Bit of an experiment this one, a work in progress...
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Authority Figure
Stewart
I glanced again around the large oak-panelled study – my study as of today – with its wide desk, burnished Chesterfield sofa, coat-stand (bearing my newly-shed hat, scarf and belted leather overcoat) and, in the corner, a tiny hand-washing sink, an old-fashioned reminder that this was the office of a doctor, albeit a doctor with an absurdly grand title: Superintendent General Dr Stewart, head of the entire establishment.
And what an establishment! One of the country’s foremost secure psychiatric hospitals with a long (if somewhat chequered) history, I’d had to travel to this cold, remote part of the country to take the position. The decision hadn’t been an easy one – I’d made sacrifices – but the career leap made it all worthwhile. My predecessor had apparently left abruptly, leaving no working contact details, and the Board had practically fallen over itself to offer me the job on the strength of my CV and what had seemed a rather cursory telephone interview.
So it was that on this distinctly brisk autumnal morning, I’d dressed with care (was a three-piece suit a little too on-point, a touch try-hard?) for my first day in the top office.
Was I ready to be Superintendent General? At my relatively tender age, did I possess sufficient gravitas?
In my eagerness to give the right impression, I’d set my alarm almost two hours early and arrived during the busiest time: staff handover. This is when such institutions seem at their most deserted, patients confined to their rooms and nurses at their stations, passing information from one shift to the next.
Luckily, the burly, unsmiling red-haired fellow at the front gate had, after a good 20 minutes verifying my papers, carried out a rudimentary body search (always awkward but to be expected) and signed me through security, unlocking and locking a forbidding series of doors with a jangling key chain and an electronic pass. He’d found me my own set of keys and directed me to my office on the top floor. He’d promised to send someone along with a camera for my photo ID.
In the mirror above the sink, I straightened my tie and tidied a stray beard hair or two.
Where was that photographer?
Gray
I’ve gone by as many names as you’ve had birthdays. Let’s call me Gray, on account of my ability to fade in and out of situations and circumstances as it suits me. And my eyes: I can tone things down so you wouldn’t notice me at all – just another face in the crowd – but I’m reliably informed that when I need to, I can make my stare positively mesmerising.
The big redhead would probably agree if he weren’t tied up good and proper in the back of my truck, wrists expertly knotted in the small of his back, elbows fastened together and around his torso and legs bound tight at knees and ankles. Sometimes I lashed the wrists to their belt in-back for extra security but I needed Red’s full uniform and boots so had had to strip him to his tighty-whities. To stop him catching cold, I’d rolled him up in an old horse blanket, bound around with more rope made off to securing points in the truck floor. That’d keep him warm and stop him thrashing around.
He might well have voiced an opinion – an objection, even – but his mouth was packed with his own nice big white cotton handkerchiefs, wadded up and held in place with plenty of sticky black electrical tape (I had a favourite brand that was the very devil to unstick). He could breathe okay but he’d be hard pushed to do more than grunt inside his blanket cocoon.
I’d deal with him later. First, there was the business of staking out my real quarry…
To be continued...
Authority Figure (M/MM)
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Straitjacketed
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Authority Figure (M/MM)
Last edited by Straitjacketed 4 years ago, edited 2 times in total.
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.
Good start. Good luck with the experiment.
They all say boxer shorts are cool,
but little Speedos always rule.
but little Speedos always rule.
Sounds promising, not to mention that I have a weakness for stealing-uniform-scenarios 
Thanks for writting!
Thanks for writting!
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Straitjacketed
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That’s a bit of a theme. Months ago, I promised to write a story for an online friend who loves the idea of “identity theft”. He also likes hypnosis.
As is often the case, I’m inspired by trying to do a mash-up of someone else’s turn-ons and my own.We agreed that, although identity substitution is a staple of soap operas, it’d be very hard to carry out in real life. I liked the challenge of working out the circumstances where it might plausibly happen.
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.
