Quite a Boarding School! (mm/mm) New! January 16th

[Bondwriter]

I forgot to update the New! date. Hope some still enjoy this tale.

[Xtc]

Still with it. Happy memories of your old site.

[blackbound]

I forgot to update the New! date. Hope some still enjoy this tale.

Yes, yes I do.

[Bondwriter]

Thanks, XTC and Blackbound, it's comforting to know there are actual readers. There are still six chapters to go in this episode, and I wrote ten more for a sequel. The saga lives on.

[Bondwriter]

The Great Tournament

Chapter 5

Billy led the way back to the lodge. The team moved slowly to avoid their foes; the impaired captives couldn’t go fast anyway.

They crossed the meadows extra carefully, holding to the lined-up prisoners. Billy stopped the convoy before reaching the spot where they’d caught Philip, at a crossing they didn’t notice walking in the other direction. A path headed straight to their right. Billy signalled the group should wait for him and entered the new path.

The prisoners grunted and made as much noise as they could, just in case Billy had seen something betraying a teammate’s close presence. The three guardians surrounding them cast dark glances.

“Hush, if you know what’s good for you,” Nicholas whispered to Sora. Ben made a threat in Fred’s ear, which made him fall silent. Lewis faced the French lad, his index fingers on his lips. He then turned around and showed his bum, making mock slaps on it, then turned back to Marc to point him with his finger. The French lad fell as silent as his fellow-prisoners.

Billy was back soon, brandishing a green bag and a wide grin. He had a vial in his other hand, which read ‘Chloroform.’ A series of thumbs-up ensued.

In the distance, they heard a shriek. Billy frowned and pointed to the lodge. The troop resumed its walk, the guards on alert for an attack and prodding the captives to walk as fast as possible. They reached the lodge without seeing or hearing anything else.

“I saw a farm when I went to pick up the bonus item,” Billy said as he closed the entrance door. “It’s likely the Soldiers’ base camp.”

Lewis grabbed Fred’s hair and looked him in the eyes. Friendship didn’t get in the way of Saint Sebastian boys when in competing teams.

“Is Billy right? You know fibbing will cost you later, so don’t try to trick us!”

“Mmh.”

“We know where to hunt,” Billy said, “and we have chloroform. Capturing the remaining two Soldiers and two Football Players will be easy.”

“You’ve changed your mind about narcotics?” Lewis asked, remembering the indignant reaction that ensued one time he’d slipped Billy and his team sleeping pills during a week-end game

“It’s not chloroform; the spandex guy said it’s safe. Let’s not bicker in front of the competition. How should we secure our hostages?”

Ideas came up quickly; decision-making on tying up prisoners never took them long.

“There’s space between the shower stall and the wall to put them in kneeling hogties. Let’s anchor the ropes to the pipes running along the wall and make sure they are nice and tight,” Ben suggested.

They pushed their prisoners to stand in front of the bathroom. Lewis opened the door.

“MMrgrrmmbbllmmph!?”

“Keep civil, Phil, we’re nice enough to bring you company. You’re in the perfect position to get a cold-water treatment, so calm down,” Lewis warned.

Fred was first to be trussed up. They left his arms bound forearm to forearm, checking the ropes hadn’t gotten loose. Nicholas merrily undertook working on his legs.

“Nice you brought your own ropes, Fred; I can give you the full deal.”

He proved it by weaving a net around the two limbs. He didn’t make it too tight, since kneeling down would tighten it.

Lewis helped bringing Fred inside the room, making him hop five small leaps before he had to kneel. Ben handed Nicholas the two ends of the rope he’d knotted in its middle to the pipe running an inch above the floor. He took them and kneeled next to Fred, tightening the ropes around his legs.

Nicholas pulled each thread for a tighter result, though he also loosened some turns that could cut the blood flow. He used the rope Ben had set to thread through the ropes binding ankles and wrists. There remained some length to wrap around his chest, just below his shoulders before tying it off to a pipe behind them.

“One down, two to go,” Billy cheered.

The Boy-Scouts turned to Marc. Lewis and Ben handled his legs while Nicholas and Billy checked his arms.

“This Frenchman has an interesting pair of gluteal muscles,” Lewis said, making a third turn at the very top of the boy’s thighs, pulling the shorts’ thin cotton against the buttocks and revealing their shape.

“His arms are still warm and the rope shows no slack.” Billy praised, “I’ll fix a rope to the pipes.”

Marc soon kneeled at his teammate’s sides, all wrapped up, his hands and feet close and unable to move.

Lewis stepped into the corridor where their last victim was waiting.

“Our American wannabe escape artist is next!”

Ben, who was watching Sora, welcomed the help. His friend waved a roll of duct tape.

“You’re in for a treat, swamp boy; we’ll do your legs in tape!”

They wound six turns around his ankles, his knees and under the hem of his shorts. Sora thanked his opponents’ expertise: they didn’t make them too tight, otherwise flexing his muscles when forced to kneel would hurt.

Once kneeling next to the French guy, he felt the tension. Billy and Nicholas wrapped him in ropes too, managing as best as they could in the cluttered space.

Marc was miffed he’d gotten caught, but these English lads knew their trade. His eyes were at the perfect height to admire the clinging shorts they wore, a view that softened his predicament.

“The frog is interested in your legs,” Lewis commented from the corridor.

“He won’t enjoy the show for long,” Billy replied. “We’re done with Sora. Our four friends will keep each other warm; it’s hotter in here already.”

Philip whined through his gag it wasn’t. They ignored him and closed the door behind them as they headed out.

The Boy-Scouts went to the larger room to hold a quick council. They found a new box on the table with sandwiches and soda bottles.

“I was getting hungry,” Nicholas said, reaching inside.

“Watch out, it might be a trick,” Billy warned.

“They’re not going to poison us. At worst, it has sleeping powder. I’ll volunteer and check out.”

The black-haired boy munched on the sandwich.

“The bred is fresh and the cheese tastes great.”

His three teammates had a worried look, but Nicholas peacefully finished his snack and grabbed a bottle with orange soda. He gulped it down. Still nothing.

“Now my personal taster ensured no lethal ingredient is in the food, I may take sustenance,” Lewis said. “I am also open to hearing you deliberate on how we should handle the situation.”

“We’ve got an edge. Unless the remaining Soldiers and Football Players team up against us, it’s four against two in each case. If we stick together, they can’t subdue us,” Billy argued.

“The field is big and we don’t know where they are,” Ben objected.

“We did discover their bases; the Soldiers’ is closer. From the little I saw from afar, there were hideouts, buildings and trees.”

“Perfect plan, Billy,” Lewis approved. “We set up an ambush for Jason and Matt, and then we go collect the Football Sissies. I’m curious to find out about the other French guy.”

“Keith isn’t a sissy,” Billy protested.

“Of course not, but their uniforms are sissies’.”

“Right,” Ben snarled “they got us very manly clothes. Now, it’s early afternoon already and we should act.”

His call for action inspired the team. After grabbing ropes, handcuffs, and chloroform, they set for the Soldiers’ camp.

Although the Boy-Scouts were better acquainted with the surroundings, they remained cautious and silent. They took the unexplored path, being more watchful than ever. The farm got in and out of their sight as the lane wound around, following the bottom of a hill to their right.

They heard hushed voices at the same time and got on all fours in a file. Billy, the fearless leader opening the way, got close enough to identify Matt and Jason talking together. They heard gagged moans too. They began crawling uphill, and Billy stopped. He could see heads; thankfully, the two Soldiers had their backs to them.

Billy pointed at a huge dead tree a few yards away before moving stealthily to hide behind it. His team followed and peeked over the trunk. Their foes still looked the other way, but they were ten yards from the group at the most.

The third boy did see them. It was Stéphane, the other French lad. He’d been making gagged noises before their arrival, so his reaction to the Boy-Scouts’ appearance went unnoticed by the Soldiers. He was solidly trussed up standing to a tree.

“I hope Fred and this guy’s friend come back soon. I’d feel safer if we had the prisoner inside the barn,” Matt said.

“Let’s wait another ten minutes, then we take this one back to our camp. He’s a bit feisty, we’ll have to watch out,” Jason replied.

“He must be mad at getting caught. We got lucky he ran into your arms when I chased him.”

Jason was six feet tall and fifteen stones; he had three inches on his opponent.

He had welcomed the French newbie in a tight hug an hour before, letting him scream only once. With a hand clamped over the boy’s mouth, Jason smiled at Matt, who was recovering his breath as he stopped running.

“He’s a fast runner,” the chaser stated.

“He’s fidgety too,” Jason said, thankful to have brute force on his side when opposed to a struggling player, “so I think I’ll need a hand.”

Matt approached, showing their victim the strap gag he’d collected next to the hen house. The boy managed a faint cry for help when Jason slid his hand down and grabbed his chin to force his mouth open.

Matt effortlessly slid the plug between the lips, muffling the call for assistance. He then buckled the strap over his nape and picked up rope.

They’d first thought of applying minimal bondage, but the boy’s struggling led them to a full-fledged tree-tie, with ropes encircling his body at nine locations from shoulders to ankles.

“We’ve got him settled, but it’s a lot of ropes for just one guy,” Jason said looking at their supplies.

“He’s nice to look at,” Matt commented, noting the oval face, the green eyes, and the sexy body. “Let’s interrogate him until Fred and Marc get back.”

Interviewing a gagged boy was tough already, let alone one speaking a different mother tongue. It took half an hour just to figure out who his team members were.

With time, he became less and less cooperative, seemingly insulting them from behind the effective plug gag.

Jason and Matt laughed at their captive, unaware he was actually alerting them to the spies behind the tree trunk, ready to launch an assault.

Matt detected them, but too late. He heard a twig crack, turned his head, and saw the four Boy-Scouts five feet away.

“Run, Jase!” Matt darted off, but heard someone chasing him. Jason was too slow; someone slammed into him, wrapping his arms around his waist and taking him to the ground. The “Hello!” he got from his assailant confirmed it was Billy’s well-known tackling technique.

Jason soon ended on his back with Billy sitting on his chest, knees pinning his arms at the elbows. Lewis plopped on his thighs. Jason knew he could shake them off and gathered strength to buck and struggle. Then he saw Billy hold a scarf to a vial.

“Matt! Help me, quick! He has amrrgrmmmmmbbblllllmmmmmm.”

“Don’t make it difficult, Jason. You’ve lost,” the cheery boy said, pressing the fabric on his nose and mouth. His other hand held Jason’s hair tight.

The feel and smell of the pad felt familiar. Jason writhed, but his attackers had the upper hand. He inhaled the sickly fumes, cursed Billy and Lewis, then took another breath. He felt fainting. He inhaled again. His eyes fluttered.

“We can ride a boar, can’t we?” Lewis bragged. The strong muscular body was going limp under him.

“He’s out,” Billy said, keeping the pad on his face. “Bind his ankles, quick.”

Lewis did as told while Billy put the scarf and vial away. He then helped turn their prey on his belly. The strong narcotic gave them ample time to immobilize his limbs.

“And another well-packed bundle. My team never loses! Thanks to my clever strategy, we’ve caught all the Soldiers and three Football Players.”

They were about to gag him when they heard steps.

TBC

[Bondwriter]

The Great Tournament

Chapter 6

Nicholas and Ben were back holding Matt, bound with his hands behind his back and hobbled. The chase had been breathtaking but the Boy-Scouts were lucky. Matt had fallen face down trying to jump over a log. Nicholas was on his heels and Ben kept up with the pair.

The handcuffs were handy with an actually struggling target. Being two against one, he had no trouble putting the steel bracelets around the Soldier’s wrists. Then his goose was cooked. Matt yelled.

“Scream all you want, your team has been captured … unless you hope Keith is going to rescue you,” Ben taunted him.

“I don’t want to bring back a squealing pig to the camp,” Nicholas replied. Being done with welding Matt’s arms to his torso with rope, he clamped a sweaty hand over his mouth. “We should gag him, Ben.”

“Of course.”

They had sacrificed their neckerchiefs to gag him, one crammed in his gob and the other cleave-gagged him. Nicholas couldn’t resist sticking a cross of the wide duct tape over his mouth.

“He looks cuter,” he had told Ben, who approved.

They proudly stood their prisoner up and prodded him where they came from. Seeing their most formidable foe trussed up thoroughly by their teammates added to their glee.

Keith spotted the Boy-Scouts’ return, which meant he had one last chance to turn the tide around.

At the beginning of the game, he had––foolishly––suggested splitting the team to scout the place. None of his team members came back to camp within the agreed hour. He had explored around the farm himself and waited for his friends for what felt like an eternity. His fighting spirit led him back in search of someone to rescue.

While following the huge brick wall surrounding the estate, he found a green bag containing a plug gag. It had a lock to shut the buckle off.

He was growing weary of the game when he heard a scream; it was short-lived. He squatted to go and see. He discovered Matt and Jason pulling Stéphane towards a tree. Subduing Jason alone would be almost impossible. With an accomplice, failure was certain.

He remembered the tool shed at the farm. It was close enough to get a blade to cut his French teammate’s ropes faster.

Keith’s jersey had a flashy colour; he squatted and duck-walked backwards, keeping an eye on the group in the distance until foliage hid them completely. He reached the path and ran to the farm. His eyes darted everywhere, fearing an ambush.

