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LONG DISTANCE CONTROL TRIP
MODIFIED
THE 'RUKKA' VERSION
TOPIC: Modifying and building on other
people's turn-on stories:
When I sent my original waxed motorcycle gear story to a
friend, he admitted that he was more turned on by soft-and-shiny Rukka
waterproof clothing, than dull greasy waxed cotton stuff. He admitted that
while reading the story he kept trying to substitute his own favoured visual
imagery. So I introduced him to the idea of actually rewriting stories to
better suit the reader's personal tastes. We talked about being able to search
and replace in an electronic text, and even keep track of changes.
We exchanged several e-mail during the process as he enjoyed
his systematic elimination of the words waxed cotton, and changed many of the
descriptive adjectives to transform the mental imagery. Straps and buckles
became Velcro; dull and greasy became shiny and pliable; the smell, the touch,
the taste descriptions all shifted and ... while seated at his computer dressed
from head to boots in Rukka gear ... he enjoyed a lot of hours of
self-stimulating creativity.
Here is the full text of my original story transformed from
wax to Rukka ...
LONG DISTANCE CONTROL
TRIP
by
My new purchase, a second-hand classic Seventies Rukka
two-piece motorcycle suit, had arrived by post that morning. I didn’t need yet
more motor cycle gear, but I freely admit that waterproof biker gear is an
obsession with me – and my unexpectedly successful bid on E.bay had cinched the
deal. The postman had tried to deliver it earlier in the week, but Saturday
morning is the only day I’m home to receive bulky items.
Naturally I had to check it out right away, just to be sure
the zips and poppers were all in good working order. It was my favourite dark
grey (almost black) and silver - the two-piece suit version rather than the
one-piece I already had - but just as soft, slinky-looking, slick &
warm-to-the-touch - pungent with it's own special scent - in fact satisfying to
all the senses - totally sensual.
So there I stood, securely sealed into the jacket and pants
- waist, cuffs and neck closed as snug as they’d go, just to confirm the
efficiency of the wind and waterproof total encasement (I knew I had mitts and
a bag-hood made from the same delicious fabric for future self-indulgent
sessions - but this additional suit was my main focus for the moment).
This was a Winter-lined suit so nice and warm, a good fit
but leaving space to wear something underneath if required because I'm into 'layering'.
My experienced eye told me the signs of wear suggested genuine road use, unlike
a lot of the bike gear I’ve picked up around the fetish markets. Both jacket
and over-trousers had obviously seen some biking action, but were still in
excellent condition. In fact, the smell of the previous owner and the state of
the lining told me it had been used until quite recently – which, as usual, was
making me seriously horny.
Standing admiring the overall effect in the mirror I decided
to christen it by stimulating my stiffening cock ... when the phone interrupted
just as I approached the final build-up. I tried to focus on the ID display; it
was an extensively kinky mate who I didn’t hear from often enough.
As I picked up the receiver my pulse was still racing and my
head slightly muzzy.
“Geoff?” asked the voice before I could find the breath to
announce myself.
“Yes.” I croaked, the combination of the tight jacket collar
and my sexual arousal making my voice sound strange.
“What are you up to? Have I interrupted something? Who have
you got there? What are you in the middle of?” His bombardment of questions was
typical of this forceful character who knew all my secrets and knew how to take
control of any situation. “Switch the fucking web cam on – now!” he ordered,
“No delays – now!” he insisted and, as usual, I complied with his demands.
My computer was already fired up and the link to Mike was
automatic, as were several others to people who regularly shared my enthusiasms
long-distance. The picture that he would now be seeing a few hundred miles away
appeared on my screen. I moved so he could get a fuller view of the suit and my
slightly flustered face.
“Might have guessed...” he scoffed, “...whatever time of the
fucking day or night, you kinky bastard.”
“It’s new and I was just ...”
“New,” he interrupted, “you’ve bought more? You’ve already
got a cupboard full of Rukka stuff. How many sets of Barbour and Belstaff and
Rukka do you need? How much of it can you wear at one time? What have you got
on under it?” he demanded.
“Nothing ... “ I stammered.
“Nothing,” he barked?
“No other Rukka stuff,” I said defensively, “Just tee shirt
and jeans.” I countered, struggling to open the tight neck to show him. “You
amaze me. I thought you’d have at least one other suit if not more under it,
you obsessive pervert you. Do up the collar again, tight - now." My
flustered fingers grappled with the neck and pulled it even tighter than it had
been before.
“So - what makes this suit so different from the
how-many-other’s you’ve already got stashed away?
“I – just saw it advertised ... and couldn’t resist it” I
said lamely.
“Rukka plastic! You’re obsessive. What are you?” he
demanded.
“Obsessive” I admitted willingly, knowing that Mike was just
as turned-on by any sort of thick waterproof gear as I was, and his remote
cottage in the wilds of Cornwall was stacked with an amazing range of Black
Prince, Rukka and waxed cotton suits in every size, including some
imaginatively modified pieces which could restrain and layer a willing (and
sometimes not so willing) playmate.
“You kinky, perverted bastard! I think because you’re in
that suit you should stay in it until you go to bed tonight.”
“But I’ve got to get some shopping in, and somebody’s coming
round for dinner “I argued, well aware that it was only mid-morning.
