By Straitjacketed

Rules are rules. That’s the way we choose to play, but he had broken one when he thought I was out of town.  It was quite a simple rule, really: if it’s raining, wear raingear and wear it properly.

I had arrived home from a conference one day early, and was watching from the upstairs front window when he parked his motorbike in the driveway. It had been raining earlier that afternoon and there was still a fine drizzle in the humid air but his one-piece Rukka rainsuit was unzipped to the waist, exposing his bike leathers. Wet bike leathers.

I had been about to make a call on my iPhone; instead, I snapped a couple of pictures.  Containing my disapproval, I counted five minutes after the front door closed before going downstairs with a smile on my face.  He had obviously stripped off the Rukka suit completely and turned from hanging it up in the vestibule. For just a moment, a flicker of guilt crossed his face, followed by relief.

“Didn’t expect you back until tomorrow!” he said, flashing that smile of his.

“They sent us home early. Storm coming.” We kissed, his natural musky warmth mixing with the smell of damp cowhide. His leathers were indeed soaked. I pretended not to notice.

“I’ve missed you and I feel like playing tonight. You eaten?”

He had, but “I don’t know that I’m up to playing Houdini…”

“Come on,” I coaxed, “you love an escape challenge. I’ll even let you set… three conditions.” Three conditions was generous, and he knew it. And I knew he wouldn’t be able to resist it. He made only the briefest show of weighing it up.

“Okay,” he grinned, “but no metal bondage; no padlocks, chains, handcuffs, no shackles.”

“Deal”

“And no straitjackets. Or the sleepsack…”

“I’m sure that’s more than three conditions already.”

“… and I get to shower first.”

I returned his smile.

“Perfect.”

Twenty minutes later, he strolled into the playroom, toweling his hair dry. The curtains were drawn but we both heard the distant rumble of thunder. I’d donned my favourite leather breeches, supple with wear, tall but comfortable boots and a short-sleeved leather uniform shirt; he was naked. His cock stirred slightly.

“Leather?” he asked, hopefully. Ever the big butch biker, he loves his leathers. But this scene wasn’t about what he wanted…

“Nope.” I said, throwing him his one-piece neoprene wetsuit. “Put it on.”

Wetsuits are designed to be snug on the body and I knew he’d put on a little weight since this one was custom-designed for him. It would be tight. He sat down on the sturdy wooden armchair and started to work his feet into the attached socks of the suit. I watched as he got it up to his knees.

“Now this.” I held up a chastity belt, the washable one with a fibreglass “cup” on a PVC strap, already threaded with a recently purchased, medium sized butt plug. Butt play is relatively new to us. He rolled his eyes.

“It’ll give you that extra motivation to get free. And we agreed no padlocks, so I won’t lock it.”

He acquiesced and, with a little lube and a little effort, everything was in place, cock cupped and the strap drawn through his legs to fasten at the back. True to my word, I buckled but didn’t padlock the PVC waist belt.

“Now finish getting that suit on.”

It took him a while, even with my help, but soon his arms were seated in the sleeves, his fingers in the attached gloves. Turning him around, I slid the heavy-duty zipper to just above his shoulder blades. The suit’s open-face helmet dangled down in front and, for the moment, I left it there.

The wetsuit clung to every muscle and curve of his body, as he smoothed out wrinkles, stretched and flexed, got the neoprene bedded down between his fingers. I knew that, while the fabric muffled sensation a little, he retained enough manual dexterity to find and untie knots and straps. He had escaped from plenty of rope ties while wearing this suit. It didn’t faze him.

Neither was he fazed when I handed him a second pair of gloves, electricians’ gauntlets in medium gauge latex. These were a close fit over the neoprene, especially at his wrists but, after a second or two of tugging, each glove snapped into place. He flexed his fingers again.

“Rubber, then,” he grunted. I stayed silent but, as if in confirmation, handed him a pair of shiny black rubber chest waders, the ones with a high bib front, close-fitting around the legs with a slight heel to the cleated, moulded boots. He sat back down on the wooden chair (wincing slightly, as the butt plug made its presence felt) and began easing first one then the second wetsuit-socked foot into the boots, again somewhat snug over a layer of neoprene. Finally, he stood, stamping his feet to settle them more comfortably in place. I made sure the over-the-shoulder braces were straight at the back before handing him the straps; he clicked each into its plastic fastener and adjusted until the rubber bib front sat taut and smooth across his chest and belly.

I’d planned oilskins next but then thought of an extra twist to drive my point home. Motioning him to wait, I went out to the vestibule and gathered up the Rukka rainsuit that had prompted this scene, an unlined summer-weight one-piece, traces of rainwater still streaking the graphite and silver PVC. In the “map pocket” was crammed the pair of matching silver PVC overmitts, completely dry. Clearly, he hadn’t worn those either.

He gave me a quizzical look but said nothing as I knelt (my breeches creaking slightly) to help him slide the distinctively supple Rukka material over the cleated soles of his waders, pressing each snap fastening closed around his booted ankles and guiding each arm backwards and into its sleeve. The Rukka was a sort of Finnish-designed boiler suit with an elasticated waist, sized to fit over bulky bike leathers, so there was no difficulty in zipping and snapping it over wetsuit and waders. Similarly elasticated cuffs gripped his rubber gauntlets, holding them nicely in place. I left the collar unfastened, the wetsuit helmet flopping over it loosely at the front.

