textfiles/sex/EROTICA/T/tight.txt

                             "SLEEP TIGHT" (1/2)


    The time had come.  Will grinned at the pieces of his homemade harness
strewn on the bed, and at the spandex clothing that would soon hold him
captive.  He was really going to do it: tie himself up all night in his
spandex, with no way to escape until daylight.  All week he had teased
himself, trying to make himself so horny that he would actually go through
with it.  Every night he had wriggled into a different piece of lycra and
rubbed his cock around inside it, over and over stopping just at the brink
of ejaculation.  Will had counted down his remaining time as a free man.
"Enjoy your freedom!", he thought.  "Tonight you could peel off the
leotard and throw it on the floor, or get up and walk to the kitchen like
anyone else.  But in four days you'll be tied up helpless in your
skintight costume!"  Three days left.  Two days left.  Thirty-five minutes
more to be free.
    This "freedom" bit was pure self-deception.  Will hadn't been free for
many years now.  True, he could move about like people who really were
free.  But the leotards in his dresser, the tights in the catalogs, and
the costumes in his imagination fed on his brain.  Zipping up one unitard
only made him write for more dancewear catalogs.  He craved every leotard
he didn't have, the forest green one, or the heavier weight one, or one in
a smaller size than any he'd tried.  So he would become the owner of
another piece of spandex, and it would become the owner of another corner
of his mind.
    Will figured he'd always been this way.  As a tyke, he'd had a
fascination for comic books that he later recognized as sexual.  He liked
the Flash and the Atom, with those one-piece costumes that even covered
most of the head.  But if the costume on the cover included tight trunks,
the comic was as good as sold.  Flash's arch-enemy the Trickster was his
first favorite.  The Trickster had striped tights and shirt, and yellow-
and-black striped trunks.  Years later Will got a yellow-and-black striped
Speedo, which he adored.  But much as he craved tight clothing as a kid,
there was none in the house.
    When he was ten or eleven, though, his mom must have read another
chapter in her child-rearing guide.  Out of the blue, she proposed that a
boy of Will's age should consider wearing briefs instead of boxer shorts.
Will pretended to hate the idea but "consented" to give them a try.
So he was handed two three-packs of white cotton briefs, each a different
brand.  He closed the door to his bedroom.  Frenzied at first, he ripped
open the plastic, but just as suddenly he slowed down.  Slowly, gently, he
unfolded the top pair.  They were just as he had imagined -- smaller than
he was, ready to latch onto him, if he would just step into their world.
He did, left leg first.  Quickly he pulled them into place and then tried
yanking them a little higher.  Will was ecstatic at the way they felt and
looked.  He wanted to wear them all day and all night, and he just about
could!  That's what underpants are for!  Wearing his snug little
underpants all the time was the greatest thing Will could imagine at that
age.
    That changed in a big way during middle school.  When he was twelve,
Will got his first racing suit for swimming.  It was really tight, even
before he began to outgrow it.  In fact, it was two suits in one, a
smaller one inside a larger one, sewn together around the waist.  The
fabric was nylon tricot, which hardly gave at all.  Quite by accident,
Will discovered that the outer suit would sometimes slide over the inner
suit, and the feeling was pleasing beyond belief.  Practicing breaststroke
kick on the pool deck really did the trick.  He knew that some of his
teammates also got a kick out of this drill, and they wondered if the
coach knew just what a workout they were getting.
    At home, Will perfected the art of self-stimulation laced into his
double-layered suit.  Hands were unnecessary if he just moved the right
way over and over.  Of course this ultimately led to his first orgasm.  He
had nothing to squirt yet, and each intensely tickling orgasm ended only
when he lost the will to continue.  By the time he would stop, he really
felt on the verge of insanity.  But then he cursed himself for stopping,
wondering what it would be like to tickle that way for ten minutes, or an
hour, or a day.
    Frustration at his mental inability to try this led to Will's first
self-bondage fantasy.  He imagined strapping himself into a chair in his
racing suit.  The chair would provide the motion that let the two layers
of the suit slither across one another.  A timer would determine how long
the chair would rock, and once set, there was no turning back until the
clock ran down!  Of course, like all of Will's fantasies, this never
really happened.  And soon enough, he began to ejaculate.  Sadly,
ejaculation seemed to bring with it a definite time limit on each orgasm.
The chair with the timer lost its appeal.
