It’s not true to say I had no idea what I was getting myself into when I agreed to this challenge. The terms were loose, but I agreed that you could include any amount of the sort of heavy, shiny clothing we both like to wear: you would then restrain me in it in some way. I’m always torn by the urge to enjoy whatever predicament I’m placed in and the urge to escape from it: the fetishist in me wants to luxuriate, but my inner escape artist – my inner Houdini – is always looking for the ways out, the ways to unfasten, slip or break my bonds, always taking notes…
The premise seemed fair, as challenges go. I knew you liked to dress men in layers of gear almost as a means of control, but you didn’t restrain them in a conventional sense: they weren’t tied to a bed or chair, handcuffed or placed in a straitjacket. I liked the paradox that they were able to walk around, but, you claimed, unable to remove the clothing you put them in. Free but not free. I was skeptical of your ability to achieve this, almost cocky in my skepticism.
My inner Houdini felt confident enough. I reckoned I’d win this challenge.
And so here I stand naked, showered and well hydrated (knowing my escape is likely to make me perspire). I am nervous but try not to show it.
I have never seen you naked, and this is no exception. You are wearing a long coat of heavy black leather, belted, with square, almost military shoulders, which emphasise your own muscularity. The coat is fastened, but, beneath it, I can see a uniform shirt in what looks like polished rubber, with high riding style boots. Your hands are sheathed in the kind of tight Damascus gloves I know policemen wear, a fine grade of leather that protects but allows dexterity and fine movement.
There was a time when I would’ve been disconcerted by the face below the leather Muir cap – expressionless rubber features with bushy black moustache, eyes shaded in dark aviator glasses – but I’ve come to think of it as your face. It feels familiar and I trust it. I trust you, when all is said and done. If I didn’t, I wouldn’t have accepted the challenge.
Some of the gear is yours, some mine. I’ve given you access to all my favourite clothing and kit; you’ve looked it all over and selected pieces you know I like and which you like seeing me in. Some pieces I have never worn and which are completely new to me. I don’t know, beforehand, what you’re going to choose. Therein lies the challenge.
Time to begin!
I’m expecting to be handed a garment of some sort and am a little surprised to be given a medium-sized butt-plug. It’s not entirely unfamiliar: I’ve experimented with these in the past and, although they don’t generally do much for me, I don’t mind them. I think I can accommodate one this size. I turn it over in my hands. It looks to be black rubber around a core of metal, with a flange at one end to stop it being swallowed up entirely.
Shrugging, I take up your offer of some lubricant and, a little self-consciously, relax my muscles and push the plug into place. It seats easily and, although I can’t forget it’s there, it isn’t uncomfortable. I’m not sure what part it’ll play in the escape challenge. Something to intensify the experience, I suppose.
You then show me some small, flexible adhesive pads of what looks like black rubber, again with a metallic layer. E-stim? I’ve heard of it but never tried it. I thought E-stim sets included wires and there don’t seem to be any attached to these pads. My cock swells a bit as you peel off the backing paper and stick pads around the base and shaft, and on my balls. Puzzling but I’ll go with it. I know you won’t cause me actual physical harm.
Next is something more familiar, a pair of black rubber briefs with a cock and ball sheath. They are thin latex and attached to narrow shoulder straps, like a modified wrestling singlet. I originally bought them to wear under leathers, to prevent staining of the hide with precum. I ease my genitals into the sheath, taking care not to dislodge the adhesive pads. The sheath keeps everything in place and I pull the singlet straps over my shoulders, stretching slightly to make sure everything’s smoothed down and tidy. The briefs are also tight enough to keep the plug in place (although it doesn’t feel like there’s any chance of it popping out).
You hand me a slightly thicker latex catsuit, already lubricated inside. It’s neck-entry, with an open face helmet/hood and attached gloves and socks. The latex is heavier-gauge than the singlet briefs and seems less likely to tear. You help me stretch the face opening to squeeze legs, arms then my upper body in. It’s a good fit, right for my build, but even so, it takes me a while to settle the suit properly, pushing my fingers into the right parts of the gloves and smoothing out wrinkles. I interlace my fingers, getting the rubber right down between so it’s just right. In any escape challenge, my dextrous fingertips are my best asset and my most reliable tool, able to find and unfasten straps, pick apart knots and even do some very basic lock picking.
The wrestling singlet is faintly outlined under the suit. For now, the open-face helmet part sits around my neck. I’m conscious of it constricting a little but not enough to choke me.
The catsuit tingles against my skin, cool at first but I know it will heat up very quickly. I flex my fingers, already a little restricted despite the suit being reasonably supple latex. I understand from you that this suit is to be the base layer, my “skin.” It occurs to me that we haven’t discussed how many layers there might be.
I feel another tingle, this time of apprehension, as you hand me the next rubber hood.
It’s a hood of yours, one that I’ve seen in pictures but never real life. I know it fits over teeth and into the whole mouth cavity. It has short nostril tubes and you show me that you’ve modified it so there’s a small hole at the back of the mouth cavity.
I start drawing the hood over my head, but you put a gloved hand on my arm, making me pause and producing a pair of small plastic plugs shaped to fit the ear canal. You tell me they contain embedded Bluetooth earphones. Something else new to me, but I try them and find they’re comfortable in my ears, more comfortable than the headphones I use to listen to music. You tilt my head and apply some warm, softened wax over each earplug. This will cool and harden in a few minutes, keeping the plugs in place and further serving to muffle sound. If I listen very carefully, I think I could just make out a loud spoken instruction, but I’m not sure. Still playing the confident escape artist (“I can escape from anything!”), I give you a smile and a thumbs-up. Your face remains free of expression but you nod.
The mouth cavity hood goes on next. It feels strange settling over my tongue and teeth, but I quite like the taste of latex and I am reassured that I can breathe easily through the nose holes and also the hole at the back of the mouth cavity. There are pinholes in the hood at eye level, so I can still see if I concentrate on looking straight ahead. My vision is quite restricted, though, especially peripherally.
I’m still getting used to the feeling of this hood, running my gloved fingers over the smooth exterior, when the catsuit hood is pulled over it …
… and then removed. You are just checking the fit, and have peeled the catsuit hood off again because something else needs to be added. You dangle that something else in front of the pinholes and I can see it’s a ball-gag. Hmm, I think, I’m not great with ball-gags. This one isn’t too large, however, red rubber with a black strap. I reckon I could close my mouth around it and that reassures me. You point out a hole drilled through the ball with a black rubber tube extending an inch in both directions. This is also reassuring. You take the gag in both hands and I obediently open my mouth (feeling a little odd when the mouth of the cavity hood opens too).
