Bob Wingate's Blog: Eric Tide's Bondage Memoirs

This week got away from me, sorry. But let me make up for it now, with this great new chapter from Eric Tide's memoirs, describing his new term of slavery to his best friend Logan and Logan's brother Dylan.

Chapter 26

Weekend at the Lake House

I pulled into Logan and Dylan’s driveway a few minutes before 7:00 the second Friday morning of May. I had been wide awake for hours, unable to sleep anticipating this moment. I was keyed up, the adrenaline surging through my veins.

Partly, I was excited because I had gotten my wish to serve as slave again to my best friend Logan and his younger brother Dylan after a three week respite. Partly, I was nervous because, as hard as they were on me the previous six months, I knew this next phase was going to be even harsher. The truth is I was scared to death.

To us, three daring high school kids, being a slave meant more than just following orders and doing chores. The brothers would work my ass off for sure. That was going to be the easy part to take. But being their slave meant much more. To us, a slave was subhuman, worthless flesh existing only to be used, abused and humiliated. They understood that sentiment, and I understood it. I had primed them, begged them and bargained with them to give me their best shot for the next four months. I asked them to be tough as nails on me, ignoring my tears and my pleas, mainly so I could prove to myself that I had the stamina to endure anything life could ever throw at me.

I had made them promise to find the limits of my endurance and then stretch beyond. I had pleaded with them to set aside any feelings of friendship for the next few months and break me down, if they were able, until I begged them for mercy. I didn’t beg easily. As I turned into their driveway, I sensed that I may have created a monster. My intuition told me to be very afraid.

I followed the horseshoe driveway and stopped at the front door. When I was their slave before, I would go inside and make beds, feed dogs and tend to other assorted chores for half an hour before I took them to school. This time I just sat nervously gripping the steering wheel. I assumed nothing. If they wanted me to resume the morning chores, they would have to tell me. I wouldn’t make it easy for them by being overly compliant.

After a couple of minutes, the front door cracked open enough for Logan to stick his head through.

“Pull around back,” Logan said. That was odd. I never did that.

I eased my car off the dirt driveway and drove onto the grass into the backyard. I circled around and stopped so that the driver’s door was adjacent to the back door of the house about ten feet away. I shut off the engine, but I didn’t budge. If they wanted me to come inside, someone would have to issue that order. In my mind I was being obstinate. Headstrong. Macho. I wanted to show some spunk, a stalwart spirit for them to break if they had the balls.

I was wearing my camouflage fatigues and a button-up camouflage shirt, just as Logan had told me to dress when I left him the night before. I never wore these clothes to school. In fact we purchased these clothes last year for me to wear sometimes when they interrogated me during prisoner of war scenarios. We used to play those games, which were occasionally brutal, but nevertheless exciting for me. The games provided me a chance to show my mettle. However, it had been a long time since we had done that.

I wore my hunting boots. The boots were brown and hunter green with thick rubber soles that made me look a couple of inches taller. They were insulated with high tops rising above the ankle, designed for winter hunting in tough terrain. They were not really made for the warm weather we were having in May, but they were the only hunting boots I had at the time. I figured that if I was going to wear hunting clothes to school, for whatever reason the boys had in mind, then the boots would look more authentic than my usual dirty white Reeboks.

I figured Logan and Dylan would have a fit of rage when they saw me wearing any shoes at all. That was fine. I wanted to motivate them, to stir some passion within their souls. If they wanted me to wait until we got to school to put on my boots, as had been their directive during my previous term of slavery, then someone should have told me. I was starting to feel pretty cocky, which eased my nerves a bit.

I sat behind the wheel for a couple of minutes, mentally preparing myself to be tough and resilient, and then the back door of the house opened. The moment of truth had arrived.

Logan came out first followed closely by Dylan, who shut the back door of the house and made sure it was locked. Dylan was carrying a metal folding chair, although I did not notice it at first. Logan made a beeline to my driver’s door and snatched it open. His face was stern and serious. It wasn’t because of the boots. He couldn't see the boots from the house.

Logan grabbed me by the arm and yanked me out of the car. I stumbled climbing out, and my knees buckled. As I was recovering my legs, he belted me hard with his fist on the left side of my belly. The surprise blow robbed me of my breath. I gasped for air but found none. He jerked me around to the front fender of the car. My right shoulder struck the edge of the opened car door as he pulled me past it, and I felt the sharp sting from the unforgiving metal.

