By straitjacketkwf2

Waking up from modern sedation is something that I will never get used to. I heard the voice in the blackness, “Wake up Mr. Swift.” I felt someone shaking my shoulders and repeating, “Mr. Swift, you need to wake up.” From the blackness I opened my eyes and saw a figure leaning over me. I tried to sit up but was firmly held down.

“Mr. Swift,” the man above me spoke in an authoritative voice, “I will need your assistance in changing your diaper.”

Diaper! What was he talking about? Only then did I feel the dampness around my groin. I tried to sit up, but my arms were held tight against my chest. I could not move my arms. I raised my head and saw the white canvas that covered my arms and chest. “What is going on?” I asked. “And who are you? Where am I?” The questions streamed out as I regained my mind from the fog of the drug.

“Mr. Swift,” the man above me said, “You are in the Adult Detention Center in a seclusion cell. I am Officer Davis. “You have been placed in restraints until your transfer to Oak Hill Lodge in the morning.”

Placed in restraints!! Suddenly I realized the cause for the tightness around my chest and abdomen. I was in a straitjacket. Around my ankles I had leather cuffs connected by a leather strap.

“Mr. Swift,” Officer Davis interrupted my thoughts, “once again, your diaper is wet and it needs to be changed. When I tell you, lift your hips so that I may remove the used diaper and replace it with a fresh one.” As he spoke, I could hear the sound of Velcro being separated. I felt the rush of cool air on my thighs as he pulled the fabric aside exposing the diaper.

“What happened?” I asked. “I haven’t lost control since I was a small child.”

“That is an effect of the sedation,” Davis said as he pulled the adhesive tabs that held the plastic coated disposable diaper tight against my groin and hips. “Standard operating procedure for inmates in this level of isolation is to place them in a special smock that resembles a hospital gown, then strap on a straitjacket and leg hobbles. The restraints will not be removed until you have been transferred and evaluated at the hospital. I need you to raise you hips now,” he added.

I felt the cool air around my penis and balls. He pulled the diaper from under me, folded it and placed it in a plastic bag as he told me to lower my hips. I saw that he had on latex protective gloves as he took a wash cloth from a steel basin and I felt the warmth of the damp cloth as he cleaned me. He picked up and unfolded a fresh diaper, the plastic making a unique sound as he did so. I was again ordered to lift my hips as he placed the diaper under me. Before closing the diaper, he sprinkled talcum powder over my penis and balls. He sealed the diaper snuggly on me and closed the blue smock, pressing the Velcro together to keep it closed.

“I will be back in a moment with some drinking water,” he stated in an almost monotone voice as he stood up. Collecting the basin, powder and used diaper, he left the cell. I looked around me. The padding was covered in a green vinyl that, I later learned, made it easier to keep the cell sanitary. The room was about seven feet long and four feet wide. The door was also covered in the same padding with a hole near the top for an observation window. When the door was closed the padding appeared to be continuous.

Lying prone on the padded floor with a vinyl pillow under my head, warm from my body heat, I became aware of the snugness of the straitjacket. It appeared to be new; the canvas was stiff and somewhat coarse as it held my arms across my lower chest in a very tight hug. The collar of the jacket was wide around the neck but small enough to make it difficult to pull my head through it. I could feel the three straps that closed the jacket down my back and the leather strap and buckle that held the sleeves of the jacket. There was no crotch strap because of the isolation cell smock that covered my upper legs, ending just below the knee. From previous training I knew that they had placed me in a Humane straitjacket. It was a relatively easy jacket to get out of unless they had added additional straps. They had. I could see the locking leather cuffs just above my elbow and they were connected with a leather strap behind my back pulling my upper arms tight against my upper body.

Officer Davis came back into the cell with water in a closed container with a straw. “Drink slowly,” he cautioned. As I sipped the cold water that alleviated my thirst, the young, handsome officer asked if I remembered how and why I was in the padded cell. The memory of the previous few hours came flooding back.

I had arrived home from my job as a motorcycle police officer about six yesterday evening. Yeah, I’m a cop. I took off my leather jacket that had that military uniform fit, snug but not too tight, and hung it up. I went to the bedroom, removed the knee high boots that I kept perfectly polished. I would clean them later that evening, as I usually did, I thought. I was proud of being an officer and a sharp appearance was part of being a good cop. I changed from my form fitting uniform into a tee shirt, snug jeans (I hated the baggy look so popular with teenagers today) pure white sweat sox and running shoes.

I looked at myself in the full-length mirror as I left the bedroom and paused. The physical training at the police academy (I graduated only four months ago) had improved my appearance. I stood five feet, eleven inches tall, weighed about 165 pounds, had broad shoulders, a narrow 31 inch waist and my swimmer’s body filled the jeans and tee shirt perfectly. I kept my light brown hair short, about three or four inches long, perfect military length. My hazel eyes evaluated the reflection and I was satisfied with what I saw.

It had been a long day and I decided to have a light dinner, put on some music, and relax in front of the computer.

I had been on the computer for about ten minutes when there was a loud, sharp knock at my front door. Turning off the computer, I went to see who would bang on my door this hour of the evening.

“Are you James Swift?” said one of two police officers at the door looking at me and waiting for an answer.

“Yes, I’m Jim Swift.” I recognized one of the officers as a classmate of mine from the academy who was assigned to a different division.

“Officer Swift, I have a warrant to take you into custody. Dr. Clarke, staff psychiatrist, has petitioned the court under the Baker Act to confine you at Oak Hill Lodge for 72 hours observation,” the officer stated as both entered my apartment and closed the door behind them.

“There must be some mistake,” I said nervously. I could not hide the look of surprise on my face, “why would I be taken to a mental hospital? I haven’t done anything.”

“No mistake, Officer Swift. Place your hands on the wall above your head and step back,” the second officer ordered. He whispered “Sorry, Jim” before he proceeded. “Do you have anything in your pockets that might be a danger to me?”

“No, I don’t,” I barked back. The officer kicked my legs wide apart to keep me off balance as he proceeded to frisk me. Finding my wallet, the officer reached into the back pocket my snug fitting jeans and removed it, as well as the keys in my front left pocket.

Finishing the frisk, the officer ordered me to place my right hand on the back of my head. As I did, I felt the cold steel as the handcuff was closed around my wrist. Seizing my right arm, the officer pulled it behind my back with the palm facing out; then pulled me to a standing position as my left arm was forced behind my back and I heard the clicks of the ratchet as the cuff was closed. It took the officer a few moments to set the double lock on the handcuffs. Well done, I thought to myself, exactly by the book.

While being handcuffed, the other officer placed my wallet and keys in a clear plastic bag and sealed it closed.

“You will now be transported to the Adult Detention Center,” the second officer spoke, “where you will be processed into the facility and then taken before a judge who will rule on Dr. Clarke’s petition. If the petition is granted, and it will be, you will be held in the ADC until tomorrow morning as it is too late to transfer you to the hospital now.

Jim tried to get away from the grip of the second officer holding his arm as he said in a loud voice, “I don’t want to spend a night in jail. I didn’t commit a crime and I’m not crazy.”

“Sorry, Officer Swift,” the second officer stated in a firm voice as he held on to my left arm, “you know that these are procedures we must follow. Don’t make it hard on yourself, come along peaceably or we will be forced to place you into additional restraints.

Realizing that it was futile to resist, I stopped struggling. “OK, I’ll go quietly.”

“That’s good, Officer Swift,” the first officer said as he opened the door. I was lead out of my apartment and heard the door closed as we went down the hall. We reached the police car moments later and waited as the back door of the cruiser was opened. The back cage of the car has two specially designed seats. I was guided into the seat; my cuffed arms were eased into a channel at the back of the seat. Two belts were drawn across each of my upper arms and crossed over my chest and tightened forcing my back against the seat. A lap belt was placed low across my hips and pulled tight.

“These new seats allow us to transport prisoners with greater security for officers and greater comfort for the prisoner,” the second officer commented as though he didn’t know me. He closed the rear door and got into the front seat. As the car accelerated, I felt the straps pulling against my body, the grip of the handcuffs on my wrists and felt humiliated having been arrested by two fellow officers, one of whom I knew.

Being a motorcycle cop, I did not have any experience of processing a prisoner into the jail. Arriving at the ADC, I was escorted to a small cinderblock room painted in white empty except a bench against one wall. At the other end of the room was a second door. A third officer came through the second door with a plastic container.

“Officer Swift, I am going to remove your handcuffs now. As your hands are released, place them on the back of your head,” the first officer instructed. I nodded my head signaling that I understood. I stood there for about a minute as the officer put his handcuffs away and removed the lid to the container. “Sit down and take off your right shoe and hand it to me,” the first officer continued. I handed the shoe to the officer who inspected it and placed it in the container. The same procedure was followed with my left shoe. “Remove your socks and place them in the container. Now stand up and take off your jeans, fold them and place them in the container. Next, take off your shirt, fold it neatly and place it in the container. Do the same with your jockey shorts,” the officer continued step by step as I complied with his directions. Now I stood naked and instinctively moved my hands in front of my privates.

