Bondage Stories

MANNY, KURT, THEIR FEET, AND ME

[This story appeared in Issue 43, November/December 1994 under the title: "Master Permits Lover/Slave to Chow Down on His Feet." On rereading it just now, I decided the new title was more fitting.]

COLORADO. My (former) lover Manny and I had been together for over a year when we finally had our first session with ropes. Manny is a very handsome 6'3", 195 lbs. with a beautiful 7 in. cock — I’m a cute 5'9", 175 lbs with a very respectable 6 in.) Although I had been dropping clues for quite a long time, Manny always backed off because he felt it was too aggressive a scene for him. One night he called and asked to come over my place. I happened to be in the middle of a private bondage scene, with about 20’ of white nylon rope wrapped around my body from neck to toes. I told him what I was doing and asked him if he’d like to come over and “finish me off.” He laughed and said, “sure,” but added that he couldn’t get to my place for over an hour. When he finally got there it was too late and he was only interested in jacking me off. Though disappointed, I said “OK,” but I did ask him for a rain check and, much to my surprise, he agreed.

The next afternoon (while Manny was still in his long bathrobe and I was in a pair of very old, torn sweats), we started to get frisky, so I asked if we could play with my ropes. Though still hesitant, Manny agreed, but asked me to tie myself up so he could see how I did it and what I liked. Overjoyed, I went into my bedroom, stripped and started tying myself!

First, I tied and cinched my ankles just loose enough to allow me to hobble about (I had to get back to the living room). Then I tied a thin nylon cord snugly around my scrotum, the ends of which were long enough to reach my big toes. I knew, from self-practice, that when I tied the ends off every step would be deliciously uncomfortable for my bound balls. After wrapping a long piece of nylon rope around my chest and elbows I picked up my toy bag and hobbled out.

I definitely surprised Manny, who laughed and told me I was “wild.” I explained he had to tighten and finish binding my arms and wrists to my sides, and he accommodated me. He got up from the sofa and, for a novice, did a great job in no time flat. When he was finished he pushed me onto an arm chair and swung my legs over the arm, obviously knowing this would ensure the tether from my balls to toes would remain tight. Manny then turned and opened up the sofa into a bed. All the while he continued to give me a naughty grin which seemed to say “you asked for it, now you’re going to get it.”

When he was finished Manny dropped his robe and came over to me, (his beautiful dick was half erect and right in my face) and grabbed each of my nipples and started working them with vigor. He pulled on them and told me to stand up. This was a bit tough since my legs were still over the arm of the chair and all while I tried to stand he continued to dig his nails into me. Without my arms, or Manny’s help, it took a lot of effort to finally stand, but when I finally got up Manny began to deep-kiss me. These were of the really wet, hot variety which I love, and they continued for several intense minutes. He only stopped when he felt the wetness oozing out of my fully erect dick. When he saw this he chastised me and had me bend over so I could lick his wet thigh clean.

Manny then opened my toy bag and took out the clothespins. He fastened one on each nipple and snapped them for several seconds, all the while enjoying my discomfort. When he finished playing with my tits he pushed me down on the sofa bed and tested the tether from my balls to my toes and opted to re-tie it, a bit tighter, with my big toes together. He tested his handiwork out for a few, wicked moments by holding my ankles down and tickling my soles with the edge of a spare clothespin. Obviously, every time I thrashed about and/or pointed my toes away in response to the wooden pin I yanked my balls (which by this time were turning a lovely shade of violet red).

Next Manny lay down next to me, ”69” fashion, and fastened at least six regular sized clothespins to my scrotum and as many “miniature” clothespins on the underside of my dick (these miniature pins are hard to find but worth the effort). Needless to say the skin here was already stretched tight and the spot of contact with each pin began to throb
immediately, causing me to coo my pleasant discomfort. Manny was certainly enjoying his position of power and experimented by clipping the small pins all along my penis, including the corona.

The treatment I was getting in this area soon proved to be too intense (much more than I had expected from Manny), and I had to beg him to take them off. But, as he was enjoying my desperate pleas, he merely told me to “hush,” and proceeded to plant his bare foot, size 12, over my mouth. (He did this on purpose because he knew I was a footman who loved and frequently worshipped his very athletic, shapely size 12’s.) Pacified by his big toe, I “suffered” his dick torture for several more minutes.

Manny finally settled on a creative arrangement of the pins, mostly on my scrotum, and stopped his exquisite cock/ball torture. He then left the room long enough to fetch my (hand) body massager. I have to admit that I was not prepared for the incredible effect this device could deliver on my imprisoned balls. The shaking it created caused each clothespin to vibrate and flood my entire scrotum and body with waves of sensation. It was almost too much to take and I screamed for Manny to stop. Laughing, he slowed his pace, dumped a lot of lotion on my penis and started jacking me off. Again, I begged him to go slow and this time he was more than happy to oblige. I moaned my approval as he gently worked my dick with long, firm stropes, holding the massager just close enough to my scrotum to make it, and the pins, vibrate.

Despite my attempts to stave it off, a fantastic orgasm erupted from the depths of my groin. Manny let me recover for a few minutes and then began removing the pins, which hurt more coming off than they did when they were on. After he wiped up the mess he untied me and had me give him a very thorough blow job, which for Manny meant at least a half hour of TLC for his balls and cock.

I continued to ask Manny to experiment and play with bondage but it was a love which he never really took to. There were a few unexpected times, when he was in an especially playful mood, and became very creative. On one occasion he tied my hands behind my back and hobbled my ankles and pulled me into the kitchen where he “tried out” a variety of kitchen utensils and condiments on my naked body. He had a blast but I was a sticky mess when he finished. On another occasion, just before Halloween, we went out to purchase costumes for a party. Manny ended up going as “Mr Clean” and bought a skull cap, etc.…but I opted for a prisoner’s outfit, complete with “faux” shackles for my wrists and ankles. These were made of rubber and looked very real. For some reason they really got to Manny an as soon as we got home he insisted I strip and put them on. Within minutes Manny knocked me down, lifted my legs and fucked the bejesus out of me. When he finished he sat down on my face and beat me off while forcing me to give him a mandatory rim job.

By far the most exciting and memorable scene I had with Manny took place on a lazy Friday night. He was especially bored and was bitching about a lot of things, his parents, his job, and our dusty apartment. I told him I couldn’t do much about the first two complaints but that I’d be happy to become his slave for the evening and of course he could then order me to clean up the place. My only condition was that he put me in some devilish bondage to heighten the scene. Manny agreed and ordered me to strip while he went to the bedroom for our toys.

Manny looked fantastic when he came back into the living-room, for he had changed into a shorty T-shirt, a tattered pair of cut-offs, the type so incredibly old and short that any motion revealed some part of his privates. He also brought a few ropes, a pair or his bikini briefs and my vibrating butt plug. He ordered me to bend over and took a few minutes to work the plug in my butt. Then he had me slip on the briefs which were snug enough to hold the plug firmly in place. He tucked the control into the waist band and then reached in the pee panel in front and pulled my penis and balls completely out of the briefs. He wrapped one of the ropes around my balls and tied it off, but left it dangling between my legs. Next he hobbled my angles, leaving about eight inches of slack. He tied the tether from my balls to the hobble and then had me walk around a bit to test it. After one adjustment to take up the slack and shorten the tether, he sat down and ordered me to sit on the floor for my “work list.”

Manny instructed me to dust everything in the living room, bedroom and dining room. Then I would vacuum those rooms, and finally, I would clean the bathroom. He explained his conditions: he said he would go to the basement to do our laundry to be out of the way (especially of the dust, which he was allergic to) and that I had better be done with my work in about an hour “or else”…

We both got about our tasks, Manny gathered up all the laundry and I started dusting. This was a lot harder than expected due to my hobble and tether. Lots of things were now out of reach forcing me to maneuver myself carefully up and down a convenient stepladder, but more often than not I ended up yanking my nuts. Vacuuming was a lot easier but by the time I was almost finished I was sweating profusely, and I only had ten minutes before Manny’s hour was up. Inevitably, I wasn’t able to finish the bathroom because Manny called to me to get my ass out to the living room when he was done.

I hobbled out and the first thing he did was turn on the vibrator of the butt plug, then he ordered me to go get him a drink. When I returned he had removed his T-shirt and settled his 6'3" body into a recliner. He took the drink and told me to turn around so he could tie my wrists behind my back, then ordered me to kneel in front of him. (Manny knew this command would drive me crazy, for I would have a perfect view of his nearly naked torso and, especially, his beautiful feet — the bottoms of which had gotten nicely soiled from the dirty basement floor.)

After resting for a few minutes Manny announced it was inspection time and got up. He came over to me and untied my tether and wrapped it around his fist and gave it a sharp tug as he ordered me to stand. (I tried this but almost fell so Manny ended up giving me a hand.) Manny gave a good tug and proceeded to lead me around the apartment.

Manny wasn’t really checking any of the work I had done, instead he was working me as hard as he could, knowing the bondage made every step very hard. He kept up a fast pace and lead me around our apartment in circles. All the while he tugged on my balls and snapped orders at me to hurry up. His real reason for this “jog” was to tease and taunt me for he kept exposing either his penis or balls, merely by shifting the edge of his shorts. Several times he had me kneel and lick the juice dripping from his dick, during which he would yank my leash and/or slap my hardon. When we finally reached the bedroom he stood on the edge of the bed and spread his legs wide enough for me to nuzzle into his butt and rim him. Needless to say every bit of Manny tasted great.

Suddenly Manny had me stop and he stepped out of his cutoffs and laid down on our bed. He had me sit down (on the side of my thigh for the butt plug was still in), and then he picked up a magazine and started thumbing through it, casually saying, “What should I have my slave do next? (He also kept the tether firmly in his fist so there was no relief for my balls). Several minutes elapsed as he read and viewed the gay mag so I finally asked him if I could clean his soiled feet. Annoyed, he yanked my leash and said, “Don’t ask anymore questions, slave, I’ll do the thinking for the both of us.

Manny probably didn’t realize that the tension on the tether was really intense, for my balls were being yanked at least 3” away from their usual resting place. Since he didn’t ease up on the leash I had to beg him to. I think he was a little surprised that he was hurting me (due to the intensity of my plea) because he immediately let up on the leash and said I could go to work on his feet.

Manny’s feet and toes were incredibly masculine and beautiful and I loved every inch of them. Not only were they big, they were also high arched, perfectly shaped and nicely outlined by tendons and veins. I think Manny even appreciated their beauty for he doted on them. For instance, he would take a lot of time drying them after a shower, frequently manicuring the nails and cuticles as well. Other men and women could not help but notice these feet as well and once he was told that they “resembled Greek feet, like the ones chiseled in stone.” In short, they were beautiful, manly feet, the kind a footman like me can’t wait to worship. Tonight, however, I was getting an even greater high from them than usual for Manny had bound me, ordered me about, tortured my balls and finally given me permission to chow down on them. I was in foot heaven.

Somehow I managed not to shoot the load practically bursting from my tingling groin as I extended my tongue over his soiled left foot. I forced myself to concentrate on my job, cleaning this beautiful object of my personal fetish, and held off. I really threw myself at his foot and slobbered all over it. I soaked the ball, sole and heel and licked and chewed each section to get them real clean. Then I moved up to his toes and sucked and licked each one with heartfelt TLC. I was so aroused that I began pressing his entire foot all over my face, alternating licking, slobbering and rubbing his foot against my lips, nose and cheeks. After about 15 minutes Manny tugged on my leash to remind me that he had a right foot too. I gave his right foot a repeat performance with the same kind of fervor, knowing full well that this particular moment would not come again, if ever, for quite some time.

Manny had remained indifferent while I worked on his feet, and I think he was even beginning to be distracted (later he told me he was still annoyed with his family), so he told me to “get up on the bed and get your mouth on this dick.” He was holding his dick as I glanced up and it looked fantastic, fully erect and oozing cum. Sadly, I kissed his right foot goodbye and hoisted myself up on the bed and between Manny’s legs.

As soion as I got to Manny’s roaring dick I went right down on it even though it was pretty hard to keep my balance. After a few seconds of wobbling Manny reached down and steadied me by holding my shoulders and that’s when he started to moan. My mouth was just the right size to completely take Manny’s seven erect inches. I loved to do this and he always flipped for my oral devotion and skill. Tonight he had really made me work for his meat but the waiting had made the moment all the better.

In a short time I sensed he was coming, especially when he grabbed my head and pulled it onto his dick. He shot such a huge load that it began oozing out of my mouth, causing me to pull off momentarily to swallow. Manny could only bellow his approval and stroke and grab the hair on my head.

It always took Manny several minutes to recover from a major orgasm, and this one was just that. When he finally started to speak again he ordered me to go get him a warm wash cloth so he could wipe himself off. Still tied, I squirmed off the bed and hobbled into the bathroom. With my hands tied behind my back I was forced to use my chin to push the faucet on and off. I got the hand towel wet and warm and hobbled back. Manny thanked his “slave” for doing such a great job, both on his cock and the towel. He had me lie down next to him and he proceeded to wrap his long arms and legs around my torso (remember he’s 6'3" and I’m an average 5'9"). It felt great to be held so closely by my big man while still in bondage.

Manny started kissing me and varied his oral action by diving down and biting my nipples. Since his right arm was wrapped completely around my neck he went to work on my right nipple with that hand. With his left hand he was working my cock and balls vigorously when suddenly he stopped his assault long enough to make a loop at the end of my tether. I wasn’t sure just what he was doing until he slipped his big toe through the loop. As he stretched out his leg he grinned and said, “I’ve got to keep working your balls till you shoot a big load for me.” He then went to town on my nipples, mouth, dick and balls with his tongue, fingers, hands and big toe—playing my body as a virtuoso would play some kind of musical instrument.

