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A sequence in John Strickland's story
LOCKED IN LEATHER describes the run-up to the situation.
Extra details about the practical reality of a forced 'jacketing' were added by Jim Stewart.

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The two main characters, both leather-loving London motorcyclists, challenge one another with 'endurance' situations. Chris, who works at a psychiatric hospital has persuaded his bike-courier partner to spend 24 hours locked in his heaviest leathers including an eye-less hood.
Sam, the biker agrees, but is always eager to turn the tables on his mate.

Earlier in the day they have attracted the attention of a traffic cop while both were out on Chris's bike with Sam riding pilion while hooded and gagged under his crash helmet. Later, the cop and a leather-clad colleague arrive uninvited at the flat of the two biker's ...


Finding evidence of handcuffs and straps, the two cops question Chris more closely ...
I tried to re-explain some of our mutually agreed challenge games, but they remained sceptical about 'mutually agreed'. As I elaborated on the twenty-four hour no let-out of the leather hood deal, the cop in the hi-viz jacket and leather pants held me with piercing eyes while his mate, menacing in full leather bike gear and shades said ...
“Oh, it sounds very unlikely. We'll need to verify that story - sir" matching his colleague’s previous heavy style of politeness. It made it sound particularly dangerous as he continued ...
“Where is this so-called - er ‘buddy’ of yours at this moment?”
I took a deep breath before admitting “In the bedroom, but he’s ….”
And they’d gone before I could say any more.

I followed the two cops and needed to squeeze my way past them as they gazed down at Sam, manacled hand and foot. Hooded, booted and gloved in leather and lying on the leather-covered bed in his heaviest bike leathers, he was still angrily yanking at the prison belt that locked his wrists to his waist.
Because I was still wearing my bike jacket and pants, and one of the cops was in full leather and the other was booted and wearing leather breeches - and Sam lay literally imprisoned in leather lying on leather … the room seemed to be crammed full of black leather.
“He doesn’t seem too happy with his predicament,” observed the hi-vis cop after a silence during which both watched Sam struggle some more.
“He’s not, but that’s part of the game - not liking it” I replied.
They seemed to consider this … and I was suddenly aware of long bulges in two pairs of leather uniform pants; something told me that these guys were not exactly unaffected by the implications of the situation they’d stumbled across.

“He seems pretty angry,” observed the leather cop. “You say you’re good at staying in control. Are you sure those restraints are up to the job? Looks like he’s still in a position to put up a struggle.”
“Oh, I know my stuff,” I told them confidently. “Had a lot of practice keeping him efficiently restrained. Switching him from predicament to predicament is part of the fun however much of a fight he puts up. I know my equipment and how to use it.“
“Got a lot of gear, have you?” cut in the hi-viz cop.
“More than enough,” I told them as I slid back the mirrored wall that hides our play cupboard. “You see officer, we play this sort of game on a regular basis. No harm done", I reassured them. “Believe me. Sam here always comes back for more.”

At the sight of all the gear, the two cops seemed impressed. They began to inspect the rail, heavy with several strait-jackets, a couple of sleepsacks and various man-size bags and suits, plus rows of boots and other gear. The cop in sun glasses took them off before fingering a particularly heavy black leather strait-jacket that had several strong brown leather straps hanging from it.
“This looks like something you could really put up a struggle in,” he said as he looked back at Sam still writhing on the bed.
“Might be a bit of a fight to get him into it,” I said, sensing a shift in the atmosphere in the crowed room.
“Bit of a fight? Well, we’re used to dealing with fellas who put up a bit of a fight, aren’t we, Jim?” His strong mouth twisted into a grin as the hi-viz cop grinned back at his colleague and nodded agreement. Both looked capable enough and perhaps eager for an opportunity to participate in a bit of rough and tumble.
“Great!” I said, “You guys want to help me get a strait-jacket on him, then?” I asked tentatively, not believing my luck.

The leather cop had already taken the strait-jacket off the hanger and was weighing it in his hands. It was the toughest and heaviest we owned.
“Shit, this is great,” he said to his mate as they both set about examining it more closely.
“Never seen anything like this. It’d make any would-be Escape Artist shit themselves.”
“Escape nothing!” I said. “Nobody could ever get out of that. Double leather, reinforced at every point of stress, the extra-high collar locks. When the sleeves are strapped through all the various retainers … give up hope, all that enter!”
“So - what are we waiting for?” announced the hi-viz cop. “Like I told you earlier this afternoon,” he said to me, “Plenty of leather is always good - on or off a bike.”
“I’ll drink to that,” enthused the totally leather-clad cop, smiling at me and then down at Sam. “Let’s see if we can get it on him. Right?” he said to his mate.
“Right!” I said, “Right on!” as I produced a key and bent over Sam to unlock his handcuff belt … and that’s when it all happened.