The third officer placed the lid on the container and taped a paper with “Swift, James” on it. “Follow me,” the third officer commanded as he led me through the second door into a room with a shower stall and bench. “You will shower and dry yourself off here,” the second officer directed as he pointed to the shower stall.

The shower felt good and I felt a little better as I dried myself off. As I came out of the shower I was handed a jock strap, jail shirt and pull on pants and slip on canvas shoes, all orange in color. After putting on the jail uniform, I was lead to the booking desk where my picture was taken and I was fingerprinted. A clear plastic wristband was secured around my left wrist. It had my name and the notation “Involuntary commitment.”

Much to my surprise, I was again handcuffed with my hands behind my back. I was moved to a small holding cage and placed inside. “Mr. Swift” the guard explained, “in a moment we are going to take you to night court for a hearing before Judge Finch regarding your involuntary commitment for observation. After the judge has ruled in your case, you will be brought back here and then assigned a cell for the night.”

I waited nervously for about ten minutes before a deputy came to get me. When he finally came the deputy seized the handcuffs locked around my wrists and I was forcefully guided down several corridors and taken into a courtroom. You may not understand the extreme embarrassment and humiliation I felt being taken before a judge in an orange jail uniform in handcuffs.

“Your honor,” the city junior attorney spoke, looking at a manila folder with several papers, “Dr. Clarke, police staff psychiatrist, asks this court for an order of involuntary commitment to Oak Hill Lodge for Officer James Swift for a period of not less than 72 hours.”

The judge looked at me over his reading glasses. “Mr. Swift, this court has great respect for Dr. Clarke. If he feels you need to be held for observation, there is no reason to question his judgement. So ordered.” As the judge entered a note into his computer terminal, I was moved back to the holding cell.

Once again I was locked in the holding cage. I could not believe the events of this evening. A few hours ago I was home looking forward to a quiet evening but now I was an inmate in the ADC, not charged with a crime, but being held overnight until I would be transferred to a mental hospital. How could this be happening? Why would Dr. Clarke (who he had met only once while in training at the police academy) want me committed? Repeatedly I asked myself these questions, unable to find an answer that made sense.

About fifteen minutes after being placed back in the holding cell, the second officer appeared with a man in a white coat carrying a steel try. “Mr. Swift, I am a paramedic here at the ADC,” the man in white introduced himself as the cage door was unlocked. I noticed that I was no longer Officer Swift, but Mr. Swift. “A standing order of the ADC is that anyone being transferred to the mental hospital for evaluation be kept in restraints in an isolation cell. I am going to give you an injection to help you remain calm……”

“No, no, please, no shots, I don’t want to be drugged,” I pleaded as I attempted to back away from the paramedic holding a syringe. The second officer seized me around the neck in a chokehold as the medic cleaned the injection site with alcohol on a cotton ball and then jabbed the syringe into my upper arm. Seconds later I lost control of my body, as it became limp and the officer eased me to the floor. A wheelchair was brought to the cell and I think I recall being lifted into it. While I was not asleep, I was not awake either. I am not sure of the details, but I think I was wheeled to an elevator and taken down to the basement level of the ADC. I remember seeing a steel door with a small observation window. The door was opened into the hallway revealing a padded cell.

“Yes, now I remember,” I said to Davis, “everything up to being brought down here from the holding cell,” I answered, “after that I don’t remember anything until you woke me up.”

Officer Davis continued to give me water. He filled in the missing information. “It took four deputies to drag you into the isolation cell. You were stripped of your jail uniform, the diaper was taped on and the isolation/suicide smock was put on. The smock is a new item for us; nylon coated on the outside and has quilted fibers between. Next, the Humane straitjacket (I was right!) was strapped on. It took two men to hold you up and a third officer to get your limp arms into the closed sleeves of the jacket. After the jacket was strapped on the pinion straps were added. You were placed on your back and the ankle hobbles were locked in place. That’s enough water for now,” he said as he removed the straw from my lips. “I will check you again in the morning before you are transferred. The lights will be turned off so you may sleep,” Davis said as he left the cell. I watched as the door was closed and heard the muffled sound of the lock as it was set. The bare light bulb in the wire cage above me was turned off and only a small stream of dim light in the cell came through the observation window. Then even that was closed and I was in total darkness.

I pulled my arms against the canvas sleeves, but the straps held secure. I thought back again over the events of the past hours: in a short period of time I had lost my dignity, my privacy and my freedom. Suddenly I felt a wave of tiredness spread over my body and I had a difficult time in keeping my eyes open. Oh, shit, the water must have been drugged……

I woke up to the sound of the door being opened to my cell. Officer Davis came into the room with the steel basin and fresh diaper. “Ah, I see you are awake,” he said as he looked at me helpless on the floor of the padded cell.

Once again I felt humiliated as he went through the same procedure of changing the diaper that I was forced to wear. It only took him three minutes to complete the process.

“The people form Oak Hill have arrived,” Davis said as he left the cell. “Good luck, Mr. Swift.” His remark puzzled me but I only had a few seconds to ponder on his comment. Two men dressed in all white, shirts, pants and shoes came into my cell.

“Mr. Swift, my name is George and my partner is Mike. We have come to take you to Oak Hill,” George said as he knelt down on my right side and his partner on the left. Mike, without comment, lifted my head and slipped on a rubber muzzle over my mouth and adjusted the straps that went around my head. My sweat quickly sealed the rubber to my face and, as much as I tried, I could not open my mouth. I had been gagged!

Officer Davis appeared at the door and spoke to George, “Here are the papers from the court and ADC. After his evaluation, he is to be brought back here to be processed out of the jail.”

George took the papers, shook Davis’ hand, thanked him for his help, and then, signaling his partner with a simple head movement they proceeded to lift me up to my feet. With the ankle hobbles, I could only manage short steps and moved slowly. In the hallway was a wheelchair for me and after I was seated a strap was secured across my lap and locked behind the chair, Mike pushed the wheelchair through the jail, past other inmates working in the hallways. I saw them look at me bound and gagged and heard stifled giggles and then uncontrolled laughter as I was pushed past them. My embarrassment and humiliation being seen in an isolation smock, leather ankle hobbles, straitjacket and rubber muzzle was so strong I tried to hide my face by lowering my head.

Finally we arrived at the sally port where the ambulance was parked. I was pulled up from the wheelchair and walked the few steps to the waiting stretcher. Picking me up as if I weighed nothing, George and Mike placed me on the stretcher and locked straps over my chest, waist, thighs and ankles. I was held almost totally immobile and could only move my head and feet. The stretcher was put in the ambulance, the wheels were locked and George got in the back with me. Mike closed the doors and moments later the ambulance pulled out from the garage and headed for Oak Hill Lodge. During the half-hour trip George and Mike talked about sports and news events totally ignoring me.

Finally we arrived at the hospital. The stretcher was wheeled to a treatment room and both orderlies left, closing and locking the door behind them. The room was about ten by ten, the cinderblock walls painted in institutional green. There was a bared window in the front of the room and a door behind me. I didn’t have to wait long before George and Mike came back with a male nurse.

“Good morning, Mr. Swift, I am Nurse Mark Reynolds,” he said to me looking at a medical chart. “Release the stretcher straps, help Mr. Swift to the chair, remove the stretcher, and bring a patient uniform,” the nurse ordered. As the orderlies started to remove the straps, that held me to the stretcher, the nurse continued, “Mr. Swift, you are here for a court ordered evaluation that takes about three to five days. Dr. Clarke, the doctor in charge, will see you this afternoon. You will take psychological tests administered by our staff and Dr. Clarke will go over the results with you.” As he spoke, the muzzle was removed and the ankle hobble was unlocked and taken off.

George returned with a white uniform and slippers. He had me stand up and, much to my relief, started to remove the straitjacket. He eased the jacket off my arms that tingled as blood rushed down towards my hands. I was directed to remove the jail smock and the diaper and was handed a jock strap, pull on pants and then the pull over shirt. Except for the color, the uniform was exactly like jail clothing. As I picked up the shirt I saw stenciled on the back “Mental Patient Ward D.” I put on the slippers and looked at Nurse Reynolds. A second identification bracelet was put on my left wrist, this one had my name and “involuntary evaluation commitment” written on it.

“This is a high security, locked ward, Mr. Swift,” he said. As long as you behave restraints will not be needed. Infraction of the rules will result in punishment. Is that clear?”

“Yes, I understand.” I said.

“George will show you to your room, “Nurse Reynolds continued, “and give you a tour of the ward. You are free to read, watch TV, play games,” he said and left the room.

