Bondage Stories

BONDAGE AND ASSORTED FETISHES

THE MARINE AND THE SISSY - 8

Issue 26, January/February 1992

8

Clothes Make the Slavegirl

In addition to the rigorous discipline of being made to "toe the line" physically, domestically and scholastically, Eric also undertook the renovation of my wardrobe. He walked into our room one afternoon and announced that it was about eighteen years past time to do something about my clothes. When I dared to ask just what the fuck was wrong with my clothes, Eric got that crooked, disdainful smirk on his face and said that my taste in clothing vacillated somewhere between girlish, faggot and preppy. "You're a fucking Texan," he said. "Goddamit, you ought to look like one."

What was behind all this was that a check from my father, made payable to Eric, had just arrived with a note saying that this was the money to buy me some "real men's clothes." Obviously, it was all part of their conspiracy to "make a man out of me." When I balked over going clothes shopping with Eric, the matter was quickly settled in typical Eric fashion. He simply made me drop my pants, flipped me over his knees and paddled my panty-covered ass, while reminding me that slavegirls do not have opinions; they simply do as they are told.

Consequently, within hours, my wardrobe was transformed from sissy-faggot-preppy to macho-Texan, which means that I instantly looked like everybody else in my fraternity. I felt like a fucking clone. Numerous pairs of Levis and a jean jacket replaced my khaki shirts and sports coat. Several of those goat-roper, western-style plaid shirts and a big pile of T-shirts took the place of my baggy angora sweaters and my pastel oxford cloth button-downs, which were now relegated solely to dress-up occasions. Cowboy boots and athletic tube socks took the place of my tasseled loafers, fluffy crew socks and argyles.

Previously, I had scarcely owned a T-shirt. Now, I had to wear them most of the time. Most of my collection were either plain or decorated with designs as innocuous as the university and fraternity logos. However, a few others were more difficult to explain in polite company. These were the ones Eric had ordered through the mail with such embarrassing inscriptions as "GIRLFRIEND," ‘SLAVE," or "IN TRAINING" stenciled on them.

In addition to having to wear these shirts around the frat house, Eric would always make me wear one of them whenever he took me to a leather bar. On these unnerving and stressful occasions, I would also be wearing my chains, or my leather slave collar with its little brass plate stating that I was Eric's property. In the beginning, I was still too young to drink beer legally, which would have been difficult anyway, since my wrists were often handcuffed behind my back; yet another humiliation which did nothing to make these leather bar excursions enjoyable for me. The most I could hope for, assuming that Eric was in a good mood, was to be allowed to sip pop through a straw.

These periodic forays into the leather bars of several south Texas cities are among the most uncomfortable memories of our college escapades. One traumatic Saturday night in particular will be forever etched on my mind. Eric, who was pissed with me over something—I don't even remember what—took me into a bar handcuffed, and with the cuffs fastened by a chain to the D-ring in the back of my collar which kept my wrists jacked up into the middle of my back. In addition, he had also fastened me into a very tight leather cock harness and ball stretcher before making me put on a pair of very lacy, ultrafeminine pink panties. As though this wasn't punishment enough, Eric had refused me anything to drink and kept whispering threats like, "How would you like me to drag you up there on that stage and jerk your pants down so these studs can get a load of the kind of undies a real slavegirl wears?" Finally, when he could see that I was on the verge of tears, Eric put an end to my misery by saying, "C'mon, let's get out of here so I can really give you something to cry about!"

All that aside, ironically, it was in the leather bars that I learned the most about this complex man I both loved and feared. Eric has a way, without even trying, of attracting the attention and respect of other men. This meant that it was not at all unusual for us to end up with a whole shit-load of guys crowded around us. Under the right circumstances, if Eric was primed with enough beer, as well as the right questions, he could become quite talkative; something he seldom was otherwise.

It was under these circumstances that I discovered something of the origin of Eric's fascination with corporal punishment as well as the whole leather and discipline scene in general. Among other things, I learned of his childhood on a relatively poor Minnesota farm and of his grim determination to make something of himself. I also learned about his devout but overly strict Swedish Lutheran father, and listened with spinetingling fascination as Eric described their frequent trips to the woodshed.

One question I had never had the guts to ask centered around how Eric had been treated as an Alpha Chi pledge. Given his age, maturity and formidability, I had always found it difficult to imagine Eric being put through Alpha Chi's customary barbaric hazing. It was also impossible for me to conceive of Eric ever being that submissive. To my surprise and delight, Eric got steered onto this subject in a bar one night and began to tell of his own personal experiences of being disciplined; first by his father, then in boot camp and, finally, as a fraternity pledge.

Since Eric had always prided himself on being able to handle whatever those in authority could dish out, he had worked hard to be "one of the guys" and not to appear intimidating. He was well aware that he was at least three years older and far more experienced than the sophomores who were in charge of initiating him. The pledgemasters, apparently aware of Eric's potential to intimidate, and unwilling to risk his getting out of anything or receiving any special treatment, assigned, as his big brother, the biggest, most mean-spirited, most insensitive sophomore in the entire fraternity; a not very bright asshole who was not in the least impressed or intimidated by either Eric's size or his background.

According to Eric, his big brother made him drill holes in his big oak paddle and forced him to "assume the position" at the slightest provocation or for no provocation at all. There were apparently other times when Eric was tied up for paddling sessions; sometimes suspended by his wrists or bound over the back of a chair with his ass in the air. I was especially interested in the fact that, as macho as Eric is, he admitted in the bar that night that there had been days when he had had difficulty sitting on his raw ass for classes, especially since his big brother made him wear a piece of scratchy burlap inside his jockey shorts at all times. I could well believe that Eric had really had it stuck to him, since his big brother was the same motherfucker who had paddled me black and blue one day during Hell Week outside the music building. Eric concluded the tale of his fraternity initiation by commenting wryly that, as hard as this son-of-a-bitch had tried, he still hadn't been able to top what his father used to do to him in the woodshed back on their farm in Minnesota.

I also remember vividly, on another night and in another bar, when Eric told of his enlistment in the Marine Corps immediately following high school, and the circumstances which led to his becoming an MP. I suspect that I wasn't the only man in the bar that night who felt his penis stiffen as Eric launched into detailed descriptions of how he and his fellow MPs handled the servicemen who were unfortunate enough to fall into their clutches. One night in particular, I recall being blown away by Eric's story of how some older, more experienced MPs had taught him the fine art of how to administer a whipping without leaving any telltale marks on the naked body of the man being whipped.

However, the most memorable part of the evening was Eric's description of how he and his MP buddies had disciplined an obstreperous, hunky Marine who had been arrested for being AWOL for the second time. After they had gotten their prisoner booked into the brig, they dragged him down to an uninhabited section of the brig and slammed him into an empty cell. When they had removed his handcuffs, belly chains and leg irons, they forced their handsome prisoner to strip himself naked. After they had blindfolded him, they gagged him with his own jockey briefs which they tied in place with one of his own socks. Then they tied both of his boots to his balls by their laces before roping their captive spread-eagled to the bars of the cell. At this point, they informed their unlucky prisoner that he was going to be whipped. This, they told him, was the best punishment for Marines who try to write their own rules, are habitually AWOL, and are caught while wearing nonregulation skivvies.

As Eric went on to describe the actual whipping, I could feel the juices beginning to churn in my balls. About the time he got to the part where the MPs forced the poor guy to kneel and suck all their cocks before being fucked by them, I completely lost it. Luckily, for me, it happened to be the week of my "period," so the pad im my panties absorbed all the incriminating evidence and kept Eric from finding out about my accident.

Through nights such as these, I began to get a glimpse of what makes Eric tick, as well as gaining insight into his uncanny ability to do for me that which no one else had been able to do; specifically, to take control and make me do the things I should be doing—or else!

My three years in college with Eric were undeniably the making of me. I had entered college a somewhat effeminate, self-indulgent, temperamental, spoiled brat—a talented brat—but, nevertheless, a brat. I emerged on the verge of my senior year no less talented, yet tamed, disciplined, and with a manliness and a respect for authority I had never before possessed.

In addition, thanks to Eric, I also had a body of which I could really be proud. Although I had always had a pretty nice body—what people often refer to as a "swimmer's body"—I had never looked so good. I recall being enormously proud when Eric began to brag openly that I was just about the only boy in the whole music school who didn't look or act like a wimp or faggot. Somehow, this alone was worth all the endless running, swimming and iron-pumping, not to mention the countless hours of manual labor on my folks' ranch during vacations.

Dad had been so delighted with the work—I called it slave labor—Eric had volunteered us for during that first spring break, that he hired both of us to work for him the next two summers. Mostly, we did hot, sweaty grunt work on the ranch, except on those occasions when dad needed one or both of us at the clinic in Richardson to fill in during staff vacations. Naturally, I much preferred working in the air-conditioned clinic where Eric wasn't in a position to boss me around. There was also less chance of my being tied over the old examining table in the barn for a paddling [see THE MARINE AND THE SISSY – 4] when my work didn't happen to please him.

An interesting footnote to all this is that, during our college years, Eric gradually stopped making crude remarks about "those fucking goddam queers." He also stopped bragging about how "straight" he was. Obviously, Eric is plenty smart enough to spot the incongruity of protesting one's total heterosexuality all the while one has his mouth clamped firmly around another guy's erect cock. Although it has always seemed somewhat out of character to me, the longer we were together, the more Eric seemed to enjoy occasionally sucking my cock, provided, of course, that it was solely his idea. I also noticed that, during our first year together, Eric's dates with women became fewer and fewer until eventually they stopped altogether.

When, finally, my curiosity had overwhelmed me and I had worked up enough nerve to call this to Mr. Studley Macho's attention, instead of the violent explosion I had anticipated, Eric did something which was totally out of character. He simply slipped his hand down the waistband of my jeans, playfully pinched my pantied ass—hard—and dismissed the whole subject once and for all by chuckling, "You're woman enough for me, slavegirl!"

The only really bad news in all this was that our time together eventually had to come to an end. Eric graduated at the end of my junior year and went back into the Marine Corps, this time commissioned as a second lieutenant. The good news is that, ultimately, this very difficult parting was not destined to mark the end of our relationship.

PORTRAIT OF THE ESCAPE ARTIST AS A YOUNG MAN

This story appeared in Issue 11, July/August 1989. It was written by my friend Mike, who writes more about his self-bondage turn-on in my blog post dated 1/19/06. BW

As a boy I read all I could find about Houdini (it seemed to be the only socially acceptable way of learning about restraint). As a result of this early research my interest in bondage really centers around escapes. As I was growing up I did everything I could to initiate tying up games with other boys, and while I managed to be the victim quite a bit, it wasn't enough. I made up for this by tying myself up.

At first I wasn't convinced it was possible to tie yourself up for real at all. From my learning experiences with other boys I knew what happened when wrists or ankles were bound too tight—it stopped being fun. The problem was to devise a tie that held but didn't stop circulation. I spent a lot of time and effort researching this. Most of my self-ties were never really secure—they would just have dozens of knots and take forever to untie. I soon found that slipknots, one of my first areas of experimentation, could be unpredictable. Too loose and they weren't secure; too tight and you could get into real trouble.

I remember the day a boy at school showed me how to make a hangman's noose. That night at home I practiced making them, using a piece of rawhide I had. I left my last effort intact, and after going to bed I slipped my wrists into the loop and pulled it tight with my teeth. To my astonishment, no matter how hard I tugged the knot held fast. I tried to use my teeth to undo it, but all my practicing had paid off—the knot was coiled smooth and tight, and gripped the rawhide like it was glued. In desperation I started tugging and yanking—but it was dark and I pulled in the wrong direction, only tightening the coil more. I almost panicked and called my father (I was nine at the time), but I caught myself and decided on one last try, figuring hurt wrists were preferable to the task of explaining this strange night time activity to my parents. I mentally counted to three and yanked my wrists apart...it hurt, but the rawhide loop opened up. I sank back trembling; incredibly relieved. I had escaped.

I had no interest in chains and locks. There was no challenge: you either had a key, or you didn't. I wanted something I could struggle and pit myself against, like Houdini. Even today this artifice on my part continues. The Challenge: Can I outsmart this guy; defeat his bondage, escape? (Or will he be there ahead of my probing fingers, mental cunning wrapped smoothly, inescapably around my wrists and limbs? Will my eyes be forced again and again back to his waiting face? Will I be owned?)

I, too, saw the statues of the slaves in Florence [see BOUND & GAGGED, Issue 1, p. 15]. I was thirteen. I couldn't believe them. The bondage was real (so rare in art); their bodies were classic: life-size, nude, perfect. After all my skirting around the actual subject of bondage as I was growing up, reading on the sly through hundreds of possibly related topics, weeding through tons of chaff and bullshit for rare bits of information—to have this whole museum hallway filled with life-size statues of bound nude men right there in front of me, with my family right beside me and people just walking by...I almost flipped. It was overload. I glazed out, walking along, trying to linger without lingering, pouring over the statues with my eyes, force-feeding my brain with all the details I could, and still have it look like everyone else glancing at yet another hallway of statues.

Until I experienced the constrictor knot I had never come up with a truly successful self-applied rope tie. I was always searching for something that was secure, but wouldn't hurt me (I was a musician, and had no interest in damage to my hands or wrists). As a young teen I had reasoned a spread-eagle tie with slipknots could be self-applied and very difficult to escape from; but what if things pulled too tight? There would be no one around to help...

Which brings us to the central paradox of auto-bondage: You don't dare really tie yourself up. To do so without recourse to outside help is to invite death. And, as death is presumably not your aim, auto-bondage becomes of necessity an exercise in discretion.

There are two ways to practice auto-bondage and still live a long happy life:(1) You never really tie yourself up; you are restrained, but you can release yourself. (2) You really do tie yourself up, but you make sure a key will be available to free you should escape efforts fail. Key is here defined as anything that will effect your release. This can range from the real thing (to a pair of handcuffs, for example), to a tool (a knife, a lock pick, a match), to simply alerting another person that you need help.

I myself prefer a two key system.

The first effort I call the game key. The game key releases you should escape efforts fail. Naturally, its acquisition is delayed for whatever period of time turns you on (see last section).

The second key, the emergency key, is available at all times. Naturally, there is a substantial penalty for its use. Calling a neighbor for help is a good illustration of the dual-edged nature of an emergency key. This is something you normally wouldn't do (the embarrassment, the explanations), but if you're tied to a chair starving to death it's an option worth having. Another, not so extreme example: I like to use Humane Restraint locking leather straps and accessories. When doing so my emergency key is simply a knife. Having spent a lot of money on these restraints, I'm not about to cut and destroy them unless it's absolutely necessary.

Once you have worked out a number of self-applied, secure ties, real "enjoyment" of auto-bondage depends on a reliable key release mechanism. Because long or short, random or precise, the bondage interval must come reliably to an end with the key in your hot little hands, or the game will go sour.

I have tried many devices to release keys. The one that follows is dead reliable in its simplicity:

Items needed: key, styrofoam cup, thread, ice cube.

Theory: Ice melts at room temperature. Nothing will stop this—no gears will jam, no pulleys will bind, no lines will stick, no drain holes will clog, no electricity will fail...ice melts in a foolproof way, and this fact can be used to your advantage.

Method: Tie the key to one end of the thread. Tie a slipknot loop in the other end, and tighten it around the ice cube. Put the cube in the cup with the key hanging over the edge, so the weight of the ice is all that holds the key up. Put the prepared cup overhead and out of reach of the location where you will be secured. Set it up so when the ice cube melts the key will fall within your reach.

Watch out for: Keys that release, fall where they're supposed to, and bounce out of reach (Surprise!). Solve this with a second anchor line that leaves the released key suspended level with your hands. (The same anchor line can be used to swing the key from an out-of-reach cup site to the location where you are restrained).

Fine points: Make sure the key is heavy enough to pull the thread out of the cup in the first place. Make sure there's no way the slipknot can catch on the rim of the cup.

Comment: It is difficult to time this release reliably, because sometimes the thread slips off a partially melted cube for an early release; sometimes it stays attached to the cube until the bitter end, making the wait seem like hours. (I personally find the random factor exciting).

Variations: Pile on additional ice. Use a thermos bottle. Hang a looped thread in a container of water (you pick the size) and freeze the whole thing. Secure the key to the free end of the thread, set the container in position, tie yourself up, and wait (and wait, and wait—a solid chunk of ice melts a lot slower than a pile of ice cubes).

Well, that wraps it up for now. These are some of the techniques I use—what are other people doing?

SMELLY-MINDED IOWA SOCKHEAD TICKLE-TORTURES BUDDY

This story, requested by G.E.S., originally appeared in Issue 24 of Bound & Gagged (Sept/Oct 1991). Bondage never goes out of style, but sometimes fashions do. Hightop sneakers are no longer as popular as they were in the 80's and 90's, and that's a real misfortune for those of us who love them. Equally unfortunate, certainly for the purposes of this story's bondage, is the current fashion for little sockettes too many guys wear nowadays with running shoes. They were called peds and were what only girls used to wear when I was young, sometimes with pompoms at the heels. Give them back to the girls, I say, and let's get guys wearing decent length socks again. BW

IOWA. From my reading of B&G magazine, there are quite a few of you out there who are turned on by tying your victim or partner with ropes, leathers, chains, rubber or whatever you think you have to buy out of expensive stores. For those of you who are a sock head like me, you should never have to buy another expensive restraint again.

The story I’m about to tell is a strictly (or should I say restricted?) true story of sock bondage with a friend of mine I’ve known since high school.

Tom, is 6’2”, 167, well hung and has a wide clean ticklish 10 1/2 foot size and wears my favorite type of sweat socks all the time. This type of sock is great for gathering all the sweat one’s feet can create inside those high top Reeboks Tom likes to wear.

Tom and I have played with ropes since we were 16. We would tie each other up just to see who could get loose the fastest or who could take the tickling tortures the longest before loosing our mind. Tom always seemed to win on getting loose the fastest, he had long fingers so he could work on the knots and sure enough he would get loose. Tom was good at roping me so I could never get loose nor could I say anything because he would gag me with his nasty stinking socks. I never told him I didn’t want him to do it because I loved it when he gagged me with them. It was like a good hit off a pocket rocket, only this rush went to my cock, what a rush.

I always wondered what I could use on Tom to hold him in place and give him a royal treatment, an all night fling if you know what I mean.

One Thursday night I was lying in bed masturbating and thinking of Tom at the same time, smelling my day-old socks, when I thought of something that would hold Tom. I tried it on myself many times that night and couldn’t get out of it for anything. It was a good thing I only did it to one hand and foot or it would have been hard to explain it to my parents if they had to get me loose.

My folks were leaving for the weekend so I called Tom the next morning and asked him to come over and watch TV and drink some beer that night. Tom said sure, that he would stop in after playing some golf, around 8 PM. I told him I’d be waiting.

Tom showed up around 8.30 looking pretty hot. It was warm that day, around 92 degrees. But there was Tom wearing his normal clothes, high top Reeboks, blue jeans and his sweatshirt. I didn’t even have to look to see what kind of socks he was wearing, he always wears the same type of socks, the perfect sweating, smelling sock a person can wear.

We watched TV and drank too many beers in a 4 1/2 to 5 hour time. We were watching American Exxxty on satellite when some bondage scene came on. This lady had this guy staked spreadeagle on a beach. That’s when I told Tom I had learned a new knot and there were no ropes involved. Tom started laughing, lying on the couch telling me there was nothing the great Houdini couldn’t get out of in this town. He was speaking very highly of himself, I thought, but I only asked him if he wanted to give it a try. Tom said sure, he’d give any of my knots a whirl. I started chuckling then. Tom cocked off and asked if I had gone out and bought some handcuffs or some other gadgets. I told him no, that I was going to use socks. He laughed again and said he’d like to see me hold him for at least 1/2 hour. I told Tom no problem, let’s go to my bedroom and see.

I took Tom by the hand and led him to the bedroom where my twin bed was waiting for him. When we got there I told Tom he had just as well take his clothes off and get ready for bed. Tom said OK, but he would take his shower after he got loose. Going to my dresser drawer for the socks I needed for Tom’s treatment I thought he didn’t know he was going to get the surprise of not getting loose, and of course the tortures. I have a smelly mind tonight for you, Tom. Speaking in my own mind.

Reaching into my dresser I told Tom I only needed three pairs of socks to hold him for the 1/2 hour he thought it would take him to get loose. Tom laid down on the bed so willing, ready and gullible. If he only knew what I had in mind for him tonight. I went to the bed with my three pairs of socks. The first pair was my church socks, nylon type, very long, and strong. The second pair were my sweatsocks, like Tom was wearing. And the third pair was also extra long and strong.

I told Tom to hold his arm straight out and make a fist with his hand by tucking his thumb in under his fingers in the fist. I took the first sock, put his fist inside the sock and pulled it all the way up his arm. Then I did the same to his left fist and arm. I took the second pair of socks and tied one sock around each wrist twice, making Tom keep a fist. I asked Tom if he had any idea what I was doing. Tom replied, no, but I can’t get my hands out of the fist you made me make. I told him that was the whole idea, and with that I grabbed both tops of the socks that were pulled up his arms and pulled them down over the fists I’d had him make, so the socks his fists were in wouldn’t come off because of the socks I had tied around his wrists. Then I made him bend his knees, grabbed his right ankle and wrapped the end of the sock on his right hand around his ankle and tied two knots and went around the bed and did the same to the left hand and ankle. Lying there helpless, Tom couldn’t do a thing with his fingers, nor that thumb I had made him put under those fingers in the fist.

Tom looked a bit troubled when he couldn’t use his fingers. But that was ok, I wasn’t done with him yet. I took the third pair of socks and tied the end of one of those socks at the place where the right hand and ankle met and pulled them to the side of the bed and tied the other end of the sock to the bed frame. Then I went to the other side of the bed and did the same thing to his other wrist and ankle.

I asked Tom if he had ever felt so helpless. Tom said no, but this sure was different. I told Tom he had 30 minutes to get loose or he was mine for the night. Before leaving the room I picked up Tom’s shoes and socks, put one shoe on each side of his head and laid his socks on his chest. His socks were so full of aroma that Tom started yelling, get these damn things out of here. I told Tom to shut the fuck up or I would put a sock in it. Tom dummied up right away and said he could stand them until he got himself loose. I didn’t blindfold him. That way Tom thought he had a chance at getting loose. Ha Ha. I left the room and came back to the door so Tom didn’t hear me.

I peeked around the door to see how the great Houdini was doing. You just had to be there to see it. Tom was starting to sweat on his sideburns, grunting, straining, twisting, and a little cussing. But he didn’t get loose, he lay there spread wide open.

Watching Tom struggle like that made me even harder. I reached into my pants and started playing, stroking and jerking till I almost jizzed. I could feel the pre-cum on the end of my sausage. After a while Tom started whining about not being able to escape.

Tom’s 30 minutes were up. I walked in and asked how he was doing at getting loose. Tom was kind of pissed, and told me that my new knot was very effective and that his hands were still in a fist. I asked if his hands or ankles hurt yet. Tom tugged a little and said no, but I could turn him loose anytime now. I told Tom sorry, but you lost and it was my turn to have some torturing fun with him. Just what the fuck do you mean, he asked. I asked him if he remembered the times and things he’d done to me when I couldn’t get loose. Tom replied under his breath, yes, but said he was very sorry if he had hurt me. I told Tom he never hurt me, he just had a lot of fun with me, like gagging me with his socks, tickling me from head to toe, and now it was my turn only worse.

And with that I sat on the bed and grabbed his socks off his stomach where they had ended up after his struggling to get loose for 30 minutes. I rubbed the socks over Tom’s nose and I teased him with them for some time. Tom kept pulling his head away and telling me they stunk. I stopped and told him that I knew this before, remember what you’ve done to me at times likes this, helpless little Tom. Again, he said he was sorry. I took one of his socks and tied a square knot in the toe, and did the same with the other one. Then I took the two socks and twisted them together like I was going to make a square knot, but I didn’t make the knot. Instead I took that twist and the knotted ends and stuffed them in Tom’s mouth, then wrapped the two socks around Tom’s head to tie them with a square knot in front. This is a very good gag because you can’t get it out of the mouth once it’s tied on. The twist on the socks makes it impossible to spit them out, you can’t get your mouth and tongue open or moved enough. Because of the twist one sock is pulling down and outward and the other is pulling up and outward, and wrapping the socks around the head and tying that last knot over the mouth makes it impossible to spit out. (Don’t believe me? Try it. You’ll like it).

Ok, back to Tom. I had a little trouble getting this gag into Tom’s mouth at first, but after putting two of my fingers up Tom’s nose and pulling up toward his forehead I had no problem, just a few nasty muffled words which I couldn’t understand. After getting those two ends back around to his mouth I tied them in a big old square knot right in the middle of his mouth, shoving that gag back in farther, gagging Tom to the max. He twisted and pulled around till I told him it could be worse, those two socks in your mouth could have been mine. But, I told Tom, I was saving mine for a better treatment, and with that I raised my foot and brought my right Reebok to rest on the bed and started untying it.

Tom’s eyes looked very sincere, he had a very good idea of what I was going to do with my socks. What Tom didn’t know was that after I had called him that morning I put on the same sweatsocks I had worn the day before.

When I pulled my shoe off beside Tom’s face, he closed his eyes and moaned into his already gagged mouth. They were full of natural foot and Reebok aromatic odors. I put my two socks together, reached up and pulled the knot in Tom’s gag out far enough to get my socks pulled through and let go of the knot, letting it sink back into his mouth. Then I pulled down on my socks till the toes of them were snug over his nostrils.

There Tom lay while I stood up to take a good look at him, watching him struggle a bit and shaking his head, trying to get my socks off his nose and his socks out of his mouth. I asked Tom if he liked what he was getting so far. Tom just shook his head no and uttered something from his well filled mouth. Then I asked him if he liked ice in his water.

He knew then what I was up to, and started tugging and pulling from side to side, trying to yank loose. I told him to relax, that I didn’t think he would be doing himself any good wasting his energy like that, he would be needing his energy later, and off I went for the freezer to get my next project for Tom.

I returned to my room to find that Tom still hadn’t made any progress on getting loose. Believe me, I don’t care who you are, you ain’t going to escape this type of trick. I stood by the bed looking into Tom’s eyes, playing with the ice cubes I had gotten from the freezer. Tom stopped struggling and took one of those deep breaths that he had no choice about, through his nose, squinting his eyes at the same time. The way he looked I could tell my socks were still at their best.

I asked Tom if he could breathe through his mouth. He shook his head no. All I could tell him was, that’s good, because you will be breathing even harder when I start rubbing these ice cubes in places you can’t handle. Tom just lay there like a peter that had been sucked dry of all good will.

Taking the cubes from the cup, I rubbed them on his nipples, then slid them down to his pubic line and back up to his nipples. Tom just shook and strained, moaning through his stuffed mouth. There was also some movement from his pubic line, a rather large movement.

After teasing him like this for some time, I left one of the cubes melting in his belly button and moved to the foot of the bed. I looked up at Tom’s eyes and asked if his feet were still ticklish. Taking one of those deep breaths and tugging at the same time, Tom’s toes bent down as if to say please don’t do this to me. Grabbing another cube I started in on Tom’s feet, rubbing the cube between his toes and running it down the arch drove Tom to a quivering frenzy. Before stopping on his feet, I took a cube and slipped it up Tom’s poop shoot.

Tom went nuts tugging, pulling, straining and of course trying to cuss me, at the same time breathing very heavy through his sock covered nose. I started stroking him with the cubes till Tom’s sac started to draw up and blow. I quit in the nick of time, Tom was quivering in his bonds, wanting to jiz. I looked into his eyes and Tom was bucking, moaning for release, and I don’t think he was wanting me to release his bound body either.

I got up off the bed and went to my dresser drawer and got one more sock. Walking back to Tom, I asked him if he wanted to blow his wad. Tom moaned and bucked his ass up and down, shaking his head yes. I told Tom to hang on to his ass if he could because he was going to get what he wanted. Setting back down on the foot of the bed I wrapped the sock around his cock and balls and tied it tight, then tied it again only around his cock in a loose square knot. I leaned over and started sucking him, taking him in down to his pubes then up to the tip again, time after time I did this, till I had every ounce of blood in the head of his crank. Just when Tom was starting to quiver again is when I grabbed the sock I had tied around his cock and pulled the square knot as tight as I could, trapping Tom’s wishful thoughts within.

I got up off the bed, watching Tom in his frenzy, laying there groaning, moaning and bucking again, wanting to explode but unable to.

I studied Tom for quite some time, watching him squirm in his bonds and still trying to get his gag out, which was useless. Looking at the clock I saw it was only 1.33 and decided I needed another beer. Before leaving the room I turned to Tom and told him not to be going anywhere, that I hadn’t started tickling him yet. Do your readers have any idea what a power sander can do to a helpless friend?

Just a note of caution here, if anyone has any smelly ideas. It’s dangerous to tickle anyone when they’re gagged, even with delightful smelly socks. BW

SLAVE TO TWO MASTERS - 1

This story originally appeared in the Bound & Gagged online edition, No. 13 (April, 2000).

My First Weekend

It started by chance on a Friday night when I saw two hot guys, unfamiliar to me, in a local leather bar in the city. I had recently turned twenty five. I was relatively new in town, with few friends or connections, dressed that night in comfortable clothes, worn, tight jeans, black Converse Chuck Taylor high-tops, white sweat socks, white T-shirt, my well-worn black leather jacket. After we all exchanged glances and they spent some time talking quietly together as they kept their eyes on me, they signaled me to approach them, which I did without hesitation. They were older than I, both tall, dark, attractive and imposing, dressed in leather and denim. They introduced themselves as Bob and Jim. Bob was an attorney and Jim did free-lance computer programming and design of Internet web sites.

Bob had a military-style crew cut. When I admired it—my very attractive boss at work had very short hair, too—Bob told me to rub my hand over his head, which I did, timorously. Jim said I’d look good with my hair cropped like Bob’s. I’d never seriously thought of getting a crew cut but I was suddenly very tempted by the idea and told him that I just might do it—I was scheduled for a haircut next week, anyway.

Standing between Bob and Jim, feeling the stubble on Bob’s head, I was slightly intimidated but also overcome with sexual arousal, which they definitely sensed (and felt). Little by little our friendly introductory gestures turned into a hands-on assessment by them of me, with them feeling me all over while I pretty much stood still at their command; and our chat turned into an interview, with them asking all the questions. They asked me if I’d ever been tied up. Just the question made me harder than I already was, and I said that I had been, a number of times, and liked it a lot. They told me they were both “Tops” heavily into bondage and discipline; that they were looking for a new “slaveboy.” I didn’t know quite how to respond to that. I had never given much thought to the concept of a relationship based on the roles “Master” and “slave.” They went on to tell me they had had several long-term “slaves” and that I appeared a perfect fit with respect to their requirements: cute, small frame, good proportions and in shape, a “boy” they could easily imagine dominating physically, and perhaps capable of the mindset of a “slave” who wants to submit and please. They liked the idea that I had previous bondage experience. In the course of our interview I told them all about my other bondage encounters and fantasies, and I answered their intriguing and stimulating questions: Had I ever been left alone, overnight, in inescapable bondage? What was the longest period of time I had remained bound, and in what position? Was I gagged, too? Had I ever slept bound in a cage?

I remember during the discussion having an impression that their ideas on bondage and “slaveboys” were beyond anything I had ever considered. I was doubtful that such a situation could be real, afraid to involve myself in it if it was, and yet turned on to such an extent that my heart pounded and I desperately wanted to play with my dick. Eventually, I found myself persuading them I could take whatever they had in mind, without thinking through what that meant. I heard myself telling them that I had no plans for the weekend and no need to be back in the city until work on Monday morning and eagerly agreeing to go with them to their place somewhere outside the city. They had some ground rules and impressed upon me the importance of adhering to them: bondage, often very strict, was their preference; they did not believe in “limits” and would determine what I was capable of by judging my reactions to specific situations; obeying and complying with instructions was expected without question; speaking except at their request was prohibited. If these terms for the weekend were not satisfactory, I was given the chance to change my mind before going with them. I was not to use their names but instead would be expected to address each of them as “Sir.”

Outside the bar, I followed them silently to their van. I was mesmerized by their physical presence, their seriousness, and the instructions and rules they described. My desire to talk to them was overridden by my desire to obey their command to remain silent. My erection throbbed stiffly in my pants. With all of us inside the back of their dimly lit van, I was told to remove my clothes and kneel on what I thought was a thick blanket but was actually a sleeping bag. With what I sensed as deliberate haste and roughness, they worked together quickly to handcuff my wrists behind my back and cinch my ankles tightly with rope while I remained as still and compliant as possible. Bob pulled over my head and then fastened in place a harness with a built-in rubber ball gag. I recall a vivid state of arousal: being naked, already helplessly bound, my mouth forced wide and fixed around the rubber ball, in the presence and under the control of two authoritative men I barely knew. When fully erect my cock has always been extremely rigid, almost painfully stiff at times. Freed from my pants, the erection stood straight up against my stomach.

Still on my knees, with my ankles tied and wrists cuffed, I was resting my butt on my ankles when Bob instructed me to straighten up (“kneel at attention”). I lurched forward and nearly lost my balance as Bob pulled my erect cock down almost between my legs. He released it and watched it snap back up and thump against my stomach. Then Jim flicked his middle finger against it and watched it sway from side to side. Smirking and making comments to each other, they continued alternating between slapping it down and flicking it back and forth, until they finally elicited a gagged groan from me, an involuntary warning that I might cum. While Bob was rooting around in the back of the van behind me, Jim explained that I was not permitted to cum unless they gave explicit permission. Bob came back into view with a jock made of hard leather and reinforced with metal. Jim pressed down on my cock and positioned it in place as Bob fastened the straps around my waist and between my legs. The interior was lined with sharp metal barbs and my cock was trapped in a pointed-down position as Bob tightened all of the straps. Jim pulled a leather hood, with nose holes only, over the head harness and zipped it closed. No longer able to see, I was helped to lie flat on my stomach and stretch out full length on the sleeping bag. While one of them started the van and began to drive, the other enclosed me up to my neck in the sleeping bag. I could feel rope being tied outside the bag at my ankles, knees, waist, and chest. Next, I sensed that the top of the sleeping bag was being pulled up around my head, and I was rolled onto my back as it was drawn closed. Considering the combination of the ball gag, leather hood and sleeping bag, I suddenly had a moment of suffocating panic and unintentionally started jerking my body around, making involuntary movements and inarticulate grunts. I heard a loud voice filter through, commanding me to settle down, telling me not to panic, I had plenty of air to breathe. Little by little I relaxed and found he was right, if I breathed slowly. Soon I was rolled back onto my stomach and I felt more rope being added to secure me to the floor of the van.

