Chapter 43 - The Next Level (continued)
A couple of weeks later, Logan attended a weekend excursion with the Key Club from his school. I went to Dylan's football game alone that night. Afterwards, Dylan and I grabbed something to eat at McDonald's, and then drove straight to my house.
Dylan spent the night at my house. He had packed an overnight bag before the game and placed it in my car. Normally, we would have gone out for pizza with the guys after a home game, but Dylan was bushed after a grueling week at practice, then getting banged up during the game. I figured that he would have tied me up on the floor and stuffed his game jockstrap in my mouth. But he didn't tie me up at all, not even after I hinted about it. He just wasn't in the mood.
We both slept in my bed. I always loved that, but I kept that desire to myself.
Saturday morning, Dylan was a new man. He slept in until about 9:00. I had awakened a couple of hours earlier, but I wasn't about to get out of bed with Dylan sleeping against me wearing nothing but his underwear. I lay wide awake enjoying the warmth of his gorgeous body. I clasped my hands behind my back pretending he had tied me up. I know that sounds silly.
After he awoke, Dylan dressed quickly. We bumped shoulders as I slipped on a pair of jeans and a shirt myself. He told me to put on my shoes, which surprised me. It was cool outside, but that had never mattered before. We drove to the mall. Dylan was dying to buy a new pair of tennis shoes to replace the current ones coming apart at the soles.
We strolled around the mall for awhile, not really looking to buy anything. Dylan wanted to break in his new Nikes. We met some girls from school who adored Dylan. He was so popular and I was so not. I always wished that a smidgen of Dylan's popularity would somehow rub off onto me, but it doesn't work that way. I was socially awkward. I was small and looked like a middle school kid. Girls usually treated me as if I wasn't even there.
Dylan wanted to play basketball at the YMCA in town, which we hadn't done in a few weeks. We dropped by my house and changed into shorts first. Several of our friends were already at the gym. We played game after game until I nearly collapsed from exhaustion. We were drenched in sweat when we left the gym, but still we stopped off at the diner nearby for lunch. We smelled like three-day-old road kill, but we were hungry.
It was about 2:30 p.m. when we arrived at Dylan's house. He showered and changed into fresh clothes. I showered and changed next, having brought some clean clothes with me from home. We lounged in the den watching college football on TV. Though I had braced myself for a weekend of brutal treatment, Dylan had been really mellow all day. We were just good friends hanging out. Part of me craved some adventurous mistreatment, but the more sensible part advised me to let the sleeping dog lie.
In past accounts, I have regrettably portrayed Dylan as a cruel sadist. He really wasn't. He gave me the medicine I craved, though sometimes in powerful doses. He enjoyed his role, sometimes playing it ruthlessly. But that's all it was. He played exactly the role I wanted him to play.
About 4:30, Dylan asked me if he could borrow my car later. He wanted to go over to a girl's house to spend some quality time with her. They weren’t boyfriend and girlfriend yet, but they were gradually becoming an item.
"I promise I won't be gone long," he said.
He seemed sheepish in the asking, as if he might be imposing upon me. I gave him an answer he didn’t expect.
"Dylan, you own me. If you wanted, you could beat me to a pulp, tie me up and take my car wherever you want. You don’t have to ask."
His eyes brightened. Apparently, he hadn’t considered that. Torturing me as part of our games was one thing, but he didn’t feel right abusing his power by taking my property by force. I gave him permission. I wanted him to have unconditional control over me.
“I can't tie you up here. Mom will be home any minute now."
I suggested that he tie me up in the woods. I told him to tie me to a tree or stake me to the ground like he and Logan used to do. The wheels turned in his brain.
"I've got a better idea," said Dylan. He grabbed some ropes from his bedroom and stuffed them into a cloth bag. "Let's go."
I followed him out the front door, my heart thumping vigorously with excitement. But we didn't head for the woods. He climbed behind the wheel of my car and told me to get in.
He drove me to the old Miller farm down the road. Dylan and Logan had tortured me in the barn there for several days during the summer. Since then, we had spent plenty of time cleaning debris from the farmhouse and making modest repairs, trying to get the house in usable shape for our activities.
Dylan parked near the front steps. He led me inside and ordered me to lie belly down on the wooden floor in the middle of the spacious, empty room. He hogtied me snugly, tying my hands behind my back and tying my feet securely to my hands. He turned to leave, but I made a request.
“Can you take my shoes off, please?”
Dylan pulled off my tennis shoes and tossed them aside.
“What about the socks?” I asked. I love being tied barefoot.
“Just keep them on.” He was in a hurry to leave. Moments later, I heard him drive away.
I felt pretty content. I love being hogtied.
Time passed. Though I couldn’t know the exact time, I knew I had been tied up for a couple of hours minimum. Night fell, and the room became pitch black. Once the sun went down, the temperature plummeted in the drafty old house. A cool day suddenly became downright chilly.
Eventually, the ropes began to bother me. I became uncomfortable and restless, shivering from the cold. I toughed it out for another hour, but then I decided it was time to free myself. Dylan tied well, but not like Logan. I struggled for half an hour, but finally I wiggled a hand free. From there, it was a piece of cake. Ten minutes later, the ropes were piled beside me. I scooted into a corner and scrunched my body into a ball to keep warm.
My toes were freezing. Now I was thankful for the socks, and I even slipped my shoes back on. I contemplated hiking back to Dylan’s house to enjoy the nice, warm fire. But I stayed put.
