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John Strickland's 'Motorcycle Messenger' story
added to by Jim Stewart

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June 2007:
The two main characters in this series of hot tales are the leather-loving London motorcycle courier Sam, and Chris the tough blond medical attendant responsible for keeping violent prisoners in line.
John's descriptions of their activities get me horny every time I re-read the various episodes; have done for years.

My imagination is always fired up to expand on the exploits of these two dynamic characters. The challenging scenarios they play out together in leather and PVC are so detailed it’s easy to mentally invent extensions of the different power-exchange situations.

The temptation to add extra pervy detail and sometimes even drive the action in different directions to suit my own particular lustful preferences, is sometimes irresistible.
Mentally building on what’s gone before has resulted in the following slight re-working of one of John’s memorable stories. The process of re-thinking some details helps me to visualise the characters and their activities more potently to suit my own taste.

This is a compliment to the strength of the original story-telling and original author.
Here, as a personal self-indulgence, is my version of the story IN FULL

John Stapleton
Tweaked by Jim Stewart to favour his own
personal preferences.

(Complete text = 11,000 words)

After they first met during Sam the biker’s visit to a prison hospital to deliver a package (Weekend in the Life of a Motorcycle Messenger) he and the prison attendant Chris now share a flat.
The games they play together in leather and PVC give both men a life-style full of regular challenges.

“Do it!” said Sam.
“It’s a long time,” I said.
“Get on with it before I change my mind!” he answered.
“No looking back” I warned.

Sam was hugging me tightly, naked apart from a pair of well-worn leather shorts. He was slightly breathless. Even through my thick leather bike jacket I could feel his heart pounding. He was sentencing himself to being kept locked into a leather hood for twenty-four hours, and knew what he was letting himself in for. He knew I’d be relentless, he knew there’d be no turning back. In preparation for the ‘scene’ we’d agreed on last night, I was already fully kitted out in my well lived-in bike leathers and boots. I like to enter into the spirit of our game-playing.

“Do it!” he breathed, and kissed me deeply pressing himself into my leathers. I pulled back and looked into that ruggedly handsome face of his. How could I bear not seeing those strong, square-jawed features for a whole day? I lived to see his mischievous, slightly challenging grin and those sparkling brown eyes. How could I lock them away from the light behind thick leather?
I spent half my time dreaming up new ways of restraining and imprisoning this chunk of masculinity. He invited challenge and was disappointed when it wasn’t challenging enough. Arrogant and defiant, he would battle whatever restraints and grab any opportunity to escape, and I would use any trick in the book however ruthlessly to make sure I kept total control.

We got down to work; a process we’d shared in many times before. His fight didn’t begin until he was suitably handicapped. He took a tin of wax ear plugs and started warming and softening two pieces between his fingers. While he was pushing them into his ears I got a bandage.

“Can you hear me?” I asked.
“Muffled and distant. Not bad for a start,” he said, adding suddenly, “What’s the bandage for?”
“Your eyes,” I answered.
“You don’t need that. We’re going to use the hood with no eye or mouth-openings, aren’t we?” he said.
“We’ll do it my way, Sam,” I said firmly. “Sit down.”
He dutifully sat on the edge of the leather-covered bed.

I first taped cotton pads gently over those bright eyes and then wound the white bandage three times around his head, fixing it with tape. Next, twice round with an adhesive bandage on top to make sure it couldn’t slip.
“Comfortable?” I asked, and asked again because he didn’t hear me properly the first time.
He nodded and his unseeing face turned up to look towards mine. The white bandage contrasted starkly with his brown skin and black hair and beginnings of chin stubble. That would be thicker before he saw the light of day again. We kissed deeply for the last time for twenty-four hours. From here-on I was determined it would be tough on him. He’d relish the challenge - and I was good at taking him past the point when he was enjoying himself. He’d get angry but not be in any position to do anything about it. In my work I was dealing with aggressive types all the time, keeping them under control, by force when necessary. Sam and I had got together because he was attracted to the idea of being kept under control - as long as he was free to put up a struggle. I’d enjoy seeing him angry - and after it was all over, he’d have to admit he’d enjoyed himself too.

I picked the hood up off the bed and started to work it over Sam’s head, adjusting it under the chin and smoothing the leather lining against his face. This hood was thick, very thick, completely lined with smooth leather and, in parts, padded between the layers. A flap of leather closed across the opening at the back. Then the process of systematically tightening tough laces which gradually stretched the hood tight until it pressed in all over his face and around his scalp right down, well down around his neck. Over the laces an additional panel of thick leather closed with a heavy-duty nylon zip to make the laces impossible to get at. We’d had the hood made to enclose the whole neck, too, and the hood reached well down to where the neck joined the body. I smoothed the leather around Sam’s neck before strapping it shut - but making sure the neck wasn’t too tight: didn’t want any excuses for having to release him until I was good and ready.
“OK. Sam?” I asked.
He didn’t hear me but started to adjust things slightly, making sure he was getting enough air through the small breathing holes. He gave me the thumbs up signal.

I took a steel padlock and worked it through the substantial metal eyelets designed for it. Once snapped shut, Sam’s head was irrevocably sealed into black leather. Unless I unlocked that padlock, no-one, let alone Sam, could get at the zip or laces to free that head. I tapped Sam twice on his shoulder and he stood up, gripping his head in his hands, feeling around the mask, fingering the closings at the back and tugging on the padlock. I relaxed back on the bed watching my man standing almost naked, except for his head imprisoned in leather, his prick imprisoned inside skin-tight leather shorts.

