Bound Futility

Themes/tags: Heavy bondage, straitjacket, ball gag, imprisonment, dubious consent, orgasm denial, masturbation, male/male, gay male

___

It seemed that I had a particular problem or two.

To an outside observer, it may have been obvious what my problem was. My straitjacket, for one thing, made from a combination of thick white canvas and brown leather, which kept my arms pinned and restrained against my chest. Or the small padded cell that I spent many hours imprisoned in was another one. Deprived of any view of the outside, or any pictures even, I was surrounded only by sterile, white padding underneath the glow of the circular recessed light in the ceiling.

They might have also noticed the tether connecting my jacket to the back of the cell, right in the corner where the padded bench met the floor, keeping me anchored to it with a few feet of slack. This was to prevent me from bolting outside of the cell whenever the door opened. Or the elaborate head harness I had to wear, keeping a large, smooth ball gag secured in my mouth.

I couldn't reach the tether to unhook it--for that matter, with my arms trapped, I couldn't reach much of

anything

. I could only fumble around in the sleeves, pulling against the restraints, which typically caused them to give just slightly before they sprang back into place.

I would have liked to have been able to reach up to the gag they had fitted me with, as it was very annoying having its bulk filling my mouth the way it was. Just undo the buckles and pop the thing out. Easy, right? And instinctively, I often tried to. But the jacket sleeves always stopped me short, rustling as I writhed around inside of them, only allowing me to simply jerk upwards against them before the effort fizzled out in an aimless bout of fumbling.

And the heavy padded door? Forget it. Even if I could have reached it, which I couldn't because of the tether, it was latched from the other side. One of the staff would have had to have let me out.

Oh, it was frustrating being in this situation. And it went on, and on, and on. Being trapped as I was, what could I do? On the one hand, sit there on the padded bench, alone with my own thoughts, thinking about what might be going on outside of these walls and what I could be doing with my time if I didn't need to be stuck in here, all while trying to put the physical discomfort of being bound up and gagged out of my mind.

Or on the other, once I got bored from that, squirm around and try to get out. Fight with my jacket sleeves, rock back and forth, and do anything I could to dislodge one of them. The incentives were huge, as with a freed hand, I could pull the gag out of my mouth and get out of the restraints. Then after stretching my arms, I could find a way to get the door open and sneak out of this place, away from the prying eyes of the staff and toward freedom. Provided none of them caught me, of course.

A mere fantasy, perhaps, but one that gave me some motivation to keep trying. So I tried, and tried, and tried. Over and over. Usually once the frustration built enough, I couldn't help

but

try. I would yank violently against the sleeves, to the left and then to the right, then with both arms together. I would try to reach one of the buckles on the front or the back, thinking I might be able to grasp it in my fingers through the heavy canvas of the sleeves. Or I would twist my body back and forth, thinking I could pull an arm loose if I could just bend my body at the right angle.

And all the while, I would start pushing against the ball gag with my tongue too, hoping I could work it past my lips and out of my mouth. To have it out, if only for a few minutes, would have been such a relief. I would push and push, which was very difficult to do with how big it was and with how my tongue kept sliding against its smooth surface, unable to get any traction or leverage against it. Despite my best efforts, it had a way of stubbornly staying in my mouth.

Escape was always out of reach. The more I tried, the more frustrated I would get, and the more I would start mumbling incoherently into the gag. My lips working around its surface, my jaw unable to close with its mass filling my mouth. My squirming would become more pronounced, more fervent, more furious as I pulled and yanked more desperately until I collapsed onto the padded bench. Then I would sit there, chest heaving as I caught my breath, as trapped as I was before.

Then I would get up and try again. Pulling, squirming, fighting, paired with even more muffled ranting, exhausting myself in the process before collapsing again.

"Mmmph hmmmph! Hrrmph!" Furious as it made me, the gag was quite effective at keeping my angry cursing neatly in check.

So yes, that was a problem, and an ongoing one at that. What I haven't mentioned yet was another, more hidden problem, one that confounded me at times. All the struggling would make me, well, quite hot and bothered. The more worked up I would get at my situation, the more turned on I would feel myself getting too. It was, in fact, a significant reason why I was here in the first place, if you happened to catch a glimpse at my files.

