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HI, MIKE

A couple of letters from John Stapleton.

 

Hi Mike!

I bet you’re surprised to hear from me ‑ writing letters is not really my thing, but I’ve got such a lot to tell you and it’s so expensive to phone you at this distance. Hurry up, get your damned business sorted out, and get back over here. I’m having to resort to drastic measures, and that’s what this is all about. Not having you to play “games” with, I decided to put an advert in a guns and weapons magazine, asking whether any potential escape artist was interested in getting to know my restraints. At first I had no real response, then one letter arrived from a guy explaining he had no extensive experience, but was very interested in escapology. I phoned him, I invited him round, and yesterday evening he turned up.

He had sounded good on the phone, but I wasn’t at all prepared for what was standing there when I opened the door. There was this guy, young‑ only twenty‑four I’ve since discovered, well‑built, short dark hair, unshaven look, leaning against the brickwork, zipped up in black leather and holding a motor‑cycle crash helmet. “Hi, I’ve come about the ad,” he said simply. He was soon sitting in his leather jeans and white T‑shirt on my leather sofa, drinking a can of beer. We spent a while talking about bikes and general things, but it didn’t take too long before we got down to the reason for his visit. He said he had always been interested in escape artists, had a big collection of books and articles about the subject, and had often let friends tie him up. He had always got out. “Up to now!” I told him. “Want to try a few things out?” 

He did!

I got out a pair of ratchet handcuffs and put those around his wrists. He sat there with a concentrated look on his face, his hands in his lap covered by his leather jacket which he had asked me to throw over them. Do you know, he got those cuffs off within a couple of minutes! I was really quite impressed. I locked his hands behind his back, this time using heavier Hiatt cuffs. He knelt down and held his breath as he strained his arms far enough apart to work them over his arse and down behind his knees. He got up and literally stepped through his handcuffs, which wasn’t quite as easy as it sounds. He regretted not taking his army‑style boots off first. The cleated soles caught the cuffs and he nearly pitched over. Once he’d got his hands in front of his body he stood with his back to me and got those cuffs off almost as quickly as the others. “Child’s play!” he said, unlacing his boots. “Getting hot!” he stated, pulling off his T-shirt. What a body Mike! Lean and muscly, lightly tanned. He had a small lizard tattooed on his right shoulder blade. He shoved his hand down into his leather jeans and adjusted himself. “I always get a hard‑on when I’m struggling!” he said. He wasn’t the only one!

We progressed to rope. I didn’t want to go too far too soon. He knew the tricks. He pulled his wrists apart as I tied them behind his back, he expanded his chest and biceps as I wound the rope around his firm body. I pushed him down on the sofa and tied his legs together around the knees and ankles. He looked up at me defiantly, his leather jeans stretched tightly over his thighs. I had an urge to kiss that arrogant face. He started to work his shoulders up and down, working his ropes upwards. I left the room and when I came back he was sitting on the floor leaning against the sofa, untying the last ropes around his ankles. “Not bad,” I said. “Wanna try this?” I said, throwing a straitjacket at him.

 

He was very enthusiastic. Apparently he had never seen a straitjacket first‑hand, but had always wanted to try one. He examined the heavy canvas. It was the hospital restraint, you know, the one that ties shut through those big metal eyelets, the one with the very long sleeves. “Get it on me!” he exclaimed. “Bet I can get out!” When I went to put it on him he decided to put his leather jacket on under it. His body was already a mass of red marks from the ropes he had just escaped from. He again adjusted his rock‑hard prick which seemed to want to escape from those thick jeans and zipped himself into his jacket.

So Mike, there I was pulling a straitjacket on to a guy in full black leather! I knotted the jacket shut with tapes and cut the loose ends off. I reached between his legs from behind to pull the crutch strap through and buckle it, “accidentally” stroking his rigid prick. I used the opportunity to run my hand over his smooth, firm thighs. He stood there patiently, breathing somewhat heavily, the long sleeves hanging to the floor. I crossed his arms, left over right, working from behind him, reaching round him, hugging him, my chin over his shoulder. He smelled so good, hot and masculine. He turned his head towards mine. His prickly chin rubbed against my cheek. I wound those long, long sleeves tightly around him, once over his upper arms and then below his crossed arms, tightly around his waist, until the leather straps met at the back. I buckled his arms tightly, jerking hard to tighten the strap just one hole further. I faced him, my hands on his shoulders. His brown eyes glinted intensely. This guy was pretty aroused! I gave him a hug, just for good luck, so to speak, and he pushed his lips towards mine. I pulled away. “An incentive to get out!” I said, and pushed him back onto the sofa.

