Shadow of the Mountain (Fantasy, M/M) (COMPLETE)

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Charmides
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Post by Charmides »

Infinite thanks for the comment, [mention]Tsuhaya[/mention]! Yeah, I'm almost as infatuated with fantasy as tugs, so I guess this was kinda inevitable for me. (And agreed, Thomas isn't exactly an expert on safe, consensual bondage games...) Super glad you're enjoying it; much obliged, pal!
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Post by privateandrews »

It just gets better.... I do hope Thomas gets all three tightly trussed up and severely gagged before his down fall. Just love the huge gags and tight bondage . I cant believe how excited I am about the next chapter to come.. Wonderfully written and pushing lots of my buttons... :twisted:
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Post by MaxRoper »

This is so absolutely and totally excellent. I am in awe of your storytelling abilities. You've elicited the two conflicting desires that signify a great tale: I want to know what happens but don't want it to end.

Thomas is certainly an evil bastard but the lad sure knows a thing or two about binding his victims. I'll admit to becoming somewhat flustered while reading of his methods.

Thank you for all the work involved in this. Don't stop now!
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Post by Camguy2050 »

Great story cant wait for the next part please post soon
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cj2125
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Post by cj2125 »

Really like this story! I'm looking forwards to the next part!
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Post by Deleted User 5033 »

This is suuuuuuper good. The writing itself, the easily understood world and setting, the characters and characterization of them...and of course the tying!
Particularly fond of that tie on Elias.
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Post by Straitjacketed »

Superb. I'm bowled over by your talent at writing hot bondage scenes in a fantasy setting just as well as in a realistic one (Cresswell is one of my all-time favourites). Power to your elbow!
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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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Post by MaxRoper »

[mention]Charmides[/mention] I hope you haven't abandoned us. This is definitely one of the best stories on the site. Please don't make us wait too long.
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Post by Charmides »

[mention]MaxRoper[/mention] Hi, friend -- I'm so sorry for the longer-than-usual wait, I'm afraid I've been a bit bogged down these past couple weeks (work, moving, etc.), but not to worry, I'm definitely not abandoning this story! Let me give myself a public deadline (in all seriousness, there's nothing like putting a knife to your own throat to help spur you through writer's block): I'll have it up by the end of next Thursday at the latest. Many apologies for the dry-spell!

[mention]privateandrews[/mention] [mention]Camguy2050[/mention] [mention]cj2125[/mention] [mention]SkinnySnorlax[/mention] [mention]Straitjacketed[/mention] You guys are the absolute best, and I can't thank you enough for sticking with this story. Not to give anything away, but with Garret and Elias heading after Thomas, I sort of feel like we've just reached the end of act I -- the world's about to get a bit bigger. Love you folks, and I'll see you at the next update!
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Post by privateandrews »

I am so happy you have now given a time for the next chapters of your beautifully written story..... has got me all excited . I have been checking each day to see the further adventures of this Bondage and Gag extravaganza . So well written ,I must say I am not usually into fantasy cross species type stuff but you have described such a wonderful rich story involving fit males with there own characters being constantly superbly bound and heavily gagged ,I cant get enough. Whish I had the money to have this story made into a TV mini series . :D :D
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Post by privateandrews »

I hope all is well and if the next instalments of your amazing story have to be postponed due to personal things I understand. But I am still so excited waiting for the next instalment .
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Post by Charmides »

[mention]privateandrews[/mention] Not to worry, my friend, I'm working on it right now -- I should have it posted within about an hour! I'm so sorry to leave you hanging, bud; you've been incredibly kind in your comments, and it feels like we've got a whole lot of the same instincts for bondage. (Ah, and how you tease my by suggesting a miniseries version of this story! Super nice of you. And if you have any thoughts about how you'd cast it, I'd be super vainly curious to hear.) Be right back with the next installment.
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Post by Charmides »

PART 4

The sun sank, and and a curtain of night fell over the forest. Thomas almost felt a chill. But the furnace inside him burnt bright; a night chill didn't stand a chance. He smiled as his horse trotted along.

“I can smell the night,” he said. “It’s the smell cold, damp earth. Can you smell it? … Well, if you could, you’d love it, too. Anyway, how’re you holding up, Baggage?”

“Hmmgmmph…” The bundled up mass slung over the back of Thomas's saddle began to wriggle. He laughed and slapped the bound blanket playfully.

“The city must be close,” he said. “Enough riding for today. There’s no rush. We have time, Baggage. All the time I want.”

Thomas dismounted and led his horse a ways off the trail. The forest was sparse here, the trees larger and less tangled the further they got from Thorn Village. Thomas found a clearing and tied his horse to a tree. As his hungry mind considered the future (and how to put his baggage best to use), Thomas pitched a tent and started a fire. The near-pained moaning of the squirming bundle sitting atop his horse was a pleasant white noise as he worked.

Finally Thomas hauled the bundle off the horse and dumped it next to the fire. The body inside stopped struggling after a hard impact on the earth. It lay there shivering in the cool grass.

“Oh, don’t lose your fire, Baggage!” said Thomas, beginning to untie the ropes bound around the blanket. “That red-haired fire inside you, it’ll take you far…”

After a few moments of fiddling with knots, the bundle unravelled, and out onto the ground rolled Thomas’s haul. The red-haired young man, still bound just as tightly as when Thomas had thrown him over the horse; hands bound to his sides, legs, feet, and toes tied together, chest compressed by an intricate harness, a black blindfold, and a huge stuffing gag of socks plugging up his gob (not that you could see it through the various bandanas tied tightly over his mouth). To complete the picture, the young man’s hard shaft hung out of his pants, the base of his cock and balls tied up with twine, the rest of his cock encased in a strict cage of string. The baggage moaned and writhed uselessly, gently gyrating in the air, his penis quivering in the firelight.

Thomas sat down on the baggage’s legs. He knew what to do. He carefully untied the string from his prize’s cock and balls, carefully, knowing it would be a tender spot by now. Soon it sprung at full attention.

Thomas used the tip of a finger to tickle the top of Baggage’s penis. Baggage whimpered, afraid, aroused, helpless.

“You got soft on me once or twice on the road,” said Thomas. “You’re no use to me soft…”

He began stroking the entire length of the shaft, still just with the tips of his fingers, watching with satisfaction as the member engorged, like a beating heart. Thomas could practically see it steaming in the night air. Then, he took the whole thing in his hands and squeezed once, hard. Baggage’s body went taut on the ground, his back arching. “Blmmph! Pmmp-gmmm…”

Thomas pumped the shaft, slowly at first. With his other hand, he began to fondle Baggage’s balls, gently squeezing and pulling, squeezing and pulling… all the while pumping faster, and faster…

Baggage’s breathing became more labored. Sweat gathered on his forehead like midnight dew. His groans were smothered by the three socks stuffed into his mouth as he came closer to the edge, closer, perilously close —

Thomas knew just when to let go, releasing Baggage’s cock and balls at once. Baggage’s body shuddered, and then he let out a dreadful moan, like a dog begging for scraps at the table. At least, that was how Thomas heard it. He stared down at his baggage with the breathless, implacable look of total lust.

“That’s better,” said Thomas. He took some twine, and this time with no regard for the sensitivity of the cock and balls, once again ensnared Baggage’s genitals in a tight confinement of string.

“Hmmplm! HMMPH!” Baggage writhed and cried out, but in a flash Thomas had finished tying up the shaft, and Baggage was just as encased as he had been on the horse.

In a flash of inspiration, Thomas tore Baggage’s blindfold off. His eyes were red and weepy. He blinked a moment to adjust to the light, then found Thomas’s face.

“Enjoy the sky,” said Thomas. “We sleep here tonight. Don’t worry, we’re not far now. Everything’s going to be —”

Thomas paused. He looked up. The shadows of tree branches bent toward him like claws in the flickering firelight.

Without taking his eyes off the distance, Thomas scooped up a few handfuls of dirt from the earth and put out his modest fire.

Now, only darkness — but no. Wait. There, in the distance. A dot of light. Thomas had thought that maybe it had only been his imagination, but no. Thomas could see a far-off campfire.

As if on cue, Thomas’s stomach growled. He hadn’t had much leisure time to pack food before he’d left Thorn Village. And he needed to keep his strength up. But more importantly, he needed to keep his baggage alive, and in healthy shape. What good would it be to Thomas, if Baggage just shriveled up and atrophied after spending all his time in bondage? Thomas would sooner kill him than allow him to wither away, into something unappealing — something unworthy of being dominated.

Food, then. Food was what they needed.

Thomas grabbed a coil of rope from his bag. He felt his knife on his belt, a comfortable companion. Then he rummaged in the surrounding woods for a moment, and emerged with a heavy, thick stick about half the length of his arm. It was unlikely he’d need a weapon as advanced as a sword, or a bow and arrow — these people would probably just be poor travelers — so for now, a makeshift club would do.

Thomas crawled over to Baggage, and gave his bound cock one last squeeze.

“Don’t go anywhere,” said Thomas, ignoring Baggage’s muffled pleas and constant squirming as he crept out of the clearing, toward the pinprick of light.

The forest floor was softened enough by dead leaves and mulch that Thomas had little trouble approaching the light silently. Within a few minutes, he stood behind a wide maple tree, peering into another clearing.

No one. Just an untended fire burning down to embers, and a wagon sitting under a nearby oak, half covered in shadow.

Thomas carefully picked up a stone from the ground, then tossed it into the forest on his left. He waited for a moment, wondering if the sound would wake anyone, or bring a sentry running toward him. A beat of silence — nothing. The camp was empty.

Thomas walked into the firelight. Once he got a few steps closer, he had a better view of the wagon, the sort of home-on-wheels that you might find rolling from town to town as part of a carnival show. On the side of the wagon, a painted symbol: A yellow scorpion on a black background.

Venesthians! Thomas remembered this from one of his lessons when he was a child. This was the flag of Venesthus. Well, these folks were certainly a long way from the desert.

The wagon had clearly seen many miles of road; mud-splattered sides, splintered wheels and chipped paint all betrayed its long life and rough use. A tiny set of four stairs led to a door in the front of the wagon. Thomas climbed it. His fist closed tightly around his improvised club. He pushed the door open.

Thomas had hoped to find some food to steal. Some forgotten bags of fruit, or dried meat, or flour. Instead, there was nothing. Just two benches, running along the length of each side of the wagon. Thomas took a step inside. The floor creaked dangerously under him.

