Taffeta Torment 3 free porn video

John stood idly at the window as a shaft of afternoon sunlight swept across his bedroom, a frothy affair draped in shimmering pink satins and purple silks that adorned his bedspread and almost every nook and cranny of the heavily scented boudoir. Just a few weeks before, his bedroom had been a ramshackle, dishevelled pit that wreaked of stale beer and sweat and whose only colouring was the shade of unwashed laundry. He recalled that fateful first meeting with Joyce. Her tantalising opening gambit when she had him bound and gagged in her bedroom and then that other encounter when her friend Margaret compounded his senses when he endured his first girdling experience. His flat had been sold beneath his feet and the two ladies had effortlessly moved out and on, taking John with them. How could they not? Embezzling someone out of ?200,000 was not exactly a crime that would not go unpunished and since the victim was the only witness, it was easier to keep him under lock and key to maintain his silence. How easy it had been for them to keep John in check. His flat above Joyce's had sold very quickly so that when the removals men came to pack away Joyce's belongings, she simply removed John himself to the spare room which she locked with strict instructions to keep out because these were her personal belongings. The night before, Joyce and Margaret ensured John would not only not be seen, but neither heard as well. He was girdled, of course, his legs caressed by nylons and a full length opera slip that restricted any movement of the legs to the bare minimum. His hands were firmly bound behind his back in a leather encasement mitten, a lace-up item that Joyce had spotted in a bondage magazine while trawling through some of John's retro collection of Accords, Relates and Madames. Immobilized in that fashion, he had been placed in a wheelchair that Joyce had borrowed from one of her old nursing friends and in turn, his torso and ankles were tied tightly into the chair so he did fall out as they pushed him around the flat. The spare room was empty apart from a hanging rail that housed some extravagant ballgowns, exquisite creations in satin and taffeta brimming with petticoats and stiffened organza and net beneath the full frocks. It did not take long to gag John effectively, a knotted silk headscarf tied with a giant bow behind his head, and then a short silky underskirt in midnight blue was fastened over his head, a form of sensory deprivation that John was powerless to prevent. John spent the night and following day encased in his wheelchair, a couple of the fuller ballgowns draped over his head and shoulders and upper body to increase his helplessness and also stifle any pathetic attempts to utter a muffled cry. The day after, Joyce hired a special people carrier with disabled access as she and Margaret bade their final farewells. By now, the gowns were in the back of the van while Margaret had wrapped John in a huge mackintosh that engulfed his entire body, a dark blue satinised mac with flared collars that virtually covered John's face and certainly hid the gag that muffled his moans of insolence while a blue and white silk headscarf disguised any outward signs of resistance beneath a pair of dark glasses. "It's my aunt, she's not been very well, very frail," Joyce told neighbours as John, with a small dab of her special anaesthetic, was pushed up to the people carrier then lifted effortlessly up by obliging and unsuspecting friends who worked the wheelchair contraption on the vehicle. As he lay belted up in the back seat, the anaesthetic was slowly wearing off but his ability to rebel was gradually being eroded by the methodical feminisation to which he was being subjected. He watched Joyce, in a voluminous yellow satin mac lined in pink taffeta, hug one of her female neighbours as Margaret, who had agreed to sell her place and move in with her, joined in the group hug, her pink satin mac and black heels contrasting vividly with Joyce's apparel as the pair swished their final goodbyes. Before he fell into a deep sleep, he remembered seeing the two ladies clasp arms and head back towards to the waiting vehicle, their high heels clipping the paved path below, an ever increasing din of doom and imprisonment that drew closer with each dainty step. And now here he was, looking over the garden of their new home, bought with his money, a road to freedom in the distance as traffic passed by on its way to some meaningful destiny. This was Bondage Day for John, much the same as most of the others in fact, as Joyce had dressed him in a pink long line girdle, heavily panelled at the side and rear with a taffeta frontage edged with lashings of frilly lace. His eight metal suspenders were immaculately taught, holding sheer black seamed 12 denier stockings in place while their tiny silk-laden clasps fell neatly in straight lines pointed towards his 4inch stiletto heels, in pink satin with a flirty bow at the front and back to accentuate their feminine appeal. Since the move, both women had started putting John in a bra, normally extremely exaggerated ones like the long line pink bullet point one he was fitted in today, its satin cups jutting out below his chin and reminding him of his predicament