The ball feels a comfortable size in the mouth cavity but fills it well. I’ve tolerated gags that I know will make my jaw ache with time, and this doesn’t seem like one of those. You thread the tube of the ball into the hole at the back of the mouth cavity and, when you’re satisfied that it’s fixed in place, you buckle the strap expertly at the back of my neck, giving a little tug before fastening it. It isn’t causing any circulation problems, but the strap is tight enough that the ball fits snugly behind my (rubber-covered) teeth and I know I won’t be able to work it out of my rubber-mouth. Could I push it out with my tongue? I try, forgetting that my mouth is lined with latex, keeping my tongue pushed down. No go there, then.
As I experiment with breathing through gag-tube as well as nose holes, I wonder (always looking ahead to a possible escape) whether you’ve added a padlock. I know some gags can be locked as well as strapped. I don’t have long to wonder before I feel the catsuit hood stretched into place again, the rubber of my full body “skin” suit now gently gripping my head as it does the rest of me.
You gesture toward a full-length mirror and, through the pinhole eyes, I regard my reflection. I’m completely covered in stretchy latex now, from head to toe, all black except for the red of the ball-gag strapped over the black cavity hood. I turn my head, trying to see the outline of the gag to check if you added a padlock (my inner Houdini keeps track of such things) but my peripheral vision is lost when I turn my head, my view obscured. The pinholes in the hood allow me only to look straight ahead.
Whenever I’m placed in a hood, mask, blindfold or even a gag, my immediate instinct is to reach up and touch, get an idea what’s there and how it’s fixed in place. I move my latex-gloved fingers up to feel both hoods, the mouth cavity one and the catsuit hood on top. My fingers then move to the back of my head, trying to feel the gag strap through the latex (I’m still curious about whether you padlocked it) but you bat my hands down again. I look up at you, carefully angling the pinholes to see the next item.
A rubber collar, nice and smooth, with no rough edges. This is mine, and I know it padlocks at the back, with metal D rings at the front and sides. It’s about two inches wide and not a posture collar but it is shaped slightly to fit my neck, pushing my chin up a little but without discomfort. You strap it closed, and this time I’m fairly sure you locked the buckle; I’m sure I felt a click.
Another snug fit: I can insert one latex-gloved finger between collar and neck but no more. This feels like a step up in restraint because it’s the first piece of equipment you’ve locked in place. Hmm. Padlocks, if they’re well placed, always complicate escape …
Before I can give much thought to that, you’re putting more gloves on my hands, first a pair in slightly thicker black latex, heavier-gauge, fitting nicely over the attached catsuit gloves and going all the way up to my shoulders. They seem to grip my already rubber-sleeved arms, with no sign of slipping down.
The next pair is heavier-duty, yellow rubber with a sort of rib running longitudinally through the latex, a Chinese make. I think these were intended for electricians, to prevent electric shocks. Again, they’re large enough to fit over the others; again, they go right up to my shoulders.
My hands feel quite restricted now, and I start testing the gloves. I barely have time to flex my fingers, however, before another pair goes on: these are looser shoulder gauntlets, the same kind of thickness as drysuit rubber; I think they’re designed for use with corrosive chemicals. They fit easily over the other pairs, and the massed bulk of the gloves underneath help hold them in place.
My hands feel very well muffled already, and I try making a fist, with some difficulty. I’ve never worn more than two pairs of gloves at a time; four makes my hands feel oddly slow and clumsy.
You then produce the final pair, the heavy-duty glossy vinyl “trapper” gauntlets I bought on eBay but have used only rarely. They’re oversized and therefore large enough to fit over everything else. I know these gloves well and am conscious of their very strong, almost rigid construction. It’s extremely difficult to manipulate objects through them, even when I’m wearing them over my bare skin. I’ve never tried them over other gloves and feel a sense of trepidation as you slide them up my arms to the shoulder. These are such attractive gloves, though, so shiny…
Wearing the “trappers” over four other layers of gloving is a new feeling altogether. My arms, hands and fingers feel very difficult to bend now. I try to do so, surreptitiously, so you don’t see me testing my bonds. If you notice, you don’t show it, your rubber-face as impassive as ever beneath those aviator shades.
The combination of gloves, I decide, is particularly well chosen, each pair just large enough to fit over the pair below. On my skin, I’ve got the thin latex gloves attached to the catsuit, then the thicker black latex ones, then the ribbed yellow industrial ones, the heavy-gauge corrosive chemical ones and, on the very top, the near-rigid vinyl “trapper” ones. Five pairs! For the first time, I wonder whether you really can do what you claimed: keep me from removing any of the clothing you’re put me in.
I’m still taking in the level of planning that’s gone into this and almost don’t notice you looping plastic cable ties through the reinforced metal grommet holes on the cuff of each of the “trapper” gloves, attaching them to the D rings at the sides of my rubber collar. You take time to adjust the cable ties on each side so they’re just the right length to anchor the “trapper” gauntlets – and therefore all the sets of gloves – in place, then you use a pair of scissors to snip off the ends, keeping the cable ties neat. This is going to be another problem in terms of my eventual escape. Cable ties can’t be unfastened or broken but need to be cut off. I try to see where you put the scissors, thinking I’m going to have to find and use them to get out of the gloves again: I have a feeling they’ll be impossible to remove otherwise.
I experiment with flexing my arms. I can still bend my elbows with some effort, although it’s tiring and my instinct is to keep my arms straight. With apprehension, I note that my fingers seem almost impossible to bend.
I hadn’t counted on you being so well acquainted with the possibilities of all this gear. “It’s only clothes,” I’d told myself, “and clothes can’t be that hard to struggle out of.” I smile wryly behind a layer of latex, thinking “trapper” gauntlets are well named; my fingers certainly feel trapped in and by them.
You lift my rubber-socked foot and guide it into what feels like a boot. Concentrating on my line of vision (it’s not easy to see downwards through these pinholes and the collar restricts neck movement), I peer down to see you’ve selected my favourite pair of chest waders. These are constructed of glossy black rubber, industrial thickness but almost as shiny as patent leather. The wader boots are size 7, a tight squeeze; not uncomfortable but I usually need help getting them off after a scene. They fit especially snugly over the catsuit socks, and you haul the close-fitting rubber up over my legs, pulling the bib front of the waders up, settling the straps on my shoulders and tightening them until there’s little or no slack. It is now quite difficult to bend my legs, but I know from experience that there remains a small amount of stretch in the wader rubber. Sitting down and getting up again would be an effort but not impossible.
