Nine Circles - part 29
(Co-written with [mention]DeeperThanRed[/mention])
Lance:
“Though this be madness, yet there is the method in it,”
I roll my eyes under my blindfold. Polonius was never a favorite of mine. Still, the comparisons with Hamlet wouldn’t be askew on me with the way I fluctuate between struggling against every restraint you throw at me and constantly craving for tighter bonds - a walking contradiction in the making.
"Always the difficult way. Just as well you're worth it, boy."
“Flattery gets you nowhere,” I mumble as I check where can I move. My fingers won’t be of any use until I shrug the jacket off but I can still grasp at stuff with my hands through the thick leather if I use both arms. The blindfold is annoying but not a detriment to my range of motion. The combination of my pillory-ed legs and collar is the real problem.
After spending so much of the evening with distracting junk around my dick, at least little Lancelot is safe and secure inside the snug briefs - as childish as they are.
I hear your footsteps again and hastily look for any openings in the straitjacket. I can sense that the back isn’t fastened the whole way so I’ll try to put my hands under the strap you locked and try to pull it over my head.
If that doesn’t work… well, my arms are too far away for you to cross behind my back.
In hindsight, removing my blindfold would be the smart call, as amidst the frustration of trying to undo the straps with the thick mitten sleeves around my hands, I’m not able to resist your next move.
The hood closes around my head so fast that I barely can put my hands on it right after you zip it close. I blink, the reddish tint of the lights blinding me for a few seconds.
Fuming, I check the hood - gas mask, really - for any openings but it’s wrapped around my head so well that my dense hands can’t even find a weak point. I glare at you through the eye holes.
“Now what? Are you gonna make me smell your feet or something?” Great, I jinxed it. I take a few breaths and realize that I can’t do anything to prevent you from cutting my airflow with the way my mask’s hose works.
I’m pissed off but also impressed by your resourcefulness and the creative perils you come up with. If I stand down and let you tie my hands, my bare legs will be the only part of me that isn’t stuffed into one of your pieces of rubber or leather gear.
"The easy way would be to cross your arms and let me strap you into that nice, comfortable jacket - which, incidentally, looks great on you."
“Aw, thanks,” I say with a tone dry as a desert. “Why don’t you try it on, too? It’s just your color.”
I can’t help but get a bit hard, though. You have a way with your words and bondage; it gets me every time.
"The difficult way? Try me."
Now, how can I say no? I might like your gentleman side but it’s just not the same without your asshole, cunning bondage-dom side. The threat of you using the tape to cut my airflow… makes me want to resist more, really.
I nod towards the roll of tape. “I love being difficult, just ask my parents. You’re not gonna tie me up so easily.”
With my arms still mostly free, I’ll use them and my newfound ability to see to resist your assault.
Richard:
"Ah, the rude eye of rebellion!" I exclaim, gently mocking your defiance, partly in the hope of stoking it. I like resistance, especially when it's futile.
Much as I enjoyed our earlier brawl - much as it quickened my blood - this is my preferred form of erotic combat: unequally matched, with the majority of cards in my hand. I now have a good sense of your strengths and your overall approach, and we're down here in the Seventh Circle, where I know my way around the equipment, and you do not.
That works for me.
We both know it's a matter of time before I have you fully helpless. We know also that the process of getting there will be mutually joyous - the more so for your show of defiance.
I move behind you again and grab a riding crop from one of the many wall-mounted stands. As whips go, a crop is somewhat jejune, but it can work well when applied to specific areas.
As we both know, the only objective I need to achieve is to stick my two-inch square of duct tape over the breathing inlet of the respirator. Your only objective is to prevent me.
As with our brawl in the voyeurs' gallery, one of my strengths is that, as a result of my boxing training, I'm used to taking blows. You might well land a backward hit or swipe, but I won't be deterred.
I start by aiming the crop at the backs of your legs - just a little, just enough to annoy you - the odd little flick, here and there. I intensify the strength of my strokes, until you begin, instinctively, to make downward moves, with your arms, to protect yourself.
Whether you see sense and cooperate while conscious, or whether I have to wait until you lose consciousness, you're going to end up properly and efficiently fastened into that jacket.
Once the sleeve-straps are threaded through the side loops and connected behind you, I'm going to tighten all of the back-straps, from just-below-collar to waist. Not bone-crushingly tight but snug enough for you to feel it, to know you're not coming out of it any time soon.
If a little suitably irritant leg-whipping doesn't work, I lean in behind you, settling myself comfortably around you (and happily absorbing whatever backward swipes you're able to aim in my direction), raise a knee and grind it upward into your crotch. Even through the padded briefs, I can exert a decisive pressure on your balls - and, with the stocks rendering you helpless to move your legs together, your only recourse is to protect them with your hands.
I have the square of tape ready in my hand and when you do move your arms downward, even for an instant, I make my move. My hand, holding the piece of adhesive is poised just behind your head, inches from the valve of the respirator, and all I have to do is dart in then back out again.
Worst case scenario: you manage, despite my assaults, to keep your hands on the valve of the respirator. In that unlikely situation, I can snake an arm, from behind, around your neck and constrict until you move against me - and then my other hand will be in there, sticking the tape in place, then out again.
It's a matter of time. You know it and I know it. While we both appreciate the prevarication, your air supply will, sooner or later, cut off.
When the tape is covering the inlet and your air supply is limited, by a skin of rubber, to a few reconstituted breaths from the inside of the respirator, I'll put my terms to you with blunt clarity:
"Be a good boy, cross your arms, allow me to strap you up properly, and I'll give you air. Be a rebel, continue to resist and I'll wait until you black out from oxygen deprivation then I'll do it."
I'm behind you, enjoying your attempts to find the tape-edge with your mitted hands, but unable to see your eyes. I wish I could savour your expression.
"I'm happy either way. Your choice."
Reaching around, I embrace you in a sort of one-armed bear-hug that presses your folded arms closer together - at which point, having eliminated as much slack as possible, I use my other hand to jerk and buckle the sleeve-strap several notches tighter.
When that's done - and only when that's done - I remove the piece of tape from your breathing inlet, allowing you air.
I reach forward between your legs (still fixed in the stocks) for the twin crotch-strap: a Y-shaped piece of leather that frames your white vinyl bulge and joins to make a single strap fastening at your rear. I pull it through and buckle it good and tight behind you. Black strapping sinks into the shiny surface of the padded briefs and you cannot work the jacket upwards.
Now able to take my time, I undo the clip tethering your neck to the lower half of the pillory, moving behind to tighten the top strap of your straitjacket accordingly. I locate a leather foot-hobble in the same colours - worn brown locking cuffs connected with a strong black strap - and fix this around your ankles, above the stocks. The cuffs of the hobble are perhaps 18 inches apart, tethered close enough to reassure me there'll be no repeat of the Mortal Kombat tussle.
Once satisfied that you're jacketed, hobbled and respirator-hooded, I put on my own jacket, re-attach the mountaineering clip to the front of your collar (to use as a handle) and, finally, unlock and open the top part of the stocks. You're free of the pillory.
"Follow me," I say, with a little tug on the clip, "and make a Heaven of Hell. Or don't. I'll happily wrestle you onto a gurney and you can play Cranky Hannibal Lecter - if that's what satisfies your need to prove to yourself that you've defied and resisted me all the way. Either works."
We have a sort of interrogation/enforced therapy session coming up and, while I'd rather lead than wheel you there, I'm happy to indulge you.
Lance:
Ignorance is bliss, they say.
I don’t know if that applies to me but I’d be a lot more comfortable with my (limited as it might be) newfound sight if it didn’t mean that I could see you walking towards a wall lined up with various tools and instruments. The thick lenses of my mask and my collar limiting the range of motion of my neck means that I can’t quite catch what you choose but it’s enough to make me clench in anticipation.
One thing I can always count on you is to take my attempts at rebellion in stride and retaliate without losing your cool or going overboard. Of course, you never go easy on me, either. It’s a delicate balance that I quickly grow to expect and want.
My mind works a mile a second, thinking of every possible scenario I may need to defend myself against. The tape seems like it may be for covering my hood’s eye holes… but then wouldn’t it be easier to just tape them beforehand? Then… I remember the hose I’m breathing through.
My eyes widen. You want to cut my air supply!
Well, I did the same with you before in our combat when I got you in a leg lock so I’m not in the position to complain but I’m not gonna just let you do that!
I try to twist back and look at what you’re doing in a hurry and then - a sharp sting blooms on my left thigh. “Ouch!” As I move to the right to avoid a second strike, it comes from the opposite direction I expect. With my feet so tightly secured and my collar tied down, I’m stuck on my knees and any move I make to evade your attacks is - I assume - only working to wiggle my ass in your general direction - making me a more appealing target.
While I can’t quite make up what you’re hitting me with (a thin cane?), the fact that your strikes are more annoying than painful just makes it more humiliating for me. I lower one arm and hold it perpendicular to my legs to protect them, figuring you need both of my hands to be in the same place to cross them.
This works to an extent and the padded sleeves of the straitjacket protect my arm fine but of course, you switch tactics. The next assault comes in the shape of a knee between my legs. “Oof! Are you serious?” I bring my other arm instinctively to cup my family jewels protectively. “If you want my dick so bad, you just need to ask.”
At this point, being a smart mouth with you comes to me as an instinct, possibly a result of a subconscious desire to be punished by you or a remnant of my “bad boy” days.
Whether what comes next is a result of those words or is unavoidable, I may never know. But the next thing I know is that a hand snakes towards my hood and before I can put my arms to pat it away, it slaps something to the hose of it.
My eyes bulge and I rush to uncover my air source. No dice - the tape is hastily slapped but without being able to use my fingers at all, I just can’t get a good grip on it! I know I need to stay calm and not deplete my remaining oxygen quickly but I can’t stop breathing fast. Shit!
It’s not easy to keep my cool while I’m a minute away from suffocation, despite my logical side knowing that you’ll never allow that to happen to me.
"Be a good boy, cross your arms, allow me to strap you up properly, and I'll give you air. Be a rebel, continue to resist and I'll wait until you black out from oxygen deprivation then I'll do it."
That’s not much of a choice, is it? I think we’re both experts at presenting offers the other can’t refuse. My eyes dart to try and see your expression but even without it, the ease in your voice grates my nerves.
"I'm happy either way. Your choice."
Yeah, I might be reckless at throwing myself into dangerous situations but I draw the line at oxygen-deprivation-caused brain damage.
I lift both arms visibly and then quickly cross them in front of my chest, even putting my hands under my armpits. “Alright, you won! Now hurry up and get this shit off!”
Wishing I could say I acted bravely about this, I wait for you to remove the tape. Of course, you leave nothing to chance and first connect the straps at the back of my jacket before doing it.
I’m now fully wrapped in the straitjacket but as always, you’re nothing but thorough. A pair of strong, leather-clad arms hugs me tight and this is a show of strength, not love. Any air that I greedily inhaled after getting my airflow open again is squeezed out. I don’t try to resist now that you made a point about how powerless I am but I made a point of wriggling annoyingly in your grasp.
You work fast, though, and before long, I feel more straps getting pulled behind me and buckled up tight. I test the jacket and find that I can barely push my elbows away from my chest, let alone uncross my arms.
“Are you happy now?” I feel your hands sneaking between my legs and groan. “Now wha- ah!”
A thick strap goes under my crotch - not tight enough to crush my balls but enough that it makes me think about the possibility. “Now I know why you’re so familiar with this,” I grumble, despite the contrary evidence chubbing inside my briefs. The tight embrace of the straps makes me want to struggle against it using all my muscles and the fact that it holds them down so well is exhilarating. “You’re mad.”
Either you have another agenda and you’re used to my rebelliousness enough to let that slide but rather than tautening my bonds, you unclasp my collar… then ruin it by putting cuffs over my boots and tightening the jacket around my neck.
I try to get comfortable in the straitjacket as it's clearly not going to come off anytime soon but with basically zero slack, merely letting the supple leather envelop my entire upper body is the only thing I can do.
At least, I get to stand up and stretch my legs, which they sorely need. “Uunfh!” I part my legs to see how wide the attachment between my cuffs is. Not much. “You’re really afraid that I’ll kick your ass again.”
You end your brief ultimatum with a nonchalant “Either works,” and I figure I tested your patience enough for this circle.
“Nah, I want to stretch my legs,” I hop in place. As usual, I itch for some action after being immobilized, as securely bound as I am. “And I’m getting tired of flogging noises, anyway.”
It’s weird to be pulled along by you while I’m stuck hugging myself tightly and looking everywhere through a mask and only breathing through it. With my identity fully obscured, I wonder what a sight I must make to bystanders. I don’t look unlike the faceless gimps I often encountered throughout our journey.
Still, my face being covered is not so bad as long as I can see. It’s just another ordeal I can use to prove myself and discover some kinks along the way… hopefully.
Richard:
"... I’m getting tired of flogging noises, anyway.”
"Well," I say, selecting a length of chain from several hanging from a rack, "those are going to get worse before they get better."
I fasten the chain to the mountaineering clip still hanging from your collar, wrap the other end around my gloved fist and set off through the red-black arches, pulling you along behind me.
"It seems like aeons ago you joked about being on a leash," I muse, "easy to lose track of time down here."
Around us, the cellar complex feels infinite; it's easy to imagine one vault running into another forever; the echoing soundscape reinforces the sense of cavernous darkness without end, each low-ceilinged cell housing its own unique form of suffering.
