Know what you're
getting into

Dealing with it
is the name of the game


extracts from stories
on this site

The most recent addition to the site is a long story, THE AGENCY.
In it, the difference between several gags is not only explained, but demonstrated

Vivid gagging descriptions are buried in all ten stories - but ALL EXTRACTS ARE ON THIS PAGE.
Either read down
(18,000 words), or click on a particular title to go direct to that extract.
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There are Printer Friendly versions of the full text of each story



British Fire-fighter A.J. 'Chunky' Proctor, nervously visits Gay Shop intending to buy handcuffs because his girlfriend is no good a tying knots. After conversation with Robert, the young shop owner, he ends up buying a complete set of combined wrist and ankle manacles, admitting that he plans to lock them on himself at home and wait for his girlfriend to arrive.

In a follow-up phone conversation, Robert offers more detailed advice about the finer points of the scene they devised together.
We only hear Robert's side of the conversation:

 ... So, you've decided downstairs rather than up - OK - you naked, right? Keys where you can't reach them once you've manacled your feet then hands, right? Timing?

Two hours before she's due to arrive! That's a bit of gamble, isn't it. Yes indeed - suspense can be a great turn-on. Up to you - your party. Anything else before I ring off and you get moving? ... A gag? Why? Do you sometimes gag yourself when you play on your own? ... Not often - but you have . . .. Yeh, yeh, just to know how it feels - right! How long for? ... Well, in that case better not. Might be a bit too intense. Perhaps another time, though.

... No ... no, it was a very interesting suggestion . . .. Well, OK if you think you could handle it - but you don’t know how well you can deal with a gag over a longer period. You do ... six hours on your own? You really do like to put yourself through it, don't you.
Before, was it a gag you bought or did you just improvise with ...? ... Duct tape! That’s serious stuff - very sticky - I usually recommend Athletics’ tape as a better option ... Did I give you a copy of the 'Gags' Information Sheet when you were in the store. No? Pity. It covers a lot of points to consider.

OK, if you've thought it through - and you’ve used duct tape on yourself before ... for six hours! well then, you know what you're letting yourself in for – and you've got some in the house?... What can I say ... it’s your scenario ... but you will need to gag yourself first before starting the process of closing the manacles - and then have to deal with it until Sarah gets home. Too late to change your mind. Two hours you think ... yeh, yeh, yeh ... you get off on the suspense. Not quite knowing - you naked and gagged waiting for her to walk in the door - but perhaps having to stay gagged for however long she decides to keep you gagged after she gets home? ... Well it seems I was right about you, you perverted masochist sod. "

For devilment, after half an hour, Robert calls again to check whether the phone is answered. It isn't. So, hoping A.J. is already inescapably manacled and gagged, he leaves a provocative message on the fire-fighter's message machine ... which includes the idea ...

"... I also toyed with the idea of calling the police and telling them I’d seen somebody breaking into your house ... or perhaps the fire brigade. That would be hysterical! Imagine how you and your mates would react if you were called to an incident only to find a naked guy gagged and shackled in his own living room. Think about it!”

He deliberately left a pause for dramatic effect ... but in the silence the recording machine cut out automatically.

Later in the story, A.J. 'Chunky' Proctor has agreed to return to the shop with his fire-fighting turn-out gear for some photos of him manacled (on condition his face can not be seen in the pictures).
When he arrives at the photo studio behind the shop, somebody dressed in American fire-fighter kit is already tied spread-eagled

“Thought you might to see how we sometimes do things here," said Robert. "Rigged it up specially for you. Don’t worry, the mask is blacked out and he’s gagged underneath it”.
“How long’s he been here?”
“Not as long as he would like -- but trust me he’s happy as a pig in shit ... but you may come as a bit of a surprise to him. He wasn’t expecting a stranger - were you Larry?” the young man shouted at the rubberised all-over re-breather mask under the exotic looking American safety helmet. The immobilised figure stared back blindly and mutely as Chunky continued to drink in the sight before him.

Robert has offered Chunky the chance to challenge the immobilised 'victim' in this predicament.

Chunky smiled into the sightless face and proceeded to massage the sizeable cock through the thick canvas of the dull yellow fire emergency suit. “Don’t like that, huh? Good!” he said continuing to massage harder. “Let’s hear just how much noise you can make, chummy” and with that he suddenly squeezed.

A muffled roar penetrated the mask. “Gagged are we?” hissed the newly liberated Chunky Proctor. “How gagged? Very gagged or only slightly gagged? Let me hear you, matey”. Taking a vicious grip on the cock and balls beneath the thick fabric, he squeezed. This produced thrashing and something resembling a scream.
“I think we can live with that noise level” said Chunky, surprising even himself as he prepared to demonstrate what he was capable of.

At Roberts invitation, Chunky has forcibly moved the bound and gagged 'victim' into a seriously uncomfortable rope tie. The question is now floated, whether Chunky could cope with being given similar treatment.
The straight-but-curious fire-fighter can not resist the challenge.

When Robert returned with another mask, he also carried a padded mouth cover and strap.
“He’s gagged under his helmet. Can you deal with that?” Chunky licked his lips and nodded determinedly. It was only then that he saw what sort of gag it was.
“Open up” said Robert as a substantial black plastic mouth stuffer shaped like the head of a penis approached Chunky’s open mouth.
‘This is no time to chicken out’ Chunky told himself silently as his lips received the stumpy veined head of a penis. He watched his own eyes in the mirror as Robert stood behind him securing the strap, Their eyes met in the mirror.
“Usually I advise against having a gag under a full head covering ... but a zip-closed hood is quicker to get off than laces. So - how’s that feel?”
Totally unable to answer, Chunky’s eyes bulged at the younger man for a moment before giving a solemn nod. “Sure you’re OK with that?” confirmed Robert.
“If he can fucking deal with it so can I” thought Chunky before (perhaps somewhat rashly) giving another determined nod.
“That’s the spirit” cooed Robert as he wrenched the strap tighter, driving the gag further home before he proceeded to encase Chunky’s head in the inescapable rubber re-breathing mask.

Later in the story, the guy in the American fire-fighting kit has been released and is giving Chunky a taste of his own medicine.
Kitted out in his own fire-fighter gear, he is now strapped to a robust metal chair which has small wheels at the back. Still efficiently gagged inside the heavy rubber mask, he hears the voice continue:

“What will be the padded cell one day, isn’t ready yet ... but young Bob here has developed a neat way of getting somebody into a strait-jacket without there being a fucking thing they can do to stop it. He maybe a lightweight but it doesn’t matter how much of a fight you put up, and he's taught me how to do it; coached me into the routine that will get you there, like it or not. And believe me I know how efficient it is, know from experienced because he used me to practice on - and invited me to put up serious resistance - so I know the routine works - and once your there, you stay there until the person who puts you there decides to let you free."

After giving the sightless and voiceless Chunky time to reflect on this, the voice continued, "Another nice alternative is for me to load you into a van and whisk you off to some un-named destination. Great psychological trip, that ... being taken somewhere ... who knows where. Maybe out into the countryside ... maybe a cellar somewhere, never to be seen again”.
Chunky was beginning to understand what the phrase 'Mind Fuck' could really mean.

The chair began to move again but stopped suddenly. “But, of course, we’ve got the new cellar here. Once down there nobody would hear you even if you weren’t gagged. Myself I like to hear a bit of unbridled yelling. I guess I could get the chair down the steps ... might be a bit of a bumpy ride ... and you’re not in any position to argue at present! ... are you? Are you!!” insisted the voice.

A sudden whack across the rubber-covered head resounded inside Chunky’s mask, making him bite down on the bung with his aching jaw.
“Answer me when I’m talking to you, fucker!! You are in no position to argue ... but you can communicate - can’t you!?”
Chunky hesitated for a moment before giving a single nod (as far as his anchored collar would permit).
“Yes! Exactly! So, are you ready to give the three nod signal yet? ... so you can get let out?”

Chunky sat motionless. Another provocative slap across the head made Chunky nervous and frustrated rather than angry, but he remained motionless. A hand grabbed his crotch viciously.
“Answer me, dammit! The choice is yours - out now or stay in for at least another two hours. Nod for get let out, shake for stay in,” demanded the oppressor.
Chunky, although he desperately needed a drink and was beginning to feel the need to piss ... another consideration took priority in his mind ... and a controlled shake of the head opted for the experience to continue uninterrupted.

In another 'gag' episode in this long story, Chunky still bundled up in his fire-fighter turn-out kit has been re-gagged with an efficient wedge device, and is now being encased in a tight-fitting mesh hood by the young shop owner. He was intrigued to see how, although able to see out, from the outside it was impossible to see his face.