His muscular chest was heaving, taking in the oxygen his sexually aroused body was screaming for. I felt as though my prick was going to prize apart the teeth of the zip in my tough leather bike pants.
Suddenly Sam’s left hand dropped to massage his aching prick through his leather shorts.
“Don’t do that, Sam” I said.
Sam didn’t hear me. He could only hear his heart thumping, his blood hissing through his ears and the creaking of the leather his head was locked into.
“Don’t do that, Sam,” I said louder and sprang up to grab him. Not seeing me coming, I took him unawares and was able to easily push him off-balance onto the bed, where I immediately fell on him. His automatic response was to start to struggle. Sam knew the time had come when I intended to take control however much he might fight me. One wrist was soon forced into one of the leather cuffs we always have dangling either side of the iron bed-frame. The second was more of a challenge because he knew it was coming - but there are wrist and finger-holds that are part of my training. The second wrist was soon well anchored to the bed-head - and the restraints are lockable. Although his hands were separated and he couldn't see. I clicked the lock shut on each cuff 'just in case'.
Because he couldn’t see my intentions, it was easier to get the first naked ankle secured. I took a pretty hard kick on the shoulder while capturing the second foot. But of course I eventually got it well tethered - and let him feel me locking the restraints - just for the psychological impact of it.

We were both panting when I climbed off his legs. Sam loved to be tied and I loved to tie him, and the struggle, the battle, turned us both on without fail. Sometimes the fight to get Sam restrained went on until we were near exhaustion, and sometimes when Sam felt particularly like resisting, I nearly ended up in trouble myself - not a situation I particularly enjoy. My role is to challenge and always win, whatever drastic measures he forces me to use.

By willingly agreeing to be locked in the hood first, Sam had surrendered himself to what he knew would be (hoped would be) a tough endurance test. So now, my man was lying there stretched out on his back, his hands secured high above his head, legs spread wide. What should I do next? I looked down at his athletic, muscular body stretched taut and vulnerable, his tight leather shorts defining his rigid prick bursting to be free. Muffled grunts issued from somewhere deep behind leather as Sam twisted and writhed, testing his bonds but knowing they would stand up to even his most determined (desperate) struggling.

Suddenly deciding my next move; I quickly (almost feverishly) pulled off my bike leathers until I was completely naked. Out of the closet I pulled my favourite rain-suit. This heavy-duty one-piece was made of thick black, shiny PVC, double thickness so the glossy side of the tough fabric was both inside and out. I struggled into the legs, working the icy-cold vinyl upwards before forcing my naked arms down into the sleeves and dragging the suit close up and over my shoulders. It felt great. I closed the high collar before pulling the tough front zip carefully up past my raging cock until my whole body was encased. I then crossed the flaps across the outside of the zip, and wound the high collar snug around my neck to seal myself in. This suit was designed to keep me dry in a monsoon. Unfortunately monsoons weren’t that common in our area, but the suit has proved its worth on many occasions - such as keeping me totally dry on a very wet night while staking Sam out on the grass, him dressed in an identical PVC suit over his bike leathers (see the story ‘Further Adventures of a Motorcycle Messenger’ ). On another occasion Sam had found himself laced up in a hammock in the rain (suitably suited up) and slung between two trees for a night. My hot skin tingled as I once more enjoyed the feel of the cold, smooth surface enclosing my whole body - before the action started to warm it (and me) up.

As I moved to Sam, I relished the look of my jet-black shiny form as I passed the long mirrored doors of our wall-to-wall play cupboard. I opened Sam’s leather shorts and a prick big enough and hard enough to rape the Jolly Green Giant sprang to attention! Bending down I kissed the rigid rod before running my unshaven chin along its length. I could smell the leather of Sam’s shorts lingering on his prick. Sam twisted helplessly against a torrent of sensation.

I then lowered my cold PVC-covered body onto his sweating, straining naked spread-eagled form. Sam’s gasp was felt, more than heard. He tensed, rigid against his bonds, turning his leather-imprisoned head quickly from side to side as I moved my body on his, making sure every part of his body felt my smooth, cold oilskins stroke over it. I lifted up long enough to grab for two short alligator clips and snap one onto each of Sam’s hardened nipples. He grunted impotently under the leather mask and twisted even more violently, straining every muscle. I fell back down onto him, deliberately putting pressure onto those metal-toothed clips. He fought so much I thought he’d wreck the iron-framed bed. I managed to work my arms under him and hugged him very tightly against me to make sure those tit-clamps were doing their work. I kissed smooth leather at the place where his mouth had once been - deliberately breathed into the air-holes to demonstrate my power over him. Waves of almost painful ecstasy started to course through my prick, inaccessible behind thick PVC. Suddenly Sam went rigid and arched off the bed like somebody in the death-throes of tetanus.

And we came! We came at the same moment, Sam shooting great globs of white cum between his brown belly and my impervious oilskin suit. In the muffled blackness of his hood everything came down to sensation. Sam was aware of every square inch of his body, of the cold smooth feel of the man on top of him. He felt the leather cuffs holding him down on the bed, his body screamed at the sexual pain radiating from his pinched nipples. I shot inside my suit in teeth-clenching spasms that I thought and hoped would never stop. I felt the hot liquid spurt between my skin and the black PVC until finally I slumped down lifelessly onto my gasping prisoner, locked in the leather mask with no chance of early release even though his sexual energy had been drained from him - at least for the moment. It would soon build up again, I knew that from experience.

I took Sam’s clamps off and thus we lay for a good half an hour, Sam stretched out under me, breathing deeply and regularly. I bet now that it was all over he was having regrets about agreeing to go into the leather head prison. He still had about twenty three hours in front of him. He knew I’d never give him a reprieve. At last I mustered enough energy to roll off Sam and clean him up. He didn’t move much but the whole surface of his skin twitched as I wiped him dry with tissues.

I tucked his prick away and zipped his shorts closed. I left him staked out on the bed as I showered his and my cum off the outside and inside of my waterproof suit. Leaving the shiny garment dripping in the shower, I padded naked back to Sam and unlocked his hands and feet. With stiff arms he sat and reached out and found me, pulled himself closer to me and cuddled me gently. His mouthless leather head nuzzled against my temporarily soft prick as he sat and I stood by the bed. Eventually I pulled away from him and started to sort out which pair of leather jeans was whose, and threw his to him . As I pulled mine on, I watched him feeling and turning his, at first not sure whether he had got jeans or a jacket. Then he stood up and started to blindly step into them. I turned him around (he was facing the wall) so I could watch as he worked his tough jeans up over his leather shorts. He fumbled with his studded belt.

