Cargo (MM/M) - parts 1-6 (part 6 added 28.08.22)

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Cargo (MM/M) - parts 1-6 (part 6 added 28.08.22)

Post by Straitjacketed »

Cargo - part 1


The man in the bright yellow rainsuit was the topic of discussion but couldn’t hear it. He couldn’t hear much of anything through the balled-up cotton wool filling both ears: just the in-out, in-out metronome of his own measured nose-breathing, the rustle and creak of his suit when, restless, he tried to change position and the larger, more distant shifting of the boat’s timbers as it rose and fell with the lapping tide.

He’d long since stopped sweating, despite the heaviness of the clothing he wore (didn’t have a choice not to wear): industrial-weight rubberised fishing gear of the kind he’d heard referred to as “oilskins” but which was actually made of something more modern, fabric waterproofed with the toughest of PVC coatings, advertised as resistant to water, oil, chemicals, cold, mildew and also, it turned out, sweat, tears, frustration and all attempts to free himself.

He wasn’t sure why his captors had chosen to clothe him in such unconventional garb but assumed that, after the one almost-successful bid to free himself using the tiny pocket knife secreted in the ticket pocket of his jeans, they’d taken steps to ensure there would be no repeat attempt – and this was the next best thing to tying him up stark naked. It was only once they’d got him into the gear, he supposed, that they’d realised its potential for keeping him where they put him.

When he’d come round from the sedation, the first thing he’d become aware of was the smell, a pungent chemical aroma that his disoriented mind associated with newness – new car interiors, new furniture wrapped in heavy vinyl.

It didn’t help that his mouth was as dry as the Gobi Desert and his tongue was squashed down, unable to moisten his lips. The taste was familiar and he’d groaned in recognition: the sponge he’d been chewing on since his initial capture was back in his mouth and stuck there with what felt like yards of tape coating his face, under his jaw and over his head. His ears were sealed too, over their sound-blocking cotton plugs, and tape had been pressed down over his eyes, blindfolding him.

The odour, though, came from something other than adhesive tape. His skin felt humid, clammy and when he tried to sit up, whatever he was wearing seemed to slip and squeak beneath him.

He’d been lying on something soft – a mattress – but in an odd, unnatural position, arms behind and partly under him and legs pressed together; he knew, immediately, that he was back in their ropes – and judging from the stiffness in his shoulders, a lot more rope than before.

Something else was different. He shifted position and the new car smell had shifted with him. That and a feeling of low-level suffocation even beyond the tape stopping up his eyes, ears and mouth. He felt enclosed, locked away, stifled, his skin prickling with the beginnings of perspiration.

Instinctively, he’d tested the roping, guessing it would be even more unyielding than before. It was: countless turns of what he guessed was the same heavy braided fishing line had been looped in every direction around and between his wrists and elbows, wound about his arms, waist and torso, cinched and tied with sailors’ knots, carefully positioned where he had no hope of reaching them.

And no knife this time, damn it.

He’d clenched his fingers, blood flowing back into the arm on which he’d been lying. His circulation was okay but his hands had felt odd, trapped. He realised he was wearing gloves of some sort, gloves made of something slick and smooth, desensitising his fingertips, making them harder to bend.

Rubber. Before his hands were tied, they’d been gloved in thick rubber.

That had set him thinking, remembering what little he’d seen of the boat before his recapture. As his head started to clear, he flashed back to a corridor somewhere below decks, a row of doors, opening one and finding a locker or store cupboard lined with hooks on which hung a profusion of foul weather kit: black rubber waders and matching gauntlets, shiny yellow oilskin coats, jackets, trousers, sou’westers…

Oilskin. That explained the vinyl smell, the squeaking and creaking, the slippery clamminess, the sense of being stifled. They’d stripped him of his shirt, his jeans, his shoes, even his watch, and put him in a set of what seemed like new fishing oilskins, industrial raingear.

Gradually, he’d explored his surroundings. Or tried to: it had quickly become apparent that, beneath what seemed like miles of skilfully knotted fishing line, the slick, impermeable fabric seemed to confound his whole body’s sense of touch almost as well as the rubber gloves muffled his fingers. He felt weirdly encapsulated, insulated from the outside world.

His feet and legs, he realised, were bound as tightly as his arms and upper body, and swathed in close-fitting rubber boots that seemed to extend right up to his crotch. He remembered the glistening black thigh waders he’d glimpsed during his abortive escape. His legs had been lashed together and cinched above and below his knees, at ankle level, even around his boot soles, and he knew the knots would be at the front of him, far from his straining, gloved fingers.

There was a belt of some kind, tight around his waist, gathering the oilskin in, and he wondered if the waders were attached to it. His wrists certainly were, he realised, presumably with the same unbreakable fishing line, gloved hands firmly anchored to his lower back.

He’d spent a few minutes jerking and tugging at his bound hands but the ropes had held, as he’d known they would. His captors weren’t giving him any second chances.

It was harder to visualise the oilskins but he guessed he’d been dressed in a two-piece suit of the kind he’d seen hanging up, dungaree-style trousers underneath the waders, plus some sort of hooded jacket or smock. The hood had been pulled up and closed over his head, fastened so he couldn’t shake himself clear of it or its pervasive odour. His airflow wasn’t impeded but he could feel the fabric of the hood on his face (those parts of his face not covered in tape) and quickly realised the jacket enclosed him entirely, leaving only a small hole for him to breathe through.

He’d been stripped, covered entirely in rubber and oilskin, taped and bound to within an inch of his life. He felt like some kind of insanely overwrapped package – a piece of cargo in storage. He supposed that was pretty much how they saw him.