Chunky watched in the mirror as Robert finished lacing the back of the hood and tucking it neatly down inside his jacket’s high collar. He remembered Roberts’ warning about gags under a laced-on hood - but the zip across the mouth would allow the gag out quickly in an emergency, he reasoned.

‘I’m learning’ he mused dispassionately as he drank in the sight before him. The metal shackle locked around his coat collar glistened against the dark fabric. The straps which held him into the chair at elbows and wrists, waist, knees and ankles were brown so they all stood out well for the photos, Chunky assessed. Robert walked away and came back holding something that in the mirror Chunky could not identify. Because his neck was firmly fastened to the high chair back he could not turn his head to look more closely. Was it an enema bag?!

Robert smiled. “Don’t worry,” he said “I just thought you might need a drink. It’s clean water, slightly iced. This nozzle fits neatly into the breathing hole in your gag, and at the turn of this small tap ... the water flows down out of the bag.”

With that he demonstrated the procedure, and soon a refreshing trickle of water entered Chunky’s mouth. As Robert raised the bag higher the water flowed quicker into his immobilised mouth ... and his throat began to convulse trying to deal with it ... and failed.
He began to choke and Robert deftly reduced the flow. As Chunky recovered from the first shock, he felt the chair tip backwards slightly and the swallowing became easier ... and he realised that Robert was demonstrating his total control of the situation.

Putting the bag aside, Robert mopped around the mouth of the hood and remarked amiably “Of course it could have been piss ... your own piss, of course, because that’s safe, healthwise. Or I could force feed a couple of litres of nice fresh water into you. Fill you to bursting point and wait for it to come out the other end. But a catheter, once in place makes it impossible for you to control the flow from inside but ... at the turn of a little tap ... it could be controlled from the outside. Or alternatively,” he continued watching Chunky in the mirror, “I could connect your catheterised cock to your mouth tube ... having first filled you up ... and just let nature take it’s course. It’s called recycling. It’s a fun game to watch ... waiting until the flow is impossible to stop. It’s one of those games that people hesitate to leave un-ticked on the questionnaire when they first fill it out. I always advise people not to rule too much out when they first see the form. You may not relish the idea ... but do you really want to totally rule out the possibility. There’s a ‘Maybe - if the time is ripe’ category. I look forward to seeing your questionnaire when you’ve had a bit more time to consider the possibilities. That’s why I thought to sit you down and let you watch a few of the ‘experiments’ other people have enjoyed ... survived ... asked for.”

In a final 'gagging' sequence, the immobilised Chunky watches in the mirror as masked men begin changing his position. Using well-coordinated teamwork to transfer him from the chair to a heavy full-length, close-fitting bodybag, soon only his head is left sticking out of the top of it.

As the mesh hood was removed sliding forward, a leather bag hood was held ready to take it’s place and complete his encasement. This removed his vision but was not yet closed at the back. Hands were unstrapping the gag - this might be a problem. How long had he been gagged for? His jaw was numb. A zip in the bag hood opened suddenly, surprising Chunky He was disorientated. Hands seemed to be all around his face. The gag came out forwards and two fingers slid into his mouth - he breathed deeply ... but a flat tongue-like shape slid into his mouth ... rubber but flat. As he swallowed, he tasted liquid ... fresh cool water. Thank God! Nothing disgusting - nothing new to deal with ... not yet. Not just yet ... but when the time came .... maybe ...

He began to suck like a hungry baby. He drank and was amazed at his gratitude in the middle of all this ... control. The water tasted good. He had no choices to make. Those made for him ... he was grateful for ... appreciated. He felt privileged. This is not what he had expected.
He guessed there would be times when the treatment would not be so considerate ... and he knew he would welcome the challenge ... but for the moment ... these people knew! They knew perhaps better than he knew that he was learning. He was being tested. Was this Initiation? It felt almost like a ritual ... High Priests was a crazy image to get at a time like this but he was mummified ... and the silent ‘celebrants’ ... shit was he freaking out ... going slowly off his rocker ... helpless and enclosed ... faceless but all powerful hands closing the bag around his head and neck, removing the water supply .... leaving him gagged and bound and totally in their hands.

For the complete text, see PRINTER FRIENDLY


Scottish TV series cop (the young Robert Carlisle) has been jumped by a visiting female cop determined to prove her ability to take and keep control. She has Hamish cuffed and roped to the bars of the station jail cell.

... He groans in frustration as she buckles the belt clamping his head to the bars - but her face remains close to his. She touches his lips with her fingers.
“Have you ever been gagged, constable?”
Suddenly anxious “No!”
“No you haven’t?”
“Not ever - even in fun? Even out on a Stag Night or Rugby Club piss-up?”
She moves to get her leather gloves. “You haven’t lived. Open your mouth”
He doesn’t. She continues reasonably “I can make you. Do you believe that?”
No response.
“Be a sport. Open up.” She teases his mouth with the folded gloves. “Trust me.”
Warily he opens his mouth and she lays the folded gloves across his teeth.
“Close - and don’t let them drop”.
He grips the gloves with his teeth as she begins to tweak and twists his exposed nipples. He groans. She applies her lips to a nipple and his groans become sharp cries into the gloves.
“Shushh! Don’t want to disturb the neighbours.”
Her hand roams down his stomach and inside his sweatpants. He moans with pleasure. The moans increase but suddenly end in a muffled yelp
“Don’t lose it, Macbeth. If you lose it I shall be very very disappointed. I shall be very angry - so, don’t lose it. But, just in case, where do you keep your condoms?”
She removes the gag but he just stares at her.
“Where do you keep your condoms?”
He is embarrassed. “You’re not going to pretend you don’t keep a stock.”
“Medicine Cabinet in with the burn dressings - I put them out of the way while you were visiting”
“Best laid plans ....” She replaces the gloves across his mouth & walks into the cell. From behind she suddenly loops rope across his mouth and ties the gloves efficiently and firmly into place. She returns to face him and pats his cheek.
“Just in case you change your mind.”
Again she leaves him to sweat.

For the complete text, see PRINTER FRIENDLY

A New York biker, Pete, passing through a remote country town has been harassed by a local wanna-be Hell's Angel, Duncan. Forced to stay working as a garage mechanic in order to repair damage to his bike, Pete, after being given more grief by the local bully, is in the process of him tying down to his own bike in the privacy of the garage.

The clamp-stand held the bike firm as, in a surprise move, the seated Dunk suddenly found himself belly-down on his own machine. A quickly applied bungee strap had dragged his neck down across the hand-bars, another had clamped the powerful wanna’be biker's chest to the machine, before a third had pinioned his elbows behind his back... before the irate biker knew what had hit him.
His disoriented leathered legs kicked wildly, but the heavy boots were no threat to Pete.
With a loop of rope, he deftly lassoed one flailing boot and hauled it forward to anchor it to the fork which held the front wheel. The second high-legged boot was easily captured and dragged to join the other against the solid front wheel.
Rising from his knees, and ignoring the yelling and cursing, the mechanic was now in a position to survey his handiwork. He was turned on, watching the writhing form, the flexing straps which promise hope of escape but always dragged the naked torso back down against the bike. The uncomfortable position of legs forward and chest forward and arms pinioned backwards, inescapable even without the wrists fixed was all great to watch. Pete took time to savour the situation – and speculate on how he would respond if it were happening to him. There had been times …

But the mechanic dragged his mind back to the present, and walked calmly away to the workbench. Big Dunk strained his head upwards against the rubber to yell “What the fuck you think … ” but he stopped at the sight of the roll of wide duct tape in Pete’s hands. Desperately he struggled as he felt one wrist being circled. But strain as he might, he could not see to evade the winding of the tape. With elbows already tightly pinioned, it was no contest. However much he tried to resist, wrists were soon solidly bound together by the unbreakable tape.
Dunk’s mouth had not been as busy during this battle of the wrists, but now he was ready to open his mouth wide and recommence his yelling … when the crotch of Pete’s greasy coveralls loomed close to his face. Astride the front wheel, Pete's hand lifted his chin painfully against the tug of the double rubber strap which dragged his neck downwards. The crotch moved closer to the angry face, which was then slowly and deliberately embedded into the fabric and whatever lay beneath. After a couple of provocative thrusts, the crotch drew back and a voice from on high said quietly:
“Now is the time to keep quiet, Duncan.”
But Big Dunk was in no mood to keep quiet. He opened his mouth to speak and it was immediately filled with a small ball of some kind, and tape was circling his jaw and chin and around the back of his head. In the silence that followed Pete said:
“Oh, Duncan, Duncan, you pushed your luck and your luck ran out.”

For the complete txt see PRINTER FRIENDLY

In a violent rain storm, a British biker travelling the back roads between Los Angeles and San Francisco, meets a young farm-hand stranded in a roadside coffee shop.
The efficient rain-proof British modern bike suit is admired by the farm hand who, well protected in his heavy old-fashioned oilskins, needs to get home.
The biker offers to give the boy a ride back to his remote farm.