Once at the tool shed, he picked shears and a hatchet and ran back to his observation post. He removed his jersey, hoping his skin was less visible. He laid face down, with foliage over him. The two Soldiers were still mocking their captive.

Watching Matt and Jason interrogate the French guy helped to pass time, but he wished they would leave. He spotted motion behind the captors. Leaves moved and Billy crawled from under a bush, dressed as a Boy-Scout.

He saw the four-boy team approach their ignoring preys. Matt spotted them in time and darted off, followed by Nick and Ben. They missed stampeding him by a few yards. Keith couldn’t believe he hadn’t been spotted and seized the opportunity. He moved closer to Stéphane; Lewis and Billy were too busy handling Jason to notice him.

He waited. He heard Lewis boast about the capture of their opponents. Philip and Sora had fallen into these Boy-Scouts’ clutches? Keith had to free Stéphane, it was his last chance.

He ran out of hiding, hatchet in hand. From the corner of his eye, he spotted Matt framed by Nicholas and Ben.

“Hayaah!”

He screamed as he gave hatchet strokes to the back of the tree, hacking ropes pulling the prisoner against the trunk. He managed to sever the nine sets pinning Stéphane to the wood, each hit with perfect aim in record time.

Lewis began running towards him. Keith dropped the hatchet and fled; hopefully Stéphane would finish freeing himself.

Keith was a much better runner than Lewis; when he looked over his shoulder, not hearing him behind, he saw he’d put some distance between them. He accelerated, trying to find cover, making sudden turns behind a large bush to lose his chaser for good.

He spotted the path from where he could find his way back. Lewis was nowhere in sight, so he slowed down to jogging.

He was still too fast to change his course when Nicholas and Billy popped up from behind trees. He ran straight into their arms.

“Damn it, fuckers!”

The steel handcuffs proved useful again.

“I lost Lewis, but you lazy cowards didn’t even run!”

“We caught you,” Billy laughed, the metal click condemning the captive’s wrists to immobility.

Nicholas was already threading a rope to bind Keith’s elbows together. Billy took care of his legs, dodging kicks before hobbling them. He removed the prisoner’s left shoe and sock.

“Let me go, be a good friend, Billy! Give me a chmmmmrgrmmm …”

His plea was the swan’s song, Billy cramming the balled-up sock into his mouth. He used his own shoelace to cleave gag him. Lewis caught up with the fugitive at last, and praised his friends for catching him.

“I’m all out of breath, but let’s get back to the two other guys. Ben is alone with them.”

It was a short way. Jason was furiously fighting the ropes, as was Matt, but the Boy-Scouts trusted their rope work. Stéphane was under control: Ben was straddling him, face down on the floor. Keith had freed his arms and torso by cutting the ropes, but his legs were still bound together.

Ben had taken his time. He kept out of reach by sitting between the lad’s shoulder blades, facing his feet. He took his wrists and wrapped them in rope one by one. He laughed at the loud gagged protests. He was ecstatic when the rest of his team brought the last competitor bound and gagged.

Euphoria overwhelmed the Boy-Scouts. They mocked their captives as they prepared them for their walk back to the base camp. Billy spotted the yellow jersey Keith had left in his hideout. The plug gag was underneath.

“You’re getting your sock back,” he smiled as he showed the item to the group. Nicholas untied the lace and collected the sock, letting Billy slide the thick foam plug to replace it and muffle insults.

They linked the four captives by their necks and were on their way. It was late afternoon, so they discussed how to spend the couple of hours left before the end of the game at nine.

The ideas caused the prisoners to protest, but they were ignored; they could make as much noise as they pleased now. Ben stopped before entering the lodge.

“Wait a minute. I remember the game in May when Matt and Lewis had freed themselves when we’d stored them in the maintenance shed, and they set an ambush.”

“Thanks for reminding our audience of my greatness, which once again proved to save the day for my team. But you have a point. I’ll scout the shower room alone.”

Lewis flung the door wide open. The corridor was empty. His teammates watched him go to the bathroom. A concert of gagged grunts resounded in the small hall as he entered it.

“They’re all here. I’ll check no one is trying to pull a fast one.”

The three other boys came to the tiled room’s threshold.

“Matt is close to getting his right wrist free, but otherwise our bonds held!”

The tie-up festival could go on. Traditions had been developed over a year: Stéphane and Marc had to be initiated.

The Boy-Scouts took them inside the large hall first, back to the animal heads at the edge of the carpet. They were bound standing, their legs together and their arms tightly held by rope, their hands palm to palm.

“You’re in for a show, boys,” Ben joked.

“Une démonstration,” Nicholas translated.

There were chairs along the far-end wall. Billy took two.

“Jason for the first chair-tie?”

No objection. They pushed the hunk, who fought all he could, which only got his keepers fiercer. Slaps were delivered to his behind and his thighs once the Boy-Scouts had him on the seat.

Using rope, they started binding his torso to the rustic chair, his arms secured behind him, going through the slats. They bound his ankles to the back of the seat, spreading his legs apart and making it more difficult to keep his balance if he wriggled.

One by one, they bound the six Saint Sebastian boys to chairs. They commented on their knots and techniques, with Billy and Nicholas racking their brains to give the explanations in their native language. Philippe and Keith had the dubious honour to be bound facing the backs of their chairs, and showing theirs to the new recruits. Their bums on the edge of the seats caught the audience’s eyes.

Marc and Stéphane had six lined-up chair-bound boys to ogle, but it didn’t last.

“It’s high time you experience being ball-tied by pros!”

The two lads got a good taste of their foreign counterparts’ talent. They ended with their legs tightly folded in two, knees against chest, their elbows tied to their knees and wrists welded to ankles. They had their backs to the other boys, who could return the ogling.

“All done! Is there any soda left?” Billy looked around.

The victors enjoyed the snacks and drinks, retelling the highlights of the day. The cellphone Billy still had in his breast pocket buzzed. He flipped it open and hit a green button.

“Congratulations,” said the voice of the man who’d explained the rules. “you’ve fought hard and won before the time was up. Transportation equipment to bring your captives to the manor is now in front of the lodge. There’s a map too. You have one hour to load the cargo and get here, so don’t dawdle.”

The Boy-Scouts rushed to the exit. Ben was first and peeked outside. He saw nothing.

“Where did he say they left the … “

He turned to address his friends but he didn’t finish his sentence. The three of them were in the hands of ninjas who had hidden in the bathroom. The assailants kept them handgagged, with big wads over their mouths and noses. Ben spun on his heel to rush outside. He barely leaped out the door and four arms grabbed him. The chloroform pad landed on his face too. He struggled, he threatened, but every time he breathed he grew weaker, until his world turned to darkness.

When he woke up, he was back in the large room, sitting in front of the friends he’d captured during the game. He looked to the right and saw his fellow Boy-Scouts sharing his plight. The straitjackets were back, and they had been strapped to their seats. The mass in his mouth and the pressure on his cheek were familiar.

To his left, next to the door, two ninjas stood looking closely at the bound and gagged boys. The Saint Sebastian crew traded grunts, and some Morse started, but they didn’t get too far.

The door opened and another man entered. They recognized the master of ceremonies who’d welcome them in the morning.

“I hope you had a nice day, dear guests. You’ve shown bravery and a will to compete. Sorry for you, Boy-Scouts, but this was only the test run! We wanted you to get familiar with the estate and experiment with different rules. This won’t count in the score for the tournament. The serious stuff begins tomorrow. I would love to tell you more about tomorrow’s trials, but I’m sure you hate spoilers, no?”

His audience expressed its discontent as loudly as they could.

“You need to rest, so we’re going to take you back to the manor. You’ll be fed and cleaned up; we even have comfortable beds for you.”

The ninjas released the boys from their chairs one by one. Lewis was first fighting his three keepers and forcing another one to assist. There was pride in resisting these people who’d deprived him of his victory. This set the tone for the rest of the gang, who made their abductors toil.

The men hobbled them with a foot of chain between their ankles and bits even shorter linking their straitjackets to those of the boys in front or behind.

They walked out in a line; it was dusk but still lit-up enough to walk through the estate. They went to the left, a direction left unexplored by the Boy-Scouts. They went through woods and meadows, and passed along a pond before they saw the large white stone manor.

“We didn’t put you to sleep back at the lodge,” the ninja in chief said, “so you’d get a meal and a bathroom break. If you don’t want to skip them, don’t give us any trouble.”

The ninjas blindfolded them before entering. One by one, they got the promised food, cleaning-up, cots, where they got strapped down.

Their blindfolds came off. They could inspect the large dorm they were in, seeing their friends all shared the same plight.

At the other side of the building, two floors below, two men were watching the events of the day playing on the twenty-four monitors, recorded from the hundreds of cameras across the estate.

“They did well, it was a pleasure watching them.”

“The teams’ make-up could be improved. The Boy-Scouts have all the brains.”

“Don’t worry,” the leader said. “The Boy-Scouts will get their comeuppance in the next rounds.”

End of the episode

[Bondwriter]

Here we go, first of 14 new chapters in the saga. Make sure the story stays on the first page!

The Great Tournament 2: Second Round

A Story in the Quite a Boarding School! series

Chapter 1: New Mission

Keith made eye contact with Sora and Jason as he got out of a hazy dream. They were sitting on a bench opposite him, wearing straitjackets. Keith realized he did too. Their ankles were cuffed and chained to a thin metal rod under the bench; so were Keith’s. Looking around, he sat between Fred and Philip. Matt was next to Fred. The two French guys, Marc and Stéphane, framed his friends on the opposite side. They were eight in the locker room, making the Football Players and Soldiers teams complete. No sight of Billy or any other Boy-Scout, though.

Their clothes no longer matched their teams’ names. The Football Players had become swimmers, wearing only the straitjacket and Speedos. The ones Keith wore were tight and hugging; he looked at Fred, whose midsection was clad in yellow. All the Soldiers had the same bright colour on. Keith made out the lines of the wrestling singlets through the thin canvas of the straitjackets.

Keith felt Philip come to his senses on his right, his quizzical grunt muffled by the plug gag and the fiendish straps buckled over his neck, which kept the mouth-filling shape in. They exchanged greetings and encouragements but fell silent when they heard the key in the door.

The master of ceremonies entered, a bright smile hidden by his balaclava.

“Welcome for a new challenge, boys. You didn’t use the three days we planned for the first round. So you don’t get bored, we’ll keep you busy with another interesting competition. You’ve rested well enough yesterday evening.”

Soft grunts of disagreement rose.

The night had been bearable, although it’d still felt like punishment. Three ninjas had taken care of them, one by one, cleaning them up, getting them in pyjamas, and restraining them on cots in an attic turned into a dorm. The leather straps made any movement impossible, but they weren’t overly tight.

Keith remembered that they woke them up when it was still dark outside. He hadn’t seen his surroundings for long before it was night again, due to the ‘chloroform’ he imagined.

Keith pricked up his ears for the man’s explanations.

“The Boy-Scouts have disappeared. This should worry you, for only you can save them and bring them back here to safety. First, you’ll have to get free and recover your uniforms, without which you’re just ordinary boys. Open your eyes for gear bags. They might prove handy.”

The man spun on his heel and headed out, his three goons following him and letting the door slam behind them.

Moans ensued, as well as attempts to slide out of the straitjackets. Keith noticed Sora’s restraining top. His elbow wasn’t welded to his waist as his neighbours’ were. Moving his arms, the blond boy felt his wasn’t either. He did ‘the snake,’ a contortion designed to get out of this peril. Sora noticed, approved with a grunt, and underwent the same lascivious moves.

Soon they got their arms above their heads, and their wrists slid down. They got rid of the garments and leaned forward. Unlike their neighbours’, their ankle cuffs weren’t locked. They unbuckled them and jumped to their feet.

Keith felt the back of his head. The strap wasn’t locked either. The ninjas hadn’t made a mistake; he had a role to play in the game, especially since Sora couldn’t undo his gag. He pulled the dribbling plug from his mouth.

“They made sure we could get free. Look, the others have locks everywhere. The Football Players have been chosen by the game gods this time!”

Sora pointed to the locks and mimed the impossibility to undo them.

“The keys must be somewhere close.”

They stepped outside and headed to the large reception room opening on the tennis court. On the fence around the court, they spotted neatly folded clothes. Keith stepped from the terrace and noticed a large orange bag to his left. He ran to it.

It was full of rope, tape, cuffs, scarves, chains, locks, and keys. There was a keychain with thin laminated stickers labelled ‘gag 1,’ ‘gag 2’, ‘ankles,’ and ‘wrists.’

“What did I tell you!”

Sora soon recovered his speech ability.

“Oh my gee! You’re smart, Keith, and great start! Let’s release the others.”

“Our team, you mean?”

“No, everybody. The game is to find the Boy-Scouts. This estate is huge, so eight of us searching them won’t be too many.

“We can keep the army boys in their singlets for the rest of the game. Once we’ve got the Scouts, I’ll hogtie Jason and Fred!”

Sora was won easily by the prospect. They went back to the locker room and released Philip and Stéphane. The Soldiers requested the same treatment with pleading grunts, but their call for collaboration and joining forces remained ignored.

“We’ve got four in the bag already!” Philip commented after being rid of his muzzle, “Let’s go get the Dainty Boys trussed up, and then we can have fun torturing the losers.”

This brought a smile to Stéphane’s lips, which were on display for the first time, curled in an enticing grin. He spoke with a heavy accent, but he understood his peers.

