it was his waxed cotton Belstaff over-trousers. The sound the fabric
makes is unmistakable. I then heard boots plonk down - they were lace-up because
I could follow the progress of the laces tightening and knotting even from
inside the fabric around my head which was filled with the sound of my own
breathing. If he was wearing his combat boots there wasn't going to be too
much water involved, I thought. The sound of metal snap-fasteners closing
on his waterproof pants ankles was followed by the heavy swish of his jacket
being pulled on. So, the jacket over my head must be the old one we picked
up at the car boot sale a few weeks ago, I deduced. Picking up clues is part
of the game.
The sound of a zip and then more snaps closing told me he was almost dressed.
I could visualise him and longed to see him. But suddenly he grabbed around
me in a bear hug, and two greasy suits dragged and chaffed against one another.
He pressed against me all over. His legs first forced mine further apart at
the knees and then closer together; his arms were around and then under my
pinioned arms. One hand massaged down between our bodies and groped through
the thick outer covering and padding for whatever he could find between my
legs. My prick had been hard since I'd pulled on the stiff and waxy new waterproof
pants.
He kissed me through the fabric which covered my face. The gag didn't allow
me to respond but he tongued the fabric into my ears, and bit gently onto
them and then my nose. Suddenly his mouth was deliberately blocking air into
my nose again and I began to struggle again as his teeth firmly gripped my
nose through the fabric. Even when I pulled backwards in desperation he leaned
with me, his body weight clamping me against the metal bar behind my neck.
He was demonstrating the 'control' skills we both loved to practice.
Eventually he pulled away, dragging the old jacket from around my head, leaving
me struggling to draw in as much air as my gagged mouth and dented nostrils
would allow.
"Just wanted to get you heated up before we go out into the cold,"
he said. His hand suddenly gripped my now less than rigid cock through the
layers of fabric. "Are you heated up? Oh, no, perhaps not enough. Want
some more?" he asked suddenly dragging the waxy spare jacket over my
head again. I could neither argue or resist as he again massaged my face with
one hand and my cock with the other. I was soon gasping and rigid, so he uncovered
my head but continued to massage my cock.
"I should bring you off so you're nice and sticky inside as well as out,"
he suggested, but another sudden jab in the gut abruptly took my mind off
the excitement growing in my groin.
"No. Best to wait until I've got you thoroughly roped and trussed before
I bring you to orgasm. I like to see you squirm and thrash when you cum."
His plan for roping seemed simple at first. We both know that the more rope
used the more possibility there is of it working loose. As I stood there handcuffed
and tethered at neck and ankles, he was safe to release the rope which circled
my waist and arms. With me being still blindfolded, he was able to come at
me from any direction and I couldn't anticipate, let alone frustrate, his
efforts. His roping skills were so expert, his lashings seldom cause circulation
problems but are always efficient enough to eliminate any risk of slipping.
I felt him neatly circling my body with rope, first around my waist and arms
and then between elbows and body. Comfortably secure rather than tight I thought,
but my hands were still cuffed and so the elbows were quite far back. Suddenly
the cuffs were being removed. Could this be an opportunity for me to make
a grab - but he was suddenly in front of me, his mouth close to my ear; "Don't
even think about it," he warned. "Your elbows are lashed and if
you don't want to get frostbite you'll let me put gloves on you, won't you!"
To emphasise his point, an unexpected tug at the rope in front of my waist
dragged my elbows forward and tight against my body, leaving my hands separated
and isolated at my sides.
"Put your gloves on like a good boy," he advised, "you'll thank
me for it later."
The fingers of my right hand found their way deep into a familiar thickly
padded motorcycle glove, one of the pair we use a lot in our games because
they strap tight around the wrist and padlock on when required. I felt him
pull the double cuff of the jacket over the glove and close the under-cuff
tightly shut, sealing the glove. Next I felt a mitt being pulled over the
glove. It was a tight fit, and I knew it was one of the waxed cotton waterproof
mitts which I had deliberately made narrower so that when worn over padded
gloves the fingers were immobilised. This was the first time they'd been used.
As I felt him seal the mitt between the inner and outer storm-cuff of the
jacket I knew the mitt could not be rubbed free.
With one hand still un-gloved, I was surprised to feel rope being tied around
the already gloved wrist. When it was cinched Tony then just left it and repeated
the process pulling on the second glove and mitt, followed by a rope circling
the newly gloved left hand. When it, too, was cinched I was surprised to find
both hands being drawn outwards away from my sides. The ropes around my elbows
fell away and before I knew what was happening my wrists were being tied off
to the upright bars, my arms fully extended sideways.
