Some of you might remember this story I wrote years ago in Canuck's forum. Bondwriter already posted the chapters he had, but I found a couple more in my computer.
Thanks to the lockdown, I have some spare time now to proofread and post them.
You can read the previous chapters here:
The Boys' Knotty Summer - Discovered!
The Boys' Knotty Summer - Adrian's Farm
Phil’s Punishment
The battle against the boyscouts ended with a satisfactory result for both groups: we got our traitor and Mike didn’t lose, which would’ve been a terrible strike to his ego. He would have never lived it down if a bunch of city kids beat the whole boyscout troop under his command.
As light dwindled into a bloody sky, the dusk started dropping its deep shadows of trees upon us, and Adrian said we’d better get going. We had to be back at the farm before dinner.
After the scouts helped us dismantle our tents, we all gathered for a final goodbye at the campfire.
Mike rose from a log he had been sitting on, slowly walked to where Adrian sat, and said, swallowing his honor, “Good game.”
Adrian was stunned.
Then Mike, to the further amazement of his whole troop, took his own light-blue scout scarf from his neck and put it around Adrian’s! All of us were speechless. The blonde kid, even more astounded by the gift, stood up and knotted his golden scarf—his favorite one—around Mike’s neck.
“This doesn’t mean I won’t kick your butt next time,” Mike said between smiles.
“Oh, you wish,” answered Adrian, “and I’ll get that scarf again when I catch you.”
“You’ve never been able to catch me,” Mike scoffed. “Not gonna happen.”
“Never say never.”
***
Phil could do nothing but sweat while tied down to the stakes. The sun had not been nice on his clear skin; when we prepared to return to the farm, his face and chest seemed already tanned into a light golden-brown.
We removed his gag and gave him some water.
“Thanks, my jaw was killing me! Guys, would you at least untie me so I can walk?”
We hesitated.
“Please! I’m kind of stiff here!”
Mike, seeing that we were going to untie his feet, said, “Can I make a suggestion?” He didn’t wait for an answer. Mike reached down and tied Phil’s ankles and hands together in front.
“Wait here, I’ll be right back.” Mike went inside his tent. We had no idea what the boyscout had in mind. It all became clear when he emerged carrying a long and reliably sturdy, thin wooden log. Despite Phil’s protests, he shoved it through the boy’s bound wrists and down through his likewise tied ankles. He finished by cutting loose the cord joining both.
I grabbed one end and told Adrian to take the other. We gently lifted the pole and with it Phil’s body, which remained suspended by his hands and feet. Struggling proved to be painful, so Phil stayed calm. I glimpsed down at his emerald green eyes revealing a mixture of surrender and weariness. I remember wondering what it’d be like to get tied like that.
“Just be careful not to hit his head with the ground,” advised Mike, pointing to Phil’s sweaty golden head drooping back between his shoulders.
“Thanks a lot, Mike!” Phil said sarcastically and we all broke into a general laughter.
Without more ado, the six of us—Adrian, Adam, Chris, Tyler, Phil, and I—set off through the steep path of the woods we had come from. Adrian and I carried the pole with the aid of our shoulders.
“You gotta see the bright side, Phil,” Chris said.
“What’s the bright side of this?!” the hanging prisoner asked.
“At least you won’t get tired of walking!”
“Ha, ha, very funny. Now, can I have some water? It’s so damn hot!”
We were arriving in the creek. Adrian looked back at me with a devious smile and then at his bound little brother.
“So, Phil, you said you’re hot?” Our prisoner suspected the amiability and craned his neck, staring open-mouthed at the freezing-cold stream ahead. He realized what a big mistake he had made.
“No! Adrian, Nick, please, not this!” Phil screamed as we ran to the shore, carrying him with us. Adrian and I took our shoes and socks off, got into the water and held poor Phil’s head a few inches from the dreaded liquid.
“Want water? Have some then!” Adrian said and lowered Phil’s body into the creek. We quickly lifted the pole, only to see him shrieking and wiggling hard to break free.
“Pleeeas—!” Once again Phil disappeared into the agonizing icy needles I had felt on my own skin earlier that day.
We watched the boy struggle for a few seconds underwater before pulling him out. His light locks of hair were now sodden and amassed on the boy’s forehead. He gave me the most piteous and begging plead with even more watery eyes.
“Still hot?” Before he could answer, we dropped him again.
“A traitor deserves nothing but punishment,” was Adrian’s sentence, even though Phil was unable to hear it.
During the whole ordeal, Adam, Chris, and Tyler watched from the shore, rolling around the floor with laughter. We never left Phil long enough that he lacked breath; seconds in that creek were enough for the manliest to yield.
We brought him up.
“It’s *gasp* so *gasp* cold!” He was shivering.
“I think he’s had enough,” I suggested.
“Yeah,” said Phil’s brother, “we don’t want him to catch hypothermia or something.”
To the relief of our friend—I mean, traitor, we deposited him on the rock carpet that surrounded the stream. After Adrian removed his bonds and helped him to his feet, Phil embraced himself for heat. We put our socks and shoes back on.
“OK, let’s get moving. It’s not a good idea to wander through these woods at night,” said Adrian and turned his back to the former prisoner, walking past the creek toward the trail. We did likewise, leaving a shirtless, soaked, and nonplussed Phil staring at us from the other side.
“Wait a second. You’re not going to tie me up anymore?”
“No,” Adrian said, not bothering to turn back.
“Is this all I’m getting for selling you out? I practically stabbed you in the back at the game you and this is it?”
“You want more?” I asked somewhat menacingly.
“No, no, for god’s sake,” Phil hurriedly answered back.
“Then move before we change our mind!”
Not wasting any time, the kid put his footgear on and picked up the pace.
It took us about an hour to arrive. The wind had swept away the afternoon heat. The starry skylight obstructed by high-tree foliage was the only source of illumination for the last part of the path. Mosquitoes, which I hated, flew all around me. As soon as I heard the bloodsuckers, I grabbed the repellent I always carried in my bag. My friends didn’t seem bothered by these miniature Draculas. Phil had no t-shirt on! They made fun of me, saying they would leave me tied up to a tree overnight. I just smiled and remained alert in case anyone tried to jump me, knowing my friends’ knack for pranks all too well.
I was surprised to see the back of the farm house when we finally exited the forest. We made a full circle, having left from another path.
The lights were off inside. By the pool, Mr. Silva surprised us with a crackling grill crammed with steaks, sausages, and tapioca. The smell tantalized our empty stomachs and watered our mouths. Any signs of exhaustion after a long day vanished immediately. Needless to say, we assaulted the food as though we hadn’t had any for days.
Mr. Silva’s famous storytelling then ensued, focusing on local tales and legends. For our part, we made no mention of the battle against the boyscouts and tried to keep our reddened wrists away from his sight. I knew Mr. Silva was well aware of our, let’s say, outdoor activities, and kept grinning to himself.
“… and that’s why if you ever hear a low whisper near you in this forest you should run as fast as you can,” Mr. Silva said, motioning toward the bushy horizon.
“Okay. Night kids, I’m off to bed now.”
“Can’t you stay, dad? It’s only eight o ‘clock,” Phil appealed.
“Easy for you to say it, son: you don’t have to get up at four in the morning to round up all the cattle spread over a hundred hectares!”
Mr. Silva entered the house, and once we heard the bedroom’s door close, we were alone. There was a long, disturbing silence. I could hear myself breathing.
“All right, the comedy is over. Get him!” Adrian’s words worked like a spell; we pulled out coils of rope from our pockets and attacked unmercifully. Within seconds, Phil lay in the grass hogtied and gagged, blindfolded and shirtless.
He’d not even had time to react. Phil squirmed around like a worm and twisted his arms up and down, much to of our delight.
“MPPPPPHHHHH!”
“Oh stop it, Phil! Don’t give me that surprised look!” I said.
“Please, did you really think we were going to let you get away with it?” Chris added, and we laughed.
“Poor kiddo, so naïve,” Adrian said, sighed, and patted Phil’s cheeks.
“Well, traitor, we’ll now go figure out a suitable punishment for you. Meanwhile, think about what you did to those who thought you were their friend.”