“You got great gear in dis bag,” he said rummaging through the loot Keith brought in. “More locks! I’m not sure ze force camisoles are kept locked tight enough.”

His new friends wondered what he meant, but Sora understood when the French boy went to add locks to link Jason’s limbs to holes punched in the heavy canvas.

“It’s called a straitjacket! Not a camisole,” Sora laughed briefly; his many issues with the local lingo and the taunts from the Brits taught him modesty about word choice and speaking foreign languages.

They made sure the Soldiers were secure enough and would keep impersonating wrestlers in their golden outfits.

“They won’t go anywhere and they’ll be ours for more torture when we’re back with the others,” Keith said eagerly.

The enthusiastic players picked vials, rolls, strips, and various fabric pieces from the bag. At the bottom, they found small canvas bags.

“Cool,” Keith commented, “we may carry stuff!”

They didn’t have any pockets in their football kits but were now equipped to ‘rescue’ the posh boys. Speaking of whom, the Boy-Scouts had come back to reality at the same time their peers did. They’d emerged from their chemical slumber sharing the same predicament, though they were kept hundreds of feet apart.

Ben opened his eyes and took in the landscape: he stood alone in the sunny woods. He remembered being knocked out by the ninjas, the strange dorm, and the contest they were part of. He tried to move and felt many ropes wrapped around his limbs. No surprise. He moved his jaws, realizing his mouth was packed. Turns of tape went around his head.

He saw an envelope on the ground a few feet in front of him with ‘BEN’ written in black marker. Instructions meant he was expected to escape. Ben twisted around; his forearms had some slack to move. He was grateful for the hours of practice he’d gotten as he pushed his right wrist down and found the flaw. He could reach the knot—an essential one! He pulled it off with his fingertips and the tension around his arms loosened.

It took five minutes to free himself from the bonds. He read the cryptic note: ‘Billy is two hundred yards to the north west. Don’t trust anyone. Head back to your base for safety.’ Puzzled, he spent five more minutes wrapping the ropes back into neat coils, weapons for the battles he could have to wage.

The path fifteen feet away led to the note’s directions. Ben had spent enough time on his grandparents’ farm to be able to find cardinal points by looking at the sun or finding the moss at the foot of trees. The path meandered through bushes and ferns, and he soon saw Billy from the side, standing immobile against a tree.

The tree-tie looked impressive. Ben walked on a dry twig, triggering a muffled question from Billy. His head was tied to the tree with an extra scarf over the bottom of his face, but also a roll of bandage was wrapped across his forehead. Ben stepped in Billy’s field of vision, which triggered a relieved grunt.

“Your handlers have done such a fine job that I’m tempted to keep their artwork intact!” he joked, provoking annoyed recriminations.

“Just kidding!”

He was back to his good-natured self and tackled the knots in the right order. Billy was released very soon.

“Thanks, Ben. I couldn’t escape from this one. They’d bound my arms with so many turns and frapping knots! They welded them to the tree.”

There was another note giving Nicholas’s location and the same warning.

“Did you have a ninja come and whisper in your ear to wake you up?” Billy wondered.

“Not that I remember,” Ben replied.

“It was ten or fifteen minutes ago. The guy told me I would score an extra two hundred points if we finished the round with Lewis still bound and gagged.”

They’d learned and experienced team spirit in their various games. It had become a shared value, so they settled to go and free the others.

“Saint Sebastian Boy-Scouts forever,” they high-fived without their hands making actual contact, keeping their cheerful exchange quiet in case enemies were within earshot.

They headed east as the note advised and spotted Nicholas after a quick walk. He’d been tree-tied just like his friends. A pad had been placed between his head and the trunk, and a swim cap had been added to pin his head to the tree once mummified in duct tape.

“You find the strangest things in these woods. What is this?”

“I don’t know, Billy, but it doesn’t move much. Is it even alive?”

Nicholas grunted angrily before Billy went for a nipple twist to assess the gag’s strength.

“They weren’t cheap with the tape!”

He had a hard time finding the end to start unwinding the many turns. Ben tackled the ropes binding his arms, but there were three coils overlapping, so he located the knots and tackled them one by one.

Ben and Billy had been quiet, but not quiet enough; the Football Players had a better grasp of the location by now and were following them since Billy’s release. Philippe guessed the Boy-Scouts had to be close to the Hunting Lodge, and he was proved right when they heard and then saw Ben and Billy. The trio of boys sporting footie kits preyed on the unsuspecting Scouts as Stéphane had been left in charge of the prisoners, which had gotten a huge grin from their new friend.

“I weel gard zem well,” he ensured.

The stealthy Football Players deployed slowly and carefully around their targets, covering all the angles to win their three-against-one fight.

“Mmmmmrph! Grmgrtchmmbbbblllmm!!!”

Nicholas tried all he could to warn Ben and Billy, but they had their mind busy with removing the tape and knots––they didn’t cut ropes when playing their games, less so when left without gear.

“Going as fast as I can,” Ben grumbled, expecting a more grateful teammate. He picked on his warning much too late when Keith grabbed him, yanking his left arm behind his back in a tight, controlling arm lock.

“Hey!” Billy shouted, knocked down by Philip and Sora, who grabbed him at the shoulders and ankles to bring him face down on the ground. They straddled him as they seized his limbs. Philip snapped handcuffs around his wrists and slid towards his shoulders to place a handgag. Sora wrapped duct tape around his ankles, then his knees. The curly-haired boy didn’t spare the turns to immobilize the limbs.

Sora joined his friend, a thin cotton napkin balled-up in one hand, his other one holding the roll of grey sticky plastic.

“Hurry up,” Keith called, “I’ve got a hold on Ben but he’s fidgety!”

“I’m not even moving, bastard! You hurt me!”

“We’ll have to stop this whining, won’t we?”

Philip and Sora were done with three turns of duct tape around Billy’s head, sealing his lips over his filled mouth, and could provide Ben with a similar treatment.

“They left us a big square of Glidor in the gear we found. You’ll love it,” Philippe said, presenting the mass of shiny fabric the size of a tennis ball. Ben protested. If the Soldiers were around, he could alert them and benefit from an attack.

“Help, someone, helprmmmmgrmmmphmmm!”

Philippe got caught by surprise but he was kneeling just in front and solved the issue quickly, filling the offending opening with a brimming mass of black, slick polyamide.

“Bite on this!”

Rrrrriiiiiip!

Sora was here to help; he plastered Ben’s lower face with grey tape before perfecting the gag with two turns that went all the way around, gluing the thin hair above his neck.

Being three against one allowed for maximum efficiency. With boys trained to play rodeo and lots of rope, three minutes were enough to bind another one efficiently.

Nicholas had used the loosening of his bonds and partial removal of the tape to try a desperate attempt. They had dropped their bags next to Billy and he spotted a chloroform vial. If he jumped on Philippe and knocked him out … He pictured how to jump Keith, then Sora. It would take a lot of luck, but he had to try for the team.

Alas, his opponents were swift. He jumped out of the ropes and dived to the bag, tape still over his full mouth; but Ben was under control with Philip knotting the final hogtie when Nicholas took his chance.

“Hey!” Philip shouted, pointing to the escapee. The brave rescuer felt three bodies pile upon him, his hands being still far from the coveted weapon.

Nicholas grumbled behind his gag while he got a rope-only treatment. The rascals tugged, pulled, and knotted on the supple cotton cord to bind his legs and forearms together. A chest harness kept the latter tightly parallel behind. Sora added tape to the forearms to weld them, “just in case.”

With three of the Boy-Scouts neutralized, they had only Lewis left to find. Sora spotted the envelope with ‘Nicholas’ written in black.

“They got instructions!”

Keith ripped it open and pulled the message.

“Lewis is bound to the oak tree across the lawn from the Hunting Lodge’s backdoor. Trust no one.”

The Football Players gloated.

“It didn’t even take half an hour to wrap this baby up,” Philip rejoiced. “I’ll go get Lewis while you take these fuckers back to our camp. There are tons of things I’d love to do to them!”

TBC

[Bondwriter]

The Great Tournament 2: Second Round

Chapter 2: Victory

Keith and Sora lined up their three captives and told them they’d have to hop the six or seven hundred yards separating them from their destination. Philip took a bag filled with goodies and dashed off towards the Hunting Lodge.

After a couple of minutes, Keith and Sora prodded the unhappy, bouncy campers.

“They’re slowing us down.” Sora frowned.

“They are trying to gain time, but we won’t have it!’

Keith made an improvised whip with a branch from a bush. He spared Billy, but not Nicholas and Ben, who were glad they wore shorts and underwear to dampen the stinging effect.

They heard a brief yelp in the distance.

“It sounded like Lewis,” Keith said.

It was: Philip had found his prey quickly and released him from his thick and rough tree trunk limb by limb, using cuffs and ropes to keep him restrained. Lewis was mad. He’d managed to free one wrist when his sadistic friend showed up in his glorious Football Player outfit.

Philip’s smirk told Lewis he wouldn’t get help from this pilgrim. The way the Football Player bound his arms in a reverse-prayer position proved his opponent was serious about capturing him.

Philip then took from his bag of tricks the toy he’d saved to try on Lewis: a rubber muzzle with an inflatable gag attached. Classy and likely effective.

Lewis’s legs were hobbled, which saved Philip from getting kicked once the tape was released. He spat out a ball of cotton soaked in drool.

“Hey! Come onrgggrmmmph!”

The black bulb slid in effortlessly and stopped the sound that got to the ears of their crews yards away.

“You can’t help it, can you? You want to get noticed,” Philip scolded. He kept a hand on the front panel as he buckled the two straps over his friend’s neck, tightening them one by one again. He brought the inflating pear’s nozzle to the hole in front and screwed it to the almost invisible fixture.

“You know, Lou, when I saw this thing—its huge bladder and high-end pump—I thought your mouth deserved it the most!”

He pressed on the pump. Lewis tried to take it like a man, but the ninth squeeze got him to wail.

“Nnngh!”

“OK, I’ll be nice and won’t inflate it more. You can yell all you want anyway; your friends have all been caught already. But I like you silent better. Follow me and don’t hold me back if you know what’s good for you. You can walk fast enough to catch up with the other sissies who are hopping!”

Lewis had grown less feisty over the months and the many tie-up games they’d had, trying to conceal his disappointment when on the losing side. Philip threaded a leash through the chest harness, and they briskly headed back to the Football Players’ base camp.

Philip had been right about the three bunnies’ slow speed.

“Wait, we need to make it fair to our prisoners. Lewis can’t have an edge on them …”

As soon as Phil hobbled Lewis, the three winners grabbed switches and entertained their guests during the fifteen minutes it took to get back to the clubhouse. They stayed mum and alert, and only swishing sounds followed by snaps and angry mumbles disturbed the woodlands.

They felt less compelled to remain silent once they entered the locker-room.

“What the fuck?” Keith asked dejectedly, “They’re gone!”

Sora and Philip shared his disbelief. The American boy spotted a stack of Polaroid pictures on a bench. They gathered around them. The photos depicted Stéphane, having been handled much like Lewis, except his arms were in a box-tie, not in a reverse prayer. They also wore the same muzzle, its gleaming material reflecting the flashlight to prove it was inflated mercilessly. There were six snapshots, all showing only the poor victim from various angles to document his total helplessness.

“They got the frog,” Sora stated, “but how did they get out?”

“Stéphane must have made a mistake while releasing them for a new position or torment,” Philip offered, “He freed their hands for just a moment and …”

“We remember what happened to you three weeks ago,” Keith sniggered, picturing how his now–teammate had ended up after trying to tickle-torture Jason and Matt, and how the short blond boy himself had benefited from his lack of attention.

“One has to find ways to keep entertained when guarding prisoners,” Philip sighed.

The boy looked at the bound and gagged Boy-Scouts standing quietly, a grin revealing his tongue running over his pearly white teeth. Nicholas shuddered.

“Let’s bind them good and then you can go rescue Stéphane.”

They decided to use the four benches in the locker-room and an extra bag of gear they’d grabbed in the coppice just before the tennis court. It had twelve ratchet tie-down straps, three for each of the Boy-Scouts, who soon lay belly down on the benches. Straps over the shoulders, bums, and calves made the trick once properly tightened.

“They won’t go anywhere. Must I really guard them?” Philip asked.

“It’s the whole team, so yeah. Let’s get some gear ready and go to the farm,” Keith opined. “With all this cool stuff and our brains, we can overpower Jason easily.”

Sora agreed; he was impressed by the boldness and the promise of exciting adventures. He and Keith filled their bags, making sure they took all they needed to knock out, restrain, and silence their opponents. Two panel-gags and some big pear-shaped plugs were novelties in this game.

“The guys who set this up are bastards, but they‘ve got great toys,” Keith said, putting the plugs in his bag. “Fred won’t make a fuss this time.”

“If you don’t come back in one hour, I’ll move our friends out and they’ll have to babysit themselves while I come and rescue you,” Philip said.

The two bold Football Players exited the room, leaving Philip with his four charges. He sat astride the bench Lewis lay on, his crotch a few inches from his prisoner’s face.

“So, Lewis, where were we at when we got abducted from Thomas More? Didn’t you owe me a night in ropes? Let’s get started,” the boy said and patted Lewis’s head.

With sight, hearing, and smell at maximum awareness, Keith and Sora trotted across the estate. The surroundings were beautiful and the weather sunny, yet they were focused on any suspicious tree branch quivering or any sounds alerting them of steps. They passed the clearing where Keith had been caught the day before when he’d tried to rescue Stéphane. No one there.

