Sheryl and The Straitjacket Incident
by 3586088863 (straitlaced8 at hotmail dot com)
Dedicated to straitjacket enthusiasts everywhere who love the process of bondage
as much as the result. Derivative works and sequels are warmly welcomed.
CHAPTER ONE
"Hey, pass me that flow coefficients sheet, will you?"
"No prob. The laminate flow one, right?"
I slide the piece of paper over to the right, and Sheryl cranes her neck down
just a tad to get a better look. A few strands of hair fall out over her left
ear; with fluttering heart, unsure of what her reaction will be, I restore the
wayward strands back to their regal perch.
She turns her head towards me. I'm delighted to see that she's smiling. "Thanks,
man."
I'm a student at a prestigious East Coast university--a mechanical engineering
and linguistics double major to be exact. My days here are pretty
enjoyable--I've been on a date or two this year, the boys and I usually make it
out to watch movies every weekend, school's going well--yes, I really enjoy it
here. The girl sitting to the right of me at the lab bench, though, puts me to
shame. Shooting for a physics major and a dance history minor, she beats me
hands down in academics. She's not a model, and nor does she have a perfect
body, but she comes awfully close.
I lean back slightly to study Sheryl's figure. In accordance with her person,
she dresses sweetly. Her dark red halter-top shows from the back the powerful,
yet limber musculature of her back and abdomen, curves no doubt gained from the
years of dance that she's mentioned to me. The top disappears into her jean
shorts, and my eyes continue to drop. The graceful curve of the thighs--
"...yeah, I thought Sample C's was .072. I've done so many of these problems
now, I think I'm going to be dreaming about these numbers tonight... Whoa,
what's this?"
Her question rouses me. I lean forward again and look at the sheet that she
indicates. I'm expecting to see an imperfectly xeroxed number or maybe one of my
incomplete calculations that's confusing her. To my chagrin--nay, to my absolute
horror, I behold one of my own sketches.
The slender girl struggles in a mean-looking straitjacket. Face in absolute
terror, legs and feet at odd angles, she tries to gain a grip on the floor and
drag herself away from the man. The man, meanwhile, has gotten hold of the
fabric over one of her violently jerking shoulders and appears resolute in
retiring her to her padded cell, the door to which is visible beyond.
I flush crimson immediately at yesterday's lecture sketch. Hadn't I put that
sheet away with the others? No time, no time, she's expecting an answer...
"Well, my friend is into that kind of stuff." My mouth is dry. You can't imagine
how quickly the nervousness spreads when your love interest happens upon your
fetish. "He asked me to do one for him." Okay, standard lie procedure. Supply
extra information to appear casual. "He said something like... he wanted to make
a good first impression on an online community of some sort. It's called, um,
bondage, I think?" Shoot, I don't have a motive yet. "He's promised me a nice
little sum for the finished product." There we go. By God, I hope she believes
it.
If she was listening carefully, she'd hear that my breathing was now ragged.
Perhaps if she was listening very carefully, she'd hear too that my heart was
pumping madly.
"Oh. Well." Long pause as she furrows her brow, running her finger over
different parts of the drawing. "It's drawn pretty well. You have the wrinkles
and creases technique down. Like, for instance, the way they radiate from the
guy's hand pulling on her shoulder. I never could quite manage that in my art
classes. They publish huge tomes on just motion creases, did you know...?" She
indicates the width of an imaginary book between her fingers.
I breathe a sweet sigh of relief. She's bought it. I might just have a chance at
her, I chuckle, as long as I keep my papers straight. I've never seen a real
straitjacket in person before, never have been involved as either party to such
restraint, and probably will just have occasional vivid dreams that fade away as
the sun rises, even though I wish they could last for just a bit longer. But,
well, sometimes sacrifices have to be made. I mean, it isn't every day that you
run into a girl like Sheryl.
The rest of the day goes uneventfully. The problem set is finished and duly
turned in before five. We part for the day and set up another appointment to
collaborate, this time back at my room. Extracurricular practices, dinner with
friends, some more work alone, and another day passes.
CHAPTER TWO
Two weeks have passed since the discovery and awkward explanation. I stand next
to the wardrobe in my dorm, trying t-shirt after t-shirt for that perfect look.
Sheryl and I have just successfully undergone a grueling midterm. By comparing
answers afterwards, we are fairly confident of our success.
Sheryl and I have been, and still are daily becoming closer. More and more often
she comes over to work on fluid dynamics; occasionally wearing our own work,
content solely to be in each other's presence. We've decided tonight to
celebrate our success by going out, and she's pledged to "thank me for my help."
I'm both flattered that she thinks she's learned anything at all from me, and
intrigued at the proposed act of gratitude.
Nothing too remarkable--outside of the fun time you typically have with your
dream girl--happens over dinner. The one exception, I suppose, is her choice of
outfit for the evening. I mean, if I were a girl, I'd hold off on the tight
leather pants until the second date at least. I certainly am not going to
complain though.
I am about to drive Sheryl back to campus when she seems to start. "Why don't I
take the wheel for a little while?"
I consider the ramifications of the breach of etiquette but cede her control of
the car.
Sheryl finally stops and cuts the ignition in the parking lot of a small strip
mall, by now closed and dark. Were I not coming off of a great night with a
wonderful woman, I would normally have been worried for our safety. But it
seemed my date was clearly in control. "Come on, we've reached our destination.
Well, sort of. We don't want to get too close and arouse suspicion."
The night fog settles lightly on us, and as we tread on the grass I can feel the
wetness of the forming dew spraying back on my shins. Where I'm from,
temperatures like this are common, and I find the setting slightly calming.
Sheryl seems less wont to it; she shivers, and I lend her my jacket. "So where
are we heading?" I attempt again as we cross a second street.
Sheryl turns to face me, lays her finger across my lips. With raised eyebrows
and a suggestive shrug of the whole body, she teases, "It's a secret. But this
is something you'll never forget."
In the still of night only the distant roar of cars and the footfall of her
platform shoes is audible. She slows down as we approach a barbed-wire fence,
and the outline of an industrial building emerges from the yellow-streetlit fog.
We walk parallel to the fence until we come to a double gate with a card-reader.
From a metal placard affixed to the fence I recognize the name of a local
aerospace firm. With a slightly clearer idea of where I am, I survey the complex
through the links of the fence. There are maybe five or six squat,
poured-concrete buildings; evidently function has prevailed over form in their
construction. A windowless tower of similar construction, at least fifty feet
tall, lies at their center. There are no signs of activity, save very faint
glows at windows--probably just the glows produced by monitors left on by now
peacefully sleeping employees.
After rummaging through her purse, my date produces a badge. From a brief glint
of light I see her name and a picture of a very smartly dressed Sheryl.
"How'd you make that?" I wonder.
"I work here, silly. Periodic contract job," she offers. I apologize for my
assumption. Our manner seems so dark and shady that I could not help for a
second but believe we are going to sneak into some plant with a fake ID, commit
industrial espionage dressed in black catsuits or something as in the movies--I
don't know. But she seems to read my mind.
"What we're doing may be almost as dangerous as breaking in though. A lot of
government contracts go through here, and there's a fair amount of classified
information that I don't have access to." She points to some red text to that
effect on her badge. "I haven't worked here long enough. Anyway, if we were
found wandering around--even considering that I do work here--the consequences
could be serious. I don't know the law exactly, but it might be federal."
Sheryl swipes her card; a small light blinks green and we hear a small click.
She swings the fence gate open. "After you," she suggests.
"Thank you, dear." I lead through the gate, hearing the clang and the click as
the gate shuts. The second gate is now ahead of me. "Hey, you'll need to open
this one for us too," I observe, turning back. To my surprise, Sheryl has not
followed me but instead has stayed outside the first gate. Her card dangles from
her hand.
"Looking for this?" she taunts. What in the? I am about to declare in annoyance
that I'll climb over the second gate when I look up and realize that the space
between the gates is also fenced above. I am indeed effectively trapped in a
cage of fencing, the entrance and exit to which both require the badge.
"Good night. I suppose I'll see them dragging you away on the news when they
find you tomorrow." She speaks with a certitude that scares me.