The catsuit is now almost hidden by gloves and waders; all that’s visible of the original latex “skin” is my shoulders (between “trapper” gauntlet cuff and collar) and the attached hood covering my mouth cavity hood and the strap of the ball-gag.
Although the pinholes remain irritatingly limiting, if I look straight ahead at the mirror I can see myself reasonably well. I stamp my feet to settle them deeper into the wader-boots and notice that every movement causes the shoulder straps of the waders to pull the glossy fabric into my crotch and also my backside, the butt-plug thrusting a little deeper into me, tickling my prostate. I try not to squirm at the sensation. Beneath its three layers of rubber, my cock stirs and I move my hand to massage it …
… but you push my hand away with a semi-joking slap. I look at your face but, of course, have no idea whether you’re smiling. I do see that you have my yellow oilskin Helly Hansen suit in your hands and are holding the trousers open, invitingly.
How many layers are there going to be? I’m already feeling encumbered by the waders and all the gloves and, if I took a minute to think about it, I’d now have serious worries about my chances of escape. My attraction to the clothing keeps distracting me, though; my horniness drowns out my inner Houdini and I can’t refuse the gear you’ve chosen. The oilskins are a particularly good example, the Helly Hansen suit being my favourite rain suit: it’s the Nusfjord model in the thickest PVC I could find, bright yellow, very shiny and creaky. Fishing oilskins are always oversized, so I bought a size smaller than I’d usually wear, in order that they’d be a better, closer fit.
Will my oilskins fit over the other kit? You have a little trouble getting the feet of the waders through the trousers – the glossy boots squeak against the glossy oilskin – but you persevere and they’re through, you’re pulling the yellow overtrousers up, clicking the straps closed over my shoulders and adjusting first one then the other for a good, snug fit. The tough waterproof fabric combined with the heavy chest waders makes it even harder for me to bend at the knee, and I’m aware of additional pressure in my crotch and arse, distracting me temporarily from all else.
You’re then helping me into the yellow oilskin jacket; I need help because my arms will only bend a little and I haven’t yet tried to grip anything in my “trapper” gauntleted fingers. The jacket sleeves are a little tight, but you’re able to tug them down over the layers, so the elasticated cuffs grip my multi-gloved wrists.
The Nusfjord jacket has no zip but fastens with a slightly complicated double-crossover of heavy-duty press-studs, first one side then a second flap fasting to the other side. It was designed to keep sailors warm and dry and not to come unfastened in a gale. You’ve obviously examined the press-studs beforehand and push them all closed without hesitation, up to the top, with snaps I feel rather than hear. You leave the hood down for now, cord drawstrings dangling either side of my neck.
In the mirror now, I look like a strange sort of deep-sea fisherman in bright shiny yellow except for black at my feet, hands and head. There’s still a flash of red in my mouth, the ball-gag, but I can almost close my rubber-covered lips and teeth over it and make it disappear from view.
I’m really starting to warm up now. I feel my face perspire and instinctively raise a hand to brush the sweat away but my hand only gets halfway because of the effort bending at the elbow. Even if it did get to my face, I’m fully masked, my skin inaccessible! I laugh at my own foolishness and only a tiny muffled sound escapes the gag.
I thought you’d stop at the Helly Hansen suit, but I’m mistaken. You hold out the next piece and, again, my enthusiasm to wear it overcomes all other instincts: it’s my long green PVC hooded raincoat from Ocean Rainwear. Not as heavyweight as the yellow oilskins, but I truly love wearing it because it’s so long and enveloping, hanging well below my knees. It was apparently designed for foresters, working in rain-soaked woodland, and fastens in the front and at the wrists with more press-studs. The hood is cut especially full.
It’s almost a shame to see the yellow disappear, but this coat is another of my favourites and I angle myself to look straight ahead at the mirror as you snap the studs closed up to my neck. I love the way this coat hangs and the way the PVC rustles. With ears plugged and soundproofed, I hear no rustling this time. Again, you leave the hood down, drawstrings dangling.
Another layer! I’m increasingly bulky in my raincoat, the dark shiny green hiding all the yellow. With precise attention to detail, you fasten the press-studs on the cuffs of the Ocean coat so it covers the cuffs of the Helly Hansen. It hangs well over the other gear, and I admire it for a moment, only belatedly realising that you are fastening a complicated-looking belt around my waist, over the coat, a belt apparently connected to several other straps, which you patiently disentangle.
This belt is unfamiliar to me and seems to be made of sturdy black rubber perhaps two inches wide. Once you’ve tightened the waist belt to perfection, you extend the attached cross straps upwards and I see it’s some kind of upper body harness. Probably not designed to be worn over raingear but it contrasts nicely with the green of the Ocean coat. Straps now cross my chest diagonally and run under my arms. You go over every buckle a second time, tightening everything up to the point where it’s not constricting my breathing but it’s very definitely clasping my chest, stomach and waist in a sort of strapping embrace.
You move away for a moment, and I examine the harness in the mirror, already considering how best to get out of it. I couldn’t wriggle free, that’s for sure, it’s too closely fitted for that, and this rubber doesn’t appear to have much “give.” The waist and underarm straps prevent me shifting it upwards, the diagonal cross straps stop me moving it downwards.
Hmm. The fastenings are, I notice, located at the front, toward the centre of my chest, and at the waist. Even with my fingers hampered, I know it isn’t too difficult to work a strap free from its metal tongue and buckle. The fact that this harness fastens in front rather than behind means I can see to open the buckles, which gives me an advantage. Casually, I lift my right hand (elbow bending inside its multiple sleeves of latex, vinyl, oilskin and PVC) and brush one of the buckles with my fingertips, surreptitiously checking how easily I might undo it.
I jump slightly when I realise you’re watching me check out the harness buckle (it occurs to me that without hearing or peripheral vision, I’m easy to surprise). I can’t hear anything, but your shoulders are shaking slightly and I wonder whether you’re laughing at my secret little escape artist testing of my bonds. You move to stand beside me, and I see a pile of tiny but chunky-looking steel padlocks in your gloved hands. Methodically, perhaps savouring my growing dismay, you add a padlock to each buckle. With each click (again, felt rather than heard), I’m aware that the ease of my escape diminishes. The harness is now fully locked around my torso; without freeing myself of it, I can’t remove the green coat or, indeed, any of the clothing underneath it.