Since he hadn’t bothered with any lubricant every now and then he would lean over my crotch and spit a big wad all over me. I was incredibly aroused and wanted to make the moment last as long as possible, but Manny had other plans. While pulling on my balls he began beating my dick furiously and practically swallowed my tongue in his hot mouth. In a matter of seconds I cried out and exploded one in one of the most memorable bondage orgasms that I ever had.

It was several years before I had another bondage scene that would equal this one, but it did finally come courtesy of my next jerkoff buddy, Kurt — a very sensual, assertive young man, who was ten years my junior but always a top when it came to the fantastic sex we shared.

I met Kurt while attending a large university where we both were in the same department. Kurt was a real gem—he was a beautiful young man, 6 feet tall, with a fantastic smile and lovely grey/green eyes. (His flashing eyes and million-dollar grin melted many a heart, both male and female.) Kurt was also endowed with a very respectable 7" cock which he instinctively knew how to use.

To make the long story short, I started bringing this “kourous-like” kid home and Manny immediately took to him as well. However, within a couple of months the big brother relationship we had begun with Kurt exploded into a sexual one due to his charismatic sensuality and our blatant lust—(all guilt for lusting after this twenty year old has long since faded for this relationship was so exciting and fun for all three of us that none of us have anything to regret).

Kurt never needed much encouragement or instruction when it came to sex, in fact he took to it like a duckling to water. One night when the sexual tension was building up between the three of us Kurt suggested he and Manny tie me up (I had dropped a few clues on more than one occasion). Naturally I agreed and in moments he and Manny had me stripped and spead-eagle on the bed. They proceeded to attack my naked torso with their mouths and tongues, biting, sucking and licking my cock, nipples, sides and toes. In minutes we all had raging hard-ons and of course Kurt focused in on mine. Without prompting he joyously wrapped my balls and cock in a nylon rope. Giggling every second, Kurt went to work on my manhood slapping and pulling my penis fairly hard and laughing as I cried out. Manny had been mostly watching the scene, of Kurt at work, but after one rather loud cry from me he told Kurt to take it easy. He also informed him that a good way to keep me quiet would be for him to feed me one of his feet. Kurt didn’t need to be told twice and he placed his size 10 in my open mouth.

Kurt’s feet were as nice looking as the rest of him but like a lot of kids his age he hardly ever wore socks with any of his sneakers, sandals or shoes. So when his bare foot entered my mouth I got a foot veiled with at least a day’s covering of sweat and dirt on it. His toes were especially sweaty and pungent and had lots of toe jam just waiting for my taste buds.

The combination of two beautiful men, sex, ropes and Kurt’s tasty foot were too much for me. Unable to hold it, my orgasm exploded without warning and splashed all over Kurt, who thought that was the funniest thing in the world. After I came the guys untied me so I could give them my attention, which I happily did.

Kurt and I stayed close and frequently shared sex, and his physicality and energy remained incredible. Bondage was not usually a part of our passionate rendezvous but one evening, when I was about to depart for a long trip east, Kurt came by and asked if we could “do some business” before we said goodbye. Since it had been quite some time since we had indulged in bondage I asked if he would tie me up and work me over. Ever playful, he said sure and we went to my bedroom, stripped and got out my ropes and toys.

Kurt didn’t really have any plan as he wrapped a long nylon rope around my chest, pinning my arms to my side, but he definitely had taken charge. Next he told me to lie down on my back, and in a few seconds had tied two long ropes around each of my wrists. He pulled the ropes down to my ankles and then ordered me to spread my legs open, bend my knees and bring my feet up along the mattress toward my crotch. He tied each rope from my wrist to its corresponding ankle and then he crossed my ankles and used the leftover slack to bind them together. Kurt then selected a thin nylon cord and tied it tightly around my balls. He pulled this cord down toward my feet and tied the end around one of my big toes.

I was amazed and very aroused at Kurt’s efficiency and adeptness—for in less than five minutes I was very securely tied and totally exposed to this young stallion. I also suddenly realized that in all my years with other lovers, I had never been tied so quickly, so skillfully and so diabolically.

Kurt took a few seconds to test his work—he slapped my dick and tickled the inside of my legs before moving down to the soles of my exposed feet. He did pause to ask if I was OK and I murmured my delight. Next Kurt gathered up all the clothespins from my toy bag and in seconds clipped a line of pins all across each of my tits. This freaked me out for he started with each nipple and fanned the rest of the pins out from that center point so that the entire area of my tits was almost completely covered with these wooden torture devices. He used the remainder of the clothespins on my scrotum, so in all I probably had a dozen pins clipped on the most sensitive spots of my body. For the next few minutes Kurt was merciless as he flicked, bent and pulled the pins, actually slapping them back and forth, enjoying every minute of his dominance and torture.

Kurt actually scared me for the first time since we had been together when he focused all his attention on another toy, my pleasure beads. At first he naively thought he could insert them without any lubricant but I told him that would hurt too much. Happy to oblige, he greased up the string of beads and took great delight pushing them up my anus. His constant laughing and giggling was infectious and I alternated my own whimpering with nervous laughter. When they were finally all in he settled down at my feet, facing me, and examined his handiwork. (His only adjustment was in tightening the tether around my balls which he looped around my big toe one more time).

Kurt told me I looked “really hot” as he stroked my throbbing penis and tugged on the string of the pleasure beads. Although flooded with sensation, I was nevertheless envious that I could not see my bound body from his dominant perspective. I asked him to do me a favor, “would he go collect the several large mirrors I had hanging in the apartment so I could see just how he had bound me and continue to watch him work on me?” Again, he agreed, and in minuites he had arranged three mirrors around us. It was quite a sight, one that I’ll never forget.

Kurt really went to town on me then. He began to ever so slowly pull the beads out of my butt with one hand, and with the other he either beat me off and/or slapped my dick and balls. With his bare feet he flicked and pushed the clothespins on my tits so much so that several of them snapped off (but of course he immediately put them back on). Kurt also remembered my favorite fetish and ordered me to open my mouth every few minutes so he could stuff his toes into my waiting mouth for a quick licking.

This was without a doubt the most incredible bondage scene I had ever had. Between the novel tying, the pins, the beads, the mirrors and Kurt, I don’t know if anyone will ever top it, especially in terms of its unique, playful spontaneity. Anyway, it continued for at least a half hour during which Kurt worked all the beads out of my butt, tightened the rope from my balls to my toe twice more, continued his torture of my nipples and tits and eventually, slowly stroked me to a shuddering orgasm.

We did get together many times after this and had wonderful sex and even a couple of interesting bondage sessions, but Kurt never equalled his devilish performance on this night.

BOY IN A BOX

[This story originally appeared in Issue 53 (July/August 1996) under the title "The Box Lover's Tale.]

TRENTON, NJ. I adored my half-brother Larry who was older and considerably larger than me and well built but a bit on the heavy side. I wanted to be around him and be like him, but I was admittedly a little snot and I went out of my way to make his life miserable—a strange way to show affection but a good way to get attention which was what I wanted. When I was eleven, and he was sixteen, my father deserted us, and mom had to get a job. That summer she left us with our aunt who kept us apart and busy. It was a dull three months.

The next summer our aunt was unable to babysit us. Mom decided that at seventeen, Larry could look after me and she laid down the rules that he was in charge. She was gone Monday through Saturday from early in the morning until around five-thirty in the afternoon. Right from the start, I went out of my way tro annoy Larry, jumping on him, misbehaving, leaving messes around the house, and in general being sassy, calling him dirty names. Larry was laconic in the extreme, often moody, and careful to think through whatever he did. Poor in school, he excelled only in various shop classes where he seemed able to do just about anything with his hands. Off and on he was on the swim team. Larry could be really mean, almost cruel, when he was provoked. And he could take apart or build just about anything.

After about two weeks of my torment, Larry grabbed me one afternoon. I had been particularly obnoxious. He dragged me into our bedroom and threw me down on my bed. Holding me there, he began wrapping some rope around my right wrist.

“What you gonna do, ass hole,” I shouted, “tie me up?” He secured the rope to the corner of the bed, and did the same to my left arm. “You son-of-a-bitch,” I shouted. “You can’t do this to me.” I kicked wildly. He grabbed my right ankle, with which I had been trying to hit him, and tied it tightly to the bottom of the bed followed by my left leg. “Ass hole, ass hole,” I screamed. Larry stuffed a wadded up handkerchief in my mouth and slapped a piece of duct tape over it pressing it down so it would stick. I continued to yell through the gag, but it muffled my shouts. Larry never said a word. He just walked away, leaving me.

To my surprise, I enjoyed the feeling of being tied up. After a while I managed to loosen the tape over my mouth, and work the wad of cloth out. Then I started shouting again. I wanted Larry to come back and wondered what he would do. Finally he walked into the room and grabbed my mouth.

“Mom will fix you when she gets home,” I managed before he forced the cloth back inside. This time he wrapped duct tape around my head about four times firmly. This one wouldn’t come undone.

I lay there, squirming until mom came home. I heard her ask Larry where I was.

“In the bedroom,” was he brief reply.

She came to the door and looked at me laying there.

“Larry,” she called. “Why is he tied up?”

Larry came into the room and stood beside her.

“He deserved it. You know how he is,” was his only comment.

Mom looked at me for a few minutes, shook her head, and then said to Larry, “I wish you wouldn’t tie him up, but you’re in charge while I’m gone. If this is what it takes, be sure not to hurt him. Let him go in time for dinner.” Then she left and headed for the kitchen.

I was surprised because I was sure Larry would get into trouble. Interesting, I thought. Larry now sort of had mom’s permission to tie me up. I would have to think about that. Over the next two weeks things continued as usual. Larry tied me to the bed one more time, but let me go before mom got home. I played around the house, and was generally a bother most of the time. Larry worked on some project in the basement, using the saw, building something.

One day I got into some of Larry’s things, and made a mess on his side of our room. I watched when he saw it, wondering what he would do. Suddenly he grabbed me, and I feared I had gone too far. He was really angry. He undid my belt, and pulled off my pants leaving me in my shorts. I wasn’t wearing a shirt. Then he forced me to go into the basement with him.

That was the first time I saw the box. It was somewhere between three and four feet tall and a bit over two feet wide. The top was hinged and open. The front panel was also hinged and it swung out to the side. There were three holes in the top and one hole in each of the sides. It was well made with thick, sturdy plywood, nicely finished and painted black inside and out. Silver hinges held the two doors and there were two hasps on each door which would fasten down to the main part of the box when the door was closed.

Larry said nothing, but took a piece of rope and tied my wrists firmly in front of me. Not knowing what he was going to do, I was upset and I fought as much as I could. He filled my mouth with handkerchiefs again, and wrapped duct tape around my head. Of course, until the tape was in place, I was screaming and kicking as much as I was able, but he could always easily overpower me. He had me stand in the box, then forced me to sit, and he put my bound wrists in front of my legs, near my ankles, with my arms around the outside of my legs. The box was just wide enough for me to sit in and its sides almost touched me. My head was a few inches short of the top. He picked up a dowel and put it through the hole in the side of the box. The dowel slid over my bent elbows and under my bent knees, then out the hole on the other side of the box. He put pegs through holes in the ends of the rod to secure it. To my surprise, I discovered that I was quite helpless. As Larry shut the front side of the box, my dick got really hard. If Larry noticed it, he said nothing. He put the lid down and it became very dark. I heard him shut the hasps on the top and front of the bex, and snap locks in place. “For messing my room, two hours punishment in the box, and for shouting at me, you are gagged,” was all he said. I heard him walk away, and when he turned off the basement lights, it was really dark.

I was frightened, uncomfortable, but strangely enjoying the feeling of helplessness and confinement. My dick stayed hard the entire two hours, which was something I didn’t then understand at all. I was happy to get out of the box when he released me. But I saw to it that I spent some time in the box at least once and usually twice a week after that. I always fought him when he took me into the basement, stripped me to my shorts, tied me up and put me in the box, but actually I came to enjoy it. And he always did the same—as he closed the box, he stated my crime and the length of my punishment. For shouting, he always securely taped my mouth. One day Larry had a girl friend over to the house, and I made a pest of myself, giving them a bad time, teasing Larry for having a girl friend, spying on them. That landed me in the box for the longest time of all with double the amount of tape over and around my head, and on that occasion, and after that, Larry took off all of my clothes when he put me in the box.

The next summer, we repeated the process. I knew just how to irritate Larry, and what to say to guarantee a gag, so I spent many long afternoons in the box, sometimes almost the whole day. If mom knew about it, she never mentioned it. She seldom went into the basement. That was Larry’s territory.

After that summer, Larry finally gradated and found a job. Our aunt looked after me for the next couple of years. To this day I get hard when I think of sitting in that box all bound and gagged. Now that I regularly enjoy bondage with some of my friends, I know why I not only let, but almost forced Larry to put me in the box.

GIGGS

[This story originally appeared in Issue 47 (July/August 1995).]

SAN FRANCISCO, CA. It was the summer of 1959. I graduated from eighth grade in June, went to summer camp with my boy scout troop near Yosemite in July and now—in the dog days of August—I waited to enroll at Amador Valley Joint Union High School in September.

It was going to be a hot day in the Great Central Valley of California. By noon it would probably be 105 in the shade. By 10:00 A.M. I was wearing my old jean cutoffs and a sparkling white Jockey “Torso” tee shirt and sandals. My mom and dad had left for work at 7:30 A.M. and I was—at least theoretically—consigned to the tender care of the tenant family who rented the small cottage at the rear of the garden.

