A new video — “Information Please: Part 9 – Invasion” — is new today at Men In Chains

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Who wants to try on these black Smith & Wesson Model 100-1 handcuffs?

These pictures are from Rob aka Bearcuffs (of blessed memory)

By Practicerestraint

All is true.—Shakespeare, Henry VIII

10:20 p.m.

The text message read: You have two minutes to get dressed and be ready. Unlock the front door.

10:25 p.m.

I was brushing my teeth when I heard the noise at the front door. Then I heard, “Police! Announce yourself!”

It’s hard to announce yourself with a mouthful of toothpaste. I spit, rinsed, and moved from the bathroom to the bedroom as the officer repeated himself and I called out, “I’m here.”

“Come out here!”

I walked into the dark hall to see a flashlight and a gun pointed at me. The officer’s specific words after that escape me. They were nonstop directions that ended only when I was lying face down on the carpet at the end of the hall, arms out to the sides, palms up. The officer knelt, grabbed my left wrist, pulled my arm to the middle of my back, and applied the handcuffs. After he brought my right hand back to complete the job, I realized he had my palms facing out. He instructed me to stand, providing assistance as I did. He grabbed my left arm and led me out the door.

His police car sat in my driveway. Headlights on but, fortunately, no flashing lights.

He hauled me to the front of the vehicle and had me face it.

“Spread your legs.”

He pulled my phone, keys and wallet from my pockets and tossed each onto the hood of the car.

“Do you have any sharp objects?” he asked as he quickly and efficiently patted me down.

“No, sir.”

“Mr. Milton, I am Sergeant Martin of the West Plains Police Department. You are under arrest. I am going to read you your rights.” After he completed the recitation, he asked, “Do you understand, Mr. Milton”

“Yes, sir.”

He grabbed me by the arm, escorted me to the rear passenger door, and opened it.

“Get in.”

Getting in and out of a vehicle without the use of your hands is not as easy as you might think. After I ungracefully landed on the seat and swung in my legs, the Sergeant reached over and buckled me in.

Then I saw what would become my uniform. Next to me on the seat was an orange jumpsuit, folded neatly. Although it wasn’t visible, I knew the word “inmate” was stenciled on the back. The jumble of chains and cuffs lying atop the jumpsuit were restraints for prisoner transport.

While I was distracted by the uniform, the Sergeant moved my possessions into the car. Then he opened the door by me and held my keys in front of me.

“Which one locks your front door?”

I confirmed that the key he held was the correct one, and he left to lock the door. While he was gone, I looked around the interior of the car and noted the time on clock in the dashboard. He returned, got in the driver seat, and turned to me.

“Mr. Milton, you are my prisoner. You will obey my orders promptly and without question. Do you understand?”

“Yes, sir.”

“You will address me by my rank of Sergeant.”

“Yes, Sergeant.”

“For your safety, my safety, and public safety, you will be restrained at all times. Do not ask to be released. For example, in the event you are ill, I will take you into the hospital handcuffed and shackled.   Do you understand?”

“Yes, Sergeant.”

“Be advised that we will stop at each rest area along the interstate and I will escort you to the restroom so you will have opportunities to relieve yourself. Regardless of your needs, I will escort you in.”

“We’re now going somewhere to get you into some more comfortable restraints.”

He then turned around and put the car in gear. He left the neighborhood and drove towards an entrance to the interstate.

I learned that acceleration in a car can be painful when your hands are handcuffed behind you. After a couple of accelerations from stop signs or stop lights, which pushed my weight onto my cuffed hands, I twisted my arms so that my wrists were off to one side. This made the accelerations less painful, but going around curves was now a problem as centripetal force pushed my weight against my wrists.

Once on the highway, we traveled south from the city towards the bluegrass at a fast clip.

11:10 p.m.

I knew this stretch of highway and had an idea of where the first rest stop was. When we approached it, the Sergeant exited the highway and took the lane leading to the truck parking. I was puzzled as he slowly drove past and around trucks towards the exit to the highway. Just before the point where the lane from the truck parking merged with the lane from the car parking, he stopped the car.

I realized that the vehicle was positioned to minimize the number of people who could see it and to block the view of the passenger side.

The Sergeant opened the driver side rear door and grabbed the uniform. He walked around to the front passenger door, opened it, deposited the restraints on the seat and dropped the jumpsuit on top of them. He then opened my door. He had me turn so he could remove the handcuffs.

“Strip down to your underwear.”

I began to remove my shirt, pants, shoes, socks and watch as he closed the door. After I was stripped, he opened the door and handed me the jumpsuit.

“Put it on. Button it up and adjust the collar.”

He left the door open so I could turn and extend my legs into the legs of the jumpsuit. It was a challenge to get the top part on because the jumpsuit fit snugly. Not too tight, but not baggy or loose in any area. The pants legs were the right length, too. How had he obtained a uniform that fit so well?

“Put on your shoes. No socks.”

After my shoes were on, he had me swing my legs out and he applied leg irons. Next he had me stand, turn to face the vehicle and put my hands on it. He looped the belly chain around me, cinched it, and closed the lock that held the chain in place. In the front, a connector chain ran from the belly chain to the leg irons. He grabbed one hand and locked on a cuff that was attached to the belly chain by about four inches of chain. He repeated this with the other hand. After turning me around, he pulled a tool from his shirt pocket and used it to double-lock each of the four cuffs.

He looked me over, messed with the collar of the jumpsuit as if to prepare me for an interview or a stage entrance, and announced, “Congratulations, Mr. Milton. You are now a prisoner of the West Plains Police Department.”

In a moment, I was back in the car and belted in. He pulled out of the rest area and back onto the interstate.

11:30 p.m.