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Straitjacketed
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Stewart
I’d seated myself in the padded horsehide chair, taken time to run my fingertips over the embossed desktop and was going over the notes for my introductory presentation when the door opened (no knock – I bristled) and in came a man in what I was coming to recognise as the staff uniform. He carried a bulky leather holdall over one shoulder and a steaming cup of coffee but no visible camera. I rose to meet him.
“Dr… Superintendent Stewart. Are you the photographer?” I asked.
“Ah, no,” he shrugged, apologetically, “Staff Nurse Truss. I’m here to get you bedded in.” He held out the coffee and I took it, eyeing him.
Staff Nurse Truss was around six feet in height, a little older than I’d expect for his middling rank; short dark hair, greying slightly at the temples, moustachioed with a muzzle of clipped stubble. Muscle, for sure, but he seemed meek and round-shouldered, slightly hangdog, his uniform (more military than medical, like the chap who’d let me in) ill-fitting, even his ID badge smudged. I detested scruffiness and began, mentally, to compose the first sweeping changes I’d make to the dress policy.
“The fellow at the front desk was sending someone to sort out my photo ID,” I sipped the coffee, trying to keep the edge of irritability from my voice, “and presumably an electronic pass.”
“Plenty of time for that,” said Truss evenly, “once you’ve had your coffee.” He set the holdall down and began unzipping it.
I felt a sudden wave of weariness.
“Coffee,” he said again, “best start to the day. Drink your coffee.”
There was something strange in his tone, something I couldn’t put my finger on. He tapped a key on his chain, rhythmically, over and over. I raised the cup and drank.
“Finish it.”
I did so. He tapped the key – tap, tap, tap – and I found myself swallowing in time to the sound. Tap – swallow. Tap – swallow. Tap – swallow.
Coffee gone, I set the cup down. I stumbled a little on the carpet and steadied myself with the corner of the desk. Truss seemed to be... unfolding somehow, standing taller, his whole body language shifting. I felt confused.
“You need to sit down. Come and sit here, on this nice deep leather sofa…”
‘Red’
What the fuck?!
It came out as “hhwht ngh hhck?!” because my mouth was stuffed full of some shit I couldn’t spit out. I was lying in a weird-ass position and the stink of horses was everywhere. My face – no, all of me – was wrapped up in some kind of thick blanket, prickly against my bare skin. Light filtered in and I could breathe fine and dandy through my nose but that’s about all I could do: as my head cleared and I started to huff and struggle, I realised somebody had trussed me up hand and foot – from the tightness of these ropes and the accursed gag in my mouth, someone who knew what they were doing.
To be continued...
I’d seated myself in the padded horsehide chair, taken time to run my fingertips over the embossed desktop and was going over the notes for my introductory presentation when the door opened (no knock – I bristled) and in came a man in what I was coming to recognise as the staff uniform. He carried a bulky leather holdall over one shoulder and a steaming cup of coffee but no visible camera. I rose to meet him.
“Dr… Superintendent Stewart. Are you the photographer?” I asked.
“Ah, no,” he shrugged, apologetically, “Staff Nurse Truss. I’m here to get you bedded in.” He held out the coffee and I took it, eyeing him.
Staff Nurse Truss was around six feet in height, a little older than I’d expect for his middling rank; short dark hair, greying slightly at the temples, moustachioed with a muzzle of clipped stubble. Muscle, for sure, but he seemed meek and round-shouldered, slightly hangdog, his uniform (more military than medical, like the chap who’d let me in) ill-fitting, even his ID badge smudged. I detested scruffiness and began, mentally, to compose the first sweeping changes I’d make to the dress policy.
“The fellow at the front desk was sending someone to sort out my photo ID,” I sipped the coffee, trying to keep the edge of irritability from my voice, “and presumably an electronic pass.”
“Plenty of time for that,” said Truss evenly, “once you’ve had your coffee.” He set the holdall down and began unzipping it.
