Rubberworm

Mmmmm...now that is interesting! From PiggyCage

Feb 22 Latexa/Human photo session

This was a hot one! The suit was sloshy with sweat by the end.











Full skintight rubber enclosure! Mmmm....

More men in tights

BAGGY-PANTS THUGGERY & HIP-HOP BURLESQUE

CLOTHING AS SEXUAL POLITICS IN AMERICA

By Kevin Esser
http://home.wanadoo.nl/ipce/library_two/files/esser_baggy.htm

Do gay guys wear tight pants so other guys can check out their butts?
That’s what some teenaged boy wanted to know in a 1996 film documentary dealing with gay issues in the classroom. How else could he think? What else could he wonder given today’s dress code of Hetero Correctness? His question has been answered by many dismal years of American males in oversized, baggy clothing—men and boys hidden from one another, hidden from themselves, hidden from the dangerous reality of their own bodies.

An otherwise sensible gentleman confesses to watching these boys in their baggy clownshirts and clownpants, to finding them actually attractive. Room enough, he jokes, to climb in there with them and play around. Nothing but a laugh to him, this situation, nothing to contemplate beyond the boys themselves and the disheveled, butch excitement he finds in them. Of course, boys in Nazi scouting regalia might also have seemed cute as teddy bears—those sporty shorts, those jaunty neckerchiefs—but no one should be so oblivious as to ignore the brutish agenda behind the attire. Not then, not now.

When did this start?
How did this stylized disfigurement of an entire gender become the norm? It’s a discussion that begs to be illustrated: here a boy in “shorts” that reach comically to his ankles; here another in pants with a crotch that sags to his knees; here yet another dressed for the beach, a foolish spectacle in swim trunks that might have come from Bozo’s closet. No bare thighs or knees. No evidence of hips or buttocks. Nothing now but a sad-sack army of anonymous males, shapeless and identical, shorn and shrouded like so many ritual mourners, like prisoners of war, like refugees from some battle fought and lost.

To understand what’s happening now, go back to a time when that battle, that war, seemed to have been fought and won. Go back, let’s say, thirty years. Startling now to see movies or photos from those days—from the Sixties, the Seventies, right through the mid-Eighties.

Boys in mini cut-offs and bare-tummy T-shirts, in mesh tanktops and knee socks and the scantiest of gym shorts, the clingiest of sweatshorts, often with no underwear, more provocative that way, nothing to confine the bulge in front or the cheeks in back. Full and frank display. Startling now, yes, but not back then. Young males were expected to look that way, just a natural aspect of their whole cocky, rude, show-off persona. But what explains that nonchalant acceptance? What explains those fleeting years of erotic flamboyance? And what happened to bring doomsday to Eden?

It’s useful to remember, as historical context, that males have always determined and governed the rules of modesty—both for women and for themselves. Men have always decided, in this and every other culture, how the body will be displayed, and where, and to what effect.

A hundred years ago, even in America, the unclothed male form was not an unusual sight, regardless of what we might think today about Victorian prudery or Edwardian stuffiness. Boxers of that era commonly fought in miniscule trunks that left the buttocks mostly bare.

(Take another look at the George Bellows painting, Stag at Sharkey’s. Or ponder the image of “Gentleman Jim” Corbett nearly naked in his 1897 bout versus Robert Fitzsimmons.)

Young boys, even teenagers, routinely swam nude in public—given the evidence of archival films and photographs—no shock at all to see them skinny-dipping from city docks and piers or splashing naked in the municipal fountains of crowded city squares, in full view of urban passers-by and onlookers. Swimmers at male-only YMCA pools and school pools and community pools were expected, often obliged, to swim nude.

The culture was guided by the Greco-Roman ethos of the gymnasium (a word that means, don’t forget, to exercise naked), masculine physicality unblinkingly accepted in all its uncouth dynamism of muscle and gristle and sweat. Only much later in the century did this casual acceptance give way to a more suburban, middle-class code of modesty that we’ve come to associate with the 1950s and with Eisenhower-era conservatism. The male form gradually disappeared in this country as an object of public spectacle. Years would pass before new sociocultural developments spawned its return.

The so-called Sexual Revolution
was this momentous rebirthing force. Boys and girls both were suddenly happy and eager to shed their conservative drag, to exhibit themselves, to flaunt themselves more and more boldly, more and more immodestly. Woodstock Nation. The return to nature. Back to the Garden.

Hell, why not go all the way and strip bare? Remember streaking? Largely, no surprise, it was a male phenomenon—ritualized exhibitionism, flashing as a fad, what you’d expect from boys with all inhibitions erased.

Hair and Oh! Calcutta! brought this frolic of youthful nudity to the stage. At the movies, Franco Zeffirelli created a Romeo and Juliet in 1968 that epitomized this Age of Aquarius sensuality, his young men and boys voluptuous in their hose and codpieces, his puppyish teenaged Romeo shown frankly and delectably naked.

For roughly twenty years, this male riot of bodily display would equal or surpass anything enjoyed by females, boys often more skimpily and seductively attired than girls, packs of them prowling the malls and the arcades like half-naked catamites, denim shorts so tight they wouldn’t zip.