each time he looked down. Movement was difficult anyway since his hands were secured behind his back by mitten cuffs while an ankle-length hobble skirt, lined in satin and zipped firmly from his calves up to his midriff, meant walking was exhausting if not impossible. Even after a fortnight in the new house, they still wanted him to walk around and get a feel for the room. John's computer skills had also helped Joyce and Margaret create a website for their new business venture, two elegant ladies catering for the special needs of an exclusive clientele. So far, a bank manager and two eminent local businessmen had been ensnared by their special talents of which he was only too familiar. And if he was not too mistaken, a fourth was coming down the drive now for his appointment with fate. As he looked out, he heard the rustle of taffeta approaching from behind. A lucrative business and John's windfall had encouraged Joyce and Margaret to spend extravagantly but wisely and they did make for a breathtaking pair. Joyce revelled in pencil skirts and the effect it had on her devotees, so it was no surprise that she had an entire set made in pink, coffee, gold, silver and black, all taffeta lined naturally. The pair of them loved to dress similarly to add an air of dual dominance, squeezing in to swishing skirts draped a couple of inches below the knee that bulged with each step they took in killer six inch heels and matching seamed nylons. Their colour of blouse, satin of course, varied. Today Joyce had chosen an outrageous pink with a huge bow at the front while Margaret had opted for a more sedate but equally alluring golden coffee shade. It was not always so because both yearned to smooth a full skirt and gown over taffeta petticoats, slithering and sashaying through the room as the frocks took on a life of their own. But today, it was slim satin and pencil shaped although John for once failed to notice them. He was too busy espying the figure marching down the driveway to the front door. "Dad.....Dad..." he yelped, groping in his restraints to get closer to the window. "What are you two going to do to him for god's sake?" Joyce and Margaret were taken aback momentarily but swiftly recovered poise, desperate to keep John away from the window and drawing attention to himself. "Darling what's the matter..."cooed Joyce, expertly tugging John away from the window. Restricted as he was, he battled to gain the advantage and began bellowing as loudly as his lungs would allow. "DAD...KEEP OUT...GO AWAY..." he yelled as Margaret and Joyce thrust him on to the bed and began to take emergency action. "Get me that head scarf Joyce," Margaret said pointing to the sideboard cabinet and before John could utter another plaintive cry, she had pushed it deep in to his mouth, reducing his screams to the odd ...mmmfff... "Now what is the matter pet?" she said securing another scarf around the first one as John's resistance began to drain away. It was hardly surprising. He lay prostrate now, the two women leaning over him and Joyce threading her hand through an Aristoc stocking which was destined for his head to add more sound-proofing material around John's vocal chords as the front door bell rang downstairs . "Is it a client?" Margaret asked Joyce, who shook her head. "Why don't you go and found out what's it all about. I'll deal with our little baby here." John's eyes glazed over as Joyce stood up, smoothed her skirt and wriggled out of the room to meet their unexpected visitor. "There, there sweetie...we'll get you sorted in no time now," Margaret caressed John's stocking-encased head before heading for the wardrobe. He was still struggling but she had just the thing to finish him off and quash the last ounce of rebellion. From a rail embellished with a variety of pleasing garments, Margaret pulled out a small bridesmaid's frock, made specially to measure for a small child, no more than five years of age. It was the most gorgeous coral pink taffeta creation with its own petticoats to match beneath, fluffed up by several layers of crisp net and organza. A final lining of the sheerest silk taffeta could not fail to thrill any little girl chosen for the big occasion. Its back flounced with a huge ribbon, in darker pink and as John stared at the frock with a mixture of trepidation and utter bliss, a huge erection began to emerge like a tent pole despite the severe constriction of his boned girdle. Margaret, who had taken an unreciprocated shine to John since their first meeting, lovingly stroked the taffeta frock as she swished towards her young captive. Joyce had embraced the new business feverishly and more than enjoyed her work, she revelled in it, training clients to be willing slaves to her fashion whims and wants - and other desires. Her devotion had allowed Margaret to take a more active interest in John's progress and welfare and deep down she might have admitted that he brought out of her a bit of the mother and a bit of the lusting lover. "Can you hear the rustle in this garment, John? Of course you can, any little boy would want to feel a fabric like this near his body, wouldn't they pet?" She placed the frock on John's lap as he sat up now on the side of the bed and slid her hands beneath its petticoats, gently stroking the