HOUDINI STUFF

an adventure story

by
Jim Stewart

This is a story about finding out and taking risks.
It's about exploring
life-style fantasies rather than trying to ignore them.
A cautionary tale about natural instincts
that nag - and tempt - and won’t go away
even when we try to ignore them.

Besides being a stimulating read, it describes in detail a range of
opportunities which could be available ... if you're up for the challenge.

Action-packed, this long story (46,000 words), has a dual purpose;
mind stimulating entertainment -and information.

Jim Stewart 2004

Enlarge photo


Married with kids British fire-fighter A.J. 'Chunky' Proctor has never been able to resist a risk or a dare. Also, subconsciously, he has been turned-on by physically challenging situations. More worryingly, he has repressed a fascination for what he calls 'Houdini stuff'.
How does such a man find out more about what are, in his mind, sexual perversions to be resisted - and come to terms with some long-supressed inclinations?

NB:
Written before the Internet made information so much more easily available, this piece of 'fiction-based-on-fact' also explores the practicalities of planned game-playing; interaction on many different levels both one-to-one and as a group. Whether the reader's personal starting point is gay or straight (or a bit of both), if bondage and 'Houdini stuff' have ever tempted you away from the straight-and-narrow ... here is a mine of thought-provoking information and erotically charged entertainment.


INTRODUCTION to the hero of our tale:
Anthony John Proctor (‘Chunky’ to his mates) had always been a bloke-ish sort of bloke; always taken pride in being “A bit of a lad” as people in his native Lancashire liked to say.
Sexually, he'd been doing what was expected of any young chap in the Industrial North of England from a very early age - and doing it regularly ever since. Unfortunately, from the start, his ideas about sex were limited to opinions picked up along the way from school mates, work mates and by reading the more lurid of the tabloid press - which means that all the moral confusion, limited outlook and fear of being different from other blokes, was bred into him.

His married life started earlier than planned due to sexual exuberance, and it had been enjoyable as far as it could go in a council flat with paper-thin walls. He soon discovered that bringing up two high-spirited youngsters can be stimulating, but kids certainly stunt the parent’s sexual development. Last year his teenage son opted for an army life and his daughter took off to work in London where she was getting up to God knows what. He didn’t blame either of them. Seventeen years ago he would happily have taken either option, given half a chance. They were good kids and he’d brought them up to relish challenge but at the same time take responsibility for their own actions; a principle he always stood by.

Parental duty done, an amiable separation had now left both he and his wife free to explore their very different unfulfilled needs. She started an Open University degree course while managing a Gift Shop in the city centre, he shacked up with a younger woman with an insatiable sexual appetite but, unfortunately, very little imagination. So, after six months together this relationship had settled into something of a rut - and his mind was frequently straying into dangerous territory.

At thirty-five, he still thinks of himself as being in his prime - but beginning to suspect he might have missed out somewhere along the line. Erotic alternatives; the sort of things always sneered at or disapproved of by the sort of blokes he’d hung around with all his life, Chunky Proctor has recently been tempted to explore. Long resisted fantasies occupy more and more of his ‘thinking time’. But there is nobody in his life he could possibly turn to for either advice or support, because being the odd man out is a dangerous thing to be among his sort of ‘mates’.

NOTE FOR AMERICAN READERS:
The characters in this story live and work in the British Industrial North.
The nearest USA equivalent is any city where one large-scale manufacturing plant employs most of the male population.

 

HOUDINI STUFF
An adventure story

PART ONE :
Options & possibilities :
Life is full of possibilities - and alternatives - and choices. That’s what he’d always told his kids. A.J. ‘Chunky’ Proctor had never been able to resist a challenge. Even his job was full of calculated risk-taking and potential danger, but recently he’d had an uncomfortable feeling growing inside him that he might enjoy somebody else making a few choices for him - taking control, taking charge. That was the stage the hero of our story had arrived at, at least in his imagination.

In reality he was still very much in control of his own life; happy to stand his ground and fight rather than step aside. People steered clear of ‘Chunks’ when he was digging his heels in over anything. But today, when he could have used a bit of moral support Sarah had said “You’re on your own, mate! If you want to stick your neck out, you’re the one who might get your dick chopped off or your head flushed down a toilet.” Neither was a realistic possibility but he knew what she meant. And today he had a feeling that if she’d said “Don’t do it,” he wouldn’t have. But she’ll never be a Dominatrix. God knows he’d tried, but she just hasn’t got it in her - and she’s young - at least younger than he was feeling this afternoon.

He peered through the windscreen of his clapped-out car at the drizzle. All the damn streets looked the same in this part of town. What used to be a busy local shopping area was now a ghost of its former self. In any English northern industrial city, half a mile from the main centre, clusters of what used to be thriving local shops are mostly boarded up or the home of some minority interest enterprise. Not that sex is a minority interest in Oldham, but a Sex Shop today has to be either big and glitzy or a small anonymous ‘Private Shop’, without window display or external advertising.

‘Chunky’ parked his car near a little old fishing tackle shop he used to frequent as a lad. It now looked tired and old. It was two streets away from his destination, but even in this remote neighbourhood he didn’t want anybody to spot his car outside a gay sex shop. Not that he was gay, of course - he wasn’t exactly sure where the shop was. His mates had sniggered over the story in the local rag and ‘Chunky’ had sniggered along with them while making a mental note of the address. Not that he was gay, of course - but according to the newspaper, the shop stocked an impressive range of handcuffs. He’d never owned a pair, but Sarah was hopeless at tying knots in spite of all his tuition, and some of the games which turned him on hinged on him surrendering some of his physical power, and some responsibility. The situation had always attracted him. “Houdini Stuff” as he liked to think of it, because it might open up all sorts of possibilities he’d never really explored.

