I have added some illustrations to help you get into my fantasies.
Of course I complied with [mention]bondagefreak[/mention] requirements about posting photos.
Rowers, Ropes And Sweaters (M+/M): Penultimate chapter added, 29 Nov.
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Paris_bondage
- Centennial Club
- Posts: 101
- Joined: 3 years ago
- Location: Paris, France
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Paris_bondage
- Centennial Club
- Posts: 101
- Joined: 3 years ago
- Location: Paris, France
Chapter 13: Monday morning
This time, unlike the day before, it was Martin who woke me up. When I opened my eyes I saw him leaning over me as he was still shaking my shoulder to get me out of my dreams, I was surprised to see him dressed in a suit and tie.
- I have to go back to Paris for the week. I will be back on Friday evening. In the meantime, Vincent will take care of you. Go back to sleep, it's still very early.
I must have looked desperate, for Martin delayed his movement to leave and remained seated on his bed, leaning over my face.
- Do not be sad: in four sleeps, I will be back.
I was about to say goodbye to him, but with a finger to his lips and then to mine, he reminded me of my vow of silence. Then he gave his smile that no one normally constituted could resist. His lips parted, and the bubble that came out broke in a flood of saliva with the fresh scent of toothpaste, more abundant than the previous evenings, as if he had to give me enough to drink for the next five days. Finally, he picked up his sweater that he had dropped on the floor while undressing the night before, and simply smeared it over my face. I felt the bed react as he stood up, I heard his footsteps, then the door open and close behind him, and the key turn in the lock. The idea that he was probably going to give Vincent the key to the room he had just locked me in didn't displease me. With the sadness of knowing Martin away for the week was mingled the interest Vincent aroused in me.
Plunged into darkness again under Martin's thick woolen sweater, and my mouth still filled with the minty taste of his saliva, I fell asleep again shortly after hearing, below the window, the engine of Martin's car start and its tires screeching on the gravel of the driveway.
I was in a dream in which Martin, in a suit and tie, was taking me with him, when the sound of the key in the lock brought me back to reality. Vincent's footsteps, louder than Martin's, made their way to the bed, and the sweater lifted and thrown in one swift movement made me take the bright morning light right in my face.
- Okay, now the boss is me. It won't drastically change things: Martin left me some instructions for you. But I'm not Him, so you'll have to get used to me.
He began to untie me. As Martin had instructed him to, he tied my right wrist to my right thigh and gave me five minutes to wash myself and do whatever I had to do in the bathroom and the toilet. Five minutes is a short time, but "in Martin's time", as I found myself thinking, It seemed okay to me, whereas now I would have wanted to ask for more time. Of course, I abstained from it.
When I got out of the bathroom, Vincent had already dug out some clothes for me from Martin's things: boxer shorts, sweatpants, t-shirts and sweatshirts were stacked on the bed. No sweater: that, apparently, had stayed between Martin and me. He untied my wrist and let me get dressed under his close supervision. Then, with one hand, which he closed around my neck, he guided me to the dining room where I could have my breakfast with the rest of the team.
Apparently, I wasn't the only one who regretted Martin's absence. The mood was not the same. Vincent appeared to be playing his role of interim leader very well, but the interim was more visible than the leader.
The morning unfolded like that of Sunday: two hours of sport during which I was again escorted by my two usual guards but also by Vincent, who seemed decided not to take his eyes off me. He did take his role very seriously, but he didn't act Martin's way at all. Even when he did the same things, it was not the same. He actually took his role seriously, but with him it was a role while with Martin it was natural. Everything about Vincent was more abrupt. Only awkwardness, no violence, but an abruptness that made me regret Martin's smoothness.
Even though I had less enthusiasm, I gave the best of myself and showed the rest of the team performances that lived up to their expectations. But the heart was not quite there.
During a break, I took a few steps away from the group to go and relieve my bladder in the woods. Vincent got up to follow suit, when one of my two guards called out to him:
- It's okay, let it go, he's not going anywhere, we know him now.
- I'm following Martin's instructions. I’m responsible for him, not you.
The guy looked at me, obviously sorry, and I had to piss with Vincent two steps behind me. I am one of those who cannot pee when they know they are being watched or even waited for. Therefore, it took me a few seconds before it came. A few seconds that could make the other think that in truth, I did not need to pee, increasing the suspicion, and further making my difficulty in peeing even worse...
Back at the farm, the shower was collective, like the day before. But it was Vincent who watered me and handed me a towel, depriving me of the happy game of the day before. So no one played, the shower was sad, and one of the rowers even decided to take his shower in his bathroom, imitated by a few others.
Something was broken!
TBC
This time, unlike the day before, it was Martin who woke me up. When I opened my eyes I saw him leaning over me as he was still shaking my shoulder to get me out of my dreams, I was surprised to see him dressed in a suit and tie.
- I have to go back to Paris for the week. I will be back on Friday evening. In the meantime, Vincent will take care of you. Go back to sleep, it's still very early.
I must have looked desperate, for Martin delayed his movement to leave and remained seated on his bed, leaning over my face.
- Do not be sad: in four sleeps, I will be back.
I was about to say goodbye to him, but with a finger to his lips and then to mine, he reminded me of my vow of silence. Then he gave his smile that no one normally constituted could resist. His lips parted, and the bubble that came out broke in a flood of saliva with the fresh scent of toothpaste, more abundant than the previous evenings, as if he had to give me enough to drink for the next five days. Finally, he picked up his sweater that he had dropped on the floor while undressing the night before, and simply smeared it over my face. I felt the bed react as he stood up, I heard his footsteps, then the door open and close behind him, and the key turn in the lock. The idea that he was probably going to give Vincent the key to the room he had just locked me in didn't displease me. With the sadness of knowing Martin away for the week was mingled the interest Vincent aroused in me.
Plunged into darkness again under Martin's thick woolen sweater, and my mouth still filled with the minty taste of his saliva, I fell asleep again shortly after hearing, below the window, the engine of Martin's car start and its tires screeching on the gravel of the driveway.
I was in a dream in which Martin, in a suit and tie, was taking me with him, when the sound of the key in the lock brought me back to reality. Vincent's footsteps, louder than Martin's, made their way to the bed, and the sweater lifted and thrown in one swift movement made me take the bright morning light right in my face.
- Okay, now the boss is me. It won't drastically change things: Martin left me some instructions for you. But I'm not Him, so you'll have to get used to me.
He began to untie me. As Martin had instructed him to, he tied my right wrist to my right thigh and gave me five minutes to wash myself and do whatever I had to do in the bathroom and the toilet. Five minutes is a short time, but "in Martin's time", as I found myself thinking, It seemed okay to me, whereas now I would have wanted to ask for more time. Of course, I abstained from it.
When I got out of the bathroom, Vincent had already dug out some clothes for me from Martin's things: boxer shorts, sweatpants, t-shirts and sweatshirts were stacked on the bed. No sweater: that, apparently, had stayed between Martin and me. He untied my wrist and let me get dressed under his close supervision. Then, with one hand, which he closed around my neck, he guided me to the dining room where I could have my breakfast with the rest of the team.
Apparently, I wasn't the only one who regretted Martin's absence. The mood was not the same. Vincent appeared to be playing his role of interim leader very well, but the interim was more visible than the leader.
The morning unfolded like that of Sunday: two hours of sport during which I was again escorted by my two usual guards but also by Vincent, who seemed decided not to take his eyes off me. He did take his role very seriously, but he didn't act Martin's way at all. Even when he did the same things, it was not the same. He actually took his role seriously, but with him it was a role while with Martin it was natural. Everything about Vincent was more abrupt. Only awkwardness, no violence, but an abruptness that made me regret Martin's smoothness.
Even though I had less enthusiasm, I gave the best of myself and showed the rest of the team performances that lived up to their expectations. But the heart was not quite there.
During a break, I took a few steps away from the group to go and relieve my bladder in the woods. Vincent got up to follow suit, when one of my two guards called out to him:
- It's okay, let it go, he's not going anywhere, we know him now.
- I'm following Martin's instructions. I’m responsible for him, not you.
The guy looked at me, obviously sorry, and I had to piss with Vincent two steps behind me. I am one of those who cannot pee when they know they are being watched or even waited for. Therefore, it took me a few seconds before it came. A few seconds that could make the other think that in truth, I did not need to pee, increasing the suspicion, and further making my difficulty in peeing even worse...
Back at the farm, the shower was collective, like the day before. But it was Vincent who watered me and handed me a towel, depriving me of the happy game of the day before. So no one played, the shower was sad, and one of the rowers even decided to take his shower in his bathroom, imitated by a few others.
Something was broken!
TBC
-
Paris_bondage
- Centennial Club
- Posts: 101
- Joined: 3 years ago
- Location: Paris, France
Chapter 14: Monday Lunch Time And Afternoon
Vincent escorted me to his room. That too was a change I hadn't anticipated: I would no longer sleep in Martin's bed, where I had grown used to his scent. In this room were two beds. Both were undone, which meant they were both used. I realized where I was going to sleep when I saw, wedged between one of the beds and the window, a military camp bed that looked like it was from WWII, with a sleeping bag rolled up on it.
The military camp bed due to become my bed
My interim captor leaned over a bundle of dirty clothes piled up on his bed and chose what he was going to lend me:
- I have just enough clothes for the week; until Martin's comes back, you'll have to wear my dirty clothes.
Before handing them to me, he sniffed them and added:
- Don't complain, I'm not the dirtiest guy on the team, I shower daily and wear my clothes for one day only.
The bundle of Vincent's dirty clothes
Ok, Wearing Martin's clothes turned me on: they all smelled clean, except for his sweaters, which smelled good but had his own scent; besides, sweaters are not clothes you wear on your skin. And then it was Martin, and it was his sweaters… Whereas wearing the underwear, the T-shirt and the shirt that Vincent had worn the day before or the day even before was just both disgusting and humiliating. It made me feel like I stank, even though, objectively, her clothes didn't stink.
It took me a while to overcome this disgust. Vincent noticed it, and I think I can say he liked it:
- Come on, don't be such a sissy, we're not going to spend the day at this.
I swallowed my pride and did what I was told. Did I have a choice?
Then Vincent took a string from his bag and mimed the gesture of placing my joined wrists forward. I was about to protest, but remembered my vow of silence, and again I complied. An instant later, my wrists were tightly bound together, palm to palm, and so, wearing my captor's dirty clothes and hands tied in front of me, I was escorted into the dining room.
Our entry was greeted by a deafening silence, which one of the rowers finally dared to break:
- Why the fuck did you tie him up again? He's been having his hands free for several meals!
- During my initiation week, I ate all meals with my hands tied. And even more often in the back. So if you insist, I'll tie them behind his back.
