HOUDINI CONNECTIONS

The real story behind
CALLUM AND THE INTRUDER


The 'wishful-thinking' version of a situation which almost happened is on site as INTRUDER - A FANTASY.
It was written because the real story could not be told at the time. Now, almost twenty years later, there is nobody left to complain.

Is truth stranger than fiction?
Is the following accurate re-telling of the real event HOTTER
than the fictionalised version?

 
           


INTRUDERS-The real event (8480 words).
My aim here in this long and detailed narrative is to stick strictly to facts, so I have to start by admitting that the real event - the happening which sparked the fiction was, in fact, actually a non-event! ... because the intruder failed to get into Callum’s house.

Disappointed? Don't be - because the real situation was much more threatening. There was more than one would-be intruder; dangerous men in a dangerous mood. Four of Callum’s lusty mates pissed out of their minds.

No question, if they'd managed to gain entry to the house, and had stumbled across their trusted Rugby coach’s long hidden secret ‘perversions’, it might have turned into a quite ugly story. These rough-and-ready-for-anything hard-nuts most definitely would not have responded sympathetically to the discovery. Their mindset was cast in stone: extreme prejudice, and thinking that ran on very straight and narrow tracks. Deep-rooted and sometimes blind prejudices could provoke in them conditioned reflexes: knee, boot, fist. Even their idea of fun-and-games could be rough, harsh, unthinkingly cruel. Previously, only the lighter side of their characteristics has been described on the ENDURANCE TRAINING and other Callum pages.

What made the real event even more scary is that, while they were outside the house tanked-up and determined to gain access (if necessary by force), not only was Callum bound, gagged and rubber-encased down in the basement, I was also in the house. I was standing in his living room with the lights out listening ... wearing a locked-on heavily weighted diver’s dry suit.

I had just enjoyed watching Callum systematically render himself inescapably helpless. His elaborate self-applied restraint routine had taken over an hour ... plus a lot of strenuous effort to achieve. I had agreed not to release him for four hours.

       
Background information
Technical specifics of Callum’s self-applied bondage predicament on that particular occasion are graphically described step-by-step in the previous file, SPORTS EQUIPMENT MODIFIED. There’s also a brief descriptive recap further down this page.

Additional background information about Callum’s home, life-style - and how I happened to be locked into a diver’s dry-suit when this event started to happen follows. Before that, I perhaps need to sketch in a necessary preamble to the main event.



Callum's mind-set
When indulging in solo sessions at home, Callum, of course always had to have a fool-proof escape route. On this occasion he had just demonstrated for me some new procedures he used to achieve an intense feeling of virtually inescapable captivity while playing alone. But today, the deal was that I would perform the service of ‘final strap-closer’ to make his carefully planned-for self-release impossible for a fixed period.

He was determined to experience / endure this particularly intense predicament for four hours with absolutely no chance of let-out. He had chosen the time-scale. He had made me promise that in no circumstances would I let him out before the deadline - however desperate his condition might become. He had virtually demanded that I leave him alone and spend my time upstairs - perhaps watching TV.
Him being left un-monitored for safety for such a long time worried me - but Callum had been very insistent.

My predicament
In advance, I had decided that I might occupy part of my waiting time trying on some of his authentic dive gear. As a self-indulgence, I often got myself kitted out in heavy layering while watching somebody else attempt an escape or when they were luxuriating in a good lengthy bondage predicament. On this occasion, because there was so much well-used out-door sports stuff to choose from, I had dug out one of Callum’s old wet-suits - but had also speculated about trying to struggle into one of his several heavy-duty black rubber dry-suits over it - just to keep myself amused once Callum’s long session had started.

He, although still busy double-checking his meticulous preparations for his self-bondage routine, encouraged me to get kitted out while he could still see. Eager to start, I stripped off and was soon into the form-fitting wet-suit (Callum had gown out of it twenty years ago, he told me). It took longer to wriggle my way inside the rubbery dry-suit, much to Callum's amusement. I was please to find that the outer suit neck and wrist seals were all in good condition and water-tight because I knew I would sweat a lot ... and was determined to stay geared up for at least two hours. Callum being Callum had other ideas. He decided that the layering I'd chosen for myself should stay on for the whole time he was otherwise occupied.

We both enjoyed these challenge and counter challenge situations.
Could I deal with four hours?. Yes, I decided. He knew me well by this time, and made a further suggestion. I could never resist locked-on clothes - but was not prepared for his choice of locking device. He produced a heavily weighted diver’s belt which he had modified to padlock. Having agreed to this, it was soon securely in place before I could have second-thoughts - and being a combination padlock, only Callum could release it - after his session, he confirmed. My mind was still dwelling on this when he also produced a pair of lead weighted old-fashioned dive boots - which he told me he often locked himself into when alone around the house. I was tempted.

Being, Callum, it was not difficult to turn this into an irresistible challenge. The boots were a great turn-on - and the locking device modification to each was, I soon discovered, neatly efficient - again using key-less combination padlocks.

