This episode is long, so I’m posting it in two parts. The first part, which I’m putting here now, almost certainly won’t upset anyone, but part 2, which I’ll post on Friday, is definitely not for the squeamish.
For several years, Eric and I have been exchanging ideas about what is and what is not torture. Our correspondence on the subject started before he got very far into his memoirs, and at that time I held to my conviction that the single and significant difference between real torture and the torments inflicted on participants in BDSM games was the willingness, or lack of it, of the individual(s) on whom the agony was being inflicted. Torture, I maintained, was what was done to unwilling victims. The activities might be identical, but as I saw it, they might be real torture in one case and just heavy SM in another. Eric disagreed, insisting that a lot of the stuff done to him in the games he and his friends had played was unquestionably real torture. Since reading his ongoing memoirs, I have had to concede that he is right.
Is there, then, a real difference between Bondage/SM torture and the torture inflicted on unwilling victims by friends of our former vice-president? I suspect there is, I definitely want to believe there is, but the subject is open to debate, and I’d love to have readers’ views on the subject. In the meantime, here’s Eric’s latest chapter:
CHAPTER 34
Part 1
TORTURE TIME
I was awakened before 8:00 Saturday morning by booming thunder and heavy rains pounding the roof like sticks on a line of snare drums. It had rained off and on all through the night, but now the fierce storms came with high winds shaking the house and cracking limbs from trees. The air conditioner and fans flickered off and then back on a couple of times, and then we lost power completely. Electricity was off for several hours.
The four of us—Logan, Dylan, Graham and me—were staying by ourselves at the lake house owned by Logan’s uncle. It was the Saturday after Father’s Day, and we had looked forward so eagerly to a weekend of fun on the sunny lake, but Mother Nature had tossed a cruel monkey wrench into the works unexpectedly. Lake weather was like that. Violent storms could arise unexpectedly at any time of the day or night. It was a perfect morning to sleep in.
I was wide awake and my belly groaned with hunger, but I wasn’t about to roll out of bed because Dylan was sound asleep next to me. That didn’t happen every day, especially at the lake house where I usually slept tied up on the floor. Dylan could sleep through a raging battle when he was exhausted. All night long, he had shifted and turned, sometimes snuggling his half naked body against mine. He wore only briefs to bed, like me. I especially loved it when he flung his long bare legs across mine or when his cold feet rubbed against me. I tended not to move much when I slept, but I was content to let Dylan twist and turn all he wanted even if he did snatch the covers off me a couple of times. I initiated some of the contact myself, hoping any memories would fade from his mind like a forgotten dream come morning.
A few times, he threw his arms over me. I wondered if he was dreaming that I was that girl he had met at the beach a few days ago. Once he snuggled so close that his crotch was buried against my butt, and I felt his dick growing stiff. So did mine. His chest was flush against my bare back. His body was warm, and it felt good. He rubbed his crotch against me.
I just knew he was going to cum and wake up. I was half nervous, but half blissful. Part of me didn’t want to admit I loved this, but part of me wanted it to last forever. Instead, it lasted about five minutes, and he never came. He rolled over the other way, dead to the world.
Logan was the first one up, somewhere around 10:00. He roused Graham and me before he took on the more challenging chore of waking Dylan. Failing all other attempts, Logan dragged Dylan by his ankles off the bed and dropped him with a thud onto the floor. Dylan tightly clutched his pillow, which protected his head when he landed. Unfazed, Dylan simply pulled the blanket down off the bed to cover himself, curled up and resumed his deep sleep. It took nearly a half hour for Dylan to finally succumb to Logan’s relentless harassment, throw off the blanket and struggle to his feet, rubbing groggy eyes with his fingers.
