Rowers, Ropes And Sweaters (M+/M): Penultimate chapter added, 29 Nov.

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Rowers, Ropes And Sweaters (M+/M): Penultimate chapter added, 29 Nov.

Post by Paris_bondage »


My future teammates on our eight

Chapter 1 : Friday, 5 p.m.

- Let's lay him down on that bench.
The two fellows who held me firmly forced me to lie down on the bench in the locker room and held me there by sitting on me. Anyway, there were another five of them, seven in total, all athletic rowers, and I did not even try to resist. Particularly knowing they had no intention to hurt me. Protesting was not an option either, my mouth having been sealed with enough tape to make me forget I only had a mouth.

They were indeed my future teammates on the rowing team for which I had been selected. And I knew that this team, heir to a long scout tradition, subjected each new member to a whole week of initiation, the sole purpose of which was to test their physical and mental resistance. No mistreatment, no humiliation was to be feared. Just accepting to be subjected to intense physical exercise and continuous captivity for a week, most of the time skillfully tied up. I had been given an instruction, in addition to letting my relatives know that I would not be available or reachable during the whole week: that of not bringing anything with me. Everything would be provided to me. And to keep strictly silent. However useless was this latter, given how hermetically my mouth was sealed.

- Who has the ropes?
- There are in the boathouse, we're still looking for them.
- In the meantime, let's use our sweaters to hold him in place. We don't want him to go anywhere. And before that, I'll make him wear mine: he'll spend the night with no heating and we don't want him to catch a cold either, do we?

They had just rowed and they were all wearing that same thick white woolen sweater of their - soon my- rowing team. The one who was giving orders took off his. Two others grabbed me, sat me up, and held me in place so they could pull the heavy jumper over my head, force my arms into its sleeves and pull it all the way down. As they forced me into that sweater, I felt the body warmth and musk of its owner. Besides, it had been raining, and damp wool has a smell that turns me on most. Feeling safe, I savored every single molecule of that scent.


One of my future teammates in his wollen rowing sweater

The others also took off their sweaters and used them to restrain me, binding feet, my knees, my thighs, my crotch and my chest down to the heavy bench.

The last jumper was pulled over my head upside down. The part corresponding to its torso was folded over my face and the sleeves were passed under the bench before being tied above my mouth. Thus, my head was wrapped in multiple layers of thick, fragrant wool, which deprived me of sight and controlled my breathing. I loved above all that feeling of being trapped in all this wool. And the storm of pheromones it sent me in. (Etymologically, a sweater is meant to sweat in, and rowers do sweat!)

Once assured of my immobility, my captors stood up and I could indeed feel that, despite its elasticity, all this wool made my escape impossible. Especially under such close supervision of seven strong fellows.

It was only later that a eighth guy brought coils of ropes. I presumed these were going to replace the sweaters that already kept me bound to the bench, but in fact, they were added to them. In addition, my arms, that had only been placed along my torso, were secured to the bench. So the bondage I was trapped in had lost all of its elasticity but kept the warmth of those sweaters wrapped around my body. In addition to the one I was wearing. And to the one my head was encased in.

Then I heard the doors open and close, and found myself trapped and alone, in a woolly cocoon that I found comfortable. And, in case you hadn't figured out, most exciting.

TBC

(English is not my mother tongue. Accept my apologies for any errors or clumsiness in this text.)
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Post by george_bound »

Oh nice... this is definitely a creative use for a whole bunch of sweaters, he must to feeling nice and toasty under them all! Very much looking forward to the continuation... and as for the English, it was perfectly understandable :)
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Post by Boundcurious »

No need to worry about your English at all, many natives can’t write that well :)
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Chapter 2 : Friday evening

Later - how long? I don't know, I had lost all track of time -, I heard the door open and close again. I heard the footsteps of only one person. Certainly one of my captors, since this person showed no surprise to find me like this.


The bench I was bound down to

Then I felt the bench I was tied on lifted and moved, first the side of the feet then the side of the head. Apparently my captor just wanted the bench to be somewhere else in the room. This feeling of being moved like a bundle added to my excitement.

A few seconds later followed the sound of another bench being moved. Then I felt a hand move over me, on each of the segments delimited by the sweaters I was bound by. My feet, my legs, my thighs, then my shoulders, my chest. The hand was both firm and caressing. It ventured over my face, crushing the thick wool it was encased in, taking even more control of my breathing.

Eventually, it slipped under that sweater and I smelled the scent of a bottle of poppers. Instinctively, I took a deep breath. I felt it was going to do me good. The hand pulled back and squeezed the sweater even more firmly, forcing me to breathe in a closed circuit air saturated with poppers for quite some time. While the other hand checked the effect on my crotch, the first renewed the operation of inhalation and pressure.

I started to get high, literally getting out of myself, gently floating in this sublime cocktail of damp wool, musc and poppers.

The right hand therefore lingered on my crotch. Then it became more explicit, as his left hand kneaded my face through the thick, musky wool of the sweater.

My body contracted in vain against the ties that bound me to the bench. I tried just as in vain to lift my head against the pressure of that hand that kept it relentlessly pressed to the bench.

As I resisted with all my might the excitement that was gaining me, my crotch was more talkative than I wished and my captor, of course, noticed. With diabolical perversity, he alternated accelerations and decelerations with his right hand, while malting my face with his left hand with the same variations of rhythm. And, when he felt that my breath announced the point of no return, he let me cool, before starting over and over again.

A few cycles of this treatment were enough to exhaust me, and tears of mixed emotions soaked my thick woolen mask. After the tears came a sob that I couldn't control. And that my captor perceived. His gesture was then tender, caressing, no longer exciting, just considerate. He was taking care of his prisoner after having tormented him.

Then he readjusted my ties, including the sweaters that still tied me to the bench, in the way you tuck a child in his bed. He also readjusted the sweater in which my head was locked, as if to eliminate any uncomfortable creases.

Then, again, the sound of footsteps receding, a door opening and closing, and silence.