As he hadn't yet started his self-applied restraint procedure and I was already kitted out ... I now realised that I was not only sealed in for the four hours he planned for himself, but also for the time it would take him to work his way into it before the clock started ticking.

We had played many such tit-for-tat challenging games together during his visits London - but this was the first time I’d ever been allowed to visit him on his home territory - and I was happy to go along with this unexpected escalation. While I was still getting used to the implications, I already knew that the two suit plus two hundred pounds of extra weight, would soon become seriously challenging.

“Deal with it” was a phrase I often threw at Callum when I'd fixed him into some sort of escape-proof predicament. With a grin he reminded me of this - before proceeding to demonstrate step-by-step his elaborate self-applied bondage routine.

*****

This took well over an hour. Only after Callum was elaborately self-gagged, masked and total rubber imprisoned to his own satisfaction was I called upon to act as the “final strap-closer”:
to block his route to self-release, temporarily.

Even during his final preparations I began to appreciate more seriously my own seriously challenging predicament - for the next four hours - and I had already been in it for an hour.

Now he was away with the Celtic fairies - for FOUR hours - I needed a drink. Trying to clump my lead-soled boots up the stairs from his basement was a challenge in itself.

A single boot would only fit on each step - sideways! Think about it. It’s the sort of detail that might easily be overlooked when dreaming up a bondage situation. The unexpected factor. A physical or technical detail can unexpectedly complicate any imagined plan. Callum was meticulous when working out any of his self-applied, strictly solo self-restraint sessions. The un-expected could prove fatal. So my progress up the stairs (fifteen of them one at a time) was a drama in itself ... but the real drama did not start for me until I, sweating profusely, had almost reached the top step.

I heard the telephone ringing and then a strident Scottish voice began bellowing into the answering machine ...

 

     


REALITY CHECK
Before getting deep into what happened next - the physical situation of Callum as described in “Sports Gear as Bondage” is essential to what came next.

For convenience, I have added here a quick recap of the basic predicament. Only genuine facts have been included in this description - no fantasy or wishful thinking ...
and real life is sometimes less easy to believe than fiction ...
as the following description might prove.


Picture it:
Beefy forty-year-old athletic Scotsman, alone in his windowless cellar.
Totally encased in a tight-fitting two-piece neoprene wet-suit with shiny surfaces inside and outside. Under it, padded boxer’s groin-guard with a tightly laced-down cock and balls crammed inside a rigid plastic athletic cup. Mouth stuffed with an unshakable tongue and teeth immobiliser, ears plugged inside a snug-fitting open-faced rubber diver’s cold-weather helmet attached to the suit. A heavy-duty diving mask with blacked-out visor firmly strapped over the thick head-covering.
Hands imprisoned inside securely laced-on padded sparring gloves with wrists strapped together in front and elbows tightly cinched together behind by a webbing strap; these bindings tightly connected through his rubbered crotch. Rubber-encased feet buried deep inside rigid calf-high ski-boots which keep his knees uncomfortably braced semi-bent; the boots, in turn, clamped to the floor ... as he prepares to stand for four hours inescapably in that predicament.

Self-applied bondage - made inescapable:
The subject of a “final strap closer” first cropped in Callum’s early correspondence. On this occasion, because I’m sticking only to the facts, an extra strap was not added - just one short piece of thin fuse wire was all I needed .

Fundamental to his self-release routine was the friction buckle which tightened the long webbing strap he’d so neatly contrived to self-immobilise both wrists and both elbows, linking them tightly together under his crotch. This he achieved by flipping a hole in the strap-end over a strategically placed hook in the wall, and tugging on it until he had arrived at the required degree of tightness, before flipping the strap-end from off the hook.
His escape-route depended entirely on his being able to lean against a wall and press on this buckle to release it.

So, with a single strand of thin wire neatly de-activating the little self-release mechanism on the buckle ... the whole of his ingeniously devised and carefully rehearsed self-release routine would be a non-starter.

An additional challenge:
Because Callum delighted in making things difficult for himself, on this occasion he'd devised an extra self-challenge. By clamping himself into ski-boots attached to the floor in the middle of the room - he would first have to break free from them before being able to activate the friction buckle.

His neatly modified ski-boot-clamps were adjustable. They could break away easily or only when considerable force was applied. He had spent a lot of time perfecting this means of being able to enjoy an energetic struggle and still remain captive - but eventually, by throwing all his weight forward, snap-open the ski-boot clamps. Adjusted with precision to allow this break-out - he'd chosen to make this possible only if he put all of what remained of his strength into the effort when time for self-release is reached when alone.

Only then would the boot clamps snap open and allow him to move (still strapped and sightless) to begin the first of many arduous manoeuvres which would eventually allow him to release himself from the several efficient restrictive elements - one by one - starting with releasing the friction buckle.

Our tit-for-tat relationship being what it was, I had on the spur of the moment, also re-adjusted the clamp-tension so they would not open! He was unaware of this. When the time came for me to remove the wire and signal the start his self-release in four hours time - he would (probably with great relief) immediately attempt his first essential move towards freedom - to head for the wall.