"Surprise, surprise," said a voice in my ear. "You wanted your
nice new suit broken in, so I thought a hundred feet of tough waxy sash cord
wrapped and knotted around your arms and legs - and crotch and body before
I hog-tie you face down in the mud somewhere out on the moors, would rub some
of the newness off the suit. Don't worry," the honey-sweet voice continued,
"I'll make sure all that rope stays put, so you don't have to worry that
it'll come loose while you're wriggling around trying to find a more comfortable
position - out on the moors in the pissing rain. The weather forecast says
the weather will be lovely - for ducks. The roping," he continued, "will
probably take about half-an-hour. Remember the time we did full body rope
harnesses when we went to that disco. We shimmied around for hours in them
and nothing came loose. Imagine a full rope harness over waxed cotton with
padding underneath; the fabric bulging out between the criss-crossed ropes
with circle each arm and leg separately, plus your chest and buttocks and
up through your crotch. I won't make it tight but I think it will look interesting
- before it all gets caked in mud and soggy with rain. I'll take the video
camera so you can see how you looked, that is, if the rain let's up. But then
in a way I guess you won't care if It buckets down because you want the suit
to finish up looking nicely broken in, don't you."
And so the gentle taunting went on as I felt the network of ropes systematically
taking shape, carefully cinched at every intersection the way we'd both rehearsed
and practised when experimenting with Japanese rope bondage techniques and
decorative harnesses. We'd often scoffed at bondage workshops where elaborate
ties had been demonstrated. We preferred simple and efficient 'short rope'
ties, but today Tony was indulging himself and, at the same time delaying
the moment when the five hour ordeal would actually start.
Before he was finished I'd already been suited up, gagged and blindfolded
for over an hour. Finally he removed the blindfold to show me his handiwork.
It was a masterpiece of practical rope-tying, symmetrical and unshakeable
but still allowing limited body movement. He took a few quick photos before
removing my soggy gag and allowing me some water. I took the opportunity to
experiment with my limited mobility. My upper body and arms were totally meshed
in a network of ropes. Each leg was parcelled separately, down the inside
and up the outside plus rope circling each limb four times at different points,
each circle knotted at every cross-point to prevent slipping or loosening.
Arms not attached to the body but lashed together at the wrists. The individual
leg roping allowed me to walk but I was fascinated by the rope hobble around
my ankles. A rope from this seemed to loop up to somewhere under my crotch.
Tony proudly demonstrated how this hobble was also a lead-string which, when
tugged would cause me to shorten my step or bend at the knees. If jerked suddenly
it would pull me off balance. He made the point firmly that I would climb
into the van in our garage and out again somewhere on the moors when nobody
was around and he would remain in total control at all times. I would not
be gagged or blindfolded as long as I caused him no trouble - although what
trouble I could possibly cause was beyond my imagination.
The process of climbing into our imaginatively equipped old Ford Transit was
relatively easy, but I was not prepared for Tony's plan for the ride. Rather
than risk my trying to frustrate his efforts as he prepared me for the twenty
mile journey, an old canvas bag hood was dropped over my head as a temporary
measure (and I made a mental note to make a wax cotton bag hood to complete
the ensemble sometime soon). The van was not tall enough to stand up in and
a quick manipulation of the hobble left me with boots close together, knees
slightly bent and wrists tethered to the waist but with elbows relatively
free and comfortable.
I heard the soft sound of webbing straps being positioned and wondered if
our modified racing car seat would be used. With a tightly rope-wrapped crotch
I didn't particularly fancy a long drive strapped into a deep bucket seat.
I needn't have worried. Some deft conjuring with webbing straps and additional
ropes suddenly had me sitting comfortably, dangling from the roof of our 'Tranny'.
The rope body harness had adapted into a type of parachute harness. The Rope
Expert explained through the canvas hood that the movement would cause the
ropes around my body to grate on the suit; all part of the breaking in process.
He removed the hood, closed the curtain between the driver's seat and the
back of the van and drove out of the garage. It was not until this moment
that I realised the support ropes were elasticised. I dangled there like a
cross between a trussed turkey and a budgerigar bouncing on its swing. It
was a good job I don't get seasick!
Final chapter?
The sudden sound of boots close to my head brought me back to the present.
He was towering above me as I lay on my back out on the moors. My body was
numb and I couldn't have moved if I'd wanted to - and with a pair of size
eleven American combat boots practically touching my ears I wasn't going to
try.
