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WEEKEND IN THE LIFE OF

A MOTORCYCLE MESSENGER

by

John Strickland

 

He felt good today.  Everything was just right.  It was Friday, the weekend just starting, the weather was just right and he was on his last run.  As a motorcycle messenger he usually really had to earn his money, risking his life in the thick London traffic, breathing the fumes and getting wet and filthy.  It was seldom that the depressing English climate provided a day like this, just right for biking, dry and sunny but not too warm.  He usually spent the day from head to toe in black oilskins, dirty water dripping off him, cold trickles running down the back of his neck, his hands dyed dark blue from his soggy black leather gloves, wondering what masochistic drive made him put up with it day after day.  But today was different, he felt good and he knew he looked good.

It was seldom that he got a run like this, out of town, down country lanes to some prison hospital tucked away out of sight.  A quick delivery, a signature and then he’d be off, free for the weekend.  Perhaps he’d ride the long way back making the most of the bike.  The poor thing needed to spit some soot out after the short stop-and-go journeys in the town.  The mood he was in, he felt he’d show himself off to anyone who wanted to look.  There was nothing accidental about the tight-fitting leather he was wearing.  The jacket was an old favourite, the thick leather shiny with wear, a sheen that only comes from hours and hours of being worn.  His leather jeans fitted perfectly, accentuating well-muscled legs, his six-strap boots scuffed and well-worn.  He knew what he looked like bent over on the bike.  He knew his thighs gleamed in the sunlight, that’s the way he meant it all to look.  Well-worn masculinity that all looked so natural from the unshaven face through to the short hair.  He loved his leather more than he’d ever loved any friend.  His image turned him on.

This must be it, he thought.  On his right was an ivy-covered bank along which a high brick wall ran.  Broken bottles were set into concrete along the top.  Very inviting.  He slowed down, -somewhere there must be the entrance.  When it came, he shot past it, the high iron gate set back from the road.  He turned and drove up to railings.

“How do I get in here?” he thought, wondering whether he really wanted to get in there at all.  Opening his visor, he saw a bell with the stupid sign “all visitors must ring.”  He rang.

He rang again.  Suddenly a voice crackled through a grid near the bell.

“Hello?”

“Special delivery.”

“Pardon, I can’t hear you!”

“Special delivery!” he shouted.  People never understood him with his full face crash helmet on, but he wasn’t going to take it off, just get rid of the letter and get away from this fucking place.

“Wait, please, I’ll send someone.”

“At least she’s polite enough,” he thought.  As a messenger, he sometimes got treated like a piece of shit.  He waited.  A brass sign that hadn’t been polished for ages read “H.M. Prisons.  Hospital for the Criminally Insane.”

“Fucking Hell,” he thought, “A nut house!”  He rang the bell again.

“Yes?”

“Nobody’s come!”

“Someone’s on their way.  It takes time to get down to the gate.”

“Bloody hell!”  he thought.

At last he heard the sound of a car’s engine and heard the gate being unlocked from the other side.  He was confronted by a young man about his own age, dressed in some kind of white uniform.  He hadn’t expected someone so good looking to appear from behind that ominous-looking gate.  The man looked taken aback, too, and threw a quick glance up and down the leather-covered figure standing in front of him.

“A visitor from space?” he asked.

“Very funny!  Special delivery, sign here, please.”  The messenger offered his clip board.

“I’m not authorized to sign anything,” the warder said.  “You’ll have to drive up to the office.”

“Why on earth wasn’t someone sent who could sign for it?”

“Because we didn’t realize it was a package.  The girl on the desk couldn’t understand you and just told me there was someone at the gate.”

“I’m not so sure whether I want to come in there.”

“I don’t know why not.  I’ll open the gate for you.”

The gate was opened and the messenger got back on his motorbike, conscious of being watched very closely by the warder.  He didn’t mind being looked up and down by someone like him.  He looked good in the white uniform.  He drove a couple of feet through the gate and waited as it was locked behind him.

“You’d better follow me up to the main building.”

He got into his van and started up the engine.  The messenger snapped his visor shut and started to follow the van along the drive.  The drive was long and well cared for, well-established trees lining the sides.  Everything looked peaceful, the sunlight shining through in bright, dappled areas.  A turn in the drive and suddenly the buildings were in sight, red-brick buildings like the wall outside.  The motorcyclist looked up and saw bars at the windows.  It was a prison and looked the part, too.

The van pulled to a halt in front of one of the doors leading into one of the many buildings.  The messenger put his bike on its side stand and got off.  He snapped one of his side panniers open and got out the fat letter he was supposed to deliver.

“In here,” said the young prison officer.

They went up the steps together into the building and walked down a corridor, empty apart from a man walking away from them further down the way.  The warder turned through a door marked reception.  Sitting at a desk was a middle-aged woman who looked up surprised to see the black-clothed figure wearing a crash helmet come in.  She took the letter from him and signed the chit.

“Right, I’m off now,” he said.

“I’ll have to come with you and let you out the gate.  Not everyone’s just allowed to walk out of here!” said the officer.

They walked together down the corridor and out the door, the biker all the time aware of sideward glances from the guy in white.  At the motorbike, the other made no attempt to go towards his van, but stood watching the biker pull on his gloves and get ready to ride off.

“Is it a good job, as courier, I mean?” he asked.

“Depends what you mean.  The money’s good and it’s great riding, but most of the time the weather’s lousy.”

“Yeah, but in all that leather you don’t notice it much, do you?”

“You must be kidding, the leather just soaks up the water.”

“Do you want to soak up a cup of tea before you get off, or is that crash helmet welded to your head?”

“It comes off with effort in special circumstances.  Where can you get a cup of tea around here?”

“There’s a staff canteen in the next block.”

The rider took off his gloves and unfastened his crash helmet.  He pulled it up over his head and rubbed his hand over his short hair to fluff it up.

“At least your head matched the rest of you!” said the warder.

“What’s that supposed to mean?”

“I mean you’re as good-looking as your body is athletic.”

“What’s that supposed to mean?” he said again gruffly and as if he didn’t know.

“Take it however you want.  Do you want that tea or not?”

They walked together round to the other building, two young men, one in hospital whites and training shoes, the other clumping along beside him in heavy boots, strapped from top to bottom, in tight, shiny black leather, carrying a crash helmet.  He felt good, but conspicuous, especially as he stood at the counter waiting for his tea to be poured.

“Let’s go over to that table, there — two of my colleagues are sitting there,” said the man in white.  The biker had already noticed the two looking him up and down.  Most of the few people in the canteen were dressed in white.  He must have stood out well in his heavy black gear.  He nodded to the two guys as they joined them at their table.  They were well built and good-looking, too, around 25 or 26.  He was pleased he hadn’t just pissed off on his bike.

“This is a courier I’m giving a cup of tea before he goes off back to London,” said the warder in way of explanation.

“Hi!  You must be warm, take your jacket off if you want,” said one of them.

“I’m OK, I never take my jacket off,” the biker said.

“That must be awkward in bed,” laughed the other.  He laughed, too, but wondered what’s so awkward about wearing leather in bed.

“What do you guys do here?” he asked them.

“We keep everyone under control,” said the blond one of the three.  He was the best built and the biker felt he liked him the best.

“What type of people have you got here then?” he asked.

“All of them are men and they’re mostly dangerous,” said the original one of the three.  “There’s some real bastards here, that’s the only way you can describe them, it doesn’t matter how tolerant and understanding you try to be.  You get to know them and they’ll still have you if you turn your back too long.  Most of them are violent.”

“Shit!” the biker said.   “I can see now why you’re all so strong and fit.  What do you do?  Strap them down or something?”

“No,” said the blond one, “that’s what they need, but humanitarian politicians who have never tried to control one of these cunts, have decided that anything more than a handcuff belt is inhuman.  You give them an injection, even though they nearly kill you while you’re doing it!”

“Yeah,” said the dark one with the stubbly chin who hadn’t yet had much to say.  “The solitary wing with the lock-ups is unused now, derelict, it’s due to be pulled down soon.  The inmates just lie in their rooms nowadays dreaming pleasant dreams until they get their next shot to start dreaming again.  They need punishing, not given a treat!  Are you sure you’re not warm zipped up in that jacket?”

“I never take my jacket off!” said the biker and smiled at the blond one.

“You look good in it anyway,” said the unshaven one.  “It’s better than having to wear a uniform like this all the time,” he said.

“You all look pretty good in it, anyway,” said the courier.  “What was in this solitary wing, then?  It sounds a bit like Alcatraz!”

“It’s just like everyone’s old-fashioned idea of prisons and mental hospitals,” said the blond one.  “Do you reckon you can get the keys, Chris?” he asked the 7 o’clock shadow, “we could show him around.”

“Oh no, it’s all right,” said the biker, “I was just interested.  “I’ve got to get off now anyway.”

“OK, we’ll come down and see your bike,” said the blond one.

The biker felt a twinge of regret.  He’d have liked to have seen the solitary wing.  The thought of strong men locked away, away from the light of day, prisoners not allowed to decide what they do or where they go, was strangely stirring to him.

They went, all four of them, out of the canteen and into the bright sunlight towards his bike.

“Where is this wing?” he asked.

“Go and see if you can get the keys, Chris, we’ll head on down there,” said the blond one.

“No, it’s OK,” said the rider making towards his bike.

“You won’t get an insiders chance again,” said the one called Chris and headed away towards the building to get the keys.

“OK, but I’ve got to get off soon — I don’t want to catch the weekend traffic.”

The three of them headed down a concrete path past tall buildings with barred windows.  If the ‘normal’ building looked like this, he didn’t know what to expect of the solitary wing.

They crossed a courtyard and approached a building set back away from the others.  There was a noticeable lack of windows in this building, what there were, were small.  The door looked normal, just a heavy, locked door.

Here they waited for Chris who soon came towards them from the main buildings.

This Chris looked bloody good, too.  He was well-built and his white uniform fitted him well, his dark, unshaven face shown off well by the white.  He looked dusky and brutal.

“OK, got them, no problem,” he explained.

The door was unlocked, just a heavy wooden door, nothing special.  Inside was another door and they waited while Chris found the keys to that, too.  At last they were inside.  A long, dingy white corridor stretched away from them, dully lit from a wired glass window that ran the stretch of the corridor in the ceiling.  Left and right there

were a few doors.  They looked very ordinary and the messenger felt disappointed.  It wasn’t exactly what he had expected.

“This is maximum security?” he asked.

“Don’t be impatient,” said the young guy who had met him at the gate, “we’ve got lots to show you here.”

They went the length of the corridor.  The colours were dingy, perhaps it was once dazzling white, but now flakes of paint hung off the walls and the floor was gritty and dusty.  The window above had collected the grime and the rain and bird-shit reduced the level of light coming in.  The biker then saw the steel bars ahead of him.  His stomach leaped in excitement.  Things were beginning to look more like his idea of prison.

A massive barred gate blocked the corridor from ceiling to floor.  Chris pushed an enormous key from the bunch into the lock and turned.  It turned with difficulty, but offered no great resistance.  The door pushed open and in they went.  It occurred to the messenger that Chris managed to find the right key pretty quickly.  He obviously knew his way around.  They left the barred gate open and went on a few yards.  At the end of the corridor, leading down to the right were some wide rough stone steps.