I felt great relief in not being in restraints. I was shown my room and then given a quick tour. There was not much to see. From the locked door that was the entrance to the ward there was a hallway with patient rooms, offices, two treatment rooms, and the nurses station where the nurses and orderlies kept records. There was one door that was not labeled and George did not mention what was behind it. At the end of the hallway was the dayroom with the usual chairs with cushions, square table and wood chairs, and one TV.

“At this time, there is only one other patient on this ward,” George commented as he showed me my room. The rooms were 12 feet deep and 10 feet wide. Each room contained a single hospital bed, desk and chair, and a small side cubicle with toilet, sink and shower.

“You may read or watch TV until lunchtime.” George continued, “This afternoon you will start your testing and you will meet with Dr. Clarke around 5 p.m.” With that, he left me alone in my room.

I took the opportunity to use the bathroom, just incase I would be forced to wear those awful disposable diapers again. I went to the day room that was empty and read the morning paper.

Lunch was brought to the ward about 11:30 in the morning (I could see the clock in the nurses station) and realized I had not eaten since I had been taken into custody. The food was actually good and the coffee was strong: George even allowed me to have a second cup.

I watched the noon news on TV and when the soap operas came on I went to look out the mesh barred window. The grounds of the hospital were magnificent and had a manicured appearance. I wondered if I would be allowed out during my evaluation time.

“Mr. Swift,” George said, tapping me on the shoulder to get my attention, “it is time for your first test session.” He took my arm above the elbow and escorted me from the dayroom to an office down the hallway. The door was open and sitting behind a desk was an attractive young woman, about 25 to 30, brunette hair pulled back into a pony tail, beautiful blue eyes, somewhat on the thin side wearing a long white coat that allowed an obstructed view of her ample cleavage She had long legs and was sitting with her legs crossed. I have to admit I have a thing for long legs.

“Ms. Smathers, this is Mr. James Swift.”

“Thank you, George. Please have a seat Mr. Swift,” she said in a soft but firm voice. As the door was closed she continued, “may I call you Jim? My name is Joyce, I am a psychometrist, a person who gives psychological test.”

“I understand,” I said somewhat nervously.

“There is nothing to be afraid of here,” she told me, looking over the top of her reading glasses. “There are no right or wrong answers to these tests. During the next few days I will give you several tests: first will be the WAIS, an intelligence test: the TAT and Rorchasch Inkblot Test……”

“The one that looks like a bat?” I asked

“Yes, that’s the one,” she continued, “the Berry, and the MMPI. These other test will provide a clue as to your psychological makeup. Do you have any questions before we begin?”

“No, I don’t think so,” I replied. I was familiar with most of the tests, having taken three psychology classes in college. Some of the tests, such as the Berry, are quick and do not require much time or energy. Other tests, like the WAIS, take up to three hours to complete. With breaks for the bathroom and stretching, we only completed two of the tests. At about 5 p.m. George knocked on the door and entered.

“Sorry Ms. Smathers, but Dr. Clarke would like to see Mr. Swift now.”

“That’s OK, George, we have finished for today,” she said, then turned to me, “we will continue in the morning and tomorrow afternoon. I will be able to give Dr. Clarke the results of your tests the next day.” We both stood up and she shook my hand, “you have been a cooperative subject. Thank you,” she told me.

George took my arm, “Come along, Mr. Swift. Let’s not keep Dr. Clarke waiting.

Once again, I was firmly escorted to another office.

I entered the office of Dr. Clarke and he motioned for me to sit down. “Thank you, George, I will call you when we have finished. Please close the door on your way out.” George had a strange look on his face as he left.

Hesitating a moment, Dr. Clarke went and looked through the peephole in the door. Satisfied that we were alone he asked, “How are you doing Jim?”

“It has been a difficult 24 hours,” I said. “I didn’t expect I would be spending last night in the ADC. I thought I was to be taken into custody this morning.

“Yes, someone changed the time on the paperwork,” Clarke said. “That is the first irregularity to be noted. Has anything else gone wrong,” he asked, sitting in the chair next to mine.

“No, except for being drugged twice at the jail. That seemed strange,” I replied.

“The sedation given to you during the night was not authorized Jim. I did not think they had that drug at the jail,” Clarke commented as he made additional notes on his pad.

We continued to talk about my assignment. About two weeks ago I met with Dr. Clarke and my captain late at night at my apartment. There had been reports of patient abuse at the hospital. I was asked to be an undercover agent to investigate the charges. It was explained that there was some danger to the assignment, but Dr. Clarke would be my contact during the involuntary commitment. If anything happened, he should be able to get me out of the hospital quickly. I accepted the assignment, although it would take me off of motorcycle duty for a week.

I met with Dr. Clarke one additional time two nights ago. He provided me with what I should expect while at the mental health clinic.

“I will see you tomorrow about this time,” Dr. Clarke said as he picked up the phone and asked George to come get me. “Good luck, Jim,” he said. We looked at each other and then laughed, realizing the phrase from Mission Impossible.

There was a knock at the door and Dr. Clarke said, “come in George.” He entered as I stood up. “We will not need any medication for this patient tonight,” the doctor said as he gave the orderly a slip off of his prescription pad. “I will see Mr. Swift tomorrow at the same time.”

George looked at the paper and smiled, “I’ll have this put on his chart right away, doctor.” Ordering me to stand up and took hold of my arm, “This way, Mr. Swift.”

Back at the dayroom my dinner was on the table. I was hungry and enjoyed the meal. There was a choice of soft drinks or iced tea and water. The iced tea was freshly brewed a surprise where “institutional cooking” was served.

One other patient was watching TV while I had my meal. After I finished I went over and sat in the chair next to him. The evening news had just started and I turned to introduce myself.

“Hi, I’m Jim Swift,” I said as I offered a handshake.

He shook my hand, “David Trotter. I hear you are here on a Barker order. Same here” Barker is the name of the law that provides for involuntary commitment. “Call me Dave. I have been here for three days and hope to be released tomorrow.”

We watched the news and talked during commercials. Dave was a college student, majoring in psychology, of all things. His professor had asked for a volunteer to go through the Baker process during one-week winter break and make a report to the class.

“Automatic 4.0 for the class,” Dave smiled. He had a great smile with perfectly white teeth. This 20 year-old was blond, blue eyed, no beard or mustache, with broad shoulders and a narrow waist. The hospital uniform did not hide his solid chest and defined muscles in his arms. He could have been a double for Michaelangleo’s statue David, his namesake. This boy would have no trouble getting the woman or man of his choice.

We talked for several hours, ignoring the TV. Dave was interested in my being a motorcycle cop and asked questions about my cycle, my uniform (especially the boots) and unusual experiences I had on the job. I asked about his school, sports, and finally dating. Dave said he did not have time to date, he spent his time studying and varsity swimming (backstroke and butterfly). He did not have time for social activities and felt guilty not being able to study while he was confined in the asylum.

The orderly Mike came up as we were talking. “Lights-out in 15 minutes. Return to your rooms,” he ordered. We went down the corridor and I found that Dave’s room was across from mine and we said goodnight.

Mike came into my room. He motioned for me to sit on my bed. “Patient rooms are locked from the outside during the night. You are to sleep in your uniform but you may remove your slippers. A fresh uniform will be given to you in the morning If you need help during the night, use this buzzer,” he continued and showed me where it was attached to the bed. Do you have any questions?

“No, thank you.”

“If you need it, the doctor has authorized a sleeping pill,” Mike said as he left the room. “Just ring and I will bring it to you.”

“I don’t think I’ll need it, but thanks,” I said yawning.

I watched as Mike closed the door from the hallway and I heard it being locked. I brushed my teeth, took a piss and lay down on the bed. The lights went out almost immediately.

I tossed and turned on the hospital bed unable to fall asleep. Normally I fall asleep without any trouble, but I just could not sleep. Finally, in desperation, I rang the buzzer. When Mike answered I asked for the sleeping pill. I heard the door being unlocked and Mike entered with a clear plastic cup with a dark colored liquid. He told me that this was a fast acting sedative and that I would be asleep in about a minute. It tasted like grape juice and I felt sleepy moments later. I do not remember Mike leaving my room as I quickly drifted into a heavy sleep.

During the night I thought that I heard a commotion outside my door. With great effort I got up from my bed and looked out the observation window in my door. I saw Dave being lead out of his room with leather restraint cuffs around his wrists and ankles. The wrist cuffs were connected together with a short strap; his hands locked behind his back: the ankle cuffs had a short leather strap that allowed him to take small steps. He appeared to have trouble keeping his head upright, leaning to the right, then the left. Two orderlies I had not seen before were leading him down the hallway towards the offices.

Mike was watching this and he saw me looking out the window. He unlocked my door and guiding me back to my bed, pulling the bedcovers over me as I went back to sleep.