And yet, call it a paradox,
this lusty romp thrived in a milieu of sexual naiveté, the revelers themselves all gleefully anarchic in a juvenile sort of way, like children first discovering their own bodies, fascinated and giggly and eager for new sensation..

The original Flower Child exuberance gave way, in the Seventies, to the feral excess of punk and glam, a carnival of hedonism and sexual ambivalence featuring the likes of Queen, Lou Reed, Iggy Pop, David Bowie. Long hair on girls, long hair on boys. Short-shorts on girls, short-shorts on boys. The teen idols from these years—tender boytoys such as Davy Jones, David Cassidy and his brother Shaun, Leif Garrett, Tony DeFranco—were the perfect avatars of this new androgyny.

There was a unisex worship of the id, a unisex celebration of the Body Erotic that reached its heyday with disco, with Village People and Frankie Goes to Hollywood, with macho men doing the milkshake and having fun at the YMCA. Suddenly, remarkably, gay and mainstream were one and the same, no segregation, no distinction between queer and straight, an entire culture cheerfully and unwittingly homo-eroticized. The hetero aesthetic and the homo aesthetic had become indistinguishable among young males—in matters of music, hairstyles, and, yes, clothing—no thought or care given beyond looking good and feeling good.

This twenty-year idyll of naïve flamboyance burned brightest at the end. Michael Jackson, Duran Duran, Prince, Wham!, Menudo—the biggest male pop stars of this fin de disco era all were icons of sumptuous androgyny. Break-dancing provided the fiercely libidinous backdrop with its brash accoutrements of chains and tight leather, of rising-sun muscle shirts and samurai headbands. Francis Ford Coppola, with his 1983 film of The Outsiders, contributed a melodrama of sultry teen fellowship that gave us characters named Johnny and Sodapop and Ponyboy swooning prettily in one another’s arms. On the radio, a song called Let’s Hear It For The Boy became the fitting anthem for this gaudy and rambunctious eve of destruction.

Then, as gradually at first as someone waking from contented dreams, this culture of androgyny and lush playfulness began its sad metamorphosis.
Two powerful sociopolitical forces were already lumbering towards collision by this time, namely the mid-Eighties, with young males trapped between as unfortunate casualties.

Repressive demagoguery from the Right, clamorous identity and advocacy politics from the Left.

One without the other would have been the hammer without the anvil; together, these counterforces met head-on and obliterated twenty years of high-spirited masculine display, twenty years of young men and boys flaunting the beauty and sexiness of their own bodies. That type of “gay” behavior, as it now seemed, became anathema, intolerable.

It’s tidy and convenient and largely accurate to pinpoint 1980 as the fateful turning point, the year of Reagan’s election and the political ascendancy of his right-wing coalition—even though the full seismic shocks went unfelt for several more years. These dour neo-Puritan champions of so-called “family values” quickly took up arms against a sea of perceived indecencies.

The White House itself led this crusade, Reagan’s Attorney General Ed Meese issuing his report on pornography in 1986. Congress passed its own draconian Child Protection Act of 1984 as a sop to the psycho-sexual hysteria being generated by the Christian Right and by the new industry of abuse and victimization that blossomed at this time. Regressive hypnotherapy and its windfall of recovered memories, later discredited, fueled this boom industry. Police and prosecutors throughout the country, with gleeful media complicity, were suddenly awash in cases of alleged pedophile rings and ritual Satanic abuse, the vast majority of which proved to be unfounded and were never even brought to trial. Jerry Falwell and his Moral Majority, Phyllis Schlafly and her Eagle Forum—these and other demagogues had moved from the sidelines to the establishment center, bringing their potent arsenals of hate-mongering and humorless conformity with them.

At this same time, charging from the opposite ideological direction, came the aggressive activism and rhetoric of Gay Identity Politics. This is not to say that gay activism was an invention of the 1980s. Homosexuals had been politically strident for many years, the Stonewall Riot of 1969 just the most notable event in a tumultuous history. But that earlier activism had been a desperate struggle for basic civil liberties, for freedom from police harassment, for the right to assemble, to fraternize, to exist. This new radicalism was something altogether different, nothing less than a full-scale assault on the American mainstream in order to establish, forcefully and permanently, a distinct gay identity and a powerful political presence. The struggle for basic rights and minimal tolerance had now given way to a demand for total recognition and total acceptance.

The catastrophe of AIDS, more than anything else, inspired the zealotry of this movement. By 1982, the health crisis was already being featured in Time and Newsweek and other mainstream media outlets. The sensuous frivolity of disco and its early-Eighties denouement was now being replaced by a type of left-wing gay activism just as grim and humorless as its right-wing counterpart. Understandable, given the deadly stakes, no time or energy to waste for those engaged in this ghastly struggle for survival. Rock Hudson became the AIDS poster boy in 1985, bringing unprecedented publicity while also personalizing the murky gay identity for hetero America. ACT UP and Queer Nation, among others, further fanned the flames of publicity and national awareness. More and more, there was this very real prominence of homosexuality as an “alternative lifestyle” and a distinct subculture or other-culture apart from the hetero mainstream. That twenty-year idyll of naïve and flamboyant androgyny had truly and thoroughly ended.