“Down into the dungeon?” asked the guy in leather, nervous with anticipation.

“A lot of guys have had to be carried down here, struggling and screaming.  This place had its reputation,” said the blond one.

As they went down the steps it got darker and dingier.  One of them switched a light on somewhere.  “Electricity not turned off,” he thought.

As the dirty bulb in the equally dirty opaque glass ball in the ceiling did its best to light the stairs, he saw a massive steel door in front of him, something that looked as though it guarded the entrance to a bank vault.  It had two huge locks set in it.  It was panelled metal, set with huge rivets.  The dull anthracite grey reminded him of the side of a ship.

“Not easy to break through this one,” said the rough-looking Chris as he set himself to the locks.

The door swung open.  Its weight was a thing you could see, a massive, slowly opening weight that seemed almost unstoppable.  It was about six inches thick, like a bank door.

“We’ll close this to get the atmosphere,” said Chris and pushed the door shut using all of his weight.  The door thudded into the opening.  A lock clicked shut.

“Just imagine being a prisoner, your hands cuffed behind your back, hearing that sound.  You’d know you’d reached the point of no return!” said the blond one dramatically.

In front of them were thick steel bars, like upstairs with a door set in them.  Without hesitating, Chris again produced the right keys and they went through.

“All along this corridor, on both sides are the cells,” said the guy from the gate.

The courier looked.  Massive steel doors, bolted and riveted, locks set in the walls to the side of them, were spaced out on both sides of the dingy corridor.  The light came from naked bulbs set in wire mesh holders in the ceiling.  It was hardly adequate.

“Has anyone ever escaped from here?” asked the biker.  He hoped no one had.  The idea of strong young men, imprisoned underground behind these heavy doors with no hope of escape appealed to him.

“No chance,” said Chris.  “Don’t forget that nearly everyone in these cells was getting ‘special treatment.’  They were all restrained somehow.”

“Restrained?”  There was a noticeable bulge in his leather jeans appearing.  He felt his heart pounding in his chest.

“Yeah.  They really had fun down here.  Every kind of restraint was used down here.  This place would have had Houdini screaming to be let out!”

“And now it’s all gone,” said the motorcyclist.

“It’s not gone at all,” said Chris with a smile.  “Everything’s still here.”  He led them to one of the steel doors.  It was already open, just barred.  He lifted the steel bar out of its rests and pulled the heavy door open.  

From a switch outside the door he switched on a light.  A dull bulb set in the ceiling behind its mesh shade lit a small room.  Stone walls, white-washed, now dirty and stained.  No window.  The room was not much more than eight feet by four.  Most of the floor space was taken up by a bed, or at least a strong metal frame, bolted to the floor.  A grimy mattress covered in brown canvas lay set in the framework.  Parts of it were darker, obviously the result of sweaty bodies.  Straps hung from the framework at intervals.

“Wanna try it out?” asked the blond one.

“You must be joking,” the leather guy said.  “I don’t need tying down!”

“Come on, you’re down here now.  Why not try it out, we’ll let you up again.”

“How do I know I can trust you?” he asked, knowing that he was going to say ‘yes’ eventually.

“You don’t, but you can,” said the guy who started it all off.

“OK then.  But make sure you let me up again.”

Heart pounding and wishing his leather jeans weren’t so tight he sat down on the bed.  He felt stupid in front of these three good-looking guys but he had to try it, he just had to.  Anyway, the three guys were obviously not exactly bored.  They had a grin on their faces.  He felt a moment’s doubt, but then lay down on his back and lifted his leg up.  All three got to work and expertly started to fix him to the framework.  Straps were fastened around his wrists, securing his hands either side of him.  As Chris leaned across him to fasten his left hand to the metal frame he leaned lightly over the leather-covered figure lying there.  The biker felt a surge of desire and pushed upwards.  The blond guy was having trouble strapping his feet to the end of the bed.

“These clumping great boots of yours are making things difficult here,” he said.  “How long does it take to strap these things on?”

The biker didn’t answer.  The straps on his boots didn’t interest him much at that moment.  Chris had just fastened a two-inch thick strap across his chest and was expertly buckling a thinner one across his throat.

At last the three stepped back a bit.  In a room as small as that there wasn’t much stepping back to be done.  Chris slapped the leather-covered guy lightly on the thigh.

“OK.  What’s your name, by the way?”

“Sam.”

“OK Sam.  How’d yea feel?  You look great lying there.  It suits you!  The brown straps make a nice contrast to your black leather!  Of course most are usually strapped down naked, but you never take your jacket off, do you?”

“Let me up now, will you, I’ve got the feel of it all!”

“Oh, Sam, struggle a bit, get the feel properly.  Just imagine some bastard carried screaming and writhing down here.  Just imagine how he’d feel as the door is locked on him.  Tell you what, we’ll just leave you here to think about it all.  We’ll take your crash helmet out with us.”

They started out the door.

“Hey, what the fuck you doing? Hey, Chris, you two! Come back here!”

They were outside now.  Sam strained at the neck strap and shouted as the door was swung shut.  He’d never heard such an ominous sound as the clang the metal door made as they slammed it shut. He heard bolts drawn across and a clashing sound as the bar was pulled down.  He could hear the three guys talking and laughing as they locked the door.  A wave of panic swept over him.  What the hell did he let himself get into situations like this for?  He pulled at the straps without much optimism.  He could hardly move at all.  He looked down his body, and that with great difficulty, the strap cut into his neck if he pulled too hard.  He could see the thick belt going over his chest.  The silver buckle was sitting in the middle of his leather jacket twisting the zip around.  The leather strap was held around him, a huge prong going through a huge hole.  It was so near to his face, not a foot away but there was nothing he could do about it.  His arms were strapped at the wrists and elbows.  He could feel an equally thick belt holding him down at the waist.  How many straps immobilized his legs he didn’t know, he couldn’t see that far.

He pulled and twisted, he struggled and writhed, he used his knowledge of escape-artistry he’d read about to contract muscles and relax.  He got no-where, just as the dozens of others who had stained the mattress with their struggles had got no-where before him.

After fifteen minutes that seemed like a year to Sam, the trap view hole in the door opened.  One of the guys looked in.

“Christ,” he thought as he looked in, “this Sam guy sure looked good in this helpless state.”  He saw Sam laying there pulling and twisting, he could feel the tension in the straps as the muscular guy did his best to free himself.  As he writhed, Sam’s leather jacket and jeans stretched tightly across his chest and thighs, reflecting the dull light from above.  Sam’s heavy mot-cross boots creaked as the strong legs strained against the straps holding them to the framework.   Sam pulled against the throat strap and saw him.

“Hey, you guys, come off it, let me out!  Hey you bastards!” With relief, Sam heard all the bolts and locks being opened.  He felt a wave of fresh air as the door was opened.

“Well, Sam!  How’re you getting on then?” asked the guy from the gate, “Don’t think you’ll ever make a second Houdini!”

“Untie me, will you!” Sam tried to sound as if everyone was having fun together, but he was worried, turned on but worried.

Chris leaned across him like he had done while strapping him.  This time he laid his hand flat on Sam’s leather-covered crutch and massaged lightly.

Sam strained upwards against his bonds and thought he was going to come behind his leather.  Strapped down like that and with this rugged Chris bent over him, he felt as though he couldn’t take it much more.  In front of these three guys he was going to cream his leather jeans full.

“Stop Chris!” he said softly through gritted teeth.  He could smell Chris deodorant or toilet water or whatever, just as rugged smelling as the guy wearing it.  He had noticed the blond guy as being the one he thought he was on the same wave-length with, but this Chris was pure man, tough and teasing.

Just before the accident happened, Chris released his pressure.  “Come on,” he said, “you’ve got lots more to see, yet!”

He reached over and started unstrapping Sam’s hand, the blond guy was working on his ankles and legs.  The straps fell down from the bed, the buckles jingling.  Sam sat up.  He massaged his leathered thighs, he flexed his fingers and bent his wrists back and forth.

“You’re cunts, know that?  You had me worried there!”

“Oh come off it!” said the guy from the gate, you were tied down for a total of twenty minutes.  People have spent long, cold days lying there, without a black leather covering to protect them from anything they need to be protected from!”

“You know my name, what’re yours, then?” Sam asked.  “I know yours is Chris.”

“Tom,” said the blond one.

“Robert,” said the guy who’d got him to accept the cup of tea.

“Wanna see more?” asked Chris.

“Might as well,” Sam replied, “but don’t fuck me around like that again.”

“We just wanted you to know what it’s all like, Sam!”

They left the cell and went out into the corridor.  Sam wondered what the other cells had to offer.

“Over here’s the storeroom,” said Robert and headed two doors up the corridor.  He opened the only normal looking door in the whole place.  All four of them went over.

“Here, how about trying this, Sam?”  He offered a thick belt like attraction with handcuffs involved in it.

“What is it?” asked Sam.

“A handcuff belt.  Come here.”

Robert reached around Sam’s leather-covered waist and put the thick, brown leather belt backwards around his waist.  The belt, nearly a quarter of an inch thick, had slits cut in it where holes would be on a normal belt.  Robert pushed one of the slits over a metal loop sticking off of the other part, then he passed a padlock through the loop.  It clipped shut.

Sam pulled at the belt cinching his leather jacket at the waist.  It sat snugly in place.  Robert took one of Sam’s hands and snapped it into the handcuff riveted to the belt at the side.  Sam got the idea and obligingly slipped his left hand into the cuff on the other side of the belt.  Robert made sure the cuff was fastened well.

“Once more a prisoner!” said the leather guy.  “I’m getting to enjoy this!” 

Sam stood there, a figure completely clothed in black leather, the wide brown belt contrasting and around his waist, the steel cuffs around his wrists shining dully in the dim light.

“How about these for your legs? asked Tom, holding out a heavy pair of manacles.

“Or this would really suit you well!” said Chris.

Sam looked at Chris standing just inside the storeroom holding something made of leather in his hands.  Straps hung to the floor.

“What is it?” asked Sam, having a good idea.

“ Strait-jacket,” said Chris and looked Sam directly in the eye.

“Fucking hell, let’s have a look,” said Sam.

Chris came out of the storeroom to where the chained leather guy was standing.  He held the strait-jacket in front of him, a formidable looking garment made of thick dark brown leather.  It seemed to be reinforced with black leather at different points although Sam couldn’t exactly see where, the way it was hanging from Chris’ outstretched arms.  The long sleeves hung to the floor and the straps from them twisted around like a coiled snake.  There seemed to be straps and buckles hanging from every part of the jacket.

Sam’s crutch began to throb.  He loved his leather jeans but now they were uncomfortable, the thick leather restricting him swelling with excitement.

“Take that handcuff belt off him, Robert, this is more his style,” said Chris.  There was a determined look in Chris’ eyes.  All the time he spoke he looked Sam directly in the eyes and held the strait-jacket out in front of him as though it was just waiting to encase the motorcyclist.

Robert was fumbling with the screw key to the left hand cuff.

