A short story by Derek Arnold
made longer by Jim Stewart


Opening up the mind to alternatives is what this web site is about.

This action-packed story is mainly about how the mind deals with isolation and powerlessness. It was inspired by somebody else’s story about brain-washing. I’ve always been interested in capture and interrogation. Experiments in mind-bending fascinate me. I’ve spent lots of time sightless, isolated and with no power over what might happen next, and it gave me insight into just how flexible the mind can be.

Like Jack London’s STAR ROVER, you can mentally travel in time when then the body is firmly fixed in one place with no choices to make. So Derek Arnold’s fantasy of capture of a senior police officer, who is then encased in an all-rubber ‘torture suit’ to be softened-up in preparation for interrogation - sent my mind off on a journey of it’s own.

MAN-TO-MAN STUFF grew out of Derek’s hot story. Generously, he encouraged me to publish my version (The topic of taking somebody else's idea as a starting point is exploredon a separate page.

Here is my spin-off; my theory that the mind-set we grow up with is heavily influenced by family and the circumstances we grew up in - BUT is it the real ‘US’? What does it take to get back to the natural instincts which were sometimes bred out of us? Gut instincts which perhaps lurk somewhere at the back of the brain - can be tapped into?

March 2012:

Derek's original story is somewhere on the Internet.
Soon as I find out where, I'll add a LINK to it.

I do not have his version on file, so here I shall only quote briefly from his opening sequence which I used as a lead-in to the extra 30,000 words which I added at the end of his original story.

A short story by Derek Arnold
made longer by Jim Stewart


A go-getting British police officer has been kidnapped, totally encased in an all-rubber torture suit and then painfully roped and hog-tied. As he regain consciousness he only gradually becomes aware of his predicament.

... Disoriented, it took time to assess my situation:
Arms tied tightly behind me ... that I knew right away. There was also something tied tight around my ankles and bent knees. Even my thighs were lashed together, I discovered. Rope (I assumed) secured my wrists and my elbows, pulling them painfully tight together in the small of my back. My head was enclosed in ... something; the smell was familiar, but I couldn't place it. My mouth felt stuffed full with a soft, springy-but-tough mass and I could barely swallow. Whatever encased my head shut out all light. It felt like a skin-tight helmet of some sort. Gradually, I grew more aware of the pressure of more rope laced all around my body. Everything was painfully tight and my muscles throbbed from the severe strain of the unusual position my limbs were trussed into.

Lying on my side, I couldn't straighten my legs without pulling on my arms. Hogtied, I thought dispassionately. I'd seen it in pictures but never imagined it could be this uncomfortable. Also, my skin felt strange. I couldn't work it out but knew that every part of me was covered in some way. Was my uniform still on? No, I'd been wearing my beat-up old motorcycle leathers. I knew how they felt; tight and thick – but not this tight. Certainly, the heavy steel-toed boots were no longer on my feet. My assessment skills tried to kick in, but the uncomfortably stressful physical contortions were, I decided, already having a dangerous effect on my mind.

Concentrate, damn it, I told myself. But, somehow ... after being unconscious, my mind was in a disoriented state as I continued to try and assess the situation. They must have targeted me for some reason – be after something – and me being in no position to put up much resistance – this is serious trouble. The muscular pressure was already getting to me. I must fight it. My bulk was not an asset in such a predicament. Beef had it's uses, but in this contorted position ... my mind left the sentence uncompleted. Already, I wasn't sure how much longer I could deal with it ... and I can't even talk to them, I thought desperately. What the hell do they want? What's going to happen next? Why hasn't somebody realised that I've regained consciousness?

Suddenly I thrashed around as much as the bindings would allow, just to let anybody on the outside know I was conscious. The movement made me breathless inside the enclosed hood. I fought to stay calm and to remember all those tedious anti-terrorist and anti-kidnap training courses. The wham-bang action sessions had been fun, but the interminable theory lectures and discussions were Yawnsville. But here I was – trussed like a turkey – and there was something very oppressive about the way it felt – my entire body was somehow – constricted – more than just ropes and a hood. We'd had some of that in training exercises: canvas sack over the head – cold water – being yelled at – smacked around. That, I'd survived. Enjoyed surviving, but this – this is something more – sinister!

