[This long story, which originally appeared in Issue 5 (July/August 1988) is one of the most popular we ever printed.]
The experience I'm going to describe was my first and my best. It took place when I was in my senior year in college. I don't have total recall but can write about the whole thing pretty accurately because from the time I was 14 or 15 I kept a detailed diary. I wrote up the very personal parts like this one in a complicated code. Before I even start I'd like to say that this experience took place after AIDS was already on the scene but before we realized how devastating it would turn out to be. People not living in New York or California at the time didn't think they had to take the same precautions. We engaged in very unsafe sex, which I worried about for years afterwards. Fortunately, for me at least, the incident seems to have had no bad repercussions, and it took place six years ago. Since that time I have been very careful.
It began when I saw an ad in my roommate's gay newspaper from a guy who called himself a bondage master and said he was into tying up young jocks and gagging and blindfolding them and keeping them prisoner for long periods of time. I got terribly excited and answered the ad on the sly since my roommate didn't know I was gay and that I sometimes read his paper when he was out. I guess I wasn't ready to admit to myself I was gay, either, and I'd never had any kind of physical gay experience yet. I got into a secret correspondence with this guy, Mr. A., and eventually started speaking to him on the phone.
He was a lot older than me, in his 30's, but that made me feel safer about him, and he said he was in good shape. The big difference in our ages also made it easier for me to have the respectful attitude he wanted. He sent me two photos of himself, one in leather, the other in a business suit. The one in leather put me off a little, I couldn't relate to it, but the picture of him in the suit turned me on. He was a tall thin nicelooking guy with sandy colored hair, and the fact that he had a nice smile in the picture made me feel less nervous about the idea of going to see him.
I sent him a recent photo of myself playing basketball. It was the closest I had to a nude shot and I hoped it would give him the jock image of me he wanted. (I've always played a lot of sports, but only for fun — I was an anthropology major. Anyhow, I'm too short — 5'10" — to play serious basketball). He liked what he saw because in his next letter he gave me his phone number and told me to call him collect (he lived in Chicago and my school was close to Cleveland) which I did the first chance I got, a few nights later when my roommate was out at swim practice.
We got into the habit of me calling him just about every week at the same time. I could usually be sure my roommate would be out for a couple of hours Tuesday nights, and if I turned the lights off no friends would come barging in. My roommate and I were sharing a small house off campus. The guy had a deep soft voice, with a southern accent — he came from Texas originally. I found it easy to sit in the dark and talk to him and before long I was telling him things I myself didn't even know about me till I said them.
I wrote down some of the things he said. On the first call I asked him what he'd do to me if I went to visit him and he said, "I'd consider you my property, and I'd keep you securely bound from the moment you entered my house till just before I let you go. You'd be gagged a lot of the time, and when I felt you needed it I'd punish you." I beat off to the memory of him saying that to me right up to the time I went to see him. He wouldn't say how he'd punish me, and except for telling me I'd leave his house in one piece, he made me feel right away like I'd better not push for details.
The phone calls started right after winter break, and we discussed the possibility of me going to spend Easter Vacation with him. The calls themselves were an incredible turn-on. The first time we talked he started giving me orders. He told me that as a rule he wasn't into phone calls but he wanted to believe I wasn't in it just for a quick jerk-off and he was going to test my commitment. The first order was for me to call him every week at a specific time. If for any reason I couldn't do it I had to make a person-to-person phone call and ask for myself, and when I was told I wasn't there, tell him precisely what time I'd try again (that would be when I could talk) and it could be as late as necessary but I had better make a point to call again that night and when I did my excuse had better be good. If I couldn't call at all there were various ways to notify him, all of which I had to learn by heart and which he quizzed me on.
He told me he would carefully note every minor infraction of his rules as well as every time I failed to address him as Sir in a sentence, for later punishment.
He made me describe my room to him in detail and enumerate practically every item of clothing I owned. During our second or third conversation he told me to take the phone and crawl under my desk with it. From that time on, every time I called him for our weekly conversation I had to do it from under the desk. He also told me what he wanted me wearing for every call: my gray sweatsuit, the hightop Nikes I was wearing in the picture I'd sent him, white sweatsox and a headband. I had to go out and buy a protective plastic cup jock to wear under the sweatsuit so I wouldn't be able to play with myself as we talked. I couldn't have played with myself anyhow as he had other ideas for my hands. He told me to get hold of two four-foot lengths of rope and keep them in a pillowcase at the back of my top desk drawer and take them with me when I went under the desk to call him every time. It was crazy but I didn't try to analyze it and just did everything he told me to. I spent the week with a constant hardon, unable to concentrate on my studies.
When I called him the next week he made me sit Indian-style with my ankles crossed in front of me and tie my feet together with one of the pieces of rope, pull my sweatband down over my eyes, then pull the pillowcase over my head and down as much as possible around my shoulders. I had to talk to him from under the pillowcase. I held the phone in my right hand and sat on my left hand. We spent most of the conversation talking about how I felt about what I was doing.
