Topics explored in this factual-fiction story include:
The dangers of my sort of power-exchange games played with strangers.
Whether on a physical or mental level, it can be an exhilaratingly risky business.
Another topic is the 'mind-fuck' as distinct from physical action.


(Complete text 7,000 words.)

A brisk walk along the Promenade is usually good for clearing the mind. That’s what I was there for ... to clear the mind and think through a few problems. Thursday night to Tuesday morning alone in a modest seafront hotel. Alone. No complications. No distractions. The one thing I didn’t need was complications ... and casual sex was the last thing on my mind. I don’t ‘Do’ casual sex. These days I ‘Think’ sex quite a lot but don’t ‘Do’ it. Not just because of AIDS or because of my age, thank you very much, but because I get my turn-ons from more elaborate games; games which you should never play with strangers.

So, there I was, striding rather than strolling on a brisk Friday morning trying to clear my mind. But if you’ve got a lively imagination your mind doesn’t clear, does it. It takes in more and more images ... selectively ... weighing every possibility. I wasn’t looking for possibilities ... but my mind was continually sparked.

The roller-blade skaters with plastic elbow, wrist and knee guards strapped on, looked like something out of a Space movie. Their strapped-on helmets and rigid plastic boots firmly clamped to keep ankles locked into position, engaged my imagination as I walked. A bondage-fraternity friend had recently introduced me to ski-boots with metal spring-clips screwed to his Playroom floor as a new way of immobilising a willing playmate. The skate hire kiosk on Brighton seafront had suddenly become an Aladdin’s cave of kinky gear.

Further along, a few fishermen had settled down for a day on the beach. Because there was a slight wind and modest tide, rubber hip-boots and waterproof suits were not out of place. Fully padded Goretex overall suits, bib and brace day-glow oilskins ... and dark green tents to retire into, probably full of canvas haversacks full of reels and lines and cords, including fine nylon line with which to tie inescapable knots. In addition, maybe down-filled sleeping bags with khaki waterproof covers for one or two people to snuggle into or struggle about inside.

Wind surfers are, of course, all masochists at heart; the tight rubbery neoprene suits, hoods, socks, gloves are, on colder days, essential before they cling to their sails and surfboards to be dunked regularly in the icy swell. They shiver and sweat as they compare notes and lug their boards and sails about, hauling them off and onto Transit vans and Range Rovers and lash them onto metal roof racks. The fertile mind can imagine games that would make their innocent hearts miss a few beats.

And then, of course, the continuous stream of running, jogging, loping men and women in various stages of undress were a constant source of speculative interest. Healthy folk testing themselves were a joy to watch, unhealthy folk a constant anxiety (I have no serious First Aid experience). Old gentlemen bursting blood vessels to convince themselves they’re still fit is not my kind of game.

On the Promenade eyes don’t meet unless for a reason. I’ve lived in New York and I know to avoid eye contact if you don’t want to get involved. For the unwary, the moment eyes meet you’ve opened the door to conversation. This may be of the most casual nature or something more exploratory.

A lot of people on the front at Brighton are open to suggestions. Unconnected people are eager for even the briefest of human contact; they hope you’ll sit a while and discuss the news or the weather; no more than that. Other walkers as they pass may signal their availability more distinctly. Given a firm eye-contact they’ll find a reason to stop and open conversation - a light - the time - street directions - foreign student new in Town with no bed for the night. Brighton has a new breed of ‘Itinerants’ willing to become whatever you might like them to become ... ready and willing to strike up any acquaintance in return for a meal, a bed or any opportunity which might arise. Depending on your tastes, male or female, young or old, Yuppie or Hippie, the Front at Brighton is alive with opportunities ... IF you give out the signals. Usually, if you keep yourself to yourself, no body bothers you. And on that particular morning I was in no mood to be bothered ... just a casual observer of the world, enjoying my own imaginative extensions of the possibilities which appeal to my particular esoteric tastes.

Having set myself the task of walking briskly from West Street to the Hove-end and back before allowing myself coffee, I’d already mentally undressed and re-dressed two hunky motorcyclists; visualised two horny young space cadet roller-bladers strapped together in their gear and struggling; imagined a scenario for three butch fishermen mates on an overnight fishing and drinking spree away from their wives, and speculated on why the athletic upwardly mobile surf-boarders bothered to bring their females because they usually sat in the van and bitched ... but I supposed they too got off on the tight wet rubbery suits in the back of the van on the way home to Hazelmere.