I felt a sudden wave of weariness.
“Coffee,” he said again, “best start to the day. Drink your coffee.”
There was something strange in his tone, something I couldn’t put my finger on. He tapped a key on his chain, rhythmically, over and over. I raised the cup and drank.
“Finish it.”
I did so. He tapped the key – tap, tap, tap – and I found myself swallowing in time to the sound. Tap – swallow. Tap – swallow. Tap – swallow.
Coffee gone, I set the cup down. I stumbled a little on the carpet and steadied myself with the corner of the desk. Truss seemed to be... unfolding somehow, standing taller, his whole body language shifting. I felt confused.
“You need to sit down. Come and sit here, on this nice deep leather sofa…”
‘Red’
What the fuck?!
It came out as “hhwht ngh hhck?!” because my mouth was stuffed full of some shit I couldn’t spit out. I was lying in a weird-ass position and the stink of horses was everywhere. My face – no, all of me – was wrapped up in some kind of thick blanket, prickly against my bare skin. Light filtered in and I could breathe fine and dandy through my nose but that’s about all I could do: as my head cleared and I started to huff and struggle, I realised somebody had trussed me up hand and foot – from the tightness of these ropes and the accursed gag in my mouth, someone who knew what they were doing.
To be continued...
Last edited by Straitjacketed 5 years ago, edited 1 time in total.
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.
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Straitjacketed
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Gray
I’ve always loved that moment when they go under. Sometimes it happens in the blink of an eye – Red out there in my truck, he never saw it coming – sometimes, like this one, they try to put up a bit of resistance. Question of suggestibility, I guess. I figured a senior psychiatrist might know a thing or two about that so I spiked the coffee with a little something-something, just to help things along.
Other than that, it was down to tone of voice, a repetitive focus, sometimes eye contact.
The Superintendent was doing his best: I could almost see the cogs whirring as he worked it out, too late to help himself.
“You… what’re you…”
“That’s right, you ease yourself down. Don’t worry. Let the worries all drift away, close your eyes and just listen to the sound of my voice.”
I took a step towards his office door, clicked it shut.
“You’re hot and tired. Relax. You’re going to take your jacket off and then your waistcoat. That’s right. Shoes off. Socks off. Then you’re going to unfasten that tie and unbutton your shirt.”
He was past resisting and complied, moving as if through water. As I talked, I started undressing myself, pulling off Red’s too-big boots.
“Underwear too. That’s right.”
Superintendent Stewart was younger than me by around a decade and a half, I estimated. A little slighter of build but his shirt and suit trousers fitted me surprisingly well. I took a moment to savour the unfamiliar whiff of another man’s cologne.
He was an incongruous sight, fully naked against the rich brown leather of his sofa. His cock had stirred to full attention, a drop of pre-cum at the tip. That interested me almost as much as had the contents of the equipment cupboard behind Red’s desk, but now wasn’t the time.
I took the first item from the holdall and shook it open.
To be continued...
I’ve always loved that moment when they go under. Sometimes it happens in the blink of an eye – Red out there in my truck, he never saw it coming – sometimes, like this one, they try to put up a bit of resistance. Question of suggestibility, I guess. I figured a senior psychiatrist might know a thing or two about that so I spiked the coffee with a little something-something, just to help things along.
Other than that, it was down to tone of voice, a repetitive focus, sometimes eye contact.
The Superintendent was doing his best: I could almost see the cogs whirring as he worked it out, too late to help himself.
“You… what’re you…”
“That’s right, you ease yourself down. Don’t worry. Let the worries all drift away, close your eyes and just listen to the sound of my voice.”
I took a step towards his office door, clicked it shut.
“You’re hot and tired. Relax. You’re going to take your jacket off and then your waistcoat. That’s right. Shoes off. Socks off. Then you’re going to unfasten that tie and unbutton your shirt.”
He was past resisting and complied, moving as if through water. As I talked, I started undressing myself, pulling off Red’s too-big boots.
