by Jim Stewart
adapted from an idea by Geoff Adams

(Complete text 9,700 words)
More than just another waxed motorcycle gear fantasy.
Here, a whole range of control-game-playing
by phone and web-cam is explored.


My new purchase, a second-hand classic Sixties Belstaff motorcycle suit, had arrived by post that morning. I didn’t need yet another waxed anything, but I freely admit that heavy wind-and-waterproof gear is an obsession with me – and my successful bid on E-bay had taken me by surprise. Then, the postman tried to deliver the package earlier in the week, but Saturday morning is the only day I’m home to receive bulky items.

Naturally I had to check it out right away, just to be sure the zips and snaps and buckles were all in good working order. So there I stood, securely fastened into the pungent jacket and pants with the waist belt, cuffs and neck strap as tight as they’d go, just to confirm the efficiency of all the sturdy fastenings. It was a lined suit so felt reassuringly warm, and fitted comfortably - leaving enough space to wear something underneath at a pinch. My experienced eye told me the signs of wear suggested genuine road use, unlike a lot of the bike gear I’ve picked up around the fetish markets. Both jacket and over-trousers had obviously seen some biking action, but were still in excellent condition – and the smell of man-sweat lingered. Also, the greasy texture told me it had been thoroughly waxed quite recently – all of which was making me seriously horny.

Standing admiring the overall effect in the mirror I decided to christen it by stimulating my stiffening cock inside it ... when the phone interrupted just as I approached the final build-up. I tried to focus on the ID display; it was an extensively kinky mate who I didn’t hear from often enough.

As I picked up the receiver my pulse was still racing and my head slightly muzzy.

“Geoff?” asked a voice before I could find the breath to announce myself.

“Yes.” I croaked, the combination of the tightly buckled jacket collar and my sexual arousal making my voice sound strange.

“What are you up to? Have I interrupted something? Who have you got there? What are you in the middle of?” His bombardment of questions was typical of this forceful character who knew all my secrets and knew how to take control of any situation.

“Switch the fucking web-cam on – now!” he ordered, “No delays – now!” he insisted and, as usual, I complied with his demands.

My computer was already fired up and the link to Mike was automatic, as were several others to people who regularly shared my enthusiasms long-distance. The picture that he would now be seeing a few hundred miles away appeared on my screen. I moved so he could get a fuller view of the suit and my slightly flustered face.

“Might have guess” he scoffed, “whatever time of the fucking day or night, you kinky bastard.”

“It’s new and I was just ...”

“New,” he interrupted, “you’ve bought more? You’ve already got a cupboard full of wax stuff. How many sets of Barbour and Belstaff and Rukka do you need? How much of it can you wear at one time? What have you got on under it?” he demanded.

“Nothing ... “ a stammered.

“Nothing:” he barked

“No other waxed stuff,” I said defensively, “Just tee shirt and jeans,” I countered, struggling to open the tight neck buckle to show him.

“You amaze me. I thought you’d have at least one other suit if not more under it, you obsessive pervert you. Do up the collar again, tight - now.“ My flustered fingers grappled with the metal buckle and pulled the neck strap as tight as it would go. Then I fumbled to thread the end of the strap back through the double buckle to make it tidy.

“So - what makes this suit so different from the how-many-other’s you’ve already got stashed away?

“I – just saw it advertised ... and couldn’t resist it” I said lamely.

“Wax fucking cotton! You’re obsessive – what are you?” he demanded.

“Obsessive” I admitted willingly, knowing that Mike was just as turned-on by any sort of thick waterproof gear as I was, and his remote cottage in the wilds of Cornwall was stacked with an amazing range of Black Prince and waxed suits in every size, including some imaginatively modified pieces which could restrain and layer a willing (and sometimes not so willing) playmate.

“You kinky, perverted bastard! I think because you’re in that suit you should stay in it until you go to bed tonight.”

“But I’ve got to get shopping in and somebody’s coming round for dinner “ I argued, well aware that it was only mid-morning.

“Who?” he demanded

“Nobody you know ... “

“Is he into gear and games?” asked the voice at the end of phone. I only had to nod; the web-cam transmitting even my unspoken responses.

“Well then,” he insisted, “you will be in that suit done up to the neck when he arrives – and you can offer him the use of another suit if he wants to spend his evening with you and eat with you – and you’ll keep the web-cam switched on and present yourself before it at least every half hour to confirm you’re still zipped and strapped in your nice new suit – and you can put your guest on to me so I can confirm that my instructions are being carried out.”

“But ... I’ve got to get some shopping in” I repeated.

“So shop in your suit” he insisted.

“The bloody sun’s shining and it’s warm out and ... “

“Tough, tough, tough. I shall expect to see you fully suited-up before you leave to do the shopping and as soon as you get back.”

“But ...”

“No buts” came the firm dictate “You bought the fucking suit so wear it – and let’s not have any arguing or complaining or ... I was going to say, you’ll be punished ... but I guess the better deterrent is to threaten that you won’t be punished, you masochistic, kinky little wax cotton pervert. In fact, if you don’t do precisely what I say, you won’t ever get invited down here ever again. Savvy?”

This man knew how to get his own way in any situation; and my day took on a dimension I hadn’t anticipated. I would be shopping in my local stores hermetically sealed into this fucking suit although several of the locals knew I didn’t have a motorbike. And then, after cooking dinner in it, I’d be sitting down to eat still suited up with a guest who had unwittingly become involved in one of Mike’s infamous remote-control power-trip games. But later, after I’d survived the embarrassment and discomfort ... I would have the memory of the experience to add to the gallery of hot scenarios Mike had subjected me to over the past few years.


Later that night, when alone before my web-cam and talking to Mike, my reward for following his instructions to the letter and proving my willingness to subject myself to his control, was an invitation to visit this inveterate game-player in the wilds of Cornwall for the following weekend. As a parting shot before he logged off, he ordered me to stay in the suit all night.

