bondagefreak wrote: ↑4 years ago
Pure gold, my friend. Truly.
Aww, thanks for the compliment. I really appreciate it.
I can only imagine the level of frustration our poor captive is dealing with right now.
That's written from experience. I may never have been in an actual kidnap situation but I know and love that feeling of feeling frustrated at failing to escape and simultaneously being turned on by that frustration - an odd but potent mix!
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.
He's written as my perfect bondage top: devious, efficient, powerful and, most of all, seriously into what he's doing. I would love to get tied up by this man!
Hot. Hot! HOT!
Not as hot as our poor protagonist, bundled up and sweating in all those creaking, squeaking, maddening layers!
If M/M overkill bondage in stupidly excessive amounts of gear is your thing as well as mine, here's a list of my TUG stories.
The imprisoned man glared straight ahead through the goggles, working on keeping his breathing even and trying to make sense of his situation. He couldn’t decide whether this new captor, with his apparent obsession with security, was mad or the most frighteningly focused person he’d ever met.
The oilskin-suited figure continued.
“Keeping you prisoner for a day or two was one thing – I can tie and gag a man so he’s helpless – but longer term, able to move about, eat and drink, shit and piss but still be 100% captive, unable to escape? That’s the real challenge.”
He continued.
“You’re the challenge. You’re an escaper. Twice you’ve got free – or almost free – and twice we’ve caught you, brought you back. Believe me, there won’t be a third time.”
The captive did his best to look impassive, yellow-sleeved arms folded across his harnessed chest.
“Because, see, when you almost got away, you did two things. First, you put me in charge. Second, you made me up my game. You know I’ve got your escape – your almost-escape – on camera? Infrared footage, the whole thing. I can’t tell you how many times I’ve watched you, watched and learned. Seriously, you’ve been quite the inspiration.”
“Hhgck ngu,” the captive mouthed.
Beneath the darkened visor of his helmet, the captor grinned.
“So, seeing as I get off on frustrating you, let me tell you about the improved set-up. I know you’ve picked up on some of the new features but there may be some you’ve missed – and I’m going to get a kick out of explaining them to you.”
He tapped his own helmet with an ungloved index finger.
“Firstoff, this. It’s the same as the one you’re wearing, more or less. I found these online, helmets for tree surgeons. They’re designed to fit smooth and close, nothing sticking out to catch on branches, fully adjustable on the inside. Comfortable but grips the contours of your head so tight you don’t need a chinstrap.”
He demonstrated, shaking his head vigorously. His helmet and visor stayed in place.
“Yours does have a strap, though, done up nice and tight, and I don’t suppose you’ll be surprised to hear I added a padlock. A little one but tough, hardened steel and perfectly circular. All the new locks are circular. Good luck finding a sawing edge on any of those.”
Involuntarily, the captive’s teeth bit into the rubber stopping his mouth.
“Why a helmet? Partly your own safety: I like seeing you thrashing around but I don’t want you breaking your skull. More importantly, extra security over all that tape and strapping holding your headgear in place. I was pleased with how the gag and goggles held up but it was a close thing: only the hood stopped you tearing the whole lot off.
“So one thickness of PVC isn’t enough; you’ve got a hard layer now. When I walk out of this room, a couple of clicks and switches and this thing’s off my head. Not yours, though: it stays put and the jacket hood fits over it, tied shut again so you can’t even paw at the padlock. And then there’s these.”
He demonstrated on his own helmet how the hard plastic ear protectors could be moved to cover the ears or sit back, out of the way.
“Meant to protect hearing from the sound of chainsaws. Yours are fixed so they’re permanently over your ears. That’s the other benefit: one-way Bluetooth connection when I want to talk to you and when I don’t, well, you’re not going to hear me coming, are you? Now I control what comes through your ears as well as your eyes. These mufflers are as tough as the rest of the set-up: you can roll around and batter at them all you like and they won’t budge an inch. Believe me, I’ve tested all of this.”
The captive leaned back and there was a soft clack as the back of his helmet connected with the wall.
The seated figure gestured at the captive’s long oilskin.
“The trawlerman smock you know and love! You were bloody glad to be rid of that but here you are back in it again. Life’s a bitch, eh?”
His tone was goading. He was trying to wind the captive up.
“It needed cleaning after you’d smeared it with protein gunk - very enterprising, that – and I made some reinforcements. Not strictly necessary – that stuff’s supposedly rip-proof - but those rings at the end of your sleeves need to take a lot of pressure so I did a bit of strengthening.”