“Who?” he demanded
“Nobody you know ... ”
“Is he into gear and games?” asked the voice at the end of
phone. I only had to nod; the web cam transmitting even my unspoken responses.
“Well then,” he insisted, “you will be in that suit done up
to the neck when he arrives – and you can offer him the use of another suit if
he wants to spend his evening with you and eat with you – and you’ll keep the
web cam switched on and present yourself before it at least every half hour to
confirm you’re still zipped into your nice new suit – and you can put your
guest on to me so I can confirm that my instructions are being carried out.”
“But ... I’ve got to get some shopping in” I repeated.
“So shop in your suit” he insisted.
“But the sun’s shining and it’s warm out and ... ”
“Tough, tough, tough. I shall expect to see you fully suited
up before you leave to do the shopping and as soon as you get back.”
“But ... ”
“No ‘buts” came the firm dictate “You bought the fucking
suit so wear it – and let’s not have any arguing or complaining or ... I was
going to say, you’ll be punished ... but I guess the better deterrent is to
threaten that you won’t be punished, you masochistic, kinky little Rukka
pervert. In fact, if you don’t do precisely what I say, you won’t ever get
invited down here ever again. Savvy?”
This man knew how to get his own way in any situation; and
my day took on a dimension I hadn’t anticipated. I would be shopping in my local
stores zipped and snap-fastened into this fucking suit although several of the
locals knew I didn’t have a motorbike. And then, after cooking dinner in it,
I’d be sitting down to eat still suited up with a guest who had unwittingly
become involved in one of Mike’s infamous remote-control power-trip games. But
later, after I’d survived the embarrassment and discomfort ... I would have the
experience to add to the gallery of hot scenarios Mike had subjected me to over
the past few years.
Later that night, when alone before my web cam and talking
to Mike, my reward for following his instructions to the letter and proving my
willingness to subject myself to his control, was an invitation to visit this
inveterate game-player in
*****
A week is a long time even with the distractions of work,
and I could only guess at what might lie in store for me. I would take my new
suit down with me and perhaps my favourite well-worn tighter unlined one-piece
Rukka suit that could, at a pinch be worn under other things. No need to cart
much else because of all the gear Mike had collected over the years. He had a
local contact who helped modify standard heavy foul weather gear to make it
lockable. He particularly liked insisting his visitors go out in all weathers
suitably weatherproofed and ‘handicapped’ under layers of thick windproof,
waterproof and sweat-generating garments.
I speculated that there’d be no need for me to take my
favourite waders, but I would take the unlined rubber wellies I’d acquired
recently because I particularly liked the feel of them without socks. To be
comfortable in the car on the long drive, I planned to wear the new 501
But on the Wednesday evening my plans evaporated when the
phone rang. Mike’s instructions were specific and unchallengeable. I was to
wear my old one-piece Rukka suit (newly sponged down with washing up liquid for
the occasion) inside-out with nothing underneath. Over it, I was ordered to
wear the new two-piece suit fully snapped and strapped closed for the entire
car journey. Not to bring any alternative clothing – he would supply from his
extensive stock of Government Surplus.
The thought of driving for almost six hours encumbered in
heat-producing Rukka gear certainly didn’t excite me, because I knew from
experience what sort of problems might arise – but Mike had a way of insisting.
I would not only show myself on the web cam during the suiting up, I would
bring my digital camera. Mike knew it had a time-line which could be
superimposed on every shot. He would want half-hourly proof that during the
trip I kept both suits on and closed. His only concession was that I needn’t
wear boots to drive in – but bring my 20 hole Doc Martins in the car with me –
and a old army rain poncho to protect the car upholstery from the Rukka and
sweat whilst driving. My arguments and pleading were swept aside. Mike wanted
me arriving steamed up and primed as he put it. The weekend was going to be
“Rukka all the way” he informed me, hinting that he also had a couple of new
acquisitions which he was looking forward to trying out on me. His parting shot
was to warn me to look out for the post on Thursday or Friday morning and
follow the instructions in the packet.
Anxiously I looked for post on the Thursday before work and
there was nothing, so I spent yet another tense day wondering what additional
long-distance torment Mike had thought up for me. I’d arranged to take the
Friday off work and Mike had demanded I would contact him on the web cam before
suiting up around
A grinning Mike watched me pull my newly sponged Rukka
one-piece over my naked body, slippery-side in. He then made sure that the
newly acquired jacket and pants were fully zipped and poppered closed before he
instructed me that the leather belt was to be added under his supervision. The
belt had to be drawn quite tight and I had to close the two padlocks to make
sure I could now not remove the jacket. Luckily, I had taken a piss before
starting the suiting up, because I realised it would be seriously complicated
to take a leak during the long journey. For the moment the prospect of having
to wear the suit in the car for so long, and the obviousness of the brown
leather belt and padlocks (should I need to get out of the car during the
journey)occupied my mind. The possibility of a road accident was also a point I
raised, but this seemed to amuse Mike who just warned me not to draw attention to
myself.
*****
Even the short walk to my car was embarrassing. The day was
fine, so a suited and buckled up biker totally dressed in shiny Rukka wear
except for a pair of white trainers and no socks and a conspicuous industrial weight
brown hide belt with two padlocks dangling from it, was not a thought to dwell
on. Carrying a small hold-all and a pair of heavy tall DM boots, even the heavy
army rain poncho slung over my arm could not hide the belt or my embarrassment,
especially when trying to unlock the car door in the busy south London street.