He took my agreement on trust. And I, having first covered my bed with a tarpaulin often use to keep the wax off my sheets, spent the night booted and dressed from head to foot in waxed cotton as ordered. It was my own choice to add a special double-thickness waxed cotton bag hood which Mike had had made and given me after one of our intense weekends at his cottage. Resolutely, I committed myself to the hood for the whole night, determined not to back-out of the deal made with myself until at least seven next morning. Inevitably I slept fitfully – dreaming of Mike’s heaps of heavy rain-gear in his storm-buffeted stone house on the Cornish coast.



A week is a long time even with the distractions of work, and I could only guess at what might lie in store for me. I would take my new suit down with me and perhaps my favourite well-worn tighter unlined one-piece waxed suit that could, at a pinch be worn under other things. No need to cart much else because of all the gear Mike had collected over the years. He had a local contact who helped modify standard heavy foul weather gear to make it lockable. He particularly liked insisting his visitors go out in all weathers suitably ‘handicapped’ under layers of thick wind and waterproof and sweat-generating garments.

I speculated that there’d be no need for me to take my favourite waders as there were plenty there, but I would take the unlined rubber wellies I’d acquired recently; I particularly liked the feel of them without socks. To be comfortable in the car on the long drive, I planned to wear the new 501 Levis. and denim jacket, tee shirt and trainers – perhaps indulging myself with snug-fitting nylon sports shorts under the jeans.

But on the Wednesday evening my plans evaporated when the phone rang. Mike’s instructions were specific and unchallengeable. I was to wear my old one-piece waxed suit (newly waxed for the occasion) inside-out with nothing underneath. Over it, I was ordered to wear the E-bay two-piece suit fully snapped and strapped closed for the entire car journey. Not to bring any alternative clothing – he would supply from his extensive stock of Government Surplus.

The thought of driving for almost six hours encumbered in two layers of heat-producing waxed cotton didn’t exactly excite me, because I knew from experience what sort of problems might arise. But Mike had a way of insisting. I would not only show myself on the web-cam during the suiting up, I was told to bring my digital camera. Mike knew it had a time-line which could be superimposed on every shot. He would want half-hourly proof that during the trip I kept both suits on and closed. His only concession being that I needn’t wear boots to drive in – but bring my 20 hole Doc Martins with me – and a old army rain poncho to protect the car upholstery from wax while driving.

My arguments and resistance were swept aside. Mike wanted me arriving steamed up and primed as he put it. The weekend was going to be “wax-packaged all the way” he informed me, hinting that he also had a couple of new acquisitions which he was looking forward to trying out on me. His parting shot was to warn me to look out for the post on Thursday or Friday morning and follow the instructions in the packet.


Anxiously I looked for post on the Thursday before work and there was nothing, so I spent yet another tense day wondering what additional long-distance torment Mike had thought up for me. He knew how to build up suspense. I’d arranged to take the Friday off work and Mike had demanded I would contact him on the web-cam before suiting up around nine o’clock

After a not too restful night (dreaming I was being boiled alive in six layers of waxed gear) the postman delivered a small package early Friday. In it was a sturdy waist belt made from very thick brown saddle leather. Slots in it fastened over metal loops, two of them – plus two efficient-looking padlocks which would fit through them, locking the belt. They were combination-type padlocks, so had no keys. Once closed it would be impossible to reopen them.

A grinning Mike watched me squirm as I pull my newly waxed one-piece over my naked body, sticky-side in. He then made sure that the fully lined E-bay jacket and pants were fully zipped and strapped and buckled closed before he instructed me to cinch the jacket waist belt tighter. Then the leather belt was added. Under his supervision the two padlocks were then closed to make sure I could now not remove the jacket.

Luckily, I had taken a piss before starting the suiting up, because I realised it would be seriously complicated to take a leak during the long journey. For the moment the prospect of having to wear the suit in the car for so long, and the obviousness of the brown leather belt and padlocks (should I need to get out of the car during the journey) occupied my mind. The possibility of a road accident was also a point I raised, but this seemed to amuse Mike who just warned me not to draw attention to myself.



Even the short walk to my car was embarrassing. The day was fine, so a suited and sealed up biker totally dressed in black except for a pair of white trainers and no socks and a conspicuous industrial looking stained brown hide belt with two padlocks dangling from it, was not a thought to dwell on. Carrying a small hold-all and a pair of heavy tall DM boots, even the heavy army rain poncho slung over my arm could not hide the belt or my embarrassment, especially when trying to unlock the car door in the busy south London street. Ignoring the quizzical looks of passers-by, I leaned in to roughly spread the poncho over the driver’s seat before easing myself in, trying not to dislodge it. Once settled, I sank low into my seat. Checking that both the digital camera and my mobile phone were handy, I started the engine knowing that my trials had only just begun

Before I was at Hammersmith Bridge the phone rang. As it was hands-free I was able to check, and wasn’t surprised to see that it was Mike.

“Yes”, I said grumpily.

“Are you on your way?” asked the smug voice.

“Yes!” I said through gritted teeth.

“Have you taken a photo yet?” insisted my tormentor.

“Not yet, for Christ’s sake!” I fumed

Ah,ah,ah!” said the warning voice, “At the next traffic lights I want a shot of your collar buckled snug around your neck – and the time-line switched on so the time is imprinted on the picture.

Ahead I saw the back-up of traffic before the bridge. I groped for the camera and slid back the shutter cover. Checking that it was set to include time-line – I drew up in the queue of traffic, judged a position at arms length which would show the closed collar, and snapped. A woman with a pram was passing and she almost did a double-take – and I stayed resolutely calm and stared her out. Mike’s voice brought me back.

“Did you take it?”