The storm slackened at times, giving us hope that it would eventually cease, but each time the lull was followed by another angry storm cell. Eventually the thunder and lightning stopped, but the rain continued to fall down all day, sometimes in buckets. We ate breakfast in the dark—cereal, honey buns, milk and orange juice. Our only light came through the windows, and we pulled back the thick curtains to let more in. Without air conditioning, the house was becoming hot and stuffy. Our mood was rather somber, matching the bad weather. We were all bummed out about the storm. If not for the rain, we would probably be diving off the pier or skiing all over the lake about now.
We lounged around the living room for a while staring at the blank television screen in irritated silence. I was sitting on the sofa next to Logan, without permission I might add. That was a risky proposition on my part because generally I was not allowed to use the furniture without permission. But sometimes the guys slacked up on me or grew lax about the rules. If they ever realized my disobedience, it could mean severe punishment to remind me of my place.
After a while, we began to chat. We laughed about some of our friends and their peculiar mannerisms, reminisced about good times as well as bad and discussed plans for the rest of our summer vacation. The four of us were all close friends despite the activities we enjoyed from our dark sides.
During one of the lulls in the storm, Logan got up to get a get a glass of Coke from the kitchen. Dylan followed him a couple of minutes later. I heard the back door open and close. Dylan returned to the living room with his drink, but Logan didn’t. I should have known something was up, especially given all the experiences we had over the past year, but I thought nothing of it. I was genuinely clueless. In my defense, not every time did Logan’s retrieving a cool drink end with my being tortured senseless.
I didn’t even hear Logan come back inside, and I was unaware that he stood behind the sofa where I sat until it was too late. I saw Dylan look up at him smiling, and I turned nervously to see what was up. The next thing I knew, Dylan sprang up from his chair, grabbed a handful of my hair with his left hand pulling it painfully, and slammed a hard right fist into my ribs unexpectedly. He slugged me a second time, and I went limp.
I gasped deeply for air but purchased none. Dylan quickly grabbed my right wrist and twisted my arm up behind my back burying my face into the sofa back. My arm felt like he was wrenching it from its socket. I was still trying to catch my breath when he jerked me to my feet and began forcing me stumbling and groaning into the kitchen, my arm still wrenched up behind my back and his left hand nearly snatching my hair out by the roots.
Everything happened so fast, as it often did with those two. We could be chilling out as best friends one second, and then I could be writhing in incredible pain the next. Dylan forced me down into a wooden chair that Logan had set for me in the middle of the kitchen.
“Take off your shirt,” Logan ordered me.
My arm was still hurting from Dylan’s surprise attack, but I peeled my tee shirt off. It was damp with sweat anyway from the stuffy house. I felt better having it off. I was left wearing only my shorts.
Logan pulled my arms around to the back of the chair, crossed my wrists and tied them tightly together with rope he had retrieved from the trunk of my car. He did not yet tie my feet.
“We’re about to play a torture game,” Logan said. “Our goal is to get you to state your name, address and telephone number. If you give all three up, then you take a road trip.”
Unfortunately I knew exactly what that meant. Nevertheless, I smiled. I know it sounds like Logan and Dylan were cruel sadists, especially given some of the horrendous tortures they did to me. But remember, they were doing exactly what I wanted them to do when I agreed to submit to them for the remainder of the year. I wanted them to be tough, even cruel. Make it real and harsh. I complained when they weren’t.
Maybe I was—or am—emotionally disturbed for feeling this way, but I absolutely loved scenarios like this. I lived for it. I do even today. Even though I had lost four times in a row to them, I won more often than I lost. I was becoming too soft, and I knew it. I needed to toughen up—to suck it up and deal with severe adversity. I was eager for another chance to prove myself. Or perhaps it is better to say “to prove something to myself.”
“How long do I have to hold out?” I asked, still smiling, confident I would win this time.
“Until we get tired of hearing you scream.”
While the rain was still falling lightly, Dylan handed Graham a three gallon plastic bucket and asked him to go down to the lake to fill it up. Since the power was out, the pump didn’t work and we couldn’t get any water from the tap.
“Hey, pal,” said Graham. “This is your game, not mine.”