Being mesmerised by an ancient jogger tottering towards me just where the Prom becomes narrower at the Hove-end, I was only faintly aware of the thudding sound behind me until a runner overtook me, travelling at a determined speed. I watched the receding combat booted, khaki trousered, sweaty singleted figure thud away towards King Alfred’s Baths. The army back-pack seemed too weighty to bounce. A self-imposed handicap, I speculated. Suddenly, I was aware of another man watching the receding soldierly figure with interest. His eye then caught mine briefly enough to transmit his appreciation of the sight ... followed by a swift signal that we might exchange more than glances. I killed the contact with my practised ‘Not having noticed’ look-away and reminded myself that I wasn’t here to complicate my weekend.

Before I’d walked another couple of hundred yards and stopped to watch a wind-surfer struggle to peel open the top of his suit and go bare torsoed to his Range Rover, when the military runner was thudding back towards me. A look of steel-eyed determination on his face; a lean, mean machine with sweat darkening his cammo singlet. The straps of his back-pack tightly pinning back his shoulders to define muscular but not artificially developed pecs. Sweat was glistening on his face and matting his tight cropped hair. Looking neither to left or right he passed by, metal identity tags jangling. Do they issue metal dog tags in the British army, I wondered? I turned to watch him yomping his way east, appreciating the compact figure, especially the tight ass well displayed inside standard combat pants ... which looked like genuine army issue ... but should they be so trimly tailored around his buns?

I’m old enough and wise enough to know about that sort of guy. Although maybe up for a whirl in a safe situation, they should remain totally unapproached by strangers. The friendly guy in the anorak who’d earlier signalled his appreciation of the military figure, just happened to be watching me again as I turned and watched the runner disappear into the distance. Again he left an eye-contact door open and again I failed to acknowledge the offer. No complications or distractions this weekend.

The walk back towards my coffee break was uneventful as far as it went ... until I realised that the army runner was doing a circuit of the big green by the Hove boundary. I watched him in the distance as I walked, resolutely pushing himself to pound the ground as he ran, mind focused on completing whatever challenge he’d set for himself. The need for me to reach the public toilet became more pressing and I thought no more on the attractive but impractical possibilities of this army showpiece.

As I re-emerged from the ‘gents’ much relieved, I debated with myself whether to have coffee at the next outdoor cafe or wait until I reached the Hove boundary. I swear on the Bible, Your Honour, I did not see him sitting there until I’d actually bought my coffee and KitKat. The military runner, sitting at a table, sweaty vest clinging to reveal his lean but powerful frame, emphasising his pecks and even his hard nipples. He’d chosen the remote corner table in the tarpaulin enclosed seafront cafe area. Framed against the right-angle of yellow waterproof tarp, his back-pack slumped heavily against his chair, a cup of tea cooling before him he looked alert but not defensive. Because most of the tables were occupied, many by families with kids ... it wasn’t too obvious for me to walk directly up to the table where he sat alone still recovering his breath.

I remained standing while asking if he minded me sharing the table.

“Sure” he said and reached for his tea which was still too hot and he was still slightly out of breath.

“You training for something special ... or just keeping in trim?” I asked, all mates together.

He shrugged “Nothing special” and wiped his face with a cammo hanky. Now that’s not regulation issue or I’m a Dutchman I thought to myself, and then asked “You like to set yourself challenges?” He shrugged and risked the tea. “I like to see people challenging themselves” I added recklessly.

He shrugged again ... but didn’t shut me out. In fact, he reached for the sugar which was on my side of the little round metal table.

“How far or how long do you run for?”


“Every day?” I asked.

“More or less.”

“Doing more today?”

“If I feel like pushing myself.”

He supped his tea, I watched him over my coffee.

“Looks to me as if you like to push yourself” I risked.

He considered the comment before looking back at me ... studied me more steadily and chose his words deliberately “It’s easier when somebody else is pushing you.”

That comment wasn’t something to dive straight back at. I broke the KitKat into four fingers and indicated that he should take a piece. He declined, silently. I munched a piece before framing my next question. “Are you army or were?”


“How long since?”

“Over two years.”

