THE MARINE AND THE HIPPY

[This story comes from the same fantastic writer who sent me The Scott Chronicles and The Corporal Performs. It originally appeared in the long out-of-print Issue 28 (May/June 1992). I'll post the story he refers to in the first paragraph (Young Wrestlers, from the even longer out-of-print Issue 25) very soon. A reader's been asking me for a specific story involving military men and bondage, which he can only vaguely describe, and in my researches I reread this great story last night. Maybe it's the one. Even if not, it's a wonderful read. —BW]

"Does the Marine Corps know you let hippies tie you up?"

DEVON, PA. I wrote to you before about my first experience being tied up by another guy. That was when I was tied up in the upstairs of my parents' garage while wrestling up there with a friend of mine, Steve [B&G Issue 25, "YOUNG WRESTLERS"]. I had been experimenting with bondage alone up there, and the ropes were in one corner of the room. Steve and I wore wrestling tights and practiced wrestling holds for a while until suddenly Steve hogtied my young male body with the rope. Then he had left me for good. Eventually I struggled free, but it took a long, long time.

The next day Steve and I spoke, and I asked him if he had ever intended to return to check on me.

"Maybe," he said.

The answer, given in Steve's usual laconic fashion, stirred something inside me, and, coupled with the fact that my fifteen-year-old body still ached from the hogtie of yesterday, kindled an intense lust for being tied up again by this guy.

Well, I was, actually only four times more, each one different, and each an intense emotional session for both Steve and myself. Also, I tied Steve up twice, the last time in a Florida motel room, the night before he was to get married. Maybe I better tell you a little more about Steve.

When we first met, it was in the early sixties, if anyone can remember that far back, and of course the word homosexuality wasn't even used, let alone trumpeted as an "alternative lifestyle." Plus Steve and I went to a prep school, where the worst insult a teenage boy could undergo was to be called "sissy" or "faggot." So even though I had very strong feelings for Steve, naturally I didn't tell him. These incidents, then, I'm afraid, won't be very sex-filled, no magazine plots of naked, built men being gang-raped or anything. Just a couple of kids in the sixties playing around with each other.

Steve was one of those guys whose body was a solid pack of muscle. It was no body-builder's type of body, but solid muscle packed tight and radiating his strength. He was always moving, restlessly, doing handstands, pushups, flexing his arms, anything to keep his muscles taut and his body rock-hard. Wrestling him was sheer heaven, because the thin cotton tights showed off his powerful legs and, of course, his crotch. (When I first met him on the mat, I couldn't take my eyes off the smooth curve of Steve's manhood showing through the ribs on his jock and the wrestling tights). We wore cotton T-shirts in practice, and Steve's hung off his tits, emphasizing the definition in his chest and his rock-solid abdomen in a way which used to provide many hours of jerking off pleasure for me. And when he stooped over, or did toe-touches, you saw the shifting pack of solid muscle across his back and shoulders, and the gorgeous curve from his neck down to the cleft in his smooth ass.

To roll around on the mat with Steve was an intoxicating experience. The sweat on his young male hide, unpoisoned by alcohol, drugs or smoking, smelled and, as I was occasionally able to do, tasted heavenly sweet. There was something about the dark sweat stains on his tights and T-shirt which accented the sensuousness and radiating power of his young animal body. His was almost a cruel body, a body capable of enormous leverage.

Steve had never wrestled before that season (he was sixteen and I was fifteen), so I ended up being the one to show him the ropes, if you'll pardon the joke. He had transferred that year from another school where he had been a gymnast, and as a sport, he preferred it, though unfortunately our school didn't offer it. Gymnastics had endowed Steve with his great strength and his tapered body, and his natural grace and sports sense quickly made his skills approximately equal to mine on the wrestling mat. So we wrestled a lot, and I enjoyed both subduing his body and submitting mine to him.