Ignoring the quizzical looks of passers-by, I leaned in to roughly spread the
poncho over the driver’s seat before easing myself in, trying not to dislodge
it. Once settled, I sank low into my seat. Checking that both the digital
camera and my mobile phone were handy, I started the engine knowing that my
trials had only just begun.
Before I was at
“Yes”, I said grumpily.
“Are you on your way?” asked the smug voice.
“Yes!” I said through gritted teeth.
“Have you taken a photo yet?” insisted my tormentor.
“Not yet, for Christ’s sake!” I fumed.
“Ah,ah,ah!” said the warning voice, “At the next traffic
lights I want a shot of your collar fastened snug around your neck – and the
time-line switched on so the time is imprinted on the picture. Ahead I saw the
back-up of traffic before the bridge. I groped for the camera and slid back the
shutter cover. Checking that it was set to include time-line – I drew up in the
queue of traffic, judged a position at arms length which would show the closed
collar, and snapped. A woman with a pram was passing and she almost did a double-take
– and I stayed resolutely calm and stared her out. Mikes voice brought me back.
“Did you take it?”
“Yes, and I’m signing off now. Don’t keep calling me, it’s
difficult enough to concentrate” ... and the traffic was moving so I grappled
to switch off the phone and only just remembered to switch off the camera. I’d
need to conserve the batteries if I was to take a shot every half hour to prove
that the suit was fastened shut. No way was I going to stop and get out to buy
new batteries.
Even before I reached the M25, road works threatened to slow
things. A stretch of single file traffic was being manually controlled by
‘Stop’ and ‘Go’ signs. As ill luck would have it the young lad swung the ‘Stop’
sign when I was next in line to drive through. So there I sat, immediately in
front of this hunky hard-hatted young road worker in his rigger boots and
orange day-glo jacket, bored out of his mind by the monotony of his task. His
eyes met mine and I saw him register what I was wearing. By now cars were streaming
from the opposite direction, so he had no responsibilities until the flow
stopped. I saw him decide to move forward to get a better view of me sitting
before him. Walking away from his ‘Stop’ sign he approached my car, swept aside
his tangled ponytail hair and gazed pointedly in at me. I tried to ignore his
curiosity but must have been pink around the gills with embarrassment.
Emboldened, he actually leaned down to peer directly into my lap and he could
see not only the biker jacket but Rukka over-trousers. He seemed to take a deep
breath – and then pressed a button on his mobile intercom. Talking into the
phone he strolled back to his sign as the flow of vehicles from the other
direction ended. He preened his ponytail before switching his sign, and as I
gratefully moved into gear he saluted AA fashion, giving me a quizzical look as
I passed him.
The single stretch was quite long and a lot of workers were
assembled along its length. Suddenly I realised that none of them was working,
and all seemed to be looking for something – and it soon became obvious that
they’d been alerted to look for the car driver zipped up to the neck in
motorcycle gear in a tin-pot saloon Ford. They peered, they pointed, and they
waved, laughing among themselves. I was mortified and speeded up ... until I
realised that not only was I going too fast, there was a motorcycle cop
supervising the single flow sitting astride his bike. He had not been alerted
by the stop-sign guy but I did see him register my speed and as I approached his
hand signalled to slow down – which I did – and then his signal turned to a
‘pull over’. I had no choice but to do as he commanded.
Resignedly, I switched off my engine and closed my eyes as
in the mirror I saw him dismount. Then I heard the scrunch of his heavy
motorcycle boots approach my window. I wound it down, belatedly scrabbling for
my wallet which, I realised, was in the holdall on the back seat – I hoped. The
cop’s view for the next however long it took, was my Rukka covered back screwed
around reaching into the back seat, dragging the khaki rain poncho askew and
tangling it with my bulky Rukka coverings. I tried to straighten up and face
him – and in my eyeline all I could see was the waist of his yellow hi-vis
jacket and a belt loaded down with leather pouches, baton holder, flash light
and the rigid-centred handcuffs ready and bulky in their pouch. The crotch of
his thick leather biker pants was also directly before my face, but I forced my
gaze upwards until I met his piercing eyes and strong mouth, which gave no
indication of what he was thinking as I offered my licence.
“Where are you heading – sir?” he asked evenly.
“
“Expecting rain are we, sir?” he asked with an edge of
sarcasm.
“No, officer,” I said calmly and quietly as I looked into
his handsome face. This was a time for attack rather than defence, I thought.
“I’m heavily kinky for Rukka motorcycle rain gear and wear
it at any opportunity I get.”
He took time to consider this and his steel blue eyes gave
nothing away – but he did take time to breathe in slowly before nodding
slightly.
“As a matter of fact, sir, I can appreciate that.” he said
evenly – and we both waited for what might happen next. “Are you planning to
drive the whole distance so attired?” he asked in a businesslike way.
“If I’m allowed” I hazarded.
He seemed to consider his options. “Personally I quite like
Rukka gear for rain protection ... but it's also quite good at keeping moisture
in. You intend to keep it well seal up for the whole journey?" he
speculated. I nodded, getting even redder in the face.