An even more icy silence followed. The one who had dared to confront Vincent took his plate and left the table. Vincent shouted at him:
- You come back and sit down and eat at the table.
- Fuck you, we're not in the army, I do whatever I want. You give me orders on the boat, but everywhere else you're going to fuck yourself.
Three others followed suit, among them my two guards. A majority had risen against the interim leader. It couldn't last long like this, otherwise we were going to replay Mutiny on the Bounty!
The meal was quickly swallowed, in the mood one would imagine. Then Vincent escorted me into the bathroom to brush my teeth and use the toilet. Before leaving me alone, he untied my hands and tied my right wrist to my thigh again:
- I'm not going to let you jerk off, that's part of the deal.
Martin did the same, but he had the tact not to mention this. Anyway, all the excitement was gone, and even my hands free, I wouldn't have done a thing, if it wasn't to kick Vincent in the face.
The next moment everyone was in the court ready for practice. Seeing the rebels, Vincent called out to them:
Well then, we deflate? Are we giving up our little coup?
One of my guards replied:
Shut up. You steer the 8X because yell at orders is what you do best, but otherwise, you close your fucking big mouth.
It was in this atmosphere that we walked down to the boathouse and pontoon, after changing into sports clothes. For my part, I was happy to leave Vincent's dirty clothes. To row, I put on the clothes I had worked out in in the morning.
Despite the disagreement that had developed within the team, we managed to launch the boat as stylishly as a team from Oxford or Cambridge, got on board and began our warm-up. I was placed in first position, just in front of Martin who was steering. So he could watch me, as if I was going to escape the gig. Most importantly, I was the one who set the pace and whose slightest mistake would trickle down to the whole team. In competition, this place was reserved for the most experienced; Entrusting it to me in training was, I must admit, very educational.
Behind me was one of my guards, who shouted loudly at me:
- Consider yourself lucky he didn't tie you to your oar like on a galley.
Everyone burst out laughing, except Vincent, and another rower started a song of galley slaves, which everyone resumed in chorus. Me included, but again not Vincent. Here I was, singing face to face with him, who clenched his teeth, noticing that I was giving the team the right rhythm.
When, after several lengths of warm-up, we finally set off on a timed length, we gave it our all. Also, the time announced by Vincent was such that we all let go of our oar to applaud ourselves. And I knew that much of the applause was meant for me. Like in the morning practice, I had shown them what I was capable of, especially after the humiliation I had endured.
The mood was more relaxed when we stowed the boat into the boathouse and returned home, tired and happy. Vincent escorted me to the bathroom, where I was treated to the anti-onanist method again. When I left, I moved to the side next to him to ask him to release me. Instead he pulled out another string, clamped my left wrist to my left thigh and tied it the same way as the right one.
- We won't have dinner before at least two hours. In the meantime, I'll let you think about who's boss.
I looked at him, puzzled. He pushed me over to the cot, on which he had unrolled the sleeping bag. I saw that it was a bag not only intended for winter, but probably for polar expeditions in winter. More of a sarcophagus than a sleeping bag.
The sleeping bag due to become my next prison
He made me lie in it, pulling the zipper up to my waist first. Already my legs were squeezed in the bag. He checked the knots that tied my wrists to my thighs, before pulling the zipper up, just under my chin. Then he tightened the laces that closed the hood, leaving only a hole above my face through which only my eyes and nose appeared. Finally, he took some ropes from his backpack with which he tied the bag on the cot, at the height of my ankles, knees, pelvis and shoulders.
- Well, gentleman, you have two hours to meditate on authority. I collect your paper at the end of the test.
Vincent escorted me to his room. That too was a change I hadn't anticipated: I would no longer sleep in Martin's bed, where I had grown used to his scent. In this room were two beds. Both were undone, which meant they were both used. I realized where I was going to sleep when I saw, wedged between one of the beds and the window, a military camp bed that looked like it was from WWII, with a sleeping bag rolled up on it.
The military camp bed due to become my bed
My interim captor leaned over a bundle of dirty clothes piled up on his bed and chose what he was going to lend me:
- I have just enough clothes for the week; until Martin's comes back, you'll have to wear my dirty clothes.
Before handing them to me, he sniffed them and added:
- Don't complain, I'm not the dirtiest guy on the team, I shower daily and wear my clothes for one day only.
The bundle of Vincent's dirty clothes
Ok, Wearing Martin's clothes turned me on: they all smelled clean, except for his sweaters, which smelled good but had his own scent; besides, sweaters are not clothes you wear on your skin. And then it was Martin, and it was his sweaters… Whereas wearing the underwear, the T-shirt and the shirt that Vincent had worn the day before or the day even before was just both disgusting and humiliating. It made me feel like I stank, even though, objectively, her clothes didn't stink.
It took me a while to overcome this disgust. Vincent noticed it, and I think I can say he liked it:
- Come on, don't be such a sissy, we're not going to spend the day at this.
I swallowed my pride and did what I was told. Did I have a choice?
Then Vincent took a string from his bag and mimed the gesture of placing my joined wrists forward. I was about to protest, but remembered my vow of silence, and again I complied. An instant later, my wrists were tightly bound together, palm to palm, and so, wearing my captor's dirty clothes and hands tied in front of me, I was escorted into the dining room.
Our entry was greeted by a deafening silence, which one of the rowers finally dared to break:
- Why the fuck did you tie him up again? He's been having his hands free for several meals!
- During my initiation week, I ate all meals with my hands tied. And even more often in the back. So if you insist, I'll tie them behind his back.
An even more icy silence followed. The one who had dared to confront Vincent took his plate and left the table. Vincent shouted at him:
- You come back and sit down and eat at the table.
- Fuck you, we're not in the army, I do whatever I want. You give me orders on the boat, but everywhere else you're going to fuck yourself.
Three others followed suit, among them my two guards. A majority had risen against the interim leader. It couldn't last long like this, otherwise we were going to replay Mutiny on the Bounty!
The meal was quickly swallowed, in the mood one would imagine. Then Vincent escorted me into the bathroom to brush my teeth and use the toilet. Before leaving me alone, he untied my hands and tied my right wrist to my thigh again:
- I'm not going to let you jerk off, that's part of the deal.
Martin did the same, but he had the tact not to mention this. Anyway, all the excitement was gone, and even my hands free, I wouldn't have done a thing, if it wasn't to kick Vincent in the face.
The next moment everyone was in the court ready for practice. Seeing the rebels, Vincent called out to them:
Well then, we deflate? Are we giving up our little coup?
One of my guards replied:
Shut up. You steer the 8X because yell at orders is what you do best, but otherwise, you close your fucking big mouth.
It was in this atmosphere that we walked down to the boathouse and pontoon, after changing into sports clothes. For my part, I was happy to leave Vincent's dirty clothes. To row, I put on the clothes I had worked out in in the morning.
Despite the disagreement that had developed within the team, we managed to launch the boat as stylishly as a team from Oxford or Cambridge, got on board and began our warm-up. I was placed in first position, just in front of Martin who was steering. So he could watch me, as if I was going to escape the gig. Most importantly, I was the one who set the pace and whose slightest mistake would trickle down to the whole team. In competition, this place was reserved for the most experienced; Entrusting it to me in training was, I must admit, very educational.
Behind me was one of my guards, who shouted loudly at me:
- Consider yourself lucky he didn't tie you to your oar like on a galley.
Everyone burst out laughing, except Vincent, and another rower started a song of galley slaves, which everyone resumed in chorus. Me included, but again not Vincent. Here I was, singing face to face with him, who clenched his teeth, noticing that I was giving the team the right rhythm.
When, after several lengths of warm-up, we finally set off on a timed length, we gave it our all. Also, the time announced by Vincent was such that we all let go of our oar to applaud ourselves. And I knew that much of the applause was meant for me. Like in the morning practice, I had shown them what I was capable of, especially after the humiliation I had endured.
The mood was more relaxed when we stowed the boat into the boathouse and returned home, tired and happy. Vincent escorted me to the bathroom, where I was treated to the anti-onanist method again. When I left, I moved to the side next to him to ask him to release me. Instead he pulled out another string, clamped my left wrist to my left thigh and tied it the same way as the right one.
- We won't have dinner before at least two hours. In the meantime, I'll let you think about who's boss.
I looked at him, puzzled. He pushed me over to the cot, on which he had unrolled the sleeping bag. I saw that it was a bag not only intended for winter, but probably for polar expeditions in winter. More of a sarcophagus than a sleeping bag.
The sleeping bag due to become my next prison
He made me lie in it, pulling the zipper up to my waist first. Already my legs were squeezed in the bag. He checked the knots that tied my wrists to my thighs, before pulling the zipper up, just under my chin. Then he tightened the laces that closed the hood, leaving only a hole above my face through which only my eyes and nose appeared. Finally, he took some ropes from his backpack with which he tied the bag on the cot, at the height of my ankles, knees, pelvis and shoulders.
- Well, gentleman, you have two hours to meditate on authority. I collect your paper at the end of the test.
Last edited by Paris_bondage 3 years ago, edited 2 times in total.
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george_bound
- Centennial Club
- Posts: 330
- Joined: 3 years ago
- Location: Ontario, Canada
Oh well that was quite humiliating of Vincent to have the captive wear his dirty clothes 
And is a mutiny in the works, Vincent doesn't seem to be a happy camper!
Keep up the good work... looking forward to the next installment
And is a mutiny in the works, Vincent doesn't seem to be a happy camper!Keep up the good work... looking forward to the next installment
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Paris_bondage
- Centennial Club
- Posts: 101
- Joined: 3 years ago
- Location: Paris, France
Thank you! I'll do my best.george_bound wrote: ↑3 years ago Oh well that was quite humiliating of Vincent to have the captive wear his dirty clothes
Keep up the good work... looking forward to the next installment
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Paris_bondage
- Centennial Club
- Posts: 101
- Joined: 3 years ago
- Location: Paris, France
Chapter 15: Monday, dinner time
The two hours spent tied up in the sleeping bag seemed to last forever. The bag was too hot for the room temperature. In addition, after training, Vincent did not allow me to shower or change. So I felt like I was simmering slowly.
At the same time, I had to face the facts: the condition of my crotch clearly showed that the situation did not displease me completely. Certainly, Vincent was not Martin, far from it. But he too was devilishly sexy, and obviously being his prisoner turned me on too. This captivity, less protective than the harsher one Martin had imposed on me, awakened a different kind of feeling in me.
Just for the sake of testing my bonds, I struggled against them, knowing full well that the sleeping bag plus the ropes left me absolutely no way to free myself. This resulted in increasing my excitement, which didn't need it. I began to fear that a visitor would come again to torment me. But soon enough, that seemed unlikely to me: first, Vincent, on leaving, had locked the door and left with the key; then, I was not blindfolded, and I doubted my tormentor would have revealed himself.