Think positively, thought Thomas. I could bring the horse over here, hook it up to the front of the wagon. This way, at least people will have a harder time spying my baggage — I can just stow him in here, and this way if I run into anyone —

“Mmmph!”

Thomas stopped. That sound… it was extremely familiar.

“Hmmph! Mph! PLMMPH!”

It was coming from underneath him. Thomas looked down, shifted his weight on the heavily creaking boards of the cabin floor. He peered at his feet…

There. In the dim light, he could just make it out; a square, built into the floor. A secret door.

Thomas dropped to his stomach and began feeling around with his hands; within moments, his fingers scraped at an odd indentation in the wood. A handle. He flung the square door open… and smiled.

Slavers. This wagon belonged to Venesthian slavers.

Beneath the floor was a long, shallow secret room, maybe two or three feet high. The form of a captured young man lay directly beneath the door. He had the stout, thick, muscled stature of a wrestler, and yet was very young, likely no more than eighteen or nineteen; dark olive skin, a shaved head, and naked, save for a pair of tight, paper-thin white undergarments that could barely contain his package. The boy’s wrists were shackled together and pulled up above his head, the chains attached to a hook in the wagon wall. His elbows were additionally bound by a strip of leather at the elbows. The boy’s legs were bound similarly; shackled ankles chained to a hook in the opposite wall, and more leather strips binding his broad, strong legs at the knees and thighs. Finally, the boy’s mouth was stuffed full with a leather ball gag, strapped in deep and forcing his mouth wide open.

The boy’s eyes went wide when he saw Thomas’s face. He began to struggle, the chains clanking like a cold instrument in the secret chamber. He tried to speak, even with his full, wet lips wrapped around the large leather ball.

“Hmmblm! Phph! MMMGMM!”

“Settle down now,” said Thomas, his heart beating faster. He’d stumbled across something beyond fortunate. It was as if some nameless, friendly god had brought him here, and given him this gift, as if to say, Yes, Thomas. You are right. Take the pleasure you crave. Take the dominion you deserve. The world is waiting for you, full of pleasure for those with the stomach to take.

Out of sight, in the distant corners of the secret compartment, more chains began to rattle.

Thomas felt himself beginning to salivate. Could it be true? He ran to the fire outside, lit the end of his club on fire, and returned to the wagon with his quick and dirty torch. This time, Thomas ducked his head fully into the compartment, shining his torch around to light up the corners.

Three more bound and gagged young men were waking up, struggling in their chains, crying out in muffled voices for release. The two immediately next to the first captive were bound as he was, their wrists chained above them, ankles chained below. The first was another boy of olive skin, but taller, more developed muscles, not unlike those of a farmer, or a lumberjack, and with his hair drawn back in a ponytail. In the fresh firelight, Thomas could see that these two both had strikingly bright green eyes. And next to them was a a young man of a much lighter complexion, almost moon-pale, much thinner than the other two, the chiseled body of an archer, or a fencer, with a mess of short blonde hair. All three were severely ball gagged. And finally, down at the end of the compartment was one more young man, muscular and strong, but with much darker skin than the others, a deep chocolate brown. This one was bound differently, in a strict chain hogtie. His ball gag had been amended with an additional, wide panel of thin leather pulled over his mouth, so thin and tight you could still see the ball and the outline of his lips clasped around it. He’d also been blindfolded with black cloth, and his hands, forced into small leather bags, rendering his fingers useless.

The three who could see Thomas writhed and cried out in their bonds — his was presumably the first new face they had seen in a while. In response, the boy at the the end in the hogtie started bucking and grunting as well. Thomas couldn’t help but admire the integrity of the wagon. It hardly rocked or wheezed whatsoever, with four bound young men thrashing around inside.

Thomas suddenly had a vision for his new life. The traveling collector. It just might be that this was the new life he was hoping to find; a roaming, roving life, a wolf on the wind, taking what he wanted and moving on to the next town, the next country, the next continent… and all the while, accumulating baggage along the way.

It was admirable, just how well those leather balls fit between the lips of those captives, who by now were starting to look up at Thomas with uncertainty written on their faces. Perhaps it was something in their would-be-rescuer’s eyes, some reflection of the fire, that suddenly made them question their hope.

Thomas saw the change come over them, and began to laugh a low, giddy growl of a laugh.

Then, from outside, the far off sound of leaves rustling. Twigs snapping. The heavy beat of horse hooves, getting close fast.

Thomas pulled his head from the hole in the floor and slammed the trapdoor shut, the muffled begging of the four bound boys now nearly inaudible. Thomas lifted his torch and stepped out of the wagon. He vaguely knew that he should be afraid. But somehow he wasn’t. Who was there, really, that was worth being afraid of?

A man on a horse burst through the tree-line. Thomas expected someone Venesthian; what that meant, he didn’t quite know, considering that he’d never before been to or seen anyone from Venesthus. Instead, the man on the horse wore chainmail with a familiar symbol on the front; a white ship on a red background. Red Haven. A guard from the city.

The man dismounted his horse, his sword rattling at his hip. He was beautiful in a classical sort of way. Clean shaven, with combed dirty blond hair, a strong jawline and a broad stature. He might have made a compelling knight, but apparently didn’t have it in him to be anything but a guard.

The man approached Thomas, one hand resting casually on the hilt of his sword. “This your wagon, Venesthian?”

Thomas snickered. “Do I look Venesthian to you?”

Again, since Thomas didn’t exactly know what a Venesthian looked like, this might have been a worthless deflection, but the guard seemed to buy it, looking Thomas up and down and nodding.

“Then who does this wagon belong to?”

“No idea. I’m just a traveller, passing through.”

The guard raised an eyebrow. “Awfully far from the path, aren’t you?”

“Guess so.”

“Why?”

Thomas took a step toward the guard. “Am I breaking any laws, sir?”

Maybe it was something in Thomas’s unwavering expression, or the way he refused to break eye contact… but for some reason, the guard took a small involuntary step back as Thomas advanced.


“I’m here representing the city,” said the guard. “If there’s trouble out here, it’s my job to report it. Listen... It’s not my first time on guard duty, and I know when I’m not getting the full story. So I’m gonna ask you again: Who does this wagon — ”

“The wagon is mine.”

The voice came through the trees. The guard visibly jumped at the sound of it. Out of the shadows stepped four figures; men in well-travelled, foreign-looking clothes, robes the dry, papery color of sand, with accents of black. All of them had dark olive skin and strangely bright eyes, one green, one blue, another a misty white-grey. The man who had spoken, the one leading the group, was taller than the others. At least forty years old, with a mess of curly black hair, and an eyepatch over his right eye. His remaining left eye glinted an amber-orange in the dim firelight.

“Pardon, honorable guard,” said the man with the eyepatch, his voice heavy with a foreign accent and an overbearing formality. “Please excuse us for camping here. I’m afraid our horses ran off, and we’ve been in desperate search of them. I don’t suppose you’ve seen any horses in these parts?”

The guard’s eyes narrowed. “What’s your business here?”

The eyepatch-man blinked. “What do you mean, my friend? In these woods? As I’ve said, we’ve been searching.”

“No, Venesthian, what’s your business in this country, in Valia?”

Eyepatch-man gave a great bellowing laugh. “Why, we’re performers! We are prodigious travelers. Just last week, we passed over the islands of —”

“Yes, they’re performers,” said Thomas. “I’ve seen their work.”

The tall man’s orange eye settled on Thomas. His mouth lifted into an implacable half-smile.

“Oh?” he asked.

“Oh, yes,” said Thomas. “I’ve seen all of you work. I know exactly what it is you do, and how well you do it. I admire your professionalism. In fact, I was hoping I might join you. If you’ll have me. I would be more than eager to learn the ropes.”

The man stared at Thomas, their eyes locked in a silent contest of wills as they measured each other.

Thomas knew he couldn’t overpower five full-grown men. Having the wagon to himself was too good to be true; a dream worth having for a fleeting instinct, but fated not to be. Yes, that made Thomas angry. But maybe he could gain something out of this encounter after all. He had no food, he had no plan. And he’d stumbled across a troupe of people who had… aspirations not entirely antithetical to his own.

Thomas took another probing step toward the guard. “In fact,” Thomas continued, “if proof is what this man needs, maybe you could show him some of what you do? I’d be happy to assist in any way I can.”

The man with the eye patch gazed at Thomas for a very long moment. Then, slowly, a toothy grin spread over his face, like a beaming ray of sunlight. His eye twinkled like a genie out of a fairy-tale.

“My name is Borhim,” he said, “What is yours?”

“Thomas.”

“Well. What do you say, honorable guard? Shall we show you our brand of entertainment?”

The guard turned fully to Borhim, looking him and his followers up and down. Then, after a pause, his eyes brightened the tiniest bit, and he chuckled. “You know what,” he said, “why not? It's been a long night, I could use a break. Make it quick, but okay, show me what you —”

Crack. Thomas brought his torch down on the guard’s head in a swift and sudden stroke. The guard tottered on his feet, eyes rolling as sparks billowed around his ears, then fell backwards into Thomas’s arms.

Thomas smiled up at the band of Venesthian slavers as he patted the sparks out of the guard's hair. “You do have rope, don’t you?”

“That and more,” said Borhim. He snapped his fingers, and his three companions rushed to the guard, pulling various things out of their pockets. Strips of leather, chains, a ball gag, all suddenly appearing like in a magic trick.

The three of them pulled the guard from Thomas’s arms and quickly bound him. His wrists were shackled in front of him. They forced him to his knees and began cutting off his clothes, his shirt, his pants, revealing his rippling muscles, his large chest, his ample ass and his heavy dick swinging between his legs. The captors wasted no time in pulling out a thin, small pair of undergarments and stuffing their new captive into them, taking extra care to make sure that his entire hefty package would fit into the tight pouch, which eventually it did, leaving the white cloth straining.

As the guard sat there on his knees, the captors shackling his ankles behind him, his eyes began to flutter. He started to softly moan. The olive-skinned man with the ball gag bent over toward the man’s face —

“Wait.” Borhim’s deep voice carried across the clearing. His three subordinates froze.

“Let him do it,” said Borhim, pointing at Thomas. The man with the ball gag hesitated for a moment… and then, with a nod of his head, offered the large leather ball to Thomas.

Thomas accepted it.

By now the guard was starting to come to his senses. Thomas walked over to the pile of the blond man’s stripped-off clothes, and tore off a rag from his white undershirt.

“Yuh… You… Stop… What are you dmmMMPH?!”