I walk at a pace slow enough for you to keep up but fast enough that you have to scurry to match my un-hobbled stride. You're able, through openings and doorways, to catch glimpses of scenes playing out in all directions: a squat, bullish leatherman snorts as we pass; a pale, wailing man lies extended on a rack, a red latex figure (with, bizarrely, a pony-tail extruding from its rear) bent over him, something sharp in hand; a glistening, cocoon-like shape hangs from a ceiling, wriggling and moaning, spun and prodded by twin tormentors in chest-harnesses adorned with small but distinct black-feathered wings.
At one point, passing a window-like opening in the brickwork, you think you glimpse one of the rubber pups from Ker's room - but he's gone in an instant.
More wings hove into view, this time enormous and bat-like, inked on the muscular back of a dark-skinned figure in tight leather jeans with a black scorpion-tail design jutting above his waistband. He wears leather gauntlets and wields a bullwhip with skill and force against the back of a thin, blond-bearded man chained, spread-eagle, to the wall.
"Gerry?" I exclaim. I'd recognise that tattoo anywhere.
Gerry pauses in his flogging and turns, his taciturn features breaking into a sudden smile. He's greying at the temples, more thick set than I remember. It suits him.
"Who's the gimp?" he asks, meeting your gaze through the lenses of the respirator.
"Lance," I tell him, "I'm taking him to the White Room. If it's free."
The bat-winged man nods, his expression unreadable. It seems our destination is indeed available and the key for Room 6 will unlock it.
We leave Gerry and walk deeper, passing through a quieter, less inhabited section.
Eventually, we reach a door, essentially unremarkable other than having been painted a plain white that is, in these surroundings, unexpectedly jarring to the eye. Around the edge of the door is a fine line of what looks like ultraviolet, black light.
"Onward, brave Sir Lancelot." The key fits, turns and we walk through.
To be continued...
Nine Circles (M/M) - *COMPLETE*
-
Straitjacketed
- Centennial Club
- Posts: 347
- Joined: 5 years ago
- Location: UK
- Contact:
If M/M overkill bondage in stupidly excessive amounts of gear is your thing as well as mine, here's a list of my TUG stories.
Wow ~ !!! Wow ~ !!! Wow ~ !!!
Not even sure what to say. This is simply a fantastic story. I just finished reading all 29 parts and I love the interaction and chemistry between Richard and Lance. And I love that I still have no idea what these two will be doing next, or even seeing next, but I am so eager to find out!
Not even sure what to say. This is simply a fantastic story. I just finished reading all 29 parts and I love the interaction and chemistry between Richard and Lance. And I love that I still have no idea what these two will be doing next, or even seeing next, but I am so eager to find out!
Cannot wait to see what the White Room holds for this duo!
Also, my goodness this club is huge! The rent must be outrageous! Not to mention the electricity cost for all those different club lights!
Also, my goodness this club is huge! The rent must be outrageous! Not to mention the electricity cost for all those different club lights!
-
blackbound
- Millennial Club
- Posts: 1109
- Joined: 6 years ago
Ever closer to the ninth circle, though I've kind of lost the place now. Still Violence? Who will play the role of Lucifer? I still think the club will swallow both.
-
Straitjacketed
- Centennial Club
- Posts: 347
- Joined: 5 years ago
- Location: UK
- Contact:
Nine Circles - part 30
(Co-written with [mention]DeeperThanRed[/mention])
FRAUD
Richard:
The room behind the door is equally jarring - in its simplicity. Softly luminous, lit in gentle ultraviolet light with no obvious source, its plainness nonetheless seems stark. Walls, floor and even the ceiling are covered in what appears to be the same white glossy vinyl as the briefs you wear. It yields softly underfoot.
It's as if we channel-hopped abruptly from Hammer Horror to Kubrick's finest.
There's a hush in this room and, when the door is closed, it becomes apparent that the space is entirely soundproofed, sealed off from the rest of Deubel's, its own little pocket universe.
Eye bolts are visible high on the walls but, otherwise, the only features of note are a waist-high, altar-like platform constructed of the same padded vinyl as the rest of the space and a similarly blocky, white approximation of a chair. The corners of both are softened.
"Let's get you fixed," I say, pulling you across to the far side of the room. I rummage in the junction of wall and floor until I find a chain and clip, which I fasten to the centre of your ankle hobble. I then unclip the leash from your collar.
I settle into the softness of the chair and gesture toward the platform.
"Make yourself comfortable."
Lance:
"...those are going to get worse before they get better."
That sounds vaguely ominous but I’m not gonna let it bother me. I fall into step behind you and do my best to not trip on the strap between my ankles. I have long legs that make it hard for me to not overstep but this night has been a challenge in quick learning and I don’t intend to fall behind now. Before long, I find a pace that allows me to follow you without looking at my feet all the time.
"It seems like eons ago you joked about being on a leash, easy to lose track of time down here."
I contemplate the benefits of mocking a barking sound. My outfit is not exactly a rubber puppy’s; it’s more suited to… a mental health patient going through a biohazard zone without pants? Anyway.
There are quite a few new sets around us now that I have a chance to enjoy the scenery. Most of them aren’t quite as noteworthy to me - it’s scary how quickly you can get used to the most bizarre things - but a figure trapped in what seems to be a leather sleeping bag hung upside down from the ceiling gets my attention. I wince, imagining being in that position for that long. The wheel was bad enough for me, thank you.
As we pass by an actual rubber puppy, I wonder how many people go from one end of the club to the other as we do. Probably not many. This place is a lot even without the journey into the center of hell.
Lost in thought, I almost knock on your back when you stop - greeting an old friend. The conversation sets me on edge but this guy - closer to your age than Rolf’s - seems warm and friendly despite his wardrobe… and the fact that he’s whipping someone.
He’s handsome, in a daddy-like way similar to yours and I can see why the blond dude with him is fine - or judging by how he squirms and whines into the bit gag in his mouth when his dom pays attention to someone else, more than fine - with getting whipped by him. There’s not that much age difference between them, I note.
Your friend - Gerry makes eye contact with me and I raise my chin in bravado upon hearing the word “gimp”.
For some reason, it bothers me a little for him to make assumptions about me just because I’m dressed like this… I’ve been doing the same thing for the entire day so I’m not in a position to complain.
"Onward, brave Sir Lancelot."
“As you wish, my liege,” I smirk. If you can joke around, I know our rhythm is not disrupted. Still, the sheer whiteness of the room we walk into is unsettling even compared to the bathroom stall room.
It feels like a room where you lock extremely disturbed patients… in this case, it would be me, I assume - or one of those modern office buildings that are supposed to look sleek but come off as too sterile.
It doesn’t help that the sound coming from the outside cuts like a knife when you close the door. I smile a little when my boots leave barely-there footprints on the padded floor because at least something is not blindingly white!
"Make yourself comfortable," you say and point towards a block right in the middle of the room.
“Well, aren’t you loud and clear?” I look at my ankle strap. I can pretty much walk freely to a distance but there’s nothing to walk toward. The block in front of me is not particularly similar to a piece of furniture over others, giving me no indication about how I should position myself.
I can just sit on it, as you do on your chair but where’s the fun in that?
You gave me a chance to be proactive so I might as well use it. Trying not to topple and fall (not that it would hurt with all the padding but I don’t want to make a fool out of myself), I carefully climb on top of the block, scoot my butt towards the middle and lie on my back.
If I have enough space, I’ll try to pull my feet up and rest them against my buttocks; then open my legs, giving you a nice view of my ass and bulge covered by my tight, white briefs.
“Now, that’s comfortable,” I loudly sigh through my hood’s hose. The position is hardly comfy but I think testing how much I’m able to rile you up is more important than this.
“Why do you ask for this room from Gerry, in particular? Too much noise giving you a headache old man?”
Richard:
The length of chain clipped to your ankle hobble seems measured to stop you reaching the door and possibly the chair I'm sitting in. It's easily long enough to reach the odd, padded platform and lie flat. Or mostly flat.
“Why do you ask for this room from Gerry, in particular? Too much noise giving you a headache old man?”
I smile a little, finding myself slipping fairly readily into irritably neutral therapist mode: it may be many years since my original training, but it's never quite left me. I'm not sure I've ever practised it having to avoid visibly wincing from a plug up my arse and with my cock wrapped up in latex and silicon but there's a first time for everything.
"'Old man' is interesting, a counter to my use of 'boy'. Would you class what we've been doing this evening as a type of age-play?"
I glance at you over imaginary spectacles.
I'm not going to launch in to "tell me about your father" (although if you start spilling background information naturally, I'm all ears). I am curious to know more about you, however, and in my experience, being bound up and (especially) hooded helps one free-associate.
"You asked earlier about the men I've played with here before. Let me turn the question back to you: what types do you go for? Who gets past that forbidding exterior?"
If you seem in a question-answering mood, I ask more.
"What's with the push-and-pull, the rebel thing? What got you started getting off on provocation?"
"What were you looking for this evening? Did you find it?"
Lance:
Despite the unorthodox seating arrangement, I can see myself using this room for a nap, actually. It’s no Room 6 but in my horizontal position, there’s something soothing about it… though I hope you take my implicit invitation and give us a reason to take advantage of the soundproofing.
Or maybe I’m being too indirect with you?
"'Old man' is interesting, a counter to my use of 'boy'. Would you class what we've been doing this evening as a type of age-play?"
My cocky grin turns into a confused frown, not that you can see it. I was hoping for less talking and more doing, but I can’t blame you for wanting to get us to know each other better through words.
But “age-play”? What does that even mean? I counter by saying “I’m not doing shit, I’m just saying it as it is - you’re no spring chicken.” I shrug as well as my straitjacket allows me but that makes me think.
Your age is definitely a part of your charm, even though not what made me come for you in the first place. The fact that you call pull off a beard and have some experience under your belt definitely helps. I can have fun with any guy my age but I feel like I also learn something from you.
“Maybe having someone I can count on makes me feel good,” I end up admitting. “I don’t like depending on others but it’s nice to have someone paying close attention to me, y’know? People usually look at how independent I am and assume I shouldn’t need others in my life, even my folks.”
I close my mouth. I end up saying more than I intended to but I don’t regret it. You listen to me calmly and ask questions as we go so rather than an interrogation, it feels like we’re having the weirdest therapy session - I guess there’s a reason for the shrink jacket.
"You asked earlier about the men I've played with here before. Let me turn the question back to you: what types do you go for? Who gets past that forbidding exterior?"
This one is not that hard. “Offbeat people,” I answer with a hint of a smirk in my voice. “Wanderers, hooligans, night owls… guys with a long rap sheet,” I add after a pause. “I’m blunt but I also don’t approach people easily so when I do, I’d like it to be a memory.”
I think of a Georgian street basketball player I met in Turkey. He didn’t have a residence and just went from one place to another by using dating apps to find one-night stands. I’m pretty sure he was escaping something but our encounter stuck with me in a good way.
“So, yeah. Confident, self-sufficient, knows how to handle himself in a fight,” I laugh, thinking about our brawling. “And I don’t turn down jacked dudes, too. I’m not always that deep.”
"What's with the push-and-pull, the rebel thing? What got you started getting off on provocation?" Good question but one that’s a bit harder to reply to.
“I’ve told you that I was in some sort of a delinquent gang in high school, right? Those boys value that kind of behavior and so I did. It helped my parents didn’t care what I do that much so being able to test authority in some manner was appealing to me.”
I wet my lips. I don’t usually talk this much. “I remember I had a literature teacher I had a huge crush on; who would worry about me the most when I skipped school. I liked him having one-on-one talks with me to warn me - having all of his attention - so I’d break rules just to see him more… man, I was such a brat.”
I sigh. “Either way, I ended up liking doing what people tell me I shouldn’t. Such as this trip.”
Without any background noise to cover it up, the sound of my mask's hose that provides me air and my heartbeat is deafening. Does your tone change at all between questions? You started as pretty professional.
"What were you looking for this evening? Did you find it?"
I tap the block with my boot. “Is it too late to say ‘no comment’? I have no idea what I was hoping to find here (other than some new kinks).” I turn my head to look at you. “But whether I was looking for, I feel like I found it.”
Richard:
"Do you..." I begin and am interrupted by the door opening.
Rolf enters, still in his uniform leathers - but now, over his tunic, he wears a long, silver-buttoned greatcoat. It is impossible not to think of Nazis.
"Rolf," I stammer, "i-it's not what you think."
"You have no idea what I think."
He appears coldly angry.
"Did you even tell this young man who I am?"
"Lance," I say, unhappily, "this is Rolf, er, Rolf Deubel."
"And this man," he addresses you but indicates me with his cane, "is not what he seems. He is a fraud."
Rolf crosses the space with a few quick steps, takes my arm and half-hauls me, protesting ineffectually, out of the room.
The door closes behind us and you are alone.
To be continued...
(Co-written with [mention]DeeperThanRed[/mention])
FRAUD
Richard:
The room behind the door is equally jarring - in its simplicity. Softly luminous, lit in gentle ultraviolet light with no obvious source, its plainness nonetheless seems stark. Walls, floor and even the ceiling are covered in what appears to be the same white glossy vinyl as the briefs you wear. It yields softly underfoot.
It's as if we channel-hopped abruptly from Hammer Horror to Kubrick's finest.
There's a hush in this room and, when the door is closed, it becomes apparent that the space is entirely soundproofed, sealed off from the rest of Deubel's, its own little pocket universe.
Eye bolts are visible high on the walls but, otherwise, the only features of note are a waist-high, altar-like platform constructed of the same padded vinyl as the rest of the space and a similarly blocky, white approximation of a chair. The corners of both are softened.