The captive couldn’t see anything different – the yellow fabric looked the same as before – and wondered whether the rivets ran through extra layers on the inside.
“Speaking of rings, you saw the ones on your ankle cuffs but maybe not those on your belt?”
The captive looked down, noticing them for the first time, a steel circle dangling on each side and one at the front, stitched and riveted in place.
“And one on the collar.”
The captive resisted the immediate urge to bridle.
“The belt’s bigger and better. Patent leather’s good and sturdy but I had a feeling you might find a way to wriggle out and indeed you did. The harness you’re in fits you like a clamshell: you’re not going to slip out of that in a hurry.”
The captive wondered again how it fastened. Surely he hadn’t been stitched into it?
“While we’re on fit, the under-jacket was a genuine error: if the laces had been done up, you’d never have found the slack to wriggle an arm free. Sloppy work but I learn from my mistakes. You’re laced into that jacket good and proper and at the sides it’s riveted to the waders. Don’t worry, none of that will get in the way of pissing and shitting, it all just helps keep those boots on your legs.”
The long black rubber waders weren’t going to be kicked off, then.
“Laces and drawstrings are surprisingly good at keeping you where I want you. Old-school knots. And those clever fingers of yours couldn’t get the rubber gloves off the jacket sleeves: that marine tape passed the sticky test. You’re in those same gloves stuck to the jacket just like before but I took the extra precaution of taping your hands into fists too. Saves you having to clench ‘em when you want to punch me.”
He grinned.
“And you do want to punch me.”
The captive certainly did. With effort, he fought the urge to charge at his captor, to strike, to rage, to tear uselessly at the layers of PVC, rubber, plastic and leather that wrapped him so comprehensively. That’s what the oilskin-suited man wanted; he got off on seeing him fight his bonds and fail. The captive didn’t want to give him that satisfaction.
No, he had to resist the blatant provocation, concentrate his resources and go inwards. Think. Focus. Let his mind go icy cold and assess the possibilities – and there must be possibilities, no system of restraint was 100% escape-proof.
The harness tight around his torso was the biggest problem. It acted like a web of security straps tying down a tarpaulin: the belt, which he’d previously managed to escape, was anchored in place around his waist and held there by strapping, front and back. No amount of pushing, with or without lubrication, would shift it downwards.
Could he work the belt upwards? No, the shape of his body, widening from waist to chest, prevented that.
What about the straps, then? They seemed to fit him exactly but if he could somehow unlock the collar and belt, he should be able to squirm free of the whole damn lot.
How, though? Even if he had the keys, the stumps at the ends of his sleeves stopped him even picking up something that tiny, much less manoeuvring it into a lock. And while the locks stayed locked, the harness kept him in the smock and his fingers taped up and useless in the reinforced sleeve-ends.
“I don’t blame you,” continued the mocking tone in his ears, “I can practically see the cogs turning in that devious head of yours – under all that unbreakable shit you’re itching to remove – but this is checkmate, Houdini.”
The captive began to appreciate the power of the integral muffs clamped over his ears. That distracting, needling voice got right inside his head.
“You, my friend, are fucked.”
In the captive’s mind, crazy half-plans began to form. He could lure his captor within range and take him by surprise, get a loop of chain around his neck, force him to unlock the belt and the collar…
With padlocks open, he could choke his captor into unconsciousness, maybe even get him chained up and locked down – damn, he’d enjoy that! – for long enough to shuck the outer layers, the harness and the trawlerman smock. The hooded jacket and taped gloves would still be an issue but they weren’t steel or leather; if he could at least lose the harness and smock, he was confident he could tear himself free…
Again, the voice in his ears cut through his thoughts.
“No growling or glaring, no jerking at your chain? I’m disappointed, I’d expected more defiance. Maybe you’re saving your energy for a proper escape attempt? I hope so.”
His tone became brisker.
“Now. Let’s go through the mealtime routine.”
To be continued…
If M/M overkill bondage in stupidly excessive amounts of gear is your thing as well as mine, here's a list of my TUG stories.
Straitjacketed wrote: ↑4 years ago
Well, now I'm curious... I already have a first draft of the next part so I know the direction I'm going. What do you reckon happens?
Well, I don't know what you'd do since I'm starting from a different premise. I'd use a gag molded to the teeth like yours, but with a pipe in the middle that holds the mouth open and also traps the tongue. With that and an array of inserts, the captive would be under full control: a short plug to close it, a longer plug to muffle all noise, a funnel to feed and water the captive. I'm sure you can think of other things to insert. That gag would never have to come out.
