It's been a long time, too long, since we last heard from Eric, but I'm delighted to be able to post a new chapter here. Work and other matters have kept him from writing regularly, and may continue to slow his contributions, but he did promise that he'll get me another chapter around Thanksgiving, which in my book is something to be thankful for.
Chapter 42
Punished
My senior year in high school began in late August. My best friend Logan and I had been playing our bondage games for fifteen months. We lived double lives, one ordinary but the other dark and secret.
Though it was demanding, humiliating and sometimes hideously brutal, I found that other life stimulating. I lived submerged in a sea of emotions I had never felt before, wonderful feelings that ran the gamut from pure exhilaration to utter despair. These bizarre feelings were scary, even terrifying at times, but they were gratifying and oddly pleasurable. My life no longer seemed bland and simple.
Logan’s younger brother Dylan had been on board with us for almost a year. He brought elements even more complex and sinister. I relished our games. Surviving the adversity our new lifestyle created was absolutely intoxicating to me.
The new school year brought changes in our daily routine. Though I lived in town near my school, I drove miles into the country each morning to Logan and Dylan’s house to pick them up for school. I would arrive about a quarter to seven. I tended to daily chores they assigned me—make the beds, pick up dirty clothes, tidy up the bathroom and bedrooms, feed and water the dogs. I slaved at a speedy pace for a good half hour each morning while they dressed for school and ate a quick breakfast.
Logan was now a junior at the swanky private school in town. Unlike many of the preppy students there, Logan was just an old country boy. Still, he wasn’t about to have his battered pickup parked alongside the expensive new rides the rich kids owned. Instead, he drove my car to school each day leaving Dylan and me to travel to our public school in the rusty Ford truck.
After school, Logan would pick me up in front of my school and take me to his house. There he would tie me up, beat my ass or work by butt off depending upon his mood. Dylan had football practice after school. Now that he had his driver’s license, he would keep the truck and drive home after practice, usually arriving around 6:00 give or take half an hour.
Like last year, I was not allowed to put on my socks and shoes until we arrived at school each morning. Each afternoon, Logan made me strip them off before we reached the first stop sign. In Logan and Dylan’s world, slaves shouldn’t have the luxury of wearing shoes. So I was barefoot most of the time back then, something they knew deeply humiliated me.
My school’s football team opened the season at home on the first Friday in September that year. Though just a sophomore, Dylan was destined to become a star running back that season. His athleticism, charisma and good looks made him the popular darling of all the cheerleaders. Girls flocked around him, and though we were friends, girls seldom gave me a second glance. Dylan certainly led a charmed life.
The opening game didn’t go well for Dylan in the first half. He fumbled twice, the second one leading to a score by the other team. But late in the fourth quarter, he capped a long drive by scoring the game winning touchdown, which sparked an upset win. After the game, Dylan was as keyed up as I had ever seen him. He wanted to celebrate. He showered and dressed in the locker room while Logan and I mingled outside with the crowd. Then Dylan, Logan and I met several of our friends at the pizza parlor in town.
Graham, who was Logan and Dylan’s cousin, went with us. He had come from out of town to watch the game and spend the weekend. Graham, a freshman in high school, was a gorgeous, slender kid with dark hair and piercing green eyes. He was smart as a whip. Graham knew all about our bondage games. He knew that I was Logan and Dylan’s slave. It was humiliating to me for him to know my innermost secret, but he never told anyone. If he thought I was creepy or peculiar, he never showed it aside from a few curious looks.
Graham spent a lot of time with his cousins, who were more like brothers to him, so we had to let him into the fold. There was no earthly way to keep our games secret from him, not unless we wanted to suspend them when he was around. In fact, he frequently joined in our bondage play, sometimes on my side and sometimes on theirs.
It was well after midnight when the four of us left the pizza parlor. We might have stayed longer but we had recreational plans for Saturday. We drove straight to their uncle’s lake house. We planned to crash there for the night and take the boat out fishing Saturday.