"Let's get you fixed," I say, pulling you across to the far side of the room. I rummage in the junction of wall and floor until I find a chain and clip, which I fasten to the centre of your ankle hobble. I then unclip the leash from your collar.
I settle into the softness of the chair and gesture toward the platform.
"Make yourself comfortable."
Lance:
"...those are going to get worse before they get better."
That sounds vaguely ominous but I’m not gonna let it bother me. I fall into step behind you and do my best to not trip on the strap between my ankles. I have long legs that make it hard for me to not overstep but this night has been a challenge in quick learning and I don’t intend to fall behind now. Before long, I find a pace that allows me to follow you without looking at my feet all the time.
"It seems like eons ago you joked about being on a leash, easy to lose track of time down here."
I contemplate the benefits of mocking a barking sound. My outfit is not exactly a rubber puppy’s; it’s more suited to… a mental health patient going through a biohazard zone without pants? Anyway.
There are quite a few new sets around us now that I have a chance to enjoy the scenery. Most of them aren’t quite as noteworthy to me - it’s scary how quickly you can get used to the most bizarre things - but a figure trapped in what seems to be a leather sleeping bag hung upside down from the ceiling gets my attention. I wince, imagining being in that position for that long. The wheel was bad enough for me, thank you.
As we pass by an actual rubber puppy, I wonder how many people go from one end of the club to the other as we do. Probably not many. This place is a lot even without the journey into the center of hell.
Lost in thought, I almost knock on your back when you stop - greeting an old friend. The conversation sets me on edge but this guy - closer to your age than Rolf’s - seems warm and friendly despite his wardrobe… and the fact that he’s whipping someone.
He’s handsome, in a daddy-like way similar to yours and I can see why the blond dude with him is fine - or judging by how he squirms and whines into the bit gag in his mouth when his dom pays attention to someone else, more than fine - with getting whipped by him. There’s not that much age difference between them, I note.
Your friend - Gerry makes eye contact with me and I raise my chin in bravado upon hearing the word “gimp”.
For some reason, it bothers me a little for him to make assumptions about me just because I’m dressed like this… I’ve been doing the same thing for the entire day so I’m not in a position to complain.
"Onward, brave Sir Lancelot."
“As you wish, my liege,” I smirk. If you can joke around, I know our rhythm is not disrupted. Still, the sheer whiteness of the room we walk into is unsettling even compared to the bathroom stall room.
It feels like a room where you lock extremely disturbed patients… in this case, it would be me, I assume - or one of those modern office buildings that are supposed to look sleek but come off as too sterile.
It doesn’t help that the sound coming from the outside cuts like a knife when you close the door. I smile a little when my boots leave barely-there footprints on the padded floor because at least something is not blindingly white!
"Make yourself comfortable," you say and point towards a block right in the middle of the room.
“Well, aren’t you loud and clear?” I look at my ankle strap. I can pretty much walk freely to a distance but there’s nothing to walk toward. The block in front of me is not particularly similar to a piece of furniture over others, giving me no indication about how I should position myself.
I can just sit on it, as you do on your chair but where’s the fun in that?
You gave me a chance to be proactive so I might as well use it. Trying not to topple and fall (not that it would hurt with all the padding but I don’t want to make a fool out of myself), I carefully climb on top of the block, scoot my butt towards the middle and lie on my back.
If I have enough space, I’ll try to pull my feet up and rest them against my buttocks; then open my legs, giving you a nice view of my ass and bulge covered by my tight, white briefs.
“Now, that’s comfortable,” I loudly sigh through my hood’s hose. The position is hardly comfy but I think testing how much I’m able to rile you up is more important than this.
“Why do you ask for this room from Gerry, in particular? Too much noise giving you a headache old man?”
Richard:
The length of chain clipped to your ankle hobble seems measured to stop you reaching the door and possibly the chair I'm sitting in. It's easily long enough to reach the odd, padded platform and lie flat. Or mostly flat.
“Why do you ask for this room from Gerry, in particular? Too much noise giving you a headache old man?”
I smile a little, finding myself slipping fairly readily into irritably neutral therapist mode: it may be many years since my original training, but it's never quite left me. I'm not sure I've ever practised it having to avoid visibly wincing from a plug up my arse and with my cock wrapped up in latex and silicon but there's a first time for everything.
"'Old man' is interesting, a counter to my use of 'boy'. Would you class what we've been doing this evening as a type of age-play?"
I glance at you over imaginary spectacles.
I'm not going to launch in to "tell me about your father" (although if you start spilling background information naturally, I'm all ears). I am curious to know more about you, however, and in my experience, being bound up and (especially) hooded helps one free-associate.
"You asked earlier about the men I've played with here before. Let me turn the question back to you: what types do you go for? Who gets past that forbidding exterior?"
If you seem in a question-answering mood, I ask more.
"What's with the push-and-pull, the rebel thing? What got you started getting off on provocation?"
"What were you looking for this evening? Did you find it?"
Lance:
Despite the unorthodox seating arrangement, I can see myself using this room for a nap, actually. It’s no Room 6 but in my horizontal position, there’s something soothing about it… though I hope you take my implicit invitation and give us a reason to take advantage of the soundproofing.
Or maybe I’m being too indirect with you?
"'Old man' is interesting, a counter to my use of 'boy'. Would you class what we've been doing this evening as a type of age-play?"
My cocky grin turns into a confused frown, not that you can see it. I was hoping for less talking and more doing, but I can’t blame you for wanting to get us to know each other better through words.
But “age-play”? What does that even mean? I counter by saying “I’m not doing shit, I’m just saying it as it is - you’re no spring chicken.” I shrug as well as my straitjacket allows me but that makes me think.
Your age is definitely a part of your charm, even though not what made me come for you in the first place. The fact that you call pull off a beard and have some experience under your belt definitely helps. I can have fun with any guy my age but I feel like I also learn something from you.
“Maybe having someone I can count on makes me feel good,” I end up admitting. “I don’t like depending on others but it’s nice to have someone paying close attention to me, y’know? People usually look at how independent I am and assume I shouldn’t need others in my life, even my folks.”
I close my mouth. I end up saying more than I intended to but I don’t regret it. You listen to me calmly and ask questions as we go so rather than an interrogation, it feels like we’re having the weirdest therapy session - I guess there’s a reason for the shrink jacket.
"You asked earlier about the men I've played with here before. Let me turn the question back to you: what types do you go for? Who gets past that forbidding exterior?"
This one is not that hard. “Offbeat people,” I answer with a hint of a smirk in my voice. “Wanderers, hooligans, night owls… guys with a long rap sheet,” I add after a pause. “I’m blunt but I also don’t approach people easily so when I do, I’d like it to be a memory.”
I think of a Georgian street basketball player I met in Turkey. He didn’t have a residence and just went from one place to another by using dating apps to find one-night stands. I’m pretty sure he was escaping something but our encounter stuck with me in a good way.
“So, yeah. Confident, self-sufficient, knows how to handle himself in a fight,” I laugh, thinking about our brawling. “And I don’t turn down jacked dudes, too. I’m not always that deep.”
"What's with the push-and-pull, the rebel thing? What got you started getting off on provocation?" Good question but one that’s a bit harder to reply to.
“I’ve told you that I was in some sort of a delinquent gang in high school, right? Those boys value that kind of behavior and so I did. It helped my parents didn’t care what I do that much so being able to test authority in some manner was appealing to me.”
I wet my lips. I don’t usually talk this much. “I remember I had a literature teacher I had a huge crush on; who would worry about me the most when I skipped school. I liked him having one-on-one talks with me to warn me - having all of his attention - so I’d break rules just to see him more… man, I was such a brat.”
I sigh. “Either way, I ended up liking doing what people tell me I shouldn’t. Such as this trip.”
Without any background noise to cover it up, the sound of my mask's hose that provides me air and my heartbeat is deafening. Does your tone change at all between questions? You started as pretty professional.
"What were you looking for this evening? Did you find it?"
I tap the block with my boot. “Is it too late to say ‘no comment’? I have no idea what I was hoping to find here (other than some new kinks).” I turn my head to look at you. “But whether I was looking for, I feel like I found it.”
Richard:
"Do you..." I begin and am interrupted by the door opening.
Rolf enters, still in his uniform leathers - but now, over his tunic, he wears a long, silver-buttoned greatcoat. It is impossible not to think of Nazis.
"Rolf," I stammer, "i-it's not what you think."
"You have no idea what I think."
He appears coldly angry.
"Did you even tell this young man who I am?"
"Lance," I say, unhappily, "this is Rolf, er, Rolf Deubel."
"And this man," he addresses you but indicates me with his cane, "is not what he seems. He is a fraud."
Rolf crosses the space with a few quick steps, takes my arm and half-hauls me, protesting ineffectually, out of the room.
The door closes behind us and you are alone.
To be continued...
Last edited by Straitjacketed 10 months ago, edited 1 time in total.
If M/M overkill bondage in stupidly excessive amounts of gear is your thing as well as mine, here's a list of my TUG stories.
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blackbound
- Millennial Club
- Posts: 1109
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Am I going crazy in the heat or was that last bit missing when you originally posted it? Very intriguing!
Oh the twist! Looks like Richard's in trouble, and now Lance is alone again, even more helpless than last time!
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Straitjacketed
- Centennial Club
- Posts: 347
- Joined: 5 years ago
- Location: UK
- Contact:
Hahahah yeah, guilty as charged!blackbound wrote: ↑10 months ago Am I going crazy in the heat or was that last bit missing when you originally posted it?
We're near the conclusion and I'm trying to time it so the story ends on Part 33 (because 3x3=Nine Circles) and realised, just after posting, that I needed to include more in this instalment.
If M/M overkill bondage in stupidly excessive amounts of gear is your thing as well as mine, here's a list of my TUG stories.
-
Straitjacketed
- Centennial Club
- Posts: 347
- Joined: 5 years ago
- Location: UK
- Contact:
Nine Circles - part 31
(Co-written with [mention]DeeperThanRed[/mention])
Lance:
Our moment is so real that I feel like I crashed from somewhere high when someone barges into the pure white room we occupy out of nowhere.
“What the fuck?” I rise from where I lie, my fists balling up in the straitjacket confines - ready to give a piece of mind to whoever dares to interrupt… your ex?!
I can’t believe my eyes. I thought we had left him behind!
It pains me to see that he still has sway over you and his commanding aura even makes me hesitate before telling him to get the hell away from you.
And then the bomb drops.
“Deubel?” I blink. It only now registers to me how ridiculous I must look, trying to stand up against the man who apparently owns everything around us. “As in Deubel’s?” I ask dumbly.
Then he calls you a fraud and drags you away - which does boil my blood if his previous stunt didn’t. “Hey! Come back you asshole! Where are you taking him?”
No answer. Of course. Soundproofing.
I rush to get down from the pedestal I sit on. I don’t even try getting out of the straitjacket - I already know I can’t - and I don’t want to lose any time while you might be in danger.
If the chain around my ankles allows me to go that far, I’ll go to the door and try to open it using my elbows. If it doesn’t open, I’ll resort to kicking it and yelling at someone to get me out.
If I can’t go that far, I’ll look for anything that might help me before attempting to get my feet free.
Richard:
Even if you were able to use your hands to twist the recessed handle, the chain attached to your hobble stops you several feet short of the door.
Time passes. There is nothing within reach with which you might free your legs and your tightly strapped arms frustrate the Hell out of you.
You strain your ears to listen through the rubber hood - and manage to convince yourself, at one point, that you hear a thud, another sounds of a scuffle - but the room's soundproofing is top grade; you can't be sure you're not imagining it.
Suddenly, the door bursts open, causing you to stumble backward.
Rolf enters, his leather coat stark against the softly luminous whiteness, dragging me on a chain.
I have been stripped of my own uniform - jacket, shirt, breeches, boots, gloves all gone - and am barefoot, wearing only a pair of shorts in the same worn brown leather as your straitjacket, reinforced at waist and legs with black strapping. The shorts are very tight, the straps locked with three silver padlocks, and I grimace as every step compresses my squeezed rubber-clad cock, my silicon-imprisoned balls, seeming to push the plug even further up my arse.
Thick, medieval-looking manacles around my wrists and ankles match the wide iron collar around my neck, and Rolf's chain pulls on the collar, making me choke and cough. A second heavy chain hangs down, linking collar to wrist shackles, encircles my waist (above the locked belt of the leather shorts) and connects to the ankle cuffs.
Bent over, by the chains, into a half-crouch, I can take only limited steps. Rolf pulls me over to the far wall and stretches to attach the lead chain to an eye bolt, high up. Inked muscle rippling with effort, I strain my manacled hands upward to adjust the collar.
"That should hold you," grunts Rolf, "while I attend to Houdini there."
"No!" I cry, "leave him alone, Lance is nothing to do with you!"
"We have heard enough from Richard, I think," says Rolf with the hint of a frown.
From an inner pocket, he produces a cruel-looking bit gag of rolled leather and advances upon me. I turn my head from side to side, trying to resist, but chained as I am, the tussle is short-lived and, within minutes, the gag is in my mouth and strapped behind my neck.
Now able to focus on you, Rolf takes a step in your direction.
"You, young man, have been taken in by a scam artist. I regret that you must now pay the price."
Extracting a whistle on a fine chain from around his neck, he blows a shrill eerie note. Through the open door, in a rush of shining latex, come the three rubber pups we encountered earlier. Still in their form-fitting suits and dog hoods, each now wears an additional set of segmented black body armour - including a vaguely obscene groin guard - that seems more protective than imprisoning.