TBC
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Chapter 3: Saturday morning

I must have fallen asleep, because the first thing I remembered was the morning light coming in through the locker room windows.

It took me a fraction of a second to remember where I was and why I couldn't stretch. But I must have made a few movements with this intention, since I heard these words, coming from barely a meter from me:
- Hello, pretty prisoner. I hope you slept well. We're going to release you in part, so you can go to the bathroom and then come with us.
And, from another voice:
- But you will have to behave well if you want it to be as comfortable as possible.

Of course I couldn't answer.

My captors then proceeded to untie the ropes that kept me tied to the bench, while tightening the grip of the sweaters that served the same purpose.

Then they completely freed my upper body, removed the sweater I was wearing as well as the one in which my head was locked. I could finally see them. One was the leader of the team, the one who gave orders to the others in the beginning. The other was a bit younger and a bit less muscular, though more than me. I eventually learned they were called respectively Martin and Vincent.

From a gym bag he had put down next to the bench, Martin pulled out a white T-shirt and made me put it on. Then, with the same ropes, he began to tie my hands in front of me, but in a way that I had no chance of freeing myself, at least as long as I was watched by them. Could I have used this brief moment of freedom to try to escape? Considering the build of the two rowers, it was doubtful.

Then they released me completely from the bench, throwing all these sweaters on top of each other, and helped me up. From the same bag, Martin pulled out some sweatpants that he also made me put on, before tying my ankles, forming a hobble that would only let me tread carefully.

Finally, they escorted me to the bathroom and gave me five minutes to do what I needed. In the bathroom, on the sink, I did indeed find a new toothbrush, toothpaste, soap, a towel and a washcloth. And, on a stool near the shower, clean underwear. Taking a shower with your hands tied, even in front, is not easy, but it is still possible. Anyway, I needed it to cool off. And brushing my teeth was more than welcome.

Then my hands were released to be tied again behind my back. And, more to cover up my situation than to protect me from the chill, a thick hoodie was pulled on, its sleeves hanging in the air. The hood was pulled back over my head and the lace pulled tightly, which concealed the adhesive covering my mouth. The hoodie was soaked in Martin's scent, which I didn't mind, quite the contrary. Though I secretly regretted that he did not make me wear his woolen sweater again. But I was not in a position to express my preferences. And, besides, it hardly seemed appropriate to me to confess my fetishism for woolen sweaters.

So I was brought outside where a car had been conveniently parked just outside the locker rooms exit. Two other rowers were waiting outside. They installed me in the middle of the back seat and buckled my seat belt, and took their places on either side of me, like two policemen surrounding the prisoner they have just arrested. Martin took the wheel and Vincent the front passenger seat. One of my neighbors placed the hoodie sleeves in front of me, as if my arms were folded.


How I was seeing myself between my two guards

Martin started the car, and a few minutes later we had left town and were driving on country roads.
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Chapter 4: Saturday Noon

It took us a good two hours to reach our destination, somewhere in Normandy, along the Seine River. Which struck me as quite pleasant: a manor house in the center of a wooded park that went down to the river, along which was built a boat house and a pontoon.


Where my captivity was about to take place

It was early October, and although Indian summer is not exactly part of the climate in France, the weather was bright and the temperature promised to range across typically sweater-temperatures.

Martin seemed to be the master of the place. He was indeed the one who had the keys to the house: first, he passed them to Vincent to open the gate, then he was the one who opened the house himself.

He returned to the car to get me out, and walked me to the dining room, where he made me sit on a chair.

Then he began to open the house, air it, remove the sheets covering the furniture. The house hadn't been open for a long time and there was a cool, damp atmosphere. Martin said he was going to get a sweater and Vincent asked if he could lend him one.
- No problem, I have a lot of collective sweaters. The house always needs a few hours to warm up. Who else wants one?

One of the other two accepted the offer, the other said he had taken what was needed.

Vincent invited me to follow him. I got up as hard as you can get up with your hands tied behind your back and followed him to his bedroom. There he laid me down on the bed. Noticing that he had no rope within reach, he removed his belt to tie my ankles. Then he opened a massive wardrobe, one shelf of which was filled with piles of heavy woolen sweaters. He took three and left me alone to join his teammates. The cabinet door he had closed didn't lock and opened again, letting me admire his collection out of reach.

Of course, this sight added to the idea of Vincent and the other putting on Martin's sweaters only rekindled my fetishism.

I had stayed like that for a good hour or so (in any case, that's what I thought, because I had no way of measuring the elapsed time) when Martin came back to the room and told me that we were going to have lunch. He undid the belt that tied my ankles but left the other ties in place. Which made it clear that I would be fed by one of my captors. Before removing the tape that sealed my lips, he reminded me that all week long I shouldn't say a word at any cost. I nodded and had to wince in pain as he tore off the tape.

Then he helped me up and led me to the dining room where everyone else was already seated. He sat me down to his left. Only four plates had been placed around the table, in the center of which was a large pot of pasta with tomato sauce. Therefore it was from his plate and with his cutlery that he fed me, alternating one bite for him and one for me.

Anyone would find the situation deeply humiliating if he forgot that all the other guys who were sitting at this table had gone through the same ordeal, and through all that I was going to have to endure throughout the week. So it was easy enough for me to dismiss this feeling of humiliation, which was replaced by some feeling of comradeship and also by another one, more murky: that of being fed by Martin, with his own fork, absorbing a bit of his saliva with every bite of pasta, and the thought of his absorbing a bit of mine too. I found it very tenderly erotic, especially still being enveloped in the scent he had left in his hoodie.

After lunch, Martin showed me back to the room. He freed me from my ties and from my gag so I could use the bathroom, in which I found my toothbrush and everything that they had prepared for me. Five minutes was once again the time allotted to me. When I had done, not only Martin but the other three were waiting for me in the bedroom. Martin made me put on his hoodie again. Then he asked me to turn around, and he tied my wrists with a rope. He was careful to wrap each of my wrists separately before bringing them together and knotting them together so that the knots were out of my fingertips. He tied my elbows too, pulling my shoulders back, then tied my forearms to my chest. I was grabbed by the four and placed on the bed. There, they began to bind my ankles, knees and thighs. I was turned onto my side, and my legs were bent to allow for a fairly loose hogtie, the sole purpose of which was to keep me from rolling over in bed.