His stern eyes held mine. "See than you do. Well sealed
- all the way ... but watch your speed. Might as well spin out your enjoyment
as long as you can – and in
With that he stood away and I accepted his signal that the
encounter was over. Did I sense a tinge of regret that he could not find an
excuse to pursue the topic further?
*****
The next phase of the journey, though progressively more and
more uncomfortable, was uneventful. My mind lingered on the hard-hatted,
pony-tailed construction worker – and the leather pants, high boots and belt
furniture of the motorcycle cop. I speculated on what lustful fantasy scenarios
I might involve them in, in the near future. I regretted the lack of
opportunity to snap a couple of pictures to add to my collection of horny
images which I used to support the steamy stories I cobbled together and got off
on in the privacy of my computer corner.
The miles sped by but the two suits were beginning to impose
themselves on my senses. The heat, the smell, the stickiness and beginnings of
chafing against my sensitised skin were all building up. My groin and the crack
of my arse were certainly undergoing a gradual change. I knew that well before
I was through
Every half hour I managed to take another shot of the closed
suit. In a lay-by somewhere in
The phone didn’t ring again until I was within twenty miles
of my destination. The curt voice asked “Where are you?”
“Couple of miles outside Bodmin” I reported coldly (the suit
was beginning to really irritate the skin between my legs, my balls were
feeling numb and the whole back of the suit was sticking to me very
uncomfortably – and I was wanting to piss.)
“Good,” came the cheery voice. “There’s a service station at
Bodmin. Stop off and get me a couple of litres of milk.”
“I can’t get out and go shopping! I need petrol but I’m
going to stay on the road and get to you as soon as I can”, I insisted; the
urgency of my full bladder beginning to give serious concern.
“I need milk. Don’t arrive without it” commanded the voice.
“The service station at Bodmin is a busy one. Nobody’ll notice you.” With a
click the phone went dead and once again I was left to ponder the difficulties
of having a ‘Controller’ like Mike.
*****
The service station at Bodmin was, as he’d said, quite big
and busy. Close to the entrance was a stand with several motorcycles. I drove
past it sitting low, and looked for somewhere relatively unexposed to park.
After drifting around the edges, I settled on a corner by the trash bins where
there was a single space between a high-sided delivery truck and an old transit
van. Both looked as if they’d been parked for some time – and might belong to
staff. I emerged, conscious that my double layer of Rukka was noticeably
sticking to my body and legs. I tried to shake it loose while finding my feet.
The trainers without socks were damp because sweat had trickled down from
inside the steamy layers. Trying to look casual, I walked towards the entrance
of the store. My bladder was bursting but I couldn’t face the toilets. Luckily
I’d remembered to grab some small change from my holdall, enough for milk but
not much else.
In the store I padded to the cold cabinets and eventually
found the milk – but in the same isle a rugged-looking motorcyclist in
well-used leather jacket and boots was making a few selections. He eyed me
casually, and then his gaze seemed to focus more specifically on me. I felt his
eyes travel down my suit to the sockless trainers below the Rukka-ed legs. I
busied myself selecting the half-fat milk. Mike had not specified full cream or
half. My aim was to get to hell back to the car ... but the motorcyclist was
suddenly close beside me.
“Good suit, mate” he muttered, not catching my eye but
seeming to look for milk.
“Thanks – mate” I managed to grunt, moving to step around
him – but somehow he also stepped in the same direction which brought me
face-to-face with him.
“What sort of bike you got?” this cropped-headed biker asked
gruffly, and I noticed the scull and crossbones pin in the lapel of his beat-up
leather bike jacket.
“
“Nice – but you’re taking a risk without boots.
Wassa’marrer,” he sneered, “can’t handle the weight?”
“Oh – er – I fucked up my toes in a spill,” I asserted with
what I hoped was confidence. “Gotta go.” I said as I hurried away towards one
of the check-outs, limping ostentatiously.
Had he clocked the locked-on leather belt? I’d swung the
padlocks sideways so my elbows could cover them, but in the queue for the least
busy cash desk I was unexpectedly trapped behind a pensioner who was arguing
over some discount coupons. Suddenly, the biker was close behind me, breathing
down my neck as we waited in line. The narrow check-out lane was slightly
walled in so we are isolated – and somehow very close together.
“I like Rukka gear” he mused quietly into my ear from
behind. “Like the soft smooth feel of it. Sexy! ” he hissed. Then I was
appalled to feel a hand groping my arse crack as he stood close behind me,
close enough for no one else to see what he was doing.
Not wanting to draw attention to us I turned to face him.
But now his hand, without moving, was close to my crotch. Luckily the pensioner
moved and I was able to step up to the cashier. As I bagged the milk and paid,
I again felt the biker move in close beside me, somehow making it look as if we
were together. As I turned to move away I felt his hand grip a handful of the
soft PVC at the seat of my pants. But, keeping his arm close to his own body,
this was not obvious to anybody else. One-handedly he paid for the items he was
carrying without releasing his grip on the soft but tough fabric. I had no
option but to stand there unless I was prepared to make a scene.
Having paid, his hand drove me forward away from the
cashier. Firmly controlled, we walked in unison, and he steered me towards the
exit. Releasing his grip, his hand now closed around the back of the leather
belt, and I realised that in this corridor was the entrance to the gents. His
tough skinhead grin was close to my face.