“I don’t want to be put in that!” said Sam, lying.  He had always wanted to try a strait-jacket since he had seen an escape artist get out of one at a fete.  He had only been about twelve then, but the thought of wearing a jacket that held you prisoner had haunted him ever since.  The escape artist had worn a flimsy affair of white canvas, but even that had evoked Sam’s imagination.  Now he stood before a rough, good-looking man, piercing him with cold, grey eyes, threatening him with a punishment jacket, not of canvas, not flimsy and ineffectual, but a complicated affair of thick leather.

“I don’t want to be bundled up like a madman!” Sam said, trying to sound convincing.  Robert had freed his hands and was unlocking the padlock holding the belt around his waist.

“Come on, Sam!” said Chris.  “Take your punishment like a man.  It’s leather, your material, the straps and buckles will match those on your boots.  Who knows, maybe it’ll be something you’ll wear on your bike from now on!”

“I’ll try it on, but just to see what it feels like,” said Sam.  He felt dry in the mouth, his legs felt weak and his heart was pounding with anticipation.  Chris came up to him holding the jacket threateningly.

“Wanna take your leather jacket off”

“I never take my leather jacket off!”

Chris held the jacket at the collar and Sam tremblingly pushed his hands into the sleeves.  He immediately noticed the thickness of the leather, supple from lots of previous use.  It was well worn, it was extremely shiny in parts and in places it was darker in colour where the prisoner had sweated and strained.  The thought of being encased in what had held many men prisoner turned him on even more.  His prick was bursting.

Expertly, Robert pulled at the jacket from behind and Sam’s hands reached the ends of the sleeves but stayed encased in the closed ends.  Black leather was sewn over the brown at the ends of the sleeves.  His hands were behind several thicknesses of leather, his fingers deprived of their right to feel.  He was reminded of the time when he’d managed to pull both of the laces on his boxing gloves into a knot with his teeth.  He couldn’t get his gloves off and had this same feeling of having hands that were useless.  He noticed the elbows were also reinforced in the same way.  A black leather yoke went across his chest and a wide black leather strip was riveted to the front leading down to the crutch.  Robert had started to strap the jacket up at the back.  Chris was holding Sam at the elbows as if he was going to make some desperate effort to escape.  Tom was standing near, a grim smile on his face, enjoying the scene.

As strap after strap was pulled through the buckles, Sam felt the jacket enclose and imprison him tighter and tighter.  He looked down at the jacket he was allowing himself to be restrained in.  Suddenly he saw Robert’s hand come through his legs under his crutch.  The searching fingers found the wide leather strap hanging there and pulled it back through the leather clothed legs.  As the strap was pulled through a corresponding buckle at the back, Sam jerked as the jacket increased in tension in every part and the strap pressured his enraged penis.

Chris let go of his arms and reached around Sam’s neck.  Robert put the strap he was looking for into his hand and he brought it forward and pulled it through its buckle which was on the front of the high collar.  The collar reached up to his chin.  He looked Chris straight in the eyes.

Sam had never believed that a strait-jacket would be as complete as this.  He was totally imprisoned behind leather, the jacket encasing his own leather jacket completely.  It was absolute containment.  Often Sam had been conscious of the fact that his body was enclosed when he was riding in the rain.  His shiny black oilskin over-tousers were bib-and-brace style, the fisherman’s style anorak that he wore over them didn’t leave much visible except his eyes, but the feeling of all-overness was nothing like this.

Chris took a grip on his arms.

“OK. That’s enough,” said Sam.  “I’ve got the feel of it.  I don’t want my arms fastened.”

“Oh, no, leather man,” said Chris.  “You’re going all the way.”  There was a vicious look in his eyes.  Tom stepped forward and gripped an arm, Robert clenched Sam’s shoulders from behind.  Sam struggled and Robert’s arm slipped round Sam’s throat, pulling his head back.  Sam let out a cry.

He felt his arms being crossed, left over right, jerked and pulled to their extremes.  One of them pushed his elbows together and someone wrenched the sleeve strap through the buckle on the other sleeve.  It was done.  Robert released his head lock.

Sam was strait-jacketed! He looked down at his crossed arms and pulled.  He strained, he tugged, he wriggled.  His arms remained crossed.

“The way to get out of a strait-jacket,” said Tom, “is to work your arms up over your head or down over your hips.  You can forget that idea with this jacket, the sleeves go through straps on the side which stop any up or down movement.  No-one has ever escaped from that jacket, and you won’t either.”

“But you’re not going to leave me in it long, are you?” said Sam in an unconcerned voice.

“One more thing to show you,” said Robert.  “Down here.”

“I’m not sure I want to see any more,” said Sam.

When Sam refused to walk with them, he was led, his feet hardly on the floor, by Robert and Tom who each held him at the elbows.  The strapped figure in leather and boots really did look the part of the crazed prisoner being forced along by the two white coated men.  Chris led the way to the last steel door of the corridor.  He opened the bolts and locks and opened the door in readiness  for the struggling, protesting figure.  As Sam saw in this cell, he gasped.  The walls and floor were padded!

“No, no, please!” cried Sam, “not in there!”

He pushed backwards against the two holding him.   He bit his heels into the floor, but there’s not much resistance to be offered with your arms strapped around your body.

“Come on Sam,” said Tom, “be a good boy.  It’s all nice and cosy in there!”

They half lifted Sam.  He noticed one of them was taking the opportunity to put his hand between Sam’s leathered legs.  He kicked backwards and felt his heel clunk into someone’s shin.  He heard a cursing reaction from Robert and was at the same time propelled into the padded room.  His feet sank into the soft floor and he pitched forward into the opposite wall.  His face thumped into the canvas padding and he slid down to the floor, his head bent back, his face being scratched by the rough canvas.  With effort he rolled over to face his captors.

They looked at Sam lying there, half propped-up against the padded wall.  He was even better looking when angry, an untamed, resistant look on his brown face.  Sweat had formed on his brow.  The layers of leather were having an effect.  He looked good in the battered brown leather strait-jacket.  The high collar, buckled at front seemed to emphasize his powerful jaw line, the whole jacket proving that this biker had a good, strong figure.  He lay there in his punishment jacket, his arms strapped immobile around his body as though he was intent on bear-hugging himself to death.  One of his legs was bent at the knee, his thick leather jeans stretched and shiny, the other stretched out in front of him, his scrambling boot digging in to the canvas padded floor. 

If he hadn’t been tied in the humiliating restrain, he would have taken all three of them on at once.

“Have fun, Sam,” said the blond Tom, “don’t come in your leathers, Sam, you can’t wash them!”

“Get me out of here, you bastards!”  They were closing the padded door.

“HHEEEYY,” he screamed and as the door closed he noticed the strength went out of his voice, there was no resonance in it anymore, the padded walls absorbed the sound.

The silence was tangible.

The cell was so small.  It was long enough for him to lie out from door to opposite wall, but in the other direction he would have to sit with his legs up.  There was nothing in the cell, except a guy strapped helplessly in leather.  He looked at the walls.  They bulged in on him from all directions, big soft squares, big canvas-covered buttons hammered into the padding at every corner.  The floor swelled up to meet the walls and everything was white, a dirty filthy white, there were stains all over.  The door was also padded in great long sausage-like strips, the padding interrupted by a viewing hole set deep in the soft material.

The light came from a solitary bulb set high up in the ceiling behind a metal mesh.  The ceiling wasn’t padded, just covered with grimy whitewash.  Sam couldn’t believe it, a couple of hours ago he was riding through sunny country lanes and now here he lay, strapped in a strait-jacket on the floor of a padded cell! By pushing with his boots, by digging his feet in the canvas floor, he managed to push himself up into a sitting position.  Things were different in here.  There was no resistance.  He pushed with his back to slide up the wall a bit and instead he sank in!  There were no real corners in this room, everything was rounded off, padded out, softened down to stop madmen hurting themselves, to stop prisoner’s screams and shouts being heard, to make escape from a strait-jacket an impossibility.  He could hear everything muffled, the creaking of his leather covering and the gasps and pants he gave as he pushed himself upwards without being able to use his arms.

He refused to panic.  The guys would be back soon, but even so, escape artists all over the would got out of strait-jackets every weekend, at fetes, at charity ‘dos’.  But, weren’t they just loose white canvas affairs?  Weren’t they usually without a crutch strap biting between your legs?  Weren’t they without straps at the sides, holding the strapped sleeves in position?  He must stop this line of thinking or he’d just start pulling and wearing himself out.  He looked down at the jacket holding him.  Dark brown leather.  He looked at the black leather yoke riveted to the jacket in a semi-circle under his chin.   That would stop him biting his way out!  Biting his way out!  Even if the thick collar allowed him to get his head down low enough he’d have tooth-less, bloody gums before he started making an impact on these layers of leather. 

He looked at the wide strip of black leather with it’s shiny rivets that went from the yoke downwards.  It disappeared behind his strapped arms to the bottom of the jacket to become the crotch strap.  And there were his arms, neatly folded, nicely crossed in their greasy brown leather sleeves that were slick at the elbows.  Reinforced at the elbows to stop him rubbing against the rough bricks until a hole was worn, a hole that he could pour out of if he were a liquid, a hole that he couldn’t make anyway on soft padded walls.  There were his arms, folded in front of him.  He was wearing a leather jacket, just like he’d worn a leather jacket all his life.  All he’d do is bring his arms forward, he’d take the jacket off, he’d open the door and walk out to his bike.  He pulled.  Somewhere out of his sight below his elbows, the sleeves carried round, no zippered cuffs and gloved hands, but closed, riveted, reinforced sleeves that went tightly around his waist to be strapped at the back along with all the other straps that he couldn’t see.

He decided to get to his feet.  He pushed himself into the padded wall he was leaning against and wriggled his way upwards until eventually he was in the standing position.  Life didn’t look any better from up there either.  He tried the rational and logical approach to extracting himself from the jacket.  He shrugged his shoulders backwards and forwards to work slack into the sleeves, he wriggled his arms upwards towards his shoulders.  He had moved them about two inches up from his waist when the side straps stopped him getting any further.  He contorted himself to try the same thing downwards over his hips but after a promising couple of inches he just met with resistance.  He tried bracing his elbow against the wall to get some leverage but his elbow just sank in, indenting the padding like the buttons holding it in place. 

He was beginning to get warm now, why had he refused to take off his leather motorbike jacket?  Because he hadn’t got anything on under it, that’s why.  He hadn’t wanted them to see he wore leather and only leather.  Now he was paying for it, his whole body was wet and sweat trickled down from his forehead, working its way through his eyebrows and started to go stinging into his eyes.  He wiped his face on the padding, realizing what the source of a lot of the other stains were.

He sank onto one knee.  This place was starting to drive him mad, everything rounded off, even the floor was like walking on a sponge, like trying to stand steady on a trampoline.  He pushed his elbow against his knee, at least here he could get a bit of solid leverage.  He tipped over.  He rolled over onto his back.  In a strait-jacket, a padded cell, strait jacket!  Strait-jacket!  No-one has ever gotten out of that jacket and you won’t either.  No-one.  Ever!  Sam pulled at the sleeves with all his strength, he violently rolled over, he shook right and left, he wriggled, he kicked out with his legs, he pushed on his shoulders and pushed his legs up the wall, all the time trying to free his arms, to set some movement into the sleeves so tightly strapped to his body. 