Anyhow, Steve was a loner, starting a new prep school in his sixteenth year by which time his new class had long since established its pecking order, its cliques, and its power structure. Steve had no place in it, and didn't help his chances much by staying very much to himself. He had no friends at all in the class, just his buddies from his old school, and looking back on it, I expect he had a pretty rough time of it. I was one of those "popular" kids, student council, chairman of this and that, the whole bag of tricks. I was also infatuated with Steve.

It was that summer that he tied me up, but during wrestling season and in the spring, I worked hard at becoming Steve's friend, finally succeeding during an all-night conversation at spring break. It was one of those nights when you're young and you find out that another guy likes you and wants to restate the universe. We restated it that night, finally crawling to bed at about six a.m. Steve had spent the night at my house, and after my parents went to bed, we climbed downstairs and sat outside on a warm March night. One of the memories I do have was that we discussed the Viet Nam war, where America had just sent its first troops, President Kennedy (he was still alive), our futures, the school, and then, without warning, bondage. Quite a conversation, although no one got tied up that night.

A couple of years passed, and Steve and I graduated and went to college, me to Philadelphia, him to South Dakota. We kept in touch, mostly by phone, and both of us started worrying seriously about Viet Nam. Steve went commune, grew his hair long, shacked up with some girl, and took up meditation. I enlisted in the Marine Corps, volunteering for Nam, and cut my hair short. The summer before our senior year the Marine and the hippie met again. I was scheduled to go into basic training after graduation, Steve was trying to get a deferment. Again my parents were away, and I had the big house to myself.

Something happened between us that summer which made each meeting emotionally very intense and at the same time, very addictive. We couldn't talk enough to each other, and I started doing body massages on his shoulders and upper arms after we had a few drinks. In college I had gotten drunk with a cute, blue-eyed swimmer, stripped him, tied his wrists behind his back, and fucked him. The next day he claimed he "couldn't remember a thing about last night." I think I had an idea I could do this with Steve too, but Steve looked into my eyes, smiled a small smile, and shook his head.

Along about 2 a.m., he got up to leave. He got his jacket, and then came up to me where I was getting another drink. "You got any rope, Dan," he asked, with a glint of humor in his eyes and a smile on his good-looking face. With my hands shaking with excitement, I found him some. "Come on," he said. "I'm going to tie you up."

So I followed Steve upstairs. He was dressed in cut-off jeans, and a very ragged t-shirt and as I followed him, my eyes lusted for the cleft in Steve's ass, the tanned, muscled legs and the broad powerful shoulders of this 21-year-old male. Commune living had done nothing to spoil the power or the beauty of Steve's body; he told me later that part of his meditation was done doing gymnastics. In the woods in South Dakota, they had rigged a bar between two trees, and he did his exercises on that.

I was still trembling with excitement, because this was the first time I had admitted that I liked being tied up, and the first time he admitted that he liked tying me up. The experience that summer in prep school we had tacitly agreed never happened; this summer in college, we were "being honest" with each other.

In my bedroom, I stripped to my Speedos (I had been swimming, and just shoved on jeans when Steve had come over). Steve dumped the ropes on the floor, and looked around the room, evidently trying to decide how to tie me. I stood in front of him, my hands at my side, and my cock showing a lovely curve in the Speedos. I was still intensely excited, and longing for any kind of physical contact with Steve's body. Finally it came, by him pushing me over to the bed. He stripped off the blanket and pillows, and motioned me to get on the bed. I did what I was told, and lay face up, my rock-hard mound bulging up like a mountain.

Steve carefully tied me, spending a long time on the wrists, attaching them to the bedposts, and making sure that the knots were out of reach. Then he pulled my legs down the bed as hard as he could, and tied the ankles. It was a perfect, classic spread-eagle, and identical to the ones I was to suffer when my Marine buddy, Dave, and I would tie each other up [see The Corporal Performs]. But this was the first time I had been spreadeagled, and only the second time I had ever been tied up by Steve. My heart was racing, my mouth dry as a desert, and my sexual excitement obvious by the bulge in my Speedos.