So what exactly took its place? What was happening by the late Eighties? By 1990?
The onslaught of right-wing orthodoxy and its conformist agenda had proven itself ruthlessly effective. Intergenerational sex had become demonized in new and sensational ways. The age of consent was being revised and raised nationwide, state by state, to redefine the very nature of childhood. Anti-pornography hysteria and litigation (with the wrongheaded support of radical feminists and lesbians) continued to thrive, from Cincinnati art galleries to the Sears catalog, a chilling wave of censorship and intimidation soon exported by America Prime to its far-flung imperium (Western Europe, the Philippines, Thailand, etc.). Robert Mapplethorpe’s and Sally Mann’s photographs, Michelangelo’s David, Isabelle Holland’s The Man Without A Face—all were attacked as obscene, as perverted, as inimical to Americans and Christians everywhere. A film such as Popi, rated “G” upon its original release in 1969 despite several scenes of pubescent male nudity, now would have met the legal definition of obscenity in most American communities. The giant retailers, led by Sears and JCPenney and Montgomery Ward, even stopped using live models in their ads for boys’ underwear, the national psyche attuned by this time to seeing scantily-clad young males solely in terms of homo-eroticism and kiddie porn.

The gay-rights movement itself shared responsibility for this upheaval of sexual fear and loathing. Its AIDS-fueled militancy had been successful in gaining a token seat at the noisy multicultural table, but the response from hetero America was something close to panic. Like intoxicated libertines suddenly waking in some stranger’s bed, heterosexual males suffered a traumatic morning-after of revulsion and self-disgust, frantic to distance themselves from both the literal and figurative contagion of homosexuality. Gay Identity Politics had met head-on with the inevitable “equal and opposite reaction” of Hetero Identity Politics. Left-wing zealotry had collided with right-wing zealotry to create a profound cultural schism, forcing the public to identify with one sexual camp or the other—gay and proud over here, straight and proud over there.

Once begun, this sexual divergence became an unstoppable duel of force/counterforce. Gay Pride Parades and Christian counter-rallies competed on the evening news. We’re here and we’re queer! God hates fags!

For the first time, certain images and iconography were being openly identified and celebrated as gay. For the first time, boldly distinctive ways of looking and dressing gay were being publicized for the whole world to see. Those same ways of looking and dressing which an entire culture had joyfully shared for so many years now became the unique style of a queer other-culture. Straight males, conditioned by the new right-wing orthodoxy and its "family values” homophobia, began looking in the mirror to find themselves, much to their squeamish amazement, dressed like faggots, dressed in the kind of short, tight clothing that only girls or queers would wear. Being sexy and displaying the body, from now on, could be for homos only, not for real men.

But if short-and-tight was now gay, then what was straight? If skimpy-and-sexy was now improperly homo, then what was properly hetero? How should this new culture of Hetero Separatism and Hetero Correctness express itself?

This conundrum had never existed before. In the days before Gay Identity Politics, there had been a naïve disregard for sexual orientation, a simplistic credo that maleness always meant heteroness. Sure, queers existed, but somewhere else, maybe in Greenwich Village or some offbeat locale like San Francisco. They were invisible; they were irrelevant. However males chose to look or behave or dress was, ipso facto, properly and appropriately heterosexual because, after all, what else could it be? Nothing can “look gay” when there’s no gay way to look, no gay identity, no gay anything. Boys in Speedos? Hetero. Boys in short-shorts? Hetero. Only when gays asserted themselves to become a conspicuous and distinctive subpopulation, a distinctive demographic Other to the hetero Us, did a way of looking gay and dressing gay emerge.

Aggressive self-promotion of this gay identity, coupled with the equally aggressive counterattack of Hetero Separatism, forced young men and boys everywhere to start dressing themselves not just as proper males but, for the first time, as proper straight males.

This was something new in the history of Western culture. Male attire had always, more or less, been specific to gender, but never to sexual orientation. The naughty unisex protocol of the previous twenty years had been replaced by a stern protocol of dualism. Girls and queers had laid claim to short-and-tight, to skimpy-and-sexy, so boys, not wanting to be seen as sissy or gay, began a frenetic scramble to establish a new and exclusively hetero male protocol that would mark them as separate, that would proclaim their own straight, macho identity. By the rule of opposites, this new uniform of Hetero Correctness replaced short with long, tight with loose, skimpy with baggy, sexy with shapeless.

A new anti-gay aesthetic had been born. Not all of this happened overnight. The metamorphosis was gradual but relentless. On the basketball court, as early as the mid-Eighties, Michael Jordan was showcasing an original way of looking macho in shorts that were longer and baggier than any worn before. In college basketball, Michigan State and some few other schools became early converts to this new and still slightly odd style of covering up to display manliness, covering up to be cool.