“Mitts too.”

Dutifully, he held out each hand and allowed me to pull a long Rukka mitten over it and well up his forearm, so its own elasticated cuff held it in place. His hands now looked like a pair of silver PVC oven gloves, and he grinned at me as he made comical sock puppet motions. If he was at all worried, he certainly wasn’t showing it.

I picked up the towel he’d used to dry his hair and buffed the sleeves of his suit, soaking up the drops of moisture from his arms, in particular, in preparation for the first surprise: bondage tape. I’d bought several rolls of this in the past but hadn’t used it much as yet. I knew it stuck well to itself, and it seemed to stick well to the fabric of his oversuit, as I wound the tape around his right arm, starting at elbow level and working methodically down towards the wrist, covering the join between mitt and sleeve, silver disappearing under overlapping black.

When I reached his hand, I positioned his thumb over the palm and taped it there, then folded his mitted fingers down into a half fist. A half dozen or so turns of the tape held them there securely and I was working my way back up the forearm when the roll finished. Grabbing another, I repeated the wrapping process on his left side, pressing the tape down well so his arms seemed to end in black stumps.

He studied his taped hands, a faint crease of concentration on his brow. I knew he’d be trying to open his fists, testing the strength of the bondage tape. I produced another surprise: a pair of lightly padded, rubber fist mitts.

“You are not locking those on me.”

“No,” I reassured him, “no padlocks. Look.” I held one of the mitts up to show how it was designed to lace halfway up the forearm. No locks, not even a strap. If he noticed the tiny nylon loop bonded to each mitt at wrist level, he didn’t remark on it but, apparently mollified, allowed me to stretch first one then a second mitt over his taped hands. The rubber wasn’t as padded as boxing gloves but did make his fists look unusually bulbous. He watched intently as I fed thin cord through a series of grommet holes and tightened the gauntlet of each mitt so it stretched and moulded to his arm, completely covering the bondage tape. I finished up by tying each lace off in a double bow somewhere near the elbow.

He peered at his mitted fists, turning them this way and that. I knew he’d be memorising the position of the laces, surreptitiously clenching and unclenching to check the fit of the rubber, particularly around each wrist. On more than one occasion, I’d seen him slip a hand free from a mitt or glove by gripping it between his legs and wrenching hard. I imagined that, even with fingers gloved and taped up in Rukka fabric inside them, he was confident that he could remove these laced-on hand coverings in the same way.

Next up was a pair of dark yellow oilskin bib & brace trousers, a French make designed for offshore fishermen. Although less a lover of raingear than I am, he liked the masculine connotations of the traditional fishing waterproofs, and we’d each invested in a full range of the heavy nautical oilskins. He happily raised his feet so I could thread his clumpy boots through the legs, then stood up, instinctively reaching to pull the front of the overall over his chest, laughing as the smooth rubber of his fist mitts failed to grip the thick yellow fabric and it slithered from his grasp. I had to reach over his shoulders and pull each strap, one at a time, through to its connecting buckle.

Anticipating more oilskin, he was momentarily puzzled when I pushed him back into the chair and got to work securing his legs and feet with rubber straps. These sturdy two-inch wide belts, quarter of an inch thick and bristling with steel D rings, were stalwarts of our play sessions, simple but efficient and inexpensive enough that we’d bought every size under the sun. No problem, then, finding exactly the right lengths to strap his oilskin-clad legs tightly together at thighs, above and below knees and around ankles – and, what with the waders having a small heel, I even managed to thread a short strap under his bootsoles and fasten his toes together.

Lower limbs were now melded into one, and I watched him work the muscles of his legs as he immediately started tested the efficiency of my strapping, looking for looseness.

“Very obliging.” I grunted, as his flexing revealed a half-inch of slack here, a potential weak spot there. I tightened things up until any possible movement was minimal. The rubber of the straps gripped the oilskin surface of the fishing overalls well, and I was satisfied that none of his bonds would slip.

He clearly expected the matching zip-front rain jacket next and rose carefully to his bound feet, bracing his fist-stumps on the wooden arms of the chair. Instead of the jacket, I brandished a different piece of his yellow oilskin ensemble: the full length, hooded trawlermans’ smock that came down past his knees. Essentially a long oilskin tube, it was deceptively narrowly cut and, even with my help, it was a minute or two before his fist mitts popped through the elasticated storm cuffs and his face emerged, perspiring and slightly breathless, into the hood. Pushing the hood down – and fishing the neoprene helmet from the front of his smock, I tugged the garment downwards so it hung evenly, smoothing out the folds, before letting him sit once more.

He thudded back into the wooden chair (no wincing – had he got used to the butt plug already?) and reacted with incredulity when I used simple nylon-and-Velcro cuffs to fasten his oilskinned forearms to the arms of the chair – incredulous, because neither of us puts much store in Velcro as a serious restraint. He was obviously wondering if this was the extent of my escape challenge. Obviously not – he knew me better than that – but I’d anticipated possible resistance to the next part, and this minor degree of temporary restraint would help minimise that.

There invariably comes a point, in any tying-up process, when conversation is surplus to requirement. We tended to reach that point quite naturally, me concentrating on applying restraint and he on ways to escape it. Now, however, it was time to bring even the potential for conversation to an end.