I tried to flex my fingers and realised my hands were enclosed in something like a mitten. This kept my hands tightly trapped and useless. I couldn't feel anything through the material; it was thick. To make matters worse, I felt so hot my body was sweating profusely, and the perspiration wasn't going anywhere. It was making my whole body wet, the heat was over every part of my body from fingers to feet, and especially my head. I couldn't make it out. What the hell had they done to me? As I tried to clasp the material surrounding my mittened hands I suddenly realised what the smell was, because I now recognised the texture of the material that covered my entire body. It was rubber.

With this realisation came a dangerous thought. What type of villain kidnaps a member of the police force and then encases him in rubber and keeps him trussed up like this? Some weirdly perverted and seriously demented bastard. Or is it a diving suit; will water be involved? I couldn't get my mind around it. I knew that some people found rubber a turn-on – and I'd seen films where they used this type of gear for sensory deprivation. It hit me. Oh Jesus! Brainwashing.


At this point I started to add my own thoughts on the situation:
How many bondage/fetish related stories start with the leading character regaining consciousness in severe restraint?

The hero of this tale had never even read a so-called kinky story in his life.
Dan Drummond is one of the new fast-track to promotion breed of youngish British police officer: a brawny thirty year-old Information Technology whiz kid - but he could just as easily have left university for a career in professional Rugby League. A quick-fisted, motorcycle riding young ‘Turk’ from early grammar school days, those anonymous men who keep an eye open for potential Establishment talent had monitored his progress surreptitiously through every phase of his go-getting education.

Now, having bypassed many dedicated young police constables and sergeants, “Desperate Dan” (as older colleagues called him), is more commonly known as “Bulldog”. But, to get himself ‘snatched’ while following his own unorthodox monitoring of an elaborate undercover operation has landed him in a serious predicament ...


Trying to reduce the strain of the 'hog-tie', I moved as best I could, but nothing relieved the pain. I became aware that my arms were, in addition to being lashed together, secured tight against my body and ropes were also wrapped around my torso in some criss-cross fashion. I could feel them biting against my flesh through the thick covering. Somebody must have spent a lot of time applying such elaborate roping to an unconscious man. It seemed it was deliberately intended to punish as well as be super efficient.

I experimented by attempting to speak but immediately knew it would be impossible to make myself understood. Even with determined effort, only muffled grunts were possible, and they remained inside the thick helmet or whatever covered my entire head (not my motorcycle helmet I told myself. Too tight). Saliva dribbled from the side of my gagged mouth and was pooling at the side of my face and chin, the liquid trapped inside the casing. No light relieved the darkness; no way of knowing if it was day or night.

My body throbbed all over in pain. My six-foot-four well exercised frame was not built for this type of stress, so desperate to shift position, I strained painfully in an attempt to move even slightly. The effort paid off. Suddenly I rolled onto my chest, the movement dragging my feet high up behind me, still attached to my wrists as they were. Settled into this new position, the pain in my arms eased slightly but I felt my cock and balls crushed under me, now pinned between my body and the hard surface on which I lay. As this new sharp pain crashed through my groin I sucked hard on the wad in my mouth. Long time since I’d been so aware of my genital equipment in this way.


The presence of the original author's menacing 'interrogator' is soon added. He demands information which Dan knows would jeopardise several current covert police investigations.

A series of changed positions, mental torture and administration of a 'truth' gas are described. Dan's mind begins to despair of surviving. Sexual implications are introduced - and the married-with-kids police officer begins to fear for his sanity. Several orgasms are artificially induced - and there promises to be no end to the torture when he once again loses consciousness.

My story begins just as the original story ends.



Jim Stewart's follow-on story

With that, a wave of crackling electricity rippled gently along the entire length of my body; from the tips of each toe and gradually around to the tips of each finger.  It was like a feather being drawn across my skin with intense precision, missing no part.  I tensed as the feeling then began to swim around my body randomly – unpredictably – the waves becoming stronger at each surge with subtle increase.  I tried not to tense as they washed over and around me, but was totally ... powerless.

The sensations were relentless, they never tired and never allowed me to catch my breath fully.  Never before had I experienced such a working over.  The intensity of the pleasure/pain remains impossible to describe adequately.  In particular, my nipples received special attention, forcing me to be more aware of them as an erogenous zone than ever before.  I gasped and squirmed as they were sucked and teased ... until both mind and body were shuddering as the treatment continued, and I shuddered uncontrollably within the limits of my glutinous confinement.