Not surprising that a game dominated by African-Americans should be the trendsetter. Young blacks, long at the cultural forefront, were now using their innovative prowess to undo what they themselves had helped to create over the previous twenty years. This urban culture of rap and hip-hop would become the dominant force of the Nineties—more than just a way of dressing, actually a new lifestyle of Hetero Extremism, a street religion of cartoonish and exaggerated heterosexual behaviors and attitudes, beliefs and taboos.

What Michael Jordan had first popularized on the basketball court was now adopted and adapted and embellished by this culture of hip-hop into an extravagant caricature of sloppy, goonish virility. Of course, hip-hop is just an easy label for the new way of thinking and behaving which has come to define maleness. It’s a huge catchall of mannerisms and music and language and, not least, fashion. It’s a manifestation of Hetero Separatism, but not the cause. Simply ascribing the current burlesque of male bagginess to “hip-hop fashion” is to mistake the symptom for the disease.

Early on, in fact, a Seattle-born movement of music and attitude called “grunge” vied with hip-hop as the prime pop-cultural force among American youth. Nirvana and Pearl Jam exemplified this genre of neo-punkish, suburban angst. But whether the offshoot is grunge or hip-hop or some other subcultural variant such as Goth or gangsta or slacker, the aggressively hetero taproot remains, each style identical in its gross contempt for the male body, the idea now not only to cover and conceal but actually to disfigure and uglify as a proclamation of gender integrity.

Buffoonishly oversized clothing is worn in protective layers, like sexual camouflage, to obliterate any trace of the body’s shape or contour: baggy jackets over baggy shirts over baggy pants, the pants themselves with low-sewn crotches specifically designed to make the fabric sag and flatten in front and at the seat, eliminating once and forever the unsavory homo spectacle of hips and bulges and buttocks. Boys end up looking freakishly elongated and misshapen, like figures distorted in a funhouse mirror.

Much was made, at first, of this bagginess as just another youthful fashion trend, just kids being kids, just the latest way of looking cool, defiant, outrageous. Teenagers themselves, mostly boys but also some girls, could offer no deeper insight or self-perception, usually describing their own bizarre wardrobe as comfortable, simply comfortable. This profoundly significant mode of expression was dismissed as something merely frivolous, few people if any fully understanding the deeper, more insidious explanation for their own appearance.

Soon enough, girls stopped having anything to do with this new way of dressing, never more to them than a whimsical fashion fling, a brief foray into the outlandish, like playing dress-up at Halloween. They left baggy clothing to the boys and happily claimed for themselves a monopoly of the Body Erotic.

For the boys, there was no choice, no alternative. What girls were free to choose or discard as just another style, no more permanent than platform shoes or tie-dye, boys were forced to continue wearing as a self-imposed and mandatory uniform. Whether packaged as hip-hop or grunge or some other pop-cultural curiosity, baggy clothing was now the centerpiece of a rigidly enforced dress code, the outward and immutable expression of male anti-gay solidarity. Once established, this dress code of Hetero Correctness made any retreat impossible, appearance linked inextricably to sexuality from now on.

In other words, this fashion is not a fashion. This style is not a style. Baggy clothing is now a permanent and essential weapon in the defense of proper, hetero masculinity. Boys announce to themselves and to the world, every time they dress this way, their own witless self-loathing, their own dull and knee-jerk acceptance of male grossness, male brutishness. Young men and boys, who once displayed themselves in clothing that was all about being frisky, playful, affectionate, sexy, open, unique, beautiful, joyous, now shroud themselves to appear grim, dark, covered, sullen, thuggish, hostile, ugly, shapeless, anonymous.

This new regime of male self-abhorrence should be plain for everyone to see, for everyone to understand. Men and boys are declaring, loudly and belligerently and unmistakably, that females and only females are attractive and sexually alluring; that only females may dress seductively and flaunt their sexiness; that only females may be viewed as exciting, erotic beings.

That, furthermore, as healthy heterosexuals, males themselves must feel not just a positive attraction towards females but an actual revulsion for other males, and must display this revulsion, this manly self-contempt, by disfiguring themselves, by covering themselves, by sparing themselves and one another the unpleasant sight of their own bodies. Boys are not physically attractive; boys are not sexually alluring; boys must not be viewed, by themselves or by others, as exciting, erotic beings. The clownish, baggy clothing they wear is the uniform of this proud Hetero Manifesto of mutual loathing.

But how is this current uniformity any different from the behavior of previous generations of teenagers? Haven’t young people always craved the security of the pack? Weren’t boys just as mindlessly conformist twenty years ago in their tight short-shorts and knee socks as they are today?

Yes, they were—the adolescent herd mentality never changes. But yesterday’s conformity, to call it that, was actually a collective celebration of each boy’s uniqueness. Today’s identical bagginess is designed to hide the body and to make everyone appear drably the same, shapelessly and sexlessly anonymous; yesterday’s aesthetic of short-and-tight was designed to achieve the very opposite, to show the body and to display each of those bodies as unique, to display each and every boy as unique, each form, each figure, each shape beautifully different, beautifully distinct.