The drive took nearly an hour, and it was almost 2:00 a.m. when we arrived. I slept on the sofa covered by a thin blanket, but it seemed my head had barely hit the pillow when the alarm beeped to wake me up at 6:00 a.m. sharp. Normally, the boys would have tied me up for the night, which I would have loved. But on this morning my orders were to retrieve the boat from the boathouse, gas it up at the marina across the lake and then load all our fishing gear on board, all by seven o’clock.
Graham slept near me on the living room floor in a sleeping bag. I stepped over him and tiptoed out the front door to keep from waking him. But by the time I had retrieved the boat, he was waiting for me near the pier in the dark. If not for the faint light from atop a distant pole, I might never have seen him.
It was a cool morning, though not cold, yet he was barefoot and wearing shorts like me. He was under no obligation, but he often showed camaraderie with me. Graham was polite, kind and considerate. He was a great kid with a marvelous personality. He was only a high school freshman, but I loved him in a way I didn’t quite understand. Only years later did I admit to myself that I had a crush on him. I was compelled by some force within to try and impress him whenever he was around. Whenever we were alone together, I couldn’t behave naturally if my life depended on it. I felt his strong presence every moment. I felt the anxiety. My heart thumped harder, my breathing quickened and words tripped over my tongue. It was clear infatuation.
Graham and I scooted over to the marina, gassed up the boat, filled the spare gas can, and returned in good time. We had just finished loading the gear when Logan and Dylan walked out of the lake house, the screen door slamming behind them, a few minutes before seven. They were groggy, with uncombed hair. They were munching packaged mini-donuts washed down with bottles of Coke for breakfast. Without Graham’s help, I would never have finished my assigned chores on time, which would probably have resulted in a host of demerits (I already had plenty) if not a thorough ass whipping before we hit the lake.
We fished all morning and hauled in a nice catch, especially early on. We caught mostly bream, but Logan landed a couple of nice-sized bass. He was the best fisherman amongst us as a rule. We methodically moved from one spot to another as the fishing slowed. By late morning, the fish were no longer biting. Down south, early fall can feel like summer. The mornings are generally cool, but the September sun can beat you down at times, especially on the water. When that happens, the fish disappear.
I fished sporadically, having to bait everyone’s hooks all morning and toss the catches into the cooler. Once the sun began to scorch us, we abandoned the fishing expedition and dove into the lake for a nice, cool swim. We swam for about an hour, and then we cruised around the lake checking out all the coves and sloughs. We always loved the peace and relaxation that came from being on the water.
At one point as we cruised, I began to slip my shirt on to prevent being sunburned. The sun had gotten pretty intense. The others had put their shirts on already. As I began to slide my arms through, Dylan ordered me to leave mine off. Ten minutes later, when he noticed my shoulders reddening, he changed his mind and told me to cover myself. He wasn’t all bad.
We arrived back at the lake house early in the afternoon. I unpacked the boat and put it away, and then I cleaned the fish while the others took a nap inside. I always did the dirty chores. Scaling and gutting smelly, slimy fish falls squarely into that category, but I had become an old hand at it by now. Graham wanted to help me, but I wouldn’t let him this time. After I finished cleaning the fish and putting them on ice, I woke the guys up as ordered. By 6:00 that evening, we were back at Logan and Dylan’s house. We showered, dressed and took in a movie that night.
Nothing eventful happened Saturday night in terms of bondage, except that I pissed Logan off by arguing with him about something silly on the way to the theater. I tend to be argumentative anyway [surely you’ve noticed], but this was an intentional ploy on my part. Sometimes I purposely provoked Logan or Dylan to incite them to punish me whenever I perceived they were becoming too soft and chummy. Sometimes I wanted masters and torturers, not friends. For good measure, I even tossed out a couple of insulting curse words. The ploy worked all too well. Logan promised that he would make my “sorry ass pay dearly after church tomorrow.”