So right under the heavy canvas of my jacket and layers of thick fabric underneath it was another pressing problem. As I sat there catching my breath, I couldn't help but squirm in place, having to deal with the rather acute level of arousal that this whole situation had elicited from me.

My cock pulsated underneath the heavy fabric. It wasn't uncomfortable and was mercifully pointing upwards rather than angled in any painful way. Naturally, given the thick padding around that area, an outside observer would not have been able to tell anything was going on. But believe me, I sure couldn't ignore it in the least.

I sighed through my nose, writhing some more in place despite wanting to take a bit of a breather. God, I was horny. My situation always made me feel this way, inexplicably so.

But how to, well, take care of it? It would have felt very nice to just grab my shaft and start stroking myself, or at the very least press my palm against the front of my bulge and grind against it. Slowly, taking my time and everything. Ironic how, not too long ago, I could freely do this inside the comfort and privacy of my own apartment, often fantasizing about this exact scenario. Fantasizing about being bound up and helpless, kept under control, with freedom always tantalizingly out of reach.

It was just a fantasy, I argued to myself! It didn't need to come true! If I could just sign some papers and get out of here, I would do it in a hot minute! And I definitely never should have told the staff about those recurring fantasies either. Otherwise I might be back home. What was I thinking.

But I just couldn't help myself. I just had to tell them, in passing. And one thing led to another, and I had to sign those papers too, right after they teasingly, enticingly put them in front of me. Just, you know, an option. It was up to me, of course. No pressure. They only wanted to help.

Why I didn't at least take a day to think it over, I don't know. I could have taken the time to read the fine print, all the little ways in which I would give up any power that I had, how they would get to manage and control me from then on until they saw fit to let me go. It was all their fault, see, and well, I won't get into all of it here.

As I thought back to how I even got into this situation, my cock twitched. My arms reflexively jerked downward against the sleeves, effectively prevented from any attempts to actually reach it. Sighing, I found myself once again relegated to merely worming around uncomfortably in the heavy canvas.

Why was I like this. Why would I get turned on like this the most when my arms were trapped and I couldn't do anything about it. What a cruel paradox.

I pursed my lips, as well as I could around the surface of the ball gag anyway, and began looking around the padded walls. I had to do something, I thought. This was driving me crazy.

Huffing through my nose, I stood back up and yanked upwards on the jacket sleeves while thrusting my hips forward. Keeping my arms pulled upwards, I tried to grind down against the interior of the canvas, the crotch strap keeping the jacket in place as it pulled upwards between my legs.

This might give me some surface area to rub against, I thought. Pulling my arms up while simultaneously pushing them out, I rolled my hips around back and forth, trying to press my cock against the now tighter fabric, and attempting to thrust and slide up and down. The canvas felt too far away, so I tried to close the distance by bringing my arms back in and pulling the fabric closer to my body.

I stood there in place, continuing to roll my hips while pulling upwards with my bound arms so I could buck against the fabric. I tried sliding left and right, then up and down, then left and right again. The tether connecting my jacket to the bench swayed as I stood there, wiggling and thrusting my hips.

My breathing became a little more labored, as no matter how much I thrusted, it was impossible to get enough friction against the canvas this way. I felt like I was teasing myself with an effort that was clearly futile. This didn't keep me from continuing to try anyway, though it only led to more useless thrusting into the air while jerking around with my bound arms.

I stamped against the padded floor, frustrated, and finally stopped. Then I gave a few more tugs against my sleeves. God damn it, I thought. I can't even do simple things wrapped up like this.

But my arousal had not abated, not even a little. Quite the opposite--it had actually increased as a result of these efforts.

What about the corner of the padded bench? I attempted to crawl on top of it to straddle it sideways--nope, it wasn't long enough. Then I faced the back wall and attempted to squat down so I could lower my body enough to thrust against the front edge of the bench that way.