This time, I was right, and I could only congratulate myself: had a hand barely brushed my crotch, even through the thick sleeping bag, I would have unloaded what already four days of abstinence had allowed me to store up.
I ended up letting myself go and enjoy my confinement. Relishing the cocoon and the stillness it imposed on me. And, finally, to find my captivity as secure as that imposed on me by Martin. Even if everything was between the two guys. And when I heard Vincent's footsteps and then the key play in the lock, I almost regretted the prospect of being released and going down to dinner. After all, I had good reason to prefer my super comfy bondage to what I anticipated - wearing Vincent's dirty clothes again, the humiliation of eating with your hands tied, and probably a nasty atmosphere at the table.
On all that, I was also right: Vincent allowed me a quick shower after having only untied my left wrist. Then he made me wear again his dirty clothes that I had already worn in the morning and, as for lunch, he tied my hands in front.
When the rest of the team saw us arriving, their reaction was immediate: they all stood up and left with their dinner plates in the kitchen. Vincent clenched his jaw and didn't react, pretending to ignore them. So I had to dine alone with him, without exchanging a word. The atmosphere was to die for.
Barely the last bite swallowed, back in the room. I was able to brush my teeth and go to the bathroom, still subjected to the same anti-onanic system. And Vincent pointed to the sleeping bag. It was only 9pm and I was already going to bed! But what else to do, given the atmosphere ...
I lay down on the open bag. Vincent tied me up the same way he did before dinner, closed the bag up to my chin. Then he took more ropes with which he tied the bag to the cot. Rope after rope, I found myself almost as tightly knit to my cot as I had been to the ladder in the barn or, the first night, to the bench in the locker room.
When he was satisfied with the result, he also went to the bathroom and came back, dressed in clean underpants and a T-shirt, and bringing back his dirty clothes from the day. He looked at me sourly and took his dirty underwear to put my head in them. I tried to pull myself away, but with two fingers he pushed the dirty, smelly fabric down. Before removing his fingers, he warns me:
- If you try to spit that out, you'll regret it.
I heard the sound of an adhesive being unrolled, and a moment later, he had rolled up several layers of it over my mouth and behind my neck, locking my head in his underwear, the part corresponding to his crotch half under my nose and half in my mouth.
In what state was I? Difficult to describe. Part of me felt miserable, humiliated. The other, once again, was betrayed by my crotch. Obviously, the thickness of the sleeping bag must have concealed my that part. So when Vincent put his hand on it, it wasn't because he saw it, but because he wanted to know what was going on there. Of course, it was his little triumph:
- That's what I thought: my little fagot likes it! What turns you on the most: being tied up or having my pants in your mouth?
The truth would have compelled me to say "Both"!
Fortunately, what followed prevented me from doing so. There was a knock on the door, and one of the rowers, the one who should have slept in the other bed, entered.
- I take my sheets and my blanket and I go down to sleep on the sofa.
I recognized the voice of the one who had already opposed Vincent. The latter did not even answer. I heard the other unravel his bed, then take a few steps around the bedroom. Eventually, I felt his hand on my shoulder:
- Good night, don't worry, we're here.
- You don't have to talk to him!
- I talk to whoever I want. He is also part of the team.
- No, he won't be part of the team until Sunday evening, if he holds up that far.
- Poor jerk, you really should have enlisted in the military.
Then the footsteps moved away, the door closed, and through the fabric of the boxers, I saw that Vincent had turned off the light.
So I was going to spend the night tied up in a thick sleeping bag, itself tied securely to a cot, my head locked in my kidnapper's dirty underwear, half of which had been tucked into my mouth.
To be continued...
The two hours spent tied up in the sleeping bag seemed to last forever. The bag was too hot for the room temperature. In addition, after training, Vincent did not allow me to shower or change. So I felt like I was simmering slowly.
At the same time, I had to face the facts: the condition of my crotch clearly showed that the situation did not displease me completely. Certainly, Vincent was not Martin, far from it. But he too was devilishly sexy, and obviously being his prisoner turned me on too. This captivity, less protective than the harsher one Martin had imposed on me, awakened a different kind of feeling in me.
Just for the sake of testing my bonds, I struggled against them, knowing full well that the sleeping bag plus the ropes left me absolutely no way to free myself. This resulted in increasing my excitement, which didn't need it. I began to fear that a visitor would come again to torment me. But soon enough, that seemed unlikely to me: first, Vincent, on leaving, had locked the door and left with the key; then, I was not blindfolded, and I doubted my tormentor would have revealed himself.
This time, I was right, and I could only congratulate myself: had a hand barely brushed my crotch, even through the thick sleeping bag, I would have unloaded what already four days of abstinence had allowed me to store up.
I ended up letting myself go and enjoy my confinement. Relishing the cocoon and the stillness it imposed on me. And, finally, to find my captivity as secure as that imposed on me by Martin. Even if everything was between the two guys. And when I heard Vincent's footsteps and then the key play in the lock, I almost regretted the prospect of being released and going down to dinner. After all, I had good reason to prefer my super comfy bondage to what I anticipated - wearing Vincent's dirty clothes again, the humiliation of eating with your hands tied, and probably a nasty atmosphere at the table.
On all that, I was also right: Vincent allowed me a quick shower after having only untied my left wrist. Then he made me wear again his dirty clothes that I had already worn in the morning and, as for lunch, he tied my hands in front.
When the rest of the team saw us arriving, their reaction was immediate: they all stood up and left with their dinner plates in the kitchen. Vincent clenched his jaw and didn't react, pretending to ignore them. So I had to dine alone with him, without exchanging a word. The atmosphere was to die for.
Barely the last bite swallowed, back in the room. I was able to brush my teeth and go to the bathroom, still subjected to the same anti-onanic system. And Vincent pointed to the sleeping bag. It was only 9pm and I was already going to bed! But what else to do, given the atmosphere ...
I lay down on the open bag. Vincent tied me up the same way he did before dinner, closed the bag up to my chin. Then he took more ropes with which he tied the bag to the cot. Rope after rope, I found myself almost as tightly knit to my cot as I had been to the ladder in the barn or, the first night, to the bench in the locker room.
When he was satisfied with the result, he also went to the bathroom and came back, dressed in clean underpants and a T-shirt, and bringing back his dirty clothes from the day. He looked at me sourly and took his dirty underwear to put my head in them. I tried to pull myself away, but with two fingers he pushed the dirty, smelly fabric down. Before removing his fingers, he warns me:
- If you try to spit that out, you'll regret it.
I heard the sound of an adhesive being unrolled, and a moment later, he had rolled up several layers of it over my mouth and behind my neck, locking my head in his underwear, the part corresponding to his crotch half under my nose and half in my mouth.
In what state was I? Difficult to describe. Part of me felt miserable, humiliated. The other, once again, was betrayed by my crotch. Obviously, the thickness of the sleeping bag must have concealed my that part. So when Vincent put his hand on it, it wasn't because he saw it, but because he wanted to know what was going on there. Of course, it was his little triumph:
- That's what I thought: my little fagot likes it! What turns you on the most: being tied up or having my pants in your mouth?
The truth would have compelled me to say "Both"!
Fortunately, what followed prevented me from doing so. There was a knock on the door, and one of the rowers, the one who should have slept in the other bed, entered.
- I take my sheets and my blanket and I go down to sleep on the sofa.
I recognized the voice of the one who had already opposed Vincent. The latter did not even answer. I heard the other unravel his bed, then take a few steps around the bedroom. Eventually, I felt his hand on my shoulder:
- Good night, don't worry, we're here.
- You don't have to talk to him!
- I talk to whoever I want. He is also part of the team.
- No, he won't be part of the team until Sunday evening, if he holds up that far.
- Poor jerk, you really should have enlisted in the military.
Then the footsteps moved away, the door closed, and through the fabric of the boxers, I saw that Vincent had turned off the light.
So I was going to spend the night tied up in a thick sleeping bag, itself tied securely to a cot, my head locked in my kidnapper's dirty underwear, half of which had been tucked into my mouth.
To be continued...
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george_bound
- Centennial Club
- Posts: 330
- Joined: 3 years ago
- Location: Ontario, Canada
Hmmmm... that's not a bad way to spend the night!
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gaggedfeety
- Centennial Club
- Posts: 447
- Joined: 3 years ago
- Location: California, USA
I'm torn! The story is amazing, and I know the pledges/recruits on this team shouldn't be afraid and expect mistreatment, but Vincent makes me nervous. Martin was firm but playful, especially as he learned more of our friend's "interests".
But Vincent is really taking on the strict guard role. I would think that while recruits are pushed and challenged by their future teammates during this week, there is a sense of comradery and a desire to get to know one another. Everyone has gone through it, and I think everyone wants them to be a part of the team, hence the comments by the other teammates. But Vincent is really focused on the challenge/pledge week itself. Maybe he's recreating what he went through in the sense of being pushed and somewhat tormented; there wasn't much "leeway" with him so he's passing it along. But his comment about our friend maybe not making it is what makes me cautious. Other teammates are being reassuring, adding humor/comfort, but not Vincent.
I'm kinda hoping that either Martin returns soon or maybe there's a shift in who's in charge of watching our friend. I'm also hoping that he makes the team, but maybe gets to indulge in his interests with his new teammates...
But awesome continuation and I'm looking forward to the next chapter!!
But Vincent is really taking on the strict guard role. I would think that while recruits are pushed and challenged by their future teammates during this week, there is a sense of comradery and a desire to get to know one another. Everyone has gone through it, and I think everyone wants them to be a part of the team, hence the comments by the other teammates. But Vincent is really focused on the challenge/pledge week itself. Maybe he's recreating what he went through in the sense of being pushed and somewhat tormented; there wasn't much "leeway" with him so he's passing it along. But his comment about our friend maybe not making it is what makes me cautious. Other teammates are being reassuring, adding humor/comfort, but not Vincent.
I'm kinda hoping that either Martin returns soon or maybe there's a shift in who's in charge of watching our friend. I'm also hoping that he makes the team, but maybe gets to indulge in his interests with his new teammates...
But awesome continuation and I'm looking forward to the next chapter!!
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Paris_bondage
- Centennial Club
- Posts: 101
- Joined: 3 years ago
- Location: Paris, France
@gaggedfeety: Yes, there are many things at stake between Vincent, Martin and our friend. I'll have to sort this out. I'm soooo happy that you perceived all this, thank you so much for your post.