As the rain continues, parking the bike in the barn, more old oilskins encourage the biker to try on one of the big old work coats. Usually stored hanging from a drying bar, the kid enthusiastically demonstrates that these garments are so tough and rip-proof that they are even strong enough to support bodyweight:

“OK, let me down now, Darryl” I said, trying to keep any tone of panic out of my voice.
“Aw, c’mon,” he complained. “It’s only a bit of fun. I thought as you’d like to see how we sometimes horse around, me and the other hands. You said you like these coats. Well, sir, with that-there pole across thru the sleeves - and a couple of extra straps, around the tops of each arm and the pole - it can fix you good - and with less strain on the coat if you’re hanging in it for a couple of hours.”

From behind I felt a strap circle my arm close to the shoulder, then one on the other side.
I was ready to start getting firmer with my demands for him to let me loose, when a brawny hand from behind my head clamped itself over my mouth. A voice close to my ear spoke soothingly.
“It’s only a game we play, me and my brother - my big brother. But we don’t like a lot of hollering and argument,” and then the hand relaxed and freed my mouth.

“Come on, Darryl,” I insisted. “Let me loose - please.”
No reply from behind me. “Darryl - enough is enough!” I repeated more firmly.
“Yes, indeedy. Enough is enough complaining !” and I recognised the sound of adhesive tape being ripped from a roll. The wide tape was across my open mouth before any sound escaped from me, and it was twice around my head and wrapping my face from nostrils to the point of my chin in seconds. After that I felt him tape first one of my thickly gloved wrists to one end of the pole. And there was nothing I could do to prevent the same happening to the other.

For the complete text see PRINTER FRIENDLY

A new long story describes another group of men who enjoy challenging physical man-to-man game-playing. An Irish labourer is tempted by an offer to visit The Agency (ostensibly, a film and video company), for a day of 'evaluation'.

... The instructor explained, "The tap-out sign is standard and got to be respected. In a practice tussle you ease up immediately if your opponent gives the signal."
Nick gave the two rapid taps on his own chest. "Means immediate let-up. The alternative is to say a clipped 'Right-Right-Right!'. Three quick 'rights' - or, if you're gagged, three sharp nods of the head ...
The other guy added, "Or if your head's immobilised and you're gagged, three sharp grunts."
"If I'm gagged?" queried the Irishman, feeling that the situation was already running out of control, because they both talked about such things as if it was a fucking everyday ...
"Have you ever been gagged?" asked Nick.
Paddy's mind stopped in it's tracks. No he fucking hadn't. He shook his head (but kept his mouth closed).
"Some people deal with it better than others. Today is about testing limits. But," Nick continued reassuringly, "we'll see what you're up for as we go along. No worries, we'll start off gradually."
"Worries!" was all Paddy managed to mutter as Nick pushed the Agreement for a day of trials across the desk.
"Sign," said Nick - and Paddy signed.

In a later discussion, the subject of gags is again raised. Paddy is told that one of the team members is currently in the middle of an 'endurance' test, four hours in a particularly uncomfortable gag; a self-challenge which he had willing agreed to:

"Later today you can see pictures of young Will when he first went into the gag and restraints - then after the first half-hour - then one hour - and so on. In fact soon, we can go back there and you can see for yourself how he's dealing with it - or if he'll be ready to admit defeat - or tough it out for the full time. He'll be given the option. Nobody does anything they don't want to. But it's a good opportunity for the records: photos taken every half hour. Seeing that sort of 'deal with it' situation turns a lot of our Clients on - and turn us on as well. And he's a tough little bugger. Before you go home tonight, you'll know just how tough he is - and perhaps just how well you might deal with ... a few of things ... some of which might boggle your mind. It's all up to you. No coercion. No hurry. So, let's talk about you - here - now. This is your day."

Later in the day, Paddy is coping surprisingly well. The team have demonstrated how efficiently they can grab a 'target' and secure him to a chair without any physical damage. All a matter of coordination - and Paddy, the subject of the demonstration, was now sitting strapped inescapably into a metal chair which, in turn, was well anchored to the floor.

"But when we were talking about gags earlier - and you weren't sure. Denny, have you got the ... "
Paddy's eyes shot to the drawer the other bloke was opening. He was producing what? ... but Nick was still talking somewhere behind him.
"Of course, a gag is usually only one part of a situation. In an emergency, hand gagging ... "
A gloved hand suddenly clamped over the Irishman's mouth.
Strapped as he was, Paddy was in no position to put up any resistance. He wrenched his head but his neck was clamped in the crook of Nick's bent arm.
Allowing Paddy to breathe through his nose, Nick talked into his ear. "Thing with hand-gagging," he said, "is that if you position the hand right you can ... " with the same hand he pinched Paddy's nose and held it closed.
Nick knew just how long it would be before the Irishman was seriously desperate for air - and the expert, intensified his grip as he talked on.
"Of course, breath-control is another topic and another technique we all use from time to time. And then there's pressure points and sleeper holds - that can put you out cold ... "
By this time the increasingly desperate victim was busting a gut, but Nick had decided to push boundaries. It was a Test Day and this was a tough customer worth challenging to the limit.
Despite increasingly frantic responses, he held on past the time Paddy needed to breathe, before letting go.

When released, gasping and flushed, Paddy needed time to recover.
Long before that time, Denny had changed cameras and was filming in close-up.
It took time for Paddy to get his breath back - and by that time, the three gags already out of the drawer, were ready for action: one was in Nick's hand and the other two in his pocket. As Paddy's attention settled down, Nick reassuringly (seductively) showed the seated man, a flat-tongue of rubber on a leather strap.
"Just as an experiment, try this briefly."
Paddy took a breath to ask something - but the tongue was in his mouth. The strap was around the back of his head before Paddy could blink - and the smiling Nick was asking. "Try to say something?"
Paddy was fucking ready to say something - but as he began, it became a test of just how well he could make himself understood. As he talked, the rubber tongue pressed down on his tongue. His words were audible but distorted.
"Is this the sort of thing ... ?" he began, but it came out as "I'th ti'th thuth thort off thin ... " The gag was out of his mouth before he'd finished.
Peeved, Paddy had been ready to try adjusting to it - but Nick was psychologist enough to know the game was only just beginning. He smiled. "Try it again and this time try to shout."
The gag was back in and again strapped, this time tighter before Nick stood back.

Paddy looked at Nick and then at Denny who was holding the camera close.
"Fuck-k you!" he said quite clearly, before deciding to shout, "Fuck-k you!"
"Louder," encouraged Nick.
"Fucking bath-tards," yelled Paddy. "Geth me out off theeth fucking trapps. Geth me out off thith fucking," he had to work at the word, "thair!"
"Thith thwat?", mimicked Nick.
"Thair!!" yelled Paddy, indicating the chair which he was attempting to destroy. "Thair!!!," he tried again before admitting to the absurdity of the situation.
"Just yell for help as loud as you can," Nick instructed and Paddy obliged.
"Hel-l-lpp," he shouted quite clearly. "Fucking somebody hel-l-l-pp! Leth me fucking outh off here!"
Laughing, Nick had released the gag and it was out. "You see, it's an inhibitor rather than a gag."
"It's made me fucking dribble," said Paddy, trying to suck back some of the saliva.
"Never mind, it'll oil the way for the next one," he said - and a quite wide leather wedge was in Paddy's mouth and strapped before he could argue.
This one not only held the mouth wider, it had a padded face-cover.
"Try yelling again," instructed Nick - and Paddy yelled. They weren't quite sure what he was yelling, because most of it stayed behind the foam-padded leather which bedded into his cheeks. Nick smilingly cupped an ear with his hand, inviting Paddy to try harder. He did. He shouted, he shook his head from side-to-side attempting to loosen the gag. He yelled again until Nick released and removed it.
"See," said Nick, "Totally different."
Throwing the gag aside, he took another one out of his pocket and showed it to Paddy. It was a sizable round plug, big in circumference and long. It was a plastic penis-head, realistically detailed with veins.
Paddy's immediate reaction was "No way" and he clamped his mouth firmly shut.
With a certain amount of relish, Nick started to explain, "Of course, there are techniques you will need to learn about gagging somebody who doesn't want to be gagged."
Paddy shook his head from side-to-side, mouth still firmly shut - and Nick smilingly continued.
"So, as part of the demonstration ... " he grabbed for the Irishman's head, clamping it firmly into the crook of his arm, which left the fingers of that hand dangerously close to his intended victim's nose. Paddy was ready to put up a struggle, but the technique was simple; with the nose clamped closed, the clenched mouth was soon desperate to drag air in, so lips parted even though teeth remained firmly clenched.
A swift switch of the fingers had Paddy's jaw in a painful grip. And as he cried out, the plug was in. Not an easy move. But the well-practiced Nick had achieved his goal. Not only in, but very tightly strapped - and Paddy was trying to cope with the bulk in his mouth.
Almost seductively, Nick was saying. "Just learn to deal with it. Just for a minute - or two." His eyes met those of the sweating Irishman as he had no alternative but to suck on the plastic mass, deep in his mouth. His breathing and swallowing gradually settled down as he was forced to cope. His eyes stayed mainly on Nick, but they did flicker towards Denny's camera - and even the CCTV camera high on the wall, before returning his resentful gaze to Nick - who was looking reassuring rather than mocking.
"There you are, you see. You can deal with it. It takes some getting used to - and that takes time - but again, it's a learning curve." He was reaching for the back fastening, and the plug came looser - but, as it was being withdrawn, Nick's hand at the back of Paddy's head controlled the speed. It also managed to push back the plug and withdraw it slightly before pushing again, gently but firmly.
Paddy knew exactly what was being done - and a particularly deep thrust touched the back of his throat. Immediately he was gagging and trying to cough - but Nick made no concessions, and continued to slide the penis-head in and almost out of the Irishman's mouth - but never allowing him to close his mouth. With Paddy's head in the bend in his arm, Nick demonstrated that he had total control. His eyes still locked onto those of his victim, he talked quietly, seductively.
"There are a lot of things you can get used to when you have no alternative. If you join us, you will need to learn to do this - and do it safely. We never damage our Clients. "
All the time the plug continued to slide in and out, forcing Paddy to suck on it. "And for the rest of today - just focus on surviving - whatever. We need to show you the sort of things we do - and get paid to do - or to have done to us. At the end of it, we can talk it through. Don't make any decisions yet - just go along with the - what? - inevitable. You'll be surprised - and for the future, be confident that your time will come when you can do - whatever - to other people - but you've got to learn to do it right. That means safely more than anything - and against all resistance - efficiently."
As Nick stopped talking, Paddy thought the ordeal was over, but no. The plug was finally plunged deep into Paddy's mouth, the strap tightened again and Nick had stood back.
The seated figure could not believe it. His body slammed back and forward against the chair - but the chair stood solid and all straps held fast. The victim was furious - desperate - powerless ... again! And the camera was having a field-day.