I woke up the next morning to the sound of my door being unlocked. George handed me a clean uniform, told me to strip, shit, shower, shave, and dress then report to the dayroom for breakfast. Fifteen minutes later I entered the dayroom and saw Dave having breakfast. We greeted each other and I sat down with him for breakfast. He did not mention anything unusual during the night when he asked how I had slept. I told him that I needed a sleeping potion and he laughed telling me he used it the past three nights. When George came over I mentioned to him and Dave what I thought I saw last night. Both agreed that it must have been a dream.

“It is time for you to continue your testing, Mr. Swift,” George to me. Mr. Patrick you will be meeting with Dr. Clarke in half an hour.

“You see Dr. Clarke?” I asked Dave, surprised that he had the same psychiatrist.

“He is my professor,” Dave answered. “We discuss my perceptions being here.”

George looked at me, took my arm forcing me to stand, saying, “Mr. Swift, you may talk later,” and moving me to the corridor.

The testing with Ms. Smathers dragged on into the afternoon, but we finished and after lunch It was almost 2 p.m. according to the wall clock in the nurses station when I got to the dayroom. Dave was watching TV. I sat next to him; he looked at me and seemed dejected.

“They won’t let me leave today,” he said in almost a whisper. “Dr. Clarke was not able to keep his appointment this morning, some type of emergency. Nurse Reynolds explained that only the doctor of record may sign the release papers.”

George brought my lunch to the dayroom, set it on the table and looked at both of us. “Dr. Clarke will not be able to see you this afternoon, Mr. Swift. He will see both of you tomorrow morning to discuss test results. He regrets that he cannot make it and has authorized us to allow both of you to have an exercise session. The weight room and cardio-vascular machines are in a different building. I am the only one on duty until this evening and, in order to take you to the exercise area, I will need to place both of you in straitjackets. The exercise area is available at 4 o’clock today so you have an hour to decide if you want to go. If so, I will need time to apply the restraints.”

George left and Dave and I looked at each other.

“This is getting on my nerves,” Dave said.

“Same here,” I said. But we are in a mental hospital. And I could really use the exercise. How were you brought here?”

“Police showed up at my dorm room and told me that I was to be taken into custody under the Baker act that allows involuntary commitment to a mental hospital for 72 hours. They took me to the jail in handcuffs and booked me, put me in jail clothing and a straitjacket, took me before a judge who took one look at me in restraints, and agreed to the commitment and I was taken from the court room to a waiting ambulance. How about you?”

Almost the same, but I spent a night at the ADC in a straitjacket and padded cell.” I left out the part about the diapers. Too embarrassing.

We continued to talk and watch TV until George came out with two canvas jackets. “Do you want to go for a workout?” he asked. While I did not like the idea of being strapped into the canvas straitjacket, I needed a workout badly and nodded my head yes. Dave did the same.

Dave went first and I watched as the closed sleeves of the jacket slid up his arms and over his shoulders. George went behind him and fastened the four slider back straps of the jacket, reached under and pulled and secured the single crotch strap. He went in front of Dave and pulled the end strap of the right arm through the strap loop on the front of the jacket, then did the same with the left arm. Again stepping behind Dave, he pulled the sleeve ends through the side strap loops and connected the sleeve ends. The straps were drawn snug but not tight.

“OK, Mr. Swift,” George looked at me with a smile, “your turn to go into a Posey.” I stood up and he followed the same process in putting me into the straitjacket. The jacket was, surprisingly, comfortable.

George grabbed hold of Dave’s left arm and my right arm and led us to an elevator just outside the locked ward. We went down to the basement, turned left out of the elevator and through a steam tunnel to building five. At the end of the hallway George unlocked a steel door and led us into a remarkable gym with free weights, weight machines, stair stepper and running machines, rowing machines and two cycle machines with electronic readouts. In just a few minutes we were released from our restraints.

“Have a good workout. We have showers here and clean uniforms. Dave and I did about five minutes of stretching as George watched. We spotted each other using free weights and then completed the weight machine circuit. Afterwards I used the stationary bike and Dave used the running machine and rowing machine. At the end of an hour and a half George, who had been using the weight machines, signaled that it was time to shower. He unlocked a door to a locker room and large shower with four heads.

“Strip and shower men,” George ordered. “Put your sweaty uniforms in the hamper there.” I couldn’t be sure, but I thought I saw Dave look me over and to be truthful, I looked at his magnificent, slim, athletic body. He had the build of a gymnast; well developed upper body with strong arms and chest and a washboard stomach. Dave had a narrow waist and a bubble butt attached to slim but strong legs. We dried off with beach-sized white towels and put them in the hamper. George handed us neatly folded set of white uniforms, jock straps, pull on pants with elastic waist and no pockets, pull-over shirt and canvas slip-on white shoes. As Dave pulled on his shirt I noticed that the stencil on the back read “Asylum Inmate.” I checked and mine read the same.

“George, what is this?” pointing to the back of Dave’s shirt.

“That was all they had in the laundry,” he said, “Don’t worry, you will get the correct shirts when we get back to “D” ward.” He held out a straitjacket and I allowed him to strap me in. After he finished strapping Dave into the other jacket, he took us back to “D” ward.

“Go to the dayroom, I will be back in a minute to remove the jackets,” George said as he went into the nurses station. I followed Dave into the dayroom, admiring the way the crotch strap pulled the fabric of his pants as it went up his ass crack showing off his butt. It was then that I noticed my penis had become hard. The crotch strap rubbed it as I walked. Dave turned to me, looked down and smiled. “You too?” he asked. Yes, I saw the very same thing had happened to him. Never before had something like this happened. I was scared. I’m not gay, I thought. I looked at Dave. His smile had disappeared.

“It must be the crotch strap rubbing as we walked,” I whispered.

Dave relaxed. “Yes, that must be it.” We both sat down and tried to forget what had just happened. It seemed to be taking George a long time to come and release us. I looked around at the nurse’s station and saw two orderlies I had never seen before coming towards us.

To be continued ….

By Mikeintightpants

This is a true account of a chance meeting I had a few years back in NYC.

I was on a business trip to New York, and on a morning when I had no commitments I’d been down to Battery Park and was travelling back uptown by bus. It was around lunchtime and the bus was already crowded – people were standing but I was OK and had one of those side-facing seats toward the front of the bus.

I found myself staring at the back-side of a guy who was strap-hanging the same as all the other standing passengers but there was something different about this guy – showing through a back pocket of his jeans I could clearly see the outline of a pair of handcuffs! My heart was racing, the adrenaline pumping. Was this guy a cop? But he wasn’t in uniform. Was he a collector of cuffs like myself? Or was there some other reason why he was carrying cuffs? I had no way of knowing.

But suddenly I did have a possible way of knowing. Unexpectedly the bus lurched and the standing passengers were jolted to such an extent that “my” guy stepped backward – right onto my foot. He half turned, looked down at me and muttered an apology. I assured him that I was perfectly OK and he went back to his strap-hanging – and I went back to staring at his cuffs. I was fantasising about trying to strike up some sort of conversation with the guy; a perfect opportunity had presented itself when he stepped on my foot, but I’d bottled out and hadn’t had the guts to get into conversation

Suddenly I realised that the guy was moving toward the exit door and as the bus came to a halt I jumped up, pushed my way through the strap-hangers and followed him off the bus. This was my opportunity – now or never. “Go for it, Mike,” I thought to myself,  so I went for it!

“Excuse me,” I shouted to him from a few paces behind. He looked round quizzically but continued walking. I increased my pace and drew level with him. He stopped and looked at me, suddenly realising that I was the one he’d almost crippled on the bus.

“Excuse me, but are you a cop?” I blurted out. At that remark he didn’t look at all pleased, snapped back “I’d rather not say,” and started walking again. There were loads of people on the sidewalk, but I moved off and kept up with him, saying, “well I’m sorry to bother you but on the bus I could see that you’re carrying a pair of cuffs in your back pocket and I thought you might be a cop?”

“So what!” He snapped back and for a moment I thought he was going to punch me on the nose and I decided I’d better explain myself.

“Well,” I said, “I’m a collector of handcuffs from England and whenever I see a guy with cuffs they always get my attention.”

His expression relaxed a bit. He stopped walking and looked me straight in the eyes as he said, “Are you serious, buddy?” I managed a smile and assured him that I was perfectly serious. He returned my smile and suggested we move to the side and not block the sidewalk where people were rushing around in the lunchtime melee. We moved to the side and stood in a doorway where I again assured him that I was a collector of handcuffs. I added that I had a large collection but then added (untruthfully!) that I didn’t have any American police cuffs and wanted to add a pair to my collection. Again I asked him whether he was a cop.

“Yes,” he confirmed.

“So what sort of cuffs do you guys use?” I asked him.

His response was to look around quickly and then reach to his back pocket, pull out his cuffs and hold them up for me to see. I reached forward to take hold of them but he pulled them back and said “not here!” as he continued to hold them so that I could see them. I could see that they were Smith & Wesson and that they were the Model 90, not the Model 100 that I knew were now issued to NYPD officers.

