Another sexy video from FoxZatt. This is about as rubbered up as one can get! Fantastic! Boy I'd love to play with this English bloke! He's a super-hot rubberboy!
Saturday, January 27, 2007
Wednesday, January 24, 2007
MAN-TO-MAN STUFF
From the original 41,500 word story titled 'MAN-TO-MAN STUFF'
by Derek Arnold made longer by Jim Stewart Link
This 41,500 word adventure story is extreme fantasy, but many vividly described procedures and situations are drawn from real-life experience.
The main story is told in the voice of the leading character, British police officer Dan Drummond, but a commentary on the action is added as occasional narration
'SNATCHED'
EXCERPT FROM THE BEGINNING OF CHAPTER ONE ...
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, pulling them 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 helmet of some sort. Gradually, I grew more aware of the pressure of more rope 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. My assessment skills tried to kick in, but the uncomfortably stressful physical contortions were, I decided, already having a dangerous effect on my mind.
Concentrate, damn it, I told myself. But, somehow ... after being unconscious, my mind was in a disoriented state as a continued to try and assess the situation. 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 position ... 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, because I 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 encases 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.
Trying to reduce the strain of the 'hog-tie', I moved as best I could, but nothing relieved the pain. I became aware that my arms were, in addition to being lashed together, 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 thick 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.
From outside his painfully trussed body a voice penetrated the hood via an ear-piece speaker. He was wired for sound ...
'INTERROGATED'
EXERPT TWO
... without warning the fiendish 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. 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.
*****
TIME OUT:
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.
Inexplicably the ordeal is suddenly over ...
DISORIENTATED:
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. Voices speaking English. With no regard for my nakedness I went to the kitchen, quietly, and looked around the door.
“Dan, you’re awake. How the hell are you doing?” It was the Chief and ... Harry, my buddy and colleague from the old days. School friend and best mate until his career had taken him off – somewhere. Christ – how long since I’d last seen him? Years! Harry Ansell! But here he was in my kitchen – if it really was my kitchen. Nothing seemed real. Had I died and gone somewhere else – where familiar things live on with you?
Harry approached me, hand outstretched ...
In the world of covert operations nothing and nobody are quite what they seem to be ...
JACKETED‘A strait-jacket,’ I thought to myself and my mind leapt back to early boyhood fantasies; images of Harry Houdini challenges. “Forget Harry Houdini,” this bastard ex-friend had said as he’d strapped the jacket – but there was some movement in my arms – if I tense and wrestle, there could be some slack, I thought. And as I pulled tentatively at the tough canvas, the urge to thrash around and exert whatever power was left to me, boiled up.
“Hold on a minute,” said a voice at my feet, quite cheerfully. And I felt my ankles unroped from the bed-leg. Then in one swift movement before I could react, he rose from his knees into view, gabbed two handfuls of one jacket sleeve and turned me onto my stomach on the end of the bed. My legs (still hobbled) were hanging over the bed-end and, suddenly, I was kneeling on the carpet belly down onto the end of the bed with him close behind me planting one knee between my knees. I felt his full body weight pressing down on my spine, pressing my crossed arms into the soft bed. Immediately above me behind my ear I felt his breath and heard him say, “I could fuck you rigid, matey, and there isn’t a thing you could do about it!” And I felt the twill of his pants pump my naked ass, as he chuckled in my ear.
Exerting all my upper body-weight, I heaved to throw him off ... but he’d anticipated the move and neatly stepped off me. My body flung itself into the air, dropped back half on and half off the bed, and (with no arms to control the fall) bumped off the bed onto the floor with something of a crash. Because of the thick carpet there was no damage, but it knocked the breath out of me mainly because of my tape-wrapped face. I lay there panting, face down and totally trussed and hobbled.
“That’s more like it!” he said, elated. “I’m glad there’s still some fight in you. It always turns me on to see some serious struggling. I want to see you mad, buddy-boy!”
A boot took a swing towards my stomach below the crossed arms and I automatically brought my knees up to protect myself. It was a controlled kick, just to prove it could have landed and done serious damage. The toe of the boot stayed to taunt my caged cock and I began to roll away.
His full body-weight dropped like a stone, knees on either side of my crotch, his two hands pile-driving my shoulders back onto the carpet. Grinning down into my face for a split second, he lay forward on top of me until we were chest to chest, but with my arms painfully crushed between us. His face moved closer to mine – he was going to fucking kiss me again, the bastard! I heaved my body violently, and rolled, taking him with me. But he’d grabbed the two side loops of the strait-jacket, so when I landed on top of him I found I couldn’t roll any further because his legs were outside mine, knees now bent and stabilising himself – and I was panting desperately.
He grinned up at me. “What’ya gonna’ do now, big feller?”
I thought for a second and decided I could raise myself and land a knee into his groin – but as I started the movement I felt one of his boots graze painfully between my legs and his leg then straightened – and with his boot braced between my ankle hobbles I was pinned straight-legged lying on top of him and unable to move off. He humped his pelvis under me – banging against my caged cock. Numb as it was, I could feel it. His deliberate implications were obvious ... this guy wasn’t queer, for Christ’s sake, I told myself. However, that was not the only thought in my mind (because the adrenaline was pumping) and so was the blood in my brain ... and in my crotch.
After a pause for breath, still gripping the jacket, he suddenly rolled me over and (using the jacket fabric as grab-handles) rolled me face down and was kneeling astride me, his weight high on the back of my thighs. Again he provocatively humped at my arse. I tried to buck. I used the elbows of my crossed arms against the floor to raise my shoulders up to throw him. I heaved with all my weight, and I was heavier than him, always had been. If I could get onto my knees ...
“Ride ‘em, cowboy!” he crowed, “Great ride you’re giving me, Dan. How’s you’re dick doing under there? Getting off on the carpet. Careful you don’t stain it.”