I seize the metal webbing with my hands. "Sheryl! You can't be serious..." I
shake the fence as much as I can. I shout her name, but she silently turns her
back against me, making what seems to be an exaggerated effort to sway her hips
saucily as she saunters away.
"Sssh. There are guards on duty," she adds as a final touch.
Perhaps it's the cold night air, or my view of the seat of her tight pants, or
the fact that she has me where she wants me, but for some reason I'm beginning
to feel a little aroused.
I pass several minutes berating myself for not seeing a ruse like that;
secondarily I contemplate what federal action might be brought against the poor
soul they will find in the morning, frozen half to death, without clearance in a
restricted area. Searching for my wallet, I feel something in my pants pocket
and extract what else but my English-Russian dictionary. God, how indeed they
are going to kill me...
"Miss me, honey?" I hear behind me. I turn to find Sheryl widely grinning across
the outer gate. She lets herself in. While we are both confined between the two
gates, she avails herself of my inability to separate myself from her and gives
me a long kiss--one which, honestly, having just mentally anathemized her for
the horrible thing she did to me, I would rather go without for now. "I've
always wanted to do that to someone. You had better do what I say here. Because
now you know who's in control."
Soon we've entered into the building complex. Before leaving last week, Sheryl
has evidently taped over the door jamb of a side entry so that the lock hasn't
engaged.
"They're in the middle of updating a system, so it turns out that entrances
through that double gate outside are not logged, but card entrances into the
building are. So we can't leave a trace." Sheryl leads me down a series of dark
corridors--left, right, left, right--to the other side of the building. Through
windowed doors I see glimpses of parts of planes under construction. A growing
sense of being somewhere I'm not supposed to be feeds my curiosity and my
arousal, so I linger at the doors, but my impetuous guide leads me on.
Finally we see another set of double doors at the end of the hallway. The
windows are papered up, but even so a reddish light from within soaks through
the paper and suffuses the dark hall with an eerie glow. Above me on the ceiling
I see several parallel water pipes and their valves; on the walls I see
electrical conduits. I can barely make out the placard above the door:
"VACUUM EFFICIENCY LAB No.2"
"Welcome to my humble abode." Sheryl sweeps her hand with a grand gesture as she
backs into a door to open it. We enter and are bathed inthe deep red light.
The first thing that strikes me about the room is a hulking monster of a
cylindrical chamber, like a can lying on its side but approximately two stories
high and at least that much in the other dimensions. Stairs run up to points on
the outside of the structure where wires and equipment are connected. The side
near us, a massive, massive metal slab at least a foot and a half thick, is set
on a colossal hinge and stands ajar.
"This is where we test parts of rockets in space conditions," Sheryl dutifully
explained. "Or sometimes satellites for instance. The entire manufactured
satellite, well, with solar panels stowed of course—our smallest models are 15
feet tall--is wheeled into this chamber. Through several controls we can adjust
atmospheric pressure and temperature. And we can carefully monitor the input
power from those testing stations. Set in the door is a series of sensors that
report back the communications output. This way we can measure how efficiently
our satellite amplifies and transceives.
"But that is irrelevant right now. I want you now, and I've decided that I want
you... in there." She strips her top to reveal a tight leather bra to match the
rest of her raiment for the evening. She throws a few items aside and heads for
me. This is certainly very odd.
We roll about on the black anechoic foam, working our way deeper and deeper into
the chamber, constantly building up our readiness with games and chases. I find
myself enjoying the sensation of her face against my chest, her flowing hair,
even her individual eyelashes tickling me. But all of a sudden I feel metal
against my neck; I hear a ratchet click. Sheryl rises immediately, chest heaving
and hair dishevelled.
I get up to inquire, but I find myself attached by the neck to a rather heavy
yoke lying on the ground of the chamber. I look up and see that the yoke extends
up to the ceiling, where a hoist takes up the chain. Clearly, I note, this
relationship has just gone from a little eccentric--ok, very eccentric--to plain
kinky. Sheryl continues her delivery, businesslike and calculated.
"It is customary in the testing of flight parts to bring the atmosphere down to
a vacuum. For the first ten hours mechanical pumps are used to exhaust the air;
thereafter ion pumps are used to reduce the pressure to millionths of a torr --
billionths of an Earth atmosphere."
Sheryl begins to head out of the chamber. I immediately test the security of my
attachment; as soon as I pull a little on the tightly applied brace I can feel
pressure against the veins in my neck. The blood pressure in my head builds. I
quickly release the brace and slap myself on the head. How did I let myself get
into this?
I hear steps mounting the stairs and, muffled, a seat being dragged into a
suitable place. Then a low rumbling begins, and I notice the hinged face begin
to move. "Sheryl, this is really not funny. I already realize you're in charge
here," I essay. "I don't know what you want to gain from this. You've done this
once already tonight..."
Sheryl continues where she left off, but this time over an intercom. "Because of
the long evacuation time, two things will happen. First, no one who is unsure of
the contents of this chamber will bother to open the chamber for fear of having
to repeat the process and reset all the testing. Second, you have a slow,
agonizing suffocation ahead of you."
As the door closes the inside of the chamber grows progressively darker. The
crescent of red that marks my path back into freedom wanes like the dying phases
of the moon. I grow frantic. "Sheryl, come back. Let's finish what we started?"
Then with a thud, the last sliver disappears, and I hear several smaller thuds
that must be latches or locks.
When the deafening sound of the mechanical pumps kicks in, I scream at the top
of my lungs. Anything, anything, I yell, will I do for her now.
The pumps stop. Says the operator: "Well, there's one thing."
"Yes, yes, yes! What?"
"You'll have to tell me about your fetish."
"Sheryl, I don't know what..."
"I'll tell you something. You talk in your sleep... you can even answer
questions in your sleep. I suspected something about you after seeing that
drawing. And unless I hear the same admissions here that I was able to cajole
out of you a few nights ago when I was in your room, they will find you when the
test sequence is over. That's in two weeks."
What choice do I have?
CHAPTER THREE
"I told you I'd show my appreciation for your help," she begins, as she peeks
around the opened door.
"This is a funny way to show appreciation." I am standing, still dressed in my
T-shirt and jeans, and, in order to reduce the pressure, holding the heavy metal
bar that hangs off my neck. She treads along the plush floor.
"You need to trust me, sweetie." She places her hand against my cheek. I am
inclined to hit her with the metal bar, but that would probably choke me.
"'You'll never forget this,' remember how I said that? I promise you, you'll
never regret this either."
"I'll never forget this, that's for sure. Hold it against you, probably. That
is, if I make it out of here alive."
A look of slight annoyance. "Look here. I intend to work together with you.
Collaborate with you. You've admitted your fantasy and I'm going to help make
that reality for you. And..." She pauses. "And I'm hoping maybe you can return
the favor someday."
From the floor, next to her top, Sheryl picks up and hands me a shapeless gray
mass. I let it unfurl, seeing now something that resembles a surfer's fullsuit.
Built-in fingered gloves and shaped boots cap the appropriate sleeves.
"Strip--heck, you can turn around if you're shy--and put it on." She seems to
remember something and gives a hint of a smile. "You have no idea how difficult
it was to keep that flattened and tucked away in my purse this evening." Indeed,
I really hadn't noticed anything out of the ordinary, hadn't suspected anything
at all. Attraction does that to you.
The fabric is grey, slightly rubbery, finely porous. It clings and follows every
curve precisely. I feel my sheathed forearm through the suit and am surprised my
how odd, almost alien, it is to touch myself through the suit. My hand slides
easily over my body, and the fabric hums a little when I slide the "skin" over
itself.
"Do some stretches. Pretend you're warming up for a run." I don't understand
why, but I take her suggestion silently and flap halfheartedly for a few
seconds. She comes close, examining the suit on my body to redistribute the
fabric a little where it is bunched up or twisted. She wraps her hands suddenly
around my left thigh to line up the inseam. A bucking shiver travels up and down
me. "Like that, eh?"
The chamber is dark again, and I am alone, dressed in Sheryl's ridiculous getup.
The only sound is that of my breathing, uncannily echoless because of the padded
surfaces. It is almost be like sensory deprivation; the hanging is the only
thing I feel. She's put my hands into conical leather cuffs and screwed those
into the yoke bar about three feet apart. A similar procedure has been repeated
with my feet and another bar. After she released my neck, thank God for that,
I've been hoisted up to the rear center of the cylinder.
