The Adult Story Hub

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 twentyfive 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 welldefined 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."