An unexpected turn of events results in a recent recruit to the team, turning the tables on two of his instructors during an exercise. Paddy follows the two bosses of The Agency through to another area of the studio.

Garry, one of the principle instructors was now trussed into a hog-tie, balanced precariously on the little padded table. Paddy quickly noted that the elaborately roped bundle was anchored to the table with a minimal amount of rope. No chance of him falling off.
Moving in closer, he inspected the rope which circled the sweating Instructor's cheeks and mouth - deep into his open mouth - with more rope stuffed -knotted inside the mouth.
Denny took the opportunity to pan his camera up off Garry to film Paddy inspecting the roping. Paddy even acknowledged the camera and gave what was a genuine indication of how impressed he was.

The kid, Will, undergoing the willingly accepted four hour endurance test is only part-way through the ordeal.

Was it a psychological thing that had prevented Paddy, without his realising it, looking sooner at the strapped and kneeling kid's face? When he did, he did not know how to react.
A network of wire held the kid's mouth wide open. The gaping hole of his mouth was like the one he'd seen on the DVD . Perhaps Paddy had closed his mind to even that DVD segment - with the penis threatening to force it's way into an immobilised mouth.
The wire was designed to ratchet, so was adjustable. Now, in reality, Paddy could not take in just how wide the kid's mouth was strained. He was dribbling profusely, gulping painfully for every breath. He looked terrible - miserable. Paddy's brain was telling him to step in and release the poor little bastard - but, at the same time (amazing how many thoughts can pass through a brain in seconds) he wondered how he would deal with being in the same predicament.
This thought was short circuited, because Denny was saying something to the kid.
In the sort of voice army officers used when inspecting the troops, Denny was saying. "Listen carefully, Will. If you want out, you only have to ask."
"ASK!" The word exploded in Paddy's brain. Poor little fucker ... "
Denny continued, "I know you said four hours - but if you want to change your mind - nobody will think any the worse of you. No come-back. If you decide you've had enough - at least this time - just tell me. You know the drill to end it. One grunt for 'yes' - two grunts for 'no'. If that's too difficult - one strong blink of the eyes for 'yes', two for 'no'".
Paddy suddenly realised that Nick was now using the video camera as Denny waited expectantly.
The kid tried to control his breathing. He was sweating, he was dribbling, he was almost crying with the stress - and he blinked once. Paddy was relieved for him - but was then brought up short because the kid blinked for the second time.
"Are you sure?" asked the officer in charge, quite gently - and the kid determinedly blinked again, twice.
Denny immediately flashed his stills camera twice close to the kid's face, capturing the moment.
Paddy realised he'd been holding his breath. Nick had finished filming all around the kneeling Will.
He now asked Denny, "What about Paul?"
"Oh, I had a quick look in at him - and he's OK, if fucking furious." Denny then looked at Paddy.
"How are you dealing with all this? A bit strong? Not the sort of thing we usually lay on for a Test Day. Don't want you to get the wrong idea - this is advanced stuff. Baz here may be a dick-head, but he's taken quite a leap, technically. Baz - well done."
Obviously, the beefy rugby player was grateful - relieved. For once he was lost for words.
Denny was moving back to the hog-tied Garry, once more the Inspecting Officer. Garry knew that he was exhibit 'A'. Nick, Paddy and Baz stood around like students while the Specialist considered options. Suddenly, Denny asked for "Bandage scissors".
In a flash, Baz had moved away and was back with a pair of small snub-nosed scissors.
Denny showed them briefly to Paddy, "Essential when you're doing any rope-work. Cut anything. Blunt-nosed, won't dig in."
To prove it, he was working a snub-nosed scissor blade under one of the ropes which tightly circled Garry's head. The scissors cut the rope without effort. "All the Emergency Services carry them now - ambulance - paramedics - fire. Cut leather - anything."
As he talked he was unwinding the rope which had circled Garry's face three times. As it came away, Paddy saw the wad of knotted rope-ends which had been stuffed into Garry's mouth. It was sodden - and Garry was adjusting to being un-gagged. His cheeks had deep rope-marks on them.
Denny had produced a handkerchief and was mopping Garry's mouth.
"Right old pickle you've got yourself into, mate. Before you say anything - you're on camera (Nick was filming again) so keep it shut until I tell you otherwise - right?"
Unwillingly, Garry kept silent. He wrenched at his tight roping - and was aware of the camera - and of Paddy. He glowered up at Baz - and both Nick and Denny had to suppress a smile before Denny spoke again to Garry.
"In the circumstances, there's a change of plan for Paddy here's day - and until I've assessed the situation, I'm asking you to stay put ... "
"But ..." started Garry.
"But," interrupted Denny, "I'm asking you to stay put - just for a bit longer for a reason. Right?"
"What about Paul? He's ... "
"He's OK - fucking livid - but dealing with it. And I know he's on duty soon - and he won't be late. So, Garry, Mate - bear with me. Hang in there. We'll be back in a minute."
With that, the officer in charge moved on, and Baz and Nick were both following.
Paddy stayed rooted to the spot for a minute, looking in amazement at Garry and then the painfully gagged kid - before leaving to follow the group.

The instructor, Paul, a motorcycle cop when not at the studio, had been in uniform and ready to leave for work when Baz had jumped him to demonstrate that he'd learned the handcuffing techniques.
Behind his back, the cop's cuffed hands were attached to a rope and pulley in the ceiling of the cell. When pulled high, the pulley had forced him to bend forward looking at the ground.
But now the pulley had been lowered.

The cop's already flushed face contorted, was it rage or was it embarrassment - or his stuffed-out cheeks.
Paddy reckoned that the gag must be massive because the cheeks were bulging. The cop, standing there, bike boots braced far apart, leather pants stretched tight across his groin, arms uncomfortably tight behind his back because of the bulk of the hi-viz jacket, was a picture worth preserving. Both Nick and Garry were at work taking shots from all angles. Paddy hoped he could get some of these pictures. The victim's furious face looked ready to burst.