“Yes, and I’m signing off now. Don’t keep calling me, it’s difficult enough to concentrate” ... and the traffic was moving so I grappled to switch off the phone and only just remembered to switch off the camera. I’d need to conserve the batteries if I was to take a shot every half hour. No way was I going to stop and get out to buy new batteries.


Even before I reached the M25, road works threatened to slow things down. A stretch of single file traffic was being manually controlled by ‘stop’ and ‘go’ signs. As ill luck would have it the young lad swung the ‘stop’ sign when I was next in line to drive through. So there I sat, immediately in front of this hunky hard-hatted young road worker in his rigger boots and orange day-glo jacket, bored out of his mind by the monotony of his task. His eyes met mine and I saw him register what I was wearing. By now cars were streaming from the opposite direction, so he had no responsibilities until the flow stopped. I saw him decide to move forward to get a better view of me sitting before him. Walking away from his ‘stop’ sign he approached my car, preened his tangled ponytail hair and gazed pointedly in at me. I tried to ignore his curiosity but must have been pink around the gills with embarrassment. Emboldened, he actually leaned down to peer directly into my lap and he could see not only the heavy biker jacket but bulky waxed over-trousers.

He seemed to make a decision – and then pressed a button on his mobile site-intercom. Talking into the phone he strolled back to his sign as the flow of vehicles from the other direction ended. He again ran chunky fingers through his ponytail under his hard-hat before switching his sign. Gratefully, I moved ahead – and he saluted AA fashion, giving me a quizzical look as I passed him. #

The single file stretch was quite long and a lot of workers were assembled along it’s length. Suddenly I realised that none of them were working, and all seemed to be looking for something – and it soon became obvious that they’d been alerted to look for the car driver zipped up to the neck in heavy motorcycle gear in a tin-pot Ford Cortina.

They peered, they pointed, they waved, laughing among themselves. I was mortified and speeded up ... until I realised that not only was I going too fast, there was a motorcycle cop supervising the single flow sitting astride his bike. He had not been alerted by the stop-sign guy but I did see him register my speed and as I approached, his hand signalled to slow down – which I did – and then his signal turned to a ‘pull over’. I had no choice but do as he commanded.

Resignedly, I switched off my engine and closed my eyes as in the mirror I saw him dismount. Then I heard the scrunch of his heavy motorcycle boots approach my window. I wound it down, belatedly scrabbling for my wallet which, I realised, was in the holdall on the back seat – I hoped.

The cop’s view for the next however long it took, was my wax cotton covered back screwed around reaching into the back seat, dragging the khaki rain poncho askew and tangling it with my bulky waxed coverings. I eventually straightened up to face him clutching my wallet – and in my eyeline all I could see was the waist of his yellow hi-vis jacket and a belt loaded down with various leather attachments including baton holder, flash light and the rigid-centred handcuffs bulky in their pouch. The crotch of his leather biker pants was also directly before my face, but I forced my gaze upwards until I met his piercing eyes and strong mouth, which gave no indication of what he was thinking as I offered my licence.

“Where are you heading – sir?” he asked evenly.

Cornwall” I said bluntly.

“Expecting rain are we, sir?” he asked with an edge of sarcasm.

“No, officer,” I said calmly and quietly as I looked into his handsome face. This was a time for attack rather than defence, I thought. “I’m heavily kinky for waxed cotton motorcycle rain gear and wear it at any opportunity I get.”

He took time to consider this and his steel blue eyes gave nothing away – but he did take time to breathe in slowly before nodding slightly.

“As a matter of fact, sir, I can appreciate that,” he said evenly – and we both waited for what might happen next. “Are you planning to drive the whole distance so attired?” he asked in a businesslike way.

“If I’m allowed” I hazarded.

He seemed to consider his options. “Waxed gear may not be as efficient rain protection as the more modern stuff on a bike – but in your car, sir – enjoy the trip ... but watch your speed. Might as well spin out your enjoyment as long as you can – and in Cornwall I hope the weather is kind to you – if rain is what you’re hoping for.” With that he stood away and I accepted his signal that the encounter was over. Did I sense a tinge of regret that he couldn’t find an excuse to pursue the topic further?




The next phase of the journey, though progressively more and more uncomfortable, was uneventful. My mind lingered on the hard-hatted, pony-tailed construction worker – and the leather pants, high boots and belt furniture of the motorcycle cop – and speculated on what lustful fantasy scenarios I might involve them in, in the near future. I regretted the lack of opportunity to snap a couple of pictures to add to my collection of horny images which I used to support the steamy stories I have cobbled together and got off on in the privacy of my computer corner.


As the miles sped by the two suits were increasingly imposing themselves on my senses. The heat, the smell, the stickiness and beginnings of chafing against my sensitised skin were soon building up. My groin and the crack of my arse were certainly undergoing a gradual change. I knew that well before I was through Somerset I’d be seriously uncomfortable – but was appreciating the imposed challenge.

Every half hour I managed to take another shot of the closed suit. In a lay-by somewhere in Devon I looked back over the succession of stored pictures and took a few additional close-ups of the suit closings including the rugged metal pocket snap fasteners, and of the scrunched-up fabric in my lap. As there were no other cars around I got out to stretch my legs and speculated on what it might involve to take a piss. I decided there was no urgency but, with the camera set on a wall and on the timer, I got a couple of shots of the landscape with me almost full length in the foreground; both front and rear shots. Several like-minded kink-heads would, I knew, appreciate adding these shots to their wax cotton collections. A passing car with only one occupant slowed noticeably as it passed during this – but did not stop. I quickly reorganised the warm and wrinkled army poncho – smoothing it with my hand before pulling at my crotch and settling back in to continue my ordeal.

The phone didn’t ring again until I was within twenty miles of my destination. The curt voice asked “Where are you?”