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Paris_bondage
- Centennial Club
- Posts: 101
- Joined: 3 years ago
- Location: Paris, France
Chapter 16: the night from Monday to Tuesday
I slept little that night. I was kept awake as much by the excitement of this strict bondage as the inextricable stakes surrounding my situation. What was Vincent playing at? Why was he pestering me at the risk of isolating himself from the whole team? What did Martin know about what was happening in his absence in his own home?
And above all, what should I do?
Protest? All my future teammates would understand me, but the rule was that any newcomer would not be admitted to the team for good until after they had gone through the initiation week without loosening their teeth. The question then arose: why was I so keen on joining this team? It was a prestigious team, of course. But this was not the only one, and its reputation as a Scout tradition was not working in its favor. Also, other equally well-ranked teams would have enlisted me if I had applied to them. But it was precisely his traditionalist aspect that appealed to me, even though, politically, I was downright progressive. I loved this scout heritage, having found the family I lacked in scouting myself. Here, I found again the scout rituals, in which the ropes also play their role; I even found the uniform, the white woolen sweater of the rowing team replacing the navy blue one of my sea scout troop. Here, I found again the protective authority of the chief, barely older than me, who, during the vigil around the campfire, took off his sweater and handed it to me, saying, without possible discussion: "You are not warmly dressed enough, you’re putting that on or you’re going back to your tent. "
For all these reasons, excluding me from the team was just not an option. Therefore, I was going to hang on.
What did Vincent want? I had no idea. Take revenge for what he himself had suffered when he was in my shoes? Assert himself as the chief in Martin’s absence? Or push me to failure because he didn't want me on the team? His attitude towards me during training precluded the latter assumption: he knew I was a good rower and that I could add something useful to the team. So the issue was more personal, and apparently it didn't even depend on me.
It was therefore best to grit my teeth: tomorrow would be Tuesday, only four days before Martin's return. I knew my physical integrity was not threatened, and I would do my business with my mental integrity.
What part did my excitement played in this reasoning? I'll never know, but neither will I pretend it didn't take any. Being Vincent's prisoner was a situation I would have dreamed of if I hadn't been Martin's just before. And I was in this situation, so I might as well take advantage of it. Except, with my hands tied to my thighs, I couldn't enjoy it the way I would have liked.
I finally managed to get to sleep. This poor-quality sleep when, with each movement, the sleeper is recalled to his condition as a tied packet.
When I woke up, I adopted the submissive attitude that Vincent expected. It seemed very natural to him. I was sorry however that others could find this natural too, but I knew that I would use the workouts of the day to show myself in a different light.
I slept little that night. I was kept awake as much by the excitement of this strict bondage as the inextricable stakes surrounding my situation. What was Vincent playing at? Why was he pestering me at the risk of isolating himself from the whole team? What did Martin know about what was happening in his absence in his own home?
And above all, what should I do?
Protest? All my future teammates would understand me, but the rule was that any newcomer would not be admitted to the team for good until after they had gone through the initiation week without loosening their teeth. The question then arose: why was I so keen on joining this team? It was a prestigious team, of course. But this was not the only one, and its reputation as a Scout tradition was not working in its favor. Also, other equally well-ranked teams would have enlisted me if I had applied to them. But it was precisely his traditionalist aspect that appealed to me, even though, politically, I was downright progressive. I loved this scout heritage, having found the family I lacked in scouting myself. Here, I found again the scout rituals, in which the ropes also play their role; I even found the uniform, the white woolen sweater of the rowing team replacing the navy blue one of my sea scout troop. Here, I found again the protective authority of the chief, barely older than me, who, during the vigil around the campfire, took off his sweater and handed it to me, saying, without possible discussion: "You are not warmly dressed enough, you’re putting that on or you’re going back to your tent. "
For all these reasons, excluding me from the team was just not an option. Therefore, I was going to hang on.
What did Vincent want? I had no idea. Take revenge for what he himself had suffered when he was in my shoes? Assert himself as the chief in Martin’s absence? Or push me to failure because he didn't want me on the team? His attitude towards me during training precluded the latter assumption: he knew I was a good rower and that I could add something useful to the team. So the issue was more personal, and apparently it didn't even depend on me.
It was therefore best to grit my teeth: tomorrow would be Tuesday, only four days before Martin's return. I knew my physical integrity was not threatened, and I would do my business with my mental integrity.
What part did my excitement played in this reasoning? I'll never know, but neither will I pretend it didn't take any. Being Vincent's prisoner was a situation I would have dreamed of if I hadn't been Martin's just before. And I was in this situation, so I might as well take advantage of it. Except, with my hands tied to my thighs, I couldn't enjoy it the way I would have liked.
I finally managed to get to sleep. This poor-quality sleep when, with each movement, the sleeper is recalled to his condition as a tied packet.
When I woke up, I adopted the submissive attitude that Vincent expected. It seemed very natural to him. I was sorry however that others could find this natural too, but I knew that I would use the workouts of the day to show myself in a different light.
Last edited by Paris_bondage 3 years ago, edited 1 time in total.
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gaggedfeety
- Centennial Club
- Posts: 447
- Joined: 3 years ago
- Location: California, USA
Literally all of thoughts in my head!! What is Vincent's intention??!! It has to be more personal; rowing is the epitome of team sports, where no one really stands out, so it doesn't make sense that Vincent's trying to deter him...but whatever he's doing, it could be at the cost of his play/relationship in the team. Was Vincent the one doing the teasing when our friend was blindfolded?? 
I'm hooked
I'm hooked
Very nice and creative bondage story. I'm liking it. Rowers are some of my favorite athletes
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Paris_bondage
- Centennial Club
- Posts: 101
- Joined: 3 years ago
- Location: Paris, France
Chapter 17: Tuesday early morning
After he got out of the bathroom, Vincent freed me from his sleeping bag and allowed me to use the toilet and take my shower, this time without taking the precaution of tying my right wrist to my right thigh. What I took at first as a sign of confidence. Error: the tyrant invited himself to attend my ablution. I acted as if it didn't bother me. Even better, instead of pissing with my back to him, I sat on the toilet seat, facing him, as if to shit, whereas I didn't need it, all while adopting the most submissive gaze that I had in my catalog. Then I went in the shower, still under his close supervision, and washed myself, being careful to spend on my private parts only the time strictly necessary.
Then he handed me a towel that was still damp, probably the one he himself had just dried off. I exaggerated my desperate look and dried myself off too. A minimum of honesty compels me to confess to you that my desperation was largely offset by the excitement of imagining where that towel I was carefully passing over my face had gone before. Unfortunately for me, what I admit to you in writing, my crotch confessed it too. What did not escape my tormentor's gaze:
- You really are a dirty little perverted faggot!
I accepted the compliment.
He handed me the clothes he had worn the day before. All: briefs, socks, shirt ... Once again I felt a certain pleasure in putting on these clothes which still carried his scent, in smelling on my skin these fabrics which had rubbed his all the day before. That too, he saw the proof by lowering his gaze, and repeated his compliment to me. Which I accepted again.
Besides, I was more than happy to see the clothes he was wearing and that he would logically make me wear the next day. He was indeed wearing a chunky heather sweater either next to his skin or over a T-shirt, and imagining myself in it added to my excitement.
The sweater Vincent was wearing and that he would logically make me wear the next day.
The greatest confusion reigned in my mind. I had a crush on Martin, that was clear. But Vincent, who had everything to make me hate him, everything except his looks, turned me on like hell.
With the greatest docility, I held out my wrists to him, like a prisoner facing the policeman who must handcuff him. A moment later, several turns of rope surrounded them and I was led to the dining room for breakfast. Unlike the previous days, it was empty. And the sounds coming from the kitchen indicated that this was where the rest of the team had folded up for their breakfast. When Vincent, leaving me alone, went there, the discussions ceased. He returned shortly after, carrying a tray loaded with both our breakfasts.
We both ate, in an atmosphere of immense sadness. I felt him distraught, overwhelmed by the situation, overwhelmed by his role as well. He was the one who tied me up, who made me wear his dirty clothes, who did his best to humiliate me, and I wanted to help him out of this impasse. He despised me as "a dirty little pervert faggot," and unlike Martin, he didn't inspire me any admiration, except for his looks; but something was forming between him and me. I think he and I both had just understood that we needed each other to get out of this situation.
The disbalance was blatant: I had no say, and my freedom of movement was severely limited, so he could do more or less what he wanted, as long as it stayed within the unwritten rules of the group. He was shrewd enough to understand that, although he turned me on, I had no regard for him. Therefore, he could believe that I would do anything to make him fail. Hence, I had to surprise him and show myself his ally. But what can do an ally who is silenced and has his hands tied? Little but not nothing. So I took the initiative to pile my bowl and his, our cutlery and our plates on the tray. Then I looked at him with a very discreet smile. From his expression, I understood that he was surprised and that my message had passed: we were, each in our respective roles, the two on whom everything was going to depend.
He looked like the one in charge again, but his tone was different:
- We need to go and see if the sweaters you and Martin have washed are dry, and put them in the locker room in the boathouse. Then we get the team together, well, I mean, I get the team together, and we do two hours of sports before lunch. This afternoon, we are training. We will take out the single scull to do individual timings.
We went upstairs to brush our teeth and go to the bathroom. This time, he left me alone. Admittedly, my hands were still tied in front of me, but in that position I could have used them for what was tacitly forbidden to me. But I wasn't in that disposition, and he must have sensed it. Then he untied me, and we returned to the barn.
Indeed, the sweaters were dry, and they smelled of clean, fresh wool. It took me something to resist the urge to put one one, perhaps the one vowed to become mine, but I felt that I shouldn't and I refrained.
When he saw that I was about to carry all nine sweaters, he took some of them, and we walked in silence to the boathouse, next to which was a locker room that I hadn't noticed the day before. Benches, coat hooks, high shelves, and a strong smell of wood and humidity. The cloakroom was in fact built above the river, which could be seen in places and above all the proximity of which one could feel through the disjointed slats of the floor. It seemed irrelevant to me to store clothes, especially woolen clothes, in such a humid atmosphere, but of course I kept my advice to myself.
Underneath each hook, a label indicated a first name, and Vincent told me to put each sweater on the shelf, in place of its holder. The label under one of the hooks did not have a name: I figured it would be mine and put the sweater Martin had unstitched the label on the shelf.
- It's only nine o'clock, I'm not going to get the team together before an hour, at the earliest. I'll let you wait here. Stay here, I'll be back in a minute.
He walked out of the locker room to the boathouse, came back with his arms loaded with coils of ropes and with a nod of his head, pointed to the pole in the middle of the room. Obediently, I leaned my back against the beam, a sturdy piece of wood square in section and about six inches square, and stretched my arms at my sides. Each of my wrists was wrapped in several turns of rope before being tied to the post. Another rope circled my chest and the post several times, encircling my arms and shoulders as well. Then it was the turn of my thighs and finally my ankles. He walked back into the boathouse and came back with a roll of tape, with which he gagged me several turns, some behind my neck and others squarely behind the post, welding my head to it.