Thomas wasted no time is plunging the wad of fabric between the guards yapping lips, cramming till the entire thing was in his mouth. He grabbed the guard by the hair and looked squarely down into his face.

“Thanks for your commitment to the city watch, whoever-you-are,” said Thomas, suppressing a laugh. “You’ve done your city proud.”

And with that, Thomas pressed the ball gag into the guard’s already-stuffed mouth. He tied the strap tightly behind his head, forcing the ball and the wadding in deep. The guard struggled, eyes wide in disbelief as he tried to speak and failed, the ball stopping up his mouth and creating an airtight seal between his lips.

“Hmmbmhmmph! Glmmphnmph! Nmmph!”

Thomas turned to the slavers. “Gentlemen. The rest is up to you.”

The three men grabbed the guard and pulled him roughly to his feet. Thomas couldn’t help but give the guard’s muscled ass an appreciative smack just before the three slavers hoisted him up onto their shoulders, and marched him into the wagon, the guard struggling and screaming uselessly the whole way.

Borhim stepped slowly towards Thomas, his hands clasped behind his back, a look of business-like seriousness on his face.

“I don’t know what brought you to our wagon, young Thomas,” he said. “But if you hadn’t been here while we were away, this man from the city might very well have found our cargo. And then, had he escaped, things might have gone poorly for us. We owe you a debt."

“It would have been your own fault, for leaving your merchandise unattended.”

It’s a thrilling thing, to be fearless, and Thomas was drunk on his belief in his own power.

But the way Borhim stared down at him made something shift in Thomas’s stomach. That face... That glare... Stony and calculating. It was an aura of effortless authority.

Finally, Borhim broke the silence. “Remember your respect, young Thomas. One of our cargo-boys escaped in the night. We’ve been searching.”

Thomas cleared his throat. “Borhim —”

“Master Borhim.”

Thomas stared up at the man. Up close, Thomas could see the scars on his face, thin white lines running around his head like fault lines, or roads on a map, telling the tales of all the places he had been, all the battles he’d fought, and all the young men he had captured.

Thomas felt his palms begin to sweat, and suddenly went red in the face.

Who do you think you are, anyway? he thought. I lend you my cunning, I offer you my services, and now I’m supposed to call you Master? You pompous old fuck, you don’t know who I am.

But Thomas took a breath through his nose. There would be time enough to teach Borhim who he was dealing with. Traveling with the slavers was too good an opportunity to pass up.

Thomas swallowed.

“Master Borhim,” he said, forcing the words out like vomit, “I can guarantee that if you let me join you in your work, none of your boys will ever escape from you again.”

Borhim sent one more penetrating look in Thomas’s direction. And then, after a moment of deliberation, nodded.

“We’ll be happy for your help and your company, young Thomas,” he said with a smile, offering out a hand. “Welcome to Master Borhim’s Venesthian Circus.”

Thomas looked at the extended hand. Then, back up into Borhim’s scarred face.

“First, Master Borhim,” said Thomas with his best placating smile, “I have a few conditions.”



***



Hendrick saw the stars breaking through the canopy above him. All he felt was the cold, the cramping of his body, and the pain of his genitals, bound up and denied orgasm over and over again.

He felt something in the dirt next to him. A small, hard shape. His fingers closed around it. An acorn.

This acorn would be his. It would be his rock and his anchor. It would belong to him, and Thomas would never find out about it. It would be a reminder that he was alive. He had a name. He had a voice. He existed.

Even bound as he was, Hendrick was able to just barely slip the acorn into his pocket. And there it would stay.

With this small comfort pressed beside him — the first comfort he’d had since he’d awoken to see Thomas’s shadow standing over him; Hendrick began to doze. As he fell asleep, he saw how the branches of the trees swayed over him, blotting out the stars and filling the clearing with the soft noise of rustling leaves. Except that there was no wind. None at all.

He dreamed of a forest that bowed to him. He dreamed of a vast and distant butterfly that took up half the sky and blotted out the sun. He dreamed of how the sunlight flashed through the butterfly’s iridescent wings, like a huge stain-glass window, and sprayed strange, vivid new colors all across the land. In the sanctuary of his mind, he was free. In his mind, the world was awake.



***



Garret and Elias had travelled for as long as they could before the sun set completely. They would have gone farther, too, but in the dark it was difficult to follow the path, and the horses could trip and break a leg. So they wandered from the path, found a patch of green grass next to a stream, and set up camp.

Before Garret settled down to sleep, he took out his sword, pulled off his shoes, and stepped out into the wide, ankle-deep stream to practice forms and positions. For half an hour, he lunged, he swept his blade at imaginary enemies, and he adopted stances of abrupt serenity, his sword balanced perfectly in front of him. Elias watched from camp, lying on his side on top of his bed roll.

Eventually Garret finished. He sheathed his sword as he stepped back into camp. Elias watched as Garret put away his sword and climbed into his own bedroll.

“We should leave a little before dawn tomorrow,” said Garret. “Is that all right?”

Elias nodded. “Of course. That’s fine.”

“Okay. Rest well.”

Garret turned over, ready to drop into sleep like a stone into water.

“Garret… Are you all right?”

The concern in Elias’s voice was enough to snap Garret back to wakefulness. He turned over and faced the leatherworker, who stared at him with his soft eyes, his head propped up on his elbow.

“Yes, Elias. I’m doing well. What about you?”

“I just ask because you seem very… focused.

“I hope so. We’ll need to be focused if we want to catch Thomas.”

Elias nodded slowly. “Yes. But I was thinking… We haven’t really had a chance to talk about everything that’s happened. With Thomas… Hendrick… Your night on the mountain… Oh, bother. I don’t know what I’m saying. I guess all I mean is, if you need to talk — if anything’s on your mind — my ear is always open. Okay?”

Garret smiled. “That’s very kind of you, Elias. If anything comes up, I’ll be certain to —”

“No, Garret. You’re not listening.” Elias leaned forward. The glint of steel in his eyes was as sudden and unmistakeable as it was heartfelt. Garret stared, his smile faltering.

“I want you to know that you’re not doing this alone. I’m here. Not just to help you catch Thomas. I’m here if you need me. Okay?”

Garret wanted to just say yes, then roll over and go to sleep. That would be the easiest thing to do. It was his instinct; keep himself to himself, and master his feelings. But his eyes were caught in Elias’s. Garret knew that if he tried to just humor the leatherworker and end the conversation, Elias would see through it instantly.

Garret sighed and leaned back on his bedroll. He searched the stars overhead.

He began speaking before he even knew he wanted to say anything. “That night on the mountain was a nightmare,” he said. “It was a nightmare, and I haven’t woken up yet. I was waiting for death, Elias. I thought I was going to die.” A shudder crept into Garret’s voice. The tears started collecting in his eyes. “And then, finding you in that chest, seeing what Thomas did, what he forced on you… And Hendrick gone… I want him to be safe. And I know that if I just stay focused, if I focus on Thomas, we’ll catch him, and I won’t have to think about — about —”

Elias was at Garret’s side before the crying started. He took Garret in his arms just as the sobbing began in earnest.

“Shh, shh,” Elias said. “I’m here. You’re here. Shh, shh, everything’s fine…”

They stayed like that for some time, and then Garret pulled away.

“I’m sorry,” he said.

“Don’t you dare be sorry,” said Elias. “Listen. It’s no shame to feel pain. It’s no shame to feel fear. Sometimes, we have to. You understand?”

Garret nodded. Elias gave his arm a gentle, reassuring squeeze.

“I’ve kept you up long enough.” Elias stood and walked back to his bedroll. “I’ll make breakfast in the morning. Any requests?”

Garret laughed through the last of his tears. “I think the porridge we brought will be fine.”

“Porridge it will be. Goodnight.”

“Goodnight, Elias.”

Silence settled. Garret realized he ought to say thank you, but when he turned back to Elias, the man was already dead to the world.

Garret reached into his pocket. In his hand he clasped Inyatala’s small yellow stone. It seemed warm in his palm. It was enough of a reassurance to send him to sleep.



***



The mists of Mount Thorn swirled around Garret. It was the plateau, the place where Inyatala had encased him in that cocoon. Dim gray sunlight filtered in from the cloud cover. The place was smothered with quiet.

Garret looked around. His sword hung from his belt. The web was gone. Nothing but smooth stone and jagged rocks looming overhead. And emerging from the tunnel at the edge of the plateau stepped a familiar figure.

It was Inyatala, but unlike what he had been before. This time, he was a human. His finely chiseled white-marble torso remained the same, but his legs were human, lithe and muscled. He wore only a loin cloth.

“Garret, my love,” he said. “Thank you for returning.”

Garret felt the weight of the mist, a prickling sensation on the back of his neck. Astonishingly real.

“Is this a dream?” he asked.

“Yes, but it is also real. I am here to teach you. Draw your sword.”

Succumbing to the unreality of the place, Garret drew his sword.

Inyatala reached out, and a coil of rope materialized in his hand. The two circled each other around the plateau.

“Your challenge,” said Inyatala, “is greater than you know it to be. You must bring Thomas Clayborn back to the mountain alive. A corpse is not our goal. And if he refuses to come with you, accidents may happen. That is why I must rush to teach you Sword and Snare. Now —” Inyatala halted, planted his feet on the stone ground, and faced Garret, “— charge me. Aim to kill. No fear, it is a dream, you cannot hurt me.”

Garret readied himself. Inyatala’s mode of speaking was familiar to him. The voice of a teacher to a student. Garret had been advised by many teachers, in swordplay, archery, hand-to-hand combat… this was a dynamic that was familiar to him. Almost a comfort.

He charged Inyatala. Just as he was about to drive his sword home in Inyatala’s abdomen, he instead swerved at the last moment, meaning to slice upward towards his throat —

The rope was faster than any sword Garret had ever seen. In a flash, the wrist of his sword-hand was caught in a loop of rope. Inyatala twisted it casually, and the strange and sudden pressure sent the blade flying from Garret’s hand and clattering to the ground. He gasped in shock. He’d never been disarmed so easily before.

With insect-speed, Inyatala pinned Garret’s ensnared hand behind his back. Garret reached up with his other hand, trying to land a blow, but that hand was immediately caught as well, in another loop of rope from the same coil.

Now Garret could begin to see Inyatala’s plan; incapacitate his hands, then his legs. In an attempt to stay ahead of his adversary, Garret tried to deliver a back-kick to Inyatala before his left hand could be bound to his right —

Too slow. Inyatala dodged the kick, and now, with Garret briefly balancing on one leg, it was an easy thing for Inyatala to send the young fighter crashing to the ground.