He screamed screams of frustration.  With every contortion the crutch strap bit into his leather jeans, pressing on his prick, the sensations making him arch his head backwards.  The heavily strapped collar made red welts under his chin, sweat dripped and flew off him to lie and slowly soak in to the dirty canvas floor.  The veins stood out in his neck, his teeth ground together as he wrestled in the leather restraint.  The strait-jacket creaked as the leather was twisted this way and that, his leather jeans and boots creaked as his legs rubbed against each other as they went into violent motion to offer support to the straining arms.

 He struggled.  He fought.  He wrestled.  He strained.  He tugged and pulled.  Finally, with a loud scream of anger and frustration, Sam fell onto his imprisoned arms and let the sweat pour off him into the deep wells where the padding was hammered to the floor. He was hot, he was on fire, he was boiling.  Only his head was not encased in leather.  Only his face could breathe.  The trickles of sweat ran through his hair and stung his eyes which he could only open to slits.   If only he could wipe his face on his sleeve, run his fingers through his short hair.  If only ..... .  He moved his fingers a little in their thick, unyielding sleeves.

“Help me, someone.  Come back you guys.  Chris?” he said aloud to the padded walls.  They drank the sound up.   He started to doze.

Some sound woke him up.  He tried to focus his eyes on the padded floor an inch or so from his face.  He felt clammy, damp and cold.  Where was he?  A split second later as he tried to get up it all came back to him and he realized that he was still very, very much a prisoner.  With effort and with a lot of digging his boots into the canvas, he managed to roll over.  One of his arms was numb and tingling, he tasted blood in his mouth and the ache told him he’d bitten his tongue.

Until the door opened, he hadn’t realized anyone was outside, his little world consisted of his heartbeat in his ear, the sounds of him breathing and the creaking of his leathers.

The three guys were there, looking at him in his plight, laying there on the soft floor.  They weren’t in their white uniforms anymore, but street clothes.  Robert and Tom were wearing tight, well-worn denim jeans, Tom a white T-shirt and Robert a faded denim jacket.  But it was Chris who made Sam’s heart beat faster.  He was wearing tight black leather jeans, tight at the bottoms and laced-up high training shoes.  He was wearing a shiny, worn-in black leather motorbike jacket over a white T-shirt.  Sam wondered hopefully whether Chris had put this leather gear on because he was in full leather, too, but Chris hadn’t known he was coming so he must have worn leather to work when he came.  Chris looked so good, so good-looking, looking down at him with a smirk on his face, a vicious look of enjoyment at the plight of the bound  man.

“How’re you doing, Sam?” asked Tom.  “Still wearing your jacket, I see.  How’s it been in this soft little room?  Have you had a good roll-around?  Have you made a stain in you leather jeans, boy?”

“Boy, am I pleased to see you guys!” said Sam in a flippant tone, ignoring Tom’s jibing.  I really thought you’d left me that time!”

“How d’you like that jacket, Sam?” asked Chris.  “You sure look good in it!”  He smiled at Sam who felt a stirring down deep as this leather-clad guy teased him.

“Take if off me, now,” said Sam simply.

“Oh, Sam,” said Robert.  “You haven’t really caught on, have you?  We’re giving you the full treatment.  There’s far more to come. 

Tonight you keep the jacket on, tomorrow for a bit of variety we’re going to give you a wet-sheet pack.  You’ll like that, Sam.  Wrapped and strapped from head to toe in tight wet sheets.  Tight wet sheets that get tighter ..... and tighter ..... as they dry out.  We’ll have you gasping there, Sam.  Then we thought you could spend the night in this cell again, you know, make it your home, but for variety you could wear a full length punishment suit.  That’s fun, your hands will be strapped to your sides there, Sam, and it’s fun struggling in that because it’s made of oiled, greasy, dirty canvas and will cling to you wherever it touches.  We’ve read great reports about that suit, Sam.  Strong, young men crying to be let out, broken and deprived of movement.  We’re going to break you, Sam.   You and your black leather, your heavy boots, your big bike!  You’re going to be licking our boots clean, Sam.  You’re going to beg and cry to be let out, Sam, and only we’ll hear you in here, Sam.  Who knows?  Maybe you’ll still be in here when the wing’s pulled down!”  He laughed.  Chris didn’t look so comfortable.

“You bastards!” screamed Sam and wrenched in his prison.  “Cunts like you will never break me.  I’d die first.” Sam realized he was challenging them.

“We’ll see!” said Tom.  “Listen!” he continued, “there are a few rules to this game you’ve got yourself into.  We’ll keep you well-fed, we’ll make sure you’re not in pain and we’ll make sure that your jeans don’t fill up with shit.  You look so good in that leather, Sam, - we’d hate to spoil it!”

“But what ...... ,” started Sam.

“Shut your mouth, Sam!” shouted Robert.  “We’ve got adhesive bandage so strong here that you’ll never open your mouth again if we wind it around your head.  It’ll rip your hair out!”

“Now Sam,” continued Tom, “to let you shit we’ve got to take you out of here to a nice little specially-design stool down the corridor.  You either cooperate and be a good boy or you get this.”  He held up a syringe in front of him.  “This’ll knock you out for half an hour or so.  What’s it gonna be, Sam?  Do you want to piss like a nice little boy or do you want to be put to sleep?  The choice is yours.  You can also choose to fill your boots with shit, if you want, but none of us will come in here to feed a stinking cesspit!”

Sam strained defiantly in his strait-jacket.

“The choice is yours, Sam,” said Tom coming towards him with the needle.

“OK, OK,” shouted Sam.  “You won’t need that, but get me to the toilet quick.  I’m bursting!”

Tom and Robert lifted Sam, each taking an elbow.  They pulled him up to his feet.  Chris just watched, a noticeable bulge in his leather jeans.

Sam started to walk hesitantly between them, his legs feeling soggy on the padded floor.  There was hardly room for the three of them in the cell, Robert and Tom were pushed into the soft walls.  When Sam got onto the firm ground of the corridor he felt like a sailor going onto land after six months at sea.  Solid ground!  He walked between them down the corridor held tightly by the two young men.  Chris walked in front of them, looking just as good in leather from behind as from the front.  Chris unlocked a door and reached in to put on the light.  A dirty bathroom was revealed, the walls and floor covered with grimy white tiles, most of them cracked, crazed or broken.  There was a bath to one side, not a normal bath, but very long and shallow, along its length metal staples for anchoring straps were set in the scale-covered enamel.

“This is where we’ll wrap you in wet sheets tomorrow, Sam,” said Tom, “then we’ll carry you dripping to a cell where the floors covered with P.V.C. sheeting to dry out.  Incidentally, Sam, we had a look at your oilskins in your bike panniers.  Quite a suit you’ve got there, Sam.  Top to toe in black, shiny P.V.C. eh?  You’re quite into the black and shiny, aren’t you?  We thought for a bit of light refreshment we could get you dressed up in your oilskins, keep you in them with a handcuff belt and manacles and then turn the fire hose on you!  The possibilities are endless, Sam!”

Tom rested his hand on Sam’s shoulder in a we’re-all-friends-together kind of way and flashed Sam an endearing smile!  Sam found Tom’s teasing and jeering humiliating, but at the same time a turn on.  He spat in Tom’s face, a defiant sneer on his face.  Saliva struck Tom’s cheek and the side of his nose.  Tom’s reaction was immediate.  He became vicious and grabbed Sam’s hair, jerking his head backwards.  Sam let out a stifled cry at the speed of the onslaught; his hair nearly being ripped out.

“Don’t do things like that, Sam,” he snarled through clenched teeth, or you’ll find yourself tied in this jacket so tightly that you’ll slowly suffocate to death.”  He grabbed the strap around Sam’s collar and jerked it through the buckle three holes more.  He let go of Sam’s hair and Sam immediately started to choke and gasp, already going red in the face.  Chris stepped in, pushing Tom aside.  He grabbed the buckle at Sam’s throat and loosened it back to its original position.  Sam coughed convulsively.  Robert stepped between Tom and Chris and Sam.

“Come on,” he said, “get the bastard to the toilet.”

On the other side of the tiled room there was a toilet.  Sunk into the floor around the base of the toilet and into the wall behind were metal staples of the kind set into the bath.

“Be a good boy,” said Robert.  “Hold him Chris.”

Chris was behind the strait-jacketed Sam.  He reached around the strapped body and grabbed the opposite elbow with his hand.  His left arm he put around Sam’s throat, holding him in a head-lock.  Sam felt himself pulled against Chris’ leather-covered body, his chin and mouth were almost suffocating in the crook of Chris’ leather-covered arm.  Chris pulled Sam  closer to him.  Sam groaned a little, his right arm was tingling and over-sensitive from having fallen asleep on it.

Robert started to reach between Sam and Chris, feeling for the crutch strap.  Chris was in his way, but you never hold a patient from the front where they could kick you, knee you or butt you with their head.

Sam felt the cutting pressure between his legs fall away.  Then the first two or three straps holding the jacket on him were unstrapped.  Sam’s arms remained strapped around him.  Working from the sides both Tom and Robert felt under the strait-jacket and started to undo the belt and flies of Sam’s leather jeans.  Sam offered no resistance, he was so conscious of Chris, - Chris in leather, -Chris holding him, -Chris’ leathered arm wrapped around his neck, Chris’ face so near to his ear.

The two men had the leather jeans pulled down.

“Hey, look at this!” said Robert.  “No underpants!  It’s only leather for you, is it, Sam?  There’s a prick like a ramrod here!  Something turning you on, Sam?”

Sam made the gesture of a struggle.  Chris tightened the hold on his throat.  Pushing him over to the toilet, holding straps to guide and control him.

“Do we have to strap you to the toilet?” asked Tom.  “How about a nice choking little strap around your neck holding you to the wall?”

Sam just shook his head.  He felt humiliated sitting on the toilet with a massive hard-on being watched by three good-looking men.  Tom reached between Sam’s legs, grabbed the stiff prick and forced it downwards into the toilet.  Sam nearly shouted out with pain, but he had realized that the way he had been sitting he would have peed in a fountain that went everywhere but in the stool.  Eventually his swollen penis slackened off a bit to let him piss in a hard, steady stream.

“That’s it,” said Sam, “I’m finished.”  Thank God he didn’t need a shit!

“OK, let’s get him back,” said Chris.

Robert even dried him off with paper in an expertly way.  Sam suddenly realized that working in a place like this had bad sides to it, too.  The romantic image of beefy prisoners in barred cells wasn’t often the real one.  These three guys had to make sure they stayed clean, too.

They had Sam’s jeans zipped up and the strait-jacket fully buckled on him again within a couple of minutes.  Sam didn’t struggle.  He didn’t want to be injected, to be knocked out by the needle that Robert had put in his pocket.  Apart from that, he was waiting for the right moment.  Although strapped up hopelessly in the leather jacket, Sam wasn’t going to give up hope.