Mrs. Reis was a jolly soul and a good cook. She worked as a housekeeper for a number of families in town to supplement the meager family income. She had agreed to baby sit me during the summer and to make sure I had a good lunch. After lunch she would depart for her housekeeping chores leaving me in the care of one of her two sons.

Gary was 18 and Harry was 19. Harry had enlisted in the Army and was awaiting orders to ship out to Korea. Gary had graduated from high school in June and was spending his last care-free summer at home before starting work on a house construction crew with his dad in the Fall. Gary was a handsome teenager with a husky footballer’s body, blemish free tanned skin and striking blue eyes set in an angelic face topped with a mop of dark brown hair slicked back in a 1950’s Elvis style. He was the apple of his mother’s eye and could do no wrong. Gary was the natural choice for his mother to appoint as my afternoon overseer—and I use the term advisedly.

Gary’s nickname was Giggs. Giggs clearly regarded his afternoon baby-sitting job as beneath his dignity and as a chore to be completed with as little interference with his own free time as possible. In this regard, he laid down the rules of our time together quite firmly. I was not to leave the backyard area where he could see me, I was not to bother him or otherwise try to play my childish games with him and I was to obey his orders—or else! The “or else” provides the meat of this short story.

There was little doubt in my mind that I was physically attracted to Giggs. Of course, at my age I had very little understanding of what was going on; nonetheless, I instinctively reacted to what could only be termed “puppy love.” Every time I would see Giggs’ large, pouty nipples pressing against the worn fabric of his two sizes too small tee shirts I would spring a boner. I guess you could say I already had a thing about tits. Mine were extremely sensitive and seemed to be directly connected to my dick. Whenever I would jack off in private—which was quite often as a budding adolescent—I would almost automatically begin by gently rubbing my tits which would immediately send delicate waves of pleasure down my body to my prick which would get hard within seconds. I had an almost irresistible curiosity to tweak Giggs’ tits just to see if he would react the way I usually did, that is titplay as foreplay to jacking off.

When Giggs’ mother returned from her morning housekeeping duties and was busy preparing lunch for all of us, Giggs would continue to play the role of dutiful son and little angel. During this lunch hour Giggs was forced to tolerate my boyish enthusiasm without restraint. I took full advantage of this daily one hour situation to do all the things I dared not do when I was alone with Giggs lest he “beat me up” as he frequently threatened to do. In fact, he had never laid a hand on me; however, as all little boys knew well enough, big boys could certainly beat you up if they had a mind to do so.

One of the things I most enjoyed doing was mock wrestling with Giggs. I had seen all the wrestlers on television and I thought trying out on Giggs various holds I had recently seen would be a quite innocent and correct excuse to touch Giggs body and to smell him. Yes, smell him. His body gave off a wonderful heady aroma that must have been pure sex. It was not the usual jock body odor of stale sweat. It was a captivatingly sweet, fresh smell of pure man/boy. For all I knew it was the residue of innumerable jack off sessions with cum smeared over his whole body. Just as some female moths secrete certain odors which can be detected by male moths miles away. Giggs gave off a scent that broke down my normal inhibitions and drove me wild. I wanted to be near him, to touch him, to smell him.

Needless to say, he regarded these physical assaults of mine with mild amusement. He couldn’t figure out why I liked smelling him. He didn’t know whether to regard my olfactory attraction as a compliment or an insult. With the braggadocio of youth he tended to regard it as a positive attribute of sorts and allowed me to explore his fully clothed body with my nose. He even raised his arms behind his head so I could bury my nose in his armpits. His mother simply overlooked this activity as childish horseplay.

One noontime I was happily smelling Giggs’ body while he watched TV in his dad’s armchair with me hanging on to his neck sprawled across his chest. I don’t know whether it was deliberate or whether I was just carried away by this lovely situation; however, I ran my hands across his chest and tweaked one of his tits. I didn’t think it was very hard, but he made a little yelp, grabbed my little wrist with his big, strong hands; twisted my arms behind my back and held my face tightly pinned against his armpit. I suppose he thought he was teaching me a lesson, but I was in heaven!

Unfortunately, Mrs. Reis called us to the lunch table and Giggs had to let me go. I was over-excited by the whole episode and couldn’t quite settle down. I ate lunch and anxiously waited for Mrs. Reis to leave for her afternoon housekeeping chores leaving me alone with Giggs again. Mrs. Reis cleaned up the dishes and left for work admonishing Giggs to take good care of me. Giggs returned to the big chair in the living room to watch the afternoon soap operas. I—consciously or unconsciously I don’t really know—decided to take a chance on Giggs’ continuing good humor. I cautiously returned to sit on his lap with my head resting on his chest. He didn’t say anything so I took his silence for consent. Right in front of my eyes were those big, perky tits of his! I couldn’t resist the temptation even though I reckoned there would be hell to pay. I turned my head against his right pec, found his tit with my mouth and sort of gently chewed on it. Giggs allowed this indiscretion of mine as if nothing had happened until I let my better judgment get the best of me. Not content with merely lapping at his tit—which might have been pleasurable for both of us as long as we didn’t have to admit it was happening—I bit down fairly hard on the very tip of his right tit.

He let out a little yelp followed by a curse, grabbed me in an armlock and told me that was enough of my shit. He force-marched me back to my house, up the back steps to the laundry room on the second floor and threw me into a pile of dirty laundry. By the time I had collected my senses and gotten up off the floor he had already taken off his tee shirt and was wiping the perspiration from his brow. His tight, hard body was covered with a thin sheen of sweat from the growing summer heat and the exertion of practically carrying me across the hot gravel of the driveway and up the steep wooden stairs. He stared at me for a moment and then told me to take off my shirt. I didn’t have to be told twice. He looked hot and mean. He found a length of old clothesline rope that my mom used to hang out the sheets in the backyard. She liked the smell of fresh sheets and took the extra effort to put up a clothesline for the sheets even though we had a dryer. She had to put up and take down the clothesline because the only available space for hanging clothes to dry was inside the carport. As a result of the constant putting up and taking down the clothesline the rope was well worn and soft.

Giggs picked up the clothesline and cut off two lengths of rope each about 6 feet long and two more pieces of rope each about 10 feet long. He had used up over 32 feet of my mom’s old, soft clothesline rope! As part of my punishment I was going to have to buy my mom a nice new clothesline to replace the one Giggs was so nonchalantly cutting up. Giggs looked at me again and considered what he was about to do. He told me to take off my jean cutoffs because they would get in the way of his tying me up. Tying me up! Even at my tender age I had had fantasies about being tied up and tortured by handsome captors. The 1950’s was the age of the Roman and Biblical extravaganzas at the movies. I had watched every slave movie of the period several times. When Judah Ben-Hur was delivered over to the Roman galleys and chained to the oars I had a hard on for days. Unwittingly Giggs was about to convert many of my fantasies into reality. No doubt he thought he would be humiliating and punishing me by binding me into a helpless position, roughing me up and leaving me to contemplate the error of my ways. The classic case of the older boy disciplining the younger boy.

Giggs told me to sit down on the floor in the center of the laundry room. The floor was linoleum and was cool to the touch in spite of the summer heat which had built up in the closed-in laundry room. Giggs was perspiring quite freely now and the beautiful planes of his chest were wet and glistening. Just like the slave overseer on a Roman galley! I sat down on the floor with lots of emotions running through my mind all tinged with excitement and sexuality. Giggs took my right wrist and put it on the outside of my right ankle. He held it there none too gently as he wrapped my wrist and ankle with about 4 or 5 turnings of the rope. Then he tightened the rope and tied it off with a square knot. I was already bound fairly tightly and I thought he was done with my right hand. But then he cinched the rope tighter still by wrapping 3 or 4 turnings of the rope perpendicular to the original bindings between my wrist and my ankle. Giggs tied the cinching off with a square knot as well. He tested the results and seemed quite satisfied with his work. Since the inside of my wrist was against my ankle and there was no rope putting direct pressure on the inside of my wrist I was not feeling any nerve or circulation problems. Just a damned tight binding feeling. It felt wonderful.

Giggs performed the same binding on my left wrist to my left ankle. He did it at quite a leisurely pace but he did it quite deliberately as if he had done this type of tying up before. Hunched over with my chest more or less against my knees and my hands tied to my ankles was a somewhat awkward position. I didn’t really understand the full significance of this position until Giggs carried on the next phase of the binding. He carefully tied my right elbow joint to my right knee joint which really meant tying my lower biceps to my lower thigh. These were larger areas to tie and took more rope so he used the 10 foot lengths he had cut. To complete my bondage he tied my left biceps to my right lower thigh. He used the same technique of wrapping the rope around both biceps and thighs four or five times, tightening it, tying it off with a square knot and then cinching it tight. The cinching was much more painful because the skin was looser on my biceps and thighs and kept getting pinched between the ropes. I cried out a few times, but got no sympathy from Giggs who simply continued his dispassionate work. He didn’t seem to care if he hurt me—or maybe he knew that a few pinches and rope burns weren’t exactly serious injuries that were going to maim me for life.

In any case, the result of the biceps to thigh tying and cinching was to force my legs apart. Here I was sitting in the middle of the laundry room, hunched over as if I were trying to tie my shoes, but with my legs splayed wide apart exposing my obviously erect cock inside my white jockey underwear. Like all growing youngsters, my underwear was a couple of sizes too small because I had outgrown them. My mom would buy me new clothes at the beginning of each school year, but at the end of each summer I had to put up with tight fitting clothes. The tight bondage was irresistible. There was no possibility of escape and I could already feel the blood throbbing through the four points of my bondage. There was another point that was also throbbing, but there wasn’t much I could do about it bound as I was. This surrender of my voluntary movement to Giggs’ bondage was indescribably delicious. I had a sense of building euphoria and pent up sexual desire.

Giggs stood up to survey his handiwork. The sweat dripped off his forehead onto his chest and ran down his washboard abs. Looking up at him over the ridges of his chiseled stomach muscles to the underside of his pectorals with their protruding tits to his handsome face was like watching an ideal Greek god come to life. The god told me to try to get out of my bondage. I struggled futilely for about five minutes. Giggs seemed to take some delight in watching my boy muscles struggle against the ropes he had placed on my body. While I did not know it at the time, Giggs was no amateur at tying boys up. He had done it many times with his own age group friends over the course of the last couple of years of high school and was quite expert with ropes and knots. And all the time I had thought he was merely a good boy scout who had carefully read his boy scout tying manual…

Of course, all of Giggs’ experiences with tying up his friends had been just part of the normal growing up process. They had played cards, stayed up late and the loser had been tied up for the night. Giggs was a good cards player and seldom got tied up. But he did a lot of tying up. On more than one occasion the normal teenage circle jerk among friends had turned into something more sinister (or dare I say “fun”) when Giggs had discovered that the helpless guy who was tied up tended to shoot the biggest load after all the “free” players had had an opportunity to play with the tied up boy’s cock for a long while without letting him cum. Giggs had intentionally lost a couple of times just to find out how it felt. And since he usually won, his friends weren’t exactly gentle with him. They teased him to the point of no return for what seemed like hours and never let him cum. When at last they let him cum, they merely left him tightly bound, covered him up with blankets and made him sleep in bondage with cum drying on his body. Giggs decided that he would never intentionally lose another card game. He preferred being the one who did the tying up rather than being the one tied up.

After Giggs had assured himself that I was going nowhere, he opened the back door to leave. I let out a shriek and begged him to stay. He told me to shut up or I would have the whole neighborhood over, poking their collective noses into what the hell was going on here. This sense of risk at being discovered only heightened my sexual arousal. I kept yelling at Giggs to let me go. He came back inside the laundry room, put one of his big hands over my mouth and rooted around in the dirty laundry with the other. After a couple of moments he found what he was looking for—a nice smelly dirty sock. I secretly hoped it was his.

He took his hand off my mouth, used both hands to quickly roll the sock into a large ball and told me to open my mouth. Needless to say I would have done anything this god come to life asked of me. I opened my mouth as wide as I could. The sock wouldn’t quite fit inside and Giggs told me that for such a loudmouth I sure had a small mouth. I guess it was then that I realized that he really wasn’t going to hurt me and that this was really a grown up’s game. Of course, with a slightly rearranged but still whole sock in my mouth I wasn’t exactly in any position to tell Giggs I loved his game. My jaws were stretched wide open and were beginning to ache already.

To make certain that I couldn’t work the sock out of my mouth and start hollering all over again Giggs cut off another length of clothesline rope and wrapped it over the sock and around the back of my head and tied it off tightly. He was careful not to pinch my lips between the gag and the rope and he checked to make sure I was breathing OK. His hands on my face felt like caresses to me even though he was probably just being careful. Having a dead kid on his hands obviously wasn’t part of the game.

To make certain that the gag was working effectively Giggs reached under my right armpit with his right hand, fumbled around looking for my tit and finally grasped my right tit firmly between his thumb and index finger. At first he just worked my tit gently. But then he gradually built up the pressure. Within a minute or two of this treatment he was squeezing the hell out of my not so virgin tits. I had already experimented on my own with increasingly painful attacks on my tits, but somehow I was always much gentler with them myself than Giggs who was by now painfully manhandling my right tit which felt as if it were being ripped off my chest. Finally he gave it one last vicious twist and I squealed through my gag as best I could. I guess he thought the gag worked because he got up and walked around in front of me. I was as embarrassed as heck because with all the titwork my cock had been drooling pre-cum for the last several minutes and a wet patch showed quite clearly through my frequently washed and worn jockey shorts.

Giggs’ obvious notice of my blatantly sexual arousal seemed to trigger his own concomitant physical reaction. The front of his own button fly Levis revealed a hitherto unobserved bulge. In addition, it seemed Giggs was not wearing any underwear. Some errant crotch hairs were quite clearly visible between the buttons of his Levis. He noticed my eyes and simply told me matter of factly

“Yeah, it was too hot to wear underwear today.”