    Within a year or two, Will's friends were letting him peek at their
porno magazines.  Will, though, was much more aroused by their superhero
comics.  It was at his friend Brent's house that he first saw the comic
that drove his lycra-bondage fantasy.  Comics starring the Atom, as it
turned out, had a large dose of this.  For starters, the Atom was always
wearing the infinitely stretchable, one-piece red-and-blue costume that
covered all but his lower face and ears.  When he shrank, the costume did
too.  When he reached full size, the threads of the suit were so far apart
that you couldn't see them, but they still surrounded him.  In issue 14,
the costume itself took control of the Atom: "Forced to obey its every
move, he has become the slave of his own superhero uniform!"  The Atom
also spent much of his life in bondage at the hands of gleeful super-
criminals.  Dr. Light, for example, trapped him inside a light bulb.
    But Will's new obsession was with Chronos, the clockwise crook.
Chronos' disguise included black-and-white striped tights, tight red
trunks with a wide yellow belt, a stretchy green shirt, yellow gloves and
boots, plus the mandatory cape and giant collar.  The skintight white hood
over his head and neck was beyond compare.  Every feature was concealed
but his ears, eyes, and lower lip.  His nose was covered, and a stretch of
fabric descended from his nose, curled under his upper lip, and
disappeared.  The wrinkles between Chronos' nose and lips fascinated Will,
just as did the absence of wrinkles everywhere else.  Chronos' mouth was
never closed, and it seemed as if the mask tugging at his upper lip
contributed to his mocking grin.  Will longed to trade places with the
Atom as he was restrained and humiliated over and over again by Chronos.
Once Chronos trapped the Atom spread-eagled under the crystal of a
wristwatch.  In another issue, the Atom ended up bound to a clock gear.
Little prongs popped from the gear through the Atom's suit so that once
again his costume became a partner in his bondage!  All the while, Chronos
delighted himself with time-related banter.
    Atom #28 was really the best.  Chronos wore a wristwatch that could
stop time for everyone but himself.  He thus disabled the Atom, but
discovered that it was impossible to remove the Atom's face mask!  Still,
he lashed the spandex-clad Atom by the wrists and ankles to the dial of a
killer clock.  The upper lip of his hood wrinkling, Chronos chuckled,
"There's no escape from this trap, Atom! Ha! Ha!"  All of this action was
on a single glorious page that, for Will, was the ultimate in pornography.
    Now Will began to fantasize that he was awakened one night to the
sight of Chronos standing over him and clicking his time-stopping
wristwatch.  In the next instant of his consciousness, Will found himself
wearing a maddeningly tight Chronos costume of his own!  He never had
known how anyone got such a thing on -- or off.  Twisting and writhing, he
groped for a zipper, a fastener, or a flap of fabric that hid one.  Using
all his strength, he was able to stretch down the bottom of the thick red
trunks an inch or two.  There was not even a seam.  The trunks were not
connected to the striped tights but were firmly attached to the shirt.  He
released the trunks, which snapped back with a rubbery sound to reassert
their ownership of his crotch.  He contorted to reach his upper back and
found nothing but slick fabric.  He clawed at his neck, and found the
bottom of the hood, but it was sealed to the shirt.  The freedom he'd
taken for granted as he fell asleep now seemed lost forever.  Then he
noticed the button on his Chronos wristwatch.  Could this button give him
back his freedom?  In desperation, he pushed it.  With that, areas of the
costume began gliding an inch this way or that all over Will's body.  The
red briefs slid up and down over the striped tights underneath, just as
the two layers of Will's first racing suit had done.  And in no time, Will
was flailing uncontrollably about his bed with the dry orgasm he'd missed
since he was twelve.  This was the kind that persisted as long as the
movement did, only now the movement came courtesy of his Chronos costume.
As in the comics, the real Chronos gloated, "There's no escape from this
trap!  Ha! Ha!"


                             "SLEEP TIGHT" (2/2)


    Will knew there was no "real Chronos", and that life could never
deliver this fantasy.  So as soon as he was on his own, he had done his
best to achieve self-bondage dressed in nylon/lycra.  He'd found a way to
tether himself for the night with no possibility of escape until sunrise.
The key element here was a Master combination lock, which could be closed
in the dark but not opened until daylight came.  He'd obsessed about this
Friday night's adventure all week, and now, finally, it was time.
    He'd already slithered into a shiny, black, long-sleeved unitard.