A few meters away, we assembled and pretended to be discussing, whispering meaningless things loud enough so Phil could hear it.
After a minute or two, Adam shouted back to our bound prisoner, “By the way, have you ever been whipped with a cat-o’-nine or a horsewhip?”
Phil, who had been calm so far, freaked out while groaning and shaking his head.
“How do you like being crucified?” I couldn’t help asking, which got him even more scared.
Next, we gathered around our traitor. I squatted and removed his blindfold and his gag.
“If you scream, you’ll be sorry for not changing your underpants today.” Phil agreed with nervous little nods, and I withdrew my hand.
“We’ve reached a verdict,” Adrian said seriously and handed Chris a permanent marker.
“You are guilty of high treason!” On cue, Chris kneeled, held Phil’s face, and wrote a big black “TRAITOR” on his forehead. He did the same on his chest.
“You will stay tied up and gagged until midnight between Saturday and Sunday.” There was a grim tone in Adrian’s voice. He was finally getting revenge.
“That’s two days!”
“Hey, no talking traitor!” I clamped my hand over his mouth.
Adrian continued, “If you try to resist, we will add an hour more.
If you try to escape, that’s another hour.”
Unfair? Yes. Cruel? Maybe. Enough? Not quite.
“Oh, and Phil, how was your dinner?”
The blond boy looked at me; I let him speak.
“Good … I guess,” answered Phil, apprehensive.
“Glad you liked it, because the only thing going into your mouth from now on is a rag or sock to keep you quieter,” Adrian shot back. Phil knew that protesting would only motivate us to add extra punishments, and he just heaved a sigh of resignation.
Adrian went on explaining Phil’s punishment: the next day, Friday, all five of us would get a couple of hours each to torture Phil. Since he had betrayed the whole group, it was reasonable every member had a chance to get back at him.
“Tonight, we are all going to be in charge,” said Tyler and smiled mischievously at Phil. He didn’t seem happy at all.
“Wait! First I want to go to the bathr—mpppphfff!” I cut Phil in mid-sentence by shoving the sodden handkerchief back into his mouth. I forced his folded t-shirt between his teeth, tying it off tightly behind his head while he groaned and shook his head furiously. I also applied a blindfold, which consisted of a huge handkerchief wrapped several times around his head. We stood there watching how he thrashed around in a futile attempt to gain slack in his bonds.
We announced we would go to the basement and take a shower.
“Don’t go anywhere!” Adrian said.
Phil’s desperate mpphhhs got louder when he heard us walking away.
Thirty minutes later, we returned to find Adrian’s little brother the same way we had left him—only sweatier, covered with bits of grass, and drooling from his gag. On the other hand, we were clean and fresh to start the punishment fun.
We untied his feet, took him to the kitchen, and tied him down to a four-legged chair. His legs were pushed wide apart, drawn back, and secured at ankles to the rear legs of the chair; more rope surrounded below and above his knees, which we fastened to the chair’s front legs. Phil’s toes barely touched the floor. To make sure he wouldn’t sleep on us, we forced him to sip an energy drink with a straw.
Still bound to the chair, Phil was carried to the basement, where the thick walls would muffle his eventual cries. We wound a thick strong cord around his chest and the back of the chair, pinning his arms. Finally, we attached the chair to a post—not that he could walk away, but we wanted him to be as motionless as possible.
Nonstop, we made fun of him and threatened him with tortures.
“OK, bring the cross!” Adrian shouted. “Just kidding!”
The five of us tickled him relentlessly for twenty minutes. Being just a little more ticklish than his brother, Phil squirmed like a lunatic. All the water we made him drink during breaks swirled audibly inside his stomach when he jerked and jolted. But Phil was far from suffering; we all noticed how immensely he was enjoying it.
“Stop, stop. This is supposed to be a punishment!” Adrian barked and disappeared up the stairs. He came down with a small bucket full of ice!
I started to felt sorry for Phil.
“Let’s see how you like this, you little perv,” his brother said. Before the blindfolded boy could understand, Adrian pulled Phil’s underwear and dropped three big cubes inside.
“MMMMMMMMPPPPPPPPPHHHHHH!!!!”
The coldness struck his nerves and made his body writhe and wiggle. We even had to retie a rope he had somehow managed to kick loose. This is going to leave some nice rope burns, I thought. He didn’t stop shouting until the next break from tickle torture.
A few minutes later, a slow yellow patch appeared on Phil’s already wet underwear. The liquid was soon dripping from the edge of the chair; the boy breathed heavily and hung his head low.
“Gross,” Adam said, pointing at the stream that ran down the boy’s lean leg.
“The warmth at least helped with the ice, right Phil?” Adrian said, and I couldn’t avoid giggling. He removed Phil’s blindfold to reveal a defeated and frightened kid, a look not commonly seen on Phil. He was released from the chair, but his hands were kept lashed diagonally, in front.
“Go use the toilet if you have to, and take a shower for god’s sake. You smell awful! You have five minutes,” Adrian said.
In the meanwhile, we prepared for the next tie-up: a two-inch wide board was secured horizontally to the pole. It was designed to look like a cross.
I realized we had forgotten to give Phil a towel, but the bathroom door was locked.
“Phil! I got a towel for you!”
Nothing. Long thirty seconds passed. I asked Adrian if there was any other way out of the bathroom.
“Of course, there’s a window that …”
“Shit!”
The Boys' Knotty Summer (m+/m+) - Unseen chapters
The Boys' Knotty Summer (m+/m+) - Unseen chapters
Last edited by nchlsh 3 years ago, edited 1 time in total.
I write and edit stories: https://www.deviantart.com/nchlsh
Thanks for this. Are there any pics for the later episodes?
They all say boxer shorts are cool,
but little Speedos always rule.
but little Speedos always rule.
I don't think so. If my memory doesn't fail me, Dominic, Cinched, Alfonsino, and Spinario illustrated different scenes in previous chapters. Bondwriter posted them here: https://www.tugstories.com/viewtopic.php?p=28780#p28780
I won't complain if someone wants to add more pics to the collection!
I write and edit stories: https://www.deviantart.com/nchlsh
Thanks, Nicholas
They all say boxer shorts are cool,
but little Speedos always rule.
but little Speedos always rule.
I am beyond thrilled to see this. Wow!
Would be awesome to see a continuation 
The Brotherhood
The best human pilot in the galaxy
My Bondage Academia
The best human pilot in the galaxy
My Bondage Academia
If you want to support me and allow me to commission more illustration and write more story, you can donate to my Patreon: https://www.patreon.com/carnath_gid
Glad to see there's still interest in this tale. I have to admit I didn't—and still don't—know where the plot is heading. In hindsight, I tried to mimic authors I looked up to, like RichardUK, Tom Ford, and Bondwriter. I have ideas for other stories, but who knows, one day I might complete the TBKS saga.
I write and edit stories: https://www.deviantart.com/nchlsh
I bolted upstairs while the others followed me, duct tape and rope in hands. It was dark outside. We split up to cover more territory. Adam stayed in the basement in case Phil came back. We told him we would be back in ten minutes, with or without him.
I moved stealthily east, through the garden and around the barn. There was no sign of our runaway prisoner. The dim light wasn’t helping. I stopped to listen; silence engulfed the farm. The black wristwatch I used to wear at the time told me eight minutes had passed. We had to go back.
It should not have surprised me, but I gaped when I entered the basement to find Adam securely bound and gagged to the chair. His hands were duct-taped down to his lap, and judging by the drops of sweat, he had been struggling frantically.
Adam started mppphing when he saw me. Learning from past mistakes, I made sure it wasn’t a trap before getting closer and ripping off the silver crisscross across his lower face.
“AAHHoouch! Damn, Nick!”
“Sorry! What happened?!”
“I was just sitting here when all of a sudden the bathroom door flipped open and Phil stormed me! He punched me on my stomach and then he pushed me on the chair and taped me up!”
I facepalmed. Phil had actually never left the bathroom! He realized we hadn’t removed the key from the inside (brilliant idea), so he locked the door and pretended not to be there when I called him. After we all rushed outside, thinking he had escaped, Phil jumped on Adam. And we didn’t even bother to check the window from outside!