I was in no position to reply to him. During the whole tit workout I had been vigorously chewing on the sock in my mouth and had succeeded in reducing it to a mass of soggy, wet cotton in my mouth. I couldn’t seem to stop the flow of saliva. It was as if my saliva glands were trying to digest the gag. I had to involuntarily swallow quite frequently to keep from choking on my own spit. Of course, this spit was now inextricably mixed with the foot sweat and leather shoe lining aroma of the dirty sock in my mouth. Giggs had selected a particularly ripe dirty sock which he had used with his own new leather work boots. So indirectly I got my first taste of leather.

I was still terrified that Giggs was going to leave me alone to suffer in silence by myself. Whatever happened I wanted him to be near me. I guess he was just experienced enough to know better than to leave a young boy tied and gagged alone. As he leaned against the laundry room wall in front of me he reached into his back pocket and pulled out a crumpled pack of cigarettes. I had never seen him smoke before. In fact, I had never even been able to smell tobacco smoke on his body before. I knew that his father smoked and that a number of his friends smoked. I had seen them standing on the other side of the railroad tracks just beyond the school property boundary line ostentatiously smoking during the lunch hour breaks during the school year.

It was funny. Both my parents smoked and I hated the smell of tobacco smoke. I had never tried it myself even when quite a number of my own age group friends were experimenting with smoking. I regarded it as a vulgar, dirty habit and tried to avoid being anywhere where people were smoking. And yet the sight of a handsome teenage boy sucking on a cigarette with wisps of gray tobacco smoke swirling around his head never failed to give me a hard on. Punk kids who believed that smoking made them mature adults disgusted me. Unless the punk was a hard muscled kid in which case smoking—and the rebellious attitude which it indicated—made him an object of sexual desire. I guess most fetishes are irrational…

Giggs pulled out an enormous Zippo lighter, lit his cigarette and dragged deeply on it. I thought I would shoot my wad. Here was a beautifully muscled kid with his pecs rippling and reflecting the moisture on his skin in the filtered sunlight of the back porch smoking just for me. He told me flatly

“I’m going to have to punish you for biting my nipple while my mom was at home. I guess I’m going to have to toast those sensitive tits of yours.”

I thought he meant that he was going to burn my titties with the glowing tip of his cigarette. Instead he went to the hardware storage cabinet next to the washing machine and rifled through it searching for a couple of items he knew would be there. He found the two heavy brass sprinkler heads that my mom used in the garden. One was a standard spray nozzle about 4 inches long and the other was a so-called fog nozzle which was very heavy brass and had three separate small spray heads which misted water over delicate plants. I was later to learn the terms “heat sink” in my physics class. Basically, a heat sink is any object which can absorb and retransmit energy in the form of heat. In real terms this meant that if Giggs could heat these two nozzles to a fairly high temperature they would retain the heat which he could then use to “toast my tits.” But then I was in a state of high excitement.

What he in fact did was to take a black metal ashtray which would absorb a lot of solar heat because it was black, place it directly in the sun at the top of the back porch and put the brass nozzles on top of the metal ashtray. As he continued to draw on his cigarette and exhale dense clouds of blue gray smoke he told me

“I reckon that these nozzles ought to be hot enough to teach you a good lesson in about twenty minutes. In the meantime I think those titties of yours could use some more work.”
He put his cigarette firmly in his sexy mouth, sat down directly behind me, pulled me back into the Y of his crotch, put his arms around my chest, found my tits with his strong fingers and began to roughly squeeze and massage my tits. I squirmed and twisted and hollered as best I could, but I was essentially helpless against his attack. In any case, his firm young body was tight against my back, his chin was on my shoulder and his arms held me tightly as his hands worked my tits. He was so close to me that I could smell the burning end of his cigarette as well as the smoke which he exhaled from his lungs from time to time.

In spite of the pain—or perhaps because of it—I thought I had died and gone to heaven. My helplessness and his usage of me was overwhelming all my senses. I wanted to escape. I wanted to stay with him forever. My head was reeling from the unaccustomed experience.

After what seemed like both an eternity and no time at all, he got up and went to the back bathroom. I heard him taking a piss as his urine splashed into the toilet. Somehow I felt cheated that his prick was doing something without me. What a crazy sensation. Here this older boy was doing nasty, dirty things to me and suddenly I wanted to be his cock slave. When Giggs returned his dick was hanging out through his button fly. He hadn’t bothered to do up all the buttons and his cock was dangling there in full view. I guess he could see that I liked what I saw because he made no effort to conceal his manhood. He worked it a little in front of me and I could see it getting stiffer. After a couple of moments he said to me

“Well, I guess those nozzles are plenty hot enough to teach you a lesson now”

He looked me directly and asked me

“Before we start with your tits do you want to see what other positions we can have with this same bondage?”

I nodded my head as emphatically as I could under the circumstances. He smiled softly at me, went behind my back, lifted me up by the armpits and pushed me forward onto my head and shoulders. Most of my weight was supported by the front of my shoulders and my knees with my butt up in the air. Giggs pulled down my underwear, stroked my butt and gave me a couple of friendly slaps with his big hands. I rapidly understood what a versatile bondage situation this wrist to ankle and elbows to knees was. Giggs stroked my butthole and it didn’t take me long to figure out that he could put his finger (or any other appendage) he wanted up my butt and I couldn’t do a damn thing about it. He contented himself with merely rubbing my butt with his dick. Then he stood up, went around to my head which was wedged in the dirty laundry he had used to cushion my shoulders, sat down and lifted up my head and showed me his cock close up. There wasn’t a damn thing I could do about it. He rubbed his cock over my lips and the gag and sort of face fucked me without any penetration. Then he stood up and pulled his 2 inch wide leather work belt from his waist and told me

“Got to prepare you for your toasting. Think I’m going to warm your butt a little.”

He proceeded to beat my little butt with his belt. I had never been beaten before and my butt was as sensitive as my tits. He seemed to sense this and he went pretty gently for the first few strokes. After a while he increased the intensity of the strokes. I could feel his strong arm coming right through the leather into my butt. The strokes sounded like claps of thunder as they hit my butt. The combination of the sound and the thud going through my body seemed to increase the reactions of my eardrums. I suppose in all I got about 50 strokes of his belt that first time.

I was crying and my butt was on fire. Tears rolled down my cheeks into the dirty laundry. The game was getting a little heavy for me now and I had nearly lost my erection. He played with my red butt for a few minutes, spitting on it and then slapping it hard with the flat of his hand. The spit made the slaps much worse. I was certain I would be wearing his handprint for quite some time. He unceremoniously pulled back on my hips and banged my butt back down on the floor. He had not bothered to pull up my shorts and my hot bare butt was cooled by the floor.

He put on some garden gloves, went outside, retrieved the heated brass nozzles and quickly returned indoors before the nozzles began to cool. He sat down behind me again, reached around my body and held one nozzle against each tit as firmly as he could. I jerked in my bonds, screamed into my gag and felt as if my tits were on fire. In fact, the brass could not be heated in the sun to more than about 105 degrees and I would not even have blisters on my tits to show for my torture. But I felt that they were being burned off my chest. Giggs simply said to me

“Bet that feels good, don’t it?”

As the nozzles cooled he removed them from my tits and put them back in the cabinet. He took off the gloves and pulled out a can of “bag balm” which my mom used on the udders of our milk cows. Big balm is a combination of Vaseline, lanolin and some kind of fungicide to heal udders sore from the milking machines. He opened the can, put a large gob of grease on each index finger and sat down behind me again. He grabbed a nipple with each hand and very roughly massaged the grease on my tits. This massage was a combination of agony and ecstasy. I think it was the first time I recognized the fine line between pain and pleasure. It hurt like hell when he pinched my burned tits but it felt wonderful when he could not get a firm grip owing to the grease and my tits slipped through his rough fingers.

Again and again he attacked my tits. At some point I came. He obviously noticed when my body went stiff and I climaxed because he let go of me, got up and wiped his greasy hands on my tee shirt. He put on his own shirt, reached down and untied the cinching on each of my four bondage points, and unwrapped the rope around my right wrist and ankle. Then he said to me

“You can probably work yourself free from the rest of the ropes by yourself. You’d better hurry because your mom will be home in a couple of hours and you wouldn’t want her to find you like this would you?”

He undid the rope around my mouth, fished out the dirty sock and left me sitting on my bare butt on the back porch.

Well, I did finally manage to extricate myself from the remaining ropes, put my clothes back on and greet my mom when she returned from work. If she noticed the impressions the ropes had left on my wrists and ankles she said nothing. What she did say shocked me.

“Have you been smoking? You smell like a stale ashtray. I thought you disliked cigarettes.”

I guess you think I learned my lesson that afternoon about teasing Giggs too much. Would it surprise you to learn that the very next week, after all the evidence of the previous session had disappeared from my body, I bit Giggs on the other tit while one of his friends was visiting with him. But then that is another story.

EDITOR’S NOTE. Some points in this writer’s story left me wondering, and I wrote him for clarifications. Here are his replies to my questions.

Q. How did you learn about Giggs and the poker games he played with his high school buddies?

A. I learned about the poker games and Giggs’ previous experience in roping guys the Fall of my freshman year in high school — just after the events described in my story took place. It seems that one of the seniors was on the same high school football team with Giggs (Giggs having graduated the year before I entered high school) and had played poker with Giggs and a few team mates. This senior seemed to take great pride in bragging about his ability to get out of the various rope bondage positions except for the times Giggs tied him down. Of course, this was all locker room braggadocio so nobody took much notice and just thought the senior was running off at the mouth. I knew the truth of his assertions by personal experience.

Q. How could you know that the smelly sock he stuffed in your mouth actually had been on Giggs’ foot and worn in his workboots?

A. It was really a matter of logical elimination. His mother did the family laundry once a week at our place and the bundle was left on the back porch where he tied me up. The sock he used was white with tan stains where his sweat had caused the brown leather of his work boots to bleed dye into the cotton socks. His father was constantly recuperating from a bad back so it wasn’t likely that he was sweating in his boots. His brother was getting ready to go into the army and wasn’t working. So Giggs was the only remaining option and he was working that summer at odd construction jobs. He also took quite deliberate delight in making certain that I was watching him as he selected the smelliest old sock he could find. No doubt he didn’t know I took the same delight. Or maybe he did!

NEWS FROM BROKEBACK MOUNTAIN

[This story originally appeared in Issue 1 (November/December 1987). My cowboy was 6'4" and great bondage fun. He came from Montana where he'd been a rancher and a rodeo roper, but he now drove an 18-wheeler and lived on a farm in upstate New York. He answered an ad I'd put in the New York Native (if I remember correctly), and we exchanged a bunch of great letters together before I flew up to see him for a long weekend, the first of several such weekends. No sooner did he drive his jeep out of the airport than he pulled off the road and tied me up tightly. Two buddies of his were waiting for us at his place and the four of us played incredible bondage games for the next 48 hours. Provincial New Yorker that I was, I never dreamed such goings-on took place in the boondocks, but the bondage we got into was better than any I'd ever known in town. The cowboy's letters to me are reproduced below, with all their wonderful idiosyncratic grammar and spelling ("heart-on" continues to be a favorite of mine). BW]

1. RODEO ROPE TRICKS

In the rodeo, ropes always turned us on—when they were on a nice live man out in the woods, barns or whatever. I really get turned on to that stuff, with just a little rule to follow:

Buddy buddy tried & true as you do to me I'll do to you.

I was curious about S/M but after seeing all the phonies I left NYC & don't give a fuck if I ever go back. I hate guys who don't respect each other—who are full of bullshit—& first class phonies. I'm not interested in a man's looks but his attitude.

I dig Levis (501s) which I wear all the time. I like bondage without S/M, but I like it best in the Western sense. I'm not into drugs, don't smoke or drink heavy. I don't dig the bars except when I'm with someone just to see whose there. I don't want a lover but a man who is straight looking, honest, with a sense of humor & enjoys hellraising with someone with some intelligence. I dig excitement & the unexpected but always with some commonsense when it comes to respect for the human body. Being a rancher I respect the body & respect others too. No blood, fist fucking, dope or plain stupidity. That is out.

Most of the rope tricks we did when I was with the rodeo were on a one-to-one basis. We found it a real challenge & a turn-on to leave a buddy roped and gagged for hours in the barn or woods. It was a real turn-on to see that helpless dipshit waiting for you to open the barn door to help himself to something we refer to as "Charlie." Of course we made sure of no circulation problems & no unscheduled guests arriving.

To us, we enjoy the old fashion game of cowboys with sex as an added treat. We always did it in Levis & sometimes would bet how long we could keep our buddies roped. Once I had my buddy roped & gagged in one room while I entertained either buddies in the kitchen playing cards convincing them I didn't know where my buddy was.

We played super straight in public but when we got your ass alone & in ropes—watch out!

I got my first impression of ropes when my buddy & his straight friends jumped me in the barn—roped & gagged me & then left me with my buddy who I didn't know was gay. I had a new pair of 501's & new boots & then he serviced me & himself he took off my new jeans & boots—replaced them with a old faded pair & boots & left me locked in a box stall gagged after he pissed all over the jeans from the stomach down (never on the face). It took me almost an hour to get my ass loose. But I repaid him Western style when I got his ass.

