Initiation (MM/M)

[Straitjacketed]

(A common bondage story trope features the protagonist going alone to an agreed location, tying himself up then Stuff Happening. I wanted to play with that a bit.)

Initiation

As a sort of amateur Houdini and general bondage enthusiast, I’d taken part in many escape challenges but this one intrigued me. On the one hand, it didn’t seem anything out of the ordinary – a basic-sounding rope tie, nothing too fancy – but it was framed as some sort of a test, with the suggestion that if I passed it I’d be invited into a secret fellowship of… bondage players? It wasn’t entirely clear.

I did my research. Reference had been made to “The Brotherhood”, presumably the name of their organisation, but Google searches turned up nothing of use.

I took the bait and received mildly cryptic instructions in response: wear whatever I liked to be tied up in (“you may be wearing it longer than expected” – I scoffed at that), turn up at the allotted time and place… and that was all. I looked up the location: absolutely unassuming, an anonymous building in a district of warehouses.

“Wear what you like to be tied up in”. Hmmm. I gave that some thought, having always been drawn to slick, shiny gear that feels, smells looks great to struggle around in. I considered leather – my padded bike suit, maybe – but the sensual element always had to be balanced with the challenge aspect, the actual escape. I loved my motorcycle leathers but they tended to limit my range of movement even before the addition of rope. If the aim was getting loose, I didn’t want anything too heavy, too restrictive.

Simple was best. I eventually went with a favourite rainsuit: medium-weight PVC, not too baggy, not too tight, one-piece with attached rubber boots but no gloves. I zipped and press-studded it to the neck but left the hood down.

On the day, I turned up at the address specified, slightly self-conscious in my raingear and grateful to find the door unlocked. Inside was a short corridor to a small, unfurnished office-like room containing one other door – locked – with printed instructions taped to it: “Use the tape to blindfold yourself. Don’t talk. You will be tied up with rope and must do your best to escape. If this is not acceptable, you are free to leave now. You may not have that option later.”

Fair enough. The beginnings of many a bondage fantasy. I quite liked those tales where someone pitched up at a given location, cuffed, gagged and hooded himself and threw away the key, but I was far too cautious to go for that in real life. No handcuffs here.

On the floor, in one corner, was a 2” roll of black plastic tape and a pair of scissors. I hesitated only a moment or two (it was tempting to take and conceal the scissors but I was almost certainly being watched) before cutting a long strip and winding it around my head at eye level. The tape was opaque and suitably sticky, adhering well to my skin, but I made sure there was a gap at the lower edge, for me to peer through.

Then I waited.

I didn’t have to wait long. The inner door was unlocked and, before I could steal a glimpse even of feet, fingers were pressing down the tape, ensuring I could no longer see light, let alone whoever had joined me. More tape was added. They really wanted me blind.

It was all pretty quick after that. I was led, in silence, into a new space – slightly more of an echo, making me think it was a larger room – and, maybe ten minutes later, sat blindfolded, tape-gagged and bound hand and foot in what seemed a pretty standard chair tie.

It wasn’t a terrible effort, all things considered, but I immediately knew the tie was escapable. I can always tell, straightaway, with a wrist tie. Rather than tying my hands separately to the chair, my silent roper had lashed them together behind me and I’d done the escape artist thing of making my wrists as rigid and awkward as possible so there was now at least a little slack. The rest was a matter of time.

It was hard not to feel triumphant when my efforts paid off within a few minutes, the rope falling to the ground behind me. I hadn’t had to undo even a single knot. I flexed my fingers. What next?

Freeing my hands was always the most important step in rope escapology but I was still lashed to the chair at waist and elbows, and my legs were bound together at knees and ankles. Waist and legs wouldn’t present any difficulties once I could reach them, so the next priority was the elbow binding.

Elbows were always a little tricky and, perhaps 15 minutes later, I was forced to concede they’d made a better job of this than I’d first thought, certainly more efficient than the wrist roping. Three or four turns of rope fastened each upper arm to the chair’s frame and the important knots seemed to be positioned where I couldn’t easily reach them.

The chair itself appeared to be metal-framed and solidly constructed, some sort of hybrid design with a narrow, high back and no armrests. Behind my feet was a central pedestal, like with an office chair, and I could feel a wide, stable base; this was presumably for safety’s sake: it wouldn’t easily tip over with vigorous struggling.

Okay, so this was going to take a little longer than anticipated – but escape was still inevitable. I knew from experience that if knots couldn’t be reached and loosened, it was simply a case of systematically searching for slack elsewhere, moving that slack to the relevant binding and finding the right angle to twist and wrench a limb free. Annoyingly time-consuming but not inescapable.