Turning up the tall collar of his rain jacket he walked through the afternoon drizzle, resolutely. Why should he feel nervous? Not much made him nervous. He’d always been confident and able to take care of himself. But the lads at the station would be merciless if word got out that he’d been seen within a mile of the new ‘poof shop’. At least the fishing tackle place would make a cover story. Turning off the main road into a side street which looked like a thousand other Coronation Street-type streets, he soon identified his destination. It was probably once a modest backstreet workshop with a yard and little shop attached. There used to be dozens of them. This one still had its old wooden shutters over the shop window and solid-looking double drive-in doors alongside. No name identified the premises except for a discreet notice on the shuttered window which announced ‘Private Shop. Strictly Adults Only’.

Pulling his collar even higher, he sauntered on past feeling as furtive as he imagined most frequenters of such a store must look. The shop seemed to be closed. What used to be the shop entrance appeared to be unused, as did the solid wooden doors to the yard. However, the whole frontage had been repainted recently; dark dark industrial green with, he noticed, a subtle black trim picking out the beading on the Victorian panelled woodwork.

Retracing his steps he saw that the bell by the shop door was illuminated. A modest label admitted ‘The Inner Man’ which was the name mentioned in the newspaper. Below the bell a more obtuse notice insisted in small print ‘Minors prohibited’. Almost involuntarily he took a deep breath before pressing the bell.

The Inner Man :
Because there was an entry phone speaker he expected a disembodied voice, but a rasping buzzer indicated that the door would open. He pushed forward prepared to enter a murky interior because, according to what he’d read, the shop specialised in S&M and leather and other kinky stuff. The sight which greeted him came as a surprise; a glistening hi-tech perforated metal screen and a dazzling metal trellis formed a small, well lit vestibule allowing only a sense of what was beyond.
“Hi,” said a friendly young face from behind the security grille, “come inside.”
Another electric buzzer opened the inner security gate automatically. “Sorry it’s a bit like Alcatraz (although some people like that idea), but we get a lot of what shall I call it, aggressively curious callers. You look as if you know why you’re here. First visit, yes?”
Chunks nodded guardedly.
“Thought so, I’d have remembered,” smiled the likely lad without any hint of a simper. The older man found himself thinking that if he didn’t know this kid worked in a gay shop he’d never have guessed. The sweat pants, trainers and tee shirt would not be out of place in the Health Club the lads at the station use.
“Is there anything I can show you, or do you just want to browse? Feel free. I’ll back off and you just ask if there’s anything you want to know - or see ...”, he shrugged ingenuously “... if you don’t see it.”
Receiving no response from his customer, the lad shrugged again; “Scuse me a minute. Something I was doing in the back room.”

He disappeared through an inner door leaving Chunky at a loss to know where to look. The space was smallish but neatly segmented into areas. A few leather items, most of them liberally studded with metal; a rack of magazines which Chunky preferred not to look at too closely; a glass cabinet filled with heavy-looking chrome rings, and another with a variety of stainless steel piercing rings and spikes. Chunks’ mind didn’t exactly boggle at the thought of the tit and ball weights, but the piercing stuff made his nerves jangle a bit. And the display of feather boas in scarlet, purple and white looked out of place wrapped around heavy motorcycle boots. A strange steel chair set solidly before a large mirror engaged his imagination. It was bolted to the hi-tech metal floor and its strange shape intrigued him. A rack of Lurex jock-straps and posing pouches belonged to a world of male strippers and Hen Nights, and although the rack of plastic penises and dildos came as no shock, the size of some of them made his sphincter tense slightly.

The overall effect was of orderliness and cleanliness which surprised him in a store for kink-heads and perverts (Chunky had grown up with some deep-rooted preconceptions). The lighting and security TV monitors, the metal screens and fabric hangings reminded him of a glossy magazine rather than sleaze. Mirror panels of the sort he recognised from IKEA seemed to surround him; the type studded with black dots holding the corners of the panels to the walls. #

Remembering why he was there, he looked around for handcuffs. In a corner he saw a cage big enough to contain a good sized dog, and above it a rack with not only handcuffs but manacles and shackles in a riot of shapes, configurations and weights.

His heart was beating faster than normal and something was holding him back from even approaching the display. This was more than he’d bargained for, but inside his head something was sending unfamiliar - no, old familiar signals. Handcuffs had always somehow fascinated him. Perhaps that’s why when a few years ago, having filled out an application form to join the police, he’d settled for the fire service. He’d never made the connection but he’d been fascinated by handcuffs and all sorts of “Houdini stuff” when he was a kid. Manacles and shackles and prison scenes in films seemed to lurk disturbingly in his imagination. Action-packed games of cops-and-robbers and cowboys-and-indians when he was a kid - and Action Man comics in his early teens. The possibilities of arrest, imprisonment - restraint had resulted in him pushing his luck while an apprentice in a machine shop. Pranks with wire, rope, soldering irons and even adhesives had got him into tight corners and occasional trouble. On the soccer field and pubbing and clubbing, his mates would say “There’s no holding Chunky Proctor.” And his stock reply was always the challenge, “Come on, try it you bastards”. Sometimes they did try, which would result in scuffles and tackles and torn clothes. A couple of times he’d been on the verge of buying a pair of handcuffs. The magic shop had had them when he was a kid and he’d been very tempted, but something usually held him back - he didn’t know what. But now he had no family budget to consider and, hopefully, he might find a legitimate use for them; give Sarah an even chance in their bedroom rough-and-tumbles.