Even more cruel (and not very sporting) would be feeding through a nasal tube or using infusions.
Nice story, well told. The full head encasement seems appropriate and the object of much observation, thinking and sound design by the first mate.
I think Blackbound's contraption would work well, especially if there's some inflatable bladder surrounding the feeding/breathing tube. To fill in the sides and possibly inflate the cheeks a little. It may be inflated only when there's visit, ensuring that there won't be any annoying sounds while the first mate entertains his guest.
Straitjacketed wrote: ↑5 years ago
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.
Hope you decide to come back to this soon, mate.
I'm still very much interested in seeing where this is going!
I implore you to continue this story. It's so absolutely wonderfully hot. The writing style, descriptions, and plot are completely amazing. Thank you so much for it.
I'm late to this story and have only read the first part, but...
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.
(With thanks to [mention]5T3V3N[/mention] for prompting me to continue - and for giving excellent Evil Captor.)
Cargo - part 6
Mealtime routine? The cartons of water and protein looked the same as before.
“Over on the wall to your right, you’ll see some new fixtures.”
The captive glanced at the wall. He hadn’t noticed the new eye bolts, three of them, in a vertical line. The bottom one was a few inches from the floor, the next one around three feet up, the final one three feet higher still. Dangling from each was a large pear-shaped metal carabiner.
“Now, if you want food and water, you need to do exactly what I tell you. Stand up and push your pallet across to that wall.”
The captive’s first instinct was to refuse but his mouth was dry around the rubber and his belly empty so he pushed himself to his feet and slid the pallet across the floor, chain clinking softly behind him. Closer to the carabiners, he could see they were large pear hooks of the kind used by climbers and mountaineers: they worked with a hinge that could be pushed open and then sprang closed again. Each carabiner was attached to its eye bolt with one chain link and he saw that neither bolts nor links could be detached from the wall.
“Sit down with your feet next to the lowest bolt.”
He did so, not liking where this was going. Already, the effort was drawing perspiration.
“Now the tricky part. You need to get hold of that clip and work it through the rings on your ankles.”
Chain himself up even more?! Fuck that.
“No ankle clip, no water. You must be thirsty and this is ice-cold.”
Thirst won out. Suppressing a snarl, the captive bent forward and tried to grasp the clip between his mitts. He was clumsy and it seemed to take forever but, finally he sat back, stomach muscles burning with the strain but with the carabiner fitted through both rings of his ankle cuffs. He had an inch or two of play but he was effectively clipped to the wall. He found it impossible not to test the strength of the carabiner and eye bolt.
“Don’t worry, those bolts aren’t going to come loose. Which is just as well because now you need to stand up – carefully – and get that second clip through the ring on the front of your belt.”
“Ngghyyy?”
“Yes, really. Come on, you can do it.”
Levering himself to a standing position without the ability to gather his legs beneath him took concentration – he could do it only by moving his knees apart and shuffling forward on his rear – but he finally hauled himself upright, unsurprised to find the second eyebolt was at exactly the level of his waist. Standing so close to the wall, his immediate anxiety was falling backwards and banging his head (it occurred to him that this was another reason for strapping him into a helmet).
“Well done. Now the clip.”
Gingerly, fearful of looking down in case his bulky helmeted head collided with the wall, he fumbled with the ring at his waist, finding it easier than his ankles. Within a minute, the carabiner snapped shut. His position felt more secure now – he couldn’t fall – but he was effectively chained to the wall at feet and waist. The third carabiner clinked against his collar.
“I’m sure you’ve worked out what to do next. Since you’re going to be doing that one by touch anyway, let’s dim the lights.”
His goggles faded to black. He blinked at the after-images.
“Come on, now. That collar isn’t going to clip itself.”
Even in darkness, the ring on the collar was the easiest to manoeuvre into position. He felt rather than heard the snap of the carabiner and instinctively tugged backwards against it. It held.
The captive allowed himself to slump slightly against the three clips. The steel rings at ankles, waist and neck clinked against the carabiners but everything felt secure. He was fixed a few inches from the wall, only his arms free.
“Very good,” continued the voice, “we’re almost done. Now you need to reach forward and cross your arms in front of you, left over right. You have just enough room to get them between you and the wall.”