The problem was that when I squatted down, my knees were in the way. If my arms had been free, I may have been able to brace myself on the top of the bench while I lowered myself enough to thrust against it. But since they were trapped, I was instead forced to lean way over, which I couldn't do either because of how close the wall was to my head.

Cursing the relatively small confines of the cell, I huffed through my nose again. Looking down at the floor, I had another idea.

Carefully, I lowered myself to my knees, difficult to do with my arms still pinned against my chest. Then I gently lowered myself onto the floor, face down. I had just enough room to stretch out on the floor, with my feet against the front of the padded bench and the door mere inches from the top of my head.

Taking a few breaths, I tried grinding against the floor, thrusting against the spongy padding with my hips. Each buck was accompanied by short inhales and exhales. This was very awkward and uncomfortable with my arms stuck in front of my chest, however, since I was forced to lie on top of them.

So I lied there with my feet against the bench, thrusting against the soft padding on the floor. All of the canvas covering my genitals made it difficult to effect the friction that I needed, not to mention it was hard to do this on top of my trapped arms. Plus, granted, this cell was quite small, and I kept feeling like I had to watch my head and not inadvertently hit it against the door. That would not have been painful per se, since the door was heavily padded, but it would have been distracting.

It didn't help either that the padding on the floor was so soft and spongy. This particular spot that I managed to maneuver over gave too much, sort of like memory foam, denying me the firmness that I needed to thrust against.

I ran my tongue around the smooth surface of the gag in my mouth, which only caused me to become even more aroused. I attempted to create more pressure against my cock by pulling up on my arms again, pulling the jacket material more tightly against it. I grinded and bucked against the padding of the floor, which was clearly designed for safety over any kind of sexual stimulation, grunting with each thrust.

My heart started pounding as I worked at this with increasing vigor, a few beads of sweat dripping off of my forehead. Thankfully, my cell was kept at a reasonable temperature, and I never felt too hot inside of it.

Still, I whined. All I wanted to do was stroke myself off, any way I could. I just wanted to climax and blow a nice load, and then I could at least sit there and take some time to rest from the effort and do nothing, relaxing and steeping in the pleasure. But I just couldn't get enough friction against my cock. It seemed I was stuck at a stalemate. Trying to do this in the small cell with my stuck arms and the soft padding as my only hope of relief, I couldn't get myself over the edge.

This was so, so frustrating, and I just wanted to scream. A mighty scream that would blow that ball gag out of my mouth like a cannonball. The scream that did come out was forceful indeed, yet very effectively muffled by the gag's bulk, kept securely in my mouth via the array of head straps. Nobody outside the cell was going to hear me, since I was quite insulated inside of it.

Lying there, I continued trying to grind and buck against the floor, the thick padding continuously failing to provide any real friction or means of release. Then I began rocking my body left and right, my attention shifting from trying to climax to just getting my arms out of the jacket again.

Finally, having exhausted myself, I groaned into the gag and stopped, ceasing my useless efforts. Lying face down, I breathed heavily, my cock sitting helplessly under the jacket, still fully erect.

I suddenly heard the faint sound of a latch clicking. The heavy padded door opened. Oh right, they usually come in and check on me about this time.

I looked up at the staff member from the floor. The one that was assigned to me and my routine checkups, the youngish, mid-30s or so guy in his teal uniform and the little rounded rectangle glasses.

Looking me over, clearly seeing the sweat dripping from my forehead and the gag protruding from my mouth, he ascertained that nothing was seriously wrong and this was probably just one of my usual fits. He smiled at me. "Well, good to see you. How are we today?"

I huffed through my nose. "Mm hmmhng hmm hmmhm hrr!" I shot back to him, my mouth working around the gag, struggling to enunciate anything even remotely resembling words.

"Oh really," he replied, with feigned, mocking curiosity. This was quite characteristic of our interactions, his teasing and goading me, coupled with his delight at watching my frustrated, often incoherent responses. Still, he was a welcome sight. We had developed a bit of a rapport during my time here, and I had come to simultaneously loathe and like him.

I mean, I

wanted

to loathe him, but it was hard to. It must have been both the fact that he did do a decent job looking after me, not to mention he was quite good at keeping me in my place.