Then he told me to get off my left hand, loosen my sweat pants and stick the middle finger of my left hand deep in my mouth. I wrote down that conversation.
"Is your finger in your mouth?" he asked me.
I took it out to say, "Yes, sir." But he got me for that right away.
"No, it's not. You'll get a stroke for that. Put it in. I want to hear you talk with that finger in your mouth. Is it in your mouth?"
I said "Yes, sir," with my finger in my mouth.
"Suck on it," he said to me. "Are you sucking on it? Let me hear you suck on it. Let me hear you slurp over your finger."
I did what he said.
"Now take that finger and stick it up your ass. Well? Is it up your ass?"
"I'm putting it there, sir," I said. I managed to get it in and a little ways up. It was the first time I'd ever done anything like that.
He told me to squeeze my finger with my asshole, relax, squeeze again, to move my finger up and down in my asshole, to twist it around. He said that from now on that was how I was to sit during our conversations — with my feet tied, the sweatband over my eyes, the pillowcase over my head and my finger up my ass.
A few weeks later he sent me a wide black soft leather collar which I had to put on before I called him, and some time after that, not long before Easter, a narrow cone-shaped dildo (the first dildo I'd ever actually seen, though I'd read about them and seen pictures in my roommate's magazines) called a buttplug. In the box with the buttplug was a tube of KY jelly.
When I called him after receiving it we varied the usual procedure. He told me not to cover my head or eyes yet but to pull my pants down and over my knees before I tied my ankles, then coat the dildo with the KY and stick it up my ass. Since it wasn't very wide and I'd been playing with my ass at his orders over the last few weeks I didn't have much trouble getting it in.
He asked me how it felt. It felt alright, in fact after the first few minutes I liked it. He instructed me to tie the other piece of rope tightly around my waist, knot it in front, bring it down alongside my cock and balls and cross it underneath, bringing the ends up on opposite sides and tying them to the back of the rope belt, that way tying the butt-plug in.
He asked me if it still felt all right. I said it did. In that case, he said, he wanted me to wear it for the rest of the night, and after a few more words he hung up.
I did wear it a long time. In fact, I beat off with it inside me four times that night. Then it became uncomfortable. Finally, about 3 or 4 A.M., I had to take it out. I confessed this to him the next time we talked. He accepted the information and said he'd take my honesty into consideration when he punished me for disobeying him. In any case, every time we talked from that time on until I went to see him I was ordered to wash my ass out beforehand with a fleet enema, then tie the butt-plug in place under my sweatsuit. During the conversation I went back to sitting on my hand, my fingers pushing into the buttplug. He didn't make me wear it overnight again.
At the start of the Easter vacation I took a late night bus to Chicago. He had sent me half of a round-trip ticket when I'd agreed to his stipulation that he'd pay all my expenses and in return I'd belong to him entirely for the time I spent with him. He gave me detailed instructions about everything, which I did my best to follow to the letter. I had to wear my gray sweatsuit, high white Nikes, white sweatsox, and nothing at all underneath except the buttplug tied in place. Before I boarded the bus I had to throw my gymbag to the back of the luggage compartment in the side of the bus.
There was practically nothing in it anyway. He'd told me that since I wouldn't be going anywhere I wouldn't need any clothing, so all I should bring in my gymbag was my toilet kit and the stuff I usually carried in my pockets, like my house keys and my wallet (which was empty) and a precise amount of change. He liked the idea of me carrying nothing on me except my bus ticket, which I had to stick in the side of a sneaker.
He did give me permission to bring along a peanut butter and jelly sandwich and a container of juice which I had to keep on the rack overhead until I judged it was around 7 A.M. — I wasn't allowed to wear a watch — when I could eat. The rest of the time I did the entire 8 hour trip with my arms on the armrests where he had told me to keep them, and a hell of a hardon poking up in my sweatpants with not even underpants to hold it down. He told me that I wasn't allowed to touch my cock under any circumstances, not even to adjust it, not even when I went to take a piss. Of course I couldn't obey him about that, or else I'd have pissed at the ceiling or right in my face. I was glad most of the trip took place in the dark and the woman sitting next to me slept most of the ride.
When I arrived in Chicago I opened my bag to take out all the change he had told me to bring, exactly enough for a locker and a phone call. I also took out a stamped envelope he had sent me the week before. It was unsealed, and addressed to him, and had an empty cardboard pouch inside it.
I locked the gymbag in a locker, and took the envelope with me to a phone booth he had described to me near the station exit he had told me to call from. I had memorized his phone number and his address like he'd told me to.
He answered the phone on the first ring. He asked me if I'd had a good trip, if I'd kept my hands off my crotch, if I had a hardon and if I'd locked my bag in a locker. I answered yessir to all these things, though I did say I'd had to touch my cock to piss.
He made no comment about that. Then he told me to put the key in the cardboard pouch, seal it in the envelope, lay down the phone and drop the sealed envelope in the mailbox near the phone booth.