"Wakey, wakey," he smiled. "Time for a little adventure. I'm
sure you'll welcome something to stimulate your circulation."
"What time is it?" I asked, trying to sound reasonable.
"Never you mind," was his reply as he knelt down in the mud with
wax cotton knees on either side of my head. He eased the woolly hat off and
pocketed it, and his knees closed in against my ears, clamping my head firmly.
He was still talking but I couldn't hear what he was saying. His hands reached
for the ropes which criss-crossed my chest and he pulled at them. He rocked
me from side to side but his knees kept my head immobilised. He reached for
the ropes on my doubled up legs and pulled them towards him, lifting them.
I cried out in sudden pain as he flipped me onto my side and a waxy knee pressed
my unprotected face into the muddy turf. He rocked my body and I was soon
lying on my other side with the other side of my face receiving the same treatment.
He grabbed at the ankle rope and dragged it towards him, revolving me and
rolling me. Suddenly on my stomach I found my face buried deep into the wax
cotton of his crotch and I could feel the wet mud on my cheeks being rubbed
off onto a matt black and greasy bulge.
I heard him laugh as he hauled me upwards, my chest now against the slope
of his knees, my face stung by the buckle of his belt. He leaned back and
opened his belt and then his jacket and pulled my head into its sweaty interior.
He closed the jacket around my head and rolled with me until I was under him
and he was astride me. He lay forward over me burying me and cutting off my
air supply. He suddenly leaned back and as I regained my breath he stood up,
boots planted on either side of my waist. He bent down and lifted me by the
ropes around my chest leaving only my boots on the ground. I was getting disoriented
and was surprised to find myself suddenly keeling before him, hands still
lashed to my ankles and face pressed against the front of his legs. He massaged
my head into the fabric which covered his thighs, before opening his legs
and clamping my head between them.
His next move was to pull me off balance and I was on my stomach again.
"Circulation coming back a bit, is it?" he asked. Somehow dropping
back into a sitting position, his legs now spread wide on either side of my
trussed and folded body. He hauled me towards him using the rope harness as
grab handles. He lay back with me on top of him, dragging my muddy body until
we were chest to chest; me balanced precariously on top of him. Being still
hog-tied with my legs bent upwards high in the air, all my bodyweight was
on his chest and waist and I could feel his body warmth. Gripping my head
between his gloved hands, he kissed me.
Although my mind was still reeling from all the sudden movement, I responded
automatically accepting his tongue as it penetrated my slightly numb lips.
Abruptly he threw me off. I landed with the thud and rolled away from him
as he wiped his mouth.
"You mucky fuck-pig. I've got a mouth full of mud. What am I going to
do with you? You're shitted up to the eyeballs. You'll muddy up the van if
I let you ride home in it. I think I should leave you here 'til it rains again.
That'll get some of the mud off. Or there's a stream just over that rise.
I could drag you over there and dunk you in it. What do you say to that?"
he asked belligerently.
I knew better than to say anything when he was on one of these highs. He was
turned on by the situation and, tired and stiff as I was, I got off on my
total powerlessness. He grabbed a rope and dragged me back towards him. "But
I've got a better idea," he leered and produced a pair of the short stumpy
emergency scissors which we always keep handy during roping sessions. They
will cut through anything, but he was waving them menacingly under my nose.
"I've got a little surprise for you. The 'special surprise' card, remember?
I've got a way to get you home without mucking up the van."
With one deft snip of the scissors my boots were released from my wrists -
and my knees screamed with pain after being immobilised for so long. Before
I knew what was happening, he was kneeling at the side of me and rolling me
sideways. Over and over he flipped me - on my front - on my back - on my front.
Systematically he was propelling me across the mud and grass and sheep shit.
My head was spinning and my body being battered even though it was thickly
padded and booted.
The rolling stopped as suddenly as it started. I didn't know where I was but
he had rolled me to exactly where he wanted me to be. As I lay flat on my
face panting, he knelt across me and talked into my ear as I tried to keep
my face out of the longish grass; "Now, I have a little plan and I think
you're going to like it - not a lot, perhaps. But, on the other hand, you
being a kinky bastard, perhaps you might. Whichever way, you're in no position
to argue - and if you do, I'll just gag you. Understood? Nod if you're hearing
me."
I nodded, wearily.