Yesterday’s style also was just that: a style. It arrived, it thrived, it eventually expired. Never, even during its heyday, was it the sole and only way for males to dress. Young men and boys might have reveled in the freedom of that sexy clothing, but other choices certainly existed. Today, those choices are gone. All clothing for young males is more or less baggy. Any boy who might, in some rebellious mood, desire to wear something tighter or shorter is simply out of luck. That type of clothing is no longer manufactured by major labels or sold by major retailers. Bagginess is not a style; bagginess is not a choice; bagginess is a strict and uncompromising code of heterosexual propriety.

Even within the gay community itself, of course, baggy clothing has now become the norm. But this should surprise no one. The same political activism which first brought a startling new gay identity to the national consciousness eventually won homosexuals an uneasy measure of acceptance and respectability from the socio-cultural mainstream.

Once inside the master’s house, these former pariahs became eager to consolidate their newfound status by blending in, by stressing sameness over difference, by showcasing themselves as “normal” members of the diverse American family. This sheepish compliance has bred a conformist mentality no less rigid and dull-witted than the regimentation of Hetero Correctness itself. Gays now prove their “we’re just like you” normality by aping the conventions of the straight mainstream, which means looking and dressing like every other “normal” Tom, Dick, and Harry. The edgy symbiosis has come full circle; homo and hetero have once again become largely indistinguishable; only this time, today, it’s the straight aesthetic of shapeless anonymity providing the insipid template.

So, given the absence nowadays of an urgent gay threat, the absence of a flamboyant queer nemesis, why do heterosexuals persist in their own aggressively separatist dress code? The answer has already been given: Once established, this dress code makes any retreat impossible. Once a “hetero look” has been prescribed, there’s no renouncing it without renouncing your own sexual orientation. Abandoning it would equal a declaration of gayness.

Never mind the craven eagerness of homosexuals themselves to assimilate; the stereotypical “gay look” remains vivid in the cultural memory and can never again be allowed to contaminate straight males. No clothing must ever again be too tight or too short—in other words, too gay. No boy must ever again show too much bare skin or display himself in any way that might acknowledge the beauty of his own body or encourage the world to look at him, to desire him—because that would mark him as a sissy, a deviant, a fairy.

Sure, gays might be good campy fun these days, quaintly and comically entertaining in The Birdcage or on Will & Grace, maybe even worthy of pity as the tragic victims of AIDS—but no one should want to be like them, no one should want to be mistaken for them. They’re OK, but still, after all. . . they’re gay, forever the Other, forever the Opposite.

Any glance around the cultural landscape will confirm this state of hopeless, no-retreat intransigence. What began as a random and spontaneous consequence of gay radicalism colliding with hetero orthodoxy has become institutionalized and commercialized and vigorously marketed by corporate America, not only in this country but throughout the entire Americanized world. Watch any TV show from Venezuela, from England, from South Korea—pick a country, you’ll see the same baggy male clothing, the same unwitting emulation of America and its hip-hop burlesque of Hetero Extremism.

Every aspect of male life betrays this style that is no style, this fashion that is no fashion. Sports, due to Michael Jordan’s early influence, were first to convert and transmogrify, basketball especially susceptible to this grotesque imperative of the thuggish, of the buffoonish. All other sports quickly and slavishly followed, an identical evolution from short to long, from tight to baggy. Soccer shorts and gym shorts, track shorts and tennis shorts and boxing trunks—all underwent this same transformation. Wrestling singlets also were lengthened to eliminate the inappropriate display of bare thighs.

Even beyond athletics, this rule of long-and-baggy forced the redesign of everything from scout uniforms to clothing for infants and toddlers. But only male scouts, of course. And only male infants and toddlers. This supposedly teen fashion, just kids being kids, has altered the appearance and character of an entire gender, no regard to age or race or any other demographic factor that might normally determine a style’s popularity.

No spectacle more vividly betrays the true prevalence and permanence of this heterosexist über-protocol than males, young and old, in baggy swimwear. How could a mere fashion of the streets force such exaggerated body phobia at the beach? At the pool? Why would six-year-old boys and sixty-year-old men show identical subservience to something which is no more than a silly teen fad, an insignificant hip-hop whimsicality, even to the extreme of covering themselves where uncovering has always been the happy-go-lucky custom.

Swim trunks for males are now baggy swim pants, some nearly ankle-length, the farcical antithesis of everything you’d expect to see at the beach or the pool, those traditional havens of carefree and immodest display, even nudity. The pretense of bagginess equaling comfort finally crumbles in this context where nakedness, let’s face it, is the ideal. As clothing is added, comfort is reduced; as skin is covered, pleasure is diminished. Swimming is also called bathing, after all—and there’s a certain lunacy to bathing in baggy pants. Yet men and boys do just that and do it willingly, a blatant example of senseless and counterintuitive behavior that can be sustained only through persistent conditioning and aggressive marketing.

No one would want swimwear which is designed to be heavy and hot and uncomfortable unless they’ve been convinced of its overriding necessity, its deep importance as symbol and totem, its value and its virtue as a uniform of hetero identity, hetero allegiance, hetero belonging. This is institutionalized “street fashion” and “counterculture” at its most corporate, its most commercial, its most relentlessly cynical.