Having been sedated, blindfolded with his ears plugged, passage of time was hard to gauge but from the bouts of fitful sleep, infrequent meals and opportunities to pee (a whole other story), he estimated he’d been tied up in this gear for three days.

Exhaling a long moan of irritation, he wrenched again against the ropes with all his strength, throwing all his energy into tugging, jerking, squirming, kicking. It was useless. Every bond was expertly placed and tight; rubber and PVC squealed as if in protest but nothing broke, nothing slipped, nothing budged.

Bundled up inside his raingear prison, he was slowly but surely going stir crazy.

-----

The two men watched his struggles on a tiny screen, muffled grunts and moans tinny through the speakers.

“He’s just restless,” said the taller of the two, the captain, adding, “you did a real job with the ropes this time; three days and he’s not got a single knot undone.”

The shorter, more muscular first mate was modest. “The real master stroke was trussing him up in the new oilskins. Those tricky fingers of his are useless inside the gloves and with his head stuck in that hood, he can’t rub his blindfold off the way he did before. You can see him trying but he never gets anywhere. He’s frustrated as hell”.

Their captive’s frustration was indeed palpable, even onscreen. They watched as the yellow-and-black figure gave vent to another bout of flexing, squirming, lashing out at nothing with bound, booted feet.

“You might need to hogtie him,” observed the captain, “or put him in the slicker again. Maybe two slickers.”

The first night had been cool and they’d found their captive a blanket but his rolling and wrestling had thrown it off. They’d then dug out the longest raincape they could find – a heavy, hooded armless slicker in the same yellow as his suit – and manhandled him into that, over his other gear. He hadn’t liked it, snorting angrily through the gag and shaking his head as they’d snugged up the second hood. The cape had leg-straps to stop it blowing around in the wind, and these fitted nicely around his bound ankles. They’d run a few more rounds of fishing line around him for good measure and left him there for the night, fuming and seething in his double oilskin wrappings, flopping around like a fish on the deck.

The raincape was intended as a kind of makeshift sleeping bag – albeit a surreally imprisoning one – but it was the first mate who’d noticed that, after the initial resistance, swaddling their captive in additional layers seemed to quieten him.

“Like putting a cloth over a parrot cage,” he’d joked. Maybe the extra heat sapped the captive’s energy, maybe it made him sleepy, but his struggles subsided more quickly and he lay still for longer periods.

It seemed kinder than hogtying him.

Also, although he’d never admit it to the captain, the first mate realised he was getting into this, almost enjoying himself. The earlier escape from his knots had seemed a personal affront and, when he’d settled to retie the sedated captive, he’d focused on the task as the most serious of challenges.

Stripping him and putting him in oilskins had been the captain’s idea but the first mate had run with it, adding boots, belt and the heaviest pair of rubber gauntlets he could find. He’d decided to cut off the captive’s hearing as well as sight and speech, finding cotton wool, sponge and tape and applying them almost lovingly, with scientific precision. When, after 24 hours, he’d checked his handiwork and found every bond securely in place, every knot intact, the captive still as fully fastened into his oilskins as they’d left him, the first mate had felt a swell of pride. There was, he’d decided, a skill to efficiently immobilising a man. No, not a skill; an art.

“The delayed ransom, though…”

“Yes,” frowned the captain, “that is a problem. We can’t keep him tied up like this for weeks on end. Possibly months.”

“He’s escaped once, though. We can’t risk that happening again.”

“No. He needs more movement but it’s still got to be 100% secure.”

The first mate scratched his beard thoughtfully. He liked this problem.

“There’s plenty more gear in the locker,” he mused, “straps, padlocks, chain… and drills and screws and bolts to modify one of the cabins. Give me a day or two, I can come up with something...”

To be continued…
Last edited by Straitjacketed 1 year ago, edited 9 times in total.
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Post by MaxRoper »

Excellent start. You write well and I'm looking forward to the continuation.
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Post by Scottstud94 »

Love it!
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Post by squirrel »

A very promising beginning, I love the tight imprisonment and the plan to keep the kidnapped victim restrained for weeks or even months. Plus, the description of bonds is really good. I would love to read more :). Good job!
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Post by Straitjacketed »

Thanks, guys!

I tend to write in fits and spurts and will put some of my older stories up as well as the newer, more experimental stuff.
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Post by Straitjacketed »

Cargo - part 2


Even before the effects of the sedative had fully worn off, the captive knew things had changed.

Some things. The chemical smell was the same – pungent, factory-fresh PVC – and the familiar feeling of enclosure, of being wrapped head to toe in stifling layers of heavyweight industrial raingear he was powerless to remove. He lay prone on a yielding surface but was groggily aware of something hard pressing against his upper face.

His mouth felt dry but no longer stuffed with sponge; instead, his upper and lower teeth seemed fitted into indentations in a wedge of what tasted like rubber, semi-flexible but apparently secure. His jaws were clamped around something that held them in place yet allowed him to breathe freely and for a few moments he savoured the inhalations of cool, fresh air. He tried to work the gag loose but the rubber held firm against his curious tongue and his jaw was fixed as solid as concrete. Tape had been used, he decided, plenty of it, around and around his mouth and almost certainly under his chin and over the top of his head.

It took a moment for him to realise his ears weren’t plugged – he could hear! – and he blinked in surprise. Blinked! His blindfold was gone!

Further realisations drifted through his waking consciousness.

Firstly, while he wasn’t blindfolded, he was wearing some kind of tinted goggles through which he could see only dimly and looking straight ahead (peripheral vision all but gone); he’d been lying face down, hence the pressure on his forehead and around his eyes.