My ankles tried to kick him in the kidneys. Knees bending and straightening, my heels aimed for his spine or – anything, time and time again, blindly as he continued to laugh excitedly, while battering my pelvis into the carpet with all his weight.
I don’t know how he managed to grab the rope, but suddenly something was tugging at the hobble-strap and I felt my legs no longer able to straighten, and he was sitting on my shoulders. With both hands free, he had soon tied my ankles to one of the straps on the back of the jacket.
“Hog-tied again,” I thought to myself as I lay totally immobilised and panting into the carpet. Fluff from it threatened to block my nostrils, and I thought that I should vacuum more often. What a fucking stupid thought at a time like this ...
GAGGED
Exerpt Three
I let my body to go limp; a signal that I had given up the struggle. He allowed me some air but kept his powerful legs locked around my entangled arms. Hands in front of my face held an eye-less rubber hood, complete with nostril tube and mouth tube, dangling before me; I could see the inflatable gag inside as it hung in his hands.
The voice behind and above me was calm and serious. "I could put this back on you ... but I prefer to see your eyes while I'm talking to you ... and I have a lot of things to say, Dan ... and I don't want any interruptions ... so open your mouth, please." He let the rubber hood fall and I saw a strap in his hand. It was another gag.
"You said you'd take the gag out," I protested, trying to turn to look up at him. His legs clamped tighter and a hand slapped the side of my head sharply.
"No talk," he barked. And then in a more reasonable tone added, "I said I'd take the foam ball out ... but I didn't say I wouldn't put a different gag in. So open up."
I was suddenly really pissed off again and closed my mouth firmly. Not seeing this, he moved the ominous device towards my face ... and my mind boggled as I realised the plug was a sizable realistic imitation penis head.
"No fucking way," I yelled and my sudden wrench pulled him off the bed. But I was strait-jacketed with it's sleeves now tangled around my legs, and still hobbled. Desperately, my teeth clamped firmly together and my jaw set - and although I put up a good struggle - some whirlwind scrabbling around soon had my head reeling: the collar of the jacket was suddenly hauling me upwards and choking - then I was on my face - then on my back - then being dragged by my ankles across the carpet - turned over and swung around suddenly. I crashed against my exercise frame - sprawling in the confining jacket. A strap suddenly snaked around my neck from behind and had me choking briefly. But this was released and slid down over my shoulders and tightened, tethering me back, low-down against one of the uprights of the metal home gym: solid, heavy and immovable. My exercise set-up, elaborate and sturdy ... and me sitting slumped against it going nowhere. Then a second strap immobilised my neck, not tight but inescapable.
After a breathless pause, and some clanking behind me, a weight bar with God knows how many extra kilos on either end appeared in my line of vision, Harry carrying it with an effort. He placed it gently across my lap . Fixed as I was sitting tethered neck and waist to the exercise tower, this maniac had now trapped my thighs, bridging them with this bar. He experimented, the weights acting as wheels, the bar forced my legs to straighten out as he rolled it towards my ankles. He then fixed the bar over the hobble with rope; the weight of it all, pinning my feet.
We were both breathing heavily, but I was almost retching for air because my teeth were still determinedly clenched. Harry laughed, exhilarated as he stood over me, his boots deliberately blocking the weight bar from moving as I tried to bend my legs.
"This kind of home gym equipment is great for kinky bondage games," he said. "All sorts of possibilities with weights and pulleys." He reached up and tested it, stretching himself spread-eagled against the frame, legs provocatively wide, as muscular arms grabbed the upper structure and pulled down on it. "Great for suspension ... upside-down suspension, perhaps," he mused. "Or if you're into seriously punishing exercise routines. Remind me to tell you about a friend of mine who is a personal trainer with a special talent for pushing people's limits."
As he was talking, I made a sudden determined effort to drag at the weight bar holding my ankles. It was painful, but I managed to bang it against the back of his boots. But it went no further. He acknowledged this attempt on my part ... and, 'tutting' accusingly, he knelt astride my legs and, experimentally, discovered that the heels of his boots could push back the bar behind him, forcing my legs straight again ... and still leaving both his hands free to deal with my face. He demonstrated this by flaunting the ominous gag before my eyes ... before leaning towards me, mischievously (an odd word to spring into my mind).
"Open up, Dan-boy," my oppressor insisted, and I shook my head. "I can make you open up," he warned. And I continued to challenge him briefly ... before claw-like fingers grabbed my chin and tried to force it down. Concentrating on resisting this in spite of the pain, I was off guard when the hand left my chin swiftly, and the same vicious fingers grabbed my balls and twisted them mercilessly. My agonised roar-howl-yell forced it's way out of my mouth, and the gag was in before I could recover ... but my teeth clamped into it, preventing it from going all the way in.
Now, in some absurd way, he snuggled down close alongside me, as I desperately maintained my resistance. Together lying-sitting-sprawled against the exercise frame, he snaked a hairy arm around the back of my neck (all the time keeping up pressure on the plug and my teeth). The crook of his arm clamped my head, leaving that hand free ... with strong fingers able to grab my nose and pinch it firmly, closing the nostrils. I struggled mightily, teeth still trying to prevent the tough bulk of the plug from getting further into my mouth. But, with his powerful arm behind my neck, I knew could not hold out against him, strapped as I was. Even his boot was able to keep the weight-bar immobilising my legs. The fingers twisted my nose, ruthlessly. I gasped ... before relaxing the grip of my teeth on the plug.
He did not ram it home, but strong fingers on my nose persuaded me to stop struggling. And, as I gave up all resistance, he forced my face to turn and look into his, inches from my face. He shook his head, ruefully, and began to talk soothingly.
"Now, now, now! Relax, Dan-boy, relax. Let the plug do what it's supposed to do; slide nice and easy between your lips," he whispered, seductively. "There's a breathing hole through it. Much better than that nasty foam ball. Better than the inflatable plug. Just suck on it for a minute. Get the feel of it. Let it slide in ... and out a little and back in ... and back out just a little".