They led him back towards the padded cell.  Sam noticed Tom give Chris a nod and Chris slipped off towards the store-room.  The two men pushed Sam back into his padded room so suddenly and thrustingly that Sam stumbled on the soft floor and fell forward.  He landed on his knees and pitched forward on his face, the strait-jacket stopping him putting out his arms to block his fall.  He pushed with his boot into the floor and turned himself over only to see Chris back holding a hand full of straps.

“We’ve got to bed you down for the night!” said Chris, passing over the leather straps to Tom who was nearest to Sam.

Robert worked up beside the guy lying there helpless in leather.  He took one of the straps from Tom and worked it around his legs just above the knees.  Sam tried to pull his legs apart, but Tom gripped his boots and pulled his feet together.  Sam put up a bit of a struggle by twisting to the left but it was obvious that they’d get their way with him already confined in a strait-jacket.  Swiftly and expertly, further straps were buckled by the guys around his legs below the knees, around the ankles and around his foot soles.  Chris looked on from the doorway of the cell.  There wasn’t enough room for four people in the padded hole.  Chris and Sam looked each other in the eye.  Sam with brave defiance, Chris with a look of amused scorn.  How good Chris looked in full leather standing there in the weak light.  Robert said something, Tom looked at him momentarily and Sam saw his chance.  Throwing his weight backwards, he kicked upwards with his strapped legs.  The steel-capped boots caught Tom straight in the face and he flew backwards against the padded door frame and against Chris’ legs.  Chris nearly fell out into the corridor, too.

Tom looked up, blood already running from a gash across his cheek.  For a moment he half-sat, half-lay, half in and half out of the padded cell.  Then, he sprang into life with a hiss that was pure anger.  He pulled himself up by holding onto the door frame, fell backwards as his fingers failed to grip the padding properly, but then he was on top of the strapped figure in leather, lying totally bound on the floor.

He was so enraged he didn’t manage to even speak coherently.  Sam twisted in a pathetic attempt to get out of the way but Tom leaped on him, landing with his knees on Sam’s strapped-up arms.  Sam let out a cry of pain, stifled by the blow that hammered into his face.  Yet another thump landed in his nose and he saw the stars that everyone is supposed to see when hit.  He was scared, paralyzed in his restraints, being battered by someone whose face was distorted with rage, someone who belonged in the madman’s jacket that he had no choice but wear.

Just as Tom’s fist drew back for another punch, Sam became aware of Chris grabbing around Tom’s head with leather-covered arms and jerking Tom back.  Tom turned his anger on Chris, lashing back backwards, digging his elbow into Chris’ thigh muscle which was on his level.  Chris felt his leg go numb although at the same time a huge wave of pain travelled upwards.  He had the advantage of standing.  He thumped out with a clenched fist and landed Tom a hefty thump on the ear.  Tom screamed with pain.  Sam felt his breath being crushed out of him by the weight of the two men fighting on top of him.

Robert grabbed Chris’ leather jacket almost pulling it up over his head.  Chris lashed backwards catching Robert directly in the balls.  Robert just dropped to the soft floor, clutching his crutch, his face distorted with pain, trying to draw a breath.  Robert’s intervention had given Tom the chance to twist around.  A clenched fist hammered into Chris’ jaw, his teeth slammed together and he bit through his tongue.  The blinding pain caused him to throw his full weight onto Tom.  The two of them were wrestling on top of Sam who was rapidly slipping towards unconsciousness.

Just as Chris pulled himself upwards, preparing to thump Tom hard in his solar plexus, he let out a scream.  Robert had rammed the hypodermic like a dart into his neck.  Chris looked around and started towards Robert who backed away.  Things had gone too far.  Tom and Chris had no control over themselves any more, just animals lashing out at each other, intent on doing harm.  Chris made one step towards Robert and then his eyes crossed a little, his knees sagged, his leather-clothed body became boneless and he sank backwards and lay motionless across the strapped legs of the imprisoned messenger biker, his eyes open, staring unseeing up at the bare light bulb.

“Fucking hell!” said Tom, “Fucking, fucking hell!”  He looked up at Robert who was standing looking down at Chris, still holding the syringe in his hand.  Both men looked white and shaken.  Tom’s hand went up to the slash across his face, he felt his nose, he rubbed his stomach.  He tried to get up from beside the nearly unconscious Sam and get over the prostrate leather guy lying across.  Robert sank to his knees again.  He felt sick from the blow to his balls that Chris had delivered him.

After a few minutes they recovered enough to talk.  Sam’s eyes were flickering, Chris was out cold.

“It’s all gone too far,” said Robert, “let’s let that guy out, get him out of here and do something for Chris.  It’s a good thing we’re off duty, - how the hell would we go back over looking like this?” Robert choked a bit.

“You’re joking!” exclaimed Tom.  “You must be fucking joking!  I’m not letting this bastard get away with that!”  He kicked Chris’ leg.  Chris didn’t move.

“Whose side’s he on, anyway?  Big manly Chris, always unshaven, always in leather!  It’s obvious he feels more loyalty to that other leather-covered cunt than he does to us.  No, we’re not letting anyone go.  Chris is going to have a surprise in store for him when he wakes up!”

“Let’s leave it, Tom, please, - something’s going to go wrong!”

“Something’s already gone wrong.  That cunt attacked me and he’s going to get what’s coming to him.  Go and get another strait-jacket!”

“Oh come on, Tom, you can’t put Chris in a strait-jacket!”  Although as he said this, the thought of dusky, muscular Chris wearing a strait-jacket interested Robert strangely!

“I’ll go and choose one myself,” said Tom, staggering off of the padded floor into the corridor.

Meanwhile, Robert pulled at Chris’ leather jacket and dragged him off of Sam’s strapped legs.  Sam moaned as Chris’ weight bent his feet sideways, but he didn’t open his eyes.  Robert tried to prop Chris up against the wall, but as he stood astride the slumped figure he fell forwards, losing his balance on the padded floor.  It was like scrambling around in a tub full of tennis balls.  The walls and floors gave under you whenever you pushed!  He grabbed the lapels of Chris’ motorbike jacket and heaved him up.  Chris sat with his legs out, one of his feet resting on Sam’s booted feet, his head slumped down on his chest.

Tom came back in carrying a leather strait-jacket.

“Found another leather one!” he said, “it’s even thicker and heavier than the one that cunt’s wearing.  This’ll teach that good-looking bastard a lesson!”

“Do the pervert’s jacket up!” Tom was unstoppable, now, breathing deeply and with a glint in his eye.

It took Robert a Minute or two to get the zip of Chris’ jacket done up, it’s not easy doing it up from the front and without the wearer’s cooperation.  All the time Tom was urging him to get a move on.  When Chris was all zipped up in his jacket, Robert did the belt up that was at the waist of the leather jacket.

“Pull his collar up,” commanded Tom.

Robert obliged.  Chris’ head lolled to one side.  Even without any sign of life in him, Chris looked great, his leather shining dully in the light of the madman’s cell.

“Right, don’t let him get cold!  Let’s put this overcoat on him!”

Their expertise at restraining violent prisoners enabled them to get the strait-jacket on the inert Chris.  They got one floppy arm down one of the sleeves, they then pushed the other arm into it’s casing.  They needed more room.  They moved up each side of Sam, stretched out in the middle of the cell and, holding an elbow each, managed to lift him and prop him against the padded wall.  Sam groaned and opened his eyes.  He didn’t look very alert.  They turned Chris over and got him lying face down on the floor, his arms were in the closed sleeves stretched out in a crucified manner to each side of him, the buckles and the straps splaying out in all directions.  Tom reached around Chris’ neck and made sure the collar of his leather jacket was standing up properly.  Then, kneeling on either side of the prone figure, Tom started to buckle the straps, one by one into their buckles.  The thick leather sides were slowly pulled together as strap after strap closed the imprisoning garment over the shiny back of Chris’ leather jacket.

“This’ll hold you, you bastard!” said Tom between his teeth, jerking one of the straps to maximum tightness.  He had all the back straps done up now, a row of brown leather straps, sewn and riveted to the black jacket.  The blond guy groped between the stretched out man’s legs, feeling the muscular leather-covered legs, warm, almost gripping his hand.  He found the crutch strap pinned under Chris, jerked it through and pulled it through the steel buckle waiting for it.  The prong went through the hole.  Tom poked the end of the strap through its retainer loop.

“There, you cunt, I hope that’s twisted your prick in a knot!”

The collar was higher than the collar on the strait-jacket Sam was lying so passively in.  Tom fastened it with its two straps and Chris’ neck was now completely enclosed in a high cylinder of leather.

“Help me roll him over!”

Robert, who had just been standing, relishing the sight of his friend slowly disappearing into helplessness, responded.  They grabbed Chris and rolled him over.  He lay on his back, his black leather encased arms lying to each side of him.  Robert took the strap at the end of one sleeve and started to lift Chris’ arm across his chest.

“The waist belt, first,” said Tom.

A big thick belt was drawn from under Chris’ body and Tom pulled the end through the two-pronged buckle.  He cinched it tight.

Sam was conscious now, and stared at the plight of his leather-covered friend that he hadn’t yet had the chance to get to know.  The last he had seen of Chris he was standing looking magnificent with his leather jacket hanging open, holding a mass of straps in his hands.  Now here he lay, his eyes closed, in a leather jacket studded with rivets, a high collar holding his head at a proud angle.  His hands were in sleeves of leather, well-worn and old, but oiled, shiny through the rubbing of the struggles of countless prisoners, each mitt reinforced with a piece of riveted leather on which was sewn either the buckle or the strap.

“What’re you doing to him?” asked Sam groggily.

Tom leaped across to Sam and slapped him hard across the face.

“Shut up and watch or go back to sleep!” he snarled.

Sam decided he’d get even with this Tom who he found physically attractive but who seemed vicious and dangerous.  But now, lying there, his arms dead and crossed around his waist, his leather-covered legs strapped together, he decided he’d shut up and watch.

They were binding poor old Chris’ arms around him now.  Chris’ eyes flickered but he wasn’t taking in anything yet.  The arm strap was anchored into place.  Chris was strait-jacketed, deprived of his right to use his arms.

“There little Chris!”  Get out of that!  I might take if off you when tears course down your pretty face and when you’ve lost the will to strut around in your leather clothes!  Come on, Robert, let’s put a set of leg irons on him and lock them in here.  Let’s let them wriggle towards each other and wish they had hands to touch each other with!”

“We’d better tape their mouths up,” said Robert.  “They’ll undo each other’s straps with their teeth, or shall we drag Chris into another padded cell?”

“No,” said Tom.  “I want them together, but with Chris’ bleeding mouth and his bloody nose, I don’t want them with their mouths closed.  They might suffocate.”

“Why not tie them together?” said Robert.

Tom looked at him sharply, then slowly a smile crossed his face.

“Good idea, Robert!  Fucking  good idea!  Unstrap Chris’ arms!”

Robert did as he was told.  Chris moved one of his arms and the buckle jangled.  He was slowly coming around.

Tom went over to the strapped Sam, and grasped his heels.  Sam pulled back and forward a bit but didn’t really feel well enough.