I had a little twinge of panic at that moment but I'd gone so far that it was too late to turn back and I did what he said. For the first time I felt scared, as it hit me that I was in a strange city without a penny to my name, no means of identification, nothing on me at all, and there was nothing I could do about it. I went back to the phone and told him I'd mailed him the key.
He told me that under ordinary circumstances he would have picked me up at the station, but I would agree with him that these weren't ordinary circumstances and since it was such a beautiful day I might as well walk to his house. It would probably take me a little under an hour. He said the exercise would do me good, especially since I wouldn't be getting much exercise for the next week. Then he explained the exact route to take, which was pretty direct, and said that since it was such a nice day he wanted me to stroll there at my leisure with my hands behind my back. Him saying that turned me on so much I practically came in my pants, and I walked all the way across Chicago with my cock as hard as steel and practically poking a hole through my sweatpants.
In the course of our phone conversations he'd told me his place was very private so we wouldn't be disturbed and we wouldn't disturb others. He lived in a ground-floor duplex apartment with a private entrance, in a street of row houses. Part of his living quarters and his office were on the floor above that — he was an architect.
When I finally arrived I did what he had told me to do in our last phone conversation before I left school. I walked down the few steps to his private door, which was open, rang three short rings, then went right in and over to a desk where he'd told me I would find the contract we'd agreed I would sign, making me his possession for the next seven days in exchange for the carfare to Chicago and pocket money to go home with.
He'd said I'd find some equipment on the table and instructions about what to do with it after I'd signed the contract. I sat down at the table to read the contract without even looking around, so I jumped when he spoke to me from just a few feet away. He asked me who had given me permission to sit on a chair.
He was sitting in a dark corner, dressed in a suit and tie, reading a newspaper. He actually looked better than he did in his pictures but I only got a quick glance at him because he asked me who had given me permission to look at him. So I mumbled another apology and went back to reading the contract, which I put on the desk and was about to sign without really making sense of it when he asked me who had given me permission to sign anything on his good furniture.
He ordered me to get down on my knees and sign the contract on the floor, which I did. I nervously put the signed contract back on the table and saw the equipment. The equipment was leg shackles, handcuffs and a collar pretty much like the one he had sent me at school, except that this one could be locked on and the open padlock was lying next to it.
The instructions told me to put on the leg shackles and the collar and to lock the collar on, and last of all to snap on the handcuffs behind my back.
I've been working on this letter for four days and I haven't even gotten to the actual bondage part yet. I'm going to try to write about it in detail, though I may have some trouble doing that for reasons I'll explain later. I suppose you'll cut this letter. That's okay with me, but since I've gone this far I'd like to take a little more time and write about something I never considered much before.
It may be boring to you and your readers — I know the actual bondage is what you're probably most interested in, and that was great — but what I've been remembering these last few days is that everything that led up to it was at least as exciting for me and maybe even more of a turn-on, and for the first time I've been trying to analyze the reasons for that, and for the kind of psychological bondage I let myself get into.
Because that's what it was from the moment I made my commitment to Mr. A. (When I didn't call him Sir I always had to address him formally, and to this day don't know his first name) and committed myself to obeying every order he gave me over the phone or in a letter, to the point where I felt I had to confess every infraction I was guilty of, even when he didn't ask and of course would never have found out. Like the fact that the first time he ordered me to wear the buttplug overnight I took it out before it was actually morning.
I knew he would punish me for that when we met but not to have told him would have been to falsify the whole thing, to break very strict unwritten rules, and it was very important to me not to do that right from the beginning. Something in me had to follow every one of his orders to the letter.
That's pretty much the mental attitude I have to put myself into in order to really get into a bondage situation. Bondage works best for me when I, the everyday person I am, allow myself to forget who I am and turn into someone else. Or maybe I should say turn into no one. It's as if I empty my mind, and go into a state in which I only exist as the creature of the man controlling me. Does that mean I have a "slave" mentality or does it just mean I'm schizophrenic? Is it the same for other bondage bottoms? I haven't done many actual Master/Slave scenes (for that matter I haven't done many scenes), but I don't really dig calling a man "Master" or having him call me "Slave". On the other hand, calling him Sir seems not only natural but necessary to me, and I prefer it when the man doesn't call me by any name at all. As far as I can remember, Mr. A never called me anything, he even started his letters to me without a salutation (I'm sorry I destroyed them, you'd have thought they were real hot).
By the way, one of the things I always liked so much about Mr. A when I was at his place was that there was almost no talk at all, after the first day particularly. There were times the first day when I did need a little talking through. But afterwards, once he had won my confidence, he just did things to me, and since I was gagged most of the time I couldn't have talked to him even if I wanted to. One of the problems I run into with talk is that unless it consists of brief respectful answers given on command, it tends to make demands on my everyday self (especially if I'm asked my opinions about things, my likes and dislikes) and jar me out of the scene. The main problem is it creates conflicts inside me. On the one hand, I like to feel that my opinions shouldn't be taken into consideration, that my likes and dislikes should be of no concern to the man controlling me. On the other hand, of course, somewhere inside myself I only want done to me what I want done, if you get what I mean. In other words, despite the empty state of my mind, my other self is still very much alive, if temporarily put aside, and I don't want things done to me that "it" wouldn't want — like I don't want the "me" who has become another man's possession to get castrated, to use a really gross example, or be put in transvestite bondage, corsetted and in laced up spike heels (I've seen pictures of that and it's a real turn-off).