2. A WESTERN-STYLE BATH

I had a little 5'8" stud here for the weekend. I left his ass roped & gagged for 3 1/2 hours in the closet & boy did that turn me on. Haven't had any Levi men around here to do that since I left Montana. Then we fell asleep with his ass still roped in his tight Levis (not 501s) & in the morning I told him to get loose by the time I had coffee on the stove or his ass would be roped for breakfast. Of course I knew he couldn't. So I picked his little ass up, over the shoulder & into the bathroom where I stood him in front of the john & let him piss—still tied. After that I gagged him real good & surprised the shit out of him by placing him in the bathtub. I tore off his Levis (he had no shirt on) & boots—reroped his feet, taped his mouth—& gave him an old fashion Western-style bath. After that I untied him for breakfast. We had a real nice time.

3. "I SHOVED THAT LITTLE ASSHOLE IN THE FEEDBIN"

I came out when a buddy had my ass roped & gagged & realize that I had a heart-on and couldn't get it to go down. It was then that my buddies took care of me while still roped & gagged & ever since that is the best way I enjoy it, both giving & taking. I enjoy the levi & western set instead of the leather because I don't understand it & it doesn't appeal to me although I don't mind a leather jacket with levis & boots. But the old western look of simple levis & boots with lots of mileage on them is better. I don't understand the bullshit you assholes in the east do when you get a new pair of levis & have to wash them. All we did was wash them once & the first time your ass was caught in them, you were roped & gagged & dump into the water can & drag around the barn & then left in the sun to dry, all fucking day. We love roping next to our horses.

The western scene is done outdoors in the wide open spaces, in the barn box stalls and etc. I enjoy taking a buddy out into the woods, rope & gag his ass & leave him there while I go into town for some beer & stop at the favorite watering hole & tell all our straight buddies that that dipshit fuck up with something & make them believe it while knowing that asshole is nicely roped in the woods not far away. If he was loose when I got back (we had time limits on how long you could go) then my ass was roped. Otherwise, depending on schedule & time, you were free to do what ever you wanted which was mostly just fucking around, opening the barn door (unbuttoning the 501s) and playing with Charlie (as we call him). Teasing your partner's heart-on while roped & gagged was a lot of fun because he is totally helpless and is totally fucked until you let him loose. We always respect each other's ideas & never, never used a knife, gun or anything dangerous that could cause pain or in any way create a problem. Our fun was to see a live boot man in ropes & that would turn us guys on. Sometimes we would jerk him off western style while roped or just get Charlie real excited & then put him back to sleep, leave you alone for a while which only makes it more of a turn-on.

Looking at your stupid picture, I find you not bad looking & I think you find me the same. Looks I find are more of a headache than anything else. Most of the real good looking men are so in love with themselves that they can't let go & just enjoy themselves as they are, they worry about getting dirty, about their hair not being just right and whether they smell okey. That's the fucking bullshit I can't stand. I don't mind a little after shaving stuff, but this bullshit that you got to smell like a fucking lady of the night is for the fucking birds. I rather go out in nice levis (clean) & rope or get roped & end up in the mud, dirt or just roll around on the floor. Spending all that time looking nice isn't for me. To see a guy roped with his hair & look spotless is almost impossible. You know that.

Leaving your buddy roped & gagged in one place & convincing buddies that he's not here is the game we play all the time. I could write a book on the games we played & some of the interesting things you can do as long as you keep your head & always used common sense. Once I had my buddy roped, just his hands behind his back, & looking out the barn door I saw the old man walking in our direction & I didn't have time to untie his ass, so I just gave him a slug in the gut & gagged him good & shoved that little asshole in the feed bin & with half a heart-on I continued cleaning up the barn when the old man walked in. He asked if I had saw my buddy which I denied & then I told him that what my buddy was suppose to do was in fact done, which made the old man happy. & he in turn set his ass on top of the feed bin and my roped-up buddy inside was turned on so much that he came in his levis which he never forgot.

Other times we would just rope up your ass behind some hay & then take a tour of guests thru the barn explaining the details with the buddy not more than two bales of hay way.

Once I was roped & gagged & with a real heart-on was left in a box stall at the Chicago stockyards & while it was dark out. I knew if I didn't move too far I was okey because my buddy had cleaned a nice spot for me, but the rest of it was full of cowshit & I was not about to roll into that stuff. While I was trying to figure out where the knots were, I heard voices coming close so I just became real quiet. The stall next to me opened & I could see enough thru the boards that a guy and a girl were playing around & for about ten minutes they were doing their thing when a security guard caught them. While he was pealing their asses off, my buddy walked by & sed hello & asked the security guard for some directions which he already knew, but knowing that the guard would go with him, which he did, left me safe until the asshole came back & we moved on to safer places to continue the game till morning. That kind of fun I really dig.

I enjoy roping very much, both ways, but with someone who respects common ideals & with a good sense of humor. I don't mind a little rough-housing around, but again with common sense. I'm not into nudity, that doesn't do nothing for me. Sex is okey but to us, after seeing sex from the time you get up in the morning at the ranch till bedtime, that is probably why we got into the rope or "package" games.

As far as sex is concerned, that was left up to the buddy. Out west, to suck or jerk a buddy off was not considered gay but to fuck him was. I had only one real buddy who I played games with. He was half indian, like myself, and he was the one who created a lot of the basic rules that I follow. For example, we would rope you up, hands behind, ropes around your arms, and tie the feet & knees. He would shove a rag into the mouth & one around to make sure you're not going to do any heavy cursing. Then he would tell me what was going to happen. Of course half of it was bullshit, but I was in no position to argue but stayed there wondering if the asshole was really going to do it. We almost always had a extra pair of levis in the truck or barn & always had several old levis around. If he found them he then would change your levis after a couple of hours & put on the old ones. Of course they were always clean when you started out. After changing into old levis, he would retie your feet and then proceed with the rest of the game, He would either suck you off or jerk you depending on the time limits or work schedules. If you were to be left to get loose on your own, which I dig, then you would get a rough workover & in the mud & in the end he would piss on you, never in the face, & leave you to get your ass loose by yourself. Of course the ropes were loosened by him, so you could get loose, although it took you a while. Then you would take a shower, put clean levis on & start all over again, if time permitted. That is basically what we did.

BONDAGE PARTY

[Party games, with a twist, and a knot. This story originally appeared in Issue 2 (January/February 1988).]

PITTSBURGH, PA. My second experience into bondage was when I was 22 years old. I attended the party of one of my friends. There was plenty of everything that made a party lively—food, drink, people and lots of interesting games.

One of the first games began when each guest had to pick a number from a fish bowl. Then a duplicate set of numbers were placed in another fish bowl. The party host selected two numbers from the duplicate set, the two guests with the matching numbers selected had to participate in the first game.

I was one of the lucky guests with a matching number selected. The other guest who was selected was a real hot good looking body builder. We were paired together for the first game. Then the envelope—there were 6 sealed envelopes, each envelope contained a game and/or wild, unusual activity, that the two guests selected had to engage in, no matter what it was. All the envelopes were the same, they weren't marked in any way, and only the party host knew what was in the envelopes, and since they were all the same, nobody knew, not even the party host, who was going to get what envelope.

The envelope that me and my new partner got contained this wild & unusual activity. Inside the envelope was printed on a piece of paper the following:

You and your partner will for the duration of the party be party slaves. You will wear locking dog collars around your necks with the tag that clearly states “Party Slave.” You both will have to wear wrist and ankle shackles with chains attached, you will have to do whatever any other party guest orders you to do. The dog collars, tags, shackles and chains will be locked on and will remain on for the duration of the party.

This was really exciting to me. During the night I was ordered to serve drinks, light cigarettes, fetch things for guests, kiss their feet, be a footstool and other interesting things. My partner was even ordered to give head to a male guest—and he did it. After all, he was a slave. Most of the activities indicated in the remaining 5 envelopes had to deal in some way with bondage. In one envelope the unusual activity given was that the partners had to be handcuffed together for the duration of the party, which meant that they were forced to do everything together, go to the bathroom together, hit on girls together, and even hit on boys together. The fun part of this activity was that the two guys selected to do this activity hated each other and now they were forced to spend the evening together. I mean they were bonded to each other.

Another activity that two guests were selected to engage in was this. They were bound together on the floor back to back with rope, arms were at their sides and bound together tightly, along with their wrists, chains, foreheads and their legs were out in front of them and ankles were tied together with rope. They were given one hour to free themselves, and if they were not able to free themselves within the hour, they weren't permitted to have any more alcohol for the duration of the party. The hour was up, neither one of them were free as of yet, in fact despite the fact that they squirmed, and fought and fondled with the secure knots and forbidden ropes for the whole hour they didn't even make any headway. About two hours later, the party host finally allowed them to be untied, and by then most of the alcohol was gone anyway.

By the time the party came to an end, most of the 23 guests had been in some type of bondage and in most cases were required to perform or, since they couldn't resist, permit other party guests to do whatever they wanted to do to the bound guests. Each of us had our turn however, and it turned out to be the best party I ever attended.

MEMOIRS OF A SAILOR

[This long story, which took up the bulk of Issue 3 (March/April 1988), was sent to me immediately after the publication of Issue 1. It was the beginning of a correspondence which lasted several years, and gave me the opportunity to publish several more letters from this excellent writer(see Issue 9 for more of his reminiscences). He later described his brig experiences in detail in our special issue, BONDAGE RECRUITS. BW]

1.

WHILE STILL A BOY SAILOR LEARNS HIS PLACE IN LIFE

MASSACHUSETTS. As a kid, I had fooled around with rope, tying myself up as best I could, and jerking off, sometimes in my pants or my briefs. Finally, when I was in high school, my folks let me have a buddy spend the night while they were out of town. I had just picked up a pair of handcuffs at an Army/Navy store, and of course was anxious to try them out. My buddy didn't mind, and we put them on each other several times.

It was getting toward bed time, and we both had taken our shirts off, when I picked up the cuffs again. I put them on his wrists behind his back, and then grinned at him and started to undress him, pulling off his sneakers and socks, then his jeans, but I left on his shorts. Then I pushed him to the back door, opened it and pushed him outside. Of course he was afraid someone would see him, and he tried to hide while whispering to me to let him in, which I finally did. It was only fair to let him have another chance with me, so he cuffed me behind my back, as I had done to him. He pulled off my sneakers, socks and jeans as I had done, but then he pulled off my briefs, too, leaving me naked, with my cock sticking out straight ahead. My protests did no good as he shoved me out the back door, hoping that none of the neighbors would see what was going on. I stayed out there for about ten minutes before he relented, let me back inside, and removed the cuffs.

I guess we were both a bit nervous, so we went to bed, I in my own room and he in the room of my brother who was away in the service. I know I jerked off, just thinking about what we had done and what we could have done. I was still excited when I woke up pretty early the next morning. I stole into the room where my buddy was sleeping with just a sheet over him, as he lay on his back.

I could see he had his briefs on, as well as a stiff cock, so he must have enjoyed what we did the night before. I went back to get the handcuffs, and tied a rope onto the chain. Very quietly, I passed the rope down behind the head of the bed, and then I quickly cuffed his wrists.

Of course he woke up, but too late to do anything about it. I grabbed the rope under the bed and pulled it out under the foot of the bed and tied it, forcing his wrists up tight to the head of the bed. Then I pulled off the sheet and his cock was stiff as ever. Next, I pulled down his shorts, and he even lifted up his ass a little, so I knew he didn't mind too much. His cock was stiff and straining, so I jerked it a little with my hand. I asked him how it felt, and he grinned a little, and said it felt pretty good.

Finally, I figured it was his turn, so I released him from the cuffs and took his place. He told me to lie face down and then cuffed my wrists, then pulled down my briefs, which was hard to do as he had to pull them over my stiff cock, and finally he tied my ankles to the two posts at the foot of the bed. He whacked my ass a few times and then left the room, returning with some hair cream. He rubbed this into my ass, and then climbed on top, saying "You got me so hot, now you can let me finish it off." It hurt a lot at first, but gradually I grew used to having his cock in me, and when he shot his load up my ass, I came on the sheet below me at the same time. From then on, I realized that I would rather be on the bottom, and when we played together, he would cuff or tie me, and I never again had a chance to do it to him.

2.

DRIVER FORCES HITCHING SAILOR TO PISS IN HIS PANTS

After high school, I was anxious to get away, and jobs were hard to find, so I joined the Navy, partly because I knew sailors worked with ropes and knots.

One of the first things I learned was that the Navy has a different name for everything, and rope was always called line. After boot camp, I was assigned to a cruiser stationed in Newport, R.l., which was pretty good duty. I met a couple of other guys who liked to tie each other up, although of course we couldn't do much on the ship.

One weekend, they planned to get a room at the Navy "Y" and asked me to stop in if I could. After I left the ship on liberty, I went to the Y and asked at the desk for their room. I went up and knocked at the door. There was a pause and a little rustling and one of them asked "Who is it?" I told them, of course, and they opened the door. One was at the door and the other sitting on the bed, both wearing their blue Navy thirteen button pants and white T shirts.

I still had on my full uniform. I thought I noticed that they both had hard-ons under the tight blues, but didn't have time to think much about it.

Several lengths of light line were lying on the dresser, and they wasted no time in quickly tying my wrists very firmly behind my back. Next, they bound my arms to my sides so I could hardly move. Next, my ankles were bound, and finally my legs just above the knees. Obviously there was nothing I could do at that point but submit to whatever they wanted to do to me. My pants were bulging a bit at the front by now, and one of them stroked my cock a little and said to his buddy "He doesn't seem to mind, does he?" "No, and I bet he'll like this even more," said the other, pulling open his thirteen buttons, one by one.

I stared as his cock appeared, pretty hard but still enclosed in the tight briefs he wore. Then he pulled down the top of the briefs and pulled his cock and balls out over the elastic waistband. I was still staring, and didn't move as the cock was pushed against my lips. "Open up, asshole," he said. I did nothing so he pulled back and slapped me hard across the face a few times. With tears starting in my eyes, I opened my mouth and he shoved his cock in. They took turns making me suck their cocks and balls, until I had swallowed cum from them both. We were all tired, and I was glad when I was untied, but didn't waste any time getting back together with them both in the months to come.