They tiptoed to the barn. The gate was ajar. They looked inside. The show they got left them breathless again. Stéphane was peacefully sitting on a chair, free from bonds or gag, contemplating the four Soldiers, who’d been left in their bright singlets. They were severely trussed up to a row of thick, sturdy beams: two with ropes, two with tape, but none with mercy. The many turns and bulges on their arms and legs meant their friend had been serious.

“Hey, Stéphane,” Keith whispered, entering the barn.

The French boy turned his head toward him, his face blank. His eyes shone weirdly and he shook his head. It was a trap!

Keith spun around to run out of the barn, only to face three ninjas. Three more had already grabbed Sora, handgagging him tightly. They seized him before he could dodge the attack. The three wiry men held his limbs solidly; none of his usual tricks to get out of grasp worked on the strong, trained trio.

A knowing eye had seen him fill his lungs, and a hand clamped over his mouth one hundredth of a second before his insult came out.

“Hush! You lads have screwed up big time, you in particular,” he told Keith, who didn’t like his tone.

One of his colleagues brought a plug gag out and crammed it inside Keith’s mouth, fastening the buckle over his neck to the last notch and locking it afterwards.

They dragged him to one of the twenty beams delineating a square at the centre of the barn, so there was room for more victims. Keith got a rope tie. The leather-gloved men had a soft and solid touch. Much like Billy or Fred, he thought. One by one, ropes appeared and wrapped his limbs, starting by welding his arms and torso to the square piece of wood.

He’d heard Billy describe how roughly he was bound to his tree and understood he wouldn’t fare better than his best friend. They were binding his legs when the sound of an engine came up. It was followed by the barn’s gates opening, triggered remotely, as none of the ninjas he could see had moved.

A small tractor entered, pulling a trailer. The walls were down so he could see the five hogtied or ball-tied figures lying on the flatbed. He identified the uniforms. Three Boy-Scouts and a Football Player.

Two ninjas framed the captives, a third one driving the tractor. He cut it off and jumped down.

“It was a piece of cake,” the leader and driver said. “I have no idea what went through their minds, but a two-person rescue mission and a lone guard … Aren’t they supposed to be pro-level players?”

“They showed some skills, but they’ve got to learn about the Great Tournament spirit,” his colleague said while taping Sora to the beam five feet left from Keith.

The men went on doing their business with few words, related to their task only.

The team that had come in with the tractor brought their passengers to a beam one by one. They took care of Philip first.

The men handling Keith were done, and they moved on to Stéphane, releasing him from his chair. When they frog-marched him to the fourth pole in their row, Keith saw the rubber mask covering his face better. It was flesh-coloured, with unusually crimson lips drawn on it. No doubt he was gagged underneath. He spotted the transparent cuffs and hobbles keeping his arms crossed over his chest.

The Boy-Scouts were bound to the poles opposite the Soldiers; Keith couldn’t help but watch the hypnotic gestures of the skilled, purposeful ninjas, who soon had the newcomers restrained to the beams, all in rope, fetters, or tape. Lewis was given metal restraints. Small hooks in the wood made for a number of fixing points and two or three chain links locked to the cuffs’ D-rings, making the exuberant boy less fidgety.

Once their job was complete, the nine ninjas gathered in the centre of the square and looked at the twelve boys they’d united to the beams around them.

“Good job,” the guy who drove the tractor said. “Though this means more work for us today, thanks to these amateurs who’ve ruined the game.”

They carried out another close inspection for five minutes and went out the gate, leaving only one man to watch the prisoners.

They can’t even follow their own advice, Keith fumed. He felt shame at being shown his mistakes, too, which got him in a crabby mood.

A few minutes later, the big leader entered, his assertive strut making it easy to identify him despite the balaclava.

“Not even noon and it’s over already! My, lads, we’ve seldom seen such a feat! Apparently those two,” he said, pointing to Keith and Sora, “thought they were given an advantage to just scoop up all the good things for themselves.”

The culprits blushed behind the tape or leather.

“The instructions stated all eight of you were to rescue your Boy-Scout friends! They’d won the first round, so we thought you’d cooperate to get them and keep them your prisoners to bring them down a peg or two. The round was supposed to last longer, but you’ve decided these favours were just for yourselves! The bonus bags we left were for two teams. Yesterday, a team already managed to get rid of the competition in a very short time.”

They all thought—the Boy-Scouts in particular—they were being scolded for being clever, which this time brought a gagged rumble.

“We didn’t disclose the schedule for the whole competition, but now we have to make changes. Yesterday’s round, a warm-up, was supposed to last until tomorrow. It is time for remedial action. If you don’t want to cooperate, we’ll have to teach you the hard way. This afternoon, Agent 23 will be watching you, but brace yourselves; no time for water or food until the evening. And it may get warm in the barn. Questions?”

Some quizzical and protesting grunts replied.

“Glad you don’t have any. I’ll be on my way. I’ll have more to tell you this evening before we bring you back to the headquarters. You’ll get to rest soon enough. For now, enjoy!”

[Xtc]

Still with it! Thanks for the continuation.

[blackbound]

Ah, breaking rules one is not aware of... Love it.

[Bondwriter]

[mention]Xtc[/mention] [mention]blackbound[/mention] Thanks for commenting, and here is another episode of this Summer adventure. The Saint Sebastian boys are thrown in at the deep end in this one, far away from their usual turf.

The Great Tournament 2: Second Round

Chapter 3: The Sun Rises

Agent 23 sat on the chair Stéphane had occupied as bait, and he played his goon role perfectly. None of the grunts or sounds stirred him, although Keith spotted his eyes moving in the balaclava’s holes.

Without blindfolds, the Saint Sebastian gang could still hold conversations. Keith and Billy started blinking words of comfort in Morse. The guard didn’t see them or didn’t care, so a concert of fluttering eyelids started, most messages at first ditching on the Ninjas’ leader.

This helped time pass faster. As the hours went by, the temperature rose from warm to hot, and they all sweated profusely, including Agent 23, who didn’t seem fazed and peacefully read a novel.

Time grew long and the air became stuffy. The thought of a glass of water tackled everybody’s mind. Eventually, the master of ceremonies returned with his typical gait, followed by five other men in black. Agent 23 stood.

“It feels stuffy in here. Could you bear it, Agent 23?”

“It was no issue, Commander. I had a good read and the lads behaved.”

“Good, enough with the penalties then. I hope you’ll show my men,” he told the boys, pointing to his goons lined up behind him, “the respect and obedience you owe them. You’re going to get some relief, so don’t make their job too hard. They have no time to waste, since there is still much to prepare for tomorrow.”

Each of the five men walked towards a boy, cuffs, straitjackets, and locks at hand. They released the boys from the beams, putting them in the immobilizing contraptions and hobbling them. They added belts with D-rings at front and back and linked the twelve boys together at the waist with two feet of chain between them.

“Off we go,” the Commander ordered, taking the lead of the chain gang that the six black-clad guards framed .

Billy was first in line; the man’s condescending tone had gotten him miffed. He’d ruminated all afternoon the implicit rules they were under. It was true that their games had devolved in making as many prisoners as possible and then have ‘fun’ with them, through tickle torture or by increasing the discomfort of their tie-ups. He’d been on the giving and receiving ends, and it hadn’t felt like they were breaking a TUGs code of honour.

The arrival at the mansion got him out of his sombre mood. He was first to get water, a snack and a bathroom break. It went fast, with three ninjas handling the care, making sure the time he was left unrestrained and with his mouth free were minimal. They chained him at the back of the line and the next one was up.

The Commander popped up now and then during the hour it took to handle the whole group. He got the confirmation that they behaved each time. When he was told they all had gone through the motions to be watered, fed and relieved, he smiled behind his balaclava.

He followed his men as they took the chained up boys up to the dorm. They released the lads from their chains and straitjackets and put them in harnesses that wrapped their whole torso but allowed their arms to run at their sides.

The Saint Sebastian boys–and their new French friends–were strapped to their cots; the Commander supervised the tying down, making it clear he didn’t want a pissed-off player to try something stupid. Agent 18 and 13 would watch them overnight, but it was always best to rest peacefully before a Manhunt.

“You’re all tucked in and there isn’t anything to do but sleep, so you’d better use the time doing just this. Tomorrow you’ll get a lesson in friendship and cooperation. You’ll be dropped one by one in the estate, all with your own handicaps, whether it’s in mobility or in having some of your senses affected. You will carry someone else’s release, but then you’ll have to find each other.”

He saw approving nods; they thought it would be a literal walk in the park.

“Considering the outcome of the past two days, it can’t be this easy, of course. There will be fifteen rabid hounds after you. Not dogs, of course, but eager contestants who will be tracking you down. Now, if you manage to get together and release each other, you may stand a chance to fight back. Otherwise, the game will move on with you under their control. Have sweet dreams, rest well and have this in mind tomorrow when you hear the bell starting the game.”

The man got out of the dorm and switched the light off. Only the faint night lights illuminated the dorm. Billy turned his head and winked good night to Fred on his right and Stéphane on his left and started sucking on the plug, which was soothing and helped him get to sleep.

In the morning, he was surprised not to be sedated; instead, a long routine took place, at the end of which they’d all gotten a drink and a cereal bar, and had been cleaned up and dressed in their game uniforms. Fred was first to get the treatment; he came back to the group with a hood on, covering his whole face but his nose.

Billy was the fourth one to go; his wards brought him back not only blind and mute, but deprived of hearing also: they’d stuffed earplugs cutting off most of the outside sound. He waited patiently, some leash holding him to a wall or a beam. There was motion around him; he felt the piece of chain released and someone tugged him along.

He followed his keeper, feeling a presence behind him. They walked for a long time; he tried to assess the distance by counting steps but he soon lost track of the count. The leash loosened and he stopped. His hands got released while his ankles were being hobbled. The two––or three?–– men walking him left: he felt their steps’ vibrations with his feet. He reached to the back of the hood and the lock. It held a panel that prevented access to the laces. His prod found a piece of twine running over his neck below the hood. The necklace had a key at the end, stuck into his chest pocket.

He tried it on the hood’s padlock, and on his ankles’ but it didn’t match. He didn’t know where he was and could only move hopping. At least his free hands allowed him to break a fall. But where should he head? He explored his surroundings to find a spot to hide. He felt waist-high plants next to the path; ferns, if he wasn’t mistaken. He could lie down on the ground to prevent getting caught.

He felt someone hopping before he hid; the stranger was on him before he had time to react. Billy could detect gagged grunts. He reached in front of him and caught a body bound in ropes. The grunts sounded stronger; this was a Boy-Scout uniform, and it was Nicholas. Billy’s nose was trained to identify his fellow dorm mates.

Billy felt his teammate staying still and welcoming his hands when he ran them over him. Ropes meant knots and the blind boy searched one. He found Nicholas’ hands and followed the thread from there. He reached a knot, which he removed easily. He went for the elbows. The knot binding the rope binding them was on his chest, and the boy who needed release turned around to assist.

With his arms free, Nicholas got out of the ropes in no time. Billy felt hands at the back of his hood. The panel was removed and the laces loosened until he felt it slide up and got blinded by the morning sun. He still had a leather plug in his mouth, but he could see. He reached for the ear plugs and took them out.

Nicholas had a key around the neck. Billy showed his and they tried it on both of their locked gags; it didn’t open them. Billy tried his key on his friend’s feet hobbles, but once again in vain.

Nicholas coiled the ropes and Billy gave him a hand. They coded with the quietest grunts, wondering what to do. Billy asked whether the bell had rung, which Nicholas confirmed with a nod. He waved to the path, spelling ‘h-u-n-l-o-d’. Their base camp, the Hunting Lodge. Nothing was told by the game runner about it still being a harbour, but they knew the surroundings.

They headed to the familiar location, passing the spot where they’d first captured Philip, which seemed a very long time ago. Nicholas led the way, scouting for anybody; he signalled Billy to hide. They heard faint sounds, like hops and leaves rustling. They stood behind trees and saw another team mate: Ben, who was blindfolded and gagged, hands cuffed in front and ankles fettered as well.

Nicholas rushed to the newcomer, grabbing him.

“Mrrmmmph,” he whispered in his ear.

Ben nodded and stopped moving. The locked blindfold matched his rescuer’s key, so he got his sight back. He saw Billy and they shared relieved looks. Ben also had a key around his neck. It worked on Billy’s gag, which was their last try, after his ankles and Nicholas’ muzzle. Billy had recovered most of his abilities.

“I’m not sure the Hunting Lodge is safe, but there are ditches where we can hide. We’re really close, so it’s the safest if the hunters have already been left loose. We may try to remove your gags, we could cut them with a stone or something.”

His team partners nodded in agreement, having no better idea to share. The troop started their trip in search of a hideout, with Nicholas scouting in front and his mates hopping behind as quietly as they could.

When they could see the lodge beyond the trees, the scout waved frantically for them to hide. The thick bushes along the path were a good shelter and all three boys disappeared under the foliage. Billy saw two pairs of bare legs pass ten feet away from him.

“Let’s be real quiet,” a boyish voice whispered, “I want to be the one who catches a terrorist first!”

The voices faded away. Once the threat was gone, the three Boy-Scouts stood and watched each other. Nicholas signalled the coast was clear.