Only after enjoying watching his strenuous efforts to break free from the boot-clamps for a while, did I plan to eventually tell him that I’d tampered with the tension screws. That would make him very pissed-off - something I enjoyed doing when he was safely restrained. I planned to further enjoy his frustration before allowing him to start his escape procedure on this memorable occasion .

Sneaky - or creative? Half a turn of two clamp-screws and six inches of fuse wire! ... and I could keep him powerless until I decided to allow him out.
That’s how we played, challenge and counter-challenge.


So, back to the narrative - re-living it today as it actually happened:
Here I am, already sweltering in a thick rubber diving suit over the top of a tightly body-hugging wet suit, with locked-on lead boots and weighted belt - all impossible to remove. And will there be release for me even after I've re-opened his escape route? He could easily make me wait until he has successfully worked his way through the long process of shedding his numerous restraint devices. The combination to padlocks on my weighted belt and boots being the ace he was holding in this particular game?

Because of my provocative trick with his tension screws, might he decide on some sort of pay-pack? Who knows. In a way, perhaps I hoped he would. That would be something to speculate on during the coming four hours. Four long hours before any of this could even begin to happen. And a lot can change in four hours ... as I was about to discover.


INTRUDERS ... the real event continues :
The voice on the telephone was rattling the answering machine, it was so loud - and forceful.
The stream of abuse consisted mainly of fucking and blinding and cunting and sodding. But as I listened more closely, the message was simply that the caller wanted Callum to pick up the telephone. Pauses in the flow as the voice waited for Callum to come on line after each insistent demand, were punctuated by additional background cussing and swearing. This was in the days before mobile phones and the call was obviously from a public telephone box. And when the ‘pips’ went there were more obscenities and some arguing as coins were hastily found to stuff into the mechanism.

Breathless from my efforts on the stairs , I held what I could of my breath - fearful that they might hear me - forgetting it was only on the answering machine.

A different voice took over the phone after some argumentative background exchanges.
The air in the phone box must have been blue from the swearing - and there were more than two people crammed into it, apparently. But the firm voice was obviously used to being obeyed.
The off-stage bickering died down and a voice I recognised as Bellman said firmly that Callum should pick up the telephone immediately - whatever he was in the middle of.

“Donger” Bellman was somebody I had heard a lot about from Callum. This character is already well-described on site. No need to repeat it here, but this ex-Scots Guards sergeant instructor had a reputation for making people do as they were told - or else. And the drift of his demands now, were that he knew Callum had a visitor - knew we had said we had ‘business’ to do (Naturally neither he or any of his colleagues had any inkling of what sort of ‘Business’.)
The voice waited after another demand that Callum should come to the phone. Then stating firmly that he knew that we were, in fact, "bloody listening", Callum was told in no uncertain terms that he would be well advised to admit it and pick up the fucking phone. A chorus of expletives in the background confirmed this.

After a weighty pause, ‘Donger’ Bellman’s tone changed slightly. It was, if anything, more reasonable. A group of Cal’s friends were assembled in their regular local pub and had decided that come hell or high water Cal’s visitor “fra Londin” should be allowed to sample the delights of Oban social life.

I had already heard this argument earlier in the day because, in fact. Cal had met my train and while picking up some groceries we had accidentally run into Bellman and another of Cal’s disreputable cronies, Luckily, in advance I’d been warned that The Mates had been told that Callum had his ‘Lawyer from England’ visiting to work on a very complicated document.
Part of his cover-story as a forty-year-old unmarried man first arriving in Oban , was a fictitious ex-wife and acrimonious separation (Everybody expected to know everything there was to know about an in-comer). In fact, the unreasonable demands of this lady had recently provided Callum with convenient excuses for visiting London quite frequently..

In the middle of the small supermarket these two rugged types, wearing dirty work clothes which had a distinctly military air about them, were heading for us determinedly. Cal had sworn under his breath as they approached. He was forced to introduce his good mates Wee Hughie and ‘Donger’. Cal’s manner was suddenly distinctly different in their presence. No longer quite the officer class I knew as his natural manner. All mates together, Cal’s accent was suddenly more strongly Scots and his manner as lustily gung-ho as the next man’s. This brawny couple were emphatic that Cal and his ‘mate’ should immediately join them for a brew (and I knew they didn’t mean tea). Cal’s determined excuses sounded a bit lame and his regular cronies saw no reason why our pressing business should stand in the way of just a wee dram.

I was dragged into the argument when I was challenged to confirm that the business could wait just wee while - while they welcomed me to Scotland in the traditional manner. Having heard about some of the antics Callum’s rough-neck mates (many of them ex-servicemen) got up to, I wondered what traditions we were talking about. Callum had described different initiation rituals. And a slightly darker tone was suddenly introduced when it was hinted that perhaps Callum's ‘pal’ didn't want to mix with the likes of ... and the sentence was left challengingly unfinished.