Each carries an enormous roll of black tape.
Silently, they turn to face you.
Lance:
I groan in frustration. You always pick the worst times to strap me somewhere. It’s not your fault, I should blame that decrepit fossil Rolf but being unable to help you is the worst feeling. “Richard? Are you alright?” I yell, even though my voice won’t reach you.
Tugging the ankle cuffs is also useless, they’re well-wrapped around my boots and there’s no slack to loosen.
I begin to consider how long it must take for the club to check up on these rooms - maybe they’ll find me in a routine control and get me out. No, it’s still early… probably. It’s hard to tell the time here.
Right when I was sure I was stuck here for good, the door opened once more, showing the same unpleasant face.
“You-” I begin but my words cut short when I see him pulling you along on a leash similar to my own predicament but much crueler. Not only are you stripped down to almost nothing, but you also wear iron chains that DO NOT look like they’re made for bondage play.
In fact, you look very much like you’re being kept like this against your will… but why? Isn’t this against the law or something? Couldn’t you resist? Questions fly through my mind one after another, none seemingly having a good answer.
Rolf locks you to the wall, just out of my reach like the door was. I’m starting to feel like Tantalos, not able to reach anything worth a damn.
"That should hold you, while I attend to Houdini there."
I flare up at Rolf’s words, finally addressing him properly. “Keep your hands off of him, you wannabe Colonel! What do you want from him - no, let him come to me! Richard, I’m gonna shove my boot up so far up his ass that it’ll dislodge the stick there!”
To my dismay, Rolf the coward goes for gagging you with something that looks like a bridle. I grit my teeth behind my mask. You’re still trying to protect me despite clearly having the worse deal here, even though I can’t quite understand the hold Rolf has over you. I turn to him.
“Hey, you should worry about me bashing your teeth in instead!”
Of course, Rolf acts like he didn’t even hear me and talks to me condescendingly.
"You, young man, have been taken in by a scam artist. I regret that you must now pay the price."
Scam? I look towards your desperate face. How could you even be scamming me? I didn’t give you anything I wasn’t willing to part with and everything we did was reciprocal.
“You’re so full of shit,” I snarl. If it wasn’t for the mask, I’d spit in Rolf’s face. “How do you expect me to believe you when you don’t even allow him to defend himself?”
This just makes Rolf shrug and call for reinforcements - that weakling doesn’t even have the balls to deal with me himself.
In another blast from the past, three figures walk in: the rubber puppies. Their movements are eerily in sync and I can’t say I didn’t shiver as they all enter from the door and make a move towards me in unison.
I drag my feet until my back hits the wall. Three against one is unfair, to begin with, but there’s no way for me to defend myself when my legs are tied. Still… I can’t just give up when you’re like this!
I look towards you encouragingly, hoping that you can see my eyes a bit, and then yell at the puppies. “Come, then! I’m not scared of you mutts!”
I may not be able to resist for long but I won’t go easily. I can still headbutt and tackle the ones who get close to me enough. If they manage to bring me down, I’ll make it as difficult as possible for them to tie me up further.
There has to be a way for us to get out of this sudden nightmare - I just need to find it!
Richard:
"Come, then! I'm not scared of you mutts!"
You put up a good fight, headbutting one and managing to use your hobbled legs and chain to tackle and trip another, but the short, wiry pups are clearly combat-trained, armoured (there’s some kind of hard shell or helmet behind those canine-faced hoods) and it’s three against one.
One pup weaves around, ducks down and grabs your ankle hobble while another pushes you so you lose your balance and fall.
Once you’re down, they swarm you in a blur of shiny black, focusing on your legs and feet. You try bracing your legs apart but, already constrained by the ankle restraints, your ability to defend yourself is soon limited further by a round of what you assume to be bondage tape, then another and another.
The attack dogs move fast, in an apparently coordinated manner, skin, leather and vinyl disappearing beneath a tide of dark PVC as they work to fuse your lower limbs into one: lift, wrap, lift, wrap. Multiple layers swallow you up from waist to toes, even enclosing the soles of your feet.
You are aware, distantly, of my huffing, groaning and wrenching at my chains - and of Rolf, standing still as a statue, watching without discernible emotion.
The chain from your hobble is unclipped and two pups haul you upright so they can continue their wrapping upwards. Arms crossed, leather-sleeved hands pressed to the sides of your ribcage, you’re helpless to resist as tape is spooled horizontally and diagonally around your upper body, mummifying your straitjacketed torso.
You’re surprised to feel the zip of the respirator hood being opened, allowing an influx of fresh, non-rubbery air. Any relief is short-lived, however: something is forced between your jaws and immediately expands – some kind of sponge? – to fill your mouth and cheeks. The hood is zipped closed again and the pups continue their taping, up and over your head.
It's hard not to give in to outright panic but you realise they’re sparing the inlet of the respirator, so you can still draw breath. They’ve also left a horizontal strip free of tape across the lenses, presumably so you have some ability to see.
Everything else is tight, stiflingly so. There are so many layers of tape around you you’re not sure you still bend at the waist or the knees.
The pups lift you, their shiny ebon mummy, placing you on the white platform like a sacrifice on an altar – and then, as one, they move back, standing to attention.
Neck movement is limited but you’re aware of me, growling and grunting, trying to communicate; in your peripheral vision, you see me wrestling with my chains, straining my shackled, anchored hands upward – without success – to reach my gag.
Then Rolf is standing over you, blocking your narrow visual field.
“I am sure you would not admit it but you may be scared. You would be right to be scared.”
He sits on the blocky white chair, the thick hide of his coat creaking as he settles himself.
“I can at least give you the truth. You are now my property.”
The leather-greatcoated man continues, coolly matter of fact.
“I am a man of wealth and taste. Most of all, however, I am a businessman.”
Rolf makes a sweeping gesture, with his cane, taking in the room and suggesting the wider club.
“All of this, it is my creation, my business. But it is not my only business.”
He leans forward, hands on his knees, searching for your gaze through the gap in the tape covering your respirator.
“I am also a procurer of fine things. Fine things pursued by men who are rich and powerful. You, young man, are one such fine thing.”
A clink and clatter of chains and heavy iron collar as I strain, helplessly, in your direction.
“Richard there has an eye for fine things. He is a flatterer, a seducer – one of the best.”
I cough and gurgle around my gag.
“It was a loss to me when he left my service, when he left Berlin. Now he is back, and he has brought me you."
Rolf shrugs.
"After he has been punished, I may forgive him.”
He extends an arm and one of the pups hands him a roll of tape.
“And you? Your journey is just beginning.” Rolf takes his time smoothing a final strip over the gap in your head-taping, blindfolding you.
“Travel well.”
You hear and feel a shifting as the latex canines step in and begin to disassemble the padded platform on which you lie. Hidden catches allow the four hinged side-panels to swing upwards and connect together. There’s a sort of folding inward of the top and you are enclosed in a kind of vinyl-lined coffin, a man-sized box atop a wheeled gurney.
Inside your prison, there is barely room for you to turn over.
You sense wheeled motion and a short spell in what feels like an elevator but have no way of knowing whether you are travelling up or down. More wheeling - the occasional glancing blow against one side or another - then a lifting, turning and sliding, as if your box is being loaded into or onto something, a slightly yielding surface beneath you.
Then nothing.
Lance:
Just because I know this fight is a lost cause doesn’t mean my opponents didn’t surprise me by just how one-sided it turned out to be.
The puppies act like they’re trained to fight in a unit and capture unruly victims and even with me managing to deal them a couple of blows, they still reunite and topple me down efficiently.
I try to kick and buck them off but ultimately, there’s little I can do against their merciless, rubber-clad paws as they mummify me with black PVC tape. “Why are you doing this?” I ask in my useless struggle. These guys don’t look like the paid staff - or are they?
The tape is not sticky but feels durable against my naked legs. I flex my thighs to get them loose somehow but it doesn’t even budge.
A terrible thought pops into my head: that somehow Rolf got these three under his control - and he can do the same to you if we can’t get out of his grasp. It’s a far-fetched idea but feels far from impossible when I’m packaged like a sausage in an asylum-like chamber by three men in anonymous kink gear.
“You guys did this before,” I realize in horror as I’m forced upright and my straitjacketed torso begins to disappear under rounds of wide, relentless tape that seems to have no end. Not long after this, it’s going to get hot in here, I reckon. “How many of the people here are kept in this club against their will?” I think of all the men who seem like they were having fun under their bonds and masks.
I begin to worry when the trio doesn’t show any sign to stop with the tape when my head is next in the line but I reason that I must be too valuable to handle carelessly if they go to this length to immobilize me when much more crude methods would work just as well.
I assume they are going to get the mask off to wrap my head but instead - a stuffing gag is jammed inside my mouth faster than I can react and the mask goes back on. “Wha-mmmpphh!” I immediately try to spit it out but my hood is so snug that my lips can’t even open with my cheeks bulging!
My tongue tastes something rough and dry - it sucks the moisture out of my palate. “Nnngghh hmmm!” The pups nonchalantly tape over my mask. It’s the smallest of mercies that the tape doesn’t go over my bare skin and hair.
Still - my connection with the outside world is reduced to my ears and eyes. No inch of me isn’t covered in a way. I’m not claustrophobic but the feeling - or the lack thereof - is immensely discomforting. If Rolf aimed to make me less of a problem… well, I might as well be a rolled-up rag in my current state.
I’m carried back to the altar ceremoniously in a much more restricted state than before. I grunt in anger and look at you. Still struggling. This gives me hope but there’s nothing I can do to reassure you that I’m fine other than some muffled moans and the barest of nods.
Then I look at Rolf with sheer hatred in my eyes.
“I am sure you would not admit it but you may be scared. You would be right to be scared.”
He should be the one who’s scared when ı get out of this! My display of rage is nearly unnoticeable and even if he did, our captor is unfazed. How this guy is even human?
Rolf sits in front of me like a king settling on his throne.
“I can at least give you the truth. You are now my property.”
Fuck! This! Shit! My wriggling turns frantic but there’s nothing I can do when bending my knees is hardly possible. I’m reduced to a PVC-covered worm, a captive audience for whatever soliloquy this asshole wants to produce.
Then, in no uncertain terms, Rolf explains his business. At first, it sounds like gibberish but then my heart sinks when the meaning of them registers.
This man is a sex slave trader.
It’s as bad a piece of news as they come. I have no close acquaintances in this city. As long as he has cops under his payroll, a very real possibility, he can easily make me disappear and none would be the wiser until when my parents noticed my absence. Which could be at least a few weeks later.
During that time, I could easily be the plaything of some Deubel’s VIP who saw me during the wheel scene and wanted more than just looks. My stomach revulses at the thought of being strapped and helpless under the hands of a stranger.
If I wasn’t scared before, now I am.
But the worst revelation isn’t even this.
“Richard there has an eye for fine things. He is a flatterer, a seducer – one of the best.”
No. I don’t want to believe that.
I glance at you again, trying to say something against that leather bit in your mouth. My mind is torn in two places. On the one hand, if what Rolf said is true, it would explain a lot about how you act around him and how you brought me here.
On the other hand…
I know you. We may have just met tonight but already so much happened between us. We shared our pasts, poured our hearts into each other, and made love and you helped me discover so much about myself. Despite your acting skills, I refuse to believe it was all a ruse.
And I refuse to believe you’re the man Rolf claims you are… and even if you previously worked for him, I’m willing to listen to the story from your mouth as something feels fishy.
He may be trying to break my spirit to make me easier prey. No, I’ll never stop resisting.
As I’m blinded, loaded into a box, and carted away, I wish I could say that the only thought in my mind is resistance. But there’s also fear, not knowing what will happen next and how can I even escape. And fear for you, as well.
Richard, whatever Rolf has in store for you, I think, you must endure. I swear, I’ll come for you because I know you’d do the same. Just… please be safe, old man.
To be continued...
(Co-written with [mention]DeeperThanRed[/mention])
Lance:
Our moment is so real that I feel like I crashed from somewhere high when someone barges into the pure white room we occupy out of nowhere.
“What the fuck?” I rise from where I lie, my fists balling up in the straitjacket confines - ready to give a piece of mind to whoever dares to interrupt… your ex?!
I can’t believe my eyes. I thought we had left him behind!
It pains me to see that he still has sway over you and his commanding aura even makes me hesitate before telling him to get the hell away from you.
And then the bomb drops.
“Deubel?” I blink. It only now registers to me how ridiculous I must look, trying to stand up against the man who apparently owns everything around us. “As in Deubel’s?” I ask dumbly.
Then he calls you a fraud and drags you away - which does boil my blood if his previous stunt didn’t. “Hey! Come back you asshole! Where are you taking him?”
No answer. Of course. Soundproofing.
I rush to get down from the pedestal I sit on. I don’t even try getting out of the straitjacket - I already know I can’t - and I don’t want to lose any time while you might be in danger.
If the chain around my ankles allows me to go that far, I’ll go to the door and try to open it using my elbows. If it doesn’t open, I’ll resort to kicking it and yelling at someone to get me out.
If I can’t go that far, I’ll look for anything that might help me before attempting to get my feet free.
Richard:
Even if you were able to use your hands to twist the recessed handle, the chain attached to your hobble stops you several feet short of the door.
Time passes. There is nothing within reach with which you might free your legs and your tightly strapped arms frustrate the Hell out of you.