Satisfied with the result, Martin took the time to observe me lying on one side of his bed, my head turned to the center of it.
- No need to gag you: anyway, if you scream, there will be only us to hear you. But don't do it, because then I'd have to gag you.

Both the meal and the activity of tying me up had heated them up, and Martin and the two he had loaned sweaters to took them off and threw them in a pile on the other side of the bed. Then they walked away, and Martin closed the door behind them, leaving me a few inches from a pile of woolen sweaters still warm from those who had just worn them.

TBC
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Chapter 5: Saturday afternoon

Most gay fetishists fantasize about underwear, socks, or sneakers. So, imagine yourself tied up with your head within reach of a mountain of what makes you fantasize. What would you do? You’d crawl the few inches to gorge yourself on the object of your desires. This is exactly what I did. It only took a few crawling movements left possible by my relatively mild hogtie to bury my face under the pile of wool and inhale it deeply, as if to fill my lungs with that smell of sweaty wool.


"A room with a view"

I was in heaven. Especially since the sweater that was the most accessible was the one that Martin had worn. A raw Irish turtleneck, rough as Aran sweaters are, and in which I recognized the same smell as the hoodie I was wearing.

I was so in Heaven that, like you do when you are in Heaven, I fell asleep there.

How long had passed when I felt the bed move? That was not the point. The point was that by the time I emerged, I could feel Martin lifting up one by one the sweaters under which I had dreamed, to end up with his own, that he kept a few inches above my face.

I watch him terrified, unable to articulate a word. So much the better, I remembered that I was not allowed to speak. So it was he who, with a half-mocking, half-naughty smile, broke the silence:
- It seems that our young guest has some secret tastes ...

If I could, I would have hid under the sweaters again, and this time, not out of fetishism but to hide myself. At the same time, I had revealed that I was gay and that I was afflicted with this strange fetish, no stranger than any other but so rare that it certainly passed for crazy.

- You know, you don't need to be embarrassed. If you are gay, know that you are not the only one on the team. And if you like sweaters, well, that might be weird, but then?

About not being the only gay in the team, I knew it since the visit I had received the night before. Nevertheless, listening to him, I felt two tears run down my cheeks. I knew he had noticed them. What did I look like?

- Look, you're really nice and you play the game well. So I'm going to be nice too. You like sweaters and I have a wardrobe full of them… I think you're going to like what I'm about to do.

He took the sweaters from his closet one by one and threw them on me. When one fell off, he would pick it up and aim again. There were so many that I couldn't count them.

When he was done emptying his closet on me, he took one randomly and wrapped my head in it, as he had done in the locker room last night when I had surrendered as their prisoner.

I had only one regret: the hoodie I was wearing, even though it was permeated with his scent, would have pleased me a thousand times more if it had been a sweater. He guessed my thoughts and added:
- the next time we tie you up, I'll know what to make you wear.

He flattened the sweater that locked my head, before leaving the room not without having taken the key that was inside to lock it from the outside. Not for fear that I would run away - I didn't have the possibility or even less the desire, and he knew it - but so that others wouldn't find me like that.

No one can imagine the mixed feelings through which I was navigating. Shame that Martin had unmasked me as a gay and even worse that he had uncovered my weird little secret. Relief given his benevolent reaction. Even a growing feeling of feeling good in his presence, in his hoodie, in his bed, under the warm and cozy mountain of his sweaters, of having eaten with his cutlery...

Was I falling in love? Was it Stockholm syndrome? Martin wasn't the kind of man I usually fantasized about or had a thing with. But the situation was so special ... I was entirely under his domination, and he was showing very protective towards me. Or even an accomplice.

Was he gay himself? My gaydar had always been very unreliable. But obviously he wasn't homophobic. And although this week of initiation was intended to test my physical and mental resistance, he clearly wanted to please me.

I was brought out of my thoughts by the sound of a car. However, I had not heard the one with which we arrived. Besides, I could hear that the one that was being parked was a diesel.

A few noises of doors and then cheerful greetings confirmed that it was the rest of the team who had joined us.

I distinctly heard the voice of Martin, who, after the usual questions ("Did you find the house without problem?" "How was traffic?" ...) once again took over the operations.
- Detach the trailer, we will carry the boats and the oars to the boathouse.

These operations made noise and took time. At the same time, doors opened and closed in the house. Once or twice someone tried to open the door to the bedroom I was in, and I was glad Martin had thought of locking it.

Eventually, I heard Martin's voice again, but this time from inside the house:
- Pack your bags in the bedrooms, divide yourself as you want, I don't want to know who sleeps with whom!

More footsteps on the stairs and above my room, or rather Martin's room - our room? - then Martin's voice again:
- Did you get my message to bring back the sweaters we left in the locker room?

Oh my God ! Would he have done that for me?
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[mention]Paris_bondage[/mention] So glad to be able to read your work, my friend.
Et ne t'inquète surtout pas, ton anglais est plus qu'adéquat.

I was going to message you about the format in which you were posting the story in, but now I see that you've split your chapters up into multiple posts. Much better, my friend.

The only thing I'd suggest is editing the title of the story to reflect the chapter count.
This way [mention]george_bound[/mention], [mention]Boundcurious[/mention], the other readers, and myself will be notified of all future updates and chapters you publish on this thread.


I've just finished chapter three, and I'm absolutely loving the content so far.
As you know, I've touched this subject myself (albeit in a very light, superficial way) in BaG, but now your really exploring this niche kink and allowing us to experience it in full detail.