“Open up.”

He glanced up sharply, frowning at the sight of the strapless rubber butterfly gag, the inflatable one. Not a favourite of his. For a moment, I thought he’d refuse but “no gags” hadn’t been one of his chosen conditions and he gave a shrug of acknowledgment. Partlng his lips, he allowed me to seat the gag both behind and in front of his cheeks, so it filled his cheeks. He was able to close his lips almost completely, only an inch or so of breathing tube protruding, plus the narrower attachment to the inflator bulb.

“Ready?”

His look was hard to decipher but he nodded and I squeezed the bulb to inflate the gag – once, twice, three times – stopping when he signaled discomfort and deflating a half-squeeze before detaching the bulb and tube. He didn’t look enormously happy but he didn’t look like he had any breathing difficulties either.

More bondage tape, above, below and around the breathing tube, sealed the gag in his mouth. Mindful of his proficiency in dislodging gags that aren’t properly secured, I ran another half roll’s worth of tape from the point of his chin over the crown of his head. When I’d finished and patted everything down, the entire lower half of his face was glossy black, with a wide strap of the same black keeping his lips firmly closed. He looked like he’d suffered a jaw injury that had been bandaged with slick black rubber rather than the usual white crepe.

Already, he was working his jaw, testing the gag. Smiling, I ruffled those tufts of his hair not now hidden by tape. He wouldn’t like what I had planned next.

The masterstroke of this scene was really rather modest: a couple of slender black plastic cable ties. Leaning over his seated form from the side, so my head and shoulders partly obscured his view, I unsnapped the storm cuff of his right sleeve, turning it back far enough to exposed that little nylon loop attached to his fist mitt. It was presumably designed as a “keeper” for handcuffs but handcuffs weren’t to be used in this scene, so… cable ties would do nicely. Working quickly – and angling my body so he couldn’t immediately see what I was doing – I threaded one of the cable ties through the nylon loop and fastened it, ratcheting it just enough so it wouldn’t cut off circulation but, clasping the narrowest point of his wrist, it would prevent him slipping or wrenching the mitt off his hand.

When he realised what I’d done, he reacted with fury, jerking backwards, grunting into his gag and trying to twist his wrist free of the Velcro binding. Too late. Scissors in hand, I had already snipped the end off the cable tie, leaving a neat plastic circlet around his mitted wrist. Cable ties, we both knew, could only be cut off.

He continued to protest, unintelligibly, as I moved to the other wrist (careful to go behind the chair in case, in his anger, he tried to kick me with his bound feet). The Velcro straps were doing a surprisingly good job of holding his arms to the chair and, as I unsnapped and peeled back the yellow oilskin cuff on his left wrist, I chided him.

“Hey, you agreed to the challenge. No metal, you said, and there’s no metal here. These aren’t even police issue; I got them in the sodding garden centre! You reckon Houdini would’ve kicked up this much of a fuss over plant ties?”

His grunts subsided into low muttering, and I finished the job of cable tying his left mitt. Storm cuffs resnapped over the offending plastic cuffs, I pulled the sleeves of the fisherman smock back down again so everything was neat.

“There. Ship-shape and Bristol fashion!” I exclaimed, as he regarded me in sullen silence, his narrowed eyes above the gag throwing me pure YOU BASTARD. As I’d guessed, his Plan A for escape had relied on his freeing the fingers of at least one hand; in making the mitts so much more secure – with the addition of two little bands of unbreakable plastic – I’d effectively stymied that particular route. Having anticipated and blocked his first avenue of escape, I was both pleased and aroused (I adjusted myself, in my leather breeches). I would’ve bet good money that, despite – or because of – his apparent irritation, he was too. The psychology of our play was, by now, familiar: I got off on outwitting him and, much as he liked to be the triumphant escapologist, he also enjoyed being outwitted.

“Actually, you do look a bit like Captain Birdseye,” I smirked, “but you’re not quite ready to battle the elements. You need to be fully protected.”

I wondered if he was starting to get an inkling of where this scene was going. He remained ominously silent. His tantrum had given the gag a decent workout, though, and it had held firm. Just to be sure, I used the rest of the final roll of bondage tape reinforcing it. He didn’t try to resist, just gazed straight ahead as I wound and pressed the remaining tape into a tight muzzle all around his face and head, ensuring it was well glued to itself.

“Gas attacks are rare at sea, but one can’t be too careful.” I said, revealing the next piece of kit, an S10 military respirator. We have several of these, some with tinted or blacked out lenses, but this one had the standard circular goggle-like eyes in clear “anti-fog” perspex. I’d bought it on eBay and had it modified by a specialist rubber supplier so that, rather than fastening with straps, it was bonded to an enclosing latex hood that could be zipped closed, clamping the head tightly enough not to be shaken loose. He remained impassive.

Rubber stretched and zip fully closed, all skin and hair was now hidden, my prisoner’s head a shiny black dome. The respirator valve clicked faintly as he inhaled and exhaled, but clearly didn’t impede his breathing.

Hoods… I love hoods, and this was the first of many. Grasping the dangling helmet of his wetsuit, I lifted it upwards and backwards, fitting the face opening carefully over the “snout” of the S10 and easing it over his latex-covered head, so “snout” and round goggle-lenses were framed by an oval of neoprene. Once the wetsuit helmet was in place, I pulled the zip the rest of the way to seal him properly in.