I would estimate that the drive to their place took about an hour. What I thought about during most of the trip is lost to me, except for a strong impression that my anxiety prevailed over the erotic effects of being bound. The reality of what I had consented to started to sink in. I remember wishing that my erection would subside, to relieve the painful effect of imprisonment in the leather jock.

After the van stopped, I felt Bob and Jim unfasten me from the floor. I was still tied in the sleeping bag as I felt them lift and remove me from the van, carry me between them down what I sensed was a stairway, put me on something, and then fasten me to it face down. In retrospect, I know now that they used leather belts over the sleeping bag to strap me to an army cot. They left me that way (probably alone), and after a while I began to test how much I could move around by trying to squirm. Needless to say, it was hopeless; freeing myself on my own was impossible and certainly not in the plan. My shoulders started to ache and I was overheated from struggling inside the sleeping bag. At that point, I remember being preoccupied with the pain in my cock (still unmercifully erect in the jock); worrying that I had managed to get myself into a situation that was heavier than I could handle; and fretting about how long I would have to stay in the sleeping bag, strapped in place, feeling suffocated. After a time, I sensed a restraint at my ankles loosening, followed by others. When they finished freeing me from the sleeping bag and finally removed the hood, I got a first glimpse of their facilities. I was in a basement equipped with what looked like a catalog's worth of bondage and confinement equipment. I remember feeling a rush, a combination of excitement and apprehension.

Working together, they removed the other restraints used during my transport and replaced them with a different head harness that included a large collar and muzzle with an oval mouth opening that framed my lips; fist mitts; a leather restraint that held my wrists behind and high against my back, connected to a D-ring in the collar; and rigid ankle irons that held my feet about 18 inches apart. Although the head harness partially obstructed my vision, with effort I could look down at my body. Freed from the leather jock, my red, bruised-looking cock sprang back to attention, stinging with the imprint of the metal points still on it. I was not gagged and remained silent as they had previously directed. On their instruction, I hobbled over to a vinyl exercise pad between two stools and kneeled between them as they sat on the stools. They had removed some of their clothes while I was bound to the cot. I noticed both were wearing black leather boots and chaps only; their chests and genital areas were exposed. Before I really had a chance to absorb the situation or adjust to the new restraints and give any thought to how hot Bob and Jim looked, they started giving me instructions, starting with “kneel at attention” and “bend at the waist and lean forward.” Jim, seated in front of me, guided my head using the D-rings on the collar of the head harness. He directed me to lick and suck. He would criticize my technique while Bob, seated behind me, would loudly tell me to raise my ass higher as he beat it with a paddle. They switched places a couple of times. My lips protruded through the opening of the muzzle, but the jaw restriction made it difficult to do a good job, especially with Bob’s cock, because of its width. At one point, Jim loosened the head harness muzzle straps so that I could open wider. Eventually, both were satisfied I had done my best, but warned me I would have to improve in the future.

Still kneeling on the vinyl pad, I was directed to straighten up and keep kneeling at attention, while Jim moved me around so that I was facing a mirror mounted on the basement wall. Bob came into view with a gag that looked similar to a black rubber butt plug, somewhat cone-shaped but also oblong and with a wider bulbous base attached to straps. On his instruction, I opened my mouth as much as the muzzle allowed while he inserted the tip of the gag into the muzzle opening and then worked the base through until the whole gag was in place in my mouth. He threaded the gag straps through parts of the head harness, fastened them securely at the back, and then tightened the muzzle straps. I remember thinking it was the most effective gagging I had ever experienced and realizing that the gag included a narrow channel in its center, an airway to breathe through my mouth. They attached clamps to my nipples, and used a leather ball stretcher/separator, adding a weight to its D-ring so that my cock stood straight out instead of up against my stomach. Jim added several clothespins along the top of my cock, and then Bob crouched to the side in front of me and began whipping the underside of it with a small, rigid leather stinger. Jim crouched down on my other side to talk into my ear and told me that I should cum while Bob was whipping my cock. He said I was sexier and kinkier than even I myself knew, that I would make a perfect “slaveboy,” and that I should let my cock think for me. Bob joined in with comments. They told me to look in the mirror and see my true self, a natural born “slave” who needed to be kept bound, gagged, humiliated and in captivity. They said my dick was a “slavecock” that existed only for their use and that it should be trained to cum only at their command. After a short time, some of the clothespins started to become dislodged, heightening the sensations, and I started squirming, moaning, and making reflexive movements with my arms, which increased the pressure of the collar around my neck. Jim grabbed me to prevent me from falling over as I had one of the most agonizing orgasms I had ever experienced. Uncontrollably, convulsively, I shot all over the place, with the weights and clothespins bobbing wildly and the arm straps pulling at my neck.

I zoned out for a few minutes after cumming. My awareness began to return after they had shuffled me off to the basement bathroom. They had removed the nipple clamps and all of the paraphernalia from my cock but left everything else in place, stood me over a toilet, and directed me to empty my bladder, which I was able to achieve after a few minutes of concentration. Bob then tried to fit my semi-erect cock into the cock cage of what I recognized as a chastity device, but my cock swelled again too large and he stopped mid-way through and took the device away. He returned with a different device that had a faucet-shaped tube attached to it. My cock had hardened but not to the point of inflexibility, and he was able to insert it into the tube after adding some lubrication. Somewhat ashamed, I nodded in the affirmative when Jim held a medium-sized butt plug at my face and asked if I needed to be cleaned out first. They used a Fleet enema, watched me evacuate my bowels, and cleaned me up with soap and water, all to my embarrassment. They pushed me to the floor into a kneeling position with my butt in the air. After just cumming, it was difficult for me to accommodate entry of the plug, but they managed to insert it slowly until only the base protruded. They stood me up and finished fastening the chastity belt in place, which they referred to as a “cock cuff” and which included a strap at the back over the butt plug. They shuffled me out of the bathroom over to a steel cage and worked together to get me “ready for bedtime,” as Jim said. The head harness and gag remained, but the fist mitts and wrist restraints were removed to put me into a leather straitjacket, with my arms crossed in front of me and belted together at the forearms. The straitjacket fit well, snug but not overly tight. Bob played with its many straps, securing and refastening them here and there, especially under my crotch. Jim replaced the rigid ankle irons with leather ankle restraints that were locked together. After he and Bob helped me sit on the floor and wiggle into the cage, they made a show of closing and locking it, and told me to try to get some sleep. I saw them walk away and heard them on the stairs, and all of the lights went off.

The floor of the cage was lined with a vinyl pad and there was a small pillow. I was too exhausted to question the situation and quickly fell deeply asleep. I remember dreaming about being restrained and not being able to use my hands and then waking up in a tangled sweat to find it was true. I started doubting my judgment. Were Jim and Bob right? Was I a slave? What kind of person would agree to be left alone, muzzled, gagged, in a straitjacket, locked in a cage in the basement of strangers? Instead of going soft, why did my cock strain against the metal tube, becoming as erect as the cock cuff would allow? With concentrated effort, I could only barely swallow my own saliva; my jaw began to ache from the tight muzzle and large gag; my sphincter muscles involuntarily clenched the butt plug; my arms felt cramped and my body uncomfortably hot and sweaty inside the straitjacket; and yet my cock wanted to be erect not in spite of all of the discomfort, but because of it. It felt like my cockhead was protruding outside the faucet-shaped tube, but the basement was too dark to see it.

I woke again to bright light from a ceiling light bulb and Jim standing in front of the cage. I noticed for the first time that daylight was visible in a few small, ceiling-level basement windows. I had the sense that it was very early, just after daybreak. Jim opened the cage, and then ordered and helped me to stand up, which was difficult while still bound. He was holding an empty plastic jug; he placed it under the opening at the bottom of the metal tube of the cock cuff. After a few minutes, with his encouragement and threats to punish me, I urinated into the plastic container. He held it under my nose and made me sniff it, then set it aside, grabbed one of my arms at the biceps, and instructed me to go with him. I had to hop alongside him because the leather restraints kept my ankles too close together for any other type of motion. I saw myself in one of the mirrors mounted on the walls, straitjacketed, muzzled, and hopping. I felt a mixture of excitement and embarrassment and recall my cock being hard against the cuff. Jim led me to a closet in the basement. A sort of visceral chill went through me, and my heart pounded, when I saw that the closet was heavily equipped for various methods of restraint and one of them was waiting for me. Jim positioned me in the center of some heavy canvas that had been laid out on the floor of the closet. He put me into in a tight sitting position, with my knees bent and drawn up to my chest as far as my arms (crossed in front of me in the straitjacket) would allow. He pulled the canvas and worked it around me to enclose me in the mailbag-style sack. The darkness and total enclosure increased as the sack closed and I felt myself being lifted slowly off the ground. The sack collapsed against my body and tightly enveloped me as it I became totally suspended within it. I felt Jim’s hands on my back, shoulders, and legs, as he turned the sack around, checking on my position within it. He had been silent most of the time except to give me instructions, but now that I was bound and suspended in the sack he started talking loudly, penetrating the enclosure of the sack, telling me that all real bondage “slaves” (that word again) fantasized about being left alone, all bound up and hanging suspended in a sack. He said that he and Bob needed to do a few errands before they could make breakfast and that he was sure I would enjoy myself while they were gone. I heard the closet door shut.

Looking back on it, I am still not sure they actually left me alone in their house that way. At that time, however, I thought I was alone, and it made me anxious to say the least. I guessed that, based on whatever I had told them the night before and my reactions up to that point, they thought I could handle it. Feeling abandoned, I hung there like a dead weight and contemplated the multiple levels of bondage and confinement. Jim’s parting comment had implied that I should be grateful for my predicament. I had experimented once before with a friend who suspended me in a mailbag, but that was for a short time and I wore no other restraints. Plus, my friend had not gone away and left me alone in it. This time, the straitjacket and other restraints intensified the restriction imposed by the mailbag and accentuated the feeling of being trapped and confined in a small, closed, hot space with restricted air. When I tried to shift my legs or upper body in any way, the bag would sway and my weight would pull me down further and make me feel wedged into the leather-lined bottom of the mailbag. The canvas was also reinforced with vertical leather straps, and there were air holes. In the darkness and heat of the bag, I waited for them to return, while my arms ached, sweat trickled down my chest under the leather straitjacket, my jaw felt dislocated, and my cock strained against the metal cuff. The doubled-up, wedged-in position I was in seemed to drive the butt plug further inside me. At one point, I tried to articulate the words “Please, Sir” through the muzzle and gag, but there was no response.

It seemed forever, but eventually I heard a door open and voices. I could not distinguish them, but when I heard one say that if I had not had enough, they could leave me alone for a few more hours, I moaned and started squirming and trying to kick within the bag. They continued to talk for a little while and taunted me with threats to punish me for making noise without being told by leaving me in the bag for the rest of the day. I stopped moving and quieted myself in response, and they lowered me to the floor and extricated me from the bag. A feeling of total abasement overwhelmed me while I was lying between their feet on the floor in the closet as they stood over me. Jim bent down, unfastened and removed the gag and muzzle/harness, and instructed me to lick Bob’s boots. The dryness in my mouth from being gagged all night made licking difficult, but I didn’t think twice about doing it, and the humiliation was certainly complete.

Bob and Jim lifted and carried me between them out of the closet and set me down in a sitting position on a vinyl exercise pad. They removed all the restraints but left the butt plug inside me. Bob used his foot to poke at my cock, which had betrayed me by pointing straight up as soon as the chastity device was removed. I sipped water from the straw of a large plastic jug that Jim had handed to me. They told me that my slavecock showed I enjoyed being treated like the bondage slave I truly was, and they promised to put me in the mailbag again soon.

They brought out and had me put on my sneakers and socks, and Bob locked a wide leather collar around my neck. Telling me I’d better make sure the butt plug stayed in place, they led me to an area in the basement with exercise equipment and instructed me to walk on a treadmill and sip water while they exercised with weights.

My semi-erect cock flopped in front of me while I walked briskly on the treadmill and enjoyed the freedom of movement, especially in my arms. After about 30 minutes, I was trying to pass gas silently around the butt plug, but it started to slip out. I reached back, caught it, and tried to reinsert it without stopping on the treadmill, but it slipped through my fingers, hit the treadmill, and dropped onto the floor. Jim told me I would be punished for that. Bob disappeared and returned holding various items. With Jim seated on an exercise bench, I had to lie across his lap while they quickly roped my wrists together and pulled them tightly, somewhat painfully, up my back as high as my arms and shoulders would allow, fastening them to the D-ring on the back of the leather collar. On my head, they used the combination head harness/ball gag (the one from the van) that I’d worn the night before. They lubricated my asshole and slowly began inserting a larger version of the butt plug I’d been wearing. It did not go in easily. Jim spanked my ass hard and ordered me to loosen up, or else. Finally, painfully, the plug went past the most prominent part and settled in. They stood me up, tied another doubled-over length of rope to my wrists, pulled the ends down my back tightly over the base of the plug through the crack of my ass to my crotch, and used the rest to bind my cock and balls, so that they were pulled down between my legs. Then they made me return to the treadmill and continue walking. Because of the way my arms were restrained, it was uncomfortable and difficult to keep my balance. If I accidentally moved my arms up or down, I would feel either like I was being strangled or like my cock and balls were being crushed between my legs. I had to walk bow-legged, with my legs bent slightly at the knees, to relieve the pain in my balls. Occasionally, Jim or Bob would come over to increase the pace of the treadmill and watch me sweat as I panted through my nose and around the ball gag.

After the exercise session, they untied me, removed the head harness, cuffed my wrists in front, and locked me in the cage, to watch me eat. They gave me scrambled eggs, cereal and fruit mixed with yogurt, and orange juice, all of which I spilled on myself and my sneakers because I had no experience eating with my hands cuffed. The butt plug reminded me of its presence as I sat cross-legged on the floor of the cage with my cock poking up at full attention. They ordered me out of the cage when I finished, recuffed my wrists behind my back, and took me to the bathroom. They removed my high-tops and socks, and then kept me in handcuffs while I was cleaned out and washed up. Having them control my bodily functions and hygiene was incredibly weird and embarrassing (Jim even brushed my teeth.) They seemed so serious about the roles, and I responded with such unquestioning submission to their authority, that it never occurred to me that I could object to anything they did. Any confusion I had over being afraid versus turned on always seemed to be clarified by my cock, which rigidly sustained its upright position and oozed precum.

The supreme moment of embarrassment was when they removed the butt plug: It felt like I was being uncorked. Keeping my hands always cuffed behind my back, they gave me repeated enemas until I was clean and empty. That done, Bob brought in a kitchen stool which they sat me down on. They roped my legs securely to the stool and used more rope to pull my cuffed wrists tightly down, passing the rope under the seat of the stool and tying it off around my cock and balls, so that every time I tried to move my arms the rope tugged on my genitals. Jim pulled out a pair of electric clippers and said that since I had shown such interest in Bob’s crew cut, and had even said I was considering getting one myself, he and Bob had decided this was the perfect time for it. He told me it was he who always cut Bob’s hair, if I was worried that he’d do a hatchet job on me. Bob told him to hold off a second, then looked at me seriously and told me that because I did not yet really belong to them, this was probably the one thing they would ask my opinion about all weekend, though they might not necessarily heed it, he added with a smile. Did I have a problem with Jim giving me a crew cut? They wanted to hear my answer.

“No, Sir,” I said to Bob, without any hesitation, and repeated “No, Sir,” to Jim.

My upright cock throbbed as I felt the clippers on my head and watched my hair fall down my body and onto the floor.

After the haircut they they put the head harness/ball gag back on, adding a blindfold attachment. There was no hurry for me to see what I looked like yet, they said. I should be content to know that they thought I looked very cute and hot. Feeling the harness against the shorter hair on my head compared to when I wore it earlier, it seemed to me they’d adjusted it to fit more tightly. My mouth was forced open wider and the rubber ball was driven deeper in than before. They then untied me from the stool, uncuffed my hands only to recuff them in front and put me in the shower stall, attaching my cuffed hands to a hook high above my head. My body was already pretty smooth, but they used the clippers on me from neck to toe, including my armpits, reducing what little body hair I had to stubble. Next, they smeared something I realized from their comments was a depilatory cream, over my entire body, including my balls and the root of my cock, and waited for its effect. They even turned me around to face the wall so they could rub the nasty smelling cream on my ass. The chill and burning sensation, especially around my balls, that resulted when they finally scrubbed the cream off and rinsed me under a full stream of cold shower water, made my cock completely limp for probably the first time since I’d met them.

Before I could think of getting hard they had fitted on me an intricate chastity device, the one that Bob had been unable to get me into the night before. I learned this later, since at the time I was only aware of them fitting something on me, after which I discovered I could no longer get hard. My cock and balls were worked through a thick metal ring that encircled them tightly. Attached to the ring by a hinge, a circular, convex metal cage was closed over my genitals and locked with a hex key wrench to the ring. My cock had been folded down against my balls and was trapped pointed down; with the limited space within the cage, my cock and balls were compressed together.

Jim and Bob patted me dry and bent me over to re-insert the butt plug. They led me out of the bathroom and, having unsnapped the blindfold, worked to finish fastening the chastity device into place. Besides the cock cage, it consisted of leather and metal straps around my waist, from the waist down the back and over the crack of my ass (and base of the butt plug) to the bottom of the cage, from the top of the cage up the center of my stomach to the waist, and from the back of my waist down the inside of and around my thighs. They had me assume several different positions, standing at attention, squatting, leaning forward, back to standing, to test the tightness of the straps and make appropriate adjustments before they installed a number of small padlocks at various points. It looked and felt so permanent. My cock had started to swell when the butt plug was re-inserted and then continued to attempt to become erect as they tightened all of the straps. Jim said that my dick was out of control and needed to be taught that a full erection was a privilege possible only when they decided to open its cage. It distended even more in response, the top of it visibly squeezing against the unyielding grate of the metal cage, and I realized how sadistic and uncomfortable the device was intended to be. Involuntarily, my knees buckled and a moan escaped around the gag. They both looked pleased, told me I would get used to it, and said if I continued to make noise without permission they would find a larger gag for me.

Now they led me to one of the walls with a mirror and made comments similar to the night before that encouraged me to look at my condition and consider what it meant: denuded, head cropped, handcuffed, gagged, plugged, balls and cock caged and constricted, under their control. I tried to suppress a moan and felt myself panting around the gag and through my nostrils. They replaced the handcuffs with two sets of rigid irons, one on my arms just above my elbows and the other at my wrists, which held them fixed and separated behind my back. They used a similar rigid iron restraint on my ankles and shuffled me over to a corner of the basement where I saw a large box made of wood. I had lost track of time, but from what I know looking back on the weekend as I write this, I would estimate that it was around 1 or 2:00 in the afternoon. My memory is that they made some comments at this point, having to do with needing to leave to tend to some business that would keep them out of the house until sometime that night. While they were gone, they wanted to be sure I was safe and secure. Jim lifted the lid of the box and they helped me to sit on an edge and then lift my legs over and into the box. It was full of Styrofoam peanuts and they had to work my feet and legs through the packing material until I could stand on the bottom. Jim pressed on my shoulders, guiding me down, while Bob shifted the Styrofoam around me, until I had reached a sitting position, which put my toes against the front of the box, my upper back against the back, my knees against my chest, and the top of my head level with the top of the box. They pulled a leather hood over my head, on top of the harness/gag, and tightened the laces. I could feel them adding more Styrofoam peanuts and pushing down to compress them. They instructed me to move around as much as I could (which was possible mostly with my upper body only) while remaining in the sitting position and then continued adding and compressing the packing material until I could no longer move my shoulders from side to side or forward and back. The Styrofoam filled the box to the level of my chin.

I need to break the chronology of the story here to provide a description of the box in greater detail. It was actually a packing crate, made of heavy wood, which Jim and Bob had modified for their purposes. They had two different lids for it. One was recessed, down to about a foot into the crate, and had an opening near the back through which the captive's head protruded; the other was solid and laid on top of the box to seal it completely. Both of the lids detached from the crate, lifting completely off, but when in place could be connected with padlocks that fastened each securely to the rest of the crate. They had added air holes on the sides in both the lower and upper compartments and on the upper lid. Being put in the box that day, even with the leather hood slightly diminishing my hearing, I remember the sound of wood scraping against metal and how I associated it with being closed and locked away. One of them (not sure who) locked the first lid in place, which further compressed the packing material and reduced the space in the box. I remember hearing another tormenting comment, something like only a real slave would end up in a situation like that, and then I felt the second lid of the box brush against the top of my hooded head as it was closed.

Initially, I directed my energy at trying to remain quiet and endure being left that way. At first I was overwhelmed by my heart pounding, the work required to breathe around the gag and through the small holes in the hood, to take in enough of the limited air available in the box, and the idea that they had left me alone in it for the entire afternoon. I was on the verge of panicking and had to resist giving in to my body’s natural reflexive movements to try to get free. Much time passed before I was able to calm myself and begin to accept the physical confines of being restrained, packed, and boxed. It was just large enough to contain me in the sitting position and, along with the Styrofoam peanuts, prevented any appreciable movement in any direction. Time passed slowly. I remember cramps in my calves periodically. I remember my legs feeling tingly and realizing they were falling asleep. My knees protested; my lower back and my arms ached for a change in position; the butt plug increased the feeling that I needed to piss; and I was too uncomfortable to relax in any way. I could rock my upper body slightly, and try to shift by flexing my muscles in an effort to relieve the discomfort, but with each small movement I felt (and heard) the resistance of the packing and restraints, felt the restriction around my neck of the small opening in the lower lid and the unyielding upper lid against the top of my head, and realized how trapped and truly immobile I was within the box. Irritated by the hair removal, my skin burned from the accumulating sweat, and I wondered if I was dehydrating. It seemed interminable. The only consolation was that the chastity device was more tolerable, because my dick had finally softened.

After what seemed like hours upon hours of time passing, I remember getting really mad, at Jim and Bob and at myself, and then uttering a long cry as loud as I could. Suddenly, I heard metal scraping against wood, the upper lid opened, and I felt hands roughly unlacing and pulling off the hood. My eyes came into focus slowly on Bob and Jim, dressed again similarly to the night before, in their leather boots and chaps only. I straightened my neck and head, and they removed the head harness and gag, but left me enclosed in the box. I was allowed to work my jaw to relieve the stiffness and sip water through a plastic straw connected to a container that Jim held. They told me that they had wanted me to think I was alone but that actually one or both of them had been nearby, that the “being packed away” had been a sort of test of my endurance, and that I had done very well: I had stayed in the box most of the afternoon without making any noise, which they said provided further evidence that I was a genuine slave. In spite of their obvious satisfaction with my behavior, they did not release me immediately. They each took turns straddling the crate, to sit in front of my face, while I licked and sucked as directed and listened to their threats to leave me packed up until the next morning if I did not please them.

Eventually they removed the lower lid, fished around in the packing and helped me unbend my stiff legs, stand up, and get out of the crate. It took a while for the tingling in my legs to subside as full circulation returned. They brushed off the clinging Styrofoam pieces and removed the rigid irons from my arms and ankles and handcuffed my wrists in front. The led me to the shower in the bathroom, and I had to piss messily down my legs through the cage of the chastity device. They ran the shower (warm this time), patted me dry with a towel, and re-adjusted and further tightened the straps of the chastity device, which had stretched and become looser (from the moisture of sweat and shower water, I guess). The butt plug remained in place, and they did not ask if I had any need to be cleaned out again. Back in the cage, I was given water and food, a bland mixture of rice and ground meat, which I had to eat slowly because of the handcuffs. While I finished the meal, I saw Jim and Bob laying out rubber and leather items on the exercise pad in front of the mirror, but I was so tired that I took little interest in what they were doing. I lay down in the cage with my head on the pillow, but they told me it was not bedtime yet. Out of the cage, they removed the handcuffs and, in a prone position on the pad, I was helped to wiggle into a heavy grade rubber sleepsack. It had internal sleeves and closed with a double zipper at the front. While it fit my body well lengthwise, it had limited flexibility and had obviously been made for one of their former boys whose frame was even narrower than mine. To allow them to get the top zipper closed over my shoulders and chest, I had to scrunch my shoulders together and exhale. With the zipper closed over my upper body, Jim repositioned my shoulders to straighten them within the sack. I was completely enclosed, my shoulders, upper arms, and chest compressed snugly. It felt wonderfully tight, and my excitement at being bound returned. I squirmed a bit, almost involuntarily, to try to adapt to the restriction. They adjusted the zippers to meet at my crotch but then left them open, and the cage of the chastity device protruded through the gap. They stood me up in view of the mirror and made comments, telling me I looked great in rubber, that I should be kept in the sleepsack often to stretch it to my size, and that maybe they should leave me in it for the rest of the weekend. Jim steadied me on my feet and held his hand over my mouth as Bob used the hex key wrench to open the cage of the chastity device. Feeling the total enclosure of the heavy rubber and seeing my shiny, black-encased, seal-like form in the mirror and Jim’s hand on my face, I could not avoid being incredibly turned on in spite of my exhaustion. My cock celebrated its release from the cage by quickly hardening straight up against my rubber-covered stomach and confirmed for Bob and Jim that it was enjoying my rubber imprisonment. They laid me back down on top of a second sleepsack, a leather one, enclosed me in it (while saying I needed to be “double-sacked” to satisfy my greedy slavecock), and then worked together on all of the fastenings: the zippers, laces, and straps were tightened but positioned to leave my erect cock exposed, with the chastity cage hanging by its hinge below. They stood me up again to look in the mirror, and the image I saw reminded me of bondage art, drawings and sketches I had seen in which the bondage victim looks hopelessly bound in some form of exaggerated restraint with his head and cock poking out of it.

They moved me into position with my back against one of the basement walls, standing opposite the mirror, and used strong bungee cords to attach the many D-rings of the leather sleepsack to multiple stationary rings mounted on the wall. Following their instructions, I straightened my posture and flattened my bound form against the wall as much as possible, tried to flex my feet to stand on my toes, leaned forward or slackened within the bonds when told, all to ensure they could adjust the bungee cords as securely as possible. When they were satisfied that I was completely immobile and could not shift in any way from the standing position, they bound my cock and balls elaborately, using a ball stretcher/splitter tied to a ring mount in the floor to pull them down as far as possible, and a leather pinprick-lined cock sheath that laced on and left only the head of my cock exposed. I could see my bound, squeezed, and stretched balls and erect cock, its purple head sticking out of the black leather sheath, clearly in the mirror.

As he further compressed the cock sheath by adjusting the laces, driving the sharp points into my cock, Jim warned me that if I were to cum without permission I would be punished severely. He smeared precum that leaked onto his hand on my face and made me lick his hand. Next, for some length of time, they experimented with different types of gags, some attached to hoods or harnesses. They told me they were testing me to determine the largest gag I could accommodate without choking or suffocating, and that if I faked any of my reactions, I would be sorry. In between gags, they gave me more water. They finally settled on using the following combination on my head: first, a heavy rubber hood with mouth and small nose and eye holes; then a large leather gag that filled my mouth and had a breathing tube; and last, a leather head harness and muzzle modified with an opening for the breathing tube of the gag. They played with the fastenings of the head harness for some time, to make the straps taut and fit with the multiple casings that met at my neck: the rubber sleepsack, leather sleepsack, rubber hood, and muzzle/head harness. Using a D-ring at the top of the head harness, they added one more bungee cord to attach it to another ring mounted on the wall just above my head. They told me to look in the mirror and consider my situation. The hood, harness, and how I was fastened against the wall limited my field of vision, but my reflection in the mirror was visible. Bob asked if I was bound securely enough to keep my slavecock happy and told me I would make a perfect “fetish slave.” At their command, I tried repeatedly to articulate the words, “Thank you for the tight bondage, Sirs,” but the gag and muzzle turned it into muffled, humiliating garble. They further embarrassed me with their comments, telling me that I was a “bondage pig” whose expertise was staying bound and gagged 24 hours a day, and they vowed to keep me “busy” in their basement for a long time. Jim squeezed the sheath and said my cock looked too comfortable, that they should have made it stay in its chastity cage. He walked out of my line of vision and then reappeared with a tube of Ben-Gay. He coated each of my exposed balls (sticking out from the ball stretcher) and the head of my cock (protruding from the sheath). They instructed me to think over how I felt after having spent my first 24 hours with them, said goodnight, and walked away. The light was left on, and as I became aware of the burning heat on my cockhead and balls, I continued to look at the only thing I could see, my sealed, bound form in the mirror.

As is apparent from these writings, many of the details from that weekend with them remain clear in my memory. However, the sequence and content of my thoughts during the second night are not as clear to me as I try to recreate them here. Sleepsack bondage was in the realm of my previous experience, and, in fact, was a major fantasy for me. Their version of it that night, which left me double-sacked in rubber and leather, tethered upright to a wall, and staring at my cocooned form in the mirror, was more extreme than any I had undergone. I noticed for the first time that a clock hung on the wall above the mirror. It said 11:30 and I knew it was nighttime. Within minutes of being left alone, I succumbed to the physical sensations: lack of any substantial mobility from head to toe; the pressure of the rubber against my skin, especially enclosing my head; the constriction of my arms and hands, plastered to my sides so tightly that I could not even make a fist; the restriction of the rubber compressing my chest when I inhaled; the distention of my mouth from the gag and my butthole from the plug; the tightening of all the restraints if I attempted to relieve the pressure on my feet or back by trying to hang from the cords instead of supporting my own weight. I could tense my muscles, flex them against the restraints as much they would allow, and make little squirming movements, all of which were imperceptible in the mirror. The only visible movement was in my sheathed cock, which moved slightly up and down when it throbbed and jerked in opposition to being pulled down by the ball stretcher anchored to the floor.

All of the restrictive sensations were transformed into kind of pre-orgasmic bondage rapture. The squirming increased. It became reflexive and involuntary and overpowered me. I lost control in a frenzy of writhing, stifled movements, and gasps and moans through the gag. My cock surged painfully larger against the sheath and was on the verge of climaxing. I remembered Jim’s warning about cumming without permission, and, after a while, eventually, slowly, I was able to calm myself. My breathing slowed. I could feel sweat under the rubber on my face and arms and between my legs, pressed together in the sleepsacks. The trapped body heat, increased by my struggling, added to my discomfort. My bound cock and balls burned. The clock above the mirror showed about 15 minutes had passed. It seemed so much longer. The clock had a second hand that paused quickly before each movement. I wondered if Bob and Jim really meant it when they said goodnight. I had a feeling of disbelief when I thought about how many seconds would go by before morning and how I could endure the position and the excessive restraint. My cock throbbed in response, and I started squirming again. Over the next hour, I repeated countless times the agonizing cycle of squirming in pleasure and pain but successfully regaining control and stopping myself when I was about to cum. The last time I remember seeing the clock, it was after 1:00 am. Finally, after an extended, torturous bout of wriggling against the restraints within the rubber and accumulated sweat, I lost the battle and had a grueling, mind-numbing orgasm. When I came, the force of my involuntary attempts at movement somehow shifted the head restraints, and afterward I could not see through the hood's eyeholes. I sagged in my bonds and went into a haze of half sleep that was interrupted at times by increasing pain in various areas. I remember wanting desperately to be released. My shoulders hurt more than anything, because the rubber sleepsack was too narrow for them. I was too tightly bound against the wall to bend my knees, which urgently needed a change in position. My mouth ached from being stuffed with such a wide gag. At one point I was aware that my cock started stinging when it retracted from the pinpricks of the sheath, and a while later I felt the sheath fall off. I remember a voice repeating louder and louder a command to piss, which at first did not penetrate either my dim awareness or the rubber of the hood.

My awareness returned fully when I was lying on the floor as Jim and Bob finished extracting me from the leather sleepsack. The head harness/muzzle, mouth stuffer gag, and rubber hood had been removed, but I was till in the rubber sleepsack, the zippers of which had been closed over the chastity device and joined with a padlock. After commanding me to piss, they had stuffed my cock and balls back into the chastity device, fastened it closed, and then adjusted the zippers of the rubber sleepsack to close it completely. I got a glimpse of the clock as Bob removed it from the wall; it gave the impression that it was just after 2:00 am, but then Bob held it in front of my face and grinned as he changed the time to read 12:00. I realized that they had hung the clock in my view to magnify in my mind the length of time I remained bound standing against the wall. It was still nighttime, but I did not know the actual time or how long I had been left in that position.

Bob sat in back of me to prop my head up in his lap while Jim instructed me to sip water through the plastic straw connected to the container he held. Lying between them, sweaty and tightly sealed in the sleepsack, drinking when instructed, I felt like a helpless little boy. I noticed the pain in my shoulders and constriction of the rubber seemed less severe in that position. About 10 to 15 minutes went by as I drank water intermittently and listened to their comments about whether I should be punished for cumming without permission. Jim talked about teaching me that there is a difference between deliberate and involuntary disobedience, but the concept was lost on me at that point. I was surprised when Bob leaned his head down, rubbed his face against mine, and kissed me deeply. He said I smelled like rubber and tasted like leather. Jim got up, walked away, and then returned with a leather device I did not recognize and a roll of duct tape, which he handed to Bob. Jim told me to shut my mouth and close my lips tight. Bob pulled tape over my mouth and one side of my face, continuing at the back of my head over the upper part of the back of my neck, and then completing the circle by covering my face on the other side. He proceeded to roll the tape around me, pulling it taught as he encircled my head below my nose with multiple layers that sealed my mouth. I could feel my cock re-awakening within the chastity cage. Over the tape, Jim installed a solid, rigid muzzle, attached to a head harness, one I had not worn before. He kept tugging at the vertical straps at the front to tighten them, which compressed my face, and in response, without meaning to, I snorted through my nostrils. Jim apparently enjoyed my reaction, because he made me repeat it while he told Bob to look at the muzzled “pigslave.” They lifted and carried me between them and placed me face down on the army cot. They used belts across the back of my legs just above the knees, lower back at the waist, and upper back below the shoulders to fasten me to the cot. For the second time that night, they told me “goodnight,” and I wondered again if they meant it. The light was turned off. With some effort exerted against the collar of the head harness, I was able to turn my head enough from side to side to rest it on the cot. Although the tape and muzzle clamped my mouth shut, and the muzzle was stiff and irritating, I was grateful that there was no gag. I could bend my legs slightly at the knee and wiggle my feet around within the sleepsack against the cot. Compared to how the night had started, I felt relatively comfortable, enough to fall asleep. But, that was interrupted, after an unknown time, apparently because I tried to turn in my sleep. The pain in my shoulders persisted but was not as bad as when I was fixed to the wall. I lay there in my rubber-induced sweat and heat and thought about Bob and Jim and what it would mean to be their “slave.” I considered what little I knew of their personalities. Bob seemed more accessible than Jim on an emotional level. I could imagine Bob assuming the bottom role for Jim, but not the reverse, and never to the extent that either of them would regard as being a “slave” (like me?). I wondered if having a slave was integral to the continuation of their relationship. Intermittently, as I turned my head restlessly during my thoughts, I was aware of the odor of rubber mixed with perspiration. My cock stirred within its cage, which was compressed under me, because the belts kept me too close to the cot to relieve the pressure. I wanted to get free, but my cock liked that I could not, that I had no choice but to wait until Jim or Bob decided to release me.