After church Sunday, the four of us drove straight to my house. My mother was away that afternoon, so Logan would have plenty of free time to make good on his promise and inflict his chosen punishment. We changed clothes, and then raided the fridge for a quick meal. Afterwards, Dylan and Graham left for the mall in my car. Dylan had planned to meet a girl there. Graham knew that Logan was going to torture me senseless and didn’t want to watch.
Logan and I were all alone. He had psyched himself into a mood all morning, and I knew that the afternoon would be rough for me. I was nervous and scared, but felt a weird thrill.
He locked my bedroom door and ordered me to remove my shirt, leaving me dressed only in shorts. He ordered me to lay face down with my head beneath the closet door knob. Once I had complied, he knelt, driving a vicious, bony knee hard into my back. I groaned loudly, knowing I would feel the bruise for awhile. He tied my hands with rope, wrists flush together, in the small of my back. He drew the knots awfully tight.
He tied another rope around my wrists and used it to lift my hands straight up as high as he could draw them over my back. My shoulders felt like they were being wrenched from their sockets. My shoulder blades seemed to be ripping through my skin. I screamed in unbelievable pain. Satisfied that my agony was sufficient, Logan tied the rope to the door knob above my head to ensure my arms remained locked straight. My arms burned terribly from wrists to shoulders. Tears dripped from my eyes.
Logan tied a rope around my right ankle and pulled my leg far to the right. He secured the rope to the head of my bed where the wooden leg met the floor. He tied another rope to my left ankle and pulled my leg far to the left. My legs were spread wide. But he did not tie off this rope at floor level. Instead, he lifted my ankle well off the floor and secured that rope to the post at the foot of my bed. My legs were locked and straight, and like my arms they ached and burned terribly.
Quickly, I was in deep distress. The ropes alone delivered sheer torture, cutting deep trenches like razor wire tearing into my flesh. My fingers and toes numbed quickly. Of course, today I know just how dangerous that is, but back then we were foolish kids and didn’t fully understand the possible consequences. My fingers and toes, even my hands and feet, were often tied so tightly that they went numb and stayed that way for hours. We were as lucky as we were foolish that I never lost any limbs.
I moaned in constant, severe pain. When Logan or Dylan tied me up, they didn’t show much pity, especially when they were pissed at me. In a peculiar way, I liked that. My arms, wrists, ankles and hamstrings were terribly sore. I knew I would soon beg him for mercy, yet I was determined to remain stoic and keep my composure for as long as I could.
Logan, still wearing his hightop Nike’s, kicked me hard in the thighs and ribs several times. The kicks felt like sledgehammers. They brought pathetic screams and robbed me of breath. I wore deep bruises a lot back then. With every slight movement, the ropes tortured my body all the more. He raked his shoe across my face three or four times until I thought he had bloodied my nose. He made me lick his shoes, but at least the brutal kicks were halted.
Then he toed off his shoes. In socked feet, he stood with all his weight in the middle of my back. The force felt as though my guts were being squashed out of both ends, and the ropes cut even tighter into my hands and feet. I could barely breathe, but I screamed bloody murder until I nearly suffocated. He stepped down, and I gasped for precious air. But before I could catch my breath well, he was standing on my back again, this time springing up and down doing rough toe raisers in the middle of my back. The pain was excruciating, especially with the ropes cutting into me deeper still.
He repeatedly crushed me in this manner for several minutes. I begged him to give me a break, sobbing like a child when he finally stopped. Then all was silent except for my moans, groans and sniffles. I felt his eyes peering down at me. I sensed the contempt, part of the dark persona he bore in our games. As much agony as I felt, I knew more would come. The anticipation was mental torture as terrible as any physical pain. Logan confirmed my fears.
“You may as well relax,” said Logan. “You’re going to be there for a long, long time.”
No fucking way, I thought. Just the sound of his words carried such a ring of doom. My heart sank. I felt hopeless, helpless and vulnerable. I knew the torment had only begun.