taffeta lining against his nylon-clad face. "Mmmm, that's so nice darling. I need to put you inside this little creation so you can't make a fuss. You understand don't you? And the rustle and swish should just about keep little prying ears from listening to adult conversation." She allowed John one last longing look at the ravishing frock and slowly slipped it over his head, as far its skirt would allow before the short bodice finished at the top of his crown. A swift zip and it was tightly shut and John was encased in a world of swishing smooth nylon and deafeningly rustling taffeta and net that Margaret compounded each time she smoothed the frock over John's face. "My, my..." she exclaimed laughing and feeling his genital area beneath his hobble skirt and girdle. "Some little person certainly likes his rustling headgear." It was all John could do to contain himself as Margaret continued to tease his member and his delicately imprisoned head. Now and again, she would pull the frock up and tighten her grip on the taffeta lining, stretching it gently over the stocking that encased his cheekbones and facial area in such an unforgiving manner. There was simply no hiding place from the sensations as the taffeta glided over the nylon with Margaret ensuring the contact was dramatic and swishing in equal measure. The effect was devastating as John reeled in a hypnotic state, a shiver down his spine and up into his now throbbing erection as she toyed with his every sense. "Oohh, now that feels good, doesn't darling? What lady doesn't like to feel shiny taffeta caressing her stockings as she floats around the ballroom. Can you feel that sheen and that swish sweetheart? You know you want to be in this frock don't you? One day, darling, when you're a big girl I might allow you to swish and slide inside one. But will it be any better than this my precious?" John could only mumble in response but in any case, Margaret had fluffed the remainder of the frock, its net and organza petticoats and its full taffeta skirt, back over his head and with one final stroke and gentle rustling, she turned John on his side and let him daydream in his land of taffeta and nylon as he struggled to contain his emotions and an erection on the brink of implosion. He could not know it, but downstairs his father George was building up to a similar state in a rather different way. The vision that greeted him when Joyce opened the door left George feeling slightly giddy. A flashback to a former married life when his wife dominated not only his financial affairs but also his entire destiny. It was not that Joyce resembled his ex, it was more her air of authority that in truth caused George to tremble and was the downfall of a shambolic marriage from which he escaped without even his dignity intact. "I was...well.. I am looking for my son," George said. "I understand you were once his neighbour...sort of..." His hesitancy and manner reassured Joyce, who had effectively dealt with far less timid men all her life, that she should welcome this visitor. "Come in please. You are Mr...?" "Call me George, please." For half an hour the pair chatted amiably in the considerable snug as Joyce related her brief knowledge of his son John and how they hardly ever saw one another, he being a student and she working in a make-up department of a large city store. She stroked her satin skirt, then her stockings as she responded to his questions. Occasionally she arose from her chair and offered George a cigarette or a drink, both politely refused before she lit one for herself, her ruby red fingernails delicately balancing a cigarette holder while her moist lipstick left its mark on the ebony holder as it rested in a nearby ashtray. Now and again she fluttered her long false eyelashes before crossing her legs, an audible swish of her stockings echoing around the parlour room as she tugged on the hem of her skirt to straighten an imaginary bump. George was glued to his seat...and entranced by Joyce's movements. "Would you like to stay for tea and scones?" she asked, wafting over to the chair where he was seated and putting her manicured hand on its back. "No thanks. I must be going. But thanks for all your help." "Anytime. Now take my card, and if you want to join me for tea and scones - any time - please give me a ring." Her eyes fixed his and passed him a calling card. Then he left... "Don't be shy...I don't bite really..." she oozed and George felt he had had a lucky escape. If only. "Well what did he want?" Margaret asked when Joyce rejoined upstairs. "What about him?" "Don't panic. He's lost in his own little world of taffeta and nylons. Can't hear a thing." In fact John had exploded some time ago, creamed himself and was now fast asleep in a cocoon of slithering and noisy undergarments. "So what did he want?" "To wear my taffeta-lined skirt. Like father like son." "How can you tell?" "I can tell. He wanted to find John but I rather think he might find something else." "Someone else you mean." "How." "Me..." "Tell me more.....much more Margaret you cunning little devil. What's going off in that manipulative mind of yours...?" XXXXX Two days later, George was to be found sitting innocently in one of the larger coffee chain houses sipping away at a latte. He was