It was difficult for him to keep his mind on handcuffs because so much other metal stuff was hanging there. A brutal-looking iron collar and neat little chrome wrist manacles padded with leather but obviously seriously efficient. His mind reeled at the possibilities (giving substance to his recurring fantasies). And leg manacles and lockable steel belts with wrist and ankle cuffs attached by sturdy chain. None of the token bondage, tin-plate stuff here. Shit, a solid metal head. The Man in the Iron Mask! Fuck! The rushing sound in his head suddenly made his vision blur. He’d never fainted in his fucking life - but ... ! #

“See anything you like?” asked a voice from the doorway.
Anthony John Proctor, Leading Hand in The Brigade with a couple of special citations for bravery, hoped he wasn’t looking too stupid.
“Yes,” he said in a voice which sounded higher in pitch than normal. He cleared this throat and added gruffly; “A couple of things ...yeh!”
“Metal stuff?” observed the kid.
“Er - yeh - police equipment - er - handcuffs.” The word almost stuck in his throat.
“Right!” enthused the youngster, “We had a hell of a rush on them after that newspaper article. Is that where you read about us?”
Chunks nodded, guiltily.

“Talk about locusts. You’d think Oldham had never heard of handcuffs before that. We’ve had to restock twice since then. Are you on the Force?”
“Police? No!” said Chunks, prepared to be defensive.
“Thought you might be. Quite a few of the local lads have been in. Putting a dent in their credit cards.”
“Police, buying handcuffs?”
“Why not? We’ve got some pretty exotic stuff here.”
“You’re not fucking kidding,” said the older man.
“I mean types of handcuffs; German, American and even Australian police issue. Highly collectible.”
Chunks was trying to get his head around coppers buying non-standard issue handcuffs - shopping in a gay shop - giving their credit card details. His mind was still reeling a bit when the next question sent him into a tail spin.

“What are you looking for exactly?”
“Er - er ...” said our hero whose perception of handcuffs was less clear than it had been ten minutes ago. “Er - something reasonably simple to use - that won’t leave marks.”
“Ah, that narrows the field. Steer clear of most swing-through bow models in that case. We don’t sell the cheap crap, but even some of the standard issue can cut in a bit, specially if you enjoy a good struggle. Are they to be used on you or a female?”
“Both,” lied Chunks, quick as a flash.
“Pity,” said the salesman (person) “the most comfortable are the Hiatt Old Pattern but they aren’t adjustable. They’d fit you fine but she might wriggle out of them - but that might be fun to watch.”

His hands were sweating as Chunky looked down at his wrists; “Ones that’d fit me ...?” he hazarded, but his voice trailed off as the kid reached for a businesslike looking pair of traditional cuffs.
“These are the basic ones. They just snap on, but you need to watch out because they can nip the skin. They’re more comfortable behind the back than modern ratchet cuffs. Quick to close and slow to open, this type. The key screws in and pulls back a bolt,” the kid enthused as he closed one of the cuffs with a resounding snap onto his own wrist (not a limp wrist). Immediately, he produced a key and demonstrated the unlocking principle. “You can even do this yourself behind your back,” he said as the cuff fell open.
Chunky licked his lips but found nothing to say.

“Not very comfortable to spend the night in, not if they’re on behind your back so you can’t play with yourself,” said the young man without a trace of embarrassment. The fact that he was not much older than Chunky’s own lad made the weird situation even more weird. The kid reached for a similar pair of cuffs which were linked by about a foot of chain rather than close together. “Now these you can sleep in, if she allows you to sleep.” He put the cuffs into clammy hands. “A lot depends on the games you play.”

Anthony John felt he was blushing scarlet but the salesman had turned and reached out for yet another pair from the wall display.
“These cuffs are much chunkier,” the kid prattled on, “they’re German. Unnecessarily bulky but the weight feels great and they make a very satisfying noise!” The ratchets of the massive cuff rattled through the spring mechanism a couple of times. “A great sound if you’re blindfolded or have a bag over your head.”

The sheer nonchalance of this youngster was keeping Chunky off balance. This was the sort of kinky stuff he’d only ever read about in magazines. Never discussed it, even with Sarah and certainly not with other blokes. He stared at the cuffs in his hands.

The lad waited, amiably. “Is that the type of thing you had in mind?” he asked. “They’re pretty well fool-proof if somebody's bad at tying knots. A quick snap and they’re on. That is, as long as she’s put the key somewhere out of reach in case you grab her.”
Was this kid a mind-reader wondered the older man - but the handcuffs were being taken out of his hands as the salesman asked; “How are they for size?”

Chunky didn’t know or make any move to find out - and so the kid, quite logically, placed one cuff around one of Chunky’s wrists, but didn’t close it.
“That seems exactly right. Do you want to close it or shall I?” asked the guy, but Chunky made no move. Smiling, the younger man snapped one cuff locked and immediately stepped back, leaving the second cuff dangling by its foot of chain. He held out the key.