Well anyway, Mike, it took him close to an hour to fight his way out of that jacket, and boy did he battle! As you well know, that jacket’s deceptive; you get slack in the sleeves pretty quickly, but then those wound‑around sleeves cinch you in the waist and there’s a lot of very frustrating pulling to be done that doesn’t get you very far. He rolled on the ground, he twisted and jerked and the sweat poured down his face. He was very much regretting wearing his leather jacket under his restraint. Can you imagine how it was for me? There was this guy in black leather jeans, straitjacketed, writhing and twisting on the floor, bracing against the chairs, straining, grunting, cursing, fighting.

He eventually managed to get his arms up over his head. I thought he was going to break his neck doing it, his head was pushed back at an unnatural angle as he used all his strength to pull one strapped arm just that fraction more towards freedom. Once his arms were free he lay there, face down on the floor, gasping. Even with his arms free and the crutch strap undone, his troubles weren’t over. As I’m sure you can remember Mike, those tapes can only be cut open, so he had to work the jacket up over his head. Again his leather jacket got in his way. If he had just been in the straitjacket, he would have simply been able to peel it off, (well almost) because it has no collar, but the thick motorbike jacket just moved up with the straitjacket and the high collar fastened with press‑studs stopped it going any further. For over ten minutes he fought with his arms high above his head, still deep in the long sleeves of the straitjacket, his obviously well loved leather jacket up around his neck, pressing against his face, combining with the canvas of the closed straitjacket to nearly suffocate him.

My prick’s solid as a rock just writing this down, Mike! I felt like grabbing him around his naked waist and pulling his hot body to me, feeling his firm arse in those shiny leather jeans, undoing his studded belt, opening those jeans and jacking him off before he had a chance to extricate himself from the mess he was in. But, he was beginning to master the situation. He was bent over and was standing on one of the long sleeves of the straitjacket. This enabled him to get some pull, and slowly the straitjacket separated itself from the leather jacket. For a few seconds his head was completely encased in the canvas but then he worked the jacket over his head and pulled his arms out of the sleeves. Triumphantly he held the straitjacket aloft with one hand as he pulled his leather jacket down with the other. “I did it!” he shouted, unzipping his leather jacket. “I did it!” He threw the restraint down and fell on me, hugging me with his sweat‑soaked arms, pressing his wet body against mine. “You thought you’d got me, didn’t yer?” he gasped, and kissed me deep, only to pull away panting, exhausted, out of breath. His beautiful, flushed face smiled at me. He hugged me again. “I can escape from everything,” he boasted, “God, what a turn‑on! I nearly came in my pants!”

Well, Mike, you’ll be sad to hear that he didn’t come in his pants and I didn’t get the chance either, but then things aren’t over yet. He cleaned himself up and I dried his leathers for him. He’s a really great guy, full of bubbly enthusiasm. We ordered a pizza and just talked. I kidded him that I had made it easy for him to get out. He got angry about that. He looked good angry, ready to be restrained. I said I had far more challenging restraints. He dared me. I told him that that had been a boring regulation straitjacket, one anyone could get out of. He said he’d get out of any jacket. I said I had a special straitjacket, a punishment jacket. His eyes lit up, his breathing got faster. “Show me!” he sneered. “Not now,” I said. “Nothing can hold me!” he dared. He was talking provocatively, daring me. “You haven’t got anything that can keep me prisoner!” That familiar bulge had re‑appeared in his leather jeans. “You’ll need more time,” I said. “At the weekend, then!” he breathed.

And so, Mike, that’s how we’ve left it. He drove away looking magnificent on his big Kawasaki, his leather glowing in the harsh street lighting. He’s coming back on Friday. I’m not holding back this time ‑ I’m going to give him the full treatment. Wish me luck, Mike, I’ll keep you informed!

Now you know what you’re missing by being over there!

See you!                      John

___________________


Hi Mike!