“It was a close call. Good you spotted them early, Nick,” Billy whispered.

They resumed their walk. Their most mobile member guided the trio along the edge of the clearing in front of the Hunting Lodge to avoid the distance in the open. He thought he’d seen shadows behind the lodge’s windows. The Boy-Scouts went around the lawn surrounding the lodge, hiding behind the small trees and shrubbery proliferating at the edge. Nicholas had spotted some hillier parts behind their base camp, which could provide a hideout with an outlook to spot coming foes.

They heard the shrill sound of a whistle coming from behind the foliage in the clearing. Turning to where the sound came from, they saw a silhouette rushing towards them through the shrubbery. Nicholas grabbed the keys from his friends’ necks and ran away, as they hopped to escape.

Ben and Billy had stamina, but not enough to lose the boy chasing them. Billy’s instinct to flee got him to leap over big distances, but casting a glance over his shoulder caused him to catch a root with his foot and fall headlong.

He felt someone sitting over his thighs, pull his wrists behind his back and lock them in cuffs.

“Bastard! I’ll have you for this,” he replied in usual games tone.

A giggle rang out in reply. Billy saw his attacker as he stood and went after Ben. He wore a Cub-Scout uniform, an official one with the dark green shirt. The brown shorts were short indeed, with two hairless, dark-skinned legs sticking out from it; the grey neckerchief lined with red seemed genuine. Billy only saw his back and his dark curly hair. He’d just been caught by a much younger boy.

The lad caught up with Ben not very far from his first catch. Ben turned around and tried to fight the boy off, but the clever lad managed to get behind him as he swung his wrists, and grabbed his waist and clung to it.

Nicholas had stopped running once he’d found cover. He stayed behind a small hill to get back to the place he’d left his friends: he hadn’t heard more people coming, so they could tackle their attacker. He wished he’d thought about it right away and fought him then, rather than being overwhelmed by his survival instincts. He jogged, his head turning in all directions to detect a menace.

He saw Ben with a short black boy holding him in a tight embrace, trying to drag him to the ground but failing. He came from the back, and the Cub jumped when he felt Nicholas’s hands grabbing his shoulders and pulling him away. Billy was on his feet and he came to help as he could. Ben turned around and grabbed the front of the boy’s shirt with his cuffed hands.

“Tables are turned,” Billy sneered.

“I surrender,” the kid said before falling down on the ground.

“We made it,” Billy gloated, smiling at his friends.

“Mmmmph!”

“Grmmmph!”

TBC

[Xtc]

Thanks for the continuation.

PS. Remind me to tell you what "pissed-up" means one day; I suspect you meant "pissed-off".

[blackbound]

I dunno why this story gets so little love. Looking forward to this table-turning in particular.

[Bondwriter]

[mention]Xtc[/mention] Thanks, the culprit is strictly trussed up in the basement, learning a good lesson.
[mention]blackbound[/mention] It gets views, so not all hope is lost. There's more to come indeed...

[Bondwriter]

I won't gorget to update the date so people come and check this novel and exciting chapter!

The Great Tournament 2: Second Round

Chapter 4: Caught!

Wide eyes and grunts barely preceded Billy being tackled to the ground by newcomers. Two additional Cubs were a clear threat, Nicholas decided and spun on his heel, but the black lad on the ground clasped his ankles.

“You took your time, boys! These idiots don’t have anything to tie me up with, so I’d have escaped anyway.”

“We ran as soon as we heard your whistle, Luke.”

The two other boys had to be twelve or thirteen at most, Billy couldn’t tell lying supine on the ground with the two Cubs towering over him.

“You’d better let us go, or we’ll grmmmphgrmmmmmm!”

One of the lads stuck a plug gag in Billy’s mouth.

“Hold on, Luke, I’ll buckle the strap and we’ll come help you.”

Nicholas was trying to get out of the boy’s grip, but it was relentless. Soon, the extra pair of Cubs stood in front of him and brought him down. He felt a coil of rope imprisoning his ankles and protested in his gag. He moved his arms around, but they too fell prey to his attackers, who straddled him and brought his wrists together before binding them in rope.

Ben crawled away slowly, hoping he wouldn’t be detected and could hide in the shrubbery. Thinking it was a good idea, Billy stayed quiet and started doing the same.

The three lads were eager knot tiers; they did Nicholas’s elbows after securing his wrists. When they turned to his knees, they spotted the escapees.

“They’re trying to get away!” a lanky brown-haired boy warned, causing his friends to turn their heads.

“We can’t have that, can we?” Luke said, grinning.

Nicholas’s legs didn’t need more bonds, but more rope was called for to restrain his friends. The three lads bound Ben’s hands tightly over his chest and wove a harness around Billy’s torso, with shoulder straps and a crotch rope that kept his cuffed wrists closer to his body.

The boys were lighter and shorter but had skilled hands; Nicholas turned around to watch his teammates being trussed up: the boys would have passed the Saint Sebastian entrance exam. He could testify to this further when the trio came to finish roping him up.

“We’ve got three terrorists. It’s a good start,” Luke gloated as he adjusted the captives’ hobbles. “We’ll hide them in the Hunting Lodge.”

The three pint-sized hunters framed their game and led them to the lodge. It was a short walk. The Boy-Scouts were miffed at being defeated by these snarling Cubs.

They soon found themselves in the position they’d picked for their own preys two days before: bound in kneeling hogties in the small washroom.

“They’re safe in here.” Luke said, “I’ll watch them while you explore around.”

“Let’s search the surroundings. We’ll leave the entrance door open so you may hear us whistling if we find one of the villains.”

They left. Luke watched his preys with an amused look. He was handsome and sported an angelic smile, which shifted to a more threatening expression.

“Did you know I’m the best at torturing prisoners?”

He kneeled in front of Billy, grabbed his hair to keep his head still, and flicked his nose.

“I’m an expert nose flicker, but I’m good at hair- and ear-pulling too!”

“Mrgrmphmm!”

“Grmmbrmmm …”

“Rmmmph …”

The gagged protests got the lad laughing.



Four hundred yards away, another group of three Saint Sebastian boys was doing its best to stay safe. Philip had been brought to an unidentified location by his guards. They’d trussed up his arms in a reverse prayer position before they removed the hood blinding him and his leg hobbles. He couldn’t tell where he was. He could walk, see, and hear but still had a big plug in his mouth denying him speech.

He peeked around and spotted a path, which he followed, his senses on alert. He barely came around a bend when he saw Lewis. His best friend’s arms and legs were bound and his lower face was covered by a layer of brown leather. Lewis spotted him and hopped towards him. Philip jogged to his mate.

Lewis’s hands were cuffed behind his back; Philip showed his own wrists held in ropes and spun to show the knot on his chest holding the harness together. Lewis signalled him to sit down; he turned around and lowered himself, showing his round shorted bum in the process. Eventually, he caught the loop and picked the knot.

Philip’s arms felt less constrained. Alas, some thin bracelets kept his wrists cuffed together. He adjusted his hands at the small of his back, which was more bearable.

The Boy-Scout and the Football Player noticed they had keys on a string necklace; they squirmed and twisted to get them and try opening the locks imprisoning their hands. They heard the bell and traded looks; with a few grunts and nods, they agreed to hurry up.

Philip got a rush of adrenaline when he heard rustling behind him, afraid it could be one of the feared ‘hounds’ that had been unleashed. He was relieved to see of his teammates. Keith had his chest and legs wrapped in ropes and he was blindfolded.

“Hmm,” Philip called out.

“Is it you, Phil? Keith whispered.

“Hmm.”

Lewis had succeeded in grabbing his key and grunted for Keith to get on his knees, using the abbreviated prompts they’d developed over the months. He moved to try his key in the lock at the back of the blond boy’s head. It didn’t work; Philip imitated his friend and mentor. This time, a ‘click’ got the trio to cheer up.

Keith’s leather blindfold fell to the ground. He blinked for a few seconds as he took in the bright morning light.

“My hands are cuffed, but maybe you can remove the ropes. It’ll be easier to try the key I have on your cuffs or gags.”

Philip and Lewis crouched next to their fellow club member and undertook removing the rope network surrounding him. It took time and some trial and error, but Keith eventually jumped to his feet with only his hands restrained behind his back. His friends had their wrists restrained as his, as none of their keys freed their hands, and they hadn’t found one to remove the large plug gags that imposed silence upon them.

“We’re close to the farm. I saw a small cave that’s over there,” he pointed with his chin. “Let’s shelter there; maybe we can find a way to pick locks. With our hands free, we can fight the opponents this Commander guy sent after us.”

Common sense appealed to his mute friends, who followed him through the underbrush. They went down the hill for a hundred yards before reaching the bottom of a vale. The ground went back up, and a small opening in white stone showed the entrance to the cave.

Its inside smelled of cold wood fire and there were charcoal graffiti on the walls: names in French and dates, sometimes with a heart encircling them. There was a bend ten feet in, so they could sit in the half-light, invisible from the outside.

His hands still bound, Keith felt behind him for rocks; he picked one, but it was limestone.

“I’ve seen silex in this chalky stuff before. Try and find one.”

His gagged partners went hunting for a hard and cutting piece of stone. They froze when they heard voices outside. They slowly huddled together on the wall that would best hide them. The banter they heard was in English, and the voices were youthful. They stopped, but faint steps approached.

The thin ray of a flashlight blinded them in quick turns.

“What did I tell you? This is the first place to search when newbies are involved. They think the cave’s entrance isn’t easy to spot and they always hide inside.”

“We’re not newbies, and you’d better let us go if you don’t want us to kick your butts,” Keith protested.

“You’ll get out on your knees and you’d better not make it difficult for us,” another voice said. “There are three of us and our hands aren’t bound.”

“Come and get us!” Keith retorted, his temper rising from the twerps’ condescending tone.

Laughter erupted at the entrance.

“We will!”

The Saint Sebastian boys had too little space to move and struggle. The three kids crawled in, each coming for a different prey. Once they all faced their victims, blinding them with their flashlights, they counted to three and reached for the older boys’ noses and mouths. The dreaded anaesthetic hit them. They twisted, but without their hands they couldn’t fight the tykes who knew how to hold on to their heads.

The three boys fainted within seconds. When they woke up, they were staked out on a patch of grass in front of the cave. Lewis tilted his head and saw Philip’s and Keith’s hair. They were all spread-eagled with their wrists bound to the same iron stakes. Lewis grumbled and Philip turned his head, exchanging a brief glance. Keith was conscious also and turned to his friends. He’d been gagged and could only grunt.

“It took twenty minutes for you to recover,” a cheerful voice greeted them. They turned to see a plump boy wrapped in his tight Cub uniform. He was thirteen at the most: he had no visible hair on his calves and a high-pitched voice.

“The others were right about timing. We pulled you out fast and here you are, staked out for the ants to come and devour you!”

The grunts in reply were unhappy––and not very polite.

“Jake knew of this cave. He was right too. And here we are, three terrorists collected by our team!”

The smiling boy sat astride on Lewis’s belly.

“I didn’t know Boy-Scouts could be terrorists. The football guys, I get—football sucks.”

Lewis warned the lad that he’d better leave him alone, but his gagged threats didn’t deter the boy.

“I’ve always dreamed of torturing the older scouts in our group.”

The lad reached for Lewis’s left nipple with his thumb and index finger and squeezed it through the thin silk of his shirt. He used his nails to inflict the maximum level of pain. Lewis shook and bucked, trying to get rid of his attacker.

“Mmmmmrbblllmmmmrmmmph!”

“Ha! I bet you’ve done worse stuff to Cubs. I’m just getting revenge for them. Don’t worry, Footie guys, your turn will come!”

Philip knew a real sadist when he met one; he pulled on his wrists and ankles in the vain hope he could release himself before the little jerk came to torment him.



Two hours before, Stéphane had been brought to an unknown location gagged, blindfolded, and ear-plugged. He wore a hood that wrapped his head, with an opening for the nose and eyes only. His guards loosened the leather mask depriving him of sight. They cuffed his hands in front and left the five-inch hobble between his ankles.

When he got his sight back, the ninjas were gone. He had only his eyes to work with and couldn’t tell where they’d headed. Stéphane was on a path and he chose to go north, using the sun to choose directions. He soon saw the tennis court and the Club House in the distance.

He got down on all four to stay hidden by the vegetation bordering the path. In his football uniform, with his knees bare, it slowed him down. What mattered was to avoid any unpleasant encounter during the six hours the game was supposed to last. Hopefully he’d find one of the Brits he’d teamed up with or, even better, his roommate Marc.

He stayed within the woods’ cover when the path reached a pasture. He had to cross it to get to the Club House, which meant a detour. He couldn’t stay on his hands and feet to follow the edge of the woods; there were bushes and the ground was full of sticks, nettles, and brambles, so he crouched and walked like a duck. He went around the open space and landed back on the path he’d left.

The woods were apparently devoid of any human presence, but Stéphane was playing games with highly competitive players who knew how to hide. He reached the edge, close to his goal. He kept his wrists apart to tighten the chain and prevent any clatter. He remained on all fours for this last stretch.

He became aware of an attack much too late to fight it off. Someone, benefitting from his deafness, sat on his back, making him howl into the mouth-filling plug that dampened his surprised shout. He bucked, but the person riding him held fast. A pair of bare legs appeared in front of him; two assailants were on his case. He looked up and saw a cute boy, three or four years younger than he was.