You strain your ears to listen through the rubber hood - and manage to convince yourself, at one point, that you hear a thud, another sounds of a scuffle - but the room's soundproofing is top grade; you can't be sure you're not imagining it.
Suddenly, the door bursts open, causing you to stumble backward.
Rolf enters, his leather coat stark against the softly luminous whiteness, dragging me on a chain.
I have been stripped of my own uniform - jacket, shirt, breeches, boots, gloves all gone - and am barefoot, wearing only a pair of shorts in the same worn brown leather as your straitjacket, reinforced at waist and legs with black strapping. The shorts are very tight, the straps locked with three silver padlocks, and I grimace as every step compresses my squeezed rubber-clad cock, my silicon-imprisoned balls, seeming to push the plug even further up my arse.
Thick, medieval-looking manacles around my wrists and ankles match the wide iron collar around my neck, and Rolf's chain pulls on the collar, making me choke and cough. A second heavy chain hangs down, linking collar to wrist shackles, encircles my waist (above the locked belt of the leather shorts) and connects to the ankle cuffs.
Bent over, by the chains, into a half-crouch, I can take only limited steps. Rolf pulls me over to the far wall and stretches to attach the lead chain to an eye bolt, high up. Inked muscle rippling with effort, I strain my manacled hands upward to adjust the collar.
"That should hold you," grunts Rolf, "while I attend to Houdini there."
"No!" I cry, "leave him alone, Lance is nothing to do with you!"
"We have heard enough from Richard, I think," says Rolf with the hint of a frown.
From an inner pocket, he produces a cruel-looking bit gag of rolled leather and advances upon me. I turn my head from side to side, trying to resist, but chained as I am, the tussle is short-lived and, within minutes, the gag is in my mouth and strapped behind my neck.
Now able to focus on you, Rolf takes a step in your direction.
"You, young man, have been taken in by a scam artist. I regret that you must now pay the price."
Extracting a whistle on a fine chain from around his neck, he blows a shrill eerie note. Through the open door, in a rush of shining latex, come the three rubber pups we encountered earlier. Still in their form-fitting suits and dog hoods, each now wears an additional set of segmented black body armour - including a vaguely obscene groin guard - that seems more protective than imprisoning.
Each carries an enormous roll of black tape.
Silently, they turn to face you.
Lance:
I groan in frustration. You always pick the worst times to strap me somewhere. It’s not your fault, I should blame that decrepit fossil Rolf but being unable to help you is the worst feeling. “Richard? Are you alright?” I yell, even though my voice won’t reach you.
Tugging the ankle cuffs is also useless, they’re well-wrapped around my boots and there’s no slack to loosen.
I begin to consider how long it must take for the club to check up on these rooms - maybe they’ll find me in a routine control and get me out. No, it’s still early… probably. It’s hard to tell the time here.
Right when I was sure I was stuck here for good, the door opened once more, showing the same unpleasant face.
“You-” I begin but my words cut short when I see him pulling you along on a leash similar to my own predicament but much crueler. Not only are you stripped down to almost nothing, but you also wear iron chains that DO NOT look like they’re made for bondage play.
In fact, you look very much like you’re being kept like this against your will… but why? Isn’t this against the law or something? Couldn’t you resist? Questions fly through my mind one after another, none seemingly having a good answer.
Rolf locks you to the wall, just out of my reach like the door was. I’m starting to feel like Tantalos, not able to reach anything worth a damn.
"That should hold you, while I attend to Houdini there."
I flare up at Rolf’s words, finally addressing him properly. “Keep your hands off of him, you wannabe Colonel! What do you want from him - no, let him come to me! Richard, I’m gonna shove my boot up so far up his ass that it’ll dislodge the stick there!”
To my dismay, Rolf the coward goes for gagging you with something that looks like a bridle. I grit my teeth behind my mask. You’re still trying to protect me despite clearly having the worse deal here, even though I can’t quite understand the hold Rolf has over you. I turn to him.
“Hey, you should worry about me bashing your teeth in instead!”
Of course, Rolf acts like he didn’t even hear me and talks to me condescendingly.
"You, young man, have been taken in by a scam artist. I regret that you must now pay the price."
Scam? I look towards your desperate face. How could you even be scamming me? I didn’t give you anything I wasn’t willing to part with and everything we did was reciprocal.
“You’re so full of shit,” I snarl. If it wasn’t for the mask, I’d spit in Rolf’s face. “How do you expect me to believe you when you don’t even allow him to defend himself?”
This just makes Rolf shrug and call for reinforcements - that weakling doesn’t even have the balls to deal with me himself.
In another blast from the past, three figures walk in: the rubber puppies. Their movements are eerily in sync and I can’t say I didn’t shiver as they all enter from the door and make a move towards me in unison.
I drag my feet until my back hits the wall. Three against one is unfair, to begin with, but there’s no way for me to defend myself when my legs are tied. Still… I can’t just give up when you’re like this!
I look towards you encouragingly, hoping that you can see my eyes a bit, and then yell at the puppies. “Come, then! I’m not scared of you mutts!”
I may not be able to resist for long but I won’t go easily. I can still headbutt and tackle the ones who get close to me enough. If they manage to bring me down, I’ll make it as difficult as possible for them to tie me up further.
There has to be a way for us to get out of this sudden nightmare - I just need to find it!
Richard:
"Come, then! I'm not scared of you mutts!"
You put up a good fight, headbutting one and managing to use your hobbled legs and chain to tackle and trip another, but the short, wiry pups are clearly combat-trained, armoured (there’s some kind of hard shell or helmet behind those canine-faced hoods) and it’s three against one.
One pup weaves around, ducks down and grabs your ankle hobble while another pushes you so you lose your balance and fall.
Once you’re down, they swarm you in a blur of shiny black, focusing on your legs and feet. You try bracing your legs apart but, already constrained by the ankle restraints, your ability to defend yourself is soon limited further by a round of what you assume to be bondage tape, then another and another.
The attack dogs move fast, in an apparently coordinated manner, skin, leather and vinyl disappearing beneath a tide of dark PVC as they work to fuse your lower limbs into one: lift, wrap, lift, wrap. Multiple layers swallow you up from waist to toes, even enclosing the soles of your feet.
You are aware, distantly, of my huffing, groaning and wrenching at my chains - and of Rolf, standing still as a statue, watching without discernible emotion.
The chain from your hobble is unclipped and two pups haul you upright so they can continue their wrapping upwards. Arms crossed, leather-sleeved hands pressed to the sides of your ribcage, you’re helpless to resist as tape is spooled horizontally and diagonally around your upper body, mummifying your straitjacketed torso.
You’re surprised to feel the zip of the respirator hood being opened, allowing an influx of fresh, non-rubbery air. Any relief is short-lived, however: something is forced between your jaws and immediately expands – some kind of sponge? – to fill your mouth and cheeks. The hood is zipped closed again and the pups continue their taping, up and over your head.
It's hard not to give in to outright panic but you realise they’re sparing the inlet of the respirator, so you can still draw breath. They’ve also left a horizontal strip free of tape across the lenses, presumably so you have some ability to see.
Everything else is tight, stiflingly so. There are so many layers of tape around you you’re not sure you still bend at the waist or the knees.
The pups lift you, their shiny ebon mummy, placing you on the white platform like a sacrifice on an altar – and then, as one, they move back, standing to attention.
Neck movement is limited but you’re aware of me, growling and grunting, trying to communicate; in your peripheral vision, you see me wrestling with my chains, straining my shackled, anchored hands upward – without success – to reach my gag.
Then Rolf is standing over you, blocking your narrow visual field.
“I am sure you would not admit it but you may be scared. You would be right to be scared.”
He sits on the blocky white chair, the thick hide of his coat creaking as he settles himself.
“I can at least give you the truth. You are now my property.”
The leather-greatcoated man continues, coolly matter of fact.
“I am a man of wealth and taste. Most of all, however, I am a businessman.”
Rolf makes a sweeping gesture, with his cane, taking in the room and suggesting the wider club.
“All of this, it is my creation, my business. But it is not my only business.”
He leans forward, hands on his knees, searching for your gaze through the gap in the tape covering your respirator.
“I am also a procurer of fine things. Fine things pursued by men who are rich and powerful. You, young man, are one such fine thing.”
A clink and clatter of chains and heavy iron collar as I strain, helplessly, in your direction.
“Richard there has an eye for fine things. He is a flatterer, a seducer – one of the best.”
I cough and gurgle around my gag.
“It was a loss to me when he left my service, when he left Berlin. Now he is back, and he has brought me you."
Rolf shrugs.
"After he has been punished, I may forgive him.”
He extends an arm and one of the pups hands him a roll of tape.
“And you? Your journey is just beginning.” Rolf takes his time smoothing a final strip over the gap in your head-taping, blindfolding you.
“Travel well.”
You hear and feel a shifting as the latex canines step in and begin to disassemble the padded platform on which you lie. Hidden catches allow the four hinged side-panels to swing upwards and connect together. There’s a sort of folding inward of the top and you are enclosed in a kind of vinyl-lined coffin, a man-sized box atop a wheeled gurney.
Inside your prison, there is barely room for you to turn over.
You sense wheeled motion and a short spell in what feels like an elevator but have no way of knowing whether you are travelling up or down. More wheeling - the occasional glancing blow against one side or another - then a lifting, turning and sliding, as if your box is being loaded into or onto something, a slightly yielding surface beneath you.
Then nothing.
Lance:
Just because I know this fight is a lost cause doesn’t mean my opponents didn’t surprise me by just how one-sided it turned out to be.
The puppies act like they’re trained to fight in a unit and capture unruly victims and even with me managing to deal them a couple of blows, they still reunite and topple me down efficiently.
I try to kick and buck them off but ultimately, there’s little I can do against their merciless, rubber-clad paws as they mummify me with black PVC tape. “Why are you doing this?” I ask in my useless struggle. These guys don’t look like the paid staff - or are they?
The tape is not sticky but feels durable against my naked legs. I flex my thighs to get them loose somehow but it doesn’t even budge.
A terrible thought pops into my head: that somehow Rolf got these three under his control - and he can do the same to you if we can’t get out of his grasp. It’s a far-fetched idea but feels far from impossible when I’m packaged like a sausage in an asylum-like chamber by three men in anonymous kink gear.
“You guys did this before,” I realize in horror as I’m forced upright and my straitjacketed torso begins to disappear under rounds of wide, relentless tape that seems to have no end. Not long after this, it’s going to get hot in here, I reckon. “How many of the people here are kept in this club against their will?” I think of all the men who seem like they were having fun under their bonds and masks.
I begin to worry when the trio doesn’t show any sign to stop with the tape when my head is next in the line but I reason that I must be too valuable to handle carelessly if they go to this length to immobilize me when much more crude methods would work just as well.
I assume they are going to get the mask off to wrap my head but instead - a stuffing gag is jammed inside my mouth faster than I can react and the mask goes back on. “Wha-mmmpphh!” I immediately try to spit it out but my hood is so snug that my lips can’t even open with my cheeks bulging!
My tongue tastes something rough and dry - it sucks the moisture out of my palate. “Nnngghh hmmm!” The pups nonchalantly tape over my mask. It’s the smallest of mercies that the tape doesn’t go over my bare skin and hair.
Still - my connection with the outside world is reduced to my ears and eyes. No inch of me isn’t covered in a way. I’m not claustrophobic but the feeling - or the lack thereof - is immensely discomforting. If Rolf aimed to make me less of a problem… well, I might as well be a rolled-up rag in my current state.
I’m carried back to the altar ceremoniously in a much more restricted state than before. I grunt in anger and look at you. Still struggling. This gives me hope but there’s nothing I can do to reassure you that I’m fine other than some muffled moans and the barest of nods.
Then I look at Rolf with sheer hatred in my eyes.
“I am sure you would not admit it but you may be scared. You would be right to be scared.”
He should be the one who’s scared when ı get out of this! My display of rage is nearly unnoticeable and even if he did, our captor is unfazed. How this guy is even human?
Rolf sits in front of me like a king settling on his throne.
“I can at least give you the truth. You are now my property.”
Fuck! This! Shit! My wriggling turns frantic but there’s nothing I can do when bending my knees is hardly possible. I’m reduced to a PVC-covered worm, a captive audience for whatever soliloquy this asshole wants to produce.
Then, in no uncertain terms, Rolf explains his business. At first, it sounds like gibberish but then my heart sinks when the meaning of them registers.
This man is a sex slave trader.
It’s as bad a piece of news as they come. I have no close acquaintances in this city. As long as he has cops under his payroll, a very real possibility, he can easily make me disappear and none would be the wiser until when my parents noticed my absence. Which could be at least a few weeks later.
During that time, I could easily be the plaything of some Deubel’s VIP who saw me during the wheel scene and wanted more than just looks. My stomach revulses at the thought of being strapped and helpless under the hands of a stranger.
If I wasn’t scared before, now I am.
But the worst revelation isn’t even this.
“Richard there has an eye for fine things. He is a flatterer, a seducer – one of the best.”
No. I don’t want to believe that.
I glance at you again, trying to say something against that leather bit in your mouth. My mind is torn in two places. On the one hand, if what Rolf said is true, it would explain a lot about how you act around him and how you brought me here.
On the other hand…
I know you. We may have just met tonight but already so much happened between us. We shared our pasts, poured our hearts into each other, and made love and you helped me discover so much about myself. Despite your acting skills, I refuse to believe it was all a ruse.
And I refuse to believe you’re the man Rolf claims you are… and even if you previously worked for him, I’m willing to listen to the story from your mouth as something feels fishy.