“You’re still in good shape”

He shrugged “Try to be.”

My brain said “Gently does it.” ... but I found myself repeating his words back at him, “Easier when somebody else is pushing? ... I know what you mean.” To which he made no reply, clearly inviting me to continue.

“You enjoyed having somebody to push you, and challenge you in whatever Mob you were in?”

He thought before a slight grin emerged. “And have something to kick against” he admitted ... and then surprised me by asking “Were you an officer?”

“Me, no! Never” I said without thinking quickly enough. I should have remained enigmatic.

He shrugged “Thought you might have been” and shrugged again looking, I thought, a touch disappointed. I watched him and didn’t say anything. At this point he could easily have left, because he’d just finished his tea. He stayed.

We both sat and watched the cafe patrons, neither of us breaking the silence as I finished my coffee. He hauled one thick-soled combat boot up onto his knee and re-tied a lace expertly and tightly.

“You going to run some more, or have you done what you set out to do?”

“Done an hour. Should do some work.”

“What work?”

“Nothing special. I do cars out of my own garage at home. Not much work about.” He paused before adding “Not too good at working on my own.” 

I nodded understandingly. “Who else at home?” I asked, knowing that if any pitch might be made ... from either side ... this was the time.

“Wife works, nipper at school. I like having the days to myself.”

Not a definite enough opening, I told myself.

I finished my coffee, determinedly advising myself that I needed no complications ... and the sort of games I like to play should never be played with strangers. “Want another tea?” I asked casually “I’m having another coffee”.

“Er ... no ... thanks.”

I got up, not sure whether to say “Goodbye” as I left the table, but as if to establish something, he spread his legs, settled back in his seat and relaxed. I walked away and focused on getting another coffee.

Returning to the table I saw one strap of his back-pack was now open and he was wearing a camouflage jacket. It was a classic Sixties paratrooper’s jump smock, not recent issue.

“You getting cold?” I asked, too late to avoid sounding like his mother. “Were you in the Paras?” I added, to cover my embarrassment.

“Raff Regiment” he replied.

I nodded approvingly. “Tough bunch.”

“Nutters” he countered with a rueful smile which faded as soon as it appeared.

The last thing I needed was an ex-service rough-neck with an emotionally unstable civilian life I decided. Stay uninvolved I warned myself ... have a quiet weekend ... but I’m my own worst enemy ... and a card-carrying masochist.  “That jump smock is a collector’s item. Wasn’t current issue two years ago”. No response. “You’ve been in Civvy Street for two years but you still dress like Action Man.” This was my most obvious challenge so far ... but I hoped my appreciative smile would prevent any hostile reaction. He shrugged, not committing himself. “Are you still in touch with any of your old mob?” I asked, to which he shook his head. “So not much opportunity for outside challenges?” My question received another silent negative.  I persisted, pushing the subject as far as I dare on a casual social level. “So what else do you do to challenge yourself.”  His only response was another slightly depressed shrug.

Fuck this, I thought to myself, shit or get off the pot ... and asked abruptly “Did you finish your tour, resign or get slung out?”

He eyed me suspiciously “What do you know about it?” he asked, but not belligerently.

I chose my words carefully “I’ve known a few nutters in my time” I said simply. “I know about people who can’t resist a challenge ... and who like something to kick against ... even if it might kick back. I recognise people who are looking for an opportunity to test themselves ... and I have experience of testing men physically and mentally.” Heavy pause. “I may not look as if I can hold my own in a rough and tumble ... but there are more ways to stay on top than pure muscle-power ... and I’ve never been able to resist a challenge.”

He eyed me without blinking. I decided to wait as long as it took get a response.

“What sort of ways?” he asked eventually.

“Why did you get slung out of the Services?” I asked.

He considered my non-answer seriously, and thought about it. “I like to challenge authority. I like to see how far I can push my luck” he lapsed into silence ... and shrugged.

Coolly I asked “Do you think you’re pushing your luck now ... with me?”

He thought about it and deliberately repeated his noncommittal shrug. The fencing was becoming more acknowledged by us both.

“Did you want to get slung out ... or did you want to try your luck in the Raff Detention Centre?” I risked.

His response was immediate and bitter: “In this day and age they don’t put you in Nick, they just sign you out. Thank you and good night! No second chances.”