My head cradled in the crook of his arm was still firmly clamped, and with arms trussed and legs immobilised, I sat (or rather slumped) held against his chest ... Harry controlling my every movement. I resigned myself to helplessness, and allowed the solid plug to move freely around inside my mouth. Allowed? Any attempted to stop it would only have invited more abuse.
Harry gently worked the penis-shaped plug in and out, never allowing my teeth opportunity to close again. I felt the slick plastic massage my tongue and probe to the back of my throat and retreat. Like nursing a baby, Harry forced the shaft in and out while soothingly, the fingers at the end of the clamping arm stroked my cheek and around my scalp.
"There now, it's not so bad, is it? Keep your jaw relaxed and allow the air in through the plug - and let your throat relax - feel it open up a little more."
In this improbable situation I found myself adjusting to it, my tongue no longer resisting this intrusion. Suddenly, my throat gagged slightly as the plug probed deeper - but Harry ignored my difficulties as I choked and gasped - spluttered. He was forcing me to deal with it - adjust to it. His deliberately harsh handling of the moment shocked me. The panic in my eyes and choking must have told him I was in serious difficulties, my tortured throat convulsing and retching. But, when I met his eyes, even in my panic, I was forced to accept. He was determined I should deal with it. Forced to accept that I had no other option, I gradually found I could swallow around the pumping intrusion - and get some air from within it - and deal with my panic. Live with it.
As I calmed to the situation slightly, I realised that he was, in effect, face-fucking me - a phrase I remembered from those confiscated heavy gay SM porno magazines. He was demonstrating what it felt like, what he could do to me. No. Not really face-fucked ... but mind-fucked. The subtlety and deviousness of this man ...
The movement had stopped, and the plug now remained pressed deep into my mouth by determined fingers and, with difficulty, my throat was dealing with it. Harry's strong hand that was not controlling the gag, was still stroking my scalp soothingly. My scalp tingled - sensitised.
Having reached this resigned state, I became very still, almost mesmerised as two hands moved away to connect the gag-strap behind my neck. No arm now controlled my head or the plug but the fight had left me. My eyes looked into his, face-to-face as his hands cinched the buckle - cinched it tight, and I did not mind. My throat convulsed only slightly now, as I swallowed nervously around the plug. Close to my face as he fiddled with the buckle his lips pursed, and blew a gentle breath directly into my nostrils. I could do nothing but receive his breath - and it smelled - acceptable. For some reason I thought of horse trainers who breathed into the nostrils of a part-broken horse. His eyes did not leave mine and I didn't break the eye contact.
INTERROGATION
EXERPT FOUR
Totally encased in thick rubber, hooded and gagged and roped into a painful hog-tie, beefy police Inspector is struggling to get his mind around the bizzare situation
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 the electric ‘tickling'.
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. But then, gasping for air … and it wasn't air I realised … as I began to pass out again.
Regaining consciousness, the burly policeman is still in the oppressive rubber suit and mask but now strapped to a table. He tentatively tries to assess the degree of strapping which holds his body to the table - and his head now totally immobilised.
“Awake again,” said the same voice into the ear-piece; 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 devastatingly painful experience at his hands - when was that? Today, yesterday, last week? I had no recollection of the change of position or the re-strapping.
It suddenly struck me that 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 flipped 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. ...
...
As the agonising electric current ceased, the interrogator again insidiously penetrated my BRAIN. 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 my mind reeled.
And my body already felt seriously weakened as awareness of the harsh realities continued to hammer 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 that damned electro-tickling. Face the facts! I could visualise no relief ... no means of escape or rescue. There seemed to be no hope of surviving in this sinister, all-encasing rubber 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.
END OF 'INTERROGATION' EXCERPT
by Derek Arnold made longer by Jim Stewart Link
This 41,500 word adventure story is extreme fantasy, but many vividly described procedures and situations are drawn from real-life experience.
The main story is told in the voice of the leading character, British police officer Dan Drummond, but a commentary on the action is added as occasional narration
'SNATCHED'
EXCERPT FROM THE BEGINNING OF CHAPTER ONE ...
As consciousness returned, I tried to sit up – and couldn't. I could barely move a muscle ...
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 is one of the new fast-track to promotion breed of youngish British police officer. This brawny thirty year-old is an Information Technology whiz kid but could just as easily have left university for a career in professional Rugby League. 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), is more commonly known as “Bulldog”. But, to get himself ‘snatched’ while following his own unorthodox monitoring of an elaborate undercover operation has landed him in a serious predicament ...
... 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, pulling them 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 helmet of some sort. Gradually, I grew more aware of the pressure of more rope 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. My assessment skills tried to kick in, but the uncomfortably stressful physical contortions were, I decided, already having a dangerous effect on my mind.
Concentrate, damn it, I told myself. But, somehow ... after being unconscious, my mind was in a disoriented state as a continued to try and assess the situation. 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 position ... 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, because I 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 encases 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.
The pressure and restriction soon begins to get to Chief Inspector Dan ... much sooner than he expected ...
Trying to reduce the strain of the 'hog-tie', I moved as best I could, but nothing relieved the pain. I became aware that my arms were, in addition to being lashed together, 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 thick 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.
… Years of police training at officer level had taught Dan Drummond that, when any man is in the hands of an experienced ‘interrogator', his mind is more of a target than his body but a physical softening-up process can be an effective route.
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!
From outside his painfully trussed body a voice penetrated the hood via an ear-piece speaker. He was wired for sound ...
'INTERROGATED'
EXERPT TWO
... without warning the fiendish 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. 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.
*****
TIME OUT:
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.
Inexplicably the ordeal is suddenly over ...
DISORIENTATED:
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. Voices speaking English. With no regard for my nakedness I went to the kitchen, quietly, and looked around the door.