Secondly, his arms and legs were no longer bound. He was free of their ropes!

He sat up (oilskin creaking in his unplugged ears) and tried to lift the goggles off his face. No dice: they seemed fixed as firmly as the chunk of rubber in his mouth and his hands were clumsy and somehow slippery, unable to grip.

Blearily, he peered through the darkened lenses at his right hand. Instead of fingers, he saw only an inarticulate mass, the extended sleeve of whatever bizarre garment they’d put him in, narrowing and folded over so the end of his arm was completely enclosed in what seemed to be more than one thickness. Rivets reinforced the tough yellow fabric.

He tried flexing his fingers – which, beneath the oilskin, felt as thickly gloved in rubber as before – and the end of the sleeve stayed closed. He brought up his other hand: the same.

“It won’t tear.”

He jumped, startled. Focused on his own predicament, he hadn’t taken in the rest of his surroundings but now, looking up (and moving his head around to peer directly straight ahead through the lenses), he could see he was in a moderate-sized cabin or cargo hold, bare of furniture except for the padded vinyl pallet he sat on and what seemed to be a chemical toilet in one corner. Dim natural light filtered down from two portholes near the ceiling and on a folding chair next to the single doorway sat the source of the comment.

Surreally, the seated figure wore a suit of the same bright yellow PVC, fully fastened and snugged up so only his eyes – free of goggles but shaded by the hood – were visible. And his hands: the sleeves of his waterproofs hadn’t been sealed shut.

“That fabric. It’s guaranteed rip-proof and my colleague has stitched and riveted it well. I’m afraid you’re not going to tear it.”

“Mmrggh.”

Attempts at speech rendered incomprehensible, the captive pawed at his head in an attempt to rid himself of the gag, the goggles, the hood. He needed to talk, to reason with his captor. The closed sleeves couldn’t find purchase, smooth oilskin slipping over oilskin, and he grunted in frustration.

“It’s a trawlerman smock, a longer version of the suit you were wearing-”

He corrected himself.

“-still are wearing. Mostly. Under the smock, you’re in the same waders, rain jacket and gloves as before but we took the trousers off so you can go about your, ah, business. We want you to be… well, comfortable.”

Comfortable?!

The captive looked down at himself. He was in a shift-like garment, a tube of oilskin that fitted his upper body and was, he could tell, long enough to reach almost to his ankles. It was pulled in at the waist with a wide black belt of the kind that made him think of weight lifters – except that no weight lifter sported a belt that fastened with two large padlocks.

He also became aware of his neck movements being limited. Some kind of collar?

“The thing in your mouth is a scuba mouthpiece fitted with a short length of tubing so you can, I hope, breathe just fine and we can keep you hydrated. The goggles… I’ll come back to those, they’re a bit special.”

“Mmnrgghh!”

The sedation was wearing off and adrenaline began to wash through the captive’s system again, peppering his befuddlement with anger. He shook his head again.

“Ah yes, sorry about that, it must be hot in there. That’s the hood of your rain jacket and I’m afraid it stays put. We used almost two rolls of tape on the gag and goggles but we know how good you are at rubbing that stuff loose. The hood cinches nice and tight around the goggles, keeps everything safely under wraps. Helps you avoid the temptation to, well, worry at things.”

The captive tried to clench his fists in their separate oilskin prisons.

“Same gloves as before. You can’t see it but before we got you into that long smock, we took the precaution of taping those gloves to the sleeves of the rain jacket. Extra security. Same with the collar: it just keeps everything that little bit more snug. You should be getting plenty of air, though; we found a grommet punch and made a hole so your breathing tube fits through the hood.”

The voice – measured and slightly apologetic – was jarringly reasonable in this most unreasonable of situations. The captive felt his irritation rising.

“There’s a hood on the smock too but we’ve left that down for now. No need to-“

The speaker broke off as, in one movement, the captive sprang up and lunged toward him, arms outstretched and aiming for the throat…

… only to be jolted to a sudden halt a good two feet short of his target, the chain attached to the back of his waist belt reaching its limit with a metallic clang.

The captive fell to the floor, winded. The seated figure had barely moved.

“Well, I guess I now don’t have to explain the chain. The other end is bolted to a securing batten that runs the length of the hull. Good thing we didn’t lock it to your collar, eh?”

Dazed, breaths whistling in and out of the gag-tube, the captive watched from the floor as his captor produced a slim remote from the pocket of his rain jacket.

“I was saving this for later but now seems a good time.”

He touched the remote and the room seemed a shade darker.

“Those goggles strapped and taped onto you are the latest high-tech for underwater welding. The glass – well, the unbreakable whatever-it-is – darkens automatically…”

The room grew dimmer still and the captive had to squint to make out shapes.

“… but with a clever bit of tinkering, we can do this!”

In an instant, his vision was gone entirely. The room floated for a second or two as a blurry after-image on his retinas then everything was black. The captive grunted in alarm and tried again to get the blinding goggles off his face. The sleeve ends gave no purchase.

“Get yourself settled in. When we next check in on you, we’ll go through some ground rules and there’ll be food and water – if you’re good.”

“HHHGCK NGU!!”

In pure resentment, the captive lashed out in the direction of the voice but his kick failed to connect.

A door closed then all was silent.

-----

It took the captain several minutes to struggle free of his own oilskin jacket and overtrousers – a perfectly anonymous disguise – and he felt a pang of sympathy for the hapless captive, swathed in the same impermeable fabric but unable to remove it, to feel the sweet relief of air on his skin.

Upstairs, he found the first mate hunched intently over the monitor, pausing only occasionally to scribble in his notebook.

“You calculated that length of chain just right.”