When he seemed to be done, I desperately tried to get him to think about putting my head in a sweater. Either one of the ones we had just put away, or the one he was wearing. So I had the idea of turning my eyes frantically in all directions, as if I expected to find something around me that could help me free myself. It was totally illogical: even if scissors had been two inches away from me, I could’nt have reached them. But the message got across:
- I think I'll have to blindfold you. It'll keep you from looking for something that wouldn't do you any good anyway.
And he took the sweater that was to be assigned to me, folded it over my face and tied the sleeves behind the pole, squeezing tight so that my face was crushed under the thick layers of wool.
Did he know how much he was fulfilling my fantasy?
After he got out of the bathroom, Vincent freed me from his sleeping bag and allowed me to use the toilet and take my shower, this time without taking the precaution of tying my right wrist to my right thigh. What I took at first as a sign of confidence. Error: the tyrant invited himself to attend my ablution. I acted as if it didn't bother me. Even better, instead of pissing with my back to him, I sat on the toilet seat, facing him, as if to shit, whereas I didn't need it, all while adopting the most submissive gaze that I had in my catalog. Then I went in the shower, still under his close supervision, and washed myself, being careful to spend on my private parts only the time strictly necessary.
Then he handed me a towel that was still damp, probably the one he himself had just dried off. I exaggerated my desperate look and dried myself off too. A minimum of honesty compels me to confess to you that my desperation was largely offset by the excitement of imagining where that towel I was carefully passing over my face had gone before. Unfortunately for me, what I admit to you in writing, my crotch confessed it too. What did not escape my tormentor's gaze:
- You really are a dirty little perverted faggot!
I accepted the compliment.
He handed me the clothes he had worn the day before. All: briefs, socks, shirt ... Once again I felt a certain pleasure in putting on these clothes which still carried his scent, in smelling on my skin these fabrics which had rubbed his all the day before. That too, he saw the proof by lowering his gaze, and repeated his compliment to me. Which I accepted again.
Besides, I was more than happy to see the clothes he was wearing and that he would logically make me wear the next day. He was indeed wearing a chunky heather sweater either next to his skin or over a T-shirt, and imagining myself in it added to my excitement.
The sweater Vincent was wearing and that he would logically make me wear the next day.
The greatest confusion reigned in my mind. I had a crush on Martin, that was clear. But Vincent, who had everything to make me hate him, everything except his looks, turned me on like hell.
With the greatest docility, I held out my wrists to him, like a prisoner facing the policeman who must handcuff him. A moment later, several turns of rope surrounded them and I was led to the dining room for breakfast. Unlike the previous days, it was empty. And the sounds coming from the kitchen indicated that this was where the rest of the team had folded up for their breakfast. When Vincent, leaving me alone, went there, the discussions ceased. He returned shortly after, carrying a tray loaded with both our breakfasts.
We both ate, in an atmosphere of immense sadness. I felt him distraught, overwhelmed by the situation, overwhelmed by his role as well. He was the one who tied me up, who made me wear his dirty clothes, who did his best to humiliate me, and I wanted to help him out of this impasse. He despised me as "a dirty little pervert faggot," and unlike Martin, he didn't inspire me any admiration, except for his looks; but something was forming between him and me. I think he and I both had just understood that we needed each other to get out of this situation.
The disbalance was blatant: I had no say, and my freedom of movement was severely limited, so he could do more or less what he wanted, as long as it stayed within the unwritten rules of the group. He was shrewd enough to understand that, although he turned me on, I had no regard for him. Therefore, he could believe that I would do anything to make him fail. Hence, I had to surprise him and show myself his ally. But what can do an ally who is silenced and has his hands tied? Little but not nothing. So I took the initiative to pile my bowl and his, our cutlery and our plates on the tray. Then I looked at him with a very discreet smile. From his expression, I understood that he was surprised and that my message had passed: we were, each in our respective roles, the two on whom everything was going to depend.
He looked like the one in charge again, but his tone was different:
- We need to go and see if the sweaters you and Martin have washed are dry, and put them in the locker room in the boathouse. Then we get the team together, well, I mean, I get the team together, and we do two hours of sports before lunch. This afternoon, we are training. We will take out the single scull to do individual timings.
We went upstairs to brush our teeth and go to the bathroom. This time, he left me alone. Admittedly, my hands were still tied in front of me, but in that position I could have used them for what was tacitly forbidden to me. But I wasn't in that disposition, and he must have sensed it. Then he untied me, and we returned to the barn.
Indeed, the sweaters were dry, and they smelled of clean, fresh wool. It took me something to resist the urge to put one one, perhaps the one vowed to become mine, but I felt that I shouldn't and I refrained.
When he saw that I was about to carry all nine sweaters, he took some of them, and we walked in silence to the boathouse, next to which was a locker room that I hadn't noticed the day before. Benches, coat hooks, high shelves, and a strong smell of wood and humidity. The cloakroom was in fact built above the river, which could be seen in places and above all the proximity of which one could feel through the disjointed slats of the floor. It seemed irrelevant to me to store clothes, especially woolen clothes, in such a humid atmosphere, but of course I kept my advice to myself.
Underneath each hook, a label indicated a first name, and Vincent told me to put each sweater on the shelf, in place of its holder. The label under one of the hooks did not have a name: I figured it would be mine and put the sweater Martin had unstitched the label on the shelf.
- It's only nine o'clock, I'm not going to get the team together before an hour, at the earliest. I'll let you wait here. Stay here, I'll be back in a minute.
He walked out of the locker room to the boathouse, came back with his arms loaded with coils of ropes and with a nod of his head, pointed to the pole in the middle of the room. Obediently, I leaned my back against the beam, a sturdy piece of wood square in section and about six inches square, and stretched my arms at my sides. Each of my wrists was wrapped in several turns of rope before being tied to the post. Another rope circled my chest and the post several times, encircling my arms and shoulders as well. Then it was the turn of my thighs and finally my ankles. He walked back into the boathouse and came back with a roll of tape, with which he gagged me several turns, some behind my neck and others squarely behind the post, welding my head to it.
When he seemed to be done, I desperately tried to get him to think about putting my head in a sweater. Either one of the ones we had just put away, or the one he was wearing. So I had the idea of turning my eyes frantically in all directions, as if I expected to find something around me that could help me free myself. It was totally illogical: even if scissors had been two inches away from me, I could’nt have reached them. But the message got across:
- I think I'll have to blindfold you. It'll keep you from looking for something that wouldn't do you any good anyway.
And he took the sweater that was to be assigned to me, folded it over my face and tied the sleeves behind the pole, squeezing tight so that my face was crushed under the thick layers of wool.
Did he know how much he was fulfilling my fantasy?
It would be mine too.
Great work! I really enjoy your story.
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gaggedfeety
- Centennial Club
- Posts: 447
- Joined: 3 years ago
- Location: California, USA
Awesome continuation!!! It's interesting that he appears to be distraught by his actions and role. He doesn't have to be as strict and "harsh" and yet he chooses to...he's an enigma for sure and I can't wait to see where this goes. I feel like there's some dynamic between him, Martin, and our "captive"...
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Paris_bondage
- Centennial Club
- Posts: 101
- Joined: 3 years ago
- Location: Paris, France
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Paris_bondage
- Centennial Club
- Posts: 101
- Joined: 3 years ago
- Location: Paris, France
Chapter 18 : Tuesday morning, continued
His footsteps receded and I found myself alone, firmly attached to this post, dressed in the clothes Vincent had worn all the previous day, and my head wrapped in the fresh, clean wool of a chuncky sweater that I myself had washed. And, as you know, I liked it… Despite its hateful aspects, I liked being Vincent's prisoner more and more. Nothing to do with how I felt for Martin, but I felt like I was feeding off my own feelings for both. Had they been a couple, I would have been delighted to become their mutual lover.
Despite the intense excitement that my immediate situation gave me, I had to use these two hours to think about what was going on. If I acted proud, Vincent would take a nasty blow to me. And then he would give himself the means to discourage me before the end of the week. Conversely, if I acted too docile, first the risk would be that Vincent would see it as a maneuver, but above all I would lose the esteem of the rest of the team. Not to mention what Martin was probably learning, following the course of the week from wherever he was. So I had to play on a razor's edge.
The best strategy therefore seemed to no longer play on the ground of docility but on that of discipline. Take "like a man" the ordeal imposed on any candidate wishing to join this prestigious team, by putting in the same bag the sporting ordeal and that perpetuated by the scout tradition of the team. This was probably the only way to gain the esteem of both Vincent and the rest of the team. Of course it would have been much easier if there had been several candidates undergoing this initiation week simultaneously. But perhaps going through it alone was also part of the ordeal itself.
So I had set my strategy. I would have to choose the attitude that would serve it at all times. Also limited were my initiatives, silenced 24 hours a day and tied up most of the time, I was to let none go. The sports exercises were of course the time when I could play the best on this rope. This is what I had already done the day before, both during the morning jogging and the afternoon, on the eight, when, in first position, facing Vincent who steered, I knew how to give the right rhythm to the team. It would therefore be a crucial day to score points with Vincent and the rest of the team. The more they agreed with me, if for different reasons, the more I would be the one to restore the consistency of the team.
I have to admit that during those two hours my brain didn't just strategize. My thoughts escaped many times into dreamlike deliriums. Perhaps I had fallen into some sort of sleep, the bonds that welded me to the post making some form of upright sleep possible. Fortunately I received no visit and no hand came to venture between my bound legs. I write "very fortunately" because I know that at the slightest touch of my cock, I would have exploded and poured out the four days of reserves my seminal vesicles had stored up. Without keeping a detailed diary of my solitary activity, I think I can safely say that I was heading towards a historic abstinence record that I have never achieved since my first orgasm.
Which, moreover, took place in surprisingly similar circumstances, the summer of my twelve years, during a scout camp where, at the end of one of these games that the scout leaders organize as if they were themselves contributors of this forum, I had been taken prisoner by the opposing team. Before bringing me to their camp, one of my captors, who was the leader of the opposing troop, wanted his scouts to believe that I was one of theirs who had deserted. So, he made me wear his own sweater, the only element that distinguished our uniforms (I, being a sea scout, had of course a navy blue one, and he being a ranger, had a beige one), and so I could not to be indetified, he asked his friend to cover my head with the sweater he was wearing, after effectively gagging me with my scout scarf rolled into a ball in my mouth. When they arrived at the camp, they tied me to a tree in the center of their camp, gathered all the leaders of their troop and debated at length the punishment I should suffer for desertion. Their imaginations were overflowing, all of their proposals being relatively harmless but all involving intense and prolonged bondage. The more they debated, the more my little preteen cock tightened under my shorts. This feeling, I knew it well. But not what followed: first something that looked like a urge to pee, then my body jerked uncontrollably despite the ropes that tied me to the tree, and finally my crotch then my thighs flooded with a hot and gooey liquid that I had never experienced before. My captors understood what was happening to me way before I did, and I heard one of them cry out, "Look at this little faggot! He came in my sweater! A decade later, the conditions in which I was in this locker room of the boathouse were dangerously similar to those of my first orgasm, and I had to censor my memories so as not to risk once again to come without even touching myself.