“Get off me, you cunt,” he exclaimed.

Tom looked at him and gave one terrific jerk.  Sam came away from the padded wall and his body fell out straight on the floor.  There was a quick ripping sound as the canvas was caught by one of his strait-jacket’s buckles.  Together they pulled and lifted the semi-conscious Chris over to Sam, only a couple of feet by difficult with the muscular young man.  They lay Chris on his back next to Sam, their heads at the same level.

“Let’s get this cunt face down on Chris!” said Tom.

Robert didn’t quite know what was going on but did as he was told.  They gripped the helpless Sam and rolled him over onto Chris.  Chris let out a grunt, Chris groaned.  His arms hurt him.  He attempted to roll off the other way but was held back.  Tom was sitting astride them both now.

“You’ll crush Chris!” exclaimed Robert, but Tom acted swiftly, pulling Chris’ arms up from either side of Sam and wrapping them around Sam, as if Chris was giving Sam a bear hug.

“Give me one of those straps lying there,” he asked Robert nodding towards the two or three straps lying on the floor of the padded cell.  Sweat was running down Tom’s brow.

Robert gave him the strap and he buckled it into the strap coming from one of Chris’ strait-jacket sleeves.  This made the strap longer.

“Now we’ve got to get them on their sides.”

Sam said something and wriggled.  Tom, all tension, just gave a sharp punch into Sam’s mouth.  Blood formed on his lip, he cooperated.  “Now Robert, unstrap Sam’s arms!” said Tom.

He grabbed a handful of Sam’s hair and pulled it so hard that Sam cried out.  “Any funny stuff,” said Tom, “and you’ll have a raw, very bald patch!”

“Shit, be careful Tom!” said Robert.

“Just do as I say, cunt-face!” snarled Tom.  Tears were streaming out of Sam’s eyes.  Blood was appearing at the roots of his hair.

“Don’t talk to me like that, you bastard.  Control yourself, your going berserk,” shouted Robert.  Tom looked at him as if he would hit him but the situation was too difficult.  Robert unstrapped Sam’s arms, the first time in hours that Sam had been allowed movement.

“Give your leather covered friend a big hug!” said Tom.

With difficulty Sam worked his numb arm under Chris.  The blood was flowing through it now.

“Give me another extension strap, Robert.  Come on, you bastard, hurry up!”  He buckled the strap into the strap on one of Sam’s sleeves.

“Robert, help me get these straps around each other, - make sure they go through the side straps on each jacket.”

The straps were strapped around until Sam’s arms were strapped up again, the sleeve straps with their extensions again strapped behind Sam’s back.  The difference was that now his arms were strapped around Chris, bear-hugging him, holding him in an eternal cuddle.  The leather sleeves of Chris’ strait-jacket were holding his arms around Sam hugging him tight.  Chris was moaning and mumbling and his body wasn’t floppy anymore.  Robert and Tom rolled Sam on to his back with Chris on top of him.  They wrenched the arm-straps buckled there, those of Chris’ jacket, tighter through the buckle.  They rolled the couple in the other direction with Sam on top, and tightened the straps there.  Now the two were embracing each other with a grip like a vice.  They rolled them onto their sides.  They undid all the straps around Sam’s leathered legs and ankles.  Then they pushed one of Chris’ leather-jeaned legs between Sam’s and straps were tightened around all four legs, holding them tightly together.

Sam didn’t struggle.  He could hardly believe it.  Strapped to Chris, their faces inches apart.

Tom got up and admired his handiwork.

“Now you two leather-cunts!  Enjoy each other!  Try and escape from that lot!  Mind you don’t fuck each other doing it!  Don’t have an argument now, you can’t get away from each other!”  He laughed a laugh that didn’t sound too healthy.  It even caused Robert to look at him suddenly.  Tom was leering at the Siamese twins on the padded floor, the sweat pouring down his face.  “Come on Robert,” he said.  “Let’s let them get a good night’s sleep.”

They looked back at the completely leather covered form on the floor, Sam’s face glaring up at them, Chris’ face beginning to show signs of definite waking.  It was difficult to see which leather encased body belonged to which person, which leather-jeaned leg belonged to which strait-jacketed torso.  The whole length of the two was a mass of straps and buckles.

The two left the padded room and the door clanged shut.  Muffled sounds of bolts and locks were heard, then the silence of the padded cell set in again.

Sam turned and looked at the man he was strapped to.  Chris’ face was pushing against his.  They were both lying on their sides, hugging each other, Chris’ head slumped lightly on Sam’s each of them looking over the other’s shoulder.  Sam wriggled and tried to get his arms into a more comfortable position.  They didn’t move.  Chris groaned.

“Move away a bit.  I’m too hot,” he slurred.  He tried to pull away.

“I can’t Chris,” said Sam, “we’re tied together!”

“Headache!” groaned Chris, and slumped into sleep, his head resting on Sam’s.

Sam lay there thinking about their predicament.  There was no comfort.  If they lay on their sides, each had an arm pinned to the floor.  If they lay on their backs, one of them would have the weight of the other on top of him.  Standing up would relieve the pressures, but how were they to get up.  At the moment Chris was a dead weight, but even so, strapped as they were from neck to foot, Sam couldn’t imagine them getting up.  They were looking in opposite directions, their knees bent in opposite directions, that meant the other’s leg would act as a splint if they tried to get up.  They lay there for a few minutes, Sam just holding the drugged Chris.

Suddenly Chris pulled back, or at least tried to, he strained his head back and looked into Sam’s eyes.  He had come around.

“Oh, it’s you Sam.  What the hell is going on?”

“I’m in a strait-jacket, the one you strapped me in, but in case you haven’t noticed, so are you!  You’re nice little friends have strapped us together.”

“Me in a strait-jacket?  I do the tying not be tied!”  Chris pulled in his thick, strapped sleeves.  “I don’t feel well, Sam.  You don’t look so good either.  Blood’s dried all around your nose.  My head’s killing me.”

“Just lie quiet, Chris,” said Sam.  “It’s the injection.  Rest your face against mine and keep your eyes closed for a while.”

Chris did just that.  Sam felt the warm, stubbly face resting on his.  The urge to twist and rub his face against Chris’ was almost irresistible.  Somewhere, out of sight but not out of mind, strapped up under the strait-jacket crutch strap, held firmly behind his battered leather jeans, his prick was as hard as a rock.  The urge to rub backwards and forwards against Chris was almost overwhelming.  Sam worked out that there were probably at least six layers of leather separating their pricks.

“I’m going to get those bastards,” said Chris unexpectedly straight into Sam’s ear.

“Can we try and change position, Chris.  My arm’s gone to sleep.”

“Let’s try and turn to my left, your right,” said Sam.

The effort involved was enormous.  Just as they seemed to be tipping over, they rolled back into the original position.  They were strain and their sweating faces were pushed together.   Their legs were like unbending posts, each movement of one working against the movements of the other.  Suddenly they passed the point of balance and rolled over.  Chris was on top of Sam, who was lying on his back.  Chris’ weight pushed the breath out of him.  Chris rested his head over Sam’s shoulder, facing down into the padded floor.

“Shall I try and chew through the shoulder of your strait-jacket?  Leather for breakfast!” Sam tried to joke.  He felt conscious of being tied to someone he found so attractive.

Suddenly Chris reared his head back and rocked violently from side to side.  His teeth were clenched with the exertion, a trickle of blood worked its way over his swarthy cheek from his injured tongue.  He was pulling in his leather sleeve, Sam could feel the contortions under him, he was trying to free his legs, he was bucking and tugging, using all his strength.  He started to let a frustrated cry from deep in his throat, he strained and pulled until veins stood out in his forehead.  He twisted his head from right to left in his high collar, tears were rolling from his eyes, sweat trickling over his face and dripping on to Sam’s.

“No, No, No!” he cried.  “The cunts.  No!  No!  No!!”  He was screaming, the padded cell absorbing the volume.

Sam was being crushed, his face was being scratched by Chris’ unshaven chin, Sam’s bruised face was crying out at the bangs it was getting from the struggling guy.

“Stop, Chris!” he shouted.  “STOP, you’re hurting me!  STOP!”

Just as suddenly as the bout started, Chris stopped writhing about.  He collapsed on to Sam, lying there gasping and panting.  For a while neither said anything.

“Sorry,” said Chris.  He was pouring with sweat and glowing with heat.  “Sorry, Sam,” he gasped, the sounds coming out painfully because of his bitten tongue.

“It’s OK Chris.  It’s OK.”

Chris pushed his face against Sam’s.  “I like doing the tying, Sam, I like seeing guys tied up, I like thinking out new ways to imprison someone, but I can’t take being on the receiving end.  If I think about this jacket, the straps, this cell, I could go insane!”  He pushed his face closer against Sam’s.  Sam’s bruised face protested, but Sam didn’t.

“It’s OK, Chris,” said Sam, “we’ll soon get out of this.”

“I’m not so sure,” said Chris, pulling in his jacket, “did you see the look on Tom’s face?  He means business.  He won’t let us out so quickly.”

He started pulling again, straining his head backwards as far as he could with the effort of struggling.

“Don’t struggle, Chris!” ordered Sam between clenched teeth and rubbed his face against Chris’.  “Come here, let me clean you up!”

He strained and rubbed his cheek against Chris, wiping sweat away as best he could.  Chris was on fire, all Sam wanted to do was get apart for a moment until they cooled down a bit.  But, they were strapped together, covered in leather which just held them in its grip and let them sweat.

Sam licked at the trickle of blood drying on Chris’ rugged chin.  Chris pushed his face nearer and their lips touched.  Sam felt Chris push his hips forward, causing pressure on Sam’s already bursting prick, held restrained behind layers of leather.  Irresistible surges of pressure coursed through their bound bodies as they kissed, Sam’s tongue finding its way deep into Chris’ mouth.  He felt Chris winch with the pain of his injured tongue, but Chris pushed his mouth against Sam’s even harder, and pulled Sam, already strapped to him, even tighter against him.  The two gasped and strained, their restricted bodies rubbing against each other as best they could.  Their whole bodies were tensed, every muscle taught in their strait-jackets, imprisoned arms tried in closed sleeves to move up and down the other’s body.  Leather chaffed against leather, the creaking sounds swallowed up by the padded room.  Their leathered legs made use of every centimetre of slack in the straps to rub against each other.  The sweat trickled off their faces and ran onto the canvas floor.  Almost simultaneously a convulsive shudder went through the two as their pricks violently shot thick white liquid into their leather jeans.  They wrenched against each other, they bucked in their strait-jackets which creaked but unrelentingly held them in their grasps.

Slowly the tension went out of their bodies and Sam and Chris relaxed, the sweat pouring from them, their breath coming out in gasps.

“You’re great!” said Chris.

Sam hugged Chris to him even more and gently kissed Chris’ lips then fell into the most comfortable position with his head looking over Chris’ shoulder.

Thus, on the soft padded floor, the two, strapped together as one, fell into an uneasy sleep.