Thanks for your call yesterday. It was great to hear your voice. I had thought you’d call me after receiving my letter! You just missed him. He arrived just after I had finished talking. I was worried whether he would come at all as the weather was so bad, but the bell rang and there he was, standing there unbuckling his crash helmet, dripping wet in a black, shiny heavy-duty oilskin suit. He clomped into the kitchen and stood there, little pools of water of water forming on the tiled floor. Before I knew what had hit me, he grabbed me and hugged me tight, deliberately pressing me against his wet, shiny body. I had got leather jeans on, but only a T-shirt up top, and the icy‑cold rain on him soaked me and made me gasp. But I embraced him, too. How good he felt, slick and smooth in that foul‑weather gear. “You’ll pay for that!” I whispered in his ear! “Promise?” he answered.

Anyway, I dried him off, wiping him down with a towel, which was a real turn‑on. His rain suit was some kind of heavy vinyl or PVC, tight‑fitting over his leathers, absolutely jet black and very shiny. It was a bit of a struggle getting it off, but we got there, and I hung the heavy suit in the shower to dry off properly. He unzipped his jacket and sat there in full leather, sipping the can of beer I had given him. He got to the point real quick! “So you think you can tie me up so I can’t get out!” he said challengingly. His whole bearing was deliberately arrogant and provocative, his whole body just daring me to try. I played his game. “Be careful boy, or you’ll soon be pleading and begging me to release you and all I’ll do is gag that pretty mouth of yours!” And so it went on. He sneered and goaded me, I threatened and taunted him. His leather jeans couldn’t hide his swollen prick and I guess mine couldn’t either.

I fetched out the leather maximum security straitjacket that you so often end up in. He was obviously impressed, he was breathing hard. “No problem,” he said, but it didn’t sound too convincing. “Over your leathers?” I asked. “Over my leathers.” he said. I told him to go take a piss  he’d been drinking beer ‑ and off he went to the bathroom. When he returned, he was carrying his rain‑suit which he said he’d wear to stop him sweating up his leathers. I could imagine him getting a little warm in that suit, but I said nothing. So, he stripped off his leather jacket, unzipped his leather jeans and soon stood there fully naked with the biggest hard‑on I have ever seen which he made no attempt to conceal. He stepped into the legs of his suit which was just as shiny inside as out. He shuddered as I helped him work the cold garment up over his warm body. He pulled up a zip and crossed a front flap a couple of times which held shut with Velcro. The collar was high, right up under his chin. He was very familiar with the flaps which he expertly sealed. “There” he said. “One hundred per cent waterproof” he said, slapping his hips loudly. It fitted him perfectly. Elastic pulled the waist in at the back, stretching the PVC over his firm arse. Under the spotlights in the kitchen he was black and glossy, standing there ready to be bound.

So he helpfully held the sleeves of his suit and slid his arms down into the heavy closed sleeves of the straitjacket. If he was having second thoughts, it didn’t show. He said nothing as I jerked the jacket on to him backwards. He just breathed heavily as I pulled the back together over his thick waterproof suit. He stood there solidly, legs apart as I buckled the straps up one after the other, tightening the restraint around his body. He gasped slightly as I reached between his legs to pull the crotch strap through. I ran my hand down his glossy legs as I strapped the crotch strap shut and padlocked it to the back of the jacket. I then tugged the legs of the suit from the bottom to pull any folds caught up in the crotch strap. I faced him and looked him straight in the face.

into mine. “How’s it feel?” I asked him. “Tight,” he answered. He continued to look me straight in the eye as I fastened the jacket’s high collar shut. The shiny collar of his rain‑quit was even higher than the strait­jacket’s collar and was held tight up under his chin as I pulled the neck strap around to the front and slipped it snugly over the metal ring. I clicked a heavy padlock shut through it. The jacket was on him `,

Suddenly he grabbed me and wrapped his leather‑covered arms around me. I felt the straps at the ends of his sleeves dangling down the back of me. He kissed me long and deep, hugging me and smoothing his encased hands over my back and backside. He pulled me hard against him and his vinyl‑covered legs rubbed against my leather jeans. I held him, felt the straps and buckles holding his restraint on him, felt his stubbly chin against mine. I could have spent the rest of the day kissing that rugged face, Mike, but there was still work to do. I pulled away from him. “Cross your arms, left over right,” I ordered. He did as he was told. I worked quickly, tugging the sleeves through the side straps and strapping them up tightly behind him, jerking so hard he nearly lost his balance. I buckled a short strap around his crossed arms at the front, joining them to the jacket, then I strapped the thick belt right around his body over his upper arms, through the belt loops on his sleeves to hold it in place. After locking it I put the final padlock on his sleeve strap. I had got him!

“That’s you fixed!” I said gloatingly, slapping him on the shoulder. “Having regrets?” I said, stepping back to admire my handiwork. “I’ll get out,” he said defiantly.