Denny looked at Paddy before say authoritatively, "Get your arse in here, I want to show you something."
Paddy did as ordered, but kept one eye on Baz in case he was thinking of closing the cell door. Standing directly in front of the angry Paul, Denny said:
"See this gag? It's one of the best. Inflatable. Need's a pump to inflate it - then the pump detaches. Where's the pump, Baz?" he asked.
"In my pocket. Why? Do you want to pump it up some more?"
At this the cop shouted something unintelligable into the gag while rocking around on his totally immobilised legs.
Denny said calmly, "No, just asking, before continuing to the Irishman, "See this little catch. That deflates the gag ... "
"Wait a minute," said Baz.
Paddy looked round and Baz had taken the stun-gun out of his pocket.
"Give that damn thing to Nick," ordered Denny - and big as he was, Baz handed it over.
"Now," he instructed Paddy, "you deflate the gag."
About to argue, he met a gaze that made him decide to do as he was told. Slightly embarrassed, the Irishman fiddled with the catch - painfully aware of how close this brought him to the sweating, angry policeman.
"Don't worry, he's still handcuffed - and you can punch him in the gut if he gives you any trouble ... " said Denny with a grin at Paul. "Now, deflate it - and then take the gag out."
Again Paddy would have preferred not to - but it was a challenge - so he released the catch.
The strain on Paul's cheeks immediately reduced, and the sweating cop closed his eyes in relief.
"Now take the gag out," instructed Denny.

To achieve what was being asked, Paddy realised he would need to be behind the ...
"Get on with it," urged Denny. And as he moved, Denny caught Nick's eye, and the video camera was at the ready.
Instinctively, Paddy looked down to the cop's still handcuffed wrists before turning his attention to the gag. It was easy enough to release the strap. As it came loose, he managed to allow the limp inflatable sack to come out of the mouth while he still kept hold of the strap.
Denny was standing back, clicking stills. Nick was filming and Baz was hovering by the cell door. Paddy stayed where he was although he knew his face was in shot almost next to Paul's, but behind him.
"Now," said Denny in a tone which kept everybody else silent and waiting for him to continue.
"This is the situation. Paul, you need to be on duty - BUT," he said in a tone that warned Paul not to interrupt, "we've not finished with Jack, here yet. It's his day and I want him to see several things - and get the feel of them.
END OF 'THE AGENCY' excerpt.

For complete text see PRINTER FRIENDLY

The first episode in this story, describes police inspector Drummond (known as Bulldog) snatched and now being subjected to deliberately uncomfortable encasement in a rubber 'punishment' suit - but then left alone.

“Come on you bastards, get started!” were the words I shouted, but they were not the sounds my ears heard. I couldn’t make a single clear sound. Too conscious that the ropes were biting against my flesh even through the thick covering, the fact that the hood and gag held in all sound now really began to get to me. I had never been gagged. Even in horsing around – stag nights and rugby piss-ups – I’d always been the one helping to do it to others. Even on collage military cadet training exercises I’d always tried to avoid any sort of gagging or getting tied up.

After the disturbing kidnap ordeal, Drummond has become aware that h
is nervous system is shot. The withdrawal symptoms after the drugs imposed on him have made some of his actions become uncontrollable - this includes rampant sexual urges.
His mate Harry is trying to calm him down:

"Relax, man, damn it!"
“How can I fucking relax. It must be the drugs. Help me! There’s some rope in the kitchen drawer. There’s adhesive tape. If you don’t tie me down – I don’t know what I might do.
“But I can’t ... “ he insisted.
“You must. You fucking must! If you don’t tie me down – I’ll fuck you - rape you. I’m stronger than you. I’ve always been stronger than you. Since we were kids I could always ... Harry, if you don’t fucking tie me down – the way I feel, I can’t be responsible for my own actions. Please!”
Harry shook his head desperately – and then moved off towards the kitchen.
“Where are you going?” I almost screamed.
“To get ... rope. You said rope.”
“In the kitchen drawer by the washing machine. And the tape’s on the shelf by the back door. Do it. And a gag! Stop me talking. I need to stop talking ... and wanting to ... Get the fucking rope.” With that I sprang out of bed and swung open one of the mirrored wardrobe doors. My gym bag was there. A squash ball, I thought. That would make a gag. But there were no squash balls ... but there was a foam practice tennis ball; soft and pliable, but big. It seemed I was in panic ... losing it. Never in my life ...
Harry came back with tape, rope and kitchen scissors to cut it with.
“Good.” Tie my hands behind me and then ... “
“Are you sure?” he asked.
“Fucking positive,” I hissed at him. “Tie me – and gag me – and leave me until I cool off. All night. Don’t worry – just tie me tight – and leave me all night. Here, this will do for a gag.”
“It’s too fucking big. You’ll choke to death,” he said looking at the foam ball in my hand.
“Do it,” I demanded. “First tie my hands behind my back – and do it right!”
He hesitated, but my desperate agitation seemed to convince him, and he cut a short length of rope, and I turned round, clamping my wrists side-by-side behind my back. I felt the rope circling a wrist and I began to relax, breathing deeply for the first time since this urgency hit me. My cock was standing out rigid as I waited for him to finish – but he seemed unwilling to make the rope too tight.
“No,” I moaned angrily, “you’ve got to do it right! Make it so there’s no way I can get loose. Inescapable,” I insisted.
I waited again, breathing hard. The ball and tape lay on the bed as I stood there, naked and shivering with tension ... emotion. My rampant cock pulsing slightly. Twitching.
Having roped one wrist, I felt him guide my second wrist into a crossed position. I knew I wanted them lashed firmly parallel so he could then pinion my elbows tight together like they’d been before when those bastards ....
But it was too late because the crossed wrists were now being lashed together with a square lash but leaving some movement – but after testing them determinedly, the flexible rope-tie didn’t give. The wrists stayed captive behind my back.
“Now my ankles,” I said turning and sitting on the edge of the bed . Tie them as well or I’ll kick my way out and stamp all over you,” I said wrestling again with the flexible roping behind my back: testing the binding, determined to free them if I could.
“What the fuck’s got into you?“ said Harry as he knelt and set to work roping my ankles.
Unable to free my wrists, I watched his muscular shoulders and the top of his dark head as he completed an expert square-lash around my ankles. Then he looked up, his face in line with my crotch. I had the urge to lift my pelvis and aim for his mouth. I closed my eyes and sort of sobbed, because I was like a demon possessed. Instinctively I felt that these impulses would pass but, for the moment, I could not trust myself and I needed to know I could do no harm to myself or anybody around me.
“Now gag me,” I commanded.
Harry picked up the ball. “It’s too big,” he said.
“Fucking do it,” I said, “ram it in. It’s big but only soft foam. Tape it in, and don’t take it out until morning. This drug may have worn off by then. Do it!”
Reluctantly, Harry pushed the foam against my lips and I helped it in. It was a squeeze, and not as soft as I’d expected. Once past my teeth, as he pushed the rest of it through, it stuffed my mouth, pushing out my cheeks and immobilising my tongue. As his fingers forced the remaining bulk behind my teeth, our eyes met. Deliberately I looked down towards the roll of athletic tape and nodded.
He picked it up, questioningly, and I nodded again, very emphatically.
He seemed to take in a deep breath before peeling open the end of the roll, and then he tentatively taped across my cheeks and mouth – and after a hesitation, continued it all the way around the back of my neck, circling it several times until my face was covered from nostrils to the point of my chin. This made the foam ball impossible to displace – which was what I’d wanted. Behind my head as I sat on the bed, I heard the tape rip and the job was done – and done well.
I tried to work my stretched jaw and then flexed my head and muscular neck experimentally – and nothing was going to budge that ball. But – it was very intense. More intense than the inflatable rubber bung that had stuffed my mouth for however many hours when I was held by ... whoever. But this foam ball was bigger – and I had perhaps over estimated my ... shit! I had definitely mis-calculated.
“How’s that?” asked Harry, looking squarely into my face. “Can you cope with that?”
He was concerned and perceptive. Perhaps the look in my eyes told him I was in difficulties.
“I said is that how you wanted it?” he insisted. “Did I do it right, Dan? Are you really sure you want to deal with something that intense ... for the next six hours, like you said? Like you inisisted” he asked in a tone which demanded a response.
I hated to admit it, but I already knew I’d made a mistake. Could I deal with it? I instinctively knew it would soon become very difficult. Six hours? No way. Looking into his waiting eyes, I shook my head in a regretful negative.
“Tough shit” he said, without batting an eyelid, before walking away.

Police Inspector Drummond was now sitting roped to the head of his bed, his neck uncomfortably lashed to his scrunched-up knees.
Harry, the man he thought was his mate, had made the position deliberately stressful before leaving him trussed, gagged and alone.
Desperately trying to discipline his racing mind, Drummond was systematically assessing his different senses - when he arrived at ...

