[This story originally appeared in Issue 19 (November/December 1990).]
AMERICAN SAMOA. Not much roped and ravaged activity here in paradise, in spite of an abundance of red hot men in and out of uniform without shirts on and plenty of palm trees to tie them to here in the tropics. But last spring, I got bound in Belgium, and gagged, too.
I was there with my friend and sometime fuckbuddy André, bicycling and backpacking around André’s homeland. Just a couple of leather twinkies trying to see Europe on the cheap. One night we stayed at a hostel outside of Antwerp. It was run by a blond bearded studmeister named Pieter. We got there in time to hear him barking out the rules of the place like it was boot camp. Too bad it wasn’t, but Pieter turned out to be friendly, especially when he noticed the Mr. Drummer tee shirt peeking from under my flannel shirt. He saw what we were into, and soon after he introduced himself in pretty good English we knew where his head and cock lay.
André and I were getting settled in our tiny cell of a room when Pieter knocked on the door to invite us to a party and meet his friends. That kind of party. Hell yes we were interested. André wanted to get in line for the shower and said he’d come later, so I went with Pieter. He put a hairy arm on my shoulder and led me down the corridor. I just looked at the fucker and wondered if he was thinking what I was thinking.
Pieter’s room was part of a large storeroom behind the hostel office. It smelled like stale beer and cigarette smoke with a hint of reefer, and men. To be precise, there were a tough pair of smooth bodied musclebound cousins from Ghent whose names I don’t recall, so I’ll call them Hans and Franz. The other guy was a sexy Englishman named Chris, who’d gone to school in the American midwest. Chris had an accent to die for, along with curly dirty blond hair and a pale, smooth body. Of course, everybody had clothes on when I met them, but not for long. Things progressed and they noticed the Drummer tee shirt, and we started talking about sex fantasies on the outer limits. I managed to drop the name of Bound & Gagged magazine a few times, too. They were disappointed when I said I didn’t have any drugs, and then they wanted to punish me for just saying no.
Hans, or maybe Franz, pinned my arms behind me. I shook him off, and the two of them grabbed and held me down while my hands were taped together. They tossed the tape to Chris who stuck a piece over my mouth and wrapped it all the way around my head a couple of times. While this was going on, Pieter got to work unbuttoning the flannel shirt. Hans and Franz were feeling me up, yanking my hair and using my face as a spittoon, while Pieter fingered my tits through the Drummer shirt. The fucker stared me in the eye and mashed my nipples between his thumb and forefingers. His pinch felt like pliers, and I speak from experience! I was sure someone heard me yelling, gag or no gag, but I didn’t want him to stop now! “You like pain, don’t you, Drummer boy?” Peter said.
Chris got my shoes off and taped my ankles together, over my socks. Now that I was good and tied and gagged and not going anywhere, Peter released his grip on my nips. He pushed my outer shirt as far as it would go behind my shoulders, and pulled the front of the tee shirt up and over my head, leaving it squashed on the back of my neck and pulling through my armpits. Exposing this man’s heaving and horny torso. Hans and Franz got off the couch and held me down flat on the cushions while Pieter unbuttoned my jeans shorts and pulled them down to my taped ankles. Chris snapped my groin with the band around my underwear before tearing them off with a couple of yanks. As for this yank, I was pissed. I was moaning and cussing and ready to kill, but Morton and the twins were rising and stiffening to meet my new friends, too.
They got out of their clothes, which got me even more overheated. They all looked better out of their clothes than in them, especially Pieter, who had fuzzy blond hair where bodies should be hairy and none where they shouldn’t, with a goddammed, no shit Greek god body that you don’t see every day, unless you live in mythology.
They took turns on me, rubbing and feeling, sucking my cock and then rolling me over to fuck me. Everybody got what they wanted, except maybe me. I wanted to forcefuck them all, slowly, one by one, preferably with each of them spread facedown on a rack, but I didn’t get my wish. I know I came twice, once in Franz’s mouth, who laughed and spit it on my chest. Franz and Hans were big on spit. They all fucked me good, but Pieter was the only one who started cumming in me, and thank God he had on a rubber. The other three came on me, on my buns, my face, all over. In fact, I was in the middle of a mini-orgy, where I was the guest American but not the only attraction. I watched with pure hunger as the four of them went at each other, too, with me tied up on the sidelines and grunting for more like the pig that I am.