Okay, thinks the wannabe Houdini in me, this is looking very tricky indeed. I try to think systematically. Use of my fingers is the key to escape: in order to have a chance of getting anything loose, I really need to be free of the gloves so I can use my hands properly. In order to take off the gloves, I need to cut the cable ties attaching them to my collar, but the cable ties are now hidden under a layer of yellow oilskin and a layer of green PVC and those layers are now comprehensively locked onto me with a network of interconnecting straps. And, I tell myself, even if I somehow managed to reach the cable ties, I’d need scissors (where did you put the scissors again?); could I even pick up a pair of scissors with these black, glossy sausage-like fingers of mine?
Once more, escape plans are put to one side as you’ve begun putting me into yet another piece of kit. I’d thought the Ocean coat might be the grand finale, but no: this time, a heavy black PVC apron. This was an on-a-whim acquisition of mine, specially made by a fellow fetishist in Denmark, and I’d almost forgotten it existed. I’ve yet to wear it much at all, and it hadn’t occurred to me to use it in any kind of bondage scene. It’s like no apron I’ve ever seen, reaching almost to the floor and wrapping both legs in a smooth tube of reinforced industrial-strength PVC. It’s very strong and stiff, the PVC fabric, and all the holes at the edge of the apron are reinforced with metal. The “bib” part comes almost to my chin, straps connecting behind my neck. I hadn’t noticed you lifting it into position and now try to remember how the apron closes: straps or with tie-tapes?
You are behind me, fastening it up at the back. I pride myself on knowing as much as possible about how my gear works, and it annoys me that I can’t remember whether the apron ties or buckles. I can’t properly turn my head or body to get a decent look, because then I won’t see through the pinholes; I have to try to guess what’s going on at the back of me. From the front, the apron is smooth, glossy black, hiding the green of the coat and all the straps of the padlocked harness. I realise this is another example of your cleverness: in order to even reach the harness buckles, I’d have to somehow remove the apron, meaning I’d need to fumble behind myself with either straps or, worse, tightly knotted tapes.
The PVC of the apron is drawn taut as a drum-skin around the front of my body and seems to cling to my legs. You pass what looks like a PVC belt around my waist (is the belt attached to the apron?), pulling it tight and taking it behind again to fasten. Again, I can’t see if this fastening is then tied, buckled or padlocked. Not knowing disorientates me.
With my multi-gloved hands – a novelty to me – I’m now doubtful of my ability to manipulate something even in plain sight, in front of me; could I undo knots or buckles at the back of my waist? I’m still thinking about this when you turn your attention to my face and head. Perspiration slides down my cheek as I work to peer through the pinholes and get a clue what’s coming next.
I sense that you are particularly excited about this part. It involves an item of yours, something very special.
You hold that special something up in front of the pinholes of my cavity hood, so I can see it clearly: a realistic facemask in matt, flesh-coloured rubber, with human features. An echo of your own rubber-face!
Although now well used to your visage, I’ve never worn a mask like this myself and I study it curiously, breathing heavily through my gag-tube in anticipation. Intended to cover the whole head, it seems quite thick and moulded, the latex “skin” has a curiously realistic texture with deep-set eyes (including, I’m relieved to see, eyeholes albeit small ones), nose and mouth. And real facial hair! Your face sports an impressive moustache while this one has full beard and eyebrows, much darker than my own but in keeping with the colouration of the mask, also several shades swarthier than my real skin.
I realise I’m about to be transformed into this realistic rubber-faced man, whoever he is. Any casual onlooker would see a man quite different, facially, from me. Even though I’m already hooded, anonymous, almost gimp-like in my black rubber hoods, the new facemask will actually remove my anonymity and make me recognisable – just recognisable as someone else rather than me. A strange concept but not unpleasant, just unfamiliar.
I hold my breath as the mask descends over my already rubber-hooded head, but your skilled fingers quickly locate the short tubes already in place – from the nostrils of the mouth cavity hood and the one going through the ball-gag – and thread them through the corresponding holes. It takes a moment for you to line up the eyeholes with the pinholes and, for several seconds, I’m in darkness. My fingers twitch in their individual vinyl “trapper” prisons as I fight the urge to try to reach up and adjust the hoods myself.
When I catch a glimpse of light again, it’s apparent that my vision is even more restricted than it was before. The eyeholes of the realistic facemask are very small and, when combined with the pinholes of the now-hidden cavity hood, I can barely see at all. I take a step closer to the mirror (only dimly aware of the Ocean coat and apron clinging and dragging around my legs, making me work to take even one step), fascinated and straining to see the transformation.
And it is a transformation. A complete stranger looks back at me from the mirror, a bald-headed stranger. Noting moulded, apparently anatomically correct ears (my own still plugged and effectively deafened, under their layers of rubber), I peer at the nose and mouth, looking for the breathing tubes. They’re hidden in moustache and beard, black rubber merging with black hair. I’m almost unaware of you behind me, tightening and adjusting the facemask for a better fit (does it lace closed, I wonder?). The light catches a faint glimmer, through eyeholes and pinholes, of my own excitedly shining eyes through two layers of rubber, contrasting with the stoic immobility of this stranger’s face. That glimpse of my eyes is the only part of me still visible under all these layers, all this gear.
Throughout this process, it’s been as if there are two parts of me fighting for dominance: the inner Houdini, that part of me concerned with plotting and planning my escape, and the fetishist, the lover of thick, tight, shiny impermeable clothing. Now both are subsumed beneath this third element, the stranger in the mirror.
I don’t have long to ponder this. Without warning, something descends over my vision and I start slightly. Reflexively, my arms start to reach upward but I force myself to stay controlled. I don’t want you to think I’m an amateur at this.
A tightness at the back of my head. The mirror shows me my eyes are now concealed behind a pair of round goggles. They are tinted, darkening what little vision is left to me and I have to screw my eyes up to peer through them at the mirror, looking for detail. Larger than swimming goggles, they look (and feel) much more heavy duty, industrial, framed in black rubber with a moulded part to fit the bridge of my nose and a lip or flange that seals tight to my “face.”
In the mirror, they too are mirrored, reflecting my image back and forth. I glance at your face and see the difference: your glasses are darkened but standard spectacle shades, they fit over your ears and can presumably be removed at will; mine are more like a diving mask or military respirator in that a network of adjustable rubber straps binds them in place. You take plenty of time adjusting these so all slack is eliminated and they clamp the goggles firmly into position.