“Couple of miles outside Bodmin” I reported coldly (the heat and sweat inside the suits was beginning to really irritate the skin between my legs, my balls were feeling numb and the whole back of the suit was sticking to me very uncomfortably – and water was literally running out of my cuffs and down my ankles - and I was wanting to piss.

“Good,” came the cheery voice. “There’s a service station in Wadebridge. Stop off and get me a couple of litres of milk.”

“I can’t get out and go shopping! I need petrol but I’m going to stay on the road and get to you as soon as I can.” I insisted; the urgency of my full bladder adding urgency to my voice.

“I need milk. Don’t arrive without it” commanded the voice. “The service station at Wadebridge is a busy one. Nobody’ll notice you.” With a click the phone went dead and once again I was left to ponder the dynamics of remote-control games, especially when the ‘controller’ is Mike.




I found the service station and it was, as he’d said, quite extensive. Close to the store entrance several motorcycles were parked in a bay. I drove past it sitting low, and looked for somewhere relatively unexposed. After drifting around the edges, I settled on a corner by the trash bins where there was a single space between a high-sided delivery truck and an old transit van. Both looked as if they’d been parked for some time – and might belong to staff so I backed in between them. Emerging, painfully conscious that my double layer of waxed covering was noticeably sticking to my body and legs. I tried to shake it loose while finding my feet. The trainers without socks were seriously damp because sweat had trickled down from inside the steamy layers. Trying to look casual, I walked towards the entrance of the store. My bladder was bursting but I couldn’t face the toilets. Luckily I’d remembered to grab some small change from my holdall, enough for milk but not much else.


In the store I padded to the cold cabinets and eventually found the milk – but in the same isle a rugged-looking motorcyclist in well-used leather jacket and boots was busy making a few selections. He eyed me casually, and then his gaze seemed to focus more specifically on me. I felt his eyes travel down my suit to the sockless trainers below the heavily waxed legs. I busied myself selecting the half-fat milk. Mike had not specified full cream or half. My aim was to get it and scarper back to the car as soon as  ... but the motorcyclist was suddenly close beside me.

My breath almost stopped because I sensed this had been a deliberate move on his part – as he eyed the contents of the cabinet. The hair was cropped but his was not a contrived skinhead look.

“Good suit, mate” he muttered, not catching my eye but seeming to look for milk.

“Thanks – mate” I managed to grunt – before suddenly moving to step around him – but somehow he also stepped in the same direction which brought me face-to-face with him. It was the face of a young Cornishman; weathered and square and Celtic.

“What sort of bike you got?” he asked gruffly in that distinctively Cornish dialect. Unfortunately, echoes of Jon Pertwee as Wursle Gummage from my childhood jarred – but two scull-and-crossbones pins skewered onto his beat-up leather bike jacket were a different matter. “Yer bike, bouy, wha’is it?” he repeated, earnestly

Er - Kawasaki 265RE” I lied, dropping my eyes to his heavily scuffed bike boots.

“Nice – but you’re takin’ some risk wi’out boots. Wassa’marrer,” he sneered, “can’t handle the weight, bouy?”

“Oh – I - er – I fucked up my toes in a spill,” I asserted with what I hoped was manly confidence. Gotta go.” I said as I abruptly side-stepped him and hurried away towards one of the check-outs, limping ostentatiously.

Had he clocked the locked-on leather belt? I’d swung the padlocks sideways so my elbow could cover them, but in the queue for the least busy cash desk I was unexpectedly trapped behind a pensioner who was arguing over some discount coupons.

Suddenly, the biker was close behind me, breathing down my neck as we waited in line. The narrow check-out lane was slightly walled in so we were isolated – and somehow very close together.

“I likes waxed cotton,” he mused quietly into my ear from behind. “Don’t see it often enough these days” and I was appalled to feel a hand groping my arse crack appreciatively as he stood close behind me, close enough for no one else to see what he was doing.

Not wanting to draw attention to us, I turned to face him – which was a mistake. Now his hand, without moving, was close to my crotch. Luckily the pensioner moved and I was able to back off and step up to the cashier. As I bagged the milk and paid, I again felt the biker move in close beside me, somehow making it look as if we were shopping together. As I turned to move away I felt his hand grip a handful of the seat of my pants but, by keeping his arm close to his own body, this was not obvious to anybody else. One-handedly he paid for the items he was carrying without releasing the grip he had on the fabric. I had no option but to stand there unless I was prepared to make a scene. Having paid, his hand drove me forward in matey fashion away from the cashier. Firmly controlled, we walked in unison, and he steered me towards the exit. Releasing his grip, his hand now closed around the back of the leather belt, and I realised that in this corridor was the entrance to the gents. His tough slightly freckled grin was close to my face. “Fancy a bit of fun and games, mate?” he asked quietly. “Wax cotton does things for me – you could do things for me ... in there.” he nodded towards the toilets.

Er - thanks but no thanks ... mate,” I managed to say, desperate to sound friendly. He was a bulky chap and could have turned nasty. I acknowledged his grip on my belt. “Sorry - gotta go. Heavy date.”

“Suit yourself” he said, “but you don’t know what you’re missing – bouy.”

He released his hold, and I moved off speedily – and only just remembering to limp as I went. Behind me I heard his rich voice call loudly, “Oy lyke yer belt ... mate!” - and several shoppers paused to take in the sight of the totally exposed padlocks dangling from my waist.


