was panting, too, but he had enough energy to grab hands full of canvas,
and haul my body closer to where he was kneeling. As he dragged me,
my taped face was soon between his legs as he knelt. Then with an
upward pull, my mouth was heading inevitably for his crotch. The bastard,
he was really proving his point. I was totally helpless. A hand, gentle
but determined, buried my face against his groin, his twill pants
gazing my face. Raising and lowering his pelvis he again demonstrated
that he could do whatever he chose to do.
to change his position. He left me inert, and from my ground-level
view I watched his tall boots move to settle against the end of the
bed as Harry sat down on it.
forward he dragged me on my crossed arms until my head was face-down
between those boots, and they closed in on either side of my head,
clamping my ears painfully. All I could see in my eye-line were the
heels of his well-worn, scuffed boots, traces of dried mud still in
the cleats of their thick soles.
then shifted out of sight, and I felt his leather ankles tighten in
against the sides of my neck and felt his toes under the front of
my shoulders. The leather legs now clamping my entire body, and I
heard a mocking jaunty voice from somewhere above me say:
out of that, as Morecombe and Wise used to say. Go on, make a break
for it. You're heavier than me ... than I, he corrected himself.
Remember old Adkin at The Grammar? Give it a shot Big Feller. Let's
see you struggle.
like in the old days he was provoking, taunting, daring. He knew I
could never resist a challenge. I gave it a shot. Using my whole bodyweight
I bucked back away from him, but the boot legs held me firm. I rolled
experimentally, twisted more vigorously attempted to turn onto my
side to get more leverage. It was painful and getting me nowhere
until he suddenly allowed me to turn. My body rolled unexpectedly,
and I was suddenly on my back my legs still bent, roped tight up
underneath me and his fucking boots were back again to lock against
the sides of my neck like a leather vice. They were now completely
in my eye-line, towering up away from me, the tough hide calves looked
a mile high, topped off by his thick neatly turned-down socks. I could
not see the tight rows of neat laces, but imagined them at the front
of each boot, disappearing up and under the gaiters. I could see the
under-edge of each gaiter but not the buckles ... my mind rambled.
Why did these boots occupy my attention to such an extent?
as an abstracted thought, I realised that boots with attached leather
gaiters had been something I'd often noticed in equipment catalogues
... and on people in action movies on TV. I'd always thought they
looked better than the British and American combat boot. Like the
old-fashioned motorcycle despatch rider' boots from World War Two
films seen as a kid. As a youngster I'd always wanted a pair so
had Harry, I suddenly remembered. Well, I thought he got a pair
and they're pinning me to the fucking floor.
mind unravelling, I wondered, as I lay on my back, strait-jacketed
and panting from the struggle? But I was abruptly brought back to
the reality of the situation because above me a smiling face appeared
between the walls of leather with Harry's knees beyond. He appeared
upside-down, grinning like the Cheshire Cat, I thought. It was all
as weird as Alice in Wonderland! Was it the mention of our
old English Literature teacher, old Adkin, brought that back?
gone to sleep down there, buddy-boy old playmate? I enjoyed the
struggle. That's what strait-jackets are for to allow a bit of a
struggle without damaging yourself or anybody who's in control of
you. And I am in control of you, aren't I, buddy-boy? he asked, and
I stared resentfully back up at him, until the toe of a solid boot
kicked warningly against my shoulder ... but was back clamping my
neck before I could grab the opportunity which that brief moment of
release had allowed.
you a fucking question, chummy! And when I ask a fucking question
you give an answer even if it's only a nod. And a nod gets you brownie
points and any negative gets you pain. The boot again kicked my shoulder,
harder this time and was, immediately, back clamping my neck.
opportunity again, the smiling face confirmed. Got to be quicker
than that, buddy-boy. But, I don't want to discourage you from trying.
Seeing some action really turns me on. I want to see you fighting
and struggling not winning, necessary but at least with enough
hope to keep you putting in some effort. So ... , he said, swinging
off the bed to kneel close to me, I'm going to allow you more of
a fighting chance. Just to encourage you, I'm going to give you better
and rolling me until I was face-down between his knees again, I felt
the fabric clamp around my ears, totally locking my head and body
as I lay hogtied. I felt his hands at straps on the back of the strait-jacket.