Fantastic work, my friend.
I'll be reading the next chapters in a bit and commenting on them when I do.
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Post by george_bound »

Well well, the captive likes sweaters... and Martin. Really like the use of sweaters as fetish material and as means of restraint. Keep up the good story!
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Post by Canuck100 »

I have been blindfolded with sweaters wrapped around my head and loooved it. Please keep going, I like your story very much!
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Post by Paris_bondage »

Thank you for your encouragements, my friends.
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Chapter 6: Saturday, dinner time

The sound of the key in the lock announced Martin's entry into the room. He proceeded to remove one by one the sweaters he had buried me under, and the time elapsed between each one made me understand that he was folding them and storing them in the closet as he went. Which I could confirm when he removed the one he had locked my head in.

He freed me from the hogtie and untied the ropes that tied my ankles, knees and thighs, but like at lunchtime, he kept the ones that bound my upper body. And unsurprisingly, I was escorted to the dining room, where the whole team was seated. No one greeted me or spoke to me, but the looks were friendly and I understood that not talking to me was part of the game too.

After I sat in the seat next to his, Martin walked away and came back in the Shetland sweater he had worn earlier. He saw my gaze and knew that I understood that he was giving me a nice present there. Dinner was like lunch, Martin alternating bites for him and bites for me, using the same fork. The discussions were light, and it was indeed an ordeal to be completely excluded. Not only tied to my chair and forbidden to speak, it also seemed forbidden for others to speak to me, even to mention my presence. However, I saw that I was being watched, and if I was left out of something, I was certainly not being ignored.

After dinner, Martin walked me back to the bedroom. There, he finished releasing me from my bonds, before tying my right wrist to my right thigh and only then allowing me to use the bathroom for another five minutes:
- This way, you won't be tempted to use your right hand for anything that your left hand cannot do in five minutes.

I realized then that, even in the few and brief moments of privacy that I would be allowed, there would be one certain thing that I would not be able to do all week long...

However, I managed to use the toilet, to take a shower, washing myself as best I could, and to brush my teeth.

When naked and barely dried, I found him in the bedroom, he untied my wrist from my thigh. Then he made this wonderful gesture that I would never have dared to hope for: he took off his sweater and handed it to me so that I put it on directly on my skin. He handed me a spair of weatpant sas well, then tied my hands in front of me.

I felt so good in his sweater and under his orders as well as under his protection that my crotch finally gave me away, especially as the pair of sweatpants was ineffective in hiding anything. Of course, he noticed:
- Oops, apparently we’re having a situation… Well, I wanted to bring you back with the others, but we’ll have to wait a little if we want to spare them this show. I'm going to leave you alone for a few minutes, while you try to think about something boring and I’ll take you with us when my pair of sweatpant no longer looks like a camping tent. But, two precautions are better than one ...

So saying, he took another rope, passed it around my already bound wrists and then around my chest, so that, although my hands were tied in front of me, they became completely unusable.

He helped me lie down on the bed and walked away, locking the door behind him.

Dressed in the sweater he had just taken off and which I was wearing next to my skin, and having my hands tightly tied in the recumbent position like a royal statue over a grave, thinking about something boring was not going to be easy.


Me tied down in the recumbent position


But precisely thinking of royal statues was effective enough. Eventually my erection subsided and when Martin came back he seemed to think I was showable.

I couldn't help but wonder what message he wanted to send the rest of the team by showing me off in that sweater everyone had seen him wearing to dinner. But maybe I was wrong: who else would notice it? who besides me cares who wears which sweater?

Everyone was seated with beer in hand. A good-sized fire began in the fireplace.

Martin made me sit down next to him, and made me drink his beer alternately with him.
- Well, guys, program for tomorrow: the two skiffs of four must be dismantled, cleaned and varnished. I want two volunteers per boat.
Four hands went up quickly.
- Two others will go shopping for food ...
- And for the beers, answered another
- Ok, and for the beers. And I keep the last two with me to tidy up the boat-house and to take care of our guest.
A debate followed, from which I quickly understood that if the option "take care of the guest" had been presented before, there would not have been so many volunteers to take care of the boats ...

- By the way, where are our rowing sweaters? They will have to be washed tomorrow so they’re fresh and dry before the end of the week.
Then, turning to me:
- This is our guest who will take care of this.

Wow! That too was a hell of a beautiful present he was giving me.
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Post by Axeljohansson »

This story is awesome, I love it. Keep on the good work :)
I like to be blindfolded when I’m tied up :)
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Chapter 7: Saturday night, bedtime

As the last glasses of beer were emptying and the last log was burning in the fireplace, Martin gave the signal to go to bed:
- Come on, everyone to bed. Be careful, I remind you that the box springs squeak. Remember whatever you do and who you do it with, even on your own.

Of course, I followed suit without him even asking me.

In the bedroom, he just untied the rope that kept my wrists pressed against my chest and gave me three minutes to brush my teeth and empty my bladder filled with beer. Then he put back the rope he had just untied.

He took off my pants himself, making me lean on one foot after another like a mother undressing her child. He helped me lie down on the bed, seemed to hesitate between different ways to make sure I didn't get anywhere, and eventually decided to tie my ankles together and to the bars of the bed, then put a rope around them. my chest, under my armpits and tie it behind bars above my head.

He in turn went to the bathroom and reappeared quite fresh for the night.
- Good night, little guy. Hope you feel good with us.

I was about to answer him when, his finger on my lips, he reminded me of the silence I had agreed to.

His head was barely one foot above mine, as if he was about to kiss me. My lips, which I parted under his, sent him a message explicit enough for him to smile and answer me in the tone of a rhyme:
- Kiss you, dear child, certainly not. But to offer you this ...

He let a bubble of saliva bead on his lips. Seeing that I opened my mouth in acquiescence, he let out a long stream of his saliva that still tasted fresh toothpaste and which I swallowed gratefully.

Greedy, I asked for more. Severe, he refused.


The Bubble

He wished me good night after an innocent kiss placed on my forehead; well, an innocent kiss that quite contrasted with the situation: I was wearing his sweater for which he was fully aware of my fetishism, tied up in his bed, and he had just let his saliva run down my throat.