“Dan, you’re awake. How the hell are you doing?” It was the Chief and ... Harry, my buddy and colleague from the old days. School friend and best mate until his career had taken him off – somewhere. Christ – how long since I’d last seen him? Years! Harry Ansell! But here he was in my kitchen – if it really was my kitchen. Nothing seemed real. Had I died and gone somewhere else – where familiar things live on with you?
Harry approached me, hand outstretched ...
In the world of covert operations nothing and nobody are quite what they seem to be ...
JACKETED‘A strait-jacket,’ I thought to myself and my mind leapt back to early boyhood fantasies; images of Harry Houdini challenges. “Forget Harry Houdini,” this bastard ex-friend had said as he’d strapped the jacket – but there was some movement in my arms – if I tense and wrestle, there could be some slack, I thought. And as I pulled tentatively at the tough canvas, the urge to thrash around and exert whatever power was left to me, boiled up.
“Hold on a minute,” said a voice at my feet, quite cheerfully. And I felt my ankles unroped from the bed-leg. Then in one swift movement before I could react, he rose from his knees into view, gabbed two handfuls of one jacket sleeve and turned me onto my stomach on the end of the bed. My legs (still hobbled) were hanging over the bed-end and, suddenly, I was kneeling on the carpet belly down onto the end of the bed with him close behind me planting one knee between my knees. I felt his full body weight pressing down on my spine, pressing my crossed arms into the soft bed. Immediately above me behind my ear I felt his breath and heard him say, “I could fuck you rigid, matey, and there isn’t a thing you could do about it!” And I felt the twill of his pants pump my naked ass, as he chuckled in my ear.
Exerting all my upper body-weight, I heaved to throw him off ... but he’d anticipated the move and neatly stepped off me. My body flung itself into the air, dropped back half on and half off the bed, and (with no arms to control the fall) bumped off the bed onto the floor with something of a crash. Because of the thick carpet there was no damage, but it knocked the breath out of me mainly because of my tape-wrapped face. I lay there panting, face down and totally trussed and hobbled.
“That’s more like it!” he said, elated. “I’m glad there’s still some fight in you. It always turns me on to see some serious struggling. I want to see you mad, buddy-boy!”
A boot took a swing towards my stomach below the crossed arms and I automatically brought my knees up to protect myself. It was a controlled kick, just to prove it could have landed and done serious damage. The toe of the boot stayed to taunt my caged cock and I began to roll away.
His full body-weight dropped like a stone, knees on either side of my crotch, his two hands pile-driving my shoulders back onto the carpet. Grinning down into my face for a split second, he lay forward on top of me until we were chest to chest, but with my arms painfully crushed between us. His face moved closer to mine – he was going to fucking kiss me again, the bastard! I heaved my body violently, and rolled, taking him with me. But he’d grabbed the two side loops of the strait-jacket, so when I landed on top of him I found I couldn’t roll any further because his legs were outside mine, knees now bent and stabilising himself – and I was panting desperately.
He grinned up at me. “What’ya gonna’ do now, big feller?”
I thought for a second and decided I could raise myself and land a knee into his groin – but as I started the movement I felt one of his boots graze painfully between my legs and his leg then straightened – and with his boot braced between my ankle hobbles I was pinned straight-legged lying on top of him and unable to move off. He humped his pelvis under me – banging against my caged cock. Numb as it was, I could feel it. His deliberate implications were obvious ... this guy wasn’t queer, for Christ’s sake, I told myself. However, that was not the only thought in my mind (because the adrenaline was pumping) and so was the blood in my brain ... and in my crotch.
After a pause for breath, still gripping the jacket, he suddenly rolled me over and (using the jacket fabric as grab-handles) rolled me face down and was kneeling astride me, his weight high on the back of my thighs. Again he provocatively humped at my arse. I tried to buck. I used the elbows of my crossed arms against the floor to raise my shoulders up to throw him. I heaved with all my weight, and I was heavier than him, always had been. If I could get onto my knees ...
“Ride ‘em, cowboy!” he crowed, “Great ride you’re giving me, Dan. How’s you’re dick doing under there? Getting off on the carpet. Careful you don’t stain it.”
My ankles tried to kick him in the kidneys. Knees bending and straightening, my heels aimed for his spine or – anything, time and time again, blindly as he continued to laugh excitedly, while battering my pelvis into the carpet with all his weight.
I don’t know how he managed to grab the rope, but suddenly something was tugging at the hobble-strap and I felt my legs no longer able to straighten, and he was sitting on my shoulders. With both hands free, he had soon tied my ankles to one of the straps on the back of the jacket.
“Hog-tied again,” I thought to myself as I lay totally immobilised and panting into the carpet. Fluff from it threatened to block my nostrils, and I thought that I should vacuum more often. What a fucking stupid thought at a time like this ...
GAGGED
Exerpt Three
I let my body to go limp; a signal that I had given up the struggle. He allowed me some air but kept his powerful legs locked around my entangled arms. Hands in front of my face held an eye-less rubber hood, complete with nostril tube and mouth tube, dangling before me; I could see the inflatable gag inside as it hung in his hands.
The voice behind and above me was calm and serious. "I could put this back on you ... but I prefer to see your eyes while I'm talking to you ... and I have a lot of things to say, Dan ... and I don't want any interruptions ... so open your mouth, please." He let the rubber hood fall and I saw a strap in his hand. It was another gag.
"You said you'd take the gag out," I protested, trying to turn to look up at him. His legs clamped tighter and a hand slapped the side of my head sharply.
"No talk," he barked. And then in a more reasonable tone added, "I said I'd take the foam ball out ... but I didn't say I wouldn't put a different gag in. So open up."
I was suddenly really pissed off again and closed my mouth firmly. Not seeing this, he moved the ominous device towards my face ... and my mind boggled as I realised the plug was a sizable realistic imitation penis head.