“OK, OK, calm down. Where did he go?” I asked.
“He said he was going to tell his dad we made him pee himself,” Adam said with a worried look.
“Crap.” It wasn’t that Mr. Silva didn’t approve of our games; he stressed we had to play safe and treat our prisoners well.
“He asked me if someone else was guarding the house and I lied!” Adam said.
“What?”
“I told him Adrian was watching the stairs. So he said he’d climb the balcony to get to his dad’s room. I couldn’t say anything else because he gagged me right away.”
“That’s fine. Good job.”
The other kids arrived; they were as amazed as I had been.
“Nick, you can still get him!” Adam continued. “He just left!”
“OK, people, let’s go! No time for explanations!” I said and went outside again, joined by Adrian and Tyler. Chris stayed behind to untie Adam.
When we got to the building’s rear wall, the blond traitor was climbing up a ladder he’d brought.
“Phil, stop!” Adrian said.
He saw us, panicked, and jumped. The terrified boy made for a run, betting on the fact that none of the bigger boys could catch him. Well, except for me, the track athlete. In a millisecond, the nervous impulse reached my legs. I picked up speed, locking my gaze on Phil’s shirtless back. We ran across a clear field without any obstacles. Phil despaired as I closed in on him, just a few meters ahead. As my fingers touched his arms, I felt a sharp, piercing pain on my foot and almost tripped over. The wound on my sole from earlier in the creek had opened and started bleeding. How could I forget about it? The excruciating pain made me stop. Sitting on the grass, I could see my prey getting away. I sighed.
Out of nowhere, Adrian flied right ahead of me on a bike.
“I’ll get him!” he screamed, pedaling as hard as his thighs allowed him. From a distance, I saw how Adrian caught up with Phil, who was getting tired, and jumped off the bike to tackle his brother. Panting, Adrian crawled on top of Phil, turned him over his stomach, and crossed his wrists behind his back. The older blond boy then applied his famous diagonal lashing; Phil was going nowhere.
“What the hell were you thinking?” I said once the pursuit was over and we had Phil tied down. On his knees, the exhausted boy stayed quiet.
“What’s the matter with you?!” Adrian continued the scolding.
“Don’t you know Dad could ground us and kill our games?” Phil avoided his big brother’s gaze, seemingly realizing just now the consequences of his genius plan.
“Jeez … I thought you were smarter.” Adrian sighed and pushed his brother, who fell on his side on the grassy field.
A few seconds of silence ensued. Then Phil raised his head with a pretentious smirk. “But you have to admit I tricked you good!”
“Oh, shut up!” Adam, who had just arrived with a flashlight, knelt down and forced a handkerchief into Phil’s mouth. With his own removed t-shirt, he held the wadding in place.
“You do know this is going to cost you another hour, don’t you?” I asked. The boy nodded with grinning eyes; he looked as if he was proud!
We helped Phil to his feet. But instead of heading back to the house, we marched him toward the woods, where the damn mosquitoes started haunting me again. After a short stroll aided by the flashlight, we found a suitable tree for Phil. He stood with his back against it, and we retied his hands behind the trunk. His legs, at feet and knees, were bound and secured to the tree. A torn cloth pressed against his forehead and knotted off behind the trunk further reduced his motions.
“All set! We’re coming for you at dawn,” Adrian said as he tied the last knot off. Phil protested with all his might in disbelief.
“Sleep well,” Chris said with a chuckle, patting Phil’s head, and we returned.
Before reaching the clearing, I asked them, “Are we really going to leave him there?”
“You bet. Why?”
“I have an idea.”
A part of me didn’t want to spend another minute in that mosquito-infected place, but my evil teen side took over. I couldn’t let an opportunity to scare the shit out of little Phil pass.
He had just turned 12, and even though he tried to act tough around us older boys, he was still a frightful kid. Earlier at dinner, I had noticed Phil trying to conceal his discomfort as Mr. Silva told us the legend of a local shaman native brutally murdered by some white poachers. The shaman’s last words vowed that the forest would never be inhabited by anyone but his own tribe. Mr. Silva told us his spirit roamed the land looking for intruders; to confuse them, he whispered loud if he was far away and low if he was close. If he managed to whisper inside your ear you went insane, the legend said.
My friends loved the plan. We ran back to the house and got what we needed: a can filled with seeds and small rocks, a dark blanket, a black balaclava, and some tribal collars. Chris took on the role of the spirit; he was the largest one and had the deepest voice. Plus, he spoke the local native language. We covered his limbs and chest with mud so he would look darker. He wore the larger collars around his neck and the smaller ones at wrists and ankles. I suggested he had to smell like a dead body, but I was not going to any cemetery.
Adrian thought for a while and then headed to the storage cabin. He returned with a bag of decomposing fishing bait, which we smeared all over Chris’s body. The poor boy almost threw up from the smell. We also took a large lamb chop from the fridge and removed all the meat to get the cold raw bone—the arm of the shaman. We spent some time practicing until Chris acted spooky enough.
So Phil wouldn’t suspect anything, we waited an hour before putting our plan in motion. We entered the forest through a different opening this time, trying our best to keep the noises down. There was no path; leaves and branches were scattered all over the floor. When we got close enough to have a side view of Phil tied to the tree, we crawled slowly like trained soldiers. The blond kid was too busy trying to pick his knots to notice the five of us in the darkness. We stopped behind some bushes, where we had perfect sight of our traitor.
Adrian tapped Chris’s shoulder and made a barely audible “go” with his lips. The boy stood up, put the blanket around his shoulders, grabbed a long stick that would serve as a cane, and started walking toward Phil.
“Urghh!” Chris roared and Tyler broke into an uncontrollable laughing fit. All three of us jumped instantly on him and clamped our hands over his mouth, but he wouldn’t stop laughing! I lost precious moments of Chris’s performance silencing my cousin. When he finally gained control of himself, I kept my hand firmly on his lips just in case. When I looked up, Chris had already started the whispering part.
A shaft of moonlight filtered through the foliage and fell on Phil’s face. His eyes were closed, but when he heard the enchantment words, they opened wide! Chris mimicked a sore throat and dragged one foot. The blond kid started to get uneasy in his bonds. Chris bent and walked with his cane, the blanket covering his face. Phil was now petrified.
“Who are you? What are you doing here?!” Chris whispered in the indigenous tongue. He then put that freezing bone on Phil’s left shoulder; had the boy not been bound to the tree, I’m sure he would’ve jumped a meter off the floor.
“MMMMMMMMPPPPPHHHHHHHH!!!!!!!!!” The heavy gag was not enough to muffle his shriek. Phil was breathing heavily; he shouted and breathed repeatedly, panting, as the shaman’s ‘arm’ traced Phil’s slim chest and legs, leaving a sticky trace of meat and blood on his skin. Clad only in his underwear and tightly roped to the tree, Phil’s fate was doomed.
Next, the shaman started sniffing Phil’s neck and face as he whispered with a hoarse voice. The zombie scent, which attracted all kinds of insects, was the cherry on top that made it believable for Phil. He shut his eyes and did not dare to open. He was scared stiff, his own mind probably shutting down.
After a long while, Chris walked past the boy. Phil sighed and his body relaxed, thinking it was over. The shaman stopped and turned around. Phil yelped. With two long steps, Chris reached Phil’s ears and started whispering the dreaded curse that drove victims insane. The blond kid writhed and squirmed and yelled, but there was no way out.
“MMMMMPPPPPPPHHHHHHH!!!”
We decided he’d had enough, so Tyler, Adam, Adrian, and I emerged from our hiding spot and ran up to Phil and Chris. We pointed our flashlights at the bound kid while laughing our heads off.
Chris removed the blanket and revealed himself. “Who’s the trickster now, huh?!” The boy’s face was blank.
“This is for being a rat!” Adrian said and we all joined teasing him with mud and fishing bait.
We released Phil from the tree and retied his hands in front.
“Oh my god. He did it again!” Tyler burst into another laughing fit, collapsing on the floor.