What sense of sound? I listened to the deathly silence of my apartment. I’d chosen it because it was quiet. No noisy neighbours; no distant radios. Even from the street six floors down ... no real sound ... and no planes ... no sound ... except perhaps the oppressive noise of blood forcing it’s way between my ears in spite of the multi-layered wrapping of tape around cheeks and chin. And my neck; my roped-forward neck is killing me. Keep thinking to distract yourself.
Sound ... can I make any sound?
With sudden energy I started to yell into the gag. Shout ... scream ... roar ... grunt! It made me breathless ... and more blood started to circulate. I yelled again ... but could hear that virtually nothing was getting through the foam and clinging tape. Perhaps a little, through the sides of my throat.
I speculated on what it would take to completely silence somebody’s screams. One of those high neck braces ambulance men used to immobilise somebody with possible neck injury. That’d cut down noise escaping from the throat. I’d also seen those all-over head braces paramedics use. Whole head immobilised in a contraption of webbing straps, firm padding and Velcro: chin, forehead, both sides of the head clamped rigid. When I’d first seen them, I’d speculated on what it might feel like to be in one. Yes! Use a high, solid neck collar and one of those all-over head braces ... and that would silence somebody. I tried to visualise it ... imagine being in it ... plus a gag, of course. A mouth-stuffer was good ... I mean, it would be efficient if you were trying to silence somebody. This foam has a totally different effect to the rubber balloon. I remembered the rubber balloon. I could deal with that better than this fucking foam. I must have been crazy to think I could ... to allow myself ... to invite ... !
I sucked against the foam, crammed so tight against my tongue and cheeks. I sucked on it ... and got liquid ... my own saliva. I sucked again and realised why my mouth felt so dry ... the foam was drinking it in ... but there was enough of it to suck back out. I’d learned something, I congratulated myself. I was learning to deal with ... the situation. Yes, I’d fucking deal with it ... and I’d deal with whatever Harry might have in mind ... and if the bastard gave me half a chance I’d ... he’d better watch his step ... because if I got half a chance I’d fucking kill him. No! ... not kill him ... tie him down and make him suffer. Yes! He thinks he’s so fucking good at tying rope. There’s a pair of handcuffs in my drawer. I still remember enough of the hand holds and deliberately painful wrist locks ... stuff we’d all had to learn about arrest procedures at the different training colleges. Not that I’ve had to do any of that stuff for years ... but I bet I could. I bet I could take him on and get the better of him if Harry gave me one small chance.
Still trussed and gagged, Drummond's mind wanders back to the moment when he landed himself in his uncomfortable predicament:
... and vividly remembered Harry’s gleeful gloating as soon he’d got me safely tied and helpless. The smirk when I’d tried to get him to take the foam ball out.
“Tough Shit! Deal with it,” he’d said. “You asked for it. You asked for it and you got it.”
I thought back to that ridiculous moment when I’d actually asked him ... demanded that he must tie my hands ... insisted he used the gag ... helped him ram it into my mouth.
I closed my eyes and forced myself to breathe slowly. I had ... asked for it. And he’d said, “So deal with it.” And I would deal with it. What other alternative was there? ... and at about that time my mind just switched off. Perhaps that’s what being in efficient bondage does for you ... allows you to switch off ... knowing that you have no options ... no choices to make. The mind just slips into neutral ... if you’re lucky.

Harry was enjoying being in control of his long-time mate/opponent. After leaving him trussed for several hours, he'd returned with a strait-jacket and with the aid of an electric cattle prod, and some skilful if unethical wrestling moves, forced him into it.

I allowed my body to go limp; a signal that I had given up the struggle. He allowed me some air but kept his powerful legs locked around my entangled arms. Hands in front of my face held an eye-less rubber hood, complete with nostril tube and mouth tube, dangling before me; I could see the inflatable gag inside as it hung in his hands.
The voice behind and above me was calm and serious. “I could put this back on you ... but I prefer to see your eyes while I’m talking to you ... and I have a lot of things to say, Dan ... and I don’t want any interruptions ... so open your mouth, please.” He let the rubber hood fall and I saw a strap in his hand. It was another gag.
“You said you’d take the gag out if I cooperated,” I protested, trying to turn to look up at him. His legs clamped tighter and a hand slapped the side of my head sharply.
“No talk,” he barked. And then in a more reasonable tone added, “I said I’d take the foam ball out ... but I didn’t say I wouldn’t put a different gag in. So open up.”
I was suddenly really pissed off again and closed my mouth firmly. Not seeing this, he moved the ominous device towards my face ... and my mind boggled as I saw the size of this plastic plug ... and registered that it was shaped realistically like the head of a monstrous penis.
“No fucking way,” I yelled and my sudden wrench pulled him off the bed. But I was strait-jacketed, and still hobbled. Desperately, my teeth clamped firmly together and my jaw set – and although I put up a good struggle – some whirlwind scrabbling around soon had my head reeling: the collar of the jacket was suddenly hauling me upwards and choking – then I was on my face – then on my back – then being dragged by my ankles across the carpet – turned over and swung around suddenly. I crashed against my exercise frame – sprawling in the confining jacket. A strap suddenly snaked around my neck from behind and had me choking briefly. But this was released and slid down over my shoulders and tightened, tethering me back, low-down against one of the uprights of the metal home gym: solid, heavy and immovable. My exercise set-up, elaborate and sturdy ... and me sitting slumped against it going nowhere. Then a second strap immobilised my neck, not tight but inescapable ... and still leaving both his hands free to deal with my face. He demonstrated this by flaunting the ominous gag before my eyes ... before leaning towards me, mischievously (an odd word to spring into my mind).
“Open up, Dan-boy,” my oppressor insisted, and I shook my head.
“I can make you open up,” he warned. And I continued to challenge him briefly ... before claw-like fingers grabbed my chin and tried to force it down. Concentrating on resisting this in spite of the pain, I was off guard when the hand left my chin swiftly, and the same vicious fingers grabbed my balls and twisted them mercilessly. My agonised roar-howl-yell forced it’s way out of my mouth, and the gag was in before I could recover ... but my teeth clamped into it, preventing it from going all the way in.
Now, in some absurd way, he snuggled down close alongside me, as I desperately maintained my resistance. Together lying-sitting-sprawled against the exercise frame, he snaked a hairy arm around the back of my neck (all the time keeping up pressure on the plug and my teeth). The crook of his arm clamped my head, leaving that hand free ... with strong fingers able to grab my nose and pinch it firmly, closing the nostrils. I struggled mightily, teeth still trying to prevent the tough bulk of the plug from getting further into my mouth. But, with his powerful arm behind my neck, I knew I could not hold out against him, strapped as I was. The fingers twisted my nose, ruthlessly. I gasped ... before relaxing the grip of my teeth on the plug.
He did not ram it home, but strong fingers on my nose persuaded me to stop struggling. And, as I gave up all resistance, he forced my face to turn and look into his, inches from my eyes. He shook his head, ruefully, and began to talk soothingly.
“Now, now, now! Relax, Dan-boy, relax. Let the plug do what it’s supposed to do; slide nice and easy between your lips,” he whispered, seductively. “There’s a breathing hole through it. Much better than that nasty foam ball. Better than the inflatable plug. Just suck on it for a minute. Get the feel of it. Let it slide in ... and out a little and back in ... and back out just a little”.
My head cradled in the crook of his arm was still firmly clamped, and with arms trussed and legs immobilised, I sat (or rather slumped) held against his chest ... Harry controlling my every movement. I resigned myself to helplessness, and allowed the solid plug to move freely around inside my mouth. Allowed? Any attempted to stop it would only have invited more abuse.
Harry gently worked the penis-shaped plug in and out, never allowing my teeth opportunity to close again. I felt the slick plastic massage my tongue and probe to the back of my throat and retreat. Like nursing a baby, Harry forced the shaft in and out while soothingly, the fingers at the end of the clamping arm stroked my cheek and around my scalp.
“There now, it’s not so bad, is it? Keep your jaw relaxed and allow the air in through the plug – and let your throat relax – feel it open up a little more.”
In this improbable situation I found myself adjusting to it, my tongue no longer resisting this intrusion. Suddenly, my throat gagged slightly as the plug probed deeper – but Harry ignored my difficulties as I choked and gasped – spluttered. He was forcing me to deal with it – adjust to it. His deliberately harsh handling of the moment shocked me. The panic in my eyes and choking must have told him I was having serious difficulties, my tortured throat convulsing and retching. But, when I met his eyes, even in my panic, I was forced to accept. He was determined I should deal with it. Forced to accept that I had no other option, I gradually found I could swallow around the pumping intrusion – and get some air from within it – and deal with my panic. Live with it.
As I calmed to the situation slightly, I realised that he was, in effect, face-fucking me – a phrase I remembered from those confiscated heavy gay SM porno magazines. He was demonstrating what it felt like, what he could do to me. No. Not really face-fucked ... but mind-fucked. The subtlety and deviousness of this man ...
The movement had stopped, and the plug now remained pressed deep into my mouth by determined fingers and, with difficulty, my throat was dealing with it. Harry’s strong hand that was not controlling the gag, was still stroking my scalp soothingly. My scalp tingled – sensitised.
Having reached this resigned state, I became very still, almost mesmerised as two hands moved away to connect the gag-strap behind my neck. No arm now controlled my head or the plug but the fight had left me. My eyes looked into his, face-to-face as his hands cinched the buckle – cinched it tight, and I did not mind. My throat convulsed only slightly now, as I swallowed nervously around the plug. Close to my face as he fiddled with the buckle his lips pursed, and blew a gentle breath directly into my nostrils. I could do nothing but receive his breath – and it smelled – acceptable. For some reason I thought of horse trainers who breathed into the nostrils of a part-broken horse.