TBC

[Bondwriter]

The Saint Sebastian boys have found worthy competitors! Here is anew chapter of their misadventures.

The Great Tournament 2: Second Round

Chapter 5: In the Enemies’ Hands

The boy smirked, a coil of rope in hand. He swiftly threaded it around the chain linking Stéphane’s wrists. The assailant riding him shifted his weight to the right, his thighs holding on fast to Stéphane’s waist until he fell to his side. The other lad pulled the ends of the rope around Stéphane’s chest, pinning his hands to it.

Stéphane could faintly hear the boys congratulating each other, though he couldn’t make out their exact words. Once his arms were restrained, the lads got him to his feet. The one who’d jumped on him had black hair and a round face with a dark complexion; the two boys’ looks were enhanced by their wide, genuine smiles.

It was humiliating being frogmarched by these tykes, but the strength of the restraints left him no choice. They entered t patch of weeds four or five feet high from which the boys had stealthily launched their attack. The flattened vegetation had another guest: Fred, the dark-haired, Eastern-looking cutie Stéphane remembered from the Soldiers team.

Fred had been turned into a cute bundle: his cuffed wrists were padlocked to a leather harness at the small of his back; the harness featured shoulder straps as well as crotch fixtures, with belts at waist, the bottom of his rib cage, and chest biting into his lithe frame. His legs were wrapped in ropes and his ankles were bound to the top of his thighs. The boy who’d jumped on Stéphane’s back got a key from a pile of equipment a couple feet away from the bound boy.

He reached behind the French boy’s head and removed the small lock preventing access to the hood’s buckle. The laces loosened, and the Cub lifted the layer of thin leather before getting the earplugs out.

“Nice, we can give him orders now!”

Stéphane understood English well enough. His issue was speaking it, but the mouth-filling plug and the wide leather strap meant he wouldn’t have to.

“Darn, their keys don’t work on their gags,” the boy concluded after trying to remove the muzzles.

“I’ll go see if our Six has found other keys. It would be best for what I have in mind. Let’s make sure your catch won’t play a nasty trick while I’m gone.”

The boys got Stéphane on his knees and trussed up his legs in ropes, folding them and anchoring his heels to his satiny shorts just like Fred’s.

“I won’t be long,” the tyke said as he left his mate in charge of the captives.

The guard sat cross-legged in front of his charges, who lay on the floor.

“It’s just the three of us, then. You must wonder why we want to remove your gags,” he said, unlacing his shoes. “Not so you can scream for help, of course.”

He took his shoes off and stretched his legs, sticking his socked feet under the prisoners’ noses. For a young one, his feet sure smelled cheesy.

“Mrrrgrrllph!”

“Mmmrllblllmmmmmph?!”

“Whine all you want, my feet are staying there. Our Six has decided that prisoners should get a taste of our feet so they know they’re our toys.”

More protests echoed his remark.

“Crybabies! Our opponents usually have more courage. Don’t your feet smell too? You’re hygiene freaks?”

He peeled his socks off and put them over their noses, winding a piece of twine around their heads to ensure they’d keep enjoying his fragrance.

“Let’s see if you’re as clean as you think.”

The barefoot lad crawled to their legs. He undid the ropes around their ankles and shucked off shoes and socks.

“Phew! You complain about my feet, but yours really stink.”

He came back to the front, waving the incriminated footwear.

“I’ll give you a taste of your own medicine.”

He added two socks under the twine for Stéphane and Fred to smell. Stéphane couldn’t believe a boy as handsome as Fred could develop such foul smells. He realized they hadn’t changed their footwear since the beginning of their stay, which explained the strong fumes.

The prisoners twitched and squirmed, trying to get rid of the offending garments, but the rounds of twine held them firmly.

“This is one lesson you’ve learned already. Don’t complain when you’re caught by one of the Black Wolves Six, because we’ll give you reasons to squeal!”

The lad crouched to get his prisoners’ legs folded again, tightening the ropes with an expertise that denied his charges any hope of release. He even did their big toes with thinner cord like a pro. He got back to the front and, sitting cross-legged, started telling them stories about his past games, and how his Six had specialized in interrogating captives.

Stéphane didn’t pick up all the details from the boy’s blathering, but the variety of interrogation techniques made him shiver. Having honey spread over his chest while staked out on the ground didn’t appeal much to him, especially if creepy-crawlies would come eat it.

The two Saint Sebastian boys endured the tyke’s whispered tales, grunting every now and then to let him know they disagreed, which only made him laugh. Stéphane could see the shadows cast by the trees move, informing him of time passing. He was getting sore.

Two or three hours later, they heard steps approaching. The Cub stood up with a worried look, which quickly turned into a smile.

“Hey, my Six! You’ve taken long!”

On top of the lad who’d been with their gaoler, three other cubs were framing Marc, who was pulling a cart on which sat Matt; they were both severely restrained and muzzled.

“We wanted the keys, and we met Cameron. He had good news.”

A short brown-haired boy wearing glasses beamed.

“I was looking for help myself! I caught these two,” the boy said pointing to Marc and Matt. “They were dumb enough to hide in the cow shed; I searched it just in case.”

The two captives hung their heads, embarrassed at getting caught. So long for Marc’s good initial prospects. When the game people had left him in the woods, his arms were held in a single sleeve binding his forearms but leaving his fingers available, and his mouth was plugged with one of their dreadful gags. Nevertheless, his legs were free, so he could wander around to find his mates. He’d understood the instructions well enough to know the boys he’d joined for the last three days could assist in winning.

He found his fellow-Soldier Matt a couple minutes later. The lanky lad had a leather mask blinding him and his hands behind his back, but his mouth and legs were free.

Marc cast a soft grunt and Matt replied with a soft ‘hey.’ Marc knew Morse, but he had trouble with English. Thankfully, Matt had always aced his French tests. Through the usual yes-or-no interrogations, the two teens quickly agreed on finding a hideout.

Matt stood behind Marc, who could lead his blind teammate. They made headway easily, Matt letting his partner know when they went too fast. The tall French lad grunted gleefully after just ten minutes of walking.

Marc spotted a small brick building. The farm was tens of metres away, but this shed seemed remote and off the main mud road.

“You found a place?” Matt asked in reply to the hopeful moans.

“Mmh!”

Marc had to explain his teammate how to open the double door. There were two sliding latches on the outside and no padlocks, thankfully. They entered and then heard the bell announcing the hunt had started.

Only then did Marc notice the key around Matt’s neck, and he realized he had one too. He coded ‘k-e-y’ and stuck his chest against Matt’s so he could feel it.

The single sleeve made removing the padlocks difficult, but Matt had his wrists cuffed with a couple inches of chain between them. It took almost one hour of contortions and promiscuity, but they held the keys to each other’s gag and blindfold. Marc learned how well-endowed his partner was, and Matt enjoyed the French boy’s touch. Eventually, they could both see and talk.

After agreeing the stable they were in was safe, they hid behind a five-foot high partition, sitting down and engaging in quiet small talk. They froze when they heard steps outside. They had pulled the two panels shutting the door, but they couldn’t latch them from the inside.

A boy, twelve or thirteen years old, soon appeared in front of their stall.

“Hey, free us!” Matt told the boy, identifying him as a British Cub. The glasses-wearing lad just smiled and rushed outside, closing the door shut and sliding the latches.

He was back five minutes later with two friends––and lots of gear.

Matt and Marc stood waiting, but with their arms still kept tightly behind them, they couldn’t fight off the three smaller and weaker lads. The tykes started wrapping ropes around their knees, pulling on them so they fell on the straw littered on the ground. They then used leather cuffs to restrain their ankles.

The two victims cast all sorts of bilingual insults that didn’t bother their attackers, who removed their victims’ shoes and socks once they had secured them. They crammed one of Matt’s sock in Marc’s mouth and used the French boy’s on his British friend. Duct tape was at hand, and a few strips went over their lips plus two turns to top the criss-crossing.

They then launched a tickle session, betting they would get the Soldiers to pee their pants. Another Cub Scout arrived and saved them from the ordeal, though. He was looking for keys to remove other prisoners’ gags.

The four lads decided to take the two captives with them to give a hand to other boys in their Six. Cameron, the one who’d found them, went to the back of the shed and brought back a cart used to move bales of hay or straw.

They applied cuffs, chains, and locks this time. Matt had to sit cross-legged over the flatbed, whereas Marc had to pull the cart, chained to the handle. Thankfully, the cart was a modern one with quality roller-bearings and wheels.

Marc blushed when they reached the group the Cubs wanted to help, and he crossed eyes with Stéphane. The friends felt shame at having been taken, but Cameron’s remarks on how easy it had been to trap them in such an obvious spot made him feel dumb indeed.

One of the boys suggested they should all get them back to the shed.

“I don’t know, Nate,” Cameron answered. “We’re closer to the Club House. It’s better suited for the stuff we discussed this morning.”

The five boys agreed on going to the locker-room. They pulled Matt off to one side to make space for two extra passengers. They grabbed Stéphane first, not too gently and set him on the flatbed. The hogtied boy had his nose and eyes close to the frog-tied boy’s crotch. Fred was hoisted up into the cart too, his face over the French boy’s backside, from which he could appreciate its roundness and plumpness.

“I hope your friend didn’t have beans for breakfast this morning,” Nate taunted. “You won’t stay there for too long if the horse pulls the cart fast enough.”

“We can help him stay motivated,” a red-haired short lad joked.

He pulled his pocket knife, cut a branch from a tree, and removed the leaves. His friends did the same and they soon had switches to use on Marc’s buttocks.

“Get going, horse!”

Marc complied, the four boys dispatching cuts throughout the fifteen minutes it took to reach the Club House.

TBC

[Werdify]

“We’re closer to the Club House. It’s better suited for the stuff we discussed this morning.”

Oh boy, oh boy, oh boy! I love where this is going. And I love the two not even friends got each other's socks when captured together. This just keeps getting better and better.

[Bondwriter]

[mention]Werdify[/mention] Thanks for bringing the story back from page 2, which reminds me I didn't post this week's chapter. I'm glad this pleases you, and there's more in store for the Saint Sebastian lads ...

The Great Tournament 2: Second Round

Chapter 6: They All Got Caught!

The cart and its procession interrupted Jason and Sora’s torture for a couple of minutes; the path was fifty yards away from where their abductors kept them, and they fell silent when they heard the merry troop pass by.

The two Saint Sebastian boys had found each other quickly after they were abandoned by the guards, some three hours earlier. Their situation was dire: Sora was wrapped in tape from his mouth to his ankles, and Jason had his forearms held behind in a single glove, with chains hobbling his knees and a hood keeping the plug-gag tightly in.

Since they both had skills at communicating while gagged, they figured out they were halfway between the Hunting Lodge and the Club House. They steered off the path, remaining inside the woods to prevent unwanted encounters with the dreadful foes out to hunt them.

When they reached the outer wall of the estate, they saw a distant building attached to the boundary. They progressed slowly through the underbrush; Jason opened the way, as his taped-up teammate had to hop, making as little noise as possible.

They reached the dainty brick house. It was next to large iron gates, seemingly locked out of service. Metal plates were welded to the gates to prevent seeing through. The ward’s house they’d targeted had an open door; they found three small, clean rooms behind it, but no sign of an inhabitant. They heard the bell toll as they entered. At least, they’d found cover before the chase started.

A large fireplace stood at the back of the room. They could hide in it, as only their legs would show from the knees down. They stood in the corner, checking the bare skin was in the darkest spot. They traded tactics. Small talk went on, but it was fastidious even between skilled Morse coders. They froze and receded as much as they could when they heard childish voices outside the building.

“Let’s check it, Finley, although we were told we had smart opponents. It’s unlikely they’ll be in the guardian’s house.”

Jason and Sora shivered. Despite being well hidden, they had no way to escape. They huddled closer against the wall. Adrenalin rushed through their bodies.

They couldn’t see the room with their heads up the chimney.

“Wrong, Owen—two pairs of legs!”

The cute mug of a boy appeared, bending in to watch his finds.

“Get all the stuff ready, we’ve got a large one. He’s restrained but you never know.”

“We could make a deal with them. If they surrender and don’t fight, we’ll treat them better.”

“Good. You heard Owen, people, get out and don’t make a fuss and you’ll be spared our worst tortures.”

Both Saint Sebastian boys fumed behind their gags. Getting caught so fast and so easily by little boys sure was humiliating. Jason bent over and slowly got out of the hideout followed by Sora, who had more trouble moving but was cautious not to fall and aggravate his situation.

They faced five boys wearing real Cub-Scout uniforms. They were all at least one foot shorter than Jason, but his restraints—the single glove in particular—made his bigger size moot for resisting.

“What have we got here?” Finley snarled, “Two dimwits who fell for a dumb way to hide from us.”

“Yeah,” a skinny lad added, “I thought we’d have to hunt terrorists who dig themselves in a trench or something.”

“We can be thankful we don’t have to go through brambles to find them. It was much faster than planned,” Owen said.

“Do we keep them here and go get others?” Finley asked.

“Why?” a lanky boy said with a thick French accent. “The Commander said we need to catch terrorists, he didn’t say all the terrorists.”

“Léo is right, we’ve already won with these two. We should show him how we handle our prisoners.”

“I would like to see zis,” Léo said with sparkling eyes.