“What? What is it?!”
Barely able to compose himself, Tyler aimed his flashlight at Phil’s underwear, which had a dark patch in front.
“No! He peed himself! Again!” The forest echoed with our laughter. Phil looked down and tried to cover it with his hands.
“I can’t breathe,” Tyler said, drying tears with the back of his hands as he finally got up, “that was too much fun …”
“It was perfect,” Adrian said.
“You’re a genius, Nick.”
I grinned from ear to ear. To be completely honest, though, I did feel a bit sorry for Phil.
I moved stealthily east, through the garden and around the barn. There was no sign of our runaway prisoner. The dim light wasn’t helping. I stopped to listen; silence engulfed the farm. The black wristwatch I used to wear at the time told me eight minutes had passed. We had to go back.
It should not have surprised me, but I gaped when I entered the basement to find Adam securely bound and gagged to the chair. His hands were duct-taped down to his lap, and judging by the drops of sweat, he had been struggling frantically.
Adam started mppphing when he saw me. Learning from past mistakes, I made sure it wasn’t a trap before getting closer and ripping off the silver crisscross across his lower face.
“AAHHoouch! Damn, Nick!”
“Sorry! What happened?!”
“I was just sitting here when all of a sudden the bathroom door flipped open and Phil stormed me! He punched me on my stomach and then he pushed me on the chair and taped me up!”
I facepalmed. Phil had actually never left the bathroom! He realized we hadn’t removed the key from the inside (brilliant idea), so he locked the door and pretended not to be there when I called him. After we all rushed outside, thinking he had escaped, Phil jumped on Adam. And we didn’t even bother to check the window from outside!
“OK, OK, calm down. Where did he go?” I asked.
“He said he was going to tell his dad we made him pee himself,” Adam said with a worried look.
“Crap.” It wasn’t that Mr. Silva didn’t approve of our games; he stressed we had to play safe and treat our prisoners well.
“He asked me if someone else was guarding the house and I lied!” Adam said.
“What?”
“I told him Adrian was watching the stairs. So he said he’d climb the balcony to get to his dad’s room. I couldn’t say anything else because he gagged me right away.”
“That’s fine. Good job.”
The other kids arrived; they were as amazed as I had been.
“Nick, you can still get him!” Adam continued. “He just left!”
“OK, people, let’s go! No time for explanations!” I said and went outside again, joined by Adrian and Tyler. Chris stayed behind to untie Adam.
When we got to the building’s rear wall, the blond traitor was climbing up a ladder he’d brought.
“Phil, stop!” Adrian said.
He saw us, panicked, and jumped. The terrified boy made for a run, betting on the fact that none of the bigger boys could catch him. Well, except for me, the track athlete. In a millisecond, the nervous impulse reached my legs. I picked up speed, locking my gaze on Phil’s shirtless back. We ran across a clear field without any obstacles. Phil despaired as I closed in on him, just a few meters ahead. As my fingers touched his arms, I felt a sharp, piercing pain on my foot and almost tripped over. The wound on my sole from earlier in the creek had opened and started bleeding. How could I forget about it? The excruciating pain made me stop. Sitting on the grass, I could see my prey getting away. I sighed.
Out of nowhere, Adrian flied right ahead of me on a bike.
“I’ll get him!” he screamed, pedaling as hard as his thighs allowed him. From a distance, I saw how Adrian caught up with Phil, who was getting tired, and jumped off the bike to tackle his brother. Panting, Adrian crawled on top of Phil, turned him over his stomach, and crossed his wrists behind his back. The older blond boy then applied his famous diagonal lashing; Phil was going nowhere.
“What the hell were you thinking?” I said once the pursuit was over and we had Phil tied down. On his knees, the exhausted boy stayed quiet.
“What’s the matter with you?!” Adrian continued the scolding.
“Don’t you know Dad could ground us and kill our games?” Phil avoided his big brother’s gaze, seemingly realizing just now the consequences of his genius plan.
“Jeez … I thought you were smarter.” Adrian sighed and pushed his brother, who fell on his side on the grassy field.
A few seconds of silence ensued. Then Phil raised his head with a pretentious smirk. “But you have to admit I tricked you good!”
“Oh, shut up!” Adam, who had just arrived with a flashlight, knelt down and forced a handkerchief into Phil’s mouth. With his own removed t-shirt, he held the wadding in place.
“You do know this is going to cost you another hour, don’t you?” I asked. The boy nodded with grinning eyes; he looked as if he was proud!
We helped Phil to his feet. But instead of heading back to the house, we marched him toward the woods, where the damn mosquitoes started haunting me again. After a short stroll aided by the flashlight, we found a suitable tree for Phil. He stood with his back against it, and we retied his hands behind the trunk. His legs, at feet and knees, were bound and secured to the tree. A torn cloth pressed against his forehead and knotted off behind the trunk further reduced his motions.
“All set! We’re coming for you at dawn,” Adrian said as he tied the last knot off. Phil protested with all his might in disbelief.
“Sleep well,” Chris said with a chuckle, patting Phil’s head, and we returned.
Before reaching the clearing, I asked them, “Are we really going to leave him there?”
“You bet. Why?”
“I have an idea.”
A part of me didn’t want to spend another minute in that mosquito-infected place, but my evil teen side took over. I couldn’t let an opportunity to scare the shit out of little Phil pass.
He had just turned 12, and even though he tried to act tough around us older boys, he was still a frightful kid. Earlier at dinner, I had noticed Phil trying to conceal his discomfort as Mr. Silva told us the legend of a local shaman native brutally murdered by some white poachers. The shaman’s last words vowed that the forest would never be inhabited by anyone but his own tribe. Mr. Silva told us his spirit roamed the land looking for intruders; to confuse them, he whispered loud if he was far away and low if he was close. If he managed to whisper inside your ear you went insane, the legend said.
My friends loved the plan. We ran back to the house and got what we needed: a can filled with seeds and small rocks, a dark blanket, a black balaclava, and some tribal collars. Chris took on the role of the spirit; he was the largest one and had the deepest voice. Plus, he spoke the local native language. We covered his limbs and chest with mud so he would look darker. He wore the larger collars around his neck and the smaller ones at wrists and ankles. I suggested he had to smell like a dead body, but I was not going to any cemetery.
Adrian thought for a while and then headed to the storage cabin. He returned with a bag of decomposing fishing bait, which we smeared all over Chris’s body. The poor boy almost threw up from the smell. We also took a large lamb chop from the fridge and removed all the meat to get the cold raw bone—the arm of the shaman. We spent some time practicing until Chris acted spooky enough.
So Phil wouldn’t suspect anything, we waited an hour before putting our plan in motion. We entered the forest through a different opening this time, trying our best to keep the noises down. There was no path; leaves and branches were scattered all over the floor. When we got close enough to have a side view of Phil tied to the tree, we crawled slowly like trained soldiers. The blond kid was too busy trying to pick his knots to notice the five of us in the darkness. We stopped behind some bushes, where we had perfect sight of our traitor.
Adrian tapped Chris’s shoulder and made a barely audible “go” with his lips. The boy stood up, put the blanket around his shoulders, grabbed a long stick that would serve as a cane, and started walking toward Phil.
“Urghh!” Chris roared and Tyler broke into an uncontrollable laughing fit. All three of us jumped instantly on him and clamped our hands over his mouth, but he wouldn’t stop laughing! I lost precious moments of Chris’s performance silencing my cousin. When he finally gained control of himself, I kept my hand firmly on his lips just in case. When I looked up, Chris had already started the whispering part.
A shaft of moonlight filtered through the foliage and fell on Phil’s face. His eyes were closed, but when he heard the enchantment words, they opened wide! Chris mimicked a sore throat and dragged one foot. The blond kid started to get uneasy in his bonds. Chris bent and walked with his cane, the blanket covering his face. Phil was now petrified.
“Who are you? What are you doing here?!” Chris whispered in the indigenous tongue. He then put that freezing bone on Phil’s left shoulder; had the boy not been bound to the tree, I’m sure he would’ve jumped a meter off the floor.