He did so with difficulty, the thick PVC of his sleeves squeaking and chafing against the wall and each other as he squeezed them into position. This forced him backwards, collar pulling uncomfortably at the back of his neck.
An unexpected moment of additional pressure as his arms were yanked suddenly much tighter around his body in a sort of hug then another palpable snap, this time at the back of his waist. Grunting in surprise, he instinctively tried to uncross his arms and found he couldn’t. They were now held crossed over his body and fastened behind him.
The captive roared into his gag and jerked backwards against his bonds, wrestling to extricate his arms. He was only dimly aware of more metallic snaps at foot level.
“Easy there!” laughed his captor, “I’m right behind you. I need to free you from the wall.”
The clip at the front of his ankles was released and he aimed a kick backwards but his wader-booted foot came up short, jarring to a halt after only a couple of inches. There was clearly some kind of hobble tethering his ankles. His collar was unclipped and he threw his head back, hoping for a collision of helmet and face.
“Nice try,” the voice was goading, “but I’m smarter than that. Now. You’re still attached at the waist. You can calm down enough for me to unclip you or I can leave you there to dehydrate. Your choice.”
The thought of water – icy water – cooled the captive’s red haze and he forced himself quieter.
“Wise.”
The clip at his waist fell away and the captive stumbled back, his steps constrained by the narrow ankle-hobble, and lost his balance. Unable to use his arms to break his fall, he tumbled to the floor. His helmet and the padded vinyl of the pallet cushioned the blow and he lay still, regaining his breath.
“Well now, that got a bit challenging at the end there, didn’t it? I like challenges, though. All is noted for the next time. Let’s bring the lights up again.”
The lenses cleared and the captive looked around. His captor was close, only a few feet away, busy with the plastic cartons. Could he reach him? He tried to rise to his feet but with ankles chained and arms useless across his torso, he couldn’t begin to gather himself.
In a sudden burst of fury, he wrenched at his arms with all his might. His knee slipped and he rolled on the vinyl, yellow oilskin protesting as it was pulled in all directions, folds of glossy fabric catching the light as he fought and wrestled in his restraint, arms straining and jerking inside their closed sleeves, patent leather straps pulled taut around his heaving chest. He made guttural animal noises into his gag.
His captor paused to watch the exertions of the black-and-yellow form until, at length, it lay still. The reinforced smock had proved its worth, PVC immaculate and arms still locked in place. He slow-handclapped.
“That’s more like it! 10 out of 10 for showmanship!” He seated himself in the folding chair again.
“0 out of 10 for actual escape artistry, though. All that straining and struggling and you’re hugging yourself as tightly as ever. Straitjacket escapes clearly aren’t your forte. Of course, this is more than a straitjacket: those rings on the ends of your sleeves are not only connected together, they’re fastened to the back of your waist belt with a nice big padlock.”
The captive pulled more evenly on one arm and felt the ring slide against metal but hold firm. Everything held firm. The smock had indeed become a straightjacket, a gleaming yellow prison restraint containing him with ease, every rivet, ring and line of stitching optimally placed to absorb energy and frustrate movement. The sleeves were pulled taut, keeping his clenched, taped fists at waist level on opposite sides of his body.
“You make a very neat little bundle all folded up like that. I could hook your ankles up to the same padlock, that would’ve been neater still…”
The captive rolled onto his back. Something about the crossed-arms configuration maddened him, made him want to resume fighting the smock even though, logically, he knew he was beaten.
“For now, though, I’m going to leave you as you are. You’ll figure out a way to eat and drink. Just try not to knock anything over.”
Almost of their own volition, his arms wanted to jerk and yank at the PVC imprisoning them.
The oilskin-suited figure rose to leave and paused, remembering something.
“Here are the keys to your padlocks.” He brandished a small ring holding three or four tiny keys, “They open the locks on your belt, collar, helmet, ankles and that pesky one at the rear keeping you straitjacketed.”
The captive strained to follow the keys, eyes desperate behind their lenses.
“I’m going to leave them here, where you can see them.”
Taking a tiny cup hook from his pocket, the suited figure screwed it into the wall by the folding chair. He hung the keys on it.
“Think of it as motivation.”
To be continued…
If M/M overkill bondage in stupidly excessive amounts of gear is your thing as well as mine, here's a list of my TUG stories.
Oh boy my favorite sadist is back! Can't wait to see what else you have in store for Houdini, and I'm wondering if the captor is deliberately delaying the ransom demands so he can keep tormenting our protagonist...