The first mate grunted, eyes flicking between the screen and the page.

“He’s not taking it well. Tried to kick me.”

“I can make a hobble,” offered the first mate, “there’s plenty of strapping. Padlocks too, make it lockable.”

They’d debated the best means of keeping their captive tethered but with some freedom of movement, quickly discarding the idea of a collar and chain as too much of a choking risk. In the end, they’d locked the chain to his waist belt but the first mate still worried about the possibility of his somehow slipping free.

“I think he’ll settle…”

The men watched the exertions of the tiny figure onscreen. The captain frowned.

“… but yeah, make a hobble.”

To be continued…
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Post by Straitjacketed »

(And another! Weird how these things come in fits and starts. Hadn't thought about this story for months and then the next steps suddenly came to me.)


Cargo - part 3


It was dusk when the captain, back in his own oilskins, returned to his captive and the small amount of light that penetrated the high portholes was fading by the minute.

It was doubtless all the same to the yellow-clad figure with the blacked-out goggles sitting against the far wall, arms crossed and wader-booted feet splayed before him as wide as his long, tube-like smock would allow. His body language telegraphed sullen resignation.

The captain and first mate had taken turns with the monitor. The earlier tantrum seemed to have dissipated and the captive had, after a second fruitless attempt at freeing his head of the hood/goggles/gag configuration, explored his situation blindly but methodically.

He’d spent the best part of half an hour wrestling with the chain – trying to reach the chunky padlock fastening it to a ring at the back of his belt, tugging at the eye bolt that held it to the wall and the tempered steel links themselves – before seeming convinced of its solidity.

He’d tried to remove the belt but the wide band of reinforced patent leather was designed to withstand the rigours of strength training. The two heavy buckles were locked shut (the first mate’s modification), the captive’s fingers were dulled by rubber and trapped behind thick PVC and even the glossy wipe-clean coating of the belt hindered him, sticking like glue to the surface of his smock.

The captive’s frustration was evident but he’d begun mapping the narrow perimeter of his freedom. Chain taut, he’d moved in a slow circle, yellow-sleeved arms extended to gauge the limit of his reach – then he’d dropped to the floor and shuffled around again, this time with legs outstretched. On each side, he’d reached the wall and done the same inch-by-inch sweep of the vertical surface.

Sightlessly, he’d explored the lightweight chemical toilet, worked out how to open and close it and established that it was of little use to him beyond its intended function.

Finally, he’d pushed the vinyl pallet to the wall and sunk down upon it in a rustle of chain links, beneath the anchoring eye bolt. It was difficult for the watching men to tell whether he was defeated or merely resting: only the smallest movement of his hooded head indicated that he’d heard the door open and the captain seat himself upon the folding chair.

“There now,” the captain did his best to sound conciliatory, “you’ve had a chance to test our handiwork and you know we’ve got you taped and strapped up nice and secure. You know you can’t reach me from the end of that chain, so no more escape attempts, eh?”

The figure slowly uncrossed and re-crossed his arms.

“This needn’t be a terrible ordeal. You already have more freedom of movement than before and if you’re good, we can relax things a little, bring in some home comforts. A radio, maybe even a television. Are you going to be good?

A faint snort made it through the gag, tape and oilskin. The captain tried another tack.

“I imagine you’re thirsty, and hungry. I have food and water. Do you want it?”

A nod.

“If I let you see again, will you behave?”

The briefest hesitation then another nod.

The captain fiddled with the remote and the black goggles faded to smoky grey then became clear. The captive waited a moment before opening his eyes.

The captain held up the two large plastic cartons and the eyes narrowed behind their lenses. The captain made an apologetic gesture.

“Yes, I’m sorry, it’s liquid food only for now. Until we know we can trust you. The straws fit easily through that tube so I’m afraid the gag stays in, the tape stays on and the hood stays up.”

The captain placed both cartons on a Styrofoam tray in front of his chair and used his foot to push it in the direction of the captive.

“When you’re done, leave the cartons on the tray. I’ll collect it in the morning.”

-----

The first mate’s eyes flickered between screens: monitor and laptop, open on the table beside him. He sketched continuously in his notebook and, glancing over his shoulder, the captain saw rough drawings of human forms criss-crossed with straps. The computer screen showed a range of padlocks.

“You’re spending too much time on that,” he warned, “all we were talking about was a hobble and even that’s not necessary – the fight’s gone out of him.”

The first mate made a sceptical noise.

“He’s fed and watered,” pointed out the captain, “and now he’s off to sleep. A model prisoner.”

The first mate eyed the recumbent figure, his measured snoring just audible through the tinny speakers.

“Maybe.”

-----

It took concentration but the straw had indeed fitted through the wider gauge gag-tube and he drank greedily through the wedge of rubber, the icy water reviving his parched palate. The protein concoction was also liquid but a little thicker and harder to draw through the straw. It tasted of some insipid chemical version of vanilla but served to line his stomach.

When he withdrew the straw – careful to steady the carton between his blind-ended mitts – a drop or two splashed on the yellow PVC.

An idea began to germinate…

The vinyl pallet was not uncomfortable (as long as he lay on his back so the goggles didn’t dig into his face) and the new car smell of the oilskins oddly soporific. Despite his best intentions, the gentle rhythm of the boat lulled him to sleep.

When he awoke and got beyond the first smothering seconds of disorientation, he had no way of knowing how many hours had passed: the room was dark, the portholes completely black. Although mindful of the unwinking red LED in the corner of the ceiling, he felt a sense of wider stillness throughout the vessel.