“Underwear too. That’s right.”
Superintendent Stewart was younger than me by around a decade and a half, I estimated. A little slighter of build but his shirt and suit trousers fitted me surprisingly well. I took a moment to savour the unfamiliar whiff of another man’s cologne.
He was an incongruous sight, fully naked against the rich brown leather of his sofa. His cock had stirred to full attention, a drop of pre-cum at the tip. That interested me almost as much as had the contents of the equipment cupboard behind Red’s desk, but now wasn’t the time.
I took the first item from the holdall and shook it open.
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.
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Straitjacketed
- Centennial Club
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- Joined: 5 years ago
- Location: UK
- Contact:
Stewart
My thoughts scattered and slid away from me as I tried to gather them. My limbs, heavy as lead, seemed to belong to someone else, coordinating with one another but independent of me, of my control.
Somewhere off in the inner distance, a voice almost beyond the point of hearing communicated alarm, something wrong. I tried to articulate a question through lips and teeth as suddenly foreign to me as were my own hands unfastening, unbuttoning…
“Open your eyes.”
I did so.
“This is your new suit. Look at it.”
I focused all my attention on the garment in front of me. A sort of hooded jumpsuit in near-fluorescent orange, brighter than the fruit itself, brighter than the prison suits they wore in Guantanamo. Those were made of canvas or cotton and this was a different fabric, slick, shiny PVC. I admired the way the light caught and rippled on its glossy folds.
“Put it on.”
The distant voice was still shouting but I ignored it with ease, taking the suit (cool and slippery to the touch) and stepping into it without hesitation. The inside was smooth too and made me shiver slightly as I pulled it up my body, the lining dragging a little on the hairs of my legs. There was some kind of white padding in the crotch area but the nurse or policeman (what was his name again?) helped me settle everything in the right place before stepping behind me and holding the top part open so I could push my arms back and into the sleeves. He pulled it upwards. The coldness of the PVC made my bare skin tingle.
The suit didn’t feel too tight or too loose. It was just right.
He smoothed out the creases and knelt to do up a belt or fastening at my waist, something that closed with a soft click. He stood up to close the front of the suit: an inner flap and row of press-studs – I counted them, one to six – going up to right under my chin. I stared, fascinated, at the gleaming orange of my sleeve, bunched with elastic around my wrist, just like my ankles. The hood flopped at the back of my neck. I wondered if it was elasticated too.
I was helped into a pair of white slip-on plimsolls. No laces.
“Very good. Your new suit fits you well.” A hint of puzzlement but mostly I felt pleased. Happy.
“Now for the pièce de résistance.”
Gray
Well, colour me surprised: spiked coffee or no, I didn’t expect things to go that smoothly. I know from experience that the trickiest point – the point where they’re most likely to waver or baulk – lay ahead.
I’d already caught sight of myself in the mirror and damned if I didn’t look distinguished in his three piece suit and polished shoes, tie neatly knotted and a nicely contrasting square of silk resplendent in my breast pocket.
(His wallet – black calfskin, still warm with body heat – was in the right back pocket of his trousers. I’d fished it out and laid it on the desk, a reminder for later.)
The Superintendent, too, looked a picture in his new, very different suit. It fit him pretty well, all things considered, snug around waist and hips and a little looser in the limbs – not that I planned to let those limbs stay loose for very long.
He seemed engrossed in the look and feel of the fabric. Every now and then, the faintest of frowns passed over his features like clouds across a speeded-up landscape, only to clear again.
Those suits were unusual – I’d seen nothing quite like them before – but then the equipment cupboard had thrown up all kinds of surprises and the next piece was a doozy.
“Now you’re all suited and booted, let’s get you buckled into…” my level monotone hesitated only fractionally, “… your new overcoat.”
To be continued...
My thoughts scattered and slid away from me as I tried to gather them. My limbs, heavy as lead, seemed to belong to someone else, coordinating with one another but independent of me, of my control.