With early daylight apparent through the small basement windows, the morning activities started when Jim and Bob reappeared to release me from the cot and remove me from the sleepsack. The muzzle came off easily, followed by the slow peeling off of the tape from my head. I saw short hair from the back of my head adhering to the tape, and I noticed areas of my skin were puckered and white from being encased in my own sweat for so long. The air felt cold against my naked skin, and I hoped for a bathroom and exercise break. Instead, they pushed me to the door of the cage I had been in several times already that weekend, and they ordered me to back into it and sit with my hands and legs in front of me extending outside through the open door. Jim guided my wrists and ankles into a rigid iron restraint and fastened it closed. It was a combined, wrist-ankle, four-way restraint, sort of a metal stock, and a new experience for me. He pushed me to shimmy back further into the cage, until I was completely inside, including my arms and legs, to allow him to close and lock the door. A large container of water hung on the outside of the cage. It reminded me of a giant version of the kind of water bottle used for pet hamsters. The inverted spout was accessible to me inside the cage, and one of them (Bob, I think) instructed me to drink from it while they were gone and to contemplate the difference between involuntary and deliberate disobedience. For the next couple hours, I tongued the spout intermittently to release water into my mouth, and I rested. I found that the iron restraint was extremely inflexible, and, with my wrists held between my ankles, rigidly apart in front of me, I suppose it was awkward to move around or find a comfortable position in the cage. However, my memory is that I was relieved to be left in such a relatively simple and comparatively relaxed form of bondage. I do remember wishing I would be allowed to piss. I was no longer gagged or hooded, so I had a clear view of the basement and could see my image in a distant mirror mounted low on one of the walls: in a cage fastened into a sitting position; my legs bent and spread and my arms pulled down between them; ankles and wrists fixed in place, connected and immobile in a rigid line in front of me; naked and shaved, except for the short hair on my head. My cock swelled within the chastity device. With no rubber or leather insulating me, the temperature in the basement felt cold. Near one of the windows at the ceiling, I recognized a camera lens, the type used for video surveillance systems. I looked for other cameras and wondered how closely they had been observing me and whether there were microphones also, to monitor sound.

I remained in the cage in the four-way ankle-wrist restraint for the rest of the morning and most of afternoon. During that time, they took me out once in the late morning. They fed me a light meal and then helped me to waddle very slowly in a squatting position (still in the rigid restraint) toward the bathroom. About halfway there they picked me up and carried me, put me into the shower stall, set me on my feet, and made me “stand” by straightening my legs and sticking my butt up as far as the restraint would allow. They removed the leather and metal strap at the back that held the butt plug in place, removed the plug, gave me enemas, and made me evacuate and piss in the shower. It was another totally humiliating experience, with my head practically between my legs because of the position I was forced to maintain. They showered me clean, replaced the butt plug and back chastity strap, added the ball gag/head harness I had worn two or three times before (and to which I was actually becoming accustomed), and returned me to the area just outside the cage. Before putting me back in the cage, they removed the four-way ankle-wrist restraint to reverse my position. They had me lie on my stomach in the cage, and then fastened it on me by connecting my wrists and ankles behind my back within the restraint. I had to arch back slightly to accommodate the position, because the restraint held my wrists and ankles in a kind of rigid hog-tie at the level of the my mid- to lower butt. Jim had threaded rope through the top of the head harness. He pulled the ends of the rope back, which forced me to hold my head up and arch my back further, drew the rope under the iron restraint, and brought the ends up, out the top of the cage. He played with the tension before tying it off and closing the cage. They complimented me on my flexibility, said only one of their other boys had been able to be held in the four-way restraint in that position, and made more “slave” comments.

I remained that way while they worked out for an hour or so in the exercise area of the basement. During their workout, they took breaks to come over to the cage to tighten the rope further. One time, they both came over and rubbed their crotches and played with themselves while they took turns watching my reaction as the rope was pulled higher and tighter. I had to arch back more and more and raise the restraint further up toward the top of the cage. It quickly became a very uncomfortable position, but they obviously knew that, and I finally reached a point where I would have done anything to be released. I started begging through the gag, and they untied and removed the rope but otherwise left me as I was. They finished their workout and left the basement. The relief from the removal of the rope was wonderful, but the position was still uncomfortable, mainly because of the inflexible rigidity of the restraint. With a rope hog-tie, there is much more flexibility. Jim and Bob were right about my supple limbs and joints. I have always been more flexible than most guys, and in the past had enjoyed staying restrained in a hog-tie position for a prolonged period without much discomfort, if I could move around a bit on my stomach and shift from side to side. For the most part, the rigid restraint along with being confined within the cage prevented those kinds of movements. If I tried to shift my body weight from my upper to lower abdomen, the cock cage reminded me of its unyielding presence.

It seemed like a long afternoon. My mind wondered, unfettered, unlike my body. My thoughts encompassed a broad range of emotions, but eventually settled into a permanent state of sexual arousal. I thought about having no control over how long I would have to stay restrained. Whenever the position seemed unbearable, I would relieve the discomfort by imagining that Bob and Jim might be enjoying the sight of a caged, bound “slave” through the video monitor. My cock would respond, and I would rock my body from side to side or back and forth to rub the chastity device enclosing my cock and balls against the padded floor of the cage. In spite of the inability to have a full erection, I thought I might be able to cum, and I had become oblivious, intent on achieving it, when I suddenly realized that Bob was crouching at the front of the cage and talking to me. He said he had come down to put me into a more comfortable position, but that since I was enjoying myself so much, he would just let me be. The ball gag made it impossible to protest verbally in an understandable way, although I did my best, but he ignored me and walked away. I tried to stop making noise to hear if he would go back up the stairs, but my breathing was too heavy. I held my breath and waited, but he did not return.

Disgusted with myself for ruining my chance to be released, my cock shrank, I moaned in despair, and I felt tears at the corners of my eyes. I rocked from side to side and banged the restraint against the bars of the cage, but there was no response. After that, time really dragged. I tried to convince myself that I was enduring a worthwhile test, that I was up to the challenge, but it was difficult, and my cock never reawakened. When they finally returned, later in the afternoon, I was very grateful as they opened the cage, removed the iron restraint, and helped me unbend my legs and get out. I had trouble straightening up, and it took several minutes to unstiffen my lower back and legs.

Bob hugged me, praised me for my stamina, said I would make an “excellent slave,” and then worked with Jim to bind my arms behind my back in a leather restraint. I was grateful they were back and that I was the focus of their attention once again. The new restraint covered my arms from wrist to armpit and included straps to fix each wrist to the opposite elbow and join my forearms, one on top of the other, together behind my back. I was aware that Bob tried three or four different ankle restraints on me, including a regular pair of handcuffs that just fit over my ankles and joined them closely. I saw him unlock those and put them in a small, black leather gym bag. Jim checked the padlocks of the chastity device with a set of keys but left the device in place. They left the ball gag/head harness but added a wide posture collar over it around my neck. They led me to the bathroom and had me sit on the toilet to pee through the cock cage. After I finished, urine ran down one leg to my ankle when I stood up, but they ignored it. As they led me to their van, I was allowed to walk (and see) upstairs for the first time. We went through the kitchen to reach the attached garage. In the back of the van, I sat on the floor and they roped my ankles and knees tightly together. By this time I was losing track of which one of them was doing what to me. Bob (I think) pushed me onto my side, drew more rope between my knees as if cinching them with a slipknot perpendicular to the tied rope, but then used it to pull my knees up against my chest by drawing the rope through a D-ring on the posture collar. Jim (I guess) used a similar arrangement to pull my ankles as close to my butt as possible before drawing the connecting rope back to attach it to my forearms, bound behind me. My cock was crushing itself, hard again in the cramped cock cage in response to feeling how closely they were binding me. They told me they wanted me to enjoy the ride back to the city, and then slipped the leather hood (the one I had worn the first night) over my harnessed head and the posture collar. I moaned involuntarily and made futile attempts to squirm around, but I was tied into such a tight ball that I really could not move at all. Bob and Jim made no comments (that I heard) during the drive.

I could sense we were back in the city before the van stopped. Anticipating that I was about to be released, I struggled against the ropes one last time to savor the feeling of being so tightly restrained. They untied me and removed the arm binder, hood, collar, and gag/head harness, but left the chastity device. I put on the clothes I had been in when I met them Friday night, but my jeans would not zip over the cage of the chastity device. Bob gave me sweatpants to wear instead. The last thing I remember sensing before we left the van was the strong odor of my dried sweat on the athletic socks as I pulled them on and then tied my sneakers over them. We went to the bar where we met on Friday. On the way, I noticed that Bob was carrying the gym bag in which I had seen him put the handcuffs he’d tried on my ankles, along with some of the restraints I was wearing during the trip back to the city, and my jeans.

For about a half-hour at the bar, they bought me drinks and some food, and we sat and talked about whether I wanted to “continue my slave training,” as they described it. I felt strange being out of bondage in their presence, and I was struck by how attracted to them I was. I wanted to please them and I wanted their approval. I knew that I needed time to consider what had happened to me over the weekend and what it meant, but I also knew I wanted to be with them again. So, I found myself telling them I wanted to “continue my training,” without caring what it really meant. Bob showed me some paperwork to take with me, including a detailed list of instructions, which he said had information on how to send messages to him by e-mail. He added all of the paper work to the gym bag and gave it to me. He told me I was supposed to meet them back at the bar on the following Friday night at a specific time. Jim explained that the key to the padlocks for the chastity belt was included in the bag. He said the written instructions described when I was supposed to wear the belt during the week. Bob told me to report to them via daily e-mails on my “progress” with following their instructions. Bob pulled me to my feet and hugged me, rubbed his hand over my head, and then pushed me down into a kneeling position on the floor to kiss their boots before they left. Staring after them, I rose to my feet and then sat down again to open the bag and glance quickly at the contents: the posture collar, head harness/gag, leather hood, some other restraints I did not recognize, and two pairs of handcuffs with their keys. I skimmed the written materials. They included some kind of consent form that required a signature and instructions on how to administer self-bondage for each night of the coming week. I felt my cock press against the chastity cage, and I reached down to put my hand over it. I found the part of the instructions that described use of the chastity device. Basically, I was supposed to wear it all the time, except when I was at work. I was not supposed to jerk off unless they granted permission by e-mail. If I did cum, I was to send e-mail to them, describing how it happened and what I was thinking when I lost control. I started rubbing my hand against the sweatpants, to feel the cage imprisoning my cock, and realized that a guy across the bar was watching me. Clutching the sports bag, I got up quickly and left.

SLAVE TO TWO MASTERS - 2

Part 2 of this story originally appeared in the Bound & Gagged online edition, No. 14 June 2000).

2

THE FOLLOWING WEEK

The walk home from the bar was not far and I have little memory of it from that Sunday night, other than an acute awareness of my swollen cock feeling squeezed by the chastity device as the butt plug, shifting slightly with each step, stimulated me. Home alone in my apartment, I immediately removed my clothes to inspect myself in a mirror. The haircut was severe, yet a definite turn-on, and I considered augmenting it by leaving some facial hair when I shaved. At the bridge of my nose, on my forehead, and at the corners of my mouth, faint reddish strapmarks from the head harness were apparent, and I saw rope marks on my ankles. I liked my hairless body and the look of the chastity device, with its small padlocks accentuating the metal-reinforced leather straps around my waist and thighs. I started replaying the weekend in my mind. The fingers of one of my hands rubbed my shaved nipples while the other hand cupped the cage that trapped my hardening cock. I had a strong, urgent need to jerk off. I tested the tightness of the leather straps that held the chastity device in place. The waist strap was thick and about two or three inches wide. Jim and Bob had fitted it high above my hipbones and tight around my waist. There was a small metal band that extended from under the cage almost to the beginning of my ass crack. It included slots through which three leather straps were threaded: one on each side attached to the thigh straps; plus one up the back, over the butt plug, and locked to the waist strap. Should I just remove the whole damned thing and jerk off? I picked up the gym bag to find the instructions Bob and Jim had included and read the following from the section describing use of the chastity device:

REMOVAL OF CHASTITY DEVICE IS NOT PERMITTED PRIOR TO 5 A.M. ON MONDAY MORNING. UNTIL THAT TIME, SLAVE MUST WEAR DEVICE AS FITTED BY MASTERS. NO ADJUSTMENTS FOR COMFORT PERMITTED. SLAVE MUST REINSTALL CHASTITY DEVICE, INCLUDING BUTT PLUG, EACH NIGHT IMMEDIATELY UPON RETURNING HOME FROM WORK AND MUST SLEEP IN IT UNTIL AT LEAST 5 A.M THE NEXT MORNING. SLAVE SHOULD LEARN TO HAVE BOWEL MOVEMENTS UPON REMOVAL OF BELT EACH MORNING. ENEMAS ARE PERMITTED FOR THIS PURPOSE.

There was more information in that section, but I stopped reading to lie on my bed. Was this for real? Should I follow their rules? I was tired of having my cock cooped up in a cage. I wanted to touch it and masturbate. Clenching the butt plug, my rectum felt tender, and I wanted to be able to fart without the effort the large plug required to pass gas around it. In the absence of Bob and Jim to enforce their orders, I had difficulty taking them seriously. On the one hand, I felt like a fool if I adhered to their instructions at the expense of my own personal comfort. On the other hand, I was so horny with the freshness of my total submission to them over the weekend that I was incredibly excited by the idea of continuing with it. My state of indecision prevailed as I cleaned myself up, showered, and had a snack. Eventually, I resumed reading their instructions, and I was fascinated by the elaborate self-bondage they directed me to carry out.

After conducting a practice “dry run” without a hood to ensure that I could release myself, I followed their self-bondage instructions for Sunday night: Sitting on my bed and wearing only the chastity device, I carefully placed the two handcuff keys in specific individual places on my night stand, along with the other restraints I was to use on my bed, where I could find everything by feel. My ankles were already cuffed together, with the handcuffs that Bob had tried on them for size earlier in the day, just before they brought me back to the city. The second pair of cuffs was attached by one cuff around my right wrist, with the other cuff open. I fastened the head harness/ball gag tightly as instructed and then pulled on and laced the nose-holes-only leather hood closed. In total darkness, I felt around on the bed for the posture collar and then buckled it in place firmly around my neck, over the bottom of the hood. With my left hand, I found and picked up a brown leather weight-lifting belt that Bob and Jim had included in the gym bag. The belt was strong, about 3 to 4 inches wide, had a huge metal buckle with two catches, and it was already joined together. I put my arms behind my back and drew both arms through the belt until it circled them at the lower biceps, above the elbows, and the buckle was positioned mid-way between my arms. By straining my arms apart against the belt and bending them at the elbows, I pulled until each forearm was extended against my lower ribs at each side. The doubled belt was flattened beneath my shoulder blades with a loop at each end that confined each arm just above the elbow. I had just enough slack to extend my forearms and press them against my stomach on each side, to reach the front of my waist with my hands and use my right hand to close the open cuff around my left wrist. My arms were held fast at my sides and my wrists were locked together against my stomach, at the level of the waist strap of the chastity belt. My elbows, connected together behind my back by the belt, were also restrained close to my sides, rubbing against the waist strap of the chastity belt. When I was finished my cock was uncomfortably erect and I was aware of breathing heavily with excitement around the ball gag and through the hood. It took a while to calm down and convince myself I should lie in bed as instructed until my radio alarm clock was set to wake me about eight hours later.

I tried to persuade myself that I was comfortable enough to fall asleep. I could lie on my back if I put up with my arms being pulled slightly closer to my sides as my weight compressed the belt. I could lie on my stomach if I put up with crushing my forearms, cuffed hands, and cock cage under me. I could lie on either side and roll easily. The problem was that I was too horny and stimulated by the bondage to sleep. I was used to jacking off at least twice daily, usually once before falling asleep, while I fantasized about bondage. Obsessed by thoughts of the weekend with Jim and Bob, I tossed and turned and my cock did not care that being erect in the cage caused so much discomfort. Lying on my stomach, with much effort it felt like I could press and strain enough against the cock cage to ejaculate, but the pain eventually stopped me short of cumming. Also, I was worried about being able to free myself. Trying to stimulate my cock, I noticed that grinding my crotch against the mattress had inadvertently tightened the handcuffs, because I had not doubled-locked them. When I practiced the bondage earlier without the hood taking away my sight, it had been difficult to maneuver my hands around to handle the key and unlock the cuffs. The belt and cuffs bound my arms and wrists so closely to my body that I could not extend them in any way. All I could do was move my fingers and rotate my hands at the wrists to a limited degree. Without being able to see, I knew it would be even more difficult to release myself than when I had practiced earlier, especially with the tighter fit of the cuffs.

After what I suppose was several sleepless hours, the self-imposed situation became too frustrating to endure. During the weekend with Bob and Jim, they had been successful in creating a mind set that I had no choice but to follow their orders, and the bondage had been totally inescapable. Bound in bed at my own hands, the contrast struck me and I berated myself for being so horny and stupidly following their instructions. I sat up in bed and awkwardly moved over until I was sitting at the edge with my cuffed feet on the floor and my stomach as close to the nightstand as possible. I felt around with the fingers of my right hand and found one of the keys. I realized that I could not remember how to distinguish the two keys (one for ankles, the other for wrists) and that I did not know whether I had locked the wrist cuffs with the release on the upper or lower side. I had to strain hard against the belt behind my back that held my elbows close to my sides, to pull my wrists toward each other and gain enough freedom to move them and explore the surface of the cuffs to find the release. Finally, I located one of them on the left cuff and floundered with the key for a long time before deciding that I needed the other key instead. I struggled against the restraints as I felt around blindly on the nightstand for the other key. I could not find it. My heart started racing, adrenaline kicked in, my fingers became nervous and jerky, and I thought that through the hood I heard the sound that a metal key would make if it fell on the floor. I panicked, stood up, and started flailing against the restraints. I think I shouted muffled curses through the ball gag and hood. I contracted my arms forcefully against the belt, to try to gain slack in any possible way: forward, back, up, down, from side to side. There was no usable freedom in any direction. I could make the belt move down slightly by pulling my arms back and compressing my cuffed wrists against my stomach, but the shift in position increased the constriction rather than relieving it. The handcuffs on my wrists were much more restrictive than when I had practiced releasing myself earlier. It was clear that Bob and Jim had devised an ingenious form of self-bondage for me. I was fucked. Unless I could release one of my wrists from its cuff, my arms and wrists were trapped and useless. In the dark panic and struggle, I tipped forward, almost fell, and quickly starting shuffling my bound feet to regain my balance.

I tried to calm down and slowly lowered myself to the floor with my back leaning against the bed. I bent my knees and pulled my ankles up, leaned forward, straining against the posture collar, and tried to touch the handcuffs on my ankles. By leaning and struggling, I made my fingertips graze the back of the ankle cuffs, but I could not reach the release, and I realized I had lost track of the first key anyway. I could do nothing without the key to the wrist cuffs. Everything I had used to bind myself was out of my reach. To see where the key had fallen, I needed to remove the hood, which was not possible without freeing my hands. The strong belt binding my arms and its buckle were inaccessible to my hands. At that moment, the drool from my mouth over the ball gag and my chin, the compression of my face from the hood, the restrictive posture collar, the weight belt holding my arms immobile, the cuffs on my wrists and ankles, all became unbearable. I slipped onto my side on the floor and squirmed around in panic and despair.

An unknown amount of time passed before I regained control of my thoughts. I had to concentrate on finding the key. I visualized the nightstand in my mind and likely places where the key could have landed. I turned my body to one side and attempted to search the floor with one hand. Because my wrists were joined together and held fixed against my stomach, the surface area I could feel on the floor was very limited. I decided to lie on my back and use my feet instead. With my knees bent, I set my feet flat on the floor and slowly moved them around. I used my toes to try to sense objects. I covered the area within reach of my legs, held together at the ankles by the cuffs, and then would slide on my back to move to another area. I pushed the nightstand a few inches in one direction with my feet and rubbed them over what I thought was the newly exposed area. Moving them along the bed, my feet inspected the limited area under the bed that they could reach.

The search continued for a long time with no result. Lying on my back compressed the belt and eventually started to cut off circulation in my arms. I turned on my side, into the fetal position, to mitigate the pressure on my arms, and considered other options. I could get to a phone and press keys to dial, but I would only be able to make muffled sounds through the gag and hood. The keys to my apartment were in a high bureau drawer. If I could get to them, maybe using a chair, I could probably maneuver myself out of my apartment into the hallway and seek attention from a neighbor, but my desperation was not enough to accept the humiliation of being seen in such an embarrassing and perverted predicament. I felt exhausted and lost my focus.

Not until I heard my radio alarm stop playing did I realize I had fallen asleep and that the music had been going for some time. Disorientation gave way to discomfort. Over the weekend, wearing the ball gag for extended periods, I had learned that I could swallow occasionally while ball-gagged with much effort. I tried to duplicate that effort and choked on the dryness of my mouth. My throat was sore and my nose very itchy. I rubbed my head against the floor and wished the hood would come off. Following their instructions the night before, I had buckled the head harness very closely, tightened the hood laces to stretch the leather taut over my face and head, and sealed off access to the interlacing when I fastened the wide posture collar around my neck. Spending all night like that had given me a bad headache. My hands tingled when I moved them and flexed against the cuffs. My shoulders and elbows hurt. My cock insisted on attempting a morning erection in its cage.

I rolled onto my back to resume my search for the key and continued exploring the floor with my feet. More time passed. I heard my phone ring and the answering machine pick up, but the hood prevented me from recognizing the voice leaving a message. I needed to piss. The door to the bathroom was not far from the nightstand beside my bed. I sat up and tried to feel the entrance with my feet as I shifted across the floor on my butt. I found the wall and bathroom door. Then, with one foot, I tread on what felt like a cold metal key just inside the entrance on the bathroom floor. I leaned carefully over until I was lying on my side and could touch the floor with my right hand.

It took several anxious minutes of squirming around to locate and grasp the key, and several more to fit it into the release on the left cuff. It clicked open and I got my left hand free. No longer joined at the wrists, I pulled my arms behind my back and the weight belt came off. In a frenzy, I tore at the collar, removed it, then the hood and harness/gag. Breathing deeply, I removed the cuff from my right hand, worked my jaw and tried to swallow, and blinked my eyes into focus. It was almost 11:30 am. On the bed, I found the other key, removed the ankle cuffs, and retrieved the gym bag Bob and Jim had given me. With agitated, fumbling movements, I unlocked the padlocks on the chastity belt and pulled the whole contraption over my hips and down until all the straps hung from the cock cage. I used the hex key wrench to open the cage and then tried unsuccessfully to work my swollen balls and cock out the back of the cage, through the cockring-like metal device encircling them. I gave up and sat on the bedroom floor. I pulled at my sore cock until it exploded across the floor. I lay there in a stupor for a while, until the urge to urinate returned. Finally, I was able to extract my shrinking cock and balls from the cage device.

In the bathroom, I removed the butt plug and pissed. Then I got the phone and called out sick from work. I spent most of the afternoon eating, sleeping and masturbating intermittently, furiously, and eventually lost track of the number of times I came. I knew the slave instructions from Bob and Jim prohibited jerking off, but, intentionally, I decided not to look at them. I did not want to know the details. Late in the afternoon, I visited my gym, where my workout was dominated by sporadic erections and thoughts of the weekend and my overnight predicament. In retrospect, the idea of being trapped temporarily in self-bondage devised by Jim and Bob made my cock painfully hard.

Unwilling to expose my shaved body and hard cock at the gym, I had to return home for a shower. When I was finished showering, I realized that it was around the time I would normally arrive home from work, and that if I were following their instructions, I would be re-installing the chastity belt. Naked and stroking my cock with one hand, I sat in my reading chair and reviewed more of the instructions:

SLAVE IS NOT PERMITTED TO TOUCH COCK EXCEPT TO (1) WASH IT WHEN SLAVE SHOWERS EACH MORNING, (2) AIM IT AT URINAL WHEN SLAVE PISSES AT WORK DURING DAY, AND (3) FIT IT INTO AND REMOVE IT FROM CHASTITY CAGE. AT HOME, SLAVE MUST URINATE BY SITTING ON TOILET WITHOUT TOUCHING COCK. SEE INSTRUCTIONS ABOVE REGARDING USE OF CHASTITY DEVICE. SLAVE’S COCK MUST REMAIN CAGED AS INSTRUCTED ABOVE. EXCEPTIONS TO THESE THREE RULES MAY ONLY BE MADE IF MASTERS GRANT PERMISSION.

I walked into my bedroom, retrieved the chastity belt, and attempted to insert my cock and balls through the ring of the cage, but my erection made it impossible to accomplish. I put it aside, sat on the bed, and rubbed my cock. I could not believe that I wanted to jerk off again. I went back to the lounge chair in the other room and read more:

INTENTIONAL JERKING OFF IS PROHIBITED AND VIOLATION OF THIS RULE MAY CONSTITUTE GROUNDS FOR TERMINATION OF TRAINING. IF SLAVE CUMS INADVERTENTLY, SLAVE MUST E-MAIL MASTERS ASAP TO EXPLAIN CIRCUMSTANCES AND APOLOGIZE FOR LOSS OF CONTROL.

A feeling of dismay came over me. My first thoughts were that I had already violated this rule more times than I could remember and therefore “failed” my training. Then I started doubting that I was supposed to follow all the instructions. Who would seriously do that? What was there to be afraid of? This was just a sexual game, right? I was uncertain about what to do. Was the “game” over because I had violated the “no jerking off” rule? Should I tell them I had disobeyed? Did I want to continue trying to follow my “instructions” for the week? I dressed quickly and left to meet a friend for dinner. During the meal he told me I seemed distracted. I was.

Back in my apartment after dinner, I was horny, but not uncontrollably. I considered jerking off. Instead, I sat at my computer, rubbing my crotch, and began writing an e-mail to Bob and Jim. I started with a sentence asking to be forgiven for jerking off on purpose. I was surprised at how much just writing that sentence excited me, and I rubbed my crotch harder. I explained that had I erred in not fully reviewing the instructions when I returned home Sunday night. I described in detail how I became trapped in the self-bondage for more than 12 hours and had to call out sick from work; how my cock ached from being stuffed in the chastity cage for so long; how, once I removed the chastity device, I masturbated repeatedly through the afternoon. I told them I had not realized that jerking off constituted such a serious violation of the rules. I explained that my erect cock would not fit through the entrance to the chastity cage. I asked them not to terminate my training. I said that I was starting to realize they were right, I was a true slave, and I wanted an opportunity to prove it to them by continuing my training and serving them.

By the time I finished the e-mail, I had opened my pants and was pumping my cock. After I clicked on the “Send” button, I lost control. I thought my cum would be practically non-existent, all used up, but the build-up all evening must have had an effect, because it spurted up over the keyboard. I immediately regretted sending the e-mail. I wished I could delete it, but their e-mail address was connected with a different Internet service than I used. I could not retract it.

Finally, my horniness satisfied, I went to bed free of bondage, in both the literal and figurative senses. Feeling as though I had had enough bondage to gratify my greedy cock for the rest of its life, I did not review the self-bondage instructions for that night. I slept soundly, and woke up very late. Fleeting thoughts of Bob and Jim and their instructions were pushed aside by rushing to get ready and make it to work. Before leaving my apartment, I looked at my computer for a moment, but decided against turning it on and logging in to see if they had responded to my message. I left for work, seemingly unchanged by the last three days, except for a new haircut.

But, I was not unchanged. Work on Tuesday would have been routine, writing computer code as usual, except that, soon after I arrived, I became obsessed by thoughts of Bob and Jim. I started to regret that I had not followed their instructions for Monday night. I considered all of the disobeyed rules: I had jerked off again, even as I wrote to them and asked to be forgiven for previous violations! I completely forgot I was not allowed to touch my cock. I had not even tried to re-install the chastity belt when my dick finally softened. I had not looked at the self-bondage plan for Monday night, let alone carried it out. Within an hour of arriving at work, I ended up in the restroom, masturbating to get relief. It cleared my mind, but only temporarily. Throughout the day, I visited the restroom four times to get rid of my erection, my thoughts about the previous weekend, and my fantasies about future weekends. I was slow in getting work on my programs done. My horniness subsided late in the afternoon, and I stayed late and then went to the gym on my way home. Mid-way through my workout, I could barely contain my miraculously restored erection. I wanted to get home and check my e-mail!

At home soon after, rubbing my forbidden cock through my workout clothes, I logged on anxiously. Bob and Jim’s response filled my computer screen with capital letters. I started reading and rubbing my cock more frantically:

SLAVE, WE HAVE HARDONS FROM READING ABOUT HOW YOU BECAME TRAPPED IN SELF-BONDAGE. TOO BAD, SINCE YOU MISSED WORK ANYWAY, THAT YOU ESCAPED SO EARLY IN THE DAY. WE LOVE THE IDEA OF YOU BOUND, HOODED, GAGGED, TRAPPED ALONE IN YOUR APARTMENT, SO TIGHTLY RESTRAINED THAT ONLY YOUR TOES CAN BE USED TO BLINDLY SEARCH EVERY INCH OF THE FLOOR FOR THE KEY TO RELEASE YOURSELF.

FOR YOUR SAFETY AND OUR CONTROL, ANY FUTURE SELF-BONDAGE SESSIONS UNDER OUR DIRECTION WILL BE MONITORED—MORE ON THIS LATER, IF APPROPRIATE.

WHILE YOUR EXISTENCE AS OUR SLAVE IS ENTIRELY DEPENDENT ON ABSOLUTE OBEDIENCE AND ADHERENCE TO OUR COMMANDS, WE MUST NEVER FORGET THAT SEXUAL SLAVERY IS A VOLUNTARY THING. OBVIOUSLY, SUCH A LIFESTYLE IS NOT FOR EVERYONE. PERHAPS IT IS NOT FOR YOU. WHILE WE WOULD LIKE TO KEEP YOU TIGHTLY BOUND AND GAGGED ON A FULL-TIME, 24/7 BASIS...

Pressing my palm hard into my crotch against my erect cock, I was too excited to continue, and I ejaculated into my jock strap. I zoned out for a bit, in disbelief that merely reading a message from them would cause such a reaction. Shortly, I continued reading:

...WHILE WE WOULD LIKE TO KEEP YOU TIGHTLY BOUND AND GAGGED ON A FULL-TIME, 24/7 BASIS, SO THAT YOU HAVE NO CHOICE (AND, AS OUR FULL-TIME SLAVE, YOU WOULD BE IN BONDAGE MUCH OF THE TIME), IN REALITY THIS IS NOT POSSIBLE. THEREFORE, YOU NEED TO LEARN TO OBEY US WITHOUT QUESTION EVEN IN SITUATIONS WHERE YOU HAVE FREEDOM OF ACTION. WE REALIZE YOU ARE IN A LEARNING PERIOD, BUT THE INSTRUCTIONS REGARDING YOUR SLAVECOCK WERE EXTREMELY CLEAR. YOU HAVE DELIBERATELY DISOBEYED US, AND WE ARE DISPLEASED. YOUR TRAINING IS HEREBY SUSPENDED FOR THE REST OF THE WEEK. USE THIS TIME TO THINK ABOUT WHAT IT MEANS TO OBEY OUR COMMANDS AND TO CONSIDER WHETHER YOU REALLY WANT TO BE TRAINED AS OUR SLAVE. WE WILL ALSO USE THE TIME TO REFLECT ON WHETHER CONTINUING YOUR TRAINING IS WORTH IT FOR US. WE WILL NOTIFY YOU OF OUR DECISION FRIDAY EVENING. TO BE CONSIDERED FOR FURTHER TRAINING, YOU MUST BE HOME BY 6 P.M. ON FRIDAY.

I logged off. I was drained by my ejaculation. Also, I was disappointed, but my mind would not articulate why. The night progressed, and I tried to make it normal by doing errands, watching television, talking on the phone, and washing laundry, but I felt empty and sad. Now that I was allowed to touch it, my cock seemed dead. I went to bed and slept poorly at first. Sometime after midnight, I woke up in the midst of a vivid sex dream, in which I had been hog-tied by Bob. In the dream, I was lying in bed, face down, with each wrist roped to the ankle of the same side but not to each other. My arms and legs were splayed open as Bob held them down and fucked me. I tried to go back to sleep. I wanted to go back into the dream, but my cock was painfully hard. I had to make it go down, it was so uncomfortable, and it seemed to take forever for it to cum. I pulled hard, using increasing friction, until it gave in, and then I fell into an exhausted sleep.

The ensuing three days at work were similar to Tuesday, in that I had to jerk off in the men's room multiple times to clear my mind. The pattern became apparent to me: I wanted to be their slave when I was horny, and I was horny most of time. When I succeeded in overcoming my horniness, after breathlessly, silently, squeezing out all the semen I could extract in several rounds of pumping my overworked cock quietly in the restroom, then, finally, my interest in a Master-slave relationship with Bob and Jim would dissipate, at least for a while. At the gym, I could barely contain my erections. At home, I caressed my nipples and rubbed my dick almost incessantly as my mind reviewed the previous weekend over and over. On Thursday night, I canceled plans with a guy I had dated a few times. Instead of the date, I stayed home to browse the Internet for information on bondage and slavery and to jack off. I looked in the gym bag they had given me, reviewed the self-bondage instructions and handled the restraints, and then masturbated repeatedly. My dick became red and irritated and my right arm tired. My cum became scant, to the point that I had dry orgasms. I thought about the details of the previous weekend and replayed them: the bondage and the images of myself in the mirrors in their basement; how they had taunted and controlled me; their notion that I should be kept bound and gagged as their slave, ignored and left in tight restraints in a cage until they wanted to use me; the way I had serviced them without question; the denial of access to my own dick.

By Friday afternoon, I was in a state of mental anguish. The day had passed slowly, but eventually I finished my work and left. I entered my apartment around 5:30 p.m. that evening in a state of indecision, carrying a small, curious package I found, along with an unassembled cardboard carton, both left at my door. After removing the outer wrapping on the package, I saw a handwritten note, written in large letters using black magic marker, on the small, sealed box, on which was also written an address unfamiliar to me:

CHECK E-MAIL BEFORE OPENING

There was also what looked like an address and telephone number written on the box. I put it on my desk next to the computer. The system was slow and it took several attempts to connect. I had one new message, and I knew before opening it where it was from.