Logan sat on the edge of my bed and began working on his fishing reel, which had become a tangled mess during our fishing trip the day before. It would take him hours to repair. While he worked, my body throbbed with pain, but after half an hour I had adjusted somewhat and had nearly lulled myself to sleep. Then I heard him stir, and a moment later I sensed him standing over me again. I felt the terror, knowing that something dreadful was about to happen.
Suddenly, it became all too clear why he had spread my legs and tied them in such an unusual fashion. I felt his socked toe slam into the back of my balls. The kick was not brutally hard. We both knew that it didn’t take a crushing blow to cause your balls to ache unbelievably. The devastating thud seemed harder than it was, and I groaned in pure agony.
Logan loved to kick my balls. In fact he and Dylan both loved to perform all sorts of cock and ball torture on me. I am fortunate to still have a pair that function properly. On this day, Logan had all the access he needed, and I was powerless to protect myself. All I could do was beg for mercy, but I wasn’t about to give him that satisfaction just yet.
I felt his toe again and again. Each kick brought a deep guttural groan. There was no pattern. Some of the kicks were in rapid succession, others separated by several seconds. Each kick had roughly equal strength, but the sum total was mounting. I resisted the urge to bawl like a baby. I was stronger than that, and I knew that this too would pass if I could just tough it out.
The kicks made me squirm, and the movement brought fresh torture from the ropes. My arms felt like they were being ripped off at the shoulder, but my aching balls trumped all that for the moment. I noticed that I could find modest relief by rubbing my balls against the floor. Massaging them made the pain somewhat bearable. A couple of minutes later, Logan sat back down on the bed and resumed his work on the reel. I rubbed my balls against the floor until the throbbing subsided. I had passed the first test.
Half an hour later, I had nearly dozed off again. But I heard him stir and stand between my legs for the second time. I knew what was coming, and mild panic set in. I began squirming before the first blow came, but nothing could protect me. He kicked me ten or fifteen times. Because there was no pattern, I could not anticipate when the next kick would come. Psychologically, that was difficult because I could not mentally brace myself. Again, I massaged my balls against the floor to rub away the ache.
Logan unlocked the bedroom door, went to the kitchen and returned with a glass of Coke. He kicked my balls eight or ten more times, and then he sat down again. Once more, I rubbed my balls against the floor until the pain had subsided. But my dick was stiff as a board.
Logan worked on the reel another half hour. I could tell he was becoming frustrated, as anyone who has ever worked on a badly tangled fishing reel would know. He let out a few choice words, and then began taking the reel apart. I knew that he would soon take his frustrations out on me, and when I finally heard him stand for the third time, a strange sense of terror gripped me.
The kicks felt a bit harder this time, but it may have been my imagination. I just know they hurt like a bitch. I yelled out in agony, and instead of begging him to stop, I resorted to screaming at him. I often do that when torture starts to break me. I cursed at him, forgetting for a moment that being disrespectful to him is what landed me in this situation in the first place. But neither my words nor my attitude phased Logan.
He peeled off his socks, turned them inside out, and stuffed them both into my mouth. One sock was crammed to the back of my throat and made my throat scratchy. My jaws hurt horribly. It felt like they were breaking. The corners of my mouth seemed to be tearing apart. Logan pulled a roll of duct tape from a drawer and wrapped a couple of turns around my head to keep the socks in.
The grit and grime from the filthy socks were sickening. I wanted to puke. I could barely swallow, but when I did manage to choke down a swallow once in a while, the taste turned my stomach. Logan kicked me a few more times and then thankfully returned to his reel. Again, I massaged my balls against the floor. But I knew if Logan didn’t let me up soon, all the squirming and rubbing was going to make me ejaculate.
Half an hour later, Logan stood over me again. By now he had put the reel aside, tired of messing with it. He decided that he should devote his full attention to something more satisfying, punishing me.
Logan kicked me for several minutes. I squirmed and rubbed, my dick now harder than ever. I was going to ejaculate soon if he didn’t stop, and I knew neither one of us wanted that. We had never gone there in our bondage games. We had never even thought about doing something so dirty, let alone discuss it. That would be too gay.