Cal had been quick to insist that it was just that we had serious business to get through and my time was short and we might have to drive away up t’a Fort William to do business there (which was news to me). The pressure continued as their suggestion turned into meeting later with a couple o’-th’-others ... all get together around six o'clock for a welcome party. Again Callum dragged over the excuses and we eventually walked away with continued confirmations that they’d “Geeyus-a-Bell” and that, for definite, we would be expected to join them.

Safely back in the car Callum was still swearing under his breath. His plan was for us to enjoy three uninterrupted days of rare opportunities for him. His secluded house contained an accumulation of genuine sports equipment and out-door pursuits gear that was there for me to explore. We both knew that I would enjoy putting to good use some of the genuine kit which he had modified for his own private enjoyment - or in some cases non-enjoyment but self-challenge. Together, since our first meeting in London (described as “Callum’s First visit” - see end of this page), we had discussed and experimented with some extreme degrees of challenge during his trips south. He had welcomed opportunities to experience total surrender of choice. My visit to his place was planned to give him a chance to have his own gear used efficiently and inescapably on him, and choices not always being left to him.

Callum's parting shot to Bellman had been that he would call him tomorrow . But obviously Bellman, now with reinforcements and after a few drinks, had decided otherwise. The voice on the telephone was adamant: I should be brought down into the town to meet the gang. No arguments, insisted the commanding voice. If we were eating, we had ten minutes to finish. They were on their way to “get us” ... and the phone went dead.

*****

I had been sweating before I’d made the climb from the basement. Now I was not only sweating but needed to pee - but also felt literally rooted to the spot, and not just by lead weights. Ten minutes. I wasn’t sure I could even get safely down the stairs in ten minutes, let alone release Callum from his complicated restraints. Then, even if we both got out, we would be running with sweat and naked by the time they arrived.

Mercifully Cal’s regular routine before any of his private solo sessions was typically efficient. His preparations always started with first putting the car into the garage and securing all doors and windows, closing all curtains. The old ‘wee’ house was built into the side of a hill on the edge of a road out of town. There were no immediate neighbours. Cal’s garage was actually under the back of the house and further inside and underground, was a separate brick-walled windowless storage area which had become his work and playroom. This even contained his elaborate work-out gym equipment which I had secretly planned to experiment with as a bondage frame during my visit. No time to think about that now! Ten minutes.

It took several of these to drag my feet as far as the front door. This was old but sturdy and had two old bolts as well as a lock - so that was OK. Was there time to check the little side door and all the windows? Not really. The single-story roadside level had two bedrooms. Did these rooms have doors that lock? One of them had a key-hole and, on the inside, the old block lock did have a key in it. My fingers were trembling as I removed the key and tried it from the hall side. It turned. The other door had a lock - but no key in it - fuck!
I knew the little side door was locked and bolted because Callum had asked me to do it. So that was OK. But Christ, what else - think! How long before....

Although on the same level, the living room and kitchen were over the back of the house and so above ground level - but not far above. These men were climbers - they had trained. At least one was ex-S.A.S. I was wasting my time. Switch all the lights out. It took time to find various switches. Perhaps they would think we’d gone out for food. Did Callum usually leave lights on when he was not at home? Did any of his mates have a spare key? Were they used to letting themselves in? Was there a key under the doormat outside, for Christ’s sake!

I wondered if I would be safer downstairs - “doon the stair” as the locals might say! Concentrate! The door at the top of the stairs had a lock - in fact I think the door between the garage and the bottom of the stairs had been locked when we first arrived and had entered through the garage. How strong were the garage doors - they were the old sideways folding type. I could remember Callum bolting these top and bottom inside - but how secure were they? I had no way of knowing, until ....

Ten minutes! Less now - but now standing waiting made it seem more like an hour. A couple of times I heard a car and held my breath - but it drove past. Eventually a car pulled onto the gravel in front. Not a car - a truck! A jeep? Boots. Serious boots! A pause before the old-fashioned door knocker was rat-a-tatted briskly. Only a short wait before it was hammered more determinedly. Various comments laced with choice epithets were ‘Shushed’ by Bellman who was obviously listening for sounds of movement inside. I dare not shift my feet in case the lead-weighted boots might be heard. Sweat rolled down my spine and I dare not move in case they heard it. Mercifully I had been in the living room when the truck pulled in. Mercifully, because the letter box now rattled and they were obviously peering in.

With all my attention focussed on this, a sudden rattle at the side door nearly made my heart stop. Now, simultaneous hammering on the front and side doors produced a really threatening two-.prong attack. When it stopped the silence was almost deafening. I realised I was holding my breath - until I was forced to breathe - terrified I might be heard?

Muted discussion outside. I couldn’t quite hear and was tempted to move closer - but dare not. I did catch the words “gone out t’ eat.” My relief was short-lived before Bellman ordered somebody to see if the car was “at Hame”. Boots scrunched away down the path at the side of the house, two pairs and there were still two voices outside the front door. Spare keys were discussed and plant-pots moved. Was there a key? I had bolted the inside of the front door. If there was a key and it failed to open the door - they would know there was somebody inside. What then?