“Fancy a bit of fun and games, mate?” he asked quietly.
“Rukka gear does things for me – you could do things for me.”
“Er - thanks, but no thanks ... mate,” I managed to say,
desperate to sound friendly. He was a bulky guy and could have turned nasty. I
acknowledged his grip on my belt. “Sorry - gotta go. Heavy date.”
“Suit yourself” he said, “but you don’t know what you’re
missing – mate.” He released his hold, and I moved off speedily – and only just
remembering to limp as I went. Behind me I heard his voice call loudly, “I like
the belt, mate!” And several shoppers paused to take in the sight of the
totally exposed padlocks dangling from my waist.
*****
Carefully avoiding the bike stands, I headed back to my car,
which I was pleased to see was still hemmed in between the two tallish vehicles
– both, mercifully, still without drivers. The sweat inside my two suits had
turned to ice but I was still dripping with perspiration. My hands fumbled with
the keys. I heard a bike kick-started into life and looked across to see the
skinhead, now dark helmeted, heading towards the exit of the parking lot. I leaned
in to rearrange the rain poncho so it would protect the seat for the remaining
few miles of my journey. Then, stowing the milk behind the seat, I settled in
and adjusted the clammy, sticky suit as best I could. My bladder was ready to
burst and I wondered if I should go back and risk the toilets now the biker had
gone. So intent was I on my predicament, it wasn’t until I looked through the
windscreen that I saw the biker had coasted around the lot and was now sitting
directly in front of my car – blocking my path. Astride his old BSA he sat
eyeing me. Then slowly and with an air of menace, he got off his bike, pulled
it onto it’s side stand (leaving it blocking my exit) removed his crash helmet,
carefully hung it onto a handlebar and then, deliberately building up the
suspense, walked slowly around to my window, his shoulders squared and his
booted heels crunching the tarmac. He motioned me to wind down my window. With
no means of escape without trashing his bike, I complied.
“Now that wasn’t friendly, mate. You lied to me.
“Sit still, fucker”. He smiled a dangerous smile as he
looked across the parking lot. From his low position no-one could see him there
and, anyway, we were in the remotest corner of the lot. “Now, release the door
lock and opening it gently. No tricks or I’ll break your fucking arm.” He had
total control. As I opened the door he deftly moved so the open door was
between us. “Swing your legs out but stay sitting, he ordered.” With an effort
I achieved this manoeuvre, painfully conscious of the soggy trainers as they
were placed on the tarmac. In a swift move (and still keeping a grip on my arm)
he was suddenly kneeling before me.
“Spread your knees” he instructed and releasing my arm, he
forced my legs apart and, at the same time, pushed me backwards so I was lying
uncomfortably across the two front seats. His hands now roamed up my body,
stroking and feeling the fabric of my thighs, and crotch and up onto the
jacket, massaging and kneading – and roaming back down onto my crotch. Leaning
forward his mouth approached the Rukka-covered mound and his face nuzzled it –
before his grinning face looked across into mine. Forced backwards there was
little hope of pushing him off – and his gloved hands then continued to roam
the Rukka surfaces appreciatively. He found the front zipper and drew it down
to the waist, exposing the second suit underneath – and hands roamed between
the surfaces in spite of the fact the collar of the jacket was still tightly
fastened. I stayed silent as his hands explored between the two layers, almost
holding my breath. He now detected the bulges in the patch pockets of the
outside jacket. Strong hands keeping me from sitting back up, he flipped open
the snap fasteners and felt into the two budging pockets; producing from one
the camera and then my mobile phone from the other.
“Treasure” he said as the phone disappeared into the pocket
of his leather jacket. “Interesting” he mused aiming the camera at me and
attempting to take a picture of my prone body with the unzipped jacket exposing
the inside-out Rukkaone-piece suit inside. The camera shutter was closed so
nothing happened - but he soon found the catch – and took several pictures
along the length of my upper body, snapping details of the multi-layering.
Staying low so he couldn’t be seen from across the car lot, he then reached for
the keys and took them out of the ignition.
"Let’s see what you’ve got in the boot.”
“Nothing!” I protested.
“Did I ask you?” he growled. A hand gripped a fistful of
Rukka at my crotch and he pulled until I was being drawn out of the car. “You
will stand up and walk to the back of the car. Any nonsense and I’ll break your
legs.” I stood and, walking around the opened door, I wondered if I could slam
him with it. But he was alert to the possibility and, keeping control of it,
part-closed the door before following me, but staying low until he joined me
behind the car.
“Open the boot” he hissed – but there was nobody to hear him
or see what was going on. As soon as the boot was unlocked he was standing
immediately behind me. The raised boot hid us both from the main building – and
he was bending me forwards until my torso was almost in the boot.
“There’s nothing worth stealing here” I insisted, “ nothing
but .... ”
“Nothing but you!” said a grim voice and two rough hands
pressed my torso down until my head was almost against the floor of the boot,
pressed hard against the wellies and an old Rukka jacket.
“More Rukka!” he exclaimed. “Oh, Rukka gets me really
randy.” He pumped against my arse as he bent me over more firmly, and then
dragged the tangle of the extra Rukka jacket till it enveloped my head
shiny-side in. After a couple more thrusts against my arse he growled “Put your
hands behind your back”.