The body phobia produced by roughly fifteen years of this protocol and its unyielding dress code is real and drastic, an entire generation of boys trained to despise their own physiques, to look at themselves with debilitating shame.

Such an assertion might be dismissed as hyperbole, as paranoid rhetoric, as shrill alarmism—except for testimony from corporate insiders such as Stuart Isaac, vice president of sports promotions for Speedo, the company responsible for developing the new Fastskin swimsuit. This full-body suit has helped to rekindle interest in competitive swimming among young males. Why? According to Isaac himself, in an interview with the Chicago Sun-Times, boys have been “turned off” from swimming in recent years because of “their reluctance to wear a tiny suit in public.” But now, even for those kids unable to afford the full Fastskin bodysuit, Speedo and other companies have come to the rescue with a modified version, with trunks similar to bicycle shorts which are long enough—again according to Stuart Isaac—to help “alleviate concerns.”

That’s right: Boys can now stop worrying that anyone might ever again see them improperly exposed in those “tiny” suits, thanks to corporate America and institutionalized Hetero Correctness. The cardinal sin of those tiny suits, let’s not forget, being their inherent gayness. Always that equation now between showing off the body and being queer.

A recent PBS show called Shore Thing offered its own wry confirmation, wondering how best to distinguish a gay beach from its straight counterparts, then answering,

“Well, the suits are smaller and tighter here. . .”

Of course. Or take this definitive summation from yet another Chicago Sun-Times article about male swimwear:

“Anything tight on a guy—regardless of physique—is unattractive. Loose is better. For men, loose should be the only way to go.”

OK. Enough said. End of discussion. Recently, it seems, even mainstream media have recognized something oddly pathological about these current male attitudes and behaviors, coining the term “Rude Boy culture” in an attempt to make sense of the senseless.

Consider an article from the February 5, 2001 issue of Time, which observes that
“Rude Boy culture has a determined self-loathing streak”; that this Rude Boy culture
“treats women as sex objects while implying that men are morons”; that, indeed, there is “even a root uneasiness with maleness itself in some Rude Boy culture.”

All obvious to anyone who’s been paying attention. Males have abandoned the Body Erotic to females and adopted the role of gangster, of thug, of sideshow psycho, trapped in this dysfunctional persona of their own creation with no hope for escape.

In a fever of overcompensation, these predatory Rude Boys have hyper-sexualized females into what can only be described as sluttish prey. Females themselves have responded with avid complicity, smugly content in their monopoly of all things erotic and seductive, showing off more and more of themselves while males show less and less.

What’s popular now with girls, as the Washington Post and other sources have reported, are salacious items such as “booty shorts” that leave the body as bare as possible, a vogue known among designers and retailers as the “nude look.” The resulting confluence of these baggy boys and these next-to-naked girls—in any music video, for example—can be a jarringly surrealistic sight, like the freakish dalliance between some gang of deranged circus clowns and their hooker consorts.

In all this cultural debris, does any trace remain of that effulgence of male display from the Sixties, the Seventies, the early Eighties? There does, yes, but only those bits and pieces that pose no threat to the strict tenets of Hetero Correctness.

A harmless vestige of the Eighties such as People magazine’s “Sexiest Man Alive” is one high-profile example. Soap opera studs and Baywatch hunks are another, their type of bare-chested manliness still perceived as safely orthodox, their above-the-waist mode of display still acceptable. Below the waist, of course, would stigmatize them as queer—which is why Mad TV, Saturday Night Live, Late Night with Conan O’Brien, The Drew Carey Show, etc., all have portrayed “gay” characters wearing tight short-shorts or tiny Speedos for quick and easy audience recognition.

One intriguing exception to this otherwise hard-and-fast rule is professional wrestling, where many performers still compete in the scanty spandex trunks of a bygone era. This is allowed, perhaps, because of the cartoonish and fantastical nature of the wrestlers themselves, as if these ersatz superheroes and villains have been given some special license to play dress-up, to create their own alien extravaganza of brawling beefcake.

Fascinating, therefore, the enormous popularity of this spectacle throughout the culture at large, and among teenaged boys in particular. Is the bizarre homoerotic subtext itself part of the attraction? Is there a yearning, especially in the male psyche, for something lost and irretrievable? Maybe professional wrestling functions, on some deeply unspoken level, as a boisterous guilty pleasure for a culture demoralized by years of hetero orthodoxy and regimentation, a culture hungry for that type of uninhibited male flamboyance now taboo in everyday life.

And maybe, while rummaging for clues and subtext, we should ponder, just briefly, the head-to-toe veiling of fundamentalist Muslim women.
Is there some analogy between that tradition of the hijab and what’s happening now throughout America and its cultural colonies? Are young men and boys wearing their own hip-hop version of the Iranian chador and the Afghan burqa?

There’s much of the same self-loathing in these seemingly disparate situations, the same body shame and phobia, the same fanatical control of public bodily display by an overseer establishment, the same mortifying submission to one’s own depersonalization.