“MMMMMMMMPPPPPHHHHHHHH!!!!!!!!!” The heavy gag was not enough to muffle his shriek. Phil was breathing heavily; he shouted and breathed repeatedly, panting, as the shaman’s ‘arm’ traced Phil’s slim chest and legs, leaving a sticky trace of meat and blood on his skin. Clad only in his underwear and tightly roped to the tree, Phil’s fate was doomed.
Next, the shaman started sniffing Phil’s neck and face as he whispered with a hoarse voice. The zombie scent, which attracted all kinds of insects, was the cherry on top that made it believable for Phil. He shut his eyes and did not dare to open. He was scared stiff, his own mind probably shutting down.
After a long while, Chris walked past the boy. Phil sighed and his body relaxed, thinking it was over. The shaman stopped and turned around. Phil yelped. With two long steps, Chris reached Phil’s ears and started whispering the dreaded curse that drove victims insane. The blond kid writhed and squirmed and yelled, but there was no way out.
“MMMMMPPPPPPPHHHHHHH!!!”
We decided he’d had enough, so Tyler, Adam, Adrian, and I emerged from our hiding spot and ran up to Phil and Chris. We pointed our flashlights at the bound kid while laughing our heads off.
Chris removed the blanket and revealed himself. “Who’s the trickster now, huh?!” The boy’s face was blank.
“This is for being a rat!” Adrian said and we all joined teasing him with mud and fishing bait.
We released Phil from the tree and retied his hands in front.
“Oh my god. He did it again!” Tyler burst into another laughing fit, collapsing on the floor.
“What? What is it?!”
Barely able to compose himself, Tyler aimed his flashlight at Phil’s underwear, which had a dark patch in front.
“No! He peed himself! Again!” The forest echoed with our laughter. Phil looked down and tried to cover it with his hands.
“I can’t breathe,” Tyler said, drying tears with the back of his hands as he finally got up, “that was too much fun …”
“It was perfect,” Adrian said.
“You’re a genius, Nick.”
I grinned from ear to ear. To be completely honest, though, I did feel a bit sorry for Phil.
I write and edit stories: https://www.deviantart.com/nchlsh
Glad to see more chapters of your story! It really was one the best I read and served as an inspiration to get me writitng my own stories! Good to see you back
I'm flattered; you leave me no choice but to go read what TBKS has inspired.
I write and edit stories: https://www.deviantart.com/nchlsh
Back in the basement, I took care of my injured foot. We removed our prisoner’s gag to refill his bladder with water, but he refused. Clever boy. Instead, he tried to convince us our prank hadn’t really scared him.
“I never believed it was the ghost! Seriously!”
“Whatever you say, Phil.”
“He’ll never admit it,” Adrian said, throwing a towel and clean clothes to his little brother.
“Now, Phil and Chris, please go clean yourselves. Your stench is killing me. And this time, traitor,” Adrian pointed a finger at Phil, “if you try to escape again you’ll spend the night outside for good. Chris, don’t take your eyes off him.”
The older boy grabbed Phil by the arm and pushed him into the bathroom.
Punishment resumed as soon as the blond kid was done with his second shower. First, we had to put bandages around his wrists; he had wicked rope burns from his frenzy struggle to break free from the tree.
The cross we had prepared was too tall for Phil and had to be readjusted. We pushed him against the pole in the middle of the room; he docilely cooperated. I crossed his feet and wrapped the rope vertically and horizontally around them. My knots were competent and held, but I reinforced them with tape for good measure. Phil opened and extended his arms along the horizontal board while Tyler and Adam tied both arms to it at wrists and forearms. Once there was no slack whatsoever, we secured his waist and thighs to the pole.
Grinning in anticipation, I pushed a small pillow between the beam and his head.
“Shut your lips tight.” He obeyed. I began by plastering a layer of silver duct tape over his lips and I ended by wrapping the roll around the pole several times until his lower face was a shiny block of plastic. Not wishing to leave any creases, I then smoothed down his gag with my hands. I locked my eyes with his as I stepped closer. I could almost feel his heart beating.
When I was done smearing the gag, I asked Phil to try it out. He wasn’t able to make a sound, even though he was shouting his lungs out and I had used no mouth-packing. We checked all the knots and stepped back.
“He can’t move an inch!” Adam said. To prove him wrong, the poor boy tried to squirm, but all his limbs were dexterously secured to the cross. Phil’s arms soon started to get tired and the pressure on his shoulder blades and other muscles further aggravated his predicament. I smiled. Phil couldn’t do anything except twist his hands and beg with his eyes.
“You’d make a good Jesus, you know?” He was the most pitiful boy ever to be crucified. Phil just grunted.
We were tempted to left him alone to ponder about his situation, but we couldn’t stand seeing Phil’s bare ribs, armpits, and belly completely exposed. Some more tickle torture was in order, of course. Making him pee in his underwear for the third time would be too much, so we stopped when tears started rolling down his cheeks.
“Wait a sec,” I said, checking my watch. “It’s five to midnight! Who is next to punish the traitor?”
“Me!” Chris hurriedly said.
“No way! I’m his brother. I have dibs,” Adrian shot back. Phil mmmphed and tried to shake his head; he sure didn’t want his sibling as the punisher.
“So what? He punched me real hard in the stomach. I deserve revenge now,” Adam stepped in.
Nobody was willing to give up the prime time. “Guys, guys, fighting is not going to solve this. Let’s draw cards,” I suggested.
“Yes, let luck decide,” Tyler agreed.
A deck of French cards was always around since we were frequent poker players. We sat down forming a semicircle in front of the pole-bound boy. I shuffled the cards thoroughly and handed them to Adrian.
“The one with the highest card gets the first five hours with our little friend here.” Adrian jerked a thumb at the expectant blond boy and spread the cards face down on the floor, side by side.
“And the lowest card gets you the last turn,” I completed.
Adam was first; he drew one right from the middle: a 10. Tyler got a 5.
Adrian chose the first card from the left: a 4. “No way!” He shouted and tossed it across the room.
I didn’t believe in luck, so I drew a random one from the deck. It was a jack.
“Ha! You’re mine now, Phil.”
“Wait,” Chris said, “it ain’t over yet.” He drew a jack too. Damn.
“What do we do now?” he asked Tyler.
“It’s between you and Nick. Break the tie. Draw again.”
Chris went first and got a queen.
“Beat that!” he laughed, savoring victory.
I placed my hand on one card near Chris.
“No,” I said, “two strong cards won’t be together.”
“Come on, Nick! Just one minute till midnight.”
“OK, OK …”
I went for a card near Adam and slapped it face up on the carpeted floor.
It was the king of spades.
“I never believed it was the ghost! Seriously!”
“Whatever you say, Phil.”
“He’ll never admit it,” Adrian said, throwing a towel and clean clothes to his little brother.
“Now, Phil and Chris, please go clean yourselves. Your stench is killing me. And this time, traitor,” Adrian pointed a finger at Phil, “if you try to escape again you’ll spend the night outside for good. Chris, don’t take your eyes off him.”
The older boy grabbed Phil by the arm and pushed him into the bathroom.
Punishment resumed as soon as the blond kid was done with his second shower. First, we had to put bandages around his wrists; he had wicked rope burns from his frenzy struggle to break free from the tree.
The cross we had prepared was too tall for Phil and had to be readjusted. We pushed him against the pole in the middle of the room; he docilely cooperated. I crossed his feet and wrapped the rope vertically and horizontally around them. My knots were competent and held, but I reinforced them with tape for good measure. Phil opened and extended his arms along the horizontal board while Tyler and Adam tied both arms to it at wrists and forearms. Once there was no slack whatsoever, we secured his waist and thighs to the pole.
Grinning in anticipation, I pushed a small pillow between the beam and his head.
“Shut your lips tight.” He obeyed. I began by plastering a layer of silver duct tape over his lips and I ended by wrapping the roll around the pole several times until his lower face was a shiny block of plastic. Not wishing to leave any creases, I then smoothed down his gag with my hands. I locked my eyes with his as I stepped closer. I could almost feel his heart beating.