After what seemed like an agonising eternity, when exhaustion was setting in, the sensations began to concentrate on my cock.  My mind reeled at the stroking up and down my shaft and around my swollen balls, caressing and sucking – relentless – unstoppable.  And the nerve-stimulating vibrating deep within my rectum also began to increase mercilessly – driving me slowly and painfully to the very point of another involuntary climax ... when, yet again, all sensations stopped cold.  It was as if I had been thrown off the top of a cliff.  I screamed into the gag a prolonged and furious scream, then fell sobbing into an abyss of despair.

“Well now, my devious friend,” said the voice in my darkness, “you must understand that you took a gamble, and lost.  So!  Because you lied to me, whatever happens next, you invited.  In some perverse way I’m glad you challenged me to do my worst.  And you can not imagine some of the things I could do to you now, Dan, buddy, and although what you’ve already experienced is burned into your being for all time ... how long is time? This suit always gets results.  With some it, it has permanent effects.  But with you, who knows? Oh, Dan ... big buddy ... I would so enjoy spending a few more hours proving to you that I could break you;  could bring you to willing co-operation; could make you do anything my ingenious brain dreamed up.  But the time at my disposal is limited, so this is 'Goodbye', Dan.  I would like to have found out just how long you could have held onto your sanity?  In fact, I’m tempted to indulge myself the pleasure of extending your final moments in this suit and hear you plead before your time expires.  But, such is life – Dan – Drum, you sexy thing you!  It’s been a pleasure, believe me.  I’m also quite, quite drained.  You just hang in there for as long as it takes.  It will soon be over.”

And with that, the words of a fanatic ended – and in the empty silence my numb mind suddenly exploded.  The word “Goodbye” hit like a hammer and with a roar of fury which actually penetrated the gag and mask, blind panic threw my mind and body into spasms of frantic emotion, more forceful than anything I had ever experienced. 

Desperation lent me strength but, contained as it was, I only imploded.  He was going to kill me and I would do anything to alter the moment.  I would fight ... or plead, beg, agree to anything he or any of his people wanted of me.  Never had I felt so totally desperate and willing to .... what ... submit?  I would submit!  I wanted to submit.  And with a blinding flash I became conscious that although none of the dreaded tortures of the suit were now assailing my body, I was bucking and thrashing in a sexual orgasm induced by nothing more than my imagination.  And did I really hear the sardonic chuckles of my evil adversary, or were they my own agonised screams of despair mixed with a sexual energy my mind had never known before?

As my groin exploded yet again, in the total blackness which already surrounded me ... more lights went out as I sank into ... unknowingness.


Any serious player of Power Games in the SM or fetish community knows the potency of suspense; the waiting-game. The imagination is more brutal than a lot of physical abuse. Plant the seeds and let them grow. Man is his own worst enemy when insecurity is used as a weapon.

Neither Big Dan, or the fictional hero of Sapper’s Bulldog Drummond adventure stories, ever had to deal with such a devious-minded skilfully sadistic adversary. The images of his having been stripped naked by however many men, vulnerable and helpless ... and suited up in an elaborate contraption of rubber and tubes were eating away at the helpless police officer’s shredded resistance. Was it a neck-entry suit, his numb mind wondered, absently? He’d done a diving course and struggled his way into neck and wrist seals of a heavy-duty dry-suit, and strapped himself into a diving mask. But the idea of other men manoeuvring his unconscious naked body into such a contraption; smirking and touching ... ! Even if it was back-entry, his mind rambled on aimlessly, how many pairs of hands to get such a suit onto his heavy and totally vulnerable body?

Then the elaborate details of this physical restraint set-up somehow forced their way into his mind as he lay so totally immobilised: the table equipped with straps, the pumping machinery for the awful sucking and massaging, the electrical currents which must have produced the tickling sensation, the drugged breathing apparatus! What kind of arch-pervert ran this outfit? The voice was not one he had heard at any time in the audio-surveillance set-up his men had installed so successfully.

In the dark, with too much time to think ... Dan found his mind was running off the rails.

Inexplicably the ordeal is suddenly over ...

I awoke with subdued lights around me. I sat up in bed, emerging from under a snow-white sheet which covered my naked body. I looked around and there were no restraints and no rubber suits. I swung my legs to the floor and there was carpet, luxurious under my feet. I sat for a moment, conscious of the soles of my feet, comfortable against the pile of the carpet. At the window, twilight was beginning to waken a familiar night-time city skyline: early lights in tall buildings, shining, dazzling – brighter than I ever remember. My own bedroom, in my own apartment – and it felt good. I didn’t understand what was going on.