In a flash I found myself bent over the hood of the car with my arms sprawled out across it. The metal hood was still hot. Logan shoved my head into the hood pressing the right side of my face hard against it. The earlier blow from Logan’s fist had caught my lowest rib, and I suddenly realized the sharp, deep pain. I was still gasping for breath. Logan kicked my ankles hard a couple of times to spread my legs as wide apart as they could possibly go. I groaned as my hamstrings stretched and burned.

He frisked me quickly from head to toe, feeling every crack and crevice of my body. He had never touched me that way before. I felt humiliated and violated. He removed my wallet, handkerchief and a few coins I had for a snack after school. He pulled my arms behind me forcefully and cuffed me with handcuffs he drew from the back of his pants. Everything was happening so fast. I was dazed.

Logan stood me up, unbuckled my leather weave belt and snatched it from the loops. He wrapped it around my upper arms and tightened it, pulling my elbows closer and closer until I howled in pain. He grabbed me by the arm and led me to the back seat on the driver’s side. Dylan had the door open. Logan shoved me inside roughly, and I went sprawling face down across the backseat. I howled again from the pain in my arms, shoulders and wrists. I could not extend my arms to brace for the fall. Logan kicked me hard in the ass with the heel of his boot and told me to “shut the fuck up.”

The trunk was open. Dylan had taken my keys from the ignition and placed the metal folding chair inside the trunk along with a couple of overnight bags. Logan untied my boots enough to yank them off, nearly twisting my ankles in the process. He tossed the boots to Dylan, who placed them in the trunk. Logan pulled off my socks and tossed them to Dylan, too.

Dylan slammed the trunk shut. He moved to the open back door of the car, kicked me hard in the legs and told me to make room for him to sit down. Logan climbed in behind the steering wheel, and Dylan handed him the car keys. Logan cranked up, and we were rolling.

We drove down the rural highway as we normally would when heading for school. I wondered what their plan was. Surely they weren’t going to take me all the way to school tied up like this. Someone would see us. I would be a laughingstock for life. Logan and Dylan were stern and silent, strictly business. My brief cockiness was gone. I was scared to say anything.

Two miles down the highway, at the place everyone called “the crossroads,” Logan made a left turn onto another rural road.

“We’re not going to school today,” Logan said. “We’re going to the lake house.”

I had surmised that already. Everything was now fitting together. We would have kept going straight at the crossroads if we were going to school. The only time we ever made that left turn was to head to the lake.

My first reaction was paranoia. I was afraid that we would be caught cutting school. My assistant principal was a bear about finding out where absent kids were. I could get suspended and ruin my clean record. Unlike Logan and Dylan, I had never had a single blemish in my eleven years of school. But right now, I had more immediate problems to worry about. I was pretty sure we weren’t going to their uncle’s lake house to water ski.

About ten minutes into the drive, Logan turned on the radio to listen to a popular local morning show. Several kids we knew from school called in and spoke on the radio to make song requests or wish someone “Happy Birthday.” Otherwise, the 45 minute drive was made in complete silence. None of us talked again until we arrived at our destination.

We reached their uncle’s lake house before 8:00 that morning. Logan pulled up close to the door. Dylan got out, retrieved the hidden key and opened the house up. The risky part was getting me inside without being seen by neighbors. The risk was fairly low because most of the houses were empty until summer except for the occasional weekender. However, a few people lived at the lake year round. Dylan opened up the back door of the car, and he and Logan quickly ushered me through the screened porch and inside the house.

Logan forced me to my knees on the hardwood floor of the living room just inside the front door, which faced the lake. Dylan retrieved the folding chair and the overnight bags from the trunk. When he came back inside and turned the latch on the deadbolt with a loud click, I swallowed hard.

Interrogation

As I knelt before Logan and Dylan, I was already hurting. The handcuffs were tighter than normal. My arms and back were aching from the weave belt pulling my elbows close together. I would wear a bruise from the punch to my ribs. My hamstrings were sore where Logan had spread my legs during the frisk. But I listened intently to what they had to say.

Logan did most of the talking. He reinstated most of the rules we had operated under for six months. First, I would obey any order without hesitation or face the consequences of my disobedience. Second, I would show them total respect as my owners and masters. I would answer them with “yes sir” and “no sir.” Third, I would only wear shoes when they permitted it, and that would be rare. Fourth, I would diligently perform all the assigned chores they would give me to perfection.