He may be trying to break my spirit to make me easier prey. No, I’ll never stop resisting.
As I’m blinded, loaded into a box, and carted away, I wish I could say that the only thought in my mind is resistance. But there’s also fear, not knowing what will happen next and how can I even escape. And fear for you, as well.
Richard, whatever Rolf has in store for you, I think, you must endure. I swear, I’ll come for you because I know you’d do the same. Just… please be safe, old man.
To be continued...
If M/M overkill bondage in stupidly excessive amounts of gear is your thing as well as mine, here's a list of my TUG stories.
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Guardianbound
- Centennial Club
- Posts: 699
- Joined: 2 years ago
This is speeding towards a tantalising conclusion. I wonder if in [mention]Straitjacketed[/mention] style both Lance and Richard will be placed in some inescapable bondage to be used by Rolf as sex slaves. Or will they escape in the nick of time? Exciting stuff
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blackbound
- Millennial Club
- Posts: 1109
- Joined: 6 years ago
Damn, what a twist! I feel more confident in my poll choice than ever, but pride comes before a phall, as we're seeing.
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Straitjacketed
- Centennial Club
- Posts: 347
- Joined: 5 years ago
- Location: UK
- Contact:
Now the end is near
And so we face that final Circle...
I wanted to say a big thank you to the small but dedicated hardcore of you who provided comments and feedback throughout this, my and [mention]DeeperThanRed[/mention]'s most epic collaboratively published tale:
[mention]blackbound[/mention] [mention]Guardianbound[/mention] [mention]gag1195[/mention] [mention]KidnappedCowboy[/mention] [mention]Windrunner[/mention] [mention]Wedgieboy69[/mention] [mention]_zin_[/mention]
On a site like this one, I think there usually emerges a kind of mainstream in terms of the type and tenor of bondage stories written and received, and two-handed Dantean explorations of a rather fantastical Berlin leather scene don't necessarily fall within that mainstream. We have, therefore, been greatly heartened by the number contributing to the early poll (still at the top of this page - scroll on up).
Now, as we hurtle toward the conclusion of our infernal descent, I encourage everyone who voted in the poll - and, Hell, those of you who didn't but have read at least some of Richard & Lance's adventure to consider whether you hold the same opinion or whether you'd change your vote.
(Or, if you haven't voted at all, PLEASE DO SO!)
Who's going to come out on top?
Richard?
Lance?
Both?
Neither?
VOTE NOW and feel free to comment...
And so we face that final Circle...
I wanted to say a big thank you to the small but dedicated hardcore of you who provided comments and feedback throughout this, my and [mention]DeeperThanRed[/mention]'s most epic collaboratively published tale:
[mention]blackbound[/mention] [mention]Guardianbound[/mention] [mention]gag1195[/mention] [mention]KidnappedCowboy[/mention] [mention]Windrunner[/mention] [mention]Wedgieboy69[/mention] [mention]_zin_[/mention]
On a site like this one, I think there usually emerges a kind of mainstream in terms of the type and tenor of bondage stories written and received, and two-handed Dantean explorations of a rather fantastical Berlin leather scene don't necessarily fall within that mainstream. We have, therefore, been greatly heartened by the number contributing to the early poll (still at the top of this page - scroll on up).
Now, as we hurtle toward the conclusion of our infernal descent, I encourage everyone who voted in the poll - and, Hell, those of you who didn't but have read at least some of Richard & Lance's adventure to consider whether you hold the same opinion or whether you'd change your vote.
(Or, if you haven't voted at all, PLEASE DO SO!)
Who's going to come out on top?
Richard?
Lance?
Both?
Neither?
VOTE NOW and feel free to comment...
Last edited by Straitjacketed 10 months ago, edited 1 time in total.
If M/M overkill bondage in stupidly excessive amounts of gear is your thing as well as mine, here's a list of my TUG stories.
-
KidnappedCowboy
- Centennial Club
- Posts: 971
- Joined: 5 years ago
- Location: USA
- Contact:
It's a delight to read and to comment upon well-written tales of men binding and gagging other men! 
It is we who should thank you [mention]Straitjacketed[/mention] and [mention]Deeperthanred[/mention]!!
Bravo!!!
It is we who should thank you [mention]Straitjacketed[/mention] and [mention]Deeperthanred[/mention]!!
Bravo!!!
No! Lance! Rolf is truly devious, trying to break up this pair! I sincerely hope Lance and Richard find a way out of this situation! They've had such a good night, and connected on so many levels, that they just have to make it out! Things certainly seem desperate right now, but that's when people find strength they didn't know they had!
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Straitjacketed
- Centennial Club
- Posts: 347
- Joined: 5 years ago
- Location: UK
- Contact:
Aww, thanks folks! Finale coming right up!
If M/M overkill bondage in stupidly excessive amounts of gear is your thing as well as mine, here's a list of my TUG stories.
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Straitjacketed
- Centennial Club
- Posts: 347
- Joined: 5 years ago
- Location: UK
- Contact:
Nine Circles - part 32
(Co-written with [mention]DeeperThanRed[/mention])
TREACHERY
Richard:
Even with the help of the Pupple Throuple, wheeling the gurney back up to the corridor of private rooms is not easy, and your casket takes a bump or two along the way. Manoeuvring you through the door, we scrape the numeral, knocking it out of alignment. It now hangs inverted: Number 9.
Free of chains and gag but still locked in leather chastity shorts, my beard is tousled and there are red marks around wrists, ankles, waist and neck and on either side of my mouth.
The final pup to leave deposits my boots, breeches and jacket and raises a latex-gloved paw in silent farewell.
Rolf and I regard the coffin-like box laid out on the black vinyl bed. He's dropped the frigid Kommandant act and has an arm across my shoulders, gently massaging away the redness of the collar. We talk in low murmurs so as not to be heard.
"You were way too convincing," I say, reprovingly, "All that improv stuff about me being your... what was it? Seducer. I'm supposed to be the actor here, remember?"
Rolf merely smirks. He enjoyed his role far too much.
"Anyway," I continue, "God knows how he's doing in there. I'm going to let him out."
"He's fine," says Rolf airily, "he will make fantasies about this later."
Maybe, but I'm not to be deterred. You originally baulked at wearing my hood. You feared being locked away alone in the dark and, while I wanted you to experience and deal with that fear, I know a little goes a long way; full-on sustained panic wasn't my plan. I hope you're not panicking.
Rolf helps me undo the catches and negotiate the casket's structural origami, unfolding and opening it to reveal your trussed form, like a shiny black worm. The rhythmic click-and-hiss of the breathing filter reassures me but as I search for the edge of the tape to unwrap you, I continue to feel pangs of guilt. Did we go too far?
"If we shadows have offended..." I mutter under my breath, frantically unwinding tape from around your hooded head until I'm able to get beneath you to unzip the respirator and remove it entirely, extracting the soggy mass of sponge.
When your face is revealed, I can't conceal my relief. Your features darken when you see Rolf and I hurriedly explain.
"It's fine, we're fine. His name is Deubel, he is my ex, he does own the place but everything else was a set-up, just acting. In Rolf's case, overacting."
Rolf shrugs in apology.
"I will leave Richard to explain. It was good to meet you, Lance; I hope I have not put you off Deubel's and that you visit again. The two of you have been most entertaining; this room is yours until morning. Be welcome."
He departs and it's just the two of us again.
As I continue unwrapping and unstrapping, I allow you to vent, to yell, to say and ask anything you want. I answer with honesty, filling in all the gaps. Rolf is indeed my ex-partner from decades ago, a businessman and co-owner of the club but he is not a kidnapper or slave trader; he can be a cranky old git but he's not a monster. We parted amicably and, while mildly put out that I hadn't contacted him prior to this visit, Rolf didn't suggest tonight's shenanigans, it was all my idea. My ex merely agreed to play the role of villain - and he played that role unnervingly well.
Why did I do it? I couldn't resist putting on a show, a little immersive theatre for both of us.
Before releasing you from straitjacket and hobble, I attempt to extract a promise from you that you won't exact a violent physical revenge on me, at least not here and now.
I'd understand if you didn't want to hang around - if you felt manipulated, if you were keen to see the back of me and of Deubel's - but I hope you do stay. Right this minute, I want nothing more than to shower, open and remove all the stifling stuff locked around my junk and up my arse, climb beneath the cool vinyl sheets and doze off with you in my arms.
And tomorrow? Well, tomorrow is another day.
That's when I realise I have no way of releasing myself from the chastity shorts; Rolf has used his padlocks rather than mine and presumably taken the keys away with him.
The fucker!
Lance:
As I lie in the darkness, I vaguely hear the sound of my prison opening.
My ears perk up. A chance to escape? It’s almost impossible to measure how long I spent inside that thing, but it didn’t feel that long. What Rolf has in store for me? Maybe taking me on a test drive on some VIP members? That… might be to my advantage. As long as I’m still in the club, I can always find a way to escape and get back to you.
What I wasn’t expecting was getting my hood and gag removed and finding you in front of me! And here I thought I would rescue you! You managed to get out before… wait, why is Rolf with you?
You don’t look worse for wear other than showing obvious signs of bondage and having most of your clothes missing. Are you actually working for this guy and convinced him to let me out somehow? I’m so confused and I feel my blood pressure rising just from seeing the two of you looking down on me.
"...everything else was a set-up, just acting. In Rolf's case, overacting."
I slowly blink, not knowing what to say. A huge relief washes over me upon learning that you’re safe, we’re both are and there’s no human trafficking going on. But I’m also pissed beyond belief: angry at you for taking a joke too far and angry at myself for letting you two make a fool out of me.
Rolf, who suddenly acts much more amicably, bids farewell, and I realize how much you’ve been planning this. When I was left helpless at the wheel, you were busy discussing the logistics of this trickery with him!
You keep explaining how your plan worked but I only barely listen. So, there’s no evil ex or dark plot to this club, it’s all just fancy theatre. At least that’s reassuring.
But now I keep going back at our talks and wondering what else was a part of your act in my mind. It’s not like you lied to me about everything… but it’s gonna be hard to take stuff coming out of your mouth at face value after this.
And I still feel like my mind’s gonna burst from the conflicting feelings of solace and rage. As you get the tape unwrapped from around me, I just nod and say, “I have to admit, you got me good.” And you did. Did I enjoy it? It’s hard to say. As the panic of the situation slowly wears off, I’m starting to feel the suspension bridge effect - the emotional high is still there and it mixes up with the intimacy we shared before and even now.
It’s not hard to look back at it and admit it was a little hot to think that I was actually in danger and forced into bondage against my will. I doubt I’d feel this strongly about it if I knew about the roleplay. Instead, this became an experience that I will never forget, not in a billion years.
Before getting me out of the straitjacket, you try and ask me to not hit you here and now.
I take a deep breath. “I really want to punch you in the face right now,” I admit. “Hard and multiple times, if possible.”
I look at you and slowly continue. “But I feel like that won’t make me feel better. Richard, you scared the crap outta me and I’m pissed with you but,” I bit my lip. “I can see in your face that you did it for me. It was a really stupid thing to do but… I didn’t completely hate it. And I’m also more than a little impressed.”
You definitely have a talent for manipulating people, good or bad.
“You look tired,” I observe. Those shorts look like they’re locked on you. Do they have any openings? “You know what? Let’s me see what stuff this room has that I've yet to use on you and see if I’ll find a way to wreak my anger on you without physical violence… too much.”
I glare at you. “Otherwise, I’m going to start kicking your ass.”
Richard:
This is the worst, most anxious part for me: when the hurly-burly's done and I'm unmasked as secret director. 'Pay no attention to the man behind the curtain' cuts no ice here.
Everyone reacts differently and I know, now, that the best course of action is to let them vent, say as little as possible and just suck it up. Once, early on, I launched into the 'all the world's a stage' speech and got a broken nose for my pomposity (my septum reset slightly crooked and my agent convinced me - rightly, as it turned out - not to have it straightened). Not one of my better reviews.
"I have to admit, you got me good.”
That sounds promising.
“I really want to punch you in the face right now. Hard and multiple times, if possible.”
Less promising.
You give remonstrative feedback that's still more fair and balanced than I had a right to expect. I just nod, concentrating on getting you out of the various layers of tape. There's a pair of emergency bandage scissors in a nearby drawer and I make swift work of your wrappings.
(Absently, I wonder if the scissors would work on my bloody shorts - which, if I can't remove them, have only a short rear zip to access my plugged backside. Probably not: I imagine I'm going to have to find a pair of bolt cutters for the padlocks.)
“You know what? Let’s me see what stuff this room has that I've yet to use on you and see if I’ll find a way to wreak my anger on you without physical violence… too much.”
Back to promising.
“Otherwise, I’m going to start kicking your ass.”
Ah.
Your feet are still hobbled but I've almost finished unbuckling you from the straitjacket.
"Maybe I should... strap these back up again?" I ask, then catch your glare.
"JOKE! I'm joking!"
Jacket and hobble-strap are off. I gesture you to move off the splayed casket so I can fold it flat and slip it outside our door, like the remains of room service.
I turn back. You're in white vinyl diaper briefs, I'm in tight brown and black leather chastity shorts. Otherwise, we're naked (besides the Yellow Knight bracelet still locked in place around each of our wrists), still bearing the marks of our respective bonds.
I meet your formidable stare, suddenly apprehensive.
"What now?"
To be continued...