I always worried a bit about getting caught in Newport, with so many Navy guys around, so I started hitch-hiking to Boston when I could get a weekend liberty. You will get an idea of how long ago all this was when I tell you I hitched in my Navy uniform. I got in the habit of carrying a few lengths of light line, about clothesline thickness with just a tiny bit of stretch to it, so it could be good and snug, but would give just a little — not enough to get loose but enough to let the blood circulate.

I had some of my best times hitching back Sunday night, when whoever picked me up knew I had to get back to the ship or get in bad trouble, so l would be willing to do almost anything for a ride when it got late and there were few cars on the road.

One nice looking guy in a pickup truck picked me up, and asked if I would like a few beers. That was great, so I swigged down two and more slowly drank a third. He started talking about the line I had with me, and after a while pulled over at a rest area. I had hinted at liking to get tied up, so wasn't surprised when he pulled my arms around behind my back and quickly tied my wrists. He knew what he was doing, and I knew from the way he cross-tied me with the wrists locked at right angles to each other, and then tightening it all up with a couple of turns between my wrists, that I wasn't about to get loose on my own.

He took a few swigs at his own beer, and rather casually reached over and rubbed my cock, which as usual was getting stiff, under the tight whites I was wearing that summer night. Then he leaned over and kissed me, gently at first, and then more and more deeply as we both were really turned on by the whole situation. After some more of this, he asked if I needed to take a piss, and I suddenly realized that I really did need to, and soon. He got out of the cab, and then came around to let me out on my side, with the line still tight around my bound wrists. He told me to kneel down when we had walked back into the woods a bit. I hesitated, not wanting to dirty the knees of my white sailor pants. He hit me in the gut without warning, not really hard, but hard enough so I knew he meant business. I dropped to my knees, gasping a bit from the blow. Then he asked "I have to piss, too, kid. Do you want it down your throat or all over your shirt?"

I had never swallowed it before, although I had pissed in my pants before, and guessed I might again tonight. I finally decided, and opened my mouth to take his cock. The flood of piss took me by surprise, and some splashed out of my mouth, but I swallowed most of it, realizing it didn't taste too bad, probably because he had drunk a good deal of beer and pissed several times before. I still had to go very badly, and figured that what I had drunk would soon find its way through me, too, so l just relaxed and let the hot piss gush out of my cock into my white sailor pants. They would be a real mess when I got back to the ship, but now I felt relief and some pleasure from the warm wetness surrounding my groin.

We stopped again before reaching Newport, and once again I pissed in my white pants, renewing the warm wetness that felt so good. He drove me to the gate, but then turned back a few blocks, where he kissed me deeply again, untied me, and gave me an old plastic garment bag to carry in front of me so my wet and dirty pants would not be so noticeable. As I got out, he said "I hope I see you hitching on that road again some time," and I could only agree.

3.

SAILOR IS RETURNED TO BASE IN HANDCUFFS AND LEG IRONS BY MARINE MP

Fall came on, and I was in Boston on a Saturday evening. I had arranged to meet an older man who I had fooled around with in various ways, but who I didn't really feel very close to. He took me to his little house in a quiet suburb, and it was the first time I had visited there. I was wearing my tight thirteen button Navy blues, and as usual was carrying my line.

At my request, he tied me up, but not too tightly, and I was rather disappointed as he didn't seem really interested. He just finished roping my wrists and ankles when the doorbell rang, and he told me to keep quiet as he went to answer. I could just hear a murmur of conversation, and then he came back to the bedroom where I lay bound, and he picked up a light jacket and whispered that he was going out and didn't know when he would be back.

The situation tickled me for a while, but then I began to get annoyed at wasting some of my precious liberty this way. I worked at the line, and finally loosened my hands, and then was free. I looked around the house and drank a beer I found in the fridge, and finally became pretty bored. I decided to see if I could find my way back to some more lively place, and headed down the street toward what looked like a busier street.

After walking for some time and seeing little of interest, I suddenly saw a sign saying "Marine Corps League." Now of course the Marines and sailors always like a good fight, but they are sometimes good friends, too, and I had known a few good ones before, so I decided to take a chance and drop in. Conversation stopped in the small bar when they saw a sailor's uniform, and somebody said "You're in the wrong place, sailor." Fortunately, someone else asked me over and I told a carefully tailored version of the story of how I happened to be there, and asked if they could tell me how to get back to Boston. I was given several beers and talked with some of the former Marines who liked nothing better than to rehash their days in the Corps.

After awhile, a pretty tough looking man of about 25, wearing well polished combat boots, tight Levis, a black T shirt and a camouflage fatigue jacket told me that he would drive me back to Newport. I gladly accepted, and we left in his beat-up looking old car. He told me he had been a Marine MP, and some of his service was running a brig for fuck-ups like I seemed to be. I didn't argue, but just said 'Yes, Sir." He stopped for a minute and pulled out a pair of handcuffs, asking if I had worn them before. I said that I had and that I had been in the brig a couple of times. I wasn't at all surprised when he quickly cuffed my hands behind my back, and the familiar swelling started in my tight sailor pants. I was just glad they were the blues rather than the whites, so they wouldn't show if something happened to them.

By now, I knew pretty much what to expect, and felt the familiar sensations of fear, excitement and a swelling, throbbing, cock. We reached his place and he pulled in beside the house, hustling me quickly out of the car and down a set of outside cellar stairs. Unlocking a door let us into a small, dimly lit, room with chains, line, whips and so forth hanging on a wall. My heart sank as I looked at that, and I figured I was in for a lot of pain. Actually, it wasn't too bad, as he was more interested in making me think I was going to get hurt than in actually hurting me. He took off the cuffs, ordering me to strip.

"Sir, yes Sir," I replied, and did as he told me. He tied me up in a variety of ways, using chains, ropes and straps, and he whipped me just a little to make his point that he could do anything he wanted. Finally, he picked up a short chain and locked it around my neck, with the handcuffs also hooked into the same lock. Then he placed my wrists in the cuffs, solidly fastening them to the back of my neck. Finally, he put a pair of leg irons on my ankles, and said it was time for bed.

I slept in my chains against his warm body, and really enjoyed the use he made of my body before we slept, and again the next morning. We spent the day together on Sunday, when I tried most of his restraints, one way or another.

Finally, after supper, I cleaned up and dressed in my still neat blue uniform.

A gesture from him and a nod from me was enough for him to again cuff my wrists behind my back and clamp the leg irons tight on my ankles. I rode to Newport that way, and he only took them off when we got near the base and I left, promising to call him as soon as I could get another weekend liberty.

4.

FUN WITH BILL AND CHUCK:
"IF YOU CAN TIE ME SO I DON'T GET LOOSE, YOU GET A FREE PUNCH"

You asked a number of questions about my Navy career which I will try to answer as best I can recall, but please remember it was a simpler and in many ways a kinder age, so I hope your readers are not impelled to try some of the things I did then.

I joined the Navy right out of High School, and after Boot Camp was assigned to a cruiser in Newport, where I arrived in late spring. I was assigned to the Deck Force and we were generally considered dumber than the guys in more technical specialties like electronics, gunnery or engineering. This resulted in stricter discipline, and many of us "deckies" got brig time for something that a scope dope would only get restriction or extra duty for. On the other hand, we thought that we were the real sailors, since we handled lines, operated the small boats, stood topside watches and were generally tougher than scope dopes, and we certainly would hate to be stuck down in the engine room with the snipes.

I was assigned to a berthing compartment with 18 bunks, three high on each side of an aisle. After awhile, I realized that the guys in this section were all pretty proud of themselves and their jobs, and had a good attitude. There were some sloppy deckies in other sections, but ours were all well squared away.

Most of the sailors in my section were 18 or 19, with a few older, and just about all of them had "tailor made" uniforms to wear on liberty and sometimes aboard. The Navy issue uniform pants dropped straight from the hips to the floor, but the tailor-mades were cut tight over the upper legs and then spread out into the old traditional bell bottoms. I noticed that most of the sailors in my section would wear issue uniforms for regular work, and issue dungarees for dirty work like chipping and painting, but would shift into nice tight bell bottoms for the evening, and especially for liberty. Naturally, I went along with this, as soon as I was able to go ashore and buy a set of the tightest whites with the widest bells I could find. After awhile, I bought some similar bell bottom dungarees for work not too dirty, and later on some blues when the season changed. Needless to say, I never wore issue uniforms ashore after that. A few of the guys had really wild uniforms made in Hong Kong, one set of whites with the 13 buttons normally only on blues, and another set of blues made out of something that looked and felt like silk, but I suppose was synthetic of some kind. We weren't allowed to wear these off the ship, but sometimes a sailor would take them ashore and change later to impress whoever he was looking for.

Bill was a few inches over six feet, very slender, dark haired and strong, although not obviously muscled. He was a little older than the rest of us, and although he seldom spoke up at the bull sessions we had, everyone would listen when he did. I quietly enjoyed watching as he stripped for bed or a shower, and I am not entirely sure he didn't expect someone to watch, from the careful way he pulled off his clothes. I particularly liked the slender legs dropping from hips hardly wider than his waist, but his nice rounded ass provided plenty to hold up his tight pants. All in all, he would have been a perfect model for a recruiting poster painted by someone with an appreciative eye for a male body.

Chuck was a few inches under six feet, and the reddish tint to his hair and the lilt of his voice indicated something of Ireland in his family background.

In the evenings, they would often sit together on Bill's lower bunk and talk together, or with other sailors who gathered around. Bill was a leading rigger, and Chuck was learning the trade, involving tieing the various loads that had to be slung aboard or around the ship, setting up staging slung overside from the deck, and a variety of other jobs involving the use of lines and knots. As a result, they often brought out lengths of light line, like clothesline, to practice on or demonstrate the various knots. I soon joined in learning, and spent a lot of time sitting across from the two of them, learning and practicing knots, usually tieing lengths together or to the rung of a bunk above.

One evening, when hardly anyone else was around, Chuck asked if I thought I could tie up a man. Of course I offered to try, and he turned and knelt on the deck with his back to me, putting his hands behind his back. "Any fool can get loose if he is tied in front, but if you can tie me so l don't get loose, you get a free punch."

I figured I had nothing to lose, so l tied his wrists, I thought, pretty tight. He turned and sat on the bunk and in about a minute he was free. I was surprised, and I couldn't say "no" when he said it was his turn. I let him tie my wrists behind me, and tried like anything to get loose, but he had done such a good job that there was no way I would get out of it. When I finally gave up, he said "free punch to me," and gave me a blow on the arm that knocked me over on my side.

I finally learned to tie up Chuck so he couldn't get loose, but was never able to get loose when he tied me.

One night later on, Bill said "No one ever ties me, but you can if you get loose after I tie you." Of course I had to agree, but even as he tied my wrists I knew I would never get out of that. When I had to give up, he told me to stand up for my punch, and he hit me hard in the belly, so I crumpled to the deck with the wind knocked right out of me. When I finally recovered, he grinned and told me I had taken it pretty well. Not long after that, they invited me to the "Y" as I told you in my last letter.

One evening later in the summer, during the dull, dog days of August, the heat and mugginess sent many of us up on deck to try to catch some slight touch of cool breeze. We were all wearing our whites, as required on deck after working hours, and eventually we saw some sailors on a destroyer moored not far away swimming off the fantail. Of course this was strictly against regulations, but discipline is always much more lax on those little ships. After envying them a bit, I suddenly noticed Bill pull off his white jumper and T shirt, and then his shoes and socks. I said, "No, you can't do that," but he ignored me and climbed up on the rail. He stood there, arms stretched straight over his head, tall and slender in his skin tight white bell bottoms, and then fell forward, dropping quickly to disappear cleanly into the water below, leaving just a ring of ripples to mark his perfect dive. He came to the surface to a cheer, and someone threw him a rope ladder. He climbed up, and looked very pleased when he again stood on deck, the water streaming from his body and his white sailor pants glued more tightly than ever to his narrow hips and doublerounded ass. Of course he was put on report and punished with extra duty and restriction, but obviously he felt it was worth his unique moment.

5.

"CHUCK TELLS ME YOU'D LIKE TO GET RAPED"

The summer faded, with a variety of activities, and one day I was hanging on a platform slung overside, well below deck level. Chuck and I were engaged in the endless round of chipping off old, rusted paint and putting on new, and of course we could talk easily with the perfect privacy of those who can only be seen from afar. I told Chuck how much I had enjoyed the session in the Y, and another similar one later, and I told him something of my few other experiences and more about my many fantasies. Chuck told me some good tales, too, but never would say anything about Bill, or their relationship, which was fairly apparent to me by now.

A few days later, Bill stopped near me when we were out of earshot of anyone else and said "Chuck tells my you'd like to get raped. Come out next liberty weekend and we can all have some fun."

Of course I agreed, and one cool, clear October weekend we left the Navy Base in a borrowed car. Bill drove competently, as he did everything, and Chuck was playing with some line in the other front seat, while I sat in back and wondered what would happen. We stopped for a few hamburgers, and then for a case of cold beer, and shortly arrived at an old fashioned set of tourist cabins. After Bill went into the office to make arrangements, he drove to one of the few cabins in the far back row not yet boarded up for the winter.

We carried the beer and the liberty bags we had brought into the cabin, and then Bill turned to me and grabbed one arm. Chuck grabbed the other, and together they twisted them behind my back. Chuck held me while Bill deftly tied my wrists, and then my ankles. He dragged me to one corner of the cabin and propped me up, and then began to beat me up.