They finished and pulled up their pants, then they stood me up and held me in place. Pieter gave my nipples another vise squeeze, while Chris reached from behind his back to pinch Pieter’s tits. I got off on watching what Chris’s fingers were doing to Pieter and the thought that I was responding the same way.
They said they were going to leave me in the storeroom while they searched my room for drugs. Most Americans have drugs, or so they said, and they thought I was holding out on them. They were laughing when they said it and I hoped they were kidding. I hoped. I shook my head violently from side to side and tried to scream “NO!’ but they laughed because it sounded like ‘MNUUUUUFF!”
Chris and Pieter picked me up and carried me writhing and bitching to the back of the storeroom. There were some old green sacks that looked like they were used for mail or laundry. Or maybe for the dumbshits who get their asses fucked and tied up there. They opened one of the big sacks and stuffed me inside! Then they pulled the draw rope tight and fastened the metal clip that locked the sack closed. I felt the sack close in around me, and I really was trapped, with my knees practically in my face.
I felt like a road company of Mummenschantz, trying to squirm around in the tight sack. It was scratchy against my bare ass and other vulnerable body parts. I felt their hands and feet slap and kick me, followed by someone dragging the sack on the floor with me squirming inside, trying to protect my head. Then somebody gave a grunt and picked up the sack, but didn’t carry it far. I felt a wall against one side, followed by a feeling of rocking back and forth. I was a bit disoriented, but I still had an idea which way down was, and I could feel that I was no longer on the floor, so I figured I was hanging from something. Then I heard more muffled voices and laughter, and footsteps going away, with Pieter’s voice saying “Enjoy yourself, Drummer Boy.” Then a door closed and they were gone.
And I was alone. Raped and sacked in Belgium, and all tied up to boot. The tape bound my hands, feet and mouth, and I couldn’t break it. It was like duct tape, only stronger. I was scared and pissed off, but the bondage and confinement—make that encasement—in a small dark place with little or no mobility or hope of escape, was a tremendous turn on! I knew people got off on that sort of situation, and now I was initiated as one of them! Hot and horny, the more I struggled and tried to scream for help, the hornier I felt, until my cock shot a load of hot stuff onto my neck that dribbled around my face.
I thought about André, who I hadn’t seen in over an hour. I thought maybe he’d come down to Pieter’s so-called party about now and cut me out of this sack. Jealousy aside, I hoped André had found a playmate in the shower and that they were happy balling each other’s brains out in another room, in case Pieter and the others weren’t kidding about looking for drugs. We didn’t have any, and I didn’t want to hurt André. He’s a fuckhead sometimes, but he’s my fuckhead.
I heard someone come into the room. I didn’t know who it was and I nearly shit on myself until I heard a now familiar English accent saying “how’s the Drummer boy?” Chris put the sack on the floor and opened it, and dragged me out feet first. He took off the tape gag and jammed his tongue down my sticky mouth. When I asked, he said Pieter and the others were just pulling my chain when they said they were looking for drugs. They just wanted a reason to scare me and stuff me in the mail sack. It worked. I was so tired and happy that I kissed him myself, as he sawed at my nips with his fingernails.
Chris untied me and let me get dressed. I gave him my Drummer shirt, and he took off his tee shirt with the name of a leather bar in London and handed it to me. Just doing our part for good global relations. As soon as I buttoned my fly he grabbed my hands and taped them in front of me, lightly this time. Then he gagged me again. Not again, I thought, but he said he had a surprise. He stuffed my shirt into the back of his jeans.
Chris took me out of Pieter’s room and down the corridor. We got a few strange looks and even some applause on the way back to my room. Chris opened the door, and there was André, butt naked on the bed and tied up with tape. He moaned through his gagged lips when he saw me, and flopped like a fish out of water. Chris said that while I was in the mail sack, he and Pieter and the others had gotten André taped and raped, too! Well, not raped really, since André will lie down and spread it for anything wearing a rubber.
Chris pushed me all the way inside. He gave André’s wang a yank or two, then he bit the back of my neck and said he’d be back later. And he did come back. Meanwhile, there was André, gagged and bound and begging for it as always, and there was I, second or third-wind horny and gagged with my hands tied in front of me. But I could still reach with my arms and use my talented fingers. What do do, what to do?
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