I guess this is as good a place as any to tell you about my everyday self, or at any rate to say it's miles apart from my bondage self. What I mean by that is I don't consider myself the type of person who would be into bondage. I had a pretty easy upbringing and I get along with my parents and I've always been pretty popular without being any kind of Major Personality. It would make sense to me if I were a very ambitious person, or somebody who liked to take on a lot of responsibility. I've heard about high power executives who get off on being walked around on a leash and made to lift their leg to piss, and the desire of people like that to give up control makes sense to me. But I'm not like that. I think I come across as — and really am — a pretty friendly, easygoing guy with a relatively good sense of humor, someone generally on top of things, disrespectful of authority, admittedly overbearing with some of my opinions at times, probably a little egotistical — I'm no Greek god but I've been told often enough I'm nice looking that I'd be lying to say I didn't believe it. I did well in school and I'm good at my job, which is not any particularly "responsible" position. Well, so much for that. I didn't mean to go into the psycho-logical reasons for what turns me on so much about bondage itself. Feel free to edit out this part. [I never edit out anything. BW] I'll try and describe the actual bondage now.
That's going to be hard to do in any kind of chronological detail, especially after the first day or so. I remember the particulars of getting to Mr. A's place and the first things that happened better than what came after, since a lot of things blend into each other. He kept me blindfolded most of the time, with dark wadding over my eyes that was so firmly taped down it let in no light, and after a while I lost all sense of time. I suspected, too, that he varied the hours between meals and the kinds of meals he fed me (breakfast followed by lunch followed by breakfast again, for example) and he told me later I was right about that).
Anyhow, once I'd locked on the shackles and collar and handcuffs and just stood there for a while he put down his newspaper and came over to me, clipped a leash to the collar and led me to a little room down a narrow hallway. This room had a lot of things attached to the walls — whips and belts and restraints and things, most of which I only took account of later. The room was completely unfurnished, except for a heavy chain hanging down from the ceiling in the center. He unclipped the leash and locked me by the collar to that chain, high enough so I practically had to stand on my toes to keep the collar from biting into my jaw. Then he turned me around to face him and we talked a little bit., or rather he talked, because he wasn't asking any questions and the first time I spoke out of turn he backhanded me, and the next thing I knew had stuck a fat cockshaped gag in my mouth and buckled it tightly around my head. What he basically said was he thought I was very promising material but needed a lot of work, but we had a lot of time and he was sure I wouldn't disappoint him. He pulled my sweatshirt up and over my face and untied my sweatpants and pushed them down around my ankles and spent a long time going over my body, especially feeling my chest and arms and legs, and avoiding my cock and balls and ass completely.
For a long time he played with my nipples. I didn't have any idea why he was doing that. I'd never thought of my nipples as even potentially erogenous zones. First he stroked them gently, then he started flicking them over and over with his fingertips and nails, then pinching and pulling and twisting them, so hard that in the end I grunted in pain and tried to wrench my chest away. He smacked me on the ass, then started on my nipples all over again. The whole thing was a turnoff, and when I wrenched my body away a second time he smacked my butt again, a few sharp, stinging smacks. He pulled my sweatshirt down off my face to stare me in the eye, looking so stern that for the first and only time I regretted what I had gotten myself into. Fortunately that didn't last long. I guess I really must have looked scared. His expression changed, he gently smoothed down my hair, stroked my cheek and smiled down at me. He wasn't going to do anything to me I couldn't take, he said in his deep voice, but he knew I could take a lot more than I thought I could.
He stroked my ass, and the stroking felt warm and good after the sharp smacks. He said it was clear I needed a lot of titwork and while he wouldn't do anymore just now, he did intend to do a lot of it. And I'd take it too, because I wasn't a wimp, was I? His saying that made me steel myself and wish he'd start on my tits again so I could prove I wasn't a wimp, but he didn't. He went on to say he could tell I didn't like the idea yet — and he took my limp cock in his hand as he said so — but he intended to do a lot of things to me I might not like at first. But even if I didn't like them he knew I'd take them like a man. And anyhow he was sure that I'd like a lot of them by the time he let me go. But that wouldn't be for awhile yet — and one way or the other it would be better for both of us if I relaxed and let him do what he wanted. After all, I didn't have any choice, did I? He was going to do it whether I wanted him to do it or not. But if I needed reassuring, he'd do it one last time. He intended to honor the contract as much as he expected me to. He had no intention of damaging me or hurting me personally in any way. He was just going to give me what we both knew I needed. And one of the things I needed was to understand that for one full week I belonged to him, and he could do anything within the bounds we'd agreed upon that he wanted to. I was his prisoner. Did I understand that? I did my best to nod my head, which isn't easy when you're practically hanging by the neck. Good, he said, he'd never doubted it for a moment and as far as he was concerned there was no need to continue the conversation, and now if I was ready we'd get down to business. He looked down at my cock which had gotten hard in his hand and said that he assumed I was ready. Was he ever right!