When I was fully dressed in my bike leathers and boots again, I pulled this powerful man to me, my hands travelling down his firm, muscular back to reach his now leather-covered buttocks. He hugged me tightly, enjoying my leather jacket against his naked chest. I kissed the leather stretched over his mouth and caressed the leather over his unseeing eyes. At that moment I longed to see his handsome weather-beaten face and look into those challenging, dark eyes. I longed to kiss him deep, but I remained resolute, twenty-four hours we’d agreed, twenty-four hours it would be.

I handed him thickly padded black leather gloves and helped him to pull them on. They fitted tight around his fingers and restricted movement. Specially modified to lace shut around each wrist, he was soon in no position to get them off any more, his fingers couldn’t feel finely enough to untie the double knots, and he was unable to use his teeth. I had to help him find his way into his boots. I deliberately didn’t chose the ones with heavy metal clasps or the motocross boots which buckled all the way up the sides, although those boots really turned me on. I chose a discreet pair, long but slim enough to tuck up inside his leather jeans, because we had modified these so they could be locked on by a neat steel shackle around each ankle. Two ratchets clicked, and now there was no getting his boots off without the key. And locked in them he’d never get his jeans off either.

I handed him a heavy-duty bike jacket, almost glossy with grease and long wear. He pulled it on and, although blind, his thickly gloved hands couldn't quite manage to connect the chunky metal zip. I took control and closed his jacket up to his already leathered neck. A handy padlock through the zip's 'pull' soon locked it to the D-ring hidden just inside the jacket collar. He now couldn’t get the jacket off either, and he knew it. My man was completely encased in seriously lived-in black leather, every inch of his body covered, and thus he would have to stay until I decided otherwise.

My prick hardened again as I drew him to me and we embraced, our leathers creaking against each other, my Sam unable to see me, locked away behind his thick hood. I felt like falling back on the bed with him and forcing him to climax again, but that could happen later - several times. But now, I had other plans. We were going out.

I tried to get his crash helmet on over the mask, but it was too small. I got one of mine - my head is bigger than Sam’s. It was a struggle but I got it on and fastened, a uniformly black helmet with a darkened visor that hid Sam’s face. Sam reached up to the helmet. He couldn’t feel much through the padded leather gloves. He couldn’t hear anything now, just muffled creaking from the leather. I hoped he could breathe inside the closed-face helmet! I led him out of the bedroom towards the flat door. He just put his arm over my shoulder and let me guide him. He trusted me.

Down the stairs he came with me, walking reasonably comfortably, knowing I’d look after him. I loved this guy. We both knew from experience that these trips out into public while ‘handicapped’ could be a great turn-on for both of us - a real exercise in power and powerlessness.

Out in the street a young kid in denims hastily crossed the road to avoid us when he saw us stomping towards him. Two heavily-booted guys completely in black leather, one carrying a crash helmet, the other helmeted like something out of a science-fiction film. He probably had wet dreams for a week! We turned into the courtyard and I deliberately bumped Sam into a tall concrete gatepost, just for devilment - and to remind him how dependent he was on me. He grunted inside his helmet and his leather jacket took another scratch. I led him over to where my bike was parked. Lifting his arm off my shoulders I put on my crash helmet. Sam tentatively reached out with his hand and made contact with the gas tank, followed it up to touch the hand grip. He had known he must be at the bike, and this confirmed it. The change in the air he was inhaling had told him he was outside, although his thick leather jacket and pants hadn’t let him notice much temperature difference.

I got on the bike and started it. Sam reached out and found my shoulder. He swung his leg over the bike and judged the action pretty well because he was soon sitting close behind me feeling for the foot rests with his boots. He lent forward a bit too far and his crash helmet struck mine with a loud crack, but soon he had sorted himself out and was holding me tightly around the waist.

We drove off. I just drove around. The weather was good, other bikes were on the road, too.
At one point two guys rode with us for a while, never realising that the man behind me didn’t even know they existed. Sam held on tight. Out on a motorway, gloved hands moved down to deliberately put pressure on my swollen prick. I pushed them away, I was having trouble concentrating on driving. It was a long drive. I relished the feeling of being out-doors with a prisoner - somebody I had total control over. I could go anywhere - and when I got him back home …. who knows that? As I rode, I savoured this situation and knew that all Sam could do was wait and anticipate for however long I chose to keep up the suspense - and hold on tight until I allowed him to get off the bike.

After about an hour’s ride I decided it was time to take a break, so pulled in at the next motorway stop.
A tap on Sam’s knee gave him the message and he got off but nearly lost his balance. So I took his elbow, led him to a grass bank and urged him to sit down. He lent back, banging his crash-helmeted head a bit too hard. He looked great, the sun shining off the well-worn leather stretched over his thighs. I could have thrown myself on the guy and had sex twenty times over for the rest of the day, but my raging desire still left me with enough sense to realise this was not the right place to do it! I gave Sam a reassuring pat on the knee and walked away, across the lot to the gas station to get a coke.

Just as I started back, somebody called me, and I turned to see a young guy zipped up in a well broken-in leather racing suit clomping towards me.
“Can you give me a hand mate,” he asked, “need to adjust my brake cable.”
“Sure,” I replied, and followed him towards his bike.
“The light stays on all the time,” he said.
I bent down and grunted as my leather jeans twisted my swollen prick. He noticed.
“That wouldn’t happen in a one-piece suit like this,” he said casually, getting down on his padded knees beside me, “but once my zip stuck right up at the neck and I couldn’t get out. I was dying to take a piss and my prick was imprisoned behind thick leather!” he added equally as casually.
“Must have been hell!” I said, thinking it must have been heaven.