I hang there, swinging ever so slightly, and in a spreadeagle position. Sheryl
has been careful to limit the swing by stretching me ever so slightly between
the two bars. And as I hang, it comes to me exactly how different from the sweet
and innocent Sheryl this Sheryl has turned out to be. Just one week ago I would
never even have joked coarsely with her, for fear, more than anything else, that
she would be disappointed in me. But now she is privy to one of my darkest
secrets and taking it quite in stride. I don't know what to feel. Terror and
passion both come to mind. Sheryl's voice startles me again.
"You probably wonder how I will go about this. First thing I need is a map of
your body. I bet you know already; it's just trigonometry--all it takes is two
different views of something to derive its depth. You'll notice that the suit
you're wearing is gridded." It isn't, but then I suddenly light up dimly. Yes,
now it is. How delightful. I now look like something out of Tron.
"Black light and machine-precision painted fluorescent dye. Anyways, one
longitudinal gridline every ten degrees, one latitudinal gridline every one
inch. If I ask the sensor array to follow a single grid point from this
angle"--through the overhead assembly I am swung suddenly and unceremonially so
that I face the closed door--"to this one"--I am whisked over some eighth of a
turn--"I can figure out exactly where that point lies in the 3-d world. So with
all these points over your body and thousands of angles, I will have a perfect
model of your external contours. Hope that makes sense."
The black light is evidently turned off again, for I am plunged back into
darkness. For an indeterminate amount of time I am spun about mercilessly,
sometimes lit and sometimes with a small red laser point travelling over my
body.
I realize Sheryl is the sole keeper of my fate. At the controls beneath her
fingers she has the power to asphyxiate me, pull me apart, or chill me to death,
all torturously slowly. I cannot predict when I will be released. I cannot move
my body, and I cannot predict my rotation. I cannot predict when my sight will
suddenly be blacked out. With only the suit on I feel naked and vulnerable. And
yet the crotch of the suit is hardening.
CHAPTER FOUR
As the professor expounds and gesticulates, Sheryl and I smile at each other in
recollection of the past night's adventure. Sheryl's out of the leather again
and back into her usual jeans, sweet and adorable as ever. She's terribly good
at keeping hidden exactly what she wants to hide.
I rub my eyes. I had been barely able to get any sleep that night, I was so
excited. Her request that I return the favor someday--her willingness to realize
my dreams and bring my fetish to life--would she be the one? I had told her as
much the night before, that I was looking for someone who would be willing to
satisfy me, and I her, throughout our lives. She had agreed to my "fantasy"
then, but did she consider that last bit a part of it?
The professor turns his attention to another example. What if, he asks, we apply
atmospheric pressure to one end of a ten-foot, two-inch circular pipe whose
other end lies in a chamber evacuated to .75 atm? I am watching the side of
Sheryl's beautiful face and notice a small grin develop as our lecturer
continues on about partial vacuums.
I shift my weight a little and let my hand creep tentatively towards her. Over
the handrest it goes, and as it makes contact with her tee she purrs ever so
slightly. She pulls closer too, and her head comes to rest on my shoulder. I
spend the rest of the hour stroking her side gently.
These auditorium seats are hardly the love seats one finds at the theater, and I
have no doubt whatsoever that at least half the students in the rows behind us
witnessed the whole thing. Yet I hear not even the slightest whisper. Either
they're asleep or in pure shock to see the hair of this angel cascade from my
shoulder.
"So what was in the box?" We're both packing up our notes in the general clamor
of the end of lecture. Dazedly tumbling out of the cylinder the night before, I
had met her descending the stairs from the outer platform carrying a cardboard
box of plastic plates.
"That was your data. Three megabytes. Doesn't seem like much, but remember, it's
just numbers. I did some fifty complete rotations and averaged all the data."
"Those were tape spools?" I ask incredulously.
"That's nothing. We use forty-year old equipment in other places. A lot of my
work is actually pretty low-tech. When it comes to vacuums, you know, it doesn't
take high technology to... suck and blow." A raised eyebrow, then an evil wink.
Oh, that was the first pun I haven't minded in a while.
"What are you going to do with the data?"
"You wanted to be totally immobile in your...." Sheryl takes note of all the
potentially prying ears filing past us. "...apparel. By God, I guarantee it's
going to fit. And damned well."
"Much appreciated."
"The data's useful for other things too, you see. When you become a famous
engineer," she jokes, "we can make little stunningly accurate action figures of
you. I might want a full-size doll for myself, too." She takes my hand and
whispers. "Oh, one more thing..."
"What?"
"I don't guarantee a perfect fit in the crotch."
"Why's that?"
"The data were inconsistent between rotations." She responds to my inquisitive
look. Grinning: "It's as if the front came out more and more as I went on."
CHAPTER FIVE
The next week went smoothly, so far as Sheryl and I were concerned. She had been
spending more time with me, and several times now, declaring that she was too
tired to survive a trek back to her dorm, she had spent the night in my bed. And
naturally I did my best to be a gracious host. Then, all of a sudden, she
stopped coming even to study with me.
I am busy surfing the Web after class when I receive Sheryl's call. She has
actually been on my mind quite a bit, even more so during those three days she
hasn't come over. I fear the worst.
"We need to talk." That sinking feeling. Ah, shit--the harbinger of a breakup,
the terror of men worldwide.
Innocently: "Sheryl, what's the matter? How are you feeling?" Well, I figure I
might as well try to save the sinking ship.
"I'd prefer we not talk about it right now. I just--I need to see you in
person." Why, oh why? We were getting along so well, too. "Can I meet you by the
psych building tomorrow evening? Like 6:00?"
"Where? It's locked past 5:30, isn't it?"
"By the front stairs. There's that nice garden nearby, I was thinking we could
sit and talk until it gets too dark."
My fear solidified into certainty. I was mentally preparing myself for the
sadness now. "Ok. Do you want me to bring anything?"
"No. See you then."
My heart is heavy as I cross the wide street to main campus. The chill evening
wind has already begun to pick up, and the sky is dark, having been overcast all
day. I look down and listen to the sound of my feet on the gravel.
Sheryl is sitting on the steps already when I arrive at the psych building.
Though bundled up in a heavy jacket, she still looks beautiful, with her hair
down and lilting slightly in the wind. It's funny how girls like her are either
beautiful or, in the most unforgiving of circumstances, at least cute.
"Hey, handsome." She remains sitting. I join her on the steps.
"So what's up, Sheryl? Do you feel better today?"
"Naw, about the same as yesterday. Do you have some time?"
"Yeah, I didn't have very much on my plate tonight. Friday nights I usually just
nap or go bowling with the guys. So... is this bad news?"
"A little. I don't think we can see each other anymore."
"But Sheryl, why? We were having so much fun..."
"I know. I'm just kidding." Wide grin. "Like I'd give any of that up. Let's go
in." She gets up and dusts off her pants. Offering her hand to her confused
boyfriend of sorts, she leads the way up the worn stone stairs. At the top she
pulls out a keyring and unlocks the double doors.
We're walking down the darkened halls, quietly to keep down the echoing clatter.
I figure this is the beginning of another adventure with Sheryl, and that I
don't need to worry about getting dumped just yet.
I'm not here often, but having taken some linguistics classes here, I can find
my way around the place. By now most of the professors have gone home, but some
evidently haven't given up on their work yet. We can see some lights in the
windows above their doors.
Sheryl turns a corner and locates a single door on the right marked "Basement
classrooms." After trying a few keys unsuccessfully, she finds the right one.
The open door reveals a flight of descending stairs that, after a landing ahead,
curve around to the right. They are illuminated only dimly with a distant light.
Sheryl breaks the silence.
"After you." Sheryl locks the door behind us.
"Of course. How did you get those keys?" We descend.
"Ah. From Kate. She's the student facilities manager for this building. Very
trusting friend, wouldn't you agree?"
On most afternoons, the University conducts all sorts of psychology studies.
Poor college students come by and fill out questionnaires or conduct interviews
or whatnot, things that mean nothing to them but mean tons to researchers, and
walk away a few dollars richer. Though I've never had much time to do any of
these students, I understand these lower-level classrooms are the ones they use.