The way he got down to business blew my mind. He took a large pair of scissors — more like huge shears — from off a peg on the wall, and without another word cut my sweatshirt off, then my sweatpants. I couldn't believe my eyes. Now I didn't have a piece of clothing to my name except my sneakers and socks (and they disappeared before long). What a turn-on! My cock got so hard I think I'd have come if he'd touched it, but he didn't. He hung the scissors back on the wall and took down a piece of black leather equipment which he brought over to me and held under my nose. He said something like, "You didn't like the picture of me in leather; does that mean you don't like leather?" I tried to shrug, which wasn't much easier than nodding. I liked leather okay, the leather air force jacket my brother gave me when he got out of the service the year I went away to college was a favorite of mine. But I didn't have any fetish about leather in particular. "You'll have to admit it smells good," he said. It did.
The thing he was holding up to my nose and proceeded to put on me after he removed the handcuffs, was something called a "sleeve" or "the poor man's strait jacket," he said. And though he was no longer a poor man (he had several strait jackets which I would have the pleasure of wearing before the week was out) this cheaper model still had its uses. It was made of soft leather and shaped something like a giant staple. I had to wiggle my arms in behind my back until my right hand reached my left elbow and vice versa. The two ends went up my upper arms to the armpits. Once the thing was on he laced it up tight, unlocked my collar from the chain and led me by the leash to a bathroom where he let me piss. After that he made me kneel down with my chest over the edge of the bathtub, removed the buttplug and proceeded to run water for an enema.
If I hadn't completely accepted him as my owner before, I definitely did after the first enema (he gave me two in a row that day, a lot more over the next week). You can't have any defenses left in front of somebody when you find yourself bound and gagged on his toilet, smelling up his bathroom with splashing shit and noisy stinking farts and he stands in the doorway with his arms folded calmly watching you and afterwards makes you kneel on the floor with your head between his feet while he wipes you clean. I really grooved on the second enema and on the spanking he gave me as he held me in position kneeling over the edge of the bathtub and ordered me not to spill a drop out of my ass until he gave me permission.
After the enema we returned to the room with the chain in it where he removed the sleeve and leg shackles and laced me to the wall with rope — on one of the walls was the image of a man traced out with large bolts and he stood me against it and laced me up tight and blindfolded me. He started playing with my cock, first with his hands, then with something warm and wet. He made long, gliding movements around my crotch area. It wasn't till he was just about done and about to remove the blindfold that I realized he had shaved my crotch and balls.
After he unlaced me he led me handcuffed and leg-shackled into another room — he had a whole warren of little rooms on this floor, which was actually a little below ground level. I think the one he took me into now was his main "playroom" though I can't be sure because I never walked freely through it and only rarely was in any of those rooms without being blindfolded. This was one of those times.
I knew from our phone conversations that he really got off on keeping guys in cages, and he had three cages in this room, as well as a barber's chair and what looked like a massage table loaded down with all kinds of attachments. The cages were heavy, solid things with thick steel bars on them, each bar maybe as much as an inch in diameter. He'd told me on the phone that he had a welder friend who made the finest steel equipment and had built him some very sturdy cages. They locked shut with large, heavy padlocks.
All three were different sizes. The largest was about the size of one I saw on the cover of Drummer about a year ago or so, only not flimsy like that one. I could easily sit inside it like the guy in the Drummer photo. The smallest was about half that size. It was box shaped, and couldn't have been much more than 2 1/2' x 2 1/2'. Unlike the large one, which had a door on one end, this one opened from the top. Once you stepped inside you had to fold yourself into it tightly, your head between your knees and your hands around them.
The third cage was long and low, and like the little cage it opened from the top. It was the most comfortable of the three since you lay stretched out in it, but it was very narrow (when I lay in it my shoulders grazed the bars on both sides) and at most 9" high. I could hardly raise my head at all when the barred top was locked down.
This third cage gave me a start when he led me into the room because somebody was locked inside it, a kid who couldn't have been much older than me. He was just lying there, with his hands in what looked like mittens, and his ankles and wrists tied with rope to the side bars. His mouth was taped shut.
Mr. A. didn't put me into a cage then, but I did spend time in all three cages in the course of the week. I was usually blindfolded when he had me in that room but I never had any trouble telling which cage I was in. He usually kept me in the large one for short breaks. He'd loosely hogtie me outside the cage with handcuffs and shackles and make me wiggle my way in, giving me a little help with a push or a slap. He might leave me in there for an hour or two. He'd put me in the long box for breaks lasting several hours — I even spent a whole night in it once, I think. And the short one was for punishments. I don't think he ever made me stay in it for over an hour.