The collar of the Rukka suit was next. I straightened it around the neck of his wetsuit helmet, snapping a couple of press-studs shut.

One hood of latex, one of neoprene, and now one of oilskin. I drew the fishing smock’s hood smartly over his helmeted head, tugged the drawstrings so it was concertinaed tightly around his face then knotted them snugly under his chin, tucking and sealing everything behind a thick yellow flap that fastened across his throat with another piece of Velcro. Even with fingers free, he’d have trouble uncovering and unfastening that knot… and, to his still obvious chagrin, his fingers were far from being free.

I stepped back to examine my handiwork so far. He was a mass of yellow, punctuated by the black of his gasmask, his mitts, his boots and the rubber straps visible below his smock, binding ankles and feet. These French oilskins, I mused, weren’t high-gloss like some wet weather gear, but a duller sheen, almost matt. That gave me an idea…

I was only away for a minute or two, to the hall closet, but already he was making progress with his bonds. Bent over his right wrist, he was using the edge of the S10 “snout” to snag the Velcro and work it loose. He was halfway there, too, and would doubtless, given more time, have freed his arms from the chair. I admired his indefatigability.

I coughed loudly and, despite the three hoods already covering his ears, he heard me. Looking up he saw what I was holding, and shook his head.

“Mnuh-uh.” No.

I nodded.

“Uh-huh.” Yes.

Through the lenses of the gasmask, I saw him scowl. I knew he disliked this particular garment as much as I liked it. I thought it beautiful, a heavy belted raincoat – classic Burberry mac style but with attached hood – in the perfectly transparent PVC they call “glass clear”. It was unisex, the double row of buttons fastening either right-over-left or left-over-right but, ever the macho biker, he considered it too feminine – too “sissy” – for him. It had taken me a long time to find one in such pristine condition but he’d refused even to try it on and the coat had languished, unloved, at the back of the closet.

“In a minute, I’m going to unstrap your arms,” I told him, in a loud, level tone, “and I want you to consider your options carefully. Your legs are bound together and you don’t have the use of your hands. You’re wearing a mask with a breathing outlet that can be shut off with just a tiny piece of duct tape. You reckon you could find the edge of a piece of tape, in those mitts, before your air supply ran out?”

He took this in, and I could see him making the calculations, deciding what was bluff and what I’d actually do. Meaningfully, I cut a square of duct tape and stuck it on the back of my hand. Then I picked up the transparent raincoat again, shaking out its folds.

“You are going into this coat. We can do it the easy way or the difficult way. The choice is yours.”

I held his gaze and, after a few tense seconds, he nodded.

“The easy way?” He nodded again. I was secretly relieved.

“Sensible.”

Moving behind the chair, I undid the Velcro straps. Immediately, his mitted hands went upward, moving over the outer oilskin hood, trying, without success, to push it back and off his head (the drawstring-tightened opening around his face was now too small to allow that), trying (and failing) to catch the edge of the Velcro-fastened throat-flap with his padded but smooth stumps. His examination of the neck of the smock seemed purposeful, and I wondered if he were feeling for an uncovered drawstring that might be snagged and pulled to loosen the yellow oilskin hood. No dice.

Standing to one side of the chair, I helped him up. He steadied himself remarkably quickly on his strapped, booted feet. The long fishing smock covered his bound legs, so it looked merely as if he were standing to attention, heels together.

“Arms behind!” I ordered, and he muttered darkly but complied. I slid the glass-clear coat up over his yellow oilskin arms and the rubber fist mitts. Oilskin squeaked against PVC but the coat was up and on his shoulders. Still watchful for any sudden resistance (even with hands taped, mitted and useless, he was still capable of throwing a punch), I moved to the front to button it closed. For a moment, I considered fastening it right-over-left – the “female” way – out of sheer devilment but decided to spare him that particular humiliation. The fabric felt smooth and cool to the touch, as I carefully buttoned it down the front and pulled the equally transparent belt as tightly as I could around his waist, buckling it fast and tidying it neatly through the loops. The sleeves had similar straps at the cuffs and I tightened them to the fullest extent possible around his wrists.

The glass-clear hood – hood number four! – was dragged over the yellow of his trawlerman hood. Another pair of drawstrings, gathering the squeaking, creaking see-through fabric inwards to enclose his head and tighten around the S10, another bow tied with a flourish, then I could, with a little effort, button a clear plastic strap under his chin. I closed the final two coat buttons up to his neck.

I stepped back.

“First time for everything, eh?” I smiled, “you’re all bright and shiny now. You should definitely wear that more often.”

If looks could kill, I’d have dropped dead on the spot. Even cinched in at the waist, the hated raincoat extended below his knees, below the hem of his fishing smock. Dull mustard-coloured oilskin had been transformed by the overlay of glassy PVC to glistening golden yellow, the shade of sunlit buttercups. I decided against telling him this.

Now firmly and fully wrapped, strapped, tied and buttoned into the coat he’d always refused to wear, his body language radiated annoyance. He was seriously pissed off, the fist mitts looked more than ever like clenched fists as they tore bluntly, uselessly at belt then buttons. He was already trying to work out how to get out of it. Good. My challenge was to ensure he couldn’t.