Manipulating the protein carton was even harder in the near-darkness but the lenses of his goggles were at their most transparent and his eyes soon adjusted. With a little patience, he managed to angle the straw between the patent leather of the waist belt and the PVC of his trawlerman smock and gravity did the rest: the slippery liquid oozed into the crevice behind the belt, lubricating both surfaces.

He moved the carton along and around, systematically, like an oiling can, groaning softly when it snagged on the chain behind him but keeping the carton wedged between his mitts. Soon both belt and smock were coated in a film of slick milky fluid.

Holding his breath, he braced both mitts against the top edge of the belt and pushed hard… and pushed again. Padlocks clinked softly but he felt movement of the belt itself! Slowly but very definitely, the thick band of patent leather was sliding down past his hips.

A couple of seconds of intense pressure and suddenly the belt was past the widest part and loose upon his thighs. Biting back a cry of jubilation, he slithered out of the girdle of leather and its attached chain. He was free!

Not quite free, he reminded himself. His instincts were torn between getting out of the room and getting out of the stifling raingear. The door handle made the decision for him: it couldn’t be turned without freeing his fingers.

This was easier said than done. He was free of the belt but the collar was still padlocked snugly around his neck: no amount of lubricant was going to shift that. The hood of the smock lay loosely on his shoulders and he decided he’d have to try to drag it out from under the locked collar, like a shirt from under a tie. This took a great deal of pushing and pulling but with the aid of the last of his protein “oil can” he tugged it free and was finally able to shuck the hood upwards so his head was inside the body of the garment. He began dragging the whole thing upwards and forwards over his head and shoulders. PVC clung to PVC and he feared he might get stuck halfway with air running out… but he fought down panic and at last the smock was lying in a twisted pile of fabric at his feet. He aimed a kick at it.

Heart pounding, he surveyed his situation. Untethered from his chain and divested of the hateful smock-and-mitts, he was still frustratingly far from freedom. His crotch and backside were open to the air but he still wore tall rubber thigh waders and a short rain jacket in the same heavy yellow PVC as the trawlerman smock. His head, in the hood of the rain jacket, was trussed up as tightly as before.

His hands, though! They might still be gloved in thick black rubber with turns of what looked like extra-wide electrical tape extending up his jacket sleeves, preventing removal of those gloves, but it was a joy just to be able to see his fingers again, to watch them flexing.

With the use of his hands, the waders, despite fitting closely enough to create a suction effect, were easily dispatched and thrown aside. The cabin floor felt good under the soles of his feet.

He tried the door – locked – and huffed with irritation. The lock seemed to take an old-fashioned barrel key and he knew a particular trick… but he’d need a better sense of touch.

Focus on the gloves, then. He tried standing on one and pulling as hard as he could but the tape was well applied and the adhesive strong: the rubber wasn’t going to part company with the PVC. Could he saw through the tape or the rubber itself? The only remotely sharp objects he could find were the edges of the belt padlocks and that would be slow going.

Could he somehow fight his way out of the rain jacket and peel it off, gloves and all? The jacket was a more tailored fit than the smock and clearly meant to tighten further still at the sides with lacing. The laces hadn’t been fastened – his first stroke of luck. Could he use that accidental looseness in the body of the jacket to struggle free?

It was tough work, better suited to a contortionist or escape artist conveniently able to dislocate a shoulder but desperation lent him determination: inch by painful inch, he worked to extricate one arm from glove and sleeve, then the other and finally the rain jacket could be slung back over his shoulders.

For the first time in days, air cooled his overheated body, drying his sweat: he luxuriated briefly in the sensation. The nakedness of his body contrasted with the layers still imprisoning his head and, instinctively, his newly-sensate fingertips reached up to explore.

The collar was indeed patent leather, its padlock smaller than those on the belt but just as solid. He tapped gently on one goggle lens, knowing it was unbreakable; it was mounted in a moulded rubber surround that seemed to hug the upper part of his face. He tried to get a sense of the straps and tape holding it there but the glossy PVC of his jacket hood covered everything, pulled tight enough to create a near-seal around the edge of the goggles (he tried to insert a questing finger but couldn’t). Only the stem of his gag-tube protruded through the tough fabric, an inch or so below.

Under the lower edge of the goggles, he felt the ends of the drawstrings and pulled experimentally. Nothing loosened: clearly his captors hadn’t tied a bow. He fumbled for the knot but it was small and hard: undoing it by touch alone would take time, patience and fingernails.

It was frustrating to come so far in shedding his impermeable prison only for his head to remain fully captive, hood tight and jacket dangling behind like the most ridiculous of superhero capes. He tried using the edge of one of the belt padlocks to saw at the knotted drawstring but after a minute or two of stubbing his nose and fingers, he abandoned the task with a snort of exasperation.

Fine. He’d prioritise escaping from the room, find a blade and then attack the hood fastenings, unpick the tape and get the whole maddening mess off his head and out of his mouth.

He crouched to examine the keyhole and the bottom of the door. As he’d thought, the key remained in the lock on the other side. His second stroke of luck.

The Styrofoam tray, once he’d stripped the edges off, fitted under the door and the straw from one of the cartons made a perfect “jiggler” to ease the key free. Through tape and oilskin, he heard it drop and, holding his breath, pulled the tray back under the door.

The key! He seized it and immediately fitted it in the lock. Mind whirling with thoughts of the next stage of his escape – find a knife or scissors, a weapon, steps upwards, open air – he turned it and felt the tumblers turn, the lock click open. Carefully, quietly, he drew the door open…

… and there, waiting just beyond the threshold, with the jarring suddenness of a pursuer from a nightmare, stood a squat, thickset figure head-to-toe in yellow oilskins, his face cast in shadow.