Carefully avoiding the bike stands, I headed back to my car, which I was pleased to see was still hemmed in between the two tallish vehicles – both, mercifully, still without drivers. The sweat inside my two suits had turned to ice but I was still dripping with perspiration. My hands fumbled with the keys. I heard a bike kick-started into life and looked across to see the local interpretation of the skinhead-cult, now dark helmeted, heading towards the exit of the parking lot. I leaned in to rearrange the rain poncho so it would protect the seat for the remaining few miles of my journey. Then, stowing the milk behind the seat, I settled in and adjusted the clammy, sticky suit as best I could. My bladder  was ready to burst and I wondered if I should go back and risk the toilets now the biker had gone. So intent was I on my predicament, it wasn’t until I looked through the windscreen that I saw the biker had coasted around the lot and was now sitting directly in front of my car – blocking my path. Astride his old BSA he sat eyeing me. Then slowly and with an air of menace, he got off his bike, pulled it onto it’s side stand (leaving it blocking my exit) removed his crash helmet, carefully hung it onto a handlebar and then, deliberately building up the suspense, walked slowly around to my window, his leathered shoulders squared and his booted heels crunching the tarmac. He motioned me to wind down my window. With no means of escape without trashing his bike, I complied.


“Now that weren’t friendly, bouy. You lied to me. Kawasaki!” Bending at the knees he stooped until his rugged face was level with mine outside the window. Green eyes glinted and he licked his lips. “I lyke the taste of waxed gear” he purred, and a gloved hand reached in and gripped the fabric of my sleeve, bringing it through the window and straightening my arm down the outside of the door. This created an efficient arm-lock. In defence I started to reach over with my other arm, but a sharp twist of the locked arm arrested the attempt to reach for him.

“Sit still, fucker”. He smiled a dangerous smile as he looked across the parking lot. From his low position no-one could see him there and, anyway, we were in the remotest corner of the lot. “Now, you release the door lock and open it gently. No tricks or I’ll break your fucking arm.”

He had total control. As I opened the door he deftly moved so the open door was between us. “Swing your legs out an’ stay sitting, he ordered,” and with an effort I achieved this manoeuvre, painfully conscious of the soggy trainers as they were placed on the tarmac. In a swift move (and still keeping a grip on my arm) he was suddenly kneeling before me.

“Spread your knees, bouy” he instructed and releasing my arm, he forced my legs apart and, at the same time, pushed me backwards so I was lying uncomfortably across the two front seats. His hands now roamed up my body, stroking and feeling the fabric over my thighs, and crotch and up onto the jacket, massaging and kneading – and roaming back down onto my crotch. Leaning forward his mouth approached the waxy mound and his face nuzzled it – before his grinning face looked across into mine. Forced backwards there was little hope of pushing him off – and his leather-gloved hands then continued to roam the greasy surfaces appreciatively. He found the top of the front zipper and drew it down to the locked leather belt, exposing the inside-out second suit underneath – and hands now explored between the surfaces. Because the collar of the jacket was still tightly buckled this tugged as his hands explored further into the tight interior. I stayed silent as his hands roamed between the two layers, almost holding my breath. He now detected the bulges in the patch pockets of the outside jacket. Strong hands keeping me from sitting back up, he ripped open the snap fasteners and felt into the two budging pockets; producing from one the camera and then my mobile phone from the other.

“Treasure” he said as the phone disappeared into the inside of his jacket. “Interesting” he mused aiming the camera at me and attempting to take a picture of my prone body with the unzipped jacket exposing the inner layer. The camera shutter was closed so nothing happened - but he soon found the catch – and took several pictures along the length of my upper body, snapping details of the multi-layering. Staying low so he couldn’t be seen from across the car lot, he then reached for the keys and took them out of the ignition. Let’s see what you’ve got in the boot, bouy.”

“Nothing!” I protested.

“Did I ask you?” he growled. A hand gripped a fistful of waxed cotton at my crotch and he pulled until I was being drawn out of the car. “You stand up and walk to the back of the car. Any nonsense and I’ll break yer legs.”

I stood and, walking around the opened door, I wondered if I could slam him with it. But he was alert to the possibility and, keeping control of it, part-closed the door before following me, still staying low until he joined me behind the car.

“Open the boot” he hissed – but there was nobody to hear him or see what was going on. As soon as the boot was unlocked he rose to stand immediately behind me. The lifted boot-lid hid us both from the main building. Being an old model the boot was little more than a tin trunk. Soon he was bending me forwards across the gap until my torso was almost in the boot.

“There’s nothing worth stealing here” I insisted, “ nothing but .... “

“Nothing but you!” said a grim voice and two rough hands pressed my shoulders down until my head was almost against the floor of the boot, pressed hard against the wellies and an old green Barbour jacket.

“More waxed cotton” he exclaimed. “Oh, the smell, sight and feel all gets me really randy, bouy.” He pumped against my arse as he bent me over more firmly, then dragged the tangle of Barbour till it enveloped my head. After a couple more thrusts against my arse he growled “Put your hands behind your back”.

Wha...?” I started, muffled by the jacket.

“Do it!” he insisted, and I obeyed.

His legs were between mine, spreading them and his bodyweight pressed in as I felt hands grasp my elbows.

“No, please” I pleaded into the depths of the boot.

“Keep quiet!” he ordered as I felt something tighten between my elbows. It must have been a cable-tie – or two – because I heard the soft ratchet sound, and suddenly my elbows were cinched together. A further plastic tie was soon around my wrists.

“Now – you get in, bouy” he ordered.

“No, please ....”

“In” he insisted and I felt my leg lifted and my torso fell sideways and my second leg was raised and twisted and soon I was crammed into the cramped space.

My head still inside the green Barbour jacket, I was facing away from the opening, so I could see nothing and only hear his parting shot.

Oi really lyke yer suit - suits, bouy – you should have let me fuck you when it was offered – but thanks for the camera and phone. Guess when it gets to closing time somebody’ll come and check out the cars that haven’t left yet.
Oi doubt if nobody’ll hear you before then.”

With that the lid slammed shut and everything went even darker.

The next sound was the car door being slammed. Was he going to drive off with me in the boot – to where? But then, even more scary, I heard his bike fire up and rev. Was he deliberately letting me know he was leaving? If there had been any room to panic I might have panicked – but wedged as I was I could only concentrate on breathing in this confined space under the tangle of rich-smelling fabric. I’d often wondered what it might feel like to be locked in the boot of a car. I’d read about it in one-handed reading – but there was nothing sexy about this harsh reality – and my bladder was now full to bursting.