Watching him try was fun. The smooth rubber mitts roamed across the neck of the raincoat, trying and failing to find purchase.  Through the layers of rubber, tape and padding, his usually skilled fingertips couldn’t even feel well enough to locate neck-strap, much less unbutton it to get at the drawstrings underneath. That hood wasn’t coming off in a hurry. The S10 whistled and huffed as he shook his head in irritation.

He was still bristling when I introduced my favourite garment: a beautiful, ankle length SBR trenchcoat. I’d had it ready and waiting.

“Look on the bright side. At least it’s going to cover up the coat you don’t like.”

Truth to tell, he wasn’t too fond of the SBR either. Same qualms about wearing something unisex, I suspected. Perhaps heedful of my earlier warning – and that little square of duct tape, still ready to be slapped over his breathing inlet – he gave me no trouble, though, as I heaved it up over the clear raincoat (all those layers were really starting to bulk up his arms) and took my time getting it fully done up.

Cossack style, this gloriously heavy black coat had a double row of buttons down to the waist and then every six inches almost to the ankle. The stiff, cold rubberised fabric seemed to resist as I thumbed every button through its buttonhole. I knew from experience that it would soften as the material warmed up. The sleeves came halfway down each mitted hand, over the cuffs of the transparent mac, and were adjustable with wide SBR straps. I left those straps – and the waist belt – unfastened.

This coat had an attached hood and a high collar. SBR creaked in protest as I worked the hood – number five! – forward over what now seemed an absurdly well swathed head, and I ignored both his angry gaze and the vaguely threatening mumbling from inside the S10, concentrating instead on tightening and knotting the its tie tapes under his chin and pushing them inside the trenchcoat. I then straightened the high collar and pulled it upright. Over the bulk of so many other garments, it wasn’t easy buttoning the SBR “throat latch” across his neck, but I managed it. One last step was to fasten the mac’s gun flap down and button it over the right side of his chest.

My prisoner (and I realised I was now thinking of him as such) was now finally looking ready for rain. I suppressed a chuckle, knowing how much he wouldn’t be appreciating my efforts. I thought he looked wonderful – fully rubberised from hood to boots.

Still not quite smart enough, though. The unfastened belt and wrist straps jarred my sense of sartorial completeness. I had plans for those.

I motioned for him to sit. With a groan (partly him, partly the creaking and rubbing together of so many impermeable coat “skirts”), he collapsed into the chair. I didn’t bother to Velcro him into it this time, but allowed him to fidget, worry and prod impotently at the various trenchcoat fastenings for the minute or so it took me to gather the next items.

He was concentrating on a coat button when I returned, the silence broken only by the squeak of his shiny outer casing as he shifted and the hiss-and-click of his breathing. The SBR coat’s hood was a little more parka-like than the others, and narrowed his peripheral vision so he had to angle his face forward to see things properly. What about his hearing? Could he hear me at all beneath all those head coverings? He realised I was there and remembered to glower through lenses and hood-tunnel.

“A few minor adjustments,” I said, more to myself than him, “and we’ll be done.”

I took his arm and unthreaded the SBR fabric strap from the loops around the cuff of his coat. I did the same on the other side and, with more of a tussle (he seemed to take a savage satisfaction in remaining seated, making things more difficult for me) extracting the waist belt from the tough SBR loops of the SBR. I coiled the straps carefully and put them aside.

He’d surely guessed what was coming but didn’t resist as I worked thicker, two-inch wide rubber bondage straps through the same loops on his coat-cuffs, buckling them around his wrists. Although almost quarter of an inch thick, with steel D rings riveted through them, these straps didn’t look out of place on the trenchcoat. I adjusted each strap carefully, so it wouldn’t cause significant discomfort (with all the layers of gloving underneath, his wrists were well protected; I could pull tightly on each strap with no fear of cutting off circulation) but there was no way it’d budge from his mitted wrist. In addition to the loops themselves, the friction of rubber-against-rubber worked in my favour, the straps seeming to grip the fabric of his sleeves.

When I was satisfied that his wrist-straps were adjusted for optimal security, I had him stand (coats rustled and rippled as he struggled to his bound feet with a show of what seemed exaggerated ill humour) and fastened a wider, equally robust three-inch rubber belt through the loops at his waist. This one had larger D rings at the sides and back and I braced myself, pulling it as tight as I could before buckling it closed.

“Right,” I said, reaching for the towel to wipe my own perspiring brow, “now you’re nicely wrapped and strapped.”

My trenchcoated prisoner looked incredible, now clad in shiny black from the top of his hooded head to the tips of his booted toes, fully buttoned and belted into the most absurdly rainproof outfit imaginable. Comfortable in my own relatively lightweight leathers, I imagined the weight and building heat of all those impermeable layers, more gear than I’d ever forced him into before.

Having taken a minute to drink the sight of him, I moved onto the next phase.

From the back of his chair, I steered into view what we referred to as the presentation platform: a three-foot square chunk of plywood, about four inches off the floor, with a lockable wheel at each corner and two waist high posts firmly fixed to it. I manoeuvred it into position in front of the chair, and toed the castors into the locked position, so it wouldn’t move.

Even in his current predicament, he remained curious as to what would happen next. This curiosity, I’ve often reminded him, this inability to resist an escape challenge, is my biggest advantage over him.