"I don't want you getting out, Dan," he said, as he checked his knots. I didn't either. "This is kind of a hoot—a hippie tying up a Marine," as he affectionately stroked my very short hair. Then he left, but just like the first time he tied me up, he returned after a long while. He was carrying something in a bag, and for some reason had removed his shirt. In the condition I was in the sight of his naked chest, tits, and male torso made me almost physically sick with lust. Obviously he knew that, and had done it on purpose.

Ever been spreadeagled to a bed by a guy for whom you have lusted since high school, and have him make you aware of the fact that he knows it? When you're 20 years old in the late sixties, and the phrase "coming out" refers to debutante parties, your best friend stripping off his shirt to tease you deliberately was an intoxicating experience.

“I saw a film this spring," he said conversationally, sitting on the bed and turning so that I could have a good frontal view of his body. "In it they tie some guy up and gag him with a rubber ball. Then they left him to die, but someone saved him. I don't remember much else because we were all pretty stoned that night, but I do remember them gagging that guy. When I saw it, I thought of you."

What rapture that was to realize that Steve had actually been thinking of me when he was stoned out of his mind and watching some guy get tied up in a movie.

"So I went out tonight and found a store before I came over here, and got a surprise for you. You see, I knew all along that I was going to tie you up tonight." And then he reached into the bag and pulled out a rubber ball and a spool of clear tape, not duct tape but some kind of clear plastic tape. I felt his strong fingers on my lower jaw, and physically restrained myself from kissing them, as he opened my mouth and shoved the ball in. He then taped my mouth all the way from the nose to below the chin, and patted my face. He sat there a while more, at one point stroking his chest and tits with his hand, and talked to me.

At last he got up. "Does the Marine Corps know you let hippies tie you up, Dan?" he laughed, and went out. I heard his car start, and Steve was gone. (Note—this was done when 20-year-olds were immortal, and nothing could go wrong. Now I never leave a gagged victim alone).

The Marine, tied up by the good looking hippie, lusted in the ropes for a long time, thinking of Steve's body and of the events of that night, including the revelation that Steve had known all the time about my feelings for him and didn't care. My cock remained a rigid prong, forced into a curve by my Speedos. I tested the ropes over and over that night, but Steve had done an outstanding job, and this time there was no escape. This time, unlike the first time, he did come back, in the morning. He was wearing only his cutoffs, no shoes, no shirt, but this time he had a gold chain around his neck, with a golden fish on it which dangled mesmerizingly between his tits.

"I told my brother about tying you up this morning. I wasn't going to come back, but he said I should." Nice guy, Steve. "So here's a knife. I have to go to New York today, but I want to see you next week."

Any time, any place, I said to myself, and probably would have said to Steve, except that my mouth was gagged. He put a paring knife near my head and left. After about twenty minutes, I had gotten free. It was then 8:30 in the morning. Without taking the gag off, I knelt before my full length mirror.

Later that summer, August I think, or maybe very early September, Steve got tied up by me for the first time. He and I had gone out to the bar, came back to my house, and drank some more. We started playing gin, which was a game that had become the rage that summer, and since neither of us had much money, we couldn't bet very much. So I suggested that we play the best out of seven, and that the loser get tied up. Surprisingly Steve agreed, but only after I agreed that the maximum time Steve would be tied up if he lost was 1/2 hour. So we played, and I lost the first two games. Steve started making remarks about hippies and Marines again, and how this time I wasn't getting out at all, that he would keep me tied up all weekend. Then I won three games in a row.

Steve stopped playing and looked at me. The tension in the room was heavy and electric, with an indescribable air to it combining emotional charge and a heavy undercurrent of young male sex. I guess he finally realized he might lose, and end up being tied up by a guy known to have strong sexual feelings towards him

Gin, the way we played it, was more luck than skill, and luck had decreed that I was to win. I won the fourth game easily, almost slowing up, four games to two, and Steve had been beaten.