"No fucking way," I yelled and my sudden wrench pulled him off the bed. But I was strait-jacketed with it's sleeves now tangled around my legs, and still hobbled. Desperately, my teeth clamped firmly together and my jaw set - and although I put up a good struggle - some whirlwind scrabbling around soon had my head reeling: the collar of the jacket was suddenly hauling me upwards and choking - then I was on my face - then on my back - then being dragged by my ankles across the carpet - turned over and swung around suddenly. I crashed against my exercise frame - sprawling in the confining jacket. A strap suddenly snaked around my neck from behind and had me choking briefly. But this was released and slid down over my shoulders and tightened, tethering me back, low-down against one of the uprights of the metal home gym: solid, heavy and immovable. My exercise set-up, elaborate and sturdy ... and me sitting slumped against it going nowhere. Then a second strap immobilised my neck, not tight but inescapable.
After a breathless pause, and some clanking behind me, a weight bar with God knows how many extra kilos on either end appeared in my line of vision, Harry carrying it with an effort. He placed it gently across my lap . Fixed as I was sitting tethered neck and waist to the exercise tower, this maniac had now trapped my thighs, bridging them with this bar. He experimented, the weights acting as wheels, the bar forced my legs to straighten out as he rolled it towards my ankles. He then fixed the bar over the hobble with rope; the weight of it all, pinning my feet.
We were both breathing heavily, but I was almost retching for air because my teeth were still determinedly clenched. Harry laughed, exhilarated as he stood over me, his boots deliberately blocking the weight bar from moving as I tried to bend my legs.
"This kind of home gym equipment is great for kinky bondage games," he said. "All sorts of possibilities with weights and pulleys." He reached up and tested it, stretching himself spread-eagled against the frame, legs provocatively wide, as muscular arms grabbed the upper structure and pulled down on it. "Great for suspension ... upside-down suspension, perhaps," he mused. "Or if you're into seriously punishing exercise routines. Remind me to tell you about a friend of mine who is a personal trainer with a special talent for pushing people's limits."
As he was talking, I made a sudden determined effort to drag at the weight bar holding my ankles. It was painful, but I managed to bang it against the back of his boots. But it went no further. He acknowledged this attempt on my part ... and, 'tutting' accusingly, he knelt astride my legs and, experimentally, discovered that the heels of his boots could push back the bar behind him, forcing my legs straight again ... and still leaving both his hands free to deal with my face. He demonstrated this by flaunting the ominous gag before my eyes ... before leaning towards me, mischievously (an odd word to spring into my mind).
"Open up, Dan-boy," my oppressor insisted, and I shook my head. "I can make you open up," he warned. And I continued to challenge him briefly ... before claw-like fingers grabbed my chin and tried to force it down. Concentrating on resisting this in spite of the pain, I was off guard when the hand left my chin swiftly, and the same vicious fingers grabbed my balls and twisted them mercilessly. My agonised roar-howl-yell forced it's way out of my mouth, and the gag was in before I could recover ... but my teeth clamped into it, preventing it from going all the way in.
Now, in some absurd way, he snuggled down close alongside me, as I desperately maintained my resistance. Together lying-sitting-sprawled against the exercise frame, he snaked a hairy arm around the back of my neck (all the time keeping up pressure on the plug and my teeth). The crook of his arm clamped my head, leaving that hand free ... with strong fingers able to grab my nose and pinch it firmly, closing the nostrils. I struggled mightily, teeth still trying to prevent the tough bulk of the plug from getting further into my mouth. But, with his powerful arm behind my neck, I knew could not hold out against him, strapped as I was. Even his boot was able to keep the weight-bar immobilising my legs. The fingers twisted my nose, ruthlessly. I gasped ... before relaxing the grip of my teeth on the plug.
He did not ram it home, but strong fingers on my nose persuaded me to stop struggling. And, as I gave up all resistance, he forced my face to turn and look into his, inches from my face. He shook his head, ruefully, and began to talk soothingly.
"Now, now, now! Relax, Dan-boy, relax. Let the plug do what it's supposed to do; slide nice and easy between your lips," he whispered, seductively. "There's a breathing hole through it. Much better than that nasty foam ball. Better than the inflatable plug. Just suck on it for a minute. Get the feel of it. Let it slide in ... and out a little and back in ... and back out just a little".
My head cradled in the crook of his arm was still firmly clamped, and with arms trussed and legs immobilised, I sat (or rather slumped) held against his chest ... Harry controlling my every movement. I resigned myself to helplessness, and allowed the solid plug to move freely around inside my mouth. Allowed? Any attempted to stop it would only have invited more abuse.
Harry gently worked the penis-shaped plug in and out, never allowing my teeth opportunity to close again. I felt the slick plastic massage my tongue and probe to the back of my throat and retreat. Like nursing a baby, Harry forced the shaft in and out while soothingly, the fingers at the end of the clamping arm stroked my cheek and around my scalp.
"There now, it's not so bad, is it? Keep your jaw relaxed and allow the air in through the plug - and let your throat relax - feel it open up a little more."
In this improbable situation I found myself adjusting to it, my tongue no longer resisting this intrusion. Suddenly, my throat gagged slightly as the plug probed deeper - but Harry ignored my difficulties as I choked and gasped - spluttered. He was forcing me to deal with it - adjust to it. His deliberately harsh handling of the moment shocked me. The panic in my eyes and choking must have told him I was in serious difficulties, my tortured throat convulsing and retching. But, when I met his eyes, even in my panic, I was forced to accept. He was determined I should deal with it. Forced to accept that I had no other option, I gradually found I could swallow around the pumping intrusion - and get some air from within it - and deal with my panic. Live with it.
As I calmed to the situation slightly, I realised that he was, in effect, face-fucking me - a phrase I remembered from those confiscated heavy gay SM porno magazines. He was demonstrating what it felt like, what he could do to me. No. Not really face-fucked ... but mind-fucked. The subtlety and deviousness of this man ...