He was unable to get onto the platform without my help but, with some assistance, was soon up and positioned between the posts, rubber-mitted fists braced to steady himself. Each post had a heavy eye-bolt screwed into the top and another at its base.

“No metal bondage,” I reminded him, “no padlocks, no chain. Just… rope!”

With a conjuror’s flourish, I produced half a dozen hanks of rope: simple, broken-in sash cord, perhaps the oldest toy in our box. I proceeded to lash the D ring at each side of his belt to the eye-bolt at the top of the adjacent post. Taking my time, I adjusted and readjusted the tautness on each side until I had him symmetrically secured between the two posts.

He was trying to look down, to see exactly how I was tying him, but the combination of high collar, several throat straps and the restricted field of vision through the S10 and hoods made this impossible. He snorted through the respirator.

Lifting the hem of his SBR coat, I looped rope through the D ring on each side of the strap binding his ankles and repeated the process of adjustment and counter-adjustment until his strapped-together feet too were held firm, fastened between the eyebolts at the base of the wooden posts. He was effectively roped into immobility below the waist, unable to move forward, backwards or side-to-side. He couldn’t fall over now.

I could see him testing the tiny range of movement in his legs, which amounted to his being able to bend his knees slightly and twist a little in his securing bonds. Despite everything, his body language was purposeful and energetic rather than defeated. I was pleased. I didn’t want him defeated; not yet, anyway.

“Obviously, I was never going to leave your arms free.” I gloated, twirling the two remaining – and considerably longer – hanks of rope. A defiant glare. At least partly for show, though; I knew that, more than any other part of the tying-up process, he loved the roping of his wrists.

Shaking the last two lengths of rope loose, I doubled each one and knotted it, in a simple lark’s head configuration, to the D ring on the back of his wrist strap. I’ve learned, with him, to avoid leaving knots or ends of rope near his hands, so am in the habit of securing each wrist to the centre of a rope then using the two ends together, as a sort of double-thickness tether. That way, I can locate the important knotting well out of reach of those fingers of his.

Pulling his right arm up behind his back, I ran the doubled cord around his waist, through the D ring at the left side of his coat belt, to the front. His left arm was similarly hoisted up and its cords run through the right waist D ring. Standing in front of him, a sharp tug, a creaking of SBR and his sleeved arms were folded behind his back, each wrist now roped at the waist and held close to the opposite elbow.

At this point, he’d almost certainly be expanding his chest and stiffening his arms in such a way as to create slack – so that, when he relaxed them again later, the roping would loosen somewhat. Recalling a straitjacketing technique to combat this, I suddenly moved to jab him playfully in the belly. He reacted instinctively. At the last minute, I pulled back on my punch but he’d already exhaled, automatically, in anticipation of a blow to the gut, bending over at the waist. In that moment of exhalation, I yanked the ropes savagely, jerking his arms more completely folded behind him and stealing the last bit of slack. Before he could recover it, I had tied a swift reef knot at the front of his waist.

Realising my trick, he roared into his gag and jerked back against the wrist-ropes but it was too late: his arms were crossed as tightly as they would go behind him, each wrist tethered right up against – almost touching – the D ring on the opposite side of his waist belt. The position forced his chest out slightly, as if in indignation.

“Can’t believe you fell for that one!” I chuckled, as he continued to tug and strain, all the while emitting muffled curses from beneath gag and respirator. I was satisfied to see the knot hold tight at the front of his belt. I patted it reassuringly.

“Such a simple knot too. Even with mitts on, you could undo that one. If you could reach it.” The struggling intensified.

I considered my options. I could’ve quite easily left things there but, still with several metres hanging down from the waist-knot, further trussing was in order. I was enjoying myself.

Ignoring his furious squirming, I added a second knot to strengthen my first one, then wound each double-strand back around the waist (taking care to thread each through the belt’s D ring again) and moved behind him.

From behind, the tension on his arms was clearly evident: a sort of reverse-straitjacketed position. He strained again and I could imagine the muscles of his arms bunching underneath all those sleeves and gloves. If his fingers hadn’t already been trapped in fist mitts, they’d surely be clenching and unclenching.

I turned my attention to the D ring at the centre of the back of his belt. It looked lonely, unused. I decided it was perfectly placed to anchor his crossed forearms more firmly. Taking up the doubled ropes, I ran each through the centre ring then looped several turns around his forearms (having to work to get the rope between SBR sleeves and the back of his SBR coat), cinching those loops nice and tight before tying them off to that central D ring again.

His arms were now tethered to all three of the D rings on his belt, The white rope looked great against polished black rubber, and I knew the layers of thick, slick fabric would protect him from rope burns or circulation loss.

He hadn’t been able to see what I was doing but he was surely aware of the greater restriction of his arms behind him. Should I stop there? I was left with a good metre and a half of rope trailing on each side. I didn’t like to waste that – and I liked things to be tidy – so I brought each doubled rope around the waist again (through the D rings once more) and back to the front of him.

“Still movement in those elbows,” I pointed out, “can’t be having that.”

I crossed each rope diagonally from the D ring at the side of his belt to the opposite arm, working it around the bicep (again, effort required to squeeze rope between thickly padded sleeve and thickly padded torso), bracing myself against him as I hauled everything good and tight: his upper arms were now dragged forward and fused yet tighter to his torso. Without losing the tension in the rope, I finished off with another quick and simple knot smack-bang in the middle of his chest.