As we drove in silence, I inspected my new hardware. I noted the Sergeant’s expert application of the restraints. He had fastened the leg irons over the legs of the jumpsuit; this held them above the ankle and prevented them from coming in contact with and injuring the Achilles tendon. The handcuffs were spot-on. There was some space between the wrist and the handcuff, but only the least bit. The cuffs would not impede circulation or pinch a nerve; at the same time, there was no way I could slip out of them. The handcuffs were positioned 180 degrees from each other on the circle of chain that encompasses my waist. While I was able to reach the fly of the jumpsuit, I could not reach the cuff on the opposite hand. The Sergeant had applied the cuffs properly, with the locks facing away from the hands. If he had handed me a handcuff key, I would not have been able to use it to free my hands.

I turned to inspect the interior of the vehicle. The front seat was full of technology: a laptop computer and a horizonal panel with multiple lights were positioned to the right of the driver’s side. I noted the pair of hinged handcuffs hanging on a hook between the windshield and the driver’s door. Some zip ties were stored above the seat to my left. An extremely serious rifle with a silencer was stored near my left leg, behind and between the front seats.

As we traveled, I noted that the new hardware, while more comfortable than “regulation” cuffing, posed a few challenges. At one point I developed an itch between my right eye and the bridge of my nose. I have no idea what caused it, but there was nothing I could do to alleviate the itch. I could only raise my hands a few inches above my waist. Later, I became frustrated with how difficult it was to adjust the cuffs. That is, the simple act of sliding the cuff up or down my wrist a bit to relieve pressure was a challenge since one hand could not reach to adjust the cuff on the opposite hand.

12:15 a.m.

True to his word, the Sergeant pulled off at the next rest stop. He parked close to the entrance to the visitor’s center that housed the restrooms. This eased my anxiety a bit; at least I wouldn’t have far to walk. The Sergeant directed me to get out of the car, grabbed my left arm above the elbow, and led me to the visitor’s center.

“Led” doesn’t adequately describe the process of moving me along. Sitting in the car relatively motionless, the leg irons and handcuffs were almost comfortable. When I walked, however, I discovered their true function as restraints. When the Sergeant took a full stride, I could only take a partial one. With each step, the leg irons pulled on my legs as I tried to extend them as far as I would in a normal walk. This, plus the fact that I had to walk more quickly, taking more steps in order to keep up with the Sergeant, distracted and disoriented me. The handcuffs prevented me from swinging my arms as I walked, putting me off balance. The Sergeant’s unrelenting pull on my arm preventing me from slowly adapting a modified gait. I essentially stumbled along towards the door.

Thankfully, there was no one in the visitor’s center or in the men’s restroom. The sergeant led me to a stall, pushed me in, and said, “You stay for a minimum of two minutes. Do your business.” He allowed the door of the stall to close and then moved towards the door of the restroom.

I opened the bottom snap of the jumpsuit and pulled out my junk. I attempted to urinate but my equipment wasn’t cooperating. The stress of my current situation made that system shyer than a mouse at a cat convention. I sighed and started to close the jumpsuit’s snaps.

“Hold on just a minute. I have a prisoner in there. Give me a minute to get him out.”

Oh, great. I heard noises of agreement from somebody or somebodies outside the restroom. As I contemplated being a sideshow for the waiting men, the Sergeant came to the stall and said, “Let’s go.”

Grasping my arm as before, he walked me out into the lobby. Fortunately, there was a partition with an information display between me and the men; I didn’t see them as I kept my eyes down and focused on walking. The Sergeant informed me later that he saw the men watch with fascination as I hobbled from the visitor’s center to the vehicle in my uniform and swinging chains.

I sat with relief and resignation as we hit the highway again. I looked down at the shackles on my wrists, waist and ankles. However comfortable they might be, their form matched their function: control. The limited range of motion they allowed slowed my movement and limited my access. The officer and the public were indeed safe.

12:50 a.m.

We came to a third rest stop. I sighed as the Sergeant pulled in and parked. This time, he exited the car and walked into the visitor’s center. He returned shortly, pulled me from the car, and led me inside the building.

“Sit down.”

I sat on a bench in the middle of the lobby as the Sergeant cracked the door to the restroom. I looked around, glad again that it was late and there was no one there to stare. Presently a man exited the restroom, surprised to see the Sergeant.

“I have a prisoner to take in there. I was waiting until you were finished so we wouldn’t startle you when we came in.”

The man glanced at me and departed. In we went and I found myself in a stall again. This time I was able to pee. Either the limited range of motion of my hands or the shriveled state of my penis made my aim terrible. I silently apologized to the next user, but there was no way I could reach the toilet paper and wipe up the mess. I flushed and exited the stall.

The Sergeant was waiting by the door and said, “Come on.” This was the only time I walked any distance without him as an escort. It didn’t improve my walking; the #%& restraints really made me walk clumsily. As we exited, I saw my reflection in the glass that formed the entrance to the video center. I was very orange and wore a lot of jewelry.

I was belted in again. I had learned to turn my head to the left as the Sergeant reached across to buckle the seat belt. When I failed to do this, he would use the side of his left arm to push my face to the side and pin my head as he buckled me in. I don’t know if this gave him more working room or was a precaution against spitting and biting.

After he shut the door, the Sergeant walked over to the vending machines near the visitor’s center. While he did that, I tried the window control on my door. I brought the window down a bit. Hmmm. Interesting. I quickly raised it again when the Sergeant turned back towards the car.

He returned with a couple of bottles. Once seated, he opened a bottle of what I’d guess was Dr. Pepper, drank some, and examined his phone. I realized I was thirsty as I reflected on our relative positions. I couldn’t have gotten a bottle to my lips or use a phone if I had either.

1:10 a.m.

We had travelled farther on the interstate to an area I was not familiar with. The Sergeant pulled off at an exit and turned into a service plaza. He pulled up to a pump, got out and filled the tank. While he was filling the car, I tried the window again and found I could roll it all the way down. The idea of climbing through the window and making a getaway crossed my mind. Not a viable option.

He got back in and pulled away from the pump, asking, “Did you get dinner? Are you hungry?”

“No, Sergeant,” I replied.

“Well, I am.”

He pulled into the lane for the fast-food operation in the service plaza. He ordered and received his meal. I noticed he asked for two straws and listened as the attendant thanked him for his serivice and made the meal complimentary.