I was making decent enough progress when I realised, with a jolt of surprise, that I wasn’t alone. I stopped working on the elbow-ropes to listen. Creaking – another chair? – a bout of what seemed like struggle then exhalation into a gag. Someone else was nearby, and he too had been silenced, presumably also blindfolded.

A fellow captive. Interesting. I leant forward and tried to reach my own blindfold but that tether at elbow level restricted my range of movement. I listened some more. He was closer than I’d first thought, possibly only a few feet, and he’d obviously heard me. He grunted again, this time more questioning. He wanted to communicate.

I chewed thoughtfully on the adhesive tape. It had been wound tightly over my open mouth, cleave gag style, then my jaw had been closed over it and more added. Simple but effective in preventing speech. I could still make muffled noises, though. I grunted in response.

My fellow captive sounded excited, his grunts increasing in pitch and urgency. Sounds of struggle again, mixed with the distinctive rustle of oilskin. What had he chosen to be tied up in?

Curious, I stretched out my forearms and fingers behind me. Nothing. Could I move closer to him, maybe get him to help with my bindings? My legs were bound together but otherwise free and the chair, while fixed to a heavy base, might be moveable. Might there be castors? Attached at only waist and elbows, I could potentially use my feet to propel myself. I tried it and found I could, slowly and with care, shift the chair backwards. I reversed in his direction.

Success! My fingertips brushed something smooth and cold, that gave under my touch. I prodded it and my companion mmmphed his approval. He wriggled again and I could feel movement under that wall of… oilskin? Was he covered up in some way?

Shuffling my chair closer still, I explored further. Beneath the oilskin, I could feel what were evidently my companion’s arms – flexing and jerking energetically – and the rigid frame of his chair. I couldn’t feel any rope.

“Mpp! Mpp!” I realised his jerks were systematic, upwards. He was trying to tell me something.

Up. He was trying to shift the oilskin.

I tried to grip the smooth material. Tricky – it was heavy, heavier than the PVC suit I wore – and at first it evaded my grasp. Finally, I managed to capture a fold between fingers and thumb of my right hand and I tugged it upwards, feeling for a similar handhold with my left. Inch by inch, the impermeable fabric moved upwards until I reached the lower edge (a row of what felt like metal grommets or eyelets spaced around the hem) and delved past it.

Success! Sort of. Grateful hands squeezed my own – but his fingers were swathed in more of the same smooth fabric, some sort of glove or mitten, around which rope had been tied and knotted. No wonder he hadn’t made much progress; with fingers muffled, his escape would be considerably tougher than my own.

My inquisitive fingertips followed the gloves upwards. They ended in a sort of ridge near his elbows. Elasticated. I pulled at one and it shifted downwards but couldn’t be removed because of the wrist ropes. Underneath the gloves were sleeves of similarly smooth material; he was in a jacket or possibly a whole suit of this fabric!

I couldn’t reach far enough to tell whether his own elbows were tied but it seemed a safe bet that he’d been secured at least as tightly as I had. He seemed well built, wrists and forearms muscular beneath their layers and bindings. If I freed his hands, he could help me with my own elbow roping.

I investigated the rope around his wrists. He grunted appreciatively and turned his bound hands this way and that to help me find and undo the knots. He had been bound in much the same way as I had, presumably by the same person, and releasing his hands was no great feat. My agile fingers untied one knot, two, three… and in what seemed no time at all, he was able to shake himself free of the loosened rope. He wasted no time in tugging one mitt off then the other, and a pair of large, sweaty hands clasped my own in a gesture of thanks.

We shared a moment of jubilation, mmphing happily, then his hands unclasped mine and withdrew. Okay, now my ropes! He was out of reach, though, clearly leaning forward. A lot of noisy movement, oilskin rustling against the back of my chair as he shrugged and dragged that outer wrapping up and off. Heavy inhalations and exhalations, and the sound of rope against rope. He was untying his feet and legs.

Minutes passed and I tried to suppress my impatience. It would, I had to agree, make more sense for him to remove his blindfold so he could see to work on our bonds. I heard what sounded like buckles jingling then the stripping sounds of tape being removed – then, unmistakeably, a sigh of apparent relief. He’d got his gag off.

My turn!

I grunted louder, tugging at and gesturing towards my roped elbows so he could see the problem. I heard his chair trundle as he moved it aside, presumably to get a better look at me.

Oilskin squeaked (it seemed that he was indeed in a full suit of the stuff) as he crouched down and took hold of my right arm, moving it upwards and outwards from the chair. I helped him, knowing he could now see how my elbows were attached… and then, to my surprise, I felt damp cool fabric sliding over my fingers, hand and pulled up to my elbow.