Having the slick spandex hug his entire skin felt great, but tights and
unitards always seemed a little too forgiving at the crotch.  The best
feeling for Will was when elasticized leg openings took hold alongside his
scrotum, and the fabric above tugged upward relentlessly.  This ensured
that his glans was always touching lycra.  If his prong should tire and
retreat a little, it could only do so by sliding down the fabric.  The
resulting friction would quickly have it on the prowl again, crawling
right back up to where it had been a moment before.  Briefs weren't great
for this -- they could lose tension by sliding down at the waist.  A
leotard, though, was perfect.  The top and bottom of the leotard were
always in a tug-of-war against each another, and Will's skin was the
playground.  Every time he turned or bent, the fabric slid over him to
readjust.  When he raised his hands over his head, the crotch fabric and
leg openings yanked upward.  If he bent over or curled up, the leotard
warned that much more of this would generate a wedgie.  The most
restrictive he had was a too-small, zippered, turtleneck leotard of plain
nylon.  Nylon/lycra, though, had the best look and feel.
    For tonight, Will chose one of his regulars: a navy blue, short-
sleeved, scoop-necked leotard.  It was made of a heavier weight lycra and,
by his choice, a little too small.  Already in the unitard, Will dangled
his blue leotard in front of him in the mirror.  It brushed limply against
him, belying the aggression it was capable of.  Will was excited to see
just how much smaller the leotard was than him.  He looked down inside it
at the inviting shape of the leg openings.  Unable to resist, he stepped
in and pulled the bottom of the leotard loosely into position over his
narrow hips.  He bent and scrunched around until his arms were through the
sleeves, and he yanked the neck seam onto his shoulders.  The best came
last.  As he straightened up, the shoulders tugged the crotch fabric and
legholes firmly into position.  He wriggled his torso a bit until the
leotard was where it wanted to be, for the moment anyway.
    Now he eyed the five pieces of his homemade self-bondage harness
strewn on the bed: a one-inch-wide leather dress belt, a length of strong
twine, a shoelace with the tines cut off, the combination lock, and a loop
of denim.  This last was just the bottom half-inch of an old pair of
jeans, where they were hemmed.  Will tied one end of the twine to the left
side of the bed frame, and the other end to the belt buckle.  This was to
keep him from getting to the room lights should he lose his resolve.  One
end of the shoelace was tied around the belt near the buckle.  A loop was
tied in the free end of the lace, and he slipped the curved part of the
open padlock through the shoelace loop.  With that, Will turned out the
lights.  He lay down with the belt under his waist and the buckle at his
left.  Picking up the denim loop, he put both wrists through it and fed
the right end of the belt up through the loop and into his right hand.  By
rotating his left wrist once, he made a figure eight in the denim loop.
This left the belt against his right wrist and under the denim.  With his
right hand, he slid the end of the belt down between his left wrist and
its half of the figure eight.  Now both his hands were attached to the
belt and to each other.  He pulled the belt through, found the buckle to
his left, and tightened and buckled the belt.  This could all take a few
minutes in the dark, but the rest was easy.  Shuffling his hands along,
Will slid the belt to his left until he could feel the buckle under his
tailbone.  Then he pushed the belt as low on his hips as it would go.
Groping under his left hip, now slippery with lycra, he found the
combination lock, attached by the shoelace to the buckle in back.  As he
pulled the lock front and center, the shoelace settled into his asscrack
for the night.  Almost there, Will pulled the padlock up hard until he
could just hook its metal U-bar over the belt, between his hands.
    This was a moment to savor.  All week he had counted down the
remaining days, hours, minutes of freedom.  Now it was seconds.  "You
could just spend the night like this", he thought.  "Everything's
tightened down -- you could still enjoy the sensations without going past
the point of no return.  Are you sure?  Do you really want to do
this?"  The answer was an exuberant "Yes!!"  The belt and shoelace were
tugging the lock apart, but with both hands, Will slammed it shut.  He
rejoiced at the quiet "shlick" of the lock closing for the night.
    To be sure, he'd done this many times before and had learned to
appreciate several subtleties.  A forecast of stormy weather the next
morning was tantalizing, since he could be trapped there longer if the
skies were so dark that he couldn't see the dial of the lock.  On the
stickiest nights, his sweat-soaked spandex seemed to confine him even more
tenaciously.  Once he had even managed to put on a one-piece bicycle suit
over everything else, work his arms inside the zipped-up suit, and finally
close up the harness inside!  There was no hope of seeing the lock until
he could unzip the bike suit, either from inside with his bound hands, or
with his teeth.