The movement had stopped, and the plug now remained pressed deep into my mouth by determined fingers and, with difficulty, my throat was dealing with it. Harry's strong hand that was not controlling the gag, was still stroking my scalp soothingly. My scalp tingled - sensitised.
Having reached this resigned state, I became very still, almost mesmerised as two hands moved away to connect the gag-strap behind my neck. No arm now controlled my head or the plug but the fight had left me. My eyes looked into his, face-to-face as his hands cinched the buckle - cinched it tight, and I did not mind. My throat convulsed only slightly now, as I swallowed nervously around the plug. Close to my face as he fiddled with the buckle his lips pursed, and blew a gentle breath directly into my nostrils. I could do nothing but receive his breath - and it smelled - acceptable. For some reason I thought of horse trainers who breathed into the nostrils of a part-broken horse. His eyes did not leave mine and I didn't break the eye contact.
INTERROGATION
EXERPT FOUR
Totally encased in thick rubber, hooded and gagged and roped into a painful hog-tie, beefy police Inspector is struggling to get his mind around the bizzare situation
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 the electric ‘tickling'.
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. But then, gasping for air … and it wasn't air I realised … as I began to pass out again.
Regaining consciousness, the burly policeman is still in the oppressive rubber suit and mask but now strapped to a table. He tentatively tries to assess the degree of strapping which holds his body to the table - and his head now totally immobilised.
“Awake again,” said the same voice into the ear-piece; 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 devastatingly painful experience at his hands - when was that? Today, yesterday, last week? I had no recollection of the change of position or the re-strapping.
It suddenly struck me that 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 flipped 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. ...
...
As the agonising electric current ceased, the interrogator again insidiously penetrated my BRAIN. 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 my mind reeled.
And my body already felt seriously weakened as awareness of the harsh realities continued to hammer 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 that damned electro-tickling. Face the facts! I could visualise no relief ... no means of escape or rescue. There seemed to be no hope of surviving in this sinister, all-encasing rubber 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.
END OF 'INTERROGATION' EXCERPT
Thursday, January 18, 2007
Tuesday, January 16, 2007
Friday, January 12, 2007
A private medical joke. Or is it?
I have a very good friend who is a very successful painter in quite a few North American markets. He currently resides in Montreal but has spent many years in Calgary. We have known each other for many years and have shared many stories and secrets about ourselves. He knows that I have a penchant for lycra and rubber.
Anyways, to tie this story together, he is a very edgy painter with many themes of sexuality, religion, death -- challenging themes. I have been to many of his personal and group show openings and have helped out with the serving of drinks to gallery patrons at these events.
At a few of his show openings, especially some more of the risque themes or during Pride shows, he has had girls dressed in rubber and PVC nurses uniforms serving wine and has always wanted me to dress up and do the same. I always enthusiastically said that I would. At any rate, I was perusing the Westward Bound site the other day and I found these:
As soon as I saw these items, I had to send him the pics! What a riot! I also told him that if he needed me to come to serve at one of his openings, I would fly to Montreal immediately, by rubber medical gear in tow!
And you know what? I had pictures of this model - my long-time online boyfriend, if you really had to know - and had his name, but alas I can't find any evidence of this anywhere on the computer hard drive now. I've been looking in folders all evening for these pictures. I must be getting amnesia! Or losing my mind...
Scott? Shane? first-name, or last-name, or something? Please help if you know! He's SOO pretty, and apparently a hot rubber whore from all the rubber photo shoots he's been in. At least in my dreams he is...
Anyways, to tie this story together, he is a very edgy painter with many themes of sexuality, religion, death -- challenging themes. I have been to many of his personal and group show openings and have helped out with the serving of drinks to gallery patrons at these events.
At a few of his show openings, especially some more of the risque themes or during Pride shows, he has had girls dressed in rubber and PVC nurses uniforms serving wine and has always wanted me to dress up and do the same. I always enthusiastically said that I would. At any rate, I was perusing the Westward Bound site the other day and I found these:
As soon as I saw these items, I had to send him the pics! What a riot! I also told him that if he needed me to come to serve at one of his openings, I would fly to Montreal immediately, by rubber medical gear in tow!
And you know what? I had pictures of this model - my long-time online boyfriend, if you really had to know - and had his name, but alas I can't find any evidence of this anywhere on the computer hard drive now. I've been looking in folders all evening for these pictures. I must be getting amnesia! Or losing my mind...Scott? Shane? first-name, or last-name, or something? Please help if you know! He's SOO pretty, and apparently a hot rubber whore from all the rubber photo shoots he's been in. At least in my dreams he is...
Wednesday, January 10, 2007
The practicality of it all...
Men In Tights
By Matthew Temple
FT.com site; Jun 07, 2002
William Shakespeare must be turning in his gusset. Why? Modern man has taken a shine to those hallmarks of the Elizabethan male, tights. Before you ask, the new breed of hose-hitcher is neither a fetishist nor a cross-dresser. For him, it's all about comfort, warmth and health. Honest.
Evidently, increasing numbers of men are turning to women's tights, or pantyhose, as an alternative to bulky thermals. For the athletically challenged, tights are seen as a chance to enhance sporting performance. Some even believe they can reduce varicose veins and prevent medicine's latest býte noire, deep vein thrombosis.
At Canadian online lingerie seller Shapings.com, men account for 85 per cent of women's hosiery sales, many buying a pair of tights for their wives and a larger size for themselves (from C$3.55 to C$27.95). This is a surprisingly serious trend.
"We knew that men bought women's hosiery, but, like everyone else, we assumed it was for cross-dressing purposes," says Steve Katz, managing partner of Ohio-based G Lieberman & Sons. But when the family-run hosiery business, wanting to reinvent itself as an e-commerce operation after 80 years, commissioned a market survey, it found a groundswell among men for "legwear as a unisex fashion".