Garret’s breath was knocked out of him, and by then, the fight was over. With shocking speed and precision, Inyatala looped the two ensnared hands together behind Garret’s back, and then bound those hands to his feet.

Garret opened his mouth to ask Inyatala what had just happened — but immediately he felt a loop of rope slip between his lips, pulling tight around his mouth, followed by another, and another; the remainder of the coil of rope was used to create a thick cleave gag, forcing Garret’s lips apart. More effective still, the rope was still directly connected to his ankles, so the tight gag also served to increase the severity of the hogtie, forcing Garret’s body into a taut arch.

Inyatala tied a final knot. Garret tested the bonds, wriggling in the ropes; he was effectively immobilized. Inyatala kneeled front of Garret, and stroked his cheek his his long, pale fingers.

“I’m sorry if you’re uncomfortable, my love,” he said, “but a demonstration was needed. Now, you see what one can accomplish with Sword and Snare?”

“Yhmph.” Garret nodded.

“I thought you would.” Inyatala snapped his fingers, and the rope vanished. Garret’s limbs spilled to the ground from the sudden shock of freedom.

“Now, pick up your sword, my love. I will show you the beginnings of form. We begin with First Ensnarement. Come.”

So, with a second coil of rope suddenly appearing in Garret’s non-sword hand, the two began practicing the art of Sword and Snare. Garret had not spent his life training as a fighter for nothing. He was nimble, he was strong, and he was a fast study. Soon enough, he began to grasp the athletic logic of this new martial art. The keys were speed; decisiveness; precision; and, more than anything else, the ability to anticipate your opponent’s next move.

“A well-set trap is nothing, my love,” said Inyatala, “if no one falls into it.”

Over the next who-knows-how-many hours of dreaming, Garret became proficient with First, Second, and Third Ensnarement. The first was the simple capture of a punch thrown in your direction; the second, the capture of a kick; and the third, the capture of a sword thrust at your torso.

Inyatala corrected Garret’s footwork, studied his posture and his balance. “Your rope is your web-weaver,” he said, “and your sword is your shield. Never confuse the two. In normal swordplay, you mean to draw blood. But in Sword and Snare, the snare is the thing; to draw blood is to admit to your own artlessness.”

Even in a dream, soon Garret became tired. Long after their work had begun, the ropes vanished. Inyatala cupped Garret’s face in his hands.

“You are strong,” he said, with a low voice and a smile. “You will learn quickly. This is how I can help you. The best way…”

Garret studied Inyatala’s face as the pale, beautiful creature leaned in for a kiss; his unearthly yellow eyes, his perfect full lips, his jaw, his high, prominent cheekbones… even the smell of him —

Garret gently pulled away.

Inyatala’s eyes flashed open. He looked at Garret in confusion.

“My love…?”

Garret took a few steps back. “I’m sorry,” he said. “But I’m… You’re… Well, you’re beautiful. Impossibly beautiful. And I’m very much attracted to you. But I don’t really understand what it is you want from me.”

“Pleasure,” said Inyatala, as if it was the most obvious thing in the world. “What else is there to want?”

Garret paused, his eyes falling to the ground. “I don’t mean to sound… ungrateful,” he said. “But I’m not sure that this is what I need. I think I need something more… Oh, I’m sorry, I don’t know… something more…”

As Garret struggled for the word, Inyatala sighed.

“Human,” said Inyatala. “Yes. Human. I understand.”

He took one of Garret’s hands in his, and gave it a firm, knowing squeeze.

“Will you come back to me tomorrow, my love? I have much more to teach you.”

“Yes. If you’ll have me.”

Inyatala laughed. “You have such a beautiful body, and such a humble mind. I am yours, however you should want me. Goodbye. Daylight is waiting.”



***



Garret awoke to the Elias softly tapping his shoulder.

“Garret,” he said. “Don’t panic. We’ve been robbed.”

Immediately awake, Garret leapt from his bedroll. Daylight was only just beginning to crest over the tree tops, spilling blood into the sky.

“What have we lost?”

“Nothing important. Only some food, and a few spare clothes.”

Elias pointed to a dry spot on a blanket next to his bedroll; there used to be an extra sack of food there, but now it was gone.

Elias shook his head and began rolling up his bedroll. “It was a considerate thief, at least; he left us a few rations to get us to Red Haven. I know there’s nothing we can do, but I still wanted to tell…”

Elias trailed off as Garret wandered a few yards from camp to the stream. He looked up and down the banks, the bleariness of sleep falling from his eyes… Then he pointed downstream.

“There,” he said. “A broken branch. There, on the bank. That wasn’t there last night. I know, I saw that branch in the moonlight while I was practicing forms, it was unbroken.”

Elias followed Garret’s finger toward the branch. “I’m sure that’s true,” he said, “but I’m afraid that’s probably no use to us now. The thief is long gone —”

“I’m not so sure. The dry spot on your blanket. That means there wasn’t time for dew to collect where the food had been sitting. I think the thief wasn’t here so long ago…”

Garret leapt to the camp, grabbed his sword and a coil of rope, then ran down the bank of the stream toward the broken branch.

“I’ll be back soon,” Garett called behind him. “Look after camp while I’m gone.”

Before Elias could answer, Garret disappeared into the hole in the woods left by the broken branch.

From there, he began to tread more softly. Garret kept his eyes open for any tell-tale signs of large animals passing through. He was no tracker, it was true, but he’d been out hunting enough to spot a footprint or a freshly disturbed patch of moss. And as he continued to slide through the forest, he saw more and more signs that he was on someone’s trail; someone who’d been through here very, very recently.

Finally, Garret came to the crest of a hill. He found a wide tree at the top, and peered over the other side. Down at the bottom of the hill was a small pond, nestled into the trees. Next to the pond, there stood a tall horse, a handsome creature, white coat with black speckles, drinking from the water. And sitting a little ways away from the pond, on a boulder jutting out of the ground, was a man.

He was certainly on the younger side, likely about eighteen. He had very dark skin, the color of dark walnut. He wore shirt and pants that were clearly too big for him; Elias’s spare clothes. He sat still as a statue, with his head in his hands, facing away from Garret and staring at the ground.

Garret had expected to find a roving bandit, or a member of some band of thieves. But to find one desperate-looking young man, alone in the woods, was not at all what he’d expected. If he’d had any notions of getting Elias’s clothes back, or retrieving their emergency food, those notions left him and were replaced with pity.

It could be, thought Garret, that he knows something about Red Haven. After all, it's the closest city, so he may well be from there. And as it stands now, Elias and I are going in blind. Experience may be a welcome thing.

Garret lifted his hand off of his sword hilt, and began quietly walking up behind the stranger. When he was a safe distance away, Garret called out as gently as he could, so as not to startle him: “Hello, my friend.”

The young man shot to his feet and whirled around. He definitely was young, and on top of that, had bright gray eyes, the likes of which Garret had never seen. Garret raised his hands in a gesture of calm.

“It’s all right,” he said, “I’m not here to hurt you. I only wanted to know if you’ve been to Red Haven.”

The boy looked at Garret, eyes wide. “No,” he said. “Please, I don’t want any trouble. I’m on my way home.”

“Okay. That’s fine. Where is home?”

The question seemed to take the young man off guard. He opened his mouth to answer; but nothing came out, as if he was choking on something. Then again, he tried — and then suddenly, like something clawing out of the boy’s chest, he let loose a sob. He covered his face with one hand and sunk to the ground.

For a moment, Garret stood stunned. Perhaps this was the time to cut his losses, and head back to camp…

But then Garret felt a peculiar sensation; the physical warmth of Elias’s arms around him from the night before. The safety of it. The security of it.

Only half certain of himself, Garret walked toward the young man who sat crying on the ground. When it became clear that he wasn’t about to run off, Garret slowly dropped to his knees… draped his arms around the boy… and held him close.

At first, the boy’s body stiffened at the physical contact. But then, gradually he relaxed again, and even clutched at Garret’s embracing arms as he cried.

“Shh, shh,” said Garret. “What’s your name?”

The young man found his voice between sobs. “Amadi,” he said.

“Amadi. What is it that happened to you, Amadi?”

For a few moments, Amadi couldn’t stop crying. Then finally, he took a long, tremulous breath and said:

“I escaped.”




To be continued.
Last edited by Charmides 4 years ago, edited 2 times in total.
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DeeperThanRed
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Post by DeeperThanRed »

Simply breathtaking. This is probably your best update, both masterfully written and hot.

Thomas's POV is so captivating, a desire for domination practically dripping from the words. I loved how he tricked the guard and silently made a deal with the kidnappers. Captives themselves were very, very attractive, with great bondage (and tight briefs). Wonder how Thomas' s new allience will turn out for our heroes.

Hendrick's part was, while short, very captivating, perfectly describing a resisting captive. Beautiful selection of words.

Intalaya is as mysterious and interesting as always. His parts give the story a very fresh, non-linear flow.

And I'm excited about Amadi's addition. He's a unfortunate lad and use some friends- even if those friends aren't super lucky themselves. It's great how you use characters to expand the worldbuilding.

Terrific job, thanks for sharing excellent work with us.
25-year-old bondage enthusiast who likes cute guys, underwear, and bondage, preferably together.

You can reach my list of written work here: https://www.tugstories.com/viewtopic.php?p=38808#p38808
notreallyme06
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Post by notreallyme06 »

This is such a great story. Love having a TUG story firmly set in a fantasy realm.
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Volobond
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Post by Volobond »

This story is incredible! I love how detailed the bondage is, how distinct the characters are. Thomas' casual cruelty and love for bondage is so well-written, and I love the inclusion of Sword and Snare!

I can't wait to see more!
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You can find my M/M stories here: https://tugstories.com/viewtopic.php?p=38809#p38809
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cj2125
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Post by cj2125 »

The story keeps getting better and better! I like the attention to details and the way the characters act! And Thomas is quite a villian! I want someone to kick the crap out of him but also want him to capture more people! Loved that he realized his calling was of a colector!
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Post by privateandrews »

Well to say the wait was worth it ,would be the understatement of the year.. I love the way you write , the way you have managed to have Thomas meet up with a band of slavers/kidnappers and help instigate the kidnap of the guard is a master stroke, .. each time I turn my computer on I go straight to TUG stories to check I have not missed your latest instalment. The way you describe surroundings/locations and of course the tight bondage and wonderful gags and gagging is much appreciated .
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Post by dahanband »

continue please
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Post by MaxRoper »

Definitely worth waiting for this update. Top quality storytelling and editing. Your descriptions of the various restraints are hot and well done and are of course what many of us are here for. But what truly sets this apart is the character development. Good guys, bad guys, peripheral guys are all real and have depth. You don't use cardboard cutouts.