It took a second or two for my mind to process what was happening: one of the gloves my fellow captive had been wearing was now on me.

“Nght rrgh oo oongh?” I gasped through a mouthful of tape.

Instinctively, I reached with my other hand to grab the glove, tug it off again, but the second mitt was already over that wrist and jerked upwards, elastic snapping tight against PVC. What the fuck?!

Still in shock, I barely registered the sound of tape being ripped off a roll and plastered, quickly but systematically, round and round each of my arms, just below my elbows. By the time I’d recovered myself enough to put up some resistance, he was pressing and smoothing the tape down: I was fully gloved and the gloves apparently taped to the sleeves of my suit.

I reacted with fury, lashing out wildly with hands and bound feet, but he’d evidently stepped clear of my chair by then and was busying himself with something else. I turned my frantic attentions to my hands and forearms, now wrapped in what felt like heavy oilskin, wet with his perspiration and now mine. They were more like mitts than gloves, maybe the kind of waterproof over-mittens bikers might wear in the rain, but I couldn’t find thumbs; each hand was basically enclosed in its own impermeable bag. The lining seemed just as smooth as the outside had been, and I wondered whether they’d been constructed from more than one thickness of oilskin.

I was struggling to grasp one mitt through the other, the heavy fabric dulling and muffling my usually clever fingers and its slickness making it impossible to find purchase, when a loop suddenly jerked tight around both gloves at wrist level. The bastard was retying my hands!

“Mmngkk ngou!” I snarled. I did my best to pull my hands apart but with elbows pinioned and fingers mitted, there was little I could do. My betrayer was physically powerful: he easily pinned my flailing arms in place, holding my hands together with apparent ease while taking his time to complete a neat and thorough lashing. Rope was looped around my crossed wrists horizontally, vertically and cinched between, not tightly enough to cut off circulation but snug enough that I knew these bonds couldn’t be slipped. He was unhurried in his careful looping, cinching and knotting and, by the time he released his grip on me, I knew I was in trouble.

Sensing he’d moved back, maybe stood up, I took the opportunity to assess how I’d been tied. I was free to flex my fingers but they felt more trapped than ever in their individual bag-like mitts, with what felt like solid bands of rope as well as tape keeping those mitts in place. My wrists felt melded together, I couldn’t flex or rotate them at all. As part of his binding, he appeared to have run the rope through a slat at the level of my lower back: as well as being lashed together, my wrists were now firmly secured to the chair itself. He’d finished off by leaning on my bound hands, pushing them downwards and maintaining tension while he tied the ends of the rope off to some attachment point under the seat, perhaps the pedestal itself. Somewhere I knew I couldn’t reach.

I jerked angrily at my bound wrists, but he’d done a good job: they were effectively fixed in one spot, unable to move right or left, up or down. Even if I could feel properly through the oilskin imprisoning my fingers, I knew he’d positioned the knots with almost tender care.

I bristled with irritation. I’d freed my hands once and been on my way to freedom; now I was a prisoner again, much more of a prisoner than before.

Without warning, his full bodyweight was upon me, pressing my down and back into the seat. He was astride me, sitting on my lap, his substantial arms crushing me in a bear-hug. I began to thrash around, anxious that I’d run short of breath but he was suddenly up and off me, doing something at my rear. It took a minute or two to realise another rope had been threaded under my arms at chest level and, when he’d hugged me to the chair, he’d squeezed out all slack before making his first knot. Unable to use my usual trick of expanding my lungs while my chest was being tied, I was now held to the back of the chair as if glued there while he reinforced his binding, weaving band after band of rope around my torso, around and through the slatted chair back. He must’ve run half a dozen more turns around me, finally bracing himself at the knee while he heaved everything tight and tied off his rope in the middle of my chest.

“Ngou ngckng nghaghtrd,” I muttered through adhesive tape as, with similarly unhurried efficiency, he set about securing the rest of me to the chair. He tugged experimentally at my elbow bindings, seeming satisfied that they’d held but coiling, cinching and knotting more rope around my upper arms, a good half-dozen turns on each side, fixing them much more completely to the sides of the chair. He appeared dissatisfied with the waist binding and did the sitting-astride-me trick again, this time pushing me backwards as far back into the chair as I could go and holding me there while he untied and retied the rope around my waist, looping, bracing and hauling multiple turns before tying it off in front of me. When he finally stepped back, it felt like I’d been strapped into a belt of iron.

I dimly registered more loops of rope being run from waist to shoulders, criss-crossing me like a double seatbelt. He worked steadily and methodically, keeping tension and securing his knots with precision. All of my feeble attempts at resistance were ignored except for when I kicked out and my bound, booted feet connected with something… his leg? I took savage satisfaction in the resulting grunt of pain.

