From the original 41,500 word story titled

by Derek Arnold
made longer by Jim Stewart

(To see earlier excerpts from this )


In the world of covert operations nothing and nobody are quite what they seem to be ... and Dan now sits on the edge of the bed, strapped into an efficient canvas strait-jacket ...

‘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 ...

Harry 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.

He chose 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.

Reaching 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.

The boots 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:
“Get 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.”

Just 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?

Almost 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.

Was my 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?

“You 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.

“I asked 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.

“Missed 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 odds.”

Dragging 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.

“To really 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.

The lack 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.

“Remember 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?”

With 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.

The toe 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.

Suddenly 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 his hold-all.

“Just 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.”

I thrashed 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.

But the 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.

Too often 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 face.

Every 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 see it.

The struggle continues

Being 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 the camera.

Concentrate! 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 ...

To calm 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 force.

“I'll 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.

So! Pull 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.

Somewhere 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.

I rolled 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.

I tried 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 ...

I set about achieving this well focused objective and to hell with the camera and that bastard.

Dan, reaching a point of near-exhaustion, lies back to take a breather ...

Look 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?

Harry 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.

“A right 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.

“He'd 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.

The mental 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 some calm.

“What the fuck am I going to do with you, Daniel Drummond? Chief fucking-Inspector Daniel Arthur Drummond?”

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