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Archive name: sheryl1.txt (Fdom/M, bd)
Authors name: 3586088863 (straitlaced8@hotmail.com)
Story title : Sheryl and the Straitjacket Incident
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This work is copyrighted to the author © 2003. Please
don't remove the author information or make any changes
to this story. You may post freely to non-commercial
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Sheryl and the Straitjacket Incident (Fdom/M, bd)
by 3586088863 (straitlaced8@hotmail.com)
***
An unexpected slip-up starts a guy and his crush on a bit
of a kinky relationship. Straitjacket involves, also
touches on mummification, suspension.
***
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 we bring 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 forret." 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 in the 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 are 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."
he 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 furnishing.
"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."
CHAPTER SIX
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."
"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 clotheshanger bar.
Shoving all the clotheshangers 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
* * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * *
It's okay to *READ* stories about unprotected sex with
others outside a monogamous relationship. But it isn't
okay to *HAVE* unprotected sex with people other than
a trusted partner. You only have one body per lifetime,
so take good care of it!
* * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * *
Kristen's collection - Directory 24