reading the morning paper as part of his lunch hour ritual from his job in a local hardware store where he served behind the counter with several other colleagues. It wasn't much of a job but it had helped salvage some of his pride and self respect from the wreckage of his marriage that had left him a physical and spiritual shell. He had even managed to hide a small amount of money from his devious ex- wife and her insatiable appetite for wealth and power, just enough to buy him a comfortable two bedroomed apartment in the posh part of town. Browsing the sports pages, he did not see a formidable middle-aged lady, clad in a voluminous blue satin mac, head towards his table with intent and in an instant, his latte was dripping down on the floor as his cup subsided after a mighty clatter of handbag on his table. Instinctively, he shot off his chair and knelt down to repair the damage. As he looked ahead, he noticed the most exquisite pair of patent leather black high heels that were a perfect platform for a pair of sensuous and shiny seamed black stockings. Looking up, his eyes caught sight of what he believed to be the most glorious woman he had ever seen, her face immaculately made up with thick, creamy red lipstick, dark luscious lashes and trimmed with a white and blue striped silk headscarf. Margaret could not help but thinking that this was a good start....with her intended victim already grovelling and drooling at her feet. "I'm so terribly sorry," she lied. "Please let me buy you another one. I insist." George was so bewitched, he didn't even reply. Her perfume infused his nostrils and every time she moved, the mesmeric sound of deliciously noisy undergarments rustling one another, not to mention her satin-lined mac slithering over nylons, invaded his senses. He offered to take her coat and listened as it swished over the polysatin frock she was wearing underneath, a midnight black affair with tiny white polka dots that glistened in the coffee outlets dimmed lighting. She sat opposite him, slowly removing her wrist length white satin gloves to good effect before the crossing of her legs almost caused George to spill his second cup of latte which had already arrived at his table. Margaret's conversation was polite and flirty, giving George the impression that he was the most important person in the room, the world even. And for a few weeks, he would be as far as Margaret was concerned. Her frock, tight in bodice and tighter just below the knee, was a joy to behold, certainly for George, who detected its every movement as Margaret fussed around its hem and stroked her stockings. She crossed her legs now and again, then excused herself from the conversation, taking a small compact case out of her handbag and re-applying that creamy thick red lipstick in that feminine manner. A few neighbouring women took note and tut, tutted as she stood up to smooth down her frock around her thighs and waist. Her disapproving audience clearly felt she was overdressed for the occasion and overzealous in her fussiness but George was impervious to their dissent, beholding her elegant, manicured hands and pointed shiny red nails as they glided over the polysatin. It had the desired effect. A second date, then a third and then she persuaded George, a keen fan of Verdi, to invite her to the opera, the perfect opportunity to dress up and further entwine George into her web of intrigue. It was John's only treat to be allowed to help dress either Joyce or Margaret and tonight he had deserved his moment after a gruelling yesterday that had begun with him updating their website. As he stood to attention in Margaret's boudoir contemplating what she had in store for him he recalled his routine 24 hours earlier. Taffeta Torment, they had named the domain and it was John's job to filter the mail and ensure the latest photos were available, just enough to entice the gullible to join as a monthly member and/or arrange an appointment. John was amazed at the amount of traffic and also amazed that both Joyce and Margaret took such a personal interest in responding to e-mails and requests. They had paid a photographer to take most of the postings and it certainly did the trick, with every item of clothing and every glimpse of stocking exuding a gorgeous sheen among in a variety of costumes. After his internet duties, John was required to do the ironing, mostly the sensual underwear and skirts that could be seen everywhere on Taffeta Torment. Of course, he was not allowed to touch them physically. Although he was confined to his usual girdle, bullet bra, high heels and usual chains around his legs, the ladies felt he might be able to abuse himself if he ran his bare hands of the satin skirts and their taffeta linings or was able to press a pair of silky knickers to his lips or worse. Thus they made a pair of ironing gloves, thick woolly ones that could be padlocked onto John's hands via his wrists. He could spend up to four hours, under frequent inspection from one of them, until he had finished his task to their liking by which time he was perhaps the most frustrated male on the planet seeing all that swishy fabric pass beneath his nose and unable to slide his hands or anything else across it. John then had a few minutes to compose himself before