After all, everyone calls an innocent kiss what they want, don’t they?
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Post by Boundcurious »

Excellent writing still :) I’m enjoying this! Martin is a sweetie pie!
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Chapter 8: Sunday morning

I woke up long before Martin. I had not slept much, but all in all quite well, and I felt refreshed. Unlike the morning before, I knew with no hesitation where I was and why I was tied up. As well as who was the great looking guy who was sleeping soundly next to me. I blessed my bonds without which it would have been difficult not to caress him, or even more.

It lasted a long time until he finally woke up. He too seemed to find it natural to have a guy next to him tied up from head to toes. It's true, after all, what's more normal?

He asked me if I had slept well. Remembering the rule of silence, I answered with a nod. He took the time to stretch in just about every possible direction, before loosening the ties that bound my feet and my shoulders to the bed, and helping me sit up. He untied me completely, made me undress and, once again, made sure I couldn't use my right hand for the five minutes he allowed me to use the bathroom.

When I was done, he picked up a clean teeshirt from his dresser, made me put on the pair of sweatpants I had already been wearing the day before and picked out a sweater from his wardrobe. I could tell he didn't choose at random. He opted for a red sailor sweater, those French sweaters that button up on the left shoulder. This was imbued with a fresh smell of cleanness. The wool of these sweaters is very tight, and anything but soft. In short, everything I love.

Finally, he dressed up himself, with a pair of jeans and a heavy ribbed dark blue turtleneck.

Before breakfast, he tied my hands in front, and I was allowed to use them to drink my coffee and eat my slices of bread, which he had admittedly buttered and spread with jam for me.

Then he took me to get a large wicker basket in which all the team's rowing sweaters were crammed. I knew we had to wash them, but if I could, I would have spent a few hours in that basket, buried under this fragrant wool.

He untied my hands so that I could carry the basket, and took a bag that he had brought down from his bedroom. He walked me out to a barn across a cobbled courtyard, behind the main house.

There were stored tools of all kinds, the use of which I could hardly have guessed, and, above all, in the middle, an imposing basin made of wooden slats assembled in the same way as a barrel. Or more exactly half a barrel. The basin was to be one meter in diameter and one in depth. Two garden hoses plunged into it finished filling it, one with cold water and the other with hot water. Apparently someone else had been asked to prepare the basin.


The cider press, some time before it was converted into a sweater washing machine

Martin put his bag next to the basin and dipped a hand into the water to check the temperature. This seemed satisfactory to him. He turned off the taps that fed the pipes and rolled them up to store them.

Hhe took the rowing sweaters out of the giant basket. Nine in total. He inspected each of them, especially the inside of the neckline where a tag was sewn with its owner's name.

When he identified his own, he handed it to me:
- Mine, I want you to wash it on yourself. Come on, take off your clothes, even if they’re actually mine, put that on, grab the soap and get into the cider press.

That was what the basin was, or had been before it was turned in something I was supposed to jump into wearing my captor's sweater and about to wash it and eight others.

I did what I was told, and of course, putting on that dirty jumper he had rowed and sweated in, and in which I had also spent a night, did not leave me indifferent. But the barely tepid temperature of the water (wool must be washed in cold or lukewarm water, in case you're interested) made my arousal pretty much invisible.

So I started to soap the wool on me. It was getting heavier and heavier and clinging to my body in a way that was both unpleasant and exciting. I rinsed it, still on me, then made the gesture of taking it off. Martin motioned for me to keep it on me and tossed the other sweaters at me, one after the other, giving me time to wash, rinse and wring them well.

When he had the last sweater in hand, he undid the tag with a pair of dressmaking scissors:
- This one will be yours. When a rower leaves the team, he leaves his sweater to his successor. Now take off mine and put on yours so I can find out how it looks on you. You'll have to sew your tag on it.

Taking off Martin’s waterlogged sweater was no easy task. I made sure to wring it out well before putting mine on my wet body. It was difficult in these conditions to tell if it fitted me or not, but Martin seemed to be satisfied:
- Perfect, wash it on yourself, since this one too, you will wear it often.

That last sentence, which he accompanied with a wink, made me blush. Something was really going on.

Anyway, the jumper certainly needed to be washed. I would probably never know its previous owner, my predecessor, but the latter had chemical factories where you and I have sweat glands.

After I had washed what would become my own rowing sweater, I got out of the water that had become soapy, took off the soggy garment, wrung it out, and put it to drip with the others on the edge of the basin. Hoping that I had got it rid of his foul odor. Martin took a towel out of his bag to dry me off. Then I put my – well, his - dry clothes back on again and we piled the still soaked sweaters into the basket.

Next to the cider press was a ladder that Martin made me climb before passing me the basket through the trap door and joining me. The place we were in was a sort of attic cluttered with a complicated frame. Shelves made of spaced wooden bars were arranged along the length of the attic: this is probably where, in the old days, apples were left to ripen. Martin and I spread the sweaters out on the shelves. Openings at each end of the attic let a current of air flow through which the apples ripened faster and the sweaters would dry faster too.

The attic above the barn

Within moments, though, the place was filled with that rich smell of wet wool. I thought Martin had understood how much I liked it. Anyway, that's what I thought when I saw his smile.

But I quickly realized that this smile hid something else. He indeed pushed me gently but firmly against a vertical beam of the frame. It was quite easy for me to imagine what was to follow.

From his bag, he pulled out several coils of rope. He attacked my ankles first, tying them to the mast. Then he progressed from bottom up: knees, thighs pelvis… I felt myself swallowed up by a slowly rising tide of ropes, Martin checking every stage of his work with the same care as a NASA engineer checking every stage of his launcher. Or even better. And it was not before ten or fifteen minutes later that I was tied up from toes to shoulders.

Much to my disappointment, he didn’t use the sweater he was wearing to wrap my head. Instead, he sealed my lips with tape and blindfolded me with a scarf. At least, the scarf was also in wool, but hey...

The good thing was that the scarf didn't clog my nostrils and let me fully enjoy the scent of nearly ten thick, dripping woolen sweaters. I filled my lungs with relish, knowing that among them was Martin's and the one soon to be mine.