But now all the classrooms lie dark, and only three dim bulbs illuminate the
entire basement hallway. After a few turns, we find ourselves next to a door
labelled 'Sleep Lab A' This, I figure, is where they hook subjects up to
brainwave monitors and watch them sleep.
This door, too, is duly unlocked, and we enter. Sheryl darts into the dark room
ahead of me and turns the light on. The small size of the room surprises me--the
room is only as long as the bed, which is pushed against the right side of the
room. On the left side there are about two feet of linoleum floor running
alongside the bed and a wide mirror flush with the wall. Over by the foot of the
bed there is a small closet. There are no windows. I sit on the bed and observe
the spartan furnishings.
"Never tried a sleep study before, I take it?"
"No. First time here. Never knew what this was like."
"Well, make yourself comfortable." She sits beside me.
"So, thanks for bringing me here and all, but why are we here?"
"I just wanted to spend some time alone with you. And don't pretend I don't know
how much being in a forbidden place turns you on."
"Well, what if somebody finds us? That could be rather embarrassing. You and I
both, known all around campus..."
"Relax. There's nothing going on on this level tonight. Everything's locked up
nice and tight." Sheryl has by now shed her jacket into the corner, revealing a
tight tee. I move closer to her, and my hands work their way up under her top.
We recline on to the bed.
"Hold on a sec." She reaches to a ticking bedside timer and twists it past zero.
The room is utterly dark. I can still hear the playfulness in her voice, though.
"Much better. Please do continue."
I wake up to the bright light in the room. Well, that, and Sheryl slapping me
lightly on the face. "Hey, sleepy, we got things to do tonight!" The digital
clock on the small nightstand reads 11:00. Wow, I had been more tired than I
thought.
Sheryl swings her legs down over the edge of the bed. She leans over, evidently
fumbling around for something underneath the bed. Still somewhat reclining, and
observing an inviting target right by my hands, I decide to give in to
temptation and give her rear a solid thwack. Sheryl whips back up and regards me
with mock indignation.
"You did not just do that." She's smiling, though. It's okay.
"What? With all the other stuff we've tried, you're afraid of a little nip in
the butt?"
"Hmm. Guess you're right. Still, I'll get you back sometime for it." I'm
counting on it, really.
Sheryl goes back under the bed with both hands, drawing out a shallow white
cardboard box. It's completely unmarked. "But first," she explains, "there's
this." She produces a pliant garment.
I drink in the beautiful sight and release an involuntary gasp. Lying before me
is the instrument of my bondage for the next several hours. "Go ahead, examine
it. Touch it. It's my little present to you."
Unlike any of the models I have imagined or researched before, this straitjacket
is full-body, grey, tastefully decorated with black highlights. I note boots and
gloves--as I had with the grid suit I had worn the night of the last
adventure--but these gloves are fingerless.
"Undoubtedly you know already how a straitjacket does its job, but just so that
you know what's going to happen to you, I'll explain the basic theory. A
straitjacket is primarily constructed to keep the arms and hands immobile, since
a person's greatest motor dexterity lies in those two areas.
"This is done by forcing the arms into the jacket sleeves, then fastening the
jacket sleeves together. Since the jacket sleeves are securely fastened to each
other, and the arms cannot leave the sleeves, so too are the arms securely
fastened. The best place to fasten the arms is across the front, one over the
other, and around to the back." She demonstrates the position and, as she
speaks, pretends to tug and struggle against imaginary bonds, all while grunting
and moaning in a manner I thought reminiscent of a striptease. Damn, that turns
me on.
"This way the jacket, relying on the arms' own tensile strength to restrain
them, takes up all the slack that might translate into the wearer's capacity to
injure himself or others. As long as the wearer cannot release his arms from the
sleeves, he is bound solidly. In binding the arms across the front, there is the
additional psychological torture of seeing the form of the arms clearly in front
while not being able to move or use them at all, whether to aggress or defend.
"In fact, there exist sleeve-only straitjacket harnesses, and they perform every
function above just as well. But if you ask me there's nothing quite like
feeling, all over your body, that your mobility has been removed from you and
that you cannot release yourself. Hence the full body suit"--she lays her hand
on the suit, patting it--"hence the unrelenting tightness you will soon
experience. See, dear, I want nothing but the best for you."
I am still blankly staring at the first straitjacket I've seen in person. So
many different elements of my fantasy are about to become true at the same time.
Sheryl has explained very expertly what I already know, but to hear it from this
vixen is quite something else. I voice an detached observation in an attempt to
hide my arousal. "That's very thin material." It was maybe a sixteenth of an
inch thick, a little more maybe.
"Well, it's about average, really. But let me show you something." She searches
for a moment around the darkened room and opens a clothes closet with a clothes
hanger bar. Shoving all the clothes hangers aside, she picks up the jacket and
throws it over the bar. She finds the two arm straps and connects them around
the bar. "Watch."
She makes a small hop and, on the way down, leans in to catch the loop of jacket
fabric underneath her armpit. My heart leaps in concern that my precious Sheryl
will fall and hurt herself, or that my apparel for the evening will be ruined.
Neither happens. No, Sheryl grins as she remains inches off the ground, held up
by the buckled loop.
"Tiff--she helped me make this--she says that every square inch of this polymer
blend could withstand a shear force equal to the weight of ten men. See for
yourself." She tosses the jacket to me.
I examine the seams on the jacket for damage. I see rows and rows of close
stitching where the straps are attached to the jacket. Knowing Sharon's
commitment to excellence, I have no doubt that they are rated just as strong as
the jacket itself. But upon closer inspection I realize that there are really no
seams at all. I inquire as to why.
"You're pretty observant. Most of the suit was actually built in one piece
around a digital cast of your body. I trust you remember the scans. And the
parts that absolutely had to be connected were first chemically bonded. The
stitching was added later just in case."
She wraps her hands around my upper arms and slowly pushes me backwards into the
small closet. "Make no mistake about it. If you hand me the figurative keys to
your freedom, you are not going to regain it until I want it done. So think it
through carefully." Sliding her hands down to my wrists, she pushes them back
and closes her hands around them in a tight grip. I am probably strong enough to
get loose, but that's not the point. Persuading me to make the irrationally bold
show of trust, she closes her mouth over mine and plays deeply over the inside
of my mouth with her tongue.
"I agree to it, Sheryl." I can feel a load of adrenaline enter my bloodstream as
my brain comprehends the change in status that has just transpired. "Let's do
it."
She smiles a mysterious smile. "You're bound by your honor now." Sheryl unhooks
the sleeve loop and lays the garment on the floor. "Let's begin."
CHAPTER SEVEN
I stoop down to the linoleum and grasp the pliant fabric of the jacket's upper
half. Just from my few surveys of the garment in the past fifteen minutes, I
know to expect a tangle of straps, locks, and zippers. Folding the unfastened
top over so that I can start pulling it on, I am nevertheless taken aback. Yes,
somewhere in the complexity of the back flap there is a opening waiting to
receive my body.
"Make sure now. You have to go to the bathroom or anything? You won't be able to
for some time," Sheryl warns. I reassure her that I'm alright.
I take the outside of one of the suit legs and, pulling on it gently, begin
feeding my right foot in. Sheryl has asked me to strip to my underwear, and like
any halfway reasonable guy, I've eagerly obeyed her command. The suit material
is a little cool at first but quickly warms up to a comfortable temperature. As
the pant leg progressively engulfs mine, it grows to its final size. The image
of a snake engulfing a rabbit comes to mind.
"Ever wondered how those models on TV feel wearing those outrageously tight
leather pants? Well, you're feeling it right now." It was wonderful--a constant
reassuring pressure that made me feel warm and cozy, yet sexy at the same time.
"Are you sure I'll be able to fit myself in this?" My leg is nearly in, but the
snake seems to be choking on my thigh.
"Just push a little harder. That fabric expands twenty-five percent to its rated
area, requiring increasing force as you stretch it. After that no reasonably
human force can cause it to expand any more. It's somewhere between spandex and
latex in terms of give. Naturally, I've had the suit sculpted to eighty percent
of your body size, so the fabric is fully stretched at the true hundred
percent." Sure enough, with one last push, my leg is now in. My new right leg is
gray with tasteful black accents.