I will wait patiently for the next part (but please don't make me wait too long).

Discworld fan, are we?
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TightropesEU
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Post by TightropesEU »

Thank you for sharing this exciting story.

Loved the description of the roping and gagging. So hot
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Charmides
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Post by Charmides »

Thanks so much for your comments, my friends -- tragically, my laptop is being weird and not letting me tag anyone, but please know I'm ecstatic that a few of you enjoy following this weird little bondage-fantasy adventure. (And you're right on the money, @maxroper; I only just started reading Discworld recently, and I've got a whole lot to get through, but color me totally charmed by Terry Pratchett.) I've got a new update cooking right now, should be out shortly. Thanks again, folks!
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Post by bondagefreak »

Charmides wrote: 4 years ago Thanks so much for your comments, my friends -- tragically, my laptop is being weird and not letting me tag anyone.
Don't worry, mate. Since the board's move, several functions (including TAGs) have been temporarily disabled.
Chad and the team are gonna be fixing everything up during the next few weeks.

Once again, phenomenal work my friend.
Your attention to detail and the time and effort you put into this really shows.
FOR A LIST OF ALL MY WRITTEN WORKS, CLICK HERE: BONDAGEFREAK'S STORIES

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Post by Charmides »

PART 5

Morning came in full force. Garret returned to his camp, pressing a comforting palm against Amadi’s still-shaking shoulder with one hand, and leading the horse behind him with the other. Elias saw them and immediately set to making some urgently-needed tea.

They sat around the fire, Amadi with a spare blanket draped over him and drinking from a steaming tin cup. He turned his face to the newly risen sun and closed his eyes. He seemed to be drinking the light, like a flower, striving toward the sky.

He finally opened his eyes. The shaking was beginning to subside. He stared into his cup.

“When they came,” said Amadi, “we were glad. We have so few visitors on the Mirror Islands…”

The Venesthian slavers had shown up two weeks ago, Amadi told them, on the shores of his small coastal village. They called themselves circus performers, and the whole village had been thrilled, Amadi included. The burdens of small-town life; the weight of the monotony, the petty town gossip, the yearning to escape, to see something more; were all the more depressing when that town is alone in the ocean. Mainlanders! With songs, and juggling, and daring escape acts! The town was thrilled. So was Amadi.

Amadi sipped his tea. “The one-eyed man was kind. He spoke to me after the show, asking me about the island, about my life. I told him how my parents were dead. He was kind. Why couldn’t I see past that? Kindness is such a cheap mask… but so easily convincing…”

That night, the slavers came for him as he slept alone in his hut. The four of them tackled Amadi in his bed, pinning wrists behind him, grabbing, his ankles, his thighs. He didn’t even have time to scream before a rough hand slapped down violently over his soft lips, stifling his cries for help. Haphazard ropes were looped around his wrists and ankles, tied with skin-biting tightness. He felt his abductors feeding his body into a sack, from his feet up to his neck, all the while the hand pressing down over his mouth, his cheeks going red from the effort of struggling, shouting, squirming.

As the four silently bundled him out into the night, Amadi caught the amber gleam of a single eye floating over him, in the face of a figure looking down at him with grim resoluteness as he kept his wide hand clasped over Amadi’s lower face.

Elias’s breakfast fire crackled down to embers as Amadi told the story. “If it was only me that was taken,” Amadi said, “then that might have been fine… My village could have gotten on without me… But then… Makaio.”

Just as the slavers dumped Amadi on the deck on their small ship, he saw in the distance a torch coming down the beach toward them. Amadi opened his mouth to yell a warning, but just as his lips parted a huge leather ball was jammed between them, opening his jaw wide and sealing up his mouth completely. The torch was quick; suddenly it was walking up the gangway. Amadi could see his face: it was Makaio. One of the village warriors, out on his nightly patrol. He wore only the close-fitting red shorts, which were traditional for the very best of fighters, his muscled body shimmering the the torchlight.

The one-eyed men stepped between Makaio and Amadi. “I’m afraid, my friend,” he said with placating open palms, “that this is a private vessel. What can we help you —”

But too late. Makaio had seen the struggling mass on the ship deck, and peered around the one-eyed man’s wide body to see Amadi.

“Vermin!” he cried, pulling a hand axe from his rope-belt. “Boy-snatchers! We’ll put you on trial for this, you dishonorable —”

Just then, two the one-eyed man’s allies rushed up behind Makaio with a blanket, throwing it over his head. The one-eyed man and his third and final colleague lunged forward, struggling to subdue their new adversary.

Amadi could see that it was a tough fight; Makaio was eminently skilled. Even though he was quickly disarmed, and outnumbered at that, in a few moments Makaio was able to throw off the blanket. His hand flew, slap — one of the slavers cried out, clutching his bleeding ear, his eardrum burst. A few quick jabs of his elbow, crunch — another slaver staggering away, his nose painting the deck with blood.

But before Makaio could do anything more, the one-eyed man and the fourth slaver hurled a huge fishing net over him, and pulled as hard as they could. Skilled as Makaio was, even he couldn’t win in a four-against-one match; unbalanced, he toppled to the ground, and the slavers fell on him like vultures.

Amadi could hardly see what the binding was, in the flail of bodies, but he feared the worst. And when the slavers finally stood, satisfied with their work, Amadi’s fears were realized. Makaio's arms and legs had been shackled, then chained together in a tight hogtie. His hands, so adept at combat, had been forced into fists, and stuffed into small leather bags. Finally he was blindfolded with a black cloth, and another ball gag had been forced into his mouth. It looked to be even bigger than the one Amadi had been given, and strapped behind Makaio’s neck with brutal tightness.

But even for all that inescapable bondage, Makaio was no coward, and wouldn’t dishonor himself with easy surrender. He bucked and writhed on the deck of the ship, his body jumping inches off the planks from the strength of his struggling. He even screamed, as loud as he could, likely in an effort to alert any other nearby patrols, to get anyone’s attention at all.

“HLMM-MUMPH!” he screamed, saliva collecting around his full lips. “Gmpblmm-HMMPH!”

“Silence him,” hissed the one-eyed man to his cohorts.

A slaver pulled out a paper thin, pliable-looking sheet of leather from his pocket. He jumped on Makaio, straddling his upper body, and added the leather to his gag. It fit snugly between his chin and nose, covering up the ball between his lips completely, and smothering his increasingly desperate cries even more. The slaver tied the gag behind Makaio’s head, the leather straining over the warrior’s stuffed mouth. But the gag was as strong as it was flexible, and Makaio was well and truly bound and silenced.

Amadi finished his tea and set his cup on the ground. Garret and Elias glanced at each other, each privately shaken by the casual cruelty of the slavers.

Amadi’s voice was low, almost a whisper. “I spent two weeks with them,” he said, “bound and gagged with the others. Last night, when they let me outside to make water… something must have gone wrong. They put new manacles on us when they take us outside, and this time I guess they didn’t close properly. They were loose. When they weren’t looking, I slipped out of them and ran. The slavers’ only horse was nearby. I jumped on top of it and rode. I don’t know how long I rode. Soon it was nearly morning… And I saw your camp… I’m sorry. It’s shameful to steal. I was just hungry, and cold…”

After some time, Garret began to notice something about Amadi’s face. At the corners of his mouth were small indents, the kind you might see if you slept on a stick, and woke up with a footprint of it in your skin. But these indents ran from the edges of Amadi’s mouth, all the way around his neck.

“No,” said Garret. “Don’t be sorry. You’ve been through a truly terrible ordeal. We’d like to help you however we can.”

Amadi nodded slowly as Elias reached for the kettle over the fire. “And where are you traveling, strangers?” Amadi asked.

“West,” said Elias, pouring Amadi another cup of tea. “We’re heading for Red Haven. We have… an old friend to catch up with.”

Amadi sipped from his cup, gazing blankly at the embers of the fire. The Mirror islands were many, many miles east.

“Before I leave you,” said Amadi, “I should tell you. I overheard them talking. Every night, I would hear them, talking about how they could sell us, for what price…” Amadi swallowed, and went on. “I know they’re heading for Red Haven, too. They may have some… buyers there, or maybe they’re looking to capture more people, I don’t know… but please be careful. If you see a wagon with a yellow scorpion, run.”

Garret suddenly remembered a kitten he’d had when he was a child. He’d discovered it wandering around the edge of town. It was limping, and it’s hind leg had been badly bloodied. Garret tried to catch it, but every time he ran after it, it had yowled the high, sad yowl of a creature with death at its heels, and scampered away, with surprising speed. Garret just couldn’t catch it. So the next morning, he came to the edge of town with a bowl of milk. He hoped the kitten was still alive. It was. It came for the milk, and Garret was able to pick it up, bring it home, and treat its leg. He named the cat Banshee, and it lived for another eleven years. And that was how Garret learned to be gentle with pain.

Garret put a hand on Amadi’s arm and squeezed gently. “Thank you,” he said. “We won’t forget. Now… On the road east of here, you’ll come to a town called Thorn Village. Tell them your story, and tell them that Garret and Elias sent you. They’ll give you all the supplies you need for your journey to —”

“You could come with us, Amadi.”

Garret stopped and turned. Elias sat drinking his tea, on the opposite side of the fire, looking calmly but intently at Amadi.

“These woods are dangerous,” said Elias. “It would be unwise for you to set out on your own. You’ll be safe with us, Amadi. Garret is a wonderful fighter. And I’m no stranger to a scrape now and then.”

“Elias,” Garret said, “I’m sure you understand why Amadi might not want to set one more foot in the direction of Red Haven?”

“I think,” said Elias, “that we can save Makaio.”

Amadi’s eyes went wide over the rim of his tin cup.

Garret stood. “Elias, can we speak?”

Garret led Elias a ways down the bank of the river, out of earshot of the camp.

“Don’t you think,” said Garret, “that he’s been through enough, without you giving him false hope?”

“I would never give him false anything,” said Elias. “Really. Listen. It will be a simple thing, to smoke these slavers out —”

“We don’t even know if they’re still in Red Haven, they might well have moved on by now. We have a mission, and only four days left. We must stay focused, Elias. We can’t drop everything for every problem we stumble over. We’re not law enforcement.”