"Looks like the Marine gets his revenge," said I, my voice sounding very strange to me. Steve and I looked into each other's eyes for a long time. And then he said, "Okay, what do you want me to do?" Evidently he had made up his mind to play the game fairly. "Nothing too complicated," I said, my voice hoarse and my body shaking with intense excitement. "Just strip, and come down into the basement."

After a long hesitation, Steve pulled his shirt off. After another, his hand reached for his belt buckle. He stepped out of the cut-offs, and I saw he was wearing very small, very tight black bikini underwear.

"Take that off, too," I said, but Steve just shook his head. I shrugged my shoulders, and led the way to the basement.'

Downstairs in the house is a full basement, with first floor supported by wooden posts throughout the basement. Strung between the posts was clothesline used to hang clothes on when it was raining outside. I told Steve to help me get the clothesline down, and he went to a post and started working on the knots. The intensity of my feelings increased as I watched Steve work on the clothesline which he knew was going to tie his body up. Like a guy digging his own grave. His back was to me, and I watched the muscles move and ripple, the sun-golden hairs in the cleft of his ass which the bikini was too small to cover completely. Finally the ropes were free, and Steve turned to ask me what was next. God, what a body. The bikini accentuated Steve's crotch in a way that was almost obscene, and his legs and torso were only the more solid for his twenty-one years.

"Half an hour only, remember, Dan."

"Uh-huh," I said. "Get over to that post."

Steve went to the post and stood with his back to it, evidently thinking I was going to tie him to the post. I first tied his hands behind his back and behind the post, doing them very carefully. My cock was rigidly and painfully hard, and Steve looked at the bulging cloth and at me. "Kneel," I told him.

"No way," said Steve.

"Steve, our bet was that the loser was to be tied up any way the winner wanted."

Steve thought about it and finally kneeled down, sliding his bound arms down the post. I tied his ankles behind the post, and tied his chest and shoulders in a crisscross of rope to the post. I got a chair and sat in front of Steve where he could see the throbbing evidence of my sexual arousal right in front of him. I prodded with my bare foot Steve's cock, thinking I discovered a slight hard-on, but it may have been wishful thinking."

"No," said Steve.

"Ok," I said. "Time for the Marine to torture the long-haired hippie." Strangely, Steve physically relaxed, I guess because his fear that I was going to force him to have sex or something along that line had passed. Apparently torture was okay, but sex with a man wasn't. I didn't care. It was the middle of a hot night, and I had tied Steve up in a kneeling position, and there wasn't a damn thing he could do about it.

His next words were intoxicatingly exciting for me.

"If you're going to torture me, you better gag me first or I'll wake up the whole neighborhood."

I didn't need a second invitation, and I've often thought about his motive in making it. So I went upstairs and came back down with the ball Steve had gagged me with before. Many times when jerking off, I would gag myself with the ball and think of the night I was spreadeagled. This time Steve's mouth was going to taste the ball.

"Remember this, Steve?" and I spent several minutes lovingly easing it into Steve's mouth, feeling the line of a jaw, a day's stubble of beard. I put a cloth over Steve's long hair before I taped his mouth; loving Dan didn't want Steve's hair to be pulled when we took the tape off.

Then I started the torture. Up near the ceiling, on the post, was a steel hook to which the clothesline had been attached. I fixed a rope to the ropes around Steve's wrists, and pulled the other end over the hook. I pulled hard by taking the end and walking to another post about eight feet away. There I tied it.

Steve's arms had been pulled up towards the ceiling, his chest and torso unable to bend forward because the ropes crisscrossing his body and shoulders and securing them to the post. I sat down, and Steve's head looked at me. He made some inarticulate grunt. I stood up, went behind the post and pulled on the rope. Steve's bound arms went higher, and his head fell forward. Then I let go, and his wrists fell back to their original painful position. For about sixty minutes I raised and lowered Steve's arms. Finally I ungagged him, and we talked. It must have been a remarkable conversation, him nearly naked, tied to a post, with his best friend with an obvious erection in his cutoffs torturing him.

