Bedbound (M/M)

[Straitjacketed]

(This story features the same couple that appeared in my earlier story Rainproofed but it doesn't really matter in what order you read them. As ever, my stuff features quite detailed bondage, usually between men, typically non-consensual and often including leathers, raingear and other "fetish" attire. Enjoy!)

Bedbound

The moment I opened the front door, I knew something was up. Nothing specific – the house was silent and unlit – but as I paused to unfasten and hang up the rubberised raincoat I’d worn to protect my leathers, I sensed a furtive feeling in the air, a recent stirring.

Burglars? We both now automatically set the alarm by the front door and the blinking LED told me nothing was amiss.

My motorcycle boots were relatively clean from the late afternoon ride but I wiped them anyway before checking the ground floor. Everything was as I’d left it this morning. I headed upstairs, walking as softly as I could, some instinct urging quiet as I looked around each room. Nothing out of the ordinary, I reached the top floor and the spare bedroom.

A tiny room under the eaves, it has just the one skylight window (today, rain pattered softly against the glass) and contains a chair, a low cabinet and a single bed. The bed is wooden-framed and we’d modified it with sturdy metal hooks, handy attachment points that had proved their worth against some determined struggling. A year or so ago, we’d found an Eastern European source of super-heavy black vinyl – a glossy, apparently rip-proof fabric called Opalo, used for fishing and industrial waterproof gear – and had mattress, pillows and duvet covered in the lovely stuff.

Pillows and duvets had been flung aside and on the floor, against the bed frame, sat the source of the Disturbance in the Force.

Clad top-to-toe in dark green PVC – my two-piece Ocean oilskins! – the immediate impression was of dejection, a figure sulking or in a huff.

Well, this was a turn up for the books. Although he did wear wet-weather gear (sometimes – the memory made me smile – all at once and for far longer than intended), rainwear was more my thing than Tom’s. He’d always had been picky about exactly which clothing he would and wouldn’t wear and I teased him about his “fragile fetish masculinity”. If it was associated with ruggedly manly activities – biking, diving, deep sea fishing – he’d wear it; anything more “sissy” and he’d baulk.

The green oilskin gear – my green oilskin gear – was somewhere on the cusp and I was surprised to find him in it.

He sat with his back to the bed, legs and rubber-booted feet splayed, arms complicatedly folded and head down. I couldn’t see his face and my first instinct was alarm – was he hurt, unconscious? His head rose, though, and I saw that he was wearing the rain jacket backwards with the hood up, so smooth green PVC obscured his features.

“Nnggh?”

The unmistakeable language of Gag. Well, at least he was able to breathe.

“Ngh ngoo hhrr?”

The oilskin-wrapped shape jerked irritably, and I realised that, while it wasn’t stretched tight, he couldn’t shake the hood down off his face; it must be fastened somehow behind his head. I frowned. Hadn’t I warned him, many times, about the risks of solo breath play?

I stepped closer, noting the objects arranged on the bedside cabinet: the various clip-on gag and blindfold panels of our new head harness; a lube dispenser; and his iPhone, glowing softly. Stepping around his legs, I picked up the ‘phone and examined the screen: he’d downloaded the app controlling his vibrating butt plug, but it was switched OFF. I smiled. I’d “christened” the butt plug by having him wear it for a full 12 hours, outside in the rain, and it had gone unused since then. I thought he’d been put off butt plugs for life. Apparently not.

More grunting and head-shaking. Did he know I was in the room with him? Perhaps he could smell my leathers, still warm from the ride. He tugged meaningfully at his arms and I realised he was fixed to the bed somehow. Stepping carefully around his legs and peering behind him, I could see white strapping extending from the sleeves of his rain jacket, snagged on two of the hooks we’d screwed into the bed frame.

The Posey, then. He’d bragged about his ability to get himself into as well as out of the regulation canvas straitjacket, although he’d never agreed to show me how (I’d rolled my eyes when he told me it was one of his “escape artist secrets”). I’d always assumed he wriggled his way into the jacket with straps loosely fastened then somehow tightened everything, possibly catching the ends in the door frame. I’d no idea how he managed to do up the crotch strap and the sleeve strap.

Maybe this time he’d been trying to use the bed hooks to tighten up the sleeve strap and it had gotten tangled? Or he’d got everything done up then just tumbled off the bed? He seemed to have managed to actually fold his arms, rather than just cross them; this looked uncomfortable and was almost certainly preventing him from getting them over his head. He was very much tethered in place.

As I watched, he swung his folded arms from left to right, and back again. I guessed he was trying to work a degree of slack into the buckled sleeve strap, slowly, laboriously, with each bout of struggle. I wondered how long he’d been stuck there.

I put a reassuring hand on his shoulder, feeling the warmth of PVC supple from his exertions. He jumped and then sagged with relief.

“Ngho nggang Gghd!”

“Looks like someone’s been playing in my wardrobe.”

He hung his head for a moment. A hint of chagrin… at having been caught in the act?