When I was done smearing the gag, I asked Phil to try it out. He wasn’t able to make a sound, even though he was shouting his lungs out and I had used no mouth-packing. We checked all the knots and stepped back.
“He can’t move an inch!” Adam said. To prove him wrong, the poor boy tried to squirm, but all his limbs were dexterously secured to the cross. Phil’s arms soon started to get tired and the pressure on his shoulder blades and other muscles further aggravated his predicament. I smiled. Phil couldn’t do anything except twist his hands and beg with his eyes.
“You’d make a good Jesus, you know?” He was the most pitiful boy ever to be crucified. Phil just grunted.
We were tempted to left him alone to ponder about his situation, but we couldn’t stand seeing Phil’s bare ribs, armpits, and belly completely exposed. Some more tickle torture was in order, of course. Making him pee in his underwear for the third time would be too much, so we stopped when tears started rolling down his cheeks.
“Wait a sec,” I said, checking my watch. “It’s five to midnight! Who is next to punish the traitor?”
“Me!” Chris hurriedly said.
“No way! I’m his brother. I have dibs,” Adrian shot back. Phil mmmphed and tried to shake his head; he sure didn’t want his sibling as the punisher.
“So what? He punched me real hard in the stomach. I deserve revenge now,” Adam stepped in.
Nobody was willing to give up the prime time. “Guys, guys, fighting is not going to solve this. Let’s draw cards,” I suggested.
“Yes, let luck decide,” Tyler agreed.
A deck of French cards was always around since we were frequent poker players. We sat down forming a semicircle in front of the pole-bound boy. I shuffled the cards thoroughly and handed them to Adrian.
“The one with the highest card gets the first five hours with our little friend here.” Adrian jerked a thumb at the expectant blond boy and spread the cards face down on the floor, side by side.
“And the lowest card gets you the last turn,” I completed.
Adam was first; he drew one right from the middle: a 10. Tyler got a 5.
Adrian chose the first card from the left: a 4. “No way!” He shouted and tossed it across the room.
I didn’t believe in luck, so I drew a random one from the deck. It was a jack.
“Ha! You’re mine now, Phil.”
“Wait,” Chris said, “it ain’t over yet.” He drew a jack too. Damn.
“What do we do now?” he asked Tyler.
“It’s between you and Nick. Break the tie. Draw again.”
Chris went first and got a queen.
“Beat that!” he laughed, savoring victory.
I placed my hand on one card near Chris.
“No,” I said, “two strong cards won’t be together.”
“Come on, Nick! Just one minute till midnight.”
“OK, OK …”
I went for a card near Adam and slapped it face up on the carpeted floor.
It was the king of spades.
I write and edit stories: https://www.deviantart.com/nchlsh
Great to see that you are "back in the business"!
Does that mean we can soon read the complete story of Phil's punishment? Pleeease!
Does that mean we can soon read the complete story of Phil's punishment? Pleeease!
Dominik, did you not have a couple of pics for this story?
They all say boxer shorts are cool,
but little Speedos always rule.
but little Speedos always rule.
Glad to see you too! I can't promise anything, but you will at least read what I wrote back then, edited to my current taste. New addition coming up this weekend.
I write and edit stories: https://www.deviantart.com/nchlsh
-
bondagefreak
- Honorary Member
- Posts: 5502
- Joined: 6 years ago
- Location: Québec
- Contact:
Thank you so much for posting these here, NicholasH.
This makes for some absolutely fantastic reading!
Really enjoy the pacing of the story and the creativity these boys show in the various torments they administer.
This makes for some absolutely fantastic reading!
Really enjoy the pacing of the story and the creativity these boys show in the various torments they administer.
Whoopee!
I'd be glad to see them.
I'd be glad to see them.
They all say boxer shorts are cool,
but little Speedos always rule.
but little Speedos always rule.
That would be amazing, Dom! I can't wait to see them.
I am torn about continuing this story, folks. My writing was different back then, and it would look artificial if I tried to reproduce the same feel. I'll keep an open mind about it, though, and brainstorm some ideas.
I write and edit stories: https://www.deviantart.com/nchlsh
Nick’s Psycho Torture
Nobody spoke. Even I had a hard time believing my luck. Chris’s lips curled into an annoyed sneer as he watched me stand up and walk up to Phil, who stood in tight bondage against the cross. I flashed the winning card in front of his face.
His big green eyes met mine above the card, his eyebrows loaded with sweat. When he realized what it meant, he looked up and mumbled something in relief. If the tape wasn’t so firm against his lips, I would have sworn he actually smiled.
So naïve, little Phil; he thought I would go easy on him. If I were in his shoes, joy would be the last thing crossing my mind.
I grinned at the boy with the most wicked, mischievous look I could muster that said: you really don’t know who you’re messing with. Phil was helpless and he was mine.
I spun to face the boys jealously waiting for my instructions.
“I need you to bring me,” I said and paused, searching for memories, “a jar full of water; loads of ice; a big plastic bottle; and a thick needle or a nail.” I help up four fingers so they would remember.
They stared at me, puzzled, trying to guess what I had in store for poor Phil.
“C’mon, go on! The clock is ticking!” I said, shooing them away.
Tyler and Adrian shrugged and dashed upstairs. I looked around the dark, gloomy basement; I needed somewhere I could hold Phil down very still. Then an idea struck me.
“You’re so clever, Nick,” I muttered to myself, grinning; my friends looked at me as if I had lost my mind.
“Chris, Adam, help me untie Phil from the pole.”
Loop by loop, the smooth ropes binding ankles, thighs, waist, arms, and wrists came off. Using a handy pocketknife, I cut the tape gagging Phil and attaching his head to the pole. The boy’s arms collapsed immediately upon release; being crucified for an hour was no joke.
“Please, guys, I’m really sorry!” the kid started pleading as soon as he could use with mouth again.
“You should’ve thought before betraying us,” I shot back.
“I know! I was so stupid, I’ll never do it again. Ever!” Phil threw himself to his knees and pleaded, his hands grabbing my shorts. The kid sure had a promising acting career ahead of him.
“Get your hands off me, traitor.” Without hesitation, I grabbed his right hand and twisted it—Phil yelped. The move forced his lean arm to stretch involuntarily, and the boy had to turn around to relieve the pressure. I twisted his arm further and the elbow bent, locking his wrist behind his back. I reached down and encircled his neck with my free arm, tightening the grip. Even though he knew he could not pull out his limb or move until I decided to release him, he fought back.
“Cool down.”
“Let me go!” Phil struggled more.
“Don’t make me laugh—I won’t let you go. Now, stand up.”
“No!”
He was still kneeling, and I needed to take him elsewhere, but he wasn’t cooperative.
“Stand up or I’ll break your arm,” I said and pressed his wrist upwards.
“Ouch, ouch, OK!” he winced and reluctantly got on his feet. To prevent any kicks, I stepped on his foot, drawing Phil’s body even closer to mine.
“Do as I tell you or else!” I whispered in his ear, annoyed, and then looked at my helpers. “Adam, take the mattress off the bed. Chris, wrap four ropes around each of his wrists and ankles.”
Once the bed was stripped to its bare wooden frame, I dragged Phil to it. He resisted again, but it only took a slight tugging of his bent wrist to subdue him this time.
“Stop! What the hell are you gonna do to me?” Phil rotated his neck to face me.
“You wanna know? Fine. Let’s see if you pay attention in history class. Do you know how there used to be political prisoners?”
“S-sure,” he replied, surprised by the question. Everyone knew about the brutal military dictatorships across South America and their infamous jails.
“And do you know how they tortured them?”
I could feel his heart pounce ten times faster.
“HEEEEEEEEELLLLP!” He suddenly screamed with all his might, struggling and wiggling in a terrified attempt to break free. I rose my arm and pressed my palm firmly against his lips. His muffled cries echoed across the room. It wasn’t like anyone would hear us downstairs, but I couldn’t stand his shouting. Phil had such an annoying, whiny voice.
“Shhhh,” I told him, but Phil continued to shriek and fight. He left me no choice but tighten the grip around his wrist. The boy relented from the pain and just whimpered miserably under the handgag.