His blows really hurt, but I took it as long as I could, before my knees buckled and I sprawled at his feet. I was obviously helpless, and they quickly untied my hands and pulled off my blue jumper and T shirt. Stripped to the waist, my wrists were each tied, with the lines quickly thrown over two wood beams which joined the walls on either side where they met the upward sloping roof panels. The lines were quickly tied, leaving me strung up, spread eagled, toes barely touching the floor, and utterly helpless. Bill stood back and grinned at me, and then turned and left the cabin, while Chuck pulled off my shoes and socks, then pulled down my briefs, leaving me totally naked. He tied my ankles again after stripping me, and then Bill returned, carrying and flexing a slender stick he had cut from a tree. He said "I think you are going to get a little more than you bargained for, but I guess you can take it, and anyway, you have no choice."

With that, he proceeded to whip my ass very soundly with the stick. Of course it hurt a lot, and I tried hard to keep quiet, but finally I had to yell with pain. He stopped, reached into his bag, and pulled out a jock strap. He shoved the pouch into my mouth and twisted the strap around my head to firmly hold the rough cloth with its flavor of sweat and piss and cum in my mouth. My cock was rising anyway, and this made it stand up hard, as I thought of breathing the fumes of his body into my lungs. He whipped me some more, and finally stopped as my ass was glistening red, and some blood was beginning to show. That he wiped off with a towel, and then he stood behind me.

I knew what was coming, and could only enjoy the relatively minor pain as he shoved his lovely cock up my ass. They let me down, but tied me down on one of the beds while Chuck fucked me too, and then Bill took another turn. They kept me tied, but helped me drink a few beers, and I recovered somewhat from the pain and humiliation they had inflicted on me.

Later, they again tied me firmly to the bed, spread eagled, face down, and gagged with the jock, while they went out for some supper. They at least brought me back a sandwich when they returned an hour or two later, and we spent the evening drinking. They kept me tied, one way or another, and I was not surprised, when we finally were ready to turn in, when I was tied with my wrists to the head and my feet to the foot of one of the beds. Bill fucked me again and then went over to the other bed, while Chuck slept with me, and I grew to enjoy his cock gradually shrinking inside my ass.

In the morning I thought they would let me up, but it turned out Bill had not yet had enough. I was again suspended from the beams, hanging naked and helpless in the cold cabin, while Bill whipped some warmth into me with his stick, striking again and again, and gagging me with his jock and beating me some more when I yelled. As I rather hoped, he finally stopped, and they both fucked me again before releasing me to get dressed and ready to leave.

They bound my wrists and arms securely, once I was in uniform again, and they shoved me into the back of the car. Then they tied my ankles and legs, leaving me helpless in the back seat. I didn't want to sit, since my ass was still very painful, so I lay on one side, and since my head wouldn't show, Bill gagged me again. I rode like that back to Newport, and they let me loose only shortly before we reached the Base.

That night on the ship, a couple of other sailors asked questions or looked at me in ways which made me guess they had gone that way before.

Being able to take the punishment without complaint made them all respect me more, I think, and I found I was accepted more than before. Bill and Chuck went out of their way to be nice to me and help me along, and I worked into the job of rigger, also. It was several months later, though, before I worked up the courage to ask if they wanted to go out again for a liberty weekend.

It was a few weeks after that weekend, actually, when I found myself working with Bill in the rope locker, that I first felt able to talk about the whole experience. He told me he sometimes got carried away with giving pain, and he hoped it wasn't too bad. I said that the pain was bad, but it was worth it, since I liked getting tied up, as well as feeling his body against mine, any way he wanted. He leaned over and quickly kissed me hard on the mouth, his tongue snaking between my lips, and then he pulled back and told me how much he had enjoyed all we had done. I got no promises, but I knew that we would have fun again.

6.

"YOU REALLY PASSED THE TEST"

The months passed, and I know Bill and Chuck took a few other sailors out for a session, but I was not invited, and I never tried to discuss what went on.

I know one sailor got a transfer right after one of these occasions, so l suppose he didn't work out. I was enjoying my work as a rigger with Bill and Chuck during working hours, learning a lot of ways to handle the heavy loads we needed to move aboard ship. We also made up some fancy work such as rope mats for the Skipper's state room and wrappings for the railings of the gangways or ladders. I was enjoying hitching to Boston on liberty weekends once in awhile, and the cold weather guaranteed that I would be very grateful to any driver who would pick me up.

Finally May came around, and Bill told me one day that the cabins were opening up again. I didn't need to be told twice, and planned for a long weekend. We got off the ship on Friday afternoon, and before we left Newport, my wrists were bound behind my back. Again we picked up some beer and we all had a few cans, with Chuck pouring mine down my throat, spilling only a little down the front of my Navy blues. When we got to the cabin, I was hustled inside.

Bill stood in front of me and said, very seriously, "Look, I don't want to hurt you too much, but I really get a kick out of whipping a guy, and I want to do it a lot. You have taken it better than anyone else I have ever worked on, even Chuck here, who doesn't really like to get hurt, but how much can you take?"

I didn't know what to say, but I knew I was in for a lot of pain, because I didn't want to disappoint him, and it was obvious he liked me, and somehow this was the best way he had to show it. Finally, I said "Do what you like. I will take anything you want to do to me. I couldn't do anything about it, anyway, once you tie me up, and you could even kill me if you want."

He replied, "It won't come to that, but thanks. I appreciate your trust."

This time, they didn't hit me first, but I stripped and they strung me up again by the wrists, ankles tied together. As before, Bill whipped me hard, and I was fucked several times. Later, they decided to go out, leaving me very tightly bound, forearms tied together behind me, upper arms tied to my sides, ankles and knees tightly tied, and a noose around my neck running down to my ankles pulled up behind my back. The jock was again filling my throat with its musky odor, and I was hoping they wouldn't leave me too long. It turned out to be several hours, and they were both pretty drunk when they returned.

Bill whipped me harder than ever, although the ropes that bound me took some of the strokes. Chuck took a turn, too, but obviously didn't care for it. Finally they untied me, but I was so stiff I couldn't move, and they had no trouble re-tieing me for the night and then fucking me before we all went to sleep.

In the morning, I really needed to take a leak, and I guess they did too, but they told me to get dressed in the bell bottom dungarees and blue work shirt I had been told to bring. My wrists were quickly bound again, and I was pushed out and behind the cabin, where they both pissed all over me, and I pissed in my own pants. Back in the cabin, I was left again tightly bound while they went out for breakfast, bringing me back another sandwich.

We all drank some beer, and I made several trips outside to piss in my dungarees or get pissed on. I was worried that someone might see what was going on, but that didn't seem to worry Bill and Chuck, and after a few hours, Bill said they wanted some privacy.

They took me back into the woods behind the cabin and tied me firmly to a tree, still wearing my piss soaked clothes. I suppose they were making out together, for it was several hours before they finally came to release me. By this time, I was cold and hungry and hurting and generally unhappy, which I guess Bill sensed, for he untied me and sent me in to take a long, hot shower.

When I finished, both of them were sitting together on one of the beds, naked, but with a blanket around them. Bill smiled up at me and said "You really passed the test this time." He held out a hand, and I joined them on the bed, where we all did everything to each other.

We went out for supper together, dressed in our tight Navy blues once again, and enjoyed a pleasant evening.

I didn't really know what to expect when we got back to the cabin that night, but we all undressed, and looked at the welts on my body. Finally, I reached over and picked up some line, handing it to Bill.

"I know what you want, and I guess I can still take it." I spent that night tied again, and took some more beating and fucking before we finally returned to the ship. I was afraid to let the other guys see me, with the angry welts all over my body, but it couldn't be helped, and some of the others had been in the same shape before.

7.

"HE ASKED ME ABOUT THE LINE I CARRIED, AS USUAL"

I find I have gone on rather long about Bill and Chuck, but you will have guessed that that was by far my most exciting experience. Another time I decided to hitch to Boston fairly late one summer evening. I got stranded by a driver turning off just by a gas station, so I wandered over, attracted by a gas pump jockey wearing tight, greasy levis, a dark blue shirt with a gas company logo over the pocket, work boots, and topped off with a shock of unruly blond hair. We chatted a bit and I couldn't help but notice the contrast between my starched clean whites and his dirty, but equally tight, jeans. It turned out that he got off duty fairly soon, and he offered me a lift further up the road.

Once we got into his pickup truck, he asked me about the line I carried, as usual. He got the idea pretty quickly, and pulled down a back road, stopped, and tied my wrists. He started to rub my quickly stiffening cock, deep kissed me for awhile, and then told me to get out.

He took me to the back of the truck, lowered the tailgate, and pushed me forward so my chest was flat on the truck bed. He untied my wrists and pulled them forward, tieing them to some ringbolts further up the floor of the truck. Then he pulled off my pants and shorts, fucking me soundly with his big, full cock. He let me go after that, and I pulled myself together while he drove me up to a major highway.

I got out, but looked back to wave as he turned back toward his home. At least there was more traffic on the highway, and I knew my whites would show up well in the headlights of oncoming cars. As one went by, though, I looked down, and realized his hands had been as dirty as his jeans, for a black stain of finger and hand prints was covering the groin area of my tight white sailor pants. I was just wondering what to do about that when a car screeched to a stop, and I ran to climb in. The good looking young driver grinned at me and asked if I had been having a good time, and if I wanted some more. It was a great weekend.

Well, this has been a long evening of typing for me, and the old Navy blues I pulled out to give me inspiration as I type are getting tighter than ever.

I will try to write again in a few weeks about some of my other experiences, such as with the Marine MP I told you about.

HOW I BECAME A BONDAGE ADDICT

[This story, a particular favorite of mine, originally appeared in Issue 4 (May/June 1988) under the title "Boy Turned into Bondage Addict by Slick Magazine". In the course of time I received two more letters from this wonderful writer, and one of these days I'll remember which issues they appeared in and post them here, too. BW]

Many years ago, about the time I was 12 or 13 years old, I had the habit of spending my Saturday afternoons in the public library. On one of those afternoons, I picked a magazine off the reading rack (I don't remember if it was Life, Look, or one of the other photo-journalism magazines), and as I thumbed through it, I came to a page which headlined the story of how several prisoners had managed to escape from a Southern jail, and how, one by one, the authorities had tracked down and captured them. On the facing page, there was a picture of one of the escapees taken just after his capture; it was a picture that I will never forget. What follows is my recollection of that picture as best I can describe it, and how it influenced the rest of my life.

In the background, there were two black and white sheriff cars parked at the side of a gravel covered road; a sheriff deputy stood by one of the cars. Also in the background was a group of four or five men: two were sheriff deputies (and carried rifles); the others were dressed in tee shirts and farmer overalls. In the far background there was a wooded tree line.

A stereotypically beefy (but not too unattractive) sheriff deputy stood in the foreground; his left hand was wrapped in a firm grip around the upper right arm of the prisoner. They appeared to be moving toward the open car door. The prisoner had turned his upper body and head to one side, tucking his head down and into his open shirt collar as he strained to hide his face from the camera.

As I looked at what I could see of his profile, I was immediately puzzled by what I noticed next; de-spite the way he had turned from the camera, I could see that his shoes (a pair of black hightop work shoes) had been tied together by their laces, and hung around his neck. As I looked down the picture toward his feet, I saw that his hands were handcuffed together behind his back; because of the way he had turned, only one hand was actually visible. From what I could see, the cuff seemed to be locked snugly around his wrist.

I saw then that he was barefoot; looking closer, I also saw that there were leg irons locked around his ankles, the connecting chain dragging in the gravel between his feet. As my attention shifted back and forth between the story and the picture, I began to notice other things about the prisoner. His hair was cut short in the crew cut or flattop style many men and boys wore in those days. While the story said that he was in his early twenties, from his profile he looked almost more like a boy than a young man. He also looked to be trim and slightly built; but perhaps that was just because his clothes seemed to be a size too big for him. His shirttail hung out over one side of his pants waistband, and between his shoulders, I could make out the faded letters "JA..." and "INM...." stenciled into the back of his shirt. It was then that I realized he was wearing more than just ordinary clothes; he had been captured still wearing the same uniform he had been forced to wear in jail. His uniform looked sweaty, perhaps from trying to outrun his captors; and here and there, it was smudged with dirt, perhaps from struggling with the sheriffs while they pinned him to the ground and shackled his hands and legs. Overall, I had the feeling, from his body language, and the dirty, disheveled appearance of his uniform that this was a humiliated, exhausted, broken young man.

As I studied the picture before me, I was filled with many different thoughts and emotions. As I, and the boys I counted as friends grew older, I was becoming aware that we were also developing "socially adult" interests. I was beginning to perceive in some of my friends, a certain disdain for the games we had played as younger boys. In particular, the bondage games I had so enjoyed were being seen by more and more of them as "kids' stuff." The picture before me was proof, however, that even grown men still played them; but with a few differences. The differences were that they played them out in uniforms, with shackles instead of ropes, and with force and humiliation as their weapons.

By 10 or 11, I had begun to notice newspaper and magazine pictures of men, their hands handcuffed together behind their backs; for reasons I did not understand, I found such pictures erotically exciting. This particular picture was the first I had ever seen of a man in leg irons, and it excited me even more. I was fascinated. I tried to imagine myself as this young man.

I tried to imagine just exactly what it would feel like to be shackled; to feel the weight of other men pinning me to the ground; to feel handcuffs and leg irons being tightened and locked around my wrists and ankles (would the steel feel cold?); to be completely helpless; to have no chance of escape; to be paraded for others to see, shackled the way he was.