The guy didn’t pursue the subject and I tried to imagine him unable to get out of his leathers and dying for a piss. I thought of Sam, very much unable to get out of his locked bike gear. I glanced over to where Sam was lying, fingering the fastening of his crash helmet, the sun glinting off his leathers. I was squeezing the brake grip in, the guy was adjusting the cable screws. The guy looked good and I wondered what he would look like manacled and struggling. Suddenly I saw that Sam was beginning to panic. He was trying to get his helmet off, trying to get his gloves off, pulling at the locked zip of his leather jacket. His movements were frantic.
”Got to go!” I said, at the same time running off, my boots banging across the asphalt.

I got to Sam and reached for his wrists, gripping them firmly.
“It’s OK Sam, it’s OK. I’m here!” but Sam couldn’t hear that.
He jerked away, still snatching towards his helmet. I grabbed his wrists again and managed to twist one behind him, wishing I had handcuffs with me. I hugged him close, not caring that we were out in public. He started to calm down a bit.
“It’s OK. Sam, I’m back.” I said again, knowing he couldn’t hear a word. I continued to hold him to me. He gripped me tightly. Eventually I pulled away from him and led him back to the bike, pulled my helmet on, got on, and signalled Sam to get on too, by tapping his thigh. As we drove off I glanced over at the blond guy in the leather suit. Again I visualised the stuck zip. He looked great. I would liked to have seen him and Sam strapped together and struggling.

I rode fast. It was time to get Sam home because I had other plans for making his day memorable. He'd remember being left deaf, dumb and blind not knowing where he was or where I was ... and would resent it. It would raise the stakes if he was resentful!

We were well out of London, and I rode faster, knowing the speed would up the pressure on Sam. When we were almost home I was so involved with thoughts of what I would do next, that the first I knew of the motorcycle cop was when he overtook me and motioned for me to pull over. Shit! My heart started pounding. I almost opened up the throttle and tried to take off. But I didn’t, of course. I stopped and took off my crash helmet. Sam still held me tight around the waist, unaware of what was going on. The cop, ahead of me, got off his bike and took his white duty helmet off. He was young, hard-featured and looked great in his padded black leather breeches, tall bike boots and yellow hi-vis jacket weighted-down with a Duty Belt laden with side-handle baton, pouches and bulky solid-centred handcuffs (something that had always arrested my imagination). As he walked back to us, heavy boots crunched on the gravel at the side of the road.

“Hi!” I said, cautiously.
Curtly he demanded my license. I handed it to him. He walked over to the intercom on his bike. He had a great arse. He looked like a genuine authority figure in his uniform, with the dying sun shining off his gleaming boots. He came back.
“Going a bit fast, weren’t you?” he asked.
“Don’t know what speed I was …. ” I started.
“Way up above the limit,” he cut in.
“Sorry,” I said, trying to stay calm. “Need to get home because ... ”
“You won’t get home at all at that rate,” he said. “Open your visor,” he said to Sam.
“Er - he can’t hear you,” I said.
The cop made a gesture to Sam, the action of opening the visor.
“He can’t see you,” I muttered.
“He can’t hear or see,” I said louder, my heart pumping.
The young cop thought about that one. “Then you open it!” he said.
I twisted round to get to Sam’s visor … and pretended it was jammed. The cop didn’t fall for that one.
“Open it!” he said firmly.
I did.

Without showing any sign of reaction the cop took in Sam’s leather covered face, no eyes, no mouth, just thick smooth leather where his features should have been.
“Let me see his I.D.,” he said at last.
“You can’t; it’s in the inside pocket of his leather jacket,” I said.
“Why not?” asked the cop.
“His leather jacket is padlocked on him and I’ve left the keys at home,” I admitted, throwing caution to the wind. What else could I do but own up?
The cop felt for the zip-pull under Sam’s jacket collar and his fingers revealed the padlock. He then traced a finger over the flying eagle Sam had sewn on his jacket just above the breast pocket.
I waited for whatever might come next. Already I had visions of Sam and me handcuffed, down in a police cell.

The cop took his time letting the situation sink in. He looked down and the shiny steel manacle locked around Sam’s boot was well exposed because Sam was sitting on the bike and his leather jeans had ridden up higher. Slowly the cop crunched round to the other side of the bike and checked that the other boot was shackled as well. Having screwed myself round as the cop moved, I waited, almost without breathing. The setting sun now lit a halo through the cop’s short hair and shone orange off his yellow hi-viz shoulders. What the cop said next took me completely by surprise. I hardly understood.

“Plenty of leather on a bike is always good,” he said as he gave me back my licence. “Can’t beat good solid leather when you’re on a bike. Never seen it locked-on before,” he observed - and then seemed to snap out of what he was thinking. “You guys had better get yourselves home quickly - or should I say - you get him home quickly.”
With that he pulled on helmet and then gloves slowly before moving away. He settled astride his bike, but didn't start it. He just sat watching us. I waited nervously for a short while - and then started the bike. His helmet nodded slowly - indicating that I should move off. And he remained sitting and watching as we rode away.


Back in the flat after a quick piss, I wanted to tell Sam everything, but Sam couldn’t hear me, couldn’t see me - and he probably needed to piss as well. He stood there in our kitchen looking magnificent imprisoned in full leather, his head tightly laced and locked away. He’d had that hood on for over four hours I realised - but not yet a quarter of his sentence.

I turned him and headed him towards the bathroom, my arm over his shoulders, my leathered body against his. Determinedly I unzipped his pants and with difficulty pulled his now-rampant prick out. Positioning him in the shower, I left him in there to piss and sort himself out. His jeans belt wasn’t locked (as it sometimes was) , but I knew he couldn’t get them off over his boots, which were. The thick gloves would make tucking his prick away difficult when he’d finished - but that’s what today was about - making things difficult for Sam.