The Sergeant pulled into a parking space and ate. (He did not offer me any of his fries.) When he was done, he stepped out, came around, and opened my door. He held a bottle of water and a straw. The straw was too short for the bottle, so he had to hold the straw in place so it didn’t drop into the bottle.

“Have a drink.”

I drank about half of the bottle and thanked him. He returned to the driver’s seat and turned to me.

“At my house, you’ll have one more chance to use the bathroom before I chain you down for night. Tomorrow, you go to work.”

He put the car in gear and we returned to the interstate.

1:30 a.m.

I sat in the parked car, looking at the front of the Sergeant’s house. We had traveled down the interstate, taken an exit that led to towns I did not know, and drove a couple of miles with multiple turns to end up in a residential neighborhood. The Sergeant pulled into the driveway of his house, turned off the engine, and left the car to enter the house. I saw his shadow on the front window; its movement showed he was moving around in the front room of the house. After about five minutes he returned and opened the car door.

“Get out.”

Again, he gripped my arm and led me into the house. I stared at the arrangement in his living room.

He had cleared the floor in front of a large gun safe. A sleeping bag and a folded blanket were in front of it. Some configuration of chains and handcuffs was between the safe and the sleeping bag.

“Do you need to use the restroom?”

“Yes, Sergeant.”

He directed me to the bathroom and I walked in to urinate one last time. I didn’t want to have to go in the middle of the night, as I suspect the Sergeant would not take kindly to me waking him up for a bathroom visit. I carefully directed the stream into the toilet bowl so I did not, um, piss him off by leaving urine on the rim.

I flushed and returned to the living room. He directed me to kneel on the blanket.

“Mr. Milton, consider your situation. You are in the custody of a police officer, dressed in orange, restrained, and in an area that you don’t know. You are my inmate. Don’t try anything foolish.”

He stepped behind me, out of my range of vision, and returned with his fly open.

“Get your mouth on that.”

I went to work with as much skill as I could muster. As he gradually got hard, I felt a stirring down below as I began to get hard. The uniform, the chains, and this officer’s control made me an eager, horny … (fill in the appropriate word).

I couldn’t see his eyes from my position, so I focused on his basketweave duty belt in front of me.   I made the mistake of pausing for a moment and he withdrew.

“That’s all you’re getting tonight.”

He directed me to stand. He undid the handcuffs and the lock on the belly chain. With my hands on my head, he knelt and opened one of the leg cuffs and removed the connector chain. He reapplied the leg cuff and stood up.

“Hands in front.”

He produced a standard pair of handcuffs and slapped them on me, then double-locked them as usual. He placed his right foot on the folded blanket.

“Get down and clean that.”

Down I went and my tongue went to work. With my hands reasonably free, I could move around and reach all the surfaces that needed to be cleaned. He switched feet, and I worked on his left shoe more methodically. I used my chained hands to lift the leg of his pants so I could easily reach the sides and back of his shoe and lick the leather.

He withdrew his foot.

“Lift up your hands.”

He reached down and brought up the open portion of a second pair of handcuffs and closed it around the chain between the handcuffs I wore. The other bracelet of the pair was closed through the two ends of a belly chain or connector chain. He had threaded the chain around one of the legs of the gun safe. My cuffs were handcuffed to a loop of chain that circled the safe’s leg.

Ingenious.

2:00 a.m.

The Sergeant turned, shut off the lights, and left for his bedroom.

I sat back on the sleeping bag. I was chained to an essentially immovable object and left to sleep on the floor. I remained in leg irons. I sighed. Well, at least the arrangement allowed me to take off my glasses and to reach the bottle of water the Sergeant had left nearby on the floor. And there was no way I could have gotten any sleep wearing the belly chain and handcuffs. I did not, however, expect to sleep much.

I attempted to find a position that would allow me to fall asleep. Although I usually sleep on my side, flat on my back seemed a logical choice. I tried it, placing my handcuffed hands in the middle of my chest. However, when I started to relax and fall asleep, my hands and arms would relax and drop. This caused the handcuffs to dig into my wrists and I jerked awake.

I tried laying on my right side, facing the safe and the connecting chain. This didn’t work. For some reason, I could not get my hands into a comfortable position.

Since sleeping on my stomach was out of the question, the last position to try was my left side, facing away from the safe. This offered the most promise. The chain and second pair of handcuffs rested on my side and did not pull on my cuffed hands. However, the weight on my side was an annoyance. The leg irons were less of a problem, although occasionally the housing of one leg cuff would bang against the other and cause discomfort. The sleeping bag muffled the sound of the chain when I moved.

Sleep evaded me. While trying different positions, I found that my shoes were making my feet uncomfortable. I stopped and took them off. At another point, I felt cold and opened the sleeping bag so it would cover me. I had the folded blanket, but it was my pillow and I didn’t want to try to sleep without one. Opening the sleeping bag removed a layer of cushioning between me and the floor (albeit a thin layer).

Time passed and I became irritable and irrational. At one point, I shook and pulled at the handcuffs and tested to see if I could slip out of them. That wasn’t going to happen without crushing the bones in my hand. I even half-heartedly tested the safe to see if I could lift it and slip the chain free. Another fruitless effort. I checked the second pair of handcuffs, the ones that connect me to the chain. They weren’t double-locked, but that didn’t help any. The Sergeant had cleared the floor for two or three feet in each direction. I couldn’t reach any furniture or items in the room, so no tools were available to help me get free.

I think I got a little sleep.

7:00 a.m.

My eyes opened and it seemed there seemed to be more light coming through the windows, although I wasn’t sure. I lay on the sleeping bag, waiting. Eventually I heard the Sergeant stir. He moved about and eventually walked into the living room, passed me without saying a word, and went outside. I heard the sound of a car door opening and slamming shut.

What if he leaves? The question alarmed me at first, but I subsequently realized that there was nothing I could do, so why worry? He was going to do as he chose, and I would remain a chained prisoner. Those were the facts. I shrugged and left the kneeling position I had assumed when I anticipated he was coming in and sat down and put on my shoes. I looked down and noticed the marks on my wrists and hands from wearing the handcuffs all night.