To me, his barefoot state gave the picture an obscene, pornographic quality; it struck me with almost the same force as it would have had he been completely naked. Except for the beach, I only saw very young children barefoot in public; grown men never were. By forcing him to walk in public with his shoes hung around his neck, the deputies seemed to be trying to further show the onlooker (as if there was any doubt) just how helpless and just how much in their control this young man really was. The deputies' decision to deny him the use of something so personal, so intimate, as his own shoes, struck me as a terrible, calculated humiliation.

I had no firm idea of what might happen to this young man once he was back in jail, but I doubted it would be pleasant. I knew I felt a sad tenderness toward him; he quickly became the center of a favorite romantic fantasy. For months, as I fell asleep at night, I would imagine myself as the country sheriff, an older, decent, more kindly man than the deputies. I would imagine walking past the young man's jail cell, and seeing him through the bars, a small figure, sitting alone on his bunk, dressed in his dirty inmate uniform, still shackled in handcuffs and leg irons. I would imagine him crying softly to himself, crying for his lost brief freedom, his public humiliation, the hopelessness of his situation. I would imagine unlocking the cell door and sitting down beside him. I would put my arm around him and with the other arm I would pull his head toward mine. I would imagine the feel of his crew cut hair against my face as he wept against my shoulder. As the imaginary sheriff, I knew and accepted that he had to be punished for his crimes. I hoped that by comforting him, some of my strength would flow into him, giving him the courage to deal with his fate.

As time passed, I was eventually struck by the realization that in different clothes, this young man could just as easily be any of the boys I knew; even me. I also realized that to an onlooker, if any of us were to be seen, pictured, as this young man was, it would be impossible to perceive any of us as just an ordinary boy. Whatever our life, real or imagined, I began to understand that it could be changed, powerfully, by the clothes we wore. I seemed to reach the conclusion that fantasy and reality were not two distinct and separate things, but rather the same thing, existences that were interchangeable, worlds that could be jumped between by simply changing the "package," the "uniform," the clothing we put ourselves into. I began, from that time on, to pay special attention to the clothes that other boys (and men) wore.

ANTHROPOLOGY STUDENT ENSLAVED BY ARCHITECT

[This long story, which originally appeared in Issue 5 (July/August 1988) is one of the most popular we ever printed.]

1.

BONDAGE BY TELEPHONE

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.

2.

STUDENT RIDES BUS WITH HARDON AND NO I.D.

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.

3.
STUDENT SHARES IDEAS ON THE BONDAGE ATTITUDE

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.

4.

"HE TOOK A PAIR OF SCISSORS AND CUT MY SWEATSHIRT OFF"

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.

5.

ENLIGHTENED OWNER UNCAGES PRISONER FOR SALUTARY FUCK

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.

6.

DISORIENTED STUDENT LOSES SELF FOR WEEK

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.

7.

"THE SLAVE REALLY SLAMMED INTO 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.

MEMOIRS OF A SKINHEAD BOOTSLAVE - 1

[EDITOR’S NOTE: The story of the skinhead bootslave, which took up the bulk of Issue 6 (July/August 1988), remains a favorite of mine. Since the two stories included in that issue describe very different situations and took place at very different times (1969 and 1983), I'll post them one at a time. BW]

1969: YOUTH FORCED TO LICK BEST FRIEND'S BOOTS

Living in a small town in the North of England hadn't done much to teach me about sex. At 14, I was totally innocent—I knew I liked looking at other boys in the shower at school, but didn't know what to do about it. Gordon would soon rectify that.

He was my best mate at school—a year older than me and a real skinhead—cute and clean looking, but his closely cropped blond hair, big shiny, combat-style skinhead boots and tough, aggressive attitude would make him seem threatening if you didn't know him. He was always getting into trouble for wearing his boots to school, but he didn't give a shit. Every break and lunchtime we'd go behind the bike sheds for a cigarette—it didn't take me long to realise that every time I was near Gordon I got a hard on—more confusion.

One lunchtime we were having a smoke when he suggested that we miss afternoon classes and go round to his house. I thought "what the hell" and agreed. He lived close to the school, so ten minutes later we were in his bedroom. Saying that he was getting changed, he unbuttoned his shirt and took it off, revealing his smooth, boyishly muscled body—strong shoulders and arms, shapely little chest, and washboard stomach. He stood over me and sneered as he looked down at me.

"I want you to get down on your knees and lick my fucking boots."

I laughed - "I don't think I could do that Gordon."

An unexpected slap soon took the smile off my face.

"I wasn't fucking joking, and I wasn't asking you to do it, I'm telling you. Now get on your fucking knees."

I was suddenly scared, very scared, so I obeyed. I was almost in tears as I looked at the big shiny boots just inches away from my face.

"Lick them."

I started to lick the toe-cap of one boot, tentatively at first, then more eagerly as I realised I was enjoying it. I could feel my cock growing and getting hard.

"You fucking slag, you love it don't you?"

He made me spend about ten minutes licking them all over.

"Stop. Now unlace them and take them off." I did as I was told. "Now the socks, and give them to me… put your arms down by your side and don't even think of struggling."

He put one hand behind my head, and with the other, covered my nose and mouth with the socks.

"Sniff them, breathe really deeply."

I couldn't believe what was happening, it felt so humiliating, but the smell of sweaty feet and boot leather was really turning me on. Still holding the socks over my face he unbuttoned my shirt and pulled it off, then reached down, unzipped my trousers, pulled out my hard cock, and started playing with it. I'd dreamt about a boy playing with my cock, this was incredible.

What happened next surprised me even more. He knelt behind me, pulled my arms behind my back, and tied my wrists together with one of the socks. He pulled me up and pushed me onto the bed on my back. I watched as he took his trousers off, then stood by the bed, rubbing the front of his tiny purple briefs.

"I'm going to make you do exactly what my girlfriend does for me."

He eased his briefs down, and for the first time in my life I saw a naked boy with an erection—I wanted him so bad.

He pulled off my trousers and briefs and knelt over me with his face inches away from mine.

"You like boys don't you?"

"No."

Another hard slap brought me to my senses.

"Tell the truth or I'll really hurt you. You like boys don't you?"

"Yes."

He sneered. "You fucking queer, I've noticed the way you look at me." He spat in my face and rubbed it all over, then forced two fingers in my mouth and made me suck them. "Get used to it, you'll be sucking more than my fingers soon."

Gripping my head between his hands, he forced his mouth against mine and began to kiss me savagely and passionately. As his hard young body thrust against me, I could feel our cocks rubbing together, fuck it felt good. He reached down, clenched his fist round my cock and started to wank me.

"Do you want me to toss you off?"

"Oh yes Gordon, yes."

I cried out in pain as he grabbed my balls and twisted them hard. "That's your first mistake slag. You're mine, and you don't tell me what you want. Got it?"

"Yes."

He knelt over my face, and to my shock, rubbed the tip of his cock against my lips.

"Open up."

When I hesitated, he slapped me and spit in my face again.

"I fucking said open up, so do it."

He rammed his tool in my mouth and I gagged.

"Yeah, choke on it bitch, now get sucking."

I obeyed—shocked by what he was doing to me, but unexplainably turned on—there I was, naked, tied up, with a dirty, muscular young skinhead boy's cock in my mouth. As I sucked he moaned obscenities, thrusting faster and faster, really pumping my face. Maybe five minutes passed and my jaws began to ache.

"Oh fuck I'm going to shoot."

I tried to turn my head away, I thought I'd throw up if he shot in my mouth, but he gripped my head even harder.

"No way queer, you're gonna take it, oh fuck, oh fuck!"

He cried out as the first bolt of hot creamy spunk hit the back of my throat. I was surprised to find it was sweet as I swallowed it—I had no choice anyway.

Eventually his thrusts subsided, he got off and I started to sit up.

"Did I say you could move?"

"No."

"Well fucking stay there until I come back."

He left the room and returned a couple of minutes later with some lengths of rope—shit, what was he going to do now? He turned me face down, untied me, and retied my wrists with the rope, much tighter than the sock had been. Then he spread my legs wide, tied each ankle to the corner of the bed, and left me there. I heard him go into the bathroom and showering, and it seemed like an eternity before he returned. He walked back in—he was naked, but he'd put his boots back on—he had an erection again, and his huge cock was smeared with vaseline. He stood where I could see him and played with himself.

"I've never fucked another boy, and I know you've never had a cock up your arse. This could be interesting."

With horror, I suddenly realised what he intended to do to me. I began to struggle against the ropes and shouted "No please don't, don't do that to me."

He jumped on top of me and forced my bound wrists up my back, causing considerable pain.

"Listen cunt, I'm going to fuck you whether you want me to or not—fucking take this."

He rammed the head of his cock inside me—nothing happened for a moment, then the wave of pain hit me—it felt like I was being split in two.

"Take it out, take it out" I screamed.

In response he forced my face into the pillow to muffle my shouts and continued to push his cock deeper into my tight virgin arse.

I sobbed as the tough young skinhead raped me, impaling me with his cock. Finally I could feel that he was all the way in—he wrapped his strong arms round me, and just lay there on top of me, letting me get used to having it inside me. As the pain slowly receded, it was replaced by a feeling of over-whelming pleasure.

"Oh fuck me Gordon, give it to me."

"You want it rough?"

"Oh yeah, fuck my brains out."

He began to fuck me—slowly at first, building in power and intensity until his hard young body was slamming against mine, almost pulling his cock all the way out before ramming it back in. The ropes were biting into my wrists and ankles, but I didn't care. We both moaned uncontrollably as his thrusts grew more frenzied—he reached under me, gripped my cock and wanked me as he fucked. Faster, faster…

"Take it bitch, fucking take it!"

He cried out as he shot his load deep inside me, and at the same time I began to shoot—it felt like I'd died and gone to heaven.

After that day Gordon took every opportunity to use and abuse me. Instead of going behind the bike sheds at lunchtime, he'd take me into a cubicle in the boys' toilets where he'd force me to my knees and make me lick his boots and suck him off. Once or twice a week he'd take me home, and although I knew it would mean being tied up, being verbally abused and humiliated and raped, I submitted willingly. In a few short weeks I went from a virgin to a fully fledged skinhead's bootboy.

All good things come to an end—one afternoon his mother came home early from work and nearly caught us at it. Next day at school Gordon told me that our sessions would have to stop. "If they caught me fucking a girl, I'd be in trouble, but if they caught me doing something queer, my Dad would fuck-ing kill me." I didn't get the chance to serve another skinhead for several years, but it was well worth the wait.

INITIATING THE NEW TEAM CAPTAIN

[This story originally appeared in Issue 7 (November/December 1988), our first issue devoted to hazing and initiations. BW]

My first real brush with bondage occurred when I was 19, and a sophomore in school, It was the end of my team's spring season, and I had just been elected captain for next year (in something of an upset). Normally, the team didn't haze its players very hard; initiations consisted of drinking a bit of beer, being thrown in the shower, or being "flesh-piled" "gang-tackled." However, as an uppity sophomore (and a captain!), I received some special treatment.

On the fateful night, I was lying peacefully asleep in my dorm room when the door burst open and three of my teammates leapt on me, rope in hand. The struggle was brief and one-sided, and I quickly found my wrists tied tightly behind me with my arms crossed, and with rope bound tightly around my bare ankles and above my knees. At some point I yelled for help to my roommate (who appeared to be sleeping through all this, although he later admitted to me that he just didn't want to get involved). This brought one of my captors' hands across my mouth. "Better gag him," someone said. I felt a sock being stuffed in my mouth, and another sock was tied around my neck, painfully tight, to keep it in place. I was blindfolded with one of my own bandanas. I was sleeping naked, as usual, so they rolled me up in one of my blankets and dragged me out to a car (my car, in fact). I was thrown into the back seat, and off we went.

During the ride I tried struggling with my bonds, and particularly with the wretched gag, but to no avail. I did manage to scrape my blindfold off, but it was immediately tied back on (much tighter, of course). My companions tried to cheer me up by hinting at all the dire things in store for me as the car twisted and turned through the narrow streets of campus. When we stopped, they carried me into a building and down some steps. They laid me down on a rug, which smelled of stale beer. The rope around my ankles was fastened to a post, so that my legs and ass were lifted off the ground and I was lying on my back and shoulders. "Don't go away," they said. I didn't.

It seemed like I lay there for a long time, but it was probably only a few minutes before I heard people coming back. The rope holding my ankles up was released, and quickly fastened to something else. Rather, I should say someone else, since I was being tied face-to-face with another bound person. We were bound together with rope at our ankles, at our waists, and under and around our arms. I couldn't tell who the other person was, except that he was shorter than I was and had some shorts on. He was clearly gagged and blindfolded as well.

At this point we were told that this was a test of our ability to work together as captain and co-captain, and that we had 15 minutes to free ourselves or we would each get 20 whacks with the paddle. The paddle was demonstrated once on each of us, as incentive, I suppose. At least I knew who my involuntary buddy was; it was my co-captain, Dave. Well, we provided 15 minutes of entertainment for our audience (most of the team), and we managed to rub our blindfolds and our gags off of each other's faces, but there was no chance of untying the knots. We rolled around a lot and worked up a good sweat, but that was about it.

Once time was called, our captors jumped on us and competed to see who could swat our asses the hardest with the ping-pong paddles. We each got 30 strokes (they were getting pretty drunk, and could hardly count).

At this point I started getting a hard-on while lying beneath Dave. I could feel every muscle in his body twitch when he was hit. It was an amazing sensation—I don't think I've ever felt closer to anyone in my life. For what it's worth, Dave had a hard-on too, and he was as straight as they come. After it was all over, I thought about talking to him about it, but I never had the nerve. I tried setting up a similar initiation for our successors, but it never worked out. And that was my initiation to my team, and to an interest in bondage.