I was grabbed from behind, suddenly jerked backwards, a leather-covered arm vice-like around my throat. I shouted out, which caused the grip to tighten, the arm forcing my chin upwards and my mouth closed. His leg pushed its way between mine from behind. Our leather creaked and chaffed together as I was clamped back onto the leathered cop. Almost simultaneously, he’d somehow got an arm under my left elbow and was twisting it up behind me. This guy obviously was well-practiced in such moves. I know, because I’m good at it too - but there were two of them and they’d taken me by surprise. I grabbed up with my free hand to try and drag his choking arm off my throat, but his colleague was active, too. He was now in front of me holding the strait-jacket ready, and was grabbing my free wrist in a well-applied twist-grip. I knew the technique and knew how efficient it was.

While the man behind me nearly dislocated one of my arms and throttle me with his elbow, my other arm was already being skilfully forced down into the sleeve of the strait-jacket by the determined hi-viz cop. As that arm was clamped in place by a firm grip, the cop behind me brought my twisted arm round to the front while still deftly sustaining an effective arm-lock on it. In spite of my desperate struggling I found the second wrist disappearing, pushed down deep into the menacing jacket’s other sleeve.

My neck was suddenly free but an unexpected yank at the jacket from behind and it was up onto my shoulders. Between them they expertly manoeuvred me none too gently face down onto the floor at the side of the bed. A heavy knee kept me there while the jacket was rapidly closing behind over my leathers, tighter and tighter with every back strap they were connecting - a well synchronised team, four hands well coordinated. Buckles rattled closed. As somebody groped between my leather-covered legs, the wide single crotch strap was pulled through and pulled tight - I nearly came in my leather jeans. Then the strap was wrenched even tighter as it was strapped through the buckle somewhere up behind my back. It suddenly struck me that these two guys were suspiciously familiar with the process of strapping somebody into a strait-jacket - but I had no time to dwell on this possibility.

“On your feet, leather-man!” said a voice, as two pairs of hands hauled me to my feet by the straps of the jacket.
“What the fuck are you … ” I protested, my voice almost a croak after the headlock the leather cop had had on me.
“Shut to fuck up - sir!” growled the leather cop. “We’ve not finished yet!”
With that he jerked the high collar of the strait-jacket up and began to exxplore how it wrapped around my neck before two heavy brown straps circled the neck side by side. This collar I’d specially designed to make it as restrictive as possible, high and tight preventing any head movement.

As these straps were connected and tightened, this process distracted me from realising that my arms still were not yet strapped - but I missed the opportunity. Two pairs of beefy hands soon set about the task of restraining my arms, bulky because of the various thicknesses of leather bike jacket under double-thick leather strait-jacket with extra reenforing leather at elbows and mitts.
My attempts at resistance were short-lived.
“No, please!” I squawked ineffectually inside the now rigid throat wrappings as the two cops determinedly forced my arms across my chest. All my training in dealing with violent prisoners was of no use to me. These two were obviously experienced, and I sensed that it was probably more than their training as cops that made them equal to the situation.
“ Please, no!” I gasped as air was forced out of my lungs as the special high-security double buckle sleeve-ends were connected at the back and began to drag my arms progressively tighter across my rib-cage.

“Nnn - agh!” I yelped as one pair of hands expertly wrenched the tough sleeve-ends closer and yet closer together behind me while others pushed my elbows tighter together in front. They knew tricks I’d learned during years of playing around with strait-jackets. I sensed the prongs of the two heavy-duty buckles snap into place behind me. Two final jerks as they pulled the loose strap-ends through retaining loops signalled the end of any hopes for me. I stood trussed and gasping for breath.

“OK, Mister control freak. Get out of that - as Morecombe & Wise used to say," gloated the hi-viz cop.
“No-one could ever get out of that. Your own words,” said the leather cop.
“Always wear plenty of leather. My words!” smirked the hi-viz cop, “and leather over leather’s even better!” he added, obviously elated by the situation.
“Give up hope all that enter. Your words, leather-man. Your words!” continued the leather cop. “You’ve entered, and shit are you staying!” he sneered.

Strait-jacketed! Something I’d always managed to avoid in the past. I was always the one doing it to Sam. These guys had done a really efficient job - me strapped into a jacket which I’d ordered and deliberately designed to be totally escape-proof. Now, me, imprisoned in its clinging layers of tough black and brown leather over my leather bike jacket. I’d put Sam into it dozens of times - but never risked allowing him to do it to me.

I pulled at the sleeves, tentatively. Nothing moved, just creaked. I wrenched my body from left to right. Nothing happened except the crotch strap tightened on my bursting prick.
The leather-jacketed cop watched for a moment enjoying the spectacle for a while before moving in closer and putting an arm around my shoulder in an all-friends-together way.
“You’re really in a fucking mess … sir!” he said with that same mocking politeness. Tightening his grip, he almost playfully began to pull me off balance. I was in no porition to stop him as he forced me downwards demonstrating his complete control. He smiled into my face as he lowered me none too gently onto the floor.

From where I lay, two towering pairs of bike boots and leather pants seemed a mile high up to two faces grinning down at me.



A longer and even more detailed description of this sequence gives a moment by moment account complete with technical details.
This can be found at WORD PICTURES.

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Check out excerpts from other JOHN STRICKLAND stories

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