“What...?” I started, muffled by the jacket.
“Do it!” he insisted, and I obeyed. His legs were between
mine, spreading them and his bodyweight pressed in as I felt hands grasp my
elbows.
“No, please” I pleaded into the depths of the boot.
“Keep quiet!” he ordered as I felt something tighten between
my elbows. It must have been a cable-tie – or two – because I heard the soft
ratchet sound, and suddenly my elbows were cinched together. A further plastic
tie was soon around my wrists.
“Now – in you get” he ordered.
“No, please ....”
“In” he insisted and I felt my leg lifted and my torso fell
sideways and my second leg was raised and twisted and soon I was crammed into
the cramped space.
My head still inside the Rukka jacket, I was facing away
from the opening, so I could see nothing and only hear his parting shot.
“Love the suit - suits, mate – you should have let me fuck
you when I offered – but thanks for the camera and phone. I guess when it’s
closing time somebody’ll come and check out the cars that haven’t left. I doubt
if anybody will hear you before then.” With that the lid slammed shut and
everything went even darker.
The next sound was the car door being slammed. Was he going
to drive off with me in the boot – to where? But then, even more scary, I heard
his bike fire up and rev. Was he deliberately letting me know he was leaving?
If there had been any room to panic I might have panicked – but wedged as I was
I could only concentrate on breathing in this confined space under the tangle
of old Rukka wear. I’d often wondered what it might feel like to be locked in
the boot of a car. I’d read about it in one-handed reading – but there was
nothing sexy about this harsh reality – and my bladder was now full to
bursting.
I decided to try to reverse my position. I shook and dragged
at the head-covering until I felt is move aside slightly. Being pitch dark I
decided to try and move so I’d be facing the opening if and when the boot was
next opened. How long would the air last? ... Were there dangerous petrol
fumes? I could smell the rubber of the wellies as I squirmed – but the
predominant smell was of Rukka wear. My encased body in this confined space was
still generating heat – except that my feet were cold. I bumped my head and
banged my knee trying to reverse my position. My wrists didn’t budge in their
binding, my elbows were cinched tight and no amount of writhing was going to
shift the plastic bands. Trying to lie my head down was painfully
uncomfortable. This was not a horny trip – but somehow ...
My mind seemed to switch off ... except for the pain of my
bladder. Was I going to piss myself?
*****
In the past I’ve spent a lot of time enjoying and surviving
tied-up situations. It’s been my passion for as long as I could remember. And
since adulthood I’ve been lucky enough to engineer myself into many situations
that turned me on. This wasn’t one of them. Although writing about it now is
giving me a hard-on, at the time I was seriously worried. I knew there was no
point in wasting energy and precious oxygen shouting. Best stay quiet and
listen for any sounds of people – then start yelling. As I waited I speculated
on what might happen when and if I was discovered. Straight forward enough –
menaced by a skinhead as I returned to my car – the camera and phone stolen ...
I thought of Mike waiting for me to arrive. Might he come looking for me –
especially if he phoned and the phone wasn’t answered ... what then? ... Jesus
I needed to piss. In the past I’d been left tied up and suffered the painful
build-up before eventually being forced to piss myself. Something we’re
conditioned to resist – but once you reach a certain point and you can’t hold
out any longer ... you wonder why you put up so much resistance (and endured
the pain). Piss and get it over with.
I thought the stream would never end, and felt the warmth
spread around my groin and stomach and thighs ... but all too soon the heat
went out of it and I was cold and damp and miserable – but somehow not afraid.
I’d survived some seriously uncomfortable ‘scenarios. The main store probably
would close around eight and it must be nearly five. I pictured the skinhead
exploring the camera and finding the pictures I’d taken. He was turned on by
Rukka – so was I. Was the motorcycle cop who’d stopped me also into it? He’d
said “As a matter of fact, sir, I can appreciate that.” Strange that I
remembered his exact words, lying scrunched up in the dark. Perhaps I’m not as
strange with my kink as I sometimes think. My thoughts drifted on to visualise
my wardrobe hung with different suits, one and two piece Rukkas, Black Prince
and waxed cotton , padded and unlined ... and the stack of sticking-together
old naval foul weather suits stored in a crate: pungent when hauled out for an
occasional deliberately hot and sweaty layering session. I thought of Mike’s
even more varied collection, which included a couple of seriously professional
diver’s dry suits. The sort of suit you couldn’t escape from once you were in
it. I knew that from long and uncomfortable experience – but I still got off on
the memory of the experience. Some experiences are like that, I mused in the
claustrophobic darkness. I remembered the sessions in wet suits. Being
My mind drifted back to the heavy-Rukka bag hood Mike had
had made for me - and the mitts that laced on so you couldn’t use your fingers,
especially if thickly padded bike gloves were taped on first. Then there was
the Trialmaster Belstaff bike jacket that he’d had mitts sewn to under the
cuffs – so it looked like a normal jacket but when your hands were encased and
the jacket closed ... He’d had a discreet ‘D’ ring fixed near the top of the
zip so the jacket could be padlocked on. He delighted in taking people out in
public locked into gear – even gagged inside one of his crash helmets. My mind
began to re-live the time when he’d driven me, as pillion passenger, out into
the country and left me (hands and head inescapably enclosed) to make my own
way home. He was such a ‘control freak’ he occasionally even insisted I wear
boots a size too small so the tight encasement extends all the way down. He’d
even had some insoles made with small spikes in them. Laced and locked into
those boots you’re happy to stay on your knees, knowing how painful it is to
stand up in them ... my mind continued to wander over past experiences and the
unusual nature of my ‘tastes’ ... until I heard the sound of a bike – was it
his bike?