Deciding to cooperate, I brought myself up to my knees. He was going to ask me to do that anyway.

"Why don't you stand up for me," he continued. I did so, and he began looking me over, checking my pulse, then listening to me with a stethoscope. The usual routine poking and prodding that they did.

"You've gotten yourself all worked up, it seems. What are you all agitated about?"

I glared at him. "Mm hmmf hmmhng hmmk mmf hmf mh mmf!" My fury rose as I struggled in vain to talk around the obstruction in my mouth. Either take the fucking gag out, or at least stick to yes or no questions! And as my ire increased, so too did my arousal levels. At this point, I was sporting a very prominent rageboner, tucked away underneath the canvas jacket and aimed all the way upwards toward the ceiling.

He knew exactly how to push my buttons, it seemed, how to tease me, and did so with an apparent glee. I could tell from the growing smile on his face, not to mention his obvious attempts to stifle laughter at my muffled protests. This, of course, didn't help my erection subside any.

He reached up with a towel and wiped the sweat off of my forehead. Oh yeah, another thing I couldn't do on my own. Rub it in, why don't you. You get to come and go while I have to stay stuck here for long periods of time. All because I'm... the way I am, with this unique proclivity that I can't change. Anyway, I just continued to glare at him, with my mouth held open by the gag. You bastard, I thought.

Even if I could have said that, he would have taken it in stride. I knew it. He knew I was thinking it too. That's how well he knew me. And he probably liked that about me too.

"Well, everything seems normal," he finally said, patting me on the shoulder. I guess if you could consider being trapped in a straitjacket and padded cell to be "normal," I thought. "Your vitals look good, and there's no cause for concern."

No cause for concern? I wanted to get the hell out of here, that was concerning! I grumbled around the ball gag in my mouth.

He ran his hand down the back of the heavy canvas of my straitjacket, his fingers toying over the buckles. I stood still in anticipation. Are you going to release me, I thought? Maybe my opinion of you would become slightly elevated if you did. His gentle tightening of a stray loose buckle dashed any hopes of this, however. Not to mention, I felt a pang of irritation at the realization that that was the scant progress I had made.

He then reached up behind my head and did the same with my head harness. Jerking a buckle here and there, which also jerked my head slightly each time too. I cast an angry glance at him at his crude manhandling of my head, with the ball gag effectively held into place by the harness he was adjusting. "Mmmph hmmph!"

Despite the tussling, I could tell that thing wasn't going anywhere. Good thing for him, as he would have otherwise been on the receiving end of my pent-up, furious tongue-lashing. Ooh, having to wear that gag was

so

annoying.

"Okay, I think I see what your problem is," he said, running his hands further down the side of my torso. See, he knew my file. He knew me well enough to know what was troubling me. His fingers continued to trail over the front of my jacket over the heavy canvas. And I could feel them pressing against my bulge inside, however faintly.

"Would you like some assistance?" he suggested. My normally defiant posture started to give way as I lowered my head submissively, taking on a desperate, pleading look. I nodded quickly, my eyes shut and my face bright red.

Smiling, he slipped the flap open over the front of my waist. Then, donning a latex glove, he reached into his bag and produced a bottle of lubricant. After applying a little bit to my cock, he used his gloved hand to draw my shaft outside of the jacket's confines. His other hand rested on my shoulder opposite his as he gently started to stroke me.

The lube was initially cold, but as he started stroking, it quickly warmed up. I whined behind the gag in relief and began bucking my hips into his grasp as he squeezed my shaft with his fingers. My lips worked around the gag as I rolled my hips, which he met with appropriate stroking and sliding.

"Good, good," he said, encouragingly. Embracing me with his other arm around my shoulder, he aimed my cock upwards as he continued stroking and rubbing it, sliding his hand up and down its lubed surface. It started to pulsate, and my heart fluttered as I found myself increasingly lost in the pleasure and relief of his grasp.

Why couldn't I just have a normal life, I thought, maybe have a normal relationship with somebody instead of being tied up and gagged in this place, in this bizarre situation. But it felt so fucking good, too...