HERE ARE YOUR OPTIONS. THEY ARE MUTUALLY EXCLUSIVE:

YOUR TRAINING IS TERMINATED. ASSEMBLE THE CARTON, PACK UP ALL OF OUR GEAR, INCLUDING THE UNOPENED BOX, AND LEAVE THE CARTON OUTSIDE YOUR DOOR.

- OR –

SIGN OFF AND OPEN THE SMALL BOX IMMEDIATELY. YOUR TRAINING RESUMES AS YOU OPEN IT. SIMPLE INSTRUCTIONS ARE INCLUDED. YOU MUST FOLLOW THEM ABOSULTELY, TO THE LETTER, WITHOUT QUESTION.

I signed off and shut down my computer. I stared at the small package and marveled at myself, in disbelief, that looking at a box could make my dick swell. I opened it slowly and started reading:

SLAVE, LOOK AT THE TIME. YOU HAVE UNTIL 7:00 P.M. TO GET YOUR COCK AND BALLS INTO THIS NEW CHASTITY DEVICE. AFTER YOU HAVE CLOSED AND PADLOCKED THE DEVICE, TELEPHONE THE NUMBER WRITTEN ON THE BOX AND IDENTIFY YOURSELF AS OUR SLAVE. IF YOU TELEPHONE TOO LATE, YOUR TRAINING IS TERMINATED.

Besides their instructions and the device, there were also instructions showing how to install it, an Allen wrench, and a padlock. I got undressed and started to work on getting my dick into it. It was complex and I had difficulty, because my dick insisted on becoming erect. I was tempted to jerk off, but I knew if I did that, I would temporarily lose interest, maybe not go through with it, and then have regrets when my horniness returned. I resisted the urge and concentrated on the clinical aspects of getting my cock and balls inside.

The device was a pod-shaped, hinged metal sphere. It opened into two halves, connected by a hinge. The bottom half had a small, cock-ring-sized hole in it, and the first step was like putting on a cock ring. I struggled to work my cock and balls through the hole. Eventually, I fit them through and pulled them into that half of the pod, which they filled. The top half of the pod had no opening and hung from its hinge below my balls. A narrow leather band was riveted on the bottom half, clearly intended to wrap around the cock and balls and hold them in place by means of a velcro closure. Despite my swelling cock, the band did its job. The next step was to swivel the top half up—quickly, since I was getting harder fast—and seal the pod closed. This was tough because my balls were swollen and spilled over outside, preventing the edges from meeting. Holding the pod together, I got a credit card from my wallet and used it around the circumference, where the edges pinched me painfully, to push the skin of my balls inside. I had to try to focus on non-sexual thoughts to get my swollen cock to go down, and though I feared for a moment that that would never happen, all at once it softened for an instant, enough time for the pod to close fast with a light metallic sound over my cock and balls.

Hinged at the bottom, the pod had an interlocking tube device on top, which fastened using an Allen Wrench (included in the package) on an internal screw. I turned the Allen wrench until the screw stopped moving. That was when I noticed a pea-sized hole at the bottom, to piss through.

I pulled at the pod, to test whether I could dislodge it. Not being able to get inside to maneuver my cock and balls apart would make it impossible to get off. Inside the top part of the pod, there was a curved metal band that closed down over the genitals. It increased the constriction just a bit and ensured that there was no way I could touch myself.

The last step was to slip a padlock through a hole on the side of the top tube, where the Allen wrench would enter, to ensure the pod could not be opened by anyone who didn’t have the key. I paused to examine the padlock and look for its key just as I noticed that I had used almost all the time I had available. There was no key, and I had no time left to think about the implications of that. I had a rush of adrenaline, felt my face flush and my cock stab the pod, as I inserted the padlock and snapped it shut. I could feel my cock and balls, as they filled with blood, trying to pull up against the bottom part of the leather band inside the pod, which felt snug, heavy, and a little uncomfortable as my cock and balls enlarged and encountered the unyielding metal. The pod protruded less than the cock cage had when I wore the other chastity device, and, not surprisingly, it seemed to compress and seal off my cock and balls more than the cage had.

It was exactly 7:00 as I dialed the phone number. An unfamiliar male voice said hello. I hesitated, and then said, “This is Jim and Bob’s slave.”

“My name is Master Tom, I’m a colleague of your Masters. Is the chastity pod on?”

“Yes, Sir.”

“Padlock in place?”

“Yes, Sir.”

“Good. I take it you have a spare key to your apartment?”

“Yes, Sir.”

“Bring it to me. My address is on the box, I live quite close. The walk should take you approximately 20 minutes, I’ll expect you at 7:30 sharp.” He gave me a few quick directions, then hung up.

I pulled on sweatpants, grabbed a T-shirt, put on my sneaks, found my spare key, and ran out the door. In a daze, I had already gone about three blocks before I realized I had left Master Tom’s address behind, and had to return to my apartment for it. On my way again, I started running, in a panic that I might get lost. I was embarrassingly aware of the heaviness between my legs, bobbing against the sweats as I ran. It felt nice and snug, but I was sure that every passer-by on the street was staring at my crotch.

Master Tom opened the door to his elegant town house himself, “You’re late, boy, you kept me waiting,” he said, as he admitted me inside.

I was perspiring and breathless. “Sorry, Sir. I’m new in town and wasn’t sure of my way. I’m very sorry, Sir.”

“Sorry, even ‘very’ sorry, doesn’t cut it, boy. ‘You’re late’ is a statement of fact, to be acknowledged by, if anything, ‘Yes, Sir.’ ”

“Yes, Sir,” I murmured.

He was wearing a leather shirt, leather pants and engineer boots. He was older than Bob and Jim and not someone I would previously have considered attractive. However, he exuded a sense of absolute authority, which made me realize that Bob and Jim had awakened in me a desire to be submissive to dominant men.

“Never keep me waiting again. Where’s the key?”

I reached in my pocket and placed the spare key to my apartment in his open hand.

“Drop your pants.”

I did so. He inspected the chastity device, pulled at the padlock to check that it was truly locked, then stood back and snapped his fingers. I looked around, expecting someone to come into the room, but no one did. He snapped his fingers again.

“When I snap my fingers you drop to your knees, boy.”

He snapped his fingers a third time, and I sank to my knees.

“Bow your head. Put your hands behind your back. Always keep your head down and your hands behind your back in a Master’s presence unless he tells you otherwise.”

I bowed my head. He snapped his fingers again. I knew he expected something, but had no idea what.

“Eyes down, boy. When you’re on your knees and a Master snaps his fingers, you kiss his boots.” He snapped his fingers and I lowered my lips to touch a boot he thrust forward.

“When you’re kissing a Master’s boot and he snaps his fingers, you stick your tongue out as far as it can go and start licking that boot, boy.”

He snapped a finger and I started to lick for all I was worth.

“Stick your butt in the air, boy. Higher. As high as you can. Higher.”

A hard hand came down sharply on my ass.

“Nice butt, boy. I could find myself tempted to keep you here tonight, but your Masters may have other plans for you. Get up, boy, pull up your pants, go home and read your e-mail.”

I walked home slowly, doubting my sanity once again, this time for having given the key to my apartment to a total stranger, even if I had liked him. I wondered whether I was still supposed to meet Jim and Bob at the bar, as had been originally planned before I disobeyed them.

I bought a sandwich on my way home and began eating it as I brought up the newest message on my computer from Bob and Jim:

SLAVE, DO NOT COME TO THE BAR TONIGHT. YOU NEED MORE OBEDIENCE TRAINING TO EARN THE PRIVILEGE OF SPENDING TIME WITH US. INSERT YOUR BUTT PLUG AND THEN FOLLOW THE WEDNESDAY NIGHT SELF-BONDAGE INSTRUCTIONS. MAKE SURE YOUR APARTMENT DOOR IS LOCKED BUT ACCESSIBLE WITH THE KEY YOU GAVE MASTER TOM.

Signing off, I had mixed feelings. I felt better about having given my key to “Master Tom.” It all made sense. Bob and Jim wanted to ensure that I was safe. Master Tom would be a back-up if I got stuck in self-bondage. On the other hand, I was disappointed that I would not be seeing Bob and Jim. How many nights alone, in self-bondage, would I have to endure before being permitted to be with them again? My cock and balls swelled against the metal enclosure, and I knew it was in response to the anticipation of sleeping in bondage.

Suddenly, I was anxious to get myself into whatever my Masters had devised for me. First, I sat on the toilet and pissed, a new and slightly messy but not unpleasant experience with the restriction and drainage through the chastity device. It was strange not being able to touch and direct my cock. My piss welled up around my genitals before draining through the hole in the pod, which was not aligned exactly with my pisshole. Urine continued to drip from it well after I thought I was finished. I shook out as much urine as I could, and after cleaning up the few drops of piss that leaked onto the floor when I stood, I lubricated my ass and inserted the butt plug. That caused as much of an erection as the pod would allow, which felt unpleasant, but not excruciating. There was very little room for a hard cock and absolutely no access to my cock and balls. I had a moment of acute frustration while I thought that I probably would never be able to cum while wearing it. Obviously, Bob and Jim had the unique key to the padlock. The uncertainty of when I would see them again started to have a different meaning. It was true that at any point I could go to a hardware store and buy a bolt cutter to cut the padlock off, but such an act of disobedience would never be tolerated, it would mean the end of any chance of our Master-slave relationship.

The gym bag contained two items with which I had not played during the week, and the self-bondage I was supposed to follow involved them: a rubber hood with a gag inside it and a rubber sleepsack. It looked like the sleepsack had never been used; inside it, I found a piece of paper containing a small promotional piece: “You can use it by yourself with a little extra effort. Made from 20-gauge latex, you stretch the neck open and slide yourself in. It closes back tightly around you. No zipper or other holes makes this sleepsack a waterproof enclosure. It can be so stimulating once you're inside, you may cum before you want to. No inner sleeves, so your arms can move all over. Squirm, stretch, bend and struggle. It won't break and you can wear yourself out. Safe play, because you can escape when you finally need to, but you will have to work to get free, and you may not want to get out!” I wanted to rub my dick just reading the description. I knew I would not be cumming in the sleepsack, not as long as my dick was cramped inside the metal pod. I anticipated the perspiration it would cause by drinking a large glass of water before I put myself into it.

Some time later, I woke up in my bed in a state of confusion. My reflexes took over for an instant, and I found myself fighting to move my arms and legs and to breathe before I realized why I felt so constrained. I was surprised that I had fallen asleep and wondered how much time had passed. The hood was very severe. I could breathe solely through the only openings it had, small nose holes. An attached, large rubber gag filled my mouth. Viewing it as a challenge, I had liked the hood a lot when I first put it on. An unknown time later, lying there on my side after waking up in it, I realized how claustrophobic it made me feel. It was going to be difficult to remain in bed, encased in rubber, at my own volition. I could feel my cock trying to penetrate the metal pod, and it hurt. Either my bladder was full, or the butt plug felt like it had enlarged. I wanted to cum or piss, I wasn’t sure which.

I rolled carefully from my back onto my stomach to hump the bed but stopped quickly when the pain in my cock increased. It was at that point that I sensed (actually smelled) the presence of someone else in my bedroom. Frightened and on the verge of panic, I started squirming, moving around randomly in the bed, and grunting as much as the gag allowed. My arms were at my sides, my hands at thigh level, and I began to move them up within the sleepsack and to pull down on the rubber encasing me. Initially, I resisted when I felt my arms being pushed down, but then stopped when I heard a loud command in an unrecognizable voice, “Stop that.” The increasing pressure around my arms at the level of my elbows forced them closer to my body, and I realized some bindings (rope? straps?) were being tightened around them. The pressure stopped with my arms flattened against my sides and held fast. At the same time, I felt something being tightened around my ankles and a wide collar being buckled closed as I was forced to raise my chin. The simultaneous addition of what I decided were straps and the collar suggested that more than one other person was present. That was proven when I felt myself being lifted off the bed and set down on the floor. I lay still and tried to listen to what was happening next, but I could hear nothing except the sounds of my heart pounding and my breathing through the nostril holes in the hood.

Several minutes passed before a vision appeared in my mind: Bob and Jim, comfortably resting in my bed, with me, their slave, lying on the floor next to them, encased in rubber, bound and gagged. More time passed, giving me a chance to consider that scenario. I liked it. I began to relax, and I could feel my cock push against the pod in response to the idea that they might be in my bed. Lying on my back, I remained still on the floor for what seemed like at least an hour, but nothing happened. I could no longer sense the presence of anyone else. I could not determine the amount of time I had spent sleeping, and that made it impossible to figure out how long I had been in the sleepsack. There were signs that much time had passed: I could feel heavy, accumulated perspiration against the rubber; my arms and legs were restless and needed a change in position; I was thirsty; I needed to piss. How long?

Periodically holding my breath, I kept straining to stay absolutely still and quiet. I wanted to hear or feel something, wanted to somehow sense anything that would reassure me that they were in my apartment. I could hear no sound. Eventually, so much time seemed to pass that I started to have doubts. Had they left my apartment? Was I alone? Was it even Bob and Jim who had been there? I shifted carefully on to one side and felt the constriction of the straps that had been added outside the sleepsack. I squirmed, tried to stretch, inadvertently turned over onto my stomach, and moaned loudly through the gag. I tried to call them quietly, “thirs?” No response. “hees?” I waited, but nothing happened. Would they really leave me? Maybe it had not been Bob and Jim. Was it Master Tom, and if so, who was he with? Were they still in my apartment? What was I supposed to do?

Attempting to be more comfortable, I turned back onto my right side. The collar kept my head upright, but I could rest it on the floor by leaning my chest forward. I would just have to wait it out. I tried to calm down. I tried to convince myself that not as much time had passed as I imagined and that I wasn’t that uncomfortable. The hood wasn’t all that terrible, I told myself. More time passed. Eventually, I couldn’t hold back anymore, and gave in to the discomfort caused by my full bladder. I felt the warm piss slowly spread over the bottom of my crotch, my thighs, and onto my hands. I thought I could smell the acrid urine, but I wasn’t sure of my senses anymore. I liked the rubber sleepsack, but being encased in it for so long that it became a container for my sweat and piss to coat my body had never been something I imagined. Suddenly, I thought I heard the faint sound of music filter through the hood, but I wasn’t sure. Was it from my radio alarm clock? Around 10:00 the night before, I had set the alarm for 10 hours later. Bob and Jim’s instructions had required eight hours in the sleepsack, but my anticipation of slithering into it had made me so excited, I had decided to add two extra hours. Hearing the music could mean it was at least 8:00 a.m.

Gradually, over an uncertain period that probably lasted just a few minutes after I thought I heard the music, I started to panic. I couldn’t control my thoughts any longer and surrendered to what I thought was the frightening reality that I had been left alone. I shifted around on the floor, tried to sit up and move my arms, and started moaning loudly. To my great relief, I felt hands on my shoulders and heard the words, “No you don’t, not yet. You’d better calm down.” A hand ran up and down my body soothingly, and ultimately I did grow calm.  But no sooner had I done so than I was flipped over onto my belly and the person, whoever it was (I didn’t know the voice) sat on my back.

He fitted something over my head and I sensed fastenings and buckles being worked into place over the rubber hood. Then he lifted himself off me, and bent my legs back at the knees as far as the sleepsack would allow. A moment later, my head was forced back. Some sort of binding connected the top of my head with my ankles.

The voice said, "Try to move now." When I tried to straighten my legs, my head was pulled back, when I tried to rest my chin on the floor, my legs were pulled forward.

The voice said, "Don’t worry, I won't leave you alone. I'll be right here," and a hand carressed my ass.

I had no idea to whom the voice belonged, but I didn't care. I was just glad that I was not alone, and didn’t even mind, for a while, that I had been forced into such an uncomfortable, bowed back position.

I remained as still as possible and concentrated on my breathing, but it was difficult to adjust to the increased restraint of the head harness over the rubber hood, combining with the effect of the mouth-filling rubber gag.  The straps that had been placed over the sleepsack seemed to have become tighter. I had trouble imagining I could endure the position for long. After a few minutes, in a reflexive movement, I forgot my ankles were connected to the harness and unintentionally pulled my head back with a hard jerk. I started snorting through my nose and grunting around the gag and through the hood.

Almost immediately, I felt the harness being unfastened and removed. My legs straightened, a wonderful feeling, and I was rolled onto my back. Hands fiddled with the collar at my neck and then the rubber hood was peeled off my sweaty face, the gag was extracted from my mouth. Sweat stung my eyes, which I kept tightly shut.

My captor wiped my face with a towel and when I opened my eyes, in the dimness of the early morning light filtering through the shades over my bedroom windows, I found myself looking into the dark eyes of a totally naked stranger who was squatting beside me.

"Okay, I’ll take off the hood. But you’re staying in that sack at least three more hours.”

He was about my age, maybe a year or two older, and very handsome, with dark, thick, short-cropped hair.  His cock dangled near my face; it was a nice cock, large, and semi-erect, accentuated by the wide, black leather straps of a cock and ball harness. In the faint light, his skin looked olive, or very tan.

He raised himself up and swiveled around, looking for something. There were red streaks on his buttocks. 

He was kneeling beside me again, with a thick gray sock in one hand and a roll of duct tape in the other. As he rolled up the sock I noticed he had a prominent tattoo of an eagle on one biceps.

“I don’t know who you are,” I said.

““My name is Mike,” he said with a smile. “I belong to Master Tom.”  He straddled my chest. “You’re a boy who needs to be gagged,” he said. “Open wide.”

I was suddenly very embarrassed. He seemed so attractive and cool. His body was perfect. His voice was sexy. He looked so clean and appealing. In contrast, I imagined that I looked like a sweat-drenched rubber bondage freak and wondered if he could smell the sweat and piss in the sleepsack.

He inserted the sock slowly, deliberately filling my mouth and eventually getting the whole sock inside before clamping my mouth closed around it and wrapping my lower jaw with tape, from right beneath my nose to underneath my chin. I sensed a locker room odor, and my self-consciousness increased as I realized and hoped I was probably smelling and tasting his own dirty sock. He was silent and intent on his work as he pulled and layered the tape to seal my mouth.

He was rough, and I got the impression he was relatively inexperienced. Long after my mouth had been totally sealed shut he continued tightly wrapping the tape. I inadvertently groaned as he finished. He smiled down at me, shifted his position slightly, and started rubbing his cock and balls over my nose, eyes, and taped mouth. Powerless and overwhelmed, unable to see or smell anything but his genitals, I blinked my eyes and inhaled his odor through my nose. He shifted forward, burying my face in his buttocks and pressing the crack of his ass over my nose.

The aroma was musty but clean and I could feel the stubble of shaved hair against my nose and cheeks. He shifted back, his cock, more erect now, came back into view, and he used his hand to grab it and slap my face with it a few times. Then he straightened up and said, “You’re pretty much mine for the weekend, you know. And I think I’m going to have a very good time.”

SLAVE TO TWO MASTERS - 3

Part 3 of this story originally appeared in the Bound & Gagged online edition, No. 15 August 2000).

3

MIKE

It had started as fun. Even though, following Bob and Jim’s instructions, I had eagerly gotten myself into the one-piece rubber sleepsack, somehow doing it on my own and knowing I could escape mitigated the discomfort that increased over the hours. I had even fallen asleep in it. But now everything had changed dramatically—people had entered my apartment and my room as I lay hooded and blind, and now I was strapped, unhooded, in the sack on the floor while someone named Mike slept in my bed. My mouth was stuffed with his sweatsock and taped closed, and the hours dragged slowly as I listened to his easy, light snoring. The unyielding, chafing rubber, virtually glued to my body, became more unpleasant with each passing minute. I agonized over how much longer he would sleep and whether he would release me when he woke. I rocked carefully, quietly, from side to side on the floor, in an attempt to relieve my physical distress. I closed my eyes in despair, for just a few seconds, and opened them when something grazed my nose. Mike’s feet were in my face. He was sitting on the edge of my bed, playing with his cock.

“Waking up to the sight of you like that is a not a bad way to start the day. Had enough? I guess it’s time to get you out.”

He unbuckled the leather belts that encircled me and stood up to watch as I self-consciously squirmed and sloshed in the sack, working hard to peel off the rubber and extract myself through the neck opening. Finally free, kneeling on the floor, my mouth still taped shut over Mike’s sweatsock, I rubbed my damp arms, and shivered. I was coated with piss and sweat and felt cold and clammy. At a gesture from Mike, I put my wrists together behind my back for him to cuff them.

“Stay on your knees. Follow me”

I crawled behind him into the bathroom and at his command climbed into the tub, got back down on my knees and finally managed to urinate through the chastity pod, my urine dribbling down the inside of my legs. Mike made me bend over till my forehead touched the wet porcelain bottom of the tub. He removed the butt plug and filled me with a warm water enema till I was cramping in pain and thought I would explode. Finally he let me get out of the tub and evacuate on the toilet. He ordered me back into the tub, uncuffed my wrists and instructed me to wash and shave my body.

“When I take the gag out, don’t speak unless I ask you a direct question. I’ll punish you if you speak without permission.”

The water was warm and wonderful. I finished cleansing myself and removing the stubble of hair below my neck, except for the area concealed by the chastity pod. After I toweled myself dry, Mike removed the tape, pulled the sock out of my mouth, and instructed me to wash and shave my face. I brushed my teeth and used mouthwash. When I was done, he recuffed my wrists behind me. He was fascinated by the chastity pod. Repeatedly, he stared at it, pushed it this way and that, cupped his hand over it, pulled down on it, as if expecting my cock and balls to pop free. The pod held fast. Mike pinched my nipples and smiled as I winced. I took in new details about him—he was my size and weight but had about an inch or two in height over me.

“You’re a nice looking kid. I’ve noticed you at the gym.”

I had noticed him, too, I now remembered. His prominent chin and pouting lips were suddenly familiar to me. I had an immediate visual picture of him in workout clothes: he always wore muscle shirts and tight, revealing shorts; he exercised hard and fast; he worked out by himself.

He pushed me back against the bathroom wall and kissed me. His mouth tasted funky but sexy, salty, almost like cum, and being kissed by him was extremely pleasurable.

He had me kneel next to the toilet as he pissed into it, told me to use my mouth on the handle to flush it for him, and ordered me to remain by the toilet on my knees as he showered and dried and put his cock-and-ball harness back on. He rooted though my bathroom items, some of which fell to the floor, used my deodorant and mouthwash without asking, and left two towels and a wet cloth lying on the hamper and floor. I felt conflicted: annoyed at his mess, frustrated because I wanted to talk to him, yet turned on because he was so hot looking. His dick seemed to be in a perpetual semi-erect state. He retrieved the key to the handcuffs, ordered me to stand with my back to him, unfastened one cuff, turned me around to face him, and locked my hands together again in front.

“On your knees. Bow your head. Good. Now kiss my cock. Take it in your mouth, just the head. No tongue action, just hold it between your lips.”

He quickly became fully erect. He pushed my head back, off his cock, backwards till I was staring up at him. He smiled down at me. I wanted to suck him so badly I was practically drooling.

“I want you to clean up in here.”

He continued smiling at me, holding my head in his hands.

“When I give you an order, say ‘Yes, Sir.’ If you’re gagged, nod your head. Got it?”

“Yes, Sir.”

“Get busy. Scrub the toilet well if you don’t want to lick it clean. I’m going to find something to eat.” He left the bathroom.

I looked around me at the room he had messed up, and was suddenly angry. Screw you, I thought. Who the fuck are you, anyway? I’m sick of this game. Just because you’re…I don’t know what, doesn’t mean I have to clean toilets for you, you slob.

But a moment later it occurred to me that this was probably a test, and if I hoped to see Bob and Jim again I had better do my best to pass it. I started to comply with his order. I was pushing things into the hamper when he came in and made me stand still so he could buckle and lock a leather collar around my neck. He was still naked, and his cock brushed my buttocks.

“You’re dreaming in here,” he said. “If you know what’s good for you, you’ll get cracking.”

The handcuffs impeded my progress, but I quickly straightened and scrubbed the bathroom. Two or three times, I stopped, looked down at the chastity pod and my cuffed wrists, and looked at myself in the bathroom mirror to see the collar locked around my neck. I wasn’t sure how I felt about it all, but I continued scrubbing all the harder.

I spent the rest of the morning doing various chores. While he sat at the kitchen table drinking the juice I poured him, eating the bowl of cereal I served him and drinking the coffee I made him, I scrambled eggs and grilled bacon for him, and at his command scrambled some eggs for myself which I ate from a bowl on the floor between his feet, drinking juice from a bowl beside that. My hands were cuffed behind me again so I got orange juice and egg all over my face. He removed the cuffs completely for me to wash the breakfast dishes, and unrestrained I went on to clean the apartment, fold and put away clothes, wash the rubber sleepsack and hood I had soiled, and make the bed. While I raced around doing housework, he half sat, half slumped in my reading chair, a leg thrown over one of its arms, watching television and idly playing with himself. Finally I stood before him at last and indicated that my chores were complete. He motioned me to kneel at his feet on the floor.

The silence between us was getting to me. Apart from making occasional remarks to the TV set, he said nothing at all. After kneeling beside him watching some stupid show for almost fifteen minutes, I thought I’d explode if we went on like that any longer. I had to break the silence, and damn the consequences. “I need to talk,” I said. “I don’t know who you are. I really don’t know what’s going on. Please talk to me!”

He smacked my head, hard. “I told you not to speak unless spoken to. Didn’t I make that clear?”

I was too stunned to reply.

“Answer me,” he said. But I couldn’t say a word. I bowed my head and scrunched up my face, fighting tears. His hand came down gently on my head and gently caressed my cropped hair. “Okay, okay, I’m sorry, I hope you’re not going to cry. Okay, just this once you can talk. What do you want to know?”

But I suddenly didn’t know anymore. I shrugged. “Do you live with Master Tom?” I asked, in a small voice.

“Kind of. I mean I don’t exactly live with him but I live in his house. I told you, I’m his slave. Sometimes I spend the whole week with him and sometimes I don’t see him for days at a time. It’s his call, always.”

“But why are you with me? I don’t know your Master Tom, though he told me he’s their friend. Where are Bob and Jim?”

“They needed a baby sitter for you, and he sent me over. At least that’s my impression, no one gives me reasons. So it’s not only your ass on the line today, understand? Understand?” he repeated, but softly.

“Yes, Sir,” I replied. Just like that, everything was all right again. I leaned my head against his knee.

“Good,” he said. “So just obey me.”

After a few more minutes spent stroking my head, he sent me into the kitchen to drink two large glasses of water, then told me to bring him the sports bag Bob and Jim had sent home with me the weekend before. From the bag he pulled out three long coils of rope and the head harness with the ball gag.

“Get your ass into the bedroom,” he said

As he worked at positioning and binding me on the bed, I had a strong sense that he was enjoying himself, and I felt happy, too. His touch thrilled me. At that moment I believed there wasn’t anything I wouldn’t do for him or let him do to me.

He had stayed undressed all morning, and I had noted his cock become erect intermittently while I did chores. Now it was stiff, and he rubbed it against me as he tied me face down to the bed. He spread my legs to bind each ankle to a bedleg. He threaded rope through the D-ring at the top of the head harness, looped it between my bound wrists and pulled, bringing my head back and my wrists up high against my back and splaying my elbows wide apart. My cock, trying to become erect within the pod, was hurting. I was very turned on and wanted to moan through the ball gag, but I feared Mike might mistake my pleasure for pain and go easy on me. I didn’t want him to go easy on me, though I wasn’t all that happy to see him approach the bed with a thick leather belt doubled up in his fist.

“I’m going to punish you now for talking when you weren’t supposed to before. Can you take it?” He gave me a warm smile.

I made affirmative sounds, determined to take whatever he wanted to dish out.

He knelt on the bed between my legs and began smacking my buttocks, first with his hands, then with the belt, using strong, quick strokes to which I responded with sharp breaths through my nose. I clenched my ass cheeks involuntarily and tried to push into the bed, to get away from the pain. The beating went on for a few more blows, then stopped.

“Raise your butt high, like you did before. I like that.”

Clenching my teeth, I pushed my ass up as high as I could. He got off the bed to get better positioning and the beating resumed, the blows became harder, sharp smacks, cutting snaps. It wasn’t long before I was groaning into the gag. My butt dropped, I tried to shift on the bed, to deflect the blows. The beating seemed to escalate further, the belt constantly coming down where it hurt most, and no matter how hard I tried, I could not get away from it. The snapping sound of the strap and the stinging pain was almost unbearable. I struggled against the bindings as though I could escape if I tried hard enough. I tilted my head back as far as possible to pull my arms down in an attempt to shield my buttocks. Nothing helped. My ass was on fire, I couldn’t stand the pain. I could feel tears in my eyes, and I started shaking my head violently, begging him through the gag to stop, my words incomprehensible.

And then it was over. I waited for it to start again, but nothing happened. Gradually my muscles relaxed, and I sank down into the bed.

Mike got between my legs again, and the weight of his body gradually settled on top of me. He was holding me, and his head was next to mine. He kissed my wet face and my lips, and gently licked the ball in my mouth. He spoke quietly in my ear. “I had to punish you for disobeying me. I got a little carried away, but I think you and your cute ass handled it real well. I used to cry all the time when I got a bad beating, I still do sometimes.”

His full erection was centered in the crack of my ass; he shifted his hips to rub the tip of his dick against my anus. For a moment I feared he would plunge in bareback, unlubed. “Do you have any condoms?” he asked, to my relief. I did what I could to indicate the night table. He got up and I watched him open the drawer, extract a condom from its packaging, and roll it over his fully erect cock. He squeezed some lube onto the condom, then over my asshole which he worked with a finger.

He was on the bed again, between my legs. “Now, no matter what I do, I don’t want you to move a muscle.”

I relaxed my sphincter and accommodated him without difficulty as his cock slowly entered my hole. Once his cock was fully in place, he pushed it as far in as he could. He lay on top of me, rested his full length on me. He stayed like that without moving for several minutes. At one point, I contracted my sphincter to feel his dick.

“I told you not to move!”

We stayed that way so long that I became aware how uncomfortable I was. I could feel his cock, extremely hard, inside me, but he made no attempt to move it. My butt was sore. My fingers and arms started to tingle from his weight on my back. The pod pushed painfully against my pelvic bone, the steel bar inside the pod was biting into my tight-sacked balls as they tried unsuccessfully to rise all the way up inside me and burst free. My cock and balls felt crushed by the enclosure of the pod and the pressure of Mike’s penetrating cock pinning my crotch to the bed.

Then, all at once, the discomfort gave way to other feelings. I lost track of how much time passed. I felt his heart beating against my back and his breath on my neck and face. I had a sudden, overwhelming feeling of intimacy. I wanted to hold him, kiss him, taste his mouth again. I forgave him in my mind for belting me so hard.

To my relief he started to fuck me, but very slowly. He pulled his cock back gradually, until it was almost completely withdrawn, then cautiously pushed it back in, burying it all the way to the hilt. He increased the pace, then decreased it; sometimes he stopped cold, stayed completely motionless, froze in mid-stroke. It became excruciating. I wanted him to fuck me hard and fast and cum with a huge orgasm. I no longer cared about my own comfort or pleasure. I just wanted to please him.

When he finally pulled his cock out, I was pretty sure he had not cum; this was confirmed later when I saw him remove the condom. He untied my ankles, helped me sit up, then had me get off the bed to kneel beside it on the floor. He sat on the edge of the bed with me between his legs, my back to him. He disconnected my wrists from the head harness but kept them tied behind my back. He removed the head harness and gag and had me turn around to face him.

“Lick my cock. Don’t take it in your mouth, just lick it.” He lay back, laced his hands behind his head. “Go down and lick my feet. That’s nice, take my toes in your mouth, suck each one, lick between my toes.”

I spent the next hour or so giving him a tongue job from toe to head and back down again, giving special attention to his feet, crotch and armpits. I was drunk on the taste of him and the more I licked, the more I wanted to lick, each taste feeding my appetite for him. It didn’t matter that sexual release for me was not a consideration. Channeling my desires into a need to please him seemed a perfect way to deal with my overwhelming desire. I was ready and willing to do anything he asked, complete any task imaginable, prove whatever he required. Though I couldn’t get hard in it, precum was leaking from the piss hole in my chastity pod. He was amused when he roused himself, and brought his hand down to clasp the pod.

“Sticky, sticky. You didn’t cum, I hope?”

“No, Sir.”

“Good. Do you need to piss?”

“Yes, Sir.”

With my wrists still tied, he led me to the bathroom.

“Have you been piss trained?”

“Excuse me?”

“Are you into piss play, boy?”

I’d never done it, never particularly wanted to. “I…I don’t know, Sir.”

“Yes or no is sufficient. Ever tasted your own piss?”

“No, Sir.”

He had me straddle the toilet in a standing position and told me to piss.

My bladder was pretty full. It did not take long for urine to start dribbling, then streaming, out of the hole in the pod.

Mike put a hand right into the stream when it was coming out full force, then brought his hand to my lips.

“Lick my hand clean.”

I disregarded a momentary feeling of revulsion, and licked his wet hand, cautiously at first, then more enthusiastically, until I was sucking on his fingers.

“Not so bad, is it?”

It wasn’t. The piss didn’t have much taste at all, and I eagerly sought out the taste of Mike’s hand behind it. I shook my head in agreement, said “No, Thir,” around his thumb.

When I was done, he shook the pod so the last drops scattered.

“Get down on the floor and lick it up, every drop,” Mike said.

I can’t describe what it was like to complete Mike’s order, except to say that in the end I enjoyed it in spite of myself, because of the idea that doing something I didn’t really want to do would please him. I did the best I could with my arms tied behind me. He left the bathroom and returned carrying the head harness and some rope.

“Get in the tub.”

He inserted the ball gag in my mouth and fastened the head harness in place. He guided me to a sitting position, then onto one side with my legs bent, and finally onto my stomach. He tied my ankles together, then threaded more rope through the rope at my ankles and wrists to bring my hands and feet together in a classic hog-tie. A minute or so later, I felt a warm trickle on my back and my head. Mike was urinating on me. The urine trickled down my bound hands and feet and onto my back. The flow stopped. Mike instructed me to turn on my side, then continued to piss on me until my chest was soaked. Next, he told me to close my eyes and he pissed all over my face. When the flow stopped I opened my eyes. Mike shook the last drops at me and left the room.

Piss had definitely never been my thing. But maybe this time, because it was Mike’s piss, and because it had given him such obvious pleasure to do it to me, I didn’t find it disgusting. I actually kind of liked it, revelled in knowing I was lying in his piss. After a few minutes, I relaxed as much as being hog-tied permitted and realized how exhausted I was. Soon, I actually fell asleep.

