Here's a story I just rediscovered in my files about a reader's memories of himself and his best friend tying up and torturing each other. It was originally published in Issue 45, almost 20 years ago, and has a definite Eric Tide ring to it.
YOUTHS TIE UP AND TORTURE EACH OTHER IN MANHOOD TEST
FLORIDA. Got my first copy of BOUND & GAGGED last week, and thought I’d write and tell you how much I enjoyed it. It also got me thinking about “first times”, and “best times” and I thought I’d take you up on your invitation to tell you about it. You see, for me, they were one and the same, at least as far as relationships go.
Phil and I were sixteen that summer, two horny young guys on the threshold of manhood, all lean, supple muscle and raging hormones. We were both bigger and stronger than we’d been a year before, aware of our bodies, and into strutting our stuff as much as possible. We never wore more than a pair of cut offs unless we absolutely had to, and our parents used to refer to us, disapprovingly, as “the nature boys.” We exuded sexuality from every pore, and secretly got off on it when we knew eyes were roaming over us. I guess we really thought we were hot shit, although in reality we were a couple of pretty average teenagers.
It would be almost a year before we’d be old enough to drive, so that summer was to be our last of just lazing around, hanging out at the beach, shooting the shit, having a good time. Both our mothers worked, so our days were our own, with no one to answer to, no restrictions.
One rainy day early in the summer, we were down in Phil’s basement playroom, watching a movie on TV. I wish I could tell you now what it was, but I honestly don’t remember. Strange, too, because that movie changed my life forever!
I do know that it was one of those Italian sword and sandal epics, and near the end was a spectacular torture scene. The rebels had been defeated, captured and sentenced to death in the arena. As crowds of fat, laughing Romans watched, the muscular young studs, stripped to their loincloths, were tied to crosses to be burned alive. Piles of brush at their feet were lit and quickly blazed up, defiant shouts turned to agonized screams, with close ups of handsome, swarthy faces twisted in agony. Of course, the people revolt, save the stars, and the movie ends, and the former champion body builder gets the girl.
Well, we watched entranced, me with a raging hard on like I always get over a scene like that. After it was over, we started talking about guts and balls, and manhood, standing up to torture, things like that. It was casual at first, but the talk soon got more heated, excited, and soon we were exchanging tales of hideous tortures, things we’d read about, other movies we’d seen.
It wasn’t long before we were talking about whether or not we could take it like that, snarling back at our tormentors, defying them to do their worst. One thing led to another, and we decided to see for ourselves.
We decided to put each other through a manhood ritual, a torture test, see who’s tougher, that kind of thing. We proposed different tortures to inflict on each other, rejecting some, adding others, until we agreed. Now, this wasn’t some rational conversation by any means! We were wide-eyed and wild with excitement and anticipation as we gathered rope, clothespins, a sterno chafing dish, and a couple of screwdrivers.
I still don’t remember how we chose, but I do know that I went first. I yanked off my cutoffs and let Phil tie me up in my jocky shorts, back to a six by six wooden upright support in the playroom, wrists lashed together high overhead. To this day I can remember the feel of his hard, silky smooth body pressed against mine as he stretched up, the musky scent from his armpits right in front of my face. I know I was hard as a rock, and so was Phil, our groins pressed together as he struggled to tie me tightly.
He quickly arranged his tools, and as he did, my excitement, anticipation, and sexual arousal began to grow. By the time he was ready to start, I was quivering, sweating, and breathing in short, ragged gasps, and so was he. We were ready!
He started whipping me with a belt, back and forth across the chest and belly, hard, stinging lashes that burned and tingled. We never really gave a thought to marks, we just went at it, faster and harder. I was surprised at first at how much the whipping stung, but I liked it, really liked it, and sure didn’t protest.
Phil swung the whip deliberately at first, taking careful aim, searching out new spots. In minutes though, he’d relaxed, loosened up, his eyes taking on a vacant, glassy stare, his tongue constantly darting out to wet already glistening lips twisted into a leering grin. Now, I recognize that look as pure animal lust, but then all I knew was that I was experiencing something new, exciting, and incredibly hot!
The lashes continued to bite, snaking into my armpits, down across my sides, back and forth across my chest, snapping and biting hard at my nipples. I was really writhing now, twitching and gasping as each lash struck, then a quick, short sigh. Sweat trickled, then ran down my sides and chest, and pinkish red streaks began appearing all over me.
By the time Phil stopped whipping me, we were both panting, breathless, and my body glowed with the sting and tingle of dozens of lashes. He sunk clothespins into me, here and there on my sides, chest, and belly, and finally one onto each nipple. I gritted my teeth and tensed with each new clamp, but when he got to my nipples, I damn near cried out in pain. I almost gave up then, thinking it was just too much, but something came over me, making me fight on. It was almost like a wrestling match, where your opponent is about to pin you, and you almost give in. But then something deep down says “No! You can beat him!” and you fight back hard, with renewed strength and gritty determination, grunting and snarling.