“No, but law enforcement is law enforcement. We’ll tell the guards to be on the lookout for Venesthian slavers, with a yellow scorpion on their wagon. If they’re still in the city, pretending to put up a circus, they’ll be caught. If they’ve left, then you can be sure Red Haven will send ravens to all nearby cities and towns, places these slavers will need to stop to re-supply — with food, I mean. Really, Garret. We can keep Amadi safe, and find his friend. I think we can help this young man.”

Garret glanced behind him. From here, he could just see the top of his dark shaved head over the bushes.

“He wants to go home,” said Garret. “Is that so wrong?”

Elias took a deep breath. He looked down at the rushing water beside them. “Of course not,” he said. “I just want to make sure we’re doing the right thing. Not the easy thing.”

It was surprising to Garret, how much that remark stung. He set his face in stone and walked back to camp. Elias followed. Amadi rose to his feet when they returned.

“Amadi,” said Garret, “it’s up to you. We’ll help you in whatever way you see most fit. If you’d like to come with us, you may. If you’d like to go home, we’ll see that you have all the supplies you need to get to Thorn Village.”

Amadi’s eyes flickered to Elias, who stood watching a few paces away, and then back to Garret. He struggled to find the words for a moment; then stopped, and stared at the ground in thought.

Finally he looked up with water in his eyes and said, “Thank you, my friends. But I have to go home.”

Elias and Garret helped load Amadi’s horse with food, some spare blankets and clothes, a water skin. They said goodbye and wished him well, and Amadi disappeared on the forest path into the east.

Soon enough, Garret and Elias were back on the road, their things packed up and their horses refreshed from the night’s rest. Morning light sprayed like water drops from the canopy overhead.

After some time traveling in silence, Garret said, “I’m sorry. I thought it was right to give him the choice… I hope that was right.”

Garret turned, and was relieved to see Elias smiling at him.

“We can’t make choices for everyone we meet, Garret. And I’m sorry if I insulted you. You have a strong heart. I hope you know that.”

It doesn’t always feel that way, thought Garret. Sometimes I feel so far from certain.



***


In daylight, this forest was unlike anything Amadi had ever seen on his island. Trees broad and brittle, instead of thin and pliant. Branches bearing claws instead of fruit. Yet the air was sweet with the scent of earth. The slavers had seldom let Amadi see the world while the sun was out. It was his first taste of freedom in Valia.

The dirt road snaked through the trees, and as Amadi rode over it on his horse, he imagined the forest going on forever, as green and mysterious as any ocean; and at the end of the path, home. And at home…

Coward. A voice echoed in the back of his mind. Amadi had tried to shake it, ever since the large man with the salted hair had suggested Amadi accompany them to Red Haven. But now the whisper was a wail.

What will you say, when you get home? thought Amadi. That Makaio gave his freedom to save you, and you left him in the hands of your captors? You know what the people will say. “Amadi has failed his village. Young and weak as he is, he couldn’t help but shame us. He couldn’t help but shame himself.”

But worse than the shame was the pain of Makaio. Would he ever be free again? Would he ever live another second of his life completely unshackled? Or would he live a long, toothless life, serving the whims of some cold-hearted slave lord, dying unloved, unburied, unmourned?

One more thought came lancing through his mind, sudden and clear as starlight:

If he were in my place, what would Makaio do?

Amadi slowed his horse to a stop. He thought of the slavers and what they’d done to his body. He stared at the forest path, snaking ahead of him and disappearing east. His road home.

Then he turned around.



***



Garret and Elias stopped their horses and turned when they heard the sound of hoofbeats behind them. Amadi rode up to them at a gallop, coming to a sudden, breathless stop in front of them.

“I want to go home,” said Amadi. “But I can’t. Not yet. May I come with you?”

Garret was brought up speechless by Amadi’s sudden reappearance. Before he could say a thing, Elias let out a low laugh, rode up to Amadi, and shook his hand.

“As long as we have food to spare,” he said, “you’ll be welcome. And well after that, too.”

The three of them rode onward together.



***



It was Taylor’s first week in Red Haven, and the city agreed with him.

The wide dusty streets began to lightly bake in the cresting afternoon, and the stone buildings lined his path as Taylor made his way to the South Side Marketplace. The flow of foot traffic thickened, and the road opened up into a wide open space, like a clearing in a jungle of stone. Colorful tents, awnings, and signs were strewn over the open expanse, with shoppers milling around from one stall to the next like bees collecting pollen. With a white-toothed grin, Taylor joined them.

Like most aspiring actors, Taylor was young, good looking, on the shorter side, and filled with inexplicable optimism. With short black hair, smoldering brown eyes, and copper skin so clear it seemed to glow, Taylor never thought he’d have any trouble joining one of the city’s resident acting troupes. Everyone back in his hometown had praised his looks, and his love for words, and encouraged him to make a go of it in the city. It wasn’t a glamorous profession, but having grown up an orphan with no family to speak of, he had nothing to lose by taking a leap of faith.

Thus far, his luck was minimal. Taylor had spent his first week in the city traveling around and watching various acting troupes perform. Masked tragedies, puppet plays, troubadours with ballads, elaborate comedies swaddled in silk and sequins — some were good, some were bad, but all of it was exciting. These performers were making their living. It was possible to live and act. However, these troupes weren’t always receptive to Taylor pounding on the backstage door after the performances were over.

In Taylor’s mind, nothing was ever achieved by being timid. He had no connections, and only a little money. Boldness would have to do.

As he meandered through the market crowd, the rolling sea of people parted, revealing a wagon, bearing a yellow scorpion on a black background. A few folks had begun to gather around, pointing and laughing. Intrigued, Taylor weaved through the crowd toward the scorpion.

He arrived just as the action started, and got a rather good view at the front. A banner hung over the front of the wagon, the text black-on-yellow, reading Master Borhim’s Venesthian Circus. Already, a few performers in foreign garb were warming up the crowd. One juggled five oranges, which he threw one by one out into a grateful and cheering gaggle. Another had set up a tiny table, and was using cards to read the fortune of a very titillated-looking young woman. Another emerged from the door to the wagon, shouting:

“The main event, the main event! Don’t dream to leave before the main event! For your pleasure, presenting, Master Borhim!”

The announcer jumped down from the wagon, and behind him emerged a tall, olive-skinned man with an eyepatch. He smiled at the crowd, his amber eye twinkling. The juggler and the fortune teller collected their things and vanished, leaving Master Borhim alone in an empty circle, surrounded by curious onlookers.

“A hundred thousand welcomes, people of Red Haven!” he said, his deep voice falling over the crowd like a rising tide, clear and warm and trained. “I am Master Borhim, come to you from the desert plains and mysterious ruins of Venesthia! Ancient is my homeland, and ancient are my traditions. With your permission, we shall perform for you an act that is centuries old, and comes to us easy as breathing. For your enjoyment and edification — Cloud Escape!”

Perhaps a tenth of the audience knew what “Cloud Escape” meant, and they ooh-ed appreciatively, as all the others offered some uncertain but attentive applause.

One of Master Borhim’s performers emerged from the wagon; this time, he was stripped down, wearing only a yellow sash around his waist and a pair of black shorts. He had the full, lean muscles of a martial artist. He stood behind Master Borhim, hands clasped in front of him, his grey eyes staring with discipline straight ahead of him.

Taylor watched in fascination. A circus performance. This certainly hadn’t occurred to him before as a possible avenue of work, he’d been too attracted to the romance of Red Haven’s theaters…

Borhim produced a huge coil of rope from inside his cloak.

“Now,” he said, “the first step in Cloud Escape is a volunteer who’s skilled with knots. Anyone? Anyone at all?”

The crowd murmured, heads turning, folks wondering if anyone would volunteer. After a moment, a man stepped forward; a city guard, a heavy-set man with black hair pilling out from under his helmet.

“You sir!” Master Borhim cried genially. “Skilled with a rope, then?”

“Oh, yessir,” said the guard, with a mock salute. It occurred to Taylor that this guard might have been spending a bit too much time that day at the bottom of a mug of ale. “Ropes, sure… I’ve had lots of criminals to deal with, you know. I do my job.”

“An expert, then! Wonderful!” Master Borhim took the guard by the arm and led him to the bare-chested performer behind him. “Would you, sir, be kind enough to restrain this man?”

“Sure would,” said the guard, with a chuckle, and yanked the rope from Master Borhim’s hand. “Let’s see what you can do, you foreign tricksters…”

Even slightly tipsy, Taylor had to admit, it looked like the guard could tie a pretty good knot. In a few moments, he’d tied the performer’s arms behind his back, and then looped more coils around his chest in something of a chest-harness, exposing the thick muscles prominently. He moved down the legs, winding rope around the Venesthian’s thighs with abandon, till finally finishing by tying his ankles in a tight box-tie.

He stood back and clapped at his own supposed cleverness. “Beat that, Desert Rat!” he yelled with a laugh (more than a few folks in the crowd flinched at the insensitivity, but offered him mild applause nonetheless).

“Many thanks to our generous volunteer!” said Master Borhim, pushing the guard casually but firmly back into the crowd. “Your attention, please: our escapist today will have no unfair benefits. He may not use eyes; he may not use teeth. Observe.”

Master Borhim whipped something out of his cloak, and strode over to the escapist. He raised what seemed to be a small black bag in the air, then turned it inside out. On the inside, a large cloth protrusion had been sewn into the wall of the bag.

As soon as Taylor realized what it was, Master Borhim returned the bag to its original state, then forced it over the escapist’s head. Even with his great discipline, Taylor could still hear an involuntary “Hglmph” from the guard as that large mouth-stuffing was so suddenly forced between his lips. Master Borhim quickly and ruthlessly tied up some laces on the back of the hood, till it was so tight it seemed that like a second skin enveloping the performer’s head.

The other two Venesthian performers emerged from the wagon, carrying a long, sturdy-looking wooden pole between them. They placed it on the ground in front of the bound man, like a ledge he was about to walk over. Master Borhim walked up behind the escapist, and with surprising ease and grace, lifted the man onto the wooden stick, so he stood on the edge with his bare feet.

“And now,” cried Master Borhim, “the escape begins. Into the clouds!”

With that, the crowd gasped as the two other performers grabbed each end of the long pole, and hoisted it into the air, with the bound man balancing perfectly on it. They held it up till it was high enough that the whole market could see the escape act, and everywhere, heads turned.