Somewhere off in the inner distance, a voice almost beyond the point of hearing communicated alarm, something wrong. I tried to articulate a question through lips and teeth as suddenly foreign to me as were my own hands unfastening, unbuttoning…
“Open your eyes.”
I did so.
“This is your new suit. Look at it.”
I focused all my attention on the garment in front of me. A sort of hooded jumpsuit in near-fluorescent orange, brighter than the fruit itself, brighter than the prison suits they wore in Guantanamo. Those were made of canvas or cotton and this was a different fabric, slick, shiny PVC. I admired the way the light caught and rippled on its glossy folds.
“Put it on.”
The distant voice was still shouting but I ignored it with ease, taking the suit (cool and slippery to the touch) and stepping into it without hesitation. The inside was smooth too and made me shiver slightly as I pulled it up my body, the lining dragging a little on the hairs of my legs. There was some kind of white padding in the crotch area but the nurse or policeman (what was his name again?) helped me settle everything in the right place before stepping behind me and holding the top part open so I could push my arms back and into the sleeves. He pulled it upwards. The coldness of the PVC made my bare skin tingle.
The suit didn’t feel too tight or too loose. It was just right.
He smoothed out the creases and knelt to do up a belt or fastening at my waist, something that closed with a soft click. He stood up to close the front of the suit: an inner flap and row of press-studs – I counted them, one to six – going up to right under my chin. I stared, fascinated, at the gleaming orange of my sleeve, bunched with elastic around my wrist, just like my ankles. The hood flopped at the back of my neck. I wondered if it was elasticated too.
I was helped into a pair of white slip-on plimsolls. No laces.
“Very good. Your new suit fits you well.” A hint of puzzlement but mostly I felt pleased. Happy.
“Now for the pièce de résistance.”
Gray
Well, colour me surprised: spiked coffee or no, I didn’t expect things to go that smoothly. I know from experience that the trickiest point – the point where they’re most likely to waver or baulk – lay ahead.
I’d already caught sight of myself in the mirror and damned if I didn’t look distinguished in his three piece suit and polished shoes, tie neatly knotted and a nicely contrasting square of silk resplendent in my breast pocket.
(His wallet – black calfskin, still warm with body heat – was in the right back pocket of his trousers. I’d fished it out and laid it on the desk, a reminder for later.)
The Superintendent, too, looked a picture in his new, very different suit. It fit him pretty well, all things considered, snug around waist and hips and a little looser in the limbs – not that I planned to let those limbs stay loose for very long.
He seemed engrossed in the look and feel of the fabric. Every now and then, the faintest of frowns passed over his features like clouds across a speeded-up landscape, only to clear again.
Those suits were unusual – I’d seen nothing quite like them before – but then the equipment cupboard had thrown up all kinds of surprises and the next piece was a doozy.
“Now you’re all suited and booted, let’s get you buckled into…” my level monotone hesitated only fractionally, “… your new overcoat.”
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
- Centennial Club
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- Joined: 5 years ago
- Location: UK
- Contact:
Stewart
It was as if time had stopped or at least slowed to a steady metronome beat.
“It’s a… a…” I struggled to assemble the syllables.
“Think of it as a new coat. Your coat. It fits over your suit.”
I couldn’t take my eyes off it.
Like the suit I wore (comfortable, warmer now), it caught the light but less the fluoro gloss of PVC and more the polished lustre of my Chesterfield sofa. It was almost the same colour too, in places, a deep, rich brown. Most of it was a lighter tan that was almost orange. Thick brown straps coiled in all directions and buckles clinked and glinted.
In my confusion, I couldn’t immediately grasp how it all worked. Which way up was it? What was front and what back? How did those straps fit together?
“You want to wear it?”
Yes. No. That distant voice buzzed like a bluebottle.
“You want to wear it.”
I nodded.
“You’re going to wear it. Put your arms out.”