About 9:30, Dylan walked through the squeaking door beaming his flashlight. He saw the ropes piled in the center of the room. Then he spotted me huddled in the corner.
“Oh hell no,” he said. “Your ass is going to pay for this.”
He sounded pissed, but I knew it was feigned. He strode over and kicked my ankles aside.
“Get those damned shoes off now.”
I pulled off my shoes and socks. He ordered me to my feet. The moment I stood, he belted me with a hard right fist to the gut. I doubled over and dropped to my knees gasping for breath. Then we headed for my house where Dylan spent the night again. He kept up the angry master routine for awhile before mellowing out again.
Just before midnight, we stripped down to our underwear for bed. Suddenly, Dylan ordered me to remove my briefs. He made me sit naked on the bed with my back against the headboard. He pulled a wooden chair from the corner and sat in it backwards, glaring at me with his chin resting on folded arms.
“Get it up.”
Stunned, I gaped at him like a deer caught in headlights. I knew exactly what he meant. But stuttering, I asked him to repeat what he said, hoping I had heard wrong.
“Get your dick hard,” said Dylan. “Don’t make me say it again.”
Mortified, I grabbed the loose skin between my thumb and forefinger. I wiggled my dick several times until it was rock hard.
“Start jacking.”
Dylan’s eyes told me he wasn’t kidding. I dared not test him when he was in that mode. Though terribly shy, I wrapped my fist around my cock and began to slide it up and down slowly. I stroked for five or six minutes, then begged him to let me stop.
But Dylan wouldn't have it. He took a belt from my closet and warned me that if I didn’t cum soon, he was going to whip my dick until I ejaculated.
“Damn it, Dylan. I’m trying.”
I was frantic, knowing that he wouldn't hesitate to blister my dick. I pumped harder, squeezing my fist tighter and tighter. I squeezed and tugged my balls with my left hand as I jerked with my right. Dylan sensed I was nearing orgasm.
“Shoot it on your belly,” he said.
A few strokes later, I spewed cum, covering my belly reaching up to my chest. Then all was blissful.
When I was done, Dylan ordered me to scoot to the center of the bed. He tied me spread eagle to the four corners of the bed and slid a pillow underneath my head. I was tightly stretched. He clipped a pair of wooden clothespins to my nipples and another to the loose skin underneath my dick. I gasped from the pinching pain. The pins hurt terribly.
Dylan dropped a pillow on the floor, turned off the lights and covered himself with a spare blanket. I slept uncovered except by the semen. My dick oozed cum for awhile. Eventually, I dozed off despite the awful anguish delivered by the clothespins.
I slept only an hour. My nipples were terribly sore, but the pin on my dick hurt far worse. My shoulders and thighs ached badly, and I shivered from the cold. I was wide awake, unable to get back to sleep. I contemplated waking Dylan to beg him for relief, but I knew that could backfire in a dreadful way.
Eventually, the pain became unbearable. The luminous face on the clock read 2:15 a.m. I decided to wake him.
“Dylan.”
Half a dozen times I called his name, progressively louder. The last was more than a whisper, less than a shout. He finally responded.
“Go to sleep.” He was direct and irritated. I shut up.
An hour later, I was in tears. I couldn't take the torment five more hours. I called out again, pleading.
“Don’t make me gag your ass,” said Dylan, still aggravated.
But I persisted, pleading and whining until he threw off his covers and removed the pins. The excruciating pain took my breath as they came off, but soon the aching was over. I thanked him. He mumbled something unintelligible and lay back down to sleep.
* * *
A couple of weeks later, Logan, Dylan and I decided to go out for pizza and a movie one Saturday night. We left their house around 5:30. I grabbed my jacket from the back of a chair and picked up my shoes from beside the sofa. I would slip them on after we parked at the pizza parlor.
As Logan opened the door to leave, Dylan halted me with a hand against my chest.
“Not so fast,” said Dylan. He ordered me to my knees.
“Watch this,” Dylan said to Logan.
Dylan made me unzip my jeans and shove them down to my knees. Logan shut the front door.
“Underwear, too,” said Dylan.
“Jack off.”
My hand trembled as I wrapped my fist around my dick. Slowly, I began to jerk off, beet red with embarrassment. I jacked for a good five minutes as they gawked at me.
“Hurry it up,” said Dylan. “We don’t have all night.”
Dylan gave me a stiff toe to the ass three or four times, prompting me to jerk faster. I began to rub my dick rapidly, working a small, painful blister underneath the head. But soon I neared orgasm.
Dylan told me to shoot the load into my briefs. Seconds later I did.
I was out of panting. My wrist burned, and my dick felt like it had been rubbed raw with coarse sandpaper. Dylan ordered me to pull up my wet briefs and zip up my jeans. Then we left for town. I felt the sticky cum all evening.
Clearly, Logan and Dylan had taken our relationship to another level. From this point on, they forced me to cum frequently during our bondage games. I never got used to the humiliation. Even today when I am around them, I often wonder if they see the image of the timid little kid humping beds and jacking off in disgrace.
Masturbation became a routine. And we began using the old Miller farmhouse religiously for our bondage and torture scenes. We made needed repairs and fixed it up nicely to accommodate our games. Gradually, we converted the house into a terrifying chamber of horrors. As the weather turned colder, our desire for BDSM heated up. But oddly enough, I wasn’t the first person to endure severe torture in the old Miller house.
Great to have Eric Tide's stories back. It's been too long without them. Eagerly await more.
Posted by: Mister-X / Spartan | December 10, 2013 at 09:04 PM