I nodded understandingly, “A miscalculation. You just wanted to see how far you could push your luck. That’s tough.”

He lightened the mood. “Not serious ... I’m a survivor.”

“Glad to hear it” I said meaningfully before returning to my coffee, while he considered his next move if any.

“So ... what sort of ways do you have for testing people ... challenging them?” he asked, suddenly back on track and obviously ready to open negotiations.

“Well ... that all depends on the name of the game ... and who I’m playing it with” I fenced. “For instance, you don’t like taking orders or only when it suits you. Right?”

“Depends ... ” he started.

“Like now,” I cut in “are you willing to accept a few simple instructions and see where they lead you?”

“Willing ... where?”  he asked almost defensively.

 “Here ... now.” I said evenly.

He looked around nervously at the happy families, unhappy families and odd couples at surrounding tables.  I leaned towards him and spoke quietly “Just a few simple instructions. You either do them or you don’t.”

Again he looked past me to the few people at cafe tables. They were all fully occupied with their own affairs. I continued steadily “Close the zip of your jacket.”  He hesitated, surprised ... and then connected the zip and closed it partially. “All the way up under the chin” I said.

Painfully conscious of the surrounding tables. ... but nobody was exactly concentrating on us. He closed the smock until it was snug under his chin. The weather wasn’t cold enough to warrant it.  He looked decidedly embarrassed.

“Now” I continued quietly “Lean forward to me ... slowly move your hands behind you and push them through the two spaces in the back of your chair ... and lean your body weight back on them.”  Cautiously he felt for the gaps in the back of the metal cafe chair, which had two upright bars. Pushing his wrists down through the chair-back, he then leaned back onto his arms trapping them. I smiled and leaned conversationally across the table.

“Press well back on them.”  He complied and I smiled and relaxed back in my chair, casually looking around to check we weren’t attracting any undue attention. A couple of slaggish mothers were trying to stop their offspring murdering pigeons and a old couple were bickering over a rock bun ... and likewise, everybody else was preoccupied with their own lives.

I smiled at his tense face as I leaned towards him again “Now gently move your boots so they’re on the outside of the chair legs. ... like they were tied there.”

Keeping a watchful eye on the other cafe patrons he gingerly moved his feet until they were planted uncomfortably wide on either side of the chair legs. His khaki combat pants stretched tight across his lap behind the table. Because his chair was tucked into the corner of the enclosure he had every other table in his vision. I was sitting directly in front of him so only I could see the obvious knob of a hard-on that was almost standing upright under the table. He was painfully aware of it.

“Relax” I said “Look as though you’re just re-flexing yourself and taking the air after exercise. You’re in safe hands. Have you ever been tied to a chair?”

His embarrassed face flushed before he answered quietly, “Couple of times ... during Escape & Evasion exercises.”

I nodded, “Well, you asked how I manage to challenge somebody when they’re physically more powerful than me. I like to tie people up ... and watch them struggle ... and make sure they’ve got a reason for struggling ... and make them sweat” I continued quietly keeping my back to the crowd. “I like to see men who can look after themselves dealing with difficult situations. ... off balance. That’s my idea of fun. No damage. No physical danger. Just challenge and survival, but with some rope or chain or duct tape to even up the physical odds. Keep still!” I said sharply, because he was jerking slightly in his chair, his strained body moving against his trapped arms.

He looked down at his lap and tried to suppress the final jerk ... but a small dark stain was already spreading inside his pants. I smiled and said quietly “Keep still ... stay just as you are. That’s what I like to see ... a man dealing with a difficult situation.”  I relaxed back in my chair and made sure that nobody around us had cottoned onto the tension at our table, but life on the Promenade just bowled on by. When I turned back to the tense figure, rigid in his chair against the yellow tarpaulin enclosure screen, he was determined to deal with the situation ... but the sweat was gathering around his tight-cropped hairline. I knew that the game was rolling and it was time for the next move. #

I leaned forward smiling “OK, looks like the idea of being tied up turns you on, too ... so, lean forward slowly and bring your arms out of the chair ... but keep your feet where they are.”  With a look of relief he freed his arms and un-tensed his shoulders inside the loose camouflage smock.

“Lean forward and give me your hands under the table. I’ve got something for you.”