He didn't even glance at the kid in the long box and didn't let me spend much time looking at him, either. He ordered me to climb on the table on my belly, and immediately started fastening me down with the straps. My legs were pulled apart so they practically straddled the table before he strapped them down at the thighs, knees and ankles. He strapped my arms to the sides of the table by the elbows and wrists. There was something like a hole at head level, so I could lie face down, most of my face sinking into foam rubber padding which acted as a blindfold. He strapped my head down — I had no trouble breathing but I couldn't see a thing — reached under my belly to manipulate my rockhard cock, which I was lying on, around and pointing toward my feet and then started cranking the table up. The straps had seemed pretty loose but as he cranked and the table began to rise in the middle they tightened. When he finally stopped cranking I couldn't move a muscle and my naked butt was sticking up in the air, the cheeks stretched apart.
He left me for awhile, then came back and started playing with my ass, first applying something warm and wet to it, then making smooth gliding strokes over it. Since I'd gotten a glimpse of what he'd done to my crotch I figured he was shaving my ass now. My ass wasn't particularly hairy but I guess the crack was, since my future farts all took on a new feel and quality.
After shaving me he rubbed glop all over my ass and around my hole and started working on my hole, first one finger at a time, sliding it in and out, then two or even three fingers, then dildos. From time to time as he tried to enter me with a newer, fatter dildo, he slapped my ass and told me to loosen up, smeared my asshole with more glop and worked it with his fingers to stretch it wider.
He must have worked my ass over like that for the better part of an hour. Then he stopped and walked away. I wondered if he'd left the room but then I heard the sound of something unlocking and guessed he was taking the kid out of the cage. I was right. There was a bit of movement by my table and he said "Fuck him" to the kid, who climbed on top of me. The kid's cock was inserted in my asshole and slid right in. I don't know how big his cock was but my ass took it easily. It was the first time I'd ever been fucked. The kid began to hump me and as he did so I could hear him being belted. He grunted in my ear every time the belt came down on him, humped me harder and harder and came, sinking down all sweaty on my back. A moment later he got off me and a bit after that I heard the cage door open and shut again, and the sound of a lock.
Afterwards, when I was taken off the table, the kid was almost exactly like he'd been when I got on, except that now his mittened wrists were tied to the top of the cage.
But I wasn't taken off right away. Mr. A. started up with the dildoes again. The one he put in now went in easy enough at the start but thickened suddenly and hurt. He pulled it out, then pushed it in again. He fucked me with it slowly and steadily, each time pushing it a little deeper in until all of a sudden, when I thought I was going to tear apart, my asshole just swallowed it up. It slid in to the hilt, which I could feel flat and sticky at the entrance to my hole. Packed in firmly and unmovingly, it stayed put, and I figured (correctly) that it must be a bigger version of the buttplug I'd worn to Chicago from school.
Mr. A. lowered the table long enough to fit what turned out to be a leather harness around my waist, work my cock and balls through straps that came to a V at the butt-plug, and bring a single strap that buckled tightly to the belt up my ass crack. Then he cranked the table up again and began beating me, mainly on the ass but also on the legs and back too. It hurt like hell, but something did turn me on about not being able to deflect the blows or defend myself against them in any way at all. And every once in a while he paused to caress an area he'd just belted raw, and the touch of his hand on my body was wonderful. I just wished he'd caress me more.
Eventually he released me from the table, put the leg shackles back on, cuffed my hands behind my back, removed the gag and held me to him, telling me I'd taken it well. As far as I was concerned there'd been no way I could have taken it differently but I was glad he looked so satisfied. I let myself melt against him. I think that at that moment I loved him more than I'd ever loved anybody. He wasn't wearing his jacket anymore, he had damp stains under his armpits and a nice masculine smell of sweat. I remember how soft his shirt felt against my face. His chest was strong and solid. He held me firmly, and gently stroked my sore back and buttocks. Then he attached the leash to my collar, led me out of the room and up a flight of stairs to his bedroom.
It was a big room with a king-size, fourposter bed. The four solid wood posts had hooks and bolts all over the place. They were about 8 feet high, and joined together by a wood-beamed frame on top.
He locked me by the collar to a bolt in the door jamb while he went about taking the wooden sides away from the base of the bed. The mattress had seemed a little higher than normal and when he removed the wooden sides I saw why: it was lying on top of a steel cage. The cage door was at the foot of the bed. It was less a door than an entire removable panel, which he unlocked and unhooked and set aside. On the cage floor was a board set on wheeled casters. He rolled it out. The board was overlaid with vinyl-covered foam rubber and hooks were screwed into this in the shape of a man, like they were on the wall downstairs.
He uncuffed my hands and recuffed them again in front, raised my hands to the collar and used a padlock to attach the cuffs by their links to the front ring of the collar. Then he unlocked the back collar ring from the jamb. I expected him to put me on the board but instead he put me on the bed on my back. A moment later he had spreadeagled me to the bed with leather restraints. There was a mirror over the bed, housed in the fourposter frame. While he went about preparing things he told me to enjoy what I was looking at since it was the last time I'd be looking at anything for awhile.