Below the living room window I heard the garage doors being tested - determinedly - and then hammering. “Buchanan, we know you’re fucking in there!” insisted an unfamiliar voice. Were they kicking the doors in their frustration? Did they intend to force them open? Was the door at the back of the garage that led to the stairs locked? I tried to remember - but then realised that if there car was in the garage - we must also be here.

“I know they’re fucking in there!” insisted another voice which might have been Wee Hughie. Cal had told me, after meeting him in the supermarket, that this was something of a piss artist and he regularly got fighting drunk. During lake-side weekends, this short but obviously physically capable ex-squaddie had needed to be subdued on more than one occasion - restrained during much merry laughter Cal had told me in a way that made me think he had taken an active part in the restraining. Obviously, these were opportunities that made it all worth while for the ex-navy hard-man. This bunch of ex-servicemen missed having an excuse to do things they had been trained to do, and enjoyed doing well. I had heard about local raids on other members of the Rugby team or other teams on their way home from nights out. Cal had talked of commando-style escapades, elaborately planned assaults, even occasionally nicking property - and then leaving it to be found in some unsuspecting victim’s premises - just for devilment. Skills like breaking and entering had been part of their professional training - conditioning. Shinning up drainpipes; tales of organised abductions and kidnappings carried out just to prove they could do it. When Cal had told me about their training - and later about civilian escapes which exercised the same skills, all had excited my imagination. But now I was not excited - I was almost literally shitting myself.

Concerted banging on garage and front doors simultaneously was immediately picked-up by whoever was still outside the side door. The surround-sound hammering almost freaked me out. Boots from down below were suddenly running back up the path. “Stand aside, I’ll pick the fucking lock!” rasped a voice.

“No! They could have gone fr’a meal at the Royal,” suggested the voice of reason. This again was Bellman. “Naw!!” said another voice - and it then became louder intending to be heard inside. “I think they’re in there fucking. Couple of Fucking perverts - queer bastards!” yelled the voice. This provoked howls of raucous laughter - and was aimed to provoke rather than insult if we happened to be inside.

“Is that right?” asked another voice loudly, “Think yon Englishman’s a poof?” bawled the voice for the benefit of anybody who might be inside - then called even louder, “Callum, do youse have yer’sell an ass to fuck the neet? Yer know what they says about sailors!”
“A bit of the other - is that the expression you’s navy poofs call it?” yelled another.

More howls of laugher - but somehow I realised that this crowd would not be voicing such opinions if they seriously thought there was any real possibility one of their number their might be just that.
The laughter subsided and they were obviously at a loss to know what to do next.
“Aw fuck, this is a waste of good drinking time!” decided Wee Hughie.
”A’think they’re definitely doon at the Royal having a meal,” advised Bellman.
“What, a meal and wine?” asked a voice before shouting just in case anybody inside could hear. “Only poofs drink wine!”
The others laughed but the party was breaking up.

“Tell yer what!” decided another voice. “Why don’t we go doon there and embarrass the fuck out of them in The Royal.”
“Naw! I’m barred fra’the Royal” said Wee Hughie.
“So am I,” said another voice.
“Do we put a note through the door ... “ asked someone.
“Or crap through it,” suggested someone else.
“No we don’t!” decided Bellman. “Come away lads. I’ll phone him in the morning and make damn sure we get them doon there tomorrow, even if we have to drag them.”
Various voices expressed an enthusiasm for doing just that.

I was just beginning to relax slightly as I heard doors open on what I now decided was a four-by-four. Boots scraped as they reassembled by the vehicle. But then ...

"I tell you what, lads,” suggested a voice that sounded more Irish than Scots.
“Why not us sit it out here - and jump the buggers when they gettin’ out’o the car. There’s kit in the back’o my van - rope - blanket? Maybe even Interrogation hoods from that last ... “
”Interra-fucking-gation hoods! You’re a right fucking kinky cunt, Rixey?
”Donger made em up for that weekend exercise when we ... "
Wha’d’ya say, Dong? Grab the fuckers and ... ” began Wee Hughie, enthusiastically.
”There’s rope here - and a great sack,” cut in another willing helper, obviously rummaging in the van.
”Right, then!” determined the Irish voice. “Let's do it! Jump the two of ‘em - scare the shit out of the poncy English feller. Drag ‘em away - ride ‘em around and then take ‘em to my place for a drink. That’d be a laff” he decided.

A chorus of general agreement died when a lone voice warned “The Big Feller’ud know it was us - and all hell’ud break lose and ... "
“He'd no like it," added another voice of caution.
"Ay, an' you know what he's like. It could turn nasty.”
“Yon English feller’s a lawyer. He’d sue the fucking pants off yers, Rixey ” suggested a third.
“Fuck that - just a friendly welcome to Oban,” argued the Irishman. “Let’s do it. I’d enjoy giving fuckin' Buchanan a taste of his own medicine after what he ... ”
“Fuck no, he’d fucking kill yus - all of us!”