*****
The sound of the key in the boot-lock confirmed something –
had he been arrested and the police ... ?
No! It was him, grinning down at me. I noticed that the
light was fading, it must be after six. He leaned in without speaking and
gripped two handfuls of the still open-chested jacket, hauling me upwards and
his leering face approached mine.
“Now keep your fucking mouth shut until I tell you
otherwise. Right?” he demanded, his tone indicating he required agreement. I
nodded mutely, sensing he was now in a more aggressive mood.
“Kneel and get your balance,” he commanded without letting
go of my jacket. My cramped legs screamed as the hard surface of the boot
interior pressed the fabric into my kneecaps.
“Lean forward and down a bit” he instructed, using both
hands to position me. Behind the car, in this remote corner of the car park in
the twilight with the boot open ... there was nobody there to see him drag my
body forward so my face was pressed against his groin. It was only then that I
discovered he was now wearing Rukka dark steel grey over-trousers. He wiped my
face around the slippery surface and thrust forwards onto me.
“Lick!” he ordered. “Suck!” he commanded. “Wet them – get
the taste, fucker.”
I tried to comply and after a while, he held me off and
raised me slightly to grin into my face.
“Like the taste? – what else do you like to get your mouth
around?” He took time to close the zip of my jacket right up to the still
poppered collar, neatly closing the weather-proof flap. He then patted my cheek
– surprisingly lightly.
"I told you to keep your mouth shut – but ... “ he
again pulled me forwards until I was face-to-face with his crotch – before
easing down the slippery over-trousers to reveal that there were no other pants
under them – no jeans – no underwear – only a ramrod stiff cock which was
pointing directly at me, shiny and hard.
“Now you can open your mouth” he said, and waited.
A smack across the back of my head told me I’d hesitated too
long, and I knew I had to yell or struggle and suffer the consequences – or
open up and suffer alternative pain and discomfort. I licked my lips and did
what had to be done. Surprisingly it tasted relatively savoury rather than
disgusting - and the smell/taste of Rukka fabric lingered on it.
It wasn’t the first time I'd had my mouth around a man's
rampant dick and somehow my brain reassured me it wouldn’t be the last. But
here and now I had no option but to comply, and so I applied myself to getting
him to climax as soon as possible and get it over with. But he was enjoying it
too much to allow me to rush things. He squirmed and thrusted and moaned in
what sounded like appreciation. With my hands strapped behind my back and his
hands gripping my jacket, he controlled the rhythm and force – but soon his
breathing accelerated and (much to my relief) he withdrew before shooting. The
first spew hit me full in the chest and as his hands encouraged his convulsing
cock, he avoided squirting into my face but deliberately coated the jacket
(he’d thought to close the jacket in advance my reeling mind reminded me). As
the orgasm started to slow down he again grabbed two handfuls of jacket and
dragged my chest against his cock until the cum was massaging his groin. He
fumbled for the waistband of his Rukka trousers and hauled them upwards and
continued to drag my cum-drenched jacket against the slippery plastic of his
pants, deliberately coating them. He grinned – he laughed breathlessly. One
hand released my jacket and began to douse itself in the cum – which he then
proceeded to smear up onto my face. His other hand now started to coat itself
with spunk which he then wiped into my hair. With systematic thoroughness he
transferred the white cream from Rukka to my face and hair – finally gripping
my shoulders and dragging me upwards to his face – where he planted a rough
open-mouthed kiss which included an aggressive tonguing, His unshaven chin
grated against my sticky cheeks and I realised he was coating his own face from
mine – and then he contorted himself to rub his face against the front of my
slimy jacket, laughing breathlessly as he completed the process. His smeared
face then grinned into mine.
“Listen, fuckface. You’re mine. You’ve got what I like and
you like what I like, I know that. And, I’ve got something for you.”
Slightly dazed and breathless I remained kneeling there as
he fumbled into the pocket of his leather jacket. A chain was around my neck
and my face was buried half under the armpit of his jacket before I could
argue. Clamped there, I felt-heard-sensed a padlock click. “You’re mine,” he
said as I virtually fell away from him. I was too stunned to react as I watched
him produce something else from his pocket. Scissors – the type of snub-nosed
cut-anything scissors used by the Emergency Services – and something that
should be in every bondage playroom. Again my head was hauled forwards and this
time steered to between his Rukka-ed legs; there to be clamped between vice-like
Rukka-ed thighs. Immobilised, I felt my elbows released and then the tie
between my wrists was cut. Strong arms under my armpits gripped and lifted me
bodily out of the car boot – and my numb legs found the ground but the arms
continued to support my weight. Without them I would probably have slumped to
the tarmac. As it was, I just slumped against the now cum-stained sticky
leather which covered his chest.