Martin gently patted me on the shoulder before stepping back down and letting the trap door fall on him. I found myself once again alone and strictly tied up. As on the bench, I experienced again this unrivaled, unmatched, unmistakable feeling of being secured to a fixed support, which is way above just being tied up. Much more intense. I tested my bonds, but mostly for the pleasure of testing their strength. I knew I had no chance to break free, and that was fine with me.

How long was it before I heard someone walk into the barn and then the trap door being lifted? I first thought it was lunch time and Martin was coming to free me.

Wrong!

Instead, I felt a hand move over me, first over my chest and then over my crotch. The hand ventured under my sweatpants and did a good job there. Not sure who was giving me this treatment - Martin or another, maybe the one who had visited me in the locker room on my first night in captivity -, I tried to resist the mounting excitement. The hand paused for a moment, and both my nostrils were crushed. Not being prepared for it, and my lips hermetically sealed, it only took a few seconds for me to start choking. So only one finger released only one nostril, below which had been placed a vial of poppers. I took a deep breath of it before both of my nostrils were blocked again. This was reproduced several times, to the point of making me drowsy, after which I was given a break during which I felt the guy move, move air, take off a piece of clothing. He resumed his vicious game, pinching my nose even longer: the last inhalation was therefore even deeper, more desperate, more abundant, and he amplified its effect by crushing some cloth over my face. I immediately recognized this to be a sweater, therefore the one he had just taken off. Did he, too, know about my fetishism, or was he just using his sweater quite utilitarian to control my breathing? Either way, breathing control and fetishism did their work, and my excitement, again encouraged by his hand, touched dangerous heights. So the hand would stop, everything would stop, the sweater would disappear. Then it all started again.

How many times has he manhandled me like this? Three, four times ?

This edging was torture. It ended of course without relieving me, when I felt my torturer move again, move more air, probably put on his sweater, before hearing the trap door reopen and close.

The ordeal left me exhausted, panting, an unbearable tension in my crotch. Was I going to be able to endure daily edging for seven days in a row, without a moment to relieve myself? Did Martin know what was going on? Because, I was sure of this, it wasn't Martin: the sweater that had been pressed on my face wasn’t his heavy ribbed turtleneck.

Take my word for it: if there's anything I know, it's sweaters.
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Chapter 9: Sunday morning, continued

By the time I came back to my senses, my excitement subsided, I focused again on how I was feeling. Those links by which I was made one with the framework, as if I were part of it. The scarf whose wool tingled the surface of my eyelids, and especially the smell I was starting to get used to from all this wet wool dripping next to me. Then I got interested in the sounds to find my teammates bustling about in the yard; to what, I could not guess. Then Martin's voice, which I recognized above the others, and even more so when he announced the rest of the program:
- In a quarter of an hour, two hours of jogging and workout, then lunch, and this afternoon, we get over with the boats.

I knew that physical training was also part of my initiation week, and I hoped that I would be invited to join for these two hours of sport as well. Footsteps on the ladder and the sound of the trap door lifting led me to believe that it was Martin who was coming to release me. This time I was right.
- I guess you’ve heard what I’ve just said: two hours of sport. This goes for you too. Then he added with a wry tone: You might need it even more than the rest of us, since it seems you haven't moved much in the last few hours...

One by one, he untied the ties that stuck me to the beam, then the scarf that was blindfolding me and unceremoniously tore the adhesive that covered my mouth.
- You’re already wearing what you need to run; just leave my jumper here. Stretch your legs and join us in the yard in ten minutes.

Indeed, I had my sports shoes on my feet (which I was wearing when I joined them on Friday evening), and the sweatpants and the t-shirt would be perfect for this hour of sport.

When I went down, after having stretched my legs that definitely needed it, I felt happy to do an activity with my teammates, the first since the rowing tests I had done with them a few weeks before. But at the same time, I felt intimidated to do something normal with them when, for almost twenty-four hours, they had only seen me restrained and mute. Restrained, I no longer was, but mute, I remembered that I had to remain.

They were all there, some tying their shoes, others warming up. Without giving me time to worry or feel uncomfortable, Martin gave the signal to start and the group rushed out of the yard.

Right away, the same two between whom I had been sitting in the car the day before moved to either side of me, slightly back, making it clear that I would remain under close surveillance while running. A sensation after all very exciting too, that of supervised freedom. One of them told me:
- Run at your own pace, we’ll stick to yours.
I heard and felt their breath just behind me. I had no intention of doing so, but I imagined what would happen if I showed an intention to flee: they would quickly catch up with me, take control of me ... Besides, I had noticed that only they were carrying backpacks, light but sufficient to contain what would be needed to tie me up again.

The two hours of sport were intensive. Running in rough terrain, push-ups, pull-ups, triceps dips, crunches, in short everything that the paths we were running allowed. And not for a moment that I didn't feel the gaze of at least one of my guards on my shoulders. I found arising the idea that at the slightest step aside they would seize me and restrain me, but on the one hand I really wanted and needed to exercise; and above all, there was no question of me showing myself incapable to endure the ordeal.

I was also happy, even proud, to perceive in the eyes of my teammates, including my guards, a certain awe of my performance. My build was by far the weakest in the team, but as much my running as my push-ups, my crunches, and everything else, as well as my breath and my endurance, seemed to live up to their demands and to confirm that they had done well to enlist me in the team. Though, I still had a whole week to prove them the other dimensions of my endurance. Which, after what I had gone through again this morning, was not a given.

Back at the mansion, the shower was collective, at the garden hose that came out of the barn. Within seconds, the whole team were naked on the cobblestones of the courtyard, splashing cold water on each other. To my delight, I wasn't spared the splash: one of my guards attacked first and laughed heartily when I dared reply. The others joined him and I was arguably the best washed of the whole team. Clearly, I was fitting in.


One of the teammates in charge of the collective shower

Martin came down with a bunch of towels, which we shared, myself included; a sign of intimacy to which I was of course sensitive.

