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!"

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.