Bound & Gagged was predicated on my belief that nothing was as hot as people simply talking about their personal bondage experiences, telling what had been done to them or what they had done to others in their own unique voices: simply, straightforwardly, without embellishments. I think the magazine was successful providing just such accounts of real experiences for the eighteen years of its existence, and even since then; I’ve posted some wonderful pieces sent in to me for this blog.
But there is and has always been a lot of very good bondage fiction available—and I’m thinking here specifically of books and stories by writers like Larry Townsend and Aaron Travis, and many who put their writings up on the Nifty Authoritarian website. I’ve never specifically looked to publish or post fiction but there’s no reason why I shouldn’t.
Which is why I’ve decided to offer you this little piece about a small boy’s bondage awakening. It was sent me last week by a Belgian reader, and I found it poetic and charming, possibly moreso than it may seem from my translation. But some of you may like it, and even find points of identification with it.
If “The Lining” spurs you to write me about the way bondage came into your life, as it actually happened or even in fictional form, I urge you to send it to me.
THE LINING
Ricky’s just turned four. There were four candles on his cake. He blew them all out with one breath. Not bad for a shy, little bit of a man, only “three thumbs high,” as they say in fairy tales.
Ricky is trotting quietly along beside his father, a giant, on their way home from pre-school. Daddy. Daddy is big, handsome, strong. Sometimes gentle, sometimes stern. He wears a sober grey raincoat, and a hat, like all daddies. With Daddy, you have to be on your best behavior. Children have to be obedient. That’s an absolute rule in Ricky’s world. When Ricky misbehaves, Daddy sometimes spanks him on his naked little tushie. But now father and son are walking side by side on their way home to Mommy and Ricky’s two brothers.
Bad luck! It’s starting to rain. And they don’t have an umbrella. The shower is turning into a downpour. Ricky and his father are running, they take shelter in a doorway. But the overhang is so narrow there’s only room for one person to stay dry. Ricky slides inside his father’s raincoat, gray as the weather. An automatic reflex. It’s like an Indian teepee in there! His father is amused. What a thing to do. His little boy hugging his legs hidden beneath the flaps of his coat. The kid is so skinny you wouldn’t know he was there. A passerby might think Daddy was a creature…with four legs! That’s funny. The boy laughs. Daddy is protecting him from the wet. He feels safe. The downpour isn’t letting up. They have to wait. That’s all right. Ricky’s in no hurry, he puts his hands behind his back, his nose presses into the coat lining, he stands with his back against the woolly cloth of Daddy’s trousers which he strokes with the tips of his little fingers. The minutes stretch out. Daddy stands motionless, a statue of flesh and bone, unyielding. It’s not so easy to breathe in here as outside the coat, that’s for sure. Strange. Ricky’s forehead is damp with perspiration. He sniffles softly, his nose starts to run. The warm, enveloping smell of the dark gray lining is intoxicating. It’s impregnated with the strong, masculine, slightly pungent odor of tobacco. All daddies smoke. Mommies smell good, but mommies’ perfume is sometimes too heady, almost aggressively flowery.
“Mommy, you smell terrible,” whines Ricky, twisting out of her lap.
The child breathes in deeply, it’s growing stuffy inside the coat. In the thick, male-smelling darkness, Ricky is feeling strange, he’s gripped by a curious, rising panic and, at the same time, a diffuse pleasure that he doesn’t comprehend. He wants to run away but at the same time to stay where he is. He likes the stuffy feeling. His heart pounds in his chest. It’s as if he were a captive, stuffed inside a sack by a bad man, the kind of man who kidnaps children and takes them away. Mommy is always telling him to watch out for men like that. Don’t ever take candy from strangers. Never get into their car. Never tell them where you live. He shivers. The humidity rises a notch in the tight tent. Ricky’s lips push against the lining, which is getting hot. The lining is soft, so soft, against his lips. Liquid velvet. His heart races. Suddenly a story he saw on television comes to mind. A young cowboy ambushed by two outlaws is tied to a tree in the woods. The villains have tied a bandanna over his mouth to keep him from crying out. When Ricky saw that scene, in black and white, he got a very funny feeling deep inside. Identical to the one he’s now getting from the raincoat’s smooth lining. A strange tingling in his belly. At that time he glanced at his parents, at his big brothers. None of them looked bothered by what was going on, only him. Strange. The brave young cowboy squirmed in desperation, helpless against the tree trunk. And the bandanna between his lips keeping him from crying for help. Ricky was short of breath, his heart was beating wildly, he had this tingling deep in his belly, he was on the verge of panic, unnoticed. His face got red. Compassion for the victim. Excitement of the scene. Those bandits were really very bad men. Big, strong, energetic, like Daddy. With big hats, revolvers. and wide neckerchiefs around their necks. The nice cowboy didn’t have a chance. Fear, terror, terrible upset. The bandanna of one of the bad men covered his mouth, and his nose, too. Ricky fidgets inside the coat. The smooth, silky lining sticks to his lips. The cowboy captive can’t breathe. Sudden panic. Ricky has to get out. His father grabs him, holds him tight.