Sam was the first to wake up.  He was cold and clammy in his damp leather.  At first he wasn’t quite sure where he was, but the marshmallow walls soon reminded him.  He squinted up at the eternally burning light above them, he tried to move his arm and was soon reminded of the plight he and the man he was embracing were in.  He turned his head the best he could to look at Chris.

What a situation to get into, but what a man to get tied up with.  His prick stirred somewhere way down out of sight.  He ached.  His body felt bruised, his jaw was obviously swollen and his arms hurt him.  He had the full weight of Chris pressing down on one arm, but then, one of Chris’ arms was under him, too, so Chris would feel the same when he awoke.  For once Sam was grateful for the padded floor they were lying on.

Sam’s movements, although slight, carried over to Chris.  They were as one.  Chris woke up.  He pulled his head back to focus on Sam’s face.  He smiled.  “Hi!” he said and made a little snorting noise which said as good as “What a fuck-up!”

Sam felt slightly embarrassed at what had happened between them, but Chris soon dispelled any doubts Sam had by scratching his stubby chin across Sam’s in a comic gesture of affection but the limit of what could be achieved in their bound condition.  They kissed, deep and long.  Sam suddenly pulled back.

“Don’t Chris!” he said.  “We’ve already come in our leather jeans once and apart from that I’m bursting for a piss!”

“So am I,” said Chris.  “My right arm’s dead and so is one of my legs although I can’t really tell which one, perhaps it’s yours!” he joked.

“Chris, let’s see if we can roll over again,” suggested Sam.

“Who’s going to be the bottom man?” asked Chris.

“Let’s toss for it!” said Sam.

“The only tossing done tied up like this is not going to be done with a coin!” said Chris.  “You roll onto me, you’re probably a bit lighter.”

They started the exertive move, leather creaking and bodies straining.  Both found the experience a turn-on, and as they lay there at last, Sam on top of Chris, both had a massive hard-on and they kissed.

“Christ, you’re heavy,” gasped Chris as Sam massaged his leather-covered thighs against Chris’ as vigorously as the straps would allow.  Sam gently bit Chris’ ear as the sexual sensations became almost unbearable.  He could imagine them both as if he were an observer through the spy-window in the door.  Two very masculine, muscular bodies completely encased in leather, wearing jackets designed to imprison, their black-leathered legs strapped together, their arms strapped together, their arms strapped around themselves.

Sam came, they both came in massive spurts unseen in their leather motorbike jeans.  Sam almost screamed as his prick pulsed painfully because of his full bladder, but the pain was ecstasy and he pulled with all his strength in the strait-jacket.  The riveted, reinforced jacket proved it was made to hold much stronger men than Sam.

They lay there, gasping from the exertion of their actions, Chris unable to breathe properly with Sam’s weight on him.  He stared up at the infernal light-bulb, Sam had no choice but to stare into the dirty white canvas floor.  Both were thinking about their plight.  Being forced together like this was great, the orgasms were even better, but it was becoming less than a joke.  Both were in pain, cramped and dying to relieve themselves.  The orgasm they had just had hadn’t helped the situation, pissing had become a dominant thought.

“I’m fucking hungry!” said Sam.  “What time and what day is it?  I feel as though I’ve been in a strait-jacket all my life and that riding my bike in the sunshine is all a dream I once had.”

“It’s probably late Saturday..... .”

They heard a noise.  The door was being unlocked.

“So, how are our two escape-artists doing?” mocked Tom.  He was dressed in his orderly whites again now, as was Robert, standing behind him.  The two, parcelled up on the soft floor welcomes the gust of fresh air that swept in when the massive padded door was pulled open.

“I hope you haven’t been doing naughty things or we’ll have to strap you down on your backs, -separate beds, of course!”

Chris strained to look up at Tom, Sam had to keep looking at the floor.

“Let us out, you bastard!” said Chris, “you’ve had your fun.”

My fun’s just started,” said Tom evilly.  “I’ve spent the night devising all types of fun things for you two.  I thought for you, Chris, we’d first of all wrap your head completely in very sticky, adhesive bandages, so you can’t hear and those blue eyes of yours are sealed closed and that foul mouth of yours stuck shut.  Then we’d unstrap you from your leather friend and let you crawl around trying to free your head with your hands still encased in the thick sleeves of your strait-jacket.  Then, when we don’t find the pathetic sight funny anymore, we’ll strap your arms around you, drag you into a normal cell and hoist you up by your feet to hang from the ceiling.  Of course, we won’t have the pleasure of watching you go red in the face or seeing your eyes bulge out of your head, but we will be able to imagine the pressure the bandages put on your head as the blood pounds in your temples!”

“You’re mad, you fucking cunt!” shouted Chris and pulled in his bounds.

“I shouldn’t call me that, if I was you, you bastard, - you’re the one in the strait-jacket!”  He knelt down beside the strapped pair and pushed the toe of his shoe painfully against Chris’ ear.  He grabbed a handful of Chris’ hair and wrenched his head back.  “And for your leather-friend here,” continued Tom, grasping hair at the back of Sam’s head and pulling his head back at an angle, too, “we thought we’d take off his precious leathers and put him in those shiny black oilskins out there on his bike.  I bet you look very kinky in them.  Black and shiny from head to toe.  Then we thought we’d roll you in wet cotton sheets until you looked like a mummy and watch you slowly be squeezed by the sheets as they dry-out and shrink.  We’re gonna reduce you, you big powerful biker-boy to a cringing dog, begging for us to release you.”

“You’re mad!” said Sam.

“Don’t say that biker-boy,” said Tom through gritted teeth and jerked Sam’s head back.  Sam cried out, Chris made an effort to struggle, but Tom wrenched his hair making him moan through clenched teeth.

“Leave them, Tom,” said Robert, speaking for the first time.  “Don’t hurt them!”

“Don’t hurt them!  Don’t hurt them!  This bastard hurt me enough yesterday!” Tom shouted.

“I’ll hurt you again when I get out of this!” exclaimed Chris.

Tom let go of Chris’ hair and stood up, towering over the helpless couple.

“But you’re not going to get out, are you little Chris!” sneered Tom.

“We’re hungry and are dying for a piss!” said Sam.

“Oh, what a shame.  They’re hungry and need a piss!” mimicked Tom.

“It was always in our rules to feed anyone we had tied-up down here,” said Chris, “and get them to the toilet.”

“We’re not playing by rules anymore, Chris, old boy!  You can piss in your leather jeans and cry with hunger pains before I help you.”

“Robert, can’t you do something,” asked Chris, desperately.

“Let’s get them to the toilet, Tom!” said Robert, “you’re going too far!”

“Keep out of this, you cunt!” replied Tom to Robert viciously.

“Just calm down, Tom!” said Robert.  “Speak like that to me again and I’ll smash you in the face!” Robert looked really angry and obviously meant it.

For a moment it looked as though Tom was going to attack his friend, but suddenly kicked out violently and unexpectedly at Chris on the floor.

The kick got Chris on his cheek and nose, the force of the kick causing him to slam his head sideways against Sam’s face.  Their two heads made an audible thump.  Blood immediately spurted from Chris’ nose and started to stain the padded floor.

“Fucking hell, Tom!” shouted Robert, “you’ll kill them!”

He pulled Tom away from the two, almost wrenching him out of the door.

“I’ll get you two cunts later!” screamed Tom.  “Wait until we’re off duty.”

Robert jerked him by his jacket.  Tom almost fell out of the cell and the door closed with a ‘whumph’ as its padding lined up with the padded walls.  The unnatural silence set in like a pressure on the eardrums, but Sam was screaming insults at Tom, and Chris was too stunned to think.

Sam stopped shouting and straining, almost crying and pulled his head upwards to see Chris.  Chris had his eyes closed and blood was streaming from his nose.  He was making snuffling and swallowing noises as he tried to breathe and as blood ran down his throat.

“Oh, fuck!” Chris moaned.  He was trying to bear the pain of his nose that was obviously broken, tears were running down his cheeks to mix with the blood on the floor.  “What are we going to do Sam?  Tom’s gone mad.  If he bandages my head up like he says, you’ll never see me sane again.  I’ll just go mad with claustrophobia, this strait-jacket’s as much as I can take.”  His words came out in sobs.

“Keep quiet, Chris, - we’ll be OK.”  Sam didn’t like seeing Chris reduced to this state.  “We’ll be OK.”

Suddenly, quite unexpectedly, the door was opened and Robert hurried in, tripping in the padding and nearly falling on the two of them.

“Come on you two, this has all gone too far.  Quickly, I think Tom’s noticed I’ve come back down here.”  Robert was already undoing the straps holding Chris’ arms around Sam.  Almost desperately he jerked the two of them over to get at the fastenings for Sam’s sleeves.  The two of them almost screamed with pain.

“You can do the rest, - I must get back up!”  And Robert left as fast as he had come, closing the door but not locking it.

Sam and Chris still lay there in their strait-jackets, still with their legs strapped together.  They were no longer embracing each other, but each was trying to bear the violent pins-and-needles they were experiencing in their arms.  Their whole arms tingled unbearable, blood pulsed in their fingertips as if it would break through.

“Quickly!” said Chris at last, his leather-encased hand coming up to his face to wipe some of the blood off.  He winced as he mis-judged the stiff leather mitt and caught his nose.  He snuffled.  “If Tom gets down here we don’t stand a chance.  He’ll just strap us up again!”

This spurred Sam into action and the two of them started desperately to try to unstrap their legs.  Chris had the best position, he could reach around Sam and work on the buckles.  Sam was still lying face-down on Chris and fumbled behind him, getting no-where.  In the end they decided it would be easier if Chris did it alone, but it was frustrating work, Chris couldn’t get a hold on the straps through the thick leather.  They were almost panicking.  The thought of Tom strapping them and wreaking further vengeance on them was enough to make Chris sweat with frustration and grope even more fervently.

At last the first strap fell away and after what seemed like an hour, the second.  Now their legs were only strapped together from the knees to the ankles and this enabled Sam to slide sideways off of Chris.  Chris then pulled himself up on his elbows and jerked the pair of them a foot or so backwards, so he could lean against the padded wall.  Sam thought his ankles were going to break.  There was far more room to manipulate now, and Chris soon had the other straps open.  Chris and Sam were no longer tied together.

Sam was on all fours on the padded floor.  He looked at Chris who had his eyes closed and his head back against the wall.  Blood had dripped onto the shiny black leather of his strait-jacket and Sam could see that Chris was trembling from the exertion of getting the straps undone.

“We must get out of here!” exclaimed Sam.

Sam tried to stand up, but many hours of restraint and the soft floor caused him to fall forward, falling across Chris, who let out a snort.  Chris, even in his bloodied condition managed a smile.

“Come on leather-boy!” he said, and worked Sam off him.  Both of them stood carefully up and stumbled towards the cell door.  Sam pushed on it and it swung open slowly.  For the first time for what seemed like months, they saw normal stone walls, heard their own sounds resonating normally off walls and felt the floor stone-hard and solid under their feet.

“Let’s close the cell door,” said Sam, and they pushed it shut.

“Come on,” said Chris and started to run down the corridor on wobbly legs, straps trailing from the sleeves of the strait-jacket.

Sam followed and they went into the bathroom where they had let Sam piss a thousand years ago.  The sight of the toilet nearly made the two of them piss into their leather jeans.