“The good thing about these is you can easily lock them on and take them off by yourself if that’s the sort of game you play. There are ways of making the key unavailable for a while, until a certain time, if you like to play on your own,” he said, still holding up the key. “Lot’s of ways, from sealing the key into a cube of ice and having to wait for the ice to melt, to electronic time-lock boxes. There’s some very interesting possibilities. Lock the other cuff on.”

Whether this was meant to be a suggestion or an order Chunks wasn’t sure, but his hand moved to the second cuff.
“Try it behind your back,” prompted the salesman, and for some obscure reason the older man did exactly as he was told without hesitation. Fumbling the unfamiliar shape around his wrist in the small of his back, his eyes flickered between the amiable face of the kid and the various mirror panels in which he could see his black rain jacketed self from different angles.

The snap of the second cuff closing announced the start of a new phase, particularly as the salesman still held the key. Looking in the mirror directly ahead Chunk wished he could see the back and front at the same time.

“Turn around,” said the mind-reader swinging a section of wall mirror tiles to an angle so both front and back were visible to the wearer. “Relax! See, they can be quite comfortable. You could struggle or just happily spend the night in them. No damage, even if she decides to sit on your chest or thighs or even if she’s got you embedded inside her. The choice would be hers.”

Luckily for Chunky the youngster couldn’t see the massive erection which was causing serious problems inside his mac.

Trapped:
A sudden rasping of the door buzzer threw Chunky into panic. The kid also moved swiftly but confidently.
“No need to panic. I’ll get rid of them,” he said reassuringly as he swung back the mirrored wall panel to reveal a small changing room. “There’s a seat in there. You can slide your hands down under your bum, sit down and get your feet through the cuffs. That way you can see to unlock the cuffs - that is, if you want. I’ll get rid of them soon as I can. Here’s the key.” Chunky felt the key pressed into the palm of one manacled hand behind his back.

With that the door closed and the sweating Chunky turned around to find himself staring himself in the face because the cubicle door had mirrors on the inside as well. The shiny black rain jacket which had seemed both practical and trendy when he bought it last month suddenly looked decidedly kinky with his hands pulled back by handcuffs. Handcuffs! thought Leading Hand Proctor and the tip of his erection was making a plainly visible hump in the very bottom edge of his belted coat.

A merry voice over the front door intercom identified somebody who was obviously a regular at the store. A buzzer opened the door and two raucous male voices greeted “Robert, precious!!!!” with a stream of girlish endearments which made Chunky hold his breath as he heard the inner security gate also released.

Shrill banter and giggles gradually became more muted, and the trapped man began to wonder if his presence was being revealed to the visitors (two of them by the sound of it). The space he was in had no other exit and the sight of himself trapped and PVC wrapped somehow riveted him to the spot. The rushing in his ears almost drowned out the three voices engaged in earnest conversation, but suddenly the security grill clanged closed and departing voices shrilled; “Bye, bye, Bobby, darling!” and “Roberta, sweetie, you’re an angel. I’ll say a novena for you!” as the outer door closed and Chunky seemed to breathe for the first time in about three minutes. He stared at himself in the mirror-tile wall and made no attempt to push past it.

Eventually the door opened and the younger man looked in at him quizzically; “Couple of Drag Queens picking up wigs. Special order. I didn’t encourage them to hang around, but they’re fun people. Sorry about that. Er - you - didn’t open the handcuffs.”

Chunky shook his head dumbly and found it hard to meet the gaze of the likely lad who was standing confidently before him.
“You’d better give me back the key then,” he said evenly, “if you’re not going to use it.”

After a pause Fire Officer Proctor did as he was told. Turning slowly he raised both manacled hands slightly and opened one palm to present the key. He felt it taken from his moist hand, and then two hands closed over the chain, shortening the distance between his wrists and making his chest tight within the PVC jacket. The firm grip on the chain urged him backwards out of the changing room and the mirror swung closed leaving Chunky looking at himself, arms now forced tighter behind him and a smiling face peering over his shoulder.

“These cuffs are quite effective in various positions,” it said. “How supple are your shoulders?”
Experimentally, the salesman gently guided the two manacled wrists upwards, folding in on themselves until both elbows were bent and hands were reaching up between the shoulder blades. The firm hand gripping the chain somewhere up below his collar, gathered a fistful of rain jacket and lifted slightly. Chunky watched the tough fabric of his zipped up and belted jacket strain against his chest as he was lifted almost onto tip-toe. The second controlling hand demonstrated how easy it would be to grip a handful of his thick short hair and exercise considerable control. #

“These old cuffs have their uses but when it comes to control, but they’re not a patch on the modern solid cuffs.” The grip had been released and his hands were lowered as Chunky again breathed in and moistened his lips. He felt the key being screwed into one of the cuffs which soon fell open. The salesman stepped back and said; “You open the other cuff. Another control factor, of course, is leg-irons. If they’re wearing leg-irons while handcuffed it’s easy to keep somebody off balance and there’s less chance of getting kicked in the shins or the balls.”

“You been in the police?” asked Chunky, “You seem to know a lot about it.”
“Oh, I do - but I haven’t. And our police aren’t allowed to use leg-irons in spite of the need for them sometimes. A lot of injuries could be avoided if they were. German and American police use them as routine if there’s a danger of somebody lashing out. And there’s a lot of it goes on, believe me. Detainees inviting a bit of police brutality. A few bruises always look good in court. I hope the Police Federation is keeping a list of officers injured because leg-irons aren’t allowed. Something to do with Amnesty International and a few do-gooders who don’t have to deal with the realities of policing. At least the new solid cuffs are a more efficient control device. Do you fancy a beer?”