That satisfaction was short-lived. My feet were immediately yanked back and up and, in what felt like seconds, made fast to the top of the pedestal where it met the seat of the chair. I squirmed, strained and tried to kick out again without success, as my captor reinforced the tethering with loop after loop around my booted ankles. My feet were off the ground and evidently there to stay; I could do nothing but flex my toes uselessly as he turned his attention to my thighs and knees, testing the ropes already in place, deciding they too needed reinforcing, untying and retying more tightly.

When he’d finally finished hauling, cinching and knotting off, I felt as thoroughly immobilised as I’d ever been in my life. I was near enough welded to the chair, every limb, every joint accounted for.

Think, I told myself. Take stock of the situation.

He’d used the most rope on my hands: in their separate oilskin prisons, they were held crossed and tightly together, fixed to the back and underside of the chair; there was not a millimetre of give there. From the elbows upwards, rope had been banded, cinched and knotted on each side, making my arms as one with the vertical frame of the chair back. Further bands of rope, tight around my waist and chest, pinned me where I sat and diagonal ligatures laced me yet tighter, effectively restraining my shoulders. He’d even found some hole or perforation in the seat of the chair (was it, like the chair back, a framework of latticed metal?) and threaded rope upwards at crotch level and backwards so that my thighs, bound together, were also tied separately to the chair itself and my whole pelvis effectively cemented in place. He’d done something similar at the front edge of the chair’s seat, fixing my already-roped-together knees to and through the metal framework so they were unable to shift left, right or upwards.

My legs were lashed together as one, laced to the seat and tethered to the pedestal beneath me, boot heels fixed as immovably as my wrists (only a few inches away from my bagged fingertips but utterly unreachable). The only parts of me with any movement were my head and my toes and, having been caught a glancing blow from the latter, my captor seemed to be taking a particular delight in binding them as tightly as he could; he was already responding to my toe-wiggling with rope looped around my insteps, binding my boots more completely together.

A pause. Oilskin creaked softly as he walked around me, testing the tension of a bond here, adding a knot there. Nothing seemed even slightly loose. For the most part, he seemed happy with his handiwork. I, however, was far from happy. Through a mouthful of tape, I gave him both barrels, a mostly-impeded stream of fuck-you.

This was a bad idea. Initially, his examination then none-too-gentle removal of the tape from around my lower face seemed like a positive but no sooner had I moistened my suddenly-free lips than strong fingers were forcing something past them, something large and wet, squeezed within seconds into my mouth.

“Unfff!”

A sponge. A huge fucking sponge already wet… with his saliva? Had this been in his mouth? It filled mine and my immediate instinct was to spit it out or expel it with my tongue, but those same steel-trap fingers clamped my jaw shut while a meaty arm forced itself around me. My jaw was held closed, my chin and head pulled backwards in the crook of an elbow while the sound and smell of oilskin and adhesive tape assailed me. I could only concentrate on getting enough air through my nostrils as tape was pulled taut and wound around my mouth and lower face, front to back, front to back. The arm released me only momentarily to allow the roll to pass around the back before grasping and pulling me back again for another round of tape. I lost count after around twenty turns, making a concerted effort to breathe through my nose as my face was gradually coated in adhesive plastic from nose to chin.

Finally, the arm released me. I shook my head in disbelief: I was no stranger to tape gags but never had quite so much tape been applied to me so quickly and expertly. I was barely able to draw breath before I was grabbed again and taping resumed at 90 degrees, under my chin, over the top of my head, under my chin again… At least another dozen turns – he was taking no chances on my breaking or stretching my way free of the gag – before he paused again. I felt almost dizzy with the speed at which my teeth, lips and tongue had been incapacitated behind a wall of plastic, my jaw clamped shut and immovable. My lower face felt like it was set in concrete! I mmphhed in outrage, my protest almost entirely absorbed by what felt like acres of sponge and miles of tape.

He hadn’t finished, and seemed concerned at the possibility of my dislodging or seeing under the blindfold. He reinforced it with several more rounds of tape, then additional strips were added vertically between gag and blindfold, in parallel with my nose.

Solicitously, he checked over all his taping again, carefully smoothing and pressing down the layers. God forbid he might not have achieved 100% adhesion!

No sooner had my captor satisfied himself with the near-mummification of my face than I felt a dragging sensation across my scalp. The hood of my PVC rainsuit was up and he was on my lap again, fumbling with the drawstrings. PVC closed over my taped head and I felt the strings jerked, knotted and double-knotted.