Any shame didn’t last long. He wiggled his arms and turned his hooded head slightly, indicating the sleeve strap.

“I get it,” I told him, “I’ll be right back. Don’t go away.”

“Ngu-” he began to object but was in no position to make demands.

He could stew a little longer.

I left the room and went downstairs. My leathers and boots were comfortable so I left them on, just unzipping my jacket a little. I took time to make myself a coffee and drank it slowly, peering out at the rainy garden, an idea slowly forming. An unhurried rummage through drawers and closets later, I began to assemble what I needed.

An hour had passed before I entered the spare bedroom again, and his body language radiated impatience. I grinned. He had no idea what was coming.

“Right,” I said, squatting down next to the seated figure, “let’s see what you’ve got yourself into.” He bowed his head and shuffled around as best he could in his restricted position, to let me get at the back of him.

He was wearing my oldest set of Ocean Rainwear – smock-like jacket and dungaree-style trousers – and I wondered, with a sudden pang of affection, whether he’d been drawn to the suit by the trace of my scent on the lining.

I recognised the polished boot caps as those of his own Hunter waders, the ones that came up to his thighs and fastened to a waist belt. Never one to do things by halves, he’d presumably got geared up in the boots and belt then overtrousers, then wriggled into the fastened-up straitjacket and rain jacket, one inside the other, with the Posey’s closed canvas arms threaded through the sleeves of the oilskin. For his next trick, he’d contrived to gag himself, close the hood of the rain jacket and only then tighten the straitjacket sleeves behind himself.

“Is there,” I speculated aloud, “a term for someone who specialises in getting himself into impossible restraints? Y’know, the opposite of an escapologist?”

He made a gnnn noise.

“There ought to be. An incapologist? You’re certainly incapable right this minute.”

I turned my attention to the hood of the jacket. It fastened with drawstrings that weren’t actually tied, just snugged up a little with plastic toggles, so the hood stayed around his head but was loose, even baggy, letting air circulate. I hoped that bagginess had been a deliberate choice on his part.

The back of his head, visible through the oval of the rain jacket’s hood, was black rubber, stretched over the back of his skull.

“Catsuit too? You clearly haven’t skimped.”

He grunted, non-committally. `

Tom was a purist of pervery compared with myself: he could sometimes be a little sneery about the lighter gauges of latex, the stuff sold as fetish clothing (as opposed to industrial or sports clothing that he just happened to fetishise). He grudgingly agreed that form-fitting rubber suits made practical sense as a kind of base layer under other gear – keeping all the moisture in.

“This must’ve been one hell of a wank.” I released first one of the hood’s toggles then the other, my free hand moving to his crotch. He flinched, and I felt solidity beneath the layers of PVC.

“Chastity cup too?” I whistled, impressed.

The hood fell forward and he blinked in the light. Seeing my big butch biker wide-eyed and vulnerable, I almost softened and released him, abandoning my nefarious plans.

Almost.

The small open face of his black latex catsuit framed his features and rendered his head a dark, polished dome. The suit was fine gauge, with integral gloves and socks. I liked to think of it as more than a base layer, as a fetish “skin”. He generally made a show of reluctance – “more fashion than fetish!” he’d snort – but I’d always suspected he secretly loved the catsuit. Today’s events seemed to prove my suspicion correct.

“You must be baking in all that!”

He nodded, blinking away perspiration. His movements were, I saw, slightly limited by the head harness he was wearing over the latex of his catsuit hood. A recent acquisition, the harness was very well designed, a network of narrow but sturdy rubber straps passing around and over the head and neck, all finely adjustable to give a good fit. There was a muzzle arrangement cupping chin and lower face, and a variety of types of gag and blindfold attachments could be press-studded into place.

However he’d managed to fasten it, it fitted a little looser than I like it. He’d eschewed the blindfold and I’d already worked out, by looking at those on the cabinet top, that he’d chosen the smallest gag attachment.

Pfft. My turn to be sneery.

Small and loosely fitted, the gag nonetheless did its job, filling his mouth sufficiently to distort the meaning of his speech. The tone was unmistakeable, though: relief, a little embarrassment – and not-entirely-concealed irritation. He wanted out.

I didn’t want him out.

“Okay okay, I’ll get to it. First, though, you know what I’m going to do with this.” I held up the small but nifty tool we’d acquired to make extra holes in leather belts and straps. He understood immediately and, after only a little brows-lowered cartoon regret, stopped trying to put up any serious objection.

“We have plenty of rain jackets,” I said firmly, “it’s not the end of the world if I poke a few holes in this one.” He nodded.

Carefully, I measured out the slippery Ocean fabric, using the leather-working tool to punch two holes where I figured his nostrils would be when the hood was tightened up. Changing to the largest size, I made a third hole in the hood’s midline, a little further down.

“Worth it to keep you from suffocating, yeah?”

He understood. I moved to sit on the bed, above him and within reach of the cabinet. He jerked again at the snagged strap.