“There!” I said, with emphatic finality, “That’s you sorted!”

Immediately, his struggling went up a gear. He knew rope and he knew that, in many cases, as well as being untied, it can be slipped, worked or even shaken loose. He knew I’d defeated his Plan A with my first victory (those two neat little cable ties) so however dexterous his fingers, they were useless; there was no way he could untie a knot. Plan B was to try to shake or work my roping loose.

I felt justified in taunting him some more, and I raised my voice, so he’d stand a chance of hearing me.

“Rope ends are here, right in front of you, in plain view! What are you waiting for?”

I slapped his chest, SBR fabric smooth against my palm, and resisted the urge to let my hand linger there. The ends of rope dangled invitingly.

“Look, I’ll even make it into a bow! What could be easier?” I fashioned the dangling ends of rope into a classic shoelace bow.

“You’re all giftwrapped now, like a present just waiting to be opened!” I put my arm around his shoulder, all-mates-together, enjoying the feel of slick, cool SBR. He tried to shrug me away but, tethered as he was, had no leverage.

The hissing of his respirator increased in frequency as he flexed, strained and shook his bonds vigorously. He was trying to gain slack. However, I knew – and I imagined he knew – that I’d come up trumps this time, not just in completely neutralising his agile fingertips by trapping them in immoveable mitts but in combining an efficient rope lashing with solid D rings attached to straps that were part of the actual garment into which he was so comprehensively buttoned, belted and buckled. The D rings stopped the rope from slipping and meant that, infuriatingly simple as my knots might be, he had no hope in hell of reaching them. His attempt to shake the knots loose was desperate, almost certain to fail.

He might, I reflected, conceivably reach the knot in the middle of his chest with his teeth, if his teeth weren’t clamped around a gag, taped securely in place, and powerless behind a gasmask hood beneath a neoprene hood beneath an oilskin hood beneath a PVC hood beneath an SBR hood… I’d seen him chew through tape, untie knots and unfasten straps with his teeth but, this time, they were as useless as his fingers.

Walking behind the platform, I watched him for a moment or two and could almost taste the frustration in his body language. I’d clearly done a good job of eliminating slack, and his rubberised arms seemed immoveable, as if glued in place across his back. It occurred to me that, if the fabric of his coat was heating up, then the warm SBR might actually be sticking to itself slightly.

He seemed to take a rest from straining his arms and, instead, waggled his hands in their rubber globes, as if trying to shake loose the layers covering his fingers: the neoprene and latex gloves, the Rukka mitts, the bondage tape and finally the fist mitts, cable tied around his wrists. Of course, nothing budged. The surface of one of his mitts creased almost imperceptibly and I took a step closer, wondering if he was trying to force a knuckle through the padded rubber. Not a hope. His hands remained shiny rubber stumps.

I could have watched, mesmerised, all night but I had something to do. In no particular hurry, I fetched my iPhone.

When I returned, he was engaged in another bout of energetic upper-body wrestling, his whole, roped torso twisting front side to side. I had to tap on his hooded head to get his attention. He looked up, irritably.

“HAVE YOU WORKED OUT WHAT THIS IS ABOUT?” I called up at him, then I held the ‘phone up to the lenses of his S10, so he could see the photos I’d snapped of him (what seemed an eternity) earlier.

“WHAT DO WE WEAR IN THE RAIN?” Puzzlement, then dawning realisation.

“THAT’S RIGHT. RAINGEAR. AND WE WEAR IT PROPERLY. DONE. UP!” I emphasised the last three words with resounding slaps to his well-padded chest.

“WELL, NOW YOU’RE 100% RAINPROOFED!”

Unlocking the castors, I wheeled his platform closer to the patio doors and pulled the curtains open. Outside, the lowering clouds cast the garden in darkness, and rain fell like bullets.

“THE FORECAST SAYS IT’S GOING TO RAIN ALL NIGHT!”

He turned his head to stare at me, wide-eyed. I gave him my widest smile. His brows lowered and he began to shake his head, to growl behind his gag. I was pleased. I preferred any amount of growling to pleading. Even so, I didn’t want to risk the puppydog eyes. I readied the penultimate surprise.

“NEW LENS FILTERS!” I smiled, holding them up. They were designed to clip into the circular, goggle-like lenses of the S10 hood, covering them. Silvered, they were effectively one-way glass; he would see out – dimly – but when I looked at his gasmask, I’d merely see myself, mirrored. I reached up and clicked one easily into place. He moved his head from side to side in an attempt to evade the second but he was in no position to resist and, in an instant, it too was fixed over the other lens. He continued to emit guttural snarling noises (I could almost recognise “myou nghastard!”) but he now looked anonymous, eerily insectile. He tossed and shook his head with more vigour, apparently trying to dislodge the lens filters.

One last walk around him, checking. For all his efforts, every knot was tight, every bond was secure. He was going absolutely nowhere.

“YEAH, YOU’RE PROPERLY RAINPROOFED AT LAST BUT… SEE, IT BOTHERS ME THAT THAT ROPE COULD GET WET. WET ROPE EXPANDS AND, WELL, THE KNOTS COULD SLIP. WE COULDN’T HAVE THAT, COULD WE?”

He paused in his exertions, apparently listening.