When he returned to the bed he released one of my hands and laid it in his lap. He had a hardon and I pushed my hand against it, kneaded it with the back of my hand for a while. Then he said I'd get plenty of his cock before the week was out and he put a black leather glove on my hand. It looked like an ordinary glove except all the fingers and the thumb were sewn together. Then he pressed something to the inside of my hand and began winding a small ace bandage around my hand and whatever it was he was pressing against it, a gently rounded piece of steel or something equally rigid. When he finished with the bandage it wasn't tight, there was almost no pressure from it, but I couldn't move my fingers or make a fist. To finish up he drew a black leather mitten — probably the same kind the kid down-stairs had on — over my bandaged hand. It went up above the wrist and was buckled on with a small belt at the wrist, then locked with a small lock. It had rings at the wrist and at the tip. He put my hand back in the leather restraint, walked round the bed and proceeded to immobilize my other hand the same way.
When he had put both mittens on and spreadeagled me again he went away and came back with some more leather items, cotton wadding and tape. He played with my cock until I almost came, then told me to say good-bye to myself for a while. He put thick wadding over my eyes and taped them down so firmly that I probably couldn't have seen a glimmer of light if I'd been able to open my eyes. Then he fitted something over my head and laced it down the back. I guessed it was one of the hoods he'd told me about. It felt nice and comfortable and had a sexy, leathery smell.
He released me from the restraints, guided me off the bed and over to the board where he laced me down. He pushed something against my lips, told me to open up, and when I did pushed a thick leather gag wad inside my mouth and buckled the gag on in back.
There was an interesting thing about this hood, which I've never seen on any other. It had loopholes right near the mouth to pass the gag straps through, as well as loopholes on the sides. The loopholes made it much harder to push the gag out of the mouth with the tongue. As you must know if you're experienced with gags — and gags are an indispensable part of bondage to me, so I've experimented with them a lot — it's very hard to put a gag in a person's mouth so that it stays in if he's determined to get it out, unless the gag is inside a hood, or most of the head is wrapped up. This one came as close as any I've ever tried to doing the job effectively, and had the benefit of being easy to take off in an emergency. By the way, I didn't realize this or learn it at that time, of course. I got to know that hood well, but most of that week I only wore it over blindfolded eyes.
When he had laced me to the board (this included tying down the mittens at the wrists and the tips and tying down the hood, because when he was done I couldn't move my head or my hands) he told me it was time for a nap. He threw something (a blanket?) over me and rolled me on the board, backwards, into the cage which I soon heard him locking. I think he even fitted the wood panels back but wasn't sure about that. I must have been exhausted because I fell asleep right away and didn't wake up again till he was pulling the board with me on it out of the cage.
From here on I can't remember details. As I say, I remained his prisoner for an entire week and in all that time was never out of some form of bondage. The mittens and the blindfold stayed on for days. I was also gagged and hooded a lot of the time. My favorite hood (and gag) were the ones he put on me first, which I've just described. The hood was padded and snug without being too tight and the gag was just the right size, soft and big and chewy. He had at least two other hoods which he put on me, one of which had a built-in gag and strapped on so tightly it made me claustrophobic and gave me a headache. I freaked out a little one day when I had that one on, and fortunately he realized something was wrong and took it off. We had to go easy for a long time after that while I recovered from the headache, so that day I was only chained by the collar to his bed. My hands were chained to the collar as well because one of the things in our contract was that for the whole time I was there I wouldn't be allowed to touch my cock or have any access to it at all with my hands, even when my hands were in those mittens. And I never did.
I was never hungry enough to notice so I suppose he fed me at regular intervals, but I was never exactly sure which meal I was getting. Usually he fed me like a baby. A few times, when the blindfold was off and I was in pretty loose hogtie bondage in the big cage, he put a bowl of food down and I had to eat it as well as I could on my own, then lap up water from a bowl.
From time to time he strapped me into the barber chair to clean my teeth and to shave me. I have no idea how often he did either.
He gave me at least an enema a day, sometimes two, and sometimes after he'd cleaned me off he tied me into the bathtub and gave me a bath. Every few hours he allowed me to piss into something he held below my cock. Sometimes he put on me what I later learned was called an external catheter and then he let me know I could piss whenever I felt like it.
He played with my tits a lot, put clothespins on them and other kinds of clamps. I got so I could take it without wincing too much and toward the end of the week even kind of welcomed some of the tit pain, but I never really got into it and think I disappointed him in that area. I'm more into titplay now than I was then, but it's not a big turn-on for me.
I prefer getting my ass beaten, and it surprises me that I turned out to like that since I'd looked forward to that part of the experience with dread. I'm glad I did like it because he beat me a lot, not always on the massage table. Sometimes he tied me to a post, and a few times he put me into stocks that immobilized my head and hands as well as my feet. By the way, I don't mean to say I didn't hate the beatings at first. But there was a point where I really found myself enjoying them. I loved the way he caressed me afterwards, and fucked me too, for it was usually after the beatings that he fucked me, or in a break during the beatings.