“I see it, and I’ll sort that strap in a moment. First things first.”

I unsnapped the eight press-studs holding the gag panel in place – four on each side – and extracted the little rubber bulb, slick with saliva.

“Oh Christ, thanks. I got stuck. The strap…”

“Drink,” I interrupted, producing the large plastic bottle of water we kept in the ‘fridge for these moments. He didn’t have to be told twice, accepting the nozzle and sucking greedily until the best part of a pint of chilled water had gone down and he was sated.

“That’s bett…” he was cut off by the abrupt insertion of another gag panel, the one I’d been concealing in my hand, out of his line of vision. Not the butterfly gag – that one requires cooperation to get in and seated – but a nice big rubber bladder with a good open breathing tube around six inches in length.

He gave an mmmphh of surprise (how I love that sound!) but I was already thumbing the press-studs closed. This gag was a bigger, better fit than the one he’d chosen for himself.

He shook his head, eyebrows raised, and I deliberately misunderstood his eye-signalling.

“You want the blindfold too? Certainly!”

His head movements grew more frantic but I pretended not to notice, concentrating on attaching the large rubber blindfold whose smoothly moulded inner surface would gently press his eyeballs closed. It fastened with a slightly more complex arrangement of press-studs on either side but also above and below, designed to block out light as fully as possible.

“Must be difficult to get everything done up as well as you’d like, when you’re doing it all yourself,” I said conversationally, “but don’t worry; I’m here now.”

He was trying to push the larger gag out with his tongue, presumably so he could explain himself more clearly. Again, I accidentally-on-purpose misunderstood his action.

“Yeah, that is a bit loose, isn’t it? I’ll sort it.”

Now he couldn’t see, it was an easy matter to fix his latex-covered head in the crook of my arm and tighten the head harness systematically, buckle by buckle, until everything was properly snug, straps pulled tight-but-not-too-tight, collar close-but-not-too-close, and rubber muzzle clamping his jaw shut around the new gag. The buckles were lockable but there’d be no need for padlocks today.

“Almost done,” I grunted, releasing his head and reaching across for the gag-pump. It took a minute or two, with all his squirming, to screw it to the panel but I was able to give it one, two, two-and-a-half squeezes, inflating the gag in his mouth to just the size I wanted.

“Better?”

He mmmphhhed in earnest now, but the inflated bladder stopped his mouth nicely, absorbing almost all his objection. Rubber over rubber, harness-straps taut over his latex-shiny head and neck.

“Good good. Now, let’s see whether I got the air holes right.”

He MMMPHHHed louder but was still adjusting to the rubber filling his mouth, and I was able to pull the jacket hood up and over his head again, threading the tube from the gag through the largest of the holes I’d made. To my satisfaction, it was a perfect fit and the nostril holes, too, seemed in the right position. I pulled the toggles back into place on the drawstrings of the jacket, so it couldn’t be shaken free, but left the hood loose. For now.

“Success! Bondage and the ability to breathe!”

He gave a shrug that seemed one third grudging acknowledgment, one third annoyance and one third FINE BUT LET ME OUT NOW. I was pleased to hear his breath whistling in and out of the gag-tube, though. He waggled the sleeve strap again, impatient to have his arms free.

“Yes, that’s a bit of a mess, right enough. Hold still.”

Patiently, I untwisted the strap and got at the buckle. The sleeves weren’t pulled especially tight; it was the pretzel-like configuration of his arms that had entrapped him. The buckle came undone easily enough and I got him, shakily, to his feet. He needed help to unfold his arms and groaned with muffled relief as they came apart stiffly. He must, I supposed, be aching.

“What is it the escapology manuals say? ‘On no account, allow arms to be folded’, something like that? Your poor biceps.”

He stood passively while I kneaded shoulders, arms and forearms through PVC, canvas and latex, limbs hanging limply in their closed straitjacket sleeves. I give good massage, and he appeared to be enjoying this one, visibly relaxing and even sighing in the depths of his hood.

After a few minutes, he seemed to grow restless again, gesturing towards his head with a mitted sleeve-end, strap dangling. HOOD OFF. GAG OUT.

Who could possibly misunderstand such a gesture?

I could.

“Ah, I see.”

Timing was important. Having surreptitiously located the ends of the sleeve strap, I pushed him suddenly on to the bed. He landed face down, half on, half off, with arms partway crossed in front of him, grunting in surprise. Black vinyl squealed against green oilskin. Momentarily stunned (or possibly thinking it was a horizontal continuation of the massage), it was a few minutes before he began squirming, trying to extricate his arms from underneath him. I’d already captured the sleeve straps, connected them around his waist and was doing up the buckle.

My captive’s arms were once more crossed and loosely fastened, this time in classic insane asylum self-hug fashion. He was straitjacketed!

“There you go,” I grunted, “Back how you wanted it.”

“MMMMPHHHH!!”