Once all straps are tightened to your satisfaction (and I’m feeling like the goggles are somehow bonded to me, almost part of my head), there’s a crackle in my ears, and I start slightly as you speak to me, your voice not deafening but close and intimate. In the mirror, you are holding an iPhone or similar device and it takes a couple of seconds for me to realise you’ve turned the Bluetooth headphones on and are talking to me via the phone.
“… used by welders, to protect their eyes.” You explain that the mirrored goggles are industrial technology: constructed from a special type of toughened safety glass, which contains some sort of liquid crystal. They can effectively act as a dimmer switch, adjustable, you tell me, from almost clear to complete blackness. They are operated remotely by wi-fi, through an application on your iPhone (everything comes as an app these days, it seems). “It’s 40 percent darkened,” you tell me, “but I can easily make it darker.”
You demonstrate, holding the phone up in the mirror, and swiping sideways with a gloved finger. My vision fades, almost immediately, to black, leaving only a fading after-image on my retinas.
I blink and, instinctively, reach up to remove the goggles – now completely blacked out, a perfectly lightless blindfold – but you’ve swiped back straightaway and I can see again.
Okay, I consider, you now control how much I can see – another potentially serious obstacle to escape. Well, thinks the escape strategist part of me, even with arms and hands stiffened with layers of rubber, PVC and oilskin, it may still be possible for me to reach up and loosen the straps, push the goggles from my head. I decide to test whether I can reach …
… but, before my arms are even halfway bent, you’re in front of me, pulling up the hood of the yellow Helly Hansen suit. I’d forgotten about that! I think I hear you chuckle softly (is the Bluetooth still on?) as you jerk each drawstring tight, moving the plastic toggle upwards to keep the oilskin closely bunched. Once you’ve finished with the toggles, you tie the drawstrings together under my chin, your expert fingers moving so quickly I can’t tell if you’ve tied a bow or something more complex (you seemed to be doing something inside the neck of my oilskins – did you tie the strings through the D ring of my rubber collar?). You tuck the ends of the drawstrings inside, out of the way, and close the neck flap of the yellow jacket. Through the Bluetooth plugs, I hear the heavy press-stud click into its socket.
Fiendish! Now there’s no way I can get at that network of straps to unfasten or even loosen the goggles! You are, I’m realising, always at least one step ahead of me, frustrating any possible avenue of escape almost before I think of it. What have I got myself into? I feel a mixture of arousal and frustration.
I mutter slightly into my gag, and I think I hear you laugh again as the next hood is pulled up, the enclosing one on the green PVC Ocean coat. I know from experience that this is a capacious hood and can be pulled tight enough to cover almost all my face. On occasion, I’ve been tied up in this coat with only a small opening around my nose. I’ve always managed to loosen my ropes and, with patience, unpick the knotted drawstring to free my head. On those occasions, I was able to use my fingernails. This time, I’m not nearly as confident …
Thankfully, you don’t pull the hood that tight, just enough to cover the glossy yellow of my oilskins. Even though I can’t feel much through the two layers of rubber on my face, I’m aware of the Ocean coat’s hood now framing the goggles at the top of my face and coming right up to my bottom lip (on the mouth of the facemask). This leaves a facial opening small enough that I know I stand no chance of wrenching the green raincoat hood down over my head and, without getting my head free of this one, I can’t get at the oilskin hood, the goggle-strap, the catsuit hood, the gag or the mouth cavity hood. My inner Houdini grinds his teeth in frustration. You have thought this through with devilish attention to detail, outsmarting me at every turn!
With a flourish, you pull tight the last knot on the drawstring of the green Ocean coat hood (again, I suspect you’ve passed it through the D ring of my collar), tuck the ends away and stretch the green PVC neck flap across my throat, pushing the final stud closed so the hood looks neat and tidy. No strings dangling, nothing within easy reach of prying fingers.
I have been quite disorientated by the swift knotting of the two sets of drawstrings and have shifted position slightly. You have to turn me to face the mirror, so I can see myself. Not myself. Someone else.
Looking calmly back at me through the “40 percent” dimness is a swarthy, dark-bearded man, his eyes concealed behind mirrored goggles. What remains visible of his face looks out from a small oval-shaped opening in shiny green PVC, a rain hood pulled tight and secured against the rain, the throat flap snug under his chin, hiding drawstrings. Still fascinated by the unknown features staring back at me, I only distantly register the rest of his body, a smooth expanse of glossy black industrial-strength PVC, a full-length apron hiding everything except the green of his sleeves and his hood.
Your face is as unchanged as that of the man in the mirror, but I can hear the smile in your voice as you say, “we’re getting there!” through my earplugs. How can there be more?! Apprehensive, I shift awkwardly, aware of all the layers already covering my body, the tightness of rubber and PVC over arms, legs and, whenever I take even a step forward, my crotch and, deeper, my prostate. Summoning all my strength, I work on flexing my fingers and, within the stiff gauntlets, they bend slightly. In the mirror, this focused effort is all but invisible: my hands barely move.
Again, I am distracted from escape concerns. You are brandishing what I immediately recognise as an SBR raincoat in traditional mackintosh style, with two rows of buttons, a belt and a high collar. Beneath its multiple coverings, my cock responds instantly. I own a coat like this, but the mackintosh you’re holding seems longer, heavier and shinier. Even through eyeholes, pinholes and darkened goggles, I can appreciate how the thick folds of rubber catch the light. It seems to be lined in the same distinctive SBR material. With its tough fabric and what appears to be double-stitched and taped construction, this coat looks almost like it could stand up on its own, without a wearer.
Will the SBR mac even fit over all this other gear? Clearly, you have considered this: it’s several sizes larger than my own coat and it fits – just! – on top of what I’m already wearing. I struggle to manoeuvre my arms into the sleeves and would never manage it without your assistance: you go behind me and wrestle each sleeve up a now well-padded arm, lifting the bulk of the coat onto my shoulders and moving around the front of me to settle it into position.
Even before getting into it, I know that this coat is heavier than any raincoat I’ve worn before. This is confirmed as I feel its weight on my shoulders, even over all my other layers and encumbrances. The Bluetooth creates an odd amplification effect in my ears and I enjoy the creaking and rippling sounds as you pull it closed, first fastening the internal button then every button on the front, up to my neck. Having fumbled in the past, to close my own SBR coat with cold or wet fingers, I’m impressed at your manual dexterity through leather gloves. I groan softly at the suspicion that, in my own imprisoning layers of gloving, I wouldn’t have a hope of fastening these buttons myself, much less unfastening them. How will I ever undo this coat to begin the task of freeing myself?