The escapist began to writhe and strain. Taylor had seen escape acts before. Usually, he was bored by them. The artist pretty much always escaped, which left the actual act of escaping as an overlong, boring chapter that only led to an inevitable conclusion.

But this was different. Aside from the virtuosity required to balance blind at such a height, he actually seemed to be making short work of these ropes. Hardly a minute had gone by, and suddenly his left hand was free! Followed shortly by his right. He carefully but swiftly untied the harness looped around his pectoral muscles, and finally, started untying his legs, bending down with great delicacy so as not to destroy his balance with a sudden weight shift. Suddenly, his ankles were untied — the rope fell to the ground beneath him like a defeated serpent.

The crowd cheered as the escapist reached up, unlaced his hood, pulled it off and tossed it to the ground. His assistants returned him to earth. All three bowed; Master Borhim clapped the escapist on the back.

“Never underestimate the arts of my homeland!” he boomed. “Thank you all for your kind attention! We perform again tonight at sundown! Thank you, thank you!”

The crowd quieted as all four of them quickly filed back into the wagon. Thomas stood there staring at the door where they’d disappeared, a smile growing on his lips. It wasn’t acting, sure. But maybe they’d like someone to recite poetry before the main acts. Someone to hold one end of the pole. Anything. Something was better than nothing. All Taylor really needed was a beginning.

He was about to march up and pound on the door, when he noticed one more member of the Venesthian troupe walking around — only he was decidedly not Venesthian.

He was wearing the same black and yellow foreign clothes, but his skin was a pale Valian, and he covered his head with a broad red bandana. He wandered around the dispersing crowd with a bucket.

“Support for Master Borhim, if you can spare it,” he said, “any support will do. Support for Master Borhim.”

Taylor wasn’t exactly impressed with the young man’s commitment to his job. He did it with a sullenness in his eyes that was almost unnerving. But still, it had been a good show, and the bucket began to fill.

Taylor walked up to the man in the red bandana just as the last of the throngs were leaving. He tipped a silver coin into the bucket.

The man looked down at the silver gleam with mild surprise. “Generous,” he said. “Thanks.” He turned and started to leave.

“I’d like to meet Master Borhim,” said Taylor.

The man turned, and finally looked Taylor in the eye. Even with the odd red bandana, he was a rather good-looking guy; and Taylor could tell he was well-built, even under the baggy Venesthian-style clothes.

The change-collector seemed like he was about to say something. Then he stopped. He looked intently at Taylor. Eyes scanning the face. Then his gaze crawled downward, clawing at his arms, his chest, his waist, groin, legs…

Normally, Taylor was used to folks undressing him with their eyes. He had an exercise regime that he engaged in every morning without fail, strictly for aesthetic purposes, and it had left him with an impressively muscled body. Not freakishly so, he hoped; but it was, in his best estimation, a body that would sell.

But never, never had anyone looked at his body like this. So blatently, so boldly, in the middle of a public place. Taylor felt his face go red. This guy might has well have taken a handful of his ass and given it a squeeze.

… Wait just a moment. Bizarre as it might be, this could be something of an... opportunity. Maybe it wasn’t a “decent” way of getting a job, but… Hell, this red-bandana guy really was pretty good looking, and Taylor probably would’ve done some flirting anyway.

Taylor took a step closer. “Sorry,” he said with a small laugh. “Don’t mean to come on too strong. What’s your name?”

Taylor stared at the man’s eyes, and waited patiently until they’d journeyed back up his body and settled once again into his own.

The man smirked. “My name is Thomas,” he said.

“How long have you worked here, Thomas? With Master Borhim, I mean?”

“Not long at all. He’s recently been hiring.”

Taylor’s heart thudded loudly in his ears. “Really. That’s funny, because I happen to be a performer myself. Any way I could line up an audition?”

Thomas looked back toward the wagon… then back to Taylor. “How about this,” he said. “Would you be open to letting me conduct an interview? Maybe we can go somewhere and just… talk?”

Taylor nodded with a small, playful smile. “Yeah,” he said, “I think I’d be open to that.” Then, hoping he wasn’t laying it on too thick, he ever-so-slightly bit his lower lip.

The look that Thomas gave Taylor was not unlike the look an owl gives a rabbit. “Follow me,” he said, and started walking through the crowd. Taylor hurried to keep up.

Soon they left the marketplace, and weaved through the thinning crowds. Taylor started wondering how far they were going; certainly, it wouldn’t be hard to find an inn or a pub where they could sit in a discrete corner? But Taylor didn’t ask questions. This could be the beginning.

After a good ten minutes of walking, Thomas had led Taylor in a much more sparsely populated side of town. Few people wandered around the streets; the buildings were spaced widely apart. Near the end of the street was a brown wooden building, very unlike the multicolored stone that made up so much of the architecture in the city’s center. It seemed to be some kind of run-down inn, left to fall in on itself and die quietly.

“Right in here,” said Thomas. “It’s a great place for private conversations.”

Thomas opened the door. Its hinges screamed in protest. Taylor smiled slyly and walked into the darkness. Thomas followed. The door swung shut.

It only took a moment for Taylor’s eyes to adjust. It was a waiting area, or at least, had been once. A staircase led to the second floor; a wide archway on the left led to a dining hall; and in front of them, a few dusty couches, in front of a wooden desk where presumable guests once signed in.

Thomas turned and faced Taylor.

“Before we begin,” said Thomas, “I’d like to make one thing perfectly clear.”

Thomas lunged forward, grabbed Taylor’s face, and kissed him.

It was such a shock that it took Taylor a few moments to find the rhythm of it, doing his best to match Thomas’s hungry tempo. Thomas’s hands started sliding all over his body, groping his chest, his waist, until finally settling on his ass, kneading the muscle as Taylor started growing hard —

Thomas broke off the kiss.

“I’ll keep the questions short. How does that sound?”

Taylor looked up at Thomas with red lips, catching his breath. “Okay,” he said.

“You from Red Haven?”

“No. I moved here to act.”

“Any family?”

“No.”

“Friends? Connections?”

“No.”

“Then why Red Haven?”

Taylor smiled. “I’m an actor. That’s why.”

“You any good?”

“I think I am. I really do. If you give me a chance, I can prove it…” Taylor ran his hands down Thomas’s chest, feeling the ripple of his abs under the cloth…

The two guided each other down onto the couches. Their lips found each other again. Thomas climbed on top of Taylor like a lion gloating over its kill. Their world was one of heat and saliva and hands pulling at smooth, hot bodies —

Thomas broke off again. “Stay,” he said, and left the room. Taylor did his best to steady his breathing.

Taylor wondered if he should be feeling shame right now. Isn’t this what everyone had warned him about? Hungry people, taking advantage of actors? Yes, it was… But those people who had pious advice, they’d never been through what he’d been through. Doors slammed in his face. Monologues cut off before they were half finished. Troupe leaders who refused to even see him, or worse, the ones who laughed right in his face.

If sex was the price, Taylor would pay it. Especially since in this case, it promised to be pretty good.

Quickly, Taylor tore his shirt off and cast it to the floor, proud of his full, smooth chest. He did the same for his pants, and kicked off his socks and shoes. He lounged strategically on the sofa, in nothing but his small black briefs, and waited.

Thomas reappeared from the archway that led to the dining hall. He carried a few coils of rope with him, and stared at Taylor’s body with blank eagerness.

“Let’s see how you look in ropes,” said Thomas, and advanced forward.

Taylor’s heart skipped a beat. He’d always been curious about this kind of sex, but he’d never had anyone to try it with. This could be fun…

With surprising roughness, Thomas turned Taylor over onto his back and started lashing his wrists together. Taylor grunted in surprise, but had the good sense to turn it into laughter.

“Ease there, tiger,” he said, “don’t want to damage anything —”

Thomas slapped Taylor’s ass, leaned over and whispered in his ears, “I damage nothing.” Then he returned to the ropes.

He tied up Taylor’s torso not unlike the way the guard had during the performance earlier. When that was done, he moved onto the legs. Before doing anything else, he tied Taylor in a crotch tie that framed his hefty package in a V shape, which led down to a length of rope yanked tightly up his ass, then bound to his already-tied hands. That being done, he tied Taylor’s legs at upper and lower thighs, knees, calves, an ankles.

Thomas finally turned Taylor back over. Taylor looked down at himself, and was surprised and delighted to find that he liked what he saw. He liked how this felt. With all his muscles accentuated by the pulling ropes, and Thomas leering down at him like that… It made Taylor feel special. It made him feel like a prize.

“So,” said Taylor, as Thomas started rubbing his hands over Taylor’s bound chest, “what’ll you do to me now?”

“Anything,” Thomas breathed, leaning down. “Anything at all…”

He planted his mouth on Taylor’s, and Taylor did his best to keep up with his captor’s ravenousness, his package straining to the point of bursting out of his briefs. Finally Thomas moved on to kissing the crook of his neck, then his chest, his mouth exploring as Taylor stared up at the ceiling, flushed and smiling. He couldn’t help but think about his future. If getting tied up once in a while was all it took… He was in. He’d done it. His future had begun.

“There’s a lot that I can do, you know,” murmured Taylor, his whole body flushing from the warm sucking of Thomas’s mouth. "I have some poems I can recite… Maybe I can recite for Master Borhim —”

Crack. Thomas slapped Taylor hard across the face.

Taylor didn’t truly understand what had just happened until he tasted the blood. Thomas grabbed him by his jaw, bringing their faces a hair's breadth apart. Thomas’s face was a red fire of rage, his eyes bright and lucid with a demon's intensity.

“If you ever call him ‘Master Borhim’ again, I’ll kill you,” said Thomas. “I will kill you.”

Taylor stared up at Thomas, his head still ringing from the slap. “I-I…” he stammered, “I didn’t mean… I’m s-sorry if —”

“No more noise,” said Thomas, and pulled off his bandana.

It was the scalp that made Taylor start to scream. Clumps of blonde hair, torn and slashed away as if by some terrible beast, and on the scalp itself, a wild lightning-web of red lines, only just recently scabbed over; razor slashes, cracks in his head, as if something awful and evil were trying to burst out.

Taylor was hardly able to begin screaming before Thomas jammed the red bandana into his open mouth. He stuffed it in deep, nearly making Taylor choke. Once the cloth was fully packed between his lips, Thomas jumped off the sofa and picked up Taylor’s discarded socks. He connected the two by tying a heavy knot between them, then, shoved that knot in Taylor’s mouth, tying the other two ends savagely tight behind his head, making a thick knotted cleave gag, holding in the wadded cloth and forcing Taylor’s lips open.