Lastly, I was required to find ways to serve them and take care of their needs, even if I was not told to do some specific task. I was to take the initiative to make their lives easy. I was to consider that to be my primary role, my new life. It was the usual basic stuff we had been doing since the two of them began owning me last October. Really, it had been longer than that since it was nearly a year ago that I first became Logan’s slave last summer.

Logan then explained that we would resume the demerit system, and this time Dylan would not have to get Logan’s approval before giving me demerits. Dylan had matured a lot and understood the “game” much better by now. Demerits would be assigned whenever immediate punishment was not practical. Demerits would be assigned for disobedience, disrespect, slothfulness, failure to perform assignments to perfection, tardiness, or for any other reason the boys saw fit. Once demerits accumulated, I would pay them off with whippings, licks from the paddle, getting tied up in tough positions for long periods of time, enduring tortures, suffering humiliation or by whatever means they decided.

I agreed to each of Logan’s points with a respectful “yes sir.”

“Good,” said Logan. “Now for some fun.”

Logan grabbed my upper arm and lifted me to my feet. Dylan picked up the metal folding chair and one of the overnight bags, and headed to the kitchen. Logan and I followed behind. They moved the table and chairs out of the kitchen to give them plenty of space, and then Dylan opened up the folding chair in the center of the room on the linoleum floor.

Logan took the belt and handcuffs off me. He ordered me to remove my shirt and sit in the chair. The metal was cold, especially when I leaned my bare back against it.

Logan took a strand of rope from the bag, crossed my wrists and tied my hands tightly together behind my back. Dylan rolled my pants legs up over my calves. He pulled my left foot to the back leg of the chair, which made me grunt, and secured my ankle tightly to the cold metal. He tied my right ankle the same way. My hamstrings, already tender from the frisk, began burning all the more.

Logan lifted my bound hands over the rounded back of the chair. He tied another rope around my wrists and pulled down hard until my arms were stretched tight. The top of the chair was pressing hard into my armpits. Logan anchored the rope to the rung at the bottom of the chair in the back. I had been tied this way plenty of times, usually in one of the wooden chairs at their house or mine. I was already extremely uncomfortable, my limbs and muscles stretched and aching, but I knew from experience that it was about to get much worse.

Logan ordered me to try to get loose. I struggled to free myself, but it wasn’t going to happen. He seemed immensely pleased.

“Good,” said Logan. “Now, only two things are going to get you out of that chair. You can make things easy on yourself and talk now. We’ll leave you tied up for a couple of hours, but we won’t hurt you.”

“First,” Logan continued, “we want to know your first cousin’s name, the one we met last Thanksgiving.” Logan was referring to my cousin Jonathan. I smiled. I loved these games. They gave me a thrill, at least until the torture got brutal, and then it became a struggle to survive. I wasn’t going to break easily.

“What's the second thing?” I asked.

“It’s like this,” Logan said. “We don’t think four months is enough time to properly enjoy a slave. We want you longer. You have to agree to be our slave until the end of the year.”

I wasn’t expecting that demand. They wanted me to promise to double the time they owned me. It was a little scary, and I quickly lost the smile. I preferred to take things more slowly. I would rather wait to see what was left of me both mentally and physically after the four months before I promised more.

I didn’t know about making that sort of bold pledge. And what was to keep them from torturing me again later, making me serve them even longer? I could be their slave for life at that rate.

“Do we have a deal?” Logan asked.

“I’ll have to think about the deal,” I said. “But honestly, I can’t remember my cousin’s name anyway.” Of course I was lying. Jonathan and I were pretty close until he moved away in fifth grade. He was a freshman in college now. We still kept in touch.

“Have it your way, then,” said Logan.

Dylan had already reached into the bag and pulled out a sixteen ounce glass he brought from home. He unzipped his pants before my eyes and pissed in the glass until it was three-quarters full. I squirmed as much as the ropes would permit, not really sure what he planned to do. He pulled out a white washrag stuffed in his pocket and plunged the rag into the glass. He let the rag soak in the dark urine for a few seconds, and then pulled it out dripping wet.