Vincent finally came to free me, both from my bonds and from my thoughts. He was carrying my sports outfit with him; well, the one he had worn the day before. Yep, once again I really enjoyed putting on his t-shirt, which he had sweated heavily in the day before. He saw it but refrained from remarking.
The sports session was the same as the day before. We ran the same route and stopped for the same push-ups, abs, etc. I knew I had an opportunity to find here, and I didn't miss the first that presented itself: as I was doing push-ups next to a the teammate, I took his hand to turn it lightly and show him what angle to give his wrists and elbows. He thanked me with a look and a smile and continued his push-ups, visibly happy to have improved his technique. I later did the same with another, showing him how to best place his elbows in a series of triceps dips. And so on. At the end of the workout, I had given advice to five of my teammates.
The weather having cooled significantly since the day before (hence, I hoped, the repatriation of sweaters in the changing rooms), the collective outdoor shower was abandoned in favor of hot showers in the bathrooms. This time again, Vincent watched mine. But when I expressed the urge to sit on the toilet seat and shit (and this time I really needed it), he had the delicacy to walk out, asking me to tell him when I was finished. When that was done, I drained half of the deodorizer before calling him and stepping into the shower, where I washed under his close supervision.
I put on his clothes again, then stretched out my arms to him, this time without my air of docility but with that of someone who knows the rules and accepts them "like a man." He looked at me for a few seconds then said, "It won't be necessary."
When we went down to the dining room for lunch, the rest of the team were already seated in the kitchen. Vincent and I went to join them there and, seeing that I was not tied up, they made room for us and we all ate lunch together.
I was winning the game.
And I still had one card in hand: the individual timing on the single scull this afternoon; and I knew I was a good solo rower.
His footsteps receded and I found myself alone, firmly attached to this post, dressed in the clothes Vincent had worn all the previous day, and my head wrapped in the fresh, clean wool of a chuncky sweater that I myself had washed. And, as you know, I liked it… Despite its hateful aspects, I liked being Vincent's prisoner more and more. Nothing to do with how I felt for Martin, but I felt like I was feeding off my own feelings for both. Had they been a couple, I would have been delighted to become their mutual lover.
Despite the intense excitement that my immediate situation gave me, I had to use these two hours to think about what was going on. If I acted proud, Vincent would take a nasty blow to me. And then he would give himself the means to discourage me before the end of the week. Conversely, if I acted too docile, first the risk would be that Vincent would see it as a maneuver, but above all I would lose the esteem of the rest of the team. Not to mention what Martin was probably learning, following the course of the week from wherever he was. So I had to play on a razor's edge.
The best strategy therefore seemed to no longer play on the ground of docility but on that of discipline. Take "like a man" the ordeal imposed on any candidate wishing to join this prestigious team, by putting in the same bag the sporting ordeal and that perpetuated by the scout tradition of the team. This was probably the only way to gain the esteem of both Vincent and the rest of the team. Of course it would have been much easier if there had been several candidates undergoing this initiation week simultaneously. But perhaps going through it alone was also part of the ordeal itself.
So I had set my strategy. I would have to choose the attitude that would serve it at all times. Also limited were my initiatives, silenced 24 hours a day and tied up most of the time, I was to let none go. The sports exercises were of course the time when I could play the best on this rope. This is what I had already done the day before, both during the morning jogging and the afternoon, on the eight, when, in first position, facing Vincent who steered, I knew how to give the right rhythm to the team. It would therefore be a crucial day to score points with Vincent and the rest of the team. The more they agreed with me, if for different reasons, the more I would be the one to restore the consistency of the team.
I have to admit that during those two hours my brain didn't just strategize. My thoughts escaped many times into dreamlike deliriums. Perhaps I had fallen into some sort of sleep, the bonds that welded me to the post making some form of upright sleep possible. Fortunately I received no visit and no hand came to venture between my bound legs. I write "very fortunately" because I know that at the slightest touch of my cock, I would have exploded and poured out the four days of reserves my seminal vesicles had stored up. Without keeping a detailed diary of my solitary activity, I think I can safely say that I was heading towards a historic abstinence record that I have never achieved since my first orgasm.
Which, moreover, took place in surprisingly similar circumstances, the summer of my twelve years, during a scout camp where, at the end of one of these games that the scout leaders organize as if they were themselves contributors of this forum, I had been taken prisoner by the opposing team. Before bringing me to their camp, one of my captors, who was the leader of the opposing troop, wanted his scouts to believe that I was one of theirs who had deserted. So, he made me wear his own sweater, the only element that distinguished our uniforms (I, being a sea scout, had of course a navy blue one, and he being a ranger, had a beige one), and so I could not to be indetified, he asked his friend to cover my head with the sweater he was wearing, after effectively gagging me with my scout scarf rolled into a ball in my mouth. When they arrived at the camp, they tied me to a tree in the center of their camp, gathered all the leaders of their troop and debated at length the punishment I should suffer for desertion. Their imaginations were overflowing, all of their proposals being relatively harmless but all involving intense and prolonged bondage. The more they debated, the more my little preteen cock tightened under my shorts. This feeling, I knew it well. But not what followed: first something that looked like a urge to pee, then my body jerked uncontrollably despite the ropes that tied me to the tree, and finally my crotch then my thighs flooded with a hot and gooey liquid that I had never experienced before. My captors understood what was happening to me way before I did, and I heard one of them cry out, "Look at this little faggot! He came in my sweater! A decade later, the conditions in which I was in this locker room of the boathouse were dangerously similar to those of my first orgasm, and I had to censor my memories so as not to risk once again to come without even touching myself.
Vincent finally came to free me, both from my bonds and from my thoughts. He was carrying my sports outfit with him; well, the one he had worn the day before. Yep, once again I really enjoyed putting on his t-shirt, which he had sweated heavily in the day before. He saw it but refrained from remarking.
The sports session was the same as the day before. We ran the same route and stopped for the same push-ups, abs, etc. I knew I had an opportunity to find here, and I didn't miss the first that presented itself: as I was doing push-ups next to a the teammate, I took his hand to turn it lightly and show him what angle to give his wrists and elbows. He thanked me with a look and a smile and continued his push-ups, visibly happy to have improved his technique. I later did the same with another, showing him how to best place his elbows in a series of triceps dips. And so on. At the end of the workout, I had given advice to five of my teammates.
The weather having cooled significantly since the day before (hence, I hoped, the repatriation of sweaters in the changing rooms), the collective outdoor shower was abandoned in favor of hot showers in the bathrooms. This time again, Vincent watched mine. But when I expressed the urge to sit on the toilet seat and shit (and this time I really needed it), he had the delicacy to walk out, asking me to tell him when I was finished. When that was done, I drained half of the deodorizer before calling him and stepping into the shower, where I washed under his close supervision.
I put on his clothes again, then stretched out my arms to him, this time without my air of docility but with that of someone who knows the rules and accepts them "like a man." He looked at me for a few seconds then said, "It won't be necessary."
When we went down to the dining room for lunch, the rest of the team were already seated in the kitchen. Vincent and I went to join them there and, seeing that I was not tied up, they made room for us and we all ate lunch together.
I was winning the game.
And I still had one card in hand: the individual timing on the single scull this afternoon; and I knew I was a good solo rower.
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gaggedfeety
- Centennial Club
- Posts: 447
- Joined: 3 years ago
- Location: California, USA
Yesss I'm loving this!!! Definitely a clever plan, and I definitely get the struggle of indulging the desires vs. maintaining respect of the team.
PS-I feel like the comment about if Vincent and Martin dating was intentional
PS-I feel like the comment about if Vincent and Martin dating was intentional
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george_bound
- Centennial Club
- Posts: 330
- Joined: 3 years ago
- Location: Ontario, Canada
Hmmm... I agree!gaggedfeety wrote: ↑3 years ago PS-I feel like the comment about if Vincent and Martin dating was intentional
Love the mention of the scout camp game and how it related to his current situation... great pace, detail, characteric development... such a goid read!
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Paris_bondage
- Centennial Club
- Posts: 101
- Joined: 3 years ago
- Location: Paris, France
Chapter 19: Tuesday Afternoon
With lunch swallowed and the dishes put away, Vincent gave the order:
- Everyone at the boathouse at 3 p.m.
That gave us an hour. Vincent motioned for me to follow him into the bedroom, made me lie down on the cot, placing me so that my wrists were mid-length of the cot, and tied each to the upright which, at this place, was not covered by the canvas. From the pile of dirty laundry lying on the floor, he took underpants in which he buried my head. With two fingers, he thrust the fabric into my mouth, and secured it all with what I thought was a sock; which my sense of smell soon confirmed. And he finished his job by tying a rope around my ankles and another one above my knees.
Then, while I had in my mouth the part of his underwear that corresponded to his dick (had he done it on purpose?), I heard him leaf through the sports journal I had seen him bring with him. What could be straighter than reading a sports newspaper? The next step is to bet on horseraces. So here I was, prisoner of a straight guy who read a sports newspaper after pushing the tastiest part of his underwear into my mouth. And the worst part is, I liked it. Anatomically speaking, my boner showed him that I took it "like a man"!
I would have loved if he took off his sweater and threw it onto my face. But fortunately he did not: had he done so, he would have seen a little too much to what extent I took it "like a man".
When the doors to the other rooms began to open and close, he put down his newspaper and released me. We changed to put on our sports clothes. Mine, finally his become mine, smelled the mixture of his sweat of the day before and mine of the morning. Not sure that a perfumer would have made a fortune with such a "varietal blend" fragrance …
Ten minutes later we were in the boathouse. Given the chill, even more marked at the water's edge, we put on our rowing sweaters. It was my first time wearing mine, and wearing the same one as my teammates at the same time as them turned on me deliciously.
We had two single sculls and one eight. The two sculls would be used for the timings, so that one rower could go while the previous one came back, and the eight would allow four rowers to alternate to warm up. Vincent took out an envelope from which we each drew a number, which designated the order in which we would each cover our two thousand meters. I drew number five. Then one of the crew picked up an old bicycle that was stored next to the shed and set off along the towpath. He would signal the start to Vincent via his cell phone, and Vincent would time each race. Each rower would therefore make the outward journey to warm up and the return trip to be timed.