Pulling at the ropes and banging my head on the tub, I woke with a start. The shower was running over me. My eyes closed reflexively. Cold water became pleasantly hot. The water stopped, and I blinked my eyes open as I felt Mike push me onto my stomach. He was untying me. The knots must have been tight; it took him several minutes to loosen them. He untied me completely, unfastened and pulled off the head harness and removed the ball gag from my mouth. Wearing only the pod and leather collar he had put on my neck earlier, I stood up in the tub, stretching and swinging my grateful arms and legs. Mike stepped in with me. He ran the shower again and had me soap his body and my own. We started playing. We kissed. He let me explore his body with my hands and play with his cock, but he pushed my hand away when his cock began to pulsate.

We rinsed, I toweled him dry, then dried myself. He got the key and removed the collar.

“Here’s how we do it. For as long as you and I are alone, when I put the collar on, you’re my total slave. When I take the collar off, we’re equals. Now you can talk to me freely.”

“Hi,” I said.

He took me in his arms, smiled. “Hi,” he said back, and kissed me lightly on the lips. “Let’s go inside.”

“I liked it when you fucked me before,” I said, following him into the bedroom and flopping down beside him on the bed. We lay on our backs, he slipped an arm under my head. “I wanted you to cum.”

“So did I. But I couldn’t. I probably shouldn’t even have fucked you.”

“Would you be punished?”

“For fucking you? Probably. I’ll get a beating which will make the one I gave you seem like a picnic at the beach. I can deal with it. If I came? Absolutely. But I wouldn’t like that punishment.”

“I can’t think of anything worse than a beating worse than the one you gave me.”

He made a scoffing sound. I waited for an explanation, but none was forthcoming. I turned my head to look at him. His arm was strong, hard, solid. He turned his head so our noses were almost touching, and smiled wryly.

“I’ll tell you what’s worse,” he said. “No beating at all.”

His words made no sense. “If you say so,” I said.

“Nothing at all. No beating, no sex, no interest. For me, no punishment’s worse than that. If I deliberately disobey a specific order, and don’t have a real good life-or-death reason for it, the punishment is nothing, just being ignored, sometimes for weeks. I’d much rather get a real bad beating than that.”

Suddenly, I understood what he meant. I had been ignored by Masters Bob and Jim.

“An orgasm’s just not worth it,” Mike said.

“And you can’t lie about it…” I said. I myself wasn’t sure if I was asking a question or making a statement.

“Lie to your master? If you think you can, you don’t know anything about slavery.”

“The truth is, I don’t,” I said. “This is all so new to me.”

“Well, take it from me. Never lie to your master. If you ever do, it’s all over, he’s not your master anymore.”

“Not even a teensy weensy lie?” I said. I wanted to lighten the air a little, he was suddenly so serious.

But he didn’t smile. “The thing about sexual slavery,” he said. “is it’s only a game, but if you want it to work, you have to play as if your life depended on it. That’s a quote.”

“From who?”

“Master Tom.”

“Okay,” I said uncertainly.

“And a lot of it’s played on the honor system,” Mike said.

“If you say so.”

“I do, and don’t be a smartass.”

“I’m sorry. But I really don’t know anything, so I have to take what you’re saying on faith. The truth is, I didn’t even know I wanted to be a slave, until Bob and Jim kind of made me one.”

“You didn’t?” Mike said, incredulous.

“I just liked getting tied up.”

“They think you’re a natural,” Mike said. “Don’t get a swelled head, but I heard them telling Master Tom you’re one of the best candidates they’ve ever had. And they’ve gone through I don’t know how many guys just since I’ve been on the scene. I know lots of guys who’d do pretty much anything to slave for them, they’re two of the hottest masters around. Consider yourself lucky.”

I glowed inside.

“I want to learn everything you can teach me,” I said. “Please. What do you mean about the honor system?”

“Just that you have to obey your master with your heart and soul even when you’re not in his presence. That’s what makes the game work. The bond is as strong as any bond two people can have, because it’s based on total honesty between the master and the slave, and yet it’s fragile, too, since a slave’s lie can shatter it.”

“Is that another quote from Master Tom?”

“It’s the truth.”

“And do the masters have to be totally honest with you?”

“It’s different for them. The Master never has to lie to the slave, since he doesn’t owe the slave an explanation for his behavior. The slave never has the right to ask him anything, anyhow, unless he gives permission. But the Master can ask you anything he wants to, and you have to tell him the truth, no matter how badly you know he’s going to punish you for it.”

“Seems a lot easier to be a master,” I said.

“Master Tom says it’s easier being a slave, and I think he’s right.”

“I don’t see why. The masters run the game, they make the rules, they can change them to suit themselves, at a moment’s notice, do anything they want,” I said, “and if they find another slave they like better, they can throw him out.”

“That’s all true. No one ever said the game was fair,” Mike said. “But the nice thing about being a slave is you don’t have to worry about changing rules or making new ones, all you have to do is obey, without question. As Master Tom says, ‘You’re relieved of the hard job of making choices.’ Unless,” Mike said with a grin, remembering something, “he makes you choose between two equally lousy punishments.”

“Does your master punish you often?”

“Often enough. I can be a real fuckup.”

“When…when was the last time?”

“A week ago. Last Friday. Friday’s are usually punishment night, unless something really important comes up.”

“Can I ask you what it was?”

“A beating, about like the one I gave you, and a milking.”

“What’s a milking?”

“You really don’t know anything, do you? He ties me down real tight and jerks me off over and over, till I’ve come four or five times or more and I’m shooting completely dry and my prostate really hurts. And then he’ll go away and leave me restrained for hours, just thinking about my sins. I hate having to stay tied up after I’ve cum.”

I liked the idea of Mike being tightly tied up. I imagined both of us being tightly tied up together. “How long have you been with Master Tom?” I asked.

“Three years.”

“I wasn’t sure before but I think I really want to be Bob and Jim’s slave,” I said.

“It means we’ll probably spend a lot of time together. They’re real close with Master Tom.”

“I’d like that,” I said.

“I might not mind it myself.”

We lay quietly together for a while.

“I know what you mean about being ignored,” I said. “I really was hoping to see them last night…I wonder if I’ll see them at all this weekend…”

“Don’t ask me,” Mike said. “We were all at the bar together last night when this kid came along, a slave applicant they’ve been corresponding with for a while. They were a little surprised to see him, I think, they hadn’t really expected him to show up. But he came over and got right down in the bar licking their boots. So they sent me and him to get them drinks and worked something out with my Master, because when we came back they finished their drinks pretty quick and then Master Tom brought me here to become your baby sitter. And I gotta tell you, I have a real top streak in me I never knew I had.”

He went on for a while about what a kick he was having bossing me around and tying me up, but I wasn’t listening. I had gone all cold inside.

“So Bob and Jim aren’t interested in me anymore…”

“Hey, didn’t I just tell you they think you’re a real find?”

“Yes, but if they’ve got this other kid now…”

“You know, if you want to be a slave, you’re going to have to get over being jealous,” Mike said, raising himself up on an elbow and bringing out the collar from under his pillow. He quickly buckled it, then locked it, around my neck,

“That’s enough talk for now,” he said. “Roll over on your belly.”

I did, and a moment later my hands were cuffed behind my back. He rolled me over onto my side and lay down beside me, took my face between his hands and gave me a long, mouth-filling kiss.

“You’re so cute and you totally bring out the top in me,” Mike said. He reached down, and from the floor picked up the partner to the sock he had stuffed my mouth with when I was in the rubber sleepsack. He rubbed it over my face, covered my nose with it, made me inhale deeply his mild, funky foot smell, then rolled the sock up and working slowly, packed my mouth with it, pushing little ends in bit by bit. When my mouth was packed full and he pulled my lips down over my teeth, he reached down again, picked up a roll of tape, and taped my mouth shut. “Time for a nap, now,” he said.

He positioned me with my back to him and encircled me with his arms. It was wonderful. He felt my pectoral muscles, squeezed them, flicked his thumb over my nipples, and cupped the pod. His stiff cock rubbed against my butt. He got up, and I turned my head to see him putting on another condom. Returning to bed, he said, “Since I’m going to get punished for doing this once, I might as well get punished for doing it twice.”

As before, he lubed himself and me up and entered me slowly. We remained still, lying on our sides, my cuffed hands caught between the small of my back and his lower belly, my fingers caressing the silky flesh right above his burrowed cock. Eventually I drifted off to sleep. I dozed off and on and was aware of small changes in the size and hardness of his cock inside me. In my half sleep, I started pushing back, riding and squeezing his cock. He responded by tightening his arms around me. My cuffed hands and arms were trapped between us. He clasped me tighter, made a resounding moan, and began using quick, strong thrusts. I pushed back further to intensify the jabs. His groans became louder, he increased the speed and power of his ramming, and finally, with a loud, “Shit! Fuck!” he ejaculated.

For a moment he continued to hold me pressed against him. Then he pulled out of me violently, jumped off the bed and started stomping around the room. “Damn!” he cried. “Damn, damn, damn, damn, damn!”

I remained on my side, facing the wall, afraid to move. If I hadn’t been fully gagged, I would have apologized, it was all my fault. There was a sharp thud as, I assumed, he punched the wall. “Jesus fucking Christ!” he said, and stormed out of the room. A moment later I heard water running in the bathroom.

The phone rang several times before Mike raced into the room to answer it. “Yes, Sir,” Mike said, in a thin, unhappy voice. “Yes, Sir,” he repeated, then hung up the phone.

He came over to the bed, uncuffed my hands. “Take off your gag, get dressed,” he said in the same toneless voice as he himself gathered his own clothes and began to put them on.

“I’m really sorry, Mike,” I said, as soon as I had peeled off the tape and pulled the sock out of my mouth.

“It’s not your goddam fault,” he said. “And shut up, you’re wearing the collar.”

“I…”

“I told you to shut up!” he shouted in my face. Then more quietly. “I’m sorry. It’s not your fault. Now, get me a pair of socks. I hope you don’t expect me to wear mine, with your spit all over them.”

I gave him a pair of sweatsocks and put on a T-shirt, baggy jeans that zipped over the chastity pod, socks and sneakers. Mike was already dressed: a tight, sleeveless black shirt showed off his chest and biceps; he wore tight jeans, Doc Marten boots and a biker jacket. He looked very sexy.

“Find me a bag for my chaps,” he said.

He made no move to take the collar off before we left the house, and I thought better of mentioning it. Once outside, he walked swiftly, not looking back when I fell behind. I remained silent as I ran to catch up. I was a little embarrassed. The leather collar was visible under my denim jacket.

Mike didn’t say a word during the whole walk to Master Tom’s house, along a route I now recognized. When we got there, he used a key to let us in, then led me up two flights of stairs to the third floor, down a corridor and into a large attic-type room that was obviously a dungeon of sorts. At his command I drank some water, pissed in a tiny corner bathroom, undressed and folded my clothes. Bondage gear was arranged neatly on shelves and hooks hanging from the walls. Mike seemed in a hurry to do what he had to do with me and be done with it. He gagged me with a metal bit held in place by straps that buckled behind my head and removed the leather collar to install a heavy metal restraint, one I had seen at bondage web sites but had never worn. It was comprised of two flat, hinged steel bars with three half-moon indentations in each: a wide, central indentation that encircled my neck like a big steel collar, and two smaller indentations at either end for my wrists. My elbows were bent at right angles, my locked-in wrists held level with my neck. I quickly discovered that if I tried to relax my arms, the bottom of the metal collar dug into my neck and collarbone. Mike guided me into a cage similar to the one Bob and Jim had in their basement. With the neck/wrist restraint already in place, maneuvering around in the cage to get into the position he wanted was tricky. He was in a grim mood, intent on something other than what he was doing, though he took great care with me, and I was anxious not to give him cause for displeasure.

The bars of the cage were spaced far enough apart that arms and legs could be extended through them. Sitting up straight on the hard floor, the top of my head was just inches from the top bars of the cage.

Mike closed and locked the door and directed me to extend my feet through separate bars of the cage door. He joined my ankles together outside with leg irons connected by a few loops of chain. He took two pairs of handcuffs off the wall and attached one cuff of each to each wrist: the other cuff he locked to a bar on the roof of the cage. Lastly, he threaded rope through one of the straps holding the metal bit gag in place and tied my head to the top of the cage. Then, without a word, he left the room.

Time dragged. According to a clock I had seen on the landing, it had been a little after 5.30 when we’d arrived. There was no sound from anywhere in the house. I was hungry. I hadn’t eaten anything but two scrambled eggs all day and now a wonderful aroma of something being fried or roasted wafted up to me, making my stomach growl. My butt was sore, and no matter how I tried to shift position, (the best I could do was hunch my back, which meant that the rope on my head pulled at the gag unpleasantly) I couldn’t ease the soreness.

My arms were starting to ache, and the position my legs were forced to maintain was becoming arduous. The metal bit irritated the corners of my lips. Moving my jaw around to try to dislodge it was unsuccessful, and I found that grinding the metal against my teeth was decidedly unpleasant. I glanced down at the metal chastity pod. By now my cock seemed to try less frequently to become erect. I wondered if a conditioning response had taken some effect. The notion that Bob and Jim were succeeding in controlling my erections popped into my mind. Where was the key to the chastity device? Why did I have to wear it if they were really interested in another boy? How had I ever let myself get into this situation? Anchored in place, with unyielding, rigid steel restraints, in a cage in the house of someone I did not know, my cock and balls locked up tight by people who didn’t even care about me. I was getting confused, angry. I considered starting to yell, imagined Mike would return and remove the gag, and that I would demand to be released and then go home. I was sorry he had cum while fucking me, that he might go weeks being ignored by his master, but there was nothing I could do about that. I’d ask Master Tom for the key to my apartment, I’d insist on it. I’d stop along the way home at a hardware store to buy an allen wrench and a bolt cutter for the padlock on the chastity device. I’d go to a movie with friends. I’d have a normal Sunday and go back to work on Monday as if all of this had just been a dream.

Bob and Jim walked into the room.

Jim said, “Having fun, slaveboy?”

My heart swelled to see them and my cock stirred in the pod. Suddenly my discomfort wasn’t all that bad. I did the best I could to say, “Yes, Sir,” around the bit and nod my head.

Bob crouched next to the cage and said, “He’s having fun. I think we should leave him like this a while longer.”

“It’ll keep him from jerking off,” Jim said.

“He does jerk off a lot, doesn’t he?” said Bob.

“Much too much,” said Jim. “Good thing he’s wearing that pod.”

They leaned on the cage, staring down at me, making cute comments to each other.

“Well, I don’t know about him, but I’m hungry,” said Jim. “Do we leave him here or take him with us?”

“On the one hand I say let’s leave him here,” said Bob. “On the other hand, I do like having a slaveboy sucking my dick when I dine. Let’s free him for now.”

Jim unfastened my legs and opened the cage. My masters eased me out and stood me up and, after turning me this way and that for a careful body inspection, Bob removed the neck/wrist restraint.

“Put your hands behind your back,” said Jim. “Always stand like that in our presence, when you’re not restrained.”

“Unless told otherwise,” said Bob.

“Yes, Sir, yes, Sir,” I said to each of them in turn. Jim unlocked the padlock on the chastity pod, used the wrench to open it, and then instructed me to extract my cock and balls, which I accomplished by pulling the skin of my scrotum, one ball and then the other, and finally my cock, through the small hole. I put my hands behind my back as Bob took my cock in his hand. It immediately became embarrassingly hard. Both Bob and Jim carefully inspected my cock and my balls, brushed at the pod marks which they said would disappear soon enough, and pronounced me healthy. They turned me around and studied my bruised ass.

“How are you doing, boy?” Jim said solemnly.

“Very well, Sir. I’ve missed you, Sir. Both of you…Sirs. I’m glad to see you.”

“Your ass doesn’t look too good, which is another way of saying it looks great, but are you really sure you want to go ahead with this, boy?” said Bob.

“Yes, Sir,” I replied to him. “Yes, Sir,” I said to Jim. And remembering my original meeting with Master Tom, I fell to my knees and kissed first Master Jim’s feet, since he was standing in front of me, and then Master Bob’s, who was standing by his side

Clearly this pleased them both. “Very nice, boy. Get up,” said Bob.

Jim took something down from a hook on the wall. “Go into the bathroom, shower, wash and shave your cock and balls, you’ll find a clean razor on the sink. Then lube yourself up, put this on and come downstairs. Don’t waste any time and don’t even think of playing with yourself.”

What he gave me was a small buttplug harness, which, after I had cleaned up and shaved, took me some time to get on. My cock had been rock hard since coming out of the pod, and it took forever to get my cock and balls through the cockring. No sooner did I get them through at last than I was fully erect again. I found some lube, greased up the buttplug and my ass, inserted the plug without much difficulty, used as my ass was to Mike, and buckled the harness tightly around my waist.

Self-consciously, cautiously, my cock bobbing in front of me, I proceeded downstairs with my hands behind my back and walked toward the smell of food.

“In here, boy.”

I entered a living room where Master Bob and Master Jim were sitting on a couch, with Master Tom seated in an armchair opposite them. All three were dressed in full leather, holding drinks. There was a large plate of cheese, crackers and olives on a side table. Mike stood behind Master Tom’s chair, his head bowed. Mike was bare chested, possibly naked, though I couldn’t tell with the chair and Master Tom between us.

Master Tom clicked his fingers. Mike disappeared behind the chair and, remembering my introductory meeting with Master Tom, I, too, fell to my knees.

“Very nice,” said Master Jim. Master Bob concurred.

“Let’s see if he remembers the whole lesson,” said Master Tom. “Over here, boy.” I crawled over to kneel at his feet. “Head bent lower than that, boy, eyes down.” He snapped his fingers. I lowered my lips to an outstretched boot. He snapped his fingers again. I stuck my tongue out as far as I could and began to lick the boot.

“Very, very nice,” said Masters Jim and Bob together.

“Not perfect, but not bad,” said Master Tom. “Ass high in the air, boy, remember that.” I thrust my ass in the air.

“Good,” said Master Tom, placing a firm hand on my ass, which he pulled up higher. “Somebody’s been belting that pretty ass,” he said, “belting it hard. I doubt it was either of you two, or that it was done in this house. I’d surely have heard. Crawl over to your Masters,” he said. “And you, Mike, get your sorry little excuse for a butthole over here.”

As I crawled over to my masters, I heard Mike crawling behind me.

Master Bob instructed me to kiss Master Jim’s combat boot, then lick it till it shone.

“Do you have anything to say to me?” Master Tom asked Mike.

“Yes, sir,” said Mike, faintly.

“When I gave you the authority to to give him some light training, did that give you license to beat the shit out of him and raise those welts on his butt?”

“No, Sir,” said Mike.

“Well?”

“I failed, Sir. I failed the whole thing.”

“Obviously you have more to tell me, which we’ll discuss later. For now, you go over there and let that boy know how sorry you are for marring his perfect behind.”

“Keep licking those boots,” Master Jim said, to me.

I heard Mike come up behind me, then felt his warm breath on my buttocks and the next thing I knew he was kissing and licking my ass, washing it with his tongue.

Mike continued laving my buttocks and trying to work his tongue into my asscrack which was covered by the harness belt while I licked Master Jim’s boots and the three masters refreshed their drinks and ate their hors d’oeuvres. When they finally decided it was time for dinner, Master Tom sent Mike off to the kitchen and I at their command followed my masters on hands and knees into the dining room.

The rectangular dining table, with twelve chairs placed at comfortable distances around it, two on each end and four on each side, was a thick slab of clear glass set atop a carpeted steel cage about three feet wide by six feet long and approximately two and a half feet high, considerably wider and longer and lower than the one upstairs and the one I had been in at Bob and Jim’s. I was directed to enter the cage by a door at the head of the table which clanged shut behind me. The bars of this cage were spaced wider apart than those of the two other cages, wide enough to stick one’s head through to lick boots or suck cock, something I was ordered to do to Master Bob as soon as he and Master Jim took their places at one side of the table, opened their pants, pulled out their cocks and drew their chairs up so close to the cage that their knees came through the bars. Master Tom sat opposite them and while I sucked first Master Bob’s cock and then Master Jim’s, Master Tom played with my ass, pulled my balls and squeezed my dick. I was aware of Mike, naked except for his cock harness, his dick limp, walking around the table serving the three masters. Every once in a while Bob or Jim would pat my head, stroke my shoulders, or playfully pinch my nipples. I felt terrible for Mike, sorry about the punishment he was going to incur, but I was very happy in my position in the cage going from one master to the other.

“Serve the boy, now,” Master Tom said, after the three masters had been eating for a while. “And put your own bowl down here at my feet.”

Jim pushed my head off his cock and pushed my head farther inside the cage. He tucked his cock back inside his pants and closed his pants as Mike slid a dog bowl with pieces of cut up chicken, carrots and potatoes in it through an opening at the bottom of the cage. I picked up the spoon in my bowl, my only utensil, but was ordered to drop it back into the bowl by Master Jim.

“Never start to eat until given permission,” said Master Jim.

“Yes, Sir.”

“Make yourself more comfortable, you have permission to sit, rest your back here, against the bars, between my legs,” said Master Bob. “Now pick up your bowl.” I did so and he reached in to take a piece of chicken out of it and feed it to me with his fingers, which I then licked clean. For a while he continued feeding me with his fingers, and Master Jim also had me eat some carrots out of his hand and lick his hand clean. After a few minutes of that, Master Bob told me to continue eating with my spoon and he and Master Jim went back to their own plates.

With my back to Bob and Jim and facing Master Tom, I saw Mike set a bowl down for himself outside the cage, next to Master Tom’s chair, then get down on all fours and wait, his face poised above his bowl.

“No spoon for you,” said Master Tom. “Give it to me.”

Mike retrieved the spoon from his bowl with his teeth and presented it to Master Tom, who laid it on the table.

“You eat on all fours tonight,” said Master Tom. “Get going.”

Without a glance in my direction Mike stuck his face in his bowl and started to eat.

“That ass is quite a sight. Perhaps your boy has a suggestion as to how Mike should be corrected for his unwarranted excess of zeal today,” said Master Tom. “At the same time I’d certainly be interested in knowing everything else that went on.”

“Well, boy?” said Master Bob, nudging me with a knee. “You have our permission to speak freely.”

“I don’t know what to say, Sir. I’m fine, really I am. I learned a lot, Mike taught me a lot.”

“I daresay he did,” said Master Tom. “Tell me something you learned, boy.”

I had to think quickly. “Always to be truthful, Sir.”

“A very important lesson. Good for you, Mike, that’s one point in your defense. And since the boy probably doesn’t know yet what to be truthful about, let’s ask a few questions, since I know my own boy’s predilections. Mike likes pissplay,” Master Tom said, placing one of his booted feet on Mike’s head and pushing it down into the bowl. “Ask the boy if Mike pissed on him.”

“You heard Master Tom,” Master Jim said. “Did he? Be truthful, boy.”

“Yes, Sir. Yes, he did, Sir, but…”

“Did he piss in your mouth?” asked Master Bob.

“No, Sir.”

“He probably fucked him, too,” said Master Tom. “Mike’s one of those rare slaves who likes to fuck, aren’t you, Mike?”

“Yes, Sir,” Mike said indistinctly into the mush in his bowl.

“Well, boy?” said Master Bob.

“We’re waiting, boy,” said Master Jim.

“He didn’t want to come, Sir. He couldn’t help it, I made him. I rode him, Sir. If he came, it was my fault. Please don’t punish him for that.”

“You’re stepping out of line, boy,” said Master Jim. “It’s not your place, in that cage under the table, to tell any of us what to do.”

“Yes, Sir,” I mumbled.

Master Tom took his foot off Mike’s head. Mike raised his head, staring down at the bowl, looking miserable. His face was covered with mashed food. Master Tom gave him a hard smack on the ass.

“Get your ass upstairs, and on the double.”

“Yes, Sir,” Mike muttered, and was out of the room like a shot.

“Seems our boys got on well together,” said Master Bob.

“Maybe a little better than they needed to,” said Master Tom.

“Okay, boy. Now tell us everything that took place between the time you got into the rubber sleepsack last night until you came here this afternoon,” said Master Jim. “Don’t leave anything out.”

I told them everything I could remember, trying to make Mike look as good as possible. I emphasized all he had taught me to convince them I knew how important it was to be totally truthful. When I was done, there was a brief silence. I wondered what they were communicating to one another with their eyes. Without a word, all three pushed their chairs out and got up. Master Tom unlocked the cage door and at Master Bob’s command I crawled out.

“The boy can clean up,” said Master Jim.

“There’s dessert in the refrigerator,” said Master Tom. “Set three places for us and turn on the coffee when you’re done. Then join us upstairs, the same room you were in before.”

It took me over half an hour to familiarize myself with the kitchen and neaten it up, during which I pondered poor Mike’s fate. A few times I thought I heard someone crying out, but I couldn’t be sure over the running water.

When I got upstairs, Bob was sitting on a small love seat in one corner of the room. Jim and Tom were standing at the foot of the cage I had been in before dinner. Mike was in it now, restrained by most of the same metal restraints he had put on me, and seated in much the same position he had left me in, with a few differences that struck me immediately as surpassing the degree of my earlier immobility. The rigid neck/arm device and handcuffs held his arms and wrists in place, shackled to each side of the cage, as mine had been. His ankles and feet protruded through the cage bars, as mine had done, but they were locked inside a wooden stockade. When I’d been in the cage, I’d only worn leg irons on my feet, enabling me to bend my knees and rest my feet on the floor. In contrast, Mike’s legs were held rigid straight in front of him. He had to lean his back against the back of the cage for support. His feet were locked about six inches apart, two or three inches off the floor, in the middle two of the four slots of the wooden stock.

His head was more thoroughly restrained than mine had been. It was in a harness and muzzle, connected with black cords to the sides and top of the cage. A small breathing tube jutted out from the muzzle. Because of this, I could not view his facial expression, but I had a glimpse of his unhappy eyes, and felt terribly guilty. This did not stop my cock from getting rigid at the sight of him.

“On your knees, boy,” said Master Bob. “Always drop to your knees when you come into a Master’s presence.”

No sooner did I drop to my knees, and bend my head, than I was invited by Master Jim to get to my feet, come over to the cage and examine my friend Mike.

“Like the way we’ve fixed him, boy? I see your cock does.”

“Yes, Sir.”

Close inspection revealed a redness and welts on the visible parts of Mike’s buttocks. Also, I noticed a ring at the bottom of the cock and ball harness was tethered to a bar at the bottom of the door of the cage. Mike’s balls were bulging in the harness and pulled toward his feet; his cock was free, semi-erect, flopped over to one side.

Master Tom told me to sit at Mike’s feet with my legs spread apart. He and Jim opened the wooden stockade, directed me to place my ankles in the outer slots, and then closed and locked it. He pushed a heavy piece of furniture up against my back for support, handed me a small leather crop and said, “Have fun, boy, he has very sensitive feet.” Then all three of them left the room.

“I’m sorry I got you in trouble,” I said to Mike. “I had to tell them, because of what you told me. About being totally honest, I mean. I didn’t want to rat on you. I don’t know what’s going on, this is all so new to me.” I continued babbling my apology and though I couldn’t see Mike’s expression, I suddenly had the strong impression that he didn’t want to hear it, that he was getting bored, that he wished I’d shut up. Through the bars of the cage, under the straps of the head harness, his eyes were closed.

His upturned feet were cute, I would have liked to kiss and lick them. I ran the tip of the crop over the sole of his left foot, which jerked a little. I did it again. He wiggled his foot, exhaled loudly through the tube, opened his eyes. Was he angry at me? I couldn’t tell. I didn’t know what I was supposed to do.

I considered the situation. There was no way I could release myself, or move away, even with my hands free. The wooden stockade kept us connected and kept me imprisoned. My legs were spread apart with my feet on either side of the cage. If I tried to shift backward, all I succeeded in doing was to increase the pressure on Mike’s legs. If I moved forward, closer to his feet, it changed the angle of my ankles in the slots of the stockade, making the wood dig into both our shins.

I set aside the crop. My hand moved to my cock as I took in the sight of Mike, so beautifully helpless, and his beautiful feet, so prominent in front of me. Perversely, in spite of the fact that he was angry at me, just knowing that I was supposed to punish him by tickling or whipping his feet began to excite me. I picked up the crop and started tickling in earnest. I experimented and found that the lightest touches had the most effect. I began to enjoy my power over him. I could make him moan, wiggle his feet, squirm, pull against the restraints. I liked watching his cock twitch and his balls jerk as the tether yanked them, when he shifted reflexively in response to flicks of the crop. The freedom to touch and rub my cock and the self-stimulation were overpowering. The build up of sexual excitement over the last 24 hours, the relief from the frustration of not being able to have a full erection, began to get the best of me. I switched the crop to my left hand so that I could massage my cock continuously, and I shifted my pelvis back to drive the butt plug deeper inside me. Pumping my cock and tormenting Mike’s feet with the crop as well as my uncoordinated left hand was able, I became oblivious to his reactions and gave in to my overwhelming need. I dropped the crop to use my left hand to steady myself as I arched backward, pulled against the stockade, and erupted. The cum spurted upward and forward, landing between my legs on the floor, on Mike’s feet and legs, and on the wooden restraint.

I closed my eyes and rested heavily against the piece of furniture supporting my back. The post-orgasm exhaustion and euphoria passed as I started to worry about what I had done. I sat up and looked at the mess and then at Mike. His cock was standing up at full erection. I wondered if I could somehow hide what I had done. They hadn’t told me not to come, but I was sure I hadn’t been supposed to. I started wiping the cum from the floor with one hand and then rubbing it on the leather harness and my body. I considered trying to lick some of it up and leaned forward to see if I could reach Mike’s feet with my tongue. I froze as I realized I was being watched and turned to see Bob and Jim standing in the doorway.

TESTING THE DOUBLE CONSTRICTOR

[Another self-bondage story that proves once again what by now should be self-evident: self-bondage is the most dangerous kind of bondage there is. PLEASE make sure someone's around to check on you next time you decide to do a solo. BW]

I am writing this to contribute to your website. Love the fact that it is free. Thanks Bob. I was inspired to do this to myself after reading “ESCAPE ARTIST CONSTRICTS SELF INTO NASTY BIND” on your website. I must admit that it is what I was looking for, a secure hogtie that can be self induced. I must say it worked pretty good. Here is my “review” of the constrictor knot:

It was a rainy Saturday afternoon and I wanted to play a little inside. I had finished the story about the guy who hogtied himself in the bathtub and used a very effective constrictor tie so as to remain tied up without the possibility of escape. After reading his ordeal, I had to do some research. I found a couple of good sites that showed how to do a constrictor knot and over the next few weeks I practiced so as to get good at getting out of it. I must admit that this is somewhat hard to do, depending on the type of material used to make the double constrictor knot.

Like I said, I was practicing getting out of it over the last few weeks and tied myself up using different types of rope, cord, and sashes from a bathrobe. I found that the smooth shiny nylon rope will not hold a constrictor knot very well, but the sash off my bathrobe does. I hadn’t had any good long-term bondage sessions in a while as work has kept me busy and also other things going on in life that I had to deal with. But this time I finally found a Saturday afternoon to play with. After tying my hands in front of me and always successfully escaping, I thought this time I would do a reverse hogtie (which is really what turns me on). First I rammed a rubber ball gag down my throat, making sure it was secured behind my head. That is enough to get my juices going, and I got a hard-on in my shorts.

“Mmmmmmmmmm,” I moaned, pretending that someone had me hostage. Well, its not worth doing unless you do it right, so I took a rope and went right to work on my bare ankles. Nothing like the feel of soft rope coiling its way around your body. Nothing like the feel of a rubber ball trying to force its way into your mouth. I decided to do this hogtie right and get up on my bed, this way it would take more effort when it came time to effect my escape plan.

I tied my bare feet together, and ran the same rope up to my bent knees. I made a few loops above and below the knees and cinched them, taking care that the knot was well out of reach. Then I prepared a double constrictor and anchored the two ends of the sash to my feet. Then I thought about how I had not locked my chastity device on and started debating about whether to do it or not. Well, normally when I play these games, I am always wearing it. My personal rule is, when tied up there will be no screamin’ and creamin’, no humming and cumming. When tied up I like to be free to struggle, moan, grunt and whimper without the distraction of being able to get sexual relief. It doesn’t seem right for a man to be tied up and not be desperately horny. But I decided not to cocklock myself, because I was starving to have my hands securely tied behind my back and anchored to my bent-back legs.

Time to take the plunge. I had to bend back to put myself into the constrictor knot and at first I didn’t think that was all that unusual. After all, the times I practiced were with my hands in front of me and not tied to anything else (like my legs), so I went through with it. I grabbed the constrictor knot and fumbled around to contort and twist myself so I could bring my hands together behind my back. Getting into it was a small bit of a struggle, but not uncomfortably so. When I relaxed naturally, my legs straightened out a little and the double constrictor tightened. Well, there I was, and struggling was enjoyable. I had a full hard-on that was leaking and I tried to hump myself off on a couple of pillows. In retrospect I should have only had a partial hard-on, but no chastity device. Anyway, I found that while I was not really paying attention to my hands, it seemed that the knot had tightened on them. It came to a point that it was not able to tighten anymore, but now I was very definitely tied up.

“Mmmmmmmmm, uh, uh!!!” I exclaimed ecstatically. This is what I had been wanting for several weeks and had never had the time to get. I relaxed and started to struggle again. Let’s see, legs, feet, hands, yup, everything was still securely tied. I could look down and see that the knot I had tied around my legs was still tight and very well out of reach. “Mmmmmmmmm,” I moaned again in satisfaction. My erection came and went and I could tell that I got some stimulation from it rubbing on my shorts and the pillow, though not enough to cum.

The time eventually came to escape and I put my plan into action. I twisted and stretched my back and pulled my legs closer to my body so as to get some slack in the constrictor knot. But there was a problem, which was that I noticed that I was unable to get the knot to loosen. Well at that moment I panicked. I must have lost that hard-on in a second, because now I was going to have to escape for real. I kept twisting my wrists again and again with no result whatsoever. Crap! Now I had gotten everything I thought I wanted. I was completely helpless, and no one knew I was there. I hadn’t told anyone what I was going to do or to come by and check on me later. I yelled out, but that did no good, as there was no one around to hear. My upstairs neighbors moved out a week ago and because of the rain no one was walking around outside. So there I was, helpless and all alone. No knife nearby since I was on my bed. And I never thought to leave one nearby on the floor.