“As I thought.”

Before the near-naked captive could react, the oilskinned figure touched a remote and the world went from dark to black. The blinded man tried to thrust past but he knew immediately that all was lost. His flailing arms met PVC and the dangling cape provided an easy grab-handle for his captor. Muscular limbs captured his own, pulling him against a wall of oilskin and, to his horror, blocking his air supply. He struggled harder, moaning in panic and frustration.

“I’ve got you,” said a voice, surreally matter-of-fact, “don’t fight. Let go.”

He let go, oxygen and consciousness dwindling to nothing.

To be continued…
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Belated tagging!

@MaxRoper
@Scottstud94
@squirrel
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Post by sharpliketoday »

Read the beginning of this story a while back when I was still just lurking about. Thank you for writing more! I really love the slightly unusual approach to bondage. Especially the tightly wrapped head with breathable gag that still prevents any speech, and those tech goggles. Really cool stuff! :)
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sharpliketoday wrote: 4 years agoI really love the slightly unusual approach to bondage. Especially the tightly wrapped head with breathable gag that still prevents any speech, and those tech goggles. Really cool stuff! :)
Thank you! I get off on the more traditional stuff too but also like to fantasise about more extreme, more bizarre bondage situations. I’m aware, though, that the further one travels from conventional rope/gag scenarios, the less likely that other people will be into it. I’m really pleased that you are!
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Straitjacketed wrote: 4 years ago Thank you! I get off on the more traditional stuff too but also like to fantasise about more extreme, more bizarre bondage situations. I’m aware, though, that the further one travels from conventional rope/gag scenarios, the less likely that other people will be into it. I’m really pleased that you are!
Hehe, I can appreciate most things, if heavy gags are involved. And while I definitely also love more conventional rope/gag combos, it's always cool to come across something a bit different as well.
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sharpliketoday wrote: 4 years ago Hehe, I can appreciate most things, if heavy gags are involved. And while I definitely also love more conventional rope/gag combos, it's always cool to come across something a bit different as well.
I love gag overkill - bondage overkill in general - but in real life, I struggle to find a gag that’s effective (facial hair, good at dislodging tape) but also tolerable for long periods (twitchy gag reflex). In my bondage fantasies, the gags are typically a perfect balance: something I reckon I’d be able to tolerate but also so well applied that I’d never be able to loosen them so would have to put up with them for extended periods.
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Straitjacketed wrote: 4 years ago I love gag overkill - bondage overkill in general - but in real life, I struggle to find a gag that’s effective (facial hair, good at dislodging tape) but also tolerable for long periods (twitchy gag reflex). In my bondage fantasies, the gags are typically a perfect balance: something I reckon I’d be able to tolerate but also so well applied that I’d never be able to loosen them so would have to put up with them for extended periods.
Oh yeah, definitely easier to go overboard in stories and fantasy :) And not having facial hair (Commonly anyway. Day dependent, I suppose.) does help when it comes to tape. I don't tend to have problems with my gag reflex, but allergies can be kind of problematic at times. Especially with my ex, who owned a dog. Proper bondage (it's not proper if there's no gag, in my opinion) over at his place was practically impossible. And when he visited my place, it was still not ideal. Stuffy nose and a heavy gag aren't really an ideal combo. Slightly off the topic, but I actually just ordered an inflatable gag with a breathing tube the other day to see if that'd be something useful for times when allergies might present problems. I hope it will!
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sharpliketoday wrote: 4 years agoSlightly off the topic, but I actually just ordered an inflatable gag with a breathing tube the other day to see if that'd be something useful for times when allergies might present problems. I hope it will!
It does makes sense and I hope it works for you. I prefer closed-mouth gags (stuffed with something then loads of tape in all directions!) but a breathing tube works for me too so a good compromise is the right size of sponge to fill my mouth with a piece of rubber tubing stuck through the middle. Then tape. Always tape. :D
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Post by sharpliketoday »

Straitjacketed wrote: 4 years ago It does makes sense and I hope it works for you. I prefer closed-mouth gags (stuffed with something then loads of tape in all directions!) but a breathing tube works for me too so a good compromise is the right size of sponge to fill my mouth with a piece of rubber tubing stuck through the middle. Then tape. Always tape. :D
Closed mouth is my favourite as well. My hope is the inflatable gag with a bit of hose will also make it viable to have plenty of duct tape applied in every damn direction possible round my head :D And it's essentially a closed mouth gag, if if fills all the available space! Sponges in combination with duct tape are also pretty amazing.
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sharpliketoday wrote: 4 years ago Closed mouth is my favourite as well. My hope is the inflatable gag with a bit of hose will also make it viable to have plenty of duct tape applied in every damn direction possible round my head :D And it's essentially a closed mouth gag, if if fills all the available space!
Let me know how it goes. I'm really curious about inflatable gags. I guess my ultimate would be something like a scuba mouthpiece that I could bite down upon and hold teeth in place... but with a tube running through and inflatable mouth-filling sections to the back and sides.
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Straitjacketed wrote: 4 years ago Let me know how it goes. I'm really curious about inflatable gags. I guess my ultimate would be something like a scuba mouthpiece that I could bite down upon and hold teeth in place... but with a tube running through and inflatable mouth-filling sections to the back and sides.
Will do! And I find the idea of that type of a gag pretty damn hot, too. Someone needs to get developing new and more inventive types of gags, stat.
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Just read the two first chapters, and DAMN, this is truly amazing stuff!
You've got some serious talent, mate!