He did return, though, flipping on the lights and dropping my clothes on the floor as he entered. He walked over to me.

“Put your legs out.”

He unlocked the leg cuffs and then removed the handcuffs.

“Stand up and change into your clothes.”

I did so, putting on my watch and checking the time. Seven-fifteen.

After I was dressed, the Sergeant dropped the leg irons on the floor in front of me.

“Put them on.”

I sat down and fastened each cuff around a leg of my pants. I’d learned from the Sergeant. This was the first and only time that any cuffs were not double-locked.

The Sergeant took me by the arm and led me to the car.

“The neighbors don’t need to see you in your uniform.”

He had me sit in the front seat and handed me a bottle of water. He climbed into the driver’s seat and looked at me.

“Don’t try anything.”

7:20 a.m.

We left the neighborhood and drove out to county roads. At one point, he pulled off a side road and had me get out of the car. He quickly handcuffed my hands behind my back and put me in the rear passenger seat. Off we went again.

The Sergeant took me to the work detail he had mentioned the night before. The details aren’t important, except to note that any time we changed locations, I was handcuffed regulation style and put in the back seat. Any time he needed to consult his notes or review the work, I was handcuffed regulation style and put in the back seat. The length of time I sat there uncomfortably handcuffed didn’t matter to him. I knew he had experienced this position in training exercises and had heard complaints from other prisoners. No matter. He was entitled to leave the package in the back seat for as long as he wished. It was safely stowed and wasn’t going anywhere and that’s all that mattered.

We reached a dirt road that branched of a narrow country road. The Sergeant pulled up and backed up the vehicle so that it was parallel to the road with the driver’s side facing the road. He extracted me, removed the handcuffs, and handed me the orange jumpsuit.

“You know the drill.”

In minutes, I was back in the seat clothed in my uniform. The restraints were a welcome change from regulation cuffing. I relaxed a bit as we left.

8:45 a.m.

I stopped relaxing when I remembered the Sergeant planned to visit each rest stop on the return trip. I had asked him the night before if he would skip them on the way back, but he denied my request. This time I was going into the visitor centers in broad daylight. Oh boy.

I think I exercised denial. Except for the car that pulled in next to the police car as I made a return trip from the restroom, I thought I avoided attention. Not so. The Sergeant assured me later that people across the parking were staring and one guy who was closer to us nudged his buddy so he would turn and get a look at us. Perhaps it’s a good thing that walking in restraints requires concentration. And I’m okay with some denial.

10:10 a.m.

At the last rest stop, the Sergeant again pulled into a location that was screened from observers. He unlocked the restraints, handed me my clothes and said, “You’ll have to change with the door closed.”

Soon I was back in regular clothes. He cuffed me once more and put me in the front seat.

“It’s easier if you scoot your butt forward on the seat.”

I did so, and found that I could place my arms behind me. Instead of spreading my arms, I pulled them together to prevent me falling back on my hands when the car accelerated. It made the trip easier. Not comfortable, but easier.

Hmmph. You could have told me that sooner, Sergeant.

10:30 a.m.

The Sergeant pulled into my driveway. He backed into the turnaround so he could get me out of the passenger seat and uncuff me discretely. The car hid us from the street.

“Mr. Milton, you are released from my custody. Get outta here.”

I went into the house. I looked down and saw deep marks on my hands and wrists from the handcuffs. They were still there an hour later when I sat down to write this account.

© Copyright 2021 by S. Milton, practicerestraint@yahoo.com, Manacled on Recon

Please do not distribute, copy or post this content without the author’s permission.

The author has altered or omitted some details to preserve the anonymity of the participants.

Metal would like to thank Practicerestraint for this story and for the original pictures, posted here with permission.

It’s always hot to see men in handcuffs! This video, “Trouble Bound: Part One” is new today at Men in Chains — a site with stories, sketches, full-length movies, reality series, and all sorts of bondage play.

Click for Men In Chains

The inmate who did time at Hampton Jail in Iowa wrote another letter, and this time he enclosed a picture! See below:

Dear Metal,

Well, I got discharged a few days ago. It was a complex experience, and there are some things that you always knew, but become so real in the lockup.

The place is absent of any measure of time. There are no clocks, nothing to mark the passage of time. Sure, there is a clock tower nearby, but the building air conditioning and the sound of other inmates drowns out those reminders. You wonder, is that the morning light that you see through your narrow line of sight, or is it just the nightlight? I was fooled more than once. Natural daylight has a different hue than light from a bulb, but the grayness of the cellblock paint seems to be very effective in taking what warmth from natural light and turning it into something a bit more soulless.

Many of your senses are dulled, but others just seem to be heighted.

When I got home, I could smell it — the lingering odor from the jail uniform. The uniform, made of a heavy cotton almost denim like quality. The smell stays with you. You can smell it on your skin. And with that smell, you carry the marker of a prisoner — an almost DNA-like connection to all the other men who have worn that uniform before you. You might think of it as a brotherhood, but that is not really it. It is more of an ethereal chain gang that connects us all, the smell of the steel doors and the aged paint, the inklings of dust.

Also, you come to understand the power of the cell door, both as an element of confinement as well as symbol of security. The security to keep you where you are, and the security perhaps of where you are supposed to be. The night in the hole — which I spent because of my bad attitude — was jarring. I slept, but I kept being constantly awakened. Each time, I would test the door, to see if it was still locked — somehow thinking by magic it would not be. Oddly, though, it would be a disappointment if it was unlocked.

The jail experience is one of constant redundancy and routine. I stopped counting the number of times my hands were cuffed and uncuffed. I learned to accept the ankle shackles as the way things are going to be. But also, you find that you yearn to be cuffed, as a proxy to just interact. When the jailer leaves, he closes the door behind him. You are there on your own, in a mental solitude that is just a controlling as a physical confinement in solitary. Your mind wanders, and then in time you begin this odd sense of bonding with your jailer. He holds all the keys, all the power, and all the options.