"Let me go, Dan," he finally said.

"One last time, Steve." I went and pulled as hard as I could on the rope, feeling an enormous sense of power and pleasure in hurting that gorgeous body. I held it there, then tied it off. Steve could not lower his wrists, and his arms were significantly higher than his shoulders, probably very close to a dangerous situation. I sat down and watched him. The ropes on his chest cut very deep into him, and the leverage in his arms forced his upper body forward, but the ropes prevented it. Steve was panting a little, and a line of sweat appeared on his forehead.

At last I untied him. Steve had been kneeling for about an hour and a half, and for an hour at least I had tortured his arms and upper body. He told me later that he got through it by doing his meditation thing. It was the end of one of the more extraordinary nights in my life.

Well, next spring I graduated from college, and entered the Marine Corps. The Viet Nam war was at its peak, and some 500,000 troops were over there. Despite my volunteering for Viet Nam, I was sent to Hawaii, where I spent a lot of happy times with a guy named Dave, who tied me up regularly, a guy named Rocky, from Texas, who one night tied me stark naked to a chair, sucked me off, and left me for the fire watch to discover, and a guy named Chip whom I tied up on two occasions. So when I was outposted, I was a full-fledged, saber-toothed bondage lover, my already decent body having been made better by a tour with the Marines.

Steve had done alternate service, working in a hospital near Boston. He was violently and bitterly anti-war and anti-military. We wrote occasionally, and I saw him once when I was on leave. But it wasn't until the night before he was married that we got seriously involved with each other.

He was marrying the same girl he had lived with for four or five years, and the wedding was in a small resort town on the Florida coast. Steve asked me to be an usher, which I was glad to do, his father was to be best man. They had already booked hotel rooms; we were staying at a beach-front motel/hotel; I was given a room which had a door directly on the beach, which turned out to be the catalyst for my final time being tied up by Steve.

The rehearsal went fine, and the rehearsal dinner, and a lot of drinking and laughter and fun. I didn't have much time to talk to Steve, and when I went to bed, I figured that the summer of my senior year in college had been the last time Steve would tie me up. I was wrong.

In my bedroom, I pulled out a pint of scotch, deciding to have a nightcap on the beach. There was no ice, so I grabbed the bucket and went into the hallway to look for the ice machine. Coming along the hallway was Steve. He was a vision of almost incredible sexiness. He was now twenty-six or twenty-seven, his body a solid man's body, no longer a boy's; he was as physically fit as ever. In fact, before dinner, he had walked up a short flight of stairs on his hands, to win a bet. Now this vision came down the hallway towards me, carrying a bottle of scotch in his hand.

To begin with, we had all been drinking that night, and I was pretty lit. In my room, I had stripped, and put on my Speedos, thinking to sit out on the beach and drink. So when I went out to get ice, I was wearing only Speedos, skin-tight ones, and I was thinking almost exclusively about Steve, causing, as it always did, a curving bulge in the Speedos. And there was Steve, in the flesh and in the middle of the night.

He came in, and we started talking, just like the old times. I told him that I philosophized on how a Marine and a hippie conscientious objector could be such close friends, and we talked about bondage.

"Do you want to get tied up, Steve?" I asked. Steve said yes, he did, and furthermore, proposed that I hogtie him. He said he liked the challenge.

Rope was no problem. We cut off the curtain cord, several long pieces of it. Steve shucked off his shirt and shorts, revealing his own Speedos. Apparently his mind had moved in the same groove as mine. I tied him up very tightly, pulling his ankles up over his wrists, and securing his upper arms and legs as well. The magnificent body was trussed up like a chicken for the market, and Steve put on a good show for me with twisting, writhing, shifting his packed muscles, shoulder blades, and tightening his asscheeks with his efforts.