Logan pried my mouth open and tilted my head back. I tried to resist, but I was helpless. The hot urine streamed onto the floor, and onto my chest and chin, as Dylan stuffed it inside my mouth all the way past my teeth. Pools of urine filled my mouth and oozed from the corners of my lips. Hot streams of the salty piss ran down my throat until I nearly puked. Dylan covered my mouth with his hand until Logan could get duct tape over my mouth to hold the rag inside. He wound the tape around my head twice as tight as it would go.

Once the gag was snugly in place, they backed away and glared at me, smirking and proud of what they had done. I coughed twice and felt the urine run out my nose. It burned my nostrils coming out. They glowered at me with disgust, which made me feel ashamed.

I looked up at them with pitiful eyes. I wanted to cry, but I quickly stiffened up. The deed was done. My role now was to resist them as long as I could, and perhaps they would give up the quest.

However, I knew the act of stuffing that wet rag in my mouth represented a new chapter in our relationship. They had forced my own piss down me before, but this was the first time I had taken in theirs. If they would do that to me, what wouldn’t they do? They watched me squirm, knowing I was unnerved and humiliated. They both seemed delighted.

After enjoying my expressions of disgust for a few minutes, Dylan gave me several brutal titty twisters, some of which brought my butt out of the chair an inch or two, all that the taut ropes would allow. I screamed into the gag. They always loved to hear my muffled screams. It was a sign to them that they were doing their jobs well. The ropes felt like razor wire cutting into my wrists and ankles when I moved.

From the bag, Logan retrieved two small adjustable hose clamps, the kind you find in any hardware store. They were like small, wide metal bands with a screw to adjust them as tight as you wanted. Logan handed them to Dylan. Dylan showed them to me to let me feel the terror. The fear showed on my face, I am sure. Those metal clamps hurt like a bitch. I had been tortured with them plenty of times. I just didn’t know where on my body he was going to put them.

Dylan walked behind me. He slipped the first ring clamp on the little toe of my right foot. It was a tight fit. He slipped the other band on my left little toe.

Logan tossed Dylan a long flathead screwdriver. Dylan turned the screw on my left toe, progressively drawing the clamp tighter and tighter until I screamed. Then he tightened it a bit more just for good measure. Every muscle in my body tensed. My fingers spread apart reflexively and pointed straight down. My hands began to tremble uncontrollably.

Next he tightened the screw on my right foot just as much. My body instantly felt ice cold from unending waves of pain, which shot up my legs all the way up my spine. I was sure my head would explode from the pain and pressure. It felt like Dylan had nailed my two little toes to the floor with sharp nails, and it caused my whole body to ache badly from the inside out.

“Let us know when you’re ready to talk,” Logan said. They left the room and watched television. They didn’t return for at least an hour, although they kept sticking their heads in to check on me. I was in severe distress the whole time, my body shaking and my eyes leaking occasional tears.

After an hour or so, they returned to the kitchen. Logan asked me if I was ready to talk. I ignored him. He belted me hard in the belly again with his fist, striking exactly the same spot he had hit before. The jolt made my body throb with pain worse than ever. I felt the intense pain from my head to my little toes. I gave a deep muffled groan.

I fought for breath, much harder to do with the gag in place. The bruise on my ribs was fresher and deeper. Tears rolled down my face. But I learned my lesson and quickly answered him the second time he asked if I was ready to talk. I shook my head “no.”

“Last chance,” Logan said. “I won’t ask you again for quite some time.”

I gave him a startled look. What did he mean by “quite some time”? He wasn't going to con me that easily. I shook my head “no” again.

Dylan stooped down behind me. I braced myself to feel the screws tightening even more, if that was possible. I screamed out before he even touched me. They both laughed.

Instead of tightening the screws, Dylan loosened each toe clamp just a bit. Surprisingly, my toes hurt much worse for a few seconds as waves of pain surged up my body again. But the intense pain lasted only seconds, and then it eased away. It still hurt, but not nearly as bad as it had for the past hour. I bowed my head and enjoyed the relief. I thanked them, but I don’t know if they understood what I said through the gag.

Logan picked up my car keys from the counter where he had laid them. I heard them jingling in his hand.

“It may be a few hours before we get back,” Logan said.

My eyes widened. Surely he was kidding. It had to be a ruse to break me sooner. But if he was bluffing, Logan was a great actor. Both boys gave every indication they were leaving.