I decided to try reversing my position. I shook and dragged at the head-covering until I felt it move aside slightly. Chinks of light gave me as sense of orientation, so I decided to try and move so I’d be facing the opening if/when the boot was next opened. How long would the air last? Were there dangerous petrol fumes. The smell of the wellies distracted me as I squirmed – but the predominant smell was of waxed cotton. My encased body in this confined space was generating heat (only my feet were cold). I bumped my head and banged my knee trying to reverse my position. My wrists didn’t budge in their binding, my elbows weren’t cinched dangerously tight, but no amount of writhing was going to shift the plastic bands. Trying to lay my head down was painfully uncomfortable. This was not a horny trip – but somehow ...

My mind seemed to switch off ... except for the pain of my bladder. Was I going to piss myself?




In the past I’ve spent a lot of time enjoying/surviving tied-up situations. It’s been my passion for as long as I can remember. And since adulthood I’ve been lucky enough to engineer myself into many situations that turned me on. This wasn’t one of them.

Although writing about it now is giving me a hard-on – at the time I was seriously worried. I knew there was no point in wasting energy and precious oxygen shouting. Best stay quiet and listen for any sounds of people – then start yelling. As I waited I speculated on what might happen when/if I was discovered. Straight forward enough – menaced by a local skinhead as I returned to my car – the camera and phone stolen ...

I thought of Mike waiting for me to arrive. Might he come looking for me – specially if he phoned and the phone wasn’t answered ... what then? ... Jesus I needed to piss. In the past I’d been left tied and suffered the painful build-up before eventually being forced to piss myself; something we’re conditioned to resist – but once you reach a certain point and you can’t hold out any longer ... you wonder why you put up so much resistance (and endured the pain). Piss & get it over with.


I thought the stream would never end, and felt the warm spread around my groin and stomach and thighs ... but all too soon the heat went out of it and I was cold and damp and miserable – but somehow not afraid. I’d survived some seriously uncomfortable ‘scenarios’. The main store probably would close around eight and I’d no idea what time it was now – three – four? I pictured the crop-headed Cornishman exploring the camera and finding the pictures I’d taken. He was turned on by waxed cotton – so was I. Was the motorcycle cop who’d stopped me also into it? He’d said “As a matter of fact, sir, I can appreciate that.” Strange that I remembered his exact words, lying scrunched up in the pungent darkness. Perhaps I’m not as strange with my kink as I sometimes think. My thoughts drifted on to visualise my wardrobe hung with different suits, one and two piece waxed – Black Prince and Rukkas, padded and unlined ... and the stack of sticking together old naval foul weather suits stored in a crate: rich-smelling with their own unique scent when hauled out for an occasional deliberately hot and sweaty layering session.

I thought of Mike’s even more varied collection, which included a couple of seriously professional diver’s dry suits; the sort of suit you can’t escape from once you’re in it. That’s something I knew from long and uncomfortable experience – but I still got off on the memory of the experience. Some experiences are like that, I mused in the claustrophobic darkness. I remembered the sessions in smooth tight-fitting neoprene wet suits. Being Cornwall you could ride in a car or on a bike dressed in a wet-suit on the way to or from the surf. They were good in mud, too. One of the old outbuildings of Mikes place had been a pig-sty and the low-walled enclosure was still a mud-bath – and had a plumbed-in water supply, useful for hosing someone down or filling buckets – and the old drains had been cleared, deliberately – by forced labour.

Working around Mike’s place had included a lot of fetching and carrying. Stones to re-build stone walls in the pissing rain – suitably suited-up – wet inside and outside the layering. Chained by the ankle in the pig-sty, left to shovel mud – or heavily manacled, with collar, waist and boots linked together by clanking chain while digging over his potato patch. Some of my longer ‘vacations’ at Mike’s had been harder work than my everyday office job. I’d got home to London with souvenirs of my holiday that I couldn’t show to anybody – except, on  occasions, to another waxed-cotton ‘pervert’ like myself.


My mind drifted back to the heavily-waxed bag hood Mike had had made for me - and mitts made from the same rich fabric that laced onto your wrists so you couldn’t get them off or use your fingers, specially if thickly padded bike gloves were taped on first. Then there was the old thickly padded Trialmaster Belstaff bike jacket that he’d had mitts sewn to under the cuffs. Outwardly it looked like a normal jacket in public ... but with your hands inescapably encased and the jacket closed ... and the discreet ‘D’ ring fixed near the top of the zip padlocked shut, Mike remained in control. He delighted in taking people out in public locked into gear – even gagged inside one of his crash helmets. My mind began to re-live the time when he’d driven me, as pillion passenger, out into the country and left me (inescapably encased) to make my own way home. As an expert in all-over ‘containment’ on occasions he’d even insisted I wear boots a size too small so the tight encasement was total. He’d even had some insoles made with small stud sticking up in them. Laced and locked into those boots you’re happy to stay on your knees, knowing how painful it is to stand up in them ... my mind continued to wander over past experiences and the unusual nature of my ‘tastes’ ... until I heard the sound of a bike. Was it his bike?




The sound of the key in the boot-lock confirmed nothing – had he been arrested and the police ... ?

No! it was him, grinning down at me. I noticed that the light was fading, it must be later than I thought. He leaned in without speaking and gripped two handfuls of the still open-chested jacket, hauling me upwards and his leering face approached mine.

“Now keep your fucking mouth shut, bouy, until I tell you otherwise. Right?” he demanded, his tone indicating he required agreement. I nodded mutely, sensing he was now in a more aggressive mood.

“Kneel and get your balance,  he commanded without letting go of my jacket. My cramped legs screamed as the stretched damp layers of fabric and padding clung around my thighs.