It’s most intriguing, though, to remember that those Muslim women are veiled, according to doctrine, as a means of blunting male desire. The female form is regarded with a sort of superstitious reverence and trepidation, as something precious that must be protected but also as something dangerously provocative that must be kept covered and suppressed.

Have American males turned this same type of custodial fanaticism against themselves? Are boys, in this country, the forbidden temptation that must always be jealously hidden? Are boys the intoxicating provocateurs who must be kept covered and suppressed? Are men and boys cowering from their own treacherous bodies beneath those layers of baggy clothing? If so, what a demented saga of inverted sexual repression and longing and self-denial these last fifteen years have been.

That must be the answer.
That metaphor of the hijab must finally explain the tenacity of what might have been and should have been nothing but a passing folly. The spell of hetero allegiance continues to exert its own powerful hold, of course, any retreat from bagginess now tantamount to gender betrayal—but put aside even that. Put aside also those tunnel-visioned explanations of bagginess as an outgrowth of the urban crime-scape, as merely a bizarre expedient for hiding weapons and drugs.

Here’s the truth: Boys are beautiful, every bit as beautiful as girls, therefore boys must be kept covered. Bagginess is necessary for hiding the reality of that male beauty. The indisputable visual evidence of that beauty, quite simply, must forever be kept under wraps. How else to preserve a strong and united hetero front? To keep the faithful in thrall? How else to perpetuate the fallacy of masculine ugliness? To maintain the illusion of males as somehow aesthetically and erotically inferior to females? Only one way: Keep boys covered in baggy hip-hop chadors. Keep their bodies and their beauty carefully concealed. Otherwise, the hetero protocol collapses.

But why search for meaning or understanding? After all the fuss and bother and overwrought analysis, aren’t we just dealing with silly trivialities of dress and appearance? Why worry about such things? Why care? So much easier to play along, to join the pack, to scoff at anyone who might differ or question. But that old Socratic maxim holds true for cultures as well as individuals: The unexamined cultural life, you could aptly paraphrase, is not worth living. Like it or not, there is significance to the way people dress themselves. Deep significance, for example, to the corseted primness of Victorian females. Deep and age-old significance to military and paramilitary uniforms, to clerical vestments, to the black garb of ultra-Orthodox Jewish males, to those Iranian chadors and those Afghan burqas. And deep significance, for those willing to see it, to the bagginess of today’s men and boys.

Clothing has meaning. Clothing sends powerful messages. There’s a way to dress that enhances and flatters the body, that proudly exhibits the body; there’s another that disrespects and debases the body, that announces shame. There’s a way to dress that shows off, that displays, that expresses self-respect and a joyous pride in one’s own beauty and strength and worth; there’s another that conceals and hides, that uglifies, that expresses self-loathing and hostility and a gloomy contempt for one’s own worthlessness.

A way that says my body is good and should be celebrated; another that says my body is bad and should be despised and covered. Ignoring these meanings and these messages is the worst kind of intellectual corruption, something cowardly and gullible in the easy denial of the utterly obvious, in the surrender to blindness and conformity with never a word of protest or challenge, such an undignified embrace of the hateful, the stupid, the oafish.

But if there’s any conspiracy to be found in all of this, it’s one of silence. Men and boys seldom if ever have understood or verbalized the motives behind their own foolish appearance, no need for pronouncements or tirades.

Once the protocol of Hetero Correctness was established some fifteen years ago, complete with its aggressively anti-gay dress code, nothing but its own momentum was necessary to carry it forward. Always a visceral and intuitive entanglement of behaviors, this protocol requires no list of instructions or explicit marching orders. It’s a protocol and a manifesto of the heart, not the head. And now, after these many years, no one even notices or wonders about the strangeness of it all.

This style that is no style, this fashion that is no fashion has become the natural order, the dreary status quo. Girls are pretty; boys are ugly. Girls are sexy and seductive; boys are goonish and repellent. Girls are prey; boys are predators. Their clothing proclaims this gospel to a world long since converted and transfixed.

So what’s the answer, finally, to that puzzled boy’s question? Is it true that gay guys wear tight pants to let other guys check out their butts? Sure, some of them, it’s a sensible enough strategy—but only those heretical few who’ve not yet camouflaged themselves in the bagginess of straight anonymity. For the most part, that boy need not worry; guys in tight pants are little more than a memory these days. Young males, in fact, might have no memory of them at all, might have trouble even believing that their fathers and uncles and older brothers once dressed, oh my god, like queers.

Nearly impossible now to make anyone understand how that once-upon-a-time loosening of inhibition and social restraint gave birth, however briefly, to an American heyday of honest desire, honestly expressed. Nearly impossible to imagine how that genie could have escaped the bottle for roughly twenty years, somehow allowing this American culture its heady fling of Boy Worship before the guardians of hetero orthodoxy were awakened to action.

More than just odd or charmingly old-fashioned, those pre-1985 filmic and photographic images of young males now strike the eye something like anthropological curiosities, like images of some lost branch of the human family tree. Or like some third, unique gender now gone extinct. The lost Boy-nymph. The vanished Boy-coquette.