The unexpected final remark made Chunky look up from the handcuff he had at last managed to unscrew.
“Beer?” he asked?
“Or a Coke or something? Sorry I get a bit steamed up on the subject of leg-irons. Couple of mates of mine have had nasty injuries which could have been avoided if they’d been allowed decent equipment. Controlling somebody who’s determined to make trouble or are out of their skull on drugs is a lot easier with the right cuffs and a pair of leg-irons. Or, of course, a combination iron. You know, handcuffs attached to ankle cuffs. You’ve probably seen them on TV or in films.”
“Yes,” confirmed Chunky, “a few times.”
“And was it ‘Yes’ to a beer?”
“Er - thanks, no. I’m on watch at six - er, fire service.”
“Ah, interesting.”
“Is it? Why?”
“Oh, nothing really. So, how about the handcuffs? Do you want me to fill you in on any more info? Sorry, I do tend to ramble on a bit. A lot depends on the Scene or situation that turns you on. Is a woman going to use them on you?”
“I hope so,” said Fire Officer Proctor managing a sort of smile. “Like you said, she’s hopeless at tying knots.”
“Well, those cuffs and a pair of leg-irons would even up the odds a bit. I’m not being a pushy salesman, but leg-irons would make a practical addition. Open up a lot of possibilities. Depends how good she is with equipment, or how determined. Does she like taking control? Have you done bondage with rope and stuff?”
“Er - no, not really - er - no.”

“Oh,” said the Salesman, “I spent the first ten years of my life tying myself up before I found somebody to do it for me - but let’s stick to your situation. Are you a willing ‘victim’ or do you like to put up a struggle? Sorry, I don’t want to embarrass you - not being nosy - it’s just that a pair of leg-irons does offer extra control. We stock three types; standard American police, the German extra heavy ones plus the old fashioned British pattern - which are, in fact, reproductions made in Spain. They’re not even allowed to make them in Britain nowadays, but they’re not illegal to import or own. Oh, and there’s a new one! An American company just produced a boot size leg-iron. It will fit over a wide boot, heavy motorcycle, cowboy type, or for our kinkier brethren, wellies and waders. Firemen in Britain don’t wear waders, do they. A lot of people are turned on by rubber waders, and a metal leg-iron big enough to lock around them is very popular with some of our customers.”

Too much information! The perspiring fireman looked at the chunky leg-manacles dangling from the salesman’s hand and tried to get back on track by asking; “You say you’ve got the combined hand and ankle cuffs?”

“Sure! With or without a belly chain - waist chain?” He replaced the leg-irons and reached for a tangle of chain with wrist and ankle cuffs dangling. “These keep the wrists locked tight to the waist chain. You can also use it with hands in back. That opens up a lot of possibilities!” smiled the salesman demonstrating the position with legs spread wide and hands tight behind his back.

“Shit!” laughed Chunky but it was more of a strangled gasp.
“Deep shit, if you allow yourself to get into this sort of position. You’ve really got to know who you’re dealing with before you let yourself to get locked into these. Really leaves you wide open.”

The younger man hung the rattling equipment back on the metal display frame, leaving the older man even hotter than ever and groping for a hanki, his imagination racing.
“Useful if she’s going to go off to work leaving you to do the housework. Have it finished before she gets back, or else! As long as she takes the key with her and you don’t cheat and have a spare stashed away. All depends on the sort of games you play and the level of intensity.”

“I never knew it was so complicated,” said Chunky picturing himself naked and manacled wondering if and when Sarah would be back. Would he ever allow himself to be put in such a predicament? Could she handle it? Could she ever handle him? “You’ve had a lot of experience using this sort of stuff?” hazarded Chunky.
“A lot,” came the confident reply.
“On women?” risked the older man?
“Some,” said the salesman evenly “but usually teaching them how to handle their men. A lot of the Mistresses. Several professional dominatrix shop here. They need to know how to take control and keep it. The new police handcuffs are a God-send for that. Like I said, they’re a serious control device.”

He reached for a solid centred handcuff and held it out for inspection; “This little beauty is what all the coppers are carrying now. Bulky on a waist belt but as a control device, it’s a bitch.”
Chunks had seen them on policeman’s belts and noticed the solid rigid black connector between the two metal loops.
“What do you mean, control device?” he invited.
The younger man shrugged amiably.

Demonstration:
“Want to take your jacket off, you’re sweating?”
“No, that’s OK. It’s a cuff they use in street arrests, isn’t it?”
“All the time now and believe me when these are used, you know they’re being used and very soon co-operate. Sure you’re up for this?” asked the kid but it was a rhetorical question. The older man was obviously preparing himself for action. “I’ll do it gently just to give you an idea. But once somebody gets the knack of putting them on right, this is something you don’t fight against.”

Closing one end of the solid-looking cuff around the wrist Chunky was offering, the younger man then gripped the cuff by the solid moulded plastic centre and twisted it very very slightly. Chunky immediately allowed his hand and arm to be guided by the surprising pressure the gentle movement exerted.