I reared as far backwards as my situation allowed, panicking that he’d closed off my air supply. A hand squeezed my shoulder in a manner that somehow contrived to be reassuring, and I attempted to calm myself. I realised he hadn’t closed the hood entirely but had left my nose uncovered, my airflow unimpeded; I forced myself to take long, deep breaths. Double-crossing bastard he might be but he seemed not to want me to suffocate.

I had no sooner got into a rhythm of nose breathing when my freshly-hooded head was clamped again in an oilskinned elbow and I felt the PVC gather more tightly around my face and scalp. What now?! Some sort of wide collar was being buckled around my neck. Pressure followed in other directions around my head and particularly my jaw, already closed tight as a vice. The PVC of my waterproof suit swathed my head more tightly but my nose was, thankfully, still open to the air, able to breathe. With a jolt, I recognised the pattern of restraint: I’d been muzzled.

I could visualise the item itself, a cup-like piece of leather fitting over lips and under chin, straps and buckles fastening it closed around the head. I’d worn one on other occasions but never over a hood and certainly never over an already comprehensively tape-gagged mouth.

That all-too-familiar arm suddenly yanked my head backwards and, tape-gagged, hooded and now muzzled, I could offer only the most muffled response. A minute or so and the grip was released… but I found my head fixed in position. The rear of the muzzle – the strap around my neck – had been secured to the top of the chair-back. I could picture rope through a D-ring, fastened behind me. I was collared and tethered in place, like a dog. He was fiddling at the front of me and it took me a minute or so to realise he’d found the ends of the strings tying my hood closed and was knotting them to the front of the muzzle’s collar-strap, presumably another D-ring.

My mind reeled. I’d freed him from his own bonds and this fucking bastard had, in return, taken away every last inch of my freedom. Step by step, he’d rendered me helpless, covered me head-to-toe in PVC, even the hood of my own rainsuit becoming part of my prison. Giving vent to my indignation, I fought my captivity, muscles straining against ropes and straps, fingers groping and tearing at their oilskin mitts.

It was no use. Everything was expertly placed for optimal restraint, every loop of rope was tight and non-slippable, every knot had been positioned where I was least likely to reach it with fingers or teeth – and fingers and teeth were themselves ineffective, trapped behind layers of adhesive plastic, oilskin or PVC. I couldn’t even give voice to my outrage, tongue pressed down and mouth fully packed with sponge I had no hope of dislodging.

Even as I fumed and strained against my bonds, I was aware of a new dragging sensation all around me, something heavy, a new feeling of about-to-suffocate. I fought down the reflex to panic, made myself breathe evenly. We’d established he had no interest in blocking my airflow; he wanted me breathing. Stay calm and work it out, I reminded myself, work out what he’s doing.

It was the smell that alerted me. Oilskin. The curtain of heavy fabric I’d had to navigate to free my captor’s hands – so long ago now, it seemed – was being draped over me, smoothed and tugged into place. Some sort of sheet… or cape? I remembered the metal eyelets spaced every couple of inches around its hem.

He took time to settle whatever-it-was over me and the chair. The fit was snug and it had to be worked down over my knees, especially. It squeaked noisily and I wondered whether, like the gloves, it was more than one layer of oilskin, shiny inside as well as out.

My head was, as far as I could tell, free of the fabric, and I concluded I was indeed being swathed in a cape. I pictured it, shiny oilskin, probably black, the kind of industrial-weight rain slicker that might’ve been worn by mid-century cops or fishermen – or, given the eyelets, something more military that could be pressed into service as a waterproof groundsheet. I imagined it being dragged and stretched, tarpaulin-like, over my bound body and the chair I sat in.

I became aware of a tugging, almost distant, somewhere below me, and everything took on a new snugness. The tips of my boots touched something. I pushed with my toes, experimentally, and it gave slightly… then seemed to tense, to tauten again. I realised he’d threaded rope or cord through the grommets or eyelets at the hem of the oilskin and was pulling the whole garment closed beneath me, as one might close a drawstring bag or sack, around the pedestal of my chair.

This seemed the last straw. Not content with tying me more comprehensibly than I’d ever been tied, he was wrapping me up in oilskin like he’d been wrapped. Worse than his situation, since any would-be rescuer would not just have to lift the impermeable fabric to get at the ropes binding me but would be forced to unwrap me – and my heavy oilskin wrapping was being closed and knotted like an oversized laundry bag somewhere under my feet, around the base of the chair.

Already, I was prickling with perspiration, the heat generated by my angry struggles trapped under PVC and now a layer of oilskin.