I relaxed a little and started to think how I could get out of this. First I rolled and squirmed my way over to the edge of the bed. Then I had to find a way off the bed and onto the floor. There might be a knife in the living room, so I had to get there. What a struggle it was to try to fall out of bed safely onto the floor. And somewhat painful, too. Well I made it to the floor safely and was kneeling down, everything still securely tied in place. Now on my knees I tried twisting my wrists again. I kept doing that for several minutes but to no avail. And now I had another problem. Both hamstrings cramped up severely. I was now yelling out in pain, but who was going to hear anyway? I had to lay down on the floor somehow and managed to get down there without injuring myself. Time for a breather I thought, since I wasn’t going anywhere any time soon. Finally by a stroke of dumb luck I was able to get out of it. All the struggling made me work up a sweat and the sash got very wet. The constrictor opened up just barely enough for me to almost get my hand out of it. That is the only give I had, so I exploited it by keeping it opened a little.

More planned, calculated struggling went on and the knot opened so that I could finally pull my hand free after about an hour or so.

I quickly untied myself and was out of breath, sweaty, and very, very relieved. I only spent a couple of hours tied up, but had I also cocklocked myself it would have been much longer. Being cocklocked feels great, but also limits my movement and this time I needed the ability to move around. If someone had found me that would have been very humiliating. And I didn’t have a story worked out to explain how I got into that mess in the first place. This all happened yesterday and I am sore everywhere from all the work that went into my escape. Next time I will let someone know what I am doing and make sure they are willing to come over and check on me. [Please do. BW]

WEEKEND PROPERTY

[A reader sent me this story he wrote for a new Master who asked him to describe one of his best bottom experiences. He says it happened in the late 70s, before AIDS]

When I was in my early 20s I corresponded with a top who lived in Florida. After a lot of writing and phoning back and forth, we arranged for me to fly down for a weekend, arriving on a Friday night and staying till Sunday evening. The terms of our agreement were that from the moment Fred picked me up at the airport until the moment he took me back to it, I would belong to him. Fred insisted on footing the bill, on the grounds that “you pay for what you own,” and told me I would have no expenses while I was his property. He prepared me over the phone for the weekend, telling me what I was to wear on the flight (a white t-shirt, jockey shorts, jeans, white socks, combat boots) my winter jacket (it was winter) and what I was to “pack” (my toothbrush, razor and shaving cream in a gym bag, nothing more). All I was to have in my pocket was my plane ticket, my fare to and from the airport (which he sent with the ticket), a piece of ID, a dollar in change, and the key to my apartment. On the flight down I was not to read a book or a magazine but to sit still in my seat thinking about what it meant to belong to another man.

About a week before my departure, Fred sent me a thin chain collar and a small open padlock with no key. The evening I received it I was to call him, which I did. While we were on the phone he told me to put the chain around my neck and lock it on; he wanted to hear the padlock snap closed. I lived alone but, even so, this had not been in my plans, since it would mean I’d have to wear a buttoned shirt and tie all week, something I never did, since I always dressed casually for work. But I was so turned on that I locked the collar on, and somehow managed to work the next week out so that no one ever saw the collar. I spent the week with a perpetual hard-on which I couldn’t do anything about, since Fred forbade me from touching my cock except to wash it.

For the plane ride I had to take the jacket off, at Fred’s instructions; there was no way for me to hide the chain locked around my neck.

Fred and I had exchanged photos, so we recognized each other at once. He was wearing leisure clothes, a sport shirt, jeans, dark socks, loafers. He had a long, craggy face and wasn’t a very goodlooking man, but he had a commanding attitude which seemed to make his looks irrelevant. He looked every bit the stern college professor he had told me he was.

He had informed me beforehand never to speak unless spoken to, and when I came up to him he put his hand out for my jacket so that I could not wear it to hide the collar. Then he turned on his heel and without a word led me out of the airport and to his car, where he threw the gymbag that contained my few things into the trunk with my jacket.

Once we were out of the airport, he told me to open the glove compartment and pull out what I found in it: a thick leather gag that buckled around the neck, a pair of sunglasses whose lenses had been painted black, and a pair of British handcuffs (I would later get a similar pair for myself and these have remained my favorites; they snap locked in one position and have rounded edges so can’t cut into the wrists). Fred told me to gag myself tightly, then put on the dark glasses and, finally, lock the handcuffs on myself behind my back.

The drive itself took somewhere between half an hour and an hour. In all that time Fred never said a word to me. Nor did we speak until we were in the garage of his house, when he took the glasses off me, had me get out of the car, removed the cuffs, told me to remove all my clothes, which he put in the trunk of the car, and asked me if I had to piss. I did. He took an old can from a garage shelf and had me piss in it, then taking the can with him told me to follow him inside on my hands and knees.

When inside the house I was naked on my hands and knees for much of the rest of the weekend. It was one of Fred’s rules that I was never to raise my head higher than his cock unless given an express order to do so. I was only allowed to stand on all fours when doing housework (housecleaning, preparing Fred’s food, serving it to him) and when taking care of my personal hygiene in the bathroom. I was never to stand up or to sit on furniture without permission.

The first thing Fred did was lead me into the bathroom and clean me out with several enemas. This was very humiliating. I had never had an enema before, it gave me severe cramps, and when I grunted and groaned through the gag and tried to indicate to Fred that I needed him to stop or slow down he smacked me hard on my backside and told me to deal with it. It was very embarrassing to have to sit on the toilet releasing the water and feces in front of him, and then to have him clean my ass before giving me another enema, until I was thoroughly cleaned out, but I must say that I jerked off to the memory of the enemas Fred gave me for a very long time.

For one period, while I was sitting on the toilet, Fred left me alone there (with the door open; I was never allowed to be in the bathroom with the door closed), and came back ten or fifteen minutes later in full leather: chaps, vest, motorcycle cap, engineer boots. He looked fantastic in the cap, and when I saw it on him something in me gave way and brought out something deeply submissive in me.

Fred told me to get into the bathtub on my knees with my hands behind my back. He held the can with my piss in it over my head, told me to close my eyes, then poured the contents down on me. I shut my eyes tight. The piss ran down over my head down the back of my neck and down my face; some of it even seeped inside the gag in my mouth. Fred told me to open my eyes. He was holding his penis in his hand, pointing it at me. He told me to lower my head. A stream of his piss hit me at the top of my head, then splashed down lower to my chest. He told me to raise my head and look at him. His piss was splashing all over my chest, down the tops of my legs, then up over my chest and higher still. I averted my head. He told me to turn my head to look directly at him. His urine splashed against the faceplate of my gag, hard, and continued hitting it until the stream began to lose its force, weaken, and finally dribble to a stop.

Fred stared at me soaked in his piss and told me now I was where I belonged, didn’t I agree? I mouthed an incomprehensible “Yes, Sir!” into the gag. Fred pulled the shower curtains closed and turned on the cold water. He told me to get to my feet, stand at attention under the water, then rinse myself off thoroughly. He turned off the water, threw me a towel and told me to dry myself, then get out of the tub and back down on all fours.

Once I was in position, Fred played with my asshole a while; he established that my asshole was much too tight and needed a lot of stretching, which he intended to give it over the course of the weekend. He then put a lot of lube on it, informing me that I was never to emerge from the bathroom after having used it for any purpose without making sure my ass was greased and ready for him to enter it any time he chose.

I followed Fred on all fours to the kitchen where he had prepared some food for a light dinner for us (if I remember correctly it was chicken and mashed potatoes or something similar from a fast food place). Fred took a seat at the table where there was only one place set and told me to stand up, find what he’d put out and serve it to him When I had served him to his satisfaction he told me there were two dog bowls in the sink, that I was to fill one with water and one with the food that was left over, bring them over to the table and set them on the floor near his feet. After I had done so he had me kneel down so he could remove the gag, then told me to get on all fours and eat, though no sooner had I begun to eat in that humiliating position than he had me crawling under the table to service his cock. This was the way it would be for most of the weekend. I would serve him food, then prepare my bowls at his feet, then take care of his cock while he ate, and only afterwards, when my food was cold, was I allowed to eat it. Sometimes he put his hand in my bowl, took some of my food on his fingers, and had me lick it off them. Other times, when I was eating or drinking, he’d smack my ass for not doing something right, or, if he thought I was picking at my food and not eating it with enough appetite, put his foot on my head and push my head down till I almost drowned in it, then, when he released my head, he’d order me to face him so he could scoop the food off my face and feed it to me with his fingers.

After dinner was done I was gagged again. Fred made me clear, wash and put away the dishes. Then he led me on all fours to his playroom, which was a relatively small but remarkably stocked windowless room in the center of the house. The house was so constructed that no one who didn’t know about the room would suspect its existence, he told me in one of the few relatively informal chats we had later that weekend, with me sitting on the floor between his legs in the living room. Most of his friends and relatives thought the locked door led to a closet.

The three things I remember best about Fred’s playroom were his custom-made bondage table/rack, which was so constructed that once a person was stretched taut on it the entire center section could be pulled out from under him, making it possible to play with his ass and balls and even stand between his legs and fuck him; a standing frame with multiple bondage points; and a suspension pulley with a boot-rack attached to it (two combat boots screwed through the soles to a board which could be hoisted to the ceiling).

It was pretty late by the time we got into this room, and Fred had to teach a class in the morning, so we only spent an hour or so there this first night, with me snugly attached on my belly on the bondage table and Fred playing with my asshole, first with his fingers, then with a variety of small but increasingly larger dildos. Fred inserted a medium sized butt plug into me before he released me, and told me it was to stay in my rectum till the next morning. He then had me go into the bathroom and brush my teeth (at some point while I was attached to the table he must have gone out to the car and got my things) before joining him in the bedroom where he laced a light leather hood over my head, then fitted me out in a heavy iron collar, connected to wrist and ankle irons by chains which kept me in a more or less fetal position, unable to straighten out fully. Fortunately, like the British handcuffs, these irons didn’t cut into the flesh so I slept pretty comfortably, except at those times when I tried to move or stretch in my sleep and was reminded how restricted my movements were, then woke to the darkness and the closeness and the warmth of the hood. Also, the buttplug was very invasive in my ass and every time I woke it seemed to have grown in size till it was huge.

I must have fallen into a heavy sleep just before dawn, then woke very early Saturday morning to the sound of Fred showering in the bathroom. When he came out he released me from the hood and chains and told me to go into the bathroom, remove and wash the buttplug, give myself an enema from the bag that was already filled and waiting from the shower rod, then shit and shave and shower and lube my ass and crawl into the kitchen where he’d be waiting for breakfast (though I think he may have made breakfast that day).

Breakfast done, he had me put all the dishes in the sink, go piss, then join him in the playroom, where he put heavy mitts on my hands before fastening me down very tightly but comfortably on my back on the bondage table. Once I was secured to his satisfaction, he put a small wooden box with a cut-out at the bottom for the neck over my head and latched it down to the table. It was his newest acquisition, he informed me, and he was very pleased with it. It had a removable section at the top right above the mouth, through which he could insert his cock to be sucked.

Having latched the box down so that it was solidly attached to the table, he tucked towels around my crotch and sides, so if I had to piss the piss would get absorbed, told me he’d be back after his class was over in two or three hours, and left, closing and locking the room door behind him.

This was the only really bad part of my weekend experience. Though I knew Fred’s home address, I had no idea where I was, and I went through periods of panic thinking of all the possible things that could happen to him (an accident, an aneurism), and happen to me as a result of it. The box over my head was maddening. I could breathe, but couldn’t see (the mouth-hole slat was in position), could neither move my head from side to side nor raise it up. The box was solidly latched on three sides. It was all I could do to keep the panic at bay.

My relief was enormous when I heard footsteps outside the room, then the room door open, then Fred moving around in the room, then the mouth-hole slat being moved and light coming into the box, then Fred positioning himself so that his cock came through the hole and I opened my mouth to receive it.

When, released from the table, Fred allowed me to tell him of my feelings at having been left alone (he could tell something was wrong); he told me he was going to give me a sound spanking for having thought he would be so irresponsible as to leave me alone and go out without telling anyone that I was there and helpless. A similarly bondage-minded friend of his, whom he had just called and who would be coming over later that day with his own boy, would have come in an hour or so if Fred hadn’t returned when he did and called him first. As it was, I was going to get that spanking in front of the friend and his boy, and I was going to count the strokes and thank him for them and ask each time for another until he decided I’d had enough. Did he make himself clear? He did, and I thanked him for the upcoming punishment, since thanks were clearly expected, after which at his instructions I licked his boots until he was satisfied that I had done a decent job on them. He told me that as soon as I was presented to his friend I was immediately to lick the friend’s boots, and possibly the boy’s boots, too (though the boy, as it turned out, was wearing sneakers, and I wasn’t ordered—allowed?—to lick them).

Fred had brought lunch back from some fast food place; since I was still mitted, I could not serve him; we ate what he set on the table for himself and in the bowl at his feet for me. Then, for the next few hours, Fred fucked my ass till it was sore.

At some point that afternoon, Fred had me call a friend in NYC whom I’d told I was going away for a bondage weekend. Fred had insisted I leave his address and phone number with my friend, and tell the friend to call me at that number if I didn’t call him myself Saturday afternoon. It was one of the more reassuring things about me taking that long-distance bondage trip to Fred.

Later that afternoon the friend arrived with his boy. I was on all fours when they came through the door, and on being presented to the friend, a very handsome older man about Fred’s age, I immediately went over and licked his boots until the friend complimented Fred on my abilities and Fred told me to stop. I was not told to lick the boy’s sneakers, which I regretted, since the boy, who couldn’t have been more than 22 or 23, was beautiful, and I love sneakers.

We all went to the playroom where I was fastened to the bondage table on my belly, with my backside over a thick pillow, and the boy, with a big ballgag in his mouth, was attached to the standing frame at the head of the table, his cock just out of reach of my mouth. I was then spanked, both by Fred and his friend. I did as Fred ordered, asking for each stroke and thanking them for it, then asking for another. I was told in advance I would get 25 hard swats. Before I’d received even half of them my ass was burning. Fred had told me I could holler as much as I liked but I could not ask them to stop. If I counted wrong they would add 10 more each time; if I asked them to stop, they would start all over from the beginning.

I never asked them to stop, since it was clear to me as soon as I met him that Fred always meant what he said, but I did miscount a few times, my ass was on fire and I couldn’t stop tears from brimming. What made the whole thing bearable was the sight of the kid’s dick in my face. He’d been hard from the start, but the harder I got spanked and the more he could tell it hurt, the more his dick stood straight up, till it was pointing to the ceiling and pulsating.

Finally the spanking was over. I was released from the table, told to suck the boy’s cock (which I did with pleasure), then put in a sleepsack (my first sleepsack experience) on the floor. The boy was attached to the table on his back and pulled taut. Fred and his friend pulled the middle of the table away, rolled it into a corner and pulled me in my sleepsack over to lie under the table, my head beneath the boy’s beautiful ass. Fred and his friend took turns then standing over me and between the boy’s legs, fucking him. Later they hogtied the boy and me and tied us together in a 69 position. I was in heaven, and the boy seemed to be right up there on a cloud with me.

I don’t remember what happened after Fred’s friend and his boy left, which must have been late in the afternoon. In my memory I seem to have worn those heavy mitts for the better part of 24 hours, but I can’t help thinking I’d have had to make and serve Fred dinner, which I couldn’t have done wearing the mitts. I also know I spent most of the evening laced to the standing frame in a straitjacket and very heavy hood with Fred slowly milking my cock. This may have gone on for hours. At some point he allowed me to cum, and told me later that I shot across the room, which amazed me, since I seldom can cum when standing on my feet. Fred continued milking me, which was agony, until I somehow became turned on again, the sensitivity left my cockhead and I remember going off into some pleasant world where I was very, very happy, totally at peace, and totally Fred’s.

I slept that night in chains again, this time without the buttplug, which made it a much better sleep.

Sunday went by at a more leisurely pace. While never easing up on his dominant role, which seemed to be the only one imaginable for him, Fred seemed to relax a little, we even talked a bit (except for yes SIR and no SIR and speaking briedly with my friend on the phone and counting and thanking when spanked, I’d hardly opened my mouth to talk since I arrived). I remember that Fred did ask me at lunch on Sunday if I’d prefer to sit at the table and eat with him. I said that I wanted to eat where he wanted me to eat, which seemed to please him. He placed my bowl of food on the floor (more chicken and mashed potatoes), then squashed his bare foot solidly down through the food in the bowl and told me to make sure his foot was clean before he took it out of there. I did.

I spent about three or four hours in the sleepsack that day, and in the afternoon Fred suspended me upside down for a while with my feet laced into the combat boots nailed to the suspension board. Those were the big bondage events of that day. For the rest, we read the papers, Fred on the couch, me on the floor, and talked a little, and then it was evening and he was taking me to the airport again, gagged and cuffed and wearing the glasses with the painted-over lenses. And then he was dropping me off at the airport, unlocking the chain collar around my neck and saying “Get home safely, boy,” and I was saying “Thank you, Sir,” and it was over.

It was far and away the single best bottom experience of my life. Fred and I corresponded for a while after that, but distance and other obligations got in the way of our getting together, though we’d made tentative arrangements to do so. Then, not long afterwards, I found myself in a long-term relationship, and Fred and I lost touch.

GOODY GOODY CUFFED AND CORRECTED BY COLONIAL COPPER

[This story originally appeared in Issue 35 (July/August 1993) of Bound & Gagged. It was the first of three stories by a Canadian reader, followed by Skinhead Abuses Student while Deaf Mother Sleeps which appeared in Issue 50 (January/February 1996) and The Student, the Apprentice Plumber and the Whitehall Senior Servant in Issue 71 (July/August 1999).]

TORONTO, CANADA. I’m a long time subscriber to B&G and a great fan of the many stories that have appeared over the years describing college fraternities and hazing rituals—maybe because I grew up and went to school in England where such fraternities don’t exist. However my own bondage coming-out did take place during my years at University, in my case with a single hot man rather than a bunch of fraternity brothers.

It was the early Seventies and in England just as in North America, college students were making headlines with their new sexual freedom. But, if a journalist had asked me, he would have torn up all those stories and written one about a wave of celibacy on campus! I was a very naive young man with no sexual experience whatsoever. I knew that I wasn’t interested in girls but hadn’t plucked up the courage to try anything with boys.

My story begins at the start of my second year when I was able to get a room in the College itself. At last I was safe from the prying eyes of older adults like parents or landladies and was living in close proximity to dozens of other young men. My twentieth birthday was coming up in a month or so and when I looked in a mirror then I saw a tall thin young man with broad shoulders, blue eyes, clean shaven with brown hair. I didn’t like the fact that I hadn’t grown any body hair yet, except around my genitals, but I had to admit even to myself that I did have a cute bum and the beginnings of a well proportioned body.

Early one Friday evening I was on my way back to my room with a bag of dirty laundry. I hadn’t been able to find any spare machines and had decided to try again later. In fact my laundry had reached a critical point—absolutely no clean underwear at all! So for the first time in my so-far goody goody life I was walking around without any underwear on. Completely unwittingly I was a chicken hawk’s dream—an innocent 19 year old dressed like a street hustler.

As I dragged my bag of laundry along, my eye was taken by a very cute boy walking in the opposite direction. Not looking where I was going made me barge right into Bill, an older student who’d been in a couple of my classes the previous year. After we’d apologized to each other and chatted a little I found myself being invited out for a drink at a local pub near the University. He seemed really keen to get going and I barely had time to toss my laundry into my room before we were racing off down the hill towards the town.

Soon we were downing pints of bitter as if we’d been friends for years and Bill was regaling me with stories of his life in the British Colonial Police in East Africa. He was in his early thirties when I met him and had spent some years in the nineteen sixties as a corporal in the police in Northern Rhodesia before their independence. Though he was now a full time student he still carried himself with a military stiffness and wore his hair crew-cut short. This was the early 70’s remember so Bill stood out like a sore thumb in those long haired days. In fact, as he mentioned that night, I was one of the few boys around whose hair was even remotely as short as his.

Even though I could hardly admit it even to myself, I’d had a crush on Bill from the first time I’d seen him. Partly because of the years he’d spent in the tropics he was fond of wearing shorts and short-sleeved shirts, not typical clothes for a cool and rainy English town. As a consequence I could see that his body was covered by a mat of thick dark hair and that his legs and arms were heavily muscled to match his big barrel chest. Whenever I stood or sat next to him in class the previous year I had felt like a scrawny kid. The fact that I was six feet-one to his five feet-nine only seemed to emphasize my too-tall gawkiness near this compact tightly muscled man.

After a while in the pub—and two or three more pints of bitter—Bill started to reminisce about some of his more exciting experiences in Rhodesia. He had my rapt attention since all these stories seemed to involve handcuffing prisoners, or having to hold them down while they struggled or having to wade into sweating, heaving crowds to capture sneak-thieves, etc. etc. I listened with ill-disguised interest to all these tales until I suddenly became aware that my cock was completely hard and that my lack of underwear was making the fact pretty obvious, particularly to the man sitting close next to me in the now crowded pub. I was confused. On the one hand I hoped Bill was gay and that he could see that he was turning me on, but on the other hand if he was straight I didn’t want him realising I was a queer. My slightly drunken mind knew most of all that I was enjoying the attentions of a man who’d attracted me for the best part of a year. So I agreed without missing a beat when he invited me back to his house “for a nightcap.”

It was getting late by now and the cool night air helped me to sober up a little on the walk back to his place. I was in an agony of indecision about Bill’s motives and my responses. Being so inexperienced I hadn’t been able to decipher all the signals Bill had been sending me all night. So, when he sat down in his living room and told me that he and his wife had split up and that he lived alone in the house, I responded mistakenly and stupidly.

I realized later of course that he was trying to reassure me that the coast was clear, but in my nervous over-excited mood I took a wrong meaning from what he said. All I could “hear” was that he was a married man. I immediately assumed that this meant he wasn’t gay, that he’d noticed my erection in the pub and was warning me off. Disappointed and embarrassed I responded by making up stories about my “girlfriend back home.”

Not realising what had triggered this new turn in the conversation, Bill proceeded to get quietly angry. All he could think of was (as he told me later) that I had been leading him on all night and had now decided to cop out instead of making out. I have to admit his version of events did make sense. I was dressed like a hustler; I agreed to drop my plans without a second thought to join him at the pub; I’d let him buy all the beers once we were there; my only contribution to the conversation had been to sit looking doe-eyed at him while my dick hardened down my thigh; and then I’d followed him home without question. Now I was suddenly boring him with stories about my “girlfriend.” This was major cock teasing behaviour!

He grew hostile and quiet, just waiting for me to leave. I sensed something had gone badly wrong but didn’t know what to do. Desperate to salvage something from the wreck I noticed a photo of his police detachment hanging on the wall. He looked so handsome in the picture that I screwed up my courage and asked if he had any more mementoes. He grudgingly showed me a few things, then pulled out an old pair of police handcuffs. He was still angry and had no intention of starting anything with me. In fact he’d noticed my excitement in the pub at his police stories and decided to humiliate me by encouraging another erection and then showing me the door.

His plan worked well to begin with. He offered to “show you how they work,”,then pulled my wrists behind my back and screwed the cuffs on tightly. Then he walked away, sat down and ostentatiously began reading a newspaper. I was left standing awkwardly in the middle of the room, feeling like an idiot but at the same time conscious of the fact that my cock had grown instantly hard and was inching its way back down the leg of my jeans.

Suddenly the beer and the nervous tension were making me feel ill. I barely had time to rush to the bathroom, kneel by the tub and throw up. I was still there when Bill came in to see how I was. Rather than feel sorry for me, he was even angrier. The cock teaser had turned into a drunken kid who was going to spend the night being sick in his bathroom.

As I knelt there I realized that I also desperately needed to take a piss. I stammered an apology about the mess I’d made and told the angry man hovering above me that I would have to pee soon, expecting him to unlock the handcuffs for me.

Instead he muttered “Oh, for God’s sake,”bent over to grab me by my upper arms and stand me up, then turned me around so that my back was to him but facing the toilet. Then I felt him fumble with the zipper of my jeans and pull them down to my knees, exposing my naked backside. “Go ahead and piss then,” he said. Unfortunately for what was left of his patience he now discovered that my cock was still as hard as a rock and was pointing out at 90 degrees to my body.

“You’re going to pee halfway up the wall if you’re not careful” an exasperated voice said behind me and then a hand came around to grasp my dick and point it downwards at the toilet bowl. This was all too much for me—here I was with the first man ever to touch my cock and I was standing in his bathroom with my wrists cuffed behind my back wearing nothing but a skin tight T shirt and my jeans around my ankles. Before I could have another conscious thought my whole body was wracked by the throes of a massive orgasm. Bill held on even though he was as surprised as I was. It was just as well since a moment later about three pints of recycled beer came rushing through as well.

I was mortified, excited, humiliated and pleased all at once. As a consequence I didn’t say a word or find it particularly strange when Bill took me into his bedroom, pulled off my shoes, socks and jeans and pushed me down onto his bed. He took his own clothes off and lay down next to me a few seconds later. All he would say before turning over to go to sleep was “You must be tired, we’ll talk in the morning.”

Neither of us had mentioned the fact that I was still wearing the handcuffs. I made myself as comfortable as I could by lying on my side and soon fell into a dream-filled sleep.

The next morning I woke to find Bill pushing me onto my stomach in order to unlock the cuffs. He slapped me hard on the buttocks and said gruffly “You’d better get your clothes back on,” then openly watched me as I stumbled across the room to retrieve my clothes, hampered slightly by my morning hard-on bobbing in front of me.

Bill lent me a long sleeved shirt to replace my own T shirt since my wrists were rubbed red by the irons and as he hustled me out of his front door he would only say “If you want, you can come back tonight around seven.”

Neither of us was surprised when Bill opened his door at 7.01 pm and found me waiting there that evening. I blurted out the whole story from my point of view and he explained his annoyance, Before we went any further he wanted an assurance of my willingness and explained some of what he intended to do. It all sounded like a dream come true to me. I gulped a quick yes and we started in earnest.

He led me upstairs to a little second bedroom at the back of the house where he kept a small writing desk. He leant in the doorway with his arms crossed and watched while I stripped naked and piled my clothes in a corner. Then he produced the handcuffs and some pieces of rope from inside the desk. This time he cuffed my wrists in front of my body and tied the thinnest piece of cord around and between my balls and the base of my cock, which had reached its by-now usual state of erection. He pushed me down onto my knees and left the room for a few minutes.

There was an electric heater going full blast and the little room was very stuffy and hot. This along with my state of excitement was making me hot too and I noticed a film of sweat had broken out over my body by the time he returned. Now he was wearing his full tropical police uniform of cap and shirt, dazzlingly white shorts and socks and thick black leather boots. He was holding a thin birch cane which he flexed through the air with an audible whoosh. The mere sight of all this made me quiver with erotic excitement.

Things speeded up. He stood me up, led me over to the desk, bent me forward at the waist, pulled my hands over the far side of the desk and used one of the ropes to tie the chain linking the handcuffs to a hook scrrewed into the bottom of the desk. My ankles were forced far apart and tied with the other ropes to the desk legs on either side. He had me completely helpless. I couldn’t move my legs and my arms were stretched so far downwards that I couldn’t raise my torso. My body was draped over the surface of the desk with my erection trapped between the top and my stomach. He hadn’t finished yet since he now came around in front of me and started tearing strips off my T shirt that I had left that morning. Before I could object a strip was shoved in my mouth and then held firmly in place by another tied around my head.

Quickly now he moved around behind me and laid four swift cracks across my ass with the cane. The shock was enormous and the pain instantaneous. But he stopped at four strokes and immediately both his hands wandered carressingly over my buttocks using the film of sweat on my body as a sort of massage oil. This was repeated more times than I could count—a vicious couple of thwacks with the switch on the buttocks or upper thighs and then a loving caress with his wonderfully soft hands.

My body felt red hot, especially my backside. I found myself moving my hips as much as I could to try to massage my rock hard cock, trapped as it was between my body and the cold hard surface of the desk. This must have looked particularly lascivious from Bill’s vantage point behind me and I soon heard him unzipping his own shorts and felt him move up close.

I know now that the first time you get fucked it’s supposed to hurt. Then, I didn’t know! So when Bill first pushed a finger up my asshole with a big glob of vaseline and followed soon after with the head of his cock I was too turned on by the bondage and the whipping and the continual caresses to worry about any pain. As a result, instead of tensing up I just relaxed in happy acceptance as he shoved it in me slowly but firmly. I couldn’t believe any thing could feel so good and I pushed up and back against him as much as I was able. Before long Bill came to the edge of orgasm and pulled out in order to spray my smarting backside with his cum. My own semen followed suit immediately, forcing its way up past the string constricting my cock and balls and puddling out onto the desk beneath me.

Any thought that I may have had about a rest were quickly banished when Bill, after untying me from the desk, attached my still cuffed wrists to a hook high above me on the wall. He undid the cord around my cock and balls and wiped my hot sweaty body with a cool cloth. Then he left me hanging while he went downstairs to get a couple of beers. After taking the gag out he fed me some from the bottle. Even though a lot of it ended up on my chest I certainly enjoyed the cooling effect of the beer in that hot stuffy little room.

What Bill was waiting for soon happened. My 19 year old dick became fully hard again and he took the ropes off the desk this time to lash both my ankles and my knees tightly together as I stood against the wall with my hands raised high above me. The gag was replaced and accompanied by a blindfold also torn from the ruined T shirt. I felt him drop to his knees in front of me and take my cock in his mouth. He was an expert cocksucker and worked on my dick for an age. Eventually I had to give in to his insistent mouth and gushed out all over his face and down his throat. This time he did figure I’d had enough and slowly untied me and took off the handcuffs. We fell into bed and I slept like a baby for hours.

Over the next few months he and I had lots of bondage sex together while he taught me how to suck cock and gave me a Master’s course in the exquisite pleasures of tit torture. Eventually in the ungrateful way the young have, I picked a fight with him over another man and we left each other on bad terms. But, I’ve always retained a soft spot in my heart for my “colonial copper.”

Read the sequels to this story:

1) Skinhead Abuses Student while Deaf Mother Sleeps

2)The Student, the Apprentice Plumber and the Whitehall Senior Servant

SKINHEAD ABUSES STUDENT WHILE DEAF MOTHER SLEEPS

[This story by a Canadian reader of Bound & Gagged, was published in Issue 50 (January/February 1996), three years after his first submission, Goody Goody Cuffed and Corrected by Colonial Copper, and three years before his last one, The Student, the Apprentice Plumber and the Senior Civil Servant, in July/August 1999).

TORONTO, CANADA. These events took place in 1973. I was 20 years old then and attending University in a small English city not far from London. I’d been introduced to bondage by my friend Bill about six months earlier [See “Goody Goody Cuffed and Corrected by Colonial Copper,” Issue 35, page 48] and ever since then hardly a Saturday night had gone by without the two of us getting together for sex at his little house near the College.

By this time in fact there wasn’t a chair left in the place that I hadn’t been roped into—immobile—while he worked my tits or forced me to improve my cock sucking technique; just as there wasn’t a flat surface left in the cottage that hadn’t been used to tie me down on or drape me over while he fucked me, usually after a vigorous caning.

However all was not sweetness and light between us and problems had begun to crop up. Bill was twelve years older than I. He’d returned to University—after a stint with the place—as a mature student, and in fact was doing many of the same courses as I. Like many older adults he was having a hard time adjusting to being a student again. Difficulties arose from the fact that while sexually he was still the unquestioned master of our relationship, he found it humiliating that he was slipping further and further behind me in school.

His bitterness was showing through in our sex together and the last couple of times I’d been frightened by the undercurrent of anger and the degree of force he’d used to beat me.

I’m dark haired and tan easily, but in those days never tanned in the nude, so my ass cheeks were a very English shade of pale white. This meant that even a few slaps would show up instantly as bright red marks—a great encouragement to him of course. I was quite used after a session with him to have to wait for a couple of days for the colour to disappear, but on our last time together he had marked me quite badly. Afterwards when I looked in the mirror I could see dark purple bruises and cuts up and down my back and thighs.

Bill arranged for a couple of weekends away after this. He had various family obligations he’d been neglecting because of me and I think he also was frightened by his own anger and needed a cooling-off period.

So while he was away I decided to see what or who else was available. Bill was still the only man I’d been with and I was a horny twenty year old (brand new to sex!) who wasn’t going to waste two whole spring weekends by staying home alone.

1) One of the few gay friends Bill had introduced me to had once dropped the names of a couple of pubs in Central London where you could meet gay men.

2) The night Bill had originally picked me up I’d been wearing just a tight T shirt and jeans.

3) London was only a 50 minute train ride away.

Putting 1, 2 and 3 together meant that next Saturday found me standing with a beer in my hand in a certain pub in London’s West End just after mid-day, wearing jeans, T shirt and boots. I was in a quandary though. Like most pubs in England where gay men gathered twenty years ago this establishment hosted a very mixed crowd of patrons. There were working men drinking beer, old ladies sipping sherry, tourists eating pub lunches and—I noticed—a bunch of men standing or sitting alone or in groups who seemed to be mainly interested in the comings and goings of the other men in the bar. Bill and I had met by accident, at least on my part, so I was ignorant about gay pick-up etiquette. I did notice though that there was a lot of interest in my movements. I did not know whether to be annoyed or flattered; not realising of course that I was merely a new face with a new bum in tight jeans.

I gulped down my first pint of beer and squeezed my way back up to the bar past the tourists eating their plates of Fish and Chips. When I got there my eye was caught by a young man who gave me a dazzlingly wide and friendly smile and said in a thick Cockney accent, “You’d better take a bodyguard to the loo with you or one of these tired old queens is likely to rape you before you can get the prick out of your trousers.”

I was stunned. I looked around in disbelief in case anyone else had heard but amazingly enough no one else’s head had turned. I realized that the general noise level and the fact that he had spoken to me directly meant that I was the only one who had caught what he said.

“How did you know?”

“That you’re gay?”

I nodded, too nervous to say the word myself.

“Well, it’s a pretty safe bet in here and anyway even if you ain’t you’ll still need someone to keep these blokes off young meat like you.”

We looked at each other for a moment and then burst into laughter.

I had lucked out. He told me his name was Chris and I told him mine—Martin—and we hit it off straight away. His remarks about me being young meat had seemed so incongruous since he was only two years older than me. But as I heard, he was a lot older than me in experience and the two of us were soon giggling like school boys while he gave away the embarrassing secrets of half the men in the bar. In response I told him the whole story of Bill and I.

An hour later we were staring at each other’s naked body in the changing room of the St Martin’s Lane Sauna Bath which was only a couple of blocks away from the pub. This being England in 1973 though, nothing untoward was going to be allowed to happen—only a few dips in the indoor pool and a lot of sitting around and staring longingly in the steam and sauna rooms. There were no private cubicles or rooms, just a lot of closeted older men eager to enforce the rules on the few younger men foolish enough to be there. Chris had warned me of all this but I’d made him bring me here. I’d got a bad case of lust at first sight and was desperate to see his naked body.