    Minor variations aside, Will's hands were tied on top of his crotch
for the night.  There was nowhere to put them without getting excited.  If
he tugged up on the shoelace, his asscrack let him know.  He could relieve
this by pushing the belt down a bit, but then the belt was on top of his
woody, lubricated by the lycra covering it.  Since his first dry orgasms,
Will had been angry at himself whenever he had ended a session of self-
stimulation.  Now his hands would be on Mr. Happy all night, and there
would be no shirking.
    Quite often, though, Will did get a delightful break.  He would doze
off and dream of dialing the right combination, freeing his hands, and
moving them to a more comfortable position for some real sleep.  No sooner
did the dream hands move than Will was awakened by his real hands tugging
futilely against the harness.  He would find that he was still trapped,
with five or six hours until daylight.  Will really loved the way his
dream mind would tease his real one.  On this night, too, Will eventually
nodded off.  But it was not his hands that awakened him.
    "The time has come."
    Will flushed.  Someone was in his room, uttering one of Chronos' corny
time-related remarks.  His visitor turned on the lights.  Will was wide
awake in no time.  He knew there was no real Chronos, no time-stopping
watches, no active costumes.  But here was some guy decked out in a very
respectable Chronos costume, his mouth smirking as the hood tugged at his
upper lip, his left hand clutching something.  Will was insanely curious
about the intruder's true identity.  Everyone had poked through Will's
comics, even the Chronos ones, but he sure as hell hadn't told anyone
about his fetish.  Still, Will was convinced that this must be someone
he'd seen many times without the mask.  Was it someone from his old
school, or from his hometown?  Was it a new neighbor whose voice he hadn't
heard yet?  Or was it just a stranger who would pass him every day on the
sidewalk, turning his face aside to chuckle with self-satisfaction over
his plan for tonight?  Will wanted desperately to pull the stretchy hood
off.
    One problem.  Will was bound to his bed, several feet below the
gloating "super-villain".  He grabbed the lock and squeezed its halves
together until the dial would turn.  "Chronos" seemed pleased to watch.
Left to 12, right past 12 to 38, left to 16.  Will jiggled the lock,
fine-tuned the last number, and nothing.  His line of sight was not good,
and he must have missed one of the numbers by a bit.  "Damn!" he thought.
"Why do I always crap out under pressure?"
    "Time to try again," Chronos enthused.
    Will tried again, this time slowly, and he failed again.  His gaze was
distracted from the lock by Chronos' left hand, and by the yellow lycra
glove that enveloped it.  The long fingers opened to reveal a combination
lock that looked just like Will's.  It was Will's.
    "I borrowed your lock recently," Chronos gleefully explained, "but I
replaced it with one of my own -- one with a different combination.  Looks
like you'll be using it for quite some time!"
    Maybe all of Will's self-abuse finally had made him insane.  He
launched himself repeatedly toward the right edge of the bed, trying to
snap the twine but only firming up the knots at either end.  He strangled
the belt with both hands and tried to pull it until he could reach the
buckle in back, but the shoelace thwarted him.  He could feel the knot
that attached the shoelace to the lock, but it wouldn't give either.
    "Don't do this!" he screamed.  "Cut me free, now!  Tell me the
combination, even one of the numbers, please!"
    The victor, by now extraordinarily pleased with himself, turned off
the lights and left.  "Have a good time wanking -- that's about all you
can do!  Ha!  Ha!"
    Wanking, and thinking.  "There might be as many as 1600 pairs of first
numbers," Will thought.  "Maybe I can try all the last digits for each
pair in about a minute.  But that's still over 24 hours for them all, at
least two days of daylight!"  And he knew that with his hands clutching,
wiggling, and turning the lock that pressed against his crotch, his cock
would be on the red phone to his brain, demanding that Will play with it
instead of the lock.  Will would answer the red phone and slide his cock
around in its spandex prison.  And every time a combination failed, Will
would be more excited and less efficient.  "What if I make a mistake when
I try the right combo?  What if this is a tricky lock with NO correct
combination?!"
    Will knew that he had done this to himself.  He had teased himself all
week, if not all his life.  He had said "Yes!" and reveled in the slight
click of the lock clamping shut.  And now, for the next night, or the next
two nights, or three nights, Will would drift off and dream of freeing his
hands, only to be awakened by those same hands tugging at the harness that
trapped him in his skintight costume.