When he found his way back into the kitchen, he’d managed it somehow. In the meantime I’d dragged our special heavy bondage chair closer to the kitchen table. Designed like an electric chair without the electricity, I guided him to it and sat him down. The straps permanently attached to it were ready and waiting. He may not have at first realised that it wasn’t an ordinary kitchen chair, until I had the first knee strap on him. He tried to stand up but I pushed him back down and cinched the second knee-strap. He couldn’t see my next move but was ready to do battle. However, with legs already anchored to the heavy chair I was in control. The chest strap suddenly forced him well back into the seat. I was behind him so his flailing arms couldn’t find me. An elbow strap was around his right bicep before he knew it - so one arm was now out of action. He was waiting for a grab at his other elbow, so he was off guard when I cinched the neck strap quite tight to the high-backed chair. His free hand reached for his neck, which allowed me to grab his gloved hand and clamp it to the chair arm before he could react. This was soon circled by the wrist strap fixed to the sturdy chair arm. As the buckle was dragged tight, his other hand strained across to reach mine - but being already strapped at the bicep he couldn’t reach me. With his left wrist well strapped, the left bicep was easy. It only remained to capture his right wrist. With both biceps now strapped, that was no contest. He was really frustrated because with knees already fixed to the chair, systematically getting his boots and thighs and waist strapped was relatively easy in spite of very determined resistance. I took my time, which increased his frustration, but eventually he was totally immobilised in the chair we had designed and made together. He knew from experience that he couldn’t wreck it; not even tip it over. He was well and truly fucked - or at least he would be later on, I decided.

Reaching down into the back of his jacket collar, I got at the padlock on his hood without releasing the strap holding his neck to the chair. Hood padlock unlocked, I folded back the flaps and then systematically untied the laces. It was time to get the hood off him - temporarily.

Sam’s hair was matted, he had creases like scars running across his cheeks where seams in the hood had left their temporary impressions. He still looked wonderful, my Sam, his angular jaw, his brown skin, but those eyes of his remained hidden behind the bandages I’d wrapped and taped around his head. As I began to take his ear plugs out, (a job not easy or pleasant to do) he angrily started …

“Oh fucking shit,” spat Sam, “about fucking time! Take this fucking blindfold off!”
“No chance,” I shot back. "You’ve got precisely eighteen hours, thirty eight minutes to go. You’re not seeing daylight until then. It’s just your feeding time.”
He strained against his straps as far as the neck strap would allow. His leather creaked from head to boots, his shiny thighs and powerful arms tensed inside the relentless hide straps.
“I’ve had enough, you bastard,” he hissed through clenched teeth.
“Tough, because you’ve got a long way to go,” I told him.
“You bastard!” he shouted, wrenching from side to side.
“Calm down, Sam. You get something to eat and drink, that’s the next move - and then - who knows what,” I said gleefully, shutting my ears to his cursing and swearing. All this protesting belonged to the game. Sam knew he wouldn’t and couldn’t be let out before the agreed time. The struggle, the defiance was a turn-on for us both. These were still the early stages. His protests would become more desperate as the day wore on.
“Are you going to behave yourself or do I have to gag you until it’s time to eat?”
This stopped him in mid-flow and, after thinking about it, he said more reasonably.
“No gag - no - please.”, he added, breathing more steadily, his gloved hands clenching the arms of the chair he was strapped to.
“That’s better,” I said.

As I cooked chicken, I told him the story of the guy in the leather suit and especially of our encounter with the motorcycle cop. Sam listened without saying anything. Was he sulking, or just saving his energy for what he might have to deal with after the meal? Eating, as it turned out, became an ordeal for him in itself.

I fed him fork-full by fork-full, which he always found humiliating - but it wasn’t the first time it had happened to him. Behind his bandaged eyes I imagined them blazing resentfully - but he refrained from making any comment - sensible in his predicament. He had a thirst, gulping down two glasses of water I held for him. Some trickled down his leather jacket as I tipped faster than he could drink.
“Should have dressed you in your oilskins before feeding you,” I quipped - but there’s time for that yet.” Still he remained sulkily silent.
It was only when I said, “Time to go back into the hood, Sam!” that he began to argue and curse again.

He started shaking his head violently to try and dislodge the blindfold. I playfully grabbed his head firmly with both hands and planted a heavy kiss on his lips, forcing my tongue into his protesting mouth. I withdrew before he was tempted to bite my tongue - our games sometimes get quite rough and on occasions he’ll deliberately do something to provoke even fiercer treatment.

He was still yelling abuse as I began to drag the hood over his head. He then started to wrench around as much as the neck strap would allow. He strained at every strap that clamped his leathered body tight to the sturdy wooden seat. I really got the impression the guy had had enough as he continued to resist and swear. Good! Now the fun would really start.

Getting the lacing done up again promised to be a battle, but I was up to the challenge. By clamping his head between my leather chest and crook of my arm I was able to take my time and complete the process to my satisfaction. Then came the zip over the lacing and the sturdy padlock. To achieve this, the neck strap on the chair needed to be released. Sam started twisting his head from side to side, but the padlock closed and he was imprisoned again. His curses were now unintelligible noises and would stay that way. I’d enjoyed the tussle but had decided that the hood would stay on for the rest of the time. No point in making work for myself. He’s the one that likes to be trussed - I do the trussing.

While he was still firmly secured to the chair I decided to slip a tough leather handcuff belt around his waist and lock it. The worn brown belt contrasted well with his black leather. I might take a few new photos later.

When the belt was safely locked, I released the strap at Sam’s thickly-gloved left hand and guided it into the cuff on that side of the belt. The action wasn’t too difficult with the rest of Sam immobilised and his bicep still strapped to the chair. Getting Sam’s right wrist released and then locked to his waist wasn’t so easy because he knew what was coming. But I got there after a few yelps of pain from behind the leather hood. I do know how to get my own way. Still, he was in a mood to resist at whatever cost and his angry grunts and jerks told me he was seriously pissed off with me at this point! That could prove to be dangerous - I'd need to watch me step - but I relish a challenge.