What he and I could see now were two men who looked very similar. We were each about six feet tall, with wide shoulders, dark hair and clean shaven. We each weighed about 170 lbs, though Chris was noticeably more muscular. I have blue eyes and his were green. Below the waist I have extra big balls and an average sized dick, while Chris’ uncircumcised cock was certainly well above average in size.
The other obvious difference between us was on top of our heads. While my hair was short—very short by the standards of those long haired days—Chris had a skinhead haircut which, when he was clothed, matched his high laced boots, rolled up jeans and sleeveless sport shirt. He was a fervent supporter of his local soccer team and so wore the punk uniform which later became common all over Europe and then North America. Back in those days, apart from a few fistfights with the fans of opposing teams, the ultra masculine skinhead look hadn’t become identified with neo-Fascist youth gangs or become the object of fear and dread.

Certainly for me, Chris was mainly the object of extreme lust and pretty soon I found myself French-kissing him in the shower room. That, plus the fact that both of us sprang immediate erections was enough for a red-faced older man to threaten us with “The Manager.” So we were out of the Sauna, very clean but very frustrated and it was still only three o’clock in the afternoon.

Chris offered to take me back to his home in the East End of London, which he shared with his widowed mother. She didn’t seem at all fazed at the arrival of her son accompanied by a young man (me) that he had obviously only met a couple of hours before. Soon, tea and cakes were being pressed on me, followed by supper, followed by a visit by all three of us to the crowded local pub—where half the customers seemed to be friends or relations of Chris or his Mum. When was I ever going to get him into bed? I began to pout like a baby as I sat in the corner, until I noticed him laughing good naturedly at me—I really couldn’t stay mad at him for long.

A little later while consoling me for having to wait so long, he leaned over and whispered to me, “You know, Martin, I’m glad you told me about you and Bill, ’cause I like to play really rough, too.”

That started me thinking. On the one hand I was ecstatic at the thought that this cute guy I was already half in love with might be interested in exactly the same kind of sex that I craved. But then I worried that since Bill had frightened me by going farther than I thought I wanted, how would I react to “really rough” sex? Oh well, I ended by thinking, he’s not going to murder me with his mother sleeping downstairs so why not relax and enjoy yourself.

Before too long we were staring at the other’s naked body again—only this time, together alone at last.

“I’m also glad you told me about Bill,” Chris said, “because it means that I can get right into the stuff I like without wasting time explaining everything and reassuring you that it really won’t hurt. It strikes me that you want it to hurt, right?”

“Yes, I do.”

Those were the last audible words I was to speak for the next few hours. He pushed me down to my knees in front of him and fed me his cock for a while. I could hear him fumbling around in a drawer in the chest next to us as I chewed hungrily on his boner; then he pulled it away, came around behind me, stood me up again and roped my wrists securely behind my back. Another piece of rope was used to tie my elbows tightly together, forcing my shoulders back and my chest out. After shoving a handkerchief in my mouth and securing it with a long nylon sock, he came around in front of me again.

“She hides it well, but my Mum’s a bit deaf and she sleeps like a log. So she don’t normally hear a bloody thing. But I don’t want her woken up with too much screaming, so we’ll be leaving that gag in for as long as it’s needed.”

Having said that he immediately attacked my tits and kept at them for minutes on end, pulling, twisting and biting. Soon I was writhing in ecstatic agony as I struggled to remain standing under the intensity of his assault. He stopped as quickly as he started and guided me in the direction of his bed, which was an old Victorian monstrosity with a high wooden ornate footboard.

“The only problem with gagging you is that I can’t get my cock sucked. So I suppose we’ll have to use another hole instead,” he said as he pushed me up against the footboard, the top of which was level with my hips.

With my wrists and elbows tied behind me I was helpless to stop him as he bent me over until my face and shoulders were pressed into the mattress. My feet were still planted firmly on the floor, leaving my ass as the highest point of my body. Since we were the same height my asshole was perfectly positioned for his hard dick which was soon thumping in and out of me. I squealed noiselessly into the gag and tried to squeeze my sphincter muscle in rhythm with his thrusts. All of a sudden he shot an enormous load into my guts (this was years before we dreamed of the need for safe sex). I could feel him slowly regain his breath, wait for his heart beat to slow down and for his cock to soften a little before he pulled out. Then he grasped me by the shoulders and pulled me back up.

“Damn, I didn’t mean to come so fast. Your ass is too good to waste on a quickie like that. Get down on your knees while I pull that gag out and then you can clean me up.”

With that, the soaking wet gag was replaced by his half hard dick. After I had licked it clean he didn’t take it out of my mouth and I suddenly realised that he was starting to piss. This was something Bill had never done and I was startled and frightened. For a few seconds I tried to pull away but Chris held my head firmly and I quickly grew to find the whole idea immensely exciting and even to like the taste. He had drunk quite a few beers during the evening, so a lot of liquid had to be swallowed, not all of it successfully. But the feeling of the overflow dripping on my face, neck and chest seemed to add inches to my raging hardon—at least in my own imagination.

After he’d finished pissing he pushed me further down until I lay face down on the floor. My ankles and knees were tied as tightly as my elbows and wrists, then he doubled my legs over behind me and ropes the ankles closely to the backs of my thighs. Next he passed a long cord around my chest and shoulders and waist, completely imprisoning me in a cocoon of rope.

Then he replaced the gag and pushed me over onto my side before leaving the room for an instant. He came back with a large glass bottle of the sort given in hospitals for bed-ridden male patients to pee in. He laid it down on the floor next to me and guided my rock hard penis inside the neck, then sat on the floor next to me himself.

“I’ll bet you need to piss, eh Martin? You drank as much beer as I did, plus you’ve got half of mine now, too.”

The power of suggestion being what it is, I immediately realised the truth of what he said.

Unfortunately, I was in absolute helpless bondage, unable to move a muscle without his assistance—a fact guaranteed to keep my cock hard and therefore impossible for me to piss. In a demonstration of pure sadism, Chris proceeded to torture me for what seemed like hours by preventing me from getting relief from the pain in my bladder by working my tits or jerking my cock every time I seemed to lose even a tiny bit of my hard-on. Eventually he relented, my cock started to soften and then a spray worthy of a firehose came bursting out and filled up the bottle.

Now of course his own cock was all ready and quite recovered from its earlier exertions. He untied enough of the ropes to free my legs and pushed them apart far enough to get at my asshole again. Unlike earlier in the evening he took his time with a leisurely screwing as I lay on my stomach on the floor beneath him.

Eventually he pulled me over onto my side while still fucking me, then grabbed my cock and jerked me off, making sure that I came just as his second orgasm of the night was pumping into my guts.

Very late the next morning he walked me to the local Underground station and I looked forlornly at his back when he turned to go home. I could hardly wait for the week to go by as we’d made a date for the following Saturday and I was determined that nothing was going to stop me seeing him again.

Click here to read the story that precedes this one: Goody Goody Cuffed and Corrected by Colonial Copper

Click here to read the sequel to this one: The Student, the Apprentice Plumber and the Senior Civil Servant

THE STUDENT, THE APPRENTICE PLUMBER AND THE WHITEHALL SENIOR SERVANT

[This is the third submission by a Canadian reader published in Bound & Gagged. It appeared in Issue 71 (July/August 1999), and is the immediate sequel to Skinhead Abuses Student While Deaf Mother Sleeps, which had been published three years earlier, in Issue 50 (January/February 1996). The first story by this reader, about his introduction to sex and bondage sex by a fellow student who had been a colonial policeman, Goody Goody Cuffed and Corrected by Colonial Copper, originally appeared in Issue 35 (July/August 1993). With luck he'll see these stories on this website, and will write me follow-ups, about what happened with Chris, and later, when he left England for Canada.]

TORONTO, CANADA. Chris was waiting for me at Charing Cross railway station in London when my train pulled in around noon on that warm April Saturday in 1973. He and I had had hot bondage sex together the previous weekend during the course of which he had pressed virtually every erotic button in my twisted psyche! It felt like I’d been dreaming about him and looking forward to meeting him again every waking moment for the past week.

Now there he was, standing in front of me—a tall, twenty-three-year-old with a great body and a skinhead haircut. He was wearing the same outfit as the week before when he and I had met—black laced up boots, tight levis and a sport shirt with the sleeves cut off. The skinhead punk look seemed to have been designed with him in mind. I was in love. When we had parted six days before, he’d mentioned that he was going to introduce me to an old friend of his. Now, as we walked out of the station together, he said,

“Martin, you an’ me’s going over to Graham’s later and we’ll stay for the night. You’ll learn a few things. But that’s all I’m telling you. You can worry about it for the rest of the day.”

He was right only about one thing—however much I wheedled he wouldn’t tell me what was going to happen later that night or give me any details about Graham. On the other hand, I was far from worried—if Chris was going to be involved I just knew that I was in for a great time.

A great time of another sort was what we proceeded to have all afternoon. We made our way to Chelsea and went up and down the “King’s Road,” dropping in on a few pubs, going window shopping, watching boys and regularly being greeted by Chris’s friends (he seemed to either know or to have “had” every cute young man in “Swinging London”).

It was soon six o’clock in the evening and he led me into a dingy old pub on a side street, where we were the only customers. We gulped down a pint of beer and ate a meat pie each (this was after he had told me that I’d need to keep my strength up for the night!)

“You’ll be fine to meet Graham, but there’s just one change we have to make,” he said as he pushed me ahead of him into the “Gents.” I soon realised why he’d chosen this quiet old pub. Since we were the only customers in the place he was able without fear of interruption to propel me into one of the toilet stalls and then to quietly order me to take off my boots and jeans. I wasn’t sure about this at all, but then, that day I would have done anything he had told me to do.

Once I was stripped down to just my socks, T shirt and briefs he came forward, tugged the underwear down to my knees and tied a length of cord around my cock and balls. My cock sprang to full attention immediately. It was at full length and hard as a rock almost before he’d finished tying the knot. The underwear got jerked all the way down to my ankles. He told me to step out of them and then stalked out of the room clutching them, saying over his shoulder,

“Don’t you dare take off that string. I’ll be waiting outside.”

I was left standing in the toilet stall wearing a T shirt, socks and a hard-on. I pulled on my jeans and boots as quickly as I could, hoping in vain that my erection would subside, though of course the cord around my balls and cock was pushing them all forward in a large enough lump as it was. I stayed as long as I could waiting for it to grow smaller but eventually just had to go outside where Chris took one look and said,

“That looks absolutely obscene, Graham will love it.”

I was convinced that everyone we met would stare at me and was therefore dreading going back out onto the King’s Road. Instead, and to my relief, I found myself following Chris through a series of side streets and back alleyways as he threaded his way across that part of Chelsea. We only met a few people as we hurried along in the gathering dusk. Even so, some of them must have wondered why one of the two young men that they encountered seemed to be carrying a spare pair of underwear in his hand and was grinning like the Cheshire Cat, while the other embarrassed-looking one was holding his hands together in front of his groin.

To add to my confusion I had become completely lost as soon as we had left the pub by the route we took through the back streets. So I had no idea where we were when eventually we turned off a little alley into the overgrown back garden of an old three-storey house.

Chris knocked loudly and after a short wait the door was opened by an extremely tall, thin man in his early forties wearing an old cardigan, carpet slippers and baggy woolen trousers. He looked as if he should have been puffing on a pipe. Both Chris and I were six foot tall but Graham, as he was introduced to me, was about six-seven. He had that stoop that very tall people sometimes cultivate when they are conscious of the fact that they are towering over everyone around them. All in all he didn’t fit my fantasy picture of what a hot friend of Chris’s should look like.

I tried not to look disappointed and must have succeeded (or maybe it was the sight of the lump in my jeans) since he took one long appraising look at me and said to Chris,

“Very nice, yes, very nice, he’ll do very well. Go on up both of you and I’ll be along in a while.”

With that he turned on his heel and disappeared into what I found out later was his sitting room.

Upstairs Chris led me into a room furnished with just a large leather wing chair, a plain wooden table and a chest of drawers. There were bare wooden floors, no windows and a small thick rug in front of an empty fireplace. These spartan furnishings seemed to imply that this room was used only for serious business.

Since only the two of us had come upstairs I began to think, Maybe Graham just lets Chris use this room and doesn’t get involved himself, which was fine by me as I thought Graham looked boring and unsexy compared to Chris, on whom I’d developed a major crush.

Things certainly seemed to be shaping up that way as Chris began to prepare me for the rest of the evening. While I stood in the centre of the room he went straight to the chest of drawers and pulled out a whole pile of stuff which he dumped on the table next to me. He got me to take off my shirt, boots and socks but stopped me when my hands went to the zipper of my trousers. Instead, he used two strips of leather from the table pile to bind my wrists to the opposite elbows behind my back. One of my own damp and smelly socks was shoved into my mouth and tied in place by another strip. Then he wound a fourth strip around my head to blindfold me. I heard him go back to the drawers and then return to where I stood. Now he unzipped my jeans, pulled them down and got me to step out of them. But to my surprise, after making me sit on the edge of the table, he started putting another pair on me. Except for his more muscular upper body and his longer cock, Chris and I physically were almost like identical twins, so I figured that these must have been a pair of his. Of course I was blindfolded and gagged so couldn't see or ask about what was going on. But I hadn’t heard him take off the ones he was wearing, so I was mystified as to the reason for having a spare pair on hand and for replacing mine anyway. He hadn’t taken the opportunity of untying the cord around my genitals when I was naked so my cock was still hard and pushing against the fabric when he zipped me up again. The only change I noticed was that the replacement jeans felt a little baggy in the seat. I would soon discover why.

Various rustlings and thumpings made me realize that he was now taking off his clothes and replacing just his boots. In contrast to my half clothed state he was completely naked, a fact made obvious to my blindfolded self when he came and embraced me. His naked chest rubbed up against mine and his hard cock pushed through between my legs. His left hand started to tweak my nipples while his right hand rubbed against my cock and balls imprisoned behind the denim of the jeans. God, how I wished he would pull them down and really work on my dick! Instead, he guided me over a little until I pumped up against the edge of the table again, this time facing it. He nudged my legs apart and roped my ankles to the legs at each corner.

After he clipped a pair of tit clamps to my nipples I heard him exit the room, closing the door behind him, leaving me in a confused state of mind. I couldn’t figure out what was happening or more to the point, what was going to happen. It felt great to be bound and gagged again, of course, but this was also the first time anyone had blindfolded me. I found I was enjoying the sense of depersonalised irresponsibility that I got from not being able to see anything; the sense that because you can’t see therefore you yourself are somehow anonymous.

But why was I still wearing my jeans?

Why was I tied like this to the table?

Where the hell had he gone?

I got a sinking feeling that somehow I was being left out of something. I began thinking, If Chris comes back and I’m still tied to the table all I’ll be able to do is suck him off and even then he’ll have to climb onto the table and risk knocking his head on the ceiling. I knew that my ankles were tied so far apart and my legs were stretched so wide that it was going to be impossible to pull the jeans down far enough over my hips to get at my asshole. Of course if this had been a porn story I would have been waiting for Chris to return with a knife to cut the jeans off me. But this was the real world, I was a college student and Chris was an apprentice plumber. Neither of us could afford to be wasting a pair of jeans for the sake of an ecstatic moment.

While I was stewing about all this, I heard the door open and realised that two people were coming in.

Graham’s voice said to Chris, “Take off the blindfold,” and a moment later I was completely taken by surprise.

In place of the amiable duffer in cardigan and baggy trousers that I’d seen downstairs was a stern looking man wearing tight leather pants—which emphasized the size of the cock snaking down his thigh—and a leather vest which showed off his hairy chest. Instead of the awkward stoop of the too-tall man subconsciously apologizing for his height, Graham was standing straight backed and seemed to tower over both of us even from five feet away.

Only a few seconds elapsed before Chris was on his knees pulling out Graham’s long dick and going down on it. I watched in helpless frustration as Chris’s own dick jutted out from between his legs as his mouth worked feverishly. Then in yet another surprising development, Graham snatched a pair of handcuffs from the pile of equipment on the table and fastened Chris’s wrists together behind his back while he still sucked away, seemingly oblivious to his bondage.

This tableau in front of me was driving me wild with lust. I so wanted to get involved but could only stare longingly as Chris, handcuffed on his knees, was being viciously mouth-fucked. My eyebrows must have shot up to my hairline in surprise because Graham looked over at one point and said,

“Well, just because he likes to tie you up doesn’t mean he isn’t fond of the same thing himself. Besides, I taught him everything he knows, didn’t I?”

This last question was aimed at Chris who was only able to grunt in reply as Graham chose the same moment to shove his dick halfway down the kneeling man’s throat, turning the grunt into a choke.

“He loves cock sucking, but I’ve never been able to get him to enjoy taking it up the ass. It must be the vestiges of inherited Cockney machismo or something. Anyway, that’s where you come in handy, dear boy. Christopher tells me that your rectum sucks up cock like a vacuum cleaner.”

All this was said while he continued to pump his dick in and out of Chris’s mouth, rocking on his heels as his body went back and forth as he held Chris’s head steady with his fists. The two of them stayed in their separate but connected worlds for minutes on end, silent except for the occasional gagging sound as Chris choked when the dick stayed too long or went too far down his throat. Suddenly, though, and without warning, Chris’s own dick began to erupt with a massive orgasm. With his hands cuffed behind him he could only watch along with us as big gobs of semen came out in a long series and ended up either puddled on the floor or as long white strings slowly winding their way down the front of his thighs.

I could tell by the way that his dick bobbed around at a 90 degree angle to his body that Graham hadn’t come and to be sure he had pulled out of the other man’s mouth the moment Chris had begun to shoot. Chris looked exhausted and breathless and didn’t offer any resistance as Graham used two of the remaining leather straps on the table to tie his ankles together and to bind them to the handcuff chain. The tall leather-clad man rolled the naked cum-streaked one on to his side so that he could see over to where I was waiting for my turn and then left him hog-tied on the floor to recover.

“It’s so useful that the two of you wear the same size,” Graham began by saying as he came around behind me. “Your genitals must be feeling very constricted, Martin, even a little painful, perhaps, as your erection pushes out against the denim? I’ll bet you’d love to have me pull those jeans down so that your hard cock can stick out freely in front of you. Is that so?”

Gagged as I was I could only reply by nodding vigorously, as he added to his teasing by caressing the front of my jeans.

“Well, bad luck, my boy, because it’s a particular fetish of mine to enjoy looking at young men in jeans and your mild discomfort is only adding to my enjoyment.”

His hands stopped kneading my front and he grabbed a jar of vaseline from the now almost used up pile of equipment left on the table.

“Yes, these adapted jeans were a wonderful idea of Christopher’s, as you and your bum are about to find out.”

With a big glob on his fingers his left hand went around behind me and I suddenly realised why the seat of these jeans felt loose. There was a hole in the back—in fact the seam had been split—at roughly the place where my asshole was situated. While his left hand was busy loosening and lubricating, his right arm was hooked around my chest as he leaned into me and pushed me down onto the table top. The height of my hips relative to the table meant that as I leant over the tied up lump of cock and balls was trapped between my body and the unforgiving hardness of the wood. Soon his fingers were replaced by his erection as he gradually but firmly pushed into me.

With his cock pumping in and out of me his hands were free to snap the clamps off my tits and play with the extra sensitive little nubs himself. The top half of his body lay heavy across my back. That was the only active part I could play in the sex that followed apart from trying to squeeze my sphincter muscle in time to the rhythmical fucking that he gave me.

After a while he pulled himself up and rested the weight of his upper body on his hands that were grabbing my hips. His own hips began to speed up the pace of the fucking. I tossed my head from side to side as I lay on the table, becoming more and more ecstatic at the feeling in my ass. Just as Graham breathed out a triumphant “Yes!” My eye was caught by Chris lying hog-tied on the floor across from us. He and I locked eyes while Graham’s orgasm pumped into me and simultaneous gobs of semen spurted out of my restricted cock, soaking the entire front of the “custom-made” jeans.

After that, both Chris and I were freed so that we could work out the kinks from confined muscles, but it certainly was not the end of the evening’s entertainments. Graham lit a fire and sat in the wing chair; Chris and I sat on the rug and we talked for a while. I discovered that Graham was a fairly senior Whitehall civil servant, which accounted for his vaguely pompous way of speaking, even during sex. Between the three of us we polished off two bottles of red wine as we sat in front of the fire—Graham still wearing his leathers and the two of us now completely naked. Chris had taken his boots off and the cum-encrusted jeans were already spinning around in Graham’s washing machine downstairs.

As the evening wore on I had the privilege of sucking on Graham’s cock as the two of them amused themselves by tying me up in various contortions. Then at the end of the evening Chris and I found ourselves tied on our sides into a 69 on the rug in front of the fire. While both of us lay there with our wrists roped to the other’s ankles and cocks in the other’s mouth, Graham gave us what he called “extra anal treatment” by shoving a dildo in and out of my ass while methodically slapping Chris’s ass cheeks in time to the dildo thrusts.

First Chris and then I shuddered with our final orgasms of the night, followed closely by Graham as he stood up and jerked off all over our bodies beneath him—a perfect end to a wonderful evening.

Read the two stories that precede this one:

1) Goody Goody Cuffed and Corrected by Colonial Copper

2) Skinhead Abuses Student While Deaf Mother Sleeps

THE SCOTT CHRONICLES - 2

[Parts 1 and 2 of The Scott Chronicles both appeared in Issue 36, September/October 1993]

2.

The Male Submission Scenario

Sometimes we made dates at motels (but just the 2 of us!), and I’d “pick him up” at a gay bar, or call him, and he’d pretend he was the answering service at a rent-boy agency. I wrote a ton of scenarios for him, and we had a ton of fun with them. Scott learned that a little imagination, a lot of slow foreplay, both mental and physical, heightened the ultimate and inevitable fuck. Finally came the Male Submission scenario.

It was really quite simple. It was in December, snowy and very cold. I came to Scott’s house and quickly warmed up by kissing him. The roommate was there and wanted a threesome, but Scott wasn’t going for it, and I didn’t want it either, because I came with letters.

I told Scott about the letters when we went upstairs to his room, and locked ourselves in. I explained that there were three of them, to be read in order, but only after I was tied up, naked in the chair. So I put the letters on the bed, and stripped naked before Hunk. I gingerly inserted a dildo in my ass, and sat down. Scott then tied me with clothesline very tightly to the chair, and following directions, blindfolded me. I then heard him sit down on the bed and open the first envelope. I don’t remember exactly how it went, but the three envelopes represented three levels of Male Submission to the Rock-Hard Boy-King. The first level was sex and bondage, the second torture, and the last, a house of his own.

It started as a parody of a contract: Mike, hereinafter Crotch Slave, Cock Slut, Crotch Luster, and Scott, hereinafter Boy-King, Male Stud Wrestler, Stark Stiffen, Rock-Hard Naked, Cock Master and Cock King (and about 30 more such nominations! My, we had fun!) etc. etc. The Cock Whore begs permission of the Crotch King to be the Male Stud’s personal sex slave and service the Male Boy-King’s crotch, cock and balls etc. etc. It went on in this vein for a while, and included ceding over to Scott the rights and powers of a King, that I was to be fucked whenever Scott wanted, tied up whenever Scott wanted, or when I begged for it, details about the kneeling and doubtless prurient sentences concerning Scott’s Huge Maleness, how the Shaft was to be licked slowly from the hairs in the boy-king’s crotch to the Huge Glistening Head of the Sex-King’s Cock. Finally, at the end of this letter, I wrote: Scott, if you like what you read so far, please gag me, and use new ropes on some part of my body. The tighter they are, the more you like what I’m writing.

So Scott picked out his ball gag, slightly smaller than a tennis ball, and one which if you have in your mouth for any time, your jaw starts aching. This he pushed into the Groveler’s mouth, and added some tape, all around the head (Scott loved gags) to keep it in. He then tied my elbows together, and ran a rope from my neck down to the base of my rockhard jutting cock. The Male Slave was now bound, gagged, blindfolded, and being fucked up the ass by the dildo.

Then Scott opened the 2nd envelope, which started out with more paeans of praise to the Stud Male, His RockHardness, and so forth. This time, I outlined the Slave’s duty: keep Scott Stiff. Failure to stiffen Scott’s cock meant punishment by torture, including, but not limited to, x number of kicks in the crotch, x number of minutes groveling, torture by suspension, torture by weights hanging from my balls (one I dreamed up was tying me upright, legs spread, metal pail tied to my balls. Small plastic hose to nearby sink, and just a trickle of water from the hose into the pail. Crotch Luster can then watch as the pail slowly, slowly fills), torture by being tied in the fuck chair, etc.

This letter ended with the same kind of thing as the first: Scott, if you like what you read, do something to torture me. Scott did, by putting tit clamps on me, and clothespins on my cock. Then he read the third and last letter.

This one offered him a house of his own, with long detailed stuff about my taking care of him, what clothes he was to wear when he was with me, how one room was to be Sex Domination Room, one Release Fuck Room (a Release Fuck is a short fuck, for Scott, usually after I have done sex worship, and he just wants to fuck me for 1/2 hour or so), one Kneel & Worship Room. None of this of course was ever followed to the letter. We had sex, and all kinds of it, in every room.

This time, the last sentence said something like: Scott, if you like what you read, do something to indicate it.

He did. I heard him take his clothes off, and he came over to where I was sitting in the chair, rope-tied, tape-gagged, blindfolded, ass-fucked, and horny as a pistol. He increased my sex lust incredibly by rubbing his gigantic erection all over my chest, arms, legs, and finally thrusting into my crotch. By this time, I was lust-heaving in the chair. Then, he dressed, and left. I heard him leave because I heard the front door close and lock. The roommate had long ago gone, and I was tied up stark naked in Scott’s bedroom while the December snow slowly fell outside. I waited. And waited. And each sound on the street, the scuffling of boots on the snowy pavement, might be Scott. And still I waited. It was a delicious feeling, being forced to wait for him. I knew he was coming back, and I never even thought of him not returning. Finally he did, and the excitement in my body grew and grew, as I heard the lock on the outside door snap, and his feet on the floor below. I wasn’t 100% certain it was Scott—it might have been the roommate—but I hoped it was. My cock was jutting huge and hard as the bedroom door opened, and he came in. By the way he moved around the room, again stripping, I sensed it was Scott, and when the cock got shoved into my taped face, I knew it was Scott. I was untied just enough to get me off the chair and off the dildo, and onto the bed. Scott then fucked me non-stop for close to an hour. Usually he takes breaks during the fucking to cool his pole down; this time he didn’t. Later we showered together, laughed together, had a drink, and went out for a slapup dinner. I was near delirious with the thought of Scott in his Sex House, and Scott told me later that he was really high, too, because he felt incredibly flattered by being offered a house for free.

THE SCOTT CHRONICLES - 3

[Part 3 of The Scott Chronicles appeared in Issue 37, November/December 1993]

3.

Terror on Fuck Night

One night (we had been seeing each other for about a year), Scott had fucked my ass thoroughly and completely, and I had jerked off on my knees in front of him, when he asked me what I was doing Friday two weeks off.

This question was interesting because Scott had never before suggested a date, always waiting for me to grovel on the telephone for him. I said I had a dinner party but was free after that. Then he told me that he had told a friend of his about me, how I liked getting tied up and being fucked, and how he told his friend I was an ex-Marine, and how he, Scott, liked fucking Marines (It would turn out later that this friend was actually no one he had ever really met.) His friend, Scott said, became very interested and suggested a party at which I would be the main course and dessert. Scott said that his friend worked in Wilmington Delaware, and, to use the friend’s description, “tied up and fucked yuppies who wanted to be slapped around.” Scott told me I would have to pay to have this guy come up, and that I wasn’t to have sex, even jerk off, until that Friday came.

I agreed.

This story is about what happened that night, and although many aspects of it were, and are, intensely sexually exciting, a large part of it was sheer, mind-numbing terror. The experience was, in a lot of ways, every man’s worst nightmare, when he gets tied up and then is faced with the unknown. Well, you be the judge.

Scott called me Wednesday before Fuck Night, as I had written it in my diary, and told me his friend was on, but wanted another $100. I was so horny I would have agreed to $500, but I didn’t say so. Scott also said that I was to present myself to a motel on Rte 95, just north of Philadelphia. He gave me the address, and told me to drive around the motel until I found his car.

Thursday night he called, and reminded me of the date, as if I had forgotten it. I was also told to kneel while I talked to him on the phone, and to bind my cock and balls that night with leather thongs (we did this a lot), and wear the cock bondage at the dinner party.

So Friday night came, and the damned dinner party, which was black tie, and boy-girl, boy-girl, meaning I had to be polite to a lot of debutante types looking for husbands. All the time my cock and balls were tied up, and every time I thought of the motel room where I was to meet Scott, my cock stiffened. I thought of his massive fuck tool up my ass, and I drooled into the salad. I was as hot and horny as an 18-year bouncin’ buck in Texas, getting ideas from watching the cattle fuck. And the damn dinner dragged on.

Finally even the dinner had to end, and I bid farewell to my hosts, and got into my car, trembling with sexual excitement. I kept telling myself, as I drove, to slow down, to ease up, now is not the time to be stopped by the police, etc., etc. Of course I couldn’t find the motel at first, and overshot it by a mile or so. But I did find it, and my heart was pounding like a steam engine as I entered the motel parking lot, looking for Scott’s car. It was near enough to ten o’clock, and here I was, in black tie, looking for a motel room where two guys planned to fuck my ass forever.

The motel was typical: all rooms on one level, cars parked in front of each room. Scott’s was at the end, and I found it easily. There was a little comic relief, as I impatiently had to wait for some dimbulb who was backing out of a space, and who took forever to do it. But he did it, at last, and I slid into his spot, and got out.

It was a hot night, still, late June, early July, and the motel was set back away from Rte 1, so that you heard only the murmur of traffic. A sign flashed “No Vacancy” off and on; there was a light in the parking lot, but the end, where Scott’s car was, wasn’t lit any too well. I tapped on the door, and receiving no answer, walked in.

The room was dark, but I could see Scott clearly. He was sitting in a chair, facing the door. He was stark naked, and he was stroking his cock. I knew Scott pretty well by now, and I knew what he liked and didn’t like. One thing he didn’t like was me talking or saying anything during a prep scene for sex. So I kept my mouth shut, and stripped naked too, kneeling before him in as submissive an attitude as I could do.

Scott spread his legs a little, and I crawled forward to lick his balls, my hands behind my back, my own cock rock-hard, while Scott leaned back in the chair. He suddenly got up, and motioned to me to stand. He quickly and very tightly bound my wrists behind my back, and pushed me towards the beds.

There were two twin beds in the room, and one was obviously intended for me. It had been pulled away from the cheap headboard into the center of the room; all the sheets and covers had been stripped off; towards the bottom, two pillows were stacked. It was classic Scott fucking setup. Scott liked the pillows under my hips because they raised and spread my ass. He liked me tied up with my hands behind my back, rather than the traditional 4-corner spreadeagle, because he enjoyed watching me twist my trunk and body while he fucked me.

In less than five minutes I was tied up in a position in which I was to remain for many hours, and in which I was to endure not only ass torture but also an incredible sense of fear and outright panic. I survived it, thank God, but no matter how horny you are, don’t end up the way I did.

Well, anyway, so far so good. Scott got me to lie face down, hips on the pillows, legs spread, ass open for Scott’s male sex tool. Scott tied the legs, not at the ankles, but just above the calves, tying them down to the bed legs. Tying them this way meant that the spread was much wider, the ass more open and split, the crotch and ass, forced upwards by the pillows, thus the centerpieces, you might say, of the bed.

This all happened before AIDS, and poppers were still used. Scott took a handcloth from the bathroom, and strutting around, showing his erection off to me, he poured poppers on to the cloth. Then he mounted me, and held the cloth under my face, covering my nose and mouth. I breathed and then, as the poppers hit, I started bucking in the ropes. Scott had been kneeling between my legs, his cock resting on my ass cheeks; now he started penetration. I ass-lusted up into his crotch, taking his massive meat in my ass, and feeling the huge cock slide up and into my ass.

Scott started fucking me.

As I say, I knew Scott well, and his fucking technique was one I knew very well, having been on the receiving end of it many times. Scott is what I call a long fucker, meaning not just his cock length, but the time he spends fucking. When he feels himself about to come, he stops, and pours water on his cock so that the head cools down, and then starts again, In an hour, for instance, he routinely fucks for 12 minutes or so, then stops, then starts again. In an hour he will fuck for 45 to 50 minutes all told. Over the long haul, when he spaces himself out, he will fuck for 35 to 40 minutes an hour. Outside of this one Friday night, the longest Scott fucked me was close to four hours, with the actual fucking time being (probably) about 3 hours, the rest with him stopping so that he wouldn’t shoot.

Anyway, the fucking had started, and my ass was lusting for Scott’s cock. After about an hour or so (I gauged the time by the number of times Scott stopped to cool his cock off), the poppers were wearing off, the booze from the party was wearing off, and the intense sexual pitch I had been in for 2 weeks had eased off. All in all, I was very tired, and suddenly I wanted to hold Scott, and kiss him, and make love to him, as we sometimes did after rough sex and heavy bondage scenes. But then the door to the motel opened (Scott had left it open for me to get in without a key), and this guy came in.

At first I didn’t know who it was, and started struggling to get Scott’s attention, thinking it was the motel manager. But then, as the guy came in confidently, and dumped his overnight bag on the other bed, I became aware that this was Scott’s friend from Wilmington. The room was completely dark, except for what light came in through the curtains, and of course the open door, where the guy stood, but if he was surprised at walking into a room where one male was being rhythmically fucked up the ass while tied to a bed, he didn’t show it. In fact, he was so nonchalant that he jumped on the other bed, lit a cigarette, and put his hands behind his neck.

Scott didn’t say anything, so of course I didn’t, and it became apparent that from Scott’s actions he was showing off to his friend. He would draw his cock out of my ass like a sword from a sheath, show off its length, and bounce it up and down on my ass cheeks, and then shove it hard and solid up my butt. I helped out by grunting and groaning for my friend Scott’s benefit, and to show the stranger how good a job Scott was doing. I needn’t have bothered.

Scott was super horny that night too, and fucked my ass good for a long time while the stranger lay on the bed smoking. Finally he stopped, and from my best guess, it would have been about 12:30 or 1:00 AM, but who knows? He went over to the other bed, and he and the stranger smoked a joint, and drank some beer. Then Scott got up on the bed, and lay face down. Soon he was sleeping, and I could hear the soft in-and-out of his breathing. No one had spoken since I came into the room; I never heard the stranger’s voice, nor ever knew his name.