The enthusiasm seemed to drain away as others considered the possible repercussions.
"Aw, fuck - let’s away and get us a drink,” said Wee Hughie ... and this suggestions suddenly seemed like a better idea to several of the group ... and doors began to open and slam ... and another slid.
Had there been more than four of them?

*****

I’d been standing stock still for what seemed like an hour - and I continued to just stand there long after the sound of the vehicle had disappeared down the hill.

Eventually I forced one boot forward. It was on carpet and made no sound. The silence was dense - and although I could feel my heart still thumping, it couldn’t be heard outside the heavy rubber and tight casing hugging my skin all over - which I could suddenly feel again inside the dry-suit. Dry! I knew there would be at least a pint of water in there when I eventually got out of it.

What now? It took time to get my mind back into gear. Gear! Should I go and let Callum out? I didn’t know what time it was. Luckily I had checked the clock in the playroom before I left there. Should I risk switching a light on? No - might they (one of them) have stayed behind? I desperately needed a drink. I could risk moving to the kitchen - but if I opened the fridge to get a beer - the light in the fridge? If I turned the tap on, might somebody hear?

Believe me or believe me not: after almost fifteen years I can remember the sequence of thoughts as my battered mind dragged itself back from the edge - just as I could remember accurately some of the conversation outside the house. Writing this today has dredged up memories which I did not know I had remembered. Details. Facts.

Yet, I wonder if I am remembering or filling in the gaps with imagination. I don’t think so. Some of the sequence I have just written down, is quite definitely there somewhere burned into my brain. I can still remember turning the tap carefully - lifting a glass gingerly so not to let it clink - just in case. The water running slowly to not to make a noise. Drinking cautiously so the suit didn't creak or squeak, moving to the door to the stairs without making a sound. The silence - deafening.

A stiffness in my body was the result of wetness and tension (and those fucking weights). The entire surface of my skin felt numb from the clinging fabric of the old type fabric-lined wet suit. I even remember at that moment, my mind paused to regret that it wasn’t smooth neoprene like Callum’s new wet-suit. How was he doing in it down there? Had his legs given out in the un-movable boots - his legs clamped at an unnatural angle - necessary for skiing but hell to maintain when standing still. He must be regretting committing himself to it - to four hours. Three hours now, was it? Even in the dark I could see the big old clock in the living room. Half an hour since I started my weighty journey from downstairs. That must have taken me ten minutes. Had the whole episode with the would-be ‘intruders’ really been under twenty minutes since that first phone-call?

I was about halfway down the stairs to the cellar, trying not to trip over the boots, before I realised that there was no hurry. No need to be quiet now - but still carrying the glass of water. Why - it was empty? I decided to leave it on the stairs to give me two hands to keep my balance. My mind was getting back to grips with the situation. I could even sit on the stairs. Half way down the stairs - what was that old rhyme - song - Jim Henson - Kermit the frog. “Halfway up the stairs isn’t up and isn’t down”.

My mind was tired. I remember distinctly, thinking that as I carefully tried to find a way of sitting down, there on the stairs ... first both weighted boots on the same step - heels only because they were so big. I tried one on the step below - then slid sideways so I could rest the boots without risk of them tipping off the steps. Funny what you remember when you focus-in on a past event - memorable event.

No need to rush things, I remember deciding.
Bellman would not phone until tomorrow. “Donger” Bellman. Something of a nutter Callum had told me. He was Cal’s regular sparring partner at the local gym. They had been on the team - local Rugby team together. Escapades I’d been told about. “Dong” being something of a ganger, leader of a Forestry Commission team. His tough regime with his workers - and harsh treatment of “naughty boys” - if local teenagers were found doing damage or otherwise misbehaving in the local woodlands.

My mind dragged back to Callum - and his current predicament. He had no idea of what had just happened. Why spoil his self-designated - his long looked forward to self-challenge of dealing with his self-imposed inescapable and not to be disturbed predicament - the suit - the gag - the strappings - the uncomfortable standing position - for four hours? Did he know how long four hours could feel? These are questions we had discussed calmly and meticulously when I was picking his brains about his previous sessions in private. How I would like to have been a fly on the wall during some of them. Could I stand by and not intervene if he miscalculated - fell - fainted. Could I stand/sit there in the same room and do nothing?

He had been very insistent about me not letting him out under any circumstances. What would have been his reaction if he’d known what was going on upstairs during the past half hour? Wrapped and strapped, sight and soundless. What would have happened if they had got in? What might have happened if they’d found him trussed and helpless in pervy gear? His worst nightmare - but some of the possibilities, I suddenly realised, had produced a rampant hard-on even inside my tight wet (and I mean wet) suit.