I locked a pair of short-chain leg-irons around his ankles before releasing his boots from the chair. When the other straps fell away he stood up carefully, knowing that he had very little room for manoeuvre with cuffs tight to his waist-belt and well hobbled feet. I steered him into the bedroom, leg chain clanking . Once there, I deliberately pushed him suddenly so he fell onto the big leather-covered bed. Angrily he immediately began pulling and wrenching his thickly padded hands against the metal cuffs, but the waist belt is genuine old Prison Service issue. Although leather, it’s double thickness has a flexible core of metal inside it and the cuffs are welded to that, so it’s a virtually indestructible piece of kit. We both knew that from experience. But it didn’t stop Sam wrenching at it. And his manacled-together heavy boots were kicking out viciously - so I just stood back and watched him for a while. The show he was putting on was partly for me. But I’d have plenty of time later to stand and watch - so I silently walked away and left him to stew for a while, working up a sweat and burning off some energy - and anticipating. Sam also knew that I had plenty of time. #


While I was clearing away remains of the meal, the doorbell rang. I paused and listened, but decided to ignore it. I wanted no interruptions. Probably Jehovah’s Witnesses. It rang again, more insistently. I looked out of the window, but couldn’t see down to the door. What I could see was part of a parked police motorcycle down there.

“Fucking shit!”, I thought. My throat went dry - and without thinking I pushed the button to open the downstairs door rather than asking who it was, or what or why. Clomping on the concrete stairs got louder and the cop who’d stopped us during our ride earlier came into view. He was still wearing his hi-viz yellow jacket, leather breeches, boots and heavily laden waist-belt but had taken off his crash helmet and gloves. Behind him came another guy, obviously a copper but he was wearing a black leather jacket that was a real attention-grabber. Styled like a Barbour or Belstaff it was belted with four front patch pockets. It had police insignia on the shoulders and breast pocket and he also had a fully laden Duty Belt strapped over it. It looked great, particularly the bulky handcuffs in their pouch on his belt. I’d seen photos of such police jackets but thought they were no longer current issue. This second cop had also taken off his helmet and was wearing dark glasses despite the dimness in the staircase. He looked quite menacing, which made him all the more interesting.

By the time I dragged my mind away from this assessment, the cop in the hi-viz had reached the top landing and kept on walking straight towards me - effectively driving me backwards into the apartment. Once inside, the other cop followed, practically filling the doorway with his bulky body inside the leather jacket which made him look even bulkier.

“Er … Hi again!” I said lamely, at a loss for anything better to say.
“My colleague here was very interested in a little story I told him,” he said. “We both decided we should follow up on the circumstances,” he continued gravely.
“How did you know where … Oh, the licence.” I fell silent again.
Two burly policemen standing in my small hallway seemed to fill it.
“Thought we ought to check out your story - sir,” he said with ominous politeness. “Make sure no crime was being committed here. And …” he continued, “ while we’re pursuing our enquiries, better if none of your neighbours wander in on us.”
With that he turned to his colleague, who closed the front door firmly. Then, as an afterthought he clicked the dead lock.
If this was intended to intimidate me, they’d succeeded. There was a tense pause.

Just as the hi-viz cop was about to speak again his colleague in the formidable leather and dark glasses seemed to have noticed something, because he suddenly moved towards the kitchen, saying “What’s all this then?” as he disappeared through the open door. The other cop followed, leaving me standing. I moved after them and found them both inspecting the chunky wooden chair with solid arms and bristling with leather straps.
“Er … “ I started.
“Looks like some serious questions need answering here” said the leather cop, looking at me but talking to his colleague.
“This some sort of torture chair, is it?” asked the hi-viz cop.
“Interrogation?” enquired his square-jawed mate from behind his shades.
“Looks like there’s been some seriously non-consensual activity perpetrated here” suggested the first, officiously.
“No!” I said quickly. “Not un-consenting - and nothing illegal … “
“That may be a matter of opinion,” said the leather cop - and his partner seemed to confirm their doubts.

Usually I’m in control but, with these two intimidating uniformed men standing in my kitchen, my urgent but sketchy description of the games Sam and I like to play sounded lame, if not slightly ridiculous.
“So, “ said the first cop when I finally ground to a halt. “You maintain that your mate willingly allows himself to be strapped to chairs or beds. Willingly, sir?” He sounded dangerously sceptical.
Without allowing me time to confirm this, the other cop cut in; “And do you allow him to do the same to you? Tit-for-tat as it were? … sir,” he added with unconvincingly politeness.
“No,” I said. “I always do it to him. He likes to put up a fight and it’s up to me to stay on top. It’s always consensual, but he only gets to take control if I slip up - which I never do.”
In the face of their penetrating stares, an uncomfortable silence fell again.

Eventually, the hi-viz cop asked, “So he is always your victim?”
“Victim, No! We’re good … buddies … “ but I was not allowed to finish.
“And - where precisely is this victim - er, buddy of yours at the moment - sir?” he persisted. “I think we need to have a word with him about this. Get his side of the story.”
“Well, … “ I hesitated, “that might not be so easy.”
“Oh, and why not?” he challenged suspiciously.

I tried to re-explain the twenty-four hour no let-out of the leather hood deal that Sam and I had agreed on, while one cop held me with piercing eyes, the other from behind his shades.
“Oh, it sounds to me that we’ll need to verify that story - sir" said the leather cop matching his colleague’s heavy style of politeness which made it sound particularly dangerous.
“Where is this so-called - er ‘buddy’ of yours at this moment?” he asked quietly.
I took a deep breath before saying “In the bedroom, but he’s ….”
And they’d gone before I could say any more.

I followed the two cops and needed to squeeze my way past them as they gazed down at Sam, manacled hand and foot, hooded and lying on the leather-covered bed in his bike leathers still occasionally yanking at the manacles that held him.