Sudden tightness over my roped-down pelvis. I was getting used to the way he thought, the way he worked, and found myself able to visualise what he was doing. Having pulled the cape closed under my feet and tied it shut, drawstring style, around the pedestal of the chair, he’d run the ends of the drawstring cord upwards on either side and, ever the professional, pulled it as tight as it would go, bracing to maintain the tension as he knotted it in on top of my lap. I then felt the same pulling-tight/bracing/knotting behind me, and my oilskin covering was gathered in around my waist and the chair-back. He wound the two cords around to the front again, where he jerked them tight and knotted them together with finality at the front of my waist.

Great. So not only was I roped to a chair and fully bagged in thick, heavy oilskin, that bag was tied shut in at least four different places: around the pedestal of the chair, over my lap, at the back then front of my waist. Even if, by some miracle, I were able to slip the ropes binding me to the chair and get these damned gloves off my hands, how in God’s name could I even begin to free myself of the all-encompassing oilskin cocoon in which he’d packaged me?

Could I, at least in theory, slide an arm out through the neck of the cape to get at the knots in my lap? I was unsurprised to find him ahead of me, pulling what felt like another capacious hood – the hood of the cape – up over my already taped, hooded and muzzled head, tethered to the chair-back. Even through the PVC of my rainsuit, I could feel the weight of the garment my captor had been wearing (was he still wearing a suit of this material?). He was astride me again and I felt a twinge of déjà vu as waterproof fabric tightened around my head – this time, industrial oilskin – as twin drawstrings were pulled tight and knotted with his usual precision.

I knew now not to panic; a flow of air still reached my nostrils, the only part of me now not covered in at least two layers of waterproofing. The drawstrings were clearly quite long: he wound them around my neck, tugged them once (it was, I suppose, reassuring that he had no intention of choking me) and double-knotted them, with his usual attention to detail, under my chin.

What must I look like? I imagined the stem of a metal chair as the stick of some sort of bizarre lollipop of oilskin and cord, the shape of a seated man barely discernable. Was my roped-down struggling even visible beneath the glistening fabric?

That hand on my shoulder again, this time a teasing slap, a sort of that’s-you-fixed in physical form. A chuckle.

Fuck. Bastard. I couldn’t even shrug him away, rope, tape and oilskin constraining me in every direction.

I could barely muster the tiniest amount of leverage to wrench at my bonds. Ever the escape artist, however, I tried to quell the growing sense of hopelessness. I had to explore my captivity, to find a weakness.

Focus. Think the options through logically.

Hands... My fingers clenched and unclenched, reflexively reaching for knots and finding only oilskin. Could it be torn? I could barely find purchase to grip the inside of the mitts and my fingernails just slid along the smooth, tough fabric. They reminded me of the heavyweight gauntlets worn by trawlermen to protect their hands from injury while hauling lines or gutting fish – except those guys had the use of their fingers and thumbs, and I’d been taped into what were effectively thumbless mittens. No, I wasn’t going to rip my way out of these fuckers. I remembered the speed and efficiency with which he’d taped them to the sleeves of my suit. Would that tape hold out against determined tugging on a glove? All hypothetical. I couldn’t even begin to test the strength of the tape while the solid mass of rope surrounding my wrists held the gloves in place, ensured they remained mini-prisons.

Could I work on my bonds through the mitts? Unlikely. The thick fabric frustrated my usually nimble fingertips and my wrists were tied in such a way that my hands were held crossed and rigid, the range of movement seriously limited. The way he’d positioned the knots – tucked out of reach – meant that even if my fingers were free, finding something I could actually loosen would be near-impossible.

Sometimes, in previous rope escapes when I hadn’t known where to start, I’d concentrated on finding the end of a rope and following it to a knot I could untie. That would then allow me to focus on a second knot and a third and, one step at a time, I’d work my way to freedom. In this case, I remembered, the ends of the wrist-roping had been pulled downwards and tied off beneath me, under the seat of my chair. Those rope-ends might as well be on Venus.

Okay, so if my fingers were out of action, could I slip the wrist binding? Houdini sometimes escaped through pure physical effort and that had worked for me in the past, especially when I’d previously managed to generate some slack. I tested the binding again, flexing my wrists then letting my forearm muscles go slack. Nothing. It wasn’t just the amount of rope but the way he’d applied it: every coil was expertly placed and cinched so it wouldn’t – couldn’t – slip. After binding my wrists, he’d positioned them at the point where the back of the chair joined the seat and had fixed them there. I had no leverage. I could jerk at my bagged hands to my heart’s content but they wouldn’t budge.

Arms? From elbow to armpit, they were lashed to the uprights of the chair back. Often, when rope had been tied around me and a chair, I’d been able, by rolling one shoulder then the other, to work a loop upwards. Once past the widest part of me – my shoulders – the whole binding would loosen. That wasn’t going to work here: even if my shoulders hadn’t themselves been lashed back and down, the ropes binding my upper arms had been woven through the metal slats of the chair; I knew those ropes couldn’t be worked up or down.