“How long have you been a cop?” I asked, unable to take my eyes off those beauties, the dull nickel bracelets reflecting the lunchtime sunlight as he continued to hold them up in front of me.

He explained that he’s an Auxilary police officer and had been doing the voluntary work for about 15 years – that explained the old-style cuffs that he said had been issued to him when he joined. I asked him whether I could have a proper look at his cuffs and he looked around again, satisfied himself that we weren’t in anybody’s direct line of vision and handed the cuffs to me. Yes they were Smith & Wesson Model 90 and they clicked in a very familiar way as I ratcheted the bows through the body of the cuffs; at the same time I thought of the many pairs of wrists they’d most likely have adorned in the last 15 years or so since this guy entered the service.

“So do all you cops use the same model of cuffs?” I asked (an unnecessary question as I was well aware that the current issue was the later Model 100). He replied that so far as he knew most in the NYPD used Smith & Wesson, but since he joined the newer entrants were issued with a later model, but he was satisfied with his. I knew that he was talking about Model 100s for the new guys, but I didn’t say so. Instead, I asked, “Can you please tell me where can I purchase a pair of the current-issue cuffs?”

“We get ’em from our Equipment Bureau down at Police Headquarters,” he answered, and added, “but that’s for cops only and not open to members of the public.”

I liked the way this conversation was developing, as the guy had really relaxed now and I decided that it was worthwhile pursuing what had now become a quest for me – to get hold of a pair of police-issued handcuffs!

So I asked him, “Any chance you can get me a pair to take back to England for my collection?”

He looked thoughtful, in fact he looked doubtful and explained that it would be risky for him because although it would be no problem for him to purchase more cuffs, he couldn’t afford to be seen accepting cash from a member of the public. I assured him that I could be very discrete and as he wasn’t in uniform (unfortunately!) nobody would even know that he was a cop, although I would make sure that nobody saw me hand over any cash. So in my best English accent I again asked him whether he could get a pair for me and I reminded him that I would be taking them back to England for my collection. He still looked thoughtful but suddenly nodded and said “OK” as he returned the cuffs to his back pocket.

He asked my name and where I was staying. As I gave him the information he handed me a small business card and added “I’m also an actor – I’ll call you.” And with that he stepped out of the doorway, into the lunchtime crowd and disappeared.

I looked at the business card he’d given me – his name was Kevin and he seemed to work for some sort of charity for deprived people, there was a 212 phone number but no email address. It was strange, his final words kept going through my mind – “I’m also an actor …” – what did he mean? Why did he tell me that? Was he really a cop or was he some sort of idiot who’d been winding me up when I told him of my interest in cuffs? It didn’t make sense.

I decided to walk back to my hotel and I enjoyed the warm Manhattan sunshine as I strolled through the crowded streets. By the time I reached my hotel I’d decided that Kevin had been winding me up and that he was a timewaster. I put him out of my mind.

The next morning the hotel phone woke me sometime before 7 a.m. I hadn’t requested a wake-up call and wondered who the hell was calling me at that time and I picked up the receiver.

“Hi, it’s Kevin here, remember me?”

Well of course I remembered him, so perhaps he wasn’t a timewaster after all so I assured him that I most certainly did remember him and that it was good of him to get back in touch.

He came straight to the point, saying that he could help me get what I wanted and that later that morning I should take a Subway train to City Hall, where he would meet me outside the Hall on the steps at 11 a.m. He added, “and don’t be late” – then he hung up.

As early as I could, I re-scheduled my appointments to the following day and then enjoyed a leisurely breakfast, but all the time wondering once again whether it was all a joke and whether the guy would show.

Sometime after 10 o’clock, and allowing myself plenty of time, I made my way to the Subway station and caught a train to City Hall. I exited the station and as I approached the Hall I could see Kevin at the bottom of the steps, pacing slowly backward and forward. Yes, he was there, it wasn’t a hoax, he had been serious about meeting me.

As I got closer he came over with a smile and we shook hands. He told me that we were going to Police Headquarters, and when I asked him where that was he said, “It’s at One Police Plaza, just a few minutes walk from here, let’s get going.”

He turned to lead the way, and as he did so I took the opportunity to snatch a quick look at his backside, and – as I’d expected (and hoped) – there was the outline of his cuffs in his back pocket.

As we walked away from City Hall I took the opportunity to ask him why he’d told me the day before that he was an actor – he laughed and said that as part of another part-time job he was the presenter of a local TV show and thought that I would have recognised him. I hadn’t, and told him so – and added that after all I was only on a quick visit to New York; he understood that, so there was no damage to his ego!

We approached police headquarters and I saw the sign “ONE POLICE PLAZA” and the whole area seemed to be a buzz of activity with what appeared to be endless streams of people entering and leaving the building. Kevin steered me over to a door on the right-hand side that was for visitors and we went inside. He showed his ID to the cop at the desk and signed me in as a visitor after I’d shown my UK drivers licence as photo ID. The cop gave me a “Visitor” badge, told me to pin it on my shirt and turned his attention to the people who were behind us – I put the badge in my back pocket!

Kevin pointed across the hallway to a group of people who were standing at a counter on the far side, some in uniform and some civilians. He said that they were waiting at the Equipment Bureau and that I should wait where we were standing while he went to make the purchase for me. He left me and went to stand in line while I looked around at all the activity in the large hallway. There was activity everywhere I looked, everybody seemed to be in a rush – they all seemed to have their own mission – and I felt rather conspicuous just standing around and waiting. But during the few minutes that I was waiting for Kevin to come back to me, on several occasions I saw guys being escorted through the hallway in handcuffs behind their back – in fact it was quite a common sight during that few minutes, and it gave me an idea!

At last I saw Kevin coming back toward me – and, yes, he was holding a small box and there was no doubt what was inside it!

“Pay me when we’re outside,” he said as he handed me the box and the till receipt. He added that I’d better check the locks before we left to make sure that the cuffs worked OK. I took the cuffs out of the box, removed the wrapping paper and as I did so the keys fell on the floor. I picked them up and we headed over to a waste bin where I dumped the box and the wrapper and then checked both keys in the locks and was satisfied that they worked properly. I put the keys in my pocket. And that was when I brought my “idea” into play!

“These are the current issue,” I said to him, “how do they compare with your older ones?” (as if I didn’t already know!) He pulled out his cuffs and we compared them, noting some obvious differences of which I was already well aware, but didn’t let him know that. Looking at my new acquisition I added, “mine are the current model but I like the look of yours better, would you do an exchange so that you get a new set of cuffs and I get to keep your old pair that have no doubt seen plenty of use?” He thought for a moment then smiled as he said, “yep, you’ve got a deal.” He handed me his cuffs, I passed the new ones to him and he put them in his back pocket.

At this stage my “idea” seemed to be progressing well. I’d now got his cuffs and there was just one more thing to be accomplished!

“I’d like to try them on,” I said as I held the cuffs out to him.

“No, I can’t do that here,” he said, but I immediately pointed out that I’d already seen numerous guys being escorted through the hallway in cuffs, so it wouldn’t be an unusual sight and we wouldn’t be drawing undue attention to ourselves.

He looked around, nodded his head, took the cuffs from me and said, “OK, it’s a strange request but I’ll go along with it – turn around!”

I turned to face away from him and put my hands behind my back – and of course I turned my palms to face out. Above all the noise in the large hallway I heard the ratcheting of the cuffs as he put them on my wrists and I felt him double-lock them. I was handcuffed in public by a real cop in Manhattan’s police headquarters – incredible!

Without saying a word, Kevin took hold of my right arm and led me into the middle of the hallway and then led me to the far end, still holding on to my arm. We halted as he said, “I guess you’re enjoying this?”

I assured him that I was and I added, “It’s most likely to be the nearest I’ll ever get to the real thing.” We set off again through the busy hallway toward the other end and on the way there were several other guys who were obviously in cuffs, but nobody took any notice. It was the norm in that location. In fact the only thing that set us apart from the rest of the crowd was that Kevin was leading me slowly through the hallway, everybody else seemed to be in an almighty hurry.

When we reached the end of the hallway, he said, “Sorry Mike, but I’ve gotta take these things off, need to get back to do some work.”

The crazy idea of mine had worked, it had been a great experience and I’d finished up with a pair of cuffs that had seen plenty of use since they’d been issued to Kevin. I turned my back to him and he removed the cuffs. Suddenly I felt very conspicuous as he removed them – I’d already seen loads of guys there who were hooked up but hadn’t seen anybody having their restraints removed – but nobody seemed to take any notice and I rubbed my wrists in the time-honoured manner. Kevin slipped the cuffs into the other back pocket of his jeans as he said, “I’ll hand these back to you when we get outside.”