“You can put up a bit of resistance,” said a reassuring voice. But as the metallic pressure on his wrist increased Chunky allowed his hand and arm to be twisted slowly down and under and up behind his back.
“Fancy offering a bit more of a struggle?” invited the soothing voice. But the irresistible twist of the changing angle of the locked-on cuff took the heavier man’s mind off serious resistance. Suddenly his face and chest were pushed against a nearby wall and a foot was urging Chunky’s legs further apart. The older man wanted to halt the proceedings but an elbow was now keeping his neck and face against the wall and he was off balance with one wrist clamped painfully up behind his back. His free hand was groping around somewhere up against the wall - but as it was gripped by a firm hand, pressure applied to his already locked wrist took his mind off the fact that his free hand was being guided around behind his back to where the waiting ratchet was ready to close. The clicking of the ratchet signalled the end of the painful pressure on his right wrist and he was about to regain his balance - when an unexpected foot moved one of his boots and then the other further apart while the continuing pressure on his spine persuaded him to stay put.

“See what I mean, they’re bastards. Even when you really put up a struggle, if the person using the cuffs knows a few simple techniques it evens up the odds no end. I’m just applying the dead-locks. That’s so the cuffs can’t close too tight once they’re locked on. Never use ratchet cuffs unless they have dead-locks,” advised the salesman. “If you roll on them accidentally in bed and haven’t got access to a key it can cause serious nerve damage. Now, they’re dead-locked. Want to put up a bit of a struggle?”

Chunky didn’t want to do any damage so he was embarrassed to exert any force. Suddenly the light-weight young athlete, still with one hand clamped around the centre of the cuffs, had grabbed a fistful of his raincoat collar and was propelling the bigger man across the shop towards the metal grille of the security door. Chunky decided that some resistance was becoming necessary, but as he tried to halt the travel across the shop the hand grip between his wrists twisted only slightly and his wrists felt as if they were going to break.

An abrupt reverse of direction and he was being pulled backwards, unable to see where he was going. A sudden stop and he was bending forward over a counter, his wrists pulled high behind him, unable to move.

“You could bring her here and I could teach her how to deal with you!” said the younger man into his ear. “She could learn to make you do whatever she wanted you to do. Or do I mean she could make you do all the things you want her to make you do?” urged the voice which now had a tough, questioning edge to it.

Suddenly, another twist and an abrupt pull - and the bigger man was travelling blindly backwards again. Swung around unexpectedly, his feet collided with the metal chair which had a high narrow back almost like a small ladder. The strong and usually in-control older man yelped as his wrists were yanked unstoppably high in the air and he was forced to bend forward. He decided to put up a more determined fight but, off balance, he could only fall back against the chair, his legs now astride it. Suddenly his arms were even higher - and then being lowered, but now behind the ladder back - and a downward pressure on his wrists urged him to sit on the seat which was lower than it looked.

“You see,” said the calm voice behind his ear, “I’m holding you here with one hand, one finger almost. A slight twist and I could persuade you to keep still - or open your mouth if I wanted to put a gag in it. Could I?” almost purred the confident voice.

Chunky was about to disagree but a painful twist of the solid handle between his wrists made him yelp, and a handkerchief wadded into his mouth. It was immediately pulled out again and the kid who no longer looked so lightweight, walked around to the front of the chair smiling (but keeping well out of range of his captive’s feet).
“Don’t worry, it’s perfectly clean,” he said pocketing the hanki. “I just wanted you to know that these cuffs are an efficient control device.”

Chunky sat there getting his breath back. He wriggled his arms and shoulders and wondered if he could stand up and lift his wrists up over the high chair back.
“It’s a useful chair, that,” observed the salesman. “I’ve made a couple of different versions. This is the best so far; got a few useful refinements - like the clip to keep your wrists from being lifted back over the top. Try.”

Eager to end the situation before he got in any deeper, Chunky attempted to stand up. He got part way before his wrists came to an abrupt halt. Some sort of hook or clip behind the chair prevented his handcuffed wrists going further up the ladder-style chair back. He braced his feet either side of the seat and, standing, had another try. The kid moved forward and stooped to adjust a couple of bars which slid out from under the seat. Chunky looked down to see that his ankles were now trapped behind these solid bars.

Walking behind the chair the kid applied pressure to the handcuffs and Chunky was forced to sink back onto the seat, but this time his boots were trapped on either side of the chair, knees well bent.
The scrape of metal gave no warning before a hoop of steel circled the captive’s neck fixing his head back against the high chair back.
“Don’t panic,” said the soothing voice, “I’m just demonstrating my handiwork.”

The fresh faced kid walked back into view and stood before the sweating, speechless older man who now had no option but to look straight ahead.
“One thing you should understand about me is that I like solving problems - and making things which work efficiently - and helping people to get more enjoyment out of life - whatever form of enjoyment that is. I’m a very responsible person - and I’m into restraint and bondage in a big way - but I never take liberties.” He walked closer to the seated man until his knees were able to press those of the helpless man further apart.

Chunky felt the warmth of contact as the younger man’s knees slowly pressed his own further outwards. Beginning to panic, his crotch being stretched uncomfortably under his mac, Chunky was about to object when the younger man reached down between his legs and gripped something under the seat. It was another pair of metal bars which drew out from under the seat and clicked ominously into position, bracing the knees of the captive wide apart. Systematically the younger man then moved the bottom of raincoat open in front, revealing the bulge of navy blue drill trousers.
“But I do like to see peopled pushed to their limits - if they enjoy being pushed.”
While speaking, he un-belted the shiny black raincoat and opened its zip to reveal the obvious hard-on. “And let’s not pretend you’re not getting a kick out of this.”