Inconceivable that those exotic, come-hither creatures in their itty-bitty shorts and crotch-bulging jeans could have evolved into the baggy, shapeless clown-thugs of today. There’s an aesthetic discontinuity between them that should make anyone dizzy, those immodest show-offs from yesteryear surely some alien species or gender that mysteriously came and went, victimized by one of those cataclysmic extinctions that leave nothing but tantalizing relics and a rumor of decadent splendor.

Any other explanation is too unsettling, any serious assessment of the truth too bitter, too harsh, difficult even to contemplate a culture that would turn against itself so viciously, that would destroy some rare and beautiful part of itself simply out of hatred and ignorance and sexual hysteria. It’s a loss that everyone secretly must sense, secretly must share. Like music gone silent. Like laughter cut dead.

Fantasy coming true!

Here are the first pics of the new Latexa suit and Human Workshop latex harness and collar:

Anticipation

I'm still on holidays, but found out from my boyfriend that my new rubber suit from Latexa has arrived in Canada! I ended up getting a black one -- long story short, I lowballed a bid on eBay for the suit from a seller in Germany and ended up winning the thing! I got the suit for $CAD290 -- pretty happy with the price, considering I was planning on buying the suit for full price around $CAD450. I will still consider a custom made one at sometime in the future. I'd still like to get a transparent rubber catsuit!

Anyways, I am on my way back to Calgary tomorrow and will pick up the suit at the post office. It is a skintight full-body catsuit with attached gloves, socks and mask along with a cock & ball sheath.

Just before I left on vacation I received another decadent purchase I had made of a male rubber harness by the Hungarian Human workshop rubber tailors. I've had the chance to try it on and was quite impressed with the quality. I bought a size large and still find the waist straps a bit tight for any allowance to loosen it around my 33 inch waist, however the look is hot! It also had a cockring which will look especially erotic with the rubber sheath of the suit. I also bought it along with a rubber posture collar.

I can't wait to lube up and get into the suit and put on the harness and collar tomorrow! Pictures are certainly soon to follow!

Olympic Influences

Suiting up for Salt Lake

By Sylvi Capelaci, Sun Media

When Canada's speed demons go for Olympic gold in Salt Lake City, their skinsuits will get top marks for technical merit and artistic impression.

The Spiderman-like uniforms to be worn by Canada's alpine and speed-skating superheroes has everyone talking -- possibly more than when Roots launched their official Olympic uniforms and famous red-wool poor-boy cap.

The cutting-edge racing designs combine the technological know-how of Descente sportswear company with the aesthetic eye of American Oscar-winning costume designer Eiko Ishioka, of Bram Stoker's Dracula and The Cell fame.

"When you are coming down the hill and your body is cutting through the air at a high speed for over 11/2 minutes, this is where the suit can make all the difference. We're talking one one-hundreths of a second," says veteran "Crazy Canuck" Olympian skier Ken Read.

Canada's downhill skiers will wear the Vortex C1 suit, technically engineered to maximize stability and reduce drag.

The suit is designed in a patriotic metallic red with shaded yellow areas to highlight the body's natural heat zones. The front and back features the names of 600 Canadian cities while the names of each ski team member run down the right arm.

Equally as innovative are Descente's Vortex C2 speed-skating uniforms. "They are designed to control and reduce turbulence through the use of silicon strips forming a spiral pattern around the thighs and lower arm," says Dr. Ruth Morey Sorrentino director of research and technology at the Calgary Olympic Oval. This "Muscle Suit" is made from a red featherweight filmy fabric with iridescent shading around the muscle groups to make them stand out.

Tiny Trends

The Vortex C1 Alpine suit will be turning heads at the Winter Olympics, which start Feb. 8.

"The suits were tested in wind tunnels last summer at the National Research Council in Ottawa, the same tunnels used to test Formula One cars and airplanes," she says.

Catriona LeMay Doan thinks the suits are going to wow at the Olympics. "I feel that we are going to be intimidating to the rest of the countries. They are very different and pretty daring. Eiko wanted to bring out the beauty of our bodies and our muscles -- emphasizing what we've spent 20 years working on."

Sun Olympic sports writer Steve Buffery says the suit will not make or break Doan's performance, "You could put Catriona in a pair of shorts and a sweat shirt and she's still going to beat everybody."

Canadian designer Brian Bailey thinks the suits look amazing: "They have a shock value. These suits are totally intimidating. They make me think of Spiderman or a sci-fi movie."

Bailey says when it comes right down to it, "It's all about theatrics. The uniforms are going to create a whole new level of excitement around speed skating."

Bailey likens their inevitable popularity to what Katarina Witt's costumes did for competitive figure skating. "They'll be turning speed skating into a fashion event just like figure skating, which means more people will watch it."

Bailey questions why the sportswear technicians have not yet streamlined hockey uniforms to enhance player performance, "Just imagine Team Canada in second-skin aerodynamic suits with built-in airbags that inflate on impact."

Who the FoxZatt?

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!

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 ...

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