Was never into raingear before, but the description of those slippery oilskins is making me real horny.
Can't wait to read chapter three when I get home from work tomorrow!
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bondagefreak wrote: 4 years ago Just read the two first chapters, and DAMN, this is truly amazing stuff!
You've got some serious talent, mate!
*blushes*

Thank you, I'm impossibly flattered!
Was never into raingear before, but the description of those slippery oilskins is making me real horny.
Can't wait to read chapter three when I get home from work tomorrow!
In my own experience, there's a bit of a crossover with down gear: in both cases, we're talking about smooth, shiny fabrics that generate and trap heat... I've always had fantasies of being tied up in sleeping bags but it was Moncler-type super-shiny jackets, suits and bag/sacks that were the true crossover for me.
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sharpliketoday wrote: 4 years agoSomeone needs to get developing new and more inventive types of gags, stat.
There ought to be the equivalent of a bespoke tailor but for gags, someone able to measure things like size of mouth, gag reflex, airway, etc and devise the perfect made-to-measure gag. The gag tailor!
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Straitjacketed wrote: 4 years ago There ought to be the equivalent of a bespoke tailor but for gags, someone able to measure things like size of mouth, gag reflex, airway, etc and devise the perfect made-to-measure gag. The gag tailor!
As a handicrafts person I have to say this idea intrigues me! Think I need to start improving my leatherworking skills from dabbling to something more.
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Straitjacketed wrote: 4 years ago In my own experience, there's a bit of a crossover with down gear: in both cases, we're talking about smooth, shiny fabrics that generate and trap heat... I've always had fantasies of being tied up in sleeping bags but it was Moncler-type super-shiny jackets, suits and bag/sacks that were the true crossover for me.
I've got loads of heavy duty down gear and expedition grade winter bags, mate!
If ever you're in my neck of the woods, let me know.
Might be able to do something about that fantasy of yours ;)

But yeah, I do have an attraction to shiny nylon, so there definitely is a bit of crossover here for me.
Really enjoying this!
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Post by blackbound »

I really appreciate the meticulous way in which you describe the prisoner's helplessness and attempts to escape. Hoping for many additional parts in which he is foiled, of course!
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Cargo - part 4

For the captive, time became fluid, dreamlike. He drifted between half-conscious and unconscious, night and day, dressed and undressed, detached and unaware of his surroundings beyond a haze of fleeting sensory impressions that, when he tried to focus on them, shifted or faded into black: the smells of adhesive and PVC, the distant sound of drilling, the taste of ice-cold water with a metallic hint of something else…

-----

A shift had taken place in the dynamic between the two captors: a point had been proven and acknowledged. The first mate was now in charge and given free rein.

He worked with speed, enthusiasm and dedication, measuring, calculating and constructing, researching and ordering, all the while consulting his book of notes and sketches and watching, over and over, a grainy infrared video sequence on the tiny monitor.

For the most part, the captain left him to it.

-----

This time, regaining consciousness felt like the slow surfacing from a long relaxing sleep of indeterminate duration, gradually piecing together the familiar and unfamiliar and working out how to react to each.

The pungent smell of waterproofs was definitely something he knew well as was the taste of rubber filling his mouth, the sensation of having to breathe through a tube.

The stifling closeness was also familiar and the pressure on his upper face (he shifted to lie more on his back) but now also on the top, back and sides of his head, even under his chin. A hardness and a feeling of being insulated, shielded from the world. A pressure around his chest too. He thought absurdly of a knight in helmet and breastplate. A sense of safety, perhaps, but linked with his difficulty getting comfortable. He shifted again.

“Wake up now,” a voice commanded, directly in his ears, a voice he’d heard before, “it’s time to wake up.”

The voice introduced a note of urgency, a surge of adrenaline. He had a mental flash of a yellow figure in the night-time, a memory of dread, being unable to catch his breath.

His eyes flew open and he sat up abruptly, jolted back to full consciousness.

He was in the same room on the same vinyl pallet. This time, everything was bathed in the bright electric light of an overhead bulb. The captive wondered if it was evening and looked up at the portholes: they were covered over with what looked like opaque black plastic.

He felt a wash of dismay as he realised he was in yellow raingear once more, the long trawlerman smock tangled around his legs, themselves back in black rubber waders.

The weight lifter belt was back around his waist, padlocks glinting, but it had been... enhanced. Where before it had been a simple belt - albeit an unusually wide, thick and sturdy belt - it now formed the basis of a network of narrower patent leather straps that crossed and encircled his torso to form a sort of harness. With the goggles restricting his peripheral vision it was difficult for him to see, immediately, how the straps intersected but they seemed to connect to a large steel ring in the centre of his oilskin-covered chest. From the ring, straps ran vertically to belt and collar, horizontally under his armpits and diagonally over his shoulders. He couldn’t see his own back but assumed they met in a similar configuration behind him.

The straps felt tight enough that he could feel their embrace through his layers of oilskin but not so tight that they restricted his breathing.

His hands felt... different. He raised one then the other, groaning to see the enclosing yellow sleeves, mitted and folded as before but each, this time, incorporating a shiny steel ring. Each ring was stitched and riveted to the mitt; idly, he wondered if he could use them as weapons.

Beneath the mitts, his fingers felt less mobile than before. He realised his hands had been folded into fists, fingers curled around thumbs. He tried to open them, to wiggle his fingers, but they held fast.

With rising alarm, he began to check himself from head to toe.

The gag felt the same - a wedge of rubber shaped around his teeth - but somehow more tightly fitted in his mouth. He tried to chew or work his jaw, without success. He could breathe perfectly well but everything was fixed even more firmly than before, some kind of strap or cup under his chin holding it more closely shut in a permanent not-quite-bite.