the final ritual of the day which the ladies always announced in the same fashion. "That's the ironing done, darling. Now for the nyloning!" upon which they escorted John to his bedroom and set about securing his entire torso in a huge girdle, sometimes dark blue, sometimes white and occasionally black. They were sort of girdles made for huge matronly women in the 1950s, almost a glorified corselette but sufficient large to wrap around John's entire body with his arms firmly in place at the sides. Before that, though, they unzipped his girdle and took his off ironing gloves, replacing them with slinky satin ones to complement his girdle. A 12 inch waspie with eight long, thick suspenders then replaced his original girdle and as John watched on, the ladies lovingly slid his stockings back up his leg and fastened each clip in turn, smoothing the stockings at the back after they had finished to ensure straight seams. Since his chains had also been removed, Joyce always used a dab of her magic potion to make certain that John would not struggle during the procedure and as he lay there feelinghis normal helpless self he could not stop himself admiring their complete efficiency in utterly restraining him. "This is very important for your education John," Joyce would say in a schoolmarmly sort of way and Margaret would concur. "I do so agree. You need to appreciate the finer things in a woman's wardrobe." With his face stuffed into his satin pillow, the ladies drew the giant girdle over his head, upside down, and began straining at the stays and the hook and eyes hidden beneath the zipped side panels to draw the garment in over John's arms. When they were satisfied that he was totally immobilised, they revolved him on his back and began the next stage. On this occasion they were wearing 1950s gowns, the sort of shimmering satin and taffeta creations that he remembered seeing in the French Line and similar glossy films of that era. Margaret had decided on a turquoise full bodied frock of taffeta moire, a voluptuous sweetheart neckline with puff sleeves that finished well above the elbow. The skirt positively swished with her movement, layered as it was over a taffeta petticoat with net and organza beneath. In contrast, Joyce had chosen a stunning silver satin frock held up by two thick satin straps from the shapely bodice. As much as she smoothed the frock over and over again, it refused to lie down as its two tier taffeta petticoat rustled back to life as she went about the business of securely binding John. He could smell their sweet aromas, hear that swishing and rustling of exotic taffeta and satin and every now and again, one of their satin gloves, Joyce with gold and Margaret in fetching pink, he felt their sensuous touch on his nyloned legs. It was no surprise that his manhood, released from its previous girdle confinement, should leap up like a periscope as the pair carried on obliviously. "There, there...pass me the stockings Joyce." Margaret ran her satin gloved fingers over a clutch of black nylons that Joyce had thrust into her grasp. "Aren't they just gorgeous...ooooh feel that Joyce..." and the two women were linked by one stocking that both ran gently down their faces and red lips. They were looking intently into John's eyes now. "Let's get this one over his head..." and they smoothed the ultra sheer black nylon over his head as his erection went into overdrive. It was a bit of a struggle but with the clever smoothing of their satin gloves, the stocking fitted snugly over John's hair and head and further down over his neck. "Now let's clip him up..." and the two ladies teased the suspender straps from the upturned girdle to fasten the stocking in position at the bottom of John's neck, front and back. Sitting on either side of him on the pink satin bedsheets, John watched them at work. Joyce's potion had worn off but he was unable to even raise a whimper as they clipped the suspenders into place, neatly folding down their satin clasps and stroking his nyloned head as they finished. Joyce got up, smoothing her skirts and petticoats as Margaret continued to stroke John's cheeks. "I bet you'd like to feel my taffeta petticoats against that stocking sweetie.." she cooed. Lifting her skirt slightly, she traced the top layer of petticoat lining across his head as he sighed and moaned in ecstasy. "Margaret, will you please gag our little pervert." "Sorry, forgot." Joyce was attending to a below the knee length taffeta half slip which very soon would be sending John into more raptures so Margaret unclipped the suspenders, inserted a pair of silk panties into John's mouth and secured them with a silk headscarf tied at the back before suspendering the now almost silent and immobile John. Smoothing the taffeta slip up John's nylons was always a pleasing exercise for the ladies who watched almost in awe as his erect penis seemed to wobble and strain even more as the taffeta made its swishing way up his calves and over his knees and came to rest on his thighs. The waistband stopped short of his stocking tops and it was here that Joyce zipped it to a close while crossing John's legs and securing them with a satin ribbon in that position around the ankles. "Is that nice darling?" Margaret whispered at the top end of the