As a result, the company created a range of male-only tights called Comfilon, for men with what Katz calls "the nylon gene". Available through a discreet-as-a-priest website, all models come with male-friendly features, fly fronts standard, and suitably reserved names such as the top-selling Style 849, a tricksy little number in black, priced from $9.99 to $14.99.
Launched three years ago, the Comfilon line now sells tens of thousands of pairs a year and there are plans to expand the range. Just another Stateside foible? No, says Katz. According to him, Comfilon has thousands of British customers, one of whom - businessman Tim Stannard - is happy to speak out for all those men in tights, or, as history buffs might call them, suffra-nets.
Stannard, a 56-year-old father of two, says he began wearing hosiery when his work -he runs his own business in Lancashire - forced him to divide his time between a warm
office and a tundra-like field site. To keep him warm, his wife bought Stannard a pair of men's thermal tights. Ideal for outdoors, they were far too hot for centrally heated interiors.
Unable to face thrice-daily underwear changes, Stannard plumped for the third way, buying himself a pair of women's thick (70 denier, if you must know) black tights.
"The lady who served me asked about size. When I said they were for me she asked if I was going to rob a bank," he says. At the time of this writing, ActivSkin was being sold under the Comfilon brand name.
Though Stannard's first hose experience proved unsuccessful - "The tights were too thick. The ideal is about 15 or 20 denier" - he soon became a convert. Warmth is not the only reason men head for the hosiery department. Cyclists such as Lance Armstrong of the US have long been sold on the aerodynamic properties of tights, as have wrestlers and increasing numbers of professional runners. But for Steve Newman, 41, the selling point is medical.
When Newman noticed the onset of varicose veins, the US engineer was advised by his doctor to wear support socks. When the elastic band cut into his leg just below the knee, the doctor suggested off-the-shelf tights instead - with positive results.
"After wearing them for a time, the aching in my legs disappeared," says Newman. Since then, tights have become a regular fixture in his wardrobe and his problem veins have all but gone.
What about the more serious DVT? Last year, footwear group Scholl launched its own range of Flight Socks, designed to prevent aviation-induced thromboses by, supposedly, stimulating blood circulation in the legs (ý11.95 to ý12.99). However, leading DVT expert Patrick Kesteven, consultant haematologist at Newcastle upon Tyne's Freeman Hospital, says there is little evidence to support claims that hosiery, of any sort, will actually prevent long-haul blood clots.
Support stockings - thigh-length socks that apply pressure to the legs - may prevent some varicose veins from forming and some "sluggish" blood from clotting, and they may reduce the incidence of post-DVT leg-swelling. But Kesteven says there is no hard
proof that over-the-counter products offer any benefit.
"The only medical use for tights I've seen is to prevent jellyfish stings. Queensland lifesavers wear them over their heads," he says.
Whatever the pros of hose, the biggest problem remains the s-word: stigma. Surely, tights are for women - always have been, always will be. Not so, says Aileen Ribeiro, professor of the history of dress at the Courtauld Institute of Art. Tights were, of course, once a male-only preserve, believed to accentuate masculinity, not mock it. In ancient Rome, tights were worn exclusively by testosterone-fuelled, burly workers, for whom the toga was an impractical luxury.
"Drape garments implied a sort of patrician indolence," says Ribeiro.
By the 14th century, men of all classes wore their tights with pride. Improvements in textile manufacture, especially the advent of bias-cutting, led to a closer-fitting hose for those who could afford it, with men competing to see whose tights were tightest. Unfortunately, tunics were also getting shorter and men often unwittingly revealed themselves in ways that caused polite society to gasp. In her book Dress and Morality (B.T. Batsford, ý25), Ribeiro says men's hose at the time provoked "quite a lot of moral comment". Still, tights remained an essential menswear item.
So, when women dared to wear them, not under dresses, but alone, as trousers, there was mass hysteria.
"There was a big fear of women usurping the male role by wearing anything of this kind, because it would flaunt their sexuality and subvert men's, too," says Ribeiro.
Fast forward 500 years, and it's men's turn to storm the pantyhose barricade. The only problem, for the mainstream hosiery industry, is persuading more men to overcome their modern prejudice and buy tights. Atavistic tradition is one thing, but it's a brave 21st century father who asks his children for silkies, not socks on Father's day.
Perhaps the industry needs to rebrand tights, to remove their feminine image, and make them more appealing to men. Four years ago, Austrian luxury hosiery company Wolford tried. It launched a men's range, with the anatomically curious name "Waist-sock", which has been reasonably successful (ý52/$98).
But Robert Safko, owner of Shapings.com, does not think obfuscation is the right approach. He believes manufacturers wishing to tap into the male market must devise a name for tights that implies strength and endurance. His own choice: Men's Power Skin.
TIGHT CORNERS> Comfilon Men's Legwear, PO Box 193, Granville, Ohio (+1 740-
587 2860); http://www.comfilon.com/> Shapings, inquiries: +1 905-627 2898;
http://www.shapings.com/> Wolford, in the UK: inquiries: 020-7935 9202; in the
US: 619 Madison Avenue, New York (+1 212-688 4850); http://www.wolford.com/>
Scholl, inquiries: 0161-654 3097, http://www.flightsocks.com/>
By Matthew Temple
FT.com site; Jun 07, 2002
William Shakespeare must be turning in his gusset. Why? Modern man has taken a shine to those hallmarks of the Elizabethan male, tights. Before you ask, the new breed of hose-hitcher is neither a fetishist nor a cross-dresser. For him, it's all about comfort, warmth and health. Honest.
Evidently, increasing numbers of men are turning to women's tights, or pantyhose, as an alternative to bulky thermals. For the athletically challenged, tights are seen as a chance to enhance sporting performance. Some even believe they can reduce varicose veins and prevent medicine's latest býte noire, deep vein thrombosis.