I began to plead with him through my gag. He knew I was trying to tell him something important, so he peeled the tape off and slid the socks, soaked with saliva, out.
“What the fuck do you want?” Logan asked.
“Please. You’ve got to stop.”
“No chance. I’m going to do this until Dylan and Graham get back.”
That could be hours. We gave them no timeframe to return. They had left a couple of hours ago, but it might be two or three more before they returned for all I knew. I was embarrassed to explain to Logan what was about to happen, but I knew I needed to.
“Logan, if you don’t stop we’re going to have a big problem.”
“What kind of problem?”
“I’m about to cum, that’s what,” I barked at him.
I knew that would get him. I knew that he was probably as embarrassed to hear me say it as I was to deliver the message. Several moments of silence followed. I fully expected him to begin untying me and end the torture. But it didn’t happen exactly according to Hoyle.
“It’ll wash out.”
His words were flippant. He stuffed the wet socks back into my mouth and taped them in again. He kicked me time after time, maybe even a bit harder than before. I squirmed and rubbed my balls, protesting with muffled screams and begging him for mercy. If I could have gotten my hands around his neck, I would have choked him to death. But I knew he wasn’t going to stop until the deed was done.
It took a good five minutes more, and as I neared climax I became more and more horrified. Then I shot the biggest load of cum ever into my shorts.
Logan could tell from my moans and from my reactions what I had done. I’m sure he could smell the semen because I could. But he asked to make sure.
“Did you do it?”
We both knew what “it” was. I closed my eyes and nodded my head, bearing the greatest shame of my life.
“Good.”
I thought the torture had ended, but he kicked me five or six more times for good measure. He let me sulk for ten or fifteen minutes, and then he untied the rope from the door knob and let down my arms. The pain was indescribable as my arms lowered onto my back. He untied the ropes from the bed, leaving them still attached to my ankles. My hands remained tied behind me.
Logan ordered me to roll over onto my back. I moved slowly, like a decrepit old man. My weight bearing down on my tender arms underneath me hurt terribly, but I obeyed his orders. He unzipped my shorts, parted the flaps, and slid them down enough to inspect my briefs. My white briefs were soaked through with cum.
I kept my eyes closed, too bashful to look Logan in the eye. I was utterly humiliated, having been forced to ejaculate in front of my best friend.
“Look at me,” Logan ordered. The command was stern.
I eased my eyes open to meet his. He seemed very pleased. This result had not been planned, but he took note of the deep disgrace written on my face. He said nothing.
He removed the gag, but I lay on my back for fifteen or twenty more minutes. Cum oozed from my dick, which had now shriveled to a pulp. Soon afterwards, we heard Dylan and Graham come through the front door. I begged Logan not to let them see me like this. He untied my hands and told me to go into the bathroom and change my underwear. I grabbed a fresh pair from the dresser drawer and rushed into the bathroom, still dragging the ropes on my ankles.
On Logan’s orders, I found a brown paper grocery bag in the kitchen and slipped the dirty briefs inside. I hid the bag and later transferred it to the back of my bottom dresser drawer. I couldn’t imagine why he wanted me to keep it.
Before the four of us headed back to Logan’s house, I changed into a pair of blue jeans to cover the deep rope marks. I slipped on a long sleeve shirt to hide the rope marks on my ankles. We didn’t want his mother asking questions.
I diverted my glance from Logan for the next several hours. The shame was that strong. Actually, I didn’t say much to anyone. But later when we were alone, I begged Logan not to tell Dylan about what had happened. He didn't answer me, but I was reasonably sure he would not betray my confidence about such a private thing.
I was also pretty sure this was a one time event. We loved bondage and torture, but none of us was gay. No way would this ever happen again, I thought, and though it might trouble me for awhile it would soon become a distant memory.
It took a mere 48 hours for me to discover just how wrong I was.
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