I stood up carefully on the stairs. There was not enough room for two boots on one stair. I was facing sideways again because I could not feel where the stair ended. Each solid boot - to move down each step needed the boot to lift clear of the other boot before finding the next lower stair. It must have looked ridiculous. It was very tiring to lift each boot high enough before lowering it low enough - clinging onto the banister rail - crossing right over left and then left over right. Being able to deal with - cope with the unexpected physical problems of restraint. The topic came back to me at that moment.

The unexpected. This had always been my sort challenge - to be trapped inside restrictive canvas or leather, industrial rubber - the sweat - the weight. Weight! The weighted waist as well as boots all locked-on and inescapable. The unexpected. A bonus - an unexpected surprise addition, added by an imaginative and provocative play-partner. A challenge? Escape challenges had always been my thing. Could I escape this lot? That combination lock - a simple device he’d used to make the keys unavailable. Previously, when in a desperate, uncomfortable predicament I had once sweated and sworn for several hours over a simple cheap combination padlock. The chance of stumbling across the right combination could take more than four hours. The device he’d used had been made to prolong and frustrate his own solo self-challenge sessions. We’d talked a lot about time-locks and other ways to prolong time trapped in self-applied restraints. Do I work on an escape-plan in the true spirit of Houdini - or deal with my predicament - settle for it. Accept it - enjoy it.

Suddenly I was horny as hell as my hands felt around the rubber of my inescapable prison - and wanted to see Callum in his predicaments. He had wanted to be totally alone - but with ear plugs and no sight - I could safely go in there - drink in the sight - and the sounds of him creaking, breathing heavily inside the mask - dragging air in through the amazingly efficient gag. Rubber-flavoured air. I longed to be in his position. Knew that if I was in it I would probably soon be desperate to be let out of it - but annoyed if somebody let me out. What a fucking fucking fucked-up pervert ... I remembered the words bandied about outside. I pictured the men - and paused in my journey, to picture them - and picture them perhaps forcing an entry - and there on the stairs I shot a long-overdue load - rubber-encased - unable to even feel myself through the thick double casing - but every nerve-end on the surface of my skin was tingling - and the only uncovered flesh, my hands and head were soaking. My hair was soaking - dripping in fact. I shook my head like a wet dog - and laughed aloud as I watched splashes of sweat on the rubber of the suit - and on the walls of the stairs. I could have written my name on the walls with a wet finger - Jim was here!

Callum was still on his feet - as part of his preparations he had placed an upright chair close enough so he could sit and rest briefly during his ordeal, so he could prolong his enjoyment - or enjoyment of not enjoying - whichever! He stood quietly, trussed and breathing determinedly behind the blacked-out mask. I trod quietly before deciding there was no need because he was totally unaware of me.

Without warning his body erupted into a flurry of violent and determined wrenching from side to side, bending forward on his slightly bent legs. Then arching back and throwing himself forward again before more wrenching from side-to-side, his strapped together padded sparring gloves attempting to punch but they could hardly leave his waist because of the tight strapping. The nylon webbing straps anchored down through his crotch and tugging at his elbows, tightening and squeaking with his efforts. Blindly trying to force a little slack into the bindings which he had so determinedly pulled tight when securing himself. But anything gained in front forced his elbows more tightly together behind - or added pressure to the bulge between his legs. Not that he could feel anything down there. Under the rubbery suit, the boxers groin guard was designed to prevent any feeling. The rigid plastic cup that encased his painfully scrunched-up cock was more than a prison; it was a torture chamber - a rigidly walled-in, self-imposed torture device. His choice - his (what?) creation.

A sudden but determined roar/howl into the gag expressed frustration - or an animal intensity of feeling. The powerful sound barely escaped from behind the mask, and then the struggling subsided. But it was obvious he was still full of fight. There was determination not desperation - his entire body-language showed that ... this was enjoyment? Yes, this was enjoyment. And I reached a decision. He could handle the four hours. Even if I saw that his condition was deteriorating - it would have to reach a seriously dangerous point before I would even let him know I was in the room, But I would stay in the room - and I would stay resolutely determined to enjoy the opportunity - all of it. I would not resent my own predicament - "Deal with it"! A recurring theme in my life - escape from it or deal with it. I suddenly decided I was not going to even try to escape from my imprisonment or these fucking weights. I looked for a chair.

If I sat myself down into the deep racing car seat that Callum had picked up cheap - the deep, deep padded seat still complete with six efficient safety straps. If I sat myself down into that tilted-back bucket seat ... would it be possible for me to stand up again? I had no idea - but was very tempted to try - but thought better of it and found another upright chair.

I sat and speculated what might happen if I removed the upright chair from behind Callum. Those ski boots locked into their clamps - Callum had told me about one of his experimental solo sessions when he had fixed the clamps to his bedroom floor - knowing that he could sit back on his bed - but had missed the bed and ended up on the floor with the soles of his feet still firmly flat on the floor. Luckily, as with so many of his solo sessions, he had left himself a get-out. The early boot-clamping-to-the-floor experiment he first rehearsed without his hands restrained. Having unexpectedly fallen backwards while in boots clamped to the floor, he could have broken both legs. The unexpected. On his back with knees tightly bent, it had at first seemed to be impossible for him to get back up again, he told me after the event.