We went to the exit and I handed back my “Visitor” pass, Kevin showed his ID and we went out into the mid-day sunshine. I needn’t have concerned myself about when I’d get hold of the cuffs because once we were just a few paces outside the HQ building Kevin produced them from his back pocket with a flourish, handed them to me and said, “Have fun with them, Mike, and pay me when we’re well away from here.”

He went on to explain that he’d got to get back to his office but he’d walk with me to City Hall and then leave me to make my own way to wherever I was going. During the short walk we talked about his work as an Auxiliary cop and he said he was surprised at my interest in cuffs as he’d never come across a collector before and he’d always just regarded handcuffs as a tool of the trade. I asked him how often he got to use his cuffs and he explained that some of the work he did was assisting with the transfer of prisoners from holding cells to Court and vice versa, so his tended to get plenty of use – and he added with a smile “as a tool of the trade!”

Just before we arrived back at City Hall I took out some cash and discretely passed to him sufficient to cover the cost of the cuffs as shown on the receipt he’d given me. We arrived at City Hall, I said my thanks, we shook hands and he turned to leave me.

As he walked away I could see the outline of his new cuffs in his back pocket. Instinctively my hand went round to the left-hand rear pocket of my own jeans and I felt the comforting outline of “his” handcuffs – now my handcuffs!

I decided to walk back to my hotel and after a while I stopped in Broadway and checked my reflection in a window – sure enough, there was the outline of my cuffs clearly showing through the denim – perfect!!

As soon as I arrived back at my hotel I stripped off and locked my “new” cuffs on in front. I double-locked them, lay on the bed and …

… well, I’ll leave the rest to your imagination!

Before I left New York I called his office number a couple of times, just to say one more thank you and goodbye, but each time I was told that he wasn’t in the office that day.

I never saw him again.

Kevin – in case you read this (you’ll know who you are), please get back in touch through Metal who runs this site, it would be good to make contact again.

THE END

Metal would like to thank Mikeintightpants for sharing this story

By Mikeintightpants

I hit the “Send” button, logged off, closed the laptop and sat back. I was on a business trip to the States and as always I’d arranged some free time in my schedule which was a particularly good thing on this occasion as I’d made contact on the internet with a guy and had arranged to meet him. He sounded interesting and we had some mutual interests.

We’d first made contact on GearFetish and had been emailing for around 6 months. He’d told me that his name’s Joe and that he’s 25 years old. We exchanged photos although by mutual agreement there were no face shots. If the photos really were of him, then he was of athletic build, hairy and – well, interesting.

From the start it was clear that we have a mutual interest in restraints. He said that he’d got a large collection of handcuffs – and he liked using them! His other interest was tight clothes and he left me in no doubt that his particular fetish was tight breeches and jeans. He elaborated by saying that he particularly enjoyed wearing the polyester and spandex 4-way stretch type of breeches – “as worn by motorcycle cops” and he added “but tighter!” Well that was fine by me, here was a guy into cuffs, cuffing and tight pants ….. and he’d suggested a meeting – it couldn’t  be better!

When he heard that I’d be visiting Georgia he immediately suggested a meeting and although it was a tempting suggestion I was naturally cautious.  Was he a bit too eager? What did I know about this guy? Well, not a lot! If he was levelling with me, I knew his name, age and I had a rough idea of his appearance, that was all. So I asked a few more questions and suggested we had a chat on the phone; he sent me his phone number straight away and I called him as soon as I had an opportunity. He answered after a couple of rings and we chatted for several minutes, small talk really but it broke the ice and he sounded like a genuine sort of guy – in fact he sounded very promising, especially when he explained that his place was out in the country, surrounded by fields and woods! I asked him what he did for a living and although he wasn’t evasive I didn’t get a direct answer so as it wasn’t important I let it go, unanswered.

He’d suggested meeting at his place and he was understanding when I expressed some reservations about that (haven’t we all heard the warning “never visit a stranger at his place if you’re alone”!).  So the deal was that he would let me have his address, I would drive to his place, stop outside, sound my horn, he’d get in my car and we’d go off to a bar for a couple of beers and a face-to-face chat so as to decide our next move. That’s why the next email I got from him gave me his address – which was a house in Pine View Road, together with his zip code. I checked it out on Google Earth. Sure enough, it was a modest looking house surrounded by fields and woods – just as he’d said.

After our phone chat we exchanged some more emails before my departure from England and now here I was in my hotel room on this, the day that I was due to drive down to meet him. I’d arranged my schedule so that I had a day off work and we’d agreed for me to get to his place for around 10 am. But a few minutes earlier I’d received a rather strange email from him asking for details of the car that I’d be driving. My first impulse was to pick up the phone and call him to ask why the hell he wanted to know that but instead I fired off a quick response asking what on earth  did it matter what car I was driving. His email response was immediate – he wanted to be sure that he would be getting into the right car when I arrived to collect him. OK, so he was being cautious, too. But was that the real reason he wanted to know about the car or was there more to it – his house looked to be pretty isolated, there wouldn’t be many cars drawing up outside! I thought about it for a few seconds, decided the guy was just being ultra-cautious and sent off a reply that I’d be driving a white Chrysler (thanks to Avis!) and gave him the model and licence plate number. That’s when I hit the “Send” button, logged off, closed the laptop and sat back.

Joe had given me directions and he reckoned it would take about an hour and a half to reach his place from my hotel that was a little way north of the city centre. The first part of the journey would be very straightforward as I’d driven down to Columbus on many occasions during previous visits but this time I’d need to turn off the Interstate at the exit number he gave me, which would be after about an hour’s drive, then head east and follow his detailed directions. So the easy part that I knew so well was the I-85 South onto the I-185 South, but once I reached “his” exit off the I-185 I’d be on new territory. It seemed sensible to allow a bit of extra time just in case I had difficulty finding the place so I planned to set off at around 8 am and that should give me ample time to make the rendezvous.

It was a hot day, just the occasion for wearing shorts – but we’d agreed that I’d wear some decent jeans for my visit although somehow we didn’t get round to discussing what he’d wear.  I’d selected a pair of my tightest jeans and as I’d pulled them on I’d placed my cock and balls to achieve maximum visual effect on my left thigh, knowing that Joe would be expecting to see a decent package.

I picked up my camera and was ready to set off for what promised to be an interesting, even exciting, experience.

I drove away from the hotel just before 8 o’clock and settled back for what I knew to be a somewhat tedious drive down south, but hopefully it would be worth it to meet up with Joe.

The first part of the journey on the I-85 was, as I’d anticipated, congested though uneventful and I was glad when I joined the I-185 where it was so much quieter.

In spite of the fact there was hardly any other traffic I was making a concerted effort to keep my speed within the posted limits – didn’t want to get a speeding ticket. My mind was wandering, thinking about Joe – what would he be like? Would we hit it off? Would we decide we didn’t like the look of one another and write it off as a waste of time? ….. the possibilities were endless.

I came back to reality as I passed the exit that I knew was the last one before I had to turn off the Interstate and I dropped my speed to 50 so as to comply with the new limit that was posted. As I went under a bridge I saw a cop car parked immediately after the bridge in such a way that it couldn’t be seen until you were actually level with it. The driver was out of his car, talking to a motorcycle cop who was sitting astride his bike; they appeared to be engrossed in conversation and didn’t look up as I went past, completely disinterested – or so I thought!

A few minutes later my exit was signed as being one mile ahead and as I checked my mirror I saw the motorcycle cop coming up behind me, his blues flashing. Some sort of emergency, I thought to myself but he made no attempt to overtake. I indicated that I was taking the exit ramp and turned onto it.

I was almost at the end of the exit ramp when he switched on his siren, drew level and flagged me down. Oh shit, I’d driven many thousands of miles on frequent visits to this country and never before been stopped by a cop. I hadn’t been speeding, what was the problem I wondered? The cop had parked immediately in front of me, blues still flashing.

The morning sun glistened on a pair of handcuffs that were hanging from his belt. They were on a leather cuff strap and as I looked at them I felt the inevitable stirring inside my jeans.

He got off his bike, his black leather highly polished boots (probably Dehners but I couldn’t be sure) glistening in the sunlight and he removed his helmet as I lowered the window. He walked towards me. Walked? It was more of a strut – he was a good looking cop and he knew it.

5’ 10”,  mid-twenties, biceps almost bursting from the sleeves of his fitted uniform shirt, showing hairy arms that terminated in what were probably the largest hands I’d ever seen – everything about this cop seemed to be big! His blond hair was buzzed down to no more than a #1 with carefully trimmed facial stubble to match and he looked almost menacing with his heavily laden leather duty belt. I took all this in while he was strutting towards my car but what really held my attention was his crotch! OMG what a package – here was a cop who was clearly without underwear, hanging left and undoubtedly with an enormous hard-on, showing the outline of a very thick cock that was straining at the stretch fabric and I could see the outline of a pair of large balls that, likewise, seemed as though they were straining to get out of his breeches.  The guy was obviously an exhibitionist, but he was a cop – in uniform! He stood at the open window and said something about me exceeding the speed limit and going too fast when I entered the exit ramp. I was barely hearing what he said, my eyes were fixed on that bulge that seemed to be almost deliberately displayed at the open window right in front of my eyes and even if I hadn’t wanted to look at it, his position made it impossible to avoid looking at his crotch.