Torso? I could breathe, but that was about it. Belts of rope held me fast at chest and waist, and his crushing-my-body-to-the-chair technique meant he’d been able to pull those ropes tighter than ever. Cross-wise roping pinned my shoulders back like some kind of diabolically secure seat belt. I knew that, as with my upper arms, all the knots had been located in front of me: if I couldn’t free my fingers and bring my hands forward, I stood no chance of reaching them. I might as well be part of the chair.

Legs? I hadn’t bargained on the latticed seat of the chair being such a gift to my captor: never before had I been roped into a sitting position as thoroughly as this, not merely bound but literally woven to the chair itself. Rope bit into the PVC around my thighs, threading through the seat, to fix my pelvis downwards and backwards. My legs, already bound and cinched fast to one another at thighs, knees and ankles, were similarly lashed to the front of the seat. My booted feet and toes were tethered up and back behind me, to the chair pedestal, now also trapped behind drumskin-tight oilskin.

Head? I was in no danger of choking but a muzzle and collar kept me upright and facing straight ahead – not that there was any point in knowing what “straight ahead” meant in these circumstances, my head swathed in adhesive tape, muzzled and enclosed in one layer of clinging PVC and one of heavyweight oilskin, each hood carefully knotted shut around an inch or so of gap left for breathing.

Teeth? Try as I might to work it loose, that fucking sponge was there to stay and, beneath the hoods, at least twenty turns of tough plastic tape glued my jaw shut and covered my face from nose to chin, with a layer of PVC pressed over that and a leather muzzle strapped on top. I was gagged, and gagged bloody well. It’d be a cold day in Hell before I got my teeth apart let alone chewed my way out of this predicament.

And covering everything, the icing on the whole sorry shitcake, that utterly gratuitous layer of oilskin, the cape I’d had to lift out of the way to free the man who was now my captor. No way I’d be getting free the same way. I felt like a lorry load strapped under its weather-proof tarpaulin, laced down and pressed in at all sides, the ultimate well-packaged parcel. Even if I weren’t roped to the chair with scientific precision, to escape my outer packaging alone I’d have to, somehow, untie the knotted cord in front of and behind my waist, on top of my lap and around the pedestal of the chair – and the only opening in my roped-down tarpaulin was the tiny breathing hole around my nose, the hood otherwise closed and tied around my head.

Fucker. He’d thought of everything. I gave vent to a long spasm of sheer irritation, doing my best to twist, squirm, jerk and kick. Every bond held, every movement was checked, neutralised. I was going nowhere.

My captor waited until my tantrum had subsided and patted my double-hooded head. I growled in frustration, sponge, tape, PVC muzzle-leather and oilskin rendering me unintelligible, barely audible.

Through the creak and rustle of waterproof fabrics and the sound of my own breathing, I was suddenly aware of a voice. I stopped struggling and strained to listen.

“… excellent, one of the best initiations we’ve seen.” Male, almost accentless, matter-of-fact. “Top marks for manipulation. You turned the tables beautifully. This one’s supposedly an escape artist too, so one might have expected some degree of wariness about releasing your hands.”

“I guess I charmed him.” The second voice was next to to me, baritone, amused. The voice of my captor.

“Oh yes, you caught him fair and square.”

“Hook, line and sinker – and boy, is he sunk.” My captor clapped me again on the shoulder. I was in no position to shrug his hand away.

“Excellent roping too. You used your body weight to get him into position and I’ll wager he’s not finding any room to manoeuvre.” The assessor raised his voice: “Any slack in there?”

I snorted through my nose. He chuckled.

“It would seem not. We particularly liked your use of the chair’s multiple anchor points. One mark deducted for sustaining a kick… but you went on to deal with that.”

“Yeah, he won’t be kicking anyone else in a hurry.” A playful jab at my oilskinned knees. I wrenched ineffectually, legs as immobile as the rest of me, and groaned into my gag. What the fuck was going on?

“Indeed. Your gagging was effective, as we can hear. Or not.”

I didn’t dignify that with a response.

“Some of us thought you could’ve gone further with the tape, maybe used more of it to immobilise his fingers.” My mind reeled and my fingers, in their damp little prisons, clenched.

“I did consider that,” my captor was thoughtful, “but I reckoned it’d frustrate him more if his fingers were technically free but stuck behind oilskin.”

“Yes,” agreed the assessor, “I can see that.” He raised his voice again, addressing me, “What do you think? Frustrated?”

I fought back the urge to growl, to groan, to struggle, to strain. Anything I did would act as confirmation for these two smug fuckers.