I appreciated them loosening the toe clamps, but they still hurt. The ropes hurt, too. I couldn’t endure being tied this way for several hours, even if they weren’t constantly beating the hell out of me.

And what if someone came? What if their uncle dropped by the lake house to check on things? Did either of them bother to think about that?

We were all too immature and, well, too dumb to think about the other dangers of leaving someone alone bound and gagged. Especially gagged. But it wasn’t the first time, and it darn sure wouldn’t be the last time either.

I did not know it at the time, but Logan’s uncle and his family were on a trip out of state. Logan had arranged to stay at the lake house for the weekend, although I doubt he told his uncle he was going to cut school Friday. There was no chance of his uncle barging in on us, but since I did not know that, I was becoming paranoid as hell.

“When we get back,” Logan said, “maybe we can persuade you to talk.”

I was in shock. I was scared to death. Logan winked at me and laughed as he walked away. I squirmed in my chair, trying to break loose, trying to beg them with muffled pleas.

“Don’t leave me, please don’t go away.” I was screaming. I was panicked.

They weren’t listening. They didn’t care.

Dylan turned off the kitchen lights as he walked out into the living room behind Logan. I heard the front door open and then slam shut. I heard them lock the deadbolt from outside with the key. I heard my car start and pull away. I listened until the engine’s sound faded away in the distance.

My heart sank into my stomach. I wanted to cry, but what good would that do? I looked at the clock on the kitchen wall. There was barely enough light coming through the curtains over the sink to read it. The hands read 9:28. I shook my head and hung my chin on my chest. I was all alone for God knows how long.

Note to readers: I have said this many times before, but I cannot stress it enough. I am reporting to you the best account I can remember of what Logan, Dylan and I did those many years ago. Please, please, please do not try this stuff yourself, certainly not without taking proper safety precautions.

It was dangerous and stupid of Logan and Dylan to leave me alone in such distress, especially gagged. It was stupid of me to allow it. Any number of things could have happened to cause this scene to end in tragedy and ruin all our lives. Not only would our lives have been ruined, but our families would have been devastated.

The house could have caught fire. I could have vomited and choked to death. I could have passed out and died. I could have formed a blood clot from the tight ropes and bent limbs, and died.

I was left alone bound and gagged many times by Logan and Dylan. Hundreds of times over the years, often for long periods of time. I will report some of those situations in future stories, but it was not smart. Fortunately, I survived to tell the tale, but many times I have looked back over my experiences and wondered how I survived.

People die from bondage scenes all the time, even when they take reasonable precautions. I have known people who died, and maybe some of you have known people whose lives ended in careless tragedy.

Please be careful no matter what you do.

The Return

Dozing off helped me deal with the stress I was feeling. It served to pass the time, too. I was nearly asleep when I thought I heard a car pull up outside. I perked up and listened intently.

Sure enough, I heard a car door slam. I was deathly afraid that it was Logan and Dylan’s uncle. I began to panic. I pulled at my ropes to see if I could get free. All I did was hurt myself more.

I heard another vehicle pull up and another door slam. I was horrified now. Then, soon afterwards, the deadbolt turned and the front door creaked open. I heard footsteps moving towards the kitchen where I was bound to the chair. My heart was pounding. Sweat popped up on my brow. I pulled on the ropes even harder, but in vain. A few tense seconds later, I saw Logan’s face peek around the corner. I breathed a huge sigh of relief. He had an evil smirk. He knew he had scared ten years off my life.

“Still here, I see,” said Logan. He laughed. I didn’t think it was all that funny.

Dylan came in with a couple of grocery bags in his arms. He set them on the counter and put a few items in the refrigerator. I glanced up at the clock, which read 12:15. They had been gone almost three hours.

“You about ready to talk now?” Logan asked. I shook my head no.

“Let’s see, where were we?” Logan said. “Oh yes, we wanted to know two things. We want to know your cousin’s name. And we want to know if you agree to be our slave the rest of the year.”

I did not respond in any way. I bowed my head and closed my eyes, meditating, summoning strength, trying to muster the mental capacity to deal with what I knew was coming.

Dylan knelt behind me. I heard him pick up the screwdriver from the floor. I cringed. He tightened the clamp on my right toe as tight as he could get it, as tight as it was before. I screamed into my gag until I was hoarse. Then he moved to my left toe and tightened it back up. Once again my toes felt like he had driven sharp nails right through them into the floor. My toes felt like they were being crushed, which I guess they were.