With that he moved away and adjusted two hinged panels of mirror so that the seated man could see himself from several angles including his hands cuffed and helpless behind the high metal chair back; his knees braced wide apart by metal; and his surging crotch vulnerable and accessible.

“I’m not trying to freak you out. But I get the feeling you don’t know much about the different possibilities open to you. The different games different people play. I get the feeling your lady friend doesn’t know, either. I can recommend a few books. I even wrote one of them - and you need to decide for yourself how far to let yourself get involved and how fast. But I think I’m right when I say, there are things you want to know and things you’d like to try. Yes or no?” After a pause the voice insisted; “Yes or no?”
“Yes,” admitted the sweating man.

Stooping down behind his captive the younger man opened the lock of one cuff before straightening up. “You can get yourself out of all that. I need a beer even if you don’t.”
With that he left the room.

Escape Artist :
Our hero sat for a minute looking at himself in the mirrors which seemed to surround him. Seated on the low chair, his knees forced wide apart and high lace-up work-boots locked back tight, neck encircled by steel and his PVC coated shoulders pulled back against the metal chair back. Although no longer locked there Chunky kept his wrists together, breathlessly tense. He had so often imagined how it would feel to be helpless - powerless. Since he could remember he’d somehow responded to ‘capture’ situations; wondered how he would deal with it. He always prided himself he could never resist a challenge, but this was a matter of maleness not sexuality - or so he’d always thought - always convinced himself. He did not get-off on these fantasies. So why was he so turned-on now? It was the challenge and temporary loss of control - he told himself.

Slowly he brought his free hand to the front and then, trying to see behind him via a mirror, disengaged the handcuff from whatever had prevented his standing up. It seemed to be a simple chain loop and the handcuff, still locked onto one wrist, easily slipped the chain. He inspected the rigid handcuff as he brought it forward, one end still circling one reddened wrist. On his other wrist a bright red mark looked like it would take time to disappear. He lined the rigid cuff up between his two wrists and was almost tempted to re-lock the cuffs together in front. A slight pressure of his free wrist onto the ratchet and he knew the cuff would swing shut. The small key was still in the lock of the open cuff. If he closed it - could he then open it again? He had the key, but where had he read that once locked, even if you had a key it was impossible for the wearer to open this type of cuff? He was tempted to try.

Looking again into the mirror he watched himself move the key to the other keyhole and unlock the second wrist. The ratchet opened easily but when he tried to put the cuffs down he could not bend forward to reach the ground because his neck was braced back against the chair, and his legs immobilised. Rather than drop the cuffs onto the metal floor he decided to slip them into the pocket of his raincoat. Watching in the mirror this was not difficult to do. Once in the pocket - he then eased his other hand deep down into the opposite pocket and looked at himself held to the chair by metal bands, hands confined quite firmly inside the tough fabric of his jacket. He thought of strait-jackets and, carefully removing his hands from the pockets, crossed his arms across his chest and held them there as if strapped - watching himself in the tiled mirror walls which seemed to surround him. Suddenly he realised that the young sales assistant must soon return.

Reaching upwards he tried to locate whatever clips held the neck brace rigid. His bulky jacket restricted his arm movements. Slowly he began to realise that he was still almost as much a prisoner as he had been with wrists shackled. He turned his attention to the knee brace, but with neck held back he could not reach his knees, much less his ankles. Turning his attention back to the neck band, his efforts more determined. Jaw set and eyes fixed on the mirror panels which allowed a view of the back of the chair, he strained for the spring clips he could see quite clearly. If only his arms were longer and elbows would bend more easily inside the thick jacket. His face was wet with sweat. He decided he could slip the jacket, it was unzipped. Writhing in his seat he had difficulty freeing his shoulders from the stiff fabric. Is this what it feels like to escape from a strait-jacket he wondered as he squirmed as much as his trapped neck, ankles and knees would allow?

After several attempts to pull the jacket clear of his shoulders it slipped down and was soon off his arms, bunched up behind him on the seat. Arms now unencumbered and wearing only a damp sweat-shirt he could reach the neck clips - and soon was relieved to feel the metal hoop come free. He inspected the ends and admired the ingenuity of the clips. Able to lean forward at last he put the metal neck hoop on the floor and began to explore the telescopic knee brace mechanism. Another easy turn-and-slide movement released the bars. As they slid back under the seat, the simplicity of the design impressed him.

Knees free, he was now easily able to release the ankle bars and side them aside to pull his feet forward. Standing unsteadily, his knees complained from the relatively short immobilisation. He took stock of his surroundings and mentally tried to get himself back into some sense of being in control of his situation. Suddenly he realised that since entering this amazing space he had been wrong-footed at every turn. Was it by the young guy or by the implications of the paraphernalia on display or by the surroundings - or by the unimagined possibilities such a place seemed to offer him?

Breathing more deeply, he began to feel more able to be himself again - to re-take control. But a passing glance at one of the video monitors suddenly had him totally off balance again. There on the screen sat a guy wearing fire service drill pants and sweat-shirt and work-boots. He seemed to be systematically locking his ankles to a metal chair, then sliding metal rods from under the seat and bracing his knees wide apart. Mesmerised, Fire Officer Proctor watched himself fix his neck to the high metal back of the chair before quickly struggling his way INTO a heavy PVC jacket. Suddenly his arms were crossed in front of him, then in his pockets. The video recording running backwards burned into his consciousness. He had been filmed throughout that part of his ordeal. How much else?