My arms tightened and I thought, You bastard, you're going to tighten
it.' But then my elbows relaxed a little, and my hands were no longer
pulled taught. And I felt him guide one hand, and knew he was taking
that wrist from out of the side loop ... and then the same on the
other side. Both my hands were unstrapped but, before I could register
the opportunities this might give me, I felt the strap between my
finger-ends re-connected ... but now my arms were not through the
side loops and not quite so tightly strapped. Casually, a strong hand
used my own bodyweight to roll me onto my side and Harry stood towering
above me, one tall boot close to my waist at the front, the other
pressing my waist at the back, keeping me uncomfortably on my side,
knees still tightly bent.
get the feel of a strait-jacket, there's got to be a possibility of
escape, he said. OK, your arms are still through the front loop
but it's the side loops that give the real problem; so I've allowed
you a better chance of escape. Not easy, but possible to work your
way out of it if you put your mind to it conserve energy and
think ahead. With a sudden grin, he winked down at me, impishly.
Give us another struggle, Dan-boy. Long time since we've had a rough-and-tumble.
He braced his legs and willed me to un-balance him. I made a sudden
lurch forwards then backwards then pretended to wrench left
and went right and nearly got him but he stood his ground, laughing.
of ability to breathe through my mouth, coupled with the hugging tightness
of my arms around my stomach soon had me panting again. Harry dropped
beside me, sat with his back against the bed-end and, as if I were
a bundle of rags, hauled my hog-tied body across his extended legs,
and up and around until I was virtually lying across his lap, with
ankles high in the air.
the time I tried to spank your ass? he asked, conversationally. We
couldn't have been more than sixteen, he smiled, and you'd never
been caned (because you were such a goody-goody) and I had and I
decided you should at least know how it felt. And you nearly crippled
me for trying. Remember that? I do, vividly. And I was the same person
then as I am now are you, Dan-boy?
a sudden shock I felt the rope holding my ankles fall away and the
flat of his hand landed with a resounding smack on my naked ass. Whack
again. I heard the second blow before I realised just how much the
first had stung. At last my mind engaged and I started to struggle
I rolled and bucked and squirmed, but he'd got a grip on one
of the jacket straps and, with deadly precision, his hand fell again
and again and again. Three more resounding whacks and then he threw
me off his legs, and was on his feet before I'd stopped rolling. And
his boots again stepped in and were astride my waist, this time holding
me flat on my back, my legs rigid and ankles hobbled, my ass burning
against the carpet.
of a boot nudged hard into my ribs. I want you mad, Dan angry
furious desperate. I want to see you squirm buddy struggle sweat.
I've made it so you can get out of that jacket if you put your mind
and your energy into it. And if you don't well, you stay in it until
the guys who helped me snatch you in the first place come and collect
you again ... That is, of course, if you don't make an effort to get
yourself out of that strait-jacket right now.
a couple of quite painful kicks around my trussed arms and still stinging
buttocks had me squirming again and the bastard was walking away towards
wait till I've got my video camera out. and then you can start struggling,
buddy. Remember if you don't escape you're in for a very bumpy
night ... or two. OK, action. I want to get the whole process of you
escaping from that jacket on tape ... so other people can enjoy watching
you ... later.
and writhed around the carpet, determined that if there was a way
out of this fucking jacket I'd fucking find it. I did not remember
ever being so determined. I crashed my bulk around the floor as that
bastard (grinning bastard) filmed me. Angrily, I hurled myself at
his legs to knock him off balance; deliberately rolled towards those
boots, not caring if he tried to kick me. I'd get the bastard.
nimble feet side-stepped and dodged with ease, and the camera never
left his eye, zooming and panning to capture every twitch and lurch
my bulky canvas-wrapped body and naked hobbled legs made.
I landed on my caged dick. It was numb but I knew it was bulging tighter
than ever against the plastic bars. The sweat was wetting my cropped
hair and naked legs, but still the bastard moved in closer just to
capture the writhing tension on a strap or the determination on my
time I stopped to take a breather, the bastard was close in again,
crouching and I'd catch his eye and glare defiantly into the lens
and I knew the film footage would look amazing. I would want to
trussed up in this jacket was really knackering me. But, putting up
a struggle for the camera, and to show that smirking bastard that
I wasn't beaten, had stoked up my boilers. So much so that actually
trying to get myself out of the clinging and now sweat-soaked thing
had not been uppermost in my mind. Now as I lay and gasped for air,
I decided that unless I started to address the problem of finding
a way out I could run out of energy and then God knows what that
perverted bastard might have in store. I decided I must try to ignore
Focus the mind. Summon up some extra energy. Not for showing off and
thrashing around but for serious manoeuvring. It wouldn't look sexy
as that perverted bastard had called it; it would be a concentrated
effort to escape from a strait-jacket which he'd said he'd deliberately
made possible, if I could find a way out. Big fucking deal. Thanks
a bunch. Big fucking fucking ...
myself, I went into officer' mode: not the language of a senior man,
I reminded myself. Respond to this as a serious assault a terrorist
attack grievous bodily harm kidnapping a member of the police
fucking kill the bastard!, my more natural instincts cut in ... and
I lurched my full bodyweight towards those fucking boots ... which,
yet again, side-stepped my body-weight with infuriating ease.
yourself together. Be adult about this. Follow the thought processes.