The Saint Sebastian boys were coming to terms with having been caught by a bunch of little kids; they were also finding out one can go far without having lived long. The tight-knit team proved it again when they prepared their catches for a move.

Two of the lads had rucksacks on their shoulders filled to the brim with tie-up gear. They tackled Sora’s binding. He shivered when Owen stood in front of him brandishing a knife, but the thin, sharp blade was meant to free his legs. With two boys at his sides holding him, the knife wielder kneeled in front and slowly cut the tape plastered over his gams.

The three boys ripped the tape off violently, giving him a free hair-removal job.

“Grrmmmphmmmbbllm!”

“No whining, prisoner,” Owen said. “Next time you come to the Manor, you’ll wax your legs before.”

He showed the piece of tape he’d removed from Sora’s calves, which had black hair stuck to it.

“My sister does, and she doesn’t even come here,” the French lad joked, triggering sniggers from the other Six members.

The beauticians added leather cuffs once the ankles and knees were rid of tape––and hair. They locked two-inch-long chains as hobbles. The five boys gathered around their victim to free his arms and torso. Jason wondered whether he should attempt an escape, but the chains’ rattling and his nearness to the boys were likely to lead to failure. And the scrawniest of the lads, a blond boy with a mean look, cast regular glances at him.

The ripping of the tape revealed Sora wearing a wrestling singlet.

“My sister wears the same for her lessons of dance!” the French Cub added, getting his friends all giddy.

“She doesn’t have a bulge like this in front,” Finley stated, pointing to Sora’s crotch.

They cuffed his hands at the small of his back before they unglued more of the grey sticky plastic. They did the same with his elbows, with barely two inches of slack between them. They left the wraps gagging him and finished their job with rope belts around their two victims’ waists, with an end in front to use as a leash.

The little troop dragged their prisoners behind them and headed back to the centre of the estate. They followed a path; Sora spotted the farm on his left, and ten minutes later he saw the Club House in the distance.

They veered inside the woods and stopped in a clearing with thick grass. The sun shone on the green patch.

“This is the perfect place to keep you,” Finley said in a conspiratorial tone. “It’s far from the paths and look at the lush lawn!”

The rucksacks dropped to the ground and long iron stakes and a mallet came out. Jason was first to be staked out. The Cubs helped him to sit on his butt.

Léo pegged a two-foot-long rod in the ground, close to Jason’s left ankle. He used a padlock to fix the foot to the solidly planted stake. He planted another rod four feet away.

Finley took a key ring out of his pockets and tried two on the ankle locks, which didn’t yield the expected result; the tykes were patient and knew trial and error. The third one worked, and the boys grabbed his freed foot and attached his right ankle to the rod. Jason’s legs were stretched almost to the maximum.

Finley and the boy whose look made him uncomfortable sat on his thighs as the others removed the single glove. Jason’s arms were asleep after being stuck like this for so long, so his attempt at fighting them just got a frown from Finley.

“You’ve seen it, my friends, he’s resisting. That’s one demerit. Let’s give him a preview, Liam.”

The two boys straddling his thighs, Finley and Liam, reached for his nipples and squeezed them hard.

“Mmmgrmmmmph!”

“You’d better not try anything funny again, you’ve earned a punishment but you don’t want to earn more!”

Jason complied as they staked his arms out. It made for a taxing spread-eagle.

Sora was handled the same way. They used the stakes to which his fellow-student’s left ankle and wrist were fastened to do his right ones. Soon he was stretched as tautly as his friend. They traded worried looks as the five Cubs, all standing now, surrounded their prey with gleeful smirks, which they’d seen in the eyes of sadistic players like Philip.

“You’re hidden from view, and we have until this evening before we need to bring you back to the farm. How should we entertain our guests, lads?” Finley asked, displaying his leadership skills.

“We’ve got to punish the big one,” the blond nipple-twister suggested.

“Mmmrbbllm?” Jason wondered. “Weren’t his sore tits punishment enough?

“Right, Liam, we’ve got one demerit to handle.”

To Jason and Sora’s dismay, the group traded ideas back and forth on how best to punish misbehaving prisoners. They weren’t happy with just talking about it. They enacted their ideas.

Jason was first; being staked out on his back, whipping his bum was out of the question, but the lads decided to give him twenty switch cuts each. They went to get solid, thin branches and removed the bark and kinks with their pocket knives. They got a kick out of Jason’s worried looks as they prepared the implements.

Then they doled out the earned strokes. The first boy to whip him, a bashful one who’d not spoken much so far, focused on his thighs. But Owen, who was next, removed Jason’s shoes and socks.

“The Inquisition had a cruel torture called the bastinado, which is whipping someone’s soles.”

“Mrrgmmm! Mmmmgr!”

Jason’s pleas for leniency were in vain, but Owen cut only ten painful strokes to his feet and then went for his belly. The former bully’s gagged reactions got louder. A couple landed over his package, which got Jason to yell through the gag, wondering whether it was on purpose.

With sixty more cuts to go, only his face escaped the whipping. Sora watched in horror, trying his best to support his dorm mate with his eyes. Once Jason’s ordeal was over, Finley sat astride Sora’s stomach.

“This one didn’t disobey, but I wonder if he likes smelling socks.”

He grabbed Jason’s socks strewn on the lawn and leaned towards Sora’s face.

“I’ll have you smell them. Take it like a man. If you turn your head, it’s one demerit. Now we have the switches, don’t give us a reason to use them!”

Sora braced himself; Jason had strong body smells, and they had been wearing the same clothes for three days. He looked Finley straight into his eyes and didn’t flinch when the smelly sock landed over his nostrils.

“He likes it and he’s obeyed our orders,” Liam said, not losing a moment of this wonderful scene. “I’m sure he’ll volunteer to wash it!”

“Right!”

“Yeah!”

Sora had enough experience to know that these guys would launder socks like Lewis or Philip did. Finley approved with a nod and three boys kneeled at Sora’s head. They ripped the last of the grey tape off and collected the plastic shape filling his mouth. Owen brought a canteen to his lips.

“I doubt you’ll get another drink before long, so don’t waste it.”

Sora complied and swallowed the lukewarm liquid. The good feeling was followed by the sock, crammed in by Owen’s nasty little fingers, pushing and prodding to fill his mouth. Léo stood behind and used six feet of twine as a cleave, biting tightly in the corners of his mouth.

“No crashing it, boy.”

“No spitting,” Finley corrected the French boy. “But this is a fine job,” he commented as the length of cord would keep the sweaty sock inside.

Liam had a three-inch-wide roll of strapping tape to ensure that Léo’s job wouldn’t be foiled. He stuck the end on Sora’s cheek, plastering it over his lower face. His friend lifted their captive’s head to allow for two turns.

“He will stay quiet when zee ants will come!” Léo said, lifting Sora’s shirt to reveal his belly.

Liam did the same to Jason; Owen took out a pot of honey from a rucksack.

“Bugs love honey, don’t they?” he said, unscrewing the lid. Both belly buttons were drowned in the sweet, sticky liquid.

TBC

[blackbound]

I'm beginning to think this is skewed slightly in the kids' favor.

[Bondwriter]

[mention]blackbound[/mention] These people run a show, so the fairness in the game might not be their first concern. Thanks for commenting, glad to know it's read by great people!

[Bondwriter]

Here is the weekly instalment!

The Great Tournament 2: Second Round

Chapter 7: Victims of Devious Cubs

In the Hunting Lodge, the three Boy-Scouts didn’t fare better; Luke, their captor, hadn’t stayed alone for long. His two accomplices were back from their fruitless search for other ‘terrorists’ and loot. They preferred having fun with the three prisoners.

“Hey, you’re back soon. Meet Ethan and Sam, prisoners, you’re going to be well acquainted with them.”

They took turns in the small bathroom pulling hair or ears, twisting nipples and flicking noses, rejoicing in the gagged pleas of their victims. After half an hour, they decided they needed more space to have fun and therefore moved to the larger hall.

The three prisoners had grown annoyed and even angry. They traded looks when the Cubs talked of moving them, spotting a chance to break free. Alas, their captors dragged them to the hall in their kneeling hogties one by one without removing any of their bonds.

“Before we go on tormenting them, let’s have a tie-up workshop,” Luke suggested, “and practice the chair-tie, the hogtie, and the bench-tie.”

His goons beamed.

“Great idea!” Ethan said. “But first, a gagging workshop so they don’t whine when we change their bonds.”

“Plus, I hate it when prisoners complain under torture,” Sam added.

“We’re going to show our new friends how we keep our preys silent so we don’t get caught by pesky neighbours or passers-by,” Luke said, running his tongue across his teeth.

“And how we manage without fancy gags like the ones the Commander gave us,” Ethan added.

“Should we have them launder our socks?” Billy wondered.

“I don’t have a spare pair, so no. Scouts are supposed to help one another. We’ll use theirs.”

This required freeing their legs. Ben was first to go; the Cubs unknotted the rope keeping his calves against his thighs, cautious not to loosen the ones keeping his lower limbs together. Ben sighed with relief as he unfolded his legs.

Ethan untied Ben’s laces and pulled his shoes off. He sniffed them.

“They got a new uniform. These shoes haven’t been worn very long. They smell only a little.”

Billy was on all fours, bringing his nose close to Ben’s feet.

“Maybe, but he didn’t change his socks this morning!”

Luke helped out, undoing the knot of the coil wrapped around Ben’s ankles. He kept the ends tight while his friend pulled the socks off and tied it again once Ben was barefoot.

Nicholas and Billy were treated similarly and soon sat on the cold, tiled floor, their legs in front and their feet bare. The Cubs looked at them, amused, as they traded socks to determine which smelled the worst.

“They’re about the same,” Ethan concluded. “They all reek!” He dropped a pair on Billy’s thighs.

Luke brought a bag from which he pulled scarves, swim caps, and rolls of tape. His friends decided each prisoner should get a sock from his two friends to fill his gob. They sorted the socks and put the mismatched pairs on the Boy-Scouts’s heads.

“Stay still! We’ll spank you if you drop them.”

Ben was glad to be the first to have his plug gag switched to a more traditional one, as he fared poorly at balancing things. Luke removed the padlock with a key. His friends were on the lookout, and when the rubber shape got out with a long thread of saliva dribbling down to Ben’s thighs, Billy and Ethan crammed a sock each, pushing them to each side of his mouth.

Luke removed his neckerchief and cleave-gagged him with it. He tightened it little by little, drawing annoyed grunts from his victim.

“Hush! If you whine, I’ll retaliate on your friends. They’ve got bums I’d love to spank, so don’t give me a reason to!”

Nicholas and Billy remained motionless, their hours under the control of the little sadists having made them very meek and obedient; they focused on not having the socks slide from their craniums.

Ethan had a roll of wide strapping tape in his hands. He carefully unstuck half an inch from it and stuck it to his left hand, from the tip of his thumbs to below his wrist. He pulled an arm’s length from the roll, ensuring it stayed taut.

Luke held Ben’s head, keeping a tight grip on his thin hair while his fellow-Cub, sitting on Ben’s thighs, brought the sticky tape towards their victim. It made contact with Ben’s filled mouth, the powerful glue covering his cheeks, his earlobes, going around his head and overlapping on his nape. Luke helped his friend and tore off the tape from the roll.

Billy kneeled next to Luke and slid a swim cap over Ben’s head while Ethan got the next piece of tape ready. He set its middle on the top of the victim’s head and brought the two ends down until it made a turn encasing his jaws and pulling them tight together.

Nicholas was sweating profusely; the sound of the ripped tape had lured him into turning to what was happening to his friend—making one of the socks on his head fall to his shoulder. He froze for two minutes as the tykes added a third band pulling Ben’s chin and going around the back of his head, between the first two.

“One down, two to go,” Ethan said, turning to the two other captives. “Though the black-haired one is asking for a punishment,” he said, picking the sock from Nick’s shoulder.

“Let’s change his gag first,” Sam suggested. “We’ll spank him extra hard to see if we’ve done our job well.”

Ethan sat on Nicholas’s lap to repeat the process. A few minutes later, his mates’ smelly socks filled his mouth and his skull was imprisoned by tight rounds of strapping tape. He preferred not to think about removing them later; he didn’t have much time for reflection anyway, since the Cubs pulled him up to his feet.

Luke got a ping-pong bat from the bag.

“I’ll give you another chance,” he said, picking the socks from Billy’s head and putting them on top of the penitent’s mummified head. “Plus, your mate has held on for a while, it wouldn’t be fair to keep his trial going when you’re the one who screwed up.”

“Yes, take it like a man,” Ethan advised, “and stand still!”

Nicholas braced himself. The Cubs looked deceivingly small and frail. The sixty blows they delivered with the ping-pong bat left his bottom burned under the shorts. He’d almost made it through the original sentence of ten strokes per Cub, but on the twenty-ninth he couldn’t help but shake and scream from the pain. The socks fell to the floor and the Cubs started over.

They didn’t get Nick to balance the socks for the extra thirty blows, but they did their best to test his tight gag’s muffling effect. Each of the thirty cuts stung more than the previous one.

“I hope you’ve learned your lesson,” Luke said, his eyes straight in Nicholas’s watery ones after the final hit. “And don’t cry, we don’t like wimps.”

The castigated boy recovered while the Cubs got busy gagging Billy. They had the three captives hop ten feet to a large, solid table with benches on each side.

Ethan went to the back of the room to a wardrobe, from which he pulled a canvas bag. He dropped coils of rope from it on the tabletop.