I rose, somewhat tentatively, went unsteadily to the mirror – and looked at my own naked chest. My skin looked unblemished - but were there dark lines, traces of bruises where I had thrown myself against the cutting bindings? My fingers traced for evidence of a – nightmare? Or was it imagination? My hands caressed my own body, feeling for reminders of the pain or abuse. My dick was hard – but were there any bruises, or marks of restraint? I wasn’t sure as my hands roved over my skin. It felt good. My fingers moved to my cock and handled it. It was big. It was hard. I was unsteady on my feet on the carpet – but my cock was ramrod hard.

As if in a dreaming state, I wandered to my exercise set-up and looked at it as if were something foreign to me. I touched chrome, and the padded bench, soft vinyl and cables and pulleys and hard steel of the elaborate superstructure - and the round weights, hanging heavy on the bar in it’s cradle above the padded flat bench. My fingers wandered – exploring – and then back to my own flesh – and I wandered from bedroom into the bathroom.

Cool tiles tingled the soles of my feet – and I remembered other tingling against my feet. I needed to piss – but I was too hard. I fondled my cock to encourage it to pee – but it wasn’t the time. I was confused. I smelled my arm – it smelled clean – freshly washed – or bathed. No reminders of the sweat – or the smell of rubber. I remembered the smell of the rubber.

I padded barefoot out into the lounge – onto the wood floor. My feet felt the wood. As I walked my hands roved over my thighs and stomach – and nipples. I was aware of my whole body as never before. It tingled. It felt – sensitised. I was more conscious of it – and paused before another mirror. I was big – and hard. My chest muscles, my arms, my jaw – strong – my neck thick. I drew in a breath – and watched myself; more aware of ‘self’ than I ever remember being.

Voices in quiet conversation – I suddenly became aware of them – and the kitchen light was on. Voices speaking English. With no regard for my nakedness I went to the kitchen, quietly, and looked around the door.

“Dan, you’re awake. How the hell are you doing?” It was the Chief and ... Harry, my buddy and colleague from the old days. School friend and best mate until his career had taken him off – somewhere. Christ – how long since I’d last seen him? Years! Harry Ansell! But here he was in my kitchen – if it really was my kitchen. Nothing seemed real. Had I died and gone somewhere else – where familiar things live on with you?
Harry approached me, hand outstretched ...
“What’s going on?” I asked abruptly, and Harry hesitated and lowered his hand – and then referred the situation to my Chief – who looked concerned for me, but simply told me not to worry about what had happened, as all would all be explained to me after I’d taken a couple of days to rest.  Both men seemed uncomfortable.

“What crap is that,” I said, “I want to know what happened to me.  Where did you find me? Who the fuck kidnapped me in the first place? Harry, why are you ... ?”
 “Look Dan,” he cut in, “you’ve had a really un-nerving experience and you need to rest before we go into explanations.”  There was a slight American twang about his voice but Harry was as British as I am.  “I’m gonna stay in your spare room.  Keep you company while you recover,” he continued. 

I looked towards the Chief and he just shrugged.  “Orders from higher up.  You got yourself into trouble, and ... somebody had to get you out of it.  I’m off home.  Harry will begin to explain things, gradually, when you feel better.  Get some rest.  That’s an ORDER,” he said as he walked from the kitchen and left my apartment.

My reactions were slow.  Still not sure if I was awake or asleep – or dead.  I thought about it – standing naked in my own kitchen – something I seldom did.  Naked in front of this man who’d been a close friend since we were fifteen – but we’d never stood naked together except in the showers.  As these thoughts swirled around in my cotton-wool mind, I fondled my cock.  It felt real enough – and Harry just stood there with no discernable expression on his face.

"Harry, what the fuck is going on here?  Where am I? Is this really my flat ... or ...?  Harry talk to me! What the fuck’s going on?  Something’s happened to me ... NO!  Is still happening?  My brain – my mind – my nerve-ends ... "  The words came out sounding a bit pathetic.