Breathlessly he laughed again – and for almost no reason I
laughed also – relief perhaps. Experimentally, he partially removed his
supporting arms, and one hand took a grip on the thick leather belt around my
waist – so, still holding me upright. His other hand then approached my neck
and a finger looped behind the chain – demonstrating just how snugly tight it
was.
“This stays on,” he said firmly. “Where d’jer live?” he
asked gruffly releasing his grip.
“
“Who you visiting?” was his next question – and I hesitated,
suddenly cautious.
“A friend – for the weekend ...”
“What friend? he demanded and I decided I should not reveal
this information. He raised an eyebrow at my hesitation.
“I could make you tell me. I could shove you back in the
boot, drive you to my place and make you tell me anything I wanted to know. Do you
believe I could do that?” he asked confidently. I nodded. “Bet your fucking ass
I could and I might enjoy it if you tried to resist telling me – so I could
demonstrate just how good I am at ... interrogation.”
Suddenly he seemed to decide on a different approach. “With
that chain locked around your neck your options are limited. So, spend your
weekend doing whatever the big-city pervert who is locked into two Rukka
motorcycle suits might have come to
After a grim pause, he suddenly caught me a stinging smack
across the face before barking out a final sentence into my face. “Tell me his
name!”
“No!” I said with a firmness that surprised me as well as
him.
After a pause he continued, now menacingly calm, “Then
answer me this instead.” A strong gloved finger hooked itself under the front
of the chain, which pulled it painfully against the back of my neck as my face
was hauled downwards until I was forced to my knees. Once again facing the
crotch of his now cum-stained Rukka over-trousers, he persisted.
“What time you setting off back to
“Sunday – three-ish or four-ish” I croaked into his crotch,
fearful that his fierce hold on the chain might snap my neck ... but he was
dragging me upright into a standing position again ... demonstrating that he
had total control although my arms were now free.
“So – if you drive in here at
The proposition was surprisingly exciting – and suddenly,
having slammed down the car boot lid, he sat me backwards against it and was
soon skilfully using his elbows either side of my chest to push me down onto
the back of the car, pinned there by his bodyweight. Leaning down heavily over
me, I felt his legs forcing their way between mine until I was totally
immobilised. In that position, I was able to at least put up some mental
resistance.
“I could hacksaw the chain off” I breathed into his face.
“And I could come find you – wherever you are. I’ve got your
car registration number and I’ve got contacts.” Pinned and powerless, I decided
to play for time. “If I come ... ”
“You will come!” he breathed menacingly into my face. Then
after a final couple of provocative thrusts of his pelvis, he released his
painful hold on the chain and removed his weight.
“Go do what you came here to do,” he said looking down at
me, because I hadn’t moved. “But at three-thirty sharp on Sunday you will be
here ... ”, and then he smiled and dragged me upright using two handfuls of my
messy jacket-front. “I suspect you’ll enjoy it ... and who knows where it may
lead.” His still sticky gloved hand once more massaged around my chest – pulled
down on the collar so the chain around my neck was more visible. I felt like a
rag doll, still off-balance in my hot and sticky Rukka prison (sticky and wet
both inside-and-out because I’d cum at least once during the experience). With
one hand on my shoulder he pushed me ahead of him out from behind the car
towards the driver’s door.
“Get to fuck out of here.” Non-plussed I moved ahead. Behind
me I heard him open and re-slam the boot ... which made me turn.
“Here - keys” he said abruptly and threw them to me. I
caught them and unlocked the door, hesitated and got in, aware that he was now
coming towards me. As I climbed in I noticed he’d taken the trouble to wind the
window up sometime since he’d first hauled me out of the driver's seat. He now
grabbed the door before I could close it.
“Haven’t you forgotten something?” he demanded.
“What?” I asked, genuinely nervous, my face twitching
slightly ... which made me suddenly conscious of the dried cum which still
coated my entire head. In the nervousness of the moment I was also conscious of
the smell of cum in the air; coming from my hair – and even the smell of piss
rising from inside the suits. As I sat, I also saw the white-coated front of
his Rukka over-trousers below his cum stained leather bike jacket. It all
hovered, ominously close, filling the open doorway. It was impossible to see
his face because his crotch was virtually filling the open doorway.
“Forgotten what?” I said, nervous of the pungent bulk
looming over me. He stood back a little and leaned down towards my anxious
face.
“Your phone and your camera,” he challenged ... and I didn’t
know what to say, but my heart was beating seriously fast as he breathed into
my face.
I could find nothing to say – and he stepped back.
“I took them to Mike’s place – just like he told me to – to
prove I’d done what he’d told me to do.” The door slammed before I’d fully
taken in what he’d said. I stared through the windscreen as he strode to his
bike and hauled it off its stand. Having cleared the path for the car, he
motioned me to wind the window down – which I did without hesitation. He put
the bike back on its stand and he was heading towards me.
“And tell him that this evening ... “ he leaned into my
window ... “he should bring you over to my place in the locked-on heavy wax
Trialmaster I modified for him - the one with the built-in padded mitts. And
with your mouth taped under your crash helmet, tell him from me ... and we’ll
take you for a spin before introducing you to our local pub. There’ll be a
couple of other mates there – mate.”
After a brief pause he finished abruptly. “Drive!”
I drove – because words had failed me.
THE END.
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