At Canadian online lingerie seller Shapings.com, men account for 85 per cent of women's hosiery sales, many buying a pair of tights for their wives and a larger size for themselves (from C$3.55 to C$27.95). This is a surprisingly serious trend.
"We knew that men bought women's hosiery, but, like everyone else, we assumed it was for cross-dressing purposes," says Steve Katz, managing partner of Ohio-based G Lieberman & Sons. But when the family-run hosiery business, wanting to reinvent itself as an e-commerce operation after 80 years, commissioned a market survey, it found a groundswell among men for "legwear as a unisex fashion".
As a result, the company created a range of male-only tights called Comfilon, for men with what Katz calls "the nylon gene". Available through a discreet-as-a-priest website, all models come with male-friendly features, fly fronts standard, and suitably reserved names such as the top-selling Style 849, a tricksy little number in black, priced from $9.99 to $14.99.
Launched three years ago, the Comfilon line now sells tens of thousands of pairs a year and there are plans to expand the range. Just another Stateside foible? No, says Katz. According to him, Comfilon has thousands of British customers, one of whom - businessman Tim Stannard - is happy to speak out for all those men in tights, or, as history buffs might call them, suffra-nets.
Stannard, a 56-year-old father of two, says he began wearing hosiery when his work -he runs his own business in Lancashire - forced him to divide his time between a warm
office and a tundra-like field site. To keep him warm, his wife bought Stannard a pair of men's thermal tights. Ideal for outdoors, they were far too hot for centrally heated interiors.
Unable to face thrice-daily underwear changes, Stannard plumped for the third way, buying himself a pair of women's thick (70 denier, if you must know) black tights.
"The lady who served me asked about size. When I said they were for me she asked if I was going to rob a bank," he says. At the time of this writing, ActivSkin was being sold under the Comfilon brand name.
Though Stannard's first hose experience proved unsuccessful - "The tights were too thick. The ideal is about 15 or 20 denier" - he soon became a convert. Warmth is not the only reason men head for the hosiery department. Cyclists such as Lance Armstrong of the US have long been sold on the aerodynamic properties of tights, as have wrestlers and increasing numbers of professional runners. But for Steve Newman, 41, the selling point is medical.
When Newman noticed the onset of varicose veins, the US engineer was advised by his doctor to wear support socks. When the elastic band cut into his leg just below the knee, the doctor suggested off-the-shelf tights instead - with positive results.
"After wearing them for a time, the aching in my legs disappeared," says Newman. Since then, tights have become a regular fixture in his wardrobe and his problem veins have all but gone.
What about the more serious DVT? Last year, footwear group Scholl launched its own range of Flight Socks, designed to prevent aviation-induced thromboses by, supposedly, stimulating blood circulation in the legs (ý11.95 to ý12.99). However, leading DVT expert Patrick Kesteven, consultant haematologist at Newcastle upon Tyne's Freeman Hospital, says there is little evidence to support claims that hosiery, of any sort, will actually prevent long-haul blood clots.
Support stockings - thigh-length socks that apply pressure to the legs - may prevent some varicose veins from forming and some "sluggish" blood from clotting, and they may reduce the incidence of post-DVT leg-swelling. But Kesteven says there is no hard
proof that over-the-counter products offer any benefit.
"The only medical use for tights I've seen is to prevent jellyfish stings. Queensland lifesavers wear them over their heads," he says.
Whatever the pros of hose, the biggest problem remains the s-word: stigma. Surely, tights are for women - always have been, always will be. Not so, says Aileen Ribeiro, professor of the history of dress at the Courtauld Institute of Art. Tights were, of course, once a male-only preserve, believed to accentuate masculinity, not mock it. In ancient Rome, tights were worn exclusively by testosterone-fuelled, burly workers, for whom the toga was an impractical luxury.
"Drape garments implied a sort of patrician indolence," says Ribeiro.
By the 14th century, men of all classes wore their tights with pride. Improvements in textile manufacture, especially the advent of bias-cutting, led to a closer-fitting hose for those who could afford it, with men competing to see whose tights were tightest. Unfortunately, tunics were also getting shorter and men often unwittingly revealed themselves in ways that caused polite society to gasp. In her book Dress and Morality (B.T. Batsford, ý25), Ribeiro says men's hose at the time provoked "quite a lot of moral comment". Still, tights remained an essential menswear item.
So, when women dared to wear them, not under dresses, but alone, as trousers, there was mass hysteria.
"There was a big fear of women usurping the male role by wearing anything of this kind, because it would flaunt their sexuality and subvert men's, too," says Ribeiro.
Fast forward 500 years, and it's men's turn to storm the pantyhose barricade. The only problem, for the mainstream hosiery industry, is persuading more men to overcome their modern prejudice and buy tights. Atavistic tradition is one thing, but it's a brave 21st century father who asks his children for silkies, not socks on Father's day.
Perhaps the industry needs to rebrand tights, to remove their feminine image, and make them more appealing to men. Four years ago, Austrian luxury hosiery company Wolford tried. It launched a men's range, with the anatomically curious name "Waist-sock", which has been reasonably successful (ý52/$98).
But Robert Safko, owner of Shapings.com, does not think obfuscation is the right approach. He believes manufacturers wishing to tap into the male market must devise a name for tights that implies strength and endurance. His own choice: Men's Power Skin.
TIGHT CORNERS> Comfilon Men's Legwear, PO Box 193, Granville, Ohio (+1 740-
587 2860); http://www.comfilon.com/> Shapings, inquiries: +1 905-627 2898;
http://www.shapings.com/> Wolford, in the UK: inquiries: 020-7935 9202; in the
US: 619 Madison Avenue, New York (+1 212-688 4850); http://www.wolford.com/>
Scholl, inquiries: 0161-654 3097, http://www.flightsocks.com/>
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