He pulled his chair closer to the table careful to keep his boots anchored to the chair legs, then tried to locate my hands under the small round table. I watched his eyes as he felt handcuffs close quietly around his wrists. He could not believe what had happened, but knew that being around the central table leg, his hands were staying where I’d locked them. 

“Fancy another cup of tea now?” I asked with a smile as I stood up. He stared at me and then around at the unconcerned cafe patrons as I walked away to the counter some twenty feet away.


From a distance as I waited for his tea I watched this tough nut cornered and helpless. “This is what make life fun” I told myself and waved goodbye to a quiet weekend. Across the crowded distance I watched him putting on a bold face. Boots widely apart, torso forward against the table edge, hands high up under the table top, he was rocking; pretending to flex his muscles in a series of predetermined isometric exercises. As I walked back towards the table, he watched me, his face a battlefield of relief, resentment, determination not to look worried and the dawning of the need for revenge. As I sat down I placed the steaming tea tantalisingly under this nose.

He eyed me stoically and sat there helpless. I acknowledged that he hadn’t moved his boots from the outer sides of the chair legs although this must have put a strain on his sticky crotch. 

“Good man. You handled that well” I said leaning close against the table again.

“Didn’t have much choice without making myself look a total pratt and freaking out the Natives. Are you Police?”

I smiled enigmatically  “Would it give you a kick if I was? If you’d like me to be, I could convince you I am. I can be very convincing.”

“Do you always carry handcuffs?”  I nodded. “And get to use them?”  he asked.

I nodded again. “If I’m lucky, and find somebody worth challenging. I told you ... power games need more than muscle ... but they’re only games. I’m very good at control scenarios. I’m very good at finding out what challenges a man and then keeping up the pressure ... as long as that’s what presses his buttons. I’m good at Initiative tests. I’m good at endurance tests. If you win you get to choose your own reward, if you lose I get to chose the punishment.”

“If I win I get to choose my reward?” he asked speculatively.

I nodded, fully aware of the implications. He seemed to appreciate the possibilities.

I sipped my coffee, put down the cup and leaned forward, hands under the table. “Here’s the key. Don’t drop it. If you drop it you’re going to have to pick it up.”

His fingers took the miniature key and I watched his nervous concentration as he fiddled to find the tiny keyhole ... and the wave of relief as I heard the feint click of the ratchet opening.

“OK Freeze,” I said quietly “you may have already decided this game isn’t for you. Or you might like to risk one further preliminary step? Until I get a lot more answers from you I don’t know how much further I want to push it. If you want to gamble a couple of hours I can tell you a lot more about the games I play ... but I need to find out a lot more about what makes you tick if we’re going to go beyond opening psychological skirmishes. So, listen very carefully ... I shall say this only once ... if you want to stay in the game for a pretty intense ‘question and answer’ session, lock the free cuff onto the wrist that’s still cuffed. Alternatively, if you don’t fancy complicating your life ... unlock the second cuff and give them to me under the table, drink your tea and jog off home.”

I watched his indecision and heard the almost inevitable result; the gentle clicking of a cuff being locked closed slowly. I smiled “Good choice. I just hope you didn’t lock the second cuff with the keyholes facing each other. That’ll take a hacksaw to get them off when we’ve finished.”

His look of panic and impulse to pull the hand out to check was gratifying. If looks could kill, I would have been dead on the spot ... but I said “Trust me! I won’t embarrass you. I won’t harm you. Enjoy being surprised, kept off balance and being challenged. You decided to risk the next phase. I don’t think you’ll regret it. We’ll both get a kick out of it, I promise. Now, put your cuffed wrist into your pants pocket, put the key onto the table and drink your tea.”

Looking me squarely in the eye he did precisely as instructed. None of the bystanders saw the manacled wrist disappear under his jacket and into his pants pocket. He then placed the cuff key neatly by his saucer. Without breaking our eyeball to eyeball contact he reached out for the sugar bowl, and one-handedly plus his teeth, tore open two packets of sugar and emptied them into his cup, stirred it methodically and took a sip.

“I call them Power Exchange games” I said “You get to choose before every step into the dark. You move ahead willingly or not at all.”

“Two hours?” he confirmed.

“That’s what the next phase takes ... but you can choose when. Tell me about your wife ... and your garage/workshop.”