My experience was at times unpleasant, gripping, soul-searching and frustrating. I learned that doing time means that time moves very slowly.

Your actions, your choices, or decisions not to decide are all in front of you. You make your prison. You realize that you think you are own person when you go in, but in the end you understand that you are just something to be counted, controlled. You are just a number.

Metal would like to thank the inmate for sharing this information and picture!

Issiah Carlye has been sentenced to five years in the state prison. Of course he claimed he was innocent and maybe he was, but once sentence was handed down by the judge Issiah was taken into custody immediately. Officer Denali chained the 34-year-old up with cuffs, shackles, belly chain and black box right in front of his family to be taken down to be processed into the jail! When he comes into the jail all dressed in his nice clothes, tie and even fancy dress boots, it will be the last time for a long time that he will be in them… yes sir, for a very long time if not forever.

See the video at Guys In Lockup

Title of this episode: ISAIAH CARLYE – FOR PRISON – CAVITY SEARCH – BONDAGE – JAILED – SOLO

Thanks to my local friend Pisslurper, who graciously agreed to model these restraints. What I really like about these is the unique keys that came with each set. Once THESE are locked on and the keys are taken away, there is NO GETTING OUT.

Tough hetero rugby man Thomas thinks he’s onto a good thing. He knows how much gays thirst after his perfectly toned muscular body and big cock. As he thinks he’s clever, he makes the decision to get queers to pay him lots of money for showing off his body. Now they are going to show him what it really means to be a whore for gays by making him a captive!

See the video at BreederFuckers

From TitanMen, here are shots from Scene 3 of Bad Cop. TitanMen Exclusive Hunter Marx and Damien Stone meet in the locker room after a long shift. Both are horny and hungry for each other. Hunter is soon swallowing all of Damien, before getting the favor returned. This locker room scene quickly heats up from here, and ends up in a flip-fucking good time!

A trailer for Bad Cop: Scene 3 with Hunter Marx and Damien Stone is available here

Join Titan Men here

Here’s another one featuring boy Blake. In this video, he is interrogated and then gets gagged with duct tape!

To see the VIDEO, go to Serious Male Bondage

Title of this update: Odds And Ends

The 1998 made-for-TV movie “Houdini,” starring Johnathon Schaech, is available on DVD. My favorite part is the opening scene in which the Great One is chained up naked in a jail cell and gets gagged with a leather face covering!

Do you have any favorite movies featuring locking metal bondage?

By Johnny Utah

Ryan and I were on our fourth day inside. It didn’t take long to settle into our kitchen duty routine. Get up, go to work, go to sleep. We didn’t have a lot of contact with the other inmate volunteers.

At that morning’s headcount things changed. After the guards counted us all present, one guard strutted down to me and Ryan.  “Both of you are going up to the Sergeant’s Disciplinary Office. Get up against the wall,” he ordered. We were frisked right there in the pod, the other inmates looking on. We had a leather belt with a metal loop tied around our waists. Handcuffs went through the loop.

“Click,” the handcuffs went on. “Down on yer knees!” Leg shackles with a connector chain to our handcuffs. We shuffled out the pod door to the Sergean’’s office across the hallway. We were just outside the closed door to the office when the guard said in a whisper, “Just go along and deny everything, you’ll like it.”

The guard gave one loud knock on the door and bellowed, “Two inmates for a disciplinary hearing!”

“Come!” was the answer from inside. The guard opened the door and Ryan and I shuffled in, leg irons clanking on the floor. We remained standing. The Sergeant sat behind his desk, king of his kingdom. His tight khaki shirt had all kinds of badges on it. High and Tight haircut. I just knew he was prior military, had to have been a Marine I thought. Assholes.

“You two have been stealing food from the kitchen,” the Sergeant said. “Do you deny it?”

Ryan spoke up first, he’s better at playing along with things than me. “Naw,” he said, adding a little cockiness that I knew would just get us in more trouble.

“Well smartasses, you just got both yourselves time in the hole.”

“Get ’em outta here!” he yelled.

“Come on!” said our escort guard. I thought we’d go back to our cell to get our stuff, but nope. We shuffled down a hallway we had not been down before.

It was a long shuffle to a door marked ominously “Special Housing Unit Segregation – Disciplinary.”

“OK,” said our guard. “Once through here there’s another team. Just do exactly what you’re told.” That didn’t sound good.

We both said, “Yes, Sir.”

The guard pushed a buzzer. The door opened.

In front of us were two gorilla guards. They must have been three feet across and seven feet tall.

“We’ll take ’em from here,” was all I heard.  I don’t know who said it because immediately after that I heard the door close harder and with more dread that I’ve ever heard a door close in my life.

“Get up against that wall, noses and toes, you know the drill.”

“We’ve got simple rules here, do what you’re told when we tell you, that’s all.”

“Get in those cages.” Off to our right were two white metal boxes made from metal gratings. About 4 feet by 4 and about 8 feet high.  We were locked in these. A hatch in the door dropped open, “stick your hands out.”  They took the cuffs off. “Kneel,” a hatch at the bottom of the door enabled them to take the shackles off. “Strip” was the next command. Ryan and I each took off everything, including our slides. We went through the usual routine of a strip search except we were each in our own metal cage. I was confused. Would we be naked for our time here? And how long did we have here anyhow? The answer to being naked or not was quickly answered when a white uniform was shoved into the cage. It was a pair of white slide shoes, white sox, a pair of white boxers, a pair of white scrub pants with big black letters down the front of the left leg “SHU,” and a scrub style shirt with “SHU” in black letters on the back.

“OK, cuff up in front,” said another giant guard. We were both put back into the same chains we had worn coming into the SHU.

“Get out!” a simple command.

Ryan and I walked past a long hallway with red doors, all closed except for the end two. It wasn’t hard to guess which cells we were going to. I was in Cell 6, Ryan got Cell 7.

“Go to the back wall, put your nose on it until told to move.”