He had not wanted – or expected – his arms to be strapped up again. He bucked beneath me and his tone, even through gag and hood, took on a new exasperation. He shook the buckled sleeve strap and tugged against it emphatically, demonstrating his determination for me to understand.

With equal determination, I misunderstood.

“Oh, I know! You hate a loose strap. I’ll fix it.”

A sudden bear hug to squeeze his elbows together beneath him, a sharp tug on the strap end and everything was suddenly much tighter.

“MMMMMPHHHHH!!”

Translation: “WHAT! THE! FUCK?!”

I gave the strap a second jerk, for good measure.

“Better, eh? And don’t worry, I’m remembering that other loose end.”

I reached beneath his rain jacket, found the dangling end of the crotch strap and yanked it, eliciting a muffled yelp. That’d be the butt plug.

“Now to make you properly secure…”

He seemed a little stunned – possibly breathless from the newly tightened straitjacket, possibly still processing the situation – and my body weight was enough to keep him pinned to the bed while I reached for one of the armful of rubber straps I’d brought from downstairs. Working swiftly, I threaded it around his left then right bicep. With a single yank, his jacketed arms were pulled back and pinned rigidly at his sides and, before he could even think of resistance, I was buckling the strap.

“Y’know, I’m impressed you managed to get the Posey on under that rain jacket,” I said in a deliberately conversational tone, “but that does mean we can’t use the front loop, and those arms could go a-wandering. All the more need for a good pinion strap, eh? I daresay you’d have got yourself into one if you could.”

“MMNRGHH!” The most emphatic head-shake possible when lying face-down.

A well applied pinion strapping always makes the sleeve strap a little looser, so I tightened that one up again, ignoring his increasingly limited resistance and taking a minute or two to do that over-and-under thing with the buckle that I know makes it much harder to loosen. Finally, I twisted the remaining few inches of canvas strapping into a knot. Try pulling that back through the buckle!

I eased off him a little. Immediately, he resumed grunting and shaking his hooded head. He was trying a different approach, doing his best to enunciate as clearly as he could through that much better-fitted gag. Presumably he was attempting NO YOU’VE GOT IT ALL WRONG. Ever responsive to his needs, I patted his head.

“Yeah yeah, I know, the hood’s still not quite right. Give me a moment.”

I pushed up the toggles so the PVC of the rain jacket was pulled more snugly around his face and covering the straps of the head harness, the hood almost closing over the black of his catsuit. Despite his twisting and turning, I got the drawstrings knotted in a double bow at the back of his neck.

I climbed off him and he began to gather himself, not easy when one suddenly finds one’s arms near-as-dammit welded to one’s torso. A veritable symphony of MMMPHHHing ensued.

Did he still think this was all an enormous misunderstanding on my part? Apparently so.

“Entertain yourself for a few minutes,” I told him, leaving the room and closing the door behind me. I grinned as I fetched the next pieces of kit. I was enjoying myself.

When I returned, he was on his feet, half crouched, half bent over at the head of the bed, facing the wall. He had one elbow hooked around the bedpost and was trying to use it to lever some slack into his strapped arms. His movements were purposeful, and I watched for a few minutes in silence, wondering whether my work might be undone.

I needn’t have worried. The rubber pinion strap kept his arms tucked in nice and close to his body – despite his straining and tugging, there was no way he could shift them more than an inch in any direction, much less get them over his head – and the way I’d tightened, double-buckled and then knotted the sleeve strap was frustrating his best efforts to generate slack that way.

His desperation was palpable but he was clearly in no physical danger, breathing quite easily through nose-holes and gag-tube (the latter wobbling comically). His arms, though tightly secured, looked much less awkward crossed than folded.

He seemed to give up on the straitjacket and lowered his head, carefully positioning his chin at an angle to the bedpost. I knew he was trying to catch the lower edge of the gag panel against a fixed object, to rip it free of the press-studs so he could push the mouthpiece out with his tongue. I’d seen him do this before but he was having trouble this time. The thick green PVC of my rainsuit covered and smoothed over the head harness, gag and blindfold, stopping him finding any purchase. He reminded me of someone trying to find the end of a roll of Sellotape while wearing gloves.

Watching his fruitless efforts was oddly mesmerising, and it was a few minutes before I’d finished preparing the next garment. He was going to love it. Not.

I cleared my throat noisily and he straightened up, green PVC head turning blindly in my direction.

“NGHAD NGHUFF!” he enunciated, loudly and with impressive clarity.

“Not enough?” I asked, the soul of all innocence.

“NGHOOOOO!!”

He took a step or two in my direction, wrenching angrily at his bonds to demonstrate his need to be released, freed from the clinging and doubtless sweaty layers that held him prisoner.

Not a chance. I intended to add to those layers.

The hooded oilskin smock was ready, rolled up with sleeves tucked inside, and I swept it over his head and downwards over his bound torso in one smooth movement. Made of the same dark green Ocean fabric as the rainsuit, it caught on the buckle of the sleeve strap but one tug was enough to free it and the tube of waterproof fabric was on him, over his straitjacketed arms and falling straight down almost to his ankles.