“Nick, are you serious?” Adam asked. “I mean, all I heard about that time … the stuff they did … it was pretty nasty.” He had a disgusted look on his face.
“Relax,” I appeased him with a smile. “He’ll be fine. And remember, he’s my prisoner until 5:00 a.m. I get to choose his punishment.”
Adam seemed concerned. “But—”
“I told you he’ll be alright. Quit being a wuss and help me out.”
“Yeah Adam, c’mon!” Chris punched him on the arm and picked up a random sock lying on the ground. Phil knew what was coming and tried to resist, but I forced him to part his lips by twisting his wrist again. Chris secured the sock with a torn cloth behind the blond’s head.
Phil was a skinny little kid, so carrying him was easy: Adam lifted his legs while Chris and I grabbed an arm each. We lowered him on the frame, his head near the upper bed board.
“Tie his whole body down. Even his head. I don’t want him to move—at all.”
My accomplices pressed Phil’s arms to each side of his head, palms up, on top of vertical wooden slates. They spread his legs apart too. I picked up a wide torn cloth, folded it in half, and pressed it over Phil’s sock gag. The cloth went under his head, around the slate under him, and back in front. I pulled both ends tight and knotted them off over the scared boy’s gaping mouth. When I was done, his head was pinioned to the frame.
“Great. Tape would have been better, but the space between each slate is too small,” I commented. Chris and Adam nodded.
Grabbing the ropes dangling from his wrists, we secured each limb to the wooden slates that ran parallel to his body. I told the boys to use diagonal lashings; they are very useful to prevent up-and-down movement. Then we applied more cord for good measure. Chris taped Phil’s fingers into a fist, which was a bit overkill, to be honest. The knots were under the slates, way out of reach.
When we were satisfied with the immobility of Phil’s arms, we moved down to the forearms, biceps, chest, belly, waist, thighs, knees, and ankles, until little Phil was utterly and absolutely motionless on the bed.
“Now this is what I call being tied down!” Adam said after he finished his last knot and got up to contemplate his work.
“Struggle,” I said, crossing my arms.
Phil tried to move with all his might, but the ropes suppressed his pitiful thrashing. It was as if he became one with wooden bed frame.
The boy mmmpheed in distress when he realized the only body part he could move were his toes and eyes.
“Perfect!”
Adrian and Tyler returned to the basement and stared nonplussed at Phil’s predicament.
“Just in time,” I said.
Adrian seemed fascinated. With a big grin, he reached out for his little brother’s helpless soles.
“Hey!” I slapped the back of his hand.
“C’mon, Nick! Let me tickle him.” Adrian eyes glimmered with excitement.
“Not yet!” I barked and snatched the jar Tyler was carrying. Curious eyes surrounded me as I dropped all the ice they brought into the water.
“Have you ever heard of the Chinese water torture?”
Eyebrows rose. No one answered, but they all seemed very interested in knowing more.
“Some lawyer invented it centuries ago in Italy, so I don’t know why it’s called like that,” I pondered.
“Anyway, gimme that bottle. Cops used it to get people to confess to fake crimes. It never failed,” I paused, smiled at Phil, poured the ice-cold water into the bottle, and closed it when full.
“The prisoner always broke down.” I grinned at Phil once more. He gulped.
I sat besides my prisoner, whose apprehensive eyes followed my every movement. With the nail Tyler had brought, I started drilling a tiny hole on the bottle’s cap while I asked Adrian to bring me the board we had crucified Phil to.
“Let me show you why,” I said and cleared Phil’s locks of hair from his forehead. I stood up, grabbed the board, and attached it vertically to the bed’s head frame with duct tape. A long end stuck out toward the ceiling right above Phil’s head. Smiling, I taped the bottle upside down to the upper end of the board, but kept my finger on the cap’s hole, impeding water passage. I glanced down at the terrified look on the blond boy’s face.
“Minute after minute, hour after hour, the water hits you and you can’t do anything about it,” I said airily and removed my finger.
A big drop plunged into the air, picked up speed, and splashed on Phil’s forehead.
“MPPPPPHHHHHH!!!”
The boys around me gasped. Phil writhed and shrieked when the second drop landed on his right eyebrow.
“Where’d you learn something like that?” Adrian said, marveled by the devious torture method.
“Well, there are these things called books, you know,” I mocked. “They have pages and words on them. Maybe you’d learn a thing or two if you picked one once in a while.”
“Oh, shut up, nerd!”
We all turned around when Phil shouted under his gag, blinking hard. The third drop had fallen on his left eye as he moved his head in an attempt to avoid it.
“Hey, you’re gonna get yourself blind.”
I positioned his head on the right spot again and secured it in place with a leather belt, leaving a clear patch of skin on his forehead.
“How long are you planning to leave him like that?” Tyler asked as I stood up.
I cupped my chin and looked down at the mumbling boy.
“I don’t know. He’s mine for five hours, so …”
“MMMMMMPPPPPPPPHHHHHHHHHHHHFF!!!”
I laughed. “We’ll see how it goes,” I said, and the next drop nose-dived towards Phil and hit him with a splash, almost as if the bottle had been waiting for me finish.
On its own, uncertainty could be torture. It was awe-inspiring to watch those droplets, the same ones that make all life possible, terrorize a bound boy. Every ten seconds or so, gravity would do its job. At first, it must be annoying not being able to clear the water off your head. Then irritation gives way to restlessness as you do the math on how many drops may be left.
The muscles on Phil’s arms and legs tightened and strained as he tried without success to gain slack. He mmppphed, directing all kinds of looks to us: pleading ones, sad ones, miserable ones, and when only laughter ensued, his brows frowned, his eyes became cold, and he grunted what were surely not nice words.
A freezing drop fell. Then another. More mewling from Phil.
Seizing the opportunity, my friends entertained themselves by taunting the boy who could not do anything but stare helplessly at the dreaded bottle, the liquid accumulating on its cap, and close his eyes in anticipation as the icy water plunged.
Phil sighed after the drop touched him, but knowing that another one was coming put him in a constant state of apprehensiveness. The guy who invented this was a genius—an evil one.
Nobody spoke. Even I had a hard time believing my luck. Chris’s lips curled into an annoyed sneer as he watched me stand up and walk up to Phil, who stood in tight bondage against the cross. I flashed the winning card in front of his face.
His big green eyes met mine above the card, his eyebrows loaded with sweat. When he realized what it meant, he looked up and mumbled something in relief. If the tape wasn’t so firm against his lips, I would have sworn he actually smiled.
So naïve, little Phil; he thought I would go easy on him. If I were in his shoes, joy would be the last thing crossing my mind.
I grinned at the boy with the most wicked, mischievous look I could muster that said: you really don’t know who you’re messing with. Phil was helpless and he was mine.
I spun to face the boys jealously waiting for my instructions.
“I need you to bring me,” I said and paused, searching for memories, “a jar full of water; loads of ice; a big plastic bottle; and a thick needle or a nail.” I help up four fingers so they would remember.
They stared at me, puzzled, trying to guess what I had in store for poor Phil.
“C’mon, go on! The clock is ticking!” I said, shooing them away.
Tyler and Adrian shrugged and dashed upstairs. I looked around the dark, gloomy basement; I needed somewhere I could hold Phil down very still. Then an idea struck me.
“You’re so clever, Nick,” I muttered to myself, grinning; my friends looked at me as if I had lost my mind.
“Chris, Adam, help me untie Phil from the pole.”
Loop by loop, the smooth ropes binding ankles, thighs, waist, arms, and wrists came off. Using a handy pocketknife, I cut the tape gagging Phil and attaching his head to the pole. The boy’s arms collapsed immediately upon release; being crucified for an hour was no joke.
“Please, guys, I’m really sorry!” the kid started pleading as soon as he could use with mouth again.
“You should’ve thought before betraying us,” I shot back.
“I know! I was so stupid, I’ll never do it again. Ever!” Phil threw himself to his knees and pleaded, his hands grabbing my shorts. The kid sure had a promising acting career ahead of him.