The raincoat is extremely long, coming down to my ankles, giving just a glimpse of rubber-booted toecaps but hiding everything else, every other layer. The sleeves extend over half of the palm of each hand, covering the green of the Ocean coat with ease. Ever the perfectionist, you fasten the SBR straps around each wrist and cinch the waist belt tight, bracing yourself against my body to pull it another two notches tighter. My breathing isn’t constricted but the coat is now fitted more snugly around my waist than any mackintosh I’ve ever worn. Always checking the possibilities for escape, I strain to see the buckle as you centre it, carefully tucking the spare end of the belt through the coat’s loops. I wonder how easily that buckle unfastens – if I could even grasp it with these non-functioning fingers …
The mackintosh itself, even more than the other layers, feels inherently restrictive. The double thickness glossy SBR fabric resists every attempt to bend my arms; with effort, I can do so but the coat seems to want me to keep them straight, like a military man standing to attention. Against so many thicknesses of sleeve and gauntlet, my biceps start to tire and I relax them, letting my elbows straighten again, arms hanging down by my sides. A good soldier.
You button the mackintosh all the way up. My own SBR raincoat fastens at the neck with a double-hook arrangement, and I wonder whether this coat will close over all the other layers and the rubber collar. It does so, albeit with a struggle, the little hooks catching. Once satisfied that I am in no danger of choking, you tidy everything up, buttoning the shoulder storm-flap, turning the high collar up and pulling the attached SBR “throat latch” over to further secure it. I understand and appreciate that you, like me, prefer a mackintosh to be fully buttoned and belted, every flap and strap neatly and properly fastened.
Being put into the SBR has aroused me hugely, and my breathing comes in gasps through the gag-tube. Under the mouth cavity (so far below all those other hoods!), a dribble trickles from the corner of my mouth and I suck harder on the ball-gag through latex, swallowing my saliva.
Even mixed with the scents of rubber, oilskin and PVC, the odour of SBR is pungent in my nostrils. I close my eyes, savouring it, but open them again on hearing another soft Bluetooth chuckle. I’ve started to read your laughter as ominous, a warning of something diabolical to come …
Straining to focus my limited vision (damn these obscuring goggles!), I watch you position a new belt around my waist, over the belt of the SBR. It’s heavier than that of the coat and, although it’s now very difficult to see anything clearly, I think it’s a high-shine leather, perhaps patent. It must be almost four inches wide and obviously solidly made. I can’t see a buckle and don’t immediately understand how it fastens.
This substantial-looking piece of gear covers the belt of the raincoat, hiding the buckle completely and pulling all of my layers in, further defining my waist. Its width and heavy construction makes it almost corset-like, but the appearance remains masculine. I’m reminded of the wide, thick belts worn by weight lifters. You know exactly how tight to pull it, so it’s not crushing or even uncomfortable but I can tell I won’t be able to push it down over my hips. It’s there to stay.
As if in some dimly lit dream (an erotic dream with undertones of worry), I examine the belt in the mirror and am almost ignorant of your grasping first one arm then the other to position similar wide cuff-like straps around my wrists, covering the SBR wrist-straps of the raincoat. Even through the five layers of gloving and three sets of sleeves, I register the expert tightening of these cuffs: not cutting off circulation or hurting my wrists at all but not coming off either, tight enough that I can’t tug or twist a hand free.
I’ve been strapped in wrist restraints before and know I have a reasonably good track record when it comes to getting out of them. I have narrow wrists and can often slip a hand free, especially once I work up a lubricating sweat. I’m sweating freely now, but it’s all contained inside my “skin” layer, the latex catsuit; not a drop has escaped. That’s not going to work, then.
Sometimes, if I’m gloved under wrist restraints, I can tug or prise one glove free; this immediately creates slack beneath the restraint and I can usually work a hand loose. In this case, my gloves are cable-tied to my collar and won’t come off, no matter how hard I pull. I discard this option.
I consider other methods of escape from wrist restraints. Could I rotate my hands inside the cuffs? Sometimes, doing this, I can work the buckle around to my fingers and undo it. I have serious doubts about my fingers’ ability to do anything in these annoyingly rigid gauntlets but it seems the best option available. I give it a try: dragging one hand toward the other (the coat creaking its protest as I move), I brace one cuff against the other and push hard, simultaneously attempting to twist my right wrist. Neither cuff shifts even a little. I get the distinct impression their glossy, patent leather coating has created friction with the equally glossy surface of the SBR, so cuffs and coat are stuck together as if glued. Nothing budges even slightly.
Irritated that none of my usual methods are working, I exhale into my gag as, smiling (how do I know you’re smiling? I just get a sense of it), you part my hands and place them back at my sides so you can attend to the wide waist belt. For the first time, I realise it fastens not with a buckle but with two metal hasps, fitted through corresponding slots in the shiny leather. Only the tightness of the belt has been keeping it in place so far. As if reading my thoughts, you swiftly insert two medium sized padlocks (hard to see, but I’d guess they’re blackened steel, some robust-looking, high-security design) into the hasps. Each closes with a definitive click. The belt is now locked.
Although somewhat mesmerised by the speed at which they’ve been applied, my Houdini instinct is always to grab a padlock, shake it, twist it, pull at it, test its strength. Before I can do so, you grasp my right hand and turn it. I glimpse a similar hasp-and-slot on the cuff there then, with another equally definite click, a similar padlock is in place. As you lock the strap on my left hand, you talk softly through my earplugs.
“The belt and cuffs are authentic prison restraints. They’re patent leather – water and sweat proof – around a core of hardened steel wire. They can’t be cut off. Neither can the padlocks.”
My heart thumps. I feel an overwhelming mixture of physical sensations – the feel, smell, touch, sight and sound of all my favourite fabrics, my favourite gear – and a range of conflicting thoughts and emotions. I’m now seriously worried that I can’t escape: in my eagerness to be wrapped and swaddled in all the clothing I love, I’ve let you take me well beyond the point of no return, and I’m feeling a mix of respect at your efficiency and frustration at your ingenuity in rendering me helpless. Sensation and emotion are combining to make me very turned on indeed. My cock, in its sheath of latex, under any number of layers, has stayed hard from the outset but now it feels like it could burst!