The tough PVC garment was designed for fishermen or possibly foresters, oversized to fit over bulky cold-weather clothing. Despite the masculine connotations, he hadn’t liked the design – I wondered whether the gown-like length triggered his Sissy Alarm – so I’d bought it for myself. I’m a few inches shorter than he is but had ordered the extra long version so it was suitably voluminous. It all but transformed him into a shiny raingear pillar, sitting snugly over the hump of his crossed arms, looser over his legs and feet.

Having succeeded in getting the tent-like garment to sit correctly at the first attempt, I stepped back to watch him deal with this new development. It was clear that he didn’t like it, bridling like a horse and emitting grunts of alarm. He tried to shake it off himself, and the hood of the smock flopped back on his shoulders with each toss of the head.

Quickly, he realised his airway was still clear, his breathing unimpeded and I watched him consciously calm, settle himself and start to explore this new layer of confinement. I could see him flex the muscles of his strapped arms to no great effect, the straitjacket effortlessly keeping him confined. Now, its white canvas was buried under two thicknesses of green PVC.

“Nice, eh? You can never have too much waterproofing.”

He stumbled suddenly, the ridged sole of a wader catching on the hem of the smock, and he stepped backwards to try to correct the movement. This brought his calves back against the bed frame and he toppled backwards, with a throaty gurgle, onto the bed.

Seizing the advantage, I darted forward, scooping up his booted feet and swinging them up onto the glossy mattress.

“Whoopsy-daisy!”

In an instant, I was seated astride his waist, my leathered legs pinning him downwards again, this time on his back.

“Is that enough raingear?” I asked, injecting just the right level of sincerity into my question. Extremely muffled invective filtered through the gag, muzzle and backwards-hood. I grinned.

“See, I can understand you liking the feel of a hooded jacket back-to-front but it just never looks quite right to me,” I continued, as I straightened out the folds of the second green oilskin hood, the one attached to the long smock, “so here’s a solution that’ll make us both happy.”

I pulled the hood of the smock forward, settling it over his already reverse-hooded head, and giving both drawstrings a sharp tug. The second PVC hood closed up in a very satisfying manner over the first and I snugged up the toggles, being sure to leave enough of an opening that nostril-holes and gag-tube were all clear.

Whether he’d begun to realise I was taking the piss or had just decided to go with it, he seemed to put up less resistance as I evened the second hood up, merely growling as I tied the drawstrings in a careful knot, smoothed the PVC and made sure everything looked nice and symmetrical.

“Two hoods are better than one, eh? Three if we count the catsuit.”

He tried and failed to throw me off him. Through my leathers, I fancied I could feel the hardness of the chastity cup.

“Turned on? I bet you are!”

The rest of the rubber straps were handily within reach, and I reached for the first one.

“Green-on-green is a good look for you,” I smiled, “but I think an accent colour is required.”

Carefully, I fitted the two-inch wide piece of strapping around his neck, collar-style. Before he even knew what I was doing, I’d buckled it with a good two fingers’ worth of a gap. After making such a deal of breathing holes in the rain hood, I didn’t want him choking. Nonetheless, the improvised collar was snug enough to gather in the folds of the long smock, pulling its hood even more tightly around his head, a gleaming green dome puckered around a black rubber breathing tube.

The polished black rubber of the strap-collar shone, steel D rings glinting at the front and sides; I knew there was one at the back, too. He fretted and fidgeted against the neck restraint, testing the degree of head movement possible and still, incredibly, doing his best to communicate NO THIS ISN’T WHAT I WANT – which I, in turn, did my best to ignore.

I knotted the drawstrings of the smock hood to the front ring. That lot wouldn’t be coming off in a hurry.

He snorted, and turned his head from side to side, signalling his dismay at this new level of imprisonment.

“Good, eh? I knew you’d like that.”

Collar and hood combined restricted his head movements quite considerably – but not enough for my liking.

Trying not to shift position too much, I stretched across for a hank of rope, simple sash cord, soft with wear. Reaching behind his hooded head, I looped it through the D ring at the back of the collar. Grabbing a plump, Opalo-covered pillow and inserting it behind his head but over the rope, I proceeded to lash the ends to the head of the bed. When I’d finished, he lay back in apparent comfort, rope threaded beneath the pillow, anchoring him there. I used another two short lengths to fix the D rings at the sides of his collar to the wooden bed frame. He could no longer sit up, and the movements he could make with his head were seriously constrained. He could shake it from side to side a little but the puffiness of the black glossy pillow walling his hooded face in on either side limited even that.

“NNGGHNG!” It was more of a gurgle now.