The fact that Harry was head of a covert team and Drummond might be invited to join with them, is explained. Harry offers his now subdued opponent a difficult choice:

Suddenly, he crouched down between me and the mirror, so we were nose to nose as I knelt, swallowing uncomfortably around the plug which seemed to be getting bigger.
“So, if I take you to meet a few of the ‘team’, you have two choices. I could phone for an ambulance and you’d be there before you knew where you were. Couple of hairy-arsed paramedics, used to dealing with drug-crazed crazies. They know how to subdue people however much of a struggle they put up. That way you wouldn’t know where our little base is ... in case you decide you’re not up for it ... or we decide you might be too much of a security risk.
Alternatively,” he said, hesitating tantalisingly, “you might prefer to ride there on your own bike, in your sexy new bike leathers. Several of the team have already seen your old leathers then they first snatched you. In fact two of my kinkier mates helped me to strip them off you yesterday, and shoe-horn you into that prototype rubber 'interrogation' suit.”
I breathed deeply in my scrunched-up and gagged position, picturing the first option .. fighting off two skilled paramedics trying to subdue me ... but Harry wouldn’t allow me a fair shot at it. He confirmed this as he continued, ”When I say ride there on your bike, I mean as a pillion passenger wearing a blacked-out helmet; gagged under it; perhaps locked-on gauntlets with specially immobilised fingers so you couldn’t even get the helmet open without assistance ... just for security’s sake, you understand ... and because I’m turned on by playing control games. So, mate, you have a choice. Not an easy choice. What I call a mid-scene choice. During a scene to offer somebody a choice between the lesser of two equally challenging alternatives. Ambulance team or seriously, er, handicapped on yer bike?” He leered into my gagged face. “One nod for bike, two nods for paramedics ... who may not be gentle with you? Choice is yours, old buddy.”
From my undignified position, I tried to maintain a degree of composure ... and nodded determinedly, once ... and tried to ignore the saliva dribbling down my chin.
“And are you willing to still trust me? Trust me all the way?” he persisted, enjoying pushing his advantage.
He waited, pointedly, demanding another nodded assurance. He got it.
“In the process,” he continued cheerfully, “I will introduce you to some more of our technology. We have some deviously ingenious gadget freaks among our number. If I’m going to allow you a certain freedom of movement while heading for our little hideaway (our sound-proof and secure little hideaway) I need to be sure I can trust you ... all the way.” He waited, and I hesitated. “Makes sense, Dan-boy, you must agree.”

For the complete text see PRINTER FRIENDLY

Two brothers run a Yorkshire farm together, but the older brother Dan enjoys challenging his younger brother, Andy. This inevitably involves "tying-up" games.
Many such challenges have made young Andy tough, but suddenly enough is enough, and Andy decides to challenge his brother ... who suddenly finds himself roped against a pillar in the cow shed.

... Without warning Dan literally spat in Andy’s eye. A massive gob of spit began to trickle down his face as Andy reached in his pocket for a dark work handkerchief.
“Now, if you ask me that was plain stupid in your position ... unless it was an invitation for me to really make you apologise.”
Dan opened his mouth to add insult to injury ... but it was another mistake. The spit covered handkerchief suddenly wadded into the open mouth and, as one hand held it there, the other produced yet another length of cord. Handkerchief and head were soon laced tight back against the post, and because the cord was then cinched between pillar and back of Dan's head, he was unable to turn his face either to left or right.

More than two challenging hours later, Dan is ungagged but still roped against the post. Andy is now wearing his brother's treasured bike leathers - and is threatening Dan with serious consequences unless he is willing to admit defeat and pay a penalty.
Dan refuses - so Andy reminds him that it's time for a suckling calf's next feed. He threatens to give the hungry little beast a sniff of Dan's prick - after some milk has been wiped around it. But Dan still refuses to agree to Andy's demands ...

Suddenly one of Andy's thick black rubber industrial gloves grabbed Dan‘s jaw in a powerful grip.
“Listen fuckface. You’re in shit up to your arse and by tomorrow it will be up to your neck unless you begin to do exactly as I say. Remember when you put me in the shit sluice from the cow sheds?
I can get you there. I remember exactly how you dragged me there and exactly how you tied me there. Or I could throw you on the trailer all bundled up in that old canvas mail sack (it’s still in that corner there) and dump you in the pond up to your neck for a few hours ... after I’ve pissed all over your head and hair just like you did to me, of course. Weather forecast was for sun tomorrow. The heat and the stink on top and the freezing cold and cramp under water is something to remember, believe me.”
The powerful rubbery gloved hand pushed Dan’s rough cheeks right up into his frantic eyes. He tried with all his strength to shake his head but Andy was fully in control.
“Don’t shake your head, big brother. Don’t scream and holler, you’ll scare the baby ... might put him off his feed.”
Andy’s smiling face came closer to Dan’s un-gagged but almost immobilised mouth. Pressure from the black rubbery fingers skilfully caused Dan’s mouth to open even against his most determined efforts. Andy almost breathed into his brother’s defenceless mouth ...
”But I don’t mind if you don’t knuckle under today ... because I can go to bed tonight and plan all the things I can do next and in which order. Now, are you ready to admit that you are totally defeated and you’ll put up no more fight?” He released Dan’s face and his brother worked his aching jaw as his eyes looked down at his brother's leather‑clad legs and bike boots. The leathers now fitted his little brother better than they'd ever looked when he wore them. The kid had certainly grown up.
Dan didn't raise his eyes as he forced himself to say ... “OK ! OK! anything you say.”
“Good” said Andy, his gloved hand unzipping a pocket of his leather jacket, “Open you mouth.”
Dan raised his eyes quickly to see Andy produce a solid rubber wedge gag, which was well covered with teeth marks.
“What’s that?” asked Dan.
“You know damned well considering how many times you’ve used it to keep me quiet. Now it’s your turn. Can’t have you scaring the baby.”
“But ... but I said OK ... you win. It’s your ball game.”
“Exactly” said the younger man reasonably, “That’s a step forward. But you must understand that for the next four days when I say something, I mean it. When I gave you a count of two to choose a while back ... you chose whether or not to get calf-sucked ... that is, you refused to choose ... so you get calf-sucked.”
Dan rolled his head wildly. “You bastard! I’m saying you win.”
“I know I win” reasoned Andy “and you know I’m not illegitimate ... but you still don’t know when to keep your mouth shut ... so I’ll just have to shut it for you.”
Dan put up a struggle as the menacing rubber gag prepared to push irresistibly into his face.
He began to thrash his head from side to side, teeth firmly clenched, but the powerful black hand not only held his head still, pressure on his jaw and cheeks soon caused him to cry out in pain.
This release of tension was all Andy needed to force the wedge home, allowing the padded mouth cover to bed into the cheeks. Andy knew from experience that once buckled, the combination of plug and cover could not be dislodged, and even the loudest protest was reduced to a muffled howl.
As soon as the gag was secured Dan’s forehead was again strapped to the wooden post. Andy didn’t look into his brother’s face. There was a danger that he might weaken and take pity on the man he so deeply admired and respected. Any sign of weakness at this point would destroy the situation he’d created so far ... and he knew if his advantage was lost at this stage of the game, he would live to regret it. No time to think about that now.

For the complete text see PRINTER FRIENDLY

Ex-SAS Scotsman, 'Killer' Killock is now Head Gillie on a remote Scottish Estate.
A new assistant is more recently ex-army and a tough nut. On a rainy afternoon they shelter in a deserted hut, and the younger man, Walsh, pushes Killock for information about the now banned old-style 'resistance to interrogation and torture' training.

With nothing better to do, Killock has demonstrated a neat trick with a bootlace. In a swift move, Walsh's thumbs are tied and his hands fix at the back of his neck, a short length of cord is then tied around his booted ankles. He stands completely helpless.