One of our teammates on his scull, ready to go
The first rower took off. He was one of the two who, since the start of the week, had escorted me during the jogging sessions. He rowed nervously, each stroke of the oar propelling him efficiently but jerkily. Then we lost sight of him. When we saw it reappear, it sped more smoothly and passed the pontoon at an impressive speed. Vincent announced 6 minutes 49. A good average over this distance is around 7 minutes, the Olympic record being 6 minutes 30 seconds.
Without waiting for his return, the next one set off on the second scull. As for me, I got into the eight to warm-up. I left it when the third had finished. The other two times were less good than the first, but very honorable, both under 7 minutes.
I departed for my warm-up unaware of the time of the fourth. I quickly found my rhythm, even on this river that I barely knew and on which I had never rowed alone. I got way past where my teammate marked the starting point, turned around and paddled up to him. As I passed him, I heard him shout "Go!" and I gave my best. I felt I was flying on the river. I sent my oars to fetch the water far behind me, synchronizing my legs and arms without a hitch. In the absence of competitors, I had no idea of my performance, but what I felt gave me full satisfaction; whatever my time, I knew I would have given my best. And when I crossed the pontoon where Vincent was standing, I did not hear the time he announced; however, I heard and saw my comrades applauding.
As I brought the boat back, I learned that I had been the fastest: 6:47. Two hundredths of a second below the first. Even though it was within the margin of error, he congratulated me warmly. At that moment, I found particularly difficult to respect my vow of silence.
Eventually, the other times were announced. The sixth and seventh weren't as good, and I felt the excitement to be possibly the best. But the eighth beat me at 6:45. Of course he got the group's ovation. But I thought I saw an ounce of regret in Vincent's eyes. Yes, he would have liked me to be the first.
For my part, this second place far exceeded by far my expectations. I only ambitioned to be up to it so the team accepted me, and I ended up second. But I had forgotten Vincent. He got on a single scull and, not having had a chance to warm up on the figure eight, he did one more warm-up lap and then did his run.
I felt anxious. I didn't know what to wish for. Should I beat him, or on the contrary stay below him? Anyway, my questions were irrelevant: it no longer depended on me.
When we saw him approach, his scull was moving wonderfully, with that mixture of power and fluidity that makes the best performances. He was going to beat us all, that was for sure. Until the timekeeper announced: "6:47." Vincent and I had done the same time, to the nearest hundredth of a second! What was I going to do with this?
The whole team were very excited by the results: not only had one rower surpassed Vincent, but, surprisingly, the newcomer and Vincent had performed equally!
The latter did not share the excitement of the group. The serious air he displayed could have several meanings: that, in fact, of having been surpassed by another rower of the team, that also that the newcomer showed himself as good as him ... The looks he couldn't help but throw me were more thoughtful than aggressive, and I didn't know what to think. Anyway, I had followed my strategy, now was not the time to deviate from it.
In the locker room, everyone left their sweater on the shelf above their name. Vincent told me that we only wore them when rowing, and that I should also leave mine. Of course I did. Then we made our way back to the house, and the excitement of the group was intact as everyone climbed back up to the bedrooms and the showers were taken over.
Vincent made me take mine under his supervision. Then he gave me the clothes he had worn that day for me to wear. I had spotted his sweater that I had fantasized about since the morning and was just too happy to put it on. Before taking a shower himself, he tied my hands behind my back, and I was grateful to him: without that, I would certainly have turned his sweater into a sperm bank.
With lunch swallowed and the dishes put away, Vincent gave the order:
- Everyone at the boathouse at 3 p.m.
That gave us an hour. Vincent motioned for me to follow him into the bedroom, made me lie down on the cot, placing me so that my wrists were mid-length of the cot, and tied each to the upright which, at this place, was not covered by the canvas. From the pile of dirty laundry lying on the floor, he took underpants in which he buried my head. With two fingers, he thrust the fabric into my mouth, and secured it all with what I thought was a sock; which my sense of smell soon confirmed. And he finished his job by tying a rope around my ankles and another one above my knees.
Then, while I had in my mouth the part of his underwear that corresponded to his dick (had he done it on purpose?), I heard him leaf through the sports journal I had seen him bring with him. What could be straighter than reading a sports newspaper? The next step is to bet on horseraces. So here I was, prisoner of a straight guy who read a sports newspaper after pushing the tastiest part of his underwear into my mouth. And the worst part is, I liked it. Anatomically speaking, my boner showed him that I took it "like a man"!
I would have loved if he took off his sweater and threw it onto my face. But fortunately he did not: had he done so, he would have seen a little too much to what extent I took it "like a man".
When the doors to the other rooms began to open and close, he put down his newspaper and released me. We changed to put on our sports clothes. Mine, finally his become mine, smelled the mixture of his sweat of the day before and mine of the morning. Not sure that a perfumer would have made a fortune with such a "varietal blend" fragrance …
Ten minutes later we were in the boathouse. Given the chill, even more marked at the water's edge, we put on our rowing sweaters. It was my first time wearing mine, and wearing the same one as my teammates at the same time as them turned on me deliciously.
We had two single sculls and one eight. The two sculls would be used for the timings, so that one rower could go while the previous one came back, and the eight would allow four rowers to alternate to warm up. Vincent took out an envelope from which we each drew a number, which designated the order in which we would each cover our two thousand meters. I drew number five. Then one of the crew picked up an old bicycle that was stored next to the shed and set off along the towpath. He would signal the start to Vincent via his cell phone, and Vincent would time each race. Each rower would therefore make the outward journey to warm up and the return trip to be timed.
One of our teammates on his scull, ready to go
The first rower took off. He was one of the two who, since the start of the week, had escorted me during the jogging sessions. He rowed nervously, each stroke of the oar propelling him efficiently but jerkily. Then we lost sight of him. When we saw it reappear, it sped more smoothly and passed the pontoon at an impressive speed. Vincent announced 6 minutes 49. A good average over this distance is around 7 minutes, the Olympic record being 6 minutes 30 seconds.
Without waiting for his return, the next one set off on the second scull. As for me, I got into the eight to warm-up. I left it when the third had finished. The other two times were less good than the first, but very honorable, both under 7 minutes.
I departed for my warm-up unaware of the time of the fourth. I quickly found my rhythm, even on this river that I barely knew and on which I had never rowed alone. I got way past where my teammate marked the starting point, turned around and paddled up to him. As I passed him, I heard him shout "Go!" and I gave my best. I felt I was flying on the river. I sent my oars to fetch the water far behind me, synchronizing my legs and arms without a hitch. In the absence of competitors, I had no idea of my performance, but what I felt gave me full satisfaction; whatever my time, I knew I would have given my best. And when I crossed the pontoon where Vincent was standing, I did not hear the time he announced; however, I heard and saw my comrades applauding.
As I brought the boat back, I learned that I had been the fastest: 6:47. Two hundredths of a second below the first. Even though it was within the margin of error, he congratulated me warmly. At that moment, I found particularly difficult to respect my vow of silence.
Eventually, the other times were announced. The sixth and seventh weren't as good, and I felt the excitement to be possibly the best. But the eighth beat me at 6:45. Of course he got the group's ovation. But I thought I saw an ounce of regret in Vincent's eyes. Yes, he would have liked me to be the first.
For my part, this second place far exceeded by far my expectations. I only ambitioned to be up to it so the team accepted me, and I ended up second. But I had forgotten Vincent. He got on a single scull and, not having had a chance to warm up on the figure eight, he did one more warm-up lap and then did his run.
I felt anxious. I didn't know what to wish for. Should I beat him, or on the contrary stay below him? Anyway, my questions were irrelevant: it no longer depended on me.
When we saw him approach, his scull was moving wonderfully, with that mixture of power and fluidity that makes the best performances. He was going to beat us all, that was for sure. Until the timekeeper announced: "6:47." Vincent and I had done the same time, to the nearest hundredth of a second! What was I going to do with this?
The whole team were very excited by the results: not only had one rower surpassed Vincent, but, surprisingly, the newcomer and Vincent had performed equally!
The latter did not share the excitement of the group. The serious air he displayed could have several meanings: that, in fact, of having been surpassed by another rower of the team, that also that the newcomer showed himself as good as him ... The looks he couldn't help but throw me were more thoughtful than aggressive, and I didn't know what to think. Anyway, I had followed my strategy, now was not the time to deviate from it.
In the locker room, everyone left their sweater on the shelf above their name. Vincent told me that we only wore them when rowing, and that I should also leave mine. Of course I did. Then we made our way back to the house, and the excitement of the group was intact as everyone climbed back up to the bedrooms and the showers were taken over.
Vincent made me take mine under his supervision. Then he gave me the clothes he had worn that day for me to wear. I had spotted his sweater that I had fantasized about since the morning and was just too happy to put it on. Before taking a shower himself, he tied my hands behind my back, and I was grateful to him: without that, I would certainly have turned his sweater into a sperm bank.
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Paris_bondage
- Centennial Club
- Posts: 101
- Joined: 3 years ago
- Location: Paris, France
Chapter 20: Tuesday, dinner and bedtime
When it was time for dinner, Vincent freed me from my ties and I was able to descend, free, into the dining room. The atmosphere had not lost any of the excitement of the afternoon. Of course the one with the fastest time was the hero of the team, but I, having tied for second with Vincent, also found myself the center of attention. However, not having the right to speak, no one spoke to me either, and this situation was very disturbing. Perhaps the tradition of this initiation and hazing week had not foreseen the hypothesis of an applicant reaching this rank.
The dinner over and the dishes put away, Vincent did not stay with the others who seemed ready to extend the evening until late at night. So I followed him upstairs. He watched me as I brushed my teeth and used the toilet. I felt him tense, not only from what had happened in the afternoon, but also from what was to happen later. Of course, that made me feel tense myself. Whatever his worry, it was a safe bet that it concerns me directly.
What followed proved me right. When I left the bathroom, he told me to take the sleeping bag with me and follow him, while he had taken his backpack, the contents of which I knew all too well. Then he escorted me out of the house, so I was going to sleep tied up outside!
Having been a scout in my youth, I was neither afraid of sleeping outside, nor of sleeping tied up (that, you will understand, I even liked it pretty much); but sleeping tied up outside, both at the same time, scared me. The place was isolated, wild beasts came out at night, like wild boars, and I was not reassured. Of course I didn't show it. We walked to the river: where was I going to spend the night? In the boathouse, or in the locker room, tied up on the bench? This seemed rather reassuring to me: in both cases, I would be safe, and in the locker room, he would undoubtedly tie me up on a bench, as I had been the very first night.