(Co-written with [mention]DeeperThanRed[/mention])
TREACHERY
Richard:
Even with the help of the Pupple Throuple, wheeling the gurney back up to the corridor of private rooms is not easy, and your casket takes a bump or two along the way. Manoeuvring you through the door, we scrape the numeral, knocking it out of alignment. It now hangs inverted: Number 9.
Free of chains and gag but still locked in leather chastity shorts, my beard is tousled and there are red marks around wrists, ankles, waist and neck and on either side of my mouth.
The final pup to leave deposits my boots, breeches and jacket and raises a latex-gloved paw in silent farewell.
Rolf and I regard the coffin-like box laid out on the black vinyl bed. He's dropped the frigid Kommandant act and has an arm across my shoulders, gently massaging away the redness of the collar. We talk in low murmurs so as not to be heard.
"You were way too convincing," I say, reprovingly, "All that improv stuff about me being your... what was it? Seducer. I'm supposed to be the actor here, remember?"
Rolf merely smirks. He enjoyed his role far too much.
"Anyway," I continue, "God knows how he's doing in there. I'm going to let him out."
"He's fine," says Rolf airily, "he will make fantasies about this later."
Maybe, but I'm not to be deterred. You originally baulked at wearing my hood. You feared being locked away alone in the dark and, while I wanted you to experience and deal with that fear, I know a little goes a long way; full-on sustained panic wasn't my plan. I hope you're not panicking.
Rolf helps me undo the catches and negotiate the casket's structural origami, unfolding and opening it to reveal your trussed form, like a shiny black worm. The rhythmic click-and-hiss of the breathing filter reassures me but as I search for the edge of the tape to unwrap you, I continue to feel pangs of guilt. Did we go too far?
"If we shadows have offended..." I mutter under my breath, frantically unwinding tape from around your hooded head until I'm able to get beneath you to unzip the respirator and remove it entirely, extracting the soggy mass of sponge.
When your face is revealed, I can't conceal my relief. Your features darken when you see Rolf and I hurriedly explain.
"It's fine, we're fine. His name is Deubel, he is my ex, he does own the place but everything else was a set-up, just acting. In Rolf's case, overacting."
Rolf shrugs in apology.
"I will leave Richard to explain. It was good to meet you, Lance; I hope I have not put you off Deubel's and that you visit again. The two of you have been most entertaining; this room is yours until morning. Be welcome."
He departs and it's just the two of us again.
As I continue unwrapping and unstrapping, I allow you to vent, to yell, to say and ask anything you want. I answer with honesty, filling in all the gaps. Rolf is indeed my ex-partner from decades ago, a businessman and co-owner of the club but he is not a kidnapper or slave trader; he can be a cranky old git but he's not a monster. We parted amicably and, while mildly put out that I hadn't contacted him prior to this visit, Rolf didn't suggest tonight's shenanigans, it was all my idea. My ex merely agreed to play the role of villain - and he played that role unnervingly well.
Why did I do it? I couldn't resist putting on a show, a little immersive theatre for both of us.
Before releasing you from straitjacket and hobble, I attempt to extract a promise from you that you won't exact a violent physical revenge on me, at least not here and now.
I'd understand if you didn't want to hang around - if you felt manipulated, if you were keen to see the back of me and of Deubel's - but I hope you do stay. Right this minute, I want nothing more than to shower, open and remove all the stifling stuff locked around my junk and up my arse, climb beneath the cool vinyl sheets and doze off with you in my arms.
And tomorrow? Well, tomorrow is another day.
That's when I realise I have no way of releasing myself from the chastity shorts; Rolf has used his padlocks rather than mine and presumably taken the keys away with him.
The fucker!
Lance:
As I lie in the darkness, I vaguely hear the sound of my prison opening.
My ears perk up. A chance to escape? It’s almost impossible to measure how long I spent inside that thing, but it didn’t feel that long. What Rolf has in store for me? Maybe taking me on a test drive on some VIP members? That… might be to my advantage. As long as I’m still in the club, I can always find a way to escape and get back to you.
What I wasn’t expecting was getting my hood and gag removed and finding you in front of me! And here I thought I would rescue you! You managed to get out before… wait, why is Rolf with you?
You don’t look worse for wear other than showing obvious signs of bondage and having most of your clothes missing. Are you actually working for this guy and convinced him to let me out somehow? I’m so confused and I feel my blood pressure rising just from seeing the two of you looking down on me.
"...everything else was a set-up, just acting. In Rolf's case, overacting."
I slowly blink, not knowing what to say. A huge relief washes over me upon learning that you’re safe, we’re both are and there’s no human trafficking going on. But I’m also pissed beyond belief: angry at you for taking a joke too far and angry at myself for letting you two make a fool out of me.
Rolf, who suddenly acts much more amicably, bids farewell, and I realize how much you’ve been planning this. When I was left helpless at the wheel, you were busy discussing the logistics of this trickery with him!
You keep explaining how your plan worked but I only barely listen. So, there’s no evil ex or dark plot to this club, it’s all just fancy theatre. At least that’s reassuring.
But now I keep going back at our talks and wondering what else was a part of your act in my mind. It’s not like you lied to me about everything… but it’s gonna be hard to take stuff coming out of your mouth at face value after this.
And I still feel like my mind’s gonna burst from the conflicting feelings of solace and rage. As you get the tape unwrapped from around me, I just nod and say, “I have to admit, you got me good.” And you did. Did I enjoy it? It’s hard to say. As the panic of the situation slowly wears off, I’m starting to feel the suspension bridge effect - the emotional high is still there and it mixes up with the intimacy we shared before and even now.
It’s not hard to look back at it and admit it was a little hot to think that I was actually in danger and forced into bondage against my will. I doubt I’d feel this strongly about it if I knew about the roleplay. Instead, this became an experience that I will never forget, not in a billion years.
Before getting me out of the straitjacket, you try and ask me to not hit you here and now.
I take a deep breath. “I really want to punch you in the face right now,” I admit. “Hard and multiple times, if possible.”
I look at you and slowly continue. “But I feel like that won’t make me feel better. Richard, you scared the crap outta me and I’m pissed with you but,” I bit my lip. “I can see in your face that you did it for me. It was a really stupid thing to do but… I didn’t completely hate it. And I’m also more than a little impressed.”
You definitely have a talent for manipulating people, good or bad.
“You look tired,” I observe. Those shorts look like they’re locked on you. Do they have any openings? “You know what? Let’s me see what stuff this room has that I've yet to use on you and see if I’ll find a way to wreak my anger on you without physical violence… too much.”
I glare at you. “Otherwise, I’m going to start kicking your ass.”
Richard:
This is the worst, most anxious part for me: when the hurly-burly's done and I'm unmasked as secret director. 'Pay no attention to the man behind the curtain' cuts no ice here.
Everyone reacts differently and I know, now, that the best course of action is to let them vent, say as little as possible and just suck it up. Once, early on, I launched into the 'all the world's a stage' speech and got a broken nose for my pomposity (my septum reset slightly crooked and my agent convinced me - rightly, as it turned out - not to have it straightened). Not one of my better reviews.
"I have to admit, you got me good.”
That sounds promising.
“I really want to punch you in the face right now. Hard and multiple times, if possible.”
Less promising.
You give remonstrative feedback that's still more fair and balanced than I had a right to expect. I just nod, concentrating on getting you out of the various layers of tape. There's a pair of emergency bandage scissors in a nearby drawer and I make swift work of your wrappings.
(Absently, I wonder if the scissors would work on my bloody shorts - which, if I can't remove them, have only a short rear zip to access my plugged backside. Probably not: I imagine I'm going to have to find a pair of bolt cutters for the padlocks.)
“You know what? Let’s me see what stuff this room has that I've yet to use on you and see if I’ll find a way to wreak my anger on you without physical violence… too much.”
Back to promising.
“Otherwise, I’m going to start kicking your ass.”
Ah.
Your feet are still hobbled but I've almost finished unbuckling you from the straitjacket.
"Maybe I should... strap these back up again?" I ask, then catch your glare.
"JOKE! I'm joking!"
Jacket and hobble-strap are off. I gesture you to move off the splayed casket so I can fold it flat and slip it outside our door, like the remains of room service.
I turn back. You're in white vinyl diaper briefs, I'm in tight brown and black leather chastity shorts. Otherwise, we're naked (besides the Yellow Knight bracelet still locked in place around each of our wrists), still bearing the marks of our respective bonds.
I meet your formidable stare, suddenly apprehensive.
"What now?"
To be continued...
If M/M overkill bondage in stupidly excessive amounts of gear is your thing as well as mine, here's a list of my TUG stories.
-
blackbound
- Millennial Club
- Posts: 1109
- Joined: 6 years ago
Well, you got me good with that one. Now I wish it'd lasted longer, but what can you do.
And to think I was so sure about my poll choice... still sticking with it, though!
And to think I was so sure about my poll choice... still sticking with it, though!
Oh I'd be so mad with Richard if I were in Lance's position. The sexy ginger stud would be in for a taste of his own medicine if it were up to me!
-
Straitjacketed
- Centennial Club
- Posts: 347
- Joined: 5 years ago
- Location: UK
- Contact:
Nine Circles - part 33
(Co-written with [mention]DeeperThanRed[/mention])
Lance:
"JOKE! I'm joking!"
I snort. At least we returned to a semblance of normalcy (as normal as it gets in this place, anyway) and you have the common sense to look sorry for your actions.
When I get out of my straitjacket, I get a good stretch - grunting when I hear my joints pop. For a guy like me who usually can’t sit still, your arrangements are a serious test of patience. I don’t quite dislike them but I’m always eager to work my muscles off as soon as I get free.
Looking at you, I realize we’re dressed more alike than we ever did through this evening - both of us only wear our underwear, with my boots discarded priorly. Other than the obvious differences in our ages and looks, we must look like equals to an outsider.
"What now?"
I consider carrying out that promise of punching. But I don’t feel nearly as enraged as before and I don’t want to get myself angry all over again - control your emotions and don’t let them control you, all that.
But if I don’t want to hit you, what do I want?
Well, to settle the score, for starters. “It’s time for me to give the orders,” I walk towards the cupboard and look for something I can use. I need equipment that I can put on you without planning ahead.
“Here, put this on. And if you say ‘no’, I’m gonna make you do it.” My voice is calm but serious but I’m already starting to get excited. I predict that having fun won’t come much later - for me, that is.
After some deliberation, I pull out a long leather strap. It has a pair of cuffs and a belt along the way that apparently goes around your arms and torso, attaching your wrists to your elbows and wrapping around your chest and neck for extra security.
I pause. “No, wait, I’m being unfair.” I also throw you a couple of leather mittens. “These are for your hands, right? Let’s start with these.”
If you’re not gonna comply, I might try and get persuasive, as I don’t feel in the mood for negotiation.
Richard:
“It’s time for me to give the orders. Here, put this on. And if you say ‘no’, I’m gonna make you do it.”
I take the upper torso harness without complaint - if ever you were guaranteed the moral high ground, it's here and now - and contemplate the slightly unfamiliar strapping arrangement.
It could be worse. Straps can be unbuckled.
“No, wait, I’m being unfair. These are for your hands, right? Let’s start with these.”
Ah.
I throw you a look that's half-appraising, half-quizzical. This is worse - a little worse, anyway.
Did you just luck into this idea? Once these thumbless leather mitts are strapped on (and assuming you know how to fasten them properly), they could be a bugger to get off again. My large, spade-like hands make slipping any sort of cuff difficult; if I can't use my fingers, thumbs, teeth, or anything else to open the buckle, I'm sort of stuck.
I hesitate for the merest of moments until I glimpse your face. If I have a talent for manipulation, you have a talent for non-verbal communication - especially when you're communicating the message NOT IN THE MOOD FOR ANY SHIT.
"It's a fair cop," I shrug, "and I suppose I have been wearing gloves the rest of the evening."
Slowly, I pull the mitts on.
Lance:
So far, I don’t have a good estimate of the full extent of your escaping capabilities nor do I think I know my way with the bondage gear enough to hold you indefinitely but I just need to make your bonds secure enough that you won’t be able to leave for a while.
"It's a fair cop, and I suppose I have been wearing gloves the rest of the evening."
“If it’s going to help, you look good with those gloves,” I comment as I tighten the mitts. “Here, turn around.” I then fold your arms back and tie your wrists to the built-in leather cuffs of your harness. For extra measure, I add some rope to go through both the mitts’ and harness’s D-rings.
My mind provides me with the various positions and techniques I observed through the night as I work. I push you on your back not-so-gently, then rope your collar to the bedpost. There’s enough slack that you really have to go out of your way to choke yourself (even then, the harness prevents you from putting pressure around there) but you won’t be able to raise your head.
To finish your immobilization, I fold your legs and use more bondage tape than probably necessary to keep your thighs open.
I palm the bulge in your shorts. “You must be in the mood for getting off again.” Does this excite you? I saw enough proof that I know you can be submissive to an extent but our positions are not similar to before. “Too bad.”
I open the zipper at the back of your shorts now that you can’t use your legs to cover yourself - and I reveal the plug still nestled inside you. “Here, you can use this to come.” I take a magic wand from the cupboard, make sure it has the battery to spare and tape its end to your plug’s flat end - and turn it on.
Before straddling you, I take one final item from the cupboard and hide it behind me.
“Richard, you really pushed it too far back there.” I lean down, our mouths are almost close enough to touch now. “But I also want to thank you,” I continue in a hushed voice. “You really taught me a lot this night and I enjoyed your company. I don’t think any man made me feel like you did today. So, I want to give you this…”
I put a hand over your eyes and then-
Stuffed the gag in my hand in your mouth. Before you can even react, I push the large, phallic bulb inside your mouth fully and let the padded panel cover your lips before buckling it at the back of your head.