“Lean forward and down a bit” he instructed, using both hands to position me. Behind the car, in this remote corner of the car park in the twilight with the boot open ... there was nobody there to see him drag my body forward so my face was pressed against his groin. It was only then that I discovered he was now wearing waxed over-trousers. He wiped my face around the greasy surface and thrust forwards onto me.

“Lick!” he ordered. “Suck!” he commanded. “Wet them– get the taste, fucker.”

I tried to comply and after a while, he held me off and raised me slightly to grin into my face.

“Like the taste? – what else do you like to get your mouth around?” He took time to close the zip of my jacket right up to the still-strapped collar, neatly re-closing the weather-proof flap. He then patted my cheek – surprisingly lightly. “I told you to keep your mouth shut, bouy – but ... “ he again pulled me forwards until I was face-to-face with his crotch – before easing down the greasy over-trousers to reveal that there were no other pants under them – no jeans – no underwear – only a ramrod stiff cock which was pointing directly at me, shiny and hard.

 “Now you can open your mouth” he said, and waited. A smack across the back of my head told me I’d hesitated too long. At this moment, I knew I had to yell or struggle and suffer the consequences – or open up and suffer alternative pain and discomfort. I licked my lips and did what had to be done.

Surprisingly it tasted relatively savoury rather than disgusting. It wasn’t my first time and somehow my brain reassured me it wouldn’t be the last. But here and now I had no option but to comply, and so I applied myself to getting him to climax as soon as possible and get it over with.

But he was enjoying it too much to allow me to rush things. He squirmed and thrusted and moaned in what sounded like appreciation. With my arms pinioned behind my back and his hands gripping my jacket, he controlled the rhythm and force – but soon his breathing accelerated and (much to my relief) he withdrew before shooting. The first spew hit me full in the chest and as his hands encouraged his convulsing cock, he avoided squirting into my face but deliberately coated the jacket (he’d thought to close the waterproof jacket in advance, my reeling mind reminded me).

As the orgasm started to slow down he again grabbed two handfuls of jacket and dragged my chest against his cock until the cum was massaging his groin. He fumbled for the waistband of his wax trousers and hauled them upwards and continued to drag my cum-drenched jacket against the wax of his pants, deliberately coating them. He grinned – he laughed breathlessly. One gloved hand released my jacket and began to douse itself in the cum – which he then proceeded to smear up onto my face.

His other hand now started to coat itself with spunk which he then wiped into my hair pulling my face up onto his jacket-front. With systematic thoroughness he transferred the white cream from waxed cotton to my face and hair – finally gripping my shoulders and dragging me upwards to his face – where he planted a rough open-mouthed kiss which included an aggressive tonguing,

His unshaven chin grated against my sticky cheeks and I realised he was deliberately coating his own face from mine – and then he contorted himself to rub his face against the front of my slimy jacket, laughing breathlessly as he completed the process. His smeared face then grinned into mine.

“Listen, fuckface. You’re mine. You’ve got what I like and you like what I like, I know that. And, I’ve got something for you.”

Slightly dazed and breathless I remained kneeling there as he fumbled into the pocket of his leather jacket. A chain was around my neck and my face was buried half under the armpit of his jacket before I could argue. Clamped there, I felt-heard-sensed a padlock click. “You’re mine, bouy” he said as I virtually fell away from him. I was too stunned to react as I watched him produce something else from his pocket. Scissors – the type of snub-nosed cut-anything scissors used by the Emergency Services – and something that should be in every bondage playroom. Again my head was hauled forwards and this time steered to between his legs; there to be clamped between vice-like waxy thighs. Immobilised, I felt my elbows released and then the tie between my wrists was cut. Strong arms under my armpits gripped and lifted me bodily out of the car boot. Even in it’s confusion my mind registered this feat of bodily strength. My numb legs found the ground but his arms continued to support my weight. Without them I would probably have slumped to the tarmac. As it was, I just slumped against the now cum-stained sticky leather which covered his chest, not in control of any of my senses.

My arms were free – that simple sentence on paper can convey nothing of the war raging in my nervous system. Only people who have experienced tight binding followed by release can begin to appreciate how long-stressed sinews respond when relaxed; how muscles react; how returning circulation can burn and seem to rip at the veins. My finger-ends were totally numb, my elbows ached and the impulse to flex shoulders and raise arms was irresistible but too painful to achieve. Standing before the bulk of this close-cropped, leather-clad ‘controller’ I was unsure whether any movement might be misinterpreted. I eased my shoulders and flexed my elbows as he watched in apparent amusement. Tentatively I banged my tingling hands together but felt little – except that the outside of each wrist was tender where the cable tie had left marks – marks which might not disappear for hours if not days; this I knew from experience. He waited as my arms flexed again and fingers reached towards my neck. Burning fingers found the chain and although desensitised, discovered that the chain was no token – the rounded sturdy close fat links would not even hacksaw easily.

Still breathless from his exertions (or excitement) he laughed again – and for almost no reason I pumped out a breathless laugh also – relief perhaps that he was allowing me time to recover from the tight trussing. Experimentally, he partially removed his supporting grip on the thick leather belt around my waist – which I only now discerned he was holding me by. His other hand then approached my neck and a finger looped behind the snug chain.

“This stays on,” he said firmly. “Where’d’you live?” he demanded gruffly as he released his grip on the chain.

London” I said.

“Who you visiting?” was his next question – and I hesitated, suddenly cautious.

“A friend – for the weekend ... ”

“What friend? he demanded and I decided I should not reveal this information. He raised an eyebrow at my hesitation.

“I could make you tell me. I could shove you back in the boot, drive you to my place and make you tell me anything I wanted to know. Do you believe I could do that?” he asked confidently. I nodded. “Bet your fucking ass I could! And I might enjoy it if you tried to resist telling me – so I could demonstrate just how good I am at ... interrogation.”