“Yeah, I think he’s frustrated in there.” My head was patted again. I fumed, silently.

“High score on improvisation; you used all the materials to hand. Lacing him into your cape was a great touch – much harder for anyone else to release him. We were divided on the muzzle… but you were strapped into that yourself.”

“I was. And if he’s really an escape artist, he can handle a muzzle.”

“Quite so. Well, you’ve passed with flying colours and I’m happy to welcome you into The Brotherhood. Let’s get you out of that suit and cleaned up for the ceremony.”

My captor was behind me, a hand on each shoulder. Almost proprietorial.

“What about Houdini here?”

“Oh, him?” The assessor was almost dismissive. “He can stew for a while. If he can’t get free under his own steam, I suppose he’s here for the duration.”

“Can I have him?”

“That’s an interesting request. You have made a rather good job of packaging him up for delivery. I see you’ve even tied his draw-cords in a bow.” A finger tugged gently at the strings in front of my neck.

Both men laughed. I ground my teeth, or tried to around the sponge filling my mouth.

“We can talk about it.”

The hands were off my shoulders and my captor’s voice was low and close to my ear.

“Be seeing you.”

My chair was grasped and spun for a few seconds, dizzying me. When it finally came to rest, I was alone, in silence.

The End

[DeeperThanRed]

I feel sorry for the escape artist. It must be incredibly frustrating to free your companion in bondage only for them to backstab you and turn your ties into something inescapable.

The bondage he had to endure was excellently described and I loved some of the small details that felt inexplicably intimate to me: like the sponge in his mouth that belonged to his captor and how he felt his body without ever seeing him once.

Overall, kinda dark and almost haunting but also very sensual and exciting. An outstanding piece.

[blackbound]

I could've sworn I read this before, it's really good though. Love the frustration of inescapable bondage.

[MaxRoper]

This is truly an Ultimate Tie-up. No escape possible, even for a Houdini of the first order. You did a great job getting us inside the head of the hero of the tale, especially the feelings of frustration and claustrophobia such a position would entail. Top notch writing and excellent descriptions of the bondage. Well done!

[KidnappedCowboy]

Wow, [mention]Straitjacketed[/mention], you certainly are prolific and gifting us this Christmas with several wonderful tales!

[Straitjacketed]

I could've sworn I read this before, it's really good though. Love the frustration of inescapable bondage.

Thanks, [mention]blackbound[/mention]! You quite possibly have read it before: I wrote it maybe three years ago now and previously posted it on a couple of other fetish/bondage sites.

[Straitjacketed]

I feel sorry for the escape artist. It must be incredibly frustrating to free your companion in bondage only for them to backstab you and turn your ties into something inescapable.

I've actually been in that situation: tied up with another captive who I helped escape only for him to do the dirty. Not as dramatic as in this story but it was, oddly, a hugely horny experience. I suppose it fed into my "turned on by the frustration of failing to escape" quirk.

The bondage he had to endure was excellently described and I loved some of the small details that felt inexplicably intimate to me: like the sponge in his mouth that belonged to his captor and how he felt his body without ever seeing him once.

I really like "inexplicably intimate", so thanks for that. When I'm tied up, I find that being blindfolded (as well as gagged) enhances the whole experience for me, as I'm forced to focus on and communicate through other senses - like touch.

Overall, kinda dark and almost haunting but also very sensual and exciting. An outstanding piece.

Thank you [mention]DeeperThanRed[/mention] and I'm really happy you liked it.

[Straitjacketed]

This is truly an Ultimate Tie-up. No escape possible, even for a Houdini of the first order. You did a great job getting us inside the head of the hero of the tale, especially the feelings of frustration and claustrophobia such a position would entail.

When it comes to tie-ups, I love me a bit of overkill - and I find that when I'm stuck in a restraint situation and my captor's done his job so well I can't escape, it's the simmering frustration that keeps me turned on.

Top notch writing and excellent descriptions of the bondage. Well done!

Thank you [mention]MaxRoper[/mention], that means a lot.

[Straitjacketed]

Wow, @Straitjacketed, you certainly are prolific and gifting us this Christmas with several wonderful tales!

It's a combination of being at home and having time on my hands (various festive plans were derailed by COVID-19): I decided various of my older stories should be buffed up and put online. Glad you liked this one, [mention]KidnappedCowboy[/mention]!

[slackywacky]

Another great story. Hopelessly bound, no where to go.
If only I could try...
Thanks for writing this story.

[TightropesEU]

Love reading rope escape challenges

[_zin_]

The escape artist foiled! I not only loved how well explained he was made immobilized by rope, tape, even oil cloth, but also how he thought back through how he might try to escape and why it was not possible. Great story!