Sometimes he had somebody else fuck me, though I never saw any of the people who did it. He had a friend who lived upstairs in the same building and who often came down with his slave. Once I had to suck this slave's cock while the friend fucked me. I was in a difficult position for cocksucking and didn't do a good job of it, in fact I grazed the slave's cock with my teeth. He let the slave beat me for that and the slave really slammed into me, so hard Mr. A. made him stop and then the slave got beaten.
The beatings began as punishments for all my disobediences before we'd actually met, while we were still only in phone contact. The first beating didn't count, he told me, it wasn't to be considered a punishment beating at all but just one to make me appreciate my helplessness. The punishment beatings began more formally. He had a list of my wrongdoings from the very first phone call. He had determined a specific number of strokes for every time I'd failed to call him the very minute I was supposed to, or had failed to remember some order, or hadn't addressed him using Sir in a sentence. He remembered everything, like the time he'd ordered me to keep the first buttplug in overnight and I'd taken it out before morning, and of course he also beat me for touching my cock when I went to piss on the trip to Chicago. I think it all tallied up to a little under 200 strokes, which he said he'd parcel out in 25 stroke packages over the week.
He kept count with an indelible red magic marker on my chest after each punishment session, marking them off in line groups of five which took a long time to wash off when I got back to school. As it turned out, he finished with the entire number long before the week was out. But if I thought he was going to stop because of that I was wrong. From now on, he said, he would beat me when he felt like it because it amused him to beat me, and he knew I'd agree that that was reason enough. I did. And he continued to beat me as regularly as before.
I can't talk about how I spent the nights because I was never sure exactly when the nights were. I spent a lot of time laced to the bondage board in the cage under his bed. I think that may have been during the daytime, when he was working in his office down the hall. I also slept in his bed a lot of the time, with him holding me while he slept. Was that at night? It seemed like he only took naps, sleeping three or four hours at most. He liked to fuck me before he went to sleep and when he woke up. For that he had me spreadeagled on my belly, or flat on my back with my legs in the air, attached to the top frame of the bed or the back posts, I was never exactly sure where. Often after he fucked me he tied the buttplug in. He always put the buttplug in before he beat me. After he'd finish fucking me and before he took his nap he usually either put me in a leather and canvas straitjacket with a pants attachment, or in one of those Fetters bondage sacks with leather sleeves attached to the inner sides. I liked the sack best, it was comfortable and secure to lie in, and I liked the different way it felt when it was loose or laced up tight.
He must have brought me off several times a day because I know I came a lot more than 7 times that week. He always beat me off by hand, though once or twice he had somebody suck me off. He did work other guys over while I was there, leaving me in a cage or tied to something while he did it. Sometimes he tied me and another guy together. At least once, I know, he had all three downstairs cages in use at the same time. I was in one, his friend's slave was in another, and God knows who was in the third. Afterwards all three of us were put in the cage under the bed, me in the middle. The other two were gagged but otherwise unrestrained. I was hooded, gagged and blindfolded. They were given restraints and told to tie my mittened hands to the head of the cage, my feet to the foot. Then they were ordered to make me cum under penalty of being beaten if they didn't and I was ordered not to cum under any circumstances under the same penalty. I did cum, of course, twice.
For the entire week, I think my cock was almost constantly hard. When he brought me off it was usually after an intense session. Afterwards he'd put me in lighter bondage and change my position.
That's pretty much it. He kept me like that till the next Saturday afternoon when he brought me off a final time, removed my blindfold, released me from all the restraints I was in, and told me I was free. He left the room and came back a little later with a new gray sweatsuit, my socks and sneakers and gymbag.
After I was dressed we sat in his kitchen and discussed the week over tuna fish sandwiches and cokes. We were kind of formal with each other, at least I was with him. I continued to call him Sir and Mr. A., which was clearly what he expected. We continued our talk afterwards in the livingroom — the first room I'd entered the week before — and he let me examine some of the equipment he'd used on me. He brought it into the living room to let me look at it. He gave no indication of wanting to show me around the house and I didn't have the nerve to ask for permission. I was pretty sure he'd refuse. A little while later he drove me to the bus station, gave me the return half of my ticket and $25. I asked him what the $25 was for, and he told me I should have read the contract. That was the amount I had contracted to be his property for. He told me I'd sold myself cheap, and shouldn't accept a penny less than $35 next time. As it was, he had had such a good time with me that there was a little bonus in my gymbag, but I wasn't to open it until I was back at school and alone in my room.
When I got to open it at last I saw he'd put in several of the dildos he'd used on me, the hood I'd liked so much, my favorite gag and a dozen or so polaroid pictures of me in various positions.
Hi Bob,
Compliments for your story. Well written and makes one wish one was there. Try tit/genitsl piercings if you havn't yet: a real turn-on.
Jean
Posted by: smjean | November 30, 2006 at 10:18 AM