Having guided me through coating my legs with the suit, Sheryl asks me to stand
up. She has to lend a hand, as I newly realize my legs have trouble bending at
the knees because of the tightness. As I falter she steadies me with a hug. The
tangle of straps at the back of my suit hangs lazily down my front, held up by
virtue of the stricture at my thighs.
Noticing that my boxers are disappearing into the suit now, she pulls out a pair
of scissors from her purse. "Ah, right. At this time, I shall need ... this." In
four deft cuts she removes my underwear. I feel rather exposed, and I pull the
front of the jacket up against my body. Well, I figure, at least I'll have the
warmups on the way back.
"Now hold your arms out, and bend forward at the waist. Let's move over here
first." She moves me against the bed so I won't fall over when I do. "We're
going to have to shrug on the torso of the suit."
I work my hands somewhat into the upper part of the sleeves. Eighty percent of
the diameter of my arms, it turns out, is uncannily small--before I put my hands
in, the sleeves almost seem meant for a kid's shirt. Sheryl loosely collects the
straps and jacket flaps around me and moves them to my back.
Following Sheryl's demonstrative gesture, I arch my back and raise my arms
skywards simultaneously. The suit hesitates a moment but begins to slide on.
Ever so slowly, my arms slip deeper and deeper into the sleeves, and the suit
slips over my shoulders. I can feel the vertical stretch along my chest and
stomach. Of course, without anything holding the suit together in back, it
refuses to stretch much around me--glancing in the mirror reveals a gaping
ovallish hole where the zippered flaps should close up. The suit settles into
place, but my open hands still shape the fabric at the ends of the sleeves into
a small tent.
"Close your hands into fists," Sheryl instructs. After I do so, and the tents
collapse, she closes her hands around my wrists and helps to slide the remaining
material over my balled fists until they are at the ends of the sleeves.
"Now try to take the suit off." The challenge strikes me as interesting. She
hasn't even done up a single strap!
"I don't want to, Sheryl, but... okay." Matter-of-factly I move to pull the suit
off. But then I realize that my balled hands are no use to me. Neither can I get
enough traction to rub the suit off me--the fabric slides off itself too easily.
I am at a loss for several seconds, but then I remember I can unball my hands.
Or so I think. It's too hard.
"Positively diabolical, isn't it? The sleeve is on so tightly--held by virtue of
compression against the length of your arm--that you can't open your hands now.
Well, not easily. I suppose you could slowly work it off if I left you here for
a minute or so. But I'm not going to do that, am I?"
Naturally, the answer is no. She picks up one of the three straps that dangle
off my right sleeve; this particular one is attached at the wrist. A quick
circle around, a deft, but gentle pull, and Sheryl has now attached a strap
about the wrist. "And now not even several minutes will do the trick." I know
this is true: my hands--my ticket to freedom--cannot slip past that strap.
After she repeats the process on my left side, the remaining sleeve straps are
similarly introduced and tightened: one above, and one below, the biceps. "So
then what are these for?" I inquire.
"Oh, functionally? Nothing at all. You're not getting your arm out anyways, with
or without them. But it was fun to design them in, and you look so much more
like my impossibly restrained prisoner that way."
"Thank you so very much." Emphasis on the "so."
"My pleasure. Many of the features of the jacket are redundant, since, after
all, inescapable is inescapable. Well, and we learn that as engineers, right?
Redundancy is good!"
That explains the next item on the agenda, which is the flaps that currently
drape off the length of my arms. I'm reminded of those fringey, tassely things
that hang off the arm in Western getups, except that mine consists of two solid
sheets of synthetic polymer with half a zipper on each side. Starting from the
shoulder, Sheryl pieces the two sides together and tugs the zip down, trapping
each one of the arm straps in turn. Having come to its end, the zip, along with
the flaps, stops short of the wrist restraint. At that end Sheryl undoes the
strap and redoes it with the eye of the zipper tab threaded through the buckle
of the strap.
I study myself in the mirror. I test the mobility of my arms, and I find it is
rather difficult to move as it is. I feel a sort of aesthetic satisfaction that
the mass of straps and flaps about my arms has resolved itself into a neat,
tight wrapping designed to thwart my movement and my escape. I gather the mess
behind my back will shortly do the same. As for the arms, though--all that still
remains unresolved on the arms is one thick strap attached to each of my balled
hands. But that will be the much-awaited finale, I know.
"Don't take such deep breaths. I want to make this tight."
I dutifully release my current chestful of air and begin complying. I have been
quite enjoying my enclosure into Sheryl's diabolical creation. When she closed
up the innermost zipper against my back, I felt a strange mix of emotions I
cannot describe. As I heard the rip of the zipper up to my neck--as I felt the
flaps closing around me and the relatively slack material in the front
stretching round and taking my shape--I realized my avenue of escape was being
sealed off for good. A shudder went down my spine as I felt a lock close around
the zipper tab.
As she began working, Sheryl had explained to me some of the mess at the back of
the suit. To prevent me from getting at the lacing and releasing myself from
inside the jacket, there was the inside zip. That is, if, IF, Sheryl had
emphasized, by some extraordinary miracle I freed my hands enough to work
anything. To tighten up the body of the jacket, and further to insure that my
arms were pressed tightly into the sleeves, there was the tight lacing she was
currently stringing together above the flaps. (Naturally, Sheryl has designed
for more redundant layers of protection.)
"And next will come another zip outside the lacing. If you were particularly
resourceful, you might otherwise be able to rub up against some corner or some
hook and try to slip the straps out. But by covering up the back straps with
this outside flap, this will keep you, or, say, some silly sympathetic fool with
free hands, from getting at your lacing from the outside. Finally, to finish it
off, you'll be pleased to know that there are four locking straps over those
zips to ensure your stay in this my little instrument of torture." I have been
so stimulated by the first one and a half rounds of successive tightening that I
don't know how I'll get through the rest.
With a strong tug Sheryl pulls the string through yet another grommet. The
fabric wraps a tiny bit more snugly. "Nine down, seven to go." She takes her
fingernail and runs it lightly over the fabric at the front of my waist. The
feeling is electric.
A tap on the shoulder. I am called back from my daydream fantasies to the
fantasy that I am living out in real life. Under Sheryl's gentle but determined
control, I had closed my eyes and submitted to the gradual securing of the
straitsuit. The rhythm had put me into a sort of trance.
"The hard part is done. But I have you to thank for being such a compliant
victim." Still standing behind me, she slides her hand about, to and fro, and
lets it settle a moment on the crotch of the suit. She walks around to my front,
examining her work, and smiles. "Delicious. This looks better on you than it did
on the cast." Grabbing me by the hand: "Come, take a look at this." She moves
away from my front so I can see myself in the mirror.
I have to smile too. The gray and black of the suit looks as if it were painted
right on to my skin. And if there were any hint of looseness before, it has been
eliminated. The feeling of compression is incredible. There I am, my chest and
abs clearly outlined. I am man, subjugated.
Faux-philosophical ramblings aside, I turn around to examine the back of the
suit. The mess that was there before is all gone. I see one zipper running
straight down the center of my back, with the tab secured into a tight collar
around my neck. The zipper's course is interrupted by four broad straps, each
with a black buckle offset slightly from center. Each buckle has a small
keyhole. All the previous mess, I know, is neatly strung together
underneath--for the sole purpose of ensuring that no one rescued me from my
prison until Sheryl did. Assuming she would at all, I suppose.
Sheryl faces me again and embraces me. She presses her face against my chest,
nuzzles against the fabric, and takes a deep breath. I return the embrace as
much as one can with balled fists. She sighs and confides, "I'd never thought
I'd find anyone like you." She presses still closer, and I can feel her hips
slowly rocking into mine. After a few moments, she helps me to the floor and
straddles me seductively. I begin to nuzzle my head against her breasts. "Use
your hands," she whispers. "'Cause this is your last chance to for a while." I
don't need to be told.
CHAPTER EIGHT
At length Sheryl smiles and takes my hands lightly aside. "Come on now. Back to
the task at hand. We want to stay on schedule."