Smiling, the older man produced yet another short length of light cord. Fingering the thin but strong cord, the game-keeper speculated.
"You still interested in just how easy it is to get somebody to agree to see your point of view?"
Grimly determined, the off-balance and totally helpless ex-squaddie nodded as much as the cord around his throat that held his hands prisoner, would allow.
"There are several next moves. I could tie your elbows together … ”

To demonstrate, Killock forced the tightly bent elbows together until they almost touched in front of his prisoner’s face “Or I could use this to gag you.”
Suddenly, the cord was across Walsh’s mouth and had been crossed behind his head and was being pulled tight. The cord bit uncomfortably between Walsh’s lips, deep into his mouth. He tried to back away but the older man had complete control of the cord, the tied-together boots preventing any retaliation.
Killock smiled into Walsh's face. "There's a neat trick, if I can remember it. If one cord is above your tongue, I can wrap a second wrap below the tongue to trap it. Then the tongue is very sensitive and available for abuse. Stop me if you can," he invited.
But, before Walsh could even think how ... the older man was behind him and in a neat move a boot forced the prisoner into a kneeling position. Without letting go of the cord, from behind Killock skilfully forced the second wrap deep into the mouth before tying a firm knot behind Walsh's head.
Walking to stand before the kneeing prisoner, rough fingers demonstrated that the tongue was now effectively immobilised in the open mouth. A slight squeeze of the tongue forced the gagged man to gurgle what would have been a serious yelp of pain.
Killock stood away, smiling.

With hands tied behind his neck and lashed together boots making it impossible for him to rise, Walsh knelt panting around the cord which bit into his cheeks and forced his mouth to stay open.
"Oh, I could teach you a lot of tricks we were either taught or devised among ourselves in the 'old days' as you call them. Nasty tricks. Things that would never be allowed in a training programme in today's army."
With that, the older man opened his waxed jacket and began to massage his cock through his combat pants. Tauntingly, he began to undo the buttons of his flies - but stopped.
In the silence, the kneeling man was breathing heavily, unable to make any move.
Quietly, Killock continued, "You see, laddie, suspense is often the best weapon. Just the suggestion is often enough rather than brute force. But, if you don't get your own way, you have to be prepared to follow though on any threat you make. Do you understand that?"
Nervously, Walsh nodded agreement.
"At this moment, I could do anything I want, could I not?"
The question demanded an answer, and again the tough ex-squaddie knew he had to admit it.
Killock again smiled. "If you really want to know a few more of the tricks we not only learned - but practiced - I could show you."
Once again, after a pause, Walsh nodded.
"Good," said Kilock buttoning up his pants. "I can show you sure-fire ways - painful ways to make a man talk - or (as you are finding out), ways to make it impossible for a man to talk - and I will enjoy showing you."

For the complete text see PRINTER FRIENDLY

In a New York leather bar, an iconic 'Leatherman' has invited a straight-but-curious stranger to the Scene to take a bike ride with him.
Back at the LEATHERMAN's apartment to get some kit, the Stranger now wears full leather ... and after some conversation has admitted his fascination for surrender of responsibility.
Tempted to try a leather strait-jacket over the bike leathers, once securely strapped, the STRANGER is given the choice of the promised bike ride - or allowing the LEATHERMAN to continue to demonstrate his skills as a bondage scene 'Controller'.

LM: Your choice. Free choice.
The STRANGER nervously nods is agreement.
LM: Good decision. You're in safe hands - but now, the time for making decisions is almost over, buddy - for the present, anyway. Even the time for saying ‘No’ in this particular phase. Do you think you can handle that?

The STRANGER again nods, determined to go along with the situation.
LM: Have you ever tried a leather hood? (The other man is about to say ‘No’ but hesitates) Sorry, I’ll rephrase that - are you willing to try a hood that shuts out all light - and makes you totally unable to speak - even to say ‘No’? Are you willing?
(Looking down at his strapped arms) Even if I said I wasn’t, I guess you could force me into it.
LM: That’s not the name of the game this time round, buddy. I’d get a hell of a kick out of fighting you into some sort of restraint. In the right place where there were no lamps to smash and furniture to destroy I’d get one hell of a charge out of wrestling you until one of us was overpowered - but that’s not the game tonight, right? Tonight it’s my pleasure to make you not only agree to - but you ask for being completely - taken over. Now - are you willing to have an eyeless, mouthless hood over your head with a gag in your mouth?
(The STRANGER nods, but the LEATHERMAN is not satisfied) You want me to put you into an eyeless mouthless leather hood with a gag that will totally prevent you from complaining or even saying ‘No’? (STRANGER nods again but is getting more nervous) Then say it, fellar. I want to hear you ask for it. Tell me what you want me to do to you, man. (The other man licks his lips nervously) Say it!
STR : What?
LM: I want you to put me into an eyeless, mouthless leather hood with a gag in my mouth that won’t allow me to say “No” if the going gets tough.
(With supreme effort) I - want you to put me into an eyeless, mouthless leather hood ... with a gag in my mouth ... that won’t allow me to say ‘No’.
(Smiling) Good man.
Again, as the LEATHERMAN prepares the next stage of the game, he talks reassuringly to his ‘victim’.
LM: I’ve tried a lot of different ways of silencing somebody I’m playing around with. These are gum-shields - got ‘em from a sport store. I guess you’ve used them - I bet you’ve done some boxing sometime.

Too late for the STRANGER to reply because the flexible plastic mouthpiece is in and seated, encasing his top and bottom teeth and the LEATHERMAN is ready to drop the efficient-looking leather hood over his head.

LM: This hood is my favourite. OK there’s no mouth-hole for any cock-sucking or boot-licking - but that’s not the name of the game tonight, buddy-boy. Can you still hear me? (The hood nods). Good, I could have used earplugs to really cut you off from reality - but I want to be able to communicate with you now and then. (Begins to lace the hood expertly and super-tightly as he talks) You see, I’ve screwed around with guys of every shape and style until it’s all distilled down to the feel and smell and taste of leather over a powerful but powerless hunk of - real man.

For the complete text see PRINTER FRIENDLY

BIKER STORIES by John Strickland
From "Further Adventures of a Motorcycle Messenger"
Biker, Sam, has spent a shitty, rainy day as a bike courier.
Arriving home, his buddy/play partner, Chris, had encouraged Sam to wash the bike oilskins in the shower while still wearing them. Joining him, Chris, efficiently forces Sam into a pair of handcuffs, then dries him off before leaving him fuming.
Later Chris returns wearing an identical set of oilskins.

Suspiciously Sam asked “What's going on? Why are you all zipped up like that? What are you planning? Are we going somewhere?”
“Quiet down,” said Chris, producing a leather gag from behind him.
“Oh, no, you don’t!” exclaimed Sam, and pulled away from his long-time sparring partner.
Chris grabbed him and they both fell onto the leather sofa, Sam face down with Chris on top of him. Their black oilskins chaffed together making creaking noises as Sam struggled under the weight of his muscular friend. Sam didn’t have a chance, not with all his gear on and his hands locked behind his back.
He refused to open his mouth though. In a familiar routine, Chris just pinched Sam’s nostrils together until Sam gasped for breath. At this moment Chris shoved the leather gag into Sam’s mouth and expertly tightened the strap behind Sam’s head. Sam emitted loud protests from his throat, but knew he was beaten, especially as Chris had now got the black hood of the oilskin 'Foul Weather' suit back over his head. He then not only secured the face cover across and the neck strap which kept the high collar closed - but was tightening the draw-string around the hood. The peak of the hood was dragged lower and the face cover higher until there was virtually nothing but Sam furious eyes showing in a slot in the thick oilskin head covering.

From "PVC Package"
Biker, Sam, has picked up a young kid and brought him back to the apartment he shares with Chris.
This guy, Kai, is eager to get the feel of a heavy black rain suit. Sam, in his leather bike gear, is happy to demonstrate just how all-encasing and restrictive the PVC 'Foul Weather' suit can be.
Chris returns from a bike ride and is furious with Sam. They fight, but Chris soon has Sam immobilised, his wrists manacles and his neck chained to an anchor point high in the wall, before turning his attention to Kai, who is inescapably strapped and trapped in PVC.
Sam continues to protest loudly:
Chris angrily ordered, “Shut that foul mouth of yours, Sam.” And letting go of Kai so suddenly that he slumped back onto the bed, gasping for breath behind the thick PVC protective face-covering. Ignoring this, Chris opened a drawer and then approached Sam, with a gag in his hand.
“No,” protested Sam as Chris grabbed him by the hair.
Chris leant against his victim and pushed one leg between Sam’s as he tried to get the rolled leather bit between Sam’s teeth.
Leather rubbed on leather as Sam wrenched left and right to avoid being gagged, but eventually Chris got Sam’s jaw between his fingers and pinched tight until his struggling victim opened his mouth. In this instant he rammed the hard leather between Sam’s teeth and expertly fastened the strap behind his head. Sam was gasping for air and making unintelligible sounds as he made futile attempts to deal with the intrusion in his mouth, biting into the bitter-tasting leather.

For complete texts of all STRICKLAND STORIES


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