“AND I’M PRETTY SURE THERE’S ONE MORE THING YOU’RE KEEN TO TRY ON. JUST FOR THE FULL EFFECT.”

Padding back from the storage closet, I brandished the cape like a bullfighter goading a bull. Mirror-lenses turned to follow me and a suitably bovine bellow escaped the gag. He hated the cape.

I wasn’t quite sure what it was made of. Floor-length and hooded, it seemed more like patent leather than SBR, possibly the heaviest piece of raingear I owned, almost standing up on its own. He’d always rolled his eyes at the prospect of wearing it, deeming it, like the glass-clear raincoat, irredeemably “sissy”. It’s true that it wasn’t very wearable on a day-to-day basis, hardly the most practical garment I owned.

Except for now, right this moment!

The heavy fabric rippled and shimmered like an oil slick as I draped it around his shoulders. Predictably, he tried to shake it off but the effort was token, as I was already around the front and fastening the first strap across his sternum. This kept the cape from slipping down while I knelt, boots and breeches creaking, to do it up properly. The heavy zipper started a few inches above the hem. I connected it and continued all the way up.

There were arm-slits, also with zippers, and I closed both.

“Won’t be needing those,” I smiled. A patent leather flap hid each arm zipper and buttoned closed.

The long front zip was covered by a strip of the same patent leather and, every six inches, was a short strap and a silver buckle. I fastened all of them except the top one. My twin reflection smiled back at me but the SBR hooded figure still radiated a muffled rage – rage mixed with, I knew him well enough to be confident, horniness. Horniness despite (because of) his hot, uncomfortable predicament, at being bested in an escape challenge, in being tricked into wearing clothing he didn’t want to wear. Horniness at what was to come.

“LAST LAYER!” I yelled, then reached to pull the large, enclosing hood – number six! – of the cape forward. Although capacious, it took effort to get it over everything else. It came further forward than all the other hoods, extending a way past them, reminiscent of a snorkel parka.

“VERY ‘KENNY FROM SOUTHPARK’!” My joke went unappreciated.

I settled it in place and fastened the two straps that held it closed, tunnel-like, around my prisoner’s gasmasked face and under his chin, then I closed the last buckle on the cape.

Stepping back, I studied my creation, a vision in glistening black, the lights of our playroom bouncing reflections off his well-hooded head and the almost abstract column of his body. Posts and ropes were completely hidden, with only the tips of his toes visible beneath his conical, tent-like canopy.

An occasional jerk or twist at the waist threw highlights across the gleaming patent leather but the fabric was so stiff and heavy that movement below the neck was minimal.

Time for the great outdoors!

One last trip to the hall closet and I grabbed the first rainmac to hand, a trusty and much-loved “foresters’ coat” in supple, dark green PVC, long enough to cover my leathers from head to boot-tops. Front fastenings snapped shut, hood up and drawstrings tied – no point flouting my own rules. I savoured the smell, sound and touch of my own raingear, knowing it would be rather more easily removed than that of my prisoner.

Fully togged up, I stood in front of my prisoner, arms open.

“SEE, MY LEATHERS WILL STAY DRY.   NOT DIFFICULT!”

Opening the sliding door, I pushed him out on to the patio. Raindrops beat a tattoo upon my hood and stung my bare hands as I wheeled the platform to its destination, a slightly raised area of wooden decking, perhaps ten feet from the living room window. Within the decking was a three-sided opening that matched the dimensions of the wheeled platform and, turning my prisoner around to face the house, I pushed the platform back until its edges slid under the deck and removed any chance of it tipping. With my boot, I nudged the castors into locked position.

The rain was getting heavier, and I relished the near-deafening sound of the drops bouncing off my own waterproofing and already starting to form rivulets running down the surface of my helpless prisoner. Squinting upward, I kissed my fingertips and reached into the tunnel of his rainhood to touch them to the “snout” of his S10. He butted my hand angrily.

“TEMPER TEMPER!” I shouted, “OR IT’S GOING TO BE A LONG NIGHT FOR YOU, HOUDINI! THERE’S ONE LITTLE TWIST YOU’VE YET TO DISCOVER!”

With a cheery wave, I bade him farewell.

An hour later, the green rainmac was drip-drying in the vestibule and, showered and dressing-gowned, I was comfortably ensconced in my favourite armchair, which I’d pulled over to the large picture window. With a very slight turn of my head, I could divide my attention between the hapless, helpless figure outside or the weather channel, which assured me the downpour would last all night.

I glanced down at my iPhone, wondering if the app which remotely controlled the vibrations of the new – and so far untested – butt plug would work. Experimentally, I chose a setting and touched the screen.

Outside, even against the rain, even under its layers and wrappings, the standing figure registered surprise, then renewed struggling. A tossing head, a momentary flash of the living room’s cheery glow, reflected in twin lenses. I decided to set the vibration rate to Random for now.

I took a sip of the wine at my elbow – chilled, dry – and regarded my iPhone charging dock, set on the windowsill and turned to face the darkened garden. I found the large, illuminated countdown function on my ‘phone and set it to 12 hours. 12:00:00.

11:59:59. 11:59:58. 11:59:57…

I plugged it into the dock, making sure it was turned toward the rain.

I could’ve sworn that, even over the storm, I heard a long, loud howl.

I smiled. Perfect.

 

The End

 

Metal would like to thank Straitjacketed for the story!