My body began shaking again. Tears streamed down my face, and I yelled out in constant pain. Logan and Dylan let me deal with the anguish for several minutes. They seemed unmoved by my suffering. Eventually my screaming and sobbing subsided, but I was still hurting badly.

“Why put yourself through any more?” Logan asked. “You’ve taken a lot already. You’ve proven your toughness. Why make us hurt you more?”

He waited a couple more minutes in silence. Then he spoke. “Are you going to tell us your cousin’s name?” Logan asked.

I shook my head no.

Logan did not say a word, but he motioned to Dylan with his hand and nodded his head as if he were giving Dylan the go-ahead to make the next move. Dylan pulled a roll of white string from the bag and cut two pieces with his pocketknife, each piece about two feet long.

He knelt on the floor behind me and began tying the first string to the screw on my left toe clamp. As soon as he touched my toe, I screamed bloody murder because it hurt so badly. Every jiggle hurt all the more. Once the string was tied, Dylan pulled the string to the side separating my little toe away from the other toes. “Excruciating” doesn’t even begin to describe the pain.

I yelled and yelled as he pulled on the string until I thought he was going to rip my toe completely off my foot. He wound the string around the cylindrical leg of the chair a couple of times to keep the string taut and to make sure the toe remained separated. Then he pulled the string up and tied it to the diagonal hinge connecting the seat of the chair to the side of the chair.

When he finished with the left toe, he did the same thing with my right toe.

I was bawling hard at this point. Tears streamed down my face. I was screaming. I was crying like a six year old boy who had just fallen down the steps and badly skinned his knee.

They let me cry and scream all I wanted, still unmoved and uncaring. My chest was soaked, not just from sweat, but from dripping tears off my chin. The pain was agonizing and unbearable.

“The tears won’t help,” Logan said. “You know what we want. Are you ready to give it to us?”

I made no response. I thought back to just a week ago when I had tied them to the tree and tortured them. What I did to them had to be just as rough as what they were doing to me now. They didn’t crack. They took it like Spartans. They would have endured this torture if either one of them was sitting in this chair. Why was I being such a coward, such a pussy? I needed to be stronger.

Logan motioned to Dylan. Dylan bent down and plucked the string leading down to my left toe. He pulled it aside and plucked it like a guitar string or a harp string. The brutal pain was indescribable. He plucked it again, and again, and again.

He moved to the other side and began plucking the string on my right toe. After several pulls, I lost all bladder control and pissed in my pants. I couldn’t block the flow. The urine drenched my pants and made a warm puddle in the chair underneath me. It ran down my pants legs and some dripped onto the floor.

Dylan continued plucking the strings until I could scream no more. I was beaten. I was broken. I was utterly defeated.

I had no strength left, no resistance, no desire to fight anymore. My muscles were completely fatigued, relaxed as if they had stopped working. My body went limp, just as limp as Dylan’s body had gone when I tied him to that tree and smashed his balls the week before.

Dylan plucked the strings two or three more times each, but I gave absolutely no reaction. It hurt very badly, and the pain still throbbed, but I made no sound. No screaming. No squirming. Not even a weak moan. I was still conscious, but I was a heap of broken, sobbing flesh. Nothing he did could hurt me any more.

They both knew I was toast.

“You ready to talk now?” Logan asked me.

I nodded my head yes. Weak, defeated, crushed. My spirit utterly broken. I couldn't take any more punishment.

“If we take the clamps off your toes, will you tell us what we want to hear?” Logan asked. Again, I nodded a weak and bashful yes.

Dylan untied the string on my right toe and loosened it. I trembled as the toe eased back to rejoin the others. He loosened the clamp on my toe and slid the clamp off. As Dylan was freeing my right toe, Logan was freeing my left.

Logan peeled off the duct tape and pulled the washrag gag out of my mouth. I gasped for breath as if I was having an asthma attack. I could barely find air. Logan gave me a moment to pull myself together, then spoke.

“What is your cousin’s name?”

“Jonathan,” I said softly but clearly. I was dazed, almost like I was under hypnosis.

“Do you agree to be our slave for the rest of the year?”

I nodded my head yes.

“That’s not good enough,” said Logan. “I want to hear you say the words.”

“I promise to be your slave for the rest of the year,” I said.