bed as Joyce caressed the taffeta slip around John's thighs and knees. With his legs permanently crossed, the slightest movement caused his knees or thighs to rub slowly and tormentingly against one another, the nylons hissing and the taffeta swishing as he did so. Margaret was still casting her spell with satin gloves around his head when next Joyce slid one of the stockings over her hand and slid another over John's throbbing penis, pulling it down over his testicles before gently cupping and squeezing in that area. The sensation of satin glove and stocking massaging his nyloned testicles was ecstatic. Margaret then joined in with her spare right hand, rhythmically stroking the stocking over his manhood but stopping just short of the top which she knew would be John's most sensitive region. Instead she let the foot of the stocking trail on and upwards above his penis, smoothing that across the satin panel of his straight jacket girdle as if she was trying to arouse the hollow stocking itself. He could not take the arousal much longer as Margaret broke off from his head to clasp his tiny satin gloved hand. "You are a lucky little boy, aren't you John? What a little boy would give to be lying where you are tonight? Mmmm, that nylon feels sooooo sheer on your cheeks. Does it feel sheer, sweetie?" Margaret's palm moved slowly across his face as she talked while Joyce continued to arouse John with her hands encased in stocking and satin. "I think that's enough for tonight, don't you darling? We don't want you spoiling these smooth nylons or your pretty taffeta slip do we? And you know it's forbidden for anyone but me and Margaret to arouse you. You must never, ever, try to arouse yourself. Understand sweetie?" Joyce cupped John's testicles one more, a little more sharply, so he nodded his head in agreement, the only part of his anatomy that he could move apart from his loose penis. "Such an obedient, good boy when he's in nylons and a girdle, don't you think Margaret?" "Gorgeous, darling. Simply gorgeous. One day we might let you explode, but only when we allow it, sweetie." Margaret leaned over and planted a loving kiss on his forehead then his two cheeks, her thick red lipstick leaving a perfect mark on the nylon and its seam. Joyce removed the nylon from her hands and grabbed hold of another black taffeta slip on the edge of the bed. She wrapped this tight around John's stockinged member and his testicles, tying it in place with a pink satin ribbon and huge bows at the head and around his genital area. His erection would remain without hope of fulfilment. "What colour tonight, Joyce?" she asked as her friend walked over to a large bedside cabinet in view of John. "I don't know pet. What do you think?" Joyce opened up the cabinet to reveal seven dummy heads shrouded in voluminous taffeta frocks, a sight that still sent an erotic shiver down all of their spines. Margaret's brainwave to 'mummify' John in the coral pink taffeta bridesmaid's dress had inspired Joyce to have several imitations created, with subtle differences. In fact she had seven made, one for each day of the week, full skirted taffeta frocks with their own taffeta and net petticoats sewn in and a final gossamer taffeta lining to finish. There was no bodice but the frocks fitted snugly over a human head, or at least John's since they were specifically made to his measurements, closed tightly at the top with a back zip and special drawstring fastening. The feeling of enclosure was multiplied by the eight suspenders holding his stocking firmly in place but again the merest movement incited the taffeta lining to slither up against his nyloned head while setting of the net and taffeta frock in a swishing and rustling frenzy. "I think the coral pink tonight, to celebrate his first head frock!" Joyce and Margaret carefully displaced the miniature frock from the mannequin and snuggled it neatly over John's head, pressing down the net and organza petticoats as they did so before zipping up the back and closing the waist to a pinch with not a hair of John's head in sight. "That really has to be one of the best inventions made by woman," Joyce laughed as she fussed around the frock's hem as if it were on a catwalk model. The final touch was to secure both of John's wrists to the side of the bedstead with thick red satin ribbons. He had managed to explode in his girdle before by turning on his side and causing enough to friction for an orgasm, misdemeanours for which he was duly punished and forced to wash his delicate undergarments by hand, but having twigged his little rouse, the women were now wise to it and had perfected their own unique remedy. Much as he tried to swing this way or that, he would not be able to turn on his side. He would try and try, energetically, and of course the more he moved, the more the taffeta petticoats on his head, penis and legs, would rustle, swish and tease the nylons which encased each part of his anatomy. It was the ultimate in divine frustration. Even as he dozed, the rustle of the skirts immersing his head would wake his slumber and remind him of his imprisoned state. Eventually he would fall fast asleep from sheer exhaustion but until then poor John, gagged, girdled and perspiring, was indeed suspended in taffeta torment.