I’d reached that stage where the strapping and trussing acquires a sort of effortless momentum all of its own, becomes sheer joy. I turned 180 degrees, rubber belts and cotton ropes in hand, to face his feet, resplendent in their Hunter waders. He put up a spirited defence but, really, it was all over for him now and he must’ve known it. Rubber gripped rubber, and I had one strap binding his booted ankles with another cinched between. For the hell of it, I added a third around his insteps, strapping the toes of his boots together.

Again, he resisted, and immobilising his legs was like hauling in a marlin. I savoured the struggle, taking pleasure in reducing his freedom of movement, inch by inch, until, finally, he was stretched taut on the bed, knees straight and boots tied off to the bottom and sides of the bedstead just as his head and neck were fixed to the top. No significant movement possible up-and-down or side-to-side.

“You do love a struggle, don’t you?” I exclaimed, easing myself off him at last, “Bet you’re good and hard in there!” I rat-a-tat-tatted on his chastity cup. He tried to squirm away but, roped down at either end and with arms crossed and secured, he could do little more than twist the middle third of his body from side to side.

Even strapped up and tied down, unable to shake his head, he was able to signal LET ME OUT YOU FUCKER, hips jerking up and down in time with his impassioned grunting.

“Still too much movement? Don’t worry, I’ll deal with that. Just need to neaten you up a bit first.”

Despite being pretty much incapable of resistance, he did his best to protest as I tugged and smoothed the smock downwards, no easy task against the friction of the mattress vinyl and roped so tightly to either end of the bed. Eventually, his shiny form was swathed to my satisfaction and I was positioning a second polished rubber belt around his waist, cinching the green oilskin in under the bulge of his jacketed arms.

More belts followed, at thighs and above and below his knees, pulling the skirts of his smock around his legs, so the impermeable fabric moulded to the shape of his body.

There was absolutely nothing he could do to stop me buckling each strap to optimal tightness around his PVC shroud, taking care to position each of the straps so the D-rings sat symmetrically. When I was done, he looked like a well-wrapped and waterproofed parcel, humanoid but oddly featureless.

“You look like an Oscar statuette,” I told him, “gift-wrapped in green PVC.”

He huffed his irritation.

“It always seems a shame to waste rope, doesn’t it?” I mused, as I used the remaining sash cord to fasten each additional belt to the bed frame at either side, adjusting the tension until I had him lying absolutely centrally on the black vinyl mattress, each of the rubber straps tied off to left and right. I checked the tightness of one of the securing cords, twanging it like a bowstring.

“No chance of you falling off now!”

I surveyed my handiwork. My eye fell upon the discarded duvet, piled in a glossy black heap where he had presumably flung it however many hours ago when he’d begun his self-bondage scene. It gave me an idea.

“Back in a moment,” I patted him reassuringly, “Don’t start your escape until I get back.”

He couldn’t make much response to that but what he did communicate made me smile.

When I returned, he was mid-struggle – inasmuch as he could struggle – and I watched the PVC of his – my – long smock crease as, with great effort, his torso and arms twisted slightly to one side then back, held by the cords that secured him. Below the waist, he had even less movement, every attempted kick, twist or tug frustrated by a limiting strap or a well tied rope. I could just make out the shape of the straitjacket underneath the smock, containing him with quiet efficiency. The tube of his gag twitched like a rogue antenna, issuing panting and the occasional unintelligible grunt from deep within his layers of PVC and rubber.

“Hey, I said no escaping while I was away!”

The grunting intensified, took on a distinctive “fuck you” tone.

“’Thank you’? Hey, no need to thank me! I’m having a great time helping you get your solo playtime back on track. Really happy to oblige.”

I imagined his glare melting through the rubber blindfold, and two raingear hoods to incinerate me with his the strength of his fury.

“You do need a bit of looking after, though; I don’t want you getting chilly.”

The duvet was a little stiff as I gathered it up, the thick vinyl cover cold to the touch. I knew it would get more supple as it warmed up.

“There,” I said, centring it neatly over his supine form so it covered him from chin to toes, overlapping the edges of the bed frame and hiding all of the ropes and strappery, “now it looks like you’re just having a little snooze. In hooded green PVC pyjamas. Under a hooded green PVC nightgown. All done up nice and tight.”

Another of those “fuck you” grunts.

I worked to untangle a black bungee from a coil of elastic ropes, one eye on my bedbound prisoner. I was pretty sure his movement was sufficiently restricted that he couldn’t even begin to nudge the duvet off, but I had no intention of letting him try.

“Let’s get you tucked in, then you can struggle to your heart’s content.”

The bungee clipped easily onto the metal hook at the head of the bed, and I moved from side to side, stretching the tough elastic cord zig-zag fashion across the duvet and its contents, finally clipping the other end to a hook near the bottom. I repeated the process with another bungee cord, starting and ending on the other side of the bed. Again, perfect symmetry.

“This is how to use those attachment points…”

Finally, I stood back. He lay swaddled like some adult-sized papoose in glossy black vinyl, criss-crossed with taut bungee elastic. None of the roping or strapping was visible, and he looked for all the world like he was enjoying a nap, albeit a strangely garbed and rather regimental one, fully hooded and stretched out flat on his back, green oilskin sandwiched between black vinyl pillow, mattress and duvet, and the white of his restraint jacket inside all of that.

