Sheryl And The Straitjacket Incident 2

by 3586088863

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© Copyright 2003 - 3586088863 - Used by permission

Storycodes: F/m; bondage; straightjacket; cons; X

(story continues from )

Sheryl And The Straitjacket Incident - Part 2
by 3586088863
Sheryl And The Straitjacket Incident part 2by 3586088863


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 was busy surfing the Web after class when I received Sheryl's call. She had actually been on my mind quite a bit, even more so during those three days she hadn't come over. I feared 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 was heavy as I crossed the wide street to main campus. The chill evening wind had already begun to pick up, and the sky was dark, having been overcast all day. I looked down and listened to the sound of my feet on the gravel. Sheryl was sitting on the steps already when I arrived at the psych building. Though bundled up in a heavy jacket, she still looked 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 remained sitting. I joined 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. 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."

I wake up to the bright light in the room. Well, that, and Sheryl slapping me lightly on the face. "Hey, sleepy, we got things to do tonight!" The digital clock on the small nightstand reads 11:00. Wow, I had been more tired than I thought. Sheryl swings her legs down over the edge of the bed. She leans over, evidently fumbling around for something underneath the bed. Still somewhat reclining, and observing an inviting target right by my hands, I decide to give in to temptation and give her rear a solid thwack. Sheryl whips back up and regards me with mock indignation.

"You did not just do that." She's smiling, though. It's okay.

"What? With all the other stuff we've tried, you're afraid of a little nip in the butt?"

"Hmm. Guess you're right. Still, I'll get you back sometime for it." I'm counting on it, really.

Sheryl goes back under the bed with both hands, drawing out a shallow white cardboard box. It's completely unmarked. "But first," she explains, "there's this." She produces a pliant garment.


I drink in the beautiful sight and release an involuntary gasp. Lying before me is the instrument of my bondage for the next several hours. "Go ahead, examine it. Touch it. It's my little present to you." 

Unlike any of the models I have imagined or researched before, this straitjacket is full-body, grey, tastefully decorated with black highlights.  I note boots and gloves--as I had with the grid suit I had worn the night of the last adventure--but these gloves are fingerless. 

"Undoubtedly you know already how a straitjacket does its job, but just so that you know what's going to happen to you, I'll explain the basic theory. A straitjacket is primarily constructed to keep the arms and hands immobile, since a person's greatest motor dexterity lies in those two areas. This is done by forcing the arms into the jacket sleeves, then fastening the jacket sleeves together. Since the jacket sleeves are securely fastened to each other, and the arms cannot leave the sleeves, so too are the arms securely fastened. The best place to fasten the arms is across the front, one over the other, and around to the back." She demonstrates the position and, as she speaks, pretends to tug and struggle against imaginary bonds, all while grunting and moaning in a manner I thought reminiscent of a striptease. Damn, that turns me on. 

“This way the jacket, relying on the arms' own tensile strength to restrain them, takes up all the slack that might translate into the wearer's capacity to injure himself or others. As long as the wearer cannot release his arms from the sleeves, he is bound solidly. In binding the arms across the front, there is the additional psychological torture of seeing the form of the arms clearly in front while not being able to move or use them at all, whether to aggress or defend.

"In fact, there exist sleeve-only straitjacket harnesses, and they perform every function above just as well. But if you ask me there's nothing quite like feeling, all over your body, that your mobility has been removed from you and that you cannot release yourself. Hence the full body suit"--she lays her hand on the suit, patting it--"hence the unrelenting tightness you will soon experience. And I thought there was no better place than the good ol' psych department for that. 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.

"I am informed by Tiff 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 stiching 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."


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 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. 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 freedomócannot 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.

Story continues in Part 3


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