Dylan untied my feet from the back legs of the chair. I expected they were going to finish untying me, but they didn’t. They let me sit there for a few minutes to recover some strength, and then Logan told Dylan to tie my feet together. Dylan tied my ankles together in front of me, not to the front chair legs.

Both boys went to the refrigerator and made pimento cheese sandwiches and downed glasses of Coke. I was starving to death. I had eaten a frozen waffle and drank some orange juice for breakfast, but that was at 6:30 that morning.

Logan left the final bite of his sandwich for me. He stuck it up to my lips and I licked it in, along with the crumbs in his palm, and ate it. Dylan let me sip the last vestiges of his drink to wash down the piece of the sandwich. I hate eating after people. It is so unsanitary, and a real pet peeve of mine. But I was starving, and I thought that if I could suck on a washrag drenched with Dylan's piss for hours, then how much worse could eating food after them be?

The boys left me tied to the chair for twenty or thirty more minutes. I needed the time to regain my faculties. I always felt devastated when I was beaten at my own game. It is a horrible feeling to have your spirit crushed, but I would get over it eventually. It was about 1:30 pm when they finally let me up. They made me get a towel and clean up the mess I made when I pissed all over myself.

When the boys had left in my car earlier that morning, they went to my house and left a note telling my mother we would be at the lake house until Sunday morning. She would see the note when she got home that evening. They left a note for their mother as well. The notes said we would be back Sunday morning in time for church. It was not unusual. Our parents knew our wood cutting and lawn care business took up a lot of our time, and we had to do the work when it was available. Plus, our parents knew we would be working a lot at the lake all through the summer.

The boys had brought back our three push lawnmowers on the bed of Logan’s old Ford pick-up truck, the one his father had given him to use last Christmas. That was the second vehicle I heard driving up earlier. Dylan had recently gotten his driver’s license, so he drove my car back to the lake house.

We had three lawnmowers now, instead of two, for our lawn care business. Logan had bought the third mower for a good price. It was used, rusty and old, but Logan was brilliant at fixing small engines and got it in good working order.

But we didn’t need three lawnmowers that afternoon. Logan and Dylan ordered me to mow the yard of the house where we were staying, and they wanted me to mow one of the other two yards their uncle owned. They wanted the two yards mowed, raked and weeded by 7:00 pm. I was going to have to bust my ass to get all that done by myself in the time allotted.

Their plan was to enjoy themselves, at least for the rest of our “ditch day” from school that Friday, while I at least made a dent in our weekend work. Then, Saturday, we would all three mow and clean their uncle's third yard as well as the other four yards in the lake area that we had contracted to care for all summer.

We had not cleaned any of the yards since spring break, but now the grass was beginning to grow faster. The weather was getting warmer and warmer, and soon we would have to start cleaning the yards once a week.

I didn’t argue. It was my role and my duty to work as they directed. I jumped right on the assignment without hesitating.

Logan and Dylan fished off the pier for awhile without so much as a nibble. They swam in the lake, and then they decided to take out one of the small fishing boats their uncle owned to see if they had better luck fishing in the deeper, cooler water.

I worked hard for the rest of the afternoon. I had no clothes with me other than the camouflage pants, which were now soaked with my urine. I had no choice but to work in those pants. They eventually dried, but they chaffed the skin of my thighs raw. I did not wear my shirt because Logan told me not to. My shoulders got a little red from the sun, but they didn’t burn. In a few weeks I would have a good tan and be less susceptible to the effects of the summer sun.

I finished cleaning the two yards right at 7:00. I was almost racing the last hour to get them done. I was exhausted and filthy. My pants were black with dirt.

I pushed myself hard because I looked forward to going with Logan and Dylan to Colonel Crabbe’s Shack, the local joint where everyone at the lake hung out nights. They had the best grilled cheeseburgers and fries I have ever tasted, then or now. As hungry as I was, I planned to eat at least two orders. We would probably play pool and hang out until late.

I rushed inside our lake house and took a good, hot shower to wash off all the grime. I had no clothes. I hoped to borrow a pair of shorts and maybe a tee shirt from Dylan, since we wore roughly the same size. I came out of the bathroom drying my hair with the towel, and then I wrapped the towel around my waist tucking in the flaps at the hip.

I was smiling, cheerful and upbeat. I was feeling like a new man, raring to go.

But that's when I found out I was not going out that evening. The boys had other plans for me.