I gave him an option, Mike - either to admit to me he was defeated and that he was a bag of shit, full of talk, or to spend the night in the straitjacket. “Go to hell!” he whispered. “It’ll be a long night!” I said. “Go to hell,” he said more defiantly, wrenching angrily in his jacket. So Mike, he spent the night in that jacket. I let him go into the bathroom and he was in there for a while, whether he was pissing down the leg of that suit or summing up his predicament in the mirror, I don’t know. I didn’t ask. With leather ankle restraints I locked his bare feet to the bed end and he lay next to me all night. I stayed dressed, put my leather jacket on, in fact. I could hardly cover him up next to me‑ he’d have gone up in flames! can’t say it was a peaceful night. Every now and then he’d struggle a little, probably as he dozed. His foul‑weather gear and the leather straitjacket creaked as he tried to turn and become more comfortable.

I hardly slept at all, my prick hard, and around dawn I couldn’t resist him any more. I rolled onto him and sat astride him looking down into his wonderful face. He was breathing heavily. I had my full weight on him and was sitting where his prick was, somewhere beneath layers of thick leather and vinyl. I lay down on him and kissed him. He strained against his jacket to kiss me. I teased him by pulling away just out of his reach. He began to get annoyed and his eyes gleamed aggressively at me. Not all the fight was out of him yet. His manacled ankles clinked their chains along the metal bar that they were locked to. His arms pulled ineffectively in the leather sleeves. But, do you know he still wouldn’t admit he was stuck! He refused to ask me to let him out, he refused to say those words humiliating himself. I wanted him begging. I decided to give him time to think. “I’ll get us some breakfast then I’m going to make life really hell for you.” He glared at me as I left him Lying there.

Well anyway, I unlocked his ankles and got him into a sitting position, but not before strapping his legs together at the ankles and above and below the knees. How smooth his warm legs were in that black vinyl! I fed him toast and gave him water and juice which he ate and drank without looking me in the face. I bathed his face with a moist cloth and gave him some chewing gum to freshen his mouth. I like to look after my prisoners! I told him it was his last chance to ask me nicely, very nicely, to let him out. For a while he didn’t answer, just sat there propped up, strapped up like a madman but still looking macho and powerful. “Well?” I asked again. He said nothing. “I want an answer!” I said. Then they came, three words that decided his own fate. “Go fuck yourself” he said slowly and deliberately. I just got off the bed and went to the closet. I got out that black oiled‑canvas sack that you’re so scared of. He watched me quietly.

Getting him into that was not easy. There was this guy, straitjacketed, his legs bound together, still making life difficult for me by wrenching, kicking, twisting and turning as I tried to get him into the greasy, clinging bag. I got there in the end. Holding him down by sitting astride him, I gathered the top of the sack around under his chin and eventually got a length of chain threaded through the steel eyelets and tightly padlocked. I got up to admire my work. He was jerking and kicking in the sack, his every twist wrapping the clinging canvas tighter around himself until he was looking like a mummy, encased from head to toe in the gripping black oilskin. I got out the roll of that strong, broad black cotton tape that ties so effectively. I wound and knotted it several times tightly around him at ankle‑height, around his knees, around his waist under where his arms were strapped around his body and finally around his upper arms. I was in a bit of a frenzy, tying and binding him. We’re going to have to order more of that tape, Mike.

I’ve left him to it, Mike, and I’m killing time by writing this to you. Yes, he’s still upstairs now, sweating and rolling around, probably regretting not backing down and now being free, especially now he’s discovering what a torture that greasy sack is. He must be bathed in sweat in that suit, he might have had to piss in it, too, but he definitely knows how to take his punishment like a man. It’s seventeen hours since his arms went down into those straitjacket sleeves and nearly four hours since I locked that sack shut around his neck. I don’t know how long he’ll keep this up, but I know I’m not going to let him out until he begs me to. I’ve been trying to think what to do next. I don’t think I’ll strap him down to the bed, it’s just so wonderful watching him roll around, struggling and straining. Maybe I’ll lock his head in a thick leather hood! Yeah, that’s it, Mike, a couple of hours in darkness will have him begging me for mercy! Heh, what am I doing sitting here writing all this to you? I’ve got work to do. I’m gonna mail this off to you now, just to keep you in suspense. To hear the next thrilling instalment you’re going to have to give me a call!         John

END

 

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