I had to remind myself that, beneath those distinctly heavyweight “blankets”, he wore a thin but encapsulating rubber catsuit, thigh waders, PVC overtrousers, jacket and smock. Those clever escape artist fingers of his, gloved in the latex of his catsuit, were stymied and helpless behind the canvas of the Posey straitjacket that had trapped him in self-bondage and trapped him still. Its fit was undoubtedly more exacting than before, with my non-slip, no-slack buckle arrangement plus the rubber strap pinioning his arms to his sides, and everything was fortified by the heavy green oilskin smock belted and buckled on top, a sort of impermeable, full-length “over jacket” that he had most certainly not wanted to wear.

His head seemed countersunk into the deep pillow, as indeed it was, rope passing beneath and to either side, tethering him firmly where he lay. I tried to imagine how stifled that head must feel in its open face latex catsuit hood, tightly strapped gag-and-blindfold harness and the two layers of Ocean Rainwear finery on top, one hood drawn tight across his face and fastened backwards, one fastened forwards, his wide rubber collar pulling the whole arrangement tighter still.

I knew his usual techniques for ridding himself of a gag and tried to imagine how frustrated he must feel at having those techniques neutralised by my layers of rainproof head-wrapping. No way could he open the press-studs and buckles of his head harness by catching them on an edge, not with those studs and buckles buried under the PVC of two rainsuit hoods. Only the tube of the gag was visible, twitching like the proboscis of a particularly angry butterfly. Or a pupa, swaddled in its cocoon.

Not that his head could do a great deal of twitching, tethered by his collar to the top and sides of the bed. Even if his gag hadn’t been trapped, double-hooded and unreachable, that fixed collar meant he was probably incapable of twisting his head far enough even to rub his chin against his shoulder.

“Now then, do you feel nice and secure?” I asked, the ultimate Considerate Bondage Partner.

No reaction. Was he seething or sulking?

I switched on the small wall-mounted camera, trained it on the bedbound figure. I’d enjoy watching later, relaxing on my own in the master bedroom, perhaps with a nice, chilled glass of wine.

“Right. I’m going to let you get back to your solo time. If you’re not free in the next, ooh, hour or so, I’ll be back at midnight to let you out.”

“Mngnnght?!”

“Too soon? If you fancy an overnight, I can let you out tomorrow?”

“MMNNGGOOO!!”

“Wow, you really are a glutton for punishment! Tomorrow it is.”

“MMMNNGGOOOOOO!!”

I smiled, watching the breathing tube waggle as the green oilskin-swaddled head attempted to thrash from side to side, its movements easily contained by pillow, collar, ropes and the glossy black mass of the duvet, bungee-fixed in place right up to his chin. For all I knew, he might be throwing just as much energy into escaping his straitjacket and straps; it really was impossible to tell. The thick down-filled vinyl coverlet effectively absorbed and nullified his struggles, a one-man padded cell.

I really could’ve ended it there, left him swaddled and marinating in sweaty frustration. I made myself something to eat, uncorked a bottle and changed into something more comfortable – infinitely more comfortable than Tom’s night-time attire.

An hour or so later, he was exactly as I had left him. No surprise there. I knelt down beside his head and he started a little at the sound of my voice.

“Still all wrapped up?” I shrugged, “It’s just a canvas jacket: surely if you can get yourself into it, you can get yourself out? You’re just not trying.”

He made a whining sound that I recognised as the Gag version of puppydog eyes. Much as he liked to play the indomitable escapologist, we both knew escape wasn’t an option here – and, despite the fact that he got off on the humiliation of failing to free himself, I got the impression my bondage-loving biker had truly had enough. He really did want to be released.

“So,” I began, loud enough for him to hear through his rubber and PVC, “several learning points here.”

He breathed steadily through the tube of his gag: in, out, in, out.

“One: no solo breath play. Ever.”

A noise that I interpreted as apology, or at least rueful acknowledgment.

“Two: no more of your ‘eww raingear’ macho shit if you’re going to sneak off to jerk off in gear that isn’t even yours. Just! Bloody! Commit!”

I emphasised my words by flicking his gag-tube three times. It juddered but he continued to breathe evenly.

“Three: you’re welcome to tie yourself up however you want but if you willingly get yourself into a position where you’re helpless and I find you like that, then all bets are off. No conditions, no special pleading. If you can’t get loose, you stay as helpless as I want, however I want, for as long as I want.”

He gave a long sighing exhalation.

“Have we learned those lessons?” I asked. His head was too firmly fixed to nod but sash cord creaked and vinyl squeaked as he did his best to assent.

“Good.”

A sudden air of expectancy. I let it hang there for a moment or two.

“But you’re not getting out. Not until tomorrow. You need to sleep on it.”

“MNNNGGGGG!!”