“Girlfriend” he said “and the kid’s hers. She’s very independent We’ve got a reasonably loose relationship. I suppose I can disappear for a couple of hours any time. Workshop’s a crowded garage full of junk. Not the place to play games in.”

“Depends what sort of games” I countered  “Depends what kind of car. Whether the boot is big enough to leave you locked in for an afternoon. Depends if you have a tarpaulin or motorcycle cover big enough to cover a trussed up and uncomfortable, sweating and fuming but anxious not to disturb the neighbours willing victim.”

“You’re fucking crazy” he hissed.

“Is your dick hard again yet? I asked. He nodded reluctantly. “Are your boots still tied to that chair?”

He hesitated ... “If you say so.”

“Good answer.”

He accepted the point he’d conceded for our future games ... but immediately zapped back with a sudden challenge. “Are you Gay?” he asked without a smile.

I acknowledged his challenge. “The simple answer is ‘Yes’. I’ve fucked and been fucked. I’ve driven straight men ape-shit by threatening to screw them ... but never raped anybody. We’ll talk about all this, this afternoon. It’s a simple enough deal ... whatever it is, if you want it, you’re going to have to ask for it. It may be your secret fantasy to be forced ... ”

“No! No way! Thanks but no thanks!”

“Be careful” I cut in “Don’t close off too many options too early. You’ll have two very gruelling, confusing, challenging, uncomfortable hours of interrogation this afternoon ... and during that time you’ll get to recognise the possibilities of this sort of game. It can be everything and anything you want it to be if you play your cards right. The trick is for you to keep a lot of options open. But, I need to get behind that devious mind of yours.”

“Me devious!” he almost yelled ... and we both automatically confirmed that we still hadn’t attracted attention. Brighton Prom was happily going about it’s own business.

“OK Mr. Squeaky Clean, you had your ‘Are-you-gay?’ challenge question. So here’s mine. Did you have your combat pants tailored tighter to show off your butt?”

He stared ... flushed ... framed a denial which I didn’t let him put into words.

“They’re trimmed down, don’t deny it. A lot of squaddies do it ... it’s supposed to pull birds, but I know a cock-tease when I see one.”  His jaw set and his eyes were steel ... but he swallowed what he might have said ... so I continued “This afternoon, if you’ve got the bottle, you’ll show up at my hotel, I’ll tie you down and ask you, persuade you, convince you that if we’re going to push back a few barriers you’re going to have to come to grips with a few less than comfortable truths. Don’t look so defensive ... you’ll survive it. Maybe that’ll be as far as it goes. Or maybe this will be the beginning of you enjoying who you really are. I won’t even ask you now if you’ve ever had your ass fucked in whatever circumstances, or if you’ve ever ... ever screwed a man ... or, at least, wondered what it would be like to try ... No! don’t deny! This afternoon, hog-tied and sweating ... with no eye contact, and aching to get loose ... you may reach a point of self-revelation you never got to with girlfriend, mate or RAF shrink.”

Looking seriously cornered and needing to lower the tension he leaned back and finished his tea.

“Any rope in your garage?” I asked lightly “Sash line?” He looked thoughtful. “Any Duct Tape?” I continued.

He leaned forward again “Some,”  he offered firmly “but I could pick up more.”

“Do you run a motorcycle?”

“Couple of wrecks that need some work” he admitted

“So do you have some leather or protective clothing?”

“Nothing spectacular, but...”

“Fuck spectacular, something warm and thick.”

“I suppose so” he said almost with a smile ... which I shared.

“What exactly? Leather jacket ... pants ... gloves ... boots ... crash helmet?”

“No leather pants,” he said.

“Why not ... make you self-conscious? Make you think you’re giving away guilty secrets?” He didn’t reply. “I want to see you sweating.” I explained. “What about waterproofs?”

His frown lapsed into a sudden grin “More than enough.”

“I see,” I smiled “kinky little sod. Tell me more. What type?”

“Barbour waxed two piece ... a bit clapped out. Rukka one piece. Pair of RAF Dispatch Rider armour-tex breeches (that’s why I don’t need leather pants). Oh, and I’ve got a full RAF Fight Deck suit, and a yellow oilskin suit and wellies nicked from Costain.”

“Good enough. Does the bike run?”

“Not often” he grinned.

“Then you’re going to have to walk to the hotel wearing sweater, Raff D.R. pants, leather jacket, heaviest boots you’ve got, gloves, Barbour two piece over it plus scarf and crash hat.”