I shuffled into the back of my cell, the door closing right behind me. I expected to get told to get off the wall and come back to the door to get my chains off, but no command came. Hmmm. I guess I was to stay here until they wanted me to drop, some kind of test. So, I just stood there, nose to the wall, hands cuffed in front of me, legs shackled. My calves started hurting first, then something like shin splints started.  I don’t know how long I was up there against that wall, but my grunts and groans must have been noticed.

“Get off that wall inmate!” came a voice through the slot in the door. “Back up to the door.”

I shuffled backward.

“Time for you two to go,” said a guard.

What?  What was that?

“Strip down to your boxers and your slides — no socks.”

I did as I was ordered.

“Cuff up.”

I backed up to the door and stuck my hands out to be cuffed. The cuffs were slapped on really hard. I winced.

“Step to the rear of the cell, nose to the wall.”

I did that.  The door slid open.

“OK, back out.”

I backed out until I was out in the hallway. The door closed in front of me.

“Get your nose on the door, don’t move.”

Leg shackles went on. I felt kind of ridiculous in just boxers and my white slides. As I was standing there nose to my cell door, Ryan was brought out dressed exactly the same way as me. Ryan was placed up against his cell door. As I was standing against the door a belly chain got put around me, and my cuffs were connected to the belly chain with a padlock.

“Time to go,” the gorilla in charge said, then he said, “Oh wait one more thing.” I barely saw it coming out of my peripheral vison. A hood. It went over my head like a pillowcase. It had to be canvas or something like that, I couldn’t see shit and it was heavy.

“Let’s move.”

I had a guard grab each bicep and hustle me down the hallway, I wasn’t sure which way we were going.  I heard Ryan’s chains behind me. We kept walking and walking; I had no idea where we were going. The “time to go” comment started replaying in my head. Were we being taken out to be executed? Oh Shit! Then the realization that I was getting really hard hit me. It was the excitement! I must have looked like a freak, hooded, in nothing but my white boxers — in which I was pitching a tent. We stopped. I was pushed up against wall, it was really cold. Were we outside? I knew Ryan was next to me. We just stood there. I think I was panting. What was going to happen next? It could have been a few minutes, it could have been an hour. I heard the voice of the sergeant from the pod area.

“So, was that ending exciting enough for you?” The hood got pulled off me, and not very gently either. After my eyes adjusted to the light, I could see that we were in a walled-in area. The van was next to us. Our civilian clothes were in a pile on the tailgate of the van.  It was time to go, time to go back home, except we still had Trooper Shaw waiting for us at the Probation Office. The Sergeant took the cuffs and shackles off us.

“OK, stuff those hard-ons away, get dressed!’ Said the sergeant.  It wasn’t easy. I thought it was over; nope. No relaxing of the rules. Ryan and I were put back into transport chains. We climbed into the van for our ride.

“Say Hi to Justin for me,” the Sergeant said as the inner metal door of the van closed.

The van finally pulled into the parking lot at the strip mall. Ryan and I were both sore and cramped from the ride.

“OK, get into the office, face the wall with the map. Nose and toes to the wall!” Trooper ordered. Ryan and I shuffled through into the empty probation office. The West Virginia guards and Trooper Shaw chit-chatted outside on the sidewalk, leaving me and Ryan in the office, noses against the wall like idiots. We could just sneak a peak of Trooper Shaw and the West Virginia guards through the windows. The West Virginia guards shook hands with Trooper Shaw and left, laughing. He came in and locked the glass door behind him. “OK, get up and get into my office.”  We were still wearing our transport chains.

“So how did you two assholes like your stay with the State of West Virginia Department of Corrections”?

“Sir, it was great,” I said, using “Sir” reflexively. Ryan said it was one of the best experiences he’d ever had. Trooper Shaw had a smirk on his face. It made me kind of scared. What did he have planned?

“Now comes the hard part, boys. You both have a decision to make. I can take the belly chain and cuffs off, and you both get outta here, back to the car and drive off to jerk off over last week’s events, or you can continue this. What do you want to do”?

I was standing there with my belly chain, and a hard on. I didn’t take too long to say, “Sir, I’d like to continue.”

“What about you?” Trooper Shaw said, stepping right in front of Ryan, nose to nose.

“Yes, Sir,” Ryan said. “I mean, I want to continue, Sir.”

“Both of you get on your knees. facing the wall!”

Ryan and I got down, expecting that we’d get the transport chains taken off. Instead, I felt a band of something pretty tough go around my right ankle, and a “click.”

“Stay on your knees,” Trooper Shaw said. He got the leg irons off both of us.

“Stand up!” Trooper Shaw unlocked our cuffs, belly chain, and connector chain. “Turn around, you two are now on Probation, my kind of Probation!”  Pointing down authoritatively, he said, “those things will keep track of your asses for me.”

“You’ll both report here 0800 on Saturday. Uniform is boots, jeans and a plain gray sweatshirt.”

“Make sure you keep that prison buzzcut, otherwise I’ll take a straight razor to your head.”

“You two got that?”

“Yes, Sir,” we said.

“That’s it, get outta my office!”

On Saturday we got to the Probation Office with 10 minutes to spare. We went into the office and sat in the chairs against the wall in the outer office. I had a flash back to our first visit. Now Ryan and I were the guys with ankle monitors and gray sweatshirts.

About five minutes later two guys, EXACTLY dressed like us, came in. We all exchanged a glance that said, “yes, we’re all prisoners of Trooper Shaw.”

“OK, time to cuff up!” Trooper Shaw announced. We were all handcuffed with our hands in front of us.

We all got into a white van and drove to one of the trash dumps in the county. We got out, and still in our handcuffs, lined up facing Trooper Shaw. He looked hot even out of uniform. Well, he still was in kind of a uniform. Big highly polished black boots, brown cargo pants that were snug over his thighs — and when he turned around showed off his nice round ass, and a white State of Maryland Probation Office polo shirt, tight over the chest and biceps.