Suddenly he seemed to decide on a different approach. “With that chain locked around your neck your options are limited. So, you spend your weekend doing whatever a big-city pervert who is locked into two old wax motorcycle suits might have come to Cornwall to do for the weekend – with whoever you’ve come to do it with ... both of you knowing that some horny Cornish fucker had got there first. If he’s local – he might be somebody I’d like to meet – and he might like to meet me.”

After a grim pause, he suddenly caught me a stinging smack across the face before barking out a final sentence into my face. “Tell me his name!”

“No!” I said with a firmness that surprised me as well as him.

After a pause he continued, now menacingly calm, “Then answer me this instead.” A strong gloved finger hooked itself under the front of the chain, which pulled it painfully against the back of my neck as my face was hauled downwards until I was forced to my knees. Once again facing the crotch of his now cum-stained waxed over-trousers, he insisted.  “What time you setting off back to London after your kinky weekend?”

“Sunday – three-ish / four-ish” I croaked into his crotch, fearful that his fierce hold on the chain might snap my neck ... but he was now dragging me upright into a standing position again ... demonstrating that he had total control although my arms were now free.

“So – if you drive in here at three thirty sharp on Sunday – I will be here with the key. I may unlock this chain” (he shook me by it) ... “or, I may send you back to London still wearing it. Depends how nice you are to me.”

The proposition was surprisingly exciting – and suddenly, having slammed down the car boot lid, he sat me backwards onto it and was soon skilfully using his elbows either side of my chest to push me down onto the back of the car, pinned there by his bodyweight. Leaning his sticky chest down heavily down onto mine, I felt his warm legs forcing their way between mine until I was efficiently immobilised. In that position, in spite of the almost total body-to-body contact was able to at least summon up some mental resistance.

“I could hacksaw the chain off” I breathed into his face.

“And I could come find you – wherever you are. I’ve got your car registration number and I’ve got contacts.”

Pinned and powerless, I decided to play for time. “If I come ... “

“You will come!” he breathed menacingly into my face. Then after a final couple of provocative thrusts of his pelvis, he released the painful hold he’d kept on the chain and removed his weight.

“Go do what you came here to do,” he said looking down at me, because I hadn’t moved. “But at three-thirty sharp on Sunday you will be here ... “ and then he smiled and dragged me upright using two handfuls of my messy jacket-front “I suspect you’ll enjoy it ... and who knows where it may lead.”
His still sticky gloved hand once more massaged around my chest – pulled down on the strapped collar so the chain around my neck was more visible. I felt like a rag doll, still off-balance in my hot and sticky wax prison (sticky and wet both inside-and-out because I’d cum at least once during the experience). With one hand on my shoulder he pushed me ahead of him out from behind the car towards the driver’s door. “Get to fuck out of here.”

Non-plussed I moved ahead. Behind me I heard him open and re-slam the boot ... which made me turn.

“Here - keys” he said abruptly and threw them to me. I caught them and unlocked the door, hesitated and climbed in, aware that he was now coming towards me. As I seated myself I noticed he’d taken the trouble to wind the window up sometime since he’d first hauled me out of the drivers seat. He now grabbed the door before I could close it.

“Haven’t you forgotten something?” he demanded.

“What?” I asked, genuinely nervous, my face twitching slightly ...  which made me suddenly conscious of the dried cum which still coated my entire head. In the nervousness of the moment I was also conscious of the smell of cum in the air; coming from my hair – and even the smell of piss rising from inside the suits. As I sat, I also saw the white-coated front of his waxed over-trousers below his cum stained leather bike jacket. It all hovered, ominously close. It was impossible to see his face because his crotch and legs were virtually filling the open doorway.

“Forgotten what?” I said, nervous of the pungent bulk looming over me.

He stood back a little and leaned down towards my anxious face. “Your phone and your camera,” he challenged. And I didn’t know what to say, but my heart was beating seriously fast as he breathed into my face.

“I took them to Mike’s place,” he said, “ – just like he told me to – to prove I’d done what he’d told me to do.”
The door slammed closed before I’d fully taken in what he’d said.
I stared through the windscreen as he strode to his bike and hauled it off it’s stand. Having cleared the path for the car, he motioned me to wind the window down – which I did without hesitation.

The bike was now back on it’s stand and he was heading towards me.

“And tell him that this evening ... “ he leaned down to my window ... “ ... he should bring you over to my place in the locked-on Trialmaster jacket – the one I modified for him - the one with the built-in padded mitts – and your mouth well taped under your crash helmet. And we’ll take you for a spin before introducing you to our local pub. There’ll be a couple of other mates there – mate.”
After a brief pause he finished abruptly. “Drive!”

I drove – because words had failed me.




NEW TOPIC: Modifying and building on other people's turn-on stories:
This story, when I sent it to a friend said "I'm more turned on by Rukka soft-and-shiny motorcycle gear, than dull greasy waxed cotton". So I introduced him to the idea of adjusting stories to better suit the reader's personal tastes. We talked about the ability to search and replace in an electronic text, and even keep track of changes. We exchanged several e-mail during the process as he enjoyed his systematic elimination of the words waxed cotton and changed many of the descriptive adjectives to transform the storyline. Straps and buckles became Velcro, dull and greasy became shiny and pliable. The smell, the touch, the taste descriptions all shifted - and seated at his computer dressed from head to boots in Rukka gear, he enjoyed several hours of self-stimulating creativity.

The same happened when I 'extended' Derek Arnold's story until it became Man-to-Man Stuff (see 'Storylines).
eedback on the topic of building onto other people's stories (as distinct story-writing) has resulted in a page called STORY BUILDING-1 Check it out of the idea appeals to you.


Return to STORYLINES for info on other fiction-based-on-fact
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