I gasped in pain as each clothespin was yanked off, Phil’s leering grin and obvious sadistic pleasure growing the more I twisted and squirmed, gasping and moaning as each was viciously yanked off.
Then, he lit the chafing dish, and began heating a screwdriver blade in the blue flame, testing it with a finger before poking me with it. He shoved it into my armpits, sides, chest and belly, stopping to reheat it after every few jabs. He went to work on my nipples, probing, poking, dragging the heated blade back and forth across them while I gasped and shuddered, and then it was over.
As he untied me, we both slowly came back to reality, laughing and talking about it, and then it was his turn. I tied him up the same way, and went to work, snapping the belt back and forth against his writhing torso, new feelings washing over me, just as intense, but different than before. When I’d been getting it, I was getting off on the thought that, yeah, this is what it’s really like to be a man, showing off your strength and balls, your body stretched out, tied, helpless, for all to see!
When I worked him over, watching him dance to my tune as I snapped the whip back and forth, I was overwhelmed by the sensation of power and dominance, of making him react to my every move, of making him feel things he’d never experienced before. It was hot, wild, and erotic, the two of us consumed with new pleasures, new sensations, experimenting with our sexuality, our imaginations, our reactions, and our bodies.
When it was over, and he hung there limply, gasping for breath, hard-on boldly evident beneath his damp cotton briefs, I felt something I never had before. For the first time, I really wanted another man. Oh sure, I’d sprung an instant hard on over movie torture scenes since I was a kid, but until then I could walk through a locker room full of naked high school guys without a thought. But, as I untied Phil, my hands roaming over smooth, supple muscle, my nostrils filled with his heavy, musky odor, I knew then and there that I wanted more.
I don’t remember who proposed the idea, Phil, probably, but as soon as he was untied, the briefs came off, and we were stretched out, leaning back on the couch, jerking off together. We matched each other stroke for stroke, checking out each other’s cocks, our marks, both glowing with pride at what we’d endured, thinking we were real studs now, tough guys who could take anything. We held off, reveling in the memory, the new sensations, until we couldn’t hang on any longer. Wordlessly, we entered the home stretch, pumping away like mad until we both came, hips flexing, butts humping, spurting cum all over ourselves and the couch, sliding sweat slick, gasping, and spent onto the floor.
We spent the rest of the afternoon making plans, proposing new tortures, new scenarios, gushing back and forth about our new found interest like other guys talked about getting laid.
We’d do scenes two or three times a week after that, at his place and mine, in the woods if we had to, trying new things, pushing the limits. We were both pretty damn tough, too, and I don’t remember either of us wimping out, no matter how rough and raw it got.
We were pretty inventive as well, dreaming up new ways to torture and test each other. We used all the usual stuff, different whips, stiff bristled hair brushes, hot wax, clothespins, pliers, and vises. And we did some stupid and dangerous things as well, things that today make me cringe to think about it. We used to use wires from an electric train transformer, zapping each others nipples, cocks, and balls. And, we used to partially hang each other by the cock and balls, lifting the victim up until only his ankles, head, and shoulders touched the ground. Hell, we were a couple of indestructible sixteen year olds, what the hell did we know?
Each new scene would leave us both pumped, exhilarated, exhausted, and lusting for more. We weren’t obsessed though, still swimming, hanging out at the beach, and all the other usual teen-age stuff. No, this was two, maybe three times a week for a couple of hours, more like a hobby than anything else. It was our secret, something we shared with no one else, and it brought us incredibly close.
The summer passed way too quickly for us, and soon school started again. Phil was a jock, and a top student, and between the two, there was little time or opportunity for playing our special game. We did get together a couple of times early in the fall, but I noticed right away that he didn’t have the same enthusiasm, the same balls to the wall, let’s go for it abandon that we’d always shared.
We didn’t really break it off, we just quickly drifted apart, Phil getting into girls, and the whole high school social routine. I hardly ever saw him after that, even socially, and when we did, it was as though nothing had ever happened between us.
We’re both in our late thirties now, and I haven’t seen Phil in almost twenty years. I hear he’s married, a successful dentist with a couple of kids, and I wish him well. I often wonder if he ever thinks of those days, that lazy, humid, sweat-filled summer when we both learned just how much good, clean fun a couple of men can have with their fantasies and their bodies.
Me? I moved away after college, as much in search of new adventures as economic opportunity. I’m straight, as far as friends and family know, just preferring the freedom of single life. Sure, I tried leather and S&M, but it just wasn’t there for me, too much posing and silly rules, filled with whimpering slaves and cigar chomping assholes.
No, I’m still looking for other guys like Phil and me, adventurous, athletic guys, straight acting, guy-next-door types into having fun as much as getting laid. Yeah, I’ve met a few along the way, but usually too far away for a steady, on-going relationship. I know they’re out there, though, other Phils, other guys into their bodies and manhood, guys who know just how much fun you can have with some rope, a few toys, and a little imagination. So, I keep looking and hoping, enjoying the search, and I know that one day I’ll find him.
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