“ID and insurance!” he demanded in a not-too-friendly voice. I went into a cold sweat – I didn’t have any documents with me, they were back at the hotel, in the safe with my passport and spare cash. The cop seemed annoyed at my lack of an immediate response to his demand  but I got the feeling that he knew I was looking at his bulging crotch – in fact, more than that, I got the feeling that he wanted me to get a good look at it!

I just sat and looked into his piercing blue eyes, speechless. “Name!” he demanded and rather naïvely I managed to reply “Mike”.

“Full name!” he barked and I mumbled my full name but that didn’t satisfy him and he again asked for my ID. I explained that everything was in the safe back at the hotel and he made it perfectly clear that he wasn’t happy with that explanation and told me to get out of the car. I got out and put my hand in my jeans pocket. As I did so his right hand went immediately to his firearm but he held it there as I slowly withdrew my hand and held out my credit card to him. I explained that it was the only form of ID that I had with me, adding that in England it wasn’t compulsory to carry around a drivers licence and insurance certificate whilst driving. He took a cursory look at my credit card and reminded me in a very unfriendly tone that I was now in the United States of America, not in England – and he had to see some ID!

But I didn’t have any with me!!

OK, I was in the wrong but it really did seem that the guy was looking for trouble and I didn’t like the way things were shaping up. “Wait right there and don’t move” he snapped. As he swaggered over to his motorbike I saw that in the small of his back he was also carrying two well-scuffed leather cuff cases as part of his belt rig, in addition to the cuffs hanging on the strap  – “Very nice!” I thought to myself.

He held a short conversation on his radio but I couldn’t hear what was said and when he’d finished he came back over and started walking slowly round my car. As instructed, I kept as still as I could and didn’t even turn my head as I wondered what he was looking at. He came and stood in front of me – very close and next thing that happened he was pushing his bulging crotch right up against mine that was equally bulging. I had an immediate urge to push him away but it was in fact a very stimulating feeling and I didn’t want to risk being accused of assaulting a cop! It reminded me of one of the well-known Tom of Finland cartoons …..

… OK so the two guys in the cartoon are in leathers and neither of them are cops and here at the roadside we weren’t embracing one another – but remember that all this was happening really fast, my mind was racing and – yes – that cartoon is one of the things that flashed through my mind and made a lasting impression on me. At this time I was quite enjoying having the cop in such close proximity, but I was wondering what he had in mind.

I didn’t have long to wonder about it as I heard him say “I need to handcuff you” and  his next words sent a chill down my spine (or if I’m honest with myself – and with all you guys out there – it was a surge of excitement through my crotch),  “now turn around and place your hands behind your back!!!”

OMG, I felt as though I was in a dream. Was this really happening?

“Do it” he shouted “NOW!!”.

This cop meant what he said and his attitude left me in no doubt that I was about to be handcuffed. I knew that there was no point in refusing, he’d made up his mind that he was going to cuff me!!!  I turned to face away from him and put my hands behind. And that’s when I did a very stupid thing …..

….. as I put my hands behind my back, without thinking  I turned my palms to face outwards, just like I’d done so many times before in role-play and practice sessions. It didn’t go un-noticed by the cop!

I heard the snap of the strap as he pulled the cuffs off his belt and immediately heard the familiar sound of them ratcheting as he handcuffed me, followed by the further clicks as he adjusted them to a proper fit, then I felt him double-lock them. That’s when he left me in no doubt that he’d noticed my moment of stupidity a few seconds earlier when I’d turned my palms to face out ….. he said that he’d seen that I’d turned my palms out without being told, so it was obvious I’d been cuffed before and he wanted to know how many times I’d been arrested. The answer to that was “never” and I told him so, but from the look on his face I could tell that he didn’t believe me. I should have added by way of explanation that I’m a collector of handcuffs but I didn’t – and that was my second mistake – instead of explaining about being a collector, I asked “why am I under arrest, and shouldn’t you have read me my rights?”

He looked furious and snapped back “you’re not under arrest – yet!. The cuffs are for your own protection as well as mine until we find out who you really are and we’ll find that out when we take you downtown in a few minutes!”.

As he said it I saw that he was again looking at the bulge on my left thigh, – I’d sprung a hard-on even before he applied the cuffs but now it was even more noticeable through the straining denim and it was damned obvious that this cop had a serious interest in bulges – not only his own! He’d also got a serious hard-on!

He went over to my car, had a cursory look inside then picked up my camera from the front seat and put it in the box on the back of his bike, presumably on the basis that it would be safer there rather than in an unattended car.

He told me that he was going to frisk me and I was ordered to turn around with my back to him. He started a fairly quick pat-down and when he got to my jeans pockets he removed my car keys, credit card and the few dollars that I was carrying. I always carry a spare cuff key and when I’m wearing jeans it’s always in the small coin pocket – and that’s where he found it. As he took the key out he said “Interesting!” and resumed the pat-down, surprisingly without any further comment or questions about the key. He quickly patted down my right leg, checked the bottom of the jeans and did the same at the bottom of my left leg; it was then that he started working his large hands up my left leg – he seemed to be taking it very slowly and deliberately until he got almost to the top of my thigh when he stopped. Neither of us spoke and I kept perfectly still and realised that I was holding my breath. He was still behind me while he was patting me down and because he’d stopped I assumed he’d finished checking me and that he wouldn’t bother with my top-leg area.

I was wrong!!

Suddenly from behind he reached between my legs and I felt him very gently stroking my cock and squeezing my nuts. He groaned, stood up and walked round to face me. His face was expressionless as he came up close and looked me straight in the eyes. Things seemed to be taking a more positive turn as he looked around and then I felt one of those enormous hands fondling my dick and nuts again.

By this time I’d come to the conclusion that this was no normal pat-down – but what the hell was the guy up to? Here I was, 4,000 miles from home, handcuffed behind my back, wrongly accused of some minor infringement and now I was being subjected to an over-zealous pat-down, it wasn’t making any sense! But having said that I had to admit to myself that I was rather enjoying the attention that I was receiving from this guy. All of this had taken place in full view of the passing traffic on the exit road but I realised that the cop had been very careful to ensure that his “personal” attentions were directed at me when there was no-one else in the line of sight.

Suddenly, and without warning he gave my bulge an extra-hard squeeze that made me gasp as he said “Forget this ever happened buddy, gotta get you downtown right now. Just stand perfectly still” and he walked over to his motorcycle, leaving me standing, in handcuffs, in full view of any passing cars.

I was conscious that all the passing drivers were looking at me – they would have been well aware that I was in cuffs. What they might have been thinking I’ll never know, they were gone in a moment.

He was talking on his radio but again I couldn’t hear what was being said and as it was obvious that he couldn’t take me downtown on the back of his bike I reckoned that he was calling for back-up.

Sure enough, my thoughts were confirmed as in the distance I heard the sound of a siren and a few seconds later a cop cruiser came up the exit road at speed – sirens and blues – and it screeched to a halt. The driver leapt out as though he was here to deal with a major incident – it was the same cop that I’d seen briefly back at the bridge when he was out of his car talking to the cop on the bike.

Yep, definitely the same cop – only this time I got a good look at him. As he stepped out of his cruiser he shouted a greeting to his buddy and pushed his shades up onto his shaved head. I could see that he was good-looking and muscular – and I could see his duty belt as he came towards me. There was so much equipment on his belt, he was quite an impressive sight. But there was one particularly outstanding feature about this hunky cop – and I mean outstanding ….. yep it was his crotch. He was wearing regular police pants but they weren’t the regulation cut; it was pretty obvious that they’d been taken in on the thighs so as to show the massive bulge on the inside of his left thigh to best advantage – just the same as his bike buddy in the breeches. I took all this in during the few seconds it took him to reach me and the motorcycle cop came over at the same time. The two of them stood in front of me, both had their eyes fixed on my bulging crotch and it was several seconds before the newly-arrived cop looked up to make eye contact.

The two cops spoke quietly together and the new arrival seemed to be called Chris. They clearly knew one another very well and were making arrangements to take me downtown. Chris grabbed my right arm and led me towards his cruiser. As we approached his car he led me round to the rear door on the side furthest from the road, fairly well out of sight of anybody who was passing and he said “Just gotta give you a quick frisk”. I immediately pointed out that it was only a few minutes since his colleague had given me a very thorough pat-down. “That don’t matter” he snapped at me, “I’m the transporting officer and it’s department regulations that I frisk you before putting you into the car. Spread your legs!”. I was in no position to argue.