“Get your hands off me, traitor.” Without hesitation, I grabbed his right hand and twisted it—Phil yelped. The move forced his lean arm to stretch involuntarily, and the boy had to turn around to relieve the pressure. I twisted his arm further and the elbow bent, locking his wrist behind his back. I reached down and encircled his neck with my free arm, tightening the grip. Even though he knew he could not pull out his limb or move until I decided to release him, he fought back.
“Cool down.”
“Let me go!” Phil struggled more.
“Don’t make me laugh—I won’t let you go. Now, stand up.”
“No!”
He was still kneeling, and I needed to take him elsewhere, but he wasn’t cooperative.
“Stand up or I’ll break your arm,” I said and pressed his wrist upwards.
“Ouch, ouch, OK!” he winced and reluctantly got on his feet. To prevent any kicks, I stepped on his foot, drawing Phil’s body even closer to mine.
“Do as I tell you or else!” I whispered in his ear, annoyed, and then looked at my helpers. “Adam, take the mattress off the bed. Chris, wrap four ropes around each of his wrists and ankles.”
Once the bed was stripped to its bare wooden frame, I dragged Phil to it. He resisted again, but it only took a slight tugging of his bent wrist to subdue him this time.
“Stop! What the hell are you gonna do to me?” Phil rotated his neck to face me.
“You wanna know? Fine. Let’s see if you pay attention in history class. Do you know how there used to be political prisoners?”
“S-sure,” he replied, surprised by the question. Everyone knew about the brutal military dictatorships across South America and their infamous jails.
“And do you know how they tortured them?”
I could feel his heart pounce ten times faster.
“HEEEEEEEEELLLLP!” He suddenly screamed with all his might, struggling and wiggling in a terrified attempt to break free. I rose my arm and pressed my palm firmly against his lips. His muffled cries echoed across the room. It wasn’t like anyone would hear us downstairs, but I couldn’t stand his shouting. Phil had such an annoying, whiny voice.
“Shhhh,” I told him, but Phil continued to shriek and fight. He left me no choice but tighten the grip around his wrist. The boy relented from the pain and just whimpered miserably under the handgag.
“Nick, are you serious?” Adam asked. “I mean, all I heard about that time … the stuff they did … it was pretty nasty.” He had a disgusted look on his face.
“Relax,” I appeased him with a smile. “He’ll be fine. And remember, he’s my prisoner until 5:00 a.m. I get to choose his punishment.”
Adam seemed concerned. “But—”
“I told you he’ll be alright. Quit being a wuss and help me out.”
“Yeah Adam, c’mon!” Chris punched him on the arm and picked up a random sock lying on the ground. Phil knew what was coming and tried to resist, but I forced him to part his lips by twisting his wrist again. Chris secured the sock with a torn cloth behind the blond’s head.
Phil was a skinny little kid, so carrying him was easy: Adam lifted his legs while Chris and I grabbed an arm each. We lowered him on the frame, his head near the upper bed board.
“Tie his whole body down. Even his head. I don’t want him to move—at all.”
My accomplices pressed Phil’s arms to each side of his head, palms up, on top of vertical wooden slates. They spread his legs apart too. I picked up a wide torn cloth, folded it in half, and pressed it over Phil’s sock gag. The cloth went under his head, around the slate under him, and back in front. I pulled both ends tight and knotted them off over the scared boy’s gaping mouth. When I was done, his head was pinioned to the frame.
“Great. Tape would have been better, but the space between each slate is too small,” I commented. Chris and Adam nodded.
Grabbing the ropes dangling from his wrists, we secured each limb to the wooden slates that ran parallel to his body. I told the boys to use diagonal lashings; they are very useful to prevent up-and-down movement. Then we applied more cord for good measure. Chris taped Phil’s fingers into a fist, which was a bit overkill, to be honest. The knots were under the slates, way out of reach.
When we were satisfied with the immobility of Phil’s arms, we moved down to the forearms, biceps, chest, belly, waist, thighs, knees, and ankles, until little Phil was utterly and absolutely motionless on the bed.
“Now this is what I call being tied down!” Adam said after he finished his last knot and got up to contemplate his work.
“Struggle,” I said, crossing my arms.
Phil tried to move with all his might, but the ropes suppressed his pitiful thrashing. It was as if he became one with wooden bed frame.
The boy mmmpheed in distress when he realized the only body part he could move were his toes and eyes.
“Perfect!”
Adrian and Tyler returned to the basement and stared nonplussed at Phil’s predicament.
“Just in time,” I said.
Adrian seemed fascinated. With a big grin, he reached out for his little brother’s helpless soles.
“Hey!” I slapped the back of his hand.
“C’mon, Nick! Let me tickle him.” Adrian eyes glimmered with excitement.
“Not yet!” I barked and snatched the jar Tyler was carrying. Curious eyes surrounded me as I dropped all the ice they brought into the water.
“Have you ever heard of the Chinese water torture?”
Eyebrows rose. No one answered, but they all seemed very interested in knowing more.
“Some lawyer invented it centuries ago in Italy, so I don’t know why it’s called like that,” I pondered.
“Anyway, gimme that bottle. Cops used it to get people to confess to fake crimes. It never failed,” I paused, smiled at Phil, poured the ice-cold water into the bottle, and closed it when full.
“The prisoner always broke down.” I grinned at Phil once more. He gulped.
I sat besides my prisoner, whose apprehensive eyes followed my every movement. With the nail Tyler had brought, I started drilling a tiny hole on the bottle’s cap while I asked Adrian to bring me the board we had crucified Phil to.
“Let me show you why,” I said and cleared Phil’s locks of hair from his forehead. I stood up, grabbed the board, and attached it vertically to the bed’s head frame with duct tape. A long end stuck out toward the ceiling right above Phil’s head. Smiling, I taped the bottle upside down to the upper end of the board, but kept my finger on the cap’s hole, impeding water passage. I glanced down at the terrified look on the blond boy’s face.
“Minute after minute, hour after hour, the water hits you and you can’t do anything about it,” I said airily and removed my finger.
A big drop plunged into the air, picked up speed, and splashed on Phil’s forehead.
“MPPPPPHHHHHH!!!”
The boys around me gasped. Phil writhed and shrieked when the second drop landed on his right eyebrow.
“Where’d you learn something like that?” Adrian said, marveled by the devious torture method.
“Well, there are these things called books, you know,” I mocked. “They have pages and words on them. Maybe you’d learn a thing or two if you picked one once in a while.”
“Oh, shut up, nerd!”
We all turned around when Phil shouted under his gag, blinking hard. The third drop had fallen on his left eye as he moved his head in an attempt to avoid it.
“Hey, you’re gonna get yourself blind.”
I positioned his head on the right spot again and secured it in place with a leather belt, leaving a clear patch of skin on his forehead.
“How long are you planning to leave him like that?” Tyler asked as I stood up.
I cupped my chin and looked down at the mumbling boy.
“I don’t know. He’s mine for five hours, so …”
“MMMMMMPPPPPPPPHHHHHHHHHHHHFF!!!”
I laughed. “We’ll see how it goes,” I said, and the next drop nose-dived towards Phil and hit him with a splash, almost as if the bottle had been waiting for me finish.
On its own, uncertainty could be torture. It was awe-inspiring to watch those droplets, the same ones that make all life possible, terrorize a bound boy. Every ten seconds or so, gravity would do its job. At first, it must be annoying not being able to clear the water off your head. Then irritation gives way to restlessness as you do the math on how many drops may be left.
The muscles on Phil’s arms and legs tightened and strained as he tried without success to gain slack. He mmppphed, directing all kinds of looks to us: pleading ones, sad ones, miserable ones, and when only laughter ensued, his brows frowned, his eyes became cold, and he grunted what were surely not nice words.
A freezing drop fell. Then another. More mewling from Phil.
Seizing the opportunity, my friends entertained themselves by taunting the boy who could not do anything but stare helplessly at the dreaded bottle, the liquid accumulating on its cap, and close his eyes in anticipation as the icy water plunged.
Phil sighed after the drop touched him, but knowing that another one was coming put him in a constant state of apprehensiveness. The guy who invented this was a genius—an evil one.
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