“You can’t just be a spectator,” Dylan told Graham. “If you’re going to hang out with us all summer, you’re going to have to stop watching and start playing. You need to help us out.”
“Says who?” Graham’s voice had sort of a smartass tone.
“Says me.” Dylan bowed up to Graham. Dylan wasn’t going to fight his cousin over something like this, but he let his feelings be known.
Graham backed down and thought about the situation for a minute. He looked down at me sitting in the chair about to be tortured shitless.
“Suppose I decide I want to throw in with Eric?” Graham asked.
Dylan’s eyes lit up. He didn’t expect that response, and neither did I. Dylan would love a chance to abuse his cousin, all in good fun of course. But I protested. I loved being tied up with Graham, and it was always nice to have a partner’s support when you’re being tortured. It makes you stronger. But I didn’t like seeing Graham suffer. I gave him my permission to play the dominant role along with his two cousins.
“Go ahead and help them,” I told Graham. “It’s just a game. No hard feelings. I won’t hold it against you.”
But Graham had a mind of his own. On this day, despite my pleas, Graham decided that if Dylan wanted him to play, he would be my partner. I knew that Graham loved being tied up and subdued—although I am sure he would never have admitted it openly—even though he probably didn’t relish the torture component so much. I had watched him with interest during our previous games. His passion for bondage was not nearly as strong as mine, but it was definitely present and growing.
For me, I thought about bondage every waking moment and dreamed about it every night. My three companions liked it the way most people like pizza. Enjoyable, but they wouldn’t like to eat it every meal.
Before Graham gave his final word on the matter, there was one major condition and a few wrinkles he wanted to iron out.
“You can’t do anything gay to me,” Graham said to his cousins. “Like, you can’t make me suck your dick or anything like that.”
Both Logan and Dylan promised to keep the game clean and straight, at least as far as Graham was concerned. They made no such promise to me. That was never part of our deal. That promise satisfied Graham’s one condition. Now for the wrinkles.
Logan and Dylan had warned us that losing the game would cost us dearly. We would have to pay some tough penalty. They had learned that the threat of a penalty would encourage us to endure the torture longer. But Graham insisted that he know the penalty beforehand, and he insisted that Logan and Dylan pay some penalty in return if we won.
Graham haggled with his cousins until he reached an agreement that satisfied him. It was good having Graham as a partner. Left alone, I had no leverage to haggle. In fact, I stayed out of the negotiations altogether lest I mess everything up.
Here was the final agreement.
(1) All four of us would go out to Colonel Crabbe’s Shack that night, regardless of who won the game. Dylan wanted to leave me and Graham, or at least me, tied up at the lake house—as usual—if we lost. But Graham held firm, and Dylan yielded on that argument.
(2) The winners would whip the losers with the belt immediately following the game. Each loser would receive fifty belt lashes from the winners, in whatever fashion the winners desired.
(3) If Graham and I lost, our penalty would be a “road trip” on a night of the victors’ choosing. Logan and Dylan would drop Graham and me off in the middle of the night somewhere, probably miles from their house. We would be handcuffed, wearing only jockstraps. We would have to make our way back home by daylight or risk being seen.
(4) If Graham and I won, we would get to own Logan and Dylan for one full day of our choice, provided that we gave them a couple of days’ notice beforehand.
“For 24 hours, we’ll be your slaves,” Logan said. “You can do whatever you want to us, no holds barred.”
I was surprised that neither Logan nor Dylan put in the condition about keeping the activities clean if they should have the misfortune to be our slaves. A regrettable oversight on their part, or perhaps they were so overconfident about winning that they didn’t worry about it.
Graham and I were both happy with the terms. Graham proved to be a skilled negotiator, and he drafted a good bargain for us. Although neither of us relished taking the road trip, the chance to have Logan and Dylan as slaves for a day made the agreement worthwhile and fair. But both Graham and I knew that the high stakes meant we would have to endure plenty of pain and suffering to win. Logan and Dylan would not be defeated easily. We would take their best shot, and they had beaten me four times in a row using less than their best stuff.