Immobilised as he was, he communicated pure guttural rage. I knew that, inside the prison jacket, every muscle would be flexing in its confines as if anger alone could burst his bonds.

Good. I always preferred a furious captive to a defeated one.

Smiling, I picked up his iPhone, found the butt plug app and activated it.

The triple-hooded head twitched in its straps and ropes, somehow managing to telegraph surprise in its limited movements and the sounds filtering through those layers of PVC. I took a moment to savour the music of impotent frustration, before setting the app to Random. I replaced the iPhone on his bedside cabinet and leant over to kiss him on the forehead.

“Goodnight, Houdini. Sleep tight.”

The End

[DeeperThanRed]

I'll admit, there were a couple of parts where I got lost on the details of the gear used but I absolutely loved this story and it's even better when combined with its semi-prequel as it gives some nice context on how this is a common occurrence for this unconventional yet lovely couple.

Tom's fragile masculinity is again positively endearing as I can very much see where he comes from yet it's also quite a fine contrast with how submissive the positions he finds himself in; seemingly as a result of said macho conviction. One has to wonder how he'd fare if he gets to dominate his partner.

Bed bondage usually feels like charted territory as there's not much you can use to attach the captive other than the headboard though, the way straps and rope were used to immobilize the pseudo straitjacketed Tom was highly creative and I very much enjoyed the way his gag was "upgraded". Capturer pretending to not understand his gagged victim is a familiar trope but it was refreshing in here as there was some cheeky plausible deniability throughout most of it.

Kudos. I'm really falling for these characters and your writing style.

[Straitjacketed]

I'll admit, there were a couple of parts where I got lost on the details of the gear used but I absolutely loved this story and it's even better when combined with its semi-prequel as it gives some nice context on how this is a common occurrence for this unconventional yet lovely couple.

Heh, I don't blame you losing track of the gear, [mention]DeeperThanRed[/mention]! With my more gear-heavy tales, maybe I ought to find and post illustrative photos. Even better, of course, would be getting together with a friendly neighbourhood bondage top and making those photos.

I'm glad you like the couple. I don't usually go back to the same characters but these two exert a particular pull (maybe because it's unusual for me to write from the captor's point of view).

Tom's fragile masculinity is again positively endearing as I can very much see where he comes from yet it's also quite a fine contrast with how submissive the positions he finds himself in; seemingly as a result of said macho conviction. One has to wonder how he'd fare if he gets to dominate his partner.

I very much understand Tom's viewpoint - I grew up in the '70s and people forget how macho that decade could be - but it is limiting. I like that his partner uses that fragile masculinity as a point of weakness, to challenge and needle him.

Tom in control? You may yet see that happen...

Bed bondage usually feels like charted territory as there's not much you can use to attach the captive other than the headboard though, the way straps and rope were used to immobilize the pseudo straitjacketed Tom was highly creative and I very much enjoyed the way his gag was "upgraded". Capturer pretending to not understand his gagged victim is a familiar trope but it was refreshing in here as there was some cheeky plausible deniability throughout most of it.

Hahah, I wondered how far I could push that plausible deniability before it ran out!

Kudos. I'm really falling for these characters and your writing style.

Thank you, that inspired me to return to them to write more.

[DeeperThanRed]

I very much understand Tom's viewpoint - I grew up in the '70s and people forget how macho that decade could be - but it is limiting. I like that his partner uses that fragile masculinity as a point of weakness, to challenge and needle him.

Tom in control? You may yet see that happen...

Oh, I can absolutely relate to Tom.

Even if my family was pretty liberal about this kind of stuff, I still grew up in a close-minded environment and had a phase where I felt pressured to hide any "girly" sides of me as a teenager. Now, I just don't care and can smirk at men playing up the tough guy persona while still understanding how they feel.

I feel like Tom would be a pretty fun captor as you can easily egg him to earn yourself more bondage.

[Straitjacketed]

Even if my family was pretty liberal about this kind of stuff, I still grew up in a close-minded environment and had a phase where I felt pressured to hide any "girly" sides of me as a teenager. Now, I just don't care and can smirk at men playing up the tough guy persona while still understanding how they feel.

Oh, for sure. I remember that phase, largely prompted by peer pressure but also harking back to my pre-teens, when my father tried to drum into me the "correct" ways of standing, walking, moving and talking in order to avoid ever appearing anything other than solidly masculine.

I feel like Tom would be a pretty fun captor as you can easily egg him to earn yourself more bondage.

That's very true - if more bondage is what you want. With our bondage top narrator, I'm not so sure he'd enjoy a reversed dynamic...

[KidnappedCowboy]

“Goodnight, Houdini. Sleep tight.”

And if the bed bugs bite...

It will just add to that feeling of complete helplessness!

Good one, [mention]Straitjacketed[/mention].

[Straitjacketed]

And if the bed bugs bite...

They'd have to be truly fetishist bed bugs in this scenario, [mention]KidnappedCowboy[/mention].