We were screened from the road by his cruiser and his idea of a frisk was to limit his attentions to the substantial bulge that I was sporting in my jeans. He worked on my cock and balls through the tight denim, very much the same way as his colleague had done a few minutes earlier and I have to confess that once again I thoroughly enjoyed his attentions. But it did strike me as very odd that not only did these two cops both have such an obsession with my denim bulge but that they were both sporting equally visible bulges in their uniform pants whilst they were on duty. But I was in no position to question their actions!

When the cop had finished fondling (that’s what it seemed like) my cock and balls he told me that he was going to put me in the back of his cruiser. As he said it he grabbed my arm again, used his other hand to hold my head down and pushed me into the back seat of the car.

Holding a handcuffed prisoner’s head down to protect him while getting into a car was something that I’d seen so many times on films, but this time it was actually happening to me and I was both exhilarated and worried at the same time – exhilarated as evidenced by the obvious state of my dick but worried because I had no idea as to what would be the outcome of this strange sequence of events.

So now I was sitting in the back of a cop car, handcuffed behind my back and about to be driven away because of a minor offence. The cop who’d cuffed me had a fascination for guys’ bulges and the cop who was about to drive me downtown had already demonstrated the same fascination. The situation seemed to be getting more and more unreal.

As a law-abiding citizen, this was the first time I’d ever been in a cop car, although as a handcuff enthusiast I’d travelled in a civilian car on many occasions while hooked up during role-play scenarios and training sessions but this car was different! The first thing I noticed was that it was very cramped in the back – I‘m not tall but my knees were touching the back of the seat in front and that was probably because of the protective screen that was installed to separate the prisoner from the police crew in the front. Prisoner! Yes, I was now a real prisoner in a real cop car. And the other main difference between this and a regular car was that this one had a hard plastic seat that had an indentation in the back – it was obviously to accommodate handcuffed hands and would avoid the necessity of some prisoners having to sit on their cuffed hands if they couldn’t position themselves otherwise.

The cop leaned inside the car and without a word he fastened “my” seatbelt and as he did so he took the opportunity to once again run a hand over my man-bulge. By this time the existence of such an obvious erection showing through my pants had ceased to be a source of embarrassment to me – and with the cop in such close proximity I’d more or less been expecting him to pay me some more “special” attention.

He slammed the door shut, walked round to the driver’s side and as he passed in front of the car I could see that he was carrying two sets of cuffs in leather pouches in the small of his back ….. he wouldn’t be needing those right now, I was already cuffed and stuffed!

He got behind the wheel and we moved off slowly. He stopped when we were alongside the motorcycle cop who said “You know where you’re taking him, Chris!”. A knowing look passed between them and my driver replied “Yep, see you when I drop him off”. The motorcycle cop rode away and we set off up the exit road.

We joined what seemed to be a main city street. Was it a city, or was it a town? By English standards many small American towns that call themselves cities would only be a town –or even a village! – in England, but what the hell, in this predicament it didn’t matter a damn whether it was a city or a town. But it sure was a busy place. We passed over numerous sets of traffic lights and after we’d been travelling for what must have been a couple of miles  I realised that the traffic was thinning out and at the same I saw a sign that said we’d now left the city limits. Suddenly I was very uneasy – something was wrong – surely the police station wouldn’t be outside the city limits, so what the hell was going on? Where were we going …..?

To be continued …

My new favorite show is Alaska State Troopers on the on National Geographic Channel.

A lot of them are fucking HOT. Many of them are muscular, have short buzzcuts and tattoos. And lots of handcuffing takes place on this show. One of my favorite troopers is Howie Peterson (pictured above and below). In one episode, he detains a suspect on the side of the road and then releases him. Then, surprisingly, this guy asks the trooper to give him a ride into town. Peterson says to the dude sure, he will be glad to him a ride, but he will have to travel in the back of the squad car with his hands cuffed behind him, because he had just lied to him during the investigation. The guy declines and instead decides to hitchhike. Dang.

Hey, Peterson, you can use your cuffs on me, any time!

Here are men who fall into the category of “any time, any place.” If I were to meet any of these guys holding a pair of handcuffs say at the Eagle, at IML — or even in a dark alley somewhere — I would willingly turn around and put my hands behind my back.

Click for Boot Lust

Dayton O’Connor gets zapped and fucked by nasty Officer Jeremy Stevens

Officer Stevens just found a masked burglar, Dayton O’Connor, breaking into someone’s home. After a long pursuit, the criminal has nowhere else to go. Officer Stevens throws Dayton in cuffs and investigates his belongings. Upon finding all of Dayton’s BDSM gear, Officer Stevens decides to teach this perp a lesson. He makes Dayton suck his cock before tying him up with his hands above his head. Dayton screams at the top of his lungs as Officer Stevens takes his time zapping the perp’s balls. After being worked over by the flogger, Dayton is tied up with his legs spread and his ass ready. Jeremy gives Dayton’s ass the fucking of a lifetime before spraying his cum all over the perp. Officer Stevens milks a load out of the kinky criminal before taking him downtown for booking.

To see more, go to Bound Gods

Check out Robert Axel at Men On Edge:

To see more, go to Men On Edge

If you like hot men tied up in and out of their BOOTS, check out BootLust:

Click for BootLust.

Meanwhile over at Bound Gods, it’s late one night out on the streets. Officer Connor Maguire just caught himself a scoundrel by the name of Johnny Parker. Rather than taking this biker downtown for booking, Officer Maguire leads him to his secret spot, where he takes all his favorite scumbags for a little fun. Johnny is thrown to the ground and put in chains as Officer Maguire has him suck on his nightstick. Aroused, Connor whips out his hard cock and shoves it down the biker’s mouth before giving him a surprise taste of the flogger. Suspended upside down, Johnny is made to swallow Officer Maguire’s cock and eat his hairy hole. Finally, Officer Maguire gives the outlaw a hard fucking in mid air till he sprays his load all over Johnny’s face. Before Officer Maguire takes his felon downtown, he has Johnny blow his giant load all over his foot and lick it clean.

To see more, go to Bound Gods

Check out this image from gay erotic artist RH, part of his “Jailwatch” series:

Click for Mencomix

Today’s authority figures picture is from the men over at Real Working Men

Click for Real Working Men

If you are NYPD and want me to do this to you, contact me!

If this is your scene, check out Boot Lust:

Click for Boot Lust

Here are some pictures of hot men who look like they know how to use handcuffs. They are my kind of men, if you ask me.

Yeah, I stole a number of these pics off various internet sites. If you got a problem with that, come and arrest me. Bring your cuffs, and they better be high-security or hinged or else I will bust out of them.

Does anyone know?

By centurionF and amalaric of Chained Muscle

You’d made it in the force if you were invited to one of the police commissioner’s private gala evenings. Most younger invitees were a bit perplexed. Not allowed to bring a wife/partner? Yawn. But your boss made it clear that this was a full suit event, smarten up and look good son or you’re on the beat till you retire. But like most events you dread, this was one for the memoirs. A real night of fun amongst the boys.

There were usually two convicts on show, and newbies to this never understood why these guys, some of the worst perps they’d ever met, were so subservient, submissive. They didn’t understand that the crims’ behaviour this evening was being closely monitored and marked, and this would reduce or increase this evening’s punishment. The men took round trays of drinks, buck naked, and they allowed the suited cops to play around with them, toy with their cocks, dish out ballplay and punishment. All with a grin of sorts. Some of these guys were tearaways, and used to it anyway. Some would balance their tray of martinis on one hand, stand with their legs wide apart and almost invite the guys to dish out the pain to their testicles. Getting into the boy fun was good, and reduced your `sentence`. Others would stand rigid with their tray in one hand as a cop wanked them, brought them close, and sent them away – to return again for another edging. Nothing like a drink being offered to you by a naked gangster with a dribbling cock.

Another guy would shoot in a cop’s marguerita, whilst reciting `I’m yours officer, forever`. Later, when the drinks had lubricated the small crowd of boys in blue, the naked men would kneel and service one or two of the guys’ dicks. A useful service if your wife was pregnant or not giving it to you for any reason. But most men were waiting for the finale. The chandeliers would dim, and the two men would be chained up in an ornate ormolu X-frame for the whip. The whipping was taken slow and leisurely. Some of the cops would step up and give them `a dozen of the best for my buddy`. By that time all the cops had loosened up and were just in their trousers and polished shoes. The swish of the whip, its satisfying smack on the broad shoulders of naked sweating guys, the soft lights and the drink all had an effect. Waistbands would be loosened. A guy needed release. Maybe your best pal was with you at this event. If you jacked each other off while O’Malley was taking the lash then hell, why not? It was not unusual to see two young cops wanking and kissing as the guy they’d risked their life to bring in was screaming under the whip. There was a dry cleaning service available as you left, with regulation blues to go home in. The force looked after its men.

To read more, visit Chained Muscle