"I ought to make you jerk off for your freedom, Steve," I said, remembering how Dave had forced me to do that once in Hawaii. But I didn't, and after about an hour of useless struggles, he asked to be freed. I did so.

"I got something for you, Dan." And he grabs up the cord, the bottle, and goes out the door directly onto the beach. It was about four a.m., and the hotel was dark; the only lights being city lights across a narrow inlet. The moon was out, though, and it was sensuously warm. I followed Steve's moon-glistening body across the sand.

"Ok, get down, face down. It's your turn."

And Steve hogtied me on the beach, kneeling beside my head as he did, so that my mouth and eyes were inches from the curve of his cock. Naturally I had a huge hard-on. Then he dragged me towards the surf, where the beach dropped off into the ocean. The tide was coming in, and he positioned his hogtied captive at the very edge of where the incoming tide had reached, facing up towards him, with my bound legs facing towards the incoming surf. I ground my hard erection into the sand, as I looked up directly into Steve's crotch, as he sat on the sand drinking from the scotch bottle.

"Hippie ties up Marine again," he laughed.

The tide rolled in, and now went up past where I lay. My body moved slightly as the water ran out. There wasn't much of it. The next time it came in a little further, and a little further, this time with more water, and my body turned sideways as it rolled out.

Then a big wave came in and rolled up the beach, and I was carried out into the shallows, spinning around and around like a top. The wave receded and I was dumped on the sand. The next wave came in, and I was sent up the beach to Steve's legs.

"See the marks you made? The smooth one is your chest, but this line here I bet is your hard-on." Again he laughed.

Over and over I was sent up and down, but each time the tide receded I was taken further out into the ocean. I began to get really scared, because Steve was drunk and might pass out for all I knew. I began thinking he intended to kill me, and other pleasant thoughts. But finally, he got up and dragged me above the high-tide mark.

"I got to go, Dan. You can untie yourself." He left, and started back to the hotel. He stopped, and turned around, and looked at me groveling in the sand in front of him. Moonbeams glinted on his taut male hide, and his long hair was wet with sea water. Slowly he stripped off his Speedos, and held them in one hand. His cock was semi-erect as he came back to me. He dropped the Speedos on the beach right before my face.

"A souvenir from Florida, Dan. See you tomorrow." He turned, went back to the hotel, and vanished. I got loose after a little while (he hadn't tied me up that tight), and went to my room. I gagged myself with Steve's Speedos (he probably knew I would), held them in with the cord, and jerked off in a sexual frenzy.

And the next day, without a murmur, Steve got married, and that put a period to that side of our relationship. Now he lives in Florida with his family, and is an oceanographer, maybe studying the way a rock-hard cock, crammed into Speedos, makes a mark on wet sands.

Comments

[John]

Would love to read bondage stories about longhaired punk who lost his hair during a bondage scene - my precious long hair means everything to me - but the "idea" of getting taped up and sheared like a sheep - aahhhh!!! very exciting.

[buy viagra]

This so call rapture that is described to happen before the world ends is quite interesting, many people believe it is going to happen when "GOD" reach for them, other believe that some aliens will come and are going to save us, many theories but at the end no one knows what is going to happen.

[Air Jordan shoes]

Fear not that thy life shall come to an end, but rather fear that it shall never have a beginning.

[online pharmacy reviews]

online pharmacy no prescription Buy online in USA feeling anxious, dizzy, restless, tearful Lamisil FDA-approved Antibiotics skin rash, itching cod next day delivery.Buy online FAST heart disease Lamisil Low for prices kidney disease liver disease Sell,No Prescription No Fees,.Buy Free Shipping,Buy cheap generic discount online disulfiram, pesticides or rubber products, other medicines, foods, dyes, or preservatives Albenza how to discounted Bergen Tabs HIGH QUALITY

buy generic lamprice buy generic lamprice