Because I was still wearing my bike jacket and pants, and one of the cops was in full leather and the other was booted and wearing leather pants - and Sam lay locked into his leathers on the leather-covered bed … the room seemed to be crammed full of black leather.
“He doesn’t seem too happy with his predicament,” observed the hi-vis cop after a silence during which both watched Sam struggle some more.
“He’s not, but that’s part of the game - not liking it” I replied.
They seemed to consider this … and suddenly aware of long bulges in two pairs of leather uniform pants, something told me that these guys were not exactly unaffected by the implications of the situation they’d stumbled across.
“Can he hear us through that helmet thing?” asked the leather cop.
“It’s triple thickness, the leather. He can hardly hear - or speak” I added.
“Did you gag him under there?” asked the first cop.
“No,” I said. “Not this time. Maybe later on. I think by the time the session we planned for today ends - and he did agree to it,” I insisted, “I may have to gag him rather than disturb the neighbours. We are very discreet,” I added and immediately regretted it.
“Discreet!” echoed the Hi-vis cop. “Out in public, manacles in view over boots, incapacitated while riding a motorcycle? Even as a pillion passenger that must constitute a … “

A sudden burst of activity from Sam interrupted his train of thought. I don’t think Sam could hear us, but with a new surge of energy he was wrenching around determinedly on the bed. His chained gloved hands ripped at the indestructible locked belt and his heavily booted feet were suddenly putting the metal leg-irons to a serious test.
“He seems pretty angry,” observed the leather cop. “If you say you’re good at staying in control - are you sure those restraints are up to the job? Looks like he’s still in a position to put up a struggle.”
“Oh, I know my stuff,” I told them confidently. “Had a lot of practice keeping him efficiently restrained. Switching him from predicament to predicament is part of the fun however much of a fight he puts up. I know my equipment and how to use it.“
“Got a lot of gear, have you?” cut in the leather cop.
“More than enough,” I told them as I slid back the mirrored wall that hides our play cupboard. “You see officer, we play this is the sort of game on a regular basis. No harm done", I reassured them. “Believe me. Sam here always comes back for more.”

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

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

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

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

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

“On your feet, leather-man!” said a voice, as two pairs of hands hauled me to my feet by the straps of the jacket.
“What the fuck are you … ” I protested, my voice almost a croak after the headlock the leather cop had had on me.
“Shut to fuck up - sir!” growled the leather cop. “We’ve not finished yet!”
With that he jerked the high collar of the strait-jacket up and began to close it around my neck, efficiently connecting the two additional straps which I’d specially designed to keep the restrictive collar high and tight, to prevent any head movement.

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

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

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

Sam was still tugging on the bed. Could he hear some of this through his well-padded leather hood? Whether he exactly knew all that was going on, I don’t know. Here was I strait-jacketed. Something I’d always managed to avoid since my one and only experience of it (see ‘Weekend in the Life of a Motorcycle Messenger). Efficiently strapped into a jacket which, since meeting Sam, I’d ordered and deliberately designed to be totally escape-proof. Now, here I was, imprisoned in its clinging layers of tough black and brown leather over my leather bike jacket. I’d put Sam into it dozens of times - but never risked allowing him to do it to me.

I pulled at the sleeves, tentatively. Nothing moved, just creaked. I wrenched my body from left to right. Nothing happened except the crotch strap tightened on my bursting prick.
The leather-jacketed cop watched for a moment obviously enjoying the spectacle for a while before moving in closer and putting an arm around my shoulder in an all-friends-together way.
“You’re really in a fucking mess … sir!” he said with that same mocking politeness. At the same time he pulled me off balance over his knee so I started to lose my balance. He gripped me to stop me crashing down and lowered me, expertly but none too gently, to the floor.

At a signal between them, the two cops moved away towards the kitchen, leaving me lying there helpless as they disappeared. I jerked and writhed, although I knew it was all hopeless. They returned with keys I’d left on the kitchen table. They knew these would probably fit Sam’s cuffs. Even though distracted by my own predicament, I realised the cop’s own handcuff keys would have opened Sam’s cuffs and leg-irons.

Together two experienced coppers set to, easily releasing Sam’s cuffs from his belt before starting on his hood. Why had I left all the keys on the table after I’d fed him? Even keys for the hood and belt padlocks. If only they’d been in a pocket of my leather jacket, which was now buried in turn under this strait-jacket, they wouldn’t have been able to free him. But they’d already quite expertly unlaced the hood (I was now convinced that these guys had done it before!) and were working it off Sam’s head. His heavily-gloved hands groped towards the blindfold, but he couldn’t find the start of the adhesive bandage with his padded fingers. The cops did though. Soon my guy was blinking and squinting, trying to get used to the light; trying to make out what was going on; trying to see who was there. He looked a mess, but somehow Sam always looked great.

“Hi James! What’re you doing here, Ches?” he asked the cops. He knew them!
The hi-viz cop grinned. “I recognised the eagle on your jacket when I stopped you guys on the road,” he said . “Remembered it from that advanced bike course we ran. Thought we’d come and rescue you.”
“Thanks,” said Sam, “but really you’ve broken our rules. I was to do a full twenty-four hours in that hood.”
“So - let him do the rest of the time for you!” said Ches the leather cop, nodding down towards me.
Sam seemed to notice me for the first time, on the floor trussed up in the strait-jacket.
“Shit, they really got the better of you, Chris! How’s it feel to be on the receiving end for a change?” he asked, gloating.
“Get this off of me, you bastard,” I said breathlessly. “You’re in big trouble, Sam.’
“You’re the one in big trouble,” said the hi-viz cop who was James, nudging me provocatively with the toe of his boot. “Let’s see how you like your head locked in leather!” He picked up the hood. “This is a great piece of kit, Sam. I’m very impressed with your set-up here. On the bike course I wondered if you were into a bit of kink. I said so to you, didn’t I, Ches - and it seems I was right. Great. Now’s the time for us to compare notes - but first your buddy here. Let’s give him a real trip.” He stooped to me. “Always wear plenty of leather I said, didn’t I chummy. You agree there, don’t you, Ches?”
“Fucking right!” said the leather jacketed cop,” with a grin. “And I think you may be in for the trip of a lifetime - matey,” he leered down at me. “Taste of your own medicine.”