The goggles were as annoying as before but, thankfully, as fully transparent as he had experienced them. There was something else above and around them, though, an additional layer. He explored it as best he could with his mitted fists, the rings at the ends of his sleeves clattering against some kind of hard-shelled helmet. It appeared to fit neatly around the rubber frame of the goggles, pressing in on his head from all sides and also, it seemed, covering his ears.

His exploration of the hard shell was limited by a familiar covering of PVC, taut around his head. As before, while the hood of the smock sat loose on his shoulders, the hood of the underlying rain jacket swathed everything, including the new helmet, fastening tightly around the rim of the goggles. He felt for where he knew the drawstrings to be tied, knowing he wouldn’t even register them through his uselessly stymied hands.

The waders hugged his legs as before but felt tighter around each ankle, where now was buckled a snug patent leather cuff. Each cuff included a steel ring, stitched and riveted, and locked with an unusual circular padlock.

He looked again at the waist-belt and found that it too now fastened with circular padlocks. He knew without looking that the collar would be the same. No sharp edges.

He assumed the ankle cuffs were to stop him sliding the thigh waders off his feet. Looking further, he noticed a hole, perhaps half an inch in diameter, through the side of his thick, cleated boot sole, at the heel. Same on the other side. Rubber shavings around the holes suggested they were freshly drilled. He couldn’t even begin to guess at their purpose.

He passed an arm behind him to check for tethering chain. All present and correct, doubtless fastened with another chunky circular padlock.

The captive snorted his exasperation.

-----

The first mate had watched with great interest but now stood ready outside the door of the cargo hold - or, as he now thought of it, the holding cell - carrying out his own security check.

He was suited up in his own yellow oilskins but with the hood down. In its place, he wore a black helmet that was a mirror of the one on the captive’s head but for the lack of ear protectors and the addition of a mirrored visor and microphone stalk.

The pockets of his rain jacket held other pieces of equipment - his “restraint kit” - and the remote for the goggles was in one hand. In the other arm, he carried a carton of protein mixture and a carton of water.

Most importantly, he’d ensured that the camera feed to the monitor was temporarily switched off. What he had to say was not for his captain’s ears.

He turned the key, drew back the bolt (a new addition) and stepped in.

-----

The captive had wound the chain around one oilskinned arm and was hauling steadily on it, checking the strength of the new padlock. Ears muffled, he didn’t immediately notice the entrance of the PVC-clad figure, who closed the door, sat on the folding chair and set the cartons down.

He fiddled with the microphone.

“I assume you can hear me.”

The captive started violently, dropping the chain. He turned to meet the newcomer, who smiled.

“Yeah, you can hear me all right. Please sit down.” He gestured to the vinyl pallet.

The captive stood for long enough to make his point then sank to the pallet with exaggerated slowness, back against the far wall. He folded his sleeved arms and stared insolently at this new figure, shorter and bulkier than his previous visitor.

“We met the night you tried to escape - almost did escape - from this room. I ought to thank you for that: you taught me a lot.”

The captive’s eyes widened as he recognised the physical form of the yellow-suited captor who’d lurked behind the door of his cell to cheat him of freedom just when it seemed within his grasp.

“And that’s the thing,” went on the figure, “I appreciate the learning curve you’ve set me on. My colleague asked you - advised you - to be a good prisoner, not to try to escape.”

He leaned forward in his chair.

“Me, I want you to try to escape and to keep trying. Why? Because, my friend, it is in your nature to try to escape and I take great pleasure in stopping you. That, I have realised, is my nature.”

His tone, direct to the captive’s ears through some sort of earmuff extensions of the helmet, was animated but steady, a hint of amusement but deadly serious.

“See, this started as work for me and it still is - it’s my job to keep you here for the duration - but there’s more to it than that. The more you’ve played Houdini, the more I’ve got off on playing... I guess, the guy who defeats Houdini, the guy who straps him up so tightly and so well that all he can do is flop around, sweating and raging but 100% a prisoner.”

The captive listened.

“I suppose that makes me a very particular sort of sadist.”

The speaker shrugged.

“I may be a sadist but I’m not a cruel man. I don’t want you to come to any serious harm. I do want you grinding your teeth in frustration - as much as you can grind your teeth around that gag of yours - and I want you damning me to hell through that rubber tube you can’t spit out. I want to hear those noises and know it’s me you’re cursing. I want to see you seething and dripping in those fucking humiliating oilskins you can’t take off, squirming in the straps I made, straining at the chains I locked on you. I want you to give it your all, I want you to try with every fibre to get loose and, after all of that trying, I want you to still be right where I left you, hating the man who put you there.”

Beneath the visor, he smiled.

“That, my friend, is meat and drink to me.”

To be continued…
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Straitjacketed wrote: 4 years ago “I may be a sadist but I’m not a cruel man. I don’t want you to come to any serious harm. I do want you grinding your teeth in frustration - as much as you can grind your teeth around that gag of yours - and I want you damning me to hell through that rubber tube you can’t spit out. I want to hear those noises and know it’s me you’re cursing. I want to see you seething and dripping in those fucking humiliating oilskins you can’t take off, squirming in the straps I made, straining at the chains I locked on you. I want you to give it your all, I want you to try with every fibre to get loose and, after all of that trying, I want you to still be right where I left you, hating the man who put you there.”
Pure gold, my friend. Truly.
I can only imagine the level of frustration our poor captive is dealing with right now.

The last paragraph really drives the nail into the coffin.
This sadistic Houdini-defeater must feel friggin' powerful right now.
It's obvious he's enjoying this. And frankly, I can't blame him.

Hot. Hot! HOT!
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