“Cool, there’s so much stuff at the Manor.”

“We’ve been here before and we know all the secret spots,” Sam said, smiling at their prisoners, “which means we don’t really need to get the bounty bags now, do we?”

“And I’m sure you think we can’t bind you properly with rope, that we’re little boys who can’t tie proper knots,” Luke added.

“We’re going to prove you wrong,” Ethan said, dragging a heavy chair from the other end of the table. He pointed to Nicholas. “We warmed up his butt; he deserves the chair-tie!”

Though his eyes had dried up and his pain had receded, Nicholas made gagged protests and pleas.

“Didn’t we tell you we don’t like wimps?” Luke asked, waving the ping-pong bat, which was enough to shut the older boy up.

Nicholas managed to remain still when his reddened bottom made painful contact with the hard wooden seat. The twerps showed him they knew their knots indeed. They removed all the cuffs and linked his limbs to the sturdy piece of furniture one by one. They had his ankles bound to the back of the seat, forcing his thighs wide open. His arms went between the two slats at the top of the chair’s back.

They pulled Nick’s arms close together and tied his wrists and elbows to slats below. His hands were palm to palm; though they said they’d do without cuffs, they used two turns of strapping tape to imprison his fingers. Not that they would leave any knot within reach, but they were serious players ; Nicholas’s heart sank when he realized the three young sadists had acquired complete control over them.

They displayed their skills further by getting Ben into a ball-tie on the table. He eventually lay on his back, his legs folded anew and his wriggling toes the only body parts he could move. Nicholas counted twelve long coils of rope used on Ben.

Billy got as many to end up in a hogtie, lying face down on a bench. His captors used his flexibility to turn him into a pretzel, linking the top of his thighs to his elbows. He grunted when he realized how tight they planned to keep him, but the three devils didn’t pay any attention to his pleas.

“They all have their soles accessible and they can’t move,” Luke assessed.

“Which means we’ve got to get the feathers out,” Ethan added.

The tidily trussed-up Boy-Scouts shivered at the prospect of being tickle-tortured. The evil grins on the cute mugs informed them it would be performed with gusto.



Throughout the estate, their nine companions were undergoing various unpleasant treatments. Lewis, Keith, and Philippe had endured being left staked out under the sun for a while. The boy who’d guarded them had demonstrated his talent at inflicting pain and getting them to plea through their gags.

The two Cubs who’d left were back soon with the keys to Lewis’s and Philip’s gags. They traded the gags with their socks and mummified their heads in vet wrap. Nose-flicking and hair-pulling ensued to test the new gags. One of the captors was of Indian descent, and Philip heard his name was Dylan. The other, a small thirteen-year-old redhead, was named Alex.

They then got switches to strike the staked-out bodies; though they hadn’t touched their victim’s genitals, using a stick to attack their balls seemed appropriate to the tykes. That elicited squirming and very angry moans; the more reaction they got, the harder they laughed.

Philip coped by imagining how he would retaliate. The boys looked cute and nice at first but they were proving to be anything but, and he pictured himself turning their naked bums red. This got him through their first bout of torture.

At noon, the Cubs had a picnic, taunting their hungry and thirsty captives.. They took their time and settled for getting their prisoners in the shade next, which wasn’t meant out of a benevolent concern, but to bind them so their bottoms would be available for spanking.

They took care of Keith first, trussing him up facing a thin tree trunk. The blond boy fought all he could, but they used the cuffs, chains, and locks. They gave him ten cuts from their switches before they moved on to Lewis and then Philip.

They were bound in ropes and had to endure a tight strappado. The tree had sturdy branches some nine feet above ground, which supported ropes linked to their wrists as they had to bend over. More rope went between their legs and prevented them from losing their balance and dislocating their shoulders; they made for very unpleasant wedgies too.

The three pairs of buttocks and thighs were then hit with branches of various lengths and thickness, with the stated intent of seeing which got them to shout the most.

Although the three Saint Sebastian boys fought hard not to cry, their eyes grew watery as their bottoms heated up.

TBC

[gaggedfeety]

That ending an amazing continuation as always

[Bondwriter]

[mention]gaggedfeety[/mention] Glad you enjoyed this episode. There's more to come tomorrow! The Saint Sebastian lads are in quite a pickle, will they escape their new foes?

[Bondwriter]

Here is this week's instalment. Enjoy!

The Great Tournament 2: Second Round

Chapter 8: Will the Ordeal End?

Inside the Club House’s locker-room, Fred, Matt, and the two French lads were also enduring nasty ordeals. The creative Cubs started with a game that didn’t involve causing pain, however. They used cuffs and locks to play ‘human centipede,’ although they never made an overt reference to the eponymous horror film that inspired their game. They made two ‘centipedes’: Fred ended up with his nose in Stéphane’s shorted butt crack, while Matt had his face stuck against Marc’s bum.

The boys at the back wore collars, and the two leaders had cuffs at the very top of their thighs. A few links of chain ensured the ‘trailers’ couldn’t pull their heads away: their arms were linked to the leaders’ thighs above the knees and their wrists to the D-rings already holding their collars.

The prisoners then had to race around the locker-room; the Cubs cheered the ‘centipedes’ and used switches to get them to move faster.

Matt and Marc managed to win the race; Fred and Stéphane had to pay a penalty. The foes led the losers to the corner of the locker-room. A crate full of worn socks, shirts, and jockstraps was a trove to design smelly head dressings. The tykes released Fred from his fellow-prisoner and put both boys in kneeling hogties.

The Cubs wrapped their heads in dirty garments, making sure their nostrils were covered by the three kinds so they could enjoy the mouldy smells of crotches, feet, and armpits.

Being the winners didn’t mean that Matt and Marc were safe. Once the penalty was enacted, the Cubs turned their attention back to them. Their captors freed them from the embarrassing position and trussed them up to the room’s supporting beams. They removed their shoe laces; the older and more daring Cubs had a devious idea. When the two pole-tied lads heard what their torturers planned, they protested and pleaded, while squirming like crazy to get free.

This only caused smirks and sniggers. The lads pulled Matt’s and Marc’s shorts and Speedos down and used the laces to bind their genitals. The first turn around the base of their penises and scrotums was excruciatingly tight, and the pint-sized torturers then turned their willies into tight sausages.

They pulled the underwear and shorts back up, with the two victims hoping the lingering pain would recede or that their keepers would soon remove them.

It wasn’t to happen. The boys then went back to the same antics their fellow-Cubs had used on the other Saint Sebastian boys: nipples got pinched, hair was pulled, noses were flicked, and bums got spanked.

In the clearing a few hundred yards away, Jason and Sora remained in the hands of lads with entomological interests. The honey spilled over their bellies and soon inside their underwear lured ants that didn’t resist the call of the sweet. Other species were also attracted by the sticky liquid, to the captors’ great joy. Sora kept on screaming and threatening through his gag, but all he got in return was one of the lads straddling him and sitting on his face.

They marvelled for hours at the number of ants and their feeding habits. While having lunch, they pitied their captives, who’d have to go without food or water.

Thankfully for the spread-eagled victims, the guards wiped the honey from their bellies for the next torture––they just needed to straddle upper bodies, so their genitals remained covered with the sticky stuff and sweat.

The older boys got more tests to check if the gags muffled all pleas and disgruntled reactions for what seemed like forever. They’d gotten in the tall trees’ shade at last when the tykes decided to release them. Jason was first; the lads took great care not leaving him a chance to fight, wrapping cuffs around his limbs at all joints before untying them from the stakes. They paid particular attention when they did his arms; two boys held his right arm in a tight and hurtful lock before freeing the other one and swiftly locking his wrists together between his shoulder blades.

Sora gave them less concern, but they acted cautious nonetheless. Once his legs and arms were properly restrained, they had both captives stand up. Armed with their crops, the Cubs got their charges to hop back to the farm. Two pairs of easily accessible buttocks were too tempting for the Cubs, who used their switches to motivate their captives through the half hour it took to reach the barn.

Six other boys were already inside: Ben, Nicholas, and Billy, whom three Cubs were trussing up to beams. It seemed a repeat from the day before when they were victims of the ninjas, but being taken by the Cubs turned out to be more distressing.

The tykes greeted each other, though they sounded like competitors and that they didn’t belong to the same sixes. They still collaborated, and the newcomers received help to truss up Jason and Sora to posts. Luke and his cronies praised their friends for capturing such a big guy like Jason.

The Cubs didn’t go rope-only this time. Though they used the white cotton stuff to perfect the tie-up and make their imprisonment total, they started with cuffs and short chain links. They finished with leather head harnesses to pin their heads against the beams.

The other groups arrived within five minutes of each other. Sora noticed how disgruntled they all looked. Lewis and Philip got their bums whacked until they had their backs to the posts; Keith, despite his gag, couldn’t help but insult the Cubs leading him to his torture pole

Matt, Fred, and the French guys followed. Sora noticed Matt’s eyes were red as if he’d cried. Considering the taunts and remarks coming from the swarming band of deviants surrounding him, he’d gone through hell too.

He counted fifteen Cubs handling the whole group. They were diverse in age and ethnicity, much more than their own group. They shared the same taste for treating prisoners roughly. Once the twelve prisoners were secured to the posts, Luke, a short black Cub, invited the rest of the den to go have a snack, which was waiting for them behind the barn.

The Saint Sebastian boys communicated their distress to each other through blinking. From what Sora understood––he was good at Morse, but exhausted from the tough handling––they’d all suffered at the hands of the cute-looking torturers. Thighs featured red welts, testifying to the whippings they’d received.

After half an hour, the full den, filled with sugar and energy, was back. The Commander followed them. The hooded man stood in the middle of the square, looking at the teens standing trussed up to the beams.

“You’ve been a bit better today, though your opponents have outsmarted you.”

"Gnhrmm!”

“Mmmmphgr.”

“You did start with handicaps, but with more stamina and talent you could have freed yourselves and fought back. We were disappointed that most of you ducked out and tried to hide.”

“We know the field too well for this, Commander,” Owen remarked.

“True; and you cooperated perfectly. It was a joy seeing how well you caught your game. And you managed to keep them under control the whole time. You’ll be rewarded for such a feat, of course. You will be in charge of these twelve boys the whole evening and initiate them to your den’s traditions.”

This caused some worried grunts.

“And we’ve changed the plans for tomorrow: the real game will start the day after only. Tomorrow is Steal the Prisoners Day.”

The Cubs beamed.

“What is zis game?” asked Léo, a new addition to this peculiar den.

“It means you start with prisoners in your base camp and you go after the other teams’. As it says, you need to steal their prisoners,” Finley explained.

“And you can make more prisoners!” Owen added.

“It sounds good,” the blond French boy concluded.

“I hope you’ll have fun playing. Of course, you’ll start with ropes only, and there’ll be fewer bounty bags around. For now, you may go fix dinner and prepare the camp fire. The agents will come to get your guests ready for the evening. Think of skits, games, and songs to get your new friends better acquainted with your den’s customs.”

The Cubs all grinned, ecstatic at the praise they got from the Commander.

“We’re on our way, Commander!” Luke said, leading the den outside.

The Commander paced around the square, looking at the unhappy captives until the Cubs’ merry shouts faded out.

“The rabid dogs mistreated you, didn’t they? Most of them have come over at Easter and spent a few weekends here already. We thought having you meet them could spur your will to win. You’ll take part to their evening gathering, but we’ll let you have a good night sleep away from their claws. Of course, you’re expected to try and escape tomorrow. You’ve understood it’s a variation on Capture the Flag, with living and struggling flags of course.”

“Mmmphh!” Philip said.

“We saw they were harsh on you, but we wanted you to get acquainted with these spirited Cubs. We know some of you are kind-hearted and wouldn’t hurt little kids if you got pitted against them in a regular game.”

He paused a couple seconds in front of Philip, who saw the Commander’s piercing blue eyes through the balaclava’s holes. The Football Player felt like the man was reading his mind as he was committing the names Alex, Daniel, and Dylan to his memory and pictured them spread-eagled and whining behind their gags.

“You’ve seen what they’re capable of; they know they may undergo torments too if captured,” he said.

“The Agents are coming to release you. They’ll take you to the side of the barn and you’ll get refreshed and changed for the gathering. Don’t give them a hard time. They’re here to help.”

Four ninjas entered the barn. The twelve teenagers were released and simply cuffed with their hands behind their backs. They were all sore and weary, with inflamed skin from the sun or the whippings.

The tape gags were removed and replaced with plug ones, a softer treatment that still forbade them from speaking to each other. They all got drinking water, which was the first step to recover from the nasty ordeals they’d suffered. They went outside and saw that tube structures had been set up as four temporary shower booths with hoses and buckets inside.

The ninjas took them in, one by one. The water revived them and none of the twelve teens protested when the men massaged them with soothing cream afterward. Having their buttocks fondled was demeaning, but given their burning behinds, it was worth the weird treatment.

They all got clean clothes: the same uniforms they’d been made to wear since they arrived, all made to measure.

After one hour, the Saint Sebastian boys and their new French friends stood in a line, collared and linked with a foot of rope. The ninjas led them around the barn, from where they’d heard the Cubs’ distant voices. The younger boys cheered and ran up to the chain gang.

TBC

[gaggedfeety]

Hahah what a chapter!! Those Cubs are definitely devious ones, hopefully they get a taste of punishment too