Anyhow, I was stark naked, tied up face down, Scott asleep, and my still-bound cock slowly hardening with the excitement of a stranger being in the room and in total control. He was a big guy, bigger than me, about 6'2", and though it was hard to tell in the semi-darkness, built. He had on tight jeans, and a shirt open down his chest. What his eyes were like, or hair, or even face, I couldn’t tell.

Suddenly he got up, and stripped naked, dumping his clothes on the floor. Springing from his crotch was a huge erection, which he deliberately slapped my face with. My ass started acting up for this piece of male meat, but I was not prepared for this professional fucker of yuppies. He swung his cock around a lot so I could see it, and took Scott’s cloth (the one he had poured poppers on) and soaked it in more poppers. The room suddenly became filled with the odor of amyl nitrate. Quickly, deftly, and expertly, this guy jammed the cloth up my mouth, and taped it in place, using not wide bands of tape, but narrow bands of ordinary adhesive tape, around and around and around my head.

The poppers burst in my brain, and again I started fuck-lusting for male cock up my ass. The professional breaker of yuppies tantalized me with his steel-hard erection in front of my taped mouth, and then he mounted the bed behind me, with rope. I saw him get the rope from Scott’s bag, and wondered what for, but then the poppers hit again, and I wondered no more, I just wanted my ass fucked.

He tied my arms. Not just tied them, but laced the arms together from the shoulders down to the wrists, and pulled them very, very tightly together. This just made me hornier, and I started heaving my ass up towards his crotch, trying to get fucked. But he wasn't through. He used more rope and bound my arms to my body, along the spine, rope across the arms and across the chest, above and below the tits. More rope pulling my wrists down into my back, and tightened across my abdomen. And still I didn’t see it.

I didn't see it even when he started fucking me, which he soon did.

This guy’s shaft was like the worst dildo you ever had up your ass—he shoved it in at angles which were meant to hurt, and hurt they did. The poppers were starting to wear off in my mouth, and I tried to make sounds to protest a very rough treatment of my ass, but my throat was clogged. Scott fucked me smoothly: he fucked for a long time, true, but he fucked along the natural groove of my ass. This guy fucked to give pain.

I started grunting, and felt his fingers close on my nostrils. He was cutting off my breathing, and I hit a terrible, screaming panic, and bucked like hell in the ropes. Over to my right I could see Scott, asleep on the bed. Even if I weren’t gagged, it took more than screaming to raise Scott—he was a heavy sleeper, and I was very tightly, very efficiently gagged by an expert, and by a guy who obviously got his rocks off by tying up guys like me and making them suffer.

He let loose my nostrils and I breathed free air, desperately. The fucking started again, and this time I was sober: I mean the booze and poppers had worn off, and I wanted this to stop. So I bucked and tried to reach his shaft with my fingers, and made grunting noises as loud as I could.

Again fingers closed on my nostrils. Air was shut off, and yet this guy still pumped his cock up and down in my ass. I could not breathe. Scott was breathing, not 3 feet away, but he was asleep.

My nostrils were released, and immediate I started grunting and moaning. Again the fingers closed, and I slowly, dimly realized, that I was being told something, that as long as I kept quiet, I could breathe. And the way he closed off my breathing suggested very strongly to me that he didn’t much give a damn. And all the while the vicious fucking continued, as painful as this son of a bitch could make it..

A crawling, hideous terror crept into my bones and a mind-numbing panic: I was tied up, gagged, stark naked, in a motel room, and being fucked repeatedly by a guy whose name I didn’t even know. I started crying, and I think the yuppie fucker liked that, because he increased the length of his fuck. By that I mean he drew his cock out very slowly, and then shoved it in at a new angle very slowly, so that my screaming ass had to submit to it. All the time he must have been able to feel and hear the wracking sobs as my chest heaved up and down, and I sniveled and begged through my nose. Probably all the yuppies he had fucked did the same thing.

He knew a lot about this particular scene, though, and this part is really pretty degrading. He let me sob for a while, I don’t know how long, but the fucking continued. Then he took his poppers bottle, and opened it. The aroma filled the hot, stifling air of the motel room. Carefully, still fucking my ass, he poured poppers on the bed exactly where my head could reach, so if I rolled my head to the right or left to escape the fumes, I would roll into poppers. It was as if someone grabbed my heart with his hand: this guy didn’t care about me, in fact he probably hated me. He wanted me to suffer, and then he might very well kill me. I went very still, in a cold panic.

And all the while this yuppie breaker fucked me. Over and over, until my ass was the center of my mind and soul with the pain.

I don’t mean to say that I was fucked non-stop by this guy. He would stop every now and then, use the bathroom, walk around, smoke. It was after about an hour of fucking me on and off, that this guy escalated the scene.

Let me try to explain how I felt, both mentally and physically. Physically I was tied up, supertight: my legs had long since gone dead, and my fingers I could barely move. My arms, trussed up expertly by the yuppie breaker, were dead too. And my head was pounding from the after effects of the poppers, my throat was parched dry, and the tape across my mouth and around my neck cut down on the blood circulation to my brain, so I was in a perpetual state of woozy drowsiness, which, as a matter of fact, helped with the panic which every now and then surfaced in what was left of my mind.

But back to the escalation. The yuppie breaker brought an ashtray over to the bed, and placed it in my almost nerveless fingers. (My wrists had been tied crisscross, not palms together, so the hands made a natural dish). He then slowly reinserted his cock up my ass, very slowly. Then the rhythm began again, the torture rhythm, the ass-pounding not for pleasure but for pain. And all the while this guy smoked. I knew it because I could smell it, and feel it when he stubbed out a cigarette in the ashtray I was holding for him. I fought and fought the searing pain of this cruel bastard’s cock, crying and sobbing uselessly into the tape gag, banging my head up and down on the bed.

Finally (I admit it!) he broke me. The yuppie breaker got another victim. It’s difficult to explain exactly what happened, but all of a sudden, I stopped resisting mentally, and completely surrendered. The fucking filled my ass and my mind, and my only thought in my very dreamy mind was male cock, particularly this guy’s rock hard maleness. He opened up dirty little rooms in my mind until his cock dominated everything in my mind.

The only sounds in the room were the horrible sucking and thrusting noise of the yuppie breaker’s cock going in and out of my ass, and the slap of his abdomen and hips against the tortured buttocks. And every fuck thrust me down further into groveling submission to this guy’s stiff sex organ. I believe he knew it, too. I believe he knew just exactly how much fucking it took to reduce this ex-Marine and yuppie to a state of mentally kneeling before him.

Finally he stopped, but I don’t know when. I was passing in and out of consciousness at the time; I would wake up to find his cock still thrusting up my ass; or I would wake up, and he was wandering around the room, naked, his dick still erect. At that time I would think he was through with me, but no, he came back, and with a remorseless cruelty, remounted my tortured ass, and forced me back into submission.

Anyway, finally he did stop. I think he was one of those guys who keeps a hard-on for a long time and then when he finally does come it gives him no release and no pleasure. A modern satyr. Scott, my 20-year-old, could fuck me for hours without coming, but he fucked for pleasure and his release was always massively orgiastic. This guy was a cock sadist.

I went out again, and woke up to see Scott sitting on the edge of the bed, and the yuppie fucker lying on the bed, smoking. Scott evidently thought it was his turn, and equally evidently he wanted to show off again for this guy. I, on the other hand, tried in every way I could to communicate to Scott that this guy was very bad news, and I had to be untied at once. But I couldn’t reach him, and of course yuppie breaker had gagged me very tightly. So Scott, like the 20-year-old he was, walked around the room, stark naked, cock stiff, stroking his chest and his tits. I twisted around as best I could on the bed, trying to get his attention, but the room was still dark, and you could see only forms and outlines.

And then Scott mounted my ass, the last thing, except being fucked by yuppie breaker, that I wanted. I heaved up and down, I tightened my ass muscles, and still Scott’s insistent manhood was shoved into the ass crack. Apparently he thought that my resistance was part of the fun. All this while yuppie breaker was lying over on the bed, watching and smoking. I knew something bad was going to happen, very bad. I was desperately, panic stricken scared, and Scott was acting as if it were just any old fuck night.

Slowly Scott’s cock broke my muscles’ resistance, and once more my ass was hurt by the penetration of a male cock. I was physically just not up to being fucked any more: this whole scene had gone way out of control, but since Scott had slept through my being fucked by yuppie breaker, he had no idea that I wasn’t having fun, in fact that I had the strongest premonition of evil in the air.

It was kind of like being speechless while watching your friend walk, unknowing, towards a precipice. Scott was walking towards disaster, and I couldn’t warn him. I didn’t know what the disaster was going to be, but its source was the guy lying on the bed, smoking. He had a kind of controlled rigidity about him, not relaxing at all, but then this might have been the impression of an overheated brain.

Scott started fucking me slowly, the way he always started, luxuriating in his young male hardness and the ass raised up before him, the bound-and-gagged body, and the pride he felt in his stiff cock. He was putting on a performance for yuppie breaker, that was clear. Soon my mind was numbed again, and the premonition of disaster faded, and Scott’s cock took over for me. Reality was Scott’s rockhard fuck tool fucking my ass and my brain. I surrendered totally to him, and was stiffening in my own crotch, when yuppie fucker jackknifed up from the bed, and strode over to my head, his cock again erect.

To give you an understanding of how fucked up I was, I tell you that while Scott fucked my ass, I started lusting for yuppie breaker’s cock, which he held inches from my taped mouth, and which he stroked with one hand, while smoking with the other.

Then he moved off towards the bathroom, and suddenly I went cold. He was standing at Scott’s bag, which lay open on the desk. In it Scott kept his bondage stuff, dildos and so forth. I watched with a sense of alarm as he took out a pair of handcuffs. The premonition of evil beat very loud, like a drum, in my head, and I twisted desperately to reach Scott and warn him. Too late. In another minute I suddenly felt Scott slammed up against my ass, his cock still stiff, and I heard the sound of the handcuffs clicking; once, then twice. The horror had started.

This guy, remember, was six foot two, and Scott only five eight, so he had six inches on Scott. I watched while he propelled Scott across the room, and slammed him up against the door. He held Scott by the scruff of the neck, the way one does a puppy, and Scott’s still stiff dick, and his head and body, all hit the door at once.

The room was perceptibly lightening as night ended and day began, and I could see Scott lifted up on his toes as this guy fucked his ass right up against the door.

Scott is like me, when you fuck him, you have to start easy. This guy just fucked him, hard and mean, and Scott’s mouth opened in a rictus of pain. Outside the room, only an inch or two through the door against which Scott was being fucked, was freedom; inside the room was a sickly miasma of fear and violence. You knew from the way the guy threw Scott around, and stomp-fucked him, that he was practiced at this, and had beaten up a lot of guys. He looked as if he was waiting for some resistance so that he could escalate the level of violence. There was violence and hatred in the air, and I lay as still as death, watching my friend get torture-fucked.

I don't know how long Scott was slammed up against the door, but after whatever time, the yuppie breaker, who was still holding Scott by his neck, slammed him down on the bed to which I was tied, so that Scott lay half on, half off the bed, his wrists handcuffed behind him. His face was near mine, and I could see he was crying.

The guy left him there, and came back with a belt, with which he played tunes on poor Scott’s ass. The awful sound of leather hitting Scott’s bubble ass, and Scott’s crying, were all the sounds in the room.

Again Scott was fucked, and his grimaces of pain I could see very clearly in his face. He was fucked for a long, long time. Finally yuppie fucker got off Scott, and grabbed him by the neck again. He marched him over to the chair which Scott had been sitting in when I had arrived here, years ago it seemed. He pushed Scott into a kneeling position in front of the chair, and started pawing through our clothes. He took Scott’s jeans, and emptied the pockets, even taking the small change. He took Scott’s wallet and lifted the few bills Scott had. These he put in his own jeans, although he remained naked.

I was hoping that his taking the money meant he would leave soon, but the yuppie fucker had other plans. He picked up my tux, and rifled through it, taking my wallet, and emptying it of cash. He took out all the contents and my wallet, and threw them on the floor. Any money he found he put in his jeans. Then he found a sealed envelope in my coat, with Scott’s name on it. He opened it, and my heart sank.

Picture the scene: Mike spreadeagled and gagged to a bed, Scott kneeling, stark naked, his wrists cuffed behind him, and both of us watching the yuppie fucker who was also stark naked, half erect, and reading a letter one 32-year-old yuppie had written to his 20-year-old stud friend. It was full of submission stuff: how I longed to kneel before Scott’s huge cock, and so on and so forth. There was enough light now in the room for the guy to be able to read the letter without turning on the lights. Inside the letter were two 100-dollar bills, a lust token for Scott’s crotch. Yuppie breaker stuffed them into his jeans, and then walked back before the chair, before which Scott was still kneeling. He held the letter in his hand.

Suddenly, without any warning, he lashed out with his foot at Scott’s crotch, and with searing horror I watched his foot meet Scott’s cock and balls. Scott’s head shot back, and his mouth went distended and ugly with the god-awful pain. Yuppie fucker balled the letter and jammed it in Scott’s mouth. Scott’s shoulders started heaving as he sobbed, but he knew enough now to know he shouldn’t even think of moving from his knees. So he remained kneeling, with the letter in his mouth, and waited for whatever the sadist was going to do next.

The sadist obviously wanted to humiliate and degrade Scott as much as possible, for the next act was viciously cruel. He duck-shuffled Scott over to the bed where I lay, up at my head, and pulled the letter from his mouth. Then, inches from my face, he fucked Scott’s mouth until the half-erection became stiff again. Then he viciously fucked Scott’s mouth, ramming his meat down Scott’s throat until the boy choked. Scott’s eyes and nose were running, and he was having trouble breathing, but yuppie fucker forced his shaft down his throat over and over. Scott’s mouth drooled as he choked and suffered, and then the man stood back, and slapped him across the face. Scott tried controlling his sobs, but the man fucked his mouth once more. Then, oh blessed sight! we watched as he dressed, searched our stuff once more for money, and then left, slamming the door of the motel room behind him.

A car started, and then silence. Blessed silence. The unbearable atmosphere in the room, the heavy electric atmosphere and sickening, oppressive fear, was suddenly gone. Scott still knelt, crying, but as we didn’t hear the yuppie fucker return, he had presence of mind enough to stand, and use his cuffed wrists to lock the door, the same door against which he had been so mercilessly fucked. Then he went and looked for his car keys. As a backup, in case we lost the handcuff keys (which we did once), Scott had always kept a spare on his car keys. With the spare, it was a couple of minutes, and then Scott’s hands were free, and soon so was my tortured and nearly dead body.
Tired as we were, we got our things and went home, leaving forever that awful room of horror.

THE CORPORAL PERFORMS - 1

[This wonderful memoir of his Marine Corps bondage experiences was written by the same great correspondent who sent me The Scott Chronicles. He saw that I had started posting those and contacted me to ask if I could send him a copy of his Marine Corps memories, published back in 1993, in Bondage Recruits. I told him I'd put them up on my site, for all to read, and do so now, having just had a wonderful time rereading them myself. Part 2 of this one will come next week.]

When I was 17 or 18, I worked the summer in a warehouse full of medical books, and one section was sexology. At lunch I took my sandwich and sneaked into the section, and looked at the books. Some were old ones, like Havelock Ellis, some were books on sexual technique, sexual diseases, and so forth, but one was titled, bluntly, Homosexuality. So I opened it up, and came across an excerpt from that classic “Seven in a Barn,” a story of 7 studs playing poker in a barn, winner take all. The excerpt excited me intensely. It went something like this:

“‘Well, Bill, I suppose you’ve won.’

“‘Yes, Dave, I have. Please remove the table and place the mat in the middle of the floor.’

“Dave stood up, and moved the table to one side. It was obvious he meant to play the game fairly. In a few minutes his shoes and trousers were off, and he stood before Bill, wearing nothing but his T-shirt and briefs. A wave of excitement passed through the crowd as all eyes concentrated on that promising spot between Dave’s legs, showing a lovely curve, but still covered. They knew that in a few minutes Dave would be ordered to remove the barrier, and then…

“Six erections were the result, and the excitement grew as the 21-year-old football player knelt on the mat before the 18-year-old leader, who quietly leaned back in his chair.”

The kneeling part is what I love about the story.

1

After boot camp I was sent to Camp Smith which sits in the hills overlooking Pearl Harbor. It's also headquarters for the Fleet Marine Force, and CINCPAC (Commander in Chief Pacific), so it's a pretty important base. As a result, they spent more money on it than other bases, and the barracks were pretty fancy by Marine Corps standards. They looked like motels—three stories of rooms, each facing out onto a porch which ran the length of each building. Each section was the same: 1 squadbay, which looked like a motel room, and next to it, a second squadbay, which was the mirror opposite of the other, and between the two was the bathroom, or what we called the head. There were four Marines to each room, and each Marine had his own bed. It's important to picture these beds accurately because a lot of spreadeagling went on in my squadbay. Each bed had a small headboard and a small footboard, which were attached at the top and bottom to metal bedposts, leaving about a 3-inch space between the attachments. Obviously, when you tied the wrists and ankles to these posts, your spreadeagled Marine could not slide the ropes either above or below these attachments. I wonder if the guy who ordered these beds did so with being spreadeagled in mind.

Anyway, when I came on base, there was a sergeant in charge of the squadbay, me, and two other Marines. At last he shipped out, and I was put in charge, a 23-year-old Marine corporal. The other guys had changed too, so I had three privates straight out of LeJeune: Dave, a Mexican-American, Andy from Austin, Texas, and John who was from Long Island. They were 17 and 18 years old. John played only a small, but interesting role, later on, and ultimately left us for the detox center.

Another thing significant about the barracks is the fact that it never gets cold in Hawaii, and most of the time we ran the barracks in Speedos or briefs. Most nights we slept without covers because it was so warm; in fact a couple of us got some foam rubber which we put on top of the made beds, and slept on these. This saved us the necessity of making beds for inspection.

Dave and I finally got together one night, when the other two Marines were out. I forget what started it, but we'd both had enough to drink, and I probably bet him he couldn't tie me up so that I couldn't get out. He tied me to a chair, and I got out in about an hour. From then on, Dave got real interested, and we would tie each other up almost every night. Andy was out most times, and John was never there, so we were mostly alone.

One night I came down the hill from the Enlisted Men's Club a little more drunk than usual. It was Friday night, about eleven. I always slept wearing only tight Speedos (like a lot of Marines), and I slept uncovered on top of the foam rubber on my bed.

About twelve (I guess), when I was sleeping on my side, I felt someone very gently lift my right hand and ever so carefully slip a rope loop over my wrist. I was awake, but I kept my eyes shut, and continued regular, deep breathing. My heart was racing wildly, though, and my cock had jumped and thrust stiffly into the Speedos, so rock-hard that I was glad I was lying on my side so whoever it was who was tying me up couldn't see the massive erection straining at the thin nylon.

Ever so gently my arm was pulled back to the bed post, where it was secured. This pulled me onto my back. Next, my other arm was very gently raised and tied to the other post. I was still pretending to be asleep, and it was a convincing job, because I heard some whispering, and a voice said “Wake him up now.”
Suddenly the overhead lights were on, and Dave was slapping me on the face. I awoke with a “Wazza happening?” and I looked up at whoever had done it. Dave was standing at the foot of the bed, with more rope in his hands. Andy, and three Marines from the other squadbay were standing looking at me. All of them were in cotton briefs, nothing else, four hard, lean, young male bodies, fresh from boot camp, and tanned by the Hawaii sun.

Dave grabbed one of my legs and tied rope to it. He then pulled my body down the bed as hard as he could, and tied the leg to a bed post. More rope, and my other leg was tied too. I could look down my body to the massive curve in my crotch which I was completely unable to hide now, I felt enormously sexually aroused, my body thrilling with the very, very tight spreadeagle, and with the humiliation of being tied up and having an erection in front of four young Marines.

Dave was not through. He got a piece of rag and tried shoving it in my mouth. I clenched my teeth to prevent him gagging me. With a quick, deft movement, still holding the rag up against my mouth, he karate-chopped my crotch, and as my mouth involuntarily opened to scream, he shoved the rag in. Fortunately, either the booze I had had, or maybe Dave didn't hit me all that hard, the pain from the karate chop had no measurable effect on my erection.

Dave gagged me expertly and carefully. Now that the rag was in my mouth, he held it in place while he got a band of thin adhesive tape around my head and through the mouth, He wrapped this tape carefully around my head several times, jamming the rag deep into my throat. He wasn't through. Next, he took wide, grey duct tape, and proceeded to tape my head from just below the nose to under the chin. I writhed and heaved in the ropes while this was going on, first shouting, then muffled shouts, then gurgles, and finally soundless screams. I heaved my ass up off the bed in a kind of wrestler's bridge, which, of course, showed off the gigantic bulge in the bondage and the public humiliation.

Finally Dave was done. They stayed around a while, doing things like cutting off my breathing by holding my nose, shaving my armpits, and slapping the Speedo-covered meat. Needless to say, I was as horny as a goat. Finally, they got a can of shaving cream, and lifting the band of the Speedos, they filled the speedos with warm shaving cream. It was an incredible sensation to have my cock, balls and crotch covered with shaving cream, while my manhood was bent in a forced curve under the tight nylon of the briefs. Then they turned off the lights and left me.

I fought the ropes deliciously for a long time, until the booze began to wear off, and panic started in. All the supposes occurred to me: suppose an officer comes in, suppose they leave me here and there's a fire, suppose, and suppose. At one point I got filled with desperation, and sent useless unheard scream after scream into the gag. Sweat broke out all over my body, and I struggled desperately in the ropes, trying with brute strength to break them. Nothing doing. I was tightly and viciously spreadeagled.

At long last, the panic subsided, and I started rationally to untie myself. I loosened one knot with my thumbnail, and started rubbing it against the bedboard to undo it. The bars would be closing at 3:00, and already I could hear men returning to the barracks. There was not much time. Finally the one knot gave way, and I was able to free the wrist for about six inches until the rope was stopped by a second knot. With the new freedom of movement, though, this knot posed no problem, and I had my right wrist completely free and was going to work on the left, when the door opened, and Dave, obviously drunk, came in.

It was after three o'clock, and all through the barracks the final doors were being closed, the last lights going out. At first Dave didn't see me, and I quickly moved my right wrist back to where it would look as if I were still tied. I was getting rock-hard again with the thought of escaping, and tying him up while he was sleeping it off.

But Dave saw me after he came out of the head, and came over to check me. The room was still dark, and only an outside light shone through the curtains into the room. I was hoping he would be too drunk to notice my right wrist. But he did notice it, and quickly grabbed it, and tied it with rope. I was really thrashing around now, because it had taken me three hours to free that wrist, but in less than 10 seconds I was thoroughly and completely tied up again. Then he took more rope and bound both wrists more tightly to the posts. There was no no freedom of movement at all, and I was totally secured. I heaved around with utter desperation, begging (uselessly) into the gag, but a few minutes later, Dave started snoring, and I was finished.

About ten minutes later, Andy turned up, and I got a sudden surge of excitement as he came in and looked at my tied-up and gagged body. Just where I had been at midnight when he and the other guys watched me being spreadeagled. He just looked at me for a while, and I squirmed and writhed trying to signal him to untie me. Andy did nothing. He went to bed, and pretty soon he too was fast asleep.

It was early morning, I guessed, somewhere around four o'clock, and at this point I had totally given up trying to escape. My wrists felt as if they had been poured in concrete; I could move my fingers slightly, but the circulation was not real good. My legs were OK, as far as circulation was concerned, but they were still tightly tied to the posts. My shoulders were aching because of the way my arms were tied; my crotch was definitely aching because my legs were spread out so far. The sodden rag sealed into my mouth felt as if it had been there all my life. Technically speaking, the gag was perfect. Dave had jammed enough cloth into my mouth so I could not get my tongue to my upper lip. Anyone who has been gagged with tape knows that the way to breathe or to talk is to break the adhesion of the tape on the upper lip, by contracting the lip and working with the tongue. This I could not do, so I lay entombed in silence and secured tightly at my four appendages with rope. The fifth appendage, between my legs, was starting to grow again, as I slipped slowly and inevitably into pleasure. I was really getting into my roped submission, and I remember how incredibly sexual it was in the early morning, with a soft Hawaiian breeze playing across my sweaty body, and those two guys sleeping it off in the next beds. And I was forced to wait, to wait until one of them got up and untied me. I was utterly and completely helpless, and Dave retying my wrist at 3:00 AM or so had beaten me.

So I lay luxuriating in the ache in my arms, back and crotch, thrusting my ever-increasing bulge towards the ceiling. I bridged as best I could, lifting my ass off the foam rubber and hoping one of those guys would wake and see my erection. I grunted into the gag, my mouth hermetically sealed with tape, which scratched into my morning beard. My head ached with lack of sleep and my hangover; I felt all grubby and sweaty; pools of sweat had gathered in the foam, and as I rolled and twisted, my body got recoated with old sweat.

My body was on fire with lust and sexual arousal. The Speedos tightened as my nine inches stiffened into rock-hard erection. I wanted to kneel in front of Dave and the other guys and jerk off. I fantasized about being ordered to strip in front of them, and stand at attention, wearing only my Speedos. Dave would be sitting in a chair, and the other guys standing around. All eyes would be fastened on my crotch, which would show a lovely curve, but still be covered. Then Dave would curtly order me to remove the last barrier, and kneel. Six erections would be the result as the 23-year-old man corporal knelt before his 18-year-old master, who quietly leaned back in his chair.

All the while I fantasized this my erection grew huge and hard; I lusted in the ropes.

It must have been after 5:00 AM that John turned up, but that's just a guess. The room was measurably lightening, and I had been dozing on and off, so it must have been some time around then. John was a weird guy. First, he hated any kind of authority, which naturally included me, since I was NCOIC of the squadbay. Second, he had a real drug problem, which ultimately got him kicked out of the Corps. But for this story, none of that mattered. Because what he did was the only contact we had during the six months he was in my squadbay. He was gone most of the time, sleeping elsewhere, and almost never turned up in the barracks. This morning he did, as I heard him pushing uncertainly with his key at the door's lock. Finally, he got it open, and came in. He was dressed in civvies: cutoff jeans, and a ragged t-shirt, which did little to hide the built chest of that boy. I will say one thing for him, he did have a hunky body.

It must have been a sight for him to see. Here was his NCOIC tied up and gagged, and his two other buddies asleep. The room was lightening, but still pre-dawn, and he could see enough of me to tell that I was not only tied up but gagged. He sat down on the bed beside me, and whispered at me, calling me an asshole and every other name he could think of. While he did this, he had his hand on my chest, playing with the chain around my neck, flipping the dog tags up and down. I tried grunting at him, and lifting my head off the bed, and twisting around to show what I thought of him. He stopped whispering at me, and looked over at Dave and Andy. They were sound asleep, and Dave, who was a real snorer, was giving of his best. John's hand then moved down my chest, and over the Speedos, and down to my legs. I went rigid in the ropes and the bulge between my legs went rock-hard. One of the things that John did was to reaffirm one of the oldest Marine Corps, and straight boys’, excuses, that you can do whatever you want when you're drunk or on drugs. The next day you can always say, “God, was I drunk last night!” or “I don't remember a thing about last night,” and everything is OK. When I met Rocky several months later, and we had sex in the basement room of the barracks, we both used exactly those words the next day. Dave and I always tied each other up after we had a load on, so as to give ourselves the same excuse.

Anyway, John stroked my legs for a while, and then he cupped his hand over the curve in my crotch. I bridged up to meet his hand, feeling incredibly horny, and trying to rub his hand with my stiffened cock. This kept up for a few minutes, and then, suddenly, John made a fist and hit me hard with it right on the head of my cock, catching one of my balls as well.

“Fuckin' queer,” he said.

With this I went limp, but he hit me again in my crotch. I was really scared, not only because I had deliberately thrust at him with my erection, but also because I was heavily gagged, and couldn't say anything. The pain of John's beating me in the cock and balls was mild compared to the shame of being caught out. I thought of what he would tell the others next day, and what would happen to me.

But it was strange. He hit me three or four times, and stopped. Nothing happened for a while, and then he started playing with the dog tags again. I relaxed, and John started playing with my body, up and down the arms, across my chest, down my legs. Then his head slowly caressed my abdomen (back then your typical Marine's washboard), and along the top of the Speedos. Then he quickly moved again to the curve of my manhood, and cupped his hand over it, massaging it gently with his fingers. It went rock-hard immediately, and for a long time he kept stroking it. It made me delirious with lust, and this time, as I thrust my crotch into his hand, he didn't stop stroking it. His hand went around the base of my cock, stroking my balls, and over the mountain of my male erection to the head, which as I knew from experience, was clearly molded in the thin nylon. I was begging soundlessly for him to let my dick out and stroke me to ejaculation. And, if this were a porn film, he would have. But he didn't. After enjoying my body, he hit me twice, very hard, in my meat, so hard that I almost passed out, with my eyes filling with red mists of pain.

“Fuckin' queer,” he repeated.

He then changed clothes and left. I lay there, wanting desperately to caress and hold my exceedingly painful manhood, but obviously unable to do so. The agony which had caused me to break out in sweat all over my body, slowly, very slowly subsided, although it returned from time to time without warning in sudden flashes of intense pain. Finally I must have fallen asleep, because I awoke as Dave and Andy were coming out of the head. They were dressed for work (half-days on Saturdays), but I had this weekend off, and they knew it. Maybe that's why they had ambushed me last night. It was full morning, with the hot Hawaiian sun beating in at the windows. It was also weird because here were these two guys dressed in uniform, and I still lay on the bed, trussed, gagged, and displaying a hardon in my tight Speedos, a relic of the night before. Not only that, but Dave slapped my face affectionately before the two left.

I was alone. All around me I could hear Marines getting up, some to work, some to the beach, talking, laughing. The three guys in the squadbay next to mine came into the room through the head. They were in cutoffs and tight t-shirts, headed for the beach.

“Jesus,” one of them said, as they looked at me, and laughed. “Dave really did a job on his buddy.”

“See you tonight,” they called out, laughing again, and off they went.

The hours crept slowly on, the hubbub of the morning had died down, and the barracks were entirely deserted. I could hear, faintly, traffic from down the hill, and other normal sounds of daily occupation. All the while, unknown to the base and the barracks except those five sadists, I lay spreadeagled on my bed. Again I was forced to wait, and slowly again my cock stiffened to a full erection. I had lost count of its ups and downs through the night, but the warmth of sexual arousal filled my aching body and lust replaced pain as my mind and body slipped forever into submission.

I was finally untied at about 12:30, after Dave came back from work. He untied one wrist, and left, leaving me to struggle loose. It took about an hour, and finally I stood up, still gagged, chafing my wrists and ankles in an effort to restore circulation. I was, unfortunately, alone in the room, but I made do as best I could.

Leaving the gag in place, I placed a chair in the middle of the room. I took a pair of Dave's spit-shined boots and placed them on the floor in front of the chair, facing out, as if he were sitting there with his boots on. I stood at rigid attention for a moment, not permitting my hands to stroke the still-covered rock-hard cock encased in my Speedos. I pretended that my fantasy had come true.

“Well, Mike, I see I've won.”

“Yes, Dave, you have.”

Andy and the other guys stood around Dave, who was fully dressed, wearing spit-shined boots. They were naked, except for jockstraps which were showing clearly the evidence of their sexual excitement. The older Marine corporal stood at attention before the young Marine privates, waiting for his orders.

They came curtly. “Strip, corporal, to your jockstrap.”

The corporal slowly stripped naked, except for his jock, and once again stood at attention before his 18-year-old master. All eyes feasted on the promising bulge between the corporal's legs, showing a huge bulging curve.

They knew that in a few minutes he would be ordered to remove the jock.

While I was thinking of this, I ripped the gag off as savagely as I could, taking hair and skin at the same time. The sodden rag dropped on the floor, and I kicked it out of the way. My meat grew harder in the curve of the Speedos. I followed orders, and removed the last barrier.

Then I knelt down before the chair and the boots, and indulged in two long fantastic jerk-offs, shooting both loads onto Dave's boots. My mind luxuriated in the submission, humiliation and degradation of the scene: one male kneeling naked and beaten before the captor, and humbly shooting his precious cum in token of his master's dominance. I indulged myself in the first jerk-off, taking my cock, free at last after being imprisoned in a forced bent curve all night in the Speedos. I thought of the Marines standing at the foot of my bed while I was being tied up, Andy, seventeen, naked except for his briefs, whipcord muscles in his arms and chest, lean, hard, all-male, all Marine. I thought of Dave kneeling on my chest while he had gagged me, the heavy pack of muscle in his shoulders, shifting as he wrapped the tape, the musk odor of his body within inches of my face. And the other guys, tanned, with hair sun-golden on chests and thighs, their hard, lean bodies. I stroked my own lean body, feeling the tips, twin hard pricks of sexual heat, pinching them roughly with my fingers. I remembered the intense excitement when, hours ago, I had felt Dave very carefully, very gently slip the first rope around my right wrist; then, in contrast, how he viciously pulled and stretched my legs, tying them with clothesline, while I, now awake, looked down my body and over the massive curving bulge in my crotch to those near-naked Marines enjoying my bondage.

I remembered, now with pleasure, the strange business with John, how he alternated stroking me to an erection and then torturing me. I remembered the early morning lust, while those two hunky Marines were sleeping, when I heaved and thrust my cock to the ceiling, my cock rock-hard, imprisoned, covered with shaving cream. Finally, I let my cock shoot, and a gush of cum covered Dave's boots and the floor.

I stood up, rigidly at attention, and felt with pleasure that my nine inches were still hard, and ready for Dave's order. I gave the order, and knelt again, and indulged a second time in memory and fantasy, and willed them to be there now as I submitted to them. A second gush came, and yet still I remained stiff. Again I stood at attention, and for the third and last time, knelt.

The third erection took much longer, but finally I shot a small load of cum, and realized I was completely depleted. The image of the Marines’ bodies was still strong in my mind, and I gave myself one final order from Dave.

Of course, I fantasized that Dave then ordered me to clean his boots, and in that very hot room, in the Hawaiian afternoon, I groveled on the floor, my cock again stiffening, and licked the cum off the boots and off the floor where it had splattered around the chair in which my 18-year-old master sat. I spent considerably time on the boots, because my cum had gotten into the laces, and required to to dig it out with my tongue. To my amazement, my cock was hard again, and required an all-time record of a fourth jerk-off to relieve it. I licked it off the toe of Dave's boot, and went to bed. It took a long, long time, but finally a tiny shot of sperm spurted out. Needless to say, I slept like a baby that afternoon.