Because his hands were free, getting back up would be no real problem. But, as an experiment, he decided (as a self- punishment for a serious miscalculation) to pretend that it had happened while his hands were tied and gloved. Getting himself up off the floor without using his hands, he'd told me ruefully, had taken a massive amount of determination and some pain. But, as he explained it to me, some of his solo experiments were very extreme - and dealing with the unexpected was part of the challenge. But not falling victim to the unexpected was vitally important in his solo games. A lesson some people die while learning.

*****

Sitting there drinking in the sights and sounds and smells of this well-used workshop/playroom there was time - lots of time for my mind to wander. I definitely remember I speculated for a while on his elaborate home gym frame, with it’s pullies and weights, padded boards that could be positioned tilted, horizontal or upright; a super-structure sturdy enough to suspend human bodyweight. Those thoughts on that day - ended up described in my story about Dan Drummond, the rugby-playing police officer in “Man-to-man Stuff” - and his long-time buddy/opponent/challenger Harry. Sitting there, I wished that Callum could find such a regular and local play-partner - no sex perhaps - just challenge and counter-challenge. Remembering it now, I remember distinctly the path my mind wandered along.

It returned to the racing car seat. If I positioned it behind Callum and sat him back into it with his feet still locked into their clamps - could he get himself back out of it - and how determinedly would he need to struggle. In my mind’s eye I enjoyed imagining this rubber-encased, masked and trussed figure resolutely determined to escape from the deep chair.

If I closed the six tough safety belts this would be impossible, a mischievous part of my mind told me. These were designed to secure around thighs, through the crotch, over the shoulders and around the waist. All clicked firmly into a central quick-release clamp in front of ... whoever’s waist. This lock-block was designed to release at a single push. But I speculated that ... with a piece of fuse wire I could stop it from releasing - and he’d be trapped - just as he would remain trapped in his current predicament until I decided otherwise.

Then I remember remembering that only after I had released him would he be free to demonstrate for me his plan to release himself. Gradually manoeuvring his way out of the various straps, unable to see while cutting through laced gloves ... or would he be able to get the face-mask off before tackling the lace-cutting? Then, with numbed fingers , he would need to feel for and activate the tiny clasp which kept the gag in his mouth. At what point would he begin to struggle out of the tight neoprene wet-suit. He’d already discovered that the surfaces of this stuck together more than he’d anticipated. Together we’d laughed about my story of the guy trapped inside his new oilskins because the heat virtually welded surfaces together. Might this happen with his new wet-suit. Could he peel it off without an extra pairs of hands? Would he have to ask me to help him? Would I refuse if I was still locked into my ....

Another sudden burst of determined struggling from Callum reminded me that this power-game was far from over ... and I was already hard again watching him writhe and fight against the strapping, all the time grunting and snorting like a bull behind the mask. His crotch bucked forwards - thrusting again and again. Was he trying to bring himself off? Again and again I watched him thrust before subsiding with an almost inaudible groan of frustration. Inside that impenetrable groin guard, no chance of an erection let alone any satisfaction. His laced-down cock and balls totally encased inside that rigid plastic container. He had lovingly modified it recently for his own amusement - but also to intensify his deliberate self-torment. How his battered cock and balls would sting and smart when he was eventually able to let them out - perhaps rubbed raw enough to discourage masturbation for a week. All part of the hit-and-miss of bondage game-playing.

Obviously I was not going to spoil his fun today. Later tonight - much later, I would have to tell him about the visit from his cronies. Would I play down or hype up the drama of the moment - the danger? He would be concerned over the near-miss - the unexpected - but I was confident he could convince them that we had driven out for a meal, somewhere not in the town.

*****

Tomorrow I would enjoy meeting this gang - let them form their own opinions of me - let them speculate on any relationship with Callum. I would make sure that I would not compromise his reputation with these tough-nuts. I looked forward to meeting them face-to-face. It would give me an edge, having heard their conversation outside. There would be a sort of one-upmanship. I particularly wanted to get to know Bellman better.

Cautiously I began to speculate on ... just how Bellman would have reacted if he - and he alone - had discovered Callum self-trussed up in his kinky gear and at his mercy.

For the next almost three hours I allowed my mind freedom to roam; imagine. If Bellman had arrived alone - gained entry - door accidentally left unlocked - and discovered his regular and trusted sparring partner - who he knew was able to withstand (in fact welcomed) punishing challenge in the boxing and wrestling ring - if found powerless and vulnerable - what might happen next?

And that did become another story.

A printer-friendly version of the complete text is available at INTRUDERS - FOR REAL


... to remind yourself of the 'Fantasy' version, check out
INTRUDER - Wishful Thinking


More information and
including background detail about Callum at home
is one of several pages still under-construction
Check the CALLUM INDEX for latest news
Jim - 20th April 2008