Harry looked down at his feet and seemed to be uncomfortable.
“Dan, let’s get you back into bed and I promise I’ll explain things after you’ve rested up some.”  He approached me tentatively, and hesitated before he slid an arm around my naked waist and began to guide me back to my bedroom.  I was surprised I’d allowed him to do that.  He was a great guy; 5’11, stocky and, being smaller than me I’d always been the one to support him – take the lead in any situation where we were involved together – and been able to get the upper hand in any friendly rough-and-tumble.  But here I was (wasn’t I?).  I was surprised that I was allowing Harry to put his arm around me.  It felt good – reassuring.  I liked the feeling of his warm, hairy arm against my cooler flesh – his short sleeved white shirt contrasted so well against the tanned skin and dark fuzz which had always covered his body.  The tan was much darker now, I thought absently.  His hairs tickled my skin and I shivered with goose bumps.  Obviously, I was in some state of shock ... needed to sleep.  Must be the drugs the bastards ... my senses were ... shot.
“You’ll catch cold like that,” said Harry smiling and cocking his head at my naked form.

I smiled back at him, vaguely, as he helped me down onto the crisp cool bed and began to draw the sheet over my body.  For some reason I didn’t mind him seeing me bollock naked.  In the past I’d have never allowed that to happen.  I liked him smiling down at me.  But I raised my leg under the sheet in sudden embarrassment, because I realised that my perpetual hard-on was, if anything, getting harder.  Harry didn’t seem to notice and told me to get some rest as he moved away to the door.
As his hand went to turn out the light I said quickly, “Leave the light on ... please.”
“Sure thing,” he said, smiling understandingly before disappearing but leaving the door ajar.

Left alone, I touched the end of my cock with the tip of one finger, tentatively, and it sent sparks shooting down its length.  I gasped in pleasure and, pulling aside the sheet, grabbed my shaft in my fist.  This was not me.  What had been going on?  My mind strayed to lubrication.  It needed lubrication, but I knew there was no KY in the flat.  That was in Guilford.  I didn’t keep that sort of thing here.  But there was shaving cream in the bathroom, I told myself.  That might do the trick.  I began to rub along the length of my cock in slow easy strokes ... but lubrication would make it more ....

As I stroked harder I neared an orgasm too soon and knew I had to stop.  Something was wrong!  This was not me – this was – a nervous reaction to – what?  I lay there ... tingling ... and tears began to roll down my cheeks.  I threw my arm across my face but the tears turned to sobs.  I tried to smother them against the hardness of the muscle, but Harry must have heard.  His head appeared around the door, and when he saw me crying, hurried in.
"Hey, hey, hey!” he said sympathetically, "That’s OK, let it out”.

I couldn’t speak but his awkward concern opened the floodgates and, as he sat down on the bed to comfort me, I wrapped my arms around him and buried my face in his broad chest, hairy beneath his crisp white shirt.  I remembered his chest from the gym and shower room – since we were kids.  I sobbed against him and he cradled my head and stroked my short hair, making soothing noises.  I pulled closer to him and found comfort in the strength of his masculine body.  I moved over on the bed and pulled at him so that he had to swing his hairy naked legs up beside me.  He must have been preparing to go to bed when he’d heard me.

As his warmth washed through me, I became conscious again of my aroused state – because again I realised my cock was more rampant than I’d ever remembered it – and longer.  My cock felt long and heavy as he sat and I lay there.  Even though it was semi-dark, Harry must have noticed, yet he said nothing.  He said nothing, waiting for me to get myself together.  I snuggled against his warm body and took in his masculine smells and the hardness of his muscles beneath the tanned skin.  Nipples.  I remembered the stimulation my nipples had received in that suit – and remembered how stimulated they’d felt – and now they felt hard again – aroused.

His hand continued to stroke my hair and as I moved my arm, it bumped into his cock, tucked away inside his boxer shorts ... and it was hard.
" I’m sorry, Dan,” I said “I don’t know what’s the matter with me; what those bastards have done to me?”
“Don’t be sorry, just relax and follow your feelings,” he said, “you’ve been through a difficult process.”
I sniffled and laughed quietly.  “Too fucking right.” I said as I took his hand and put it onto my own hard member.
“Dan, what are you ....” he said as he moved my hand away.
" Sorry!” I said.  “I don’t understand it myself, but somehow ... I find holding you close like this to be a real ... need,” I finished, confused.

Harry drew a deep breath.  “Relax, Dan.  You’ve always been a good mate, and I’m sorry I’ve not been in touch for a while.  But I’m here now.  I’m here for you – and you’ve been through a traumatic experience – and I want you to know that ... anything you need ... I’m your man".