Thomas leaned in close to Taylor’s face. Then without looking, he reached down into the front of Taylor’s briefs, and pulled out his shaft, still throbbing from the earlier excitement. Thomas began stroking it, softly at first, then harder, finding a pulsating pattern.

“There’s no such thing as Master Borhim,” said Thomas. “I am the only master you’ll ever know. First and last. Master Thomas. Say it.”

“… Hgmph?” Taylor mumbled in confusion, his eyes fluttering, his heart racing.

“Say it.” Thomas raised his free hand to strike again —

Wild blue panic set in, and Taylor yelled into his gag, “Mmshtmm Tmm-hmph.”

“Again.” Thomas began pumping faster. Taylor’s bound body arched on the sofa.

“Mmshtmm Tmm-hmph.”

“Again.”

“Mmshtmm Tmm-hmph —”

“Again.”

“Mmshtmm Tmm-hmph —”

Thomas released Taylor’s cock. It throbbed in the air, red and twitching. Taylor groaned, tears gathering at the corners of his eyes. “… Mmmph… Hmmph…”

Thomas stood over him. Taylor’s skin burst out in cold gooseflesh as he realized what was happening.

No. Oh my god. No.

“Nmmph!” He shook his head frantically, struggling uselessly against the ropes. “HMMPH!”

“Now,” said Thomas. “Let’s get you into storage.”



***



Thomas whistled as he searched the abandoned inn for something to wrap up his new baggage with. There was an upstairs hallway with a little red rug. Perfect. He took it downstairs, tied up Baggage Two’s cock and balls with some twine, reveling in his muffled groaning, and finally, rolled him up in the carpet, so only his bound feet dangled from one end. Thomas finished by wrapping the rug tightly in rope, and then using some spare twine to tie up Baggage Two’s big toes.

The deal with Borhim was simple. He would travel with the slavers, helping them carry out their various kidnappings, trades, discrete sales, and so forth. He would be extra muscle, an extra set of hands; useful to keep around. All that, and plus Thomas had thrown in the horse he’d stolen from Thorn Village, to help them all get their wagon to Red Haven (the escaped cargo from the previous night had stolen their other horse).

But Thomas wouldn’t demand payment, unlike the other slavers under Borhim’s command. Aside from food and lodging, all Thomas asked for was the autonomy to begin a private collection. The terms were accepted. The deal was made.

Thomas carried Baggage Two down into the cellar. There was an old crate in the corner, coffin-shaped, probably once used to store fruits in the winter. Thomas opened the lid and placed his struggling prize inside. The lid came down, and Baggage Two’s gagged pleading became nothing but a pleasant hum.

He crossed the room and kicked the second coffin-like crate. “We’ll be out of here sometime tomorrow, I think,” said Thomas to Baggage. And that was true. The escaped cargo was a big risk. If he came to Red Haven and alerted anyone, then Borhim’s window of opportunity to do business here was very small. Best to leave soon.

Baggage didn’t respond. He’d been very quiet recently.

Thomas didn’t think much of that as he mounted the stairs and left the cellar. After all, there was nothing like defeat to shut someone up. That, and three socks stuffed in their mouth.



***



All Hendrick had left were his dreams and his acorn. His existence was a gray, hazy thing. Thomas would visit just long enough to keep his genitals stimulated, and then he would leave. Then Hendrick would drift in and out of sleep, dreams coming in bits and pieces out of a fog, until Thomas came again, and then the cycle began anew.

This dream was different. He was in the forest again, the same forest he’d been dreaming of, the wood that bowed to him. And again, the mammoth butterfly swept over the sun. But this time Garret was there.

He stood between two tall oak trees, some fifty yards away. Hendrick was so glad to see him; sometimes, he thought he would never see Garret again, even in dreams.

Hendrick tried to walk to him, but the ground, it was made of vines, and for the first time, the forest wouldn’t obey the whims of his thought. They coiled around his ankles, slowly creeping up his legs and slowing his progress. Every time he pulled away from one, another sprouted up, stronger than the one before.

It was like walking underwater, and Hendrick became slower and slower. Always Garret was too far, too far off. If only he could get to him.

“I want to live,” said Hendrick, striving forward as the vines twisted over his waist, his chest, closing over his eyes —

I want to live.



***



Hendrick woke up with a start, in the smothering darkness of the crate. Something sharp dug into the small of his back. Something that hadn’t been there before.

For a moment he didn’t dare to believe it was real. But there it was, that sharp pricking sensation of something stationary behind him. What was it? A dislodged nail? A splinter of wood?

It didn’t matter. Hendrick shifted his body till the ropes pinning his right arm to his side were right up against the sharp object. Then, very slowly, he started to use it to tear through the ropes.

It was long, hard, exasperating work, trying to break through the rope in the dark, without being able to see it. But still, Hendrick was possessed by a breathless kind of unbelieving hope, so much so that even as he started to feel the rope slowly coming apart in a stringy mess, he thought, It couldn’t be, it couldn’t be, it just couldn’t be, but please let it be…

His right hand came free.

The reality of freedom washed over him, and Hendrick started crying tears of joy as he scramble to get out of the rest of his bindings. First the gag; he peeled back the layers of cloth until he finally unearthed the stuffing, and spat out the wad of three cloths that had been lodged between his jaws for the better part of two days. His mouth was paper dry, but it was a painful sort of relief to be able to close his mouth again.

He undid the rest of his bindings; he undid the painful crotch-ropes, then soon his other hand was free, then his legs and ankles and toes, then the chest harness — finally Hendrick pushed against the lid of the crate, believing with every fiber of his soul that it would be locked, and he would be trapped in there forever.

The lid opened easily.

Hendrick stood into the dim glow of the basement. The only light source was a small window in the far corner, where the ceiling met the wall. But to Hendrick, it was like standing into a burst of sunlight. He stretched his arms over his head, laughing and crying at the painful rush of blood returning to his weak limbs. He was free.

Hendrick looked down into the crate. Among the coils of rope, a pointed object stuck out of the bottom. A root. A tree root. It had grown straight through the dirt floor, and into a gap in the crate’s boards.

It hadn’t been there before. Hendrick was sure of it.

Hendrick spied a pile of things in the corner. He looked closer; Thomas’s things. Some new clothes, some plain, some strange and foreign, likely gifted to him from the slavers. Hendrick pulled on pants and a shirt, relishing the feeling of clothing again, unripped and unsoiled by hours of sweat. He made sure to move his acorn into his new pocket. Then, an odd, muffled sound from across the room reminded Hendrick he wasn’t alone.

Hendrick rushed over to the other crate. He’d heard earlier when Thomas had brought down a new victim. Maybe if he was quick enough, the both of them could escape. He threw open the lid. Inside was the figure of a man, wriggling around and bound inside a red rug.

“Hmmph! PLMMPH!”

“Shh, shh, it’s okay, I’m going to let you out. Just be —”

Thunk. The sound of the front door opening upstairs.

The choice was immediately terrible but clear. Either get caught again, and never be able to do anything for this poor man, or leave now, and get help.

“I’m so sorry,” said Hendrick. The rug started to thrash even harder as Hendrick closed the lid and rushed into the corner. There was a large barrel in the corner of the room, more than large enough for Hendrick to hide behind. He crouched down just as the door at the top of the stairwell opened, spilling dusty light into the dimness. The shadow of a man fell down the stairs, and Thomas followed after it.

He sat down on the steps. The stairs were plain and sparse, just a series of boards leading up to a hole in the middle of the cellar ceiling… so Hendrick could peer around the barrel and still see Thomas, like looking through tree branches in the woods. He sat facing away from Hendrick, instead facing the two crates. Thomas picked up a rock off the floor, threw it at the second crate — and then even from across the room Hendrick started to hear that poor man’s muffled screams through the wood.

Thomas laughed and pulled down his pants.

Hendrick’s stomach dropped into the earth as he watched Thomas slowly stroking himself, his second victim’s screams hanging like smoke in the air.

“Master Thomas,” Thomas mumbled, and started stroking faster.

Hendrick couldn’t watch — but maybe this was his chance. His chance to escape. The window was so close.

Hendrick tried as carefully as he could to moved the barrel toward the window in the corner. Luckily it was light and empty. An inch — two inches — six inches. And still Thomas groaned, muttering to himself, “Master Thomas, yeah, the fucking master of ropes and gags…”

There. The barrel was right underneath the window. Hendrick dared to stand up, now nothing between him and Thomas, who still faced away from him, his body clenching and releasing as the pumping got faster.

Hendrick climbed onto the barrel, gently, so very gently. From here, he could reach the window. He reached for it slowly, with one eye still on Thomas, feeling to see if the window as locked…

It wasn’t. It started to swing outward —

Creak.

Hendrick froze. But Thomas just kept pumping, the back of his head a lunatic labyrinth of razor slashes, his voice rising, “Thomas, Thomas, Master Thomas, Master-Fucking-Thomas —”

He couldn’t stand it anymore. Abandoning caution, Hendrick pushed open the window, its squeaking adding to the second victim’s muffled cries and Thomas’s moans. Hendrick pulled himself up, in a desperate burst of strength, past the window — and out of the cellar.

Hendrick kicked the window closed behind him and ran. He didn’t know where he was, or where he was going, but he didn’t care, he was free, and he ran, and ran, and ran.



***



The sun had just started to set by the time Garret, Elias, and Amadi emerged from the forest. They stopped their horses and looked out over the land before them.

Red Haven. Down the hill and another mile down the road, the city sat on a flat expanse of land surrounded by farms and tiny villages. The city proper was surrounded by a tall white wall of stone, and inside, buildings of all sorts peered over the edges; spires and steeples, tall stone buildings, towers, and more. The Copper River, with its red-clay banks, ran through the heart of the city and out the other side, a major source of food, land fertility, and trade. Smoke rose from countless chimneys as the sunset flashed, painting the city as red as its name.

“Be strong, my friends,” said Elias. “We’re very close now.”

Garret nodded. Amadi stared in shock at the size of the place. Larger than large. Wealth not to be believed.

Garret tightened his grip on the reigns. Hendrick, he thought. Thomas. I’m here. I’m coming.

They urged their horses forward, all three of them preparing for the city to swallow them.





To be continued.
dahanband
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Post by dahanband »

It was great, my friend! This is a wonderful story.
Of course I'm still waiting for a long handgag...


Thank you.

Make the next part faster!
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