“Walk” he yelped.

I raised my eyebrows “So bring the car ... but that’s what you’ll be wearing when you walk into Reception. I’ll have told them I’m expecting a motorcycle courier with some business papers, With any luck it will be raining by this afternoon.” I watched him as he resigned himself to a situation he couldn’t resist. “So, tell me what you will be wearing” I insisted.

He dutifully tried to repeat my list from memory  “Boots, heavy pants, leather jacket ... er, sweater under the jacket ... "

"Good!" I interjected, glad he was entering into the spirit of a sweat-session.

"Barbour suit ... ," he continued his mental checklist, " ... boots, gloves, crash-hat ... er ... scarf”. He hoped he’d thought of everything.

“And,”  I prompted “in your pockets?”

“Rope and duct tape?”

“Good man,” I smiled, “bring the Costain and Flight Deck suits as well in your back-pack. I might as well get sweated up too. Why should you have all the fun.”

He hesitated and then asked “What time?”

“You tell me.”

“In a hotel?”

“Why not? You’d be amazed what’s going on in Brighton hotel bedrooms every day of the week ... let alone nights.”  He looked dubious ... I felt I needed to reassure him.

“Let me explain something to you. It’s very very dangerous to link up with a total stranger and disappear into some private space at any time for any reason ... but if bondage or S&M are involved it’s usually a total no-no ... so ... here’s your insurance.”  He looked at the business card I’d given him. “That’s my real name. You can check it on Directory Enquiries. You write on this card Sheridan Hotel 2 p.m. Leave it somewhere at home that it will be found only if you don’t return when the family expects you.”

He thought about it and nodded, then asked. “What’s your insurance? Aren’t you running an even bigger risk?”

“Maybe. A risk I warn other people not to take ... we may just have to see if I was right. Anyway, you’ll be tied up or otherwise physically restrained all the time you’re in the room ... OK?” he cautiously conceded the point, “and the message I leave at Reception will be for them to ring my room when you arrive ... ask them to describe you. Have your crash helmet off ... because they also have video coverage of all arrivals which they keep for 48 hours. What name shall I tell them? If you don’t want to give a real name I don’t think it will matter.”

After a brief though he reached into his pants leg pocket but didn’t find what he wanted. Do you mind if I move my feet” he asked.

“Feel free” I shrugged.

Awkwardly he reached across to feel in the opposite patch pocket with his free hand and produced a driver’s licence, put it on the table and moved his boots back to the outsides of the chair legs.

“I think we’re going to have fun together Rodney ... or is it Rod?”

“Tod. Most people call me Tod ... started in the Raff ... because I was such a Loner.”

“We can save all that for this afternoon. No sex, no serious action ... just questions. Who knows where it’ll take us. It’s almost twelve. I have things to do ... and a couple of things to buy” I smiled “Just in case all goes the way I hope it’ll go. Are you going home or run some more?”

“Not sure,” he hesitated.

“I think you should run some more. Twice round the long green at least” I said, pointedly picking up the handcuff key from the table.

He watched it disappear into my pocket and nodded ruefully. He then gently moved his boots in from the chair legs and started to open his Jump Smock.

“Keep it zipped right up to the chin. It’s nice and wind-proof. Make sure you don’t catch a chill.”

He resigned himself to a hot and sweaty run and prepared to move. First, however, with an anxious look around the current cafe customers, he pulled at his crotch with his free hand, in an attempt to make himself more comfortable.

I smiled innocently “All gummed up, are we? Are you wearing Jock Strap or underpants ... or no underpants?”

“Marks and Spencers” he retaliated standing up gingerly. His legs must have been stiff from the running and then sitting for so long with his legs uncomfortably wide. He hauled up the heavy back-pack and swung it onto his shoulders automatically using two hands. Suddenly, mortified at the sight of the double manacled wrist rattling around in full public view, he turned his back, secured the straps and pocketed his wrist before turning back to me; a study of embarrassment and defiance.

“How much weight handicap are you carrying in the back-pack?” I enquired socially.

He shrugged “About twenty pounds.”

“Enjoy your run ... and the run-up to two o’clock. See you then” I said, settling comfortably back into my chair.