I will tell you that from this point on, the four of us played this sort of game occasionally, maybe frequently. If we weren’t playing these torture games, we were making other crazy bets with grave consequences for losing. Sometimes Graham was on my side, and sometimes he sided with his cousins. When he was my partner, Graham and I won some and we lost some. It was great fun either way, at least for me. For some reason, these games gave all of us a thrill, and the feeling was thoroughly addictive. We were all becoming incorrigible bondage freaks, though I had been one for many years by now.
It was minutes after noon when Graham shook hands with Logan and Dylan on the deal.
“Are you sure you want to do this?” Logan asked Graham, giving him one last chance to back out gracefully.
“You're wasting time,” Graham said. Logan and Dylan both smiled, Dylan almost gleeful.
Logan pulled another wooden chair back to back with mine, leaving just enough room to fit Graham’s arms. Without being told, Graham pulled off his own tee shirt and tossed it on the kitchen counter, sat in the chair and put his arms around behind it. Logan tied Graham’s wrists and then pushed our chairs back together as far as they would go.
Logan and Dylan’s goal was to make us tell them our names, addresses and telephone numbers. They had four hours to do it, or they would be losers by default.
Logan knelt down and pulled each one of my feet to the back legs of my chair and secured my ankles tightly with rope. He tied Graham’s feet the same way. I had been tied this way many, many times, and it always stretched my thigh muscles uncomfortably and put unusual strain on my lower back. But this time I didn’t mind the pain so much because the soles of Graham’s feet were touching mine. Our arms touched, too.
I always felt a tinge of excitement deep in my gut when our torture games began. It is like the thrill I get when I begin to descend the steep incline of a monster roller coaster, only greater. Unless you have experienced it, you wouldn’t understand the feeling. I can tell you the feeling is as addictive as any narcotic, a feeling you want to have over and over. But I knew the thrill would soon fade, and my only thoughts would be to survive the ordeal once the suffering began.
“Name, address and phone number, guys,” said Logan. His tone sounded ominous. He left out the phrase “or else,” but still it was there.
It was the standard start to our games. He was obligated to ask, but he knew he would get no information in return.
I am not sure exactly what I said in response, but it was probably something like, “My phone number is 1-800-KISS-MY-ASS.” I generally gave some smartass statement to piss them off or at least to let them know I wouldn’t cave easily. It also signaled to them that I was ready and willing for the games to begin.
Graham responded in some smartass fashion as well, mimicking my answer with something like, “My name is Alfred E. Newman and my address is Ten Fuck You Lane.”
Logan laughed.
He poured some water from the three gallon bucket into a small pot and set the pot on the natural gas stove. Dylan had retrieved the water from the lake while Logan had tied our feet. Since the stove ran on natural gas, it was not affected by the power outage. Logan cranked the flame on the stove eye to maximum, and I could hear the flames hissing. I turned my head to see the eerie blue glow. Soon the powerful smell of sulfur from the gas filled the room. Moments later I heard droplets of water on the sides of the pot sizzle into steam. It took only a few minutes before I heard the water arrive at a rolling boil.
“Let's see if we can’t change your attitudes,” Logan said. “But not all at once. We want to make you suffer slowly for awhile before we crush you like cockroaches.”
The thrill in my gut was gone. Now my gut felt like it was tied in knots. Gone also was my and Graham’s half jovial attitude. Things were about to get dicey. I clenched my fingers into a tight fist, gritted my teeth and prepared to have the living shit tortured out of me.
[To be continued]
Eric's stuff is great - a true bondage afficianado.
Posted by: Bob Dooman | June 20, 2012 at 02:53 PM
If they were going to be scalded and burned by boiling water, even one drop at a time, then that is real torture! These guys were really brave to withstand that punishment.
Posted by: Bondagebuddy | June 21, 2012 at 02:43 AM