Unsure whether to burst through the door to the inner room or leave hurriedly, he stood feeling powerless - and breathless. Suddenly he looked to detect the camera which had filmed him. It was soon evident that the mirrored wall panels, each made up of mirror ‘tiles’ had black diamond-shaped clips about an inch square holding the tile corners. These were big enough to house a micro surveillance camera, and he quickly located the one directly in front of the chair. Then, with sinking heart he detected several others, including one inside the changing cubical where he’d stood handcuffed during the drag queen’s visit.

A smiling face appeared carrying an opened bottle, two more beers and a can of Coke.
“Don’t worry, I’ll wipe all the tapes I promise - if you insist. We cover all activity here with surveillance cameras and then scrap them after 24 hours - unless we get a signed photo release to keep them for archive and demonstration purposes. Seeing how a device works or a strait-jacket straps on (and can sometimes be escaped from) can be very educational as well as hot to watch. What do you think of my chair? Efficient, isn’t it. Sure you won’t join me in a beer - Coke?”
“Beer,” said Fire Officer Proctor firmly.

Tempted :
“My name’s Robert,” said the youth. “Do you mind telling me yours? No sweat if you don’t. A lot of our customers prefer to remain anonymous.”
Chunky took a long pull on his bottle and risked; “Unless they’re coppers signing credit cards. Do you get them strapped to chairs or whatever?”
“Sometimes,” smiled Robert. “Quite often in fact. Lot of them can’t resist a challenge - risk a bit of a roll around. It’s the nature of the beast. The ones who’ve got the bottle to come here may know precisely what attracts them - while some are just irresistibly drawn not knowing why - and making all sort of excuses. Sometimes, one will come determined to find something illegal going on. We’ve had a couple of dodgy encounters, but the guy who started this business knows enough, and knows a few of the right people.”
“You don’t own it, then?”
“No! but you could say we’re partners,” smiled the younger guy. “Does that worry you? Male lovers? Fuck buddies? Bondage buddies?”
“No,” lied Fire Officer Proctor.
“I won’t bore you with my opinions about gay and straight, tops and bottoms, erotic bondage as distinct from S&M. You can read all that in books if you’ve a mind. My own orientation is physical restraint and challenge, endurance, willing surrender of power, or fighting for power over an equally matched opponent."

“Male opponent?”
“Definitely! And I do get off on it sexually, man-to-man stuff.”
“So you are gay?”
“Bet your ass, as our American friends would say.”
“You’re not from this part of the world.”
“Citizen of the world - the bondage world. An exotic animal.”
“How old are you?”
“Mind your own fucking business! What’s your name? You never answered my question.”
“AJ will do. Lot of my friends know me as AJ - but mates at work call me Chunky,” he admitted ruefully.
“Chunky. I like that. Work being fire station. Which one?”
“Does it matter?”
“No, but I would like to tie you up in your turn-out gear, fireman AJ whoever you are.”
“Why? There’s nothing sexy about a call-out suit, specially when you’re running around lugging fucking hoses, dripping with sweat, shit and spray.”
“I think it looks great; the struggle and stress, the sweat, the breathing apparatus and chemical suits. Sealed in, totally cut off from the world.”
“There’s no fun in that, believe me,” said the voice of experience.
“All a matter of taste. I’ve always wanted to try a full turn-out - call-out - whatever you call it suit. The thick black bulky ones, specially inside one of those chemical suits - or in a re-breathing mask and tanks for several hours unable to get out."
“You’d go crazy. It’s amazing how trapped it makes you feel. I know! You’d soon be screaming to be let out.”
“And would you let me out? - if I asked you NOT to let me out even if I begged?”
“You’re fucking mental!”
“No, just kinky - fucking kinky,” beamed the youngster. “Tell me about your kinks, fireman AJ.”

Chunky seemed to stop short. For perhaps the first time in his life he was prepared to open up - but suddenly realised that he wasn’t able to put a name to some of the urges and unfocussed fantasies which had culminated in a visit to a Gay Sex Shop. He knew he wasn’t gay. All his life he’d known he wasn’t gay. But gay men did seem to get to play the sort of bondage games which fascinated him. He’d bought a few magazines - and videos, some illegal - bought them by mail from America and risked them getting stopped at customs. Hard, violent, brutal SM gay porn, mostly. He’d trashed them after watching them once - but American-style leather and bondage and heavy man-to-man struggle for top - forced powerlessness ...

“I wish I could read your mind,” observed the younger man as he watched the stranger to his world wondering how far he might safely risk a small adventure.
“I think you fucking can!” risked the would-be hero of the moment. “I get the feeling you can read me like a fucking book.”
“Fucking book? Perhaps not fucking - but how far are you prepared to risk that I’ve read you wrong - or read you right?” asked the youth, looking more serious than Chunky had seen him look since they’d met.
“Risk what?” asked the older man, his throat dry in spite of the beer.
“Nothing heavy. Nothing dangerous. Nothing sexual, at least nothing ‘gay!’. But I suspect you might be more turned on than you will be comfortable to admit by some of the things I have in mind.”

Fire-fighter Proctor had experience of walking into a burning building. He was trained to evaluate the risk and recognise the dangers, but at this moment in time he could almost see himself putting his foot deliberately into the noose which would spring the trap - which would take him God-knows where.
“What have you got in mind?” he heard himself ask.

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