“You guys will pick up all that trash that’s blowing around in this field. Bag it and put it in the dumpster. Don’t talk to the citizens. There’s water in the van, use the Porta Pottie over there. If you piss in the field you’ll be going back to jail for real time!”

So, in front of all the people there waiting to dump their trash we were uncuffed one by one. I could just feel the eyes of the “normal” people on me. I could just imagine what they were thinking. Look at those prisoners! What horrible crime have they done. They should work them harder. The field was huge and covered with trash that must have blown out of the dumpster of just dropped out from the dump trucks. While we were out picking up trash, we got a chance to talk to each other. The two other guys on probation, John and Jim, had been pulled over by Trooper Shaw just like us.

John had been on probation for over a year and had been sent to jail by Trooper Shaw for 30 days and to avoid further problems had agreed to Trooper Shaw’s special probation program. Jim had been caught up in a simple traffic stop that turned into a 30-day sentence. He had agreed to Trooper Shaw putting him on “special” probation to avoid more time.

We worked until the trash dump closed at 7 p.m. No break, no lunch, and just water.

We lined up in front of the van and got handcuffed for our ride back to the Probation Office. We got into the van slowly, we were exhausted. By the time we got back to the Probation Office it was getting dark. “Get out and line up!” After we had formed up in a line facing Trooper Shaw, he said, “Well, that was a lot of work today, boys.”

“Get used to it,” and, after a pause, he said, “go home, be back here next Saturday at 0800 hours.”

End of Part 3

By John Mercer

It was a warm summer afternoon, and I decided to get a haircut right after work.

I left my office just after five and started to walk the short distance to my regular barbershop. Along the way, I saw a new barbershop I hadn’t seen before. It had a sign on the pavement out in front, which read:

“Haircuts £10. Hot towel shave £15. Full treatment £20.”

I thought, what the hell. I may as well try a new place- at that price it’s hard to refuse.

I opened the door and stepped inside. Immediately my senses were awash with the sounds and scents of barbering- the aroma of lemon cologne, the faint hint of barbicide, the buzz of clippers and the clicking of scissors.

I took a seat on the large leather sofa beneath the front window. Three barbers were at work: all identically attired in black dress trousers and white shirts.

I sat back on the sofa and watched. The nearest barber was a great hulk of a man; he was well over six feet tall, muscular, with bulging biceps visible under his shirt. His head was shaven to a shine, and a thick ginger beard completed the look. As he glided around the client in his chair, I saw that his shirt sleeves were rolled up halfway to his elbows, revealing tattooed arms and hands. As he changed position, I noticed that the top three buttons of his shirt were open, revealing a massive, tattooed chest.

I sat and watched as I waited. Clearly this was an unhurried, attention-to-details kind of place. I liked that- it instilled confidence.

I couldn’t see much of the other two barbers as they were further down the shop. In any case, I was fully attentive to the nearest guy. He was doing a superb skin fade on his client. It was a pleasure to see.

At last, he was finished with his client, a young guy who got out of the chair with a seriously hot skin fade.

The barber settled the payment with his satisfied customer, and then turned to me.

“Hey buddy haven’t seen you here before?” He stretched his hand out to shake mine. His grip was very firm.

“Yeah, first time here, I’m John,” I smiled.

The barber eyed me appraisingly as we shook hands. “I’m Nate,” he replied. “Let me take your jacket.”

I slipped off my suit jacket and handed it to Nate. He hung it behind the counter.

“Take a seat,” Nate grinned. His big hands squeezed my shoulders as he said this, more or less propelling me into the chair.

I settled into the red leather chair, which Nate adjusted for my height.

“You’re going for the special offer, right?” Nate said, winking at me in the mirror.

“The full treatment?” I smiled cautiously.

“Yep!” Nate grinned. “Haircut, shave, skin treatment and razor finish. Sound good?”

I nodded and grinned. Nate grabbed a cape from the rack by the counter.

Nate drew the striped, satin cape around me. Before fastening it, he reached around from behind me and loosened my tie knot until it sat beside my third button. He then opened my top two buttons and flipped my collar, tucking it inside the shirt. Then he fastened the cape and applied the paper neck tape.

I felt excited as Nate’s firm hands loosened my tie. It felt strangely good to let another guy take control like that…I felt like I was at his mercy.

Nate began buzzing the back of my head. It suddenly dawned on me…he hadn’t asked me how I wanted my hair…

I stole a glance in the mirror, as Nate’s big tattooed hand pushed my head forward to buzz the back. I guessed he was using a number one back and sides…I had only ever had a three. It looked good, though. I felt confident in him.

“So what made you choose us today, my friend?” Nate asked as he buzzed my hair. His big tattooed hands worked swiftly but skilfully, leaving my hair looking sharp.

I smiled and replied, “Well, I was curious…I thought your prices were good value, and I like supporting new businesses, I guess…”

This seemed to satisfy him. He nodded approvingly, and changed clipper guard to begin blending in the back and sides. I could see he was giving me a high skin fade – it looked awesome.

I noticed Nate kept a hand on the top of my head as he worked. This meant I couldn’t see clearly what he was doing in the mirror…this perturbed me slightly, but I tried to stay relaxed.

The physical contact was stimulating me, and I could feel the growing bulge in my pants. I was grateful for the cape covering me…

Nate finished the back and sides and took the scissors to the top of my head. As he worked, he hummed to himself tunelessly. I noticed that the other two barbers had finished up with their clients and disappeared…so it was just me…and Nate.

The atmosphere felt charged with testosterone. No conversation passed between us – there was just the clack of the scissors and Nate’s quiet, deep-throated humming. I watched him as he worked…those big arms and barrel chest under the shirt…that bull neck…the shining dome and thick bushy beard… I was mesmerised…

I wasn’t sure if Nate noticed my admiring gaze, but a faint smile appeared on his face as he worked. The air was thick with the charged atmosphere – or so I thought. Perhaps it was just the aroma of barbershops, mixed with an underlay of man smells.

After he’d blended the back and sides into the top, Nate went over to the counter and began mixing some lather in a white shaving bowl. I inhaled the lemon scent, watching Nate’s huge shoulders as he worked.