“You’re my man.” I said sleepily and my mind added silently, ‘I wish!’ – and then it began to race again as words tumbled out.  “Harry, I don’t know what’s got into me – got under my skin – been happening – but Harry – I appreciate you being here – telling me you’re here for me – my man.  Shit!  What have those bastards done to my senses?  I don’t know what’s changed exactly, but – I can’t think of anyone I’d rather ... snuggle up with than you at this moment.”

Harry withdrew slightly from me and my heart sank – but he smiled down at me.  “You’re not yourself,” And he drew his arm tighter around me, and although I’m five inches taller than him and a great deal heavier and more muscular than him, I felt like a little boy held in the comfort of his father’s lap.  I felt safe for the first time in a lot of years.  Certainly, I felt safer than I had during the last period ... Jesus ... I didn’t even know how long I’d been kidnapped for.

“Harry, what happened after ...? How did I ... ? When did you ... ? Was it you who got me out?”
“Shush, shush, shush,” was all he said.
“But I need to know!” I insisted.
“Not now!” he said firmly.  I liked the firm tone of his voice.
“Shit.  What have they done to me? I feel so fucking horny, Harry.  Those perverted bastards, pumping me full of God knows what.  That’s it, isn’t it Harry.  I feel so fucking ... randy.  I’m sorry, mate.  I’ve got no control over ... “

My hand reached down to my own cock, and my confused head shook from side to side and began to slide down his chest towards his groin.  Only with a great effort did I turn my head away, apologising and again dissolving into deep throated sobs.  Tears, for Christ’s sake!.
“I’m sorry, mate.  I’m sorry,” I said, “I just don’t know what they’ve done to me.”
“You just need rest,” he said, embarrassed.
“I need to fuck or get fucked,” I roared – and then stared at him, open mouthed.
“You WHAT,” Harry practically hissed, his eyes wide in amazement.

“I’m sorry, Harry.  I’m sorry – forget it.  Forget I ever said that – please.  But – but, something inside me is still eating away at my mind.  After what I’ve been through – I’m not making any sense.  It’s just this feeling that – when I was in that fucking suit – I got to a point when I needed whoever it was to ... I would have let him do anything.  I would have welcomed ... Harry, you’ve got to help me.  Please!  Until these feelings pass.  I hope to God they will pass – but until they do ... Harry ... the chief said you’ve got to look after me.  Well, you need to protect me from myself.  I don’t want to wank but I need to wank – but I don’t want to wank.
“Wank – is that all?”
“No, it isn’t all.  I want to willingly drop my head into your lap and – Harry, for Christ’s sake, help me.  What have those bastard’s done to make me feel so ... desperate.  Hold me, Harry – tight.  Do anything to me.”

“Dan, what are you … ? You don’t really mean ... ?” Harry stammered.
“Harry, before I do anything I’ll regret for the rest of my life – stop me, please.  I need you to fuck me or – anything.  But it’s not me talking.  Please help me.  Talk to me – hold me down – tie me up – anything.  Anything you want – but shut me up.  Knock me out.  Gag me and tie me down – but – stop me ... going crazy.”

I sobbed and he held me tightly – his arms under my arms and around my chest – stopping me holding him too tightly.  Holding me away from him, frustrating my impulse to pull him closer to me.  I tried to reach under him and touch his crotch – and he struggled to avoid my hands – his strong hands, eventually pushing me down onto the bed and pinning my arms.

“Now cut it out, Dan.  Relax,” he growled firmly.
“How can I fucking relax.  It must be the drugs.  Help me!  There’s some rope in the kitchen drawer.  There’s adhesive tape.  If you don’t tie me down – I don’t know what I might do.
“But I can’t ... " he insisted.
“You must.  You fucking must!  If you don’t tie me down – I’ll rape you.  I’m stronger than you.  I’ve always been stronger than you.  Since we were kids I could always ... Harry, if you don’t fucking tie me down – the way I feel, I can’t be responsible for my own actions.  Please!”

He shook his head desperately – and then moved off towards the kitchen.
“Where are you going?” I almost screamed.
“To get ... rope.  You said rope.”
“In the kitchen drawer by the washing machine.  And the tape’s on the shelf by the back door.  Do it.  And a gag!  Stop me talking.  I need to stop talking ... and wanting to ...  Get the fucking rope.”  With that I sprang out of bed and swung open one of the mirrored wardrobe doors.  My gym bag was there.  A squash ball, I thought.  That would make a gag.  But there were no squash balls ... but there was a foam practice tennis ball; soft and pliable, but big.  It seemed I was in panic ... losing it.  Never in my life ...