But my predictions were wrong. It was to the pontoon that he took me. He unrolled the open sleeping bag for me, made me lie on it. Then he tied each of my wrists to the corresponding thigh, before pulled the zipper of the sleeping bag up to my chin. From his backpack he took out coils of rope and a piece of wire, the end of which he twisted to make a hook. He passed a first rope, at the height of my shoulders, in the gap between two planks of the pontoon, and with the hook, retrieved it under the pontoon to bring it out at the next gap. He tied the rope, pulled it over my shoulders, then, on the other side, pulled it back under the pontoon. And so on. The operation took him a good ten minutes, at the end of which I was literally welded to the pontoon. The first evening when I was tied to the bench, I thought I knew what it meant to be immobilized. But this was quite another experience.
The pontoon to which I was going to be tied down to spend the night
When he was done, he stood up, looked at his work, and paused for a moment before he left me. For my part, I tried to hide my fear of finding myself alone, two hundred meters from the house, on a pontoon which, admittedly, looked in good condition, but which was all the same an assembly of planks floating on a river. Did he himself share my fear? He didn't show it either. And as it would have been incongruous to wish me good night, he left in silence.
After he left it for the shore, the pontoon swayed several times. It took him a couple of minutes to regain not his stillness, but the steady movement the river gave him. Movement that I would have to get used to for the rest of the night. As in the lapping of water, a few inches below the disjointed boards to which I was firmly bound.
The good news was the sky was clear. The stars above me offered me a welcome distraction, although I have always been bad at astrology. I couldn't see the house from where I was, so I couldn't tell if the windows were still lit up or if, on the contrary, everyone was asleep. No sound from the house reached me either.
Sleep was long in coming.
First, the situation was not without excitement. The bondage was the most intense I had ever known. Even my breathing movements were restricted, allowing me to get enough oxygen, but not to inflate my rib cage more than necessary. As for the rest, I could move my fingers and toes, and turn my head 5 degrees right or left, but nothing more.
Then the film of the day, my performance which I only then realized how amazing it was. I knew I was a good rower, otherwise I would not have applied to join this famous club. But from there to imagine myself tied for second ... I would have been glad just not to be the last.
Finally, I wondered what this ranking meant for me, in the very short term for the course of the week under Vincent's thumb. Was that night outside its first consequence? I doubted it, thinking that each step of my hazing had to correspond to a protocol well-codified in advance.
It was probably at this point that I gave in to sleep.
The noise that woke me up froze me to blood. It seemed to me like a wild beast's cry, a mighty, menacing wild beast. Of course, if there had been a shazam for animals and had my hands free to use it, I would have been reassured. But put yourself in my shoes and, to get a feel for it, go online and listen to the sound of a barking roe deer, imagining that you don't know it is a roe deer. My reflex, faced with what I imagined to be a hungry beast ready to devour me, was to freeze, the fight and flight options not being accessible to me anyway. I heard the sound getting closer and closer. My adrenaline increased as a result. I hoped that my scent would be diffused by that of the river, preventing me from being devoured by the hungry beast, while roe deer are peaceful herbivores. Then the threat subsided, I caught my breath as quietly as possible, and it took me a long time to fall asleep again.
Other animals woke me up, but these I recognized. And I quickly fell asleep each time. Until the early hours of the morning, when daylight made me open my eyes. My breath gave off a dense vapor that made me appreciate the thickness of the sleeping bag and that of Vincent's heavy sweater.
I had to wait several more hours before the latter came to deliver me. I struggled to get up, numb as I was from the night spent in complete stillness. Vincent didn't even dare ask me if I had slept well, and he escorted me home, still asleep. He watched me during my shower which he allowed me to extend to warm up well. Then again I had to wear the clothes he had worn the day before.
Which had become a habit.
When it was time for dinner, Vincent freed me from my ties and I was able to descend, free, into the dining room. The atmosphere had not lost any of the excitement of the afternoon. Of course the one with the fastest time was the hero of the team, but I, having tied for second with Vincent, also found myself the center of attention. However, not having the right to speak, no one spoke to me either, and this situation was very disturbing. Perhaps the tradition of this initiation and hazing week had not foreseen the hypothesis of an applicant reaching this rank.
The dinner over and the dishes put away, Vincent did not stay with the others who seemed ready to extend the evening until late at night. So I followed him upstairs. He watched me as I brushed my teeth and used the toilet. I felt him tense, not only from what had happened in the afternoon, but also from what was to happen later. Of course, that made me feel tense myself. Whatever his worry, it was a safe bet that it concerns me directly.
What followed proved me right. When I left the bathroom, he told me to take the sleeping bag with me and follow him, while he had taken his backpack, the contents of which I knew all too well. Then he escorted me out of the house, so I was going to sleep tied up outside!
Having been a scout in my youth, I was neither afraid of sleeping outside, nor of sleeping tied up (that, you will understand, I even liked it pretty much); but sleeping tied up outside, both at the same time, scared me. The place was isolated, wild beasts came out at night, like wild boars, and I was not reassured. Of course I didn't show it. We walked to the river: where was I going to spend the night? In the boathouse, or in the locker room, tied up on the bench? This seemed rather reassuring to me: in both cases, I would be safe, and in the locker room, he would undoubtedly tie me up on a bench, as I had been the very first night.
But my predictions were wrong. It was to the pontoon that he took me. He unrolled the open sleeping bag for me, made me lie on it. Then he tied each of my wrists to the corresponding thigh, before pulled the zipper of the sleeping bag up to my chin. From his backpack he took out coils of rope and a piece of wire, the end of which he twisted to make a hook. He passed a first rope, at the height of my shoulders, in the gap between two planks of the pontoon, and with the hook, retrieved it under the pontoon to bring it out at the next gap. He tied the rope, pulled it over my shoulders, then, on the other side, pulled it back under the pontoon. And so on. The operation took him a good ten minutes, at the end of which I was literally welded to the pontoon. The first evening when I was tied to the bench, I thought I knew what it meant to be immobilized. But this was quite another experience.
The pontoon to which I was going to be tied down to spend the night
When he was done, he stood up, looked at his work, and paused for a moment before he left me. For my part, I tried to hide my fear of finding myself alone, two hundred meters from the house, on a pontoon which, admittedly, looked in good condition, but which was all the same an assembly of planks floating on a river. Did he himself share my fear? He didn't show it either. And as it would have been incongruous to wish me good night, he left in silence.
After he left it for the shore, the pontoon swayed several times. It took him a couple of minutes to regain not his stillness, but the steady movement the river gave him. Movement that I would have to get used to for the rest of the night. As in the lapping of water, a few inches below the disjointed boards to which I was firmly bound.
The good news was the sky was clear. The stars above me offered me a welcome distraction, although I have always been bad at astrology. I couldn't see the house from where I was, so I couldn't tell if the windows were still lit up or if, on the contrary, everyone was asleep. No sound from the house reached me either.
Sleep was long in coming.
First, the situation was not without excitement. The bondage was the most intense I had ever known. Even my breathing movements were restricted, allowing me to get enough oxygen, but not to inflate my rib cage more than necessary. As for the rest, I could move my fingers and toes, and turn my head 5 degrees right or left, but nothing more.
Then the film of the day, my performance which I only then realized how amazing it was. I knew I was a good rower, otherwise I would not have applied to join this famous club. But from there to imagine myself tied for second ... I would have been glad just not to be the last.
Finally, I wondered what this ranking meant for me, in the very short term for the course of the week under Vincent's thumb. Was that night outside its first consequence? I doubted it, thinking that each step of my hazing had to correspond to a protocol well-codified in advance.
It was probably at this point that I gave in to sleep.
The noise that woke me up froze me to blood. It seemed to me like a wild beast's cry, a mighty, menacing wild beast. Of course, if there had been a shazam for animals and had my hands free to use it, I would have been reassured. But put yourself in my shoes and, to get a feel for it, go online and listen to the sound of a barking roe deer, imagining that you don't know it is a roe deer. My reflex, faced with what I imagined to be a hungry beast ready to devour me, was to freeze, the fight and flight options not being accessible to me anyway. I heard the sound getting closer and closer. My adrenaline increased as a result. I hoped that my scent would be diffused by that of the river, preventing me from being devoured by the hungry beast, while roe deer are peaceful herbivores. Then the threat subsided, I caught my breath as quietly as possible, and it took me a long time to fall asleep again.
Other animals woke me up, but these I recognized. And I quickly fell asleep each time. Until the early hours of the morning, when daylight made me open my eyes. My breath gave off a dense vapor that made me appreciate the thickness of the sleeping bag and that of Vincent's heavy sweater.
I had to wait several more hours before the latter came to deliver me. I struggled to get up, numb as I was from the night spent in complete stillness. Vincent didn't even dare ask me if I had slept well, and he escorted me home, still asleep. He watched me during my shower which he allowed me to extend to warm up well. Then again I had to wear the clothes he had worn the day before.
Which had become a habit.
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gaggedfeety
- Centennial Club
- Posts: 447
- Joined: 3 years ago
- Location: California, USA
Loving this so far!!! Although I feel like certain things like the pontoon are done regardless, I feel like out friend is in good standing to with the team to have been put out there. Maybe the team wasn't expecting someone to reach that point so soon. Part of me thinks it's a little dangerous to leave him out like that, but I like to think that someone (maybe Victor ) were closer by than we realized
Also, I just recalled that our friend is going through this alone. Assuming that he makes the team, I'm curious what it'll look like an other scouts come.
) were closer by than we realizedAlso, I just recalled that our friend is going through this alone. Assuming that he makes the team, I'm curious what it'll look like an other scouts come.
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Paris_bondage
- Centennial Club
- Posts: 101
- Joined: 3 years ago
- Location: Paris, France
[mention]gaggedfeety[/mention] : You seem to wish that Victor (in fact Vincent) and our friend have an affair, if not a threesome with Martin!gaggedfeety wrote: ↑3 years ago Part of me thinks it's a little dangerous to leave him out like that, but I like to think that someone (maybe Victor
You'd deserve to be French
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george_bound
- Centennial Club
- Posts: 330
- Joined: 3 years ago
- Location: Ontario, Canada
I'm liking it! And being tied to the pontoon, gently rocking to the current of the river while gazing up at the stars and worrying about wild animals is quite the experience. I'd like to believe I'd enjoy it... depending on how tight the rope is
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Paris_bondage
- Centennial Club
- Posts: 101
- Joined: 3 years ago
- Location: Paris, France
Believe me, the rope can be tight!george_bound wrote: ↑3 years ago I'm liking it! And being tied to the pontoon, gently rocking to the current of the river while gazing up at the stars and worrying about wild animals is quite the experience. I'd like to believe I'd enjoy it... depending on how tight the rope is
Thanks for your comment.