I grin and pat your pec. “I say we’re even now. But I’ll go now. Don’t want to miss breakfast after all this workout. See you, Richard!”
I get off you but not before pressing a kiss to your cheek. “And before I forget…” Thankfully this room has a Sharpie. I write my phone number on the sole of your left foot. “You can call me later if you still want to. But be careful not to exert too much effort - you don’t want to sweat and erase it.
I whistle as I leave the room, heading to the lobby to get my stuff back. Are you going to call me back? It’s hard to say - I feel like most subs don’t leave their doms tied up and gagged but you’re also not like most doms.
All things created have an order in themselves and I feel like we’ll see each other again.
I put my hand to my neck where my collar was and smile. I can’t wait for that time to come.
Richard:
Uurghh.
Whether by luck or fast learning, I recognise that this, your second attempt at binding my hands, is genuinely successful: the mitts are buckled tight enough that I can't slip them, you've harness-strapped them behind me so I can't reach them with my teeth, and you've used rope to secure everything further.
"Bound in a nutshell," I mutter as I surreptitiously test the mitts and harness. Leather creaks but holds tight. This time, I fear I'm not going to have to pretend inability to escape.
The vinyl bedding feels smooth but not cold on my bound arms; they still retain the body heat of your own worm-like squirming, mere minutes ago. You are thoughtful enough to give me a vinyl pillow - even if you then tether me so I can’t raise my head off it.
I accustom myself to the collar and try to ignore the copious amount of PVC tape being used to bend and immobilise my legs.
“You must be in the mood for getting off again.”
Unable to nod, I mumble my assent. Inside the chastity shorts, my rubber-clad cock is folded up tight against my equally insulated balls, secured inside the silicon rings and plug, everything putting pressure on everything else. I don't have much choice but to want to get off.
"Too bad."
The vibrating wand isn't going to make me come - not when I'm squeezed up in locked shorts and roped flat on my back, my constricted bulge pumping nothing but air.
"Maybe there are bolt cutters, for the padlocks?" I venture, but you ignore me, climbing astride my groin. At least I'm going to have something to thrust against.
"Richard, you really pushed it too far back there. But I also want to thank you. You really taught me a lot this night and I enjoyed your company. I don’t think any man made me feel like you did today.”
Pretentious to the final curtain, I begin quoting the ending of Inferno:
"To get back up to the shining world from there
My guide and I went into that hidden tunnel,
And following its path, we took no care
To rest, but climbed: he first, then I - so far,
through a round aperture I saw appear
Some of the beautiful things that Heaven bears-"
"I want to give you this..." you interrupt, with a hand over my eyes then a bulky stuffing fills my mouth, swiftly buckled behind.
"Mmph!" I huff, robbed of my soliloquy then, when you climb off me, the prospect of relief.
“I say we’re even now. But I’ll go now. Don’t want to miss breakfast after all this workout. See you, Richard!”
Leather muffles my protest and, unable to move, I can do little to resist the Sharpie-tickling of your number on the sole of my foot. Chaotic… Evil?
I follow your departure with my eyes. Harnessed, mitted, gagged, strapped up and tied down, I can only strain, wriggle, and groan in reaction to the vibrations starting to run up my plug and around my encased genitalia.
Where we came forth, and once more saw the stars.
The wand's relentless buzzing brings me back to my immediately predicament.
There's no coming to be had but I am seeing stars.
THE END
(Co-written with [mention]DeeperThanRed[/mention])
Lance:
"JOKE! I'm joking!"
I snort. At least we returned to a semblance of normalcy (as normal as it gets in this place, anyway) and you have the common sense to look sorry for your actions.
When I get out of my straitjacket, I get a good stretch - grunting when I hear my joints pop. For a guy like me who usually can’t sit still, your arrangements are a serious test of patience. I don’t quite dislike them but I’m always eager to work my muscles off as soon as I get free.
Looking at you, I realize we’re dressed more alike than we ever did through this evening - both of us only wear our underwear, with my boots discarded priorly. Other than the obvious differences in our ages and looks, we must look like equals to an outsider.
"What now?"
I consider carrying out that promise of punching. But I don’t feel nearly as enraged as before and I don’t want to get myself angry all over again - control your emotions and don’t let them control you, all that.
But if I don’t want to hit you, what do I want?
Well, to settle the score, for starters. “It’s time for me to give the orders,” I walk towards the cupboard and look for something I can use. I need equipment that I can put on you without planning ahead.
“Here, put this on. And if you say ‘no’, I’m gonna make you do it.” My voice is calm but serious but I’m already starting to get excited. I predict that having fun won’t come much later - for me, that is.
After some deliberation, I pull out a long leather strap. It has a pair of cuffs and a belt along the way that apparently goes around your arms and torso, attaching your wrists to your elbows and wrapping around your chest and neck for extra security.
I pause. “No, wait, I’m being unfair.” I also throw you a couple of leather mittens. “These are for your hands, right? Let’s start with these.”
If you’re not gonna comply, I might try and get persuasive, as I don’t feel in the mood for negotiation.
Richard:
“It’s time for me to give the orders. Here, put this on. And if you say ‘no’, I’m gonna make you do it.”
I take the upper torso harness without complaint - if ever you were guaranteed the moral high ground, it's here and now - and contemplate the slightly unfamiliar strapping arrangement.
It could be worse. Straps can be unbuckled.
“No, wait, I’m being unfair. These are for your hands, right? Let’s start with these.”
Ah.
I throw you a look that's half-appraising, half-quizzical. This is worse - a little worse, anyway.
Did you just luck into this idea? Once these thumbless leather mitts are strapped on (and assuming you know how to fasten them properly), they could be a bugger to get off again. My large, spade-like hands make slipping any sort of cuff difficult; if I can't use my fingers, thumbs, teeth, or anything else to open the buckle, I'm sort of stuck.
I hesitate for the merest of moments until I glimpse your face. If I have a talent for manipulation, you have a talent for non-verbal communication - especially when you're communicating the message NOT IN THE MOOD FOR ANY SHIT.
"It's a fair cop," I shrug, "and I suppose I have been wearing gloves the rest of the evening."
Slowly, I pull the mitts on.
Lance:
So far, I don’t have a good estimate of the full extent of your escaping capabilities nor do I think I know my way with the bondage gear enough to hold you indefinitely but I just need to make your bonds secure enough that you won’t be able to leave for a while.
"It's a fair cop, and I suppose I have been wearing gloves the rest of the evening."
“If it’s going to help, you look good with those gloves,” I comment as I tighten the mitts. “Here, turn around.” I then fold your arms back and tie your wrists to the built-in leather cuffs of your harness. For extra measure, I add some rope to go through both the mitts’ and harness’s D-rings.
My mind provides me with the various positions and techniques I observed through the night as I work. I push you on your back not-so-gently, then rope your collar to the bedpost. There’s enough slack that you really have to go out of your way to choke yourself (even then, the harness prevents you from putting pressure around there) but you won’t be able to raise your head.
To finish your immobilization, I fold your legs and use more bondage tape than probably necessary to keep your thighs open.
I palm the bulge in your shorts. “You must be in the mood for getting off again.” Does this excite you? I saw enough proof that I know you can be submissive to an extent but our positions are not similar to before. “Too bad.”
I open the zipper at the back of your shorts now that you can’t use your legs to cover yourself - and I reveal the plug still nestled inside you. “Here, you can use this to come.” I take a magic wand from the cupboard, make sure it has the battery to spare and tape its end to your plug’s flat end - and turn it on.
Before straddling you, I take one final item from the cupboard and hide it behind me.
“Richard, you really pushed it too far back there.” I lean down, our mouths are almost close enough to touch now. “But I also want to thank you,” I continue in a hushed voice. “You really taught me a lot this night and I enjoyed your company. I don’t think any man made me feel like you did today. So, I want to give you this…”
I put a hand over your eyes and then-
Stuffed the gag in my hand in your mouth. Before you can even react, I push the large, phallic bulb inside your mouth fully and let the padded panel cover your lips before buckling it at the back of your head.
I grin and pat your pec. “I say we’re even now. But I’ll go now. Don’t want to miss breakfast after all this workout. See you, Richard!”
I get off you but not before pressing a kiss to your cheek. “And before I forget…” Thankfully this room has a Sharpie. I write my phone number on the sole of your left foot. “You can call me later if you still want to. But be careful not to exert too much effort - you don’t want to sweat and erase it.
I whistle as I leave the room, heading to the lobby to get my stuff back. Are you going to call me back? It’s hard to say - I feel like most subs don’t leave their doms tied up and gagged but you’re also not like most doms.
All things created have an order in themselves and I feel like we’ll see each other again.
I put my hand to my neck where my collar was and smile. I can’t wait for that time to come.
Richard:
Uurghh.
Whether by luck or fast learning, I recognise that this, your second attempt at binding my hands, is genuinely successful: the mitts are buckled tight enough that I can't slip them, you've harness-strapped them behind me so I can't reach them with my teeth, and you've used rope to secure everything further.
"Bound in a nutshell," I mutter as I surreptitiously test the mitts and harness. Leather creaks but holds tight. This time, I fear I'm not going to have to pretend inability to escape.
The vinyl bedding feels smooth but not cold on my bound arms; they still retain the body heat of your own worm-like squirming, mere minutes ago. You are thoughtful enough to give me a vinyl pillow - even if you then tether me so I can’t raise my head off it.
I accustom myself to the collar and try to ignore the copious amount of PVC tape being used to bend and immobilise my legs.
“You must be in the mood for getting off again.”
Unable to nod, I mumble my assent. Inside the chastity shorts, my rubber-clad cock is folded up tight against my equally insulated balls, secured inside the silicon rings and plug, everything putting pressure on everything else. I don't have much choice but to want to get off.
"Too bad."
The vibrating wand isn't going to make me come - not when I'm squeezed up in locked shorts and roped flat on my back, my constricted bulge pumping nothing but air.
"Maybe there are bolt cutters, for the padlocks?" I venture, but you ignore me, climbing astride my groin. At least I'm going to have something to thrust against.
"Richard, you really pushed it too far back there. But I also want to thank you. You really taught me a lot this night and I enjoyed your company. I don’t think any man made me feel like you did today.”
Pretentious to the final curtain, I begin quoting the ending of Inferno:
"To get back up to the shining world from there
My guide and I went into that hidden tunnel,
And following its path, we took no care
To rest, but climbed: he first, then I - so far,
through a round aperture I saw appear
Some of the beautiful things that Heaven bears-"
"I want to give you this..." you interrupt, with a hand over my eyes then a bulky stuffing fills my mouth, swiftly buckled behind.
"Mmph!" I huff, robbed of my soliloquy then, when you climb off me, the prospect of relief.
“I say we’re even now. But I’ll go now. Don’t want to miss breakfast after all this workout. See you, Richard!”
Leather muffles my protest and, unable to move, I can do little to resist the Sharpie-tickling of your number on the sole of my foot. Chaotic… Evil?
I follow your departure with my eyes. Harnessed, mitted, gagged, strapped up and tied down, I can only strain, wriggle, and groan in reaction to the vibrations starting to run up my plug and around my encased genitalia.
Where we came forth, and once more saw the stars.
The wand's relentless buzzing brings me back to my immediately predicament.
There's no coming to be had but I am seeing stars.
THE END
If M/M overkill bondage in stupidly excessive amounts of gear is your thing as well as mine, here's a list of my TUG stories.
-
Straitjacketed
- Centennial Club
- Posts: 347
- Joined: 5 years ago
- Location: UK
- Contact:
[mention]blackbound[/mention] [mention]Guardianbound[/mention] [mention]gag1195[/mention] [mention]KidnappedCowboy[/mention] [mention]Windrunner[/mention] [mention]Wedgieboy69[/mention] [mention]_zin_[/mention]
Hope y'all enjoyed the conclusion.
Richard and Lance miiiiight return in the future...
Hope y'all enjoyed the conclusion.
Richard and Lance miiiiight return in the future...
If M/M overkill bondage in stupidly excessive amounts of gear is your thing as well as mine, here's a list of my TUG stories.
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Guardianbound
- Centennial Club
- Posts: 699
- Joined: 2 years ago
Sweet ending, Richard got what he deserved.
I do want to see these two again
maybe both succumbing to inescapable couple's bondage
I do want to see these two again
maybe both succumbing to inescapable couple's bondage-
blackbound
- Millennial Club
- Posts: 1109
- Joined: 6 years ago
Well, Lance isn't making it out of there on his own, so I WIN!
Seriously though, those last three chapters were a whirlwind of hotness, especially Lance's good(?) intentions at giving Richard a final release that will never come.
Seriously though, those last three chapters were a whirlwind of hotness, especially Lance's good(?) intentions at giving Richard a final release that will never come.
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KidnappedCowboy
- Centennial Club
- Posts: 971
- Joined: 5 years ago
- Location: USA
- Contact:
Just love it...leaving Richard all bound up and muffled to wonder when release will come!“I say we’re even now. But I’ll go now. Don’t want to miss breakfast after all this workout. See you, Richard!”
A perfect set up for a sequel!!
They better! I already need more of their story! Well done [mention]Straitjacketed[/mention] and [mention]DeeperThanRed[/mention]! Bravo on this enterprise of a story!
I'm also so very happy that Lance ended up on top, giving Richard more incentive to meet up again and challenge this bad boy!