The leather jacketed cop bent down to help his mate because I’d begun to struggle as much as the strait-jacket would allow - which was not much. And the fact that these two knew their way around this sort of equipment was confirmed as they prepared to fight the hood onto me.
“No, James! Ches! ” said Sam, “Hang on. Leave him to me.”
“Oh, come on, Sam. It’s our turn now. Lace this onto him first, lock his strait-jacket and lock a couple of pairs of manacles on his ankles - then the three of us can really start to have some fun with him”, said the grinning James, holding the hood ready. “How’s that sound to you, mate?” he asked me, grinning. “Your good buddy Sam getting some of his own back, and with two new buddies to bring a few fresh ideas to your games?”
“Leave off, James,” said Sam as he tried to sit up, swinging his still closely chained booted feet off the bed. Leave him to me. I’ll deal with him in my own way.”
“We only want to help. Like your buddy here said about the strait-jacket; an extra couple of pairs of willing hands can work wonders,” argued James who was still determined to begin forcing my head into the leather hood.
“No!” repeated Sam, much to my relief, “This is strictly between Chris and me.”
“Why should you have all the fun?” insisted the other cop. “We know a few tricks that might surprise even you, believe me.”
“Damn right,” confirmed James.
Sam insisted firmly, “Thanks but - no …”
“Well, how if we take the keys with us, Sam? Yes! Then you get a leather guy to play with - BUT we make sure you don’t get too soft-hearted and let him out before the end of twenty-four hours. Then, we’ll come back tomorrow and we might ...”

“No!” I said - and I threw my head back, intending to get the bridge of his nose, because he was still bending close to me .. but he was quicker.
“Or maybe we won’t come back!” added the other cop threateningly to me.
“Leave him to me, guys” insisted Sam again.
“Well, I hope you’re in for a rough time, leather-man,” said James into my face. “I really would like to stay and watch you squirm - and begin to beg!”
But, much to my relief he released his grip on me and let me fall back none too gently onto the floor.
“I’d get a kick out of that, too,” said the other cop regretfully as he straightened up.
I looked up at them resentfully, but said nothing because in my position there was no point in inviting trouble. Laying on the floor, they looked to be about eight feet tall: strong leather-encased thighs, round arses and bulging pricks above their tall shiny bike boots all exaggerated by the unusual perspective.

The spectacularly leather-jacketed cop suddenly addressed his hi-viz clad partner. “Are you sure Sam here is man enough to do a thorough job? If he’s the one that always gets tied up and abused - how do we know he’ll do a good job? Perhaps, if that’s what he likes best … “ continued Ches speculatively, but he left the question hanging in the air.
His partner seemed to consider new possibilities - and so could I - and I could see that Sam was beginning to get a bit worried. He reached for the key to his leg-irons - but his hands were still laced securely into the thickly padded bike gloves.

Ches picked up the tiny handcuff key. “This what you’re looking for - mate?” he asked. “Looks just like the one for my cuffs”. With that he un-snapped the pouch and produced the solid-centred handcuffs from his belt. “Ever been in a pair of these, Sam? Ever tried to escape from a pair? Ever tried to resist arrest when somebody was trying to get you into a pair? Does your buddy there have a pair of these? There’s a knack to using them - but it can be very easy when you know how. Like on the advance bike-riding course - I’m a very good instructor for teaching cuffing techniques.”

With that he slowly and deliberately reached down for one of Sam’s gloved hands as he sat on the bed. Fingers interlocked and Sam’s wrist was slowly forced backwards against the joint, and he winced as his arm was easily but painfully turned against the elbow joint. Before he could resist further he was flipped over and was face-down on the bed.
The other cop grinned. “Easy as pie with these new cuffs. Show him how effective they are, Ches.”

A ratchet clicked shut around one of Sam’s leathered wrists behind his back. With his face buried in the bed-cover and his ankles manacled, Sam was in no position to argue. A leather knee forced it’s way between Sam’s legs, pinning him to the bed as his second wrist was steered into the other cuff. It was almost happening in slow motion - and the ratchet closed slowly. As if he’d got all the time in the world, the well-practiced cop applied the two deadlocks to prevent the cuffs from closing any tighter, before hauling Sam back into a sitting position. Sam did not look happy - but tried to keep the atmosphere from getting more threatening.

He looked sheepishly at the two cops and forced a smile.
“OK guys, cut it out. Let me loose. I’ve got plans for Chris there!” he said looking down at me.
“What if we’ve got plans for both of you?” Ches asked evenly. “Wha’d’ya think, James?”
“Well, I’m not sure,” he replied, considering the situation. “We’re not due back on duty for how long is it?”
“Late shift tomorrow, me,” said Ches.
“Me too.” confirmed James, thoughtfully. “That’s about, er ... thirty hours. How long was your original deal with your buddy here, twenty-four? A lot can happen in twenty-four hours.”
“Even more in thirty” decided Ches as he slid the wardrobe door further open.
“Now look here … ” began Sam, his voice taking on a firmer tone.

“You were saying … ?” asked Ches as he took a substantial gag from a selection on a rack.
“And you were saying?” asked James looking down at me and reaching for the padded leather hood again.
I just lay there, strait-jacketed. I had nothing to say - and Sam was determinedly keeping his mouth shut.
“Sam - mate,” smiled James, “Looks like your twenty-four hour leather imprisonment deal with buddy-boy here just started from scratch again. But don’t worry. Your playmate will get to share in the fun - and I think we can guarantee that you’ll both learn a few new tricks. Right Ches?”
“Too fucking right on - mate,” said Ches to his partner. “When you told me about your encounter with two horny, pervy game-players … I hoped they would be the type who like to share their toys.”
“Oh, I’m sure they will” smiled James, “if we ask them nicely. Won’t you, guys?”

Neither Sam nor I said anything. In fact neither of us said much for the next twenty-four hours - because we were neither of us in a position to say anything during most of the time.
But I did learn a lot of new tricks.


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