Turning back to me, Nate pushed my head down again, and lather the nape of my neck, around my ears, and my sideburn area. He reached over for the straight razor, and began to carefully and skilfully razor finish my fade.

The humming continued, and I stayed absolutely still as Nate plied his trade with the razor. He broke the silence with the question, “So John, tell me, are you married? Single?”

“Married,” I replied. “And you?”

“Single,” Nate smiled. “Always like to play the field,” he added with a cheeky wink.

This made my cock bulge even more…

As he wiped off the excess lather from my neck with a hot towel, Nate said, “Just the beard and the rest, now.” I hadn’t envisaged getting my beard shaved off, but by this stage I was prepared to do whatever Nate said.

Nate unfastened the neck tape, then the cape, brushing off the clippings as he did so. Once the cape was off, Nate reached around and fully undid my tie, slowly pulling it off my neck. He carefully folded it and set it on the counter.

Before I realised what was happening, Nate opened a drawer and produced two pairs of shiny handcuffs. He cuffed my left arm to the arm of the chair, and then my right. I was frozen with fear but my cock was twitching at the same time…

Nate tilted the chair back into a reclining position. I felt yet more helpless…and it felt good…

I relaxed as Nate wrapped my face in a steaming, scented hot towel. I felt him place his hands – very lightly – on my shoulders, as he waited for the towel to open my pores.

He hummed softly, then said, in a matter-of-fact tone, “I use a hot towel on your body hair, too. Keeps it soft and easy to manage.”

I could hardly believe what I was hearing…but I didn’t offer any comment or resistance…what would be the point? Nate was bigger and stronger than me. Resistance was futile.

He removed the towel and applied fresh lather, covering my entire beard. Swift, smooth strokes of the razor quickly removed any trace of hair from my face. Nate lathered me up again and shaved me a second time, this time against the grain. Finally, another hot towel was applied and then he was done.

I was relieved when Nate adjusted the chair to the upright position again. I admired my smooth face and sharp haircut in the mirror, and thought it was over…

“Not finished just yet,” he smiled, his big tattooed hands squeezing my shoulders gently.

I decided at that point to give myself up completely. As I said, resistance was pointless. Nate closed the shutters on the window and locked the door. I knew what would come next so I tried to relax.

Nate cleared his throat and began by unfolding my shirt collar from inside of my shirt where he’d earlier tucked it away. He whistled cheerfully as he did so.

He unbuttoned the rest of my shirt buttons and spread my shirt open to reveal my hairy chest. Nate looked down, nodding in satisfaction at my exposed chest and belly. My nipples rose to meet his gaze.

Nate tweaked my nipples appreciatively and I giggled involuntarily. He fetched a couple of clothes pegs from the drawer and attached them to my nips…I almost fainted with the pain.

I leaned forward to allow him to pull the unbuttoned shirt off my back. Nate hung the shirt up beside my jacket.

Next, he reclined the chair once again and unlaced and removed my loafers. I was tense with anticipation as he reached over and unbuckled my belt…then unzipped my pants and pulled them down and off.

Finally, Nate pulled my briefs down and off. Nerves had settled in and my throbbing erection had retracted to a shrivelled maggot…I was humiliated.

Nate glanced at my shrunken penis and chuckled. He began lathering my chest and stomach…covering me completely in thick white foam.

Nate skilfully stripped my torso bare with the straight razor. As he grabbed hold of my penis and pulled it aside to lather my pubic hair, I gasped…he grinned and winked at me. As he lathered me down below, my penis began becoming erect again…

Using the same deft, swift razor strokes, Nate removed any trace of my pubic hair. I was now smooth from my face to my groin.

Nate surveyed his finished work with evident satisfaction. I lay still, allowing his green eyes to run the length of me. His hands ran the length of me too – ensuring he hadn’t missed any hairs anywhere.

By now I was rock hard, and throbbing. Nate saw this, and reached over for a bottle of moisturiser. He gently applied the moisturiser to my naked penis, slowly working his way up the shaft…his strokes became more frantic until…at last… I couldn’t control myself and i blew the heaviest load of my life.

Nate cleaned up the mess with a towel, as if it happened every day. He left me like that as he tidied up the store…it was fully fifteen minutes before he released me and allowed me to get dressed while he tidied up and rang the fee up on the cash register.

“That’s £25 please, young man!” Nate beamed as I went over to pay. I handed over the cash.

“Same time next month?” Nate grinned.

“Of course,” I smiled…and left.

Metal would like to thank John Mercer for this story!

Check out what @JamesBondagesx did to @Nick61666000 recently — a full arrest scenario, including accommodating the condemned prisoner’s request — a last cigarette!

“It was very hot and a lot of fun,” says @Nick61666000, who sent these pictures to be shared here on the Metalbond site:

You can find these guys on Twitter:

Dom: @JamesBondagesx

Sub: @Nick61666000

The harness shown in the pictures above was made for @JamesBondagesx by a friend of his, based on the movies “Infamous” from 2006 (screen shot below) as well as “Capote” from 2005. These movies both feature execution scenes of the killers from the book “In Cold Blood.”

Hey punk, if you were handcuffed to this table would you talk?

Today’s picture is from Serious Male Bondage

A gay man emerging from a traumatizing relationship receives an unexpected request for online friendship from a handsome correctional officer. But when the online friend becomes a real-life presence, the situation takes on a disturbing and dangerous aspect.

This is available as an eBook on Amazon

I think this guy is a total badass, but today he looks jut a little bit humbled. Just a little. This is more of Cody’s jail intake. As part of the procedure, he gets his mugshot taken. This is a new video uploaded today at Men in Chains — a male bondage site with stories, sketches, full-length movies, reality series, and all sorts of male-on-male physical restraint.

Click for Men In Chains

In this video from BreederFuckers, Leo gets restrained on the floor in nothing but a tight jock strap. He’s not even allowed to piss without our permission. He must struggle to release his dick to empty his bladder.

See the video at BreederFuckers