The man in the mirror shows none of this mix of feelings. He is impassive, unworried, just a guy dressed properly for heavy rain, prepared to step out into a monsoon. He looks very sexy in his glossy black raincoat, eyes opaque and mirrored, the kind of man in the kind of outfit I’d notice straightaway, were he to pass me in the street (I’d have to resist the urge to stare, even follow him). Only his closely hooded head is not black but shiny green.
Obviously a perfectionist where your captives are concerned, you have thought of that too. Knowing my vision is now extremely limited, you hold up a sou’wester style hat before my eyes. It’s constructed in what looks like the same tough black SBR fabric and with the same durable stitching as the mackintosh. It glistens as you turn it to show me the lining, also glossy black. The light dances on the hat as you then lift it over my head and forcibly pull it into place over the green hood of the Ocean coat (and, I remind myself, the yellow hood of my oilskins, the goggles, the human face mask, the latex catsuit hood, the ball-gag and the rubber mouth cavity hood covering my sweating face and head). This is more of a struggle than expected, glossy SBR catching and dragging over PVC. Shifting my booted feet (and trying to ignore the shifting pressure on cock and prostate, from waders and oilskins), I brace my head and neck to help you tug it into position.
I’ve always liked sou’westers and this one is, like the coat, something special: extra-heavy, extra-shiny and with large SBR flaps that settle naturally down the sides of my head and over my ears (both the moulded ears of the facemask and my real ears, still well plugged, beneath several hoods). It fits very closely, even tightly, as if measured to be the perfect size for my head, and I doubt I could shake it loose even without the chinstrap, to which you now turn your attention.
Sou’westers are waterproof rain hats designed not to blow away in strong wind and always have straps or strings, which fasten under the chin. There’s a bit of fiddling to be done between hat and coat collar: you have to temporarily unfasten the collar and turn it down so as to get the sou’wester fastenings done up. You take your time, getting everything just right, then turn the collar up again, check it’s properly hooked, buttoned and latched shut again across my throat and push the sou’wester fastenings inside my coat. Again, no strings or straps, nothing I can see let alone reach easily.
I can’t tell how you’ve done this one: your body obscured my view of the mirror and, unable to feel through so many thicknesses under my chin, it isn’t clear to me whether you were tying strings or strapping a strap. I don’t think I heard a click but I realise I’m no longer hearing anything and suspect you’ve turned off the Bluetooth. However you’ve fastened the sou’wester, you’ve fastened it well (it no longer surprises me to imagine you’ve thought to fix it too to the front D ring of my locked collar, under all those throat flaps and straps) and the sou’wester now feels as immoveable as the rest of my clothing, as if bonded to me. The long tail of the rain hat now covers my upturned collar at the back, the brim hanging low over the top of my face.
Standing behind, you put your leather-gloved hands on my shoulders and spin me to face the mirror once more. Even just rotating on the spot is difficult, with the Ocean coat, the apron and the heavy skirts of the SBR raincoat clinging and enveloping my legs, legs that are already restricted within waders, oilskins and catsuit.
The figure facing me is clad entirely in black, dark and shiny from head to toe. The Man in Black, I think suddenly, and smile (as much as my gagged mouth can smile) at the thought. The Man in Black doesn’t smile. He just stares back, impossible to tell the direction of his stare. Not a hint of colour can be seen: the sou’wester, pulled down over his goggles, was the final touch, covering the green of the Ocean coat’s hood and matching the smartly polished black of his coat.
And what a coat! The Man in Black looks well bulked out but otherwise just a man dressed – okay, overdressed – for bad weather. An almost absurdly rain-conscious trawlerman, perhaps, or a beefy traffic cop from a 1940s black & white film, expecting a deluge of Biblical proportions.
You start to say something, then realise the Bluetooth is switched off. IPhone in hand, you dial the volume up again.
“Nearly done,” you tell me, a smile in your voice.
Nearly done?! What can you possibly mean? Every time I think you’re finished, I’m surprised by another layer, another obstacle, another encumbrance. From the beginning, I’ve swung between a state of high erotic fascination (almost akin to hypnosis) and a state of frustration tinged with alarm: fetishist versus escapologist. Turn-on always trumps escapology commonsense, and my inner Houdini is now in despair! Despite looking, in the mirror and presumably to any casual observer, perfectly free and untethered, I’m more wrapped up, strapped up and imprisoned than I’ve ever been in my life!
The Man in Black is free as a bird, a sturdy fellow out for a walk in the rain without a care in the world. I, however, am a helpless prisoner!
Unable to take my eyes off the mirror, I reflect on my predicament, a predicament that has crept up on me in stages, while I’ve been admiring and taking sensual pleasure in each article of clothing (“it’s only clothes” – my own words now mock me). My inner Houdini takes stock:
I’m squeezed into a neck entry latex catsuit with attached socks and gloves, holding in place a mouth cavity rubber hood with a gag strapped (and padlocked?) over it. A rubber collar is locked around my neck, cable ties anchoring no fewer than four pairs of shoulder length gloves, which, together with the outer “trapper” gauntlets, render my fingers near useless. Heavy rubber chest waders press on my shoulders and into my crotch and arse, seeming to hug my catsuited legs and feet.
Over the black base layers, I’m comprehensively press-studded, snapped and tied into a set of glossy yellow oilskins and a long green PVC Ocean Rainwear coat, multiple sleeves covering my gloved arms.
Over the Ocean coat is fitted a padlocked upper body harness and, over that is tied (or strapped?) a long industrial PVC apron, covering harness and coat fastenings, making them inaccessible. Over the apron is the longest, heaviest, shiniest SBR mackintosh I’ve ever seen, extending to my ankles and halfway over each “trapper” gauntleted hand. The coat is fully buttoned, fastened, strapped and belted, waist and wrists reinforced with additional prison restraint belts, steel-cored patent leather seemingly glued to the surface of my mackintosh and padlocked in place with high-security locks.
Ah yes, the padlocks. I know a little about different types of lock but don’t recognise these. They’re clearly heavy-duty. With effort, I align eyes, pinholes and goggles to look downwards and drag a hand across to grab the padlock at my waist. Through the Bluetooth, I hear the coat squeak as if in protest, SBR sleeve rubbing and catching against the front of my SBR-wrapped body. I intended to turn the padlock to the light to try to see a manufacturer’s name but I cannot even make my fingers grip it. Irritated, I try to thrust the belt downwards with brute force but it doesn’t budge, virtually cemented in place by its own tightness and friction against the coat’s highly polished surface.