For the first time they stopped to breathe.  Chris looked at Sam standing there in his buckled boots, his tight leather jeans and wearing a strait-jacket with the sleeves unstrapped.  The sleeve strap with its extension hung to the floor and snaked in a curl.  Sam looked at his sturdy Chris, all in leather, his head held up at a proud angle by the vicious collar of his strait-jacket.  Blood was smeared across his handsome face.

Sam felt a pride and love for this good-looking guy and went over to him.  Chris responded and they embraced each other with their leather encased arms.  Chris pushed his thigh against Sam and Sam felt a stirring in his jeans.

“Don’t kiss me, Sam, my whole face hurts.  Come on, we’ve got to get these jackets off.  Tom’ll still have the advantage.”

“Turn around,” said Sam.

Chris turned around and Sam set to work using his imprisoned hands to try and unstrap the mass of straps holding the strait-jacket on Chris.  He soon discovered that he got on better using his teeth.  As he undid the crutch strap, Sam knelt on the floor and held Chris’ leathered legs with his arms, pushing his face against Chris’ leather covered ass to try to get the buckle open.  At last the jacket was open apart from the two straps buckling Chris’ collar.  With a shrugging motion, Chris worked the jacket off himself.  Sam helped as best he could, watching Chris’ leather jacketed torso emerge from the imprisoning jacket like a butterfly from a cocoon.  Chris got one arm out of one sleeve and worked with trembling fingers on the collar straps. 

The heavy jacket fell to the ground. Chris stood there, his shiny leather jacket zippered up to his neck, the collar up, creased from the restraint that had been strapped around it.  Chris undid his jacket and as if on cue blood dripped from his nose onto his white T-shirt.

“Get me out of this,” said Sam looking down at his arms still encased in the strait-jacket.

“Turn around, then,” said Chris.

Sam turned around.  Suddenly Chris reached around him and grabbed his sleeves.  He crossed Sam’s arms across his chest and pulled the straps around the back.  Sam was surprised how quickly and efficiently this happened.  Chris obviously had experience.

“What if I strap you up again, push you back in the padded cell and let Tom have his way with you!?” Chris said.  Sam heard the humour in Chris’ voice but still felt a bit worried and jerked away.  His arms fell away from his body again.  Chris started to unstrap the punishment jacket and soon it fell away from Sam.  Sam saw his hands again.  Sam looked down at his zipped up leather jacket as if he didn’t recognize his own body anymore. 

The strait-jacket lay impotent in a heap on the floor.

Almost simultaneously, they dived for the toilet.  Two muscular men in full leather groped frantically to open the fly of their leather jeans.  Two men stood and pissed in a stream as though they would never stop.

Sam and Chris didn’t have long to wait before they heard sounds of heavy doors being opened and locked again.  Robert and Tom were coming down again, although Robert must have had a good idea of what was waiting.  Sam and Chris waited in a neighbouring padded cell.  This cell really showed the dereliction of the building.  It smelt dank and musty, there was mildew on the canvas and most of the padding was coming out through rips in the covering.  They heard Robert and Tom go past to the cell Sam and Chris should’ve been in.  They waited.  Suddenly there was an exclamation from Tom.  “You cunt, Rob, you’ve let them out, the door’s unlocked!”

“You’d gone too far ..... ,” started Robert but broke off, - Tom had obviously pushed, thumped or somehow gone for him.

There was the two’s chance.  They rushed out of the cell and fell upon Tom who was too occupied with Robert to be able to react quickly enough.  The two leather guys grabbed him.  Sam locked his arm around Tom’s throat and grabbed his wrist, jerking the blond guy’s arm up behind his back.  Tom let out a grunt of pain.  Sam had been a bit too brutal, but nothing could go wrong.

Chris had pulled open the door to the padded cell and they forced Tom in, cursing and struggling.  He elbowed back into Sam’s stomach.  Sam gasped but desperately kept hold of Tom, forcing his arm up even higher and nearly breaking Tom’s neck with the leather-covered arm locked around it.  The sheer onslaught of the attack was too much for Tom who stumbled on the padded floor and fell over.  Sam fell with him and knelt on his shoulders, pushing his face into the soft floor.  Tom grunted and puffed as he tried to force the leather guy off of him.

Chris was active.  Pulling Tom’s white jacket out of the way, he worked a thick leather handcuff belt under the struggling man.  With difficulty but determination, he managed to get the slit over the metal hasp and snap the padlock through.  As Sam fought to hold the writhing guy down, Chris grabbed at Tom’s right wrist.  Tom was using all his strength to resist, but two onto one started to win through.  Robert watched passively from the door.

With a loud click the handcuff was locked over Tom’s wrist.  Tom had no chance now and it was only a matter of moments before the other hand was locked to his waist.  Sam, contrasting to Tom in his black leather, stayed sitting on Tom as Chris expertly manacled Tom’s ankles together. 

Only then did he get off and Tom gasped for breath as he pulled his face out of the padded floor.  He rolled over and lay there gasping.

“You c.... ,” he started but Chris grabbed his mouth and nose tightly in his hand.  Tom writhed, he couldn’t breathe, but Chris held on.

“Just you listen here, Tom!” said Chris, “I’m going to get Sam out of here, and then I’m coming back here, and then I’m going to show you things about restraint that you never ever dreamed of.  You’re going to be the one crying to be let out!”

Tom was gagging and choking.  Chris let him go, pinching his face as he did so.  Tom gasped for breath.

“You cunts will never get away with this!” he shouted.  “Robert, do something!”

“You thumped me one, Tom,” said Robert.  “Nobody hits me.”

“Hey, you can’t leave me here, heh, HEH!” screamed Tom, as they turned to go.

“I’m coming back, alright, don’t you worry!” said Chris.

They closed the padded door on the chained man, cutting off his shouts and curses.  As the locks were turned, Sam noticed that not a sound could be heard from the room.

The sunlight hurt their eyes.  Chris had zipped up his leather jacket to hide the blood on his T-shirt, they had carefully cleaned the congealed blood from Chris’ face before leaving the block.

“Sam, I wanted to get you something to eat before you go, but do you mind if I just get you out of this place?  I’m gonna have to get my nose fixed up and somehow I think there’s gonna be a lot of explaining to do here.  Have I missed a duty, Rob?”

“Yeah, one last night, - Tom told them at the desk that you were ill.”

“Fuck!” exclaimed Chris.

They had got to Sam’s bike, still standing there waiting.

“Where’s my helmet?” he asked.  Chris looked at Rob.

“I’ll go in and get it,” offered Robert.

“I’ll come down to the gate with you,” said Chris, “or you’ll never get out.  Can I ride on the back?”

“Sure,” said Sam, “anytime!”

Robert came down the steps talking to another warder who looked at the two dishevelled leather guys with interest.  He gave Sam his crash-helmet.

“Want me to come down to the gate with you?  I’ll say good-bye where it all started!” offered Robert.

“It’s OK,” said Chris quickly, “I’ll go.  The walk back will give me time to think about how to explain this nose of mine!”

“Bye Sam,” said Robert, as Sam rather painfully pulled his crash-helmet down over his bruised face.  “I wouldn’t have minded being the one tied to you!”

“Maybe next time!” joked Sam and gave him a playful tap on the shoulder with his gloved fist.

Sam climbed on to his bike.  It burst into life at the touch of the button.  Chris got on behind him, searching for the foot rests.  Sam leaned back and knocked them down and then Chris had somewhere to put his feet.  The two took off on the bike with Robert shouting his good-byes.

They rode down the long drive, Chris gripping Sam with his leather-covered thighs, two leather guys looking good together, their leather gleaming in the sunlight.  Sam drove slowly.  Chris had no helmet and the wind would make his eyes run.

They got to the gate and both of them got off.  Sam put his bike on the side stand.  He stood there and watched his Chris go to open the massive door.  He looked great in full leather.  Sam felt the urge to run over and grab this incredible guy, but it was all over.  Chris turned around, smiling.  His face was swollen and one eye was closing slowly, but he looked even more rugged as a result.

“God, you look good standing there,” Chris said to Sam.

“I was just thinking the same thing,” said Sam.

Chris put a leathered arm over Sam’s leathered shoulder.  Sam took his crash helmet off.  Chris pulled him to him.  Sam’s groin stirred at the feel of leather on leather. 

“I can’t kiss you!” said Chris, “There’s not a place on my face that doesn’t hurt!”

“No, go and get it fixed,” said Sam.

“Yeah, first my face, then I’m going to fix that bastard Tom.  Bye Sam.”

Sam pulled on his crash-helmet, got on his bike and drove through the doorway.  He put his bike in neutral, turned around and waved as Chris closed the door.  It all seemed so final.  Sam drove off.  The sun was shining but Sam didn’t feel much of its warmth.  As usual he’d let his chances go.  Hadn’t even asked Chris for his address.  Typical.  Five minutes on the road and already none of it seemed true, but the ache in his groin, the damp spot in his leather jeans and the bruising on his face,  they were his proof.

He saw a transport cafe and drove in.


EPILOGUE

A week had passed.  A dreary week, a rainy week, a week where Sam hadn’t really been interested in riding around.  His thoughts had been occupied day and night by Chris, - Chris strapped to him, Chris kissing him, Chris just being there, his irresistible body emphasized by black leather.  He’d forgotten the pain, the cramp, the stiffness and the agony of a full bladder and wished he were back in the strait-jacket bound to Chris, feeling the guy pulling in his restraint, feeling Chris’ warmth, his unshaven chin, his ..... fuck!, he wasn’t ever going to be able to forget that guy!

The doorbell rang.  Sam let it ring.  It rang again.  Sam got up reluctantly from the bed and went to the door.  The bell rang again.

“Yeah, yeah!  I’m coming!”

He opened the door and there stood Chris as though lying on the bed thinking about him had conjured him up.

God, Chris looked great!  He stood there as he had done when Sam had looked up from the padded cell and seen Chris in leather for the first time.  He stood there with a gleaming smile on his face, a white plaster stretched across the bridge of his nose.

“Can I come in?” he said,  “I got your address from your messenger firm.”

“Yeah, of course, come in.  How are you now?  That cast on your nose goes well with your brown face!” Sam joked.

“Really?  Well it’s a fucking nuisance, I can see it in front of my eyes all the time.  Heh, I thought you never took off your leather jacket?  You’ve got a fine body!”  Sam was just wearing his leather jeans, was bare-chested and bare-footed.

“I wanted to feel your cold leather against my naked skin,” Sam joked.

“Easily arranged,” said Chris as he pulled Sam to him, hugged him and kissed him.

“How’s Robert?”

“Robert’s fine.”

“And Tom?”

“Now there’s a funny thing!” said Chris with a smile on his face,  “No one’s seen Tom for a week.  Someone phoned in and said he was ill!  He’s confined to his bed or something!”

Sam laughed.

“That reminds me,” said Chris.  He let go of Sam and unzipped the holdall he had brought with him.  He pulled out a heavy brown leather jacket, covered with rivets, straps and buckles hanging menacingly.

“Want some fun?” he said.                               

END

 

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