“Stay there, Ricky. The rain’s about to stop.”
Taken aback, obedient to his father’s command, the child comes to himself and fearfully delights in his rediscovered shelter. Daddy squeezes him between his legs. Ricky the prisoner. Soon they’ll be home.
When he takes off his jacket, Ricky discovers it’s lined with a light, satiny, clear-colored fabric similar to the one in Daddy’s raincoat. So soft to the touch. Nice surprise. Again that disturbing feeling. He puts down the jacket as if the material has bitten him. He’s called down to dinner. Then it’s bathtime, then bedtime. No TV tonight. It’s a school night. Cartoons and cowboy films are for another day. Now he’s in bed. After the traditional reading of the same bedtime story, always the same one, Daddy turns out the light.
“Sleepy time.”
Darkness. But Ricky’s as wide awake as he was under the raincoat. Too many images and feelings are going through his head. He’s too hot. He remembers the strange feeling of the raincoat’s lining against his lips. A vision of the young cowboy gagged with the bad man’s bandanna. It’s scary, but he’d really like to have that happen to him. Just in play. As a game. With someone nice, who’d let him go right away. Now the tingling is back, stronger. Under his pajama bottom his weewee is standing straight up. Why is it doing that? What’s happening to him? What is this new tingling? Has he caught cold? Is he going to die? Should he call Mommy? Or maybe Daddy? No, he can’t call anyone. He’s ashamed, because weewees are dirty things, just good for piddling, without ever touching the disgusting yellow wetness. More images go through his head. He can’t get them out of his mind. The tingling comes back right beneath his skin. Ricky tries to stay calm. He can’t. Suddenly, he gets a crazy idea: he has to go to the coat-rack downstairs and get his jacket. With its beautiful clear lining. He hesitates, aware he’s about to do something unusual.
His brothers are asleep. His parents are probably reading in bed. The coast is clear. Ricky slips into the hallway, he tiptoes downstairs. Gropes around in the darkness to get his bearings. The jacket hangs on its hook at his height. This same jacket, which he’s been wearing now for weeks, suddenly seems new, worthy of interest. With the jacket in hand, he hurries upstairs into his bed. He lies down and covers his face with it, the lining against his face. His heart is beating wildly. The raincoat. The prison-shelter. The material sticking to his sweaty face. The poor young cowboy and that terrifying gag…Ricky breathes heavily, prey to a growing excitement. Suddenly he pushes the jacket away. What to do? he gets up. He thrusts a naked leg into one of the jacket sleeves. His tender flesh slides softly through the tube. It feels wonderful. It’s so different, strange, nice, exciting. His foot emerges through the wrist opening. Too funny. His toes dance a little jig. He puts his other leg into the same sleeve. It’s too tight, it can’t be done. But he forces his leg through, propelled by a desire he can’t control. But when his toes touch the other knee, they stop dead. But that won’t stop him, he has to get his leg all the way through, he’s more determined to get it in than ever, impelled by reasons he doesn’t try to understand. His legs are stuck inside the sleeve, like in a funnel. He loves the wedged-in feeling but it’s not what he needs, he needs his two legs side by side. He pushes harder, wriggles inside the sleeve, pushes as hard as he can. It takes time. But he’s determined. Immediate pleasure denied by an actual obstacle. And now there’s a light in the hall. His parents! He freezes, doesn’t move a muscle, holds his breath. Too tightly squeezed together, his legs heat up. He has to get out, Now! And if he can’t? What if his mother swoops in and turns on the light? What crazy explanation could he give her? He panics. He has to get free, no matter how. He thrashes, squirms. Not even room to wedge in a finger. His legs rub against each other, matches against flint. Suddenly, he leans over and grabs the visible part of the lining with his teeth. Thrashing around like a fawn at bay, he chews on the jacket lining, at the top, grinding his jaw back and forth. The gnawed, saliva-coated lining rips. Big tear. The moment of madness is over. Ricky comes to his senses. What a disaster. But his legs are out of the sleeve, free, safe and sound. How did that happen? His guardian angel helped him, Mommy would say. He can find no other explanation.
In the half-light, Ricky considers the damage. Is the hole too big to go unnoticed? Will it inevitably be discovered? There’s a sound from down the hall. His mother has gone back to her room. Ricky waits for total silence to fill the house before he tiptoes downstairs. He returns to his room, dispirited. There’s a mind-numbing rumbling in his head. He dreads tomorrow morning. His mother’s anger. His father’s scolding. His brothers’ laughter. And the serious threat of a spanking. With the belt or the wooden spoon. And if he’s ever asked to explain himself, he’ll have to bow his head, mute. As if gagged by a torn lining.