Everyone went up to their room to get dressed. Martin pulled me into his and there gave me clean underpants, a teeshirt and pair of sweatpants and, to my delight, the ribbed turtleneck he had worn that morning and that was still on his bed. Certainly, someone was going to notice that I always wore the sweater that Martin had worn just before...

I was allowed to eat unhindered, completely free to use my hands, and my legs even though I had no possibility nor desire to go anywhere.

TBC
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Post by george_bound »

Oh wow, there is something very hot about Martin's sweater being washed while worn by the protagonist! And the description of him being tied to the mast was wonderful! This story is progressing very well [mention]Paris_bondage[/mention] as I'm looking forward to more of his initiation into the fold.
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george_bound wrote: 3 years ago Oh wow, there is something very hot about Martin's sweater being washed while worn by the protagonist! And the description of him being tied to the mast was wonderful! This story is progressing very well @Paris_bondage as I'm looking forward to more of his initiation into the fold.
Thank you @George_bound, I'm glad you liked it.
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Chapter 10: Sunday Afternoon

The meal barely finished, as everyone got up and got ready to go to the boathouse to finish their work, Martin motioned for me to follow him. The backpack that never left him allowed no doubt that I would be spending the afternoon tied up. The only questions being where, how and for how long. To my surprise, he did not take me to his bedroom but made me climb the stairs to the upper floors. We passed the two floors of bedrooms to engage in a narrower staircase that led to the attic.

And what an attic! Even more than that of the barn, that of the main house was cluttered with a frame resembling a forest. Trunks piled up here and there seemed to contain the history of several generations of a Norman family. Martin moved several before sliding one across the middle of the floor. It was a ventilated trunk that must have been built to transport animals. I quickly guessed which animal was going to spend the afternoon in it.

Martin put down his bag, from which he took out everything he needed to tie me up. From another trunk he pulled out a pair of woolen blankets.
- Take off my sweater.
I didn't feel like taking off his sweater, which I felt good in, but I also liked the way his order reminded me that it was HIS sweater. Then he added:
- I don't think you'll need it. And believe me, even you will be glad you don't wear it.

He spread a blanket on the floor and invited me to lie on it.

To begin with, he tied each of my wrists to the corresponding thigh, so that, with my arms along my sides, I could not bring my hands back towards each other nor that neither could reach any other part of my body… The intention was clear.

Then he wrapped me in the blanket. Within a few turns, I felt like I was tight as in a cigar. Only my head barely protruded, the coarse wool tickling my nostrils. He spread out a second blanket, which he lined up next to the cylinder I was already forming, and rolled me in as well. The cigar was thickening, and I, inside, began to feel the warmth of those layers of wool. He was right, I couldn't have put up with his sweater for very long, even though I was sorry to see it lying uninhabited on the ground, a few centimeters away from my face, and I was craving to do something with it. Or, should I say and, with the one that Martin was wearing.

Then he began to bind me, at the height of my ankles, my knees, my arms and my shoulders.

Finally, he tilted the trunk so that its opening was placed vertically and made me roll into it. He rolled me so that I was face down, then tilted the trunk again. Which resulted in me being placed face up again. Satisfied with my entombment, he contented himself with a few wraps of tape around my mouth and neck to silence me. No sweater on my head this time either, although the one he was wearing inspired me the most. But when it came to wool, I had to admit that I had already been spoiled enough.

The lid closed on a sardonic smile from my captor. Then I heard padlocks locked on the trunk, and Martin's footsteps receding.

The vents were designed to allow air to circulate without letting in any light at all. Also, my eyes although not blindfolded could not perceive any source of light. I felt my pupils dilating as much as they could, only to perceive the most complete darkness. A very pleasant, very relaxing feeling.

The cylinder my body and the two blankets formed just fit the width of the trunk, so much so that no movement was allowed. And silence fell around me as if I were six feet under. Besides, didn't this trunk look strangely like a coffin?

Its relatively good ventilation though allowed me to breathe comfortably. And for once, I almost appreciated not having my head buried in that sweater that made me fantasize. So I did not take long to fall asleep peacefully, protected from everything, even, and that's what I liked about being deprived of my movements, protected from myself.

TBC
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Post by george_bound »

OK that was hot... both literally and figuratively! I'm assuming the thickness of the wraps hugging him were close to the width of the interior of the trunk so that he couldn't shift within? And the fact that the trunk is vented but doesn't allow light in is a bonus! Great chapter and continuation to this story... I look forward to the next installment :)
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Chapter 11: Sunday afternoon, continued

How long had I slept? No way to find out. When I awoke, the trunk lid was open, and Martin was leaning over my face. Around him were Vincent and the two guards, those who were around me yesterday in the car and who escorted me this morning during the two hours of sport. I could still see from the watch of one of the guards that it was close to 5 p.m.

As always, it was Martin who led the process:
- Before taking him down, what can we blindfold him with?

I noticed with interest that he was hardly the same whether he was alone with me or whether he was with the rest of the team. There he was talking about me as if I couldn't hear him, as if I were an animal or a piece of furniture. An animal or piece of furniture of which he would care the most, but however precious it was, an animal or piece of furniture that had no say, that one talked about but that one didn't talk to.

Martin looked around for something to blindfold me. Then he saw that I was looking at his sweater with greed; he had this slight movement of his lips that the others could not perceive, and he took off his sweater to lock my head in it, as he knew I loved so much. It was that navy ribbed turtleneck he'd worn this morning and then after workout. I amused myself internally, predicting that, according to the logic that seemed to prevail since the beginning of our game, since he had discovered my fetishism, it would not be long before I wear this same sweater.

One second later, Martin took over the ptocess:
- Distribute yourselves well to lift him. At three, we’re going. One two, three !

As a matter of fact, at “three”, I felt myself lifted, each of my captors grabbing one of the ropes that held me bound in the blankets. One at my feet, another at my arms, and a third at my shoulders. The fourth, probably Martin himself, held my head in his hands to protect it from any shock.