He stood up and moved away, leaving me lying on my face and resigned to whatever
fate held in store. I heard the sound of what might have been a large sheet
of plastic. If he was going to wrap me in a tarpaulin, how the hell was he
going to get me into the van, I thought. He was spreading it alongside me
but I deliberately didn't turn my face to look. When he was ready he grabbed
a couple of ropes and rolled me onto it - IT being the sort of Bodybag the
police and ambulance service use for transporting human remains.
With each limb still elaborately trussed and my wrists and ankles firmly roped
I was in no position to put up any resistance. The menacing bag had a strong
full-length zip - and this was open. With another quick move he again rolled
me over and I was suddenly lying face down inside the waterproof and (as far
as I knew, airtight) PVC bag, and Tony was already closing the zipper around
my feet and lower legs.
"I got this by mail order a month ago. I've been waiting for the right
opportunity to use it on you. All the mud and shit will stay inside, I could
even pour a couple of buckets of water into it and it wouldn't leak. I could
shovel a few spade-fulls of mud into it with you and roll you around a bit,
and still get you home without you mucking up the van. But would I do that?
No, because I'm nice and you're my buddy."
With that I felt a few more snips of the tough scissors and the heavy waxed
ropes fell away from between my wrists as I lay face down.
"I want to see a smile, buddy," he said. "Can you turn over?"
With an effort I obliged, struggling as my lifeless arms and the muddy suit
dragged against the inside of the strong-smelling plastic of the Bodybag.
Tony was holding the sides of the open zip as I painfully manoeuvred myself
onto my back and looked up into his smiling face.
"Hi, kid," he said, "you're going to love the next bit. Night,
night."
He began to close a second zip-pull somewhere above my head, and from down
around my groin the other pull was drawn to meet it. Tony contrived to leave
a small opening so that I could still see out. He smiled down at me and said,
"I could padlock the two zip-pulls together but I think with those mitts
on, you won't expect to get very far." With that the zip closed and darkness
fell inside the wonderfully pungent bag. I lay there exhausted but relieved
to find that there was enough air coming in from somewhere. Later I learned
that Tony had doctored the bag by adding a few discrete air holes.
I was not surprised when I felt my feet rise and the bag start to be pulled
along the bumpy ground. It slid easily and with my padded back and shoulders
and still numb arms, I felt very little of it. I was too pleased to be heading
home to care. I knew I was in good hands and I had survived. When the movement
stopped I knew we'd reached the van. I heard the doors open and a tug on the
top corners of the bag urged me to sit up. Strong arms lifted my torso until
I was standing (somewhat unsteadily) inside the bag. A bear-hug from the front
and I was sitting on the edge of the back of the van. A lift of my legs and
I was gently slid inside the van.
"I'll wake you when we get there," I heard him say as he closed
the doors.
I don't remember much about the journey home. My arms and legs were still
netted with the rope harness. My hands were gloved and tightly mitted and
still numb. In fact even today as I type, the nerve-ends in my fingers still
tingle - but that might be only the memory of the sensations I experienced.
I got my hot shower, still fully suited. Tony did strip off and get naked
into the shower with me - and hug me - and thank me - as I thanked him for
a memorable day. I slept like a log but in the early hours of this morning
we enjoyed the many pleasures of each other's bodies. Then another nap before
it was time for me to take the initiative, and for Tony to face the ordeal
of a five-hour marathon encased in waxed cotton.
When he learned that it was to be with one wax suit inside-out against his
naked skin, covered by motorcycle leathers and boots, with another waxed cotton
jacket and trousers over them - he knew my obsession with this freaky and
fetishy fabric still wasn't exhausted.
*****
On the in-house surveillance
camera monitor I've been keeping an eye on him as I type, and he's dealing
with his current predicament in the cellar. Perhaps I should take him out
on the bike - still hooded and gagged under his crash helmet (We bought an
extra large size to use on such occasions). Still 'restricted' under the many
layers, I may take him to visit the scene of yesterday's Scene - but he won't
see it, only sense it. He'll know I've locked myself into my suit and won't
be able to get out of it until I release his mitts and gloves - but then,
I'm enjoying the sense of us being locked together in our predicaments.
The past, present and future are all one, which is what I've tried to set
down in this written rigmarole of past, present and future tenses. One hour
or five, when the mind is freed to take flight, time doesn't count. How long
have I been typing here? How long has he been hanging there? He's given up
venting his frustration on the Chain Frame - perhaps he's busy building some
suitable revenge scenario in his mind for the future - which I shall enjoy
'dealing with'. But the immediate future is the predicament I have in mind
for Tony for the rest of today, which will only begin when I shut down this
computer, so - THE END!
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