If he'd taken my wrists out of the side loops, there must be a routine
for ... what? ... working them upwards and over my head ... or downwards
and under my buttocks (my fucking buttocks felt raw). That bastard
would pay for that beating on my arse. No. Concentrate, I reminded
myself; the elbows are still through that front loop so, however far
I get my wrists, I'd still be fucked. No! Not fucked. I'd get out
of this jacket ... and then we'd see who gets fucked.
behind my back I manoeuvred my canvas-encased hands and wrists tugged
against the strap that held them together almost finger-end to finger-end
behind my back. I started to work the joined strap up towards my shoulders
forcing my elbows tighter together to give more slack in the back.
Each hand operating separately easing the strap upwards holding
it away from my body it was moving. I eased teased the strap up
towards the back of my neck. I rolled onto my face (ignoring the camera
moving in, yet again, to capture the moment). I lifted my hands to
drag the strap over a buckle which I knew was holding the jacket
closed four of them, I reminded myself. I tried to picture the back
of the jacket remember the placement of the buckles.
onto my side to force my elbows tighter across my chest. I writhed,
I squirmed and I remembered that Harry wanted to see me squirm.
Should I stop, just to piss him off? No, to hell with him. Concentrate
on the most urgent objective one of those clichés they always
taught in training exercises. So many clichés in police training
training, often by old farts. Desk-bound, out-of-shape old farts.
Stop! Concentrate, I told myself.
to visualise the linked hand strap, travelling up my back but it kept
snagging on buckles ... and with sudden clarity I realised that with
limited strap-length between the sleeve-ends, this would get tighter
as it reached my shoulders because they were broader. Too fucking
broad. If I took it downwards and over my hips ... much less bulk.
My hips were relatively slim, I knew that ... although it's not something
I remember ever thinking about before. Down around my hips under
my buttocks and I could perhaps get my ankles through ...
about achieving this well focused objective and to hell with the camera
and that bastard.
reaching a point of near-exhaustion, lies back to take a breather
at that bastard just sitting back on his haunches watching me, I thought;
smirking at me. I could fucking kill him. No I couldn't, I argued
with myself. I can't even get this sodding strap out from under my
knees. I'm in a worse position than I was before. Wait a minute ...
what's that bastard up to now, I asked myself, suddenly alert?
had put the camera down and was picking up a short piece of rope.
He walked over to where I sat, scrunched-forward by the sleeve-ends
now dragged down the front of my legs, and twisted and still buckled
somewhere behind my knees. I couldn't sit up straight but leaned against
the bed-end. Those fucking boots planted themselves on either side
of my hobbled naked ankles. I stared at the wrinkled woolly dark socks
gathered around the gaiters, trying to suppress the frustration of
my useless bodyweight.
pickle you've gotten yourself into, he scoffed down at me. I can
see we're going to have to give you extra lessons in escaping from
hospital restraints. And with that ... a piece of rope produced from
nowhere was heading for the jacket sleeves. Two neat loops I'd noticed
previously, one at each elbow, were soon dragged together by rope,
making it impossible for my arms to separate or move either up or
down my body. I was now stuck cross-armed, with hands loosely strapped
together behind my knees. Such a simple a manoeuvre: it made me so
fucking furious that I was almost unable to snort any air in through
my bunged-up nostrils.
promised to take this fucking gag off if I let him put the jacket
on me! I raved to myself. Let him put it on? I asked myself, angrily.
Let him, I scoffed. That bastard got it on easily. Not a bastard
thing I could do to stop him,' my mind gibbered.
fog cleared a little and I became aware of him now crouching close,
smiling into my face ...smiling, not smirking. I met his eyes, and
swallowed hard behind the foam ball. Shit. I give up, I thought.
I don't know where my head is at, I reasoned with myself. Must
be those fucking drugs they'd pumped into me.
Shifting slightly, his hands reached for my naked feet ... and something
in the movement warned me he might tickle them. What sort of sadistic
bastard is this man?
I tried to roll away, but a combat pants knee crushed it's way between
my ankles and pinned me there. Shit! He was good at this sort of stuff,
I thought, irrationally. Pinned against the foot of the bed, we were
eyeball to eyeball. I could only breathe deeply and try to regain
the fuck am I going to do with you, Daniel Drummond? Chief fucking-Inspector
Daniel Arthur Drummond?
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