Gray
God knows I’m no stranger to this… let’s call it art rather than science… and I know my medical gear but I’d never seen anything like this beast of a straitjacket. Truth to tell, I hadn’t had time to explore the equipment cupboard fully before grabbing the basics but damned if this thing wasn’t blowing both of our minds.
For a start, it was all leather, inside and out. I’d never seen that on an institutional jacket. Leather straps on canvas, sure, but this thing looked to be at least two layers of thick, buttery cowhide, probably three where heavy brown hide reinforced the more supple tan: elbows, sleeve ends, and a wide strip down the front. The straps were the same deep brown and there seemed more of them than I was used to.
I shrugged. Whatever its refinements, a straitjacket was a straitjacket and the basics remained the same. The hardest part is coaxing or tricking or forcing them in. Once those arms are into the sleeves and the first strap’s done up, you’re a good three quarters home and dry.
The lining was a paler cream hide, smoothed, softened and faintly discoloured here and there with what I reckoned to be a moderate amount of wear. It had seen use – undoubtedly some spirited struggles – but nothing serious enough to scuff up the tough brown-and-tan exterior.
My arms were starting to ache with the weight of the thing. Time to get it on him.
To be continued...
It was as if time had stopped or at least slowed to a steady metronome beat.
“It’s a… a…” I struggled to assemble the syllables.
“Think of it as a new coat. Your coat. It fits over your suit.”
I couldn’t take my eyes off it.
Like the suit I wore (comfortable, warmer now), it caught the light but less the fluoro gloss of PVC and more the polished lustre of my Chesterfield sofa. It was almost the same colour too, in places, a deep, rich brown. Most of it was a lighter tan that was almost orange. Thick brown straps coiled in all directions and buckles clinked and glinted.
In my confusion, I couldn’t immediately grasp how it all worked. Which way up was it? What was front and what back? How did those straps fit together?
“You want to wear it?”
Yes. No. That distant voice buzzed like a bluebottle.
“You want to wear it.”
I nodded.
“You’re going to wear it. Put your arms out.”
Gray
God knows I’m no stranger to this… let’s call it art rather than science… and I know my medical gear but I’d never seen anything like this beast of a straitjacket. Truth to tell, I hadn’t had time to explore the equipment cupboard fully before grabbing the basics but damned if this thing wasn’t blowing both of our minds.
For a start, it was all leather, inside and out. I’d never seen that on an institutional jacket. Leather straps on canvas, sure, but this thing looked to be at least two layers of thick, buttery cowhide, probably three where heavy brown hide reinforced the more supple tan: elbows, sleeve ends, and a wide strip down the front. The straps were the same deep brown and there seemed more of them than I was used to.
I shrugged. Whatever its refinements, a straitjacket was a straitjacket and the basics remained the same. The hardest part is coaxing or tricking or forcing them in. Once those arms are into the sleeves and the first strap’s done up, you’re a good three quarters home and dry.
The lining was a paler cream hide, smoothed, softened and faintly discoloured here and there with what I reckoned to be a moderate amount of wear. It had seen use – undoubtedly some spirited struggles – but nothing serious enough to scuff up the tough brown-and-tan exterior.
My arms were starting to ache with the weight of the thing. Time to get it on him.
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.
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NeedControl
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Oh man, I sure do hope you continue this!! 
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camoprisoner
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I know this is almost a year old thread, but I really REALLY enjoy the cliffhanger. I'm aching for a continuation.
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KidnappedCowboy
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Jeez! That is hot.I’ve always loved that moment when they go under. Sometimes it happens in the blink of an eye – Red out there in my truck, he never saw it coming – sometimes, like this one, they try to put up a bit of resistance. Question of suggestibility, I guess. I figured a senior psychiatrist might know a thing or two about that so I spiked the coffee with a little something-something, just to help things along.
Replacing men is one of my fantasies.
Love this tale. Continue it please, [mention]Straitjacketed[/mention]
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privateandrews
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loving where this is going.