He stabilised the heavy pack as best he could with one hand firmly remaining in his pants pocket, nodded abruptly and walked away without looking back. As he threaded his way between busy tables his back-pack almost decapitated a malicious child who had been menacing other juveniles with his tricycle. I hoped he’d done it on purpose.  ‘Tod’ broke into a run as soon as he hit the green; a grimly determined and nothing-held-back training run. #

Spreading my legs sideways I experimented with what it felt like for them to be tied to the chair legs. I watched the resolute figure in the distance, one manacled hand plunged deep into his pants pocket, pounding his way into the distance. Happily, my mind began to line up a routine for the coming afternoon; for his arrival ... keeping him waiting around down at the Desk, self-conscious and sweating; his walking into the room ... me immediate making him confirm that he’d agreed to remain physically restrained the whole time he was there ... no discussion ‘Yes’ or ‘No’. Switching the already locked-on handcuffs to secure both hands behind his back. Then blindfold, a neat efficient light-proof padded leather toy I always carry on my travels. Next, wordless and efficient strapping of his elbows inside the layers of leather, sweater and thick waxed jacket ... duct tape would sound good now he’s blindfolded. The cuffs and gloves removed to make way for more adhesive tape round his wrists and down around his fingers leaving them totally encased. Getting him to kneel while boots are roped together and fixed to his bound wrists ... before lowering him face down ... before moving a chair and placing my boots under his face before removing the blindfold. Hotel carpet and well-used work boots all he can see ... can not escape from ... his face between them or above them as I choose.

Gently explaining to him how the session will proceed; intimate, probing, resolute questions to be answered promptly without hesitation. His familiar easy self-evaluation not necessarily being accepted at it’s glib face value. Building up the psychological pressure. Him getting progressively more uncomfortable physically and emotionally because of his totally inability to resist or kick back. As I get more insistent for the truth demanding quicker, more spontaneous answers perhaps his resentment will increase. Resentment then frustration perhaps soon turning to real anger. At the first raise of his voice a quick demonstration of how easy it is to silence him ... then gentle but insistent reasoning which persuades him to play along and just this once answer more truthfully questions that tell me where he’s at, where he’s been and (hopefully) where he’d like to explore.  A basic routine I’ve used on men for several years. Talk to him about my likes and dislikes; my love for leather and weather gear. By now I’ll be wearing his Flight Deck wind and rainproof suit perhaps with his construction site oilskins over it, heating myself up as I probe and pressurise him. He won’t see it, just hear it, sense it. His only view my boots nudging his face, my fingers kneading and probing his head and neck and immobilised shoulders, arms ... and moving unstoppable onto his thighs if the time is right ... with him nervously aware that he’s unable to prevent whatever intrusion.

Talk to him reassuringly about the taste and smell of leather ... risk his resistance to the suggestion that he should touch my boot or the oilskin I’m wearing with his tongue ... that he should touch and taste the toe of my boot ... allow my leather gloved fingers into his mouth willingly, experimentally. Accept this unfamiliar intimacy.  At least for now accept from his face-down, lack of eye-contact position the fact that he has willingly given me this total control, and I intend to keep it for the whole two hours.

I may suddenly change the pace, un-snapping and un-zipping his two jackets, skilfully peeling them back off his shoulders without allowing him any opportunity to break free. Gag him securely as soon as he attempts to exercise any verbal control. Wrap his whole head with yards of extra tape (which I have bought since meeting him). Encase his whole head to totally isolate him ... leaving ear-holes so I can talk to him softly in this limbo for a while. Demonstrate how good I am at stripping a bound ‘Victim’ with or without co-operation. Re-tie and tape his naked body however much he struggles, demonstrating my total control ... but taking no sexual liberties ... yet. At last, unwrapping his head ... but not perhaps his mouth while I reassure him that he is in safe, responsible hands. Nothing will happen that he doesn’t want to happen. Safe, secure, nervous, vulnerable ... but still full of fight ... potentially dangerous, but with me totally in control ... at least, this time around.


It was only when I realised that I was now the focus of curiosity for the mean-looking juvenile tri-cyclist, and that his eyes were riveted on my crotch, did I notice a very noticeable stain which was spreading rapidly. I got up and left before he drew it to the attention of his mother, and strode away, continuing to plan an intense and not exactly restful afternoon ... and with any luck, weekend.


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