Even without seeing them do, I could quite imagine that they were proceeding like rescuers who’d lift a victim and put him on a stretcher. Except that, there, instead of putting me on a stretcher, they carried me like that, and I felt they were getting me down and out of the house. Once outside, I felt that I was deposited on a ladder. Then I was tied down to each rung of it, until I became one with it.

The ladder I was bound to

Once again, Martin’s voice:
- One two, three!

The ladder was promptly lifted and my porters carried it a few yards. There they straightened it up before letting it probably rest against a wall. Then I felt that people were bustling around me. Something complex was brewing. I was intrigued but of course confident. The laddder was moved again and rested against another support that was not quite vertical. More preparations, then Martin's voice again, coming from over my head:
- One two, three!

And at three, I did not understand what was going on. I felt myself hoisted up, heard and felt the ladder I was tied to slide like on rails, then be tipped horizontally and apparently rested on the floor. I had been taken up one floor, and it was the rich smell of dripping wool that made me understand where I was: in the attic, above the cider press, where the rowing sweaters of the team continued to dry.

I could hear again people bustling around me. I thought I recognized the sound of chains being handled, pulleys being adjusted. Moments later, the ladder was turned upside down, which put me in the uncomfortable position of lying on my stomach with the ladder tied on my back. But this didn’t last long: I felt indeed lifted off the ground and sway into the void. I was hoisted up again and again, then it stopped and through the few jerks that transmitted to my ladder, I realized that the ropes that had hoisted me were being secured. Good for me! Although I could see nothing, I imagined the scene very well: me tied up under a ladder that itself was hanging from the frame of the attic. The swing that had stopped almost immediately seemed to indicate that the ladder was very close to the pulleys.

TBC
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Axeljohansson wrote: 3 years ago This story is awesome, I love it. Keep on the good work :)
Merci !
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I like this story so much... so much creativity and exactness in how the narrator gets moved and repositioned from one place to the next! Being bound face down to a ladder suspended high in the rafters is so very hot!

Eagerly looking forward to the next chapter, please :D
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Chapter 12: Sunday Dinner Time

This time, there was no way I was going to fall asleep. Hanging from the frame of this barn was an experience I didn't want to miss a beat. The minimal jerks that my tight bondage allowed me to give to the ladder caused brief series of oscillations, both of their duration and amplitude limited by the immediate proximity of the pulleys. I tried to think back to the layout of the place to imagine how high I could find myself suspended. Three meters, maybe even four if I was suspended from the ridge beam.

The smell of the still soggy rowing sweaters was so rich it came to me distinctly even through the thick wool of the sweater Martin had locked my head in. Another, if not two more, great reasons not to fall asleep.

The weight of my body was distributed over as many ropes as my ladder had rungs. I was 1.80 m tall, the rungs of a ladder were spaced about 20 cm apart; those of you who remember the interval math exercises with the fence posts we were given in elementary school will know that my body was carried by 8 bars (not 9).

The sound of the hatch going up let me guess the end of my air travel, or my levitation experience, whatever you like. But no, it wouldn't be for now. Apparently only one person had climbed, and I knew that to get me down it would have taken the same four who had hoisted me up. So I had to expect my usual visitor to come back to torment me. And, indeed, I heard something being moved underneath me, which I later understood to be a stepladder, and then I felt a hand grab through the covers of my protruding erection. His gestures set the whole system in motion, which only increased the excitement. Another hand kneaded my head, not caring too much about what his fingers might grind. The layers of thick wool of Martin's sweater were not too much to keep my eyes from popping out of their sockets with that anything but delicate facial massage.

As usual, the hand that was on my crotch paused at the worst times, leaving me panting, my erection painfully squeezed by the covers. But the worst was yet to come. I heard a metallic noise before I realized that my torturer was cutting the layers of blankets in a strategic place with scissors. Then he opened my fly and with some difficulty extracted my turgid member and probably already dripping with pre-seminal fluid. And his hand continued its office, but this time with increased efficiency.

Although subject to a thunderstorm unparalleled on the tornado scale, my brain still managed to deduce that Martin was aware of what was going on. Indeed, he couldn't fail to notice the opening in the blanket. It was a big game changer ...

But hey, I didn't have much time to indulge in these reflections, not that useful anyway, as my torturer left me without respite. Or rather, gave me respites at the worst times, those respites I would have loved to do without.

After several rounds of this edging, respite proved to be the end of the ordeal, and I heard my torturer fold up his stepladder and close the trap door behind him. I realized then that he had left without putting my equipment away ... Which didn't have time to deflate before the hatch opened again. This time, it was Martin and his three sidekicks, who once again bustled around their art installation to take it apart. None commented on the change a visitor had allowed himself to make.

Once the ladder was dropped to the ground and turned over so that I was facing up again, I heard footsteps moving away but knew that Martin was still here. It was he who freed me from my bonds and blankets. I had the excruciatingly humiliating moment of having to put my gear in my pants and zip up my fly, under the sly gaze of my kidnapper.

Contrary to what I had anticipated, he did not make me put on the sweater he had wrapped my head in. Instead, he removed the one he was wearing to pass it to me, and himself put on the one in which I had just had this anything but delicate facial massage. If anyone on the team was interested in tracking the use of his sweaters, they wouldn't understand much.

Once again, I was allowed to dine unimpeded. At least four of my teammates had seen me all the machinery out, five if my torturer wasn't one of them. But no one hinted at it. I remembered that everyone had gone through the same ordeal.

When dinner was over, the evening was prolonged around the fireplace. Temperature was warm, but no one will be surprised that I wanted to keep Martin's sweater on. And Martin, by the way, also kept his own, while all the other teammates were in t-shirts.

Martin announced the agenda for the next day:
- Two hours of exercise before lunch, then putting the boats afloat and two hours of training on the river in the afternoon.

With a single glance, Martin told me it was time to go to bed. The same ritual as the day before took place, from my right hand tied to my right thigh while I wash myself, to the mummification for the night and the rhyme:
- Kiss you, dear child, certainly not. But to offer you that ...

TBC
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