Excerpt from Weekend in the Life of a Motorcycle Messenger by John Strickland. Copyright John Strickland.

Please see the advertisement for "Fetters International".

Page 13-14

As strap after strap was pulled through the buckles, Sam felt the jacket enclose and imprison him tighter and tighter. He looked down at the jacket he was allowing himself to be restrained in. Suddenly he saw Robert's hand come through his legs under his crutch. The searching fingers found the wide leather strap hanging there and pulled it back through the leather clothed legs. As the strap was pulled through a corresponding buckle at the back, Sam jerked as the jacket increased in tension in every part and the strap pressured his enraged penis.

Chris let go of his arms and reached around Sam's neck. Robert put the strap he was looking for into his hand and he brought it forward and pulled it through its buckle which was on the front of the high collar. The collar reached up to his chin. He looked Chris straight in the eyes. Sam had never believed that a straight-jacket would be as complete as this. He was totally imprisoned behind leather, the jacket encasing his own leather jacket completely. It was absolute containment. Often Sam had been conscious of the fact that his body was enclosed when he was riding in the rain. His shiny black oilskin overtousers were bib-and-brace style, the fisherman's style anorak that he wore over them didn't leave much visible except his eyes, but the feeling of all-overness was nothing like this.

Chris took a grip on his arms.

"OK. That's enough," said Sam. "I've got the feel of it. I don't want my arms fastened."

"Oh, no, leather man," said Chris. "Your going all the way." There was a vicious look in his eyes. Tom stepped forward and gripped an arm, Robert clinched Sam's shoulders from behind. Sam struggled and Robert's arm slipped around Sam's thought, pulling his head back. Sam let out a cry. He felt his arms being crossed, left over right, jerked and pulled to their extremes. One of them pushed his elbows together and someone wrenched the sleeve strap through the buckle on the other sleeve. It was done. Robert released his head lock.

Sam was straight-jacketed! He looked down at his crossed arms and pulled. He strained, he tugged, he wriggled. His arms remained crossed. "The way to get out of a straight-jacket," said Tom, "is to work your arms up and over your head or down your hips. You can forget that idea with this jacket, the sleeves go through straps on the side which stop any up or down movement. No-one has ever escaped from that jacket, and you won't either."

"But you're not going to leave me in it long, are you?" said Sam in an unconserned voice.

One more thing to show you," said Robert. "Down here."

"I'm not sure I want to see any more." said Sam.

When Sam refused to walk with them, he was led, his feet hardly on the floor, bt Robert and Tom who each held him at the elbows. The strapped figure in leather and boots really did look the part of a crazed prisoner being forced along by the two white coated men. Chris led the way to the last steel door of the corridor. He opened the bolts and locks and opened the doorin readiness for the struggling, protesting figure. As Sam saw in this cell, he gasped. The walls and floor were padded!

"No, no, please!" cried Sam, "not in there!"

He pushed backwards against the two holding him. He bit his heels into the floor, but there's not much resistance to be offered with your arms strapped around your body.

"Come on Sam," said Tom, "be a good boy. It's all nice and cosy in there!"

They half lifted Sam. He noticed one of them was taking the opportunity to put his hand between Sam's leathered legs. He kicked backwards and felt his heel clunk into someone's shin. He heard a cursing reaction from Robert and at the same time was propelled in to the padded room. His feet sank into the soft floor and he pitched forward into the opposite wall. His face thumped into the canvas padding and he sliddown to the floor, his headbent back, his face being scratched by the rough canvas. With effort he rolled over to face his captors.