Harry came back with tape, rope and kitchen scissors to cut it with.
“Good.” Tie my hands behind me and then ... "
“Are you sure?” he asked.
“Fucking positive,” I hissed at him.  “Tie me – and gag me – and leave me until I cool off.  All night.  Don’t worry – just tie me tight – and leave me all night.  Here, this will do for a gag.”
“It’s too fucking big.  You’ll choke to death,” he said looking at the foam ball in my hand.
“Do it,” I demanded.  “First tie my hands behind my back – and do it right!”

He hesitated, but my desperate agitation seemed to convince him, and he cut a short length of rope, and I turned round, clamping my wrists side-by-side behind my back.  I felt the rope circling a wrist and I began to relax,  breathing deeply for the first time since this urgency hit me.  My cock was standing out rigid as I waited for him to finish – but he seemed unwilling to make the rope too tight.
“No,” I moaned angrily, “you’ve got to do it right!  Make it so there’s no way I can get loose.  Inescapable,” I insisted.
I waited again, breathing hard.  The ball and tape lay on the bed as I stood there, naked and shivering with tension ... emotion.  My rampant cock pulsing slightly.  Twitching.

Having roped one wrist, I felt him guide my second wrist into a crossed position.  I knew I wanted them lashed firmly parallel so he could then pinion my elbows tight together like they’d been before.  But it was too late for that, and the crossed wrists were now being tied leaving some movement – but after testing them determinedly, the flexible rope-tie didn’t give.  The wrists stayed  captive behind my back. “Now my ankles,” I said turning and sitting on the edge of the bed .  Tie them as well or I’ll kick my way out and stamp all over you,” I said wrestling again with the loose roping behind my back: testing the binding, determined to free them if I could.

“What the fuck’s got into you?" said Harry as he knelt and set to work roping my ankles.  Unable to free my wrists, I watched his muscular shoulders and the top of his dark head as he completed an expert square-lash around my ankles.  Then he looked up, his face in line with my crotch.  I had the urge to lift my pelvis and aim for his mouth.  I closed my eyes and sort of sobbed, because I was like a demon possessed.  Instinctively I felt that these impulses would pass but, for the moment, I could not trust myself and I needed to know I could do no harm to myself or anybody around me.

“Now gag me,” I commanded.
Harry picked up the ball.  “It’s too big,” he said.
“Fucking do it,” I said, “ram it in.  It’s big but only soft foam.  Tape it in, and don’t take it out until morning.  This drug may have worn off by then.  Do it!”

Reluctantly, Harry pushed the foam against my lips and I helped it in.  It was a squeeze, and not as soft as I’d expected.  Once past my teeth, as he pushed the rest of it through, it stuffed my mouth, pushing out my cheeks and immobilising my tongue.  As his fingers forced the remaining bulk behind my teeth, our eyes met.  Deliberately I looked down towards the roll of athletic tape and nodded.
He picked it up, questioningly, and I nodded again, very emphatically.

He seemed to take in a deep breath before peeling open the end of the roll, and then he tentatively taped across my cheeks and mouth – and after a hesitation, continued it all the way around the back of my neck, circling it several times until my face was covered from nostrils to the point of my chin.  This made the foam ball impossible to displace – which was what I’d wanted.  Behind my head as I sat on the bed, I heard the tape rip and the job was done – and done well.

I tried to work my stretched jaw and then flexed my head and muscular neck experimentally – and nothing was going to budge that ball.  But – it was very intense.  More intense than the inflatable rubber bung that had stuffed my mouth for however many hours.  This foam ball was bigger – and I had perhaps over estimated my ... shit!  I had definitely miscalculated.
“How’s that?” asked Harry, looking squarely into my face.  “Can you cope with that?”
He was concerned and perceptive.  Perhaps the look in my eyes told him I was in difficulties.

“I said is that how you wanted it?” he insisted.  “Did I do it right, Dan? Are you really sure you want to deal with something that intense ... for the next six hours, like you said?” he asked in a tone which demanded a response.

I hated to admit it, but I already knew I’d made a mistake.  Could I deal with it? I instinctively knew it would soon become very difficult.  Six hours? No way.  Looking into his waiting eyes, I shook my head in a regretful negative.

“Tough shit” he said, without batting an eyelid. 




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