Over mouth cavity hood, catsuit hood and gag is fitted that incredible human face – the Man in Black, somehow like but unlike the face I associate with you – seeming almost to taunt me with its lack of expression. Tubes from gag and nostrils are concealed in facial hair, and I can breathe with relative ease. The Man in Black’s eyes remain unknowable behind rubber-flanged goggles which I know are held fast by a network of rubber strapping which can’t be seen but tightly clamps my head.
That stoical, unconcerned mirror-goggled “face” is secured behind me, the fastenings of it and the goggle-straps impossible to reach because my head is neatly packaged in two drawstring hoods, one oilskin one PVC, one yellow one green, the cords of each pulled tight so the hoods can’t be pushed back, leaving only a small opening framing the Man in Black’s goggled eyes, nose and mouth. The ends of the drawstrings are tucked away behind fastened neck-flaps, well out of reach, but I know they’re securely tied, possibly also knotted to the D ring on the front of my collar. Together with that collar – and the collar of the SBR coat – my neck is held upright, making the Man in Black look proud and erect.
Underneath the hoods, my ears are filled with shaped plugs, fixed in place with hardened wax, ensuring they can’t fall or be shaken out. Two rubber hoods – three if I count the Man in Black’s face – and two drawstring ones. Over all of these, the polished black sou’wester in a double-thickness SBR as heavy as my mackintosh, thick, muffling earflaps covering every other layer and helping render me utterly deaf to all external noises. When the Bluetooth is switched off, all I’m aware of is the rushing of blood in my ears and my own excited breathing, in out, in out, through gag and nostril-tubes.
My pulse races as I drink in all the visuals, appreciating details I hadn’t noticed before: the way you’ve evened out the folds of the mackintosh so it looks neat and smart; the way the gloss of the SBR matches my glistening vinyl “trapper” gloves, the shining toecaps of my wader boots and the polished sou’wester completing the ensemble.
The belt and wrist-straps continue to draw my attention. The black steel padlocks are almost invisible against the blackness of the SBR, but I see, for the first time, other, more visible features: solid-looking silver metal D rings attached to the sides and front of the belt. I wonder if there are rings at the back and half-turn, without thinking, before remembering I have no peripheral vision. I half-chuckle half-groan into my gag and hear you laugh too, at my mistake.
I’m reminded that raincoats like this one take their design from the trench coats of the First World War. Those coats’ belts were modified with D rings so that map cases and other military equipment could be hung there. The metal loops on this belt therefore don’t look out of place (although I imagine the fact that they’re prison-issue means they’re substantially more sturdy, built for altogether different attachments…). Squinting through the goggle-lenses, I realise there are similar rings attached to the wide straps locked around my wrists. Those don’t look like army-issue at all.
I become aware of the edge of the sou’wester shadowing my face, blocking the top half of my vision, and I shake my head, irritated. It stays where it is. Can an encumbered arm, in all its squeaking, creaking layers, reach up that far to push it out of the way?
“Let me sort that.” You step in and, obligingly, turn the sou’wester brim up, so what little vision I have is restored. I try to say thank you but, through gag, three layers of hood and multiple throat flaps and collars, it comes out as an almost inaudible mumble.
“Why are you thanking him?!”, rages my inner Houdini. Why am I thanking the man who’s put me, step by step, into the most diabolically inescapable predicament I’ve ever faced? This started as an escape challenge, a seemingly innocuous one. No handcuffs, no straitjackets, no super-specialist bondage equipment, just the kind of clothing I love to wear (“it’s just clothes”). That, I now realise, is how I’ve been trapped: at every point, my fascination with the item you’ve shown me has distracted me, overridden my escape artist’s sense of caution. Where I should’ve been more worried, I’ve been turned on. I’m still turned on, despite myself, despite my growing frustration.
My latex-sheathed cock is aching. I move both gauntleted hands towards my crotch.
“No, not just yet,” you scold. I ignore you, desperate to try to massage myself through all the layers of hot, thick fetish fabric. I expect you to try to stop me but you don’t move.
“Let me show you a couple of refinements…”
I glance up at your reflection in the mirror. You are holding your iPhone, touching the screen. What are you up to? The goggles-darkening app?
A sudden jolt of discomfort runs through the base of my cock, not serious pain but enough to shock me into stopping what I’m doing. My arms automatically straighten in their sleeves, returning to my sides. I grunt in alarm, gag and hoods absorbing most of the sound.
“Remote E-stim. That’s one of the lower settings,” you tell me, “it can go up much higher.” I remember the adhesive pads applied what now seems like a lifetime ago. Apparently, E-stim now comes in wireless form… I’m a complete novice when it comes to electrical play. My eyes widen behind their mirror-lenses, behind eyeholes and pinholes.
“Or there’s this, if you prefer. Another app.” An even more sudden vibration buzzes sharply through my prostate, making me squirm with a mix of discomfort, irritation and pleasure. I’d forgotten the butt-plug! It vibrates! I twist, ineffectually, trying to reach back behind me, although I already know it’s useless. How would I even begin to get at that plug? I moan more urgently into my gag. The buzzing stops.
“Again, that’s the lowest setting.” I hear you grin, your Bluetooth laugh ringing in my ears as I slowly recover from the sudden stimulus, “All part of the challenge!” Your voice now grows a little more serious.
“Understand that I now control everything you hear, what you see, what you feel – pleasure, frustration, pain – it’s all literally at my fingertips.”
I’m reeling. I hadn’t expected anything as complete, as intense as this.
“I promised I wouldn’t tie or tether you up, and I’ve kept my promise. You promised you could escape and, in a moment, I’ll let you try to keep that promise … Houdini!”
You chuckle again, and I find myself making a supreme effort to clench my fists, make my fingers function, anything. How the hell am I going to escape from this? I don’t even know where to start! The Man in Black shows no sign of my frustration, my rising sense of utter helplessness, hopelessness. For all the clenching of my fists, his fingers in the mirror bend only slightly and his face is as calm and expressionless as ever.
“I see you not as any kind of escapologist but as my helpless rubber droid, my bondage creation, maybe my masterpiece … but now’s your chance to prove me wrong, to win the challenge.”
Yes, I decide. It may seem hopeless, but I’ve never given up without a fight. Somehow, I can escape from this, my toughest ever predicament and, if I can, I will. I don’t know how but, dammit, I’m going to give you a run for your money!
“If you can’t escape, then you stay my rubber droid for as long as I see fit!”
I let out a long, muffled moan of defiance, frustration, desperation and pleasure.
“3 … 2 … 1!”
Everything goes black.
The Bluetooth goes dead.
Or maybe The Beginning?