As I'm getting up, she pauses to glance at her watch. With some delight, she
exclaims, "Oh, honey, look!" Nodding, she now transfers our attention to the
bedside clock. As we gaze on, it changes from 11:59PM to 12:00AM.
"Happy Saturday!" Sheryl bestows a frivolous peck on my lips, and in response to
my puzzled look, follows it with the cutest of shrugs. "Sorry! I guess I'm
feeling a little off-the-wall right now." Smugly I note that my performance
during the last few minutes have evidently put her in a chipper mood.
"Fine with me, silly girl. So do tell what happens in the next hour or so to
this your unfortunate prisoner."
"With pul-easure!" She takes my right hand as if to shake it. Gracefully she
turns under my right hand, holding on to it all the while, and winds up behind
my back facing me. (Hey, that was cool. I knew that having a dancer girlfriend
would be cool.) Bringing her free left hand around me, she strokes my chest
lightly. Facing into the mirror with me, she continues.
"Very well. Inspector, you will notice the five securely anchored fabric loops
which adorn the circumference of the condemned man's waist." She grasps my
shoulders and twists my torso from side to side so I can see all five in the
mirror. We shall now set the victim's sleeves into these loops and secure them
at his back. Do you give approval?" Sheryl has acquired a bit of an air for the
role.
I do my part to play along. "Madam, it is no less than necessary for the
security of the State--the only possible recourse. Even now the prisoner is
swearing that when he is released he shall take by force the first woman he
sees!"
"Then we have no choice. This man has forfeited to the State his freedom."
Sheryl reaches down to take, in turn, the two stiff black straps hanging from my
balled fists. The strap issuing from the left swings slightly with the weight of
the buckle. She first threads this strap through the front three loops: left,
center, then right. The strap on the right side is threaded through these loops
in reverse. At this point she pauses, holding the yet-unfastened straps.
"Notice, sir, the way that this man's right arm is passed over his left. In the
protocol, this is the preferable method of restraint for the left-handed."
"Duly noted, madam warden, and very sharp of you. But I have seen people first
pass the sleeves through all five loops. You will only use four for each?"
Sheryl answers without a pause. "A most astute observation! Typical
strait-waistcoats offer side loops primarily for assistance in transport. Not
being designed to hold the arms, the loops force the arms in too forward-facing
a position. As the sleeves must be brought yet around the front of the body, the
position proves most uncomfortable for the restrained."
This consideration seems inconsistent to me. "But is it not precisely through
unbearable restraint that we hope to punish the prisoner?"
"In the end, Inspector, this configuration, specially designed with the middle
two loops angled slightly, proves most secure, endurable, and humane. As for the
punishment, good sir, we have much more effective means." She winks. "But
Inspector, you will want to excuse yourself for the sake of your peace of mind.
While our restraint is humane, officials often find its application a little
rougher than they prefer to know. It is best for you to leave me to the prisoner
now."
"Very well. But on your own life, spare him no chance of escape."
Sheryl feeds the straps around my waist and through the remaining rear pair of
loops until they meet behind me. Ensuring that my sleeves are passing properly
through all their loops, she threads the strap the slightest way through the
buckle. She leans into my ear. Aside from her confirmation there is no other
sound in the room.
"Are you prepared for your fate, prisoner?"
"Do it! Do it, Sheryl, before I change my mind!"
Following her firm, deliberate pull, the strap begins to sail past the
spring-loaded teeth. Inch by inch the mechanism irreversibly eats up the slack.
I let my arms follow the pull of the straps. My elbows come to a stop against
the center loops.
"Get on the bed. You can give me another two inches, at least!" Awkwardly I hop
onto the hard bed and land with my arms folded under me. It feels strange not to
be supporting my own weight. "Let out your breath! Squeeze your arms together!"
With each command she swats my exposed rump.
Eager to aid Sheryl's efforts, I compress myself as far as I can. I suppose I am
playing out of character now, but I am loath to end this session inadequately
restrained. Or--perhaps I'm not out of character. Maybe a criminal being
imprisoned by this beautiful seductress would willingly sacrifice any chance of
escape to deliver himself into her clutches.
Sheryl lustily straddles my back, gripping my side with her strong thighs, and
gives a mighty final pull. Ultimately I think my effort gave her two inches. She
took one more on her own.
Quickly she withdraws a small pin and fiddles with the buckle behind me. One
nearly inaudible click locks in her victory over me. Sheryl remains on my back
for a full minute, grinding me rhythmically, breathing unevenly, before she
lumbers back off the bed. I know better than to interrupt her.
Yanking on some of my other back straps, she pulls me back up to standing and
flaunts her handiwork in the mirror. At the sides of my back, level with my
waist, I see my two balled fists, connected now with a strong locked strap whose
tail is a foot long.
"Damn, Sheryl, that is tight. It's just like I always imagined."
"I know, huh? The thing is, because you have a well-defined waist, the sleeves
would naturally stay at the small of your back. Your chest comes out so much
that I don't think you could bring your hands over your head even without the
loops. But! Two more things, and then some surprises."
Sheryl returns to my front side and fastens a strap to tighten down the large
central loop. Though permanently sewn as a loop into the fabric (for security, I
assume), the loop is attached in two places to the extra strap so the strap can
gather up the slack.
"Good. And one final touch." This crowning touch calls for attention just below
my shoulders. I feel a sudden yank as a strong strap tightens and locks,
bringing my biceps together. The motion is unexpected; in my reading and
fantasizing, I had never come across this type of fastening on a straitjacket
before. Nevertheless, surely enough, the final strap pinions my upper arms
backward and binds my sleeves even more securely to the jacket.
With the knowledge that the jacket is now fully applied, I now try to thrash my
arms about. With astonishment I discover that the force moves my arms only along
with my torso. No amount of straining can return individual control to my arms.
I praise my captor for her triumph.
"Sheryl, thank you! I can't move my arms at all, and I couldn't even start to
think how to get out of this. Oh, it's so much better than I thought my first
time would be. I could stay in here for days!" I am so effusive that I can't
stop sounding sappy.
Sheryl beams with pride, but she's not ready to quit yet. "Hey now, be careful
what you wish for, tiger. But we're not quite done yet. Remember how we have our
means of punishment?"
Sheryl kneels behind me and undoes a strap near my buttocks. I see a long
hourglass-shaped flap of grey fabric whip out from my backside and settle
between my legs. The release of the strip has released some of the upwards
pressure on my member.
The sight is unexpected. "That a crotch strap?" I had no idea that anything had
been concealing the actual crotch of the suit.
"You bet. It was fastened from the beginning, but I guess you didn't notice."
Anticipating my question, Sheryl continues. "Of course, in a full-body
straitsuit like this, you're going to have a bit of a hard time escaping by
lifting the whole thing up over your head, so we really didn't need one at all.
But I wanted one for the effect and the extra pressure. And also to hide this
until you couldn't back out."
She lifts the dangling flap, which evidently has been carefully made to blend in
from the front. Down south, centered directly over my bulge, I see what appears
to be a short vertical black line. Then I realize what it is.
It is a strong black metal zipper.
Sheryl places her hand on the tab and tugs it down imperceptibly. "Yep. This is
how it's going to get *really* interesting."
Her prisoner gulps.
CHAPTER NINE
Alternately tugging at the front and back of the hood, Sheryl works the tight
black rubber down my face. It hurts slightly the way she's doing it, but in my
current state I can't possibly lend a hand. In any case, not having had much
time to inspect the hood before she started working it on to me, I can only
trust that Sheryl has an excellent reason for using it.
"Nph!" The hood has settled to cover both my nose and mouth. Not hermetically,
thank goodness, but almost.
"Sorry. That better?" Sheryl makes sure the eyes, nostrils, and mouth are well
seated.
"Well, at least I can breathe again. So why the hood?" The hood restricts my
mouth slightly, and the words comes out slightly muffled. "That wasn't a part of
the little scenario." It's not that I didn't want it, I was surprised she was
still intent on adding more to my bondage.
Her muffled voice comes from behind me as she laces down the hood over the back
of my head. "Oh, I have plenty of things for planned for you that are not in
your scenario. We have to expand our horizons, you know, being college students
and all. Anyways, I think you'll like the feeling of being totally enclosed from
head to toe. With the suit, you're already so close, you might as well go all
the way."
After gathering the material from under my chin, Sheryl zips the back flaps over
her work. At the level of my lower neck I feel a demonstrative tug. "There are
loops on this hood for a separate locking neck strap. But since we already have
one on the jacket that I've fastened temporarily, I'm going to drop these loops
down between the loops in the jacket collar. Then I can undo the jacket collar
and do that up through both sets of loops. It will work quite nicely."
The process takes about a minute. The base of the hood feels cold at first as it
is fed under the jacket collar. But after it is all done, I feel a firm, but
comfortable pressure around my neck. Sheryl declares her satisfaction. "Very
nice. Totally enveloped in what is basically one unbroken piece. I like it."
"Sheryl, let me see myself." The audience of this request positions me so I can
see myself.
I am taken aback. The male figure in the mirror looks as though it has stepped
out of any fetish catalog. But it is me! Even better, sitting beside a lusty
girl I liked who shared this passion with me!
My vision is somewhat restricted by the small holes in the hood, so Sheryl comes
around to face me. "There are some other reasons I wanted this particular hood
for tonight." In the mirror I can only barely made out some motion of Sheryl's
hand before, all of a sudden, my vision is suddenly obscured, and then, with the
hum of a zipper, darkened even further. "For one, without having to worry about
sight, you'll enjoy the other senses even more."
Sheryl guides me again into a reclining position. Taking a position behind me,
she smoothes a thin rubbery flap of the hood over my mouth and closes the zip
over it. I feel her legs close tightly around my waist from behind.
Then, without warning, she plugs my nostrils tightly with her fingers.
I breathe in, and I get nothing. I panic. There is not much I can do in this
position. With all my might I jerk from side to side to escape Sheryl's grasp
and the jacket's clutch, but her legs and the strong fabric refuse to yield. The
flap clings to my mouth. Trying furiously to breathe, with my already cheeks
depressed from the suction, I can only manage a small stream of air--not enough,
I know, to keep me from passing out soon. Each second grows longer and longer.
All of a sudden I feel cold air against my nostrils again and breathe heavily.
In between deep, thankful breaths I grunt as angrily as I can manage.
"Well, now we know by trial that the jacket is strong enough to hold you,"
Sheryl chuckles. She pushes me forward so I am leaning over my legs. I feel her
testing the various exposed buckles for tightness, and then I hear a series of
clicks from different locations.
"Alright. I've just double-locked you into every last buckle, save that, uh,
special one down there. I'll give you some time to try to get yourself out, or
appreciate your bondage, or whatever. I'm going to make myself more comfortable
in the meantime."
Judging from the tossing of the bed, Sheryl leaves for about a minute and then
returns. A caressing hand guides my head to her inner thighs. As she moves me
against them, I realize with a hooded smile that I cannot feel the denim of her
jeans. Following the smooth curves I find the convergence of her thighs and rub
into it, much to her approval. The faint aroma of her sex fills my nostrils.
"Un ... ooh... That's right, prisoner. Serve your time."
Over the next thirty minutes, we move together at her direction, sometimes
hurried, sometimes deliberately slow. The second time she comes, she explodes
with a mighty series of shudders, noises, and cries that make me glad my hearing
is deafened. I feel a tissue dabbing the face of the hood.
"God, that was awesome." Panting. "Just seeing you there, powerless, bound but
to serve me, makes me so damned horny.
"Though I should tell you, winning me over like that ain't going to do you a bit
of good. The keys to that straitsuit are safe with Kate. We traded our keyrings.
I'm as much locked out of you now as you are locked in."
CHAPTER TEN
Sheryl generously restores my sight to me, then crawls over me on the bed to the
closet. From a dark corner she retrieves a large square of fabric. Some of it
has clung to itself, and as she wrests it apart I immediately recognize the
ripping sound of Velcro. She turns around to face me again after setting some
separate items back on the floor of the closet.
"As you probably realize, before I brought you in here, I set up a few things
beforehand," she explains. "Now this little number will be most helpful in our
next little scenario. Get up; let me slip this under you." The sheet is quite a
bit longer than the bed is wide, so she feeds the remainder down over the far
side of the bed.
"Is that whole thing Velcro?"
"That's right, all the plush on one side, all the hooks on the other. You
wouldn't think it holds very well, but when it's all done up it makes for a
terrifically tight wrap. Now roll on to your stomach. Center it at your chest
level, and lie in the center of the bed."
"I'm too high. Can you help me?" Having no use of my arms while lying on my
stomach makes it rather difficult to budge. Sheryl obliges and unceremoniously
drags me by my feet towards the foot of the bed. I slide smoothly on the
straitjacket's material.
Sheryl pulls the Velcro tight around my back. The feeling is singularly odd; I
feel like I am being rolled up in a wave. Rather clumsily peering behind me, I
notice the left edge of the sheet has just barely reached once around me to meet
the center of the sheet. With some exertion, Sheryl snugs in the fabric around
my bound body; then, sliding her hand under the sheet to apply pressure from
below, she seals the joint. I can hear the miniature hooks catching.
"Okay, I'm going to need you to help me a little as I roll you over." With as
much coordination as I can muster I try to roll towards the wall, where the rest
of the expansive sheet awaits me. As I do, Sheryl recenters me on the narrow bed
and also guides the roll to make it less rough. Successive landings bring me on
to my back, then my stomach, then my back again. I am now staring up at the
ceiling because I'm no longer able to bend much at the waist.
"Excellent. The sheet ends precisely at the small of your back. I couldn't be
sure how far around you'd be with your arms like that, but it's nice for one
that there's no distracting seam to look at."
It's true. I look down at a tight white band encircling my torso. A number of
metal attachments draw my attention. "What are those metal rings for?"
"The D-rings? Yeah, I was going to take care of those soon. This pair down by
your waist"--leaving me for a second to pick up a piece of backpack-like webbing
from the floor--"are for these." She passes the strap down through one ring,
down between my legs, through a ring I didn't see at the small of my back, back
up through my legs, through the remaining one on the front, and snaps both ends
together. "Crotch strap," she explains. "Heh, your second one tonight."
"And these"--two more pieces of webbing are crisscrossed around my upper torso
and neck--"are to keep you from slipping out the other way."
"I don't know whether I could. It seems like you did a pretty tight job here."
"Aw. No need to flatter me, honey. You should learn to go all the way, do it
properly, and just flat out worship me." Sheryl grins. "But we're getting there,
don't worry."
"Is that right? I think I'll like that."
"Ok, little man. Too much idle talk from you. I like to work in silence." She
grabs the mouth zipper. I protest, but I know it's a losing battle. The zipper
is pulled across. From under the hood I sigh.
Evidently enjoying the new silence, Sheryl picks up four more straps. After
having anchored them on the remaining four D-rings, two on each side, she shows
me the other ends. They are stiff metal hooks. "Just like the kind they use in
bike racks," she offhandedly observes.
Hovering over me, and still holding the ends of two of the straps, she reaches
into the crack where the wall meets the bed. She hooks them to what I assume is
the metal flange underneath the bed. Sheryl then pushes me away from the wall,
so the hooks will be sure to ride up and catch the flange.
The remaining two straps are run to the flange on my right side. In the mirror I
can see Sheryl straining to get the hooks all the way to their targets. After
she does, she takes hold of a friction buckle on each strap. Sitting on the
floor and using her feet to push against the metal, she fastens the straps
securely; amazingly, she manages to get another one inch out of the straps.
"Hope you don't need to go to the bathroom, cause you and that bed are going to
become close buddies. But I'll be back in a flash--I need some water. Enjoy!"
The door shuts, and I am alone in complete silence.
The cumulative pressure is amazing. The jacket is more than effective enough at
compressing my body, but the wrap intensifies the experience. And all the while,
I am being pressed into the bed by the newest strapping. I try jerking my torso
from side to side, but the violent motion only serves to rock the bed gently. I
am thoroughly trapped. And I revel in it.
CHAPTER ELEVEN
"How are you doing now?" My captor leans over to dribble a little water down my
dry throat.
After thirstily gulping a few times, I try to make an approving sound. Sheryl
understands.
"Good. You don't want to make me impatient, you know. Let's see, next we have
these delightful things for your legs. I got them at the same place that makes
the torso sheets."
I'm almost relieved that Sheryl hasn't forgotten about my legs. Being the only
substantial things I could move for the last few minutes, they were really
beginning to bother me. Out from the closet come two more tall white Velcro
sheets. They're tapered, so I can imagine the direction in which they are
applied. She brings one close to offer me a better view.
"I want to show you something. See this stitched sheath? In it is a metal rod.
It'll keep you nice and straight. Now then: your legs, please."
Just to make her life hard for her, I bend my knees as far as the suit permits.
She tries to straighten my knees, but I stubbornly hang on. I am just beginning
to think that I have won when she goes straight to her purse, produces a roll of
duct tape, unrolls a piece, and goes straight for my nostrils.
Before she can resort to this coercion, I give up. She begins the wrapping
immediately. Phew. I was worried she'd give up first.
Though I've spent nearly three hours helpless under Sheryl's hand, this is the
first time through it all that I've felt vulnerable. After wrapping my legs,
Sheryl had located something or other--it was too far down to see clearly--to
fasten my feet to the corners of the bed. And now, though I'm sure Sheryl has
been aware of it for a long time, I can no longer hide the bulging in the crotch
of my suit. With my arms wrapped and my legs splay, my package is raring for
delivery at the junction of my human "Y."
And indeed, as she stands by the door, resting her hand on the doorknob, she is
staring straight at it. She sits by my thighs and rubs it appreciatively.
"Junior's all ready to go, I see."
Behind the hood: "Mm-hmm!"
"And we shouldn't neglect him, I don't suppose."
"Nn-nnn!"
Lifting aside the jacket's false crotch strap, Sheryl begins to ease open the
suit's crotch zipper. "Hey, tiger, can't you let up for a second? I'm having
trouble getting this open!" Perhaps because she wants me to respond to her
chiding, or perhaps because she likes symmetry, she pulls open my mouth zipper
too.
"You know, Sheryl, I'd really love to and all, but given the circumstances I
think it's going to be there for a while. This is possibly the longest-running
hard-on I've ever had."
The zipper is evidently open now: all of a sudden it feels a lot cooler down
there.
"Oh. Then I better not let it off. You know, and break your record and all."
"No, that's not what I meant! For that I make the exception. Sheryl, please!
Don't be so cruel."
"Heh, I'm sweet too much of the time. I need to balance these things out.
Besides, I'm here to help you achieve personal greatness."
"Sheryl, at the moment there's only one thing I'd like you to help me achieve!"
"Hush now, and listen to Sheryl, honey." With a zip I am mute again. This time I
am more complainant behind the zipper, but I doubt it means much in terms of
absolute loudness.
From the closet comes a formidable metallic black contraption, easily the size
of a cantaloupe. Wires and straps hang down from the mass in Sheryl's hand, but
the most prominent part is the long tube in the center. She taps it. "You know
where this goes, right?"
A bulging guard flap is removed from immediately inside the suit's crotch
zipper. Immediately my member springs to attention, the first of my own skin
that I've seen in hours now. On its way up it brushes against the zipper. I
shudder. It's not much, seeing how much I'm bolted down, but sitting on the bed,
Sheryl feels the motion.
"Poor guy, hasn't had any direct attention for so long. Well, it would have been
a while yet, but I'm feeling for you. So remember this."
My captor leans over, extends her tongue, and plays it on Junior's head. Without
warning she then takes him all in, caressing in a marvellously talented motion
with her lips, tongue, and cheek. I have closed my eyes, waiting for that final
touch, when I sense the cold air on my member again. My eyes snap open. Sheryl's
face is not by my crotch anymore, and as concerns me in the present situation,
that is altogether wrong.
"You thought...? Ha. Nope, 'personal greatness,' remember?" Her mock altruism is
intolerable.
I scream into the zipper and rock the bed in frustration.
Sheryl finishes strapping me into the device. Tight straps around my waist and
thighs push me without hope of escape into this wicked extension of her will. Or
at least I assume it will be wicked. Everything else has been.
Then Sheryl speaks up to confirm my fears. "This is a little number I purchased
on the West Coast. Basically, this will keep you on the edge for hours. Electric
play over your member and his two friends, combined hydraulic and pressure
stimulation in the tube--oh, if I were a guy I would have used this on myself a
long time ago."
She takes a plug to the wall socket. "The battery is supposed to last two hours,
but since we're going longer than that, I don't want it to give out on you."
Longer than two hours? My stomach drops.
"The device transmits a report of your response to me on a private radio band; I
can alter the intensity of the stimulus at any time. But for the moment, I've
got it set to keep you hovering between 80% and 90% of what I think it'll take
you to lose it. I'd do 90% to 95%, but I don't know your fine points quite that
well yet. Oh well, next time.
"You're probably going to get quite hot struggling in all those layers, so I'll
have to remember to turn on the AC too."
Sheryl paces back over to the head of the bed, where I'm contemplating my fate
in imposed serenity. She plants a kiss on my mouth zipper.
"I'm sorry, pookie. The next two hours will probably be terrible. But I know
you'll thank me in the end. Besides, next time it'll be your turn to outdo me. I
make a damned sexy--and damned loud--damsel in distress. But for now..."
She looks at the clock. In false concern: "Why, it's 3:00 already. What are you
still doing up? Nighty-night." She unplugs the clock, kills the light, smoothes
the guard pads over my eyes, and with a motion of finality draws the zipper over
them.
"One other thing: after three hours, I've set the machine to give you release.
But release without reprieve, for two whole hours. One after another." My
stomach ties itself another knot. "That's right," she concludes, feeling my
hooded cheeks, "it will be heaven and hell wrapped up into one. But that's me."
One last pat, and that is it.
Sheryl's steps die away. The door opens and closes. I hear the deadbolt drawn
through. I am now imprisoned and locked inside a diabolical straightjacket,
secured to a bed, immobile, blind, mute, and behind two locked doors to which I
have no key.
It is impossibly dark and deathly quiet.
The air conditioning starts up, a low grating hum that dulls the ears. Behind
the hood all the sounds are muffled now.
Then the machine turns on.
For the first few seconds, the stimulation is entirely tolerable. But then it
ramps up, torturing me with merciless precision, each second delivering more
than I thought I could handle in an hour.
I try to buck the machine off. I try to free my arms. I try to free my legs.
Every exercise proves futile. And only thirty seconds have passed.
I scream into the zipper. But above the air conditioner, I cannot hear even
myself.
EPILOGUE TO THE FIRST VOLUME
"Sherrie, girl, you are pure evil. I never knew you had it in you."
Alone in the dark observation room, Kate massages her legs, which have fallen
asleep from the long wait. "Hm, but yeah, now that I think about it, I could see
that dominatrix fetish streak in you. Man, the costume for that routine last
year was *really* popular with the guys."
Kate casually picks up the coffee, rather cold now, that she has been sipping
slowly for the past hour. Her front-row view of the action from behind the
one-way mirrored window has been interesting enough that she hasn't often had to
resort to liquid divertissement. Several times Kate has even found herself
enhancing her observation with certain other types of divertissements as well.
That was a close call there earlier, she realizes. It was highly doubtful that
the bound form on the bed realized that someone could be--and indeed
was--watching. He had enough to deal with at the moment. Sheryl, on the other
hand, certainly knew of the existence of the room. On the way back from getting
water, Sheryl had gotten the idea to let herself into this room. Hearing a key
in the lock, Kate had rushed over to the door just in time to engage the
deadbolt silently. Thankfully, the deadbolt key was not on the ring Sheryl had
been given.
Kate studies Sheryl's own keyring. Next to the illicitly reproduced psych
department keys she has added, she notes the three small keys with the cute
heart punched into them. In three hours she'd have to meet Sheryl at the student
union so that the tormentress could release her boyfriend from his cruel
torture. Until then, Kate would have to stay out of her way and decide how to
entertain herself.
She flips the "Video" switch on the console to "Low Light" and sees the faintly
rocking outline of the straitjacketed captive. After checking the volume, Kate
ensures that the tape is still recording. Five hours